A Man Rides Through (75 page)

"I mean that the Congery is stronger," Barsonage amended as if his own certainty surprised him. "We have not been held in much esteem. Why should we be? Generally, we are little more than a body of discontented ditherers. And all our actions in defense of Mordant—and of ourselves—went awry. Oh, the augury we cast for Mordant's future was well done. On the other hand, the summoning of our champion was a disaster. Why should anyone esteem us? We did not esteem ourselves enough to preserve our own usefulness after we saw how badly we had gone wrong with our champion.

"But then we learned of Geraden's talent—and of the lady Terisa's. That restored us immeasurably. We did not know whether these new talents would be used to harm or benefit us. No, Artagel," he digressed, "even after your explanations, we still had room for doubt. But we knew now that our work was vital—that we had unleashed forces which only we could support or oppose—that the Congery had at last come into its own significance.

"Therefore we set to work as we had never worked before.

"And now we have been vindicated." That was the linchpin of Master Barsonage's new sureness. "We have been given proof that King Joyse was always in the right—that Images possess their own full independent reality, that the things we see in mirrors are not created by Imagery. The Congery's establishment has been justified." He was elevated by clarity; his face shone, "the translations of Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel are not merely evil in their
consequences,
but also in their
means."

"The point," growled Prince Kragen. "Come to the point."

"My lord Prince," the mediator announced, "my lord Tor, Master Eremis is ready. That is evident. The Congery is ready also. In the name of King Joyse—and of Mordant's need—we are prepared to do battle at your side against Esmerel."

"How?" The Prince had an unflagging interest in that question. "What can you do?"

Master Barsonage's smile bore an unfamiliar resemblance to a smirk. "My lord Prince, you have not agreed to an alliance. For that reason, I will not discuss our weapons with you. But two things I will tell you. First, our weapons violate none of the strictures which King Joyse has placed upon the Congery. And second"—he paused for a moment of frank self-congratulation—"until weapons are necessary, we can
supply
the march to Esmerel."

Prince Kragen's mouth formed the word
supply
without a sound.

"We cannot translate men, of course," the mediator explained, "but we are prepared to move food, swords, bedding, or tents in whatever quantity you require. You will be able to travel without supply-wains, without the vast entourage of camp followers and porters which slows you. You will be able to reach Esmerel more swiftly than Master Eremis can possibly guess.

"My lord Prince, does that not make us stronger?"

"And then there's the matter of an alliance," Geraden put in before Prince Kragen could recover from his surprise. "Eremis must know it's a possibility, but he can't
expect
it. What do you have, my lord Prince? Roughly ten thousand men?"

The Prince nodded dumbly.

"And what about us, Castellan Norge?"

Norge consulted the ceiling. "Near eight thousand altogether. We can put six thousand on the road and still leave enough here to keep the defenses going for a while."

"My lord Prince"—Geraden spoke carefully, controlling his emotion—"Eremis doesn't expect to face an army of sixteen thousand. High King Festten doesn't expect it. They don't want to fight us. They want to overwhelm us." He didn't need to say the word,
annihilate:
it was implicit in his tone. "And they don't have the strength to overwhelm sixteen thousand men."

For a few moments, Prince Kragen didn't answer; he chewed his moustache and glowered at his thoughts. Geraden kept himself still. Terisa held her breath. Norge appeared to be wondering whether this might be an opportune time for a nap. In contrast, Artagel was barely able to refrain from hopping from foot to foot like an excited boy. The Tor clamped both arms over his belly as if he feared that something inside him might burst.

Abruptly, the Prince turned to face the old lord.

He cocked his fists on his hips. Terisa couldn't tell which took precedence in him, his eagerness or his anger; but he didn't prolong the suspense.

"My lord Tor," he said clearly, "you ask too much."

The Tor raised an inquiring hand, lifted an eyebrow. The effort brought sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.

"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."