He glanced at a carafe sitting on the rug near Faeterus. The mage had a penchant for a Delphonian vintage steeped with kuroba flowers, which imparted a narcotic effect. Hengriff wanted none of that; he would endure his thirst for a while longer.
“Oh, one thing more,” he said casually. “Gilthas has an agent in the city looking for you.”
The mage’s hazel eyes opened quickly. “Really? An elf?”
“My spy on the Speaker’s council did not specify. Could be a hired Khur.”
“I hope not!” Faeterus rubbed his chin with his fingers, forgetting they were smeared with gore. The bloody streaks made his gaunt face seem savage indeed. “I need a full-blooded elf for my latest experiment. Maybe I should let Gilthas’s ferret find me.”
Hengriff had no desire to speculate on what experiments this loathsome creature might be planning. Duty discharged, he wanted only to be gone. He opened the trap door and held out his hand. He needed new paper amulets, so he could pass safely through the villa’s magical defenses. Each set of warding amulets worked in a very specific fashion-once as Hengriff departed, and once more allowing him to reenter. Faeterus would not have it any other way.
Unfortunately, Faeterus was not ready to let him go. Instead of producing new amulets, the sorcerer brought up the valley again, asking for assurances it would be granted to him. Hengriff brusquely declined to make guarantees. “The decision is not mine to make,” he growled, demanding the amulets.
Faeterus suddenly gave a very birdlike, warbling whistle. In the chamber below, the manticore sprang to its feet and came to stand below the opening. It looked up, and grinned. Hengriff had faced any number of horrors in his time, but the sight of that horrible, too-human face and its rows of steel-sharp teeth caused him to shudder. He thought of the disemboweled beggar outside.
He turned a furious look upon the sorcerer. Faeterus held the paper amulets in one long-fingered hand. “Of course you may leave if you really wish to,” the mage assured him genially. “But perhaps we should discuss proper payment for my services first?”
Planchet set a covered dish before his master. Gilthas, dining alone, watched expectantly as the domed cover was whisked away. Chicken again, nestled on a bed of roasted vegetables. Planchet offered him a choice of wines, Goodlund red or Silvanesti white, but Gilthas told him to save the wine for Kerian’s return.
The Speaker of the Sun and Stars drank water and ate in silence. Usually he dined with the members of his court, but for the past few days, since the audience with Sahim-Khan, his councilors had found various reasons not to attend. Everyone felt humiliated, the Qualinesti especially, as Gilthas was one of them. Lord Morillon had praised the Speaker’s diplomacy, but even he made excuses to avoid dinner. So Gilthas had only Planchet for company, as the valet waited on him.
Ten thousand steel pieces had gone out of Gilthas’s personal treasury. It wasn’t all in steel, of course. Much of it was gold and silver plate rescued from the blazing halls of the palace in Qualinost. Some of the golden service dated back to the reign of Speaker Silveran. They knew how to make fine things in those days. The gold was hammered thin as paper, yet remained stiff and strong. No one today could duplicate the alloy Silveran’s goldsmiths had used.
Golden plates and fine wines were extravagances they could live without. Sahim was a blackguard. Gilthas had always known that. Extortion at his hands was as much a part of the Speaker’s life as the desert’s incessant heat. Yet Gilthas would find a way to meet the Khan’s greedy demands so long as it bought more time for his people. His proud councilors did not understand that. They clung to glittering memories of worldly glory. Those memories were all they had for comfort as they slept each night in their stifling tents, lying on itchy woolen pallets, and toiled each day just to stay alive.
Khuri-Khan had been quiet since Gilthas’s visit. Armed patrols of Khurish soldiers tramped the back streets in strength, discouraging malefactors and maintaining an uneasy calm. Traffic in and out of the city had fallen off, although this was likely no more than a temporary condition. Traveling merchants were cautious folk. Having heard about the riot in the capital, many diverted to Delphon to peddle their wares. If the situation remained calm, if no more unrest developed, they would return. For now, though, the flow of Khurs in and out of Khuri-Khan had almost completely ceased.
Repairs on the city wall faltered as stone caravans from Kortal, in the Khalkist foothills, dwindled. Sahim was spending great sums to import hard stone from the far-away mountains to bolster his defenses. The route between Kortal and Khuri-Khan passed through the territory of the Weya-Lu tribe. For some reason, the Weya-Lu had abandoned their usual trade route. Without the nomads to man caravans, the flow of hard stone to the capital stopped.
Next to Gilthas’s plate lay the dispatches from Kerian. A dusty, desiccated courier had arrived with the reports late last night. The Kagonesti had placed the leather pouch in the Speaker’s own hands, then passed out, falling from the saddle into the arms of Taranath. The dispatches he brought contained wonderful news. The entrance to the Inath-Wakenti had been found.
However, Gilthas’s elation was tempered by the other news in the dispatches. Kerian’s troop had clashed several times with armed nomads. She reported this matter-of-factly, as if it was to be expected. She assured him they had nothing to fear from the nomads. The wanderers’ weapons were poor and their tactics feeble. If necessary, she could defeat three or four times the number she’d faced thus far.
Her words, intended to reassure, had exactly the opposite effect. It was just this situation Gilthas had feared more than anything else. He understood Sahim-Khan, and that made working with the human possible. The nomads of the desert were another matter. Aloof, proud as a dozen Silvanesti lords, the nomads were motivated by a complex tangle of piety and honor. Their fierce conviction in their own virtue made dealing with them difficult at best. Should they decide to make war in earnest upon the elves, then life in Khur would become much, much harder. Perhaps even impossible.
The dark heart of the matter, Gilthas well knew, was Kerianseray’s fiery nature. Could she control herself? She must not fight the desert folk. Defend herself, yes, but she could not hammer the nomads as she would Dark Knights or minotaurs. The fragile peace between Khurs and elves would not withstand wide bloodshed. Could the Lioness carry out her reconnaissance without starting a war?
His expression must have reflected his inner turmoil. Planchet, standing to one side, asked if he was unwell.
Gilthas smiled ruefully. “No, old friend. Just thinking instead of eating.” He tried to pay attention to his dinner, but he’d lost his appetite. All he could think was, where was Kerian? What was happening to her now?
He didn’t know whether the griffon had reached her safely, but already he was doubting the wisdom of sending the creature. He hoped she would use Eagle Eye wisely. He’d been second-guessing the mission for days now. The nomads were fighting to defend their land; he could understand that. An armed force of foreigners had entered their territory, and they were trying to drive them out. Perhaps he could have sent diplomats instead of scholars. Perhaps he should’ve tried to hire nomad guides. Perhaps he should not have put his hot- tempered wife in charge.
Yet, he knew he couldn’t have done otherwise. Kerianseray was the general of his armies, his strong right arm.
Through the dark days of the terrible journey across the Plains of Dust and the Burning Lands, when thousands of their people had died, Kerian’s strength had sustained him, had sustained all of them.
Planchet claimed his attention. Gilthas saw the valet was standing by the door flap, conversing with a servant. “Sire,” Planchet said, “Lord Morillon wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent.”
“Send him in.” A few days earlier, Gilthas had informed his closest councilors, including Morillon, of Kerian’s mission, that she was seeking the Inath-Wakenti, and that he hoped the legendary valley might become a new home for their people.
For once Morillon arrived without his usual corps of sycophants. He looked grave. “Great Speaker, I bring news.”
“Of Kerianseray?”
“Partly, sire. The city is buzzing with the news of Lady Kerianseray’s arrival at the valley.”
“Already?” Planchet commented in amazement. “News travels fast.”
