“What’s your name and business, then?” asked one; a farmer, by the weathered look of his hands and face.
“My name is Wallace Courtney,” Hobb replied, “and I have an appointment at the house of General Sir Thomas Howe.” He knew better than to ply these people with the truth; the Snugg mercenaries scattered about the countryside and in small posts on the roads had given him frights all day. He’d come up with the Courtney alias hurriedly when he was briefly stopped by one such squad. To his great relief, they hadn’t recognized him in his reduced circumstances.
“Better clean yourself up,” drawled the farmer, patting down Hobb and finding nothing; Hobb had nothing to find. “Sir Thomas don’t live here, but he rents a house. I hear his butler is a hard man. Won’t take kindly to all that muck and filth on ya.”
Hobb, passing through the gate, pondered just how he would get in to see Sir Thomas. He had no money on his person, and his diplomatic credentials had been lost with the carriage. No doubt they’d already been picked over by filthy mercenaries. He resolved to make for the residence that Boris had rented for him. He wondered what had become of the strange man, and found, to his surprise, a twinge of regret that he wasn’t here to say something obscure with his roly-poly accent.
“Good afternoon, First Minister,” said a roly-poly accent beside him. “I see you have arrived on time.”
Hobb’s head jerked to the right so quickly he tore open the clotted wound on his neck, and slapped a hand over the dirty bandage in pain.
It was Boris.
“How in the Eternal Pit are you standing there?” Hobb demanded, so flustered that he dusted off a religious obscenity for which he usually reserved his deepest intellectual contempt.
“It is a consequence of having legs,” answered the bald, pasty-faced clerk. “But if you mean, ‘How did you come to be in Roosterfoot,’ then I shall tell you after I get you to the residence and cleaned up. I think you probably want a bath and a bit of hot dinner more than you want my story.”
“I do want all of those things,” agreed Hobb. “And I am glad to see you, Boris. I want to hear all about what happened to you last night. But first take me to the residence. Did any of my clothes survive?”
Boris nodded. “And the rest of the carriage. Some men are working on restoring it now.”
Three irregularly-clad mercenaries walked past, glancing at them. One of the warriors squinted in faint recognition; Hobb quickly turned his head away. The man had a badge on his shoulder with the white ‘S’ of the Snuggs.
“Let’s move quickly,” he said. “There are too many trade mercenaries here for my comfort. I have no desire to become a hostage.”
The rented house was a tall, peaked structure with a fenced yard around it, located in the north quarter of the town. The southern face had several large windows, paned in expensive glass, and the garden extended for perhaps a hundred feet beyond the door, though it was now gray with winter. Hobb immediately saw that it would receive superior sun during the cold, dim months. A small carriage house sat to one side, and within was the sorry remains of his conveyance. The six horses were stabled inside the carriage house. Laborers were busily stripping the damaged wood panels from the cab.
“Get another carriage,” Hobb said. “Exactly like this one; have it painted with the same livery.”
Boris looked mildly surprised. “This carriage just needs to have the panels replaced—”
“Keep that one,” interrupted Hobb. “I want two carriages. Pay for it to be done by tomorrow evening. Whenever I go somewhere in Roosterfoot, you’ll go out in the other carriage at the same time, dressed up as me. And send word to General Sir Logwall; I’ll need a double squad of fresh bodyguards, and some plainclothes men from the Security Bureau.”
He turned to face his assistant. Boris’s pale face was unreadable, and his pink eyes seemed almost to glow in the pale light of the growing dusk.
“But before you do that, my good man, I want you to tell me the story of how you came to be in Roosterfoot ahead of me.
“It was just good luck, First Minister,” replied Boris.
???
After you turned aside, I was certain the pursuers would have us. I burned your papers inside the carriage as you instructed, of course. As it grew dark, the carriage team began to slow, and the mercenaries drew close. We began to hear the howling of dogs off in the distance, and the night grew very dark. We pulled into a farming hamlet just off the road, hoping to make a stand of it. There were seven Guardsmen left then, including the captain. The village was just a few houses around a common trading square. The captain sent one rider ahead to find his way to Swallow Hall with the news, then pulled the carriage up in front of one of the houses. It had two stories, and was tidy and well kept.
There was no time for preparations; the mercenaries were right behind us. We all piled into the house as quickly as we could and sent the farmer and his family down to the basement. The Snugg people surrounded the home, and there was a good deal of shouting and threats back and forth. They demanded that you come out, which was a relief. They didn’t realize you’d gone off.
The Guardsman made the best they could of it, First Minister. They called out that there was a family inside, and at first the mercenaries held off attacking on that account. But then the family slipped out through a little passage in the basement. After that, the mercenaries set about raking the house with shot from their guns. The balls passed right through the walls and out the other side. After the captain and another man went down, the rest of us huddled on the floor and covered our heads. They shot so many times that the house began to sway and shake. The timbers that held it up had been damaged by all the lead balls.
But those long guns they have aren’t perfect. I heard some terrific bangs from outside, and some screams. I found out later that six of the guns had gotten blocked in the barrels, and the powder had exploded backward into the operators’ faces. It was an ugly business, but curious; all the misfires happened at nearly the same time. The first piece of luck for us!
They stopped shooting while they were looking after their injured, and the four Guardsmen and I resolved to use that moment to slip away. We went down to the basement and found the little stair and hatch that the farmer had used to escape, and we ran out that way. There were a pair of mercenaries guarding it, but we took them by surprise and the Guardsmen slew them both. Others nearby shot at us again, and one of our men fell. The three that were left, and I, ran out into the fields behind the village.
The moon was nearly full, and the fields had been harvested. There was very little cover for us to hide in, and the soil at our feet was hard with frost. We kept close to the ground, and ran hunched over. We heard the baying of dogs again, and it sounded like a pack, running wild. I have heard that there is some breed of wild dogs mixed with wolves in this country. Perhaps that is what we heard. We made our way out from the village and found a little ditch to hide in.
There were screams in the night, and none of the mercenaries found us. I think perhaps the wild dogs found them first. Another piece of luck!
We waited about an hour in the cold. Then the guardsmen held a consultation among themselves, and decide they’d sneak back and see if the carriage was still there. Two of them set off, leaving one man with me. We waited for a time, but they never returned. There were more screams from out in the darkness. They were long, and in terrible pain. It sent shivers down our backs.
Then the last guardsman and I set off through the fields, heading back toward the village to see what we could find. Along the way we stumbled in the dark, and found that it was pieces of men that we had slipped on. They had been torn apart.
When we returned to the village, the carriage was still there, and the team was still hitched. There was no sign of the Snugg men, and we thought perhaps our luck would see us through. But as we came close to the carriage, the mercenaries came out of the farmer’s house, where they’d been hiding. There were eight of them left, and they had a fearful look about them. Still, they pointed their guns at us, and told us to come forward and lay down our weapons. We could see then that the chase was up. The man who was with me went first, holding out his spear and crossbow. I followed after him.
But then, First Minister, the most remarkable thing happened. The house had been so weakened by all the shooting that it was ready to fall over. At that moment, as the last of my Guardsmen walked forward, it finally gave out. The whole thing fell right over, crushing the mercenaries, and with them my last companion. The peak of the roof landed directly at my feet.
All was quiet then. I saw the farmer and his family standing across the street, and they were frightened. So I gave them some money from the chest in the wagon—thinking you wouldn’t mind too much, First Minister. I drove it out of town a ways, tended to the horses, and slept under the carriage. And this morning I got up and drove in here to your residence and got things ready, in case you came along. I’d just been making my way around the city gates to ask the guards to watch out for you, and what do I see—Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland, walking along the streets of Roosterfoot!
I think we’ve both been very lucky.
???
“That is an incredible story,” observed Hobb, “and yet I can think of no reason for you to make it up.”
“It is the truth,” replied Boris. “And what became of Citizens-Private Campton and Iorhen, who went with you? I did not see them at the gate.”
Hobb knew that his own story was even less credible than Boris’s. He looked hard at the surface of the small drawing room table, where a cup of tea sat half-drunk. Hobb wore a warm wool robe, slippers, and a stocking cap, and a hot fire burned in a fireplace nearby. The drink and comfortable warmth had settled his nerves enormously. But recalling Campton and Iorhen’s fate unsettled them again.
“They didn’t make it,” he said shortly. “Brave deaths on the battlefield. Heroes of the Republic. Send their families a pension.”
Boris gave not the slightest indication of surprise, and took a note on his writing tablet. Hobb, meanwhile, sneezed explosively.
“A message was delivered here before we arrived,” said Boris absently when Hobb had recovered his composure. “By pigeon, several days ago. I did not open it.” He handed over a tiny, rolled piece of paper with a miniature wax seal. Hobb carefully broke the seal and unrolled the message. It was in plaintext.
Hobb turned the message scroll over, and saw on the back additional writing, in a different hand.
Hobb crumpled the note and threw it in the fire.
“Go and see about that second carriage, Boris,” he snapped, his calm shattered. “I have an appointment outside the city tomorrow night.”
???
The dragon’s jaws snapped around the hapless bodyguard’s torso, lifting the man easily off the ground at the end of the long, snaking neck. The great serpent tilted his head back in the air, swallowing the red-clad Guardsman in a single gulp. It was like watching a very large hawk consume a very small, red mouse.
Hobb gaped up at the gruesome spectacle. The carriage team and the horses of the two Republican Guard, stoutly picketed nearby, nonetheless reared and whinnied in panic.
“Your beast ate my guards,” observed Hobb in irritation.
“Agreed,” replied the Herald, sitting comfortably in a large wooden chair just outside the gatehouse of the ruined church. The smooth, curved metal of his face reflected the gray of the late-autumn forest around them.
“And my driver,” Hobb added, looking at the bloody stumps of legs where the coachman had previously sat on the box of the carriage.
“It is a hazardous job, driving for men of consequence,” replied the masked diplomat. “As for your soldiers—you should know better than to bring lackeys wearing all red.”
“But have bodyguards,” complained Hobb, eyeing the pair of ten-foot tall Giant-Men, garbed in suits of plate metal from head to toe and bearing colossal two-handed swords. He tried to ignore the ravening dragon towering over him.
“Indeed,” agreed the man with the metal face. “And I also told you to come alone.”
Hobb sniffed. It was late afternoon, but the October sky was clear, and it was uncommonly warm for the season. He took off his scarf and overcoat.
“Very well then,” he said. “Since you previously permitted me to leave this place, and haven’t now ordered your dragon or your Giant-Men to eat me, I presume we can speak as one minister plenipotentiary to another.”
“You presume much, but some part correctly,” replied the Herald. “Come inside.”
He rose, picked up the chair, and walked into the old church. Inside, beneath the open sky, was a single table of oak and one additional chair. The rubble had been cleared away around the table, but the interior of the church was otherwise unrestored. Birds, nesting in the crevices of the ancient stone, fluttered and sang; grass grew freely from a layer of dirt on the ground above the floor; and a gentle breeze stirred through the open spaces where once had been windows. The late afternoon sunlight gave a pleasant warmth to the open space.
Hobb found the environment oddly dissonant, given the bloody murder that had been committed outside by a beast out of nightmares. But he seated himself at the table, and his host did the same.
The Herald’s powerful shoulders hunched forward as he leaned toward Hobb, and the wind rustled his long, blond hair.
“Next time,” he said calmly, “come alone. I take no particular joy in death, but our words are for you only.” His voice was deep, and as clear as if he had lips to speak; there was no muffling caused by the sheet of metal that was his face. Hobb stared at his own reflection in the curved surface, and shivered.
“Your Uellish is impeccable,” offered Hobb. “By your accent, you came from the Haalsterne. When you first spoke to me, two nights ago, I confess was afraid you were going to refer to yourself in the plural or the third person throughout our acquaintance. But you’ve settled into a more sensible idiom.”
The Herald spread his hands apart in a gesture of conciliation. “It serves me to speak with you in a way that you find palatable,” he answered.
“And what are we speaking about?” asked Hobb. “Here are two diplomats sitting at the table of diplomacy; what do you want, then, and what do you have to offer?”
The Herald regarded him slowly—or so Hobb imagined, as his body remained motionless. At last he spoke.
“My people require a certain metal that can be found in the northern reaches of land that your Kingdom claims as its own,” said the voice. “The only readily accessible deposits are in a valley along the east branch of the river you call Green. I want you to grant my people passage, and exclusive access to the resources of that valley.”
Hobb leaned back in his chair and thought furiously. The valley… it must be the same one. The valley where the King’s Heavy Arms were humiliated by a band of starving traders armed with hand-made long guns and artillery. The valley that Rufus Snugg had gambled his life to defend, and where he now had set up his own mining colony, shipping steel ingots throughout the Neighbor Kingdoms… except to the Republic.
It was not, at the moment, Hobb’s valley to give.
“A concession of mineral rights,” he said slowly, “is a serious matter. What you propose would subtract from the sovereignty of the Nation, and give up a source of wealth for all her People. I know nothing of you or your state—notwithstanding your claim of divinity when we first met. Since you speak our language as a native, I presume you have acquainted yourself with our history. You must know that mysticism of any stripe has long been held with deep suspicion here; the practice of any religion is, in fact, now banned in the Republic.”
The Herald nodded. “And yet in the north, of which you have lost control to a rebel, the houses of the Ecclesia are full of the faithful, and her priests practice openly.”
Hobb looked up sharply.
“I am, as you suggest, acquainted with your history—both ancient and recent,” said the Herald. Hobb imagined he would have given an oily smile, if he had lips.
“Why should I treat with you?” asked Hobb bluntly. “You have access to powerful servants, and you’ve used them to murder my own people quite casually. You want something substantial, and have offered nothing in return. I am not inspired, Herald, to cooperate with you, God or otherwise.”
“We will take what we need, with or without your cooperation,” said the Herald. There was no threat in his voice; his tone was of a man stating an indisputable fact. “But there is an opportunity here, Hobb the Wise, if you choose it. If you join with me, I will give you the means to end both the division of your country and the threats from its enemies. My servants are strong and numerous, and as our ally you will share in our strength. I will help you spread your vison of the equality of all men throughout every land.” He paused for a moment, then spoke again.
“I will help you make the world as it should be.”
Hobb stared at the Herald sharply.
“I’ve heard that offer before,” he said. “It was spoken from the lips of a dead man.”
The Herald leaned forward. For the first time, he seemed uncommonly interested in what Hobb had to say.
“Where did you hear this?” the faceless man asked.
Hobb considered whether it served him to respond, and concluded that answers might be more valuable than secrecy.
“There is a fortress near our royal city,” said Hobb quietly. His mind recoiled from the memory of his journey in the dark, but he forced it back. “Beneath it, I found a tunnel, and a great pit, with no bottom that I could see. One of my party fell into the pit, but then returned to me impaled through the head on a cable, and spoke the words that you spoke just now. He told me to seek out a place called Ghorpol Ossa. Do you know where that place is?”
The Herald remained hunched forward, and was silent for a moment, as if considering; or perhaps communing.
“You have already entered Ghorpol Ossa,” he said finally. “It is beneath this ruin.”
The two men sat facing each other silently, considering.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“It seems we have more to discuss,” said the Herald finally, “than mineral rights.”
???
As he drove his own carriage on the farm track leading back to Roosterfoot, Hobb pondered his meeting with the Herald. It had not been lengthy.
“You will permit me and my servants to enter the complex beneath Hoel,” the metal-faced diplomat had demanded, “and to remove what we find there. It is holy and precious to the priests of the Right Way, and must be returned to the Temple in our home.”
Hobb had demurred, of course; it was the only sensible opening position. He had excused himself swiftly, gambling that this Herald was a creature of reason and would not order him summarily consumed by the frightful serpent. As he departed, he did not see the creature, but trees in the forest moved where there was no wind, and he could feel the fear of its presence. The giant bodyguards said nothing to Hobb as he departed, but watched him coolly with blue eyes from beneath the massive steel of their helms. He felt like a mouse under the gaze of a hawk.
And now Hobb drove alone back to Roosterfoot, pondering his choices.
“We have too many enemies,” he said to Boris when he returned. A fresh squad of Republican Guard were posted at key points around the residence, but Boris was the only person he could really talk to.
“We have too many enemies,” he repeated to his companion, “and together they are too powerful.” Boris was busily cleaning the sitting room. He had a habit of adjusting the position of the furnishings in a very minute and specific fashion—a hobby of which Hobb thoroughly approved.
“Then you shall have to eliminate some,” replied Boris, “or else get some more friends.”
“Hmmm,” mused Hobb. “More friends. Fewer enemies.”
After a moment of thought, he continued. “Have my new guard officer post Bureau men at all the gates,” he instructed. “I want to know within thirty minutes when Merrily Hunter enters the city. And find out where she’s staying. There are only so many inns in Roosterfoot in which Anne would house her envoy.”
Boris nodded, moving one of the chairs backward about six inches and setting it carefully in place.
A Guardsmen poked his head in the drawing room. “General Sir Thomas Howe to see you, First Minister,” he announced.
“Good!” said Hobb broadly. “Show him in.”
Sir Thomas Howe was dressed, somewhat uncomfortably it appeared, in a sober gray suit, and a dark green cravat tied inexpertly. But his thick, dark hair was carefully brushed, and his face was freshly shaved. He gave a curt nod to Hobb, and then seated himself at Hobb’s invitation. In doing so, he pulled the chair carefully forward from where Boris had placed it.
“You’ve made the transition well from officer to grandee,” observed Hobb.
Sir Thomas scowled slightly, but remembered his manners. “Thank you kindly, First Minister,” he said. “The drawing room is not the ground I prefer to fight on, but one can’t always pick the battlefield.”
While they waited for tea to arrive, Hobb plied the knight-general with polite questions about his farm and family. Lily Howe, it seemed, was with child again; Sir Thomas ruefully confessed that he was hoping for a boy, being entirely outnumbered by women at present. The harvest was good, and he had bought a new plot to plant wine grapes. Hobb found the details of the man’s life tedious, but even tedious details could be useful. At least he had the good taste not to be religious.
Then Boris brought in the tea, and Sir Thomas appeared to suppress a faint shudder. Hobb smiled slightly; he found Boris’s disquieting effect on those who didn’t know him rather amusing.
“Now then, Knight-General,” he said as they sipped their tea. “Tell me the count of votes.”
“The Moot is an ancient institution,” said Sir Thomas, “but it has rarely met without a writ from the King. The procedure is clear enough: it needed three of the old Barons to send out summons to the eligible landowners. That happened in late September. Forty-six delegates have now been accredited. The King has my vote, and I know of fifteen whose loyalty cannot be doubted. The remainder are splintered and disunited, but a faction is emerging that favors the Queen on the grounds that she is likely to be a weak monarch, and therefore to interfere the least with their own lands and rights.”
“Sixteen is not a majority of forty-six,” remarked Hobb.
“I cannot fault your math, First Minister,” agreed Sir Thomas.
“We shall have to discuss matters with the holdouts,” said Hobb. “Arrange the meetings, Sir Thomas. I am sure there are accommodations we can reach that will reassure them. Is there a vote scheduled?”
Sir Thomas shook his head. “Not yet. They’re debating, both in the Moothall and in private. They will, though. Few of the delegates live in Roosterfoot, and they’ll want to return to their homes before the snows grow too deep.”
Hobb nodded in agreement. “I share their enthusiasm. Thank you for your assistance, Sir Thomas. I know the King is grateful for your loyalty,” he added pointedly.
The knight-general rose to his feet and started for the door.
“I’ve heard that Merrily Hunter is due in as the Queen’s representative,” the knight-general said, pausing to turn back slightly. He looked at Hobb through the corner of one eye.
“I’d heard that as well,” said Hobb, giving the man no hints with his face. “She is a capable young woman, and one that I would like to convert to our side.”
“I shouldn’t underestimate Mrs. Hunter, First Minister,” said Sir Thomas. “Her songs have been played and heard throughout the Kingdom thanks to her friend Snort, and she is well liked. She may be persuasive. A hung Moot would be a victory for Anne, and would encourage further dissent in the capital.”
He paused, and Hobb was silent.
“It would be a great shame,” continued Sir Thomas, “if the army were forced to intervene in Uellodon—to protect the King, of course.”
And with that he left the room.
???
Hobb made himself busy for the next three days, buzzing from delegate to delegate. To Warren Grufflimb of Towley he offered a concession of lands along the Tharma, and was promised a vote. Dannel Croowglyn of Lower Goodsheeplove had a son in Hoel; for his release, and a small pension, Mr. Croowglyn’s vote was secured. Mr. Timtum of Deacon-Spit wanted assurances that his lands and tenants would be immune from additional taxation; Hobb settled with him on an exclusion from conscription for his family and tenants, and a two-year tax holiday.
Fanny Asquith, heiress to a large estate this side of the Haalsterne, proved too vapid to be susceptible to bribery, talking endlessly about her suitors and dresses until Hobb left in wretched disgust. And Egga Heweston—a substantial shareholder in the Leadfeather trading concern—listened politely while Hobb tried to tease out what her vote would cost, but she said nothing he could use.
And so it went, until on the second of November he finally received word that Mrs. Hunter had entered the city.
Hobb waited in the comfortable warmth of the Moothall until a Bureau man delivered news that Mrs. Hunter was on her way to present her credentials. Then he donned his overcoat and hat and went outside to meet her. It was snowing while he waited, seated on a hard stone bench outside the hall. He watched the snow falling, and thought of the old church in the forest with snow coming down. He hoped the Herald was cold and wet.
A battered carriage pulled up, and a young woman stepped out. She was slim, but her shoulders were broad. Her brown hair was loose, and her emerald green eyes widened in surprise as she recognized him. He felt a surge of relief and excitement, but didn’t quite know why.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,” said Hobb the Wise, offering his arm and gesturing toward the open doors. “Welcome to Roosterfoot, and to the Moot.”
???
After introducing Mrs. Hunter to the Speaker of the Moot, and ensuring that her credentials were accepted, Hobb extracted from his adversary a promise to speak with him at his residence the following day.
Hunter met him on the third of November in his private study at the residence. She wore a deceptively sober, conservative dress of dark silk; but it was accentuated with fine lace, and she wore a beautiful necklace of interwoven silver and gold. The glint of the silver under the oil lamps in his study reminded him of the gleaming metal face of the Herald. He shivered.
The talk turned to where it inevitably must.
“The Republic, Mrs. Hunter,” said Hobb sincerely, “is government formed of the People, by the People, and for the People. Why should Anne be so opposed to this?”
But in his inner thoughts, he said: I need friends. And I would rather have Anne than the Herald, and whatever… power… he serves.
Mrs. Hunter, who was a principled woman, was making a point of principle as Hobb thought this.
“When we first met in Uellodon,” she said, “I asked you what you meant by the ‘people.’ You told me then that it was everybody—a community, you called it. But an evil action is still evil whether it’s done by one person or by many. A good action is still good if it’s done by only one person and everyone else tries to stop it.”
Hobb did his best to smile, but inside something shifted uncomfortably. He probed her on how her principle might apply in her own home, and then, seeing with empathy her own discomfort, shifted his approach.
“But enough high theory, Mrs. Hunter,” said Hobb smoothly. “The world doesn’t turn on theory; it turns according to its nature. Just so with men. The landowners of the Roosterfoot Moot don’t want civil war. It’s bad for their businesses and farms and fortunes. They will pick the side that they think is going to win, and Queen Anne is not going to win. The Republic has the King’s Heavy Arms, the Republican Guard, the treasury, and the National Assembly. King Leeland himself is a continuity with the past that so many people revere, and the Crown Prince represents the future. They are all with us. What do you have? A pretty girl in a fancy suit of armor. You must reach a settlement with us, and give the Moot the compromise they need.”
Mrs. Hunter rose to her feet. “The landowners will see that the Queen is right,” she stated with great confidence.
Hobb remained seated, and shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said without any visible concern. “Talk to them; they have accepted your diplomatic credentials already, and will at least meet with you. Decide for yourself. There are factions, of course, and interests. I assume you’ve been briefed. Thomas Howe seems to have the ears of those who are for the King. If you think you can persuade someone, start with him.”
Just then Boris came in with the tea service—too late to save his negotiation with Mrs. Hunter, unfortunately. Boris bowed respectfully and stepped aside, just as Mrs. Hunter exhibited the inevitable disquiet in reaction to his secretary’s odd appearance. He thought again of the Herald, waiting in the old church, and of his steel-clad Giant-Men, and of his dragon. He cast dignity to the wind and pleaded with her.
“We should not be fighting, you and I,” he said. His voice rose in passion. “The enemies of Uelland are all around us. The Holy Empire has not given up on reconquering its lost colonies, not in eight centuries. The Svegnians, Carolese, Brassens, the predatory trade companies… our fighting helps all of them. They are the true enemies; not King Leeland, and not Anne. And the Ecclesia lurks behind all, working without rest to drag us back into slavery and madness. If you would come to Uellodon and see the Republic for yourself, I think you would change your mind. I mean you personally, Mrs. Hunter. Circumstances were ill there during your last… adventure. We were recovering from insurrection, invasion, and famine. Those problems have been solved. Come, as my guest, and see what we have built.”
She blinked, and was silent; it was almost as though some great inner debate paralyzed her motions. Her face was blank for many seconds, and then she blinked again.
“I shall consider it,” she said, and walked out.
???
“She’s watching you,” reported Knacker, the chief of his new Security Bureau detail. “She’s rented a room across the street. She comes in around dinner time, disguised as a laborer. We’ve got two men following her openly, and two more discreetly. She seems to be focused on the decoys.”
Hobb thought of the great serpent, gulping down his bodyguard. Then he imagined what would happen if Merrily Hunter followed him to his next meeting with the Herald.
“Send my coach out with Boris every other night,” he instructed. “Make sure it’s seen by Howe’s men at the north gate; he and Merrily seem to be friendly. Perhaps he’ll feed her the information, and if not she’ll figure it out herself. Don’t let me leave until she’s followed the other carriage. If she’s going to tail someone, let her tail Boris.” And let her not follow me into the mouth of a dragon, he added to himself.
The days passed, and Hobb conducted his diplomacy. A date was set for the vote: the ninth of November. Hobb and Sir Thomas counted the votes for the King every day, and their number grew as Hobb applied a delicate recipe of threats, bribes, and blackmail. Of the most influential voices, only Mrs. Heweston gave him no hint of her intentions.
As Hobb and Boris moved about the city together, his secretary exhibited the most curious behavior. He took great interest in his surroundings, and seemed to delight in interacting in strange ways with the people and things around him.
One day, he rescued a cat that was being chased by dogs. He scooped up the frightened animal and calmed it, kicking at its pursuers and depositing it onto a high ledge. Then he turned back to Hobb with an air of satisfaction, as if he had just completed a difficult job.
On another occasion, he casually knocked over a pie, cooling in a kitchen window facing the street, and caused it to fall face-down into the snow. A young boy came running out of an alley nearby, scooped up the fallen pie, and then disappeared just as quickly. Hobb gave his secretary a quizzical look and left a few copper pennies on the window, but thought nothing more of it.
As they walked back to the residence from a nearby shop, on the seventh of November, Boris quite deliberately unlatched the door of a home on the street, leaving it shut nearly-to, but open.
“What are you doing?” Hobb asked finally. “You have a bad habit of fiddling with things that don’t belong to you.”
Boris shrugged. “It’s the little events that make up the big events,” he replied cryptically. Hobb shook his head in bemusement, but gave up. If Boris was exceedingly strange, he was also exceedingly helpful as a secretary—and he had, after all, risked his own life to draw off pursuing mercenaries.
On the day before the vote, Hobb could finally put it off no longer. After the vote, he would have to set off for Uellodon, and Mrs. Hunter would either go with him or return to Green Bridge. He prepared the coaches, set some matters in order on paper, and made ready to return to the Herald.
“We shall leave at six o’clock,” he instructed Boris. The sky was already dark, and there was a light rain, turning to sleet. “Depart through the north gate, as usual, then return two hours later. I’ll leave shortly after you.”
Boris nodded amiably. “Everything is prepared,” he said.
At quarter past six, Hobb set out from the residence. He drove the coach himself, huddled miserably on the seat and wrapped up in layers of wool against the rain and sleet. There was a commotion in the streets as he drove. People were running madly through the snow, making in the direction of the north quarter of the city. An unusual number of them seemed to be lawyers, and he heard the frantic bellowing of cattle in the distance.
Hobb watched curiously, but gave it little more thought.
The snowy wood was deep and dark when he reached it, but Hobb knew the way. He followed a little track under the laden boughs, shivering in the cold and hunched down under his cloak and top hat. The dim lights of the oil lamps on his carriage showed only shadows in the barren trees around him, but the shadows seemed to drift on their own, and the fragments of outlines revealed some great bulk.
“Come and eat me, if you’re going to,” said Hobb dryly to the shadows. “It’s all bone and gristle, I’m afraid.”
And then he was at the church. The tall, muscular form of the Herald emerged out of the darkness within the ruin, carrying his own lantern. Hobb wondered idly where he’d gotten the instrument and the oil. The towering, bulky shapes of his Giant-Men loomed behind him. They showed no discomfort at all from the cold and sleet, and their suits of steel plate were as thick and brilliant as ever.
“Come inside,” said the blank, metallic face of the Herald. His long, flowing blond hair thoroughly covered his ears. Hobb wondered if the metal merged seamlessly into flesh, or whether the ears were metal as well. Skin could be seen, at least, on his hands and neck.
“Come inside,” he repeated as Hobb stiffly dismounted the carriage seat. “There is a fire in the ruin for warmth, and we will speak out of the rain. I know it is uncomfortable for you.”
Hobb followed the Herald through the broken ground floor, into the stone crypt beneath. True to the strange diplomat’s word, a fire roared cheerfully on the stone floor, consuming dry wood and projecting a most welcome light and heat. The oak table and chairs had been set up nearby. Hobb unwrapped his damp cloak and laid it out to dry by the fire.
“If you are going to conduct diplomacy with Uelland,” he said, “then you shall have to establish a proper embassy. The basement of a ruin is no place for us to discuss matters of state.”
“All in good time,” replied his host magnanimously. “I have arranged for meat, and wine. I believe you will find them satisfying.”
One of the Giant-Men, wearing a white robe, emerged from the shadows bearing a platter of roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. There was a carafe of the local dark ruby as well; not a particularly fine wine, but serviceable, and more than Hobb had expected. He ate out of politeness, and found the meal well-prepared. The Herald watched silently—or faced Hobb, at any rate, which gave the impression of watching. The white-robed giant-man withdrew.
“Do you eat?” asked Hobb.
“It is not necessary,” replied the man with the metal face. “My God sustains this body. But my servants must eat, and so we prepare food. Tonight you share in it.”
“When we first met,” said Hobb, “you said that
were God. But now you speak as though you were a separate being. You are inconsistent.”
The Herald shrugged. “With God all things are possible,” he said. “You find it more palatable to deal with a… limited… entity. I have permitted this Herald to resume elements of his individual character to better put you at your ease.”
Hobb looked at him shrewdly, setting down a fork of the roast beef. He looked at the tall, powerful frame; the long, blond hair; and the Giant-Men lurking in the shadows.
I know who you were, he thought. I do not know who you are now, but I know who you were once. And I know that I made you what you are now.
With that realization a cold, electric wash of fear ran through his body. The Herald’s metallic face showed no emotion, no hint of whether he might perceive Hobb’s insight. He simply sat, facing his guest as if he were watching.
Hobb said nothing more, but politely finished the roast beef. The white-robed giant-man returned and took away the plates, leaving the carafe of wine.
“Now then, First Minister,” said the thing that was once Richard Enderly. “We shall discuss your cooperation in granting us access to what lies beneath Hoel.”
???
Later, Hobb did not dare to write down any part of his negotiations with the Herald—or his perception of its former identity. The negotiations were, in any event, hardly a dialog between equals. The Herald’s pretense of civility was paper thin. Beneath it lay the threat of awful, direct violence against Hobb, and then against the King, the National Assembly, and the Republican Guard.
But he held out a carrot as well—with the promise that, should Hobb cooperate, the violent retribution that was threatened could be directed, not against the Republic, but instead against those whom Hobb selected instead.
In the end, he had little choice but to acquiesce.
He drove back to Roosterfoot in the deep night, enduring the cold, wet sleet and considering his choices. Boris had retired for the night when Hobb returned, but a coal-filled pan heated Hobb’s bed. He lay in the dark underneath the blankets and stared at the ceiling for hours before sleep finally stole over him.
At noon the following day, the delegates gathered at the Moothall. Rows of chairs had been set in the center of the chamber, facing in toward a raised platform with a podium on it. Raked seating filled up the rest of the room. The walls were decorated with rather moth-eaten tapestries in faded earth tones. It smelled of old wood and slightly musty cloth.
There was little ceremony, though the delegates were dressed in formal clothing for the occasion. The men wore dark suits with white, starched shirts and a variety of colorful cravats; their shoes were polished, and many wore top hats as they entered. The women wore gowns in dark, subdued colors. Many observers had gathered as well, and there was a buzz of hushed conversation in the broad hall.
Hobb’s eye caught Merrily Hunter trying to speak with Mrs. Heweston, and he drew up behind her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hunter,” he said. She turned, and her eyes widened to see him.
“Good morning, First Minister,” she replied politely. But something in her eyes spoke of some wretched, tearing battle within.
She is tempted, thought Hobb. She sees the rightness of democracy, and of the sovereignty of the People.
Another thought occurred, which he did not welcome, but which he forced himself to confront: I need her. I need her to come with me to Uellodon, and speak with her friend in the courthouse, and see the justice and good of the Republic. And I need to her to convince Anne to return. But most of all, I need an ally whose face isn’t made of metal.
“Today we will find out what the Moot thinks of its choices,” said Hobb urbanely. He smiled. “Let us be grateful that no one has thought to propose an alliance with the Ecclesia. I think we can both agree that would be worse than either republicanism or monarchy?”
Mrs. Hunter’s smile seemed forced, but it was a smile.
“I expect we will agree to that,” she said.
He drew her aside, and they spoke quietly. He urged her to come with him; he confronted her fears about her own limitations. He laid out the facts of the War, and of the benefits of the Republic. But she was not convinced.
“Why do you want me to come to Uellodon, First Minister?” she asked, suspicion growing in her face.
At that moment the speaker called the Moot to order, and the delegates filed to their seats. Hobb looked up at her, then motioned her outside with his head. They slipped out quietly, donning heavy coats against the rapidly falling snow. Hobb put on a top hat. Together they walked through the snowy streets of Roosterfoot, until they reached a small tea house near the Moothall. It was nearly empty; anyone who could afford a cup of tea was instead crammed in to watch the delegates and the vote.
Over tea, he again laid his case before her. He tried careful evasion, but it failed. He tried to tempt her curiosity. And finally, desperately, needing to tell someone, he spoke of Sir Richard, and of his exile, doomed to wander the northern wilderness in search of non-existent Giant-Men.
“This man has returned,” said Hobb, taking a sip of tea.
“He broke his exile?” asked Mrs. Hunter.
“No,” replied Hobb, shaking his head slightly. “I once threatened to have him executed if he returned without completing his impossible assignment. How hollow that threat was! No, Mrs. Hunter. He has come back, and he has brought with him a children’s story out of the wastes of the north. He has brought back Giant-Men.”
Mrs. Hunter stared at him. “Are you having a joke at my expense, First Minister? If so, I think we are both needed back at the Moothall.”
“No, no. Don’t go, Mrs. Hunter. They are real. I have seen them. And… other things. Things too mad to be true. But they are real. They are all real, and they are a terrible threat to all of us.”
“And you want me to come to Uellodon… to see these things?” she asked.
“No!” he said, raising his voice. Then he regained control of himself. “No. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to shout. I hope you will never see them. I want you to come to Uellodon because, Mrs. Hunter, we absolutely must make peace. We must stand together against these Giant-Men, and the… things… that they have with them. If you and I can bring Anne and Leeland together to work out their differences, we have a chance to confront them and drive them back. You have Anne’s ear; she trusts you. Come to Uellodon, speak with the King, and see that the Republic is not the evil you think it is. Then go back to Green Bridge and tell her to come and meet us on neutral ground.”
She stared at him for a long time.
“No,” she said.
He didn’t repeat it, or argue. He just stared at her, considering, and feeling fear creep over him.
“If you will not come for all the reasons I have just offered,” said Hobb quietly, “then perhaps you will consider another reason. Your friend, Mr. Snort; he has become involved in an unfortunate domestic situation. He and some other lawyers were involved in an incident at the High Court. Some of the judges resisted an order from the King, and lawyers and bailiffs got involved in it as well. There was an altercation, and an escalation, and—well, I’m afraid the High Court has become cut off from the rest of the city.”
“Cut off?” Mrs. Hunter demanded incredulously. “What do you mean? Did it drift out into the Green River?”
Hobb shook his head, smiling thinly. “No. Let me be blunt, Mrs. Hunter. The High Court is under siege. The Republican Guard permit no one in or out, but the attorneys and judges are heavily barricaded, and have supplies. I do not want it to end in violence, but we cannot permit this to continue. Your friend, Mr. Snort, is well respected by both the bench and the bar. If you would come to Uellodon, perhaps you could enter the courthouse and speak with him. You could persuade him and the judges to accept a deal, to come out in return for amnesty. Otherwise I fear there will be a great deal of blood before this is ended.”
She hesitated.
“I…” she began.
At that moment a man in a red cloak and a three-cornered hat burst into the tea house.
“First Minster!” he blurted. “They’re voting! Please come!”
???
By the time Hobb and Mrs. Hunter reached the Moothall, the vote was complete, and the speaker was reading the results. Hobb elbowed his way firmly through the crowd ahead of her, and they drew near to the rope barricade that separated the delegates from the onlookers.
“In favor of the motion: twenty-five,” the Speaker intoned. Murmurs began to grow in the crowd. “Opposed to the motion: twenty-one. The motion carries. This Moot will reconvene in the spring. Dismissed.”
“What was the motion?” Hobb asked the people around him. No one responded immediately. “What was the motion?” he asked again, turning from face to face. “What did they just vote on?”
Mrs. Heweston appeared before them, dressed in a black gown with a white frill. She nodded politely to both Mrs. Hunter and to Hobb.
“What was the motion Mrs. Heweston?” asked Mrs. Hunter.
“The motion,” she replied gravely, “calls on King Leeland and Queen Anne to negotiate their disagreements and create a new constitutional settlement for the whole Kingdom of Uelland. Until such time as the disagreement between them is resolved, Roosterfoot and the counties represented at this Moot will remain neutral between the parties.”
“Nothing?” said Hobb, raising his voice. “You’re doing… nothing?” He felt the fear grow into panic, and rage. They were emotions that rarely governed Hobb’s words, but they began to take over. He felt a red haze drift into his thoughts.
These fools, he thought, have consigned themselves to the swords of giants and the bellies of dragons.
He vaguely heard the women speaking, and tried to regain some measure of control over himself.
“The Moot has made a choice already, Delegate Heweston,” he said smoothly, “which, no matter how much reflection it conducts, will have consequences.” And he turned on his heel to stalk out of the chamber.
But Mrs. Hunter ran after him. She caught him in the swirling, flying snow outside the Moothall. He turned back when she called out to him. Surrounded by the whiteness of the snow, she had the appearance of a glowing angel.
“I will go with you,” she said. “I will go back to Uellodon.”