From Thrasne’s book
Word reached Ezasper Jorn late in the evening, carried down endless flights of stairs, through door after door, shut against the cold of polar winter, the message carefully transcribed onto handmade paper, the missive properly folded and sealed. Jorn liked these little niceties, the sense of drama conveyed in folded, sealed documents, ribbons dangling from the wax, the color of the ribbons betokening what laywithin. These ribbons were red. Something vital. Something bloody, perhaps. He played with the heavy paper for a moment, sliding his thumbnail beneath the seal, teasing himself.
So, Frule had at last acquitted himself well! Ezasper Jorn had almost given up hope of receiving any sensible information from the man, not that it was his fault. Ezasper had visited an aerie in the Talons, once. They were not made for two-legged spies, and Ezasper had no source of winged ones. Frule must have carved himself a spy hole somewhere. Ezasper grinned, for the moment almost warm enough in the flush of his enthusiasm.
Now. Now. Where could the information best be used? He peered into the corridor for a long moment before slithering along to Koma Nepor’s suite, knocking there for an unconscionable time before the Research Chief heard him and let him in. Ezasper gave him the letter, reading it again over his shoulder, jigging with pleasure.
“I think we’ll give it to Gendra, don’t you? Part of a package? Later we’ll get old Glamdrul to tell her there’s heresy all right, started in Baris. She’ll like that. She’s dying for a reason to get rid of the Superior in Baris, dying to rub Tharius Don’s face in it, too. Then we’ll suggest it would be a good idea if she went there herself.”
“She won’t leave the Chancery,” Nepor objected. “She won’t leave the center of power when the power is looking for a center, old fish. No. Never. She won’t.”
“Ah, but might she not go in order to obtain the support of the Thraish for her candidacy?’’
“How would she do that?”
“Read what’s in front of you, nit. She will gain the support of the Thraish by delivering Pamra Don into their claws. In return for supporting her, of course. All other things being equal, it’s a strategy which just might work. The assembly likes things peaceful between us and the Thraish. It would get her some votes, if she were around to get them—which she won’t be.”
“Because while she’s gone, we’ll do away with Obol and see that you, old fish, that you’re named Protector, is that it?”
Nepor rubbed his hands together, jigging from foot to foot in his excitement. “Oh, that will be a turn.”
Ezasper Jorn sat down ponderously, pulling his cap firmly down to cover his ears and stretching his legs toward the fire. Even in these vaults, far below the earth, the cold crept in as the winter lengthened. “Well, Tharius will vote for himself, you may be sure of that. Obol will be dead. Gendra will be gone. That’s three.”
“Bossit will vote for himself. You and I will vote for you, Jorn. That’s six, and two votes for you.” “Leaving Jondrigar.”
“Oh, that’s a difficult one. I should think the general will not vote for anyone.”
“Ah, ah, but you see, I have this letter.”
“A letter? What letter, Jorn?”
“This letter from Lees Obol. To the general.”
“When did Lees Obol last write anything? Come now, Jorn. Would you try our credulity?”
“Nepor, if you ask the general, ‘Can the Protector of Man write a letter?’ what will the general say?”
“He would say the Protector could write a letter, or ride a weehar bull over the pass, or thump down a mountain with his fists. He would say the Protector could do anything at all. I think he believes it, too.”
“He does, yes. He has that happy faculty of never confusing reality with his preconceptions. General Jondrigar will believe in the letter, leave that to me.”
“And the letter will say?”
“That Lees Obol, feeling himself fading away, chooses to recommend to the general that he vote for Ezasper Jorn as the next Protector of Man.”
“That’s three of you,” said Nepor admiringly. “And only two against.”