"Lord Ferris, the merchant has arrived!" the soldier announced. A second figure stood in the doorway behind him, a large man in a gold embroidered cape, a velvet coat and mullen cap.
The demon Tyrr made the body construct's head nod, made Ferris' voice say, "Let him enter, then leave us." The guard bowed, opened the door, then disappeared. The merchant Kaafk closed the heavy chamber door behind him.
"You will be pleased, my lord," Kaafk said demurely.
Tyrr went to one of the thick wooden chairs positioned about the single large table that dominated the room. A gold accented jug, filled with wine from the ports of Neleva, graced the table's center, accompanied by a pair of finely carved flagons. Wine was an economical device Tyrr had found handy when dealing with men. A bowl of sweet cakes rested there as well, quite useful in dealing with Kaafk in particular. "Sit," Tyrr said, "and specify."
"Grear and his men were successful." Kaafk smiled broadly, as if telling a joke. "I met them as we arranged, near Bail, and completed payment. They were able to provide me with these."
Kaafk pulled a large leather drawstring travel pouch out from under his cape and opened it, then produced a bloodied fur and leather coat and a large gold medallion, all the Princess Madia's. "They buried the bodies, as I instructed."
"You know this?"
Kaafk paused, stuffing the coat back in the bag. He looked up, smiling again, his very fat face growing even wider. "I have found Grear to be a man who does what he says, or I would not deal with him. And on my trip home, I went by the site where they found her. The ground is stained, but that is all.
"When I met with them they still wore their Bouren surcoats and armor. I told them to put the clothes away, but to keep them about, for times to come. One never knows."
Kaafk paused again, tossed the bag on the table, then he sat down and tossed the medallion as well; it bounced twice before it came to rest near the table's center. "They took payment and departed without incident, and they've agreed to remain in the region, and at our service as we require. I told them we might also pay well for any useful information they come by." He filled a cup with wine and sipped it several times. As the drink settled, Kaafk's face went slack, then rebounded, another full grin, ears riding up above tight cheeks. "Grear and his men are a pleasure to deal with. As their reputation suggests."
A focused man, Tyrr thought, if rather pompous—a combination that made him both useful and annoying at the same time. This was a man unfettered by common regard, bound only to himself and his greed and, of course, to Tyrr. He watched the mood of the wine begin to spread over Kaafk's chunky features.
"I visited Kopeth as planned," Kaafk said, setting the empty flagon down. "I spent two days meeting with my messengers, who have been in Lencia. There is unrest, they say, even fear, though it is hard to tell what shape these things will take. They could not get anyone near King Ivran to talk, even for a sizable offer, though most may simply not have known very much." He leaned back, taking in a deep breath, expanding his great torso. His eyes sparkled.
Tyrr disliked the human affinity for making conversation a game, a petty, often wasteful practice, but it was just these sorts of weaknesses that, when kept in mind, made mankind so pliable. He took the bait: "Yes?"
"However!" Kaafk went on, tipping his head boyishly to one side. "I did personally manage to spend those nights with a most enjoyably unprincipled young girl who claimed she was somehow related to a Bouren lord, and who had recently been to Lord Ivran's castle. She told me Ivran's eldest son Jaran is calling in homages and training troops, though outwardly, neither Ivran nor any of the other northern kings seem to have any genuine plans to make war—perhaps only to guard against it. Which agrees with what my messengers said. The mood seems to be one of confusion."
"Confusion allows for manipulation," Tyrr said. And on any level I desire. Once King Andarys was dead, the vassals north of Ariman might let go of their loyalties to the old kings and give consideration to the new. In time they might serve Lord Ferris of their own accord. Though it was also possible, Tyrr believed, that they would raise objections, and might conceivably unite and turn against him. Tyrr did not intend to allow that progression. By one means or another, sovereignty would at least be maintained—at least. The four northern fiefs were too valuable to leave to their own lords for long in any case.
Forethought, Tyrr reminded himself. Careful planning and execution. Flexibility, and above all, control! These were the keys that would unlock the future and free him from the failures of the past—his own, and those of all the others. He must resist indulging in the hedonistic, reckless overconfidence that seemed to come so naturally to his kind. Forethought, flexibility, control!
Kaafk was nodding. "Manipulation is a fine thing, my friend," he said, chuckling now, an action Tyrr had not yet mastered, but one he was working on. "It allows us to do what we like." He leaned forward again, refilling his flagon. "I will admit, I feared the great kings of the north at first. The fool Andarys has let the fiefs have their way in recent years. I thought they would react to minimal pressure, and they have not. Your confidence amazed me at first, yet it is borne out! And my profits have already begun to soar. You are not the fool I took you for!" He laughed heartily now.
Tyrr felt a surging urge to recite an ancient chant adding poisons to the wine, so that he could watch this bloated impudent braggart twist in final agony. Control, he reminded himself again, forethought! How easily these things could be forgotten. He fought the impulse.
Tyrr had arranged for Kaafk to avoid paying most of the tolls imposed by the many vassals of Ariman and by the king's highway guards. Half of that windfall, of course, went directly to Tyrr—or rather, Tyrr thought, to the private treasury of Grand Chamberlain Ferris. The rest went to Kaafk, who was usurping trade territories and merchandise at an amazing rate. Which would likely be maintained, once King Andarys was removed and the existing tolls on regular trade and travel were raised, and once new ones were imposed, the situation would improve all the more.
"We have no room for fools," Tyrr remarked. "I foresee the prospect of many troubles, but by the time most of them arrive, great wealth and control will be mine. I plan to build armies to rival those of Hual Andarys. In the meantime, any trader who is not with us or cannot bear the expense will leave an opening which I expect you can easily fill."
Kaafk was still grinning, his servile mind easily following Tyrr's. "It will be my pleasure, my lord."
"Pleasure is something you think a great deal about, isn't it?"
"As anyone who can afford it will."
"I see." Tyrr waited while Kaafk again poured more wine. He would finish the wine jug and would be worthless for several hours after that, as was usual with men, especially Kaafk. No matter, their discussion was nearly through.
"So, what of old Kelren Andarys?" Kaafk asked then. "Why have I heard no new news? You speak of his death, and yet there is no death. What would you—"
The body shook. "Enough!" Tyrr sought control yet again. Kaafk looked up, then seemed to shrug Tyrr off. The tone of Kaafk's voice had soured notably, something that could well be considered disrespectful, foolishly self-important, quite stupid. Something Tyrr or any of his brethren would have killed a man for once. But this was a new Tyrr, a wiser being, splendid, evolved! Tyrr stopped shaking and slowly absorbed the comment. "Kelren Andarys will soon be gone," he explained.
"You said he'd be gone by now, long dead, yet he lives."
"He is gravely ill," Tyrr said, still holding back.
"Still, he lives," Kaafk repeated.
Tyrr felt the pull grow more unyielding. The topic was a frustrating one, and he required no criticism regarding it. But even a splendid Tyrr couldn't do business with dead men. And Kaafk, after all, was right about Kelren.
"Something keeps the king alive," Tyrr made the voice say. "I have tried many spells. If you have seen the king lately, you know of their effects. He is nearly gone; he simply has not died yet. He will."
"What else do you plan to do?" Kaafk asked, chewing sweet cakes now, obviously enjoying them.
Tyrr hated this minor interrogation enough to feel an enormous, fully renewed, urge to annihilate the merchant. Yet again he thought better of it, insisted on it, and noted that the task was getting somewhat easier with practice. I must stick to my plan, he repeated in his mind, to that which sets me apart from the many that have gone before me—from Tybree! "That," he stated, "is my concern."
Kaafk shrugged, downed another sweet cake, then swilled his wine a third time and set the flagon on the table. He sat there a moment, cheeks slightly rosied, immense calm in his eyes as his mind apparently wheeled in random directions.
The man was both a tool and a weapon, a poisonous thing in his own right, Tyrr thought, yet yielding when the need arose. Not that pliable men or women were in short supply—quite the contrary—but it was Kaafk's peculiar effectiveness that made him such an asset.
Abruptly Kaafk seemed to snap out of his trance. He took a deep breath and hoisted himself out of the chair. "Well," he said, letting his lungs deflate with a low sigh, "I'll just be on my way. Finest wine I've had in ages," he added. "Am I bringing that into Kamrit?"
"I have another source, but you may have the business if you wish."
"Certainly. What do I have to do?"
"Nothing. I will arrange for the current merchant to be charged and executed."
"I see," Kaafk said, eyes going wide, then normal again. He looked away, staring at the walls for a moment, at nothing. "What would the present merchant be charged with?" he asked.
"What does it matter?"
Kaafk stared at another piece of the wall, then looked up and shrugged. "Very well." He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back. "My lord," he said, "do you mind if I take that gold trinket with me?" He came back and picked the medallion up, looking it over. "It'll bring a fair price in certain markets!"
Tyrr, whole and perfect sovereign of the dark eternal realm, made the construct's lips smile, made the voice say, "Come to me again in a week's time, and of course," he added, nodding at the medallion in Kaafk's hand, "what's mine is yours." And what's yours is mine.
Tyrr waited until evening, then made his way to the king's chambers and hovered there beside Kelren's bed, watching the ailing ruler sleep. His plan was still a good one, and Tyrr was reluctant to consider the possibility that something was going wrong so early on. The sickness should have taken Andarys by now, or at the very least, lack of food and water, which Tyrr had managed to keep to nearly nothing, should have done the trick—yet somehow the man held on.
Still, there was time, Tyrr reminded himself again. And with time could come new thoughts, new events, new spells, untold surprises and fortunes. With time he would prevail! Tybree had been wrong!
Tyrr had been right!
How many were there like Tybree? Doomsayers, cowards, fools who hid in the endless darkness even now, insisting that this world was not a thing that demons could ever again possess, not since they had been driven from it. The pain of that time was still burned into their consciousness, as were the many failures since then. But they were old, much too old to think clearly of such things. Memory had made of the past and those who inhabited it something larger than the truth. And Tybree was older than most. But Tyrr was young!
The old could not change, could not easily learn from the past and adapt to the present, or toward the future. In this world, the ancient wizards who had beaten his kind were long gone to dust by now, and their descendants gone again, and their descendants. The knowledge did not exist anymore, Tyrr was certain of it, just as the ability to return to the world of man barely existed anymore in the realm of the demons—or those who would dare to try.
But none like Tyrr had been born in many ages. Since the time of his early youth, Tyrr had known this, had seen those around him give up altogether, or try only to give in to their natural desires—nearly absolute power making fools of them absolutely—time and again. Tyrr, meanwhile, had perceived the value of restraint, the concept of acquired assets such as allies, like Kaafk, distasteful though the idea continued to be.
Among those few demons who had grown powerful enough to attempt entry into the human world since the banishment, none had been wise enough to see the value of such a plan. And none had learned to hide themselves so well. Deceit was such a wonderful and simple thing with humans, usually a trifle compared with the constant efforts required to retain the human construct Tyrr had built around himself. Yet this, especially, had been worth the effort. Something Tyrr had planned for, having seen the value of such extremes.
Since arriving in this world, nothing had arisen, not one detail, which he had not been prepared for in some way—except King Andarys' most unreasonable refusal to die.
Tyrr tried once again to add to the death spells, speaking yet another phrasing, this one slightly different than the rest. The old king moaned in his sleep and rolled slightly to one side, then the other. His face grew tight from the pain within his body, but in a moment the torment faded from his features, and peace returned to his slumber. So Tyrr tried a quick, angry spell, one that would have caused any ordinary mortal to burst instantly into raging flames. There was no effect, other than a slight warming of the king's skin as Tyrr reached out to touch it.
But just then a thought came to mind! Of course! he thought. What an idea! His plan was, thankfully, adaptable. Minor changes could be made. He would need more humans, he decided, to aid him. . . .
Deceit could also be all the more wonderful when it began to breed of its own volition!
Tyrr basked in his sudden revelation, his adroitness at turning failure around, or at least limiting its effects. Who among the rogues of darkness could compare with me? Who among them might dream of such solutions?
None, Tyrr concluded. He was utterly unequalled, immune to the foolishness and weakness that plagued those who had gone before him, and those who remained behind.
Tybree was wrong. All of them were wrong!
Turning away, forcing any trace of trepidation from his mind, Tyrr made the body leave the room, but only for now.