The Swordbearer by Glen Cook
Kimach Faulstich, the Bilgoraji King, upon whom Gathrid was prepared to lay the blame for Gudermuth's demise, chaired the convention both because its army had assembled in his dominion and because he was one of the Alliance's founders. He rose, awaited a lull in the outraged chatter, then answered Gathrid. He, too, spoke Old Petralian. "Who are you, that you dare come among us uninvited, questioning the acts of Kings?"
Kimach had regained his composure quickly. His counter-burst calmed the others. They turned hard eyes on Gathrid. One fat Magister eyed Daubendiek with a lust almost obscene.
"The Esquire speaks for me," Gathrid purred. His gaze dared the Magister.
Thus it had been for Tureck Aarant. His closest allies had lusted after the Great Sword. He had endured and survived countless attempts to steal it. He had dared turn his back on no man but Rogala, and even that had proven fatal in the end.
Rogala answered Kimach with an arrogant snort. The Bilgoraji was wasting time. He strolled to a low table facing the lustful-eyed Magister of the Red Order. He kicked a woman aside, dropped to his hams, seized and began gnawing a piece of roast fowl.
The Magister turned as red as his clothing.
With preternatural accuracy the dwarf had chosen a victim sure to be offended. This Magister was the infamous Gerdes Mulenex, the most violently storied member of the Brotherhood.
Mulenex's reputation had run by whisper and innuendo throughout the west. His arrogance and viciousness were legend. His enemies within his own Order, who had tried to thwart his rise, had come to cruel and lingering ends. In his way he was as nasty and ambitious as the Ventimiglian Mindak, though he was a weaker, less imaginative man. He could not endure the sacrifices necessary for one who would seize powers matching those attained by Ahlert. He was limited in his own mastery of the sorceries. He inveigled more competent, less ambitious men into performing his thaumaturgies for him. He was not above stealing their credit.
There was just one upward step Mulenex could take within the Brotherhood, the Fray Magistery or crown of mastery, over all five Orders. No one, and the present Fray Magister, Klutho Misplaer, least, doubted that he meant to try taking that step.
Emperor Elgar, of the Anderlean Imperium, was a friend and political ally of Klutho Misplaer. Both resided in Sartain, capital of the Empire since prehistoric times. The seat and symbol of Brotherhood Power was a grand old palace called the Raftery. The Imperial Palace and the Raftery both had long been braced for a Mulenex intrigue.
Mulenex had confounded everyone by appearing to remain content with his present status, devoting himself to profligate living and hurling scorn at the objects of his ambitions.
Theis Rogala seized a knife. He stabbed a particularly succulent morsel off Mulenex's own plate. Mulenex reached for his own knife.
Rogala stabbed the tabletop between the Red Magister's fingers. "Don't overreach yourself."
Not a whisper could be heard.
Gathrid grinned. The dwarf had done his bullying smoothly.
The officer in Imperial uniform laughed. He nodded amiably when Gathrid glanced his way. There was no love lost between Mulenex and Emperor Elgar XIV. Rumor said Mulenex had eyes for the Imperial Palace.
The dream of Empire had not perished in Sartain. There the true believers went on, ever certain that someday the Golden Age would return. In fact, the dream was not far from the hearts of many of the western ruling class. There were endless intrigues aimed at usurping the Imperial throne, in hopes of founding a rising dynasty.
Gathrid drew a deep breath and thundered, "Where are the allies who spoke so loud and bold?" Politics, he thought in youthful naiveté, could be set aside before the threat of a common enemy.
The Emperor's man replied, "Two cohorts of the Guards Oldani are in Katich now, Lord." He smiled at the puzzled, surprised, angry looks he received from his companions in council.
The Guards Oldani, so called because in olden times they had consisted of barbarian mercenaries, were the Anderlean Emperor's praetorian troops, the cream of the Imperial army. Their ferocity was legend. Their professionalism was respected everywhere. Enfeebled though the Empire might be, neighboring kingdoms seldom warred with it.
The Blue Magister's representative added, "With the Guards are four cabali of the Blue, Lord. Little enough, I grant you. But their captain is Honsa Eldracher himself."
Mulenex roared in outrage. He leapt to his feet. His great jowls wobbled as he thundered, "My Lords! What woe and deceit have we here?" His arms flapped like the wings of a flightless bird. Rogala backed toward Gathrid. He wore an expression of bemused awe. Mulenex was a showman, sure. The man launched a long-winded, vigorous, extemporaneous denunciation of the Emperor and Blues for having intervened unilaterally.
Gathrid whispered to Rogala, "The Fray Magister is from the Blue Order. Honsa Eldracher is his daughter's husband and his stand-in as Blue Magister. This explains why the Blue Magister isn't here."
Rogala nodded. "Would you say the Emperor and Misplaer are trying to embarrass the fat man?"
Gathrid shrugged. "I don't know. Probably. When a Red says black, a Blue usually says white."
Rogala grinned at Mulenex. "He does go on, doesn't he? Taking it personal, too."
"Honsa Eldracher is the Brotherhood's crown prince. He takes over if anything happens to Misplaer. Mulenex doesn't like it, but there isn't anything he can do. Eldracher is supposed to be the greatest thaumaturge ever produced by the Brotherhood. He won't want to lock horns."
Rogala nodded thoughtfully. He didn't waste much attention on the pyrotechnic Red Magister. He scanned the faces of the audience instead. Gathrid wondered what he read there.
"Politics have fettered this army," the youth muttered. He made the word "politics" a curse. "They're going to sit here till Ahlert stomps them like bugs. And they'll die squabbling and intriguing."
Rogala asked, "You under the impression Katich would be in friendly hands if it weren't for politics?"
"No. What gets me is, nobody cares what happens in Gudermuth. It's just an excuse to grind their own axes."
"That's what it's all about, son."
"And Ahlert is going to take advantage."
"He'd be a fool if he didn't." The dwarf sneered. "He'll sit over there, scrupulous about respecting frontiers, and laugh his tail off while these clowns use Gudermuth as a counter in a power struggle that may tear their Alliance to shreds. And when the moment ripens, he'll jump all over them. I'm beginning to find human greed, duplicity, weakness and dearth of imagination boringly predictable."
"You shouldn't play games with human lives."
Rogala gave him a strange look. "You're serious, aren't you? You really are as naive as you put on. You're really offended."
"Of course I am!" Gathrid glared at the dwarf. "Enough!" he shouted, breaking in on Mulenex. "A compact was made. If Gerdes Mulenex and his toadies want to renounce it so they can forward their personal ambitions, let them say so. If the rest of you want to use an ally as a piece on a political chessboard, say so. Stop the hypocrisy. Show your true colors. Repudiate the Treaty of Beovingloh. And be accursed by the dying while Ventimiglian brigades trample your fools' dreams."
Rogala threw him a series of savage looks. He was being too forthright. He was not supposed to make enemies, he was supposed to goad these men into accepting a will not their own. Of course, Gathrid did not know that. Suchara did not confide in her Swordbearer.
The dwarf did not care a fig for Gudermuth, except insofar as its fate could be used to twist someone's arm in accordance with Suchara's desires.
Gathrid's speech drew scattered applause. Kargus Scanga, King of Malmberget, responded. "Your shaft strikes near the mark, Swordbearer, though I find your phrasing too bold and your companion boorish."
"Boorish?" Rogala squealed, stamping his feet. He grinned as attention focused on him again. "I'm not a great man, I admit. Nor do I stand as tall as some. Yet I ask you, is boorishness strictly a province of class? Are the high and the m
"That's entirely possible," Scanga replied. His grin was as broad as the dwarf's. "When I see him in these councils I certainly think so. To the matter at hand. I think we'd all agree we made a mistake at Torun. Not in hammering out an Alliance, but in forging it in such unwieldy form. Swordbearer, it's unfortunate, but we agreed unanimity was a prerequisite for armed action. Naturally, that leaves the decision-making process at the mercy of opportunists." His scowl transfixed Mulenex. There could be no doubt that his accusation was specific.
"Opportunists?" Mulenex howled. "You dare denounce opportunists when just last month your cousin seized the Red livings in Dharsyn and had three Red Brothers put to death? Shame!"
Scanga replied, "That isn't relevant here."
Arnd Tetrault shouted, "Sit down, fat man. You come into my domain and you'll get the same. I hang thieves no matter who they are."
Shifting his ground, Mulenex snapped, "You're obscuring the issue here . . . . " The mood of the council jelled. He made no headway. Who was and who was not obscuring issues was obvious. Even more obvious was Mulenex's increasing unpopularity. The others shouted him down.
Tetrault's voice broke through the uproar. "Let's impale the pig. He's tied us up for the past three days."
Gathrid doubted that Mulenex alone was responsible. Some mechanism in the group unconscious had tripped and, suddenly, the Red Magister had been elected to bear all their sins.
Mulenex turned bright red. He roared. He fumed. He howled and threatened. And every twist of showmanship only dug the hole deeper.
Gathrid suffered a dismaying insight. The debate had a foregone conclusion. The parties were toying with one another, playing for a position of vantage. His intervention, his anger and indignation, were not germane.
Mulenex was stubborn. He invested an hour in verbal attack and grudging retreat before he yielded to the inevitable. By then Gathrid knew he wanted war as much as did his adversaries. He was simply looking for a payoff in return for abandoning his negative stance.
He got in the last word. He thrust an indicting finger Gathrid's way. "I warn you," he cried, voice dramatically atremble. "If we take up this instrument, it will turn in our hands. As well grasp an adder."
Rogala nodded as if conceding the argument.
The Emperor's representative rose. The uproar declined. "My Lords. Magisters. Envoys of principalities great and small. The thing is decided. We march. As it was agreed in treaty, I'll command in the field. Now I want to propose a temporary mechanism whereby we can smooth the functioning of the Alliance, in the face of an implacable, malignant force totally indifferent to our customary squabbles and differences. Till we agree that the eastern peril has abated, let us all acknowledge the supremacy of the Imperium and unite behind the Emperor's standard as though we were Anderleans of old. Let's show this Ventimiglian pestilence a single face crimson with righteous wrath."
Snickers and incredulous whispers fluttered about the assembly. It was a transparent ploy. The Emperor would never yield a single ounce of power acquired.
Gathrid suspected the man's suggestion was offered at the command of his liege, that he had no real hope for the proposal.
"Anderle is dead," Rogala countered, startling everyone. "Your empire is a political fiction, a specter that won't lay still in its grave—though you people seem to find it a useful ghost. Ventimiglia is no fantasy and no spook. Anyone here fool enough to believe Ahlert is going to be satisfied with Gudermuth? Step up here. I'll kill you so the rest of us can get on with our job."
"Here's a reality for you, buffoon," growled the King of Calcaterra, one Arnd Tetrault, a cousin of Kargus Scanga, the King of Malmberget. "The morning dispatch from our agent in Gudermuth says that besides himself, his Toal, Nieroda, and his sorcerer-generals, Ahlert now has him a witch-woman who can manipulate the moon-magic. A renegade Gudermuther, at that, and a strong one, though supposedly she isn't yet trained. That puts two elemental powers inside Ahlert's purview. What do we have to face that? The feckless support of Suchara? These shiftless Orders? I'd sooner trust Ahlert than the likes of Mulenex or Ellebracht. The Mindak comes out and tells you what he wants."
Ellebracht was, apparently, the Blue representative. Gathrid recalled having heard the name. A relative of the Emperor, closely allied with Klutho Misplaer and Honsa Eldracher.
Mulenex rose to protest. His peers shouted him down. Their language was brutal and offensive.
A Gudermuther woman turned renegade? Gathrid thought, appalled. After what Ahlert had done? Impossible. "Who is she?" he demanded. He pictured some gap-toothed crone. Some peasant malcontent eager to requite Gudermuth's nobility for fancied slights.
"The Ventimiglians refer to her as the Witch of Kacalief."
Witch of Kacalief? He reeled. That said so much . . . . Anyeck. Had to be . . . . Who else could it be? The Mindak had taken several prisoners there, but only his sister would fit the charges. He caressed the Sword, eager for its comfort. His sister . . . . It would be Anyeck's style. She had the black streak. She could turn her back on her past.
Her problem was wanting. Wanting too much. And being unable to see any reason not to do whatever she wanted getting. Rules were mere vexations, perhaps applicable to lesser souls, but to be ignored by her. A desertion to the enemy would be a logical escalation of past selfishnesses. He wondered that he had not expected this from the beginning.
Yet how could she, so quickly, forget what had been done to her family?
He did not doubt that she could. She had little concept of yesterday, and not much more of tomorrow. She existed entirely in the now, incapable of discerning a connection between current events and future consequences.
The youth concealed his shock. He did not want these people to know who he was, whence he sprang. It was grim work. He succeeded only because the Sword's touch calmed him, because Rogala captured attention by demanding that the Brotherhood smash this witch instantly. The dwarf was quick to make the connection, based on what Gathrid had told him of his home life.
He spoke with a great passion. Gathrid assumed he was covering for him. Had he been less self-involved at the moment, he might have wondered at Rogala's fervor.
"The great Eldracher is on the scene," Mulenex countered. "Let him handle her."
This once the assembly went with the Red Magister. Rogala shrugged at the decision.
The die was cast. Gathrid had what he wanted. The Alliance would enter Gudermuth. And what had his effort profited him? He had nudged a host in the direction of his only living relative. He wore a sad smile. Plauen would have been amused by the irony. Poor dead Plauen, whose candle had been extinguished by the Mindak's whirlwind.
Rogala said, "Time to talk terms, gentlemen. Suchara has her needs. She won't let Daubendiek serve for free."
There was no debate. The council backed Kimach Faulstich unanimously. He responded, "We're not stumbling into that trap, Rogala. You won't do us the way you did Anderle."
"So be it," the dwarf said. He stalked out of the assembly. After a moment of indecision, Gathrid followed.
What was the dwarf doing, walking out now? There were things to be said, questions to be asked, decisions to be made . . . .
"It's not our problem," Rogala said. "We needed a war. War there'll be. That's sufficient."
The youth had a thousand questions banging around inside his head, but Rogala clammed up when he tried to ask them.
"Be patient. They'll get back to us. They'll want to make sure Daubendiek doesn't go over to the other side."
Gathrid shook his head. Theis did not understand. He and the dwarf seemed to exist in two different realities, so contradictory were their ways of thinking.
An hour earlier Gathrid would have scoffed at the suggestion he might serve the enemy. Now he was not sure. He shared Anyeck's fallible blood. He might become as feckless as Aarant had b
"We'll stay here till the army moves out," Rogala told him. "We need the rest. And the free meals. Don't wander off. Don't trust anybody, no matter what they say. Don't ever think you're safe. Gerdes Mulenex wasn't the only viper in that snakepit."
Once they reached their tent, Rogala produced pen and ink. "Let's review. We've walked into a complicated setup. Let's see who's who here." He scribbled quickly, producing a list with four columns. "The four major factions I detected," he explained. "One revolves around Kimach Faulstich, our gracious host." His voice dripped sarcasm. He did not think much of the hospitality extended them.
"Yeah," Gathrid agreed. "This is his council, really. Half the assembly were his relatives. Bathon of Bochantin. Forsten of Tornatore. Doslak of Fiefenbruch. Danzer of Arana. All cadets of the House of Faulstich. Forsten and Danzer have Scanga wives, though, and they say Danzer is ruled by his."