MANSUUS, MANSUUR
“What reports have we from Elahwa?” Standing behind the empty silver chair, his large hands resting on its back, Konsstin’s eyes narrow as he studies the raven-haired officer who waits before him in his private study.
“Your seers believe that Lord Bertmynn’s barges are loaded and ready to depart for Elahwa. Three Sturinnese ships anchored off the coast close to Dolov—”
“I told you Sturinn would appear again in Liedwahr, just like a clipped copper. Did I not?”
“Yes, sire,” Bassil answers formally.
“What about the dissonant traders of Wei?” The Liedfuhr straightens and steps back, turning toward the open window. The silver cloak swirls, revealing the close-fitting sky-blue-velvet tunic and trousers with the silver piping that nearly matches the silver that has begun to dominate his once-brown hair and beard.
“Nothing has changed. Their seers watch the sorceress, the freewomen, the Ebrans—”
“—and us! Do not forget that they study us as well. They watch all of Liedwahr.” Konsstin turns back toward Bassil.
“Yes, sire.” The lancer officer bows again.
“And do not be so deeply and insolently respectful, Bassil. We have talked about this before, you and I.”
Bassil straightens and continues. “The South Women sent that one cargo of blades and arms to Elahwa, but no ships or armsmen or armswomen followed. The Matriarch has yet to issue any proclamations or take any action.”
“She never does, yet matters change all the same from her interest” Konsstin clears his throat. “Has Bertmynn requested more assistance?”
“No, sire.”
“We have supplied him near-on five hundred golds and tenscore well-forged blades, and little have we received but polite
scrolls of thanks.” Konsstin snorts. “I scarce expected more, yet when the other lordlet pledged fealty to Defalk …” The Liedfuhr paces toward the wide windows to his right. “This wouldn’t have happened, Bassil, not if we had a true Empire of Harmony. And what have we?” His lips purse for a moment. “You have heard me talk of this before. So have many. Most think I spout nonsense about an Empire of Music. I am not stupid. I see what lies behind the polite eyes of those who watch. The sorceress destroyed twoscore ships of Sturinn. Twoscore, and yet more ships and gold find their way past the Shoals of Discord to Ebra, as if the Maitre had lost nothing. My grandson builds his lancers for a vain attack on the sorceress. Nubara believes he can control Rabyn, as his sire believed he could control my daughter.” Konsstin’s laugh is half-ironic, half-rueful.
“You think Nubara will fail to rein in the young Prophet?”
“I know he will fail. We can but hope that he will not fail too soon. Nor fail too completely.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider … and send another fiftyscore lancers to support Nubara.” Bassil moistens his lips.
“Sooner or later, Rabyn would only use them against the sorceress, or Nubara would use them to defend himself against Rabyn. The lancers would be lost … wasted, as would the coins to pay them and feed them.” Konsstin turns, flings open the windowed door, and steps out onto the sunlit balcony, where he looks out at where the rivers join, the silver cloak hanging limply from his broad shoulders.
Bassil follows. When Konsstin does not speak, the lancer officer finally asks, “Would they be wasted if the sorceress were elsewhere—say in Ebra?”
“You think she would go to Ebra to support Hadrenn?” From the balcony of the bluff-top palace, the Liedfuhr looks westward, beyond the ancient walls of the fort below to where the Ansul and the Latok Rivers merge. “She has made no move, even with the freewomen in danger.”
“Sire? Does she even know about the freewomen? Remember, while her leanings would support them … who would have told her of them and their cause?”
“She could scry what is happening.”
“If she knew for what she looked,” Bassil points out.
“Hmmmm … she is still new to Liedwahr.”
“Exactly. Perhaps you should so inform her. That would give her two reasons to be in Ebra.”
“That assumes you are correct, Bassil.” Konsstin turns on one bootheel and studies the lancer officer. “Even given her inclinations, why would she do that? Defalk still must contend with Nordwei to the north and Neserea and my grandson to the west. She must placate or control thirty-three stiff-necked and feuding lords. Her strength is sorcery, and she has no standing army. Not one to call such. She can only be in one place at a time. Oh … and of her thirty-three lords, perhaps two-thirds doubt her powers, for they have not met her, nor have they seers to follow her.” Konsstin clasps his hands, then unclasps them and stretches. “With such constraints, why would she risk herself in Ebra?”
“What if you sent her a message, supported with golds?”
“You suggest treachery? That I tell her I have no designs on Defalk?” Konsstin shakes his head. “Even I would not stoop so low as that, Bassil. Not even for an Empire of Music.”
“Do you have designs on Defalk, sire? Now?”
“Not realistic designs.”
“Then you have no designs. It is not treachery to state the truth.” Bassil swallows, waiting.
“You are suggesting that I encourage the sorceress to support Hadrenn in Ebra, after all the golds we have sent to Bertmynn?”
“You yourself said last year, sire, that you did not want Sturinn in Liedwahr. You also said that Mansuur could not send armsmen into other parts of Liedwahr, except for Neserea. Who, then, do you propose will be the one to defeat the Sturinnese?”
“But … if she goes to Ebra, Rabyn, in his anger, may well attack Defalk. With our lancers, no less.”
“If Nubara does not restrain him.”
Konsstin fingers his well-trimmed and mostly silver beard. “If Nubara does away with Rabyn, would the sorceress oppose my taking Neserea?”
“She would not like it, but … you could always propose splitting the land. You could take the Great Western Forest and the Westfels and the mines, and leave Defalk the lands of the east and south.”
“Rabyn may well remove Nubara. Then the sorceress would have to defend Defalk … and she may or may not triumph, but as matters now stand she would destroy Rabyn and the armsmen and lancers of Neserea—and our good lancers.”
Bassil nods. “That is true. The worst that could happen would be that Liedwahr would be dominated by three lands. And the sorceress would be hard-pressed to unify what she held for the heir for years.” He shrugs. “And if she fails, then who could blame Mansuur for stepping in to unify the remains of Neserea and Defalk? Bertmynn need not know that you have also supported the sorceress.”
“So that if she does fail, he will owe me fealty—and if he does not provide such, who will stand behind him?”
“Certainly not Ranuak or Nordwei.” Bassil inclines his head slightly. “In one case, Mansuur will hold all of Liedwahr, except Wei and Ranuak, and in the other, there will be three powers, instead of having seven squabbling ragtag states.”
“Bassil … you do know how I dislike having my own words used against me?”
“Yes, ser.”
“There is Nordwei. Let us not forget the cautious traders. Cold silver flows in their veins.” Konsstin frowns, then leaves the balcony and the view of the two rivers that form the Toksul, the great river of Mansuur that flows westward to Wahrsus and the ocean. Back in his study, he closes the windowed door. “So I should send a large gift to the Regent of Defalk and explain that the additional fiftyscore lancers going to Neserea are there to restrain my grandson?”
“Would that not be true? One way or another? And it is far less costly than another war of unification. Even if you lose all one hundred—score lancers.”
Konsstin takes a deep breath. “Draft the scrolls … and propose a way to inform the sorceress about the freewomen, without our quill strokes upon it. I will think upon this, but draft them for me by tomorrow.”
Bassil bows. “As the Liedfuhr commands.”
“I will be riding with Aerlya in the morning. That is something I promised her, and to deny a daughter who is both sweet and stubborn …” Konsstin shakes his head. “That is almost as
bad as provoking a sorceress.” He pauses again. “And to think that before long I will have to find her a consort—a suitable one, no less.”
“I will have them in the early afternoon,” Bassil promises.