“If you consider adjusting to changing conditions in the field treachery, Your Grace,” Fidelias said, “then you may name me traitor, if it pleases you.”
“He twists your own words against you, Your Grace,” Calix hissed. “He is using you. He is a Cursor, loyal to Gaius. If you keep listening to him, he will lead you to your death at Gaius’s feet. Kill him before he poisons your thoughts any further. He, this murderous thug, and his mad whore — they all want nothing but your destruction.”
Fidelias felt his lips tighten into a smile. He looked from Aquitaine to Calix—then to Aldrick, where the slave crouched at his feet, her lips parted, her eyes staring. Over Aldrick’s lap, Odiana neither stirred nor spoke, but he could see her mouth turn up into a smile.
“Ah,” Fidelias said, his own smile spreading wider. He folded one ankle over the other knee. “I see.”
Aquitaine narrowed his eyes and stalked over to stand over Fidelias’s chair. “You have interrupted a pleasant moment with the anniversary gift given me by my own dear wife. You have, it would seem, failed miserably in what you said you would do for me. Additionally, you have dispatched my troops in a fashion which could embarrass me acutely before the rest of the Lords Council, not to mention the Senate.” He leaned down toward Fidelias and said, very gently, “I think it would be in your own best interest to give me a reason not to kill you in the next few seconds.”
“Very well,” Fidelias said. “If you will indulge me briefly, Your Grace, I may be able to let you decide for yourself whom you can trust.”
“No!” sputtered Calix. “My lord, do not allow this deceitful slive to so use you.”
Aquitaine smiled, but it was a cold, hard expression. His gaze swept to the Rhodisian Count, and Calix dropped silent at his glance. “My patience is wearing very thin. At the rate we’re going, gentlemen, someone will be dead by the end of this conversation.”
Heavy tension fell onto the room, thick as a winter blanket. Calix licked his lips, throwing a wide-eyed glare at Fidelias. Odiana made a soft sound and stirred artlessly on Aldrick’s lap before settling again—leaving Aldrick’s right arm free to reach for his sword, Fidelias noted. The slave seemed to take notice of the tension as well and crawled a bit backward, until she was no longer between the High Lord and anyone else in the room.
Fidelias smiled. He folded his hands and rested them on his knee. “If it please Your Grace, I will need paper and pen.”
“Paper and pen? What for?”
“Easier to show you, Your Grace. But if you remain unsatisfied after, I offer you my life as penance.”
Aquitaine’s teeth flashed. “My esteemed wife would say that your life is lost in either case, were she here.”
“Were she here, Your Grace,” Fidelias agreed. “May I proceed?”
Aquitaine stared down at Fidelias for a moment. Then he gestured toward the slave, who went scurrying, returning a moment later with parchment and pen. Aquitaine said, “Be quick. My patience is rapidly running out.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Fidelias accepted the paper and pen, dipped the quill into the inkpot, and swiftly made a few notes on the paper, careful to let no one see what he was writing. No one spoke, and the scritching of the quill seemed loud in the hall, along with the crackle of the fire pits, and the impatient tapping of the High Lord’s boot.
Fidelias blew on the letters, then folded the paper in half, and offered it to Aquitaine. Without looking away from the man, he said, “Your Grace, I advise you to accelerate your plans. Contact your forces and move at once.”
Calix stepped forward at once, to Aquitaine’s side. “Your Grace, I must disagree in the strongest terms. Now is the time for caution. If we are discovered now, all will fall into ruin.”
Aquitaine stared down at the letter, then lifted his eyes to Calix. “And you believe that by doing so you will protect my interests.”
“And those of my Lord,” Calix said. He lifted his chin, but the gesture meant little when the High Lord towered over him. “Think of who is advising you, Your Grace.”
“Ad hominem,” noted Aquitaine, “is a notoriously weak logical argument. And is usually used to distract the focus of a discussion—to move it from an indefensible point and to attack the opponent.”
“Your Grace,” Calix said, ducking his head. “Please, listen to reason. To act now would leave you at somewhat less than half your possible strength. Only a fool throws away an advantage like that.”
Aquitaine lifted his eyebrows. “Only a fool. My.”
Calix swallowed, “Your Grace, I only meant —”
“What you meant is of little concern to me, Count Calix. What you said, however, is another matter entirely.”
“Your Grace, please. Do not be rash. Your plans have been well laid for so long. Do not let them fall apart now.”
Aquitaine glanced down at the paper and asked, “And what do you propose, Your Excellency?”
Calix squared his shoulders. “Put simply, Your Grace— stick to the original plan. Send the Windwolves to winter in Rhodes. Gather your legions when the weather breaks in the spring and use them then. Bide. Wait. In patience there is wisdom.”
“Who dares wins,” murmured Aquitaine back. “I cannot help but wonder at how generous Rhodes seems to be, Calix. How he is willing to host the mercenaries, to have his name connected with them, when the matter is settled. How thoroughly he has instructed you to protect my interests.”
“The High Lord is always most interested in supporting his allies, Your Grace.”
Aquitaine snorted. “Of course he is. We are all so generous with one another. And forgiving. No, Calix. The Cursor—”
“Former Cursor, Your Grace,” Fidelias put in.
“Former Cursor. Of course. The former Cursor here has done a very good job of predicting what you would tell me.” Aquitaine consulted the paper he held. “I wonder why that is.” He moved his eyes to Fidelias and arched his eyebrows.
Fidelias watched Calix and said, “Your Grace. I believe that Rhodes sent Calix here to you as a spy and eventually as an assassin —”
“Why you —” Calix snarled.
Fidelias overrode the other man, his voice iron. “Calix wishes you to wait so that there is time to remove you over the winter, Your Grace. The mercenaries will have several months to be tempted by bribes, meanwhile robbing you of their strength. Then, when the campaign begins, he will have key positions filled with people beholden to Rhodes. He can kill you in the confusion of battle, and therefore remove the threat you represent to him. Calix, here, was likely intended to be the assassin.”
“I will not stand for this insult, Your Grace.”
Aquitaine looked at Calix and said, “Yes. You will.” To Fidelias, he said, “And your advice? What would you have me do?”
Fidelias shrugged. “South winds rose tonight where there should have been none. Only the First Lord could call them at this time of year. At a guess, he called the furies of the southern air to assist Amara or one of the other Cursors north — either to the capital or to the Valley itself.”