The Iron Hound

2.3

Author's note: This scene was quite time consuming to write. I was going for layered, intelligent conversation. Not sure I quite pulled that off! Is any of it confusing?

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The landgrave's fingers hovered about his belt like he didn't quite know where to put them. Idris propped his elbows up on the felt padding inlaid into the old rosewood chair's arms, cupping his hands in front of him.

"Three hundred ryals."

Idris quirked an eyebrow, catching Landgrave Rethollow's gaze, and holding it.

"Three hundred won't see even a single company of pikes through the summer, landgrave."

"Tutelar," he corrected, and continued on as if he hadn't even said it. "I'd be a foolish man if I gave half my fortune to a Tutelar such as you, Menhyr. Three hundred ryals will feed, clothe and house one hundred men that could be used to wage war on my own holdings. It's more than I should be offering. Three hundred more."

"Let's not tap swords, Nels." The burly northerner very nearly flinched at the use of his given name. "Make me a better offer, or one hundred men will be the least of your worries."

Rethollow barked a laugh through his beard, gripping his belt with one hand. Idris' eyes flicked to the knife hilt that sat cloistered between the folds of the landgrave's cloak and tunic, not a great stretch for his paw of a hand.

"How distasteful, Menhyr. I thought better of you." He chuckled again. "No, that's a lie. I expected this from you. You're a thug." The smirk faded from his face as he looked down his long, hooked nose at Idris.

His teeth grated together as his jaw tensed. The landgrave revelled in taking the higher ground. He played the game well, Idris could give him that. Very few of his thoughts and emotions played out on the man's face, but he couldn't hide the contempt that smoldered within his eyes.

"I am that," he replied, allowing a smile to spread his lips. "I don't believe that was in contention, however."

The landgrave's cheeks puffed at that.

"I'm not here to negotiate, Menhyr. Take the three hundred or leave it. I'd prefer to stave you off another season, but I'll not weaken my own position to avoid the inevitable, either."

Idris settled back into the chair, clasped hands dropping to his lap.

"More than three hundred ryals would see you weakened?"

Rethollow did well to hide the reaction. Idris guessed irritation, but it could quite easily have been dread.

"I'm sure we both have better things to do than dance words around each other, landgrave." He took satisfaction in the deepening of the furrows in the other man's brow. "I know your coffers lie empty. I know if you don't find a renewed source of income, you won't be able to afford the men that keep you safe before the winter thaws. And, landgrave, I know that you wouldn't be here if you didn't think I had something to offer." He had the man's attention now. "Something more than an exchange of courtesies."

Rethollow's nostrils flared. He'd hit more than one nerve and the facade of confidence was melting before his eyes. The hand on his belt twitched and Idris' own fingers parted from each other, coming to rest on the arms of the chair.

Rethollow was a large man, both tall and wide. If he opted for the wrong course, a scuffle in close quarters with him could prove awkward. There was good reason Tutelar Nels Rethollow was called Landgrave both to his face and behind his back, however. Each Tutelar had his own path, his own way of elevating himself in the Council's eyes. For Rethollow, it was through bribery and transactions. He hadn't fought one major battle, had never led men into war, and, if Idris' brokers could be trusted, had the blade proficiency of a stripling.