myself.”
Genner nodded. “You are in charge of your own army. I can’t see the King refusing you, especially while we are still encamped here at Enrant Monge-and it seems unlikely we will be leaving until this expedition returns from the north.”
The benches cleared a few at a time; some of the delegates remained to chat with others in their own party, and in a few cases, with other delegates. “There looks to be some crossover,” Cyrus said. “Some of them know each other?”
“Oh, yes,” Genner said. “It has been over a decade since the last moot, but the older among us know each other. Between you and me,” he said with a smile, “this is how the diplomacy gets done, the deals worked out. It’s not presented in session, but haggled by lower level intermediaries, argued back and forth, until something amenable comes to be discussed in the garden.” Genner shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We have discussions, surely, but all the real work is done when the session ends or on a break. In these meetings all we do is shout our position at the top of our lungs, never changing it until we’ve privately agreed with the other side on concessions. With Actaluere, anyway,” Genner amended. “Briyce Unger is usually not so subtle in his negotiations.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me,” Cyrus said. “I think I prefer Unger’s method.”
“There is no finesse, no subtlety to it,” Genner said. “He is a brute, a man who leads with his sword and follows with whatever is left.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said with a smile. “I like him already.”
“Eh?” Genner looked at Cyrus, mystified. “I’ll communicate your desire to go north with Count Ranson, old boy. I wouldn’t presume to tell you exactly how it has to be, but if they’re in as great a hurry as Unger appears, they’ll likely leave tonight or early on the morrow, and you’ll be restricted to taking only horsed men with you. I doubt they’ll want to wait for men on foot given the urgency of this mission.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Cyrus said, and turned to look at the others, now folded into a group behind him. “I mean to go north with Unger,” he told them. “We’ll only take those on horseback, and I need a good, solid corps of veterans-somewhere between twenty and thirty, but not so many that the army is crippled without us.” He nodded at Curatio. “You and J’anda, for certain. Longwell, I’d like you to be your father’s eyes on this, in case he doesn’t trust Ranson.” Cyrus turned to Terian. “You, I think will need to stay and keep an eye on things around here.”
“No,” Terian said. “I’ll be coming with you; send for Odellan to keep an eye on things in the castle here if you must, but I’m coming along.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? All right. I’ll need you three to go to the army. I don’t want Odellan to leave them; he’s proven himself far too apt at commanding them to pull him away from that now. Have Ryin and Nyad come here to watch the proceedings for us. I’ll want Mendicant and Aisling going north with us as well as a druid or two as can be spared. Make sure you leave at least a couple healers behind.”
“You’ll be needing to send a messenger to Alaric,” Curatio said. “We’ve been gone for over four months now.”
“We’re about to split our forces rather dramatically,” Cyrus said. “Let’s wait until we get back to send word. I don’t want anyone to have to anchor their soul here on Luukessia just yet; they may need the return spell to carry them back to Sanctuary at an inconvenient moment.”
“Very well,” Curatio said shrewdly, but Cyrus could see the argument in his eyes that the healer was saving for later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll start culling a force out of our army to go north.”
Cyrus nodded, and watched J’anda and Terian follow the healer. “I’ll confer with my father, if it pleases you,” Longwell said, still somewhat despondent. “Make certain he doesn’t take our desire to go north the wrong way.”
“I could certainly use some help in that department, young Longwell,” Genner said. “Between you and me, King Aron seems quite changed from the days when he rode at the fore of the dragoons. More quick to anger, less quick to listen.”
“Aye,” Longwell said. “My mother’s effect on him is sorely missed. Let us go.” He gestured to Genner, who followed him. Aron Longwell was already making his way toward the tunnel which they had entered through hours earlier, leaving Cyrus alone with Cattrine and a few remaining delegates. Briyce Unger waited too, speaking with two of his men at the bench he had been sitting upon during the moot, his white robe colored orange by the tint of the torchlight.
Cyrus glanced at Cattrine and then walked away from her, stepping over the benches in front of him in a clumsy descent, avoiding the stairs and the line of people filing up them toward Actaluere and Galbadien’s gates. He stepped over the last and looked at Cattrine again; she was frozen, all but her eyes, standing in the place where he had left her, looking from him to where the Grand Duke Hoygraf watched her, standing with his walking stick, his face twisted in a smile that made Cyrus want to snatch away the cane and batter him with it until the man moved no more.
Instead, Cyrus continued on across the center of the amphitheater until he reached Briyce Unger, who had watched him during his approach. The smell from the corpse of the thing that waited at Unger’s feet permeated the air. The King stood at Cyrus’s eye level, and when Cyrus approached, the big man stopped speaking with his subordinates, eyeing Cyrus with cold brown eyes.
“Briyce Unger?” Cyrus asked. “My name is-”
“Cyrus Davidon of the guild Sanctuary,” the King of Syloreas said, unmoved. “I heard your name announced when you came in. My men who survived tell me it’s you that’s the hero of Harrow’s Crossing, not Ranson.”
“It was me,” Cyrus said. “Does that gall you, sir?”
“Can’t pretend it tickles me overmuch,” Unger said, still not registering much in the way of emotions on his bearded face. “Six months ago-hell, even three months ago-if Harrow’s Crossing had happened, I would have come after you with everything to avenge my men. Nothing personal, you understand-well, as impersonal as the heat of battle gets-but no one does that to my army and gets away with it.” The big man shrugged. “Now, with all this,” he nudged the remains of the creature wrapped in cloth at his feet, “I find myself hoping you and your army of western magicians will be on our side.”
“I’d like to be,” Cyrus said. “I want to go north with you, get a look at these things for myself.”
“I thought you said you already saw one,” Unger said, regarding Cyrus with some suspicion.
“I did,” Cyrus said. “When we went out to capture Partus after Harrow’s Crossing, we found him being attacked by one of them. If there’s more,” he leaned in closer to Unger, “I want to see them for myself.”
“There’s more,” Unger said. “Plenty more. You’re more than welcome to come along; especially if you bring your western magics.” Unger cocked his head, and Cyrus saw the regret channel through the man.” We could use more than a little of it in Syloreas right now.”
“I take it you’ll be leaving soon?” Cyrus asked.
“Right now, if I could swing it,” Unger said with a laugh that sounded like a bark. “Most likely at first light.”
“I’ve already got my people assembling a force to ride out with you,” Cyrus said. “About thirty or so, all veterans.”
“Good enough,” Unger said, nodding. “And your King won’t be providing a problem?”
“He’s not my King,” Cyrus said. “I came to render aid because his son is my friend and an officer of my guild.”
“Heh,” Unger said with something that didn’t sound anything like a laugh. “Honor bound, is that it? To a fellow warrior?”
“Something like that,” Cyrus said. “Honor is pretty important in my guild.”
“Feh!” Unger waved him off. “Honor. I don’t begrudge anyone their honor, but I hear it come from the mouths of the dishonorable more often than those who truly show it. Victory is what’s important now, and I’d trade all my honor if it kept my Kingdom from falling to these beasts. Show me a man who’s obsessed with only his honor and I’ll show you a man who’ll be defeated time after time. Honor! Tell me about honor on the day you see your enemies marching into your towns, slaughtering your people.”
“Defending your people is a kind of honor,” Cyrus said. “These things are beasts, so the only honor here is protecting those who can’t protect themselves from these things.”
“Fair enough,” Unger said. “I suppose I was still thinking of it the way Aron Longwell cries about it. Wraps
