SIX
UNPREPAREDNESS
Against a flailing wind, Captain Heren Flisk climbed the crude road that ascended from the jagged strand. At his back, the seas crashed toward the rim of the cliffs that opened here onto the westernmost plains of Belleger.
He hated working in the relentless winds. Chaotic and cruel, they thrashed the bay behind him. They were always bitter, rebounding from the sheer precipices on both sides, edged like knives by the spume and vexation of the rock-bitten waves. Often they carried spray that hit like hail from the wild boiling of the breakers. And they were always cold. They made his shoulder ache, giving new life to the damage done by an Amikan arrow.
Twenty years had passed since Prince Bifalt had sent him back to the Open Hand and King Abbator because he was too badly injured to continue the quest for the Last Repository, and still his shoulder ached. His journey to the Hand had taken too many days. The wound had festered. There had been talk of amputation. Even now, that arm was weaker than the other. When he had been chosen to accompany Prince Bifalt’s search, he had been the youngest of the veterans. Hampered by his shoulder, he still felt like the youngest man in any company, despite his years in the army and his rank. Asked to share command of the laborers who would fortify this bay, his first impulse had been to refuse. “Find someone better,” he had wanted to reply. “Someone you can trust.” But the man who had asked him was King Bifalt, and Heren Flisk did not have it in him to say no.
Nevertheless his King’s confidence only exacerbated his uncertainties. At all times, he doubted himself. Any challenge might prove too great for him. He blamed his shoulder; but the truth was that he had suffered a wound deeper than an arrow when Prince Bifalt had been forced to send him home. Except for Elgart and Klamath, every other rifleman on the Prince’s quest had died defending King Abbator’s son and heir. All of them had given their lives for the Prince, and for King Abbator, and for Belleger. And in other ways, even Elgart and Klamath had done so, although they still lived. They had become the hands of King Bifalt’s will. Only Flisk had been forced to abandon the Prince’s quest and ride away.
After so many years, the Captain’s deepest wound was still shame. Shame that he lived on after his comrades died. Shame that he had done nothing to equal them; nothing to justify their sacrifice. Instead, when better men were gone, King Bifalt was compelled to rely on a soldier who had once failed him.
That was one of Flisk’s many reasons for hating this climb. It reminded him that he was weak. There was no shelter from any accusation the sky might throw at him, or the sea, or the intolerable exhaustion of his men. Under other circumstances, he would have sent someone else up the road in his place. But a lookout stationed atop the cliff had signaled that a rider was approaching from the direction of the Open Hand. A second signal had informed him that the rider was a Magister. That was not a summons Captain Flisk could ignore.
Nor could the other man who shared Flisk’s responsibility for Belleger’s defenses in the bay. Commander Ennis Forguile of Amika strode upward at his side. Behind the blank mask of the Amikan’s resolve, Commander Forguile made it look easy.
For a year or more after Queen-Consort Estie had insisted that Forguile should have an equal role in preparing the fortifications, Flisk had resented the man’s presence and authority. Of course, he had understood the Queen-Consort’s reasoning. A task as prodigious as the one King Bifalt contemplated would require men from both Belleger and Amika, hundreds of them in relays; and her people would work better for a respected Amikan than they would for any Bellegerin. By the same argument, men from Belleger would do their best for Captain Flisk, but would resist Commander Forguile’s orders.
King Bifalt had agreed with her. And Heren Flisk knew they were right. Belleger and Amika were allies now; but the certainty that Amika desired Belleger’s destruction had been ground into his bones. He could not simply shrug it off. His own hostility demonstrated the accuracy of the Queen-Consort’s judgment.
Nevertheless his resentment had been more personal than that of the men he commanded. He was a soldier. He had ridden into the hell of battle. He had seen dozens of his comrades killed. But he had also seen uncounted Amikans fall. He was able to welcome the end of the war. His former enemies could do the same. Given time, men who had once tried to kill each other would learn that they had more in common than their wounds and fears. They would begin to work effectively together. But Commander Ennis Forguile had been a special case.
With his air of earned assurance, his physical prowess, and his greater experience, Forguile cast a shadow on the Captain’s questionable competence. And he had known Flisk’s King since they were in the Last Repository together. They had returned together, persuaded King Abbator to offer peace together. Together, they had convinced King Smegin to accept. With his own hands, Commander Forguile had put Sylan Estervault’s book on cannon in King Smegin’s hands.
Forguile did not vaunt himself or boast; but the simple fact of his accomplishments made Heren Flisk’s whole life seem trivial. They made King Bifalt’s trust look foolish.
Doubting himself, the younger man had compensated with belligerence. The two officers had argued constantly, opposing each other on almost every topic, Commander Forguile with rigid calm, Captain Flisk often shouting. In particular, they had fought over the treatment of their laborers. When the Commander wanted another hour of work before calling a halt, the Captain insisted on rest. When the Amikan urged risks, the Bellegerin demanded safety. When Forguile pushed the men to work in storms and heavy rain, Flisk sent them to their shelters and kitchens.
Flisk had foreseen a day when he and Forguile would come to blows. He had dreaded the beating he would receive: the humiliation more than the pain.
Fortunately, he no longer felt such antipathy. For him, the turning point had come late one night after a particularly angry dispute had reached an impasse. During a pause in the wind’s keening, Ennis Forguile asked suddenly, “Do you know Prince Bifalt once swung his saber at my neck? It was in the refectory of the library, before—” He shrugged. “Before many things. I think now he meant to check his cut, but he was not given the chance. Magister Rummage broke his wrists.”
“You provoked him,” snapped Flisk instantly.
The Commander shook his head. “I am Amikan. There was no other provocation. Not on that occasion. Later, yes. But not then.”
Flisk stared. “But you aided him. You stood before King Abbator with him. You took him safely into Amika. Without you, he would have been killed. You supported him in front of King Smegin.” Helpless with confusion, the Captain protested, “You should have hated him.”
Forguile nodded. “Yes. I did. But my loathing passed. That is what I want you to understand. I learned to know him better. I suspect he became better. He humbled me in front of the Magisters. Then he made me his comrade. He answered each of my doubts, of which I had many. He shared his reasons and his secrets. And he shared his travels, both returning from the library and going there again after he was wed, to obtain the restoration of sorcery. I know what he knows about the plotting of those Magisters.
“I believe in him, Captain. Estie of Amika is my Queen. I serve her. But I believe in King Bifalt.”
Before Flisk could find a reply, the Commander added, “He did well when he chose you. You care for the men. Amikan monarchs like King Smegin show no concern for those who do their bidding.”
After that confession, Flisk’s self-doubts and defenses lost their virulence. He and Forguile still argued incessantly. They were of Belleger and Amika: it was their nature that they would disagree. But now they argued peaceably, like friends. Over time, Flisk learned to be glad that he was not alone with his burdens, and that his companion was Forguile.
Working his way up the road now to meet with a Magister from the Open Hand, Heren Flisk had one more reason to be glad. A single rider from the Open Hand was a messenger. The message might be from the Land-Captain: good news, perhaps, or bad, about the latest delivery of food and supplies, the latest relay of men to relieve exhausted laborers. But a single Magister was a messenger from King Bifalt. Therefore the message was urgent.
Captain Flisk was grateful that he would not have to face the Magister and his message alone.
When the two men passed the crest of the road, and Flisk saw who the Magister was, he felt even more gratitude for his companion.
Commander Forguile’s sight was not as keen as his. To warn his companion, Heren Flisk said through the wind, “It is Magister Lambent.” The sorcerer was riding hard. “And in a hurry.”
Frowning, Ennis Forguile replied with a grunt of distaste. He knew Lambent better than Flisk did, and had his own reasons to dislike the man.
From the shelter of a stone hut built for the purpose, the lookout waved a salute. Then he resumed his duties.
Shoulder to shoulder, the Bellegerin and the Amikan waited for King Bifalt’s messenger.
In a clatter of hooves muffled by the moaning of the wind past the ridge, the Magister arrived. He flung himself from his mount as if he could not abide even an instant’s delay. But when he stood on his own feet, he took a moment to adjust his robe and settle himself. From one of his saddlebags, he took out a heavy cloak. Carrying it over one arm, he approached the officers as if he had been the one waiting for them.
He was tall, with the thin chest and protruding belly of a man who exercised little and ate too much. The slope of his granite-grey robe from his neck to his elbows gave the impression that he had no shoulders. Above a mouth like a purse, he had a nose like a raptor’s beak. But his eyes were weak, already watering in the sting of the wind. The effort of fast riding had left him short of breath.
As he came near, he managed to say without panting, “Commander Forguile.” Captain Flisk he ignored, as he always did. The sorcerer was Amikan.
Like his companion, Flisk bowed without any obvious disrespect. Then the Commander observed drily, “You rode hard, Magister. Your message must be alarming. What drives you? What do our King and Queen command?”
Magister Lambent huffed. “I am instructed to survey your progress. Then I will have more to say.” He glanced briefly at Captain Flisk; but he did not deign to address servants directly. Instead, he told Commander Forguile, “I have indeed ridden hard. It would be courteous to offer me ale.”
Clearly, he expected Flisk to run off in search of some refreshment. But the Captain stood where he was. For Forguile’s sake, he did not answer the sorcerer with an insult.
“Then, Magister,” replied Commander Forguile without enthusiasm, “you must descend to our camp. There is nothing for you here. We do not allow ale to our lookouts. Their duty is tedious, and we do what we can to discourage slackness.”
Wiping his eyes, the Magister muttered, “Brigin! What a place.” However, he did not insist. His reasons for coming may have been as urgent as his riding had made them seem. When he had pulled on his cloak and covered his head with its hood, he gestured for Commander Forguile to lead the way.
While they turned back toward the bay, the Commander winked at Flisk. But the Captain kept his face as blank as he could. His long struggle with himself had taught him to resent being treated like a menial. Whenever his shoulder ached, his resentment intensified.
From the top of the road, the three men faced the bay.
It formed a rough U with a notch in its deepest point, a cut that reached from the height where the men stood down to the water. Walled on both sides by unassailable cliffs, as they were everywhere else along the coast of Belleger, the seas boiled and thundered, battering each other to spray in a mad clamor of cross-currents. The crooked reef that blocked the top of the U ripped every surge of the ocean into breakers. Then the waves heaving over the claws of the reef met other obstacles. Everywhere within the bay, raw rocks bit the air like fangs, tearing the surges into new breakers, forcing them aside, driving them into collision with each other. When the sky was clear, and the sun shone on the waters, the white-cap-raddled turmoil of blue looked like it was about to erupt. During a cloudy midday, as now, the seas took on an evil hue, the restive bitter grey of hunger and malice.
But at night under an open sky, the bay became a place of beauty, as wondrous as sorcery. In its turmoil and savagery, the water was bright with dazzles, the eerie shining of torn and crashing seas: a sight that entranced even the exhausted teams of Bellegerins and Amikans. They knew why the place was named the Bay of Lights.
Yet always, day or night, winter or summer, the water roared against the rocks. At times, its insatiable tumult was louder than the winds. At others, the squalling of lashed air among the stones and along the cliffs covered even the agony of wracked waves. On some occasions, it was louder than thought. Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile gave their instructions by signs and signals because they could not be heard.
The whole bay would have been inaccessible without the notch in the bottom of the U.
The formation of the bay itself was strange. Here, some ancient force had caused the rim of the cliff to collapse, leaving a steep slope of boulders and rubble down to the strand: the slope which teams of Bellegerins and Amikans had eventually made into a road. From this distance, the fan of rocks where the collapse met the sea looked like nothing more than debris. But the making of the notch had dropped astonishing sections of the cliff into the bay. In fact, the fan was composed of ragged boulders taller than a man.
And the force which had formed the original notch had other effects as well. For perhaps three hundred paces in both directions, left and right, the cliffs were no longer sheer. Instead they fell away in a series of ragged shelves or terraces. There were five of these terraces, the highest thirty or so man-heights below the rim of the precipice, the lowest no more than ten above the fury of the seas at high tide.
With years of effort, endless amounts of supplies and fresh men, and some deaths, the teams of laborers had leveled those shelves until they were suitable for the construction of emplacements for cannon; of heavy housings to store and protect gunpowder; of enclosures waiting to be filled with cannonballs and chain. All of those structures were made of stone.
In contrast, the bunkhouses, dining halls, and kitchens for the men were built of wood. Wooden shelters provided scant relief from the wind, and little from the rain and hail, but they could be taken apart and moved wherever they were needed, so that the men were able to sleep and eat near where they were working.
Nine years ago, when King Bifalt was satisfied by his progress rebuilding Belleger and the army, he and his Queen-Consort had ridden here with Heren Flisk and Ennis Forguile. From the top of the slope that was now a road, they had discussed every aspect of the King’s fears and desires.
By that time, Amika had become proficient in “the fabrication of cannon using primitive means.” Early in her reign, Queen Estie had recognized the advantages of making her guns in standard sizes according to their desired ranges and the weights of their balls. That way, the same castings and molds could be used repeatedly instead of being refashioned for each new cannon. During the years that followed, Amika had produced a number of cannon in three calibers: the long guns intended to fire twenty-pound balls across great distances; the medium guns with their shorter ranges and heavier loads, able to throw sixty-pound balls or an equal weight of chain; and the massive siege guns, the barrels of which were too thick to be made long, but which could fling hundred-pound balls at least that many paces.
Together, King Bifalt, Queen-Consort Estie, and their chosen officers had decided to assume that the bay’s reef would not prove insurmountable to invading ships. The enemy would find a way to break through it. On that basis, they agreed that the two highest terraces would be armed with long guns, cannon that might be able to do damage as soon as their targets passed the reef. The next two shelves would hold medium guns to defend against ships deep in the bay. Siege guns would fire from the lowest terrace, wreaking their terrible havoc at close range.
Once those decisions had been made, the small company—standing where Flisk, Forguile, and Magister Lambent stood now—had talked for a long time about the practical problems of the task. It would require immense numbers of men over several years; mountains of tools and heavy rope; stonemasons, carpenters, cooks, physicians. And it would depend on an endless train of supplies ranging from gunpowder for blasting to fresh recruits to ordinary blankets, clothing, food, and water. In short, the task would depend on all of the same resources that Queen-Consort Estie needed for her road to the Last Repository. King Bifalt and his lady would have to negotiate with each other almost daily.
And when the labor of building and shaping was done to the satisfaction of King Bifalt and his officers, the fortification would need forty Amikan cannon: sixteen long guns for the two highest levels, sixteen medium for the next two, eight siege guns on the lowest terrace.
Unfortunately, the work that Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile had been given was far from complete. On the Bellegerin side, the three highest terraces were done: four widely spaced cannon emplacements with their shield-walls, their gun-ports, and their smooth stone floors on each shelf, each emplacement with its storage for shot and chain, and its strong housing for gunpowder. But on the Amikan side, only the first two levels and half of the third were finished.
Every man who could still stand was working there before moving down to the next level. To Flisk’s eye, they seemed to move as slowly as insects in syrup. Nevertheless he was proud of them. Far below him, Bellegerins and Amikans shared their burdens, helped each other with their tasks—and hardly noticed that they were doing so. By the time their duty ended—if it ever ended—they might not remember that they had once been enemies.
He and Ennis Forguile had accomplished that much, at least. Their own comradeship and the near prostration of the men had taught this small portion of the two realms to work as one.
Magister Lambent was not impressed. He started down the road, heading for the bunkhouses and kitchens now on the third terrace. As the officers joined him, he remarked sourly through the wind, “I expected more progress, Commander. I expected more from Amikans. Their officer should have expected more. These workmen are needed elsewhere.”
He had visited the Bay of Lights often enough, and more frequently in recent seasons. He knew what Flisk and Forguile were up against. But he was Amikan, more loyal to Queen Estie’s road than to King Bifalt’s fortifications, which he considered useless. If the Queen-Consort had not spoken to him severely on the matter, he would have refused to serve as King Bifalt’s messenger.
Captain Flisk’s shoulder ached acutely. But Commander Forguile did not offer the obvious explanation: he and Captain Flisk had too few men; and the men they had were not relieved often enough. Instead, the Commander said, “Captain Flisk and I argue incessantly. That delays us.” When he thought that men who outranked him were stupid, he had a private way of mocking them. “And more often than not, events prove him right. That delays us further.”
Like any number of other sorcerers Flisk could have named, Magister Lambent believed himself a superior being, too high above ordinary men to care how he affected them. Clearly, however, he knew when he was not being taken seriously. And the angle of the descent made his legs tremble. With heavy asperity, he demanded of Forguile, “Have you accomplished anything? Anything at all since my last inspection?”
Heren Flisk swallowed a curse.
The Commander showed Flisk another wink. In a tone of exaggerated innocence, he asked, “Do you see the reef at the mouth of the bay, Magister?”
“Of course I see it,” snapped the theurgist. In all likelihood, he did not. The way the wind made his eyes water would have blurred the vision of a man with stronger sight.
Forguile took the Magister’s arm, tugged him to a stop. “Then watch.” To Lambent’s stare, he insisted, “The reef, Magister. Watch the reef. We will demonstrate.”
Flisk knew what his comrade wanted. He took out one of his signal-flags, waved it at the nearest emplacement.
Unfortunately, the fortifications of the bay in their present state included only three cannon, all long guns, all on the highest terrace. Fortunately, Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile had agreed long ago that every man who worked in the bay needed to learn how to load, aim, and fire a cannon—and to do it safely. All day every day, there were relays of laborers in teams of four at each of the guns. Under the supervision of a lash-tongued Amikan cannoneer, the teams practiced as long as they were allowed. It was their only respite from more strenuous tasks. And it gave them the sense that their efforts served a purpose.
Under other circumstances, one of the long guns would have fired at any moment. Flisk’s signal simply gave the cannoneer an excuse to fire now.
Snatched away by the wind, the report was barely audible; little more than a clap, a muffled thud. Flisk knew the interval: he counted his heartbeats until he saw the small splash of the shot among the brawling seas.
“There!” Commander Forguile pointed. “Did you see it, Magister? No more than thirty paces within the line of the reef. The perfect distance.” With a chuckle in his voice, he added, “Amika makes fine guns.”
Magister Lambent scowled, blinking furiously. “Do you call that an accomplishment, Commander? One iron ball at the bottom of the bay?”
Captain Flisk was confident that the King’s messenger had seen nothing.
“We do,” retorted Forguile. “You must imagine it. Imagine that a vessel has just breached the reef. In itself, a significant feat. But now it has a hole in its hull. If it is a small vessel, one hole is enough. The waves have already swallowed it. And no man survives those rocks and breakers.” He shrugged. “If it is a large vessel, of course, one hit may not sink it. It may need three holes, or five, to send it down.”
Then Forguile rounded on the sorcerer. “The point of our demonstration is this, Magister. Our work here is not complete to your satisfaction, or to ours, yet already we are able to defend the bay.”
Magister Lambent tried to pull himself up to his full height so that he could glare imperiously at Commander Forguile, but the trembling of his legs worked against him. Instead of attempting a retort, he started down the road again. Dragged along by his belly, he was barely able to refrain from running.
The two officers followed more slowly. Commander Forguile looked like he was laughing privately. Captain Flisk rubbed his shoulder and hoped to see the sorcerer fall on his face.
Half an hour later, both men ran out of patience. They had followed the slope-shouldered Magister to the nearest kitchen, where he had demanded ale and food. Being a sorcerer, he was obeyed with only one quick glance at the officers for confirmation. They watched him eat and drink. While they waited, the Commander asked Flisk in a whisper if he thought Lambent would need help to climb back up the road. But now the Magister stood with his back to them near one of the stoves, holding his cloak open to gather warmth; and he still had not delivered his message from King Bifalt.
Around the kitchen, winds groaned between the boards of the walls. But they were muted here, comparatively quiet. Men did not have to shout to be heard.
Abandoning deference, Commander Forguile said abruptly, “It is time to speak, Magister. Tell us what the King wants us to hear. We have work to do.”
Lambent did not turn from the stove. “Nevertheless you will wait until I am ready, Commander. These are weighty matters. I must decide what you are fit to hear.”
At once, Forguile snapped, “You have nothing to decide. We command here. You do not. We serve the King’s purposes. You do not. Your delay is an insult. King Bifalt will hear of it.
“Queen Estie will hear of it.”
To a loyal Amikan, that was a more personal threat.
The sorcerer whipped around with the heat of the stove shining on his cheeks. “Do you dare to speak of insults? Ignorant lackey! I am Magister Lambent. I can take your life, and the lives of every man here, without lifting my arms.”
Well, he was Amikan—and obviously bitter about the alliance. But Captain Heren Flisk was Bellegerin. He had his own resentments. Without raising his voice, he replied, “And you will answer for it. Have you forgotten King Bifalt’s nature? Have you forgotten that the Queen-Consort stands with him?
“Come, now, Magister. You are weary. You have ridden hard, and have far to go. Tell us what the King wants us to know. Then you can turn your back on us and go. You will be able to say honestly that you have done your duty.”
Magister Lambent huffed for a moment. Then he seemed to deflate. “Commander,” he sighed without looking at Flisk. “I was hasty. I am weary. It makes me short of temper. I will be brief.”
Flisk understood then that the sorcerer had delayed because he was afraid.
“Through Magister Facile,” reported Lambent stiffly, “King Bifalt and Queen Estie have received word from the Last Repository. Events are quickening. The enemy is coming. He knows where to look for the library. You have labored for years. The time remaining to you is measured in fortnights.
“The King asks for a list of your requirements. Make it complete. This may be your last chance to summon supplies and aid from Amika, if not from the Open Hand.”
Short as it was, the message shocked Flisk. Glancing at his comrade, he saw that the Commander had been hit hard as well. There was a flush that Flisk recognized on Ennis Forguile’s cheeks. It was not cold. It was not even fury. It was chagrin. The officers had labored here together for the better part of nine years, they were both exhausted to the core by the work and the winds, the cold and loneliness, the slow creep of their progress—and yet, suddenly, they were not ready to be done. With King Bifalt and the Queen-Consort, they had talked about so much more—
But Commander Forguile recovered first. He had experienced much that his comrade had not, and had risen higher under a crueler King. He held the Magister’s gaze until the man looked away. Then he said in a voice that was almost a drawl, “A list, is it? Do you have yours, Captain Flisk? I have forgotten mine.”
Even now, he defied the Amikan sorcerer’s prejudice by refusing to take precedence over his Bellegerin comrade.
The Commander’s question—and his attitude—freed Heren Flisk from his dismay. He always had the fortification’s needs in mind. He recited them to himself daily.
“Men,” he said at once. “At least three hundred. A hundred to relieve those here. They are prostrate on their feet. Two hundred to speed the work. Also food and cooks and serving-men. And bedding for two hundred. What we have is rotting in the damp and salt. Wood for more bunkhouses, wood and stoves for new kitchens.”
Magister Lambent listened, nodding as if he knew all this, and had already lost interest. His gaze wandered.
But Captain Flisk did not pause. With more force, he added, “Also we need cannon, at least forty, more if they can be spared. Long, medium, and siege guns. King Bifalt knows the numbers. Ask the Queen-Consort to send experienced cannoneers, men who can work the guns with accuracy and speed. And tell the King that we must have carpenters.”
That surprised the theurgist. Without a sound, his mouth shaped the word: Carpenters?
“Skilled carpenters,” insisted Flisk. He did not bother explaining that Amika delivered new cannon on wheeled carts which could not take the strain of repeated firing: the violent recoil, the hard jolt of impact with the restraining ropes, the force of being hauled back into the gun-ports. In addition, the carts did nothing to hold the guns’ aim. The defense of the Bay of Lights required cannon mounted on battle trucks: trucks wheeled, roped, and balanced according to his and Commander Forguile’s specific instructions. As soon as the guns started to arrive, carpenters who could do more than saw and hammer boards would be essential.
“And Magisters,” finished Captain Flisk firmly. “All who can stomach the risk when the attack comes.”
“Magisters?” sputtered the sorcerer. For the first time, he looked directly at Flisk. “Have you lost your wits? The distance is too great.” He jerked a gesture toward the bay and the reef. “No Magister can aid you. No Decimate can be extended so far.”
“Do you think so?” The Bellegerin feigned confidence. “Consult King Bifalt. Consult the Queen-Consort. If she will speak to you, consult Magister Facile. There is much you do not know.”
That was the pain in Flisk’s shoulder talking. In truth, he had always believed what Lambent did: the range of every theurgist’s Decimate was limited. Why else had Belleger and Amika fought all their battles in a valley with ramparts from which their respective sorcerers could not reach each other? But King Bifalt and Commander Forguile had different ideas. Even Elgart did. The Magisters of the Last Repository had challenged all their preconceptions. And Magister Facile had come from the library.
How could she receive any word from that stronghold of knowledge, when hundreds of leagues and a lifeless desert intervened?
For reassurance, Flisk looked at his comrade. Commander Forguile’s barely suppressed grin showed his approval.
“Do you affirm all this, Commander?” demanded the sorcerer. He looked shaken; but he was too angry to admit it directly. “Do you stand behind this Bellegerin’s madness? Does Queen Estie stand behind you?”
With veiled impudence, Forguile answered, “Ask her yourself, Magister. You know she supports King Bifalt. You know she affirms his commands in all matters pertaining to the defense of the realms. How do you imagine she will respond?”
That reminder of the Queen-Consort’s commitment to the alliance—and to her husband—made Magister Lambent wince. For a moment, he turned away to hide his expression. Muttering bitterly to himself, he appeared to consult the stove. Then he wrapped his cloak around him. Without a word, he headed for the door.
As he passed, Flisk glimpsed the white glare of alarm in the sorcerer’s eyes.
When the King’s messenger was gone, the Captain asked his comrade, “Should we?”
“Accompany him?” Ennis Forguile grinned openly. “Not at once. Give him a little time, for the sake of his dignity. Then we can see how he fares. If his struggles are painful to watch, perhaps we will assist him.”
Heren Flisk nodded; but his mind had already veered. He was thinking, Fortnights? The time remaining to you— Aloud, he said, “We cannot be ready in fortnights.”
The Commander’s grin faded. “We can only do what we can. If we are fortunate, the enemy will send scout ships ahead of his main force.” Then he shrugged. “If we are unusually fortunate, the enemy will send his scouts far ahead. And if we are extravagantly fortunate—and if we are able to drive off his scouts with what we have—he may send his main force elsewhere.”
“Or abandon his attack altogether?” asked Flisk.
Forguile shrugged again. “The library’s Magisters do not think so. Their enemy has nurtured his malice too long. He will not allow any obstacle to prevent his assault on the Last Repository.
“But we have this advantage. He does not expect us to be prepared. Certainly, he does not expect us to be prepared here.” He clapped Flisk’s shoulder. “I foresee that you and I will have the honor”—he laughed sourly—“of striking the first blow against him. Perhaps the first and the second.”
At that moment, Heren Flisk felt daunted by Ennis Forguile. And he did not know how to explain himself. He had not helped Prince Bifalt force an alliance between Belleger and Amika. He had not even made the arduous journey to the library and back, a feat which Commander Forguile and Prince Bifalt had accomplished twice. And he could not ask his comrade to understand him.
The Amikan had never been sent home wounded. Forguile did not know the shame of that; or the relief, which was another kind of shame. Flisk had lost friends in that ambush long ago: men he had known and trained with since he was old enough to sit a horse and aim a rifle. He was only alive now because he had been more fortunate than Captain Swalish and the others—and less fortunate than Elgart and Klamath, who had seen the Prince’s quest through to its end. Like Commander Forguile, they had no cause for shame. Even the dead had no cause.
Were Belleger and Amika at peace with each other? Truly? It made no difference. Heren Flisk was still trying to come to terms with himself.