The Advisory certainly kept the delegates from Var Nordos waiting. After a few weeks of idling in Ith, Farek gathered his comrades to discuss how things were going. Around a well-varnished table and under a well-lit chandelier, Lord Gallendris addressed his peers. “Do you have any concerns? How has our stay in Ith gone?”
Lord Sha remained quiet, his face scowling. He sipped his ale and waited for Ambassador Tolia to answer.
“I think it’s going excellently,” Tolia said. “I hope that the leaders of Ith will remember my role, so I might become a staple ambassador in what could be a major alliance.”
“Major alliance, no doubt,” Sha scoffed. “There’s only a few thousand miles between.”
Farek snorted. So grumpy… he thought.
“I liked seeing that Primal village,” Enora said, reminiscing. She was drinking a red wine—from a bottle purchased by Farek for the table. Sha was happy with his ale, but he had clearly been drinking harder earlier.
“Yes, that was a rare experience,” Farek said, but then, cradling his wine glass, he turned back to Lord Sha. “We’re all worried, milord.”
“I’m not worried,” the short-haired man muttered. “It will work, if it has to. It’s hard for me to be excited about much out here—my life’s work is a web of connections around the Grey Sea. Some of it has collapsed because of the bandit army. Who knows about the rest of it, now that we’ve been gone a couple Moons.”
That pulled Farek’s heart down a little. “I’m getting anxious to return home, too…” he replied.
The other lord chuckled bitterly. “You must be enjoying this, Farek,” he said. “I used to look down on you for anxieties like these, worrying about your status in the little city of Soros…”
“There’s nothing wrong with feeling out of place and wanting to feel like the person you really are,” Farek said, choosing to overlook the “look down on you” part.
Sha leaned forward, eyes ablaze. “The worst of it is that scoundrel, Erril. He’s got his silver tongue in the Matriarch’s ear and now I’m been sent away…”
Farek didn’t skip a beat, though his mind jumped at the possibility. He had long wondered what mysterious “mistake” Sha had made that had lost him the favour of the Matriarchs. “Can I ask what happened?” Farek asked.
Sha glanced at Fark sharply, but then glanced at the others and downed another gulp of ale. “Another time, maybe,” he said, dismissively.
Why won’t he open up to me? Farek asked. He had spent weeks on end around Sha since that explosion on Coin Hill, but Sha refused to shed the slightest glimmer on his motivations and his failed schemes. Was his mistake simply trusting Erril, who was clearly an ambitious spymaster himself?
“Ahem,” a clear voice intoned. “Lord Farek Gallendris and company?”
Farek spun to assess the speaker. A man stood a few feet from their table, robed in dark green and groomed as most of the upper-class citizens around Farek. He wore a badge of striped gold and red—the mark of the Advisory. “I’m Farek,” he declared.
“I bring news,” the steward declared quickly. “Is this venue appropriate for its delivery?”
The table, though large, was sufficiently distanced from adjacent tables. “Let’s pull up a chair for our friend,” Farek declared. Tolia complied before Farek could.
The steward sat, with only a small smile at their antics. Farek hoped Sha would keep his mouth closed, if all he had was melancholic rantings. The man from the Advisory informed them: “My masters have decided to offer a tribute of supplies to your war efforts. These deliveries will go to the locations you specify and will depart Ith every four months. They will be guarded by rotating troops of City Watch soldiers, to demonstrate to the city that the soldiers care for the greater good. The Advisory will see you in three days to discuss further terms if necessary, or to hear if this deal is acceptable to you.”
Farek grinned and glanced at his companions. This was exactly what they had asked for! Even Sha had sat up at attention. Farek turned back to their guest. “We find it acceptable—and greatly appreciate the Advisory’s cooperation!”
The steward bowed and started to rise.
“First, a drink?” Farek asked, brandishing his wine glass. “A toast?”
“Very well,” the steward replied, sinking down. Likely, he recognized the fine 1270 vintage. Farek poured a round for everyone—even Sha—and they drank to unity and future peace.
…or, at least, the dream of it.