The Silver Lake (56 page)

“Any more than he would be for me,” Illan mused aloud. Spar might never trust him now, but that possibility hadn’t been completely destroyed either. It was something to consider as the game progressed.

As was the new possibility of gaining Graize’s trust, his thoughts continued. His acceptance of Illan’s aid on the battlefield of Serin-Koy was encouraging. Lifting the young wyrdin’s figurine from Serin-Koy, he set it back in its place beside Gol-Bardak. However unstable, the boy had, nonetheless, done very well in his first engagement. He’d remained focused on one clear and simple vision, had advanced toward it along the cleanest stream possible, and achieved his goals: the Yuruk now believed in his prophetic and leadership abilities and the Godling was well on Its way to a controlled, physical awakening outside the influence of the Gol-Beyaz Deities. Illan would soon need to have a new figurine created.

Casting his gaze across the board, Illan nodded in satisfaction. The streams were progressing exactly as he had foreseen. Estavia’s battle seers had been easily herded from the south to the west like a flock of sheep driven from summer to winter pasture with their warriors obediently following along behind like so many sheepdogs. Now it was time to herd them back again as the mysterious ships sighted in the Deniz-Hadi inlet that spring were about to enter the game. He’d dreamed of them and their very special passenger that night.

Reaching below the atlas table, he retrieved a polished olive wood box before turning toward the sound of footsteps. His eyes cleared as Sergeant Ysav entered the room.

“You sent for me, sir?” the older man asked.

Illan inclined his head. “A ship from Skiros will be arriving within the hour, Vyns. Take an honor guard to receive it and return with the envoy and his retinue at once.”

“Sir.”

“They’ll be dressed as Ithosian merchants,” Illan continued, setting the box carefully on the table. “But don’t treat them as such,” he cautioned. “The envoy’s a powerful general and cousin to King Pyrros who’s conquered much of the southwest coastline of the Deniz-Hadi Sea in the last two years. You’ll remember him: Memnos of Taurus.”

“I do, sir. He fought with your ducal father for three years against Rostov. Part of his martial training as I recall.”

“Yes.” Illan’s expression warmed. “He taught Dagn and me to sail in the southern manner when I was five.”

“I remember, sir,” Ysav groused. “I nearly drowned that summer. So did you.”

“Nonsense, neither of us were in any danger.” Illan turned. “He’ll be traveling with a bodyguard of half a dozen soldiers and one formidable seer; you’ll know her by her eyes.” His own paled slightly. “They’ll be unusually dark, unlike those of the northern seers, Vyns. Do not meet her gaze. Stronger men than you have lost themselves in the power of her abilities.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

“Have the second level made up with the southern-facing bedroom for the seer and the northern for the envoy. The main storage room will need to be cleared for the guard and the smaller made up as a private dining room.”

“And the ship, sir? Will it need to reprovender?”

“Likely. Offer whatever fresh water and stores they require for the return voyage. I don’t imagine they’ll wish to sail on to the capital when their business is complete. They’ll not want to waste the fighting season any more than I do.”

The sergeant glanced up with an expectant expression and Illan chuckled. “Yes, Vyns. The game is moving swiftly. We may be sailing against Anavatan sooner than you think.”

“My lord?” The man’s countenance brightened at once.

“Yes, so treat the envoy well. He’s the key to Volinski mobilization.”

“I will, sir.”

As the sergeant left to carry out his orders, a new spring in his step, Illan opened the box’s delicately wrought golden lid and drew the first of a dozen intricately carved single-masted warships from their velvet settings. He placed each one in a circle around the figurine of Anahtar-Hisar, then lifted a small figure beautifully wrought in gold before closing the box with a satisfied expression. The game was moving very swifly indeed.

As he had predicted, the envoy from the southern maritime realm of Skiros arrived within the hour. Illan met them in the small private audience hall on the first floor, coming forward smoothly to embrace the heavyset older man who strode into the room well ahead of three others.

“Memnos,” he said with genuine warmth in his voice.

The man returned the embrace, then held him at arm’s length for a moment before smiling in return. “Prince Illan. You look well.”

“As do you. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.”

“Thank you. We received your mourning gift, and King Pyrros‘. It was generous of His Majesty.”

“He remembers his friends, as your father did.”

“Indeed. And I hear‘you’ve become a father yourself.”

“I have, with a brood of four already. This is my eldest, Viktor.”

Illan inclined his head as the youth standing just behind Memnos’ right shoulder bowed. “A Volinski name, Memnos?” he asked.

“To honor the man who treated me as a son so many years ago.” Memnos now gestured an older man forward. “This is my cousin Hares.”

“Ah, the famous mapmaker,” Illan said with a smile. “Your reputation for accuracy and beauty precedes you even across the northern sea.”

Hares bowed. “You’re too kind, Highness.”

“And,” Memnos continued, “may I introduce you to Panos.”

The figure from last night’s dream now stepped forward. She was dressed as an Ithosian sailor, but her eyes were as black as onyx, giving her thin face a mysterious, otherworldly cast. Illan met her deep, swirling gaze with a guarded one of his own, but it was her hair, as bright as spun gold beneath her plain woolen cap, that drew his attention. It was said that only Pyrros of Skiros threw children with hair the color of the summer sun, but only a fool would point that out as
King
Pyrros of Skiros was, as yet, unmarried—a ploy to keep his allies hoping to make a political match with him. Illan bowed politely as one would to an equal, taking in her measure as she took in his.

“Be welcome in my home, Panos,” he said formally. “No door shall be closed to you if you desire it to be opened.”

She smiled suddenly, the years falling away to reveal a youth of seventeen or eighteen at best. “Thank you, Highness. I may avail you of that offer. I’ve heard a great deal about the
prophetic
gifts of the Volinski seers,” she said, moving her gaze languidly up the length of his body.

“And I those of the Skirosian oracles,” he replied.

“And I,” Memnos interrupted pointedly, “have heard a great deal about the skill of the Volinski vintners, but I’ve yet to see any evidence of it.”

Illan laughed. “My apologies. Come, sit, eat, drink, and rest from your long voyage.”

An hour later, when his guests had eaten their fill, Illan sat back, turning a wineglass between his finger and thumb, watching as it caught the last of the evening sun in its crystal depths. “I trust your journey was uneventful,” he observed.

Memnos shrugged. “The trip across the Deniz-Siyah was as cold and damp as I remembered it to be. Gol-Beyaz was warmer, however, and more interesting. The villages have grown prosperous in the years since I passed them last.”

“Prosperous,” Illan agreed, “and complacent.”

“They look to have good reason. Anahtar-Hisar was an impressive sight, very large and very tall, but the three towers at the mouth of Anavatan’s strait, now those are truly a work of military prowess. I was sad that Viktor and Panos did not get to witness the fabled chains of Oristo. When were they last laid across the waters, in your great-grandmother’s time, wasn’t it?”

Illan nodded. “Ivagn Volinsk was a pirate at heart. She raided the coastlines of the Deniz-Siyah for much of her reign. The fleet she took up the Bogazi-Isik strait was the largest of its time.”

“They say she brought a piece of Siya-Hisar home with her,” Hares noted.

“Yes. It’s housed with the ducal regalia in the capital.”

“I’d love to see it someday.”

“I should be only too happy to show it to you. Any season but this one, of course.”

“And on that note,” Memnos said, straightening in his chair. “I’ve brought you a gift.” He gestured and Viktor passed him a long, leather case tied with a silken ribbon. Inside was a creamy-smooth vellum map finely drawn with colored inks and gold and silver embossment. “The Deniz-Hadi,” he said with real pride as the two youths held it up to the light. “Made by Hares, of course.” He gestured at the other man who smiled diffidently.

“It’s beautiful,” Illan breathed. “I’m particularly impressed with the areas outlined in red. The coastal holdings of the Skirosians?”

“Obviously,” Memnos grunted. “As you can see, we now control the bulk of the western shore, and all of the southwestern islands. Pyrros is ready to move on Thasos and Ithos next season, but this, as you know, will alert the Gol-Yearli and their Warriors of Estavia to our growing military strength.”

“Yes,” Illan agreed. “They might even respond in force if Thasos called for aid; they’ve been trading allies for many years.”

Memnos gave an elegant shrug. “They might,” he allowed, “but they’re a walled people with a walled people’s mentality.”

“And Skiros?”

“We’re a maritime people.”

“The Gol-Yearli have a marine force.”

“They have a lake force; it’s not the same thing.”

“So you don’t assume they’ll be any threat to your designs on Thasos and Ithos?”

“None at all.” Memnos sat back. “Especially if the Volinski are as prepared to throw their support behind us as I’ve been given to understand that you are.”

“We are.” Illan bent toward the map. “The duc would like nothing better than to come to the aid of the man who once tried to drown his overly-ambitious little brother.”

“He could try to drown mine,” Memnos suggested absently. “He’s more ambitious than you and much less useful. All he can do is lead troops.”

Illan laughed politely. “In the meantime,” he said, returning his attention to the new map, “I’ve been in negotiation with the Petchans of the Gurney-Dag Mountains,” he said pointing to the area just northeast of the Deniz-Hadi. “For a price—which I’ve already paid—they’ll cease their raids on the southern villages this season so that the Warriors of Estavia will keep their focus north where the Yuruk nomads have been testing the skills of a new military leader. The Battle God’s people have already drawn the bulk of their fighting force away from the southern towers, so you’ll have no trouble from that quarter if you move quickly. Thasos and Ithos may call for aid, but the Gol-Yearli will be too busy to answer with anything more than foodstuffs this season.”

“And their oracles?” Panos asked. “They won’t see through this strategy?”

Illan smiled. “Their
oracles
will be all too occupied with other business this season. Will you have another glass of wine?”

She smiled back at him, her black eyes sparkling in response to his obvious challenge. “Yes, thank you, I will.”