Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

Again Fhremus nodded, and again he made silent note of his assessment. “To the north lies the Hintervold, and it, as you know, is an icy wasteland only inhabitable in part, and only in part of the year. It is a treasure trove of skins and ore and gold, of peat for fuel, with a short but intense growing season that produces a small harvest of vegetables of massive size, but cannot feed itself through its own agriculture. Without the food Roland provides to it, the Hintervold would be even more barren than it already is. In short, this continent was meant to be one empire, ruled and defended by the south, fed by the middle, with pelts harvested and gold mined from the north to feed the trade stream. Alas, the wars of our ancestors have left us divided.”

“But allied, at least,” said Fhremus. Talquist’s face lost some of its pleasant aspect. “We are friends to the Cymrian Alliance, but not a part of it,” he said shortly, his tone causing the hairs on Fhremus’s neck to stand up. “We are also friends of the Hintervold and of Golgarn, on the Bolg king’s southeastern border, but no official alliance exists between Sorbold and those nations, either. That is about to change.” Fhremus sat forward in shock. “We are about to enter into a treaty with the Hintervold and Golgarn?” he asked incredulously. “Those three nations ring the Middle Continent on all sides. Won’t that be seen as a threat by the Alliance?”

The regent smiled humorously. “It might, if they knew about it. But what I am telling you, Fhremus, is that our generous friendship and trading practices have lulled the Alliance into believing that we are vulnerable. They believe, as the Creator did, that this continent should be united as one empire. The only difference is that they believe they should be in control of it.” All the sound suddenly left the room save for that of the warm wind at the balcony. “And while they know they are no match for us militarily and strategically,” Talquist continued after a moment, “the Alliance has moved ahead with acquiring weapons that they feel will give them enough advantage to start a war.”

“What sort of weapons?” asked Fhremus nervously. He put down the glass; the alcohol was irritating his throat, rather than soothing it. Everything the man who would shortly be emperor was telling him was counterintuitive to what his instincts said, but he knew the look in Talquist’s eye, and therefore knew better than to question the knowledge of someone with a spy in every doorway the world over. Talquist pulled his chair closer. “Bear this in mind, Fhremus,” he said, swirling the remains of his brandy in the glass, then putting it down on the table. “The man who leads that Alliance has more than one sort of power. Gwydion of Manosse is the grandson of Gwylliam the Visionary, the man who carved one of the most advanced nations in history from solid rock. His uncle is Edwyn Griffyth, the high Sea Mage of Gaematria, Gwylliam’s son, probably the best inventor in the Known World. As a result, he has at his disposal some of the most ingenious mechanical designs ever developed. He is allied with Achmed, the Firbolg king, whose unique and impressively deadly weapons we have already seen hints of through subterfuge, since the king refuses to sell them to us. Why do you think that might be? Why would the Bolg king trade arms to the Alliance, but not to Sorbold?”

Talquist watched Fhremus silently absorb the implication, then went to his desk and returned with a large piece of parchment that he laid in front of the commander. On it was a detailed sketch of a heavy machine fashioned in metal, with footpads that interlocked with gears and upright supports.

“One of our spies at the docks of Avonderre sent this quite a few months back. It was being off-loaded at Port Fallon, in from Gaematria and bound, by cart, to Haguefort, where the Lord Cymrian currently resides.”

“What is it?” Fhremus asked, studying the schematic. Talquist was watching him intently. “It’s a walking machine, apparently,” he said, picking up his glass and inhaling the aroma, men setting it down again.

Fhremus nodded. “Perhaps for Anborn, the Lord Marshal of the Great War,” he said. “He is lame—and Edwyn Griffyth is his brother. No doubt Anborn’s brother is seeking to help him recover the use of his legs, or at least some mobility.”

“No doubt,” Talquist agreed. “But why do you suppose that the Lord Cymrian ordered the supplies to build five hundred thousand of them?” Fhremus looked up from the parchment. “Do you imagine that there are a half million cripples in Roland?”

“Five hundred thousand?” Talquist smiled grimly. “I’ve seen some of the manifests of the ships arriving every day from Manosse and Gaematria. If this is revealed in the few I’ve seen, imagine what else he is importing, and to what end?” He watched Fhremus carefully, looking to see if his own lie had been detected, but the soldier was not observing him. The commander tossed the parchment sheet into the center of the table. “I can’t imagine, but I hardly think that machines to allow lame men to walk need give the army of Sorbold cause for alarm.”

“On their own, you are correct,” said Talquist patiently. “But think more broadly, Fhremus. Consider with whom the Lord Cymrian is allied, and what you know of his activities. Not long ago, the entire top of one of the inner peaks of the Teeth exploded—all of the Western Command felt the reverberations. A mountain peak, Fhremus—it was not a volcano, no lava flow was reported. Do you have any idea of the power required to blow a mountain peak into shards?” Fhremus didn’t, but he understood the implication. “The Bolg king is developing powerful explosives,” he said, “and so are we. I don’t understand what that has to do with the mechanical walkers for the lame, m’lord.” Talquist’s smile became cruel. “It disturbs me that the commander of the entire nation’s army cannot put pieces together better than that, Fhremus. Think back for a moment; you returned to Jierna’sid at great haste not in response to my summons, but because of what you had heard in the streets—is that not so?” The commander’s face went rigid. “That’s all right, Fhremus—if I were you, and had been informed that the regent emperor had been the target of a titanic stone assassin, a statue twice as tall as a man that moved under its own power, and had destroyed half a brigade as it waded through them on its way into Jierna Tal, I would have come in all due haste as well. I assume you have seen the carnage firsthand; although the streets had been cleansed of the human litter by the time you arrived, you must have seen the shattered carts, the broken gates, yes?” He gestured to the newly repaired wall in the staircase leading up to the southwestern parapet. “Yes,” said the commander. “Touched as I am by your concern for my well-being, I am happy to assure you that not a hair on my head was harmed. Would that I could say the same for the eighty-eight troops and uncounted bystanders.”

“How—” The regent raised a hand, and the soldier lapsed into silence. “I thought by now you knew that my ascension to emperor was foreordained by the Creator,” Talquist said haughtily. “The Scales themselves anointed me; I am divinely protected, as I believe I mentioned to you before.” His dark eyes took on a wicked gleam. “There are many things you do not yet know about me, Fhremus—and many more which you do not realize I know about you. But trust in this— Sorbold, the land we both love, is in more capable hands than you realized.”

“Indeed, m’lord,” murmured Fhremus. He took another swallow of the single malt. Talquist’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Come,” he ordered. “I will show you what our enemy is capable of, both in power and intent—and what we are preparing to do about it.”