Kellanved's Reach

The wiry knife-fighter had gone to the side and was looking out over the rolling waters. Cartheron noted the dust and dirt on his clothes and gear – all signs of hard travel. He cleared his throat. ‘If I may … why here? Why not go straight there?’

The young man nodded. ‘Too many eyes on the island now. Best we arrive without announcing it.’

‘Ah. Well, Surly will be relieved.’

‘Will she?’ the fellow murmured, as if to himself.

Cartheron frowned for a moment. ‘Of course. Your pact – ah, that is, the plan.’

Dancer’s gaze moved to the cabin door, and pinched in worry. ‘Yes. The plan. We should be able to go ahead with that now.’

Cartheron crossed his arms against the cold, nodding again. ‘Good, good. And you and your, ah, partner? How did that go, if I may ask?’

The still quite youthful-looking lad ran a hand through his thick, night-black hair – dislodging dust – and shook his head. ‘It was a dead end.’

*   *   *

Malle of Gris sat in one of the twin thrones of Gris her parents had commissioned the day she and her twin brother were born. Her brother Malkir’s throne had remained empty since he died the previous year in a hunting accident outside Li Heng. A death Malle blamed on his hired escort, the Crimson Guard, who should have died to a man and a woman protecting him.

Her official title remained something of a question as her mother, the queen, lived still, sickly and bedridden. ‘Princess Regent’ was one suggestion, or ‘Duchess’, as many of the eastern city states were regarded as duchies. However, the only title she allowed was ‘Malle of Gris’ as, she argued, this should be good enough for anyone.

This evening she sat among representatives of Gris’s dwindling allies. Present were lords, knights, or siblings of the rulers of the far eastern duchies, principates, and baronies: Haljhen, Nita, Balstro, Jurda, Habal, and Baran. They all sat at board in the huge stone hall, eating and talking in low voices, until Malle raised a hand for silence. ‘Lords and ladies … as you know, we have suffered a setback. Jurda is now isolated and besieged. What course of action do you suggest?’

An older, bearded knight, Lord Fense, uncle of the ruler of Jurda, Duke Rethor, climbed to his feet. He bowed. ‘Malle of Gris … my nephew and lord, Rethor, sends assurances that he will hold against the damned Bloorians for as long as it takes – all he asks is that a relief force be assembled.’

All present banged the table and shouted their support for Duke Rethor. Malle raised her hand for silence once more. She was not surprised; hundreds of years of feuds, raids and attacks lay behind a mutual hatred between the Bloor and the Jurdan ruling families. ‘My compliments to the Duke. Please assure him that every effort will be made to push back the Bloorians.’

Lord Fense inclined his greying head and sat.

‘Anything else?’ Malle asked of the table.

A woman as young as Malle herself cleared her throat and rose; Lady Amtal, daughter of the Countess of Haljhen. Slight and pale, affecting a mousy demeanour, she was, as Malle knew, in truth a skilled sorceress, and a rumoured agent of the Queen of Dreams herself. She curtsied to Malle. ‘Gris,’ she began, ‘I mean no disrespect, but duty demands I place my mother’s words before you – and I beg you take no offence.’

Malle nodded. ‘Go on. We are at council here and all may speak.’ She did, however, reach out to the armrest of her brother’s throne, as she used to reach out to his arm.

Lady Amtal curtsied again. ‘My mother counsels that we consider negotiation. Our position yet remains one of relative strength, but who knows what the future may hold?’

Malle squeezed the armrest. Negotiate while we still can

. She took a calming breath. Such counsel anticipated defeat. Which I refuse to accept. ‘Thank your mother the countess for her wisdom, Lady Amtal. All options remain open, of course.’

Lady Amtal curtsied once more and sat. No one else rose. Malle nodded to them. ‘Very good. We assemble a force, then, and push back to relieve Jurda.’

All present banged cups and fists to the table – even the slight Lady Amtal tapped a hand. Malle ordered another round of refreshments be served.

Usually, such meals ended with an evening of entertainment from singers, jugglers, and other such mummers. Malle of Gris, however, kept a very sombre table, and so one by one the gathered nobles and knights-at-arms bowed and took their leave.

Once the last had left – a thoroughly soused knight of Baran half dragged along by his two hirelings – Malle regarded the broad chamber, empty but for servants cleaning up, and cleared her throat. She spoke into the darkened hall. ‘What say you, Ap-Athlan?’

From the shadows along one wall a slim, aged man in leathers stepped forward. He bowed to Malle and, walking past a table, helped himself to a few leavings of grapes. ‘Our list of allies grows shorter by the month,’ he observed, and tossed the grapes into his mouth one by one.