Rovac (noun): a group of 27 islands in the Central Ocean; inhabitant(s) of those islands; their nation; their language; (adjective): of or concerning the said islands, inhabitants, nation or language.
The Rovac nonsense: dismissive term used by wizards to describe the long-standing historical dispute between the nation of Rovac and the Confederation of Wizards.
Rovac staunch (noun) (obsolete): ritual drink formerly employed by the warriors of Rovac during initiation rituals, consisting of equal parts of blood, cream, alcohol and water.
Taking directions from a serving boy whom they woke from a drunken sleep in a slovenly guard room, the wizards climbed to the seventh level of the gatehouse keep, occasionally disturbing rats; these first seven levels alone could have housed a thousand people, so probably the upper levels were deserted.
On the seventh level, a door opened to a hall where three men sat guarding Comedo's chambers: two at chess, one watching. Ignored by the guards, the wizards looked around the room, which doubled as an armoury.
On the walls were weapons: swords double-edged and single, stabbing and slashing, sparring and dueling; cutlasses, broadswords, claymores; dirks, stilettos, skinning knives, throwing knives and foreign dueling daggers with one edge deeply serrated to catch and break a rapier blade. There were quivers, arrows, quarrels, stave bows, crossbows, composite bows. And also: spears, javelins, halberds, pikes, battleaxes, knuckledusters, cut throat razors, maces, billhooks, throwing stars, morning stars and dissecting kits. And armour: chain mail, scale mail, breast plates, greaves, gauntlets, helmets round or horned or spiked. And shields: from bucklers to full-length body shields.
The collection indicated how rich Castle Vaunting had become from centuries of taxing the Salt Road in money and in kind.
T have you,' said one of the chessplayers.
Or, to be precise, he spoke a word known to all chess players: damorg. The same word in all languages, it must have spread with the game.
The other player conceded defeat, and the three guards turned their attention to the three wizards.
'Name yourself,' said one of the guards, a haughty man with an elegant cloak. His square-cut beard was black, as was the oiled hair he held in place with combs of whalebone.
'Where's Comedo?' said Garash, before Phyphor could speak.
'Where he chooses to be,' said the guard. 'And you'll be out on your arse unless you can give a good account of yourself. I'm Elkor Alish, captain of the personal bodyguard of the prince of Estar, so I'll ask the questions here. Those who will not answer to me must answer to my sword, Ethlite. Be sure that Ethlite has a sharper tongue than I do.'
'Don't threaten us,' said Garash.
'Who are you then?'
'My style is Garash. A wizard of the order of Arl. Power is at my readiness to diminish you from the face of the sun with a single blast of fire.'
Alish threw his chair at Garash. As Garash ducked, Alish drew his sword. Garash snatched at the chain round his neck. The sword was faster.
'Drop your hands,' said Alish, holding steel to Garash's throat. 'Drop your hands, or you'll feel the sharp edge of some poetry in motion.'
As Garash obeyed, Alish sidestepped, then ducked round behind the wizards. Phyphor laughed.
'Well, Garash,' said Phyphor, turning. 'You certainly -'
'Don't move!' shouted Alish.
Phyphor froze.
'Now remember I'm behind you,' said Alish. 'Man, wizard or sage, you can die whatever you are. The fat one says he's a wizard, so I'll call you all wizards. Any movement – any mumbling – any chanting – and my sword will have your heads.'
'You can't keep us here forever,' said Garash.
'Yes, fat one: a problem. My blade can trim that problem down to size, if necessary. What did you say your name was?'
'Garash.'
'Garash who? Garash what? What is your family? Your clan?'
'Garash is all the name I have.'
'Well then. Your name, young one?'
'My name is Miphon. I bear you no ill.'
'Steel would say it bears no ill, but it kills all the same. You, old one, who are you?'
'Elkor Alish, my style is Phyphor, a wizard of Arl. I seek audience with Prince Comedo to ask for help in hunting down the wizard Heenmor. We wish to punish him… to kill him.'
Alish laughed.
'Find Heenmor? Kill him? We'd help if we could, I'm sure. He ate here at his pleasure all through the winter. And killed here, too. When he left, twenty followed. He lost them in forest too dense for horses. But they tracked him, closed with him on foot – and died. Where he's gone to. nobody knows.'
'Elkor Alish…'
'Yes, old one?'
'Phyhor is my style, as I have told you.' 'Then speak, Phyphor.'
'Elkor Alish, we come to kill Heenmor. You would enjoy to see him dead. Where is our quarrel?'
Alish paused. By striking now, he could kill three wizards. He was fast enough. It would be a step to fulfilling his obligations to the Code of Night and the destiny of Rovac: a glorious start to a spring that would see Hearst lead Comedo's army on a conquest of Dybra which Alish saw as the start of a long campaign that might eventually take their armies to the wizard strongholds in the Far South.
He could strike now: or wait.
If he let the wizards live, perhaps they would find Heenmor and secure the death-stone. Then Alish could kill them at leisure, taking the death-stone for himself.
'Swear not to harm me or any other in the castle,' said Alish, 'And there will be no quarrel between us.'
'Why must we swear?' said Garash.
'Because Ethlite is hungry,' said Alish.
'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, 'I swear by the Rule of Law to honour the lives of this castle, providing none hinder my pursuit of the wizard Heenmor. By the Rule of Law I swear it.'
'And you, wizard Garash?'
First Garash then Miphon swore the same oath. Alish sheathed his sword.
'So you've sworn the oath,' said Alish, walking back to join his two comrades. 'For what it's worth.'
'You question the value of a wizard's oath?' said Garash angrily. 'No wizard ever breaks an oath.'
Alish laughed at him.
'How dare you laugh!'
'Peace, Garash,' said Phyphor. 'This is not the time or the place.'
'All right,' said Garash. Then, abruptly: 'Who are those people?' He pointed at the other guards, who had sat silent throughout the confrontation. One, a short pink man with a smirking mouth, looked remarkably like a pig dressed in chain mail. A battle axe hung from his belt, a knife at his side and a helmet within easy reach.
'The short one is Corn,' said Alish. 'The tall one, the swordsman, is someone else again.'
'Tell that, that Gorn,' said Garash, 'Tell him to take us to Prince Comedo. Now!'
Alish, allowing himself an enigmatic smile, rearranged his embroidered cloak so the hilt of his sword showed. He had sworn no oath that would protect the wizards.
'Are you threatening me?' said Garash.
'Garash!' said Phyphor. 'Favour us with your silence. Elkor Alish, if you would be so good, kindly take us to Prince Comedo.'
'Unfortunately,' said Alish, 'That worthy is out hunting.'
'What?' said Phyphor. 'With armed invaders on the loose?'
