Yethanial had been in his dreams ever since he had left Tor Vael. After their last meeting he had headed first to Lothern to take counsel from the commanders of the fleet, then to Caledor to summon his dragon riders. Only then, days later, had he embarked across the ocean at the head of the speartip of drakes.
In the days since then he had thrown himself into making sense of the sprawling web of armies committed to the defence of the asur territories. Communications in the wilds were difficult and estimates of the enemy strength, their movements and deployments, were confusing and contradictory. All that had kept him busy, which was good.
But if his days were full, his nights were empty. He would lie for hours on his shallow bunk, knowing sleep was far away, remembering Yethanial’s look of reproach. He would turn her words over in his mind endlessly, worrying at them, picking them apart. He had never felt more alone. Draukhain was no comfort; like all dragons, he found mortal attachments trivial.
They are a fortunate breed, Imladrik thought. To care only for freedom, to care nothing for confinement. As for us, we are nothing but the sum of our confinements.
Imladrik reached the doors to his tower. The guards bowed low long before they needed to.
‘My lord, tidings from Ulthuan,’ reported one of them, a tall Sea Guard officer with a competent, soldierly look. ‘Sent by swift dispatch from Cothique.’
Imladrik raised an eyebrow. ‘Very swift. What news?’
‘A single passenger. He awaits within. I checked his credentials.’
‘Very good. No disturbances, please.’
‘By your will.’
Imladrik passed inside and the doors locked closed behind him. Though he could not see them, he knew that archers had been stationed all around the tower. Units of spearmen were deployed nearby and a mage was on duty at all times in a neighbouring spire, all of them watching against attack. Centuries of warfare, open and clandestine, against the druchii had made the asur protective of their commanders.
His guest waited for him in the room beyond the entrance hall, lounging in a low chair by the fire. As soon as Imladrik entered he got to his feet, showing off a flurry of damask robes decorated with fabulously complicated images of serpents and seawyrms. His hair was straw-blond and arranged impeccably across slender shoulders. His face had a certain sharpness to it, but his smile came readily enough.
‘My Lord Imladrik,’ he said, bowing floridly.
Imladrik looked at him steadily. ‘You were sent from Ulthuan? Who sent you?’
‘I sent myself.’
Imladrik drew a seat up before the fire.
‘You had better explain.’
‘My name is Caradryel of the House of Reveniol, latterly in the service of Tor Caled. Though you will not remember it, we have met before. You did me the not insignificant service of saving my life when our ship was attacked by druchii. That placed me in your debt; since then, I have been searching for a way to repay it.’
Imladrik regarded Caradryel doubtfully. His speech was polished, but there was something… slippery about it.
‘Latterly, though, I was fortunate enough to be presented with a way to remedy matters,’ Caradryel went on. ‘I learned you had no counsellor. This is, you might say, my speciality. I have a facility for the arts of state – negotiation, diplomacy, persuasion and inveiglement. I flatter myself, but to my mind there really is none better. So there it is: in this, you have my service.’
Imladrik couldn’t suppress a twitching smile. Caradryel had front, that was certain.
‘Interesting,’ Imladrik said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why I should prefer your service to my officials stationed here, all of whom have sworn oaths to the Crown and to my security?’
Caradryel shrugged. ‘They are competent enough, no doubt. Two things count against them. First, they are loyal to the Crown, not to you. I have no especial fondness for your royal brother, if I am truly honest, but have every personal reason to see you prosper. You might even say that it has become my vocation.’
‘And the second?’
Caradryel smiled. ‘None of them are as good as me. Not remotely.’
‘You are not short of confidence.’
‘Modesty is a waste of everyone’s time.’
‘I know someone who would agree with you,’ said Imladrik. ‘Myself, I have always thought it the mark of nobility.’
‘I make no claim to be noble. Far from it. Still, I am the best offer you’ll have out here.’
‘So you clearly believe.’
‘Perhaps you should ask how I got myself in here. Do you really think I had anything like the right credentials? Other supplicants have been waiting days for an audience and yet I arrived on the quayside yesterday evening with little more than the clothes on my back.’ He smiled to himself, drawing a few tattered leaves of parchment from his robes’ pocket. ‘Your guards are thorough and honest, but they need to check the provenance of official seals more carefully. Honestly, I could have been anyone.’
‘So you are a trickster,’ concluded Imladrik. ‘Tor Alessi has a thousand of them. Work quickly: your audience is drawing to its conclusion.’
Caradryel nodded to himself. ‘You dislike subterfuge. Easy enough, for someone who can walk into any chamber in Ulthuan he pleases, though it has its uses for the rest of us. Here, though: perhaps this will speak more eloquently on my behalf.’
Caradryel took one of the leaves of parchment and handed it over.
Only a few words had been written on it, in a clear, elegant hand that Imladrik recognised only too well.
Though we parted at odds, my thoughts remain with you. The bearer of this message comes with
