“If this alliance you propose fails,” Kragen articulated, “you can retreat to Orison. You have two thousand men for a final defense. I have nothing. All the Alend Monarch’s might will be destroyed, and my people will have no defense left between the Pestil River and the mountains. I can not risk my father’s entire monarchy on this business of necks and nooses.
“I will not go. I advise you not to go.”
Terisa wanted to yell at him; she wanted to hit him with her fists. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to try. She contained herself, however, because Geraden was clenched still, unprotesting, and Artagel had gone ominously quiet.
In a dull rumble, the Tor asked, “What do you advise, my lord Prince?”
“Fight for Orison as long as you can,” replied the Prince. “Then join me across the Pestil. Bring the Fayle and the Termigan – bring the Armigite, if you can bear him – and add your forces to mine. With the Alend Lieges behind us, we will make Eremis and Festten pay dearly for every foot of ground they take.”
To himself, the Tor made a muttering noise, as if he were considering the idea. But before Terisa could panic – before Geraden could intervene – he heaved himself to his feet.
He tottered. Afraid he might fall, she reached out to support him. What was left of his hair straggled with sweat; his skin had a gray underhue, as if his heart pumped ashes rather than blood; his eyes were glazed, nearly opaque.
Nevertheless he spoke as if no one could doubt that he would be obeyed.
“Castellan Norge, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, my lord Tor.” Norge sounded vaguely somnolent: detached; impervious to argument.
“Escort my lord Prince out of Orison. I want him returned safely to his father. Safely and politely. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, my lord Tor.”
“We march against Esmerel at dawn. Be ready. Confer with the Congery on the matter of supplies.”
Master Barsonage nodded assent.
“Yes, my lord Tor.” This time, there was a small bite in Norge’s tone, a touch of grim happiness.
Prince Kragen threw up his hands.
“Wait a minute.” Artagel wore his battle grin. He was unarmed, but at the moment he didn’t look like he needed a weapon. “You’re talking about marching into the teeth of the siege. Is that wise, my lord Tor? Shouldn’t we keep Prince Kragen with us? A hostage of our own? If we let him go, he can cut us down as soon as we ride out of here.”
“No,” the Tor said at once. The flatness in his tone was turning to nausea. “That the Alend Contender will not do. He knows where we go, and why. He may well resume his attack on Orison when we are gone. For that reason, we will leave two thousand men behind us, and someone reliable to lead them. But he will not harm or hinder us.”
Terisa wanted to ask, Are you sure? The mix of emotions on Prince Kragen’s face was too complex to give her much confidence. Maybe that was what he planned: a killing attack as soon as the guard left Orison? Unexpectedly, however, the Prince’s excitement seemed to gain the upper hand for a moment.
“Thank you, my lord Tor.” He spoke softly; yet his voice carried a hint of trumpets. “Rely on my respect. If my father’s friends were as honorable as King Joyse’s, Alend would have no need of Contenders to win the Seat.”
Kragen turned to go. Norge sent two captains to accompany him until more guards could be mustered. Nevertheless Terisa didn’t see his departure. She was busy trying to catch the Tor’s great weight as it tumbled to the floor.
The old lord had fainted.
FORTY-FOUR: MEN GO FORTH
Terisa and Geraden wanted to talk to Artagel – they wanted to know in detail what had happened in Orison during their absence – but for most of the day he had no time. He was busy with Norge, supporting the new Castellan’s authority, and the Tor’s, against anyone who doubted it, distrusted it. Of course, he had no official standing, no authority of his own. That, however, only increased his credibility. He was Artagel, the best swordsman in Mordant – and a son of the Domne. Since King Joyse’s decline, he was the closest thing Orison had to a popular hero. And he wasn’t actually a member of the guard – wasn’t actually under Norge’s command. His word, his simple presence at Norge’s side, threw more weight than half a dozen catapults.
Failing Artagel, Terisa and Geraden would have been content with Master Barsonage. But the mediator was busy as well. He had to ready the Congery for battle. And he had to make all the arrangements for supplying the guard. In practice, this meant determining with Norge’s seconds what supplies were necessary, in what quantities, and then issuing explicit instructions for the placement of those supplies in manageable piles in the vast disused ballroom outside the laborium.
Since the Congery had rediscovered its sense of purpose, the Masters had been busy. Working from the formula Barsonage had used to create the mirror of his augury, one of them had chanced to shape a flat glass which showed the ballroom. With as much haste as possible, two other Masters had succeeded at duplicating that new mirror; one glass alone would have been too slow – and would have placed too much strain on the Master who had made it. Along with its other weapons, the Congery intended to carry these mirrors on the march. Then the supplies which had been piled in the ballroom could be translated to Orison’s army at need.
Because the mediator had to put these plans into effect, Terisa and Geraden were left with no comfortable source of information.
Ribuld was almost gleefully glad to see them. Especially after Lebbick’s death – which he had been unable to prevent – the scarred veteran was eager to assign himself the job of protecting them. And he was happy to talk. From him, they heard about Saddith’s fate. On the other hand, he couldn’t answer the pertinent questions – couldn’t explain, for instance, how the maid had come to serve as a diversion for the breaking of Geraden’s mirror. He didn’t know the things Terisa and Geraden most wanted to hear.
For most of the day – what was left of it, at any rate – they had to rely on each other’s company.
This didn’t particularly distress them.
They had given the Tor over into the care of a physician, who had assured them that the old lord had the constitution of a stoat and would almost certainly recover as soon as he began to consume a diet more nourishing than wine alone – with the proviso, of course, that Gart’s kick hadn’t produced any interior bleeding. After the physician had reassured them, Terisa and Geraden went to her former rooms in the tower, the peacock rooms.
They explained to Ribuld that they were waiting to talk to either Artagel or Master Barsonage; and Ribuld promised to hound Artagel and the mediator with reminders. Then they closed the door and bolted it.
Suddenly giddy with relief and suppressed hysteria, they wedged a chair into the wardrobe – where her clothes still hung – to block the entrance from the passage inside the wall. “Anybody who tries to sneak in here,” he said, “is going to crack his shins.”
Laughing so that they wouldn’t weep, they welcomed each other back as if they had been apart for months.
“Ah, love,” he murmured some time later, when he had become calm, “I came so close to reaching you. That was worse than being helpless, I think. There I was, doing something so amazing that it turns everything we know about Imagery upside down, and Eremis made it all useless just by putting out the lights.” He paused, then admitted, “Havelock had to sit on me to keep me from going after you anyway.”
“But you weren’t really helpless, were you.” This was important to her.
As always, what she said was more interesting to him than his own pain. “What do you mean?”
“You couldn’t reach me,” she explained, “you couldn’t rescue me directly. But with that power there must have been dozens of things you could have done. You could have translated guards into Esmerel to look for me. Hundreds of them.”
He peered at her in a way that made her want to hug him again because he so obviously wasn’t hurt, didn’t interpret what she
said as criticism. All he said was, “I didn’t have time.”
“I know that, you idiot.” Instead of hugging him, she tickled his ribs. “That’s not the point.”
He caught her hand by the wrist and punished her attack by nibbling gently on the tips of her fingers. Between nips, he asked, “What is the point?”
“The point is” – it was amazing, really, just how much difficulty she had concentrating while he sucked her fingers – “you weren’t helpless. If I hadn’t done that shift, you could have found a way to strike back. You would have found a way.” Determined to be serious, she repeated, “You weren’t helpless.”
“Of course I’m helpless,” he replied around her fingers. “I’m completely at your mercy.”
“Idiot,” she said again.
But she didn’t have any trouble thinking of something to do for him while he was at her mercy.
Still later, when her own sense of postponed fright had receded, she murmured softly into his shoulder, “What would we have done?”
He analyzed that for a while before he remarked, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If the Tor hadn’t agreed with us,” she explained. “If Norge hadn’t agreed with him. If they hadn’t put themselves in charge of Orison. What would we have done?”
He stared up at one of the peacock-feather decorations on the wall. “Well, somebody had to take command. We would have persuaded him.”
“And what if he turned us down?”
Geraden considered the question. “I guess we would have left with Prince Kragen. We would have tried to persuade him – or Elega – or maybe even Margonal himself – to back us up.
“I know,” he added when she started to object, “Prince Kragen is the one who wants to stay here. But that’s only because the Tor wants to go. If he didn’t have any hope of an alliance with Orison – if he knew he couldn’t get in here without spending all the lives that would take, making himself that much weaker – he might have been persuaded to march. If Elega took our side. If he thought he didn’t have anything else to try.”
“And what,” she continued, “if we couldn’t persuade him.”
He shrugged under her head. “Then we probably would have to get back into Orison. We’d have to get anybody who agreed with us – Artagel, maybe some of the Masters, maybe some friends of Ribuld’s – and use one of Adept Havelock’s mirrors to translate ourselves to Esmerel. Try a surprise raid.”
She reached across his chest to hug him. “So we wouldn’t have given up.”
He held her hard. Through his teeth, he muttered, “You suit yourself. I wouldn’t give up if I had to walk there alone and take Esmerel apart with my fingernails.”
That was what she wanted to hear. Feeling at once more relaxed and readier for battle, she asked casually, “Has it occurred to you that we’re luckier than we look?”
“ ‘Luckier’?” he inquired.
“Or King Joyse is. If it weren’t for Elega, we probably wouldn’t have been able to talk our way in here. If it weren’t for the Castellan” – she felt a pang whenever she remembered Lebbick – “Gart would probably have killed you and Artagel and Prince Kragen and the Tor. If it weren’t for the Tor, Orison might be in chaos by now. Eremis hasn’t won yet. We’re still able to lie here and make love and talk about fighting.” Geraden kissed her, but she didn’t stop. “We’ve been lucky.”
In an unexpectedly somber tone, he returned, “Or King Joyse is better at this game than anybody realizes.”
She nodded. After a moment, she said, “I wonder why he can’t beat Havelock at hop-board.”
Geraden looked at her sharply. “That’s an interesting question. Do you suppose it’s just because Havelock is out of his mind most of the time?”
That sounded plausible. Terisa started to say, I guess so. But then, unaccountably, she remembered the time Adept Havelock had come to her rooms – had sneaked in through the secret passage and taken her to Master Quillon, so that Quillon could give her the raw materials with which to think about Mordant’s need. He hadn’t exactly been in one of his lucid phases. And yet he had said—
She groped for the memory momentarily; then it came to her, as clear as the note of a well-made chime.
No one understands hop-board. The King tries to protect his pieces.
King Joyse had protected her, protected Geraden. Had tried to protect the Tor. At some personal cost, he had done what he could to protect his wife and daughters. It was even conceivable that he had tried to protect Castellan Lebbick.
Individuals. What good are they? Worthless. It’s all strategy. Sacrifice the right men to trap your opponent.
Maybe that was the truth. Maybe King Joyse couldn’t outplay the Adept because he couldn’t match Havelock’s ruthlessness.
Maybe that was why he was gone now. Maybe he was out on a mad chase after Torrent and Queen Madin, driven by a need to protect individuals without regard to his overall strategy.
Did that fundamental flaw cripple everything? Was his policy fatally marred by his inability to sacrifice individuals for the sake of something larger?
Geraden must have felt her shivering: he tightened his arms around her suddenly. “Terisa,” he murmured, “love. What’s the matter?”
She couldn’t explain, not directly; the idea scaring her was too elusive, almost metaphysical. Instead, she said, “Do you remember the time King Joyse asked me to find a way out of a stalemate? It was the day after Master Gilbur translated his champion.” That memory did little to improve her morale. “You rescued me from the Castellan by persuading the Tor to send for me in King Joyse’s name.”
Geraden nodded. “I remember.”
“After you got me to the King’s rooms,” she continued for her own sake rather than for his, strengthening her grip on what she meant, “he showed me a hop-board problem. A stalemate. He said Havelock set it up for him. He said there was a way out, but he couldn’t find it.”
Her shivers mounted. “So I tipped all the men off the board. No more stalemate.”
“I remember,” Geraden repeated, trying to steady her.
“I think I almost made him sick. He was almost in tears.”
He had said, To you, it’s just a game. To me, it’s the difference between life and ruin.
And he had said, I suggest that you give the matter more consideration before you once again attempt to end a stalemate by tilting the board.
“Geraden, what if that’s what we’re doing? Tilting the board?”
Instead of doing what King Joyse wants. Protecting his pieces. Or what Havelock wants. Sacrificing the right men.
“Do you think we should go alone?” Geraden countered. “Against Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel and terrible Imagery and twenty thousand men?”
Abruptly, her trembling stopped; it fell away from her like an old panic fading into the dark.
“No,” she said distinctly. That would be sacrificing men for no reason. “We wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if we could fight all that Imagery, we couldn’t stop High King Festten.
“It’s just that I agree with King Joyse. Somehow, he persuaded me he’s right by leaving us in the lurch. At first, I was angry. But now I think I’m starting to understand.”
Geraden studied her face. “Terisa, you aren’t making any sense.”
“I know.” She mustered another indirect effort to explain herself. “Did I ever tell you about Reverend Thatcher?”
“The man who ran the ‘mission’ where you served before I came to you.”
She kissed Geraden’s nose quickly. “I probably told you he was futile. Sad – hopeless. He must have felt that way. But he taught me something—Something I didn’t understand for a long time.
“He was trying to help the most miserable people in the city. Indigents. Street people. Crazies. Drunks. Trying to give them food and clothing and maybe shelter. And that was hard because nobody wanted to pay for it. If you feed and clothe and shelter them today, what have you acc
omplished? All you’ve done is save their lives, so they’ll need more food and clothing and shelter tomorrow. So if you have money and want to do some good, giving it to that mission is like throwing it away. There must be hundreds of things you can use your money for that would do more good for the city as a whole.”
“Yes, but—” began Geraden.
“Yes, but,” she agreed. “Doing good for the city as a whole wouldn’t make those poor people go away. It wouldn’t make their misery go away. And Reverend Thatcher couldn’t stop caring about them. If you gave him a choice between” – she searched for an example – “I don’t know, between free education for the whole city and helping one drunk get through another day with a hot meal, he’d choose to help the drunk. Not because he didn’t think education is important, but because he couldn’t help caring about the drunk.
“Maybe that’s sad. Maybe it’s even stupid. It’s certainly hopeless.
“But it’s also wonderful.”
She stopped as if she had made herself clear.
Geraden had to struggle for a couple of minutes, but eventually he reached the conclusion she hadn’t been able to articulate. “King Joyse,” he said slowly, “persuaded you he was right by abandoning us. You think he went after Torrent – after Queen Madin. When somebody he loves is in danger, he forgets all about Mordant – all about his plans for saving his kingdom. He leaves that to us. Not because he doesn’t think Mordant is important, but because he can’t help caring about her.”
Terisa’s spirit lifted. “He isn’t an idealist – not really. If anyone here is an idealist, it’s Havelock. King Joyse didn’t create Mordant and the Congery out of an abstract set of beliefs. He did it because people he knew and cared about were being hurt in the wars – hurt by Imagery. He wanted to save the world, a world made up of individual farmers and merchants and children who couldn’t defend themselves.
“Don’t forget that he risked a lot to protect us. Treating us the way he did, he confused us – even hurt us. But that gave Eremis a reason not to kill us. And we were left free to make our own choices. Just to keep us alive, King Joyse took the risk that we might go against him completely. Just to protect our lives and our choices.