But Siniava had had powers he still lacked. Siniava had been able to change shapes, to appear like someone else.
You do not need that. Your face brings terror to your enemies and respect to those who serve you.
Still … it would have been nice to be able to change.
A lesser power. Great powers become greater by being more themselves.
That made sense. He sighed once more and took a last look to the north, where the height on which Cortes Immer stood trailed away as a descending ridge into the lowlands along the eastern branch of the Immer, the Imefal.
Sunlight glinted on something—something moving. He squinted. No dust rose behind it—rain had fallen the day before. A shout rose from the lookout’s post just below. He heard the clatter of feet, of weapons, from the lower levels and then, leaning over, saw his men running to the walls. A mounted troop was already at the gate.
Fallo. The Duke of Fall, like Andressat, had not been receptive to his demand for obeisance. But the Duke of Fall was old and would die soon, and his son might be more malleable. His son had a taste for luxury, it seemed. He had dealt with those who traded in and out of Slavers’ Bay to the east, bypassing—as he thought—the Duke of Immer’s control of the Immer ports. But in his pirate days, Alured—the right name for that time—had made contacts he’d never lost. So he knew what Fall’s son desired and made sure he got it in more quantity and better quality and at a lower price than before.
True, Fall’s daughter-in-law was the child of Sofi Ganarrion, whose mercenary company had, despite flamboyant uniforms, fought extremely well against Siniava and now had joined with Fallo’s own troops to guard that dukedom. And Ganarrion was northern—from some northern kingdom—
Kostandan. Like her father, of royal blood. Seafolk, originally.
His advisor’s annoyance edged the information; he had been told that before. Seafolk … who might know that he himself still had connections in Slavers’ Bay. But probably not a girl.
He headed down the stairs to the lookout’s post. The man bowed as deeply as Alur-Visli wished. Yes, he thought he could see that it was a horseman coming along the Fallo–Immer road. A messenger from the Duke, perhaps?
He said nothing but continued on to his chambers. If it was a messenger, he should appear to be what he was: the most powerful lord in Aarenis. He changed his shirt, his doublet, shrugged into a new capelet, lifted his chin while his servant adjusted the fall of lace at his throat. He always wore his sword—a sword now, not a seaman’s cutlass—and the various knives he had found useful over the years. He hesitated, once his servant had left him, over the casket where the necklace lay. Rumor said everyone knew he had it—must have it—but he had shown it only to a few trusted men. Was it time to wear it openly?
Yes. But with the chain of office.
The chain of office, made to his order in Immerdzan, downriver, with the medallion of the Duke of Immer, copied from a design found in the ruins before he rebuilt Cortes Immer. He took the chain of office from its velvet-lined box and put it over his head to lie smoothly on his shoulders. Then, anticipating the beauty within, he opened the casket. It always took his breath away. The stones were flawless, radiant with their perfection. His. His forever. And someday … soon … he would have the rest of the set. The crown, the rings, the goblet … all would be his, and the power they held as well.
The necklace settled around his neck, inside the chain of office. The image in his expensive polished mirror looked … exactly as a powerful duke—even a king—should look. It lacked only the crown.
In his office, he spread maps on his map table … He already knew his plans for this year’s campaigns, but the maps would make it clear, if the messenger was from Fallo’s court, that he had yet more plans. His advisor had taught him how to look impressive—his clothes, his demeanor, his actions.
The messenger, escorted into his office still mud-spattered, was in fact one of his own spies, not from the Duke of Fall at all.
“My lord, Fallo gathers an army—”
“An army? All he has is that excuse for a militia and Ganarrion’s cavalry that everyone jokes about.”
“My lord, no … I mean, there’s more, my lord. The Cold Count—his polearms company has been reinforced, from the north I hear.”
Count Vladiorhynsich. In Siniava’s War, the commander who had held Rotengre in siege while Kieri Phelan had taken over half the rest of the besiegers north to free Dwarfwatch from Siniava. Brutally effective, his troops. Alur-Visli had seen them at work, had been glad not to face them. But now he had more … he was sure he had more. And he had magery to strengthen his troops and weaken his opponents.