MANSUUS, MANSUUR
“So … Bassil … she has vanquished Bertmynn, and placed young lordlet Hadrenn as her puppet over all Ebra.” The Liedfuhr’s hazel eyes flash, seemingly turning black momentarily, and he leans forward, putting his large hands on the polished walnut of the desk standing before the open windows of his private study. “And she has given the Matriarch a foothold in Ebra, without the slightest of requests and without any concessions from Ranuak.”
“Yes, sire.” The raven-haired lancer officer bows. “She also lost near-on a third of the lancers accompanying her, and she must return to Defalk, traverse the entire land, and meet with the overwhelming forces of your grandson.”
“And most probably a hundredscore of my own lancers—as you recommended, Bassil.”
“If she loses … then you bring all your forces into Neserea and Defalk because of the instability, and you will control all of Liedwahr. Neither Lady Siobion nor Lord Hadrenn can stand
against you, and the Ranuans will remain as they always have. The Sturinnese will have to look elsewhere, and you have the beginnings of your empire of magic, sire. And you will not have to offer Aerlya to Rabyn.”
“That … that … even I would never do, and I do not wish to hear aught of that again.” The Liedfuhr’s tone is like the ice of the polar caps south of Pelara.
“Yes, sire.”
“Now … how does your logic run, if the sorceress wins—again?” questions Konsstin.
“Then you hold by your bargain and offer her half of Neserea. The Council of Wei will not move against her. Nor will the Matriarchy, and in all events she will take the rest of her long life to settle the internal affairs of what she holds in Defalk and Neserea. You will consolidate your hold on western Neserea, and Mansuur will be the most powerful land in Liedwahr.”
“You make it sound so easy—for both me and the sorceress.”
“For you, sire, there is little risk. The sorceress gambles much, in everything that she ventures. She attempts to remake a land that has undone everyone who has tried such. She will anger the Matriarchy and the SouthWomen because she does too little for their taste, and the old lords of Ebra and Defalk because she changes too much. Your grandson understands neither, nor will he, even when he perishes, and that will not be long, even should he defeat the sorceress.”
“Now you are a prophet?”
Bassil laughs at the Liedfuhr’s ironic tone. “No, sire. He schemes openly. He has poisoned wenches and innocent girls alike because they displease him, and he will soon take those goods and women he wants. With each taking, more will hate him, until there are so many against him that he will have no supporters. Even should he defeat the sorceress, he cannot take Defalk. Who has the lancers to wage thirty-three separate campaigns a land away?”
“The sorceress has taken Defalk.”
“No, I must differ, sire. She has improved the lot of perhaps half the lords, and cowed the others into submission. Some of those cowed will rebel, or plot, or both, for they detest a woman of power, and it will take years for her to deal with them all in order to truly unite Defalk. And she acts to restore the old line,
which gains her much of her appeal. Rabyn would not have the support of any lords.”
“We shall see, Bassil.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Best you are right.”
Bassil nods. He does not wipe his damp forehead, a forehead that has perspired despite the cool breeze from the open windows of the Liedfuhr’s study.