Grand Game 453: A Parley Amongst the Reeds (Patreon)

“You told Yara that you can help us bring down the Riders,” Tyelin said, beginning without preamble once I’d seated myself opposite him. 

I inclined my head. “I did.”

“Tell me how,” he demanded bluntly.

“Malikor has deployed a significant portion of his forces outside the Riders’ fort,” I began. “I can tell you where and—” 

The envoy slashed his hand downward. “We already know about that. It’s not enough.”

I started again. “In that case, I can assist your own forces when you begin your assault—” 

“We don’t need help with that either,” he interjected.

My eyes narrowed. “Then what do you need? You clearly have something in mind already.”

Tyelin sat back. “I do. How good is your deception? Is it good enough to hide your Power Mark?”

For a moment, I was thrown by the apparent randomness of the question. But it was not random, not really. Ever since he’d arrived, the envoy had been focused on my deception. Was whatever the Blades wanted related to the skill? Possibly.

“Well?” Tyelin asked, interrupting my musings.

I took another moment to ponder how truthfully to answer. “It isn’t,” I admitted finally, seeing no way to conceal the truth.

The envoy frowned. “That is a problem.” Setting his hands on the ground, he pushed himself to his feet. “And it leaves us with nothing more to discuss.”

I stared up at Tyelin, shocked by the abrupt end of the conversation. This time, I didn’t think it was a ploy.

 “I leave you one final word of warning,” the envoy continued. “Given the circumstances, Lady Blythe will forgive you for slaying her people but she will not tolerate your presence in her territory further. You have one hour to—” 

“Wait! Just tell me what you need done.”

Tyelin shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t, not if you’re incapable of doing what we need.”

 “Let me be the judge of what I can and can’t do,” I snapped.

“I can’t,” he retorted primly. “The risk of you revealing—”

“If you can get me to a merchant, I can do what you want,” I said, to forestall his departure which I sensed was imminent.

Tyelin’s eyes narrowed. “Do what? Hide your Power Mark?”

“Exactly that.”

Tyelin stared at me piercingly, but I could see my response had confused him. A merchant was likely the easiest thing for most players to get hold of, and he had to be wondering why I needed one and how it would help me do what he needed. 

“Explain,” he said finally.

“I won’t,” I replied. As much as I might need the Blades’ help, I would not trust them further than I had to. “But if you can provide me with access to a merchant,” I went on, “I give you my word that no Rider—not even Malikor—will figure out my identity.” It had to be for some ploy against the Riders that the Blades required a deception player. I had figured out that much.

For a long moment, Tyelin said nothing as he weighed up my words. “Your word,” he mused as he sank back to the ground. “A trite notion, and one that’s not worth much in the Game.” 

I opened my mouth in rebuttal but he spoke over me. “But a Pact. That’s a different story entirely. Are you willing to swear one?”

I threw him a wary glance, but inwardly I was smiling. Tyelin had not refuted my suggestion which meant he was considering it. And that alone made the entire conversation worthwhile. After all, it was solely for access to a merchant that I’d come to the sector. 

If I play my cards right here, I thought, I might get everything I need from the Blades and without them ever realizing it! 

“A Pact?” I asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” the envoy replied, seemingly pleased with himself for coming up with the idea. “A Pact will serve two purposes. One, it will confirm that you are indeed a Power, and two, it will provide me with assurances that your words are more than empty air.”

Bowing my head, I pretended to consider the notion before nodding decisively. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

The envoy beamed. “Excellent.” He waved his hand. “Go on, whenever you’re ready.”

Gathering my thoughts, I formulated the necessary words. 

You have proposed a Pact with Tyelin, pledging that the next statement you utter will contain no falsehoods.

Saying nothing, I glanced at the envoy.

His eyebrows rose. “A novel way of doing it,” he murmured as the Adjudicator relayed my words to him, “but acceptable, nonetheless.”

Tyelin has accepted your proposal, sealing the Pact between you and him.

I began without preamble, annunciating each worth carefully. “Let me visit a trustworthy merchant, one with access to the Nexus auction, and I will be able to conceal my Power Mark from ordinary players.”

Your Pact is closed.

Talian chuckled. “A most carefully worded statement.”

I held his gaze. “Does it satisfy you?”

“It does,” he said, still smiling. 

“Good.” I leaned forward. “Now, tell me what it is you need me to do.”

Tylene did not quibble further. “Blythe wants Malikor dead.”

I evinced no surprise at the request. “Mammon’s envoy suspicions were true then,” I murmured.

“What?” Tyelin asked with a frown.

“Oh nothing,” I said, dismissing my own words. “Just something I overheard the Riders’ leaders talking about. They already suspect you have a plan afoot to kill them.”

The envoy pursed his lips. “How did you manage to get so close to hear that?”

I shrugged. “I have my ways.”

Tyelin’s eyes narrowed in obvious unhappiness at my refusal to share. “Will you heed my lady’s request then?” he asked, dropping the matter.

“I have a few questions that need answering first,” I replied smoothly. Now that there appeared little danger of Blythe’s envoy walking away from our negotiations, I saw no reason not to probe a bit further into how matters stood in the Marches.

“Go on,” he replied, his tone clipped. “Ask.”

“If you haven’t guessed already, I’m new to the region. I know nothing about your faction, the Riders, the Reapers, nor the balance of power in the Marches. Enlighten me, please.” 

Curiosity crossed the envoy’s face. “How did you enter the Marches knowing so little about it?”

I waved aside his question. “Perhaps, I’ll tell you—someday. But for now, what can you tell me about the source of your disagreement with the Riders?”

Tyelin tapped his lips with his forefinger as if contemplating how forthcoming to be. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Not so long ago, there was peace in the Marches, with the Blades controlling half the territories, and the Riders the other half. Then the Reapers invaded. They hit us first, gaining control of nearly all our lowland sectors in one fell sweep.” 

His mouth twisted distastefully. “The Riders did not sit idly by, and instead of banding with us against the Reapers as we proposed, they used the opportunity to steal our territory too.” He laughed darkly. “A foolish move for which they paid dearly. While the Riders were distracted, the Reapers hit them. Now, the Reapers control nearly all of the lowlands, leaving the Riders and us to fight over scraps on the outer edges of the Marches.”

“I see,” I murmured. “And how many sectors do the Blades control now?”

This time, he took much longer to respond. “One.”

My eyes widened. “This one?”

“Yes,” he replied shortly.

I winced. Then the Blades are desperate. That was perhaps the only reason Blythe had sent her envoy to approach me in the first place.

Seeming to sense my thoughts, the envoy scowled. “Don’t think we are weak. This sector has been in our control for centuries. Neither the Riders nor the Reapers will ever gain a foothold here!”

I studied him thoughtfully. “And how long was sector 75,172 under your control before the Riders stole it?”

Tyelin didn’t answer.

Sighing, I changed the topic. “Why is it that you need me to kill Mammon’s envoy? Yours is a faction that should be replete with assassins.”

“We don’t need you to assassinate Malikor.”

I frowned. “But you said—”

“Blythe wants him dead, true—but we already have a plan for dealing with Mamoon’s envoy.”

“I see. Then you don’t need me?” I asked skeptically.

“We do,” he contradicted. 

Impatiently, I waited for him to go on.

“We need you to smuggle something into the fort.”

My frown deepened. “Really? That’s all you want? Granted, the stealth of some of your people is a bit lacking, but yours, for instance, should be up to the task.”

Tyelin’s lips thinned. “Stealth is not the issue. Getting into the fort is. The place is ringed by wards that make it impenetrable. There is no way to sneak in.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I scoffed. “The wards are only tier four.”

“Those are only the outer wards. The inner ones are tier six.”

My eyes narrowed. “Then you want me to walk in through the front door,” I surmised. “Bluffing my way in.”

Tyelin nodded. “Something like that. You will have to assume the guise of one of the Riders. Everyone else, even the prole servants, are searched at the entrance.”

Which was why, I guessed, they hadn’t been able to smuggle the stuff into the fort in the first place. Tyelin’s plan had at least one glaring flaw, though. “Surely the Riders have installed Watchers at the entrances?”

“They have,” the envoy confirmed. “But the Riders know our capabilities—and lack thereof—as well we do theirs. They know the few deception players we do have are of little threat which has made them complacent. The Watcher at the main gate is only tier five. If your deception is high enough to hide your Power Mark, it will be sufficient to defeat the Watcher.”

“I see,” I murmured. “And what is it I am supposed to be smuggling?”

“Cynacilin. It’s a deadly magical toxin,” Tyelin replied promptly. “Our man on the inside will see to its use.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You have a spy in the fort?”

“His name is Jone, but he is only a prole,” Tyelin admitted. “He is one of the village fisherfolk the Riders forced into servitude after they took over the fort. Your job—your only job—will be to get the cynacilin to him.”

I stroked my chin. The plan sounded feasible at least. Presumably, once Jone poisoned Malikor—and who knew how many other Riders—the occupying force inside the fort would be left too weak to resist the Blade assault that would undoubtedly follow. It did sound unnecessarily convoluted, though. 

“Why doesn’t Blythe take a direct hand in matters?” I wondered aloud. “With her help, you should be able to overrun Malikor’s people.”

Tyelin snorted. “If Blythe enters the fray, so will Mamoon. And right now, we don’t want that.”

Translation: the Blades were not strong enough to defeat the Riders in open confrontation. 

Bowing my head, I considered Tyelin’s plan more deeply. It still had more than a few holes in it that I could see. Like, how would Jone get word out when the deed was done? What if he failed? And how did the Blades plan on getting inside? I assumed they didn’t intend a direct assault, that would be foolish.

Still, when you got right down to it, I didn’t think any of my concerns mattered. As long as I got what I wanted, what did it matter if the Blades plan for overthrowing the Reapers succeeded or not? 

“So, just to be clear,” I said, “if I agree to this plan of yours, you will let me visit a merchant? A trustworthy one?”

Tyelin smiled. “I’ll do you one better. I will bring the merchant to you. An under-dweller, no less.”

Under-dweller. The envoy clearly expected me to recognize the word, and truly, it did spark a flicker of recognition, but I couldn’t place the memory. Where have I heard that term before? 

“Will that suffice?” Tyelin prompted when I didn’t respond.

Forced with no choice but to admit my ignorance or accept, I chose the latter course. “It will.”

“You will have to swear to a Pact first,” the envoy added casually.

I looked at him questioningly.

“You will have to vow to complete the task agreed upon: get the cynacilin to Jone.”

“Hmm, we’ll have to word the Pact a bit more carefully than that,” I replied.

“Of course,” the envoy said. He leaned forward, betraying some of his eagerness. “So, shall we seal the deal?” 

“There is still the matter of my price,” I said mildly.