Memories of Ice

Karnadas grimaced. 'He does not know my true title, sir. There are reasons for that. I am impressed by your knowledge of Fener's priesthood. No, more than impressed. I am stunned.'



The man seemed to flinch. 'Well, yes. Thank you.' He turned to study Brukhalian. 'You're the god's Mortal Sword.' He paused then, and it was as if the full significance of that title only now struck home, for his eyes slowly widened. 'Uh, all right. I think the warlord would endorse my decision to deliver his message to you. In fact, I have no doubt at all. Good.' He drew a breath, then resumed. 'Caladan Brood leads an army to the relief of Capustan. The siege — as I'm sure you well understand — is not only inevitable, it is imminent. Now, our challenge is getting there in time-'



'Sir,' Brukhalian interrupted, frowning, 'how large is Caladan Brood's army? Understand, we will be facing perhaps sixty thousand Pannions — veterans one and all. Does he grasp the maelstrom he so generously wishes to enter on our behalf?'



'Well, we don't have the numbers to match. But we will be' — Quick Ben grinned — 'bringing a few surprises with us. Now, Destriant — we need to reconvene. I need to bring the warlord and his officers in on this. Can I suggest we resume this conversation in a bell's time?'



'Perhaps it would be best to postpone it until the dead of night, sir,' Brukhalian said. 'My daylight hours are rather full — and public. As are Prince Jelarkan's.'



Quick Ben nodded. 'Two bells before next dawn, then.' He glanced around all of a sudden. 'I'll need a bigger tent …'



A moment later he faded from view. The sphere contracted once more, then slowly vanished at a wave from Karnadas. The Destriant turned to Brukhalian. 'This was unexpected.'



The Mortal Sword grunted. 'We must be certain to condition the prince, sir. Perhaps this warlord's army can harry the besieging forces slightly, but it will probably achieve little else. We must keep Jelarkan's vision realistic … assuming we tell him.'



We'll not win this war. Aye. No false hopes here.



Brukhalian asked, 'What think you of this Quick Ben?'



'A man of many veils, sir. An ex-priest of Fener, perhaps. His knowledge was too precise.'



'Many souls, within one, you said.'



Karnadas shivered. 'I must have been mistaken,' he said. 'Perhaps the ritual required the assistance of other mages, and it was these that I sensed.'



Brukhalian studied his priest long and hard at that, but said nothing. He turned away after a moment. 'You look exhausted, sir. Get some sleep.'



Karnadas slowly bowed.



As the spell faded, Quick Ben sighed, glanced to his right. 'Well?'



Seated against the tent's wall on that side, Whiskeyjack leaned forward to refill their goblets with Gredfallan ale. 'They'll fight,' the bearded man said, 'for a while at least. That commander looks a tough sword-hacker, but it might be all show and no iron — he must be a shrewd enough man of business to know the value of appearances. What was that you called him?'



'Mortal Sword. Not likely — once, long ago, that title was for real. Long before the Deck of Dragons acknowledged the place of Knights of the High Houses, Fener's cult had its own. They've got the serious titles down with exactness. Destriant. Hood's breath, there hasn't been a real Destriant in the cult for a thousand years. The titles are for show, Whiskeyjack-'



'Indeed,' the commander cut in, 'then why keep it a secret from the Fener priest on the Mask Council?'



'Uh. Well… Oh, it's simple. That priest would know it for a lie, of course. There, easy answer to your question.'



'Easy answer, as you say. So, are easy answers always right answers, Quick?'



Ignoring the question, the wizard drained his goblet. 'In any case, I'd count the Grey Swords as best among the bunch over there, but that's not saying much.'



'Were they fooled by the "accidental" contact?'



'I think so. I'd shaped the spell to reflect the company's own nature — whether greedy and rapacious, or honourable or whatever. I admit, though, I didn't expect it to find pious faith. Still, the spell was intended to be malleable, and so it was.'



Whiskeyjack climbed to his feet, wincing as he put his weight down on his bad leg. 'I'd better track down Brood and Dujek, then.'



'At the head of the column, is my guess,' Quick Ben said.



'You're sharp tonight,' the commander noted as he made his way out.