forward, and quickly sat up straight. Almost without realizing it, her eyes had
been closing, and she'd actually come close to nodding off. That would have made
a great first impression on Captain ap Owen. She glanced quickly at him to see
if he'd noticed anything, but he was apparently absorbed in leafing through the
papers on his desk.
'Tell me about the Talks themselves,' she said, to show she was still with it.
'Are they making any progress?'
'Beats me. I'm just the hired help round here; no one tells me anything. I'm not
even allowed into the pocket dimension unless one of them calls for me, and
though the delegates take an occasional break out here, none of them are much
for small talk. As far as I can discover, their brief is to agree on a border
frontier both sides can live with, and put an end to all those squabbles over
which ragged old piece of map takes precedence. Both the Low Kingdoms and
Outremer are going to end up losing some territory, so both sides are throwing
in lucrative trade deals as sweeteners to help the medicine go down. Whatever
happens, you can bet a lot of people living near the border will wake up one
morning to find that overnight they've become citizens of a different country.
Poor bastards. Probably end up paying two sets of taxes.'
Fisher frowned. 'Those special trade deals are going to put a lot of noses out
of joint in the business community. Nothing like a little preferential treatment
to stir up bad feelings.'
'Right,' said ap Owen. 'And let's not forget, there's a hell of a lot of money
to be made out of a war, if you've got the right kind of contacts with the
military.'
'Any more bad news you'd like to share with me?'
'You mean apart from political extremists, religious fanatics, and
terrorists-for-hire?'
'Forget I asked. Do you think it'll come to a war, if the Talks fail?'
'I don't know… Countries have gone to war over a lot less in the past. The Low
Kingdoms have traditionally preferred action to talk, and Outremer can be touchy
as hell where its honor is concerned. I wouldn't be surprised if a war did break
out, but then it must be said I have something of a vested interest in war. I've
always made most of my living as a mercenary. I only ended up as a Guard because
I'd spent too long between jobs and the money had run out. Ironic, really, that
I should end up protecting Talks whose purpose is to keep me and my kind out of
work. You ever been caught up in a war, Captain Fisher?'
'Just once,' said Fisher. 'Several years back. It's funny, you know; at the time
I would have given everything I owned to be somewhere else, somewhere safe. But
now, looking back, it seems to me I've never felt so alive as I did then. We
were fighting for great stakes, and everything I did mattered; everything I did
was important. But I wouldn't go through it again for all the money in the Low
Kingdoms' Treasury. I saw too many good people die, saw too many people I cared
for hurt and maimed.'
'Did you win?'
'Yes and no.' Fisher smiled tiredly. 'I suppose that's true of any war. Our side
won in the end, but the Land was devastated by the fighting. It'll take
generations to recover. I suppose you've seen a lot of war, as a mercenary?'
Ap Owen shrugged. 'More than I care to remember. One war is much like another,
and the campaigns all tend to blur into each other after a while. Endless
marching, rotten food, and lousy weather. Waiting for orders that never come, in
some godforsaken spot in the middle of nowhere. And every now and again, just
often enough to keep your nerves ragged, there'll be a sudden burst of action.
You get used to the blood and the flies and seeing your comrades die, and
there's always the looting to look forward to afterwards. I could have been a
rich man a dozen times over, if I could have kept away from the cards and the
dice and the tavern whores. I started out fighting for a cause, but that didn't
last long. First thing you learn as a mercenary is that both sides believe
they're right.
'So why have I spent most of my adult life fighting for strangers? Because I'm
good at it. And because, just as you said, you never feel more alive than when
you've just cheated death. In its way, that feeling's more addictive than any
drug you'll find on the streets.' He broke off, and smiled at Fisher. 'You're a
good listener, Fisher, you know that?'
Before she could say anything, a ring on ap Owen's finger pulsed with a sudden
silver light, and he rose quickly to his feet. 'That's the delegates' signal;
they're going to take another break. Just stay back out of the way, for the time
being. I'll introduce you if I get a chance, but don't expect any great show of
interest. We're just hired help as far as they're concerned.'
Two footmen entered the study in response to some unheard summons, carrying
silver trays laden with assorted delicacies of the kind Fisher hadn't seen in
the markets for weeks. Whoever was funding these Talks obviously didn't believe
in doing things by halves. The footmen put down their trays on the main table,
by the cut-glass wine decanters, then withdrew without saying a word. Fisher
decided they were probably real footmen, if only because of their supercilious
expressions.
Ap Owen stood before his desk, staring at the far wall. Fisher followed his
gaze, but couldn't see anything of interest. She started to ask something, and
then shut up as a door appeared out of nowhere, hanging unsupported on the air a
few inches above the floor. It was plain, unvarnished wood, without pattern or
trimmings, but its very presence was subtly disturbing. A mounting chill
emanated from it, like a cold wind blowing into the room. Fisher's hand dropped
to her sword, and she had to fight to keep from drawing it as the door swung
slowly open.
The delegates appeared through the doorway, chatting quietly together, and
headed for the food and wine without so much as a glance at ap Owen and Fisher.
The door shut silently, and disappeared. Fisher took her hand away from her
sword. Ap Owen moved in beside her and quietly identified each delegate by name.
Fisher looked them over carefully without being too obvious about it.
Lord Regis of Haven was of average height and weight, and in pretty good shape
for a man in his early fifties. He had dark, flashing eyes and a quick smile
buried in a neatly trimmed beard. He used his hands a lot as he talked, and
nodded frequently while he listened. Lord Nightingale of Outremer was twenty
years younger, six inches taller, and muscular in a broad, solid way that
suggested he lifted weights on a regular basis. Which was a little unusual. As
far as most of the Quality were concerned, strenuous exercise was something best
left to the lower classes. The Quality only exerted themselves in dueling or
seducing. Usually both, as one often led to the other. Nightingale, on the other
hand, looked as though he could have picked up Regis with one hand, and torn him
apart with the other. If Regis was aware of this, it didn't seem to bother him.
