Just as he told his wife, Martel has no intention of going into battle - if it should become necessary, he's willing, but the Arums have an able commander already. He serves another purpose, and even if chafes at him to be cloistered in the ducal palace playing at diplomat when he could be on a horse with a sword drawn- that's not what he's there for, and he knows it. Nitral, the Duke, is unusually well-liked by Martel's closest Arum compatriot and he's along less because Koleika can't get along with him and more to save time and hassle all around. The iron-jawed chief had put it bluntly: "You like to talk, Martel. I don't. You can do the talking."

It's not terrible, anyway; the city is everything Koleika promised him that it'd be and when they're not translating Arum work ethic into something the rest of the Duke's command can actually understand, Martel takes the opportunity to acquaint himself with this brilliant architect conveniently born into just the position to indulge his passion. He can relate, and they're right, really; he has always liked the sound of his own voice. There's another reason he's here - to get a feel for how they do things, to get these people used to dealing with him - and the fact that they don't need to discuss that is just one of the reasons that Martel so admires his friend.

Wenos can't pay the high prices that the Arum clans demand for their soldiers, and Martel expects to be leaving the city in plenty of time to take care of the little problem he has Ewar keeping an eye on for him. It doesn't work out that way, of course; it never does.

Wenos may not be able to afford to pay for an entire Arum force, but they can find the funds to try cutting off the head of the snake; Martel is pacing his guest chamber in sleeping trousers when he hears the tell-tale choked gurgle outside in the hall, interrupting his reading. The guards are dead, he judges, and Nitral and his duchess lie sleeping across the hall. The decision to pick up the knife he'd been cleaning and sharpening earlier is an easy one to make, and he nudges the door ajar to get an idea of where they are before shoving it suddenly open with a satisfying crack against the back of the first man's skull.

The first one down draws the other two in his direction - it's a short, ugly fight and a kick in the back has Martel slamming face first into the wall unexpectedly. He and the assassin behind him simultaneously misjudge each other; the knife slices his back open instead of stabbing through his ribs when he pushes his hands against the wall and slams himself backwards, knocking the other man off-balance and snagging that knife in one, smooth movement-

-it embeds in the back of the last man's neck, bringing him down to his knees in front of Nitral's door even as Martel crushes the second man's windpipe under his bare foot, leaning hard- hard- harder, when he falls, his knees buckling underneath him as he realizes only belatedly, when the fracas in the hallway summons the Duke with his own sword out, that the sting of the blade hadn't been entirely the fault of the steel.

His vision swims and then, mercifully, he passes out.

Winter is a miserable time to go to war - in particular due to winter being a miserable time to tramp down from the mountains - but the frost should have broken at least by the time they're passing Maghu, and between then and now Martel ought to have plenty of time to regret agreeing to this. It's a profitable thing, though, and God knows it's worthwhile to establish his contacts in the flatlands sooner rather than later. He treats it like an idle stroll in the countryside, the way he and Kalten used to look at each other and shrug instead of bothering to consider that the sometimes chillingly casual attitude of Pandions toward their violence wasn't normal or appropriate; where they knew what lay beneath that, he wonders where the differences lie between himself and the nearest and dearest of worlds he still doesn't understand and doesn't care to find out this way. All things in Martel's life come down to perception, sooner or later; Candice knows better, sees through him, and then he feels the most secure in his decisions.

Having learned a long time ago that shrugging off any battle is tantamount to suicide, regardless of skill or experience, he ignores the cheerful fiction that he's along to do nothing more than grease wheels and prevent Koleika from finding himself in the position of threatening another Treborean nobleman - he would've ignored it even if it were true, because a diplomat bleeds just the same as anyone else. Easier, usually, in Martel's long and storied history.

Despite what will be weeks, maybe months, of his absence - he chooses not to mention what he's doing to more than a few people, and none of them outside his home are informed of anything like 'when' or 'where' or 'why'. Sparhawk and Martel are alike in some ways more than others, and their habitual secret-keeping is nothing especially new. He thinks of his brother in a detached sort of a way, and occupies some evenings penning the first [eight] drafts of a letter that he will send. He finally does early one morning before they break camp, twisting enchantment around a pathway into the nexus instead of bothering with a messenger that almost certainly wouldn't be able to find him.

S.

Come to your senses yet?

I've attached directions to the portal I found. It's safe either side, near as I can tell, but for what I assume are painfully obvious reasons I haven't had the occasion to go through and be utterly sure that it's going to the right world. You'll come out on a beach opposite Thalesia's strait, if I'm any judge, so I suggest finding yourself a horse in the interim. Faran will find it somewhere in his black and volatile heart to forgive you the infidelity, I'm sure. Every means I can devise to test it indicates it's the right world. There's only one way left to find out, and my brother, better you than me.

If you haven't come to your senses - marvelous. As much as I could go a hundred years (and well might; evidently the physiology of a resurrected soul isn't entirely unlike that of a troll) without seeing Elenia again, happily, my wife is interested in visiting. Discreetly. Apparently I have myself a sentimentalist; she also thinks this is a good idea. There are many, many things that you and I need to talk about before we do any such damn thing - and they'll have to wait, I'm doing a friend of mine a favour with his little war - but as I can't be sure you remember how our conversation turned out (was it very good wine, old boy?) I felt obliged to properly indicate my willingness to be reasonable.

You'll find instructions on the spell I use to send letters through the nexus with this, too, and I feel confident that you can master something simple enough for even Kalten's understanding of sorcery. If you hurry home, mother might help you with the tricky parts.

Your brother,
M.

There have probably been warmer invitations to reconciliation, and there have almost certainly been kinder ways of helping a brother; he doubts Sparhawk would trust his aid if it came gently, and rightly so. The best way of determining an Elene's sincerity in his concern for you is judging how annoyed he seems to be about the inconvenience.

(He has no intention of riding into a battle with these worries still hanging over his head. Sparhawk has the means of getting back to his child-bride now, and he can do with it what he will.)