The Jongurian Mission (17 page)

“Let’s take our seats,” Orin suggested, pointing toward the table.

It was easy to forget that the room held anything but maps when first entering.
The center of the room was taken up with a massive oaken table which must have come from deep in the forests to be so long and wide without a break in the wood. There were fifteen high-backed chairs with deep-red cushioning set into the table, fourteen evenly spaced on each side, with one at the table’s head opposite the entrance. Behind it stood the only window in the room, a large plate-glass affair which took up more space than some of the maps, and stretched nearly to the ceiling, casting the early morning sun down onto the table below. Several other chairs were placed behind the fourteen on the sides and head of the table, and Bryn figured these must be for the various advisors and counselors that the delegates had brought along. It felt odd to think of himself in that capacity; what could he possibly advise his worldly uncle on anyway? Perhaps there’d be other people simply observing the proceedings in some of the other chairs. But no, Bryn thought, this was too important of a conference for anyone without a purpose to take up space.
So what is my purpose, then
, he thought?

Orin led them down the right side of the table.
He stopped near the middle of the table at a spot that contained a piece of paper labeled “Tillatia.”

“Here you are, sir,” he said to Halam as he motioned for him to take the high-backed chair at the table.
“Make us proud,” he added with a smile.

Several other delegates were also taking their seats, although just as many were wandering the room still looking at the maps or talking to their advisors.
Rodden held out his arm toward the chairs behind Halam, and Bryn sat down in the center chair, with Rodden taking the seat on his right. Orin went to talk to a few clusters of people still standing. He sure seemed to know a lot of people, Bryn thought as he watched him smile and laugh with several men gathered about the room. After a time he came back and sat in the other chair next to Bryn, still chuckling a little to himself about whatever had been discussed.

Most of the other delegates were seated now, with a few people standing beside the empty chairs still talking.
The guards at the doors closed the two doors and stood beside them, their heads held at attention. With that action the few remaining people quickly took their appointed seats, and a hush fell over the room. The only empty chairs now were those at the head of the table. A few quite mumblings could be heard around the room. Bryn looked up at Orin seated next to him. As if reading his thoughts he bent down to whisper into Bryn’s ear.

“The king,” was all he said.

As if on cue, a small side door set into a space on the long wall behind them toward the window opened and a young man entered the room and headed for the chair, with two men and a woman trailing behind him. The delegates and advisors around the table rose from their chairs at his entrance into the room.

He looked
little older than Bryn, with wavy blonde hair and above-average height. Long cheekbones framed his face, ending in a square jaw and a prominent chin. His nose and mouth were small, and he was clean-shaven. Bryn judged him to be quite handsome, and thought that he must have a hard time keeping the ladies away. He was dressed in a light blue cotton shirt and brown pants with a dark brown leather jerkin. Strapped to his belt was a simple-looking dagger in a leather sheath with the seal of Culdovia on it. He possessed a strong, muscular build and strode with a purposeful gait. Reaching his chair, he turned to acknowledge the delegates standing around him with his eyes before taking his seat, the rest of the room doing so as well.

The woman who took one of the chairs directly behind the king must have been his mother, Bryn thought.
She too had long wavy blonde hair, and her facial features were very similar to the king’s. She was quite beautiful and still very young, not twice the age of the king, in Bryn’s opinion.

Beside her were seated two older men.
One was rather stern looking, with a wrinkled face and gray hair, a long scar down his left cheek from the eye to the chin, which caused his mouth to slant downward on that side in a perpetual frown. The other was a bit younger, with dark hair showing signs of grey at the temples, and a calmer visage. As the delegates seated themselves, he rose to speak.

“Gentleman,” he began, addressing the hall stretched out before him, “thank you for coming to this conference on trade held in Baden by the grace of his majesty, King Waldon.
My name is Tullin Atow and I am counselor to the king. I have a few short words for you, and then we can begin introductions and get the conference started. The delegates all clapped for a few moments while the king looked a little restless.

“This conference,” the man continued, “is being held on
the express recommendations and planning of the delegate from Culdovia, Pader Brun.”

H
e motioned toward the far end of the table, opposite Bryn. The man rose at his name, and the delegates again clapped. He was in his early-forties, tall, but looked to have recently put on some weight. He had a square jaw with ruddy cheeks, and a thin mustache that he kept close-trimmed to his upper lip and which was the same dirty blonde color of his hair. He was wearing loose cotton pants and shirt of a matching light blue tone. He sat down, and Tullin continued.

“As well as the delegate from Duldovia, Willem Pritt,” Tullin said.
The man that Orin had pointed out the night before rose to acknowledge Tullin and the clapping from the delegates. He seemed to be wearing the same clothing as the previous evening, which made Bryn feel good. At least he wasn’t the only one in the hall who packed light.

“These two men did much to present the idea to the king and royal council of renewing trade relations with Jonguria,” Tullin said after Pritt sat back down.
“Our purpose here over the next several days is that issue. Many of you have differing opinions as to the best course of action to take with our neighbor to the east. I assure you that we’ll listen to all opinions and discuss each in a civilized fashion befitting the dignity of this setting.”

Several delegates murmured their support, and a few clapped their hands.

“It is important to remember,” the man continued as he began to circle the table of delegates, “that we have not yet sent any emissaries to Jonguria with our thoughts on this issue.
We thought it best to ascertain the views of the provinces first. When,
and if
, we successfully conclude our meeting here, delegates will be selected to travel to Jonguria to present our proposals to the proper authorities. Let us hope that we can once again have a healthy and vibrant trade between our two nations.”

The delegates all applauded at that last remark and Tullin smiled before continuing on.

“Gentleman, the room that we are in was not chosen by accident,” he said, raising his arms to showcase the great maps around them. “It was chosen not just for its size in accommodating all of you, but to make you think as well about the immensity of size and variation between the two nations of Pelios. For the longest time our world was at peace, but only recently was it stricken with war, first with a foreign power, and then here at home amongst ourselves. Yet peace has returned once again, and with it the chance to renew old friendships soured by the scourge of war. Gentleman,” Tullin continued, putting his hands down on the center of the table, “let us put away our past differences and forge a common path toward the future, one which holds the promise of prosperity for all Adjurians.”

The room erupted into clapping and a few hoots and howls from those seated behind the delegates.

“Well, we’re off to quite the raucous start,” Orin said over his shoulder to Bryn and Rodden. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Tullin walked back to stand near the king.
“Now, I know that many of you are acquainted with your fellow delegates.” He paused to look at the seated faces around the room. “Perhaps you live in neighboring provinces, or have common positions within those governments. Maybe you fought alongside each other in Jonguria, or against one another on returning home. Be that as it my,” he said with a wave of his hand to stifle some discontented murmurs caused by his last remark, “many of these faces in the room may be unknown to some, many, or all of you. For that reason, let us go around the room and present the delegates of the conference.”

Once again he began to walk around the table as he spoke.
“Besides the two honorable men from the two provinces I’ve already mentioned, we are delighted to have the following delegates.” He was nearly behind Bryn when he raised his voice for all to hear. “Representing the interests of Regidia is Jossen Fray.”

The man across the table from Bryn and next to Pader Brun of Culdovia rose and
bowed to some scattered clapping from the delegates along his side of the table, but quite a few grumblings of displeasure and a large deal of silence from Bryn’s side of the table. The man was in his early fifties and had a squeaky, high-pitched voice. He was short, with a sneering mouth that looked deceptive and cunning when he smiled. His nose and eyes were small, and his hair was jet-black, as was the goatee that framed his mouth. His clothing was of a fine cut, made from leather and wool and nearly all black except for a dark-orange trim. A dirk was fastened with an ornate hilt to his belt, the sheath bearing three large oak trees, the seal of Regidia.

Bryn remembered the bad mood that Halam had been put into when he learned from Rodden that Jossen would be representing Regidia at the conference.
He couldn’t see his uncle’s face now, but he imagined that his teeth were firmly clenched together and that his fists were balled tight under the table. He wouldn’t let any of his anger show, he was much too dignified for that, but to have a man he so obviously disliked, if not downright hated, seated across from him surely caused his blood to boil. Bryn made a mental note to question Orin later about the history between his uncle and Fray.

When Jossen had taken his seat Tullin continued.

“From the dusty plains of Equinia comes Dolth Hane.
”

More people on Bryn’s side of the table clapped for Hane than did for Fray.
He must be liked more for some reason, but then he didn’t play a large part in bringing about the Civil War as Fray had done, Bryn remembered as his eyes wandered up to the map of Desolatia Island high on the wall across the hall.
What would it be like to live out your days alone in exile on that place?
he thought.

Dolth stood and gave a low boy to his peers seated around the table, and they in turned clapped for him.
Of medium height with blonde hair cut close to his head and looking to be in his early thirties, Dolth was surely one of the youngest delegates to the convention. He wore snug leather pants and coat, both dark brown in color. The seal of Equinia, a horse running across the plains, was displayed prominently on the right breast of his coat. If that wasn’t enough to remind everyone where he came from, the horse whip on his belt surely was.

Bryn chuckled a little when he first saw it, and nudged Orin.

“Careful, he knows how to use it just as easily on men as he does on beasts,” Orin said with a smile.

“From the shores of the Bargoes Lake in Allidia,” Tullin continued when Dolth was seated, “Klyne Surin.”

Klyne stood up and nodded his head to those gathered around the table.
The applause that accompanied his name dimmed when he stood, and whispers could be heard in the hall. His dark brown shirt was cut short and sowed together just above the elbow where his right arm ended in a stump. Klyne himself didn’ appear to mind the whispers which were directed at his missing arm; he actually seemed to bask in them. Bryn nudged Orin and asked what had happened.

“Klyne was wounded, some thought mo
rtally, during the charge he lead on the second day at Baden,” Orin said. “He was still in delirium when they took off his arm, and most were sure he wouldn’t make it through the night. But his will to live was stronger than any thought, so here he stands.”

He couldn’t have been much older
than forty, Bryn thought as he looked at the youthful features of the man who stood smiling as the room whispered. He was tall with straight brown hair kept combed back. Muscles could be seen bulging from beneath his brown clothing. Obviously his lack of an arm didn’t hinder his ability to stay in shape, something which the majority of the hall probably couldn’t achieve with four arms. Secured to his belt was a small hatchet in a leather sheath which bore the Allidian seal of a large pine tree towering over a lake. When the whispers died down, Klyne resumed his seat, and Tullin continued with the introductions.

“From the far western regions of Adjuria comes the delegate from Hotham, Fryst Bahn.
”

Fryst rose and smiled, turning completely around so the whole room could get a look at him.
Bryn immediately liked the man, with his easy smile that invited camaraderie. He was in his early-forties, Bryn judged, and had long dark brown hair tied in a ponytail which hung half-way down his back. His clothing looked worn and shabby, and was made from rough homespun wool. It appeared that Fryst went to some pains to try and clean his garments before the conference; there were some stains, partly rubbed away, showing here and there on his light brown pants and shirt. Instead of a weapon like many of the others had at their belts, Fryst had a small mining pick, the odd accoutrement only adding to Bryn’s interest in the man. It appeared that most in the hall felt the same way, for the applause seemed to go on longer for him than it did for any of the previous delegates.

Orin leaned down to whisper in Bryn’s ear.

“Nearly everyone likes Fryst,” he said. “He’s always backed the common man, and knows work, having put his time in down in the mines. When he fought against the allies at Baden, it was said that he purposely held his troops back since he didn’t agree with the usurper cause, but couldn’t stand against his province. As a result Hotham suffered the fewest losses during those three bloody days.”

“From the large province o
f Oschem,” Tullin went on,” I present to you Andor Flin.”

Andor was slow to rise from his chair, the extra pounds from today’s breakfast perhaps weighing him down.
The room clapped for him as they did for the others presented so far, and Andor gave a few halfhearted waves around the room before sinking back into his chair. He wore different clothing from the night before, Bryn noticed, still the same well-tailored yet ill-fitting light tan coat and breaches heavily accented in green. There were sizeable bags under his eyes, probably from staying in the hall drinking and carousing well after most had left.

“From the steely edge of Adjuria comes the delegate from Shefflin,” Tullin said, proceeding down to the end of that side of the table, his introductions seeming to become more fanciful and pun-filled as he went along, “Jocko More.”

Bryn thought that the applause was less for Jocko than the other delegates, and noticed that many of those seated across the table who’d already been introduced were clapping less. It could be that they had some issues with Shefflin, he thought, but then the reason occurred to him. The five provinces that joined together to begin the Civil War were all seated together across the table from Bryn. Whoever had done the seating arrangements must have overlooked this obvious detail, or else had a sick sense of humor.

Jocko stood and flashed a smile of incredibly white teeth to the hall, in no way taken aback by the lack of applause from his side of the hall.
Bryn judged the man to be in his mid-thirties. He was trim and athletic in his black pants and doublet, his muscular arms evident under his dark purple jerkin. His jet black hair was oiled to a considerable sheen and swept back over his head. His nose was small and his large mouth and white teeth were considerably accented by his dark black mustache, the ends of which were waxed into sharp points. A longsword was strapped to his belt, and Bryn noticed the pommel was etched with an anvil over an orange flame, the seal of Shefflin. Jocko yelled out his thanks to the hall before sitting back down.

Tullin moved down and around the table so that he was now standing opposite the king and next
to Pader Brun from Culdovia.

“From the cold reaches of Adjuria’s north comes Iago Cryst of Mercentia,”
he said loudly to the hall.

The man Tullin pointed out stood to the clapping of the delegates.
He was by far the tallest of the men that’d been introduced thus far, Bryn realized as he looked at the large man. He was in his early-fifties, and was in amazing shape for his age. Not an ounce of fat could be seen from beneath his white cotton shirt and brown studded-leather jerkin; the only protrusions were deep chords of muscles along his arms and legs. Even his neck was heavily muscled. Iago’s eyes were deep blue, his nose and mouth prominent. A large scar ran straight down the length of his left cheek, while another crossed diagonally along his right. His right eyebrow was split in two by yet another scar running from below his eye to his forehead. He didn’t smile or do anything to acknowledge the applause of the crowd, merely stood with a straight back and his arms at his sides with his palms resting on the pommel of the ornate ivory hilt of the longsword fastened at his belt. A sword and shield insignia could be seen on the weapon’s sheath, the seal of Mercentia.