“First things first,” the Painted Man said, handing Rhinebeck’s satchel to Jone. “Duke Rhinebeck requests an alliance in driving out the Krasian invasion that has taken Rizon.”
“Of course Rhinebeck wants to ally,” Euchor snorted. “He sits behind wooden walls, in green lands the desert rats will covet. But what reason have I to march?”
“He invokes the Pact,” the Painted Man said.
Euchor waited as Jone took the letter to him, snatching it and reading it quickly. He scowled and crumpled it in his hand.
“Rhinebeck has already broken the Pact,” he growled, “when he tried to rebuild Riverbridge on his side of the river. Let them pay back the tolls from the last fifteen years, and then perhaps I will give thought to his city.”
“Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, swallowing the urge to leap onto the dais and throttle the man, “the matter of Riverbridge can be settled another day. This is a threat to both your peoples far beyond that petty dispute.”
“Petty?!” the duke demanded. Ragen shook his head, and the Painted Man immediately regretted his choice of words. He had never been as good at handling royals as his mentor.
“The Krasians don’t come for taxes, Your Grace,” he pressed. “Make no mistake, they come to kill and rape until the entire Northland is levied into their army.”
“I fear no desert rats,” Euchor said. “Let them come and break themselves against my mountains! Let them lay siege in these frozen lands, and see if their sand wards can battle snow demons while they starve outside my walls.”
“And what of your hamlets?” the Painted Man said. “Will you sacrifice them as well?”
“I can defend my duchy without aid,” Euchor said. “There are books of war sciences in my library, plans for weapons and engines that can break the savages with little loss to us.”
“If I may have a word, Your Grace,” Tender Ronnell said, drawing all eyes to him. He bowed deeply, and when Euchor nodded, he darted up the dais steps and bent to whisper.
The Painted Man’s sharp ears caught every murmured word.
“Your Grace, are you sure it’s wise to return such secrets to the world?” the Tender asked. “It was the wars of men that brought the Plague.”
“Would you prefer a plague of Krasians?” Euchor hissed back. “What will become of the Tenders of the Creator if the Evejans come?”
Ronnell paused. “Your point is well taken, Your Grace.” He bowed away.
“So you hold the Dividing,” the Painted Man said. “But how long can Miln survive without grain, fish, and lumber from the South? The Royal Gardens may supply your keep, but when the rest of the city begins to starve, they will dig you out of your own walls.”
Euchor snarled, but he did not immediately reply. “No,” he said at last, “I won’t send Milnese soldiers to die in the South for Rhinebeck’s sake without something in return from him.”
The Painted Man seethed inwardly at the man’s shortsightedness, but this was not unexpected. Now it was just a matter of negotiation.
“Duke Rhinebeck has empowered me to make some concessions,” the Painted Man said. “He will not remove his people from their half of Riverbridge, but he will turn fifty percent of the tolls over to you for a period of ten years, in exchange for your aid.”
“Only half, for a decade?” Euchor scoffed. “That will barely buy rations for the soldiers.”
“There is some room to negotiate, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said.
Euchor shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough by far. If Rhinebeck wants my help, I want that and something more.”
The Painted Man inclined his head. “And that is, Your Grace?”
“Rhinebeck has still failed to produce a male heir, has he not?” Euchor said bluntly. Mother Jone gasped, and the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably at the unseemly topic.
“Much as Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, fighting words that Euchor waved away.
“I have grandsons,” Euchor said. “My line is secure.”
“Your pardon, but what has this to do with an alliance?” the Painted Man asked.
“Because if Rhinebeck wishes one, he will have to marry one of my daughters,” Euchor said, looking back at the women standing unprettily behind his throne. “With the bridge tolls as her promise gift.”
“Aren’t your daughters all Mothers?” the Painted Man asked in confusion.
“Indeed,” Euchor said, “proven breeders, all of whom have given sons, but still in the flower of their youth.”
The Painted Man glanced at the women again. They didn’t seem in the flower of anything, but he made no comment. “I mean, Your Grace, aren’t they all wed?”
Euchor shrugged, “To minor Royals, all. I can dissolve their vows with a wave, and any of them would be proud to sit the throne beside Rhinebeck and give him a son. I’ll even let him choose which one.”
Rhinebeck will die first, the Painted Man thought. There will be no alliance.
“I have not been empowered to negotiate such matters,” he said.
“Of course not,” Euchor agreed. “I’ll put the offer in writing this very day, and send my herald to Rhinebeck’s court to deliver it personally.”
“Your Grace,” Keerin squeaked, again a sickly pallor, “surely you need me here for—”
“You will go to Angiers, or I will throw you from my tower,” Euchor growled.
Keerin bowed, attempting a Jongleur’s mask though his distress still shone through. “Of course it is my great honor to go, if I am absolved of my local duties.”
Euchor grunted, then turned his eyes back to the Painted Man. “You still haven’t given me a price for your battle wards.”
The Painted Man smiled and reached into his satchel, producing a grimoire of hand-sewn pages bound in leather. “These?”
“I thought you said they weren’t with you,” Euchor said.
The Painted Man shrugged. “I lied.”
“What do you want for them?” the duke asked again.
“Warders and supplies sent to Riverbridge with your herald on the way to Angiers,” the Painted Man said, “along with a royal decree accepting all refugees from across the Dividing without toll, and a guarantee of food, shelter, and succor through the winter.”
“All that, for a book of wards? ” Euchor demanded. “Ridiculous!”
The Painted Man shrugged. “If you wish to buy those I sold Rhinebeck, you’d best treat with him soon, before the Krasians burn his city down.”
“The Warders’ Guild will defray the costs to Your Grace, of course,” Ragen said on cue.
“The Messengers’ Guild, as well,” Malcum added quickly.
Euchor’s eyes narrowed at the men, and the Painted Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.
“I would never ask such of my guilds,” the duke said. “The crown will cover the expense. After all,” he nodded to the Painted Man, “the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.”
The Painted Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.
“Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers?” the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Painted Man to be gone.
The Painted Man shook his head. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.” He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.
It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Painted Man headed for the Duke’s Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.
As always, the Duke’s Library filled the Painted Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons
