Summerblood (22 page)

“At least we have a name for them now,” Avall growled. “Look here.” He pointed to the bottom of the document. It was signed “Zeff, in the name of the Ninth Face.”

“Ninth Face of what?” Strynn wondered.

“The Ninth Face,” Avall replied grimly, “of The Eightfold God. Or so I would assume.”

“Priest-Clan!” Strynn hissed.

A shrug. “Maybe.
Probably.
But somehow I don't think they know—not all of them.”

She yawned heavily. “And you really have to address this tonight?”

He regarded her wearily, through an untidy forelock. “I won't sleep regardless, and neither will you. Our guardsmen deserve answers, and I've already sent for half the council. I promise not to act until I've sounded everyone out. But I
have
to have ideas. This is—”

“Someone's coming,” Strynn broke in.

An instant later the door sounded with Rann's familiar cadence. Avall hauled the portal open, blinking in confusion
when he realized that Rann was not alone. Two other figures stood with him, robed and hooded to disguise forms and faces, yet even at a span's distance he caught the stench of sweat, dirt, horse, and unwashed bodies. “These folks reached the main gate just before your summons reached me,” Rann explained, hair still wild from sleep, though he'd taken time to don a formal clan robe. He sounded unaccountably excited, and his eyes were alive with secrets. “Veen took one look at them and sent them straight to you. We met on the way. It's—”

“Div,” Avall finished for him. “And … Kylin?”

“Majesty,” Kylin managed through a sketchy bow, sounding as tired as a man could sound and live.

“Come in,” Avall cried, delighted, dismayed, and confused all at once. “All of you. And tell me what—”

“I
know
what,” Strynn announced behind him. “I'll bet anything I own they've just come from Gem-Hold-Winter.”

“With all their fingers?” Avall muttered absently.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Rann snapped. “She—”

“With a message that can't wait,”
Div dared, loud enough to override him. “I'm sorry.” She took Rann's hand, perhaps in compensation.

Avall could only shake his head and usher them all inside. By the time he'd found them seats and stuffed their hands full of food and drink, Lykkon and Veen had also arrived, with Vorinn on their heels. Div looked more than a little startled at that, but it was Kylin who spoke first. “We appear to have arrived in the midst of crisis,” he ventured at last, sounding far too apologetic for someone as tired as he obviously was.

“And we bring word of another,” Div continued, trying to keep her hands steady as she sipped her drink.

Avall shook his head, then slumped down in a chair opposite them. “If it's what I think it is, it's another side of the one we were already addressing.” And with that, he spread Zeff's ultimatum upon the refreshment table, atop which he added, with deliberate conviction, Crim san Myrk's ring finger.

A proper council chamber adjoined the common hall of Avall's suite, and it was there that his council reconvened shortly past midnight, with half of them in night robes and most of the rest looking sleepy. By the time everyone had assembled, sense— and Div and Kylin's arrival—had overruled Avall's initial desire to keep the matter confined until morning, for which reason he'd dispatched heralds to summon Tyrill, along with Nyll of Gem, Eekkar of Myrk, and Preedor and Tryffon of War. Bingg was there as well, sleepy-eyed, but not complaining as he assumed the role of squire. The boy-messenger was sleeping off his fear in Bingg's quarters, full of calming posset. And under lock and key, pending further interrogation.

Avall waited until everyone had food and drink—spiced cauf, for most of them—before he cleared his throat for silence. “Some of you know what's happened, some don't,” he began, “but we'll all be equals, as far as that goes, as soon as I read this message I received a short while back.” He went on to detail the circumstances of its delivery, then cleared his throat again and read the entirety of the Ninth Face's ultimatum.

By the time he'd finished, Tryffon was having trouble
restraining himself, and since he was the senior person present— saving Tyrill, Eekkar, and Preedor, who would all, as always, watch and wait—it was to him Avall appealed first.

“I don't want another war,” Avall said flatly. “But do you see any other choice?”

“There's always diplomacy,” Nyll offered. Which was reasonable, given that his craft had the most to risk.

“Which always goes better with an army at your back,” Tryffon retorted.

“That does seem to be the case,” Vorinn agreed.

“And Zeff's played this very well,” Tryffon went on, sparing his protégé a tolerant stare. “He's left us just enough time to get an army there and back before the cold season, thereby saving face for us, and making him look good in the bargain. Assuming we do what he asks.”

“But why should he save face for us?” Riff inquired, forgetting himself.

“Because it's the character of aggressors to try to look like the offended party—the other side of which charade is that they need to appear magnanimous,” Vorinn answered a little too quickly. “He's put us in a pretty trap, too: If we stay here, we're branded cowards, or else we're branded insensitive to the needs of our captive people, who are certainly suffering already, and who may die—”

“Though, to be blunt,” Preedor put in unexpectedly, “if he destroyed the hold now, we'd probably lose fewer folk than the army would lose from a siege.”

“But soldiers take those risks by choice,” Strynn shot back. “Prisoners don't.”

“And if he destroyed the hold—by which I assume he means that he'd blow it up—that would certainly paint Priest-Clan's face very black indeed,” Vorinn concluded.

“And mine,” Avall added. “I'd look callous at worse and weak at best.”

“It sounds like you've already decided to go,” Veen ventured.

Avall leaned back in his chair and stared at the edge of the table. “Maybe I have, though the point about diplomacy is well taken. There's always a chance, after all, that we could come to an understanding. We give them what they want—with the whole army of Eron at our back—and they go their way.”

“Thereby restoring to Priest-Clan power they've lost—or think they have—and more on top of it,” Tryffon rumbled.

“In any case,” Avall sighed, “I think a quick resolution is best. Either we stay here, which effectively gives them total control over what happens, or we go there and try to force the issue.”

“My, my,” Tyrill drawled. “It's quite the little soldier you've become.”

Avall glared at her. “I've become a pragmatist, Tyrill. Greatest good for the greatest number. Don't forget that if things go entirely in our favor—which, of course, they won't— we could utterly discredit Priest-Clan. If nothing else, we could certainly break the power of this secret arm.”

“Besides which,” Bingg broke in eagerly, “since we don't have the regalia anyway, we can give them the fakes and they won't know the difference.”

Avall rounded on him. “How do
you
know about the fakes?”

“I saw them being made,” Bingg replied innocently. “And I … it wasn't hard to figure out the rest. I saw Merryn leaving with something that looked like them, and—”

“They'll demand proof,” Tryffon thundered. “You can offer them the fakes if you want, but they'll want proof they're the real thing.”

“And I'll give it to them—on their rooftops,” Avall snarled, thrusting himself forward again, and slapping his hands on the table hard enough to rattle cutlery. “Let's see how they like having lightning called down on them. All I have to do is recall Merry.”

“You could,” Tryffon chided, through a grin that suggested he'd enjoy exactly that. “Unfortunately, if they're threatening to blow up the hold, they'll certainly have explosives in place,
which lightning—or whatever that is the sword calls—would ignite.”

“And then it'd be my fault the place is destroyed—and I have revolt on my hands.” Avall flopped back in his chair again, glowering at the room in general.

“Not that it matters,” Tyrill put in. “You don't know where Merryn is.”

“Then I'll—
someone
—will have to find her!”

“I'll go,” Div volunteered at once. “You've done more for me than you'll ever know, simply by accepting me. This is my chance to return that grace.”

“Div!” Rann protested desperately. “You just got back!”

“And I'll leave again as soon as I can. There's no way I'll be able to rest with this hanging over us, and if I'm looking for Merryn—”

“You don't know her habits! You have no idea where to start.”

“I've tracked birkits,” Div retorted. “Besides, which—” “I've got a finding stone,” Strynn put in. “Kraxxi gave me his because he said it reminded him too much of Merryn. And Merry's got Tozri's old one, if she didn't give it back before she left, which would be simple enough to discover.”

Vorinn raised a dubious brow. “So we
could
find her?”

A nod.

“But she's had a considerable start.” From Riff.

Another nod, this time from Avall. “Right. But I'm afraid it's something we're going to have to do.” He paused, shook his head. “I don't believe I said that,” he added quickly. “It's like I've completely ignored the human cost of such a venture. To Div, to Rann—”

“You're becoming a King,” Tryffon told him calmly. “That's all. And I, for one, am glad to see it.”

“And if
I
were to go,” Strynn broke in, “we'd be even more likely to find her. I know her habits. And if there's any need to persuade her—”

“There won't be,” Rann and Lykkon chorused as one.

“I don't think so either,” Tryffon agreed.

“So that much is
settled
?” Strynn breathed, blinking in surprise. “I don't believe it.”

“That much is
tabled
,” Avall corrected through his teeth, not looking at her. “We've still much to discuss. Like why, for instance, Div and Kylin are here—not that I'm not glad to see them. I think we've made them wait long enough.”

Div glanced at Kylin, who'd remained silent since the actual council had begun. To Avall's surprise, it was the harper who spoke. “We're here to tell you what you already know,” he began. “But with one modification. That letter is just a sham: They don't intend to make a bargain at all; they almost certainly
do
plan to destroy the hold regardless, so that you'll get the blame whatever happens.”

“They'd just prefer to have the regalia in hand when they do it,” Div added, through a scowl.

“They do, and they've lost Gemcraft forever,” Nyll exploded. “I've tried to keep out of all this,” he continued, glaring at Eekkar. “But this! All I can say, Avall, is that if you
don't
go, I still will. I'll summon every gemsmith in Eron, and call in every favor, I'll—”

“You'll do nothing,” Eekkar broke in mildly.
“We
, however, will do all those things—if it please the King that we do them. Don't seek contention when you already have potential allies—
probably
have them,” he amended. “That's exactly what Priest-Clan wants. And if it costs us favors, we're also owed favors.” With that the old Chief fell silent, though his gaze was fixed firmly on Avall.

“I assume,” Tyrill put in acidly, “that they won't destroy anything until they've evacuated their own. They don't need to be there for that.”

“Eight damn it!” Tryffon all but shouted. “They've got us both ways, then. If we stay here, they'll destroy the hold, and we get blamed for inaction; and if we go there, they'll still destroy it, and we'll get blamed for pressing the issue.”

“Which means that we have to recapture the hold without it being destroyed,” Vorinn observed pragmatically.

“Any idea how?” Riff wondered, looking at Avall.

“No,” Avall sighed, “but I'm sure we can think of some once we're under way. No one here is stupid, and we know things the Ninth Face doesn't—and vice versa.”