Kellanved's Reach

Hairlock cut a blunt hand through the air, scowling. ‘I don’t work for you. It was the fellow who calls himself Kellanved who invited me to come.’

Calot was nodding his agreement. His night-black curls blew about, and he appeared to be shivering though wrapped in a thick cloak. ‘You said my arrangement was with Kellanved.’

Tayschrenn raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, yes. I serve only as his deputy here, head of this assembly, this cadre. The question, then, is … since we could probably never agree on any hierarchy among us … how do we organize?’

‘We do not,’ said Nightchill. ‘We each answer directly to Kellanved, or you as a coordinator … or,’ she added, thinking, ‘another duly appointed representative.’

Hairlock’s thick lips curled upwards in a smug smile at that addition and Tayschrenn could almost hear him thinking: That’ll be me.

‘Academic,’ supplied Calot, shivering even more – he was quite slight, and seemed to be the only one of them feeling the chill wind. Or at least he was pretending to. ‘Our patron is not here.’

Tayschrenn nodded. ‘Fine. It will do for the moment. Now we can move on to our tasks. Once we are ready we are planning to move against Nap. An invasion of the capital, Dariyal, no doubt. Therefore our duty is to investigate what awaits us there on the isles. How strong are the talents? Do any hidden powers await us? What sort of opposition should we expect?’ He cleared his throat, uncertain what reaction his next words might elicit, but continued regardless, ‘I, ah, suggest, then, that you, Calot, and Hairlock travel by mundane roundabout means to the isles to investigate.’

Hairlock cocked a hairless brow. ‘Really? Him’n’me? Why us? Why not you or this lass here?’

‘I would attract too much attention,’ Nightchill supplied, as if stating a plain fact.

Hairlock smiled crookedly, looking her up and down. ‘You got that right, lass. There’s a touch of the Elders about you …’

She pointed to Tayschrenn. ‘And this one has announced his presence on Malaz already. Neither of you have.’

Tayschrenn inclined his head to her – she’d already grasped that salient point.

Hairlock’s jaws bunched as he chewed on this, unhappy. Finally, he gave a curt nod. ‘Fine.’

‘Excuse me,’ Calot began, raising a hand, ‘but when you say “mundane” do you mean by boat and such?’ Tayschrenn nodded, a touch mystified by the question. ‘Then I will need a fair amount of coin, my friend, as I do not travel with the common masses.’

Tayschrenn fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer prosaicness of the request, and instead inclined his head in assent. ‘You will both be given sufficient funds, of course.’

Calot shrugged within his bunched, thick cloak. ‘Very well. I’ll go ahead and nose around.’

Hairlock flicked a hand to indicate his agreement as well.

‘Then this first conclave is over,’ Tayschrenn announced. Calot hurried off; Hairlock went thumping after, hands clasped at his back, head lowered, scowling.

‘And what of us?’ Nightchill asked.

‘We remain on guard in case Itko Kan or some other entity decides to strike before we’ve gathered our strength.’

The strange, almost otherworldly sorceress had been peering southward as if distracted, but now she looked to him and extended a hand, inviting him to join her. ‘Prudent,’ she supplied. ‘And what of our patron?’

Tayschrenn fought to keep his irritation and impatience with just that party from his face, and offered, neutrally, ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I will reach out to him.’

The wind plucked at his robes and thorny bushes caught at the cloth as they walked a narrow path down the hillside. The sorceress wore only thin linen trousers and a loose shirt, yet she showed no discomfort from the chill wind, though she walked haltingly, and he thought he saw her wince in pain now and then.

‘And where are you from?’ he asked, now that they were alone and he could focus upon the mystery that the woman posed.

‘From very far away,’ she answered, her voice tired and very soft.

He cocked a brow. Fine. Be all reserved and distant, then. Yet his ruthlessly analytical self could not help but whisper in his ear: And are you irritated with her because she’s better at it than you?

*   *   *

It was Gregar’s first taste of a foot-soldier’s life and he wondered how anyone could ever be stupid enough to choose it, let alone actually like it. Of course, by now he understood that the word ‘choice’ wasn’t even in the common soldier’s vocabulary. Most of the wretched youths in this troop had no say in the matter at all: impressed or conscripted by force, or offered up by their families to perform obligatory service as taxation owed to their lords in Yellows, or Gast, or Satar, or Netor.