Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“I’m going too,” Tristam said, stepping onto the deck. His reading spectacles were still perched on the bridge of his nose. He snatched them away absently and tucked them into his coat. “I want to hear this.”

“You are required here, Tristam,” Dalan said, his voice edged with impatience. “Only you can direct the ship’s repairs.”

“And we can’t repair the ship without proper materials,” Tristam said. “I gave Gerith the list. He’ll gather them while we meet with the Baron. By the time he returns, we’ll be done.”

The halfling had been chewing absently on an apple. He looked up happily at the sound of his name, flashing the hastily written list he clutched in one hand.

Dalan’s gaze rested heavily on Gerith, then returned to Tristam again. “I do not have the energy to argue, Tristam,” he said with a sigh. “Accompany me if you must.”

“And Seren, too,” Tristam said.

“Khyber, why don’t we all go?” Dalan snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ll bring the dog too. Aeven can come. We’ll make a holiday of it.”

Tristam’s face darkened.

“It’s fine,” Dalan amended, interrupting before Tristam could utter his angry reply. “Bring her. Follow me.”

Dalan crossed the bridge and entered the tower, shrugging into his hood to ward off the misty rain. Omax, Tristam, and Seren followed, descending the stairs and stepping out onto the road. Dalan was waiting, looking back with a curious glint in his eye.

“If you would accompany me,” he said, hurrying down the road once he saw they were following, “I must ask that you abide by my conditions.”

“What conditions?” Seren asked suspiciously.

“First, do not speak unless someone asks you a question,” Dalan said. “Answer with yes or no, if possible. If more information is needed, answer with as few words as you can muster.”

“What?” Tristam said. “You want us to shut up?”

“A focused front is required for all negotiations,” Seren said. “Jamus always taught me that.”

“Ha.” Dalan said smirked. “And who do you think taught him that? Me.”

“So we pretend to agree,” Tristam said. “Even if we don’t, just so that we are not divided further.”

“Precisely,” Dalan said. He glanced up and down the street, searching for an available coach. “I trust your expertise in matters of magic. You must trust me in matters of politics. The most basic tenet of politics is not to speak needlessly around men who hear more than you mean to say. Any arguments can be reserved for a later time, in private.”

“That makes a great deal of sense,” Tristam grudgingly admitted.

“My second condition,” Dalan said, “is that you listen carefully to me. If I use the name ‘Old Ash’ in reference to my uncle, that is a signal. I will not say it by accident, for I never called my uncle by that ridiculous nickname.”

“Signal for what?” Seren asked.

“To argue against me on whatever topic we happen to be discussing,” he said. “I’m certain none of you will find that too onerous a task.”

“Why?” Tristam asked. “What’s the point of that?”

“A focused front is a significant strength,” Dalan said, “but sometimes it is useful to appear weak. It can lead the opponent into overconfidence.”

“I think I’m thankful my mind isn’t as tangled as yours, Dalan,” Tristam said.

Dalan ignored the comment. “Just remember. Such trickery is generally unnecessary, but I prefer to lay contingencies in place.”

They hurried through the labyrinthine streets of Korth. The path was busy and more than one stranger studied them as they walked past. Seren felt strangely ill at ease. She peered about as she walked, her instincts screaming that something was amiss. She searched as cautiously as possible, hood shading her eyes so that her search would not be obvious. One hand rested unconsciously on her dagger’s hilt. She was uncertain what she was seeking-only that it was there.

Tristam noticed her unease and looked around urgently. “Something wrong, Seren?” he asked.

Then the warning faded as quickly as it had come. Seren furrowed her brow in confusion and shook her head. “No,” she said. “It was nothing.”

Dalan finished his negotiations with a coachman and climbed aboard the vehicle, curtly gesturing for the others to follow. The coachman gave Omax a wary sneer as the warforged lumbered aboard, but said nothing.

“To the d’Cannith estates, at all possible speed,” Dalan said as he sat back.

The driver nodded and drove the horses to a gallop with a crack of his whip. The vehicle rode smoothly through the grim capital, moving toward the busy streets of the Commerce Ward. The busy mumble of shouting merchants swallowed the silence. The air was filled with the rich scent of cooked bread and sweet spiced meats. The coach rumbled to a halt before a large estate near the center of the ward. Above the heavy steel gates was emblazoned the gorgon seal of House Cannith. Dalan pushed his cloak back over one shoulder, and now wore the same Cannith crest openly on his blue robe. The guild master steadied the small, square cap on his head and advanced toward the gates.

“I am Master Dalan Cannith, on urgent business from the City of Wroat,” Dalan announced. “I wish to see Baron Zorlan at once.

The guards looked at each other uncertainly.

“Do you have identification, friend?” one asked.

“Would you prefer to see my papers or would this suffice?” Dalan asked. He drew up his loose right sleeve, displaying the twisted dragonmark pattern that covered his right shoulder.

“We will announce your arrival at once, Master d’Cannith,” one of the guards said, quickly opening the gates.

An elderly servant in slate black livery was already approaching. He greeted them with a bow.

“Master d’Cannith, you are expected,” the man said.

“Indeed,” Dalan replied.

“The Baron is currently occupied,” the servant said. “However his representative, Gavus Frauk, will attend you until he becomes available.”

The guards quickly returned to their posts, gratefully resuming their uninteresting duties.

“My business is only with Zorlan,” Dalan said sharply.

“Understood,” the servant said in a mild, disinterested voice. “If you are too impatient to conduct an appointment through proper channels, you are free to depart and await the Baron’s convenience in a local inn. We shall gladly dispatch a messenger to notify you when he is available. It may be days, I fear. This is a busy time.”

Dalan gave a tight, joyless smile. “I apologize,” he said. “I am too impatient to renew the bonds of family. I have been away from my kinsmen for a long time. I only assumed Zorlan would be eager to pay hospitality to his cousin, who served him during the War. Is this not so?”

“I am certain he will be pleased to meet with you,” the servant replied with an equally thin smile. “But you visit us unannounced. The Baron is in the midst of an important meeting with several international clients. Should I interrupt and request that your arrival take precedence over the business of House Cannith?”

Dalan chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. “Sometimes I overestimate my importance. A few small successes can leave even the most undeserving man to feel he is a master of the house.” Dalan looked around the small courtyard idly. “Incidentally, Baron Merrix sends Zorlan his regards.”

The servant studied Dalan blandly, ignoring the veiled barb. “Master Gavus awaits,” he said. “If you are ready.”

“That will be fine,” Dalan said.

The servant bowed perfunctorily. “Follow me.”

He led them into the estate, turning down a side hallway and leading them down the stairs. The interior of the building was as austere and dark as the outside, sparing little effort for decoration. The faint rhythm of a ringing anvil resounded elsewhere in the building, mixing discordantly with the voices of unseen chanters. The air smelled electric, alive. Magic lived here and was given form by the hands of artificers and magewrights. Tall statues lined the walls at intervals. Seren paused to study the plaques mounted beside a few. They were representations of former patriarchs of the guild or master artificers who had invented one legendary creation or another.