The Seeress of Kell

so, yes."
    "And Zandramas has moved her forces into the Dalasian protectorates."
    "That's what my people report."
    "Now then, we're both senior officials in his Majesty's government, aren't we?"
    "Yes."
    "Doesn't that mean that we're expected to use our own initiative to take advantage of tactical situations that arise in the field without consulting Mal Zeth?"
    "I suppose so. You’ve spent more time in the field than I have, though."
    "It's standard practice, Brador. All right, then. Darshiva is virtually undefended. What I'm suggesting is that we restore order across the river in Peldane and move in to occupy Darshiva. That way we cut Zandramas off from her base of support.
    We set up a main line of resistance along the edge of those mountains to repel her forces if they try to return. We'll have effectively brought these two provinces back under imperial control. We might even get a few medals out of it."
    "His Majesty would be rather pleased if that happened, wouldn't he?"
    "He'd be overjoyed, Brador."
    "I still don't see how occupying Darshiva is going to get us any closer to locating his Majesty."
    "That's because you're not a military man. We have to keep track of the enemy. In this case, that means the Darshivan army. Standard military procedure in such situations is to send out patrols in force to make contact with the enemy to determine his strength and probable intentions. If those patrols should just happen to encounter the Emperor in the process, well " He spread his hands eloquently.
    "You'd have to brief the officers in command of those patrols rather thoroughly," Brador pointed out cautiously. "A green lieutenant might get flustered and blurt out things we'd rather not have the Emperor aware of."
    "I said patrols in force, Brador." Atesca smiled. "I was thinking along the lines of full brigades. A brigade is commanded by a colonel, and I’ve got a number of fairly intelligent colonels."
    Brador grinned at his friend. "When do we start?” he asked.
    "Did you have anything planned for tomorrow morning?"
    "Nothing that I can't postpone," Brador said.
    “But why didn't you know it was coming?” Barak demanded of Drolag, his bosun. The two of them stood on the aft deck with the wind-driven rain sheeting almost horizontally across the rail to tear at their beards.
    Drolag mopped at his face with one hand. "I haven't got the faintest idea, Barak," he admitted. "That leg has never failed me before.” Drolag was one of those unfortunates who at some time in the past had broken one of his legs in Drolag's case it had happened in a tavern brawl. He had discovered not long after the bone had knit that the leg was extraordinarily sensitive to weather changes. He was able to predict the onset of bad weather with uncanny accuracy. His shipmates always watched him very closely. When Drolag winced with every step, they began searching the horizons for oncoming storms; when he limped, they shortened sail and began rigging safety lines; and when he fell down with a surprised cry of pain, they immediately battened down all hatches, rigged the sea anchor, and went below. Drolag had turned a temporary inconvenience into a lifetime career. He always commanded top pay, and nobody ever expected him to do any real work. All he had to do was pace the deck where everybody could watch him. The miraculous leg even made it possible for him to predict with some degree of certainty just exactly when a given storm would hit. But not this time. The storm that swept the Seabirds decks with wind and pelting rain had come unannounced, and Drolag was as surprised by its arrival as any man on board.
    "You didn't get drunk and fall down and break it again, did you?" Barak demanded suspiciously. Barak had very little knowledge of human anatomy- except about where to hit someone with an axe or to run a sword through him that would have the desired, and usually fatal, results. The big red-bearded man reasoned somewhat foggily that if Drolag had achieved his weather sensitivity by breaking his leg, a second break might very well have taken it away again.
    "No, of course I didn't, Barak," Drolag said disgustedly. "I'm not going to risk my livelihood for a few tankards of bad ale."
    "How did the storm sneak up on you, then?"
    "I don't know, Barak. Maybe it's not a natural storm. Some wizard may have summoned it. I don't know if my leg would react to something like that."
    "That's always an easy excuse, Drolag," Barak scoffed. "Anytime an