T
he Plenipotentiary of Westbrook was a fat, jolly little man who’d bought his position from Lecter Turon, King Hablet’s eminently corruptible seneschal. He’d moved to the border fortress with his four wives and seventeen children and set about making the place his own personal kingdom some three years ago. After a series of commanders interested only in making a quick profit and returning to Talabar to enjoy the fruits of their labours as soon as they could possibly manage it, Blaire Baraban was actually a pleasant change. Interested in securing not just the fortress, but much of the surrounding countryside, he extended his benevolent corruption to the entire region and looked like he was settling in for a nice long stay.
Chyler had dealt with him before, usually when he tried to extend his influence into those lawless areas of the mountains that were traditionally Chyler’s realm. The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook was a wily adversary, however, and after testing his limits in the early days of his reign, figured out just how far he could push Chyler before she reacted. Consequently, the mountains had been remarkably peaceful for the last three years and Baraban made a point of consulting Chyler before he did anything that might set her off, in the territory she considered her domain.
The man was, Chyler explained to Brak as they waited in his anteroom, as corrupt and self-serving as any previous incumbent in Westbrook, but at least he was honest about it. He didn’t pretend to have any honour and didn’t expect others to have it either. That made him much easier to deal with because you always knew exactly where you stood with him.
He greeted Chyler expansively as she and Brak were shown into his office, as if he was genuinely pleased to see her. After offering her a seat and gushing several insincere compliments about her health, beauty and good taste in fashion (she was dressed in men’s clothes under a bulky, shapeless sheepskin-lined coat) he turned his attention to Brak.
“And who is this, Madam Kantel? Your bodyguard?”
“Something like that,” Brak replied.
The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook smiled nervously and took a step back. Brak was a good foot taller than the tubby little man. He liked intimidating him.
“Well, then … that’s as it should be, I suppose.” He laughed warily, walking backwards until he had the bulk of his desk between himself and his visitors. “You know how dangerous the roads are … what with bandits, and all …”
“Why did you ask for this meeting, my lord?” Chyler asked impatiently, no more inclined to laugh at Baraban’s jokes than Brak was.
Fixing his attention on the bandit leader, the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook assumed a businesslike air. “I have a proposition for you, Madam Kantel. One that should go some way to compensating your …
associates …
for their loss of income since the border was closed.”
Chyler frowned. What Baraban euphemistically referred to as a
loss of income
meant near starvation for the families of her people, who relied on robbing merchants in the pass for their livelihood. “What sort of compensation?”
“I am talking gainful employment, madam. A chance for your people to earn an honest living for a change.”
“We’re quite happy with a dishonest living, Lord Baraban.”
“And who am I to deny any man … or woman … the chance to honour the God of Thieves, Madam Kantel, but given the lack of traffic in the pass at present, perhaps a temporary shift of allegiance to the God of War might be prudent?”
“The God of
War
?” Brak asked, instantly suspicious.
“There is someone I’d like you to meet,” Baraban said, picking up a small mallet resting in the cradle of a decorative brass gong. He tapped the gong twice. Before the metallic notes had faded, the office door opened and an aide stepped into the room.
“Ask General Regis to join us, would you?”
The aide saluted and closed the door again.
“Who is General Regis?” Chyler asked warily. Any high-ranking official made her wary, particularly military ones. Almost as wary as anybody from the Qorinipor Thieves’ Guild, who still hadn’t forgotten it was Chyler who had killed Danyon Caron some twelve years ago, right here in the great hall of Westbrook. Fortunately, the guild’s objection to Caron’s murder was more philosophical than actual. Once the identity of the thief’s real murderer had come to light (thanks to Wrayan Lightfinger’s perfectly understandable desire to save his own neck) and the reasons behind Chyler’s actions became widely known, the guild seemed to lose its enthusiasm for seeing their poor dead leader’s killer brought to justice. Danyon’s successor had done very nicely out of his promotion and there wasn’t a thief in the Qorinipor guild who didn’t know about their late leader’s predilection for youngsters. When all was said and done, the whole world was better off with him dead, so the guild, while officially denouncing Chyler Kantel as Danyon’s killer, had made no further attempt to seek vengeance for his murder. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t change their mind about it and Chyler lived with the worry that they might.
“Axelle Regis,” the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook explained. “He’s the man King Hablet has placed in charge of the Hythrun invasion.”
As Baraban was speaking, the door opened and a much younger man than Brak was expecting stepped into the office. He wasn’t that tall, with a slender build, dark hair and an aristocratic bearing. He wore the pretentious silver and white dress uniform of Hablet’s own Guard and appeared to be in his early thirties, which meant he was either exceptionally good or exceptionally well connected at court.
He eyed Brak and Chyler disdainfully. “These are the criminals you propose to employ?” he asked Baraban, without even acknowledging the presence of the Plenipotentiary’s guests.
“Ah, yes, my lord, this is Chyler Kantel and her associate, Master …” He looked at Brak blankly as it dawned on him he didn’t know his name.
“You can call me Brak.”
“This is Master Brak.”
“Lord Baraban has explained what I expect of you?” Regis asked the visitors.
“Lord Baraban has explained nothing,” Chyler replied. “And you can expect all you want, my
lord
, but you won’t be getting anything out of me or my people until I get some idea of what’s going on here.”
“I need more intelligence,” Lord Regis announced.
Brak couldn’t help himself. “Perhaps you’d be happier just learning to live with what you were born with, my lord.”
Regis may have had a lot of friends at court, but apparently he didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He glared at Brak. “If you’re not going to take this seriously …”
“You’ll do
what
, my lord?” Chyler asked, grinning broadly. She obviously thought Brak’s joke was funny. “Find another band of border bandits to do your dirty work for you?” She rose to her feet, unconcerned. “Fine by me. Come on, Brak, if we leave now we can be back at—”
“Now, now, Chyler, there’s no need to be hasty …” Baraban hurried to assure her. “Sit down, please, so we can talk about this, eh?”
With some reluctance, Chyler did as Baraban asked and resumed her seat. “What exactly are you offering?”
“Your people are familiar with the mountains,” Regis replied, clasping his hands behind his back, standing unconsciously “at ease.” Whoever this man was, Brak decided, he had a military background. “I’m led to believe you move quite freely across the border and have ways of doing so which don’t involve using the Widowmaker Pass.”
“You can forget it, my lord, if you want us to lead your army over the border without going past Winternest,” Chyler warned, crossing her legs as she leaned back in her seat. “One man can make it if he knows the terrain, two or three at the most. There’s a
reason
they built the road through here, you know.”
“But your people
can
move in and out of Hythria without being detected, yes?” Regis was quite adamant about that.
“Yes,” Chyler conceded.
“Then that is all I ask of you, Mistress Kantel,” he said. “I just want to use your people to find out what’s happening in Hythria.”
“They’re being wiped out by the plague,” Brak reminded the general. “That’s what’s happening in Hythria.”
“I’m more interested in their troop movements.”
“Assuming they have any troops left to move.”
Axelle Regis stared at Brak suspiciously. “You seem singularly unenthusiastic about this operation, Master Brak.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Brak more closely. “You’re not Fardohnyan, are you?”
“I was born in Medalon, actually, but that’s not really the point, is it? What you’re asking is no small favour. These people follow Dacendaran. You’re asking them to change their allegiance to Zegarnald and risk being hanged as spies if they’re caught in Hythria.”
“No victory worth having comes without cost,” Regis said.
“Which is all well and good when you’re paying with
other
people’s lives.”
“Enough, Brak,” Chyler warned, glancing up at him. “I think you’ve made your point.” She turned back to Axelle Regis. “What are you offering?”
“Your people will be paid the same as troops in the regular army and given the honorary rank of non-commissioned officers.”
Chyler shook her head emphatically. “Unacceptable! They’ll be given the honorary rank of captain and paid accordingly, or we’re not interested.”
“That’s preposterous!” Regis exclaimed. “You want me to accord your rabble the same rank as noblemen?”
“They’re going to be taking the greatest risks,” Brak pointed out. “Why shouldn’t they be paid accordingly?”
“But as
officers?”
The general was appalled. “That’s highway robbery!”
Brak smiled. “Did you miss the bit about us being thieves?”
Axelle Regis shook his head. “Absolutely not!”
“Then find your own intelligence.” Chyler shrugged, rising to her feet again. She turned and headed to the door with Brak close behind her.
“What if we
paid
them as officers?” Baraban suggested hurriedly. “But they retain the rank of say … sergeants?”
Chyler stopped and looked up at Brak, before shaking her head and declaring, “They have to be captains.”
“Why?” Regis asked impatiently.
“Because,” Brak explained, with a faintly patronising air, “if one of our people is coming across the border with urgent intelligence, he needs to be able to get through your lines and back to the command post to deliver it, or he might as well find himself a nice little tavern behind enemy lines in Hythria somewhere, settle down and stay put for the duration of the war. An officer can commandeer a horse. An officer can make things happen. A non-commissioned officer is just as likely to be left languishing on the front lines, his intelligence rapidly becoming useless, while some jumped-up nobleman’s son with more money than military training decides to take it upon himself to judge whether or not the information this
rabble
of ours is carrying is worth passing up the line.”
Regis glared at Brak and then, with a great deal of reluctance, he gave in. “I see you have some experience in this area, Master Brak.”
“I’m older than I look.”
“Can I assume, given the appropriate rank and remuneration, you’ll be volunteering your services?”
Brak glanced at Chyler before he agreed. She shrugged, apparently resigned to the inevitable. She knew the last thing he wanted was a war fought every inch of the way to Greenharbour. It would empower Zegarnald to an insufferable degree. If he spied for the Fardohnyans, maybe their victory would be a little swifter, a little cleaner. The fewer men who died fighting, the less the God of War could benefit from their deaths. “You can count me in, I suppose.”
“Madam Kantel?”
Chyler sighed. “I’ll speak to my men. How many do you want?”
“A dozen to start with. Maybe more if the Hythrun prove to be more organised than we anticipate.”
An organised opposition
, Brak thought.
That’s all we need
.
Brak had no real interest in securing a victory for Hablet of Fardohnya, any more than he particularly cared if Lernen Wolfblade of Hythria was overthrown. He’d lived through dozens of monarchs in both countries. They had come in all varieties, good, bad, evil and benign. For a man who counted his age in centuries rather than years, this pending war was no better or worse than scores of others he’d seen fought.
The only thing about war that never changed, Brak knew, was that Zegarnald grew stronger with every innocent human death, and for no other reason than it irked Brak to see Zegarnald win at anything, he was prepared to do whatever it took to see this war was over and done with in the shortest time possible.
If that meant becoming a Fardohnyan spy, so be it.