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Authors: R. A. Salvatore
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territorial dispute between the sister cities, Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, on Lac Dinneshere. I see that Dorim Lugar of Caer-Konig has brought the documents that he promised at the last meeting, so I turn the floor over to him. Spokesman Lugar.”
Dorim Lugar, a gaunt, dark-complected man whose eyes neverseemed to stop darting about nervously, nearly leaped out of his chair when he was introduced.
“I have in my hand,” he yelled, his upraised fist closed about an old parchment, “the original agreement between Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, signed by the leaders of each town,” he shot an accusing finger in the direction of the spokesman from Caer-Dineval, “including your own signature, Jensin Brent!”
“An agreement signed during a time of friendship and in the spirit of good will,” retorted Jensin Brent, a younger, golden-haired man with an innocent face that often gave him an advantage over people who judged him naive. “Unroll the parchment, Spokesman Lugar, and let the council view it. They shall see that it makes no provisions whatsoever for Easthaven.” He looked around at the other spokesmen. “Easthaven could hardly be called even a hamlet when the agreement to divide the lake in half was signed,” he explained, and not for the first time. “They had not a single boat to put in the water.”
“Fellow spokesmen!” Dorim Lugar yelled, jolting some of them from the lethargy that had already begun to creep in. This same debate had dominated the last four councils with no ground gained by either side. The issue held little importance or interest for any but the two spokesmen and the spokesman from Easthaven.
“Surely Caer-Konig cannot be blamed for the rise of Easthaven,” pleaded Dorim Lugar. “Who could have foreseen the Eastway?” he asked, referring to the straight and smooth road that Easthaven had constructed to Bryn Shander. It was an ingenious move and proved a boon to the small town on the southeastern corner of Lac Dinneshere. Combining the appeal of a remote community with easy access to Bryn Shander had made Easthaven the fastest growing community in all of Ten-Towns, with a fishing fleet that had swelled to nearly rival the boats of Caer-Dineval.
“Who indeed?” retorted Jensin Brent, now a bit of fluster showing through his calm facade. “It is obvious that Easthaven’s growth has put Caer-Dineval in stiff competition for the southern waters of the lake, while Caer-Konig sails freely in the northern half. YetCaer-Konig has flatly refused to renegotiate the original terms to compensate for the imbalance! We cannot prosper under such conditions!”
Regis knew that he had to act before the argument between Brent and Lugar got out of control. Two previous meetings had been adjourned because of their volatile debates, and Regis couldn’t let this council disintegrate before he had told them of the impending barbarian attack.
He hesitated, having to admit to himself once again that he had no options and could not back away from this urgent mission; his haven would be destroyed if he said nothing. Although Drizzt had reassured him of the power he possessed, he retained his doubts about the true magic of the stone. Yet due to his own insecurity, a trait common among little folk, Regis found himself blindly trusting in Drizzt’s judgment. The drow was possibly the most knowledgeable person he had ever known, with a list of experiences far beyond the tales that Regis could tell. Now was the time for action, and the halfling was determined to give the drow’s plan a try.
He closed his fingers around the little wooden gavel that was set out on the table before him. It felt unfamiliar to his touch, and he realized then that this was the first time that he had ever used the instrument. He tapped it lightly on the wooden table, but the others were intent on the shouting match that had erupted between Lugar and Brent. Regis reminded himself of the urgency of the drow’s news once again
Dorim Lugar, a gaunt, dark-complected man whose eyes neverseemed to stop darting about nervously, nearly leaped out of his chair when he was introduced.
“I have in my hand,” he yelled, his upraised fist closed about an old parchment, “the original agreement between Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, signed by the leaders of each town,” he shot an accusing finger in the direction of the spokesman from Caer-Dineval, “including your own signature, Jensin Brent!”
“An agreement signed during a time of friendship and in the spirit of good will,” retorted Jensin Brent, a younger, golden-haired man with an innocent face that often gave him an advantage over people who judged him naive. “Unroll the parchment, Spokesman Lugar, and let the council view it. They shall see that it makes no provisions whatsoever for Easthaven.” He looked around at the other spokesmen. “Easthaven could hardly be called even a hamlet when the agreement to divide the lake in half was signed,” he explained, and not for the first time. “They had not a single boat to put in the water.”
“Fellow spokesmen!” Dorim Lugar yelled, jolting some of them from the lethargy that had already begun to creep in. This same debate had dominated the last four councils with no ground gained by either side. The issue held little importance or interest for any but the two spokesmen and the spokesman from Easthaven.
“Surely Caer-Konig cannot be blamed for the rise of Easthaven,” pleaded Dorim Lugar. “Who could have foreseen the Eastway?” he asked, referring to the straight and smooth road that Easthaven had constructed to Bryn Shander. It was an ingenious move and proved a boon to the small town on the southeastern corner of Lac Dinneshere. Combining the appeal of a remote community with easy access to Bryn Shander had made Easthaven the fastest growing community in all of Ten-Towns, with a fishing fleet that had swelled to nearly rival the boats of Caer-Dineval.
“Who indeed?” retorted Jensin Brent, now a bit of fluster showing through his calm facade. “It is obvious that Easthaven’s growth has put Caer-Dineval in stiff competition for the southern waters of the lake, while Caer-Konig sails freely in the northern half. YetCaer-Konig has flatly refused to renegotiate the original terms to compensate for the imbalance! We cannot prosper under such conditions!”
Regis knew that he had to act before the argument between Brent and Lugar got out of control. Two previous meetings had been adjourned because of their volatile debates, and Regis couldn’t let this council disintegrate before he had told them of the impending barbarian attack.
He hesitated, having to admit to himself once again that he had no options and could not back away from this urgent mission; his haven would be destroyed if he said nothing. Although Drizzt had reassured him of the power he possessed, he retained his doubts about the true magic of the stone. Yet due to his own insecurity, a trait common among little folk, Regis found himself blindly trusting in Drizzt’s judgment. The drow was possibly the most knowledgeable person he had ever known, with a list of experiences far beyond the tales that Regis could tell. Now was the time for action, and the halfling was determined to give the drow’s plan a try.
He closed his fingers around the little wooden gavel that was set out on the table before him. It felt unfamiliar to his touch, and he realized then that this was the first time that he had ever used the instrument. He tapped it lightly on the wooden table, but the others were intent on the shouting match that had erupted between Lugar and Brent. Regis reminded himself of the urgency of the drow’s news once again
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