"Till the end of the Farewell Harvest."
"Indeed. And we would respectfully urge you to reconsider any assault on Besh-Darok which you may have planned."
Mazaret looked at him with new respect, impressed that he already knew. "Attacking the strongest Mogaun warlord? An interesting notion, Master Korren. What makes you think that we intend such a risky action?"
"An appraisal of the supplies requested by yourselves and the Hunters Children in the past year, as well as the reports from our observers in northern Khatris and Besh-Darok itself." The man shrugged. "They clearly reveal that your allies are more numerous in that region than you stated earlier today. They could only be there for some military reason, like an attack on Besh-Darok."
The Lord Commander weighed his empty goblet in his hand. "You will, of course, allow me to see the reports you speak of."
Korren smiled. "Sadly, I was not permitted to bring them with me, given how perilous long journeys have become in these degenerate days."
"I understand. But be assured, Master Korren, if our plans do include any such incursion north of the Great Valley, it would only be considered in the light of a dramatically swift and successful campaign to the south. And even then..."
He left the sentence unfinished, and Korren tilted his head in acknowledgement.
"However," Mazaret went on, "I am unable to put back the campaign in the way you suggest. The plans have already been set in motion and cannot be easily reversed."
"I see." Dow Korren drained off the last of his wine, savouring the taste. "Then I feel there is little more we can discuss at the moment, Lord Commander. This has been a most pleasant interlude, and I look forward to our negotiations later today. In the meantime, there are several matters which I must discuss with my companions."
Watching the man carefully place his goblet on a small round table nearby, Mazaret knew that there was a fundamental distrust between them which could never be bridged. Korren saw him, not as a leader but as a difficult obstacle to overcome in pursuit of the Northern Cabal's self-interest. It reminded Mazaret of the day-to-day intrigue of the Imperial court so many years ago, where mere words were often more effective than an assassin's dagger.
Dow Korren paused on the threshold of the open door and produced a small scroll case from his tabard. "How foolish of me, Lord Commander. I almost forgot to give you this."
Mazaret accepted it, twisted off the cap and shook out the parchment.
"It is a detailed manifest of our next supply shipment," Korren went on. "It should arrive off the Dalbar coast in a few days."
Mazaret read a few lines then looked up, struggling to maintain his composure. "But this can't be right. Most of the amounts listed here are for less than half of our requirements. Hides, cloth bolts, bar steel, hand tools, horsefeed...the horsefeed is less than a quarter of what we asked for."
Korren nodded, his face a picture of sympathy. "Sadly, several of our overland caravans were raided by the Mogaun, and since the ships could not be delayed we decided to send what remained in the hope that your other allies would be able to make up the shortfall." He smiled. "Which I am sure they will. So, my Lord, till later?"
* * *
"I could have throttled him then and there, the snake," Mazaret said acidly.
"Not the most diplomatic of responses," Bardow replied as he applied a layer of redherb butter to a thick slice of bread then reached for a large chunk of cheese. "But understandable."
"He wants to drive a wedge between ourselves and the Hunters Children, that's plain. But where's the advantage?" Mazaret drummed his fingers on the table. "Why should they support us and the Children so willingly for nearly four years, then suddenly when all our plans are about to come to fruition, begin these evasions and underhand ploys?"
They were sitting at a square table in a small archive room off the Temple's central cloister. Tiny candles set into metal sconces on the table cast an even yellow glow on the walls which were packed from floor to ceiling with scrolls, books, bundles of parchments, caskets and cases of every kind. There were smells of dust and leather and a smoky tang from the fire burning behind an iron grate in the corner.
"Dow Korren could be telling the truth, my Lord," Bardow said through a mouthful of food.
Mazaret regarded the archmage for a moment. "You think that he is?"
Bardow raised an eyebrow. "Not in the least. However, in our dealings with him it would be to our advantage to appear to believe him. Thus we put him a little off-balance, such that he is not sure whether we are gullible or devious. Where he has but one game to play, we have two."
Mazaret sat back, frowning. Negotiation and persuasion had become part and parcel of his duties since the retreat to Krusivel, yet still he loathed all the second- guessing, the deceit, the self-interest masquerading as high purpose. He was fortunate to have had the help and advice of Gilly and Bardow over the years; they understood dark motives and duplicity far better than he.
War and battle were where his own talents lay, the pitting of limited forces against the enemy, the details of tactics, the small day-to-day miracles of making do with meagre supplies. Which was why Gilly's news yesterday about the strength of the Mogaun tribes had been such a body-blow; together with Dow Korren's halving of the shipments, it made the forthcoming campaign look increasingly uncertain. Mazaret could almost picture in his mind the Knights and the Hunters' Children riding out in columns and wedges, the places which had been chosen to engage the Mogaun, and all the possible outcomes. And he knew in his heart of hearts that they would be in the hands of fate from the moment the campaign began, living from day to day at swordspoint.
Such fears, though, he kept to himself. If the others could see the lie of the land as I do, our struggle would be over before it began.
He suddenly became aware of Bardow's steady gaze.
"She is safe," the archmage said. "I'm sure of it."
Mazaret was confused for a second then realised that his silence had been taken for brooding over Suviel and the others. Bardow had told him of his spirit journey, how he had seen Tauric alive and well, and Coireg bound and gagged. On hearing this Mazaret had felt exasperation, wondering if his brother had deserved such treatment, or whether Kodel had acted with malice, questions that would be soon answered. But such thoughts had fled when Bardow admitted that he could not find Suviel.
Now he felt a pang of guilt that his worries for most of the day had been about supplies and the availability of wagons, and not her. He longed for her company and council, yet knew that he could not dwell on her; with so much weighing on his judgement he dare not.
"I believe you," he said, then straightened in his chair. "What of our friends in the southern cabal?"
Bardow gave a lop-sided smile. "It appears that some of them have had businesses and property confiscated and given to Mogaun place-men. So, unlike Dow Korren, they are urging us to move faster and begin the liberation sooner."
Mazaret laughed wryly and shook his head. "What is to be done with these people?"
The archmage was silent for a moment or two as he ate slivers of cheese pared from the wedge before him with a tiny, bronze handled knife. Then he said:
"Seduction, my lord."
Mazaret frowned, leaning closer as the archmage began to explain.
* * *
More than two hours later, in a torchlit grove near the lake, Mazaret was savouring the rich, dark flavour of Hethu Valley ale while watching Bardow's scheme unfold before his eyes.
Members of both cabals stood talking, or gathered in groups to listen to a mandol player, or watch three of their number moving pieces on an improvised Waylay board, or gaze intently at a man who was juggling cups and rings, making them vanish and reappear. Beneath the crooked branches of a drael tree, four small casks sat on wooden frames tended by a tapsman who had been hurriedly recruited from the main barracks earlier. The evening was pleasantly cool, the nightflies were hardly to be seen, the atmosphere was relaxed, even jovial, and through it all moved Bardow, feeding the air of goodwill with a compliment here, a witticism there, or joining a conversation and steering it down a new direction with a shrewd observation or question.
It was a masterful endeavour. Mazaret marvelled as Dow Korren smiled at something the archmage was saying, then, astonishingly, laughed out loud along with Bardow. Others nearby chimed in and a moment later Bardow made some excuse and came over to join Mazaret.
"My compliments," Mazaret said. "No raised voices, angry faces or poisonous looks."
"There will be at some point, my lord," the archmage said acidly. "When I finally tire of my role as performing monkey." He sighed. "At least your men are satisfyingly entertaining - I'm glad you were able to persuade them to donate their services."
"Little persuasion was needed," Mazaret said, pointing to the mandol player, a red-haired, slender man who smiled and glanced around him as he played. "Annsil there won several musical contests in Western Dalbar before deciding to join us, while Brac - " He indicated the juggler, a short, bearded youth seemingly oblivious to his audience, " - was raised by Ovolni travellers, until his kintribe were massacred by the Mogaun."
Bardow nodded thoughtfully. "They provide a useful diversion while I joke and flatter and conciliate and entice. Dancing my little dance."
Mazaret regarded the older man with concern. "And what of other means?"
A wry smile came to the Archmage's lips and he glanced at the Lord Commander. "I had considered it, my lord. But then I discovered that our northern friends are not without a degree of protection."
"What...charms and amulets?"
"No, no, not that. Dow Korren has brought his own tame magicker. See the short man in a long coat, standing quite close to Korren? Although he has no great ability with the Lesser Power, he does have just enough to know if anyone else nearby attempts its use."
"Hmm, thus Korren would be forewarned and very probably annoyed," Mazaret said as he let his gaze drift slowly around the glade, searching the faces. Then he frowned. "Captain Volyn did receive our invitation, did he not?"
"Ah. You've noticed his absence, my lord."
"Like a bad tooth suddenly gone missing," Mazaret said. "But it appears he has sent some eyes and ears in his stead."
Bardow nodded, eyes staring down into his drink. "Over by the kegs, two men in shabby quilted jerkins?"
"The very same." Mazaret glanced at the archmage. "Is the honoured Captain making a point by sending his underlings?"
"Who can be sure?" Bardow said testily. "When not accompanied by Kodel, Volyn tends towards the erratic in his negotiations. Perhaps he feels he is insufficiently near the centre of attention." He tapped a hollow note from his wooden beaker, an elegantly carved vessel with a inward curving lip. "Time for a little more ale and a lot more prattling. Or should that be the other way round?"
With a smile and a sketch of a bow, he moved away. Mazaret watched him stride over to the ale kegs where he engaged Volyn's men in light conversation while refilling his beaker. The Lord Commander shook his head in admiration when, moments later, they were laughing at one of Bardow's off-colour jests, its punchline delivered after the familiar mock-furtive glance to one side and the head leaning closer.
The evening wore on, darkening and cooling yet remaining comfortably mild. Twice Mazaret allowed himself to be drawn into a conversation, but was careful to keep his comments brief and noncommittal when the topic came round to the negotiations. His role in this little masque was to be the grave, unspeaking presence of authority. Therefore he otherwise maintained a reserved and aloof air, except for when he found himself discussing with Peilon, the Southern Cabal's leader, the relative merits and demerits of hunting boar in the forests of southern Cabringa.
Occasionally he caught sight of Bardow moving from group to group, still talking, regaling and beguiling. Then, at one point, he looked up and saw one of Volyn's men across the other side of the grove, leaning on the tree stump that stood near the temple pathway. He was alone and seemingly ill at ease, hands gripping an empty tankard, eyes flicking from crowded grove to temple path and back. Mazaret excused himself from the three merchants who had been boring him with their trading tales, and moved clockwise round the grove, seeking to approach the man from his blind side. Then a surprising sight snared his attention.
At the centre of the grove, Bardow stood between the leaders of the Northern and Southern cabals, Korren's bland smile more than matched by Peilon's ale-flushed grin as the archmage spoke to them both. Mazaret glanced quickly over at his quarry, and cursed - Volyn's man was gone.
Bardow, meanwhile, was still talking, watched by a now silent audience. Mazaret heard the archmage speak of 'consensus' and 'concord', but his gaze was searching the trees all around them. What was Volyn up to? Those two men of his had been posted here for a reason, to watch the gathering and report back, that much was clear.
Then he saw movement along the pathway from the temple, five forms coming towards the grove. Mazaret tossed aside his nearly-empty mug and went to meet them. Cabal members drew back to allow him through and Bardow spoke to him but he gave no reply, just walked a straight line that led to the tree stump near the temple path where he came face to face with Captain Volyn.
Like his men, Volyn was attired for horseback travel - a dark green cloak over leather harness with heavy woollen leggings and sturdy boots. His four companions kept their cloaks closed, succeeding in only partly concealing the loaded crossbows that they carried. Mazaret stared at each in turn, and lastly Volyn.
"You risk a great deal coming here in this manner," he said calmly.
Volyn said nothing as he reached inside his cloak and produced a small rolled-up parchment which Mazaret recognised immediately: it was the formal treaty of alliance he and Volyn had signed years before. With his angry gaze fixed on Mazaret, Volyn tore the parchment into four pieces then took a dagger from a sheath at his waist.