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“We’ve already heard you speak—ahem—Thane of Hesturr.”
Hesturr. Wistala remembered that name. The ruins of Hesturr tumbledown, the evil thane who’d stabbed gentle Rainfall. She looked at the man afresh. There was something of Vog in his wariness.
“But she has not heard me, sir.”
He stepped up beside her and raised his palm in salutation. “I know the name Wistala of Mossbell.”
At that there were more murmurs.
He ignored them, raising his voice. “While we speak through the day, dine and dance at night, and sleep long into the morning, Ironrider scouts move through Thul’s Pass and raid our flocks in the north, steal horses, and assemble piles of firewood. I do not believe they do all this for the sake of amusement, though it may be hard for some of those here to imagine any other pursuit.”
An older man stood up and hopped up on the pedestal supporting the dragon statue. “Roff, trade has always passed though Thul’s Pass and the Ba-drink. The dwarves keep the pass.”
“Yes. They always have as long as we remember. But that does not mean they always will.”
“The Ironriders mass in the Iwensi Gap as well.”
“The thanes of the north always cry war and ask for help to avert disaster,” another director said, joining the others with the Voice at the dragon. “Salted cod and cries of disaster is all we receive from the north. The Empire would be better off without both.”
“If I may return discussion to the dragon and her offer,” the Voice said. “Do you have anything to add?”
“I did not come with just words. A force of dragons waits among the bugs in the marshes to the south,” Wistala said.
“Hypatia would have more friends in the world. If your—ahem—Tyr would like to establish communication and commerce, Hypat would be pleased to see again the old routes reestablished in the south. We will not take sides in a war with Ghioz.”
Wistala left the Directory, alone and dejected. Even the head librarian stayed behind to talk matters over with the Voice.
Roff, the thane from the north, hurried to catch up with her.
“Dragon, wait.”
“Dragonelle,” Wistala corrected. He was stocky but powerful-looking, like a tall dwarf. His eyes were as pleading as a dog’s, but more intelligent.
“If you will accept the friendship of a piece of Hypatia, rather than the Directory, I would hear your answer.”
“Does not the rule of the Directory apply to her thanes?”
“Oh, they weary me. But I had to make the trip. I found them as deaf as usual to difficulties in the north. We’re poor provinces, compared to those south of the Falnges.”
“I know. I spent years in the north.”
“Yes. You once met my father, the night he died.”
“Your father.”
The man waved his hand, as though casting something away. “Yes. I know it’s against tradition, for a thanedom to fall to a son, but more and more the thanes are going their own way on such matters, with so little contact or help from the Directory.”
“No. I just—I expected a different reaction.”
“You shouldn’t. I grew up in my father’s house. He was a jealous, ill-tempered man. I promised myself I’d be different, both as man and as thane. Ragwrist is a friend of mine, and our two poor lands are friendlier now.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“The Hypatian order is failing. The Empire is no empire at all but a historical anachronism.”
“Rainfall of Mossbell did not believe that to be true.”
“He is dead. I fear in my lifetime I may need to make other arrangements for the security of the lands under my protection. With the Ironriders scouting my borders I’d make a pact with demen to save my thanedom. I will take the alliance you offer.”
