Conversation shifted to his thoughts on the potential conflict and Narashtovik's stance to it, official and otherwise. Dante found himself in the middle of a sea of faces. Abruptly, he realized the meeting had already begun. He faltered, then laughed as if at a private joke: no place handled its business quite like anywhere else. How large and strange and wonderful the world was.
"It's a fundamentally simple position," he said to the school of curious merchants. "We don't want war. We've seen it too recently to believe any good can come of it. Furthermore, we know the norren too well to think they mean greater Gask real harm. We're concerned for our own lands, as well as our neighbors—even friendly armies tend to leave muddy tracks. There's no need and no want for one half of the country to march on the other.
"We know Gallador carries heavy weight with the king. Without the taxes your ships and wagons bring home, Moddegan would have no army to send forth in the first place. That's all we're here for. With your help, we can spare a lot of strife and a lot of lives."
A smattering of applause followed, though it wasn't particularly that sort of gathering. Dante expected to be assailed with a public back-and-forth afterwards, but instead the room dissolved into a dozen different knots of conversation. For a moment, he stood isolated and ignored. Then, one by one, they came for him.
The first was a man in his early thirties with a widow's peak and an arch smile. "I hope you're ready for this."
"This being?" Dante said.
"You've just made an offer. Now come the counters. You don't expect our aid will come for free, do you?"
"Narashtovik's not so different. We're ready to make any reasonable agreements."
"Well, I support you." The man swept back his hair. "I've scheduled my first caravan this spring. Fresh leaf bound for Bressel. Would hate to delay just because a few tribes of overgrown men would rather spend their time fighting than shaving."
The second to approach was a middle-aged woman whose skirt brushed the floor; when she walked, she appeared to glide over the plush carpet.
"Quick speech," she said. "That's good. Fewer details to offend the sensitive."
"I didn't even know I was giving one until halfway through."
She smiled with half her mouth. "Frankly, the clans have never shown much concern for the safety of their roads. Calm them down and you'll convince a lot of the people in this room."
He thanked her and she moved on. Most of those who spoke with him over the next hour were the newcomers, the fringe-dwellers, those who needed every leg up they could get. They queried him on trade pacts and the northern markets for tea and salt and fish. The elder men—the finest-dressed, the easiest with their laughter and pronouncements—stuck to their clusters, chuckling and snacking.
Eventually, one of these epic figures detached from his cohort and swayed over to Dante. His silk skirts rasped. His gray muttonchops swept into his bristling mustache, all of which was thick enough to impress any norren. His olive skin was as craggy and pocked as the sulfurous hills by the salt flats.
"I wonder if," he said, "at the end of the day, we have any influence at all on the movements of men and kingdoms?"
"You and me personally?" Dante cocked his head. "Because I imagine King Moddegan has rather a lot of influence on the movements of Gask."
The man waved a fleshy hand. "You're from Narashtovik. You believe Arawn has no influence over the actions of our earthly king?"
"I suppose he could. He tends not to intervene directly." Dante smiled wryly. "I think he laughs hardest when a man's folly is his own."
"To put it another way, would we be speaking now if Moddegan's ancestors hadn't annexed the Norren Territories three hundred years ago?"
"I don't know. I doubt it."
"So our king, it can be said, is playing out the story written for him by his ancestors."
"That would mean you and I are, too."
The man's muttonchops lifted in a smile. "We're all at the mercy of ghosts."
The merchant gave a slight bow of his head and turned to rejoin his compatriots. That was more or less the end of the dialogues. One other youngish man approached him with questions about Narashtovik and was interrupted by a servant, who informed Dante he should stay until after the quorum dissolved. This took the better part of three hours. That evening, Jocubs beckoned Dante and Blays into the enclosed balcony, leaving the servants to fetch tea and sweep up the dining hall.
"Well." Jocubs eased himself onto a bench, glancing at the sunset on the lake. "I hope you had a good time."
Blays jerked his chin in the direction of the hall. "The fish were so good it's a wonder you don't live in the lake. with them"
"I'm glad." He folded his hands on his stomach and gave Dante a sideways look. "I hope it wasn't too imposing?"
Dante shrugged lightly. "Not at all. Although I'm confused about what we accomplished."
"With exceptions, the Association sympathizes with you. We have a few peripheral details we'd like to work out with you—I don't think most of us knew how large Narashtovik had gotten—but I think you can count on a positive vote at the assembly two weeks from now."
"Is that a joke?" Blays said.
Jocubs blinked, lower lip outthrust. "If so, please tell me what struck you as funny. I've always wished myself wittier."
"Two
weeks
?"
"Yes, I think so."
Blays laughed, glancing at Dante in disbelief. "And
then
you'll reach a decision? Then what the hell was this party for?"
A frown gathered on the merchant's face. "To see if your proposal was worth pursuing. The next two weeks will be about working out the specifics. Some of the estates represented by the men you met are the size of small kingdoms."
Dante's head buzzed. "I don't suppose this can be hurried along."
"Not in any significant way." The man leaned forward and patted Dante's knee. "It will be fine in time. If it takes this long for Gallador to shift course, just think how long it would take the entire kingdom to come to grips with something weighty as a war!"
Dante expressed his thanks, turned down a final glass of port, and walked down to Jocubs' pier. "Well, so much for our schedule."
"So much for our youth," Blays said.
"Maybe we should just give up. Run off to be pirates."
"Wait, is that an option? Why didn't you tell me that years ago?"
Dante nodded at the skiff tied along the dock. "There's our flagship. Let's go. Lake-pirates are a thing, right?"
"If not, we can make them a thing." Blays stepped over the side of the hull. Down the pier, two men dislodged from the boathouse and hurried down the planks. "We'll blaze watery new trails for highwaymen everywhere."
The boatman paddled them back to Lolligan's, where the old man asked Dante for a detailed recap of the quorum. While Dante spoke, Lolligan cocked his head, frowned at spots on the wall, and muttered to himself, petting his pointed mustache with a single finger.
"Choker," he said once Dante finished.
"What?"
"Lord Choker. The elderly man with the muttonchops who spoke about ghosts and strings? He's the only part I can't figure out."
"Well, that's good," Dante said. "Because I don't understand
any
part."
"It's straightforward enough."
"And so is an ant's nest—if you're an ant. If the TAGVOG already knows they want to send a delegation to the king on our behalf, why do they need another two weeks to finalize that decision?"
Lolligan waved a sun-browned hand. "This assembly wasn't about deciding whether they should try to talk down the war-hawks. Other than those who dabble in arms and armsmen, none of the TAGVOG is keen on a fight. Today, they were judging
you
. How much Narashtovik wants their help, and how far you will bend to provide it. They've bought themselves two weeks to suss that out and maneuver to leverage you to the hilt."
"Excellent," Dante said. "While they're off counting coins, the king is counting troops. And unless his abacus is bent, he'll soon discover he has far more than the norren."
"When in doubt, look to the path of the crowd." Lolligan gestured across the water toward Jocubs' home. "If those old bastards thought time were running short, do you think they'd wait two more weeks? Remember, to these men, ignorance is the water between them and gold. Information is the boat they use to cross it."
Dante nodded, comforted. Most of these men had built their fortunes through shrewdness, caution, and prudence. Even the lure of squeezing Narashtovik for every ounce of its excess silver would only push them to tempt fate so far.
They were all wrong, of course. The king would hand down his proclamation the next day. It reached Gallador just two days after that. In the style of all great ultimatums, it brooked just two outcomes.
The norren would rebel, or never be able to again.
12
On hearing the king's proclamation, Blays had one of his own.
"Horseshit." He replaced his tea cup on its saucer. "A sixty-pound sack of horseshit."
Dante felt sick. "Horseshit isn't nearly offensive enough. This is...apeshit. At least."
He switched on his loon. On hearing the news, Cally was silent for a full ten seconds. "Well, that's no good."
"Not unless you're a mortician," Dante said. "Or a vendor of rebel banners."
"Unless you feel like defecting—and at this point I wouldn't blame you—there's no reason to stay in Wending when the king's decision has already been made. See what there is to see at the cove. Come back through the lakes on your way home and see if the merchants can talk Moddegan down, but don't waste a lot of time if they're waffling." Cally hmm'd. "Leave Fann behind to grease whatever wheels he can reach. He won't serve any use at Pocket Cove. Except as breakfast."
The orders cleared Dante's head. Fann accepted his charge with a silent nod; he was used to being dispatched to courtly settings as soon as the road turned rough. Blays clapped his hands. Mourn turned to gather his things. Lira smiled strangely and reached for her hip for a sword that wasn't there.
Lolligan was equal parts apologetic and eager for them to stay. "We don't know how the path may fork from here. Moddegan could be being deliberately outrageous in order to appear benevolent when he scales back his demands."
Dante gazed at the sparkling lake. "I won't bank on that."
"Then talk the TAGVOG into talking him down. There's still time."
"I don't understand how this city works, Lolligan, and I no longer have the time to learn. The king has made his decision. It's time for your friends to make theirs."
"They're not my friends," Lolligan muttered.
Dante wanted no more of it. For what little good it would do, he composed a brief letter to Jocubs, then took a rowboat into the city to pick up provisions while the stables prepped the horses. Waiting at the bakery, he realized he had no desire to go to Pocket Cove.
But it wasn't a choice. They were ready to move by late afternoon. The sun was already within a hand's height of the western peaks, but the roads in Gallador were the best Dante had ever seen (besides the sheer mastery of those in Cling, anyway). Riding by night would be no danger. He squeezed his knees against his horse's flanks, urging it forward.
As soon as the city shifted from rowhouses to farmland, he sped to a trot, swerving around an oxen team. This was no time to rest the horses. Everything would be moving faster now. By the king's order, the Territories were to be parceled out in four-mile squares. Each clan was to be registered with one of a score of new baronetcies and would remain restricted to their new territory by force of law. In addition, every four years each clan was required to provide one fit male slave in tribute; if no males fit the bill, a female would suffice. If a single clan denounced or defied these new conditions, King Moddegan claimed express authority to pass through any and all lands on his way to quell them; if the rebellious clan could not be found, its neighbors would be held accountable until it was located.
That last bit was the poison pill. Disinclined as they may be to accept the heavy hand of human rule, a majority of norren, particularly those in the cities, would rather accept it than face invasion. But there were at least two hundred clans. Probably several times that many. Dante couldn't believe the Nine Pines would accept this treaty. No doubt they'd be just one among dozens of rebel clans. War was no longer a question of
if
, but
when
.
Meanwhile, should the clans defy their nature and acquiesce—either through threat of invasion or forced to by battle—Moddegan had set himself up to feast on the loyalty of all the powerful men vying for those new baronetcies and the lands, status, and titles that came with them. No doubt several of Gallador's tea growers and salt miners would not only jump ship from the TAGVOG's desire for peace, but would dig extra deep to help fund the war. It was a masterstroke, the overbearing play of a man fully confident he couldn't lose. And Moddegan was right. Soon, the norren would be forever quelled, penned and farmed like cattle, unable to trouble him ever again.
Unless.
And a dwindling "unless" at that. The ultimatum gave the tribes three weeks to register and two months to volunteer their first slaves. With so little time to spare, Dante couldn't see spending more than three days at Pocket Cove. It wouldn't be enough to win the favor of the People of the Pocket. His only hope for discovering the cove's secret—whatever had kept them from being conquered, ever—lay in the observations he drew for himself.
Observations which must run deeper than the land itself. The Pocket Cove was supposedly surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides, but that would do nothing to prevent a naval invasion. Which Gask had attempted, many years ago. Their fleet had disappeared as if it had sailed off the edge of the earth. The king at the time announced victory anyway, adding the cove to the mounting list of imperial acquisitions, but the People had never, so far as Dante knew, paid taxes, tribute, or homage to Setteven, and to this day remained independent in all but name. If Dante could ferret out whatever secret saved their sovereignty, perhaps he could employ it to do the same for the Norren Territories.