Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

"Good, but understand clearly what I have just said. You alone will judge the import of their words and decide whether or not I should talk to them thereafter. Should you decide against that, you will escort them back to the water's edge and see them off." I saw his eyebrow quirk at that. "I mean it, Donuil. This is your confrontation, to conduct how you will. You are my adjutant, and you have full discretion to decide if this matter is worth my time. I won't question your judgment. Now go down there to the water's edge and wait for them to shout to you, but don't encourage them. Don't look curious, and under no circumstances be the first to speak or initiate anything. Just stare at them as though they were some kind of noxious matter floating on the water. When they see you won't be moved, they'll come to you."

He nodded, snapped a smart salute, pressed his helmet onto his head and left me alone to wait.

I paced my tent for a time, straining to hear what was going on outside, but the silence was astonishing. From time to time I would hear a quiet spoken sentence, or an order from one of the officers, and the occasional crunch of pebbly sand as someone's horse shifted and sidled, but little else. I wanted to step outside, or at least part the tent flaps so that I could see something, but I was unwilling to show the slightest sign of interest.

Eventually, in the distance, I heard a voice raised in a shout, but I could not hear what was said. There, was no response, and I began to count, slowly. When I reached fifteen, the shout came again, still too muffled by distance for me to decipher it, and this time Donuil's voice rang out in response.

"If you have words to say to us, come here and say them like a man, instead of bellowing like a bull. No one will harm you."

A long period of silence ensued, and then came the sound of footsteps approaching my tent, and young Bedwyr drew back the flaps.

"Commander Merlyn? I am to inform you that a boat is approaching, with five men on board, apart from four oarsmen."

"Thank you, Bedwyr, " I said. "Now remain where you are and look back. Can you see what is happening?"

"Aye, Commander. The boat is approaching the shore. "

"Good. Now close the flaps and stand outside. Face the beach and simply report to me what is happening. I can hear you perfectly well without your having to raise your voice. "

"Aye, sir. " A long silence, then, "They've stopped rowing, Commander. Now the oarsmen are in the water, pulling the boat up onto the beach... The others are out, approaching Tribune Donuil. They don't like the bowmen. "

"What bowmen?'

"The adjutant has ordered two squadrons of Pendragon longbows to assemble on either side of him with arrows drawn, slanting out towards the water's edge in a funnel shape. The newcomers are walking between those files, approaching the adjutant. "

"Good, and what is Donuil doing?'

"Nothing, sir. He stands waiting, facing them, his hands clasped at his back. Now they are talking, but I can't hear them... The adjutant is leading them away now, towards the quartermaster's tent... He's sitting down at the quartermaster's table, in front of the tent, facing them, saying something... I'm sorry, sir, his back is to me. I can't hear what he's saying. "

'That's fine, Bedwyr. What's happening elsewhere? What are the other troops doing?'

"Nothing, sir. No one has moved. "

"Thank you. Stay there, and warn me the moment anyone starts to move again. "

I forced myself to walk to my table and sit down, and then to withdraw Ambrose's dispatch from its holder and read it again. I have no knowledge of how many times I started reading it Only to realize that I had lost all sense of what it said, and each time I would return to it, starting again from the salutation.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Bedwyr spoke again.

"Tribune Donuil has stood up, sir. He's coming this way. "

"Good. Come inside. "

"Sir!" He stepped inside and stood at attention just inside the doorway.

Donuil's footsteps approached and his shadow fell across the slight opening in the flaps. By the time he entered I was facing him. He glanced at Bedwyr, then turned to me.

"I think you ought to talk to them, Merlyn. "

"About what? What's their purpose?"

"I don't know, but they have one. You'll judge the content better than I could. Their leader is a man called Retorix, a captain of Ironhair's Cornwall levies. He's an arrogant blowhard, full of blustering menace, but he's more articulate than any of the others. He's the one charged by Ironhair to speak with you. He won't tell me what he has to say to you, and I've been tempted to kick him back on board his ship, but something tells me that would not be the right thing to do. I think you have to meet him. "

"Very well then, bring him in, but leave the rest of his people standing out there on the sand. "

Donuil nodded and began to turn away, but he hesitated, obviously caught short by some impulse. "D'you think that's wise, Merlyn, to leave all four of them out there? I mean, if you have things to say to him, harsh things or otherwise, wouldn't it be better to have witnesses? You speak to him alone, with no one to hear you, then there's no telling what he might report to Ironhair, and no refuting what he says. If others are here, it seems to me, he'll be more tightly bound to tell the truth, or something close to it. "

"You're right, my friend. Bring them all here, but stop them short outside. I don't want them inside my tent. "

I waited for the sounds of their approach, and then listened with appreciation to the stilted, metallic rattling of arms and armour as the guard who surrounded them responded to the clipped commands of their officer. Moments later, Donuil approached again and informed me that the delegation from Cornwall awaited me.

I sat still, at my desk, and forced myself to read Ambrose's letter, in its entirety, one more time. Then I rose and threw my ceremonial war cloak about my shoulders, adjusting the hang of it until the heavy, silver wire mass of the great bear embroidered across its back sat snugly, perfectly draped from my shoulders. Beckoning to Bedwyr to accompany me, I picked up my parade helmet and walked outside to where the newcomers stood clustered together under the watchful eyes of a full squadron of the guard who surrounded them on three sides.

Retorix, their leader, was not hard to pick out. He stood half a head taller than his companions, and his clothes were richer and more finely made. He was a well made man himself, broad in the shoulders, narrow of waist and thick legged, perhaps thirty three years of age. He was clean shaven, with no moustache, and armoured in a vaguely Roman fashion: bronze back and breastplates and a domed helmet with a skirt that covered his neck but failed to conceal the thick, rank curls of black hair that hung down past his shoulders. From the waist down he wore no armour. A padded tunic came down to his knees and beneath that he wore breeches of heavy, homespun cloth, cross bound from ankle to knee. The boots he wore were of heavy leather and looked hard and comfortless. A thick, grey cloak of rich wool enhanced the Romanish look of him, hanging from his right shoulder with one end looping up beneath his left arm, where a thick, barbaric ring pin of silver held it in place. I deliberately ignored the other four men and fixed my eyes on Retorix alone.

"Who are you?"

"They call me Retorix. "

"Hot wind?" I saw his eyes widen. 'That is what 'rhetoric' means in my world—hot wind and bullying argument. Rhetorics would be a plurality—a profusion of hot wind. " I could see that my meaning, though not my tone, had blown right over his head, and I chided myself silently for stooping to such a level. "Who are these 'they' that call you Retorix?'