"You did well, child. Unfortunately, you were compromised."
"I already told you, Crowmaster, I’m not su—"
"Not sure isn’t good enough, child, I’m afraid," the woman said. Her hand became a blur in front of him, and small droplets of blood formed a line across his neck. The poor kid raised one hand to stop her and clutched at his throat with the other. His breath grew heavy for a second before he fell backward into the Ivaris.
"Thank you for your honesty, little Eye. I understand it mustn’t have been easy for you to tell me the truth, knowing what would happen," she whispered to the shadows behind her.
"Duty above all, Crowmaster." Another young boy’s voice sounded from the darkness as a hooded figure began to take shape under Lun’s light.
"Duty above all," she repeated, her sorrow masterfully hidden in the night. "With the orcs gone, we have little time before we start bickering among ourselves again. I have a mission for you. One of utmost importance. Let’s not discuss it here."
With most towns razed and ransacked, there were few places left to hide from public view. Their mission required them to stay close to where most surviving Dorians had gathered: the Ivaris Valley.
Refugees from all around Doriande had built temporary settlements and camps along the river. Where crops once stood, hungry peasants now searched for worms and critters to feed their families. Any clandestine work had to be conducted elsewhere. The local Murder had cleared out an old cave once used by bandits who raided the locals before the Invasion.
When they arrived, no one was waiting for them. The Crowmaster had made sure this mission would be as compartmentalized as possible. After using the powers of her amulet to establish that they could converse safely, she briefed the Eye.
"Listen very carefully, child, for this mission is one we cannot afford to fail. You will be inserted into a very important place: the Alliance’s Council. It will convene over the next few days. You will be disguised as a servant. You are expected to behave as one, for we need you to ensure that our plan is enforced. There will be others, but you won’t know of them, and they won’t know of you."
She watched him to see if that triggered any reaction. He didn’t move a muscle. "Our Beaks and Talons have their own instructions to follow. You will be there as my little Eye. You will make sure to inform me at every opportune moment of what you have heard and seen. We will meet again by nightfall."
The boy patiently waited for her to finish instructing him, without appearing anxious or confused. "You cannot be discovered. If you are, our organization cannot be compromised. Do you understand?"
"Only one thing eludes me, Crowmaster," he said in his boyish voice.
"What is that?" she asked, expecting some pretext for obtaining more information than she had given.
"How am I going to contact you?"
The builders had worked day and night to patch up Zvulehak Manor, which still stood two stories high above the ruined river settlement. Nobles, military and family leaders of Doriande had woken and were waiting to break their fast. The boy, along with the other servants, went around the great hall with trays full of rye bread, honey and butter, and jugs of milk.
"What a disgrace! For us to sit on our fat arses and feast on the goods our families are deprived of back in the north!" he overheard one of them say. Another tried to calm him down. "Pick your fights. These southlings are all about appearances. Stay focused on what our people really need. The aid to rebuild. The freedom to live and thrive."
A few steps away, the representatives of Skarm were speaking with the Lord of Grunstod Plaqh. He tried to eavesdrop on their conversation, but they stopped talking as soon as he approached with the tray.
"Thank you, boy. Now off you go," said one of them, dressed in her ceremonial farleyn and wearing an ornate hat. That must be the Lady Admiral, he thought. She will be one of the greatest obstacles, for sure.
He made a mental note and moved on to the next group. Waygate’s delegation was seated away from the rest of the northerners. This must be intentional. Fiorlas had relinquished most of its control over the northern forts, while the Waygatians fought for years to save what they could north of the forest. This gives them a strong argument for gaining power, or at least independence. Three of their seats were empty, a small honor to the Lord Commander, the priestess of Kherawyn and the Lady Mayor, all of whom had given their lives during the siege to ensure the evacuation of noncombatants.
Their delegation consisted of people elected by the surviving community, as well as military figures who had served under the Lord Commander and were now veterans, from whose ranks the next Commander would emerge. They solemnly declined everything but the bread, either in grief for the dead or in contempt of the offering.
Other servants were tending to the Palvigon Elvathi delegates. With them stood a few Pylmae and a couple of strange figures who didn’t quite fit the description of a druid or sage. The man wore a tunic and a tall hat, and held a staff ornamented with precious stones. It was quite a contrast to the druids’ knotted and burled staffs. The woman looked too young to be in this room without a tray in her hands. She wore a silken robe with gold details, a dragon embroidered on one side of her chest and a mountain on the other. Her hair was carefully braided into two long ponytails, and she held a big old book close to her, even though she hadn’t opened it once.
A few steps farther along, the Rolfgari had already laid out the food they had brought for the occasion on the large table and were urging the Fiorlaseans to taste it. The latter smiled sardonically at everyone, waiting for them to settle.
The Quartermaster clapped his hands twice. The Eye immediately retreated to the line of servants forming in front of the large table. They bowed in unison to the representatives and withdrew from the room to carry out other tasks.
He was assigned to garderobe duty. After three hours of scrubbing, it was time to return to serve midmorning refreshments. The Quartermaster gathered them once more, this time in the kitchen, where the cooks gave them carts full of food. Smoked meats, cheeses, fruit preserves and other small bites made the servants’ stomachs growl, for which they were harshly disciplined. They would eat after they had served the Lords and Ladies.
As they approached the main hall, a heated argument echoed from within.
"No! Skarm will never agree to these terms. We defeated the orcish navy and saved your asses from the famine their embargo would have caused!"
"Ye got your hides into yer ships and fled to the farragh, ye old hag. Ye didn’t give a pylfe qun for yer mae. And now yer here to ask for more than the North, when we lost our hakmae and strej."
The Quartermaster signaled the servants to stay back as he opened the heavy wooden doors. He caught the attention of the presiding Councilor from the Fiorlasean delegation. The Councilor struck the table with his hand to get everyone’s attention.
"Brothers and Sisters, we all lost people and homes. We all fought the good fight against the Army of Father War. We all chased our enemies away from our land, and now we must decide its future. Councilor Brem, not all of us speak the old language, but that doesn’t make us less Dorians. Were it so, we should remove the Pylmae and Rolfgari from this Council. And where would we be today without their bravery and sacrifice? Do you forget who fought alongside you in this very valley? Do you forget whom the Deur Zvule claimed?" He looked around the hall, locking eyes with many of the delegates. "Let’s pause the proceedings and have a snack to clear our minds. Then we shall return to the negotiations."
Many of the participants were still agitated by the earlier argument. The Lady Admiral had left the hall, to confer with her entourage of councilors and shipmasters, the boy assumed. Unfortunately, there was no way for him to follow her at the moment. Councilor Brem was surrounded by his folk, who were trying to calm him down, but a lieutenant from Waygate was sitting suspiciously close to them, pretending to snack on some cheese. The Eye tried to gather as much information as possible from the room. Who spoke with whom during the break, what was being discussed, who looked agitated and who remained calm. He caught himself trying to identify other agents within the crowd, but he couldn’t be certain of anyone.
After the break, they returned to the kitchen to have some stale bread and porridge. The other servants were grumbling about the snobby Lords and Ladies, but the head cook cut them short. "Are you stupid? If the Quartermaster hears you, you’re going to get thrown out, maybe even beaten for good measure. You can do as you wish when you go to your quarters. Until then, keep your trap shut."
Back at the latrine, time passed slowly. The Eye made sure no one could see him by hiding behind the thick curtain covering the window alcove, then pulled out the scroll the Crowmaster had given him. He took the small, concealed pen from his buckle and the vial of ink he had stowed in a pocket hidden between the seams of his shirt. He began writing a report of what had happened. As soon as a word was formed from the characters he inscribed on the scroll, it disappeared into nothingness. So, it really works, he thought to himself. He hadn’t really doubted his Crowmaster, but he had never seen anything like this before.
He rapidly put everything away as soon as he heard footsteps approaching. Before long, he heard the gravelly voice of Councilor Brem of Gawold, mumbling to himself or perhaps to someone very light-footed following him. The boy remained hidden, this being the best opportunity he had all day.
"Skarmite kerpyeri. All they want is to gain more than us. Autonomy! Ha! And why should the North pay allegiance to any southern ruler then? We are the ones who suffered the most. The only reason they helped build Waygate and the Forts was to save their arses. Why then shouldn’t it be the southerners who bend the knee to us?"
"Brem, you do not understand the situation, friend," a different voice sounded inside the garderobe. It sounded delicate, silken even. "This isn’t the time to demand more. We’ve lost everything back home. We cannot pay for the stone to add our heroes to the Wall without Fiorlas’ gold. And until we rebuild, we will have to eat the stones from the dwarven mines, unless the Skarmite fleet and caravans fetch us real kuj."
The heavy stream of piss sounded over the last sentence of the second speaker. Brem let out an audible sigh and continued his rant. "Why am I listening to ye, ye bloody pylma? Sod off already with your posh attitude. Yes, I will eat all of Buvesrraqh’s stones and then move to the Impassable Mountains when I am done. I am Brem Quanpir, son of..."
His speech and stream were interrupted simultaneously, cut short by what sounded suspiciously like a dagger leaving its sheath. A moment later, the other voice sounded again, only this time it had a vitriolic edge. "You are an old imbecile who cannot fathom a solution other than butting brej with the other brejksve. Your name-giver must have been enlightened by Nural himself. But we won’t let you take the entire North down with you. Waygate will agree to the terms of the others. So shall Gawold and the other settlements. We play the long game. And so our children’s children shall have their chance. You are either with us, or you are against us. You must decide before you return."
The Eye heard faint footsteps, then the stream resumed. He waited to hear Brem’s heavy footsteps before leaving his hiding place.
He scrubbed Brem’s piss off the floor and went out to fill his bucket with water. In the corridor, the Lady Admiral passed him, talking to one of the Skarmite merchants in her entourage. Their voices were very low, whispering even, but he had a keen sense of hearing. It was one of the traits required by his occupation.
"We cannot accept anything less than our own fleet and city council. Without these, we go to war."
"You have our support. At sea and on land, Skarmite merchants will defend Skarm’s freedom."
The boy tried to return to his hiding place and write a new report, but the Quartermaster called all the servants back to the kitchen.
"Supper shall soon be served. You will aid the cooks with whatever they request of you, then the head cook will guide you to the hall."
The head cook had them carry and peel a boatload of rocktatoes. He was preparing fresh elven strands for the whole Council, from scratch, while what seemed like a herd’s worth of deer was slowly roasting in the large hearth at the center of the kitchen. The servants were working frantically to have everything ready on time. The Eye tried to remain aware of his surroundings. He glanced across the room every now and then, observing the others as they worked through the rush.
At some point, one of the cooks called a servant girl over to help her carry more onions to the stew. Something in their movements caught his eye. There seemed to be a passive communication between them, as a small vial passed from the cook’s hand to the girl, who quickly slipped it into a hidden pocket, not unlike his own.
Oh. That must be our Claw, he thought. Too bad he had seen her. He would have to report back to the Crowmaster after his assignment.
Wait. What if I’m not the only one who saw her?
Panic flooded his thoughts. He needed to send a report before it was too late and everything was screwed.
"Head Cook, I need a moment."
"Not now, boy. Not until that mountain of ‘tatoes is done."
"But sir, I must..."
"I said not now. That’s the end of it."
I have to do something. I have to leave this room right now, he urged himself. With a little effort, he managed to squirt enough droplets of pee into his pants to form a small wet patch. He stood up.
"Sir..."
"Don’t you under— Oh, you fucking dumbass! What did you do in my kitchen? Get out! Go and clean yourself now!"
He left as fast as he could. He ran to the servants’ outhouse and pulled out his scroll. He wrote rapidly and without preamble: Gawold is being extorted to accept the others’ terms. Skarm is prepared for war unless given autonomy over its fleet and trade. A cook passed a vial to the servant girl they call Quana.
He watched the last word disappear from the scroll, then folded it neatly and headed to the servants’ quarters to change clothes.
Once back in the kitchen, he resumed peeling vegetables as if nothing had happened. He resisted the temptation to glance at the girl. He needn’t be compromised as well.
Supper time was finally upon them. The Council would pause its proceedings one last time before nightfall, then resume until the representatives could no longer stand.
The head cook gathered them, as the Quartermaster had said he would. He stood at the head of the procession, and they marched, one cook per cart, with two servants beside each.
The mood was very different from before. Even though the tension was palpable, no one was talking or mumbling. Only looks that cut like daggers were exchanged across the great table. The tiring process had dragged on for the better part of the day and taken its toll on even the most experienced diplomats present. The two strange figures among the druids, along with the military leaders from the delegations, looked more composed than most.
Quana found herself two carts ahead of him. He had made sure to stay behind her by stalling during the carts’ preparation. This way, she would be less likely to notice him watching her. They went around the room, the cook serving the food, one servant placing the utensils, the other filling the cups with wine from a large jug.
No one would have seen the girl’s imperceptible movement as she spiked the cup destined for Vyl of Fiorlas, unless they had their eyes trained on the hidden pocket where she had put the small vial. The boy felt cold sweat trickling down his back as her hand was about to leave the cup on the table.
What the Eye failed to see in time was the nobleman sitting next to Vyl, who suddenly pushed his chair back to adjust his position. The chair’s leg caught that of the servant approaching the table with an ornate knife and fork for Vyl’s plate.
The servant stumbled forward, his hands still clutching the utensils. He collided with Quana, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Someone laughed from the side.
The cook turned to scold them, but the words died in his throat. He dropped the plate he was holding. Quana lay on her back, blood pouring from her mouth as she struggled desperately to breathe. The ornate hilt of the knife protruded from her neck.
Gasps sounded across the hall as the silence of tension gave way to the silence of horror.
The Quartermaster sprang from the background, where he had been tending to other matters. Before anyone had a chance to understand what was happening, he had two guards carry the girl out of the room.
"There has been an accident, dear Lords and Ladies. Please don’t let that distract you from your much more important affairs."
"Lord Vyl, my apologies for what you had to endure. You shall be reseated to enjoy your supper. Please follow me."
Before they left, the Quartermaster whispered something in the head cook’s ear. The boy watched the head cook approach the cook who had given Quana the vial. The two left the hall together.
The Eye glanced at the table where Vyl’s cup had been. It was no longer there. He scanned the hall for reactions. A pair of green eyes pierced through him, and in a lapse of judgment, he met their gaze. Among the old, rugged druids, the young maiden’s lips twisted into a faint smile.
He quickly looked away as he received a slap on the back of his neck from the cook, who urged him to continue serving.
Lun’s bright light barged into the servants’ quarters through the poorly repaired windows, announcing that night was upon them. Soon they would be fetched to clean the manor, after which they would be left to sleep for a few hours before continuing in the morning.
Some of the youngest kids were crying after what had happened to Quana. He could smell the familiar scent of fear for their own lives. Others, who had been marred by the evils of war, or perhaps had even killed in self-defence, were more relaxed.
The Eye awaited the opportunity to report to his mistress. As soon as everyone fell asleep, he would slip outside and meet her by the riverbank, according to plan.
The night was bright, so he had to be extra cautious. Fortunately, the local garrison was already spread thin and exhausted. He managed to avoid the sentries posted at the entrance to the estate, who were having a heated debate about halberds.
The boy arrived at the spot the Crowmaster had indicated and waited patiently. She appeared out of the shadows of the nearby trees.
"What happened, Crowmaster? Did we fail?"
"No, child. On the contrary. We are on the right path to achieving our goals."
"But the Claw was taken out before she could do the deed."
"That bird didn’t belong to our Murder. She wasn’t a crow. Good thing we had someone at the right place and time to spot her. Otherwise, Vyl’s fate would have been sealed and our plan set back."
She raised a hand to his face and caressed him with the backs of her long fingers.
"You did well, my little Eye."
The boy thought he saw someone moving in the shadows behind her.
