“But a very strong two,” Ezasper mused, holding out his hands to the fire. “Bossit. And Tharius Don. Perhaps I can find some reason that Tharius Don would consider it wise to support me. . . .” He stared into the dancing flames, lost in contemplation. Koma Nepor, familiar with this state of reflective trance in his companion, snuggled more deeply into his chair to consider which of the several strains of blight he had available to him would be best to use in ridding themselves of Lees Obol.
Ezasper Jorn carried the message to Gendra Mitiar the following morning, wending his way through endless tunnels from the roots of the palace to the roots of the Bureau of Towers, finding Gendra Mitiar at last in a room warmed almost to blood heat by a dozen braziers, ventilated by the constant whir of great fans turned by her slaves. Gendra was undergoing a massage at the hands and feet of Jhilt, the Noor. Though Jhilt was sweating and panting from her exertions, the sheet-covered heap that was Gendra’s ancient body showed no signs of perceiving her exhaustion.
“Message from the Talons,” he said, trying to fit his words between the slap, slap, slap, wrench, crunch, grunt that Jhilt continued.
“Ahum,” Gendra responded.
“Important, Gendra. You should listen.”
“Don’t care about the stupid fliers.”
“Don’t care about being the next Protector of Man, perhaps?”
“Enough, Jhilt,” Gendra said, slapping the woman’s hands away. “Get out of here.” She sat up, wrapped in the sheet, her ravaged face peering from the top of it like the head of an enshrouded worker, looking no less dead than many did. “What was that you said?”
“I merely asked if you were not concerned with the possibility of being our next Protector. Koma Nepor and I have talked it over. In return for some arrangement which we can undoubtedly agree upon, we two would be willing to support you for that position. Entirely quid pro quo, Gendra. You know me well enough to know I am not altruistic.” He made a long face, appearing both shamed and somehow ennobled by this admission, sighing deeply the while. She regarded him suspiciously, and he made a disarming gesture. “I have no chance at the position myself, and making an arrangement to support you would be more profitable for me than seeing Tharius Don as Protector.” He turned away, watching her from the corner of his eye. It was not necessary to see her, for she ground her teeth at the mention of Tharius Don. He went on, “Of course, this is all somewhat premature. I have every reason to believe Lees Obol will live for two or three years yet. Still, it is not too early to plan. Proper planning will, I am sure, assure your nomination. However, nomination by the council is only a first step. Election by the assembly is necessary. As Ambassador to the Thraish, I feel it would be important to convince the assembly you have the endorsement of the Thraish as well.”
“And how is that happy eventuality to be achieved?” He handed her the message, its open seal still dripping red ribbons across the words. “My spy, Frule, has overheard a conversation between the Laugher Ilze and our old friend Sliffisunda.”
She took the paper from his hand, screwing her eyes into it, pulling the content of the words out of the paper like-a cork from a bottle, weighing, evaluating. When she had read it once, she cast Ezasper Jorn a suspicious glance and read it again.
“What here can be used to my advantage, Jom? I don’t see it.”
“If you were to deliver the woman to them yourself, Gendra? Having made somewhat of a bargain with them? Their support for yours. Tharius Don won’t let this Pamra Don go easily, you know. He wants her in his own hands. So much was clear at our last meeting.”
“True. He has some unexplained interest there. I’ve asked Glamdrul Feynt to look into it, but the old bastard dithers and forgets. Still, I’ll threaten Feynt a bit and see what emerges. So. So. You think my turning the woman over to them would gain their favor, eh?” She had quite another reason for wanting the favor of the Thraish, but she did not intend to discuss that with Ezasper Jorn.