Free Blood and Bone by Ian C. Esslemont Page A

He made a show of frowning as if deep in thought. ‘Good question. First, I am, as you say, a foreigner. And a mercenary. I fight for gold. Assemblies of tribes such as these have been attempted in the past, yes? Is that not so?’ The man circled, searching for confirmation. Many nodded their agreement. ‘Just so,’ he continued. ‘Yet they failed. They could not hold together and so they fell apart before they could achieve anything of any significance. Why?’ He searched among them again.
    Jatal noted how almost all the representatives present shot accusatory glances to one another. Even Ganell leaned close to murmur, ‘Because they all have the brains of water buffalo.’
    The Warleader nodded as if what he saw confirmed his thoughts. ‘They fell apart because none could agree upon who should lead. The Vehajarwi would not listen to the Hafinaj. And the Saar would not follow the Awamir …’
    ‘Never!’ Sher’ Tal called.
    Grinning, Ganell tossed a handful of cashews into his mouth, muttering aside, ‘Buffalo.’
    Jatal worked hard to suppress a laugh.
    Circling, the Warleader raised his lined hands for calm. ‘Just so, just so. It is understandable. I, however, am an outsider. A professional. War is my calling. My men and I fight for payment alone. I will favour no tribe over any other. And when the campaign is finished we will simply take our share and go …’
    ‘And what would be your share?’ Jatal asked.
    The old man’s brows rose in appreciation of the question. ‘Prince Jatal wishes to dispense with the airy assurances. Very good. For the services of my tactical and strategic leadership and the blood of my fighting men I ask one tenth of all spoils.’
    Ganell choked on his cashews. ‘Outrageous!’ he spluttered.
    Everyone objected at once. ‘Would you beggar us?’ Andanii, princess of the Vehajarwi, called out.
    The Warleader had raised his arms again, beseeching silence. His huge second, or lieutenant, Jatal noted, sat unconcerned throughout, gnawing on a lamb haunch and drinking. Normally, it seemed to him, the discussion of fees for services ought to interest such a one.
    Jatal raised a hand for quiet. Slowly, one by one, the representatives ceased their objections. Once silence had been regained he began, ‘Warleader, what you ask is not our way. Traditionally, the band that defeats an enemy, or takes a village, is due all the glory and spoils accruing from the victory …’
    Nods all around. ‘Rightly so!’ Ganell called.
    ‘However,’ Jatal continued, ‘a wise man might agree that nine-tenths of a meal is better than no meal at all …’
    Ganell chortled and slapped a wide paw to the table. ‘Haw! The prince has the right of it!’
    ‘… and so perhaps we should measure the size of the meal before we turn our nose from it.’
    Princess Andanii rose from her seat and threw down her eating knife so that it stuck into the table. ‘Speaking for the Vehajarwi, we have heard quite enough.’
    ‘If you would
allow
me to finish.’ The Warleader spoke through gritted teeth. Clearly he was not used to being dismissed, or even petitioning, for that matter. He seemed unable to blunt a habit of prideful high-handedness. An attitude, Jatal reflected, that was hardly helping his case here among so many likewise vain and bloated personages. And in the figure of Princess Andanii the man had quite met his match in blind overweening conceit.
    The girl, one of the deadliest living archers, it had to be said, pushed back her long braid of midnight hair and raised what to Jatal was a perfect heart-shaped chin to command scornfully, ‘Speak, then … I give you leave.’ The old man’s stiff answering bow was a lesson in suppressed bile. ‘My thanks … Princess. What I propose is that our combined forces sack the Thaumaturg southern capital and ritual centre of Isana Pura.’
    The outrage that had heated the air before was as nothing compared to the howls of protest that met that