“Come to order,” Cassius commanded, rapping his gavel on the table. The host spokesman always opened the meeting with the Formalities of Order, readings of titles and official proposals that had originally been intended to give the council an aura of importance, impressing especially the ruffians that sometimes showed up to speak for the more remote communities. But now, with the degeneration of the council as a whole, the Formalitites of Order served only to delay the end of the meeting, to the regret of all ten spokesmen. Consequently, the Formalities were pared down more and more each time the group gathered, and there had even been talk of eliminating them altogether.
When the list had finally been completed, Cassius turned to the important issues. “The first item on the agenda,” he said, hardly glancing at the notes that were laid out before him, “concerns the 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 never seemed 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. Yet Caer-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 and boldly pounded the gavel down.
The other spokesmen turned immediately to the halfling, blank expressions stamped upon their faces. Regis rarely spoke at the meetings, and then only when cornered with a direct question.
Cassius of Bryn Shander brought his heavy gavel down. “The council recognizes Spokesman…uh…the spokesman from Lonelywood,” he said, and from his uneven tone Regis could guess that he had struggled to address the halfling’s request for the floor seriously.
“Fellow spokesmen,” Regis began tentatively, his voice cracking into a squeak. “With all due respect to the seriousness of the debate between the spokesmen from Caer-Dineval and Caer-Konig, I believe that we have a more urgent problem to discuss.” Jensin Brent and Dorim Lugar were livid at being interrupted, but the others eyed the halfling curiously. Good start, Regis thought, I’ve got their full attention.
He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice and sound a bit more impressive. “I have learned beyond doubt that the barbarian tribes are gathering for a united attack on Ten-Towns!” Though he tried to make the announcement dramatic, Regis found himself facing nine apathetic and confused men.
“Unless we form an alliance,” Regis continued in the same urgent tones, “the horde will overrun our communities one by one, slaughtering any who dare to oppose them!”
“Certainly, Spokesman Regis of Lonelywood,” said Cassius in a voice he meant to be calming but was, in effect, condescending, “we have weathered barbarian raids before. There is no need for…”
“Not like this one!” Regis cried. “All of the tribes have come together. The raids before matched one tribe against one city, and usually we fared well. But how would Termalaine or Caer-Konig—or even Bryn Shander—stand against the combined tribes of Icewind Dale?” Some of the spokesmen settled back into their chairs to contemplate the halfling’s words; the rest began talking among themselves, some in distress, some in angry disbelief. Finally Cassius pounded his gavel again, calling the hall to silence.
Then, with familiar bravado, Kemp of Targos slowly rose from his seat. “May I speak, friend Cassius?” he asked with unnecessary politeness. “Perhaps I may be able to put this grave pronouncement in the proper light.”
Regis and Drizzt had made some assumptions about alliances when they had planned the halfling’s actions at this council. They knew that Easthaven, founded and thriving on the principle of brotherhood among the communities of Ten-Towns, would openly embrace the concept of a common defense against the barbarian horde. Likewise Termalaine and Lonelywood, the two most accessible and raided towns of the ten, would gladly accept any offers of help.
Yet even Spokesman Agorwal of Termalaine, who had so much to gain from a defensive alliance, would hedge and hold his silence if Kemp of Targos refused to accept the plan. Targos was the largest and mightiest of the nine fishing villages, with a fleet more than twice the size of Termalaine’s, the second largest.
“Fellow members of the council,” Kemp began, leaning forward over the table to loom larger in the eyes of his peers. “Let us learn more of the halfling’s tale before we begin to worry. We have fought off barbarian invaders and worse enough times to be confident that the defenses of even the smallest of our towns are adequate.”