There was a quicker route between the two rebel bases than the long rugged way through forested hills. And with their improved military position, and the abeyance of hostilities, the commanders now took that route from opposite ends, to meet at a tiny, out-of-the-way flatlander village. At what passed for an inn, but was more of a local tap house with a single room for occasional travelers. Macurdy hired it, and he and Wollerda sat across a table from each other, Wollerda's aide at one end taking notes, and a pitcher of sassafras tea at the other. Two companies of fighting men lounged outside, and guards were stationed at the door.
"Invade the empire!?" Wollerda asked. "She's crazy. It's larger than all the southern kingdoms combined, has a lot more people, and it's far better organized. Each of its dukedoms—there's probably fifteen or twenty—has an army maybe as large as Gurtho's; better trained anyway. Then the emperor has the Throne Army, probably five times as large, and there are garrisons in the Marches."
He peered intently at Macurdy. "And you said?"
"I agreed to talk to you about it. What I want to do now is look at all the factors. What about the Marches? The empire conquered them and holds them down, and I suppose it taxes them. What if they revolt when we march in?"
"Unlikely."
"Why unlikely?"
"I suppose Sarkia thinks they will."
Macurdy nodded.
"Sarkia believes what she wants to. I've only been in two of the March kingdoms, but that's two more than she has, I have no doubt. And they were conquered, true enough, but oppressed? Under imperial hegemony, they've grown richer, their conditions of life are improved, they rule themselves better, and they no longer fight each other. There are probably resentments, maybe some with good cause, but the people I did business with—merchants and prosperous farmers—like things the way they are. I expect the rest don't feel too differently.
Macurdy pursed his lips. "What armies do they have?"
"The March kingdoms? Militias. Of volunteers. My impression is, they don't take it seriously. They know, even if Sarkia doesn't, that the empire will protect them. So they don't consider themselves threatened."
"What about the ylvin garrisons?"
"What I've read is, one fort in each March kingdom, with a cavalry cohort stationed there."
"And how ready do you suppose the empire is for war?"
"Hmm. Probably not very. But it could get ready fast enough, if it felt threatened."
Wollerda peered intently at Macurdy. "You've said this is desirable because it would unite the southern lands. And it is desirable, even if it's temporary, because once it's been done, it'll be easier to do again. So I'm in favor of union in the form of alliance, if the terms are right. It can discourage the empire from another attack, perhaps more ambitious than the last one. But to actually invade it?" He shook his head.
Macurdy sipped tea. "Suppose we didn't reach the empire itself." Taking a thick rectangle of folded linen from his tunic, he spread it on the table between them, a map of the empire and the Marches, that Kithro had gotten him. "Suppose we only got to here," he said pointing.
Wollerda examined it critically. There were two tiers of kingdoms in the Marches. The southernmost were the so-called Outer Marches, its kingdoms bordering the Big River. North of them were the Inner Marches, bordering on the empire. Macurdy rested a large fingertip on the northern tier. "If we only got that far before our momentum was blunted, it would still cause a hell of an uproar."
Wollerda looked at him thoughtfully. Macurdy went on. "If, with Sarkia's help, we brought in all the kingdoms along the Green River between the Eastern Mountains and the Muddy, and all those between the Big River and the Middle Mountains . . ."
Wollerda shook his head. "Not enough. The emperor could bring a bigger army against us. Bigger and better."
"How quickly? Would the Throne Army be bigger than ours? Or would he have to wait until the ducal armies arrived? And how long would that take?"
Wollerda shook his head disapprovingly. Macurdy continued. "They'll hear about us getting ready, but how seriously will they take us? According to Sarkia, the kingdoms south of the Big River have never united to do anything."
His gaze was intent now. "Imagine the dukes meeting with the emperor in Duinarog." He pointed at the ylvin capital, on the river between the Middle and Imperial Seas. "Might it run about like this? `Mr. Emperor, the Marches have their militias. Let them fight the southerners; it's their land and their responsibility. And if they can't manage, you've got enough soldiers yourself; that's what we pay taxes for. Besides, those Rude Landers will never get across the Big River. They'll be fighting each other before that.' " Macurdy looked quizzically at Wollerda. "Like you said, it's a big empire, and most of those dukes would have a long way to march, or ride. Hauling weeks of supplies with them, supplies they probably don't keep on hand in the first place. Supplies it would take awhile to round up. And think of the expense!
"When—if—we actually cross the river, then they might start taking us seriously. But meanwhile we ought to go through those militias like corn through a goose." Or will we? Suppose they turn out to be like the Ozian militias! "The imperial garrisons might give us a bad time, but they're isolated cohorts, one here and one there. The emperor would probably get the Throne Army moving pretty quickly, but even they'd have a long way to come, unless he'd already moved them south."
His finger moved across the Inner Marches. "We ought to get this far, anyway," he added, pointing to a town labelled Ternass, on the main route between the Big River and Duinarog. North of Ternass was a zone well marked with symbols for marshes or swamps. A major road was shown crossing it, but God knew what it was like. "Far enough to shake things up in the empire, not to mention the Marches. Far enough they might negotiate in good faith to get rid of us, but not far enough to get caught with those swamps at our back."
Wollerda sat with his chin in one hand, lips pursed. "Possibly. Or the dukes might be right. It's hard to imagine getting allied forces to operate as an army."
"In that case," Macurdy answered, "we wouldn't invade." He changed tack then. "How solid is the empire? Sarkia says the dukes fight each other sometimes."
"They have in the past. But I don't think there's been any fighting between dukes during the fifteen years of Paedhrig's rule. Or before it for quite a while."
"But some pretty serious political fighting?"
"I don't really know. Historically there've been rivalries, bickering, political factions, and grudges between dukedoms. And the factions have internal squabbles. But I have no doubt at all they'd unite solidly against invasion.
"Furthermore, it could result in a counter-invasion that could ruin us here: the Quaie Incursion five-fold. It might even result in conquest, with the Marches expanded south to the Middle Mountains."
Macurdy frowned thoughtfully. "Suppose we say our strike northward is a punishment for—what did you call it?—the Quaie Incursion. Especially for Ferny Cove. That seems to be something the ylver have strong disagreements about. It got Quaie fired from the army and kicked off the Imperial Council."
Wollerda stared. "How do you know? Is that something Sarkia told you?"
Macurdy shook his head. "I made a trip, awhile back. To the headwaters of the Tuliptree River, to check out a story the Dynast's ambassadrix told me, and another one told me by a tomttu she had with her. I couldn't be sure what was lies and what was truth, so I went to look. That's where I found out about Quaie, whom I'd never heard of before. And what happened to him for what he did."
Wollerda's frown was back. "How could you learn things like that on the headwaters of the Tuliptree?"
Again Macurdy sat briefly silent. "I guess I'd better start from the beginning," he said, then told Wollerda what the tomttu had said about Varia's capture, and what Liiset claimed had happened afterward. And about his trip to the Tuliptree and what had happened there, to him and to the tracker who'd been bringing Varia back to the Sisterhood. And finally what he'd heard the ylvin commander, Kincaid, say.
"And there's no way I could have imagined it. I didn't know enough."
Wollerda wasn't just frowning now. He frowned thoughtfully. "Cyncaidh. There is a Cyncaidh, an important noble. That's all I know about him. But it's hard to imagine an ylvin aristocrat in buckskins, scouting through the Granite Range."
He paused. "And you want this invasion just to get your wife back, right? Have you thought of the blood it'll cost?"
Macurdy nodded soberly. "But if there weren't any Varia, and never had been—if I'd been born in these hills and was in this rebellion for only the reasons you are—it would still look like something to think about seriously. Knowing what I know now. It's all of a piece with an alliance that could make the southern lands stronger. And richer.
"Look at it like this. If you were king of Tekalos . . ."
"It's you the Sisterhood wants as king," Wollerda countered.
"I'd rather you have the job than me, and I don't think it makes any real difference to Sarkia. It was just part of her pitch to win me over. She doesn't read me—understand me—as well as she thinks; probably there are things she refuses to look at, possibilities she can't admit to herself. And if you were king of Tekalos, the country would be a whole lot better off, because you're a lot smarter than Gurtho, and you're not greedy, and you look at people a lot differently than he does.
"Whatever may be wrong with Sarkia, she wants the southern lands strong and prosperous, so she can have peace to breed up the Sisterhood the way she wants. Which might not be all that bad. She's marrying the kings to Sisters, to strengthen the alliance and ensure the royal successions."
Wollerda studied Macurdy. He's more than a fighting man and magician, he told himself, and more than shrewd. He's deeper than I imagined. And a child of fate, by the look of it. And the Dynast just might have some good intentions after all.
"But the only way to form an alliance," Macurdy was saying, "is to give it a reason that seems real and strong—compelling—to a bunch of kings and chiefs that don't usually look much beyond their own borders and the next tax collection. An invasion across the Big River might be what it takes. An invasion to teach the empire never to attack southward again. And I suppose we'll have to allow looting. That might even get the tribes to join us. If we could get Oz to send a cohort or two . . .
"We could set it up so assigned companies do the looting. One or two trains of plunder wagons from each kingdom and tribe under a central command, so they don't get into butchering, raping, and burning. We need to avoid the kind of hatreds that Quaie cooked up.
"And because we'll make a big point, with our own people and those north of the river, that this is all to punish the ylver for the Quaie Incursion and the Rape at Ferny Cove. Put the blame on Quaie. Then if someone in the empire beats the drum for invading south again, those against it can point to the grief the Quaie Incursion brought them."
Wollerda shook his head, not in refusal but in the first stage of capitulation. "You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"
Macurdy shook his head. "I didn't `figure it out,' exactly. That's just how it seems to me."
"You'll need to get every kingdom and tribe included in the alliance," Wollerda said. "Especially those between the Middle Mountains and the Big River, and they tend to be friendly to the March kingdoms. Enough to trade with them."
Macurdy nodded. "Getting their support will be the Dynast's job. She has embassies in every royal court except in Kormehr. And even if she can't talk enough of them into an invasion, she can probably tie them into a defense alliance."
"A defense alliance won't get your wife back."
"True. But it'll be worthwhile for the kingdoms and tribes. And maybe—maybe I could be the ambassador from the Alliance to the emperor, and get her back that way. Maybe the emperor would make Kincaid let her go."
Wollerda stared. "Macurdy, you're . . ." He groped. "You're a man of faith. All right. I'll go along with further negotiations and see what you come up with. It scares me—makes my hair stand up—but it's a powerful opportunity, and we didn't get this far by being timid.
"Besides, remarkable things happen around you. You even grew new teeth! The Great God himself seems to be with you."
They sent a man down for ale, the first Macurdy had ever had, just a swallow, making a face at the taste. Wollerda agreed to an alliance, Macurdy negotiating for both of them. But Wollerda would need to approve. Macurdy would sign as military co-commander, while Wollerda would sign as co-commander and chief of the Kullvordi.
They shook hands on it, then Wollerda stepped back with a grin, his first of the day. "And now, Macurdy, I've got a gift for you."
Macurdy frowned. "I hadn't realized. I didn't bring one for you."
Wollerda laughed. "I knew you'd say that; you don't know everything about us yet. We have a custom that one doesn't reciprocate a gift; it's an insult to the giver. If you want to give something in return, it'll need to be after a decent interval. A few months, at least." He beckoned. "Come with me." Together they left the inn and walked to the paddock, where Wollerda climbed over the fence and started toward a tall powerful gelding with almost a stallion's neck. It watched him approach without trying to avoid him, though it tossed its head as if to run, or maybe turn and kick. Wollerda spoke as he approached it, took the halter with a hand and led the animal to the fence, where Macurdy watched.
"What do you think of him?"
Macurdy was ill at ease, suspecting but not entirely sure. "A fine horse. Spirited. Big and strong, good hocks to hold up in the hills—and looks like he could run. And big-barreled; lots of endurance."
"He's a stag, actually," Wollerda said. "I didn't cut him till he was two and a half. I was going to ride him as a stallion, to raise my standing with my neighbors, but he was too unruly."
Looking at Macurdy, the animal jerked its head, but Wollerda held him in, speaking soothingly. "He's fine now, broken with an easy hand by a Kormehri magician. From near Ferny Cove, actually, before bad things happened there. Anyway he's yours. If you're ever chased, he won't collapse under you." Wollerda chuckled. "Actually he's more a gift to the horse you've been riding; the poor beast's getting swaybacked carrying you."
Macurdy climbed easily over the paddock fence, and stood for a moment feeling mentally for the horse's mind. Okay, old timer, he thought to it, you and I are partners from now on. He reached out, took the halter with his right hand and stroked the long silky nose with his left. The animal's eyes neither rolled nor threatened.
"Does he have a name?"
"Whatever you want to call him. I call him Champion."
"I had an uncle on Farside two stones heavier than I am, and he had a saddle horse that carried him with no trouble at all. Not as nice an animal as this, but big and powerful. Had a strain of Belgian in him—back home that's the heaviest draft breed—but a gait smooth as silk. And a really good disposition; my brother and I used to lead him to the fence and climb onto him from it, and he never minded a bit. Carried us wherever we wanted, together or separately. Uncle Will named him Hog. In our language, of course. Said he was strong as one." Macurdy cocked an eyebrow. "I told Frank that when I grew up, I'd have a horse like Hog, but until now I never did. You wouldn't feel insulted if I named him that, would you?"
Wollerda laughed again. "I won't. I don't know about him."
Macurdy looked the horse in the eye. "How about it? All right if I call you Hog?"
The animal snorted.
"He's telling you it's the kind of name a flatland farmer might give him," Wollerda said, "but it's all right with him as long as you treat him well."
Macurdy nodded. "I grew up a farmer, and I'll always have shit on my boots. So. Hog it is." He let go the halter and slapped the horse on the shoulder. It turned and trotted across the paddock to a rack of hay, then looked back at the two men.
"He's telling us something about relative importances," Wollerda said.
"Is it all right to thank you?" Macurdy asked. He felt closer to Wollerda than he'd ever expected to, and it was less the fact of the gift than what he'd learned about him in the giving: the man's ease and humor.
"Of course," Wollerda said. "It's the proper thing to do."
"Well then." Macurdy reached out, and gripping Wollerda's hand, shook it heartily. "Thanks a lot. I've got a feeling that Hog and I are going to get along really well."
They climbed back over the paddock fence, Macurdy first, to round up their men. As Wollerda watched him go, he flexed his right hand, then felt it tentatively with his left, and wondered if Macurdy had any idea how strong he was.
When they were ready to leave, Macurdy asked another question. "Kithro told me the Kullvordi had shamans in the old days. Is that right?"
"Yes, they had shamans. Why do you ask?"
"After I got back from the Tuliptree, my guide told folks what happened there—what he knew of it. And of course, they already knew I start fires with magic, and that my teeth are growing back. Now they talk about me as a shaman/warrior."
"I'm not surprised. What are you getting at?"
"You don't happen to have a shaman in your ancestry, do you?"
The question introverted Wollerda for a moment. "My great grandfather was the last chief of the eastern Kullvordi," he answered, "and his mother was the daughter of the greatest shaman they'd ever had. But the blood was lost by the time I came along, or thinned beyond all virtue." He cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
Macurdy shrugged. "Till Varia worked with me," he said, "I didn't know I had the talent. And even a little helps."
Wollerda grunted. "You'll have to be shaman enough for both of us," he said. "I've never shown the slightest talent."
Then grinning, he put out his hand. They shook and parted, Wollerda thinking he should say something to Macurdy about his handshakes. The man would injure someone, someday.
On his ride back to camp, the afternoon felt more like mid-October than early September, lacking only haze and the smell of autumn leaves. As he rode, Macurdy mulled over things he hadn't adequately considered before. Most particularly Sarkia's policy of marrying kings to Sisters. With any luck at all, Wollerda would replace Gurtho, and Wollerda was eligible, a widower.
Varia had said it was difficult to spell most people against their will, if they suspected what you were up to. It was also difficult, she'd said, to get someone to do something strongly against their principles, even when they'd been spelled.
It seemed to him that Pavo Wollerda was not someone who'd be spelled easily, but if he married a Sister, could Sarkia manipulate him through her?
Varia had said that the person with significant talent was hard to spell without willing cooperation; if their talent had been trained, it was pretty much impossible. He'd asked her then why she'd been able to spell him, that first night. Her reply was, she hadn't. His will, his self determination, had been unimpaired. She'd gone to him leaving her body behind, and even though he'd been untrained, his talent had helped him see her spirit, or actually the image it projected. And because he knew her so well, instead of being frightened, and rejecting her, he'd accepted. Later, when she'd spelled him to help his training—spells not so different from hypnosis—she'd had his cooperation.
So. Say Wollerda married Liiset. Beautiful intelligent Liiset, who could no doubt turn on the sex appeal. Turn it on and back it up. How much could she influence Wollerda to do things against his own interest, and that of the Kullvordi or Tekalos?
A man was always being influenced by people around him: wife, friends—enemies as far as that was concerned. The real question was, if Wollerda married Liiset or some other Sister, would she be able to spell him? Wollerda's aura said he had significant talent, but it was untrained. And like himself at first, resisted it.
He decided that when he got back to his tent, he'd take a quill, inkwell, and paper, and reconstruct, as best as he could, what Varia and Arbel had done to free and train his talent. Maybe he could free up Wollerda's, maybe even to the point of seeing auras clearly and consciously.