“A dog like him doesn’t deserve honorable death by blade,” Trudo said.
“Wornoth will meet justice,” Tol promised, hoping that would be the end of the discussion.
He should have known better. Like a ropesnake, Hanira preferred to surround and strangle her victim slowly, rather than grant a swift death from venom.
She tilted her head. Sunlight streaming through the windows lent a sapphire sheen to her black hair, piled high on her head for this occasion.
“What does that mean, my lord?” she asked, smiling sweetly.
“Gotta execute him,” Casberry said, before he could respond. “He’s a murderous toad, and everybody wants his blood. If you spare him, you’ll look weak, my lord.”
The warlords began enumerating the evils of leniency. Angered, Tol smote the tabletop with his fist.
“Have I said I would spare Wornoth?”
The diners fell silent, and Voyarunta said, “You are chief here, Son of My Life. Do as you think right.”
Hanira sipped wine, preferring this to the beer the others drank. Her honey-colored eyes regarded Tol with amusement over the rim of her goblet. She said no more.
Tol firmly turned the discussion to other matters. “The time has come for some of us to part company,” he said. To Casberry: “Your Majesty, I thank you for your help. Without you and your people, we wouldn’t be in Caergoth right now.”
“If your neighbor’s house is on fire, better to grab a bucket than close the shutters.” She cocked a knowing eye at him, adding, “But Daltigoth is a different proposition, eh? No place for kender in the capital?”
The shrewd little queen had put her bony finger on the heart of the matter. The march on Daltigoth would be extremely dangerous. They had reached the gates of Caergoth unhindered by imperial forces because of Wornoth’s timidity, and his unshakable belief that his garrison, in truth quite powerful, was not sufficient both to defend the city and defeat Tol. Ackal V would have no such worries. Once he realized Tol’s army was coming, he would send the Great Horde to stop them.
Casberry asked how many warriors Tol expected to face. Argonnel answered her.
“The emperor has lost many men to the bakali, I’ve heard,” said the commander of the Iron Scythe Horde. “But I reckon he can draw upon eighty to a hundred hordes.”
Casberry reached for a grape. “Sounds like you’ll need every friend you’ve got.”
“No. None but Ergothians can ride with us to Daltigoth.”
Tol’s quiet, blunt declaration put an end to all merriment. Hanira dabbed her lips with a silken scarf- Ergothians knowing nothing of napkins-and said, “Are you certain, my lord? You’re giving up much good help.”
“It must be so. Your pardon, Syndic, but the presence of foreign troops would change the way our approach is perceived. Instead of patriots and liberators, we’d be seen as invaders.”
“Rebels,” rumbled Zanpolo. “Which we are not!”
“Victors can style themselves any way they choose,” Hanira said. “Losers only die.” She toyed with the goblet before her, turning it slowly in her fingers. “You know the Pakin Pretender is in Caergoth, don’t you?”
Her words struck like well-timed slaps.
“What Pakin Pretender?” Egrin demanded. “The last claimant was slain twenty years ago, in the reign of Pakin III!”
“He had children, did he not?”
Trudo, eldest of the warlords, said, “Three that I know of. All daughters.”
“The youngest, Mellamy Zan, is twenty-five. For the past dozen years she’s lived in Tarsis. She’s come to Caergoth.”
Argonnel leaped to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. “You did this, trickster! You brought the Pakin infection with you from Tarsis!”
Hanira looked up at the red-faced man. “Upon my word as a syndic of the city, I did not,” she said.
Tol curtly told Argonnel to sit down. Once he had, Hanira explained that she’d placed spies among Mellamy Zan’s followers soon after the Pakin princess arrived in Tarsis more than twelve years ago. The troubles in Ergoth had encouraged the new Pretender to leave Tarsis with a small entourage. She had entered Caergoth only yesterday, before Tol arrived.
“Where is she?” Argonnel growled. “Tell us where to find her, and we’ll settle the Pakins for once and all!”
Hanira looked down the long table at Tol. “Well, my lord?”
All eyes turned to Tol. His gaze was locked with the syndic’s. She knew his fragile alliance of disgruntled warlords could not hold against the threat of a new Pakin rebellion. She knew, too, he would loathe having to kill someone who had committed no crime, but who could cause untold trouble in the future. Hanira was positioning herself cleverly. If Tol asked, she could have Mellamy Zan assassinated. The gratitude of the warlords would be enormous. So would her influence in Ergoth.
But there was one fact about the Pakin Pretender that Tol knew he could use to his advantage. “A woman?” he said, forcing a patronizing smile. “One princess is not that important. Still, I’m sure there’s room aplenty in the citadel for another prisoner. So yes, Syndic, I would like to know where Mellamy Zan is.”
Her maneuver had failed. Hanira dissembled politely, promising to put the Pretender in Tol’s hands.
Chief Voyarunta announced himself ready to return home. He’d seen quite enough of the grasslands and its cities of stone. He didn’t say it in so many words, but it was plain he regarded Ergoth as immoral and decadent. The fighting was good, but there was too much plotting and treachery.
“And too many noisy women,” he said.
“You fathered two of the noisiest!” Queen Casberry snorted. There was laughter while Miya flushed and Kiya scowled.
It was agreed, after more wrangling, that all Tol’s foreign friends would depart before the final ride to Daltigoth. Hanira and her Tarsans would leave immediately. Voyarunta and the Dom-shu would remain until Tol left Caergoth, then they would depart. This would allow the chief’s wound to heal before beginning the long trek back to the Great Green.
Around midnight, as the party was breaking up, Tol announced that the Army of the East would depart for Daltigoth in five days. The warlords were startled. It seemed a very short time to organize and equip so momentous an expedition.
In reply, Tol quoted one of Ackal Ergot’s favorite maxims: “ ‘Suffer or strike, strike or be struck.’ Until we know where the imperial hordes are, and what’s happened to the bakali, we can’t risk being trapped here. For all we know, the emperor could be at our gates tomorrow.”
On that cheerful note, the guests departed. As servants moved in to clear the table and snuff the torches, Tol took Tylocost aside for a private word.
The elf had said little during the meal. His head seemed oddly bereft without his gardener’s hat.
“You’re not going to Daltigoth either,” Tol told him. “I have another task for you. Find out from Syndic Hanira where the Pakin Pretender is. Get the princess-alive-out of Caergoth. Go wherever you like, but send me word of your location once you alight.”
Tylocost’s pale eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “What is your plan, my lord?”
“Only to avoid another civil war. Killing one princess won’t solve anything. But-” He drew a deep breath. “But having a Pakin in reserve may add weight to my dealings with Ackal V.”
Given the marriage habits of high Ergothian nobility, there were scores of Pakins scattered throughout the empire and border regions. Valaran herself was of Pakin blood. Killing Mellamy Zan was no answer; any of her kin could incite a revolt by claiming the throne, if they could gather enough followers. However, having the chief claimant as hostage might have a chilling effect on any warlords who backed her on Ackal V. With the Pretender in his clutches, Tol could use fear of a Pakin uprising to keep the emperor in check.
“You’re putting a great responsibility in my hand,” Tylocost said. “Do you trust me that much?” “You’re the man for the deed.”
Tylocost bowed his head. “I will do as you bid, my lord.” All the nearby torches had been extinguished. A candle on the table reached its last mark and went out. The Silvanesti, silhouetted by the remaining light, said, “I must retire, my lord. I have a task at dawn.”
Tol had an inkling what the task was. “Shall I come?” “Thank you, my lord, but the rite is for Silvanesti only.” Though Zala had been only half-elven, in death such distinctions no longer seemed to matter.
