Kellanved's Reach

Dancer pressed a hand to his brow in frustration. ‘That’s all you take away from that? This is sound strategy. I think we should listen.’

The mage set his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers before his chin. He regarded Dancer with some scepticism. ‘And just which we are we talking about here?’

‘You, me, us – whoever! Just listen, dammit all to Burn!’

Kellanved pursed his lips and bounced his steepled fingers from them then lowered his hands to grip the desk. ‘Very well. I shall reveal my plans! They are as follows … we shall take all our ships, attack Dariyal, and take Nap!’ He thrust a bent finger into the air. ‘Ha!’

Surly and Dancer eyed one another, appalled. Dancer pulled a hand down his face. ‘Gods have mercy,’ he muttered, and turned away to pour a drink.

‘That’s just what Tarel would expect,’ Surly explained, rather acidly. ‘The same thing’s been tried again and again for hundreds of years.’ She pressed her hands together, almost at a loss for words. ‘Nap invading Malaz, Malaz invading Nap. It always fails in the end. We need an alliance. I suggest Dal Hon.’

Kellanved waved that aside. ‘I need no damned allies. Duplicitous betrayers! Two-faced turncoats! I curse them all.’

‘Then what exactly do you suggest?’ Dancer demanded.

‘Exactly what I just outlined.’

Dancer sipped his wine. He eyed the mage over the glass. ‘Haven’t you been listening?’

Kellanved nodded. ‘Yes I have. I hear that my plan is exactly what Talen and his admirals would expect of a new impetuous leader such as myself.’ He cocked a brow at Surly. ‘Yes?’

Now the Napan raider frowned, uncertain of the man’s tack. ‘Well, yes …’

Kellanved gave a curt nod. ‘Excellent. Because said invasion will be a diversion to draw their forces out of the capital. The real attack will come from the landward side. I myself shall transport a small force on to the island, led perhaps by our friend Dassem, to take the palace and replace its ruler.’

Surly snapped up a hand. ‘Agreed – so long as you swear to leave Tarel to me.’

Kellanved inclined his head. ‘Agreed.’ He waved, shooing Surly from his chambers. ‘Very good. Now, make the same offer to Itko Kan and Cawn in secret. But we will renege on those – yes?’

Dancer and Surly turned to eye one another, their brows rising: neither had thought of that.

Kellanved waved Surly off. ‘Go on! Make the arrangements. Dancer and I have things to talk over.’

Surly did not move. Her gaze slid between the two, suspicious. ‘If you disappear again how can I count on you being where you need to be?’

‘Tayschrenn should be able to contact us,’ Kellanved supplied, untroubled. ‘And in any case, I see your point. We shan’t be leaving for some time.’

She backed away to the door. ‘Very well. But how can we know you’ll be there …’

He fluttered a hand. ‘We shall. Do not worry.’

She pulled the door open, and could not help but add a last, dark, muttered, ‘You’d better be.’

The Crust brothers met her at the bottom of the stairs and Cartheron asked, ‘So? How’d it go? What’s the plan?’

She eyed the upper rooms and ran her fingertips over the ridged calloused knuckles of her other hand. ‘Remind me to stop underestimating that damned fool mage.’

*   *   *

Baron Elath Lallind, Sentry of the Seti Marches and High General of Nom Purge, was very pleased with his prosecution of the campaign against Quon Tali to date. He’d taken over from General Yellen of the Agar family – now stripped of all rank and disgraced – two seasons ago, and since then had proved victor far more often than the reverse. The most recent retreat of Quon Talian forces had brought the contending armies to the very border of Quon lands, at the shore-side plains of Sighing Grasses. A victory here would open the way to the rich northern provinces of their traditional enemy, and not too inconsequentially seal his name as the greatest leader in the history of Nom Purge. So it was that confidence was high and the mood one of barely suppressed glee at this last meeting of his command staff before battle.

‘We will finally break them here and retake our ancient lands,’ Elath announced to the nobles, captains and aides gathered in his command tent. ‘So ends the last legacy of their vaunted hegemony.’

All glasses rose in a toast. ‘To the general!’ All save one, Elath noticed, a young captain of heavy infantry, risen to prominence for his personal skill in battle. Hugely broad he was, and blunt-faced. An uncouth commoner with a thick length of prematurely grey hair.

Elath lowered his glass, his satisfaction souring. ‘You are concerned?’ he asked this leader of one of their foreign contingents.

The fellow rubbed a heavy paw over his jowls and let out a breath of unease. ‘It’s not like these Quon Talians to be so unprepared. Where are their reinforcements?’

‘Our sources tell us this is all they can muster at this time.’ He offered a shrug. ‘Quon and Tali are not what they once were.’

‘And they no doubt have sources among you who tell them you believe this.’