Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (29 page)

Queen Ulecia spoke up.  “Free and fair trade is, and
will always be, the right of the Galemaran people.  However, We cannot vouch
for our neighbors.”

Fulton, looking straight at the queen, suddenly
remembered he still wore his simple cloth hat with the three-inch brim.  Rather
than snatch it off like a flustered country yokel, he lifted it from his head
and pressed it to his chest in a move as deliberate as his voice.  Marik gave
the man credit, acknowledging a steady man whom others could rely upon.

“That is a bitter truth, your majesty, one the
association leaders have been trying to get across to the younger bulls. 
Several have been advocating crossing the river at one of the shallows.  This
has never been a matter of kingdoms or map lines, if the esteemed members will
pardon me.  It has been a matter of townships working with other townships in
order to survive.  Our Nolier friends are much of the same mind.  The conflicts
of armies are of little import to us, who live off the beaten path and can’t
afford waste.”

The queen lifted a sliver quill to make a note.  On a
smaller paper slip, she duplicated it, then motioned to one of the pages
standing in boredom beside Thorald.  “If it would please you, Fulton Tully,”
she announced, handing the slip to the boy, “this young man will bring you to
the quartermasters’ office.  Supplies are tight across all of Galemar, as I am
certain you know, but crown aide will be made available.  Unfortunately, the
larger problem persists, and if you may afford to wait a few days longer,
someone will meet with you privately to discuss your situation.”

“We would be obliged for any help, your majesty,”
Fulton nodded respectfully.  The page knocked on the doors and the squires
outside let them out.  After a moment the doors closed.

That was rare enough
, Marik mused. 
Of course, if they hadn’t been right on the border,
I doubt they would have gotten much.  If they get much in the first place.

He waited through three candlemarks of inflated egos,
angry demands and pompous imperiousness.  Most speakers stayed to the end
despite being free to leave once they had made their problems known.  After the
last tile found its way back into the lot box, the council dismissed the
concerned parties so they could ‘evaluate confidential information.’

The doors shut behind the last.  Marik would have
sighed in relief and lost his straight-backed posture if he were a councilor. 
None of them chose to do so.  If anything, a heavier air of business enshrouded
them.  He remained in the back because he had no wish to attract attention
sooner than he needed to.  This was less effective since the shielding wall of
civilians between him and the upper echelon had vacated.

“What are the newest developments?” Raymond asked.  He
looked first to Bronwen.

“Orburn’s trying to invoke a due diligence clause from
three-twenty-nine A.U., if anyone can believe that,” Bronwen spat out.  “He’s
building a case that the values assigned to the terrain back when the Tenpencia
River was officially decided upon as the border were inaccurate.  Therefore
Nolier has every right to reclaim the full value of the land that Galemar
promised would be its due.”

Raymond sighed.  Tybalt looked sour while Rancill
flicked a tiny paper ball across the room using his middle finger off his
thumb’s pad.

“That might be the biggest fairyland barge I’ve heard
tell of.  Ever.” Rancill declared.  “Agreements regarding land division are
final once both parties have signed.  It doesn’t matter if the gods later
decide one half is holy and the other a pestilent crater.”

“What value measurements were used?” Raymond wanted to
know.  “I don’t recall.”

“Nothing in the way Orburn wants to interpret it,” Bronwen
answered.  “The values were strictly based upon acreage.  We surrendered the
holdings we had claimed on their side of the river, and they relinquished what
they held on our side.  The ‘value’ mentioned is solely in regards to arable
land.”

Rancill nodded in a dour manner that, as chief
magistrate, he took pains to adhere to.  “That is the standard by which such
agreements are usually held, except for the Vyajjonese.  Their laws severely
restrict any disposition of land since they have perpetual space problems.”

“The tillable soil we were to receive exceeded the
amount they would gain by nearly a third,” she elucidated.  “We paid them a
settlement in gold and trade agreements.”

“They could have claimed infractions of the trade
agreements within the first thirty years,” Rancill added.  “Not today.  Too
much time has passed, and the Galemaran crown has never agreed to any
commitment longer than thirty years.  It’s long been a practice in every
kingdom, not merely our own, so as to exempt future rulers from having to pay
for inadvertent mistakes by their predecessors.  Or from political changes that
make the previous agreements a heavier burden.”

“It’s blatant stalling,” Tybalt growled.  “Every day
he can purchase means an additional day Nolier’s forces can secure their hold
on the gold strike and dig out more ore.”

“I agree,” Bronwen said.  “Orburn can’t possibly hope
to gain anything by this.”

“I didn’t expect any new developments from their
diplomat,” Raymond admitted.

Queen Ulecia posed her thoughts.  “A kingdom’s
representative who pushes such an unsteady platform is one who is usually at
the edge of a precarious precipice, grasping for any desperate purchase.” 
Bronwen nodded, her expression attentive.  “This is the sort of bluster you
only hear from such,” the queen continued, “and yet a note in it strikes me as
unlikely.  Lord Orburn has always been a clever spokesman for Nolier.  Could he
possibly have exhausted his diplomatic maneuverings so quickly?”

Celerity threw her opinion in.  “Not the likes of
Orburn.  Men such as he have their desperate plays thought out well before they
come within twenty moves of needing them.  Too short a span has elapsed since
Nolier resumed hostilities for him to be clutching at dead weeds to prevent a
fall.  That he brings such to the table at this juncture means, I believe, that
he wishes to outfox us.”

“And what would that accomplish?” Tybalt barked.  “You
don’t make an enemy lower his guard by opening your shirt and daring him to
stab you between the ribs.”

“No,” Ulecia agreed.  “You certainly do nothing of the
sort.  What you do is deceive in such a way that your opponent turns aside and
exposes his vulnerable areas.”

“That sounds in keeping with the man,” Celerity
affirmed.  “Bronwen, what is our likely reaction to such a blatant
justification?”

The crown’s chief diplomat cocked her head enough to
cause an audible
crack
from her neck.  “My inclination was to laugh, but
diplomatically, I was bound to bring the claim to the council before making any
official reply.”

Tybalt’s hard voice cut through Celerity’s follow-up
inquiry.  “Before you attempt to read sly ploys in his every breath, you should
remember that political dissemination is nothing other than bluster.  If he has
a lethal dagger to use in his capacity as Nolier’s representative, then he has
to wait for the right moment to use it.  Until such time, he will cloud himself
in a veil of apparent struggle in order to use his assault at peak
effectiveness owing to our underestimation of him.  Now shall we move on to more
pressing matters?”

Celerity considered Tybalt across the table’s curve
with annoyance.  She prevented her ire from effecting her professionalism. 
“And what specific issues would you bring before the council at this time,
knight-marshal?”

He returned her stare measure for measure.  “This is
no minor infraction caused by a foolhardy trader tripping over a trade
agreement.  It is the birth of a war.  Diplomacy is not the answer when an
opposing kingdom chooses to take what it wills with no regard to their
neighbors.  My respect to Diplomat Bronwen, but I feel we should spend our
efforts in preparing for the battles we know are inevitable.”

“A battle ended before the swords clash is a battle
won twice over,” Bronwen retaliated.  “A quote from none other than Faustus
Hueart, I might add.  We must exhaust all diplomatic possibilities
before
we cast the lives of our soldiers across the Tenpencia’s shores.”

“And
I
might add that, ‘A skirmish avoided is
tomorrow’s pitched battle’.”  Tybalt’s tone matched hers in acidity.  “Failton
Grealy’s words for you, Bronwen, and words well worth consideration in our
present circumstances.  We cannot afford a second war as costly as the last. 
We
must
strike at the earliest possibility before they can take root in
those cursed mountains again!”

“If you attack their soldiers before diplomatic talks
are concluded, you may well kill our one chance to end this dispute without
bloodshed!”

“Peace among the council,” Ulecia announced softly,
lifting one hand and severing the glaring line-of-sight between the two. 
“Arguments are best saved until such time as they have the most relevance. 
Tybalt, your men will not be in a position to carry out a feasible assault for
eightdays yet, is that correct?”

The knight-marshal bowed his head in admission.  “You
see the truth, your majesty.”

“Then save your squabbles for the day when our army
has the capability to make any such action,” Raymond declared.  “Bronwen, you
still have time enough to spar with Orburn.  Providence should reveal his intentions
and the possibilities of successful negotiation by the day our forces are in
place.”

“On that matter,” the seneschal cut in.  “First Grade
Quartermaster Delano should have his numbers in order.”

“Not so much as I expected, given the staff I’ve put
in place,” Delano said by way of an opening statement.  He stood to distribute
several papers he had brought with him among the councilors.  None of the
people in the room held a high place in Marik’s favor, but Delano had made the
oiliest impression on him.  During the last meeting the man had spent his
entire time either dodging a direct answer or laying the groundwork for blame
to be shifted elsewhere.  “I’ve saturated my warehouse and supply staff with
the most competent people I could find after the last war, yet despite it all,
they haven’t been able to give me their reports fast enough to please the
council.”

Tybalt’s neck grew redder where his collar squeezed it
tightly.  He desperately wanted to verbally bite Delano’s nose off, an act he
had been longing to perform in truth for the past several months.  As before,
the seneschal intervened keep the council members focused on dealing with the
pressing problems rather than devolving to angry infighting.

“Is that to say you have not pieced together a complete
list of in-theater resources currently in store?  Or that your staff is still
struggling to arrange for proper supply routes with which to funnel your stocks
to the men who need them?”

Marik marveled at the man.  In any other mouth, those
same words would have carried bitterness, accusation, even implication.  What
magic did the seneschal employ that he could speak so while keeping his voice
utterly devoid of emotion or trace resonances?  No one ever knew if they should
be offended by his direct statements or not.

Delano only hesitated a moment before tendering his
reply…in typical evasive form.  “The supply routes two years ago were
effective.  It was seen that no solider went hungry, cold or lacked the
required goods to maintain his cleanliness.  Nolier forces made numerous
attacks against supply depots, never to any great effect.  We prevented them
from destroying our caches and successfully protected the routes feeding stocks
to the depots in turn.  As you can see, the life’s blood of our army remained…”

The words faded from Marik’s awareness when he stopped
devoting the effort to pay attention.  To listen to Delano, his tightfisted
supply officers had single-handedly repelled Nolier’s attempts against the
depots.  Marik had vowed before
not
to let it infuriate him.  He, along
with his fellow mercenaries and reluctantly allied soldiers, had shed their
blood to defend those warehouses.  Delano’s men had as much to do with
protecting the supplies as with actually butchering the meat they later doled
out.  Tybalt would agree with him on that, if never on anything else.

Marik listened with surprisingly mild interest.  For a
council meeting to organize a war, it proved exceedingly mundane.  A far cry
from the way he would have imagined such momentous undertakings during his
purgatory of an apprenticeship to a woodworker named Pate in his hometown of
Tattersfield.  Or even a year or two ago.

Soldiers and mercenaries.  Over the years of
contracting with the Crimson Kings, he had reached the conclusion that the only
difference between them was that mercenaries were the far more realistic of the
two.  No ragged lowlifes or failed soldiers were they.  They were every inch as
intimate with warfare as any regaled man of the army, despite no one honoring
them for it.  Seeing the topmost men and women in the kingdom struggling like
this only hammered the final nail into his conviction.

He had been greatly discomforted at first by the
notion that a common mercenary would be polluting the exalted council’s
decisions with his views, crudely forged on battlefields from splintered steel
and quenched in barrels of blood still hot enough to steam in the winter air. 
The first council meeting had struck him as a fluke, an oddity, surely an off
day.  Listening to this second session droning on without end, where the people
spoke without saying anything, where inconsequential technicalities were beaten
relentlessly while the seneschal strove to maintain order, Marik knew where he
would bet his coin if there were to be a battle between mercenaries and
soldiers at three times their number.