Free The Two of Swords: Part 6 by K. J. Parker

bristles. Glauca was a martyr to razor rash. “They’ve been quiet, certainly. Ever since you gave them that thrashing five years ago.”
    “Five years is a long time,” Senza said. “To be honest with you, I’m a bit concerned. You see, if I was Forza, right now I’d be looking round for something extra, some new piece to bring in to the game. Actually, if
I
was Forza, I’d have brought in the nomads, on my side, nine months ago; luckily, he’s not quite as smart as me in some areas. But the Northerners – well, they’re just sitting there, of no real use to anyone. If I was Forza, I’d think that was a real waste.”
    The old man nodded slowly. “Like Meshel and the Bechanecs,” he said.
    Who? What the hell. “Exactly. Classic case in point. Now I’m guessing that Forza hasn’t just overlooked them, that’s not him at all. Nor, up till now, did he want to go to all the bother of sweet-talking them on to his side. He was happy for them just to be there, worrying me to death, interfering with my long-term plans. Now, though, with the nomads suddenly involved on
nobody’s
side, and Blemya the obvious logical next big thing, what better time to open a second, sorry, third front, up there where it’s a real bitch doing
anything
, just to make my life truly wretched? So—”
    “Forestall him,” the old man said.
    “Exactly.”
    “If he’s still alive.”
    Senza nodded swiftly. “And even if he’s dead. After all, what’s it going to cost us, compared with war on three fronts, to see if we can’t patch up some sort of deal, neutralise them if we can’t bring them in on our side? Get there first with more resources; that’s the only way I know of doing business.”
    The old man nodded. “Meshel and the Bechances,” he repeated. “Seventy years of peace. I couldn’t agree more.” He paused and thought of something. “So why haven’t you done it?”
    “Ah.” Senza did his owl impression. “Because they’re not stupid,” he said, “they don’t dare be seen negotiating openly with us or them. If we sent an officially accredited embassy, more likely than not they’d cut their throats and stick their heads up on poles along the frontier.”
    “That would be awkward.”
    “Wouldn’t it ever. Which means,” Senza went on, “we have to find an intermediary, someone who isn’t us, but will do what we want him to.”
    The old man looked at him blankly. “I see,” he said. “Who did you have in mind?”
    Senza paused and checked the grid he’d superimposed on the old man’s face. “I was thinking,” he said, “of Oida.”