Draig

Reconnaissance

Gisle de Clelland rented rooms in Ferrytown only on rare occasions. He much preferred an ordered camp, bustling with his small company of men. Neat cook-fires with a canopy of stars overhead, that was the life. This well-appointed inn just made him feel caged. 

He paced. Gisle's men were quartered among the other rooms and the stables for the night. Tomorrow they would hire the ferry to cross the river and once again ride the open road. What direction would they travel? North to the capitol? South to Cimaehne? He had the information he'd sought, confirmation that the Conclave was nothing more than a power-grasping group of lying thieves. The gnomes, Jax and Pezzik, had been most helpful, providing eye-witness accounts of treachery. The facts were later confirmed true by the Chymaera themselves. 

The central teachings of the Conclave were false. Though no Cantor should be able to lie, each did so daily.  They spouted nonsense and used their influence to control kingdoms and commerce. Their corruption had been subverting the Song with Dissonance for centuries. All who might oppose them by using the Song were taken to their chapterhouses for "purification."

Gisle now knew enough to discredit the Conclave, but his word alone would not suffice to convince the King. Even with written testimony of Chymaera as proof, he could not simply announce his discovery and expect immediate support. No, he must expose the corruption in a way that would defy arguments. As with any battle, he must plan and create the right strategy. This would require getting the lay of the land. His last encounter with the High King had been months before, when he had bested the older prince at joust as well as at stones. Indeed, his reception at court could be far from warm.

Reconnaissance.  Gisle nodded sharply to himself.  He looked around, checking to make sure his scout, Brock, wasn't already in the room. The man had an uncanny ability to appear from nowhere.  Gisle stroked his mustaches, considering his options,  then repaired to the common room.

When the crone sat down at Gisle's table, he regarded her calmly, nodded and resumed his meal.  She waved a bony finger at him, hiccuped, and took a swig from her tankard. Greasy grey hair covered her mottled face, but one bright blue eye peered at him from underneath the rank mop. She swallowed, belched, and leaned forward. 

"Moon men see a twig," she said. She sat back in her chair, as if the short speech had taken great effort. 

"I shall assume you are speaking with that ridiculous dialect uttered by thieves and blackguards. To the point, I cannot translate. If you wish to tell me something of import, say it. " Gisle took another bite of stew and waited. The crone has an Adam's apple, he observed. A disguise. 

The crone leaned forward again, her voice smooth and deep. "King is dead, Conclave running the succession tourney. I 'ave a message for you." She slid a packet of parchment across the table and stood, leaning on an ancient cane. It tapped the weathered floorboards as she hobbled away.

The King is dead, finally? 

Gisle unwrapped the packet, scanning quickly. It was unsigned. At the bottom of the sheet, the likeness of a spider was inked in lieu of a signature. Gisle raised his left hand, performing a small gesture without looking up from the message. Sundin, his lieutenant, appeared at his side.

"Yes sir?"

"Inform the men we shall leave at first light, take the ferry and ride hard for Bestua thereafter, double pace. It appears that we are in a race against the hourglass. All soldiers are under strict curfew until we reach the city. They will have free days upon arrival in compensation for their hardship."

"Very good, sir." 

Gisle looked up, unsurprised to see Sundin retreating. Brock, his scout, waited in his stead. He gestured to a chair.

"Report."

Brock bowed slightly and slid into the seat, nodding to the parchment in Gisle's hand. "You've heard then. The King has passed without naming an heir. The local chapterhouse lies vacant, milord. All Cantors save one have gone to Bestua for the Succession tournament. A few young acolytes and servants remain.

"I was discreet. The papers they left behind suggest that they have been called to keep order in the city. "

Gisle frowned, his  bushy eyebrows drawing together as he considered. "We must move swiftly. Modric expects opposition. He will have done the same in each town and possibly triple his forces in Bestua."

Brock nodded, agreeing with the assessment.

"We leave for Bestua at dawn and will proceed with our plans as set when we arrive in the city until we have a full assessment. The men are to take rooms at various Inns, observe and report to you after one day of reconnaissance. We will need the exact skills of each tournament entrant and to identify all Cantors posing as travelers. Some will be stationed to observe or assassinate.  Those need to be removed, quietly. Give each soldier orders to that effect. "

"And me sir?"

"Your mission is to discover the method of sabotage the Conclave has planned. We can assume they will attempt to control the outcome of each round of the tournament. I want to know how. "

Brock nodded.

"They are already murdering possible entrants. I'll need double guard."

"And if they use the Song, sir?"

 "Contact Seth when we arrive and request escort. I should be covered and protected by a qualified Spinner for the duration of my visit. Pay them the usual rates, with a bonus for tournament duty. They are expecting us." He nodded to the packet he held.
 
"You will be entering the tournament, sir?"

Gisle nodded. "I shall not only enter. I plan to win."

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