Ambassador of Progress

He’d give the orders tomorrow, to modify a small boat. What harm would it do?

“And there’s nothing you ask in return for this piece of information?” Necias asked. “Nothing at all?”

There was a slight hesitation before Fiona’s reply. “We intend that this knowledge be considered part of my credentials, proof that I am who I say I am. We ask nothing of you in return: only that the suggestion be distributed to Arrandal as a whole,” she said, returning the pen and pad to Campas, “so that anyone who wishes can make use of it. Igara is not interested in giving information solely for the benefit of a few.”

Necias nodded, frowning, wondering how slow distribution could be and still be considered distribution. If he couldn’t be the sole beneficiary of this new system — assuming of course that it worked — he could certainly take a great deal of the credit to himself, by arranging to give it to the city. Likewise with any other bits of wisdom to come from the conjuror.

The time of Acragas Necias, he thought, the time when people came from the stars, and the world leaped forward. His name would never be forgotten... .

And then he shook the dream from his head. Not proven, he thought, nothing proven. He looked at his hand, seeing the fingers drumming on the settee arm again, and stopped himself, annoyed. There was something that didn’t fit, here.

“You want to give us knowledge,” he said. “And give it for free. Why?”

“It will help us to communicate with you,” Fiona said, “if we share a common knowledge with your people. But understand this, please: we won’t be making suggestions like this very often. This particular suggestion was just to help me prove my identity, that I am who I say I am.”

“Why not simply hand out all the information you possess?” Necias demanded. “It doesn’t make any sense that you’re so particular.”

Fiona nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, Abessu-Denorru, but it’s a necessary stipulation,” she said. “There are reasons for it — perhaps at another time I’ll be free to tell you. But now is not the appropriate time.”

Necias felt a nagging dissatisfaction. There was something wrong in what he was hearing, something beside Fiona’s refusal to explain the logic behind her stipulation, but he couldn’t find it. He gulped at his beer to buy a little time while he thought, his eyes scanning over those in the room, Campas with his little frown, Brito with her hard, intelligent eyes, Luco with her mouth open in an expression of reverent awe... the girl was staring at Fiona as if the goddess Lipanto had materialized in the room complete with dogs and horn. He scowled into his beer and then put the mug down.

“Credentials,” Necias said. “You said you could provide them.”

“I can send for them, if you think they’d help,” she said. “You realize why I wasn’t carrying any — you couldn’t tell them from forgeries. But, as I said earlier, if you will allow me access to the roof, or a small courtyard, I can produce them.”

“From your trunk?” Necias asked cynically; and to his astonishment he was suddenly aware of a glare from Luco — Luco, of all people! — who was glowering at him as if he had just committed gross blasphemy. He stared back at her, challenging, and she colored and dropped her eyes.

Fiona looked at her trunk on the floor, undisturbed by Necias’ sarcasm, then glanced up at Necias. “I think you’ll be satisfied as to the documents’ origin,” she said. “Can you give me a place?”

“The checkered terrace,” Necias said. “It’s private — just outside my own apartments.” He rose from the settee, his knees cracking; it felt good to be able to move again, to work off the nervous agitation that was gnawing at him.

“Follow me,” he said, and then gestured to the two Brodaini guards. “Take her trunk,” he said.

He could hear the sound of music and conversation from the fete as he stepped into the corridor. He turned left, away from it, and moved swiftly through the lantern-lit corridors until he came to his own apartments.

Here was a broad room where he entertained private guests, with an efficient peat-burning ceramic stove on one end and a vast, much less efficient fireplace that burned rare and precious wood — a display of anildas common among the deissin — on the other. The settees were plush and comfortable; tapestries, the products of Arrandalla looms, hung rustling on the walls, depicting important moments in the history of Arrandal, including the victories over Neda-Calacas and Cartenas and the formation of the Elva, all of which featured Necias prominently; imported rugs lay on the floor three-deep, Necias’ feet sinking to the ankle as he walked; there were desks and stools for clerks in case contracts had to be recorded; and there was a bronze-faced door that led to the partillo. Necias walked swiftly through the room, wishing he’d thought to bring his tray with him, then unlocked a small door and pushed out of the door into the cool night.

The checkered terrace was small, fifteen paces square, and flagged with black and white slate diamonds. Gargoyles decorated the sandstone railing that surrounded the terrace on two sides; below, to the right, the canal glittered coldly in starlight. Necias turned, puffing with the exertion of his swift pace, and saw Fiona, stepping swiftly to keep up, walk out onto the terrace, her red gown swirling about her ankles. Luco was on her heels, almost stumbling in her eagerness, with Campas, a bit indignant about this haste, following after, his pad jammed under his arm, his inkpot and pen balanced in his hands. Then the two impassive Brodaini, carrying Fiona’s small trunk between them — and then last of all came Brito, carrying Necias’ tray, and, Necias smiled and took it from her, kissing her cheek. Brito gave him a careful look.

“That conjuror is mad, Necias,” she said, lowering her voice so Fiona couldn’t hear. “A good witch, but mad. Mind she doesn’t bewitch you.”

Necias shook his head. “That’s not what she’s after,” he said.

“What is she after, then?”

Necias looked carefully at the small woman standing alone in the center of the square. “I don’t know. Yet,” he said.

“Put it down over there,” Fiona said, gesturing toward one of the far corners, and the Brodaini obeyed, then retired to the door. Fiona turned to the others.

“This will take a while,” she informed them. “Perhaps you’d be advised to get a cloak or shawl while you wait — it’s cool out here.”

Necias began clearing his tray of food as he watched Fiona kneel by the trunk for the space of three minutes or so; then she closed the lid, rose, and faced them. “Now we wait,” she said. “I think it would be wise if we all left the center area clear.” She looked up, her eyes searching the sky. “I don’t think we’ll see anything,” she added. “There’s too much cloud tonight.”

Too much cloud for her mallanto to find our city, Necias thought wryly. That will be her excuse when nothing happens.

Fiona walked to stand beside one of the gargoyles. She was straight as an arrow, a lone figure in her gown that seemed, in this light, the color of blood. Her eyes turned skyward every few seconds. No one spoke; only the sounds of the canal below, those and an occasional distant snatch of music carried to them by a gust of wind, broke the silence. Necias cleared his plate and began to pace, seeking an outlet for the restless energy he felt coiled inside him; he kept to the periphery of the terrace, though he knew not why.

Then Fiona cast her eyes upward suddenly, as if she’d heard something above; and Necias looked up himself, and then realized everyone was doing it. They had all heard it, whatever it was: some kind of whisper in the night, a sound somehow unnatural, that should not be there. Necias looked upward, feeling the strain in his neck, his eyes moving across the skyscape, the long, high chains of clouds crossing the stars, their undersides reflecting the silver moonrise. There! Was that a shadow crossing the clouds? No — it had gone, there was no way of telling.

But then there was a hiss of air like the sound of the north spring wind whipping through the gargoyles on the palace roof, and suddenly all the stars were blotted out. Necias staggered, thunderstruck with the sight; he heard a cry from Luco, gasps from the others, the earnest whisper of one of the Brodaini chanting something — a prayer for deliverance? A charm against witches? — in his own language.

It was a vast metal thing, winged, massive, delta-shaped with the blunt end forward, hovering with its outlines indistinct in the darkness — and suddenly lights stabbed out from its underside, illuminating the terrace in a harsh, merciless yellow light. Necias saw Fiona’s scarlet dress flash like a blaze in the light, her arm upraised in a gesture of welcome; and then something came falling out of the dazzling light, something that thudded onto the terrace with a metallic ring.

The lights winked out, and as Necias’ dazzled eyes tried to adjust to the darkness he received an impression of the winged thing vanishing into the dark, wind hissing over its curved surface. Nearby Necias heard the sound of a woman sobbing, then a rush of skirts, and Luco had her arms around him, pressing her cheek into his barrel chest. “It’s true!” she cried. “She’s from the stars!” Her voice was hysterical, though not, Necias realized, from fear. He recognized with surprise the touch of ecstatic, mad joy in it, the same rapture he’d heard in the voices of the priestesses of the god Plantas as they raced through the streets on their god’s day, drinking their spiced liquors until they were giddy and flogging one another in their madness until their white robes were spotted with blood. He looked at Luco in shock, then forced his eyes to return to Fiona.

She had stepped into the center of the terrace, kneeling to the object that had dropped, some kind of tube of white metal that had partly crumpled with the impact. Necias lowered his eyes to watch her, his arms going around Luco as she wailed into his chest. Fiona detached one end of the tube, and with some difficulty got a rolled shape out of the crumpled form. A scroll.

Necias’ mind, laboring still through the awe and surprise, began to cry aloud the opportunity. Acragas Necias, it said, founder of the Elva and the Hundred-Year Peace, the man who sponsored the star-people for the good of all Arrandal.

He would do it, he thought. His name would never be forgotten.

Fiona walked toward him, the tube clattering on the flags, offering the scroll.

“My credentials,” she said.

Luco sobbed on in her ecstatic madness. Necias lifted his hand from her shoulder, reached for the destiny he saw before him, and took the scroll.

CHAPTER 9

Fiona, yawning in her bedroom, scratched her head and opened the window overlooking the canal to bring some morning air into her small room. She was in the Acragas palace now, in a comfortable series of apartments, locked away — thank goodness — from her admirers in the city. Their early response to her appearance had been hysterical. That first day there had actually been a riot, thousands of people shouting her name, trying to storm the gates of the palace in hopes of a glimpse of her. Dozens had been trampled, two small children had died. She had, at her own insistence, appeared on the walls, hoping to calm them — the sight had been terrifying. A roaring mob, surging and eddying like the tide, reaching up to her, screaming her name, worshiping, crying, demanding... demanding things she did not understand, and could not give. A visitor from the sky, the story had spread, who would distribute wealth and happiness to all, and who had miraculous powers. A goddess, perhaps. Certainly not an ordinary mortal.

She’d told them to go, but they hadn’t listened: there was so much noise she hadn’t been able to make herself heard. In the end, after they’d started piling into boats and trying to get through the water gate, Necias had the militia turned out, and the mob was dispersed. In the eight days since then no more great crowds appeared, but there were still far more people than normal outside the gate, many of them gazing wistfully upward; and there had been a steady line of petitioners presenting themselves, hoping to interest the starwoman in their ideas, or hoping for relief from their problems.

She was almost at the point of envying Kira. Kira had made her announcement to Neda-Calacas two days after Fiona, at a massive celebration that their new Brodaini ruler, Tastis, had proclaimed to announce his policy of normalization — which meant, apparently, that he had enough of his prospective opponents under arrest that he could afford to take most of his soldiery off the streets. Kira, speaking over the spindle, had been ecstatic about the success of Fiona’s performance, and apprehensive about her own.

But the performance had gone well, and she had been invited to move into the Brodaini quarters, where servants had been provided to attend to her needs. In her case the government hadn’t asked for the proof Necias had required: no atmosphere craft had descended on Tastis’ keep, nor had there been mobs of hysterical people rampaging outside her doors — the Brodaini had seen to that — but instead a number of civilized meetings with Tastis and his aldran, at which they asked respectful questions and appeared impressed by her answers. She had, as agreed, given them the idea of the fore-and-aft sail, and they’d agreed to study it. Tastis, Kira had reported with surprise, was charming — she hadn’t expected charm from a Brodainu.

So Kira was prospering, and it was Fiona who had to cope with the mobs. The worst were the cases of sickness. Desperate people, knowing they were dying, had been coming in swarms — or, most horribly, they’d brought their children for healing: mothers with pale, limp forms in their arms, weeping, shouting, pleading... . There had been nothing Fiona could do. The conditions of her mission forbade it. In the end she’d asked Necias to make a proclamation to the city: Fiona was not a healer, could offer no advice to the physicians and surgeons who already existed in abundance.

A lie, and a heartbreaking lie. There was so much Fiona could do even without taking up the practice of medicine: most illness here was caused by bad sanitation and bad diet, these and the nonsterile conditions of the home and the surgery... but such aid was forbidden, until these people came up with the notion of sterility and sanitation themselves. Then she might — might — be able to give them some ideas. If, in the meantime, they asked her in the right way, she could at least present them with ideas that might tend to lead them in the right direction.

To help or not to help? Every decision had implications that were terrifying, each raised another dilemma in its place. Dilemmas that she, her cohorts, and her eventual successors would live with all their working careers. “Learn,” she’d been told, “to accept the conditions of these people’s existence. Learn to accept the fact that many will die young, and that most will live in wretchedness their entire lives. Your duty lies not to them, but to their descendants. And to your descendants. Remember that.”

She tried her best to remember, but their and her descendants were so far away, and the present wretchedness so apparent... . She tried her best not to think about it, to stay here in the Acragas palace and get as much of her work done as possible.

There had been, for example, an entire day spent training the town’s watchmen and criers, plus delegates from the majority of the deissin and the deissin themselves, in her mission, her presence here. She had to be very careful in presenting herself: what she could do, what she could not. She would not be involved in politics; she would not give military advice; she would not act as an oracle. For the present, she announced, she wanted only to live in the city and grow acquainted with it. Afterwards, perhaps, she would be able to offer a suggestion or two.

And in the meantime the Acragas project, altering the rigging of a small coastal barge in conformity with her design, was proceeding. It had sailed up and down the harbor a few times, but there had been problems with the sheets controlling the radically new sail — it was a primitive lugsail, she noticed, not a lateen or gaff sail; her diagram could have resulted in any of the three — and there were other difficulties with staying the mast. Yet the crew were enthusiastic, and would continue working with it. Necias seemed pleased.

Fiona saw Necias every day, and he had provided her with a staff of servants who, no doubt, were instructed to spy on her as much as possible. Necias’ visits were not long — there was much weighing him down now, with the preparations for war with Neda-Calacas — but he seemed genial, well-disposed toward her, and full of plans. There were also a great many social invitations, many of which had to be declined, but Fiona felt obliged to visit as many of the prominent deissin as possible; she didn’t wish them to think the Acragas family was monopolizing her. She wanted to make it clear that they could have access to her, should something arise — though what that something was, neither she nor they yet had any clear idea. The lugsail idea, if it worked, was going to wreak a massive enough change in trading patterns. That change would have to be analyzed before any others were contemplated.

For the most part Fiona intended simply to talk to people. Her own servants first of all, starting with her secretary Acragas Palvas, a junior member of the Acragas family employed chiefly to write the endless numbers of replies beginning with: “The Ambassador Fiona of Igara regrets that she cannot ...” He was an odd, awkward young man, compensating for his awkwardness by a fussy insistence on correctness. Fiona suspected that he was secretly scandalized by her. He was, she thought, doomed to this kind of role all his life: he was undistinguished except by his rigidity and punctilio, and probably was intelligent enough to know it. Perhaps, she thought, he would have been happier in the more formal, militarized society of the Brodaini, where everyone was careful to know his station and observe the forms; here among the Arrandalla he was sadly misplaced.

The others of her staff, a pair of maidservants who were also trained to act as hostesses when the situation demanded, were more forthcoming. They seemed all blushes and giggles at first, and it took some time before Fiona understood why: to these girls the idea of a woman ambassador was so unheard of it was titillating, a naughty joke. She was, to them, a minor indecency.

Fiona persevered: if she couldn’t communicate with these two young women there was very little hope for the rest of her tasks. Gradually they opened to her; under Fiona’s persistent prodding, they began to regard her less as an official and more as a woman, and subject to womanly confidences. The women of the city — those of the wealthier classes, anyway, and those who served them — lived almost entirely in their own world, carefully bordered, the world of the partillo and the servants’ hall. They rarely ventured out, and never alone: there was usually an older female relative, or if wealthy enough, liveried servants, to act as chaperones.

Their world was small, closed, intimate: there were no secrets between them. Both the maidservants considered themselves lucky: they’d both come from the lower artisan classes, families of leatherworkers and furniture makers respectively; and the Acragas family had bought their contracts when they’d reached their teens. They’d received training in acting as hostesses, and each had another valuable skill: Tibro, the elder by a year, had a fine singing voice and could play the flute, while Vico, surprisingly, was literate; her older brother had taught her to read. These various abilities raised their hopes for the marriage sweepstakes. If they were very lucky, they might have hopes of becoming a junior wife of some minor deissu or other, perhaps even an Acragas; otherwise the chances were good of becoming the wife of one of the other servants, some of whom were paid very well indeed — which would mean a stable life and a steady income, revolving around the excitement of the palace. On the whole, prospects were better than if they had stayed at home, where they would most likely have been married off to craft guildsmen, comrades of their fathers and probably much older than they; the guild system kept apprentices and journeymen too poor to marry.

Tibro and Vico were remarkably frank about these matters — and what they said was common enough knowledge, anyway. The social system of Arrandal, particularly as regarded respectable partnership and marriage, revolved around money. The deissin married one another’s daughters in order to keep their wealth within a limited circle, and to stabilize trading relationships. The servants, guilds-men, and small traders spent much of their lives acquiring enough capital to marry and start a family; and ambitious working girls put aside much of their own meager pay in order to make themselves more attractive to prospective husbands.

Illicit relationships, Fiona learned, had their financial aspect as well. Rich men, in addition to their various wives, often kept mistresses, usually without any attempt at concealing them: a mistress kept in style added to one’s own status, since it proved one could afford her. Fiona would very much have liked to have talked to one of these women — perhaps later, after the furor of her arrival died down, she could arrange it.

The results of all these financial constrictions on sexual passion seemed clear: large-scale, open, and more or less legal prostitution, catering to all wages and tastes; plus a large and lively literature, both of unfulfilled longing and of adultery. When Fiona asked Tibro, the vocalist, to sing some songs of the common people, she complied with a series of ballads about chaste couples who, too poor to marry, are forced to love one another from afar for years, usually with the woman trying her best to avoid marriage to an older, more suitable candidate, before finally being able to marry — or, alternately, dying before they could fulfill their love for one another. Campas’ elaborate poems about shepherds and shepherdesses living their frustrating and chaste lives, Fiona thought, made a little more sense against this background.

More lively were the songs about fornication. Usually these involved a young, junior wife married to an older deissu, and who acquired a lover her own age. Universally these women seemed to come to bad ends: dying at the hands of jealous husbands, betrayed by their lovers, condemned by the law, shut up in nunneries. The deissin had an active and jealous regard for their property, among which they most certainly counted their wives.

And so the ballads painted contrary pictures: one of ideal, continent couples locked in hopeless, unfulfilled love; the other of lusty young men and women cheerfully trysting in odd corners of the palace, hiding from the watchdogs of the doddering but jealous spouse. Two views of Arrandalla society, Fiona thought, with the truth probably lurking somewhere in between.

She’d reported her conclusions to the ship, and her surreptitious recording of Tibro’s ballads were on file. Artifacts of a civilization, keys to help Fiona’s successors live within this culture and perhaps to comprehend it, and to provide, in some future, material for an academic thesis, “Marriage and Morality in Classical Arrandal.”

None of which, of course, would help her now.

Fiona leaned out her window, seeing a swift dispatch boat skimming over the canal below, a self-important little man sitting in the sternsheets with a dispatch case. She was three storeys above the green, sluggish canal, and the fresh southerly trade wind kept the smell at bay. Across the canal was a moored barge on which an old woman was stringing laundry that she’d just washed in the filthy water. Fiona thought of typhoid and shuddered.

There was a scratching on her bedroom door, and Tibro’s soft voice. Fiona called her in. “Campas is here, Ambassador,” Tibro reported. “He has a message from the Abessu-Denorru.”

Fiona shook the woolly morning thoughts out of her head and blinked. “Very well,” she said. “Show him into the study. Offer him tea or wine if he wants it. I’ll be with him directly.”

Tibro bobbed and backed from the room. Fiona changed from her sleeping-caftan to one of her receiving gowns — in her own apartments she’d given up wearing her privy-coat — and combed her hair into some kind of order, then stepped out of her bedroom, down a passage, and into her private study door. Campas, dressed in a tunic of dark red with the Acragas insigne, the god Pastas, on the shoulder, rose to greet her. She waved him back to his chair and found a chair herself.

“The Abessu-Denorru regrets he will be unable to visit you today,” Campas said. “He’ll be busy all day reviewing the army.”

“I thank the Abessu-Denorru for his courtesy,” Fiona said, wondering if this was the entire message.

“He has authorized me to tell you,” Campas added, “that war with Neda-Calacas will be declared officially tomorrow, which will be followed shortly thereafter by declarations from all the cities of the Elva. The fleet will sail immediately to commence a blockade, and the army will march as soon as logistical preparations are concluded, probably in a few days.”

Fiona nodded. “I thank the Abeissu Necias for the information,” she said.

Campas leaned forward, lowering his voice to a more intimate tone, his ringed fingers linked in front of him. “Because of the policy complications bound to arise with all the allied armies in the field,” he said, “the Abessu-Denorru will be accompanying the army himself, along with Marshal Palastinas and the drandor Tegestu. He would count it a favor, Ambassador Fiona, if you would accompany him.”

Fiona felt her chin jerk upward in surprise, and she deliberately paused for a second, composing her answer.

“I am surprised,” she said. “Why should the Abessu-Denorru feel my presence would be of value? I can give no military advice, you know.”

Before Campas could answer came a scratching at the door, followed by Tibro’s entering with tea and cakes. She bobbed to both of them, poured tea in silence, and then backed from the room, leaving the door open.

There was a reason for that open door, Fiona knew, and it annoyed her. Passion was so constrained in this society that it was assumed that if an unattached man and woman were alone for more than a few seconds, nature would take its course. That the couple might deny that anything transpired counted for little: they were alone, yes? He is a man; she is a woman — what could be more natural? The door was open, not so that Tibro could spy on them, but rather so that she could act as a discreet chaperone. Because of her own cultural antecedents the assumptions behind that open door drove Fiona to fist-clenching fury; and she was irrationally tempted to closet herself with all manner of men simply to outrage as many conventions as she could. Let them gossip all they want, she thought. What does it matter to me?

But, of course, it did matter: she was here on sufferance and could not afford to outrage local opinion, not yet — and so the door stayed open. And through the door came the sounds of Tibro’s reed flute, allowing discreet conversation.

“The Abessu-Denorru wishes me to accompany the army,” Fiona said. “Why?”

Campas’ answer was quick. “Your peoples — the Igaralla, I mean — they have sent an ambassador to Neda-Calacas, yes?”

“That’s true,” Fiona said.

“The Igaralla are neutral in this war, you have made that clear,” Campas said. “There’s no other power on the continent that can make that claim. And you can communicate with your people in that, that star-ship of yours; the city walls are no barrier. It may be useful to have a neutral representative on hand — we may have to conduct negotiations regarding prisoner exchange, for example, or — eventually — for surrender. We will win, you know,” Campas said, matter-of-fact. “It may take a year or two, but Neda-Calacas can’t hold out against all of us.”

Fiona was silent for a long moment, taken completely aback. The proposal, of course, was completely logical; she could see nothing wrong with offering the kind of assistance requested here, and there might be some interesting data coming out of the campaign — on the Brodaini, for example — but on the other hand wars had a way of involving people in unforeseen ways. She decided to temporize.

“I regret I can’t give an immediate answer,” she said. “I’ll have to communicate with my superiors.” Which, to be sure, was truthful enough.

“There will be a delay of several days before the army marches,” Campas said. “Will that time be sufficient?”

“I should think so.”

Campas leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out before him, crossing them. He looked at her with a careless smile. “You are satisfied with your conditions here?” she asked. “No problems with the staff?”

Well: the official part of the visit seemed to be over. Fiona relaxed as well, picking up her teacup. “No complaints. The embassy will have to acquire its own building sooner or later, of course,” she said. “But I’m being treated very well, thank you.”

“An embassy of one is unusual, here,” Campas said.

“It serves two purposes,” Fiona said. “A single ambassador, traveling on her own, was thought to be less threatening — we didn’t want to alarm you, not with a lot of people swooping down from the sky. Also, since we had a limited number of people on our ship, and we intend to be here for a very long time, there’s a problem with personnel. We have to plan far ahead, especially since we intend to have an embassy in every major country, if we can.” She sipped her tea, shifting in her seat. “But I will have an assistant in a year or so, I expect. With the Abessu-Denorru’s permission.”

“You didn’t want to alarm us, you say, with a large embassy,” Campas said. “Is that why your people sent a woman?”

Bull’s eye, Fiona thought with surprise. Campas was quick, quicker than she’d thought.

“That — idea had occurred to us,” she said. “But not all of our ambassadors are women. It was more a matter of interest and aptitude among the candidates.” This conversation was beginning to get too close to matters she preferred the Arrandalla not to know, at present; she moved swiftly to change the topic.

“Will you be going with the army, Campas?” she asked.

Campas accepted the change of topic without comment. “Alas, yes,” he said with a wry grin. “I’ll be with Necias in the field. They’re putting me on staff, to help deal with the Brodaini.”

“The Brodaini, now — you’ve lived among them, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Campas said noncommittally. “Necias wanted me to learn their language. A curious people.”

“A violent people,” Fiona said. “How do you advise an outsider, someone like myself, to deal with the Brodaini?”

Campas grinned. “Learn to apologize quickly and sincerely,” he said.

Fiona smiled and spoke in Gostu. “Ban-demmin, may your arm never weaken, I intended no offense,” she said, and Campas laughed — it was a genuine laugh, filling the small room, a hearty, healthy reminder that the Arrandalla laughed loudly and often, as did her own people. A needed reminder: they were all careful around her, a little in awe, their speech formal and very... diplomatic. She joined his laughter, achingly aware of how long it had been since she had laughed with someone.

Tibro’s flute hesitated, then continued its song.

“Bro-demmin would be better,” Campas said, still smiling as he settled in his chair. “More subservient.”

“Not from an ambassador.”

He nodded, conceding the point. There was a small silence as each waited for the other to fill it; then Fiona spoke.

“Do you know Tegestu? I’ve only seen him once, the night of my last performance.” Campas frowned, his fingers plucking at his doublet as he considered his answer.

“I’m acquainted with Tegestu,” he said. “I’ve met him many times. But I can’t say I know him, no. Yet I know he’s a very remarkable man.”

“Remarkable? In what way?” Fiona asked. Her recorder had been turned on and was quietly collecting every word. Data, to be transcribed later: The Brodaini, as described by an Arrandalla Observer.

“He’s very intelligent, very quick,” Campas said. “And he’s made the compromises necessary to live here, and made them understandable to his followers in their own terms — that’s his great achievement, I think,”

“Compromises?” It was easy enough to prod most people into talking about themselves, about their ideas: so it was with Campas.

“Their society is very rigid, you see,” Campas said. “It doesn’t take easily to compromises — Brodaini consider tradition and honor more important than life, and in one sense it would have been easier for Tegestu’s people to hold their ground and be killed by the conqueror, rather than alter their way of life to take service with us. But Tegestu saw a chance to survive, and to do it with a minimum of change, and that change slowly.

“It took him time, you see. Years. He had to hold off the Clattern i Clatterni for the first of those years, while he made his deal with Necias; and then he had to make his deal with the conqueror. He would evacuate his country over a period of ten years, taking as many of his dependents as wished to go, and in the end the conqueror would have the territory without having to fight for it — with its castles intact, its fields unscorched by war. The treaty was very complex — I’ve seen it — but it was eventually hammered out, and both sides abided by it. Tegestu evacuated his people; the Abessu-Denorru found land for his peasants and wars for his warriors; and that created a demand among the other cities for other Brodaini.

“Tegestu was cunning in all this negotiation,” Campas said; then he smiled. “Subtlety isn’t supposed to be a Brodaini trait; but I think it’s that they have different ways of being subtle. Tegestu would make a good deissu, crafty as he is.”

“Do you like him?” Fiona asked. She found herself genuinely curious: Campas, she thought, was a likable man. A good observer, she thought — had he been born on Igara he could have had her job, had he wanted it.

Campas thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t. I admire him, but the Brodaini are not for liking. There’s something strange about them, so fierce and so — alien.” He looked as if he were repressing a shudder. He looked up at her, speaking candidly. “Even to someone who has lived among them, like myself, they’re unpredictable. We don’t know what sets them off. And now Tastis has gone mad and seized an entire city.” He leaned back in his chair, frowning in thought. “But that will be an end to him. The change will come too fast.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Campas looked up at her quickly. “Don’t you?” he asked softly. His lips twitched in a little, cynical smile, his eyes holding steadily on hers. “It’s obvious,” he said. “Tegestu was given the Old City here, walled off for his people; and he settled his peasants in little communities of their own guarded by Brodaini soldiers. It was to lower the incidence of contact, obviously, to minimize the shocking contrast between one people and another. But the contacts were there, unavoidable, and all Tegestu’s care wouldn’t keep them from happening, and once that happened his way of life was doomed. They’re brave, but they don’t fit in here; their way of life is too different, and our numbers are overwhelming. Whether he realized it or not — and I think he did realize it; he’s a canny man — he was trying to keep the changes from happening so quickly that his people would be overwhelmed by them, perceive them as threats, and react violently, as Tastis has done. So that the changes would come slowly, and so that some of his way of life might be preserved — changed but not destroyed, as it will be destroyed with Tastis.”

Campas leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea, his blue eyes watching Fiona intently. “You’ve been asking me a lot of questions, Ambassador,” he said. “Most people in your situation wouldn’t bother to inquire after the opinions of a mere messenger. I wonder at your interest.’’

“Your question isn’t very diplomatic,” Fiona said.

“Neither were yours,” Campas said, his face hard. “You’re studying us, and for that reason you’re interested in what we think; but you’ve drawn your own conclusions well ahead of time. I don’t think you like us very much, but you try to be polite. I recognize what you’re doing, you see.” His lips twitched in a bitter smile. “I lived among the Brodaini and studied them, and I didn’t like them, either.” He put down his tea, then looked up, his gaze frank, and frankly hostile. “Your people are after something, and I’m not sure what it is. Not conquest — I believe you there — but it’s not trade, either. You’re not as disinterested as all that.” He stood, looking down at Fiona with an odd mixture of puzzlement and stubbornness on his face, as if he were still trying to sort out his impressions, his conclusions. “I haven’t forgotten what you said to the Abessu-Denorru, when he asked you what you wanted in return for your suggestion about the sail. We ask nothing from you, you said; I noticed the emphasis even if Necias didn’t. But you do want something in the end, if not from Necias. And I wonder what that is.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Ambassador. I’ll remove myself.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Your servant,” he said, and walked toward the door.

“Sit down,” said Fiona, and when he only hesitated she repeated herself, with emphasis. “Sit. Down.” Campas stopped, then turned and faced her, an expression of anger on his face — but then he shrugged again, smiled his cynical smile, and in the end obeyed.

Fiona looked down at her hands grasping the arms of her chair; their knuckles were white. Deliberately she relaxed her grip, relaxing as well the jaw muscles that had clenched her teeth together.

Campas looked at her expectantly.

“That was a remarkable performance, Campas,” she said. “You’re quite an actor, aren’t you? And now I’m compelled, like you, to wonder why. What offends you, Campas? My private judgments? Why should you care at all what I think?”

“Your thoughts are of no concern,” he said. “Your attitudes are. Do you think you can fool us so easily? Necias may be satisfied for the moment, but once he has a little time to think he’ll begin to try to reason out what you’re doing here, and he’ll begin to wonder the same things I’ve been wondering.”

“So you simply think me dishonest?” Fiona asked, frankly disbelieving. “You consider that we Igaralla have concealed motives of our own, and for that reason you choose to despise me?” She barked a short, contemptuous laugh. “Give me something better, Campas,” she chided. “Someone demanding candor should be candid himself.”

Campas sat silent for long seconds, his eyes burning into her. “Brito thinks you’re a witch,” he said. “They haven’t executed witches here for a hundred years, but I think she’d see you chopped up in the public square if she could. You frighten her.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Fiona said. “But you’re not arguing for the revival of the laws against witchcraft, I take it?”

Campas shook his head; but his fierce eyes never left her. “But you are a witch, you see,” he said. “I’m not saying you have cast a spell over us all — it would have been better if you had: spells wear off. You’ve done something far worse. You’ve changed the world.”

Fiona became aware of the silence from the other chamber, the absence of Tibro’s flute. Well, she thought fiercely, let the girl listen.

“Worlds change every day,” she said.

“Not like this, they don’t,” Campas said. “The people are intoxicated with you. See the star woman. Hear of her wonders. They think of you as this benevolent force, come to improve their lives. They haven’t yet realized what you really mean.

“Now we know there are other worlds,” he said. “Other peoples, peoples who can work wonders. And before long we will begin to measure ourselves against you. What will happen then? We do not build ships that sail between the stars; we cannot fly above the clouds; we are unable to communicate between cities in the blink of an eye. A lady walks among us, offering in her whimsical condescension ‘suggestions,’ little driblets of knowledge from heaven, that can turn us upside-down. Our triumphs are insignificant; our knowledge pointless. It’s all been done before.

“Your spells have taken our souls, witch,” Campas said, his bitterness etched on his words like acid. “You’ve shown us our insignificance. Our dreams have been dreamed before, and better. You’ve shattered us, Ambassador. We were better off before you showed us the stars.”

“I don’t think you’re so fragile as all that, Campas,” Fiona said. “I don’t enjoy being a part of this poetic conceit of yours.” He turned his eyes away as her shaft struck home; and then she stood up, walked briskly to the door, and caught a glimpse of Tibro, flute in hand, perched on a settee, her eyes wide with shock. The maidservant flushed. “Beg pardon, Ambassador,” she stammered.

“Play,” Fiona said, and then expressionlessly closed the door, putting her back against it. Let them think what they damn well please, she thought fiercely, and then, feeling the firmness of the door against her shoulders, she spoke.

“What I’m going to say is not meant to go beyond these walls,” she said. “Can I trust you not to go running off to Necias with this, like that girl out there, who is certainly going to dash off downstairs with the news that I’m a witch after all?”

“I can keep a confidence.” Grudgingly. No woman had ever talked to him like this, Fiona thought. Too bad it hadn’t happened before.

She walked across the room and returned to her seat. “Do you think you’re the first people to have your world turned around?” she asked. “It’s happened before, and it’s happened worse. I’ve seen the history you teach your children. Five hundred years ago the Abessla were conquerors, coming over the passes from the south, weren’t they? They toppled the weak Captilla kingdoms, and then the Sanniscu Empire, and the result has been five hundred years of anarchy as the successors, the barons and the cities, warred among themselves. Do you think the Captilla and Sannisla didn’t have their world changed?”

“They were destroyed,” Campas said. “Wiped out. You serve only to illustrate my point.”

“Hardly destroyed. They still live, Campas,” Fiona said. “Their kingdoms were destroyed, but the people lived under new rulers. And they learned, Campas. They learned from their conquerors, and their conquerors learned from them. And eventually they became a single people. Ideas may shatter, Campas, but the people survive them, if they’re wise. You can’t be afraid of putting aside the ideas of your youth, when you grow older — or can you?”

Campas looked at her balefully. “If these youthful ideas are all I’ve got,” he said. “If these quaint, eccentric little concepts are all that’s holding me together, I damned well resent their supercession.”

“Dramatics.”

He glared up at her sharply, resentful. Fiona settled into her seat, plumping up the pillow behind her, pulling her legs into the chair. “I’m going to tell you a story, Campas,” she said. “Believe it a true one or not, as you please. I’m not an artist such as yourself, so forgive my crudities of phrase.”

Sardonic humor entered Campas’ eyes. “Now who’s being dramatic?”

Fiona grinned. “Conceded,” she said. She sipped her tea — by now it was cold, but it still refreshed.

“I’ll have to ask you to imagine a planet much like your own,” she said. “Its name was Terra, and humans lived there from earliest times — they lived, and boon-re blessed them, such that they learned to travel among the stars. Not slowly, such as my people do it, but swiftly, in an instant. So they traveled among the stars in their fast ships, and they found many planets on which the Terralla could live. Their people came to these planets in great numbers; and they settled there and prospered. They came to my planet, Igara, and they came to yours, Campas; and they settled in both.”

Campas sat up, his eyebrows raised. “You’re making a case for these people as our ancestors?” he asked.

“You’re quick,” Fiona said. “But I’m just telling a story, remember. I don’t want to turn your fragile world upside-down again.”

Campas smiled, his smile this time self-mocking, conscious of Fiona’s elaborate irony. “Very well,” he said, gesturing grandly. “Please go on.”

“Thank you.” The muffled sound of Tibro’s flute sounded through the door. Fiona settled again into her chair, and went on. “But there was a flaw in the knowledge of the Terralla,” she said. “Their method of traveling among the stars was dangerous, and they did not know it.” She paused, trying to choose her words. How could she explain to this man, bright as he was, that the Terran faster-than-light ships, using their vast power to warp the fabric of space-time, had created a monumental instability in the balance of space, matter, time, reality? And that when the balance was at last overturned, the catastrophe had been sudden and swift, destroying entire planets, sending others backward and forward in time, destroying human civilization?

“Imagine that the Arrandalla build a new type of ship to sail upon the sea,” Fiona said. “And that this new type of ship is very fast and successful, so that the Arrandalla expand throughout the world and become very rich, and that their knowledge increases and they become very wise. But that the means by which this ship is driven through the waves injures the ocean, so that ocean is forced to attack the ships in self-defense.” She saw incomprehension in Campas’ eyes and paused. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is difficult.”

He waved a hand by his head, mimicking his own confusion. “This ship is injuring the ocean?” he asked. “Is the ocean alive, then, in this story?” Then a light of understanding entered his eyes, and he leaned forward. “Or am I not to take this literally? Is this a metaphor?”

“A metaphor,” Fiona said gratefully, thankful that Campas had made that leap of understanding.

“Very well. Go on.” He leaned back in his chair, his legs still thrust out before him.

“The Terralla did not entirely understand the means by which they traveled among the stars, just as your alchemists do not entirely understand why their compounds work, or do not work,” she said. “Just as the alchemists might accidentally make a compound that is dangerous — that might be poison, or that might cause a fire — the Terralla did not understand that there was great danger created by their ships. They caused a great disaster, and most of the Terralla died. More than ninety-nine in a hundred were killed instantly; all their ships were destroyed: their cities were turned to ruins. Many of the survivors were driven mad by the catastrophe.”

She paused, seeing an intent, intelligent comprehension on Campas’ face, knowing she had him intrigued. “You may be interested to know that my people have a large literature concerning the Terralla,” she said. “Tragedies, many of them — they show the Terralla as wise beings descending, through fatal curiosity, to disaster. The catastrophe is presented as the inevitable result of their meddling with things they should have left alone.

“Other interpretations show the Terralla as decadent, self-indulgent sensation seekers, playing among their palaces, tempting fate for the pleasure of it. Yet others show them as immeasurably wise ancestors from whose standards of perfection we have fallen. Others just use the time of the Terralla as a background for tales of fantastic romance and adventure.” Fiona smiled, seeing Campas nod, understanding well the matter of literary interpretation. “Personally,” she said, “I think all these approaches make fine literature, but all are off the mark as far as the truth about Terra is concerned. I suspect the Terralla were much as we, that their fall was not a measure of arrogant curiosity, or of their decadence, but a measure only of their human fallibility. They fell because even though they were wise they were still human, and did not understand enough about their universe. They fell from lack of knowledge, not from too much.”

Campas nodded. “I compliment you, Ambassador,” he said, his tone serious. “I didn’t realize you had this gift, truly I didn’t. You point your morals very elegantly. I shall have to look upon you as a rival, in future.”

Fiona looked down at her lap, strangely embarrassed by the compliment, and then shook her head. “Your gift is poetry,” she said. “Mine is storytelling. Yours is the greater.’’

“My compliment was sincere,” Campas said. “I don’t flatter in these matters.” Then he grinned. “I can write my poetry for a hundred years, and it won’t alter the world a bit — it’s still valueless, as far as my masters are concerned. My chief uses are secretarial, and my poetry is useful to Necias chiefly as a demonstration of his anildas. It enhances his esteem to have a court poet, and so he does.

“But your little stories, Ambassador —” His smile faded, replaced by sadness. He waved a gentle, admonishing finger at her. “You told one tale eight nights ago, and this old world hasn’t been the same since. And I’ve been angry at you for it.” He bowed. “Jealousy, I’m sorry to say. I apologize.”

So that’s what set him off, Fiona thought. He’s been trying to get his poetry through their dim minds for years, and now a little foreign woman has done in a night all he’s ever wanted to do.

“I haven’t invalidated your verse,” she said. “It’s still as accomplished as ever it was.”

“Just far less relevant.” Lightly, but still with bitterness. His eyes rose to hers. “But you were telling me about the Terralla. What’s become of them?”

“Gone, we think,” Fiona said. “Terra itself disappeared in the catastrophe. And the survivors, here and there on other planets, having lost everything — well, they started over. Much of their land would not support life, at least not at first. It was a terrible existence, and only gradually did it improve. They forgot Terra and all they had been, except perhaps as a land in a legend. Their own worlds were all they knew.

“Some recovered earlier,” she continued. “Their worlds had not been scarred as badly, and, when they had progressed enough to understand them, they had Terralla artifacts to help them. It was these who began to first move among the stars again, moving much more slowly this time, so as not to risk the holocaust caused by the Terralla.”

“Your people,” Campas said. “The Igaralla.”

Fiona shook her head, and she saw surprise in Campas’ eyes. “No, Campas,” she said. “These were other peoples altogether — two other planets rose, simultaneously, to that position; and they began to seek out the planets the Terralla had populated, first by signaling and then by sending ships.”

“There are others, then?” Campas asked. “Not just Demro and Igara, but others?”

“Eleven that we know of, counting your own,” Fiona said. “My own planet, Igara, had advanced enough to understand the signals when they came — ships weren’t sent to us. After that, Igara leagued with the other planets, and agreed to send out ships, as the others had done. Most of the ships found nothing — no planets at all, or worlds that were dead. My own ship was lucky.”

Fiona fell silent, seeing Campas trying to absorb the idea; there was a frown on his face, and he stared down at his boot-tip. Then his gaze rose. “It’s a lot to understand, all at once.” He shook his head. “The priests won’t like it — they have their own notions of how we got here.”

“I’m not telling the priests,” Fiona said.

“No,” he said, with a quiet smile. “You’re not.”

“I have yet to come to my moral,” Fiona reminded him. Campas gave a short laugh.

“I forgot,” he said. “Pray continue.”

“My point is that out of the all the descendants of the Terralla we’ve yet discovered, none have equaled the Terralla civilization. None as large, none as wise, none as brilliant. Whatever we’ve done, the Terralla have done before. Whatever discoveries we’ve made, the Terralla made them first. But we’ve found that it’s not a reason for despair!

“The discovery that a given idea was conceived of first by someone else does not mean that the idea is false, or the conceiver a lesser being than his predecessor. The fact that two other civilizations recovered from the Terralla holocaust and began to travel among the stars some hundreds of years before Igara did — this does not make Igara false. Nor does it make your own life less, or your work.”

She leaned back in triumph, straightening her shoulders, proclaiming now with a flourish, her hands waving. “My coming hasn’t invalidated your poetry, it’s just put it in a different perspective. Perhaps it was a perspective that was needed.”

Campas sat still for a moment, watching her with brooding eyes, and then he began to applaud, his handclaps echoing in the small room. Fiona, pleased with herself, gave him a flourishing stage bow, bending from the waist.

“Ambassador, I grovel before your eloquence,” he said. “Had I such a thing as a fat purse, I would throw it. In future, I shall make a point to write for a stellar audience.”

“Your servant,” said Fiona.

Campas drew in his long legs and stood. “Ambassador, this was most enlightening,” he said. His craggy face was serious, carefully appraising. “You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Must you go?”

“Alas, yes,” Campas said. He smiled and bowed, suddenly breezy. “Necias wants me to meet with Marshal Palastinas’ staff this afternoon, to discuss logistics.” His tone turned to one of dry mockery. “No doubt I shall learn a great deal about march rates, and bridging trains, and other matters of no interest whatever.’’

Fiona reached down to her waist to turn off her recorder — damn the ship anyway, this was none of their business — then uncoiled from her settee and rose. “Visit again, if you wish,” Fiona said. “Believe it or not, I’ve enjoyed this talk. And I appreciate your candor... and your discretion.’’

“The pleasure was mine, as was the enlightenment,” Campas said — typical Arrandalla speech, flowery and complimentary, but Fiona thought she detected a measure of sincerity. “Forgive my discourtesy, which you are so good as to call candor. I shall call again, if I can.”

“I am glad to have made a friend,” Fiona said. Campas seemed startled, looking at her sharply for an instant; then he said, “Ambassador, your servant,” opened the door behind him, and backed out.

Tibro was still tootling dutifully away, and Fiona, exhilaration filling her, stepped into the parlor, leaning her shoulder on the door jamb. She felt as if she had just passed a test... and almost certainly she just had. Campas’ objections to her presence had not been unanticipated; but the man had surprised her, coming to her so quickly. Campas was surprisingly acute.

She realized suddenly that she was very hungry. Giving speeches on an empty stomach: bad for her. “Tibro, bring me luncheon,” she said. The girl put down the flute.

“Yes, Ambassador.”

“The white wine, I think — the gift from Fastias.”

“Yes, Ambassador.”

Fiona smiled as Tibro bustled out of the room: there was going to be a lot of talk downstairs. Probably it would get to Necias, eventually; and then Campas might be in for an interrogation. Well, the man was inventive: no doubt he could create a suitable story if he had to.

She frowned as she realized that Campas might simply go straight to Necias and give the Abeissu everything she’d just told him — there was certainly no proof to the contrary, nothing but her intuition that his promise to keep a confidence meant something. She had to trust someone, she thought stubbornly; she was all alone here.

Not that it much mattered. If Necias had asked the same questions, she would have told him the same story.

With, she knew, the same, appalling, inbuilt lie. The worst kind of lie, the sort that can be told while telling the most scrupulous, factual kind of truth. Campas’ accusations had been far too close. We ask nothing of you: Campas had been perfectly right that her subtle emphasis contained an evasion, and that eventually the spacefarers from Igara would ask payment for their help. She hadn’t dared answer that accusation, and so she’d turned the subject: her story, without containing a single lie, had diverted him from the most overwhelming truth of all.

She had called Campas friend; and he’d been surprised. Could a friend conceal such a truth from a friend? No: not a truth of that sort. Not the most gigantic truth, the truth why the Igarans had so hastily begun to travel from star to star.

The meal came, and Fiona, her exhilaration fading, ate it without enthusiasm. That lie would be paid for; she knew it.

Afterwards she returned to her room, to find that Vico had quietly cleaned it in her absence. She opened her trunk to transfer the recording of Campas’ visit to her larger-capacity recorder, and discovered, to her surprise, an urgent message from the ship. She frowned: this hadn’t happened before. She cued the communicator. The reply was instant.

“Fiona.” Tyson’s voice, sounding weary, discouraged.

“Yes, Tyson.”

“A problem, Fiona. Kira’s dead.”

And suddenly there were ridiculous tears stinging Fiona’s eyes — appallingly useless, of course, no good to Kira or anybody. But still the emotional hammer came, and flattened her against the anvil; she hadn’t realized that any news could strike her with such force.

Kira, laughing Kira, eager, so vibrant — now the first to pay the penalty for her idealism.

“What happened?” Fiona asked, when she had confidence her voice wouldn’t crack.

The tale was one of lunacy, of bad judgment by everyone concerned.

Kira had been pleased with her reception, and treated with all courtesy — and then, last night, Tastis had struck. Brodaini had come smashing into her apartments, seizing her in her bed, dragging her down to the prison. An emissary from Tastis had given her an ultimatum: she would inform her superiors that their knowledge would be used for the benefit of Neda-Calacas alone, or her life would be forfeit.

Fiona, seeing her knuckles whiten on the spindle as she heard of the attack, was suddenly thankful Necias had insisted on such proof in her own case — if Tastis had seen that huge atmosphere craft cruising above his city, he might have thought twice about using such brutal tactics.

Kira had told them their demands were impossible, but they hadn’t listened. They had simply shown her the instruments of torture available there in the dungeon, explaining their uses — and demonstrated them, in a few cases, on their other prisoners. She would have a night to think it over.

She was alone, her spindle having been confiscated; she’d taken off her privy-coat before going to bed. But the mission planners had foreseen even this; there was still a means of defense, and also of communication, both hidden beneath her own flesh. Kira had done what was necessary; she’d touched a point in her left armpit, at the soft bend of the left elbow, at another place on the wrist — that would have numbed a little area on her forearm. And then she would have begun to rub that spot with a spoon, or a piece broken off from a stool, or with her fingernail — with anything available — until the flesh was scraped away and her new communicator revealed among the bloody tissue. The ship had been contacted and the atmospheric-maneuverable shuttle sent down. While air-dropped flares lit up the sky around the city, attracting the attention of the watchers on the walls, Kira had, with a weapon hidden in her right arm, blasted her way out of prison and fought her way to the roof of the keep, where the speeding aircar dashed to meet her.

Too late. She was found dead on the roof, a Brodaini arrow in her ribs. The aircar crew burned every guard they could see and carried her body to the ship. They had been reprimanded for excessive use of violence.

Fiona, her fingers digging into her palms, repressed the urge to shriek at Tyson. Excessive use — my god! These people had purged half the great houses of the city. If she had been in the rescuers’ position, looking down at Kira’s body, she would have burned the entire keep down about their ears.

“New rules, Fiona,” Tyson said. “Keep your privy-coat on at all times, even when sleeping. We’ll want reports twice each day, instead of once.”

“Of course.”

“Anything to report?”

“No, nothing,” she said — why couldn’t they leave her alone? But then she remembered she had news after all. She rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. “Oh, yes. Arrandal will declare war on Neda-Calacas tomorrow. The rest of the Elva cities will follow.” And not soon enough, she thought savagely.

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” Tyson said. “This must be a shock. She was someone very special. There will be a service for Kira tonight at the eighth hour, your time. Will you want to listen?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“We’ll signal when we begin. Oh, Fiona, one thing.”

“Yes?”

“This news — it brings no joy, Fiona. But don’t let this overwhelm you. You won’t do Kira any good by growing angry. Try to think what she would have wanted you to do.”

Fiona swallowed hard. Tyson knew her well; his words were well-meaning, but also pointed.

“I’ll try to remember,” she said. “Thank you, Tyson.”

Her numb fingers dropped the little spindle as she tried to switch it off; she cursed and kicked it across the room, knowing it would take no harm. Damn this world and its madness. These people didn’t deserve Kira; they didn’t deserve anything.

A sudden idea struck her, and she leaned back on her couch, considering it. Necias had asked her to accompany the army; and now the idea seemed an attractive one.

Of course the original purpose was gone. She would not be going as a neutral.

But she would see Tastis’ towers fall. That would be satisfaction enough.

CHAPTER 10

Tegestu looked at the four burn-scarred stone walls, then at the shade trees planted nearby with the fresh graves among the sod. Tastis’ men had passed this way, and left their devastation behind.

“Noon meal here,” he said. “There will be an hour’s halt.”

For the last three days he had seen much the same thing, over and over. Farmhouses burned, barns put to the torch, women outraged, animals slaughtered. Often, if the farmers hadn’t been able to get to their strongholds in time, the bodies of the peasants lying amid their animals. At least here there’d been some survivors — otherwise the dead wouldn’t have had burial.

It was logical, he had to admit. Tastis held the deissin and their motives in contempt: he knew they scorned demmin and cared overmuch for profit. Therefore he intended to make this war far too costly for Arrandal to wage— all he had to do, from his point of view, was to hold out until the deissin of the Elva realized there was no profit to be made here. And then, no doubt, they would give up and recognize his revolt as legitimate.

And so, to that end, he’d unleashed a horde of raiders into Arrandalla territory: unprincipled mercenaries for the most part, and the scum of the cities’ jails, armed only with a few light weapons and fast horses. Their purpose was simple: to cause as much murder, devastation, and chaos as possible — and also to divert as many Arrandalla forces as they could.

Thus far Tastis’ plan had worked well. The slow-moving baronial forces couldn’t cope with the invasion, though they helped — and of course they provided valuable garrisons in the towns and strongholds. But it was the city forces that had to chase these renegades. It was proving difficult, since it required waiting until the raiders were so burdened with loot that they were slowed down.

But, Tegestu thought, ultimately Tastis was wrong. The Arrandalla did possess demmin, he thought, at least demmin of a sort. Tastis’ rebellion had violated what the Elva cities cherished most, their freedom from foreign domination. Tastis threatened them all, and they would not rest until the threat was ended.

Besides, Tegestu had seen the Arrandalla forces as they’d marched past those first few devastated crofts, the first butchered bodies lying in their yards... the Arrandalla would not forget such sights easily; their eyes had burned for revenge.

Well, Tegestu thought. Revenge they’d get, sooner or later.

He signaled for the midday halt and Thesau, mounted just behind, slid from his horse to help Tegestu from the saddle. Tegestu came wearily to the ground, pain crackling through his stiffened muscles. He gave Thesau a weary smile; but he needed Thesau to carefully support his elbow for the long moments it took for him to find his feet.

“There is a bench beneath the tree, bro-demmin Tegestu,” Thesau said. “You can take your ease there.”

“Thank you, ilean,” Tegestu said. He walked deliberately through the sudden bustle of his staff dismounting, Classani servants jumping to tend the horses, his standard bearer Ghantenis raising his banner by the road so riders would know where to deliver their dispatches, messengers departing to order the column to halt. A drifting cloud of brown dust, stirred by the thousands of hooves and feet, moved over them like a pall — riding at the front of the column, they’d been ahead of the dust, but now it came looming over them, floating down to settle on their armor and banners. Tegestu came to the smooth wooden bench and sat down. He slitted his eyes against the dust as Thesau took off his helmet and coif, unlaced the quilted under-padding, then unpinned Tegestu’s long grey braids and let them fall down his back. The long Brodaini hair was braided on campaign, and coiled around the top of the head: it provided extra padding for the helmet, and also helped to ward a head cut. Tegestu leaned back against the tree.

“Will you eat now, bro-demmin?” Thesau asked. Tegestu shook his head.

“Not yet, ilean. But I would like some cider, if there’s some handy.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.’’ Thesau gave a commanding movement of his hand, attracting the attention of one of his younger assistants. “Cider for the drandor Tegestu!” The Classanu halted in his tracks, bowed, then ran to the little two-wheeled gigs that carried headquarters supplies.

Other members of the staff — Cascan, Acamantu, the Arrandalla poet Campas — began to gather beneath the tree, bowing, then lowering themselves to the ground near Tegestu. Tegestu began to scent, lightly through the dust, a charnel stench: those graves were shallow. Then a gust of wind came, shifting the brown cloud, and the scent was gone.

“Please eat, if you wish, ban-demmini,” Tegestu said. “Don’t stand on courtesy.” They bowed, and some called for their servants to bring them the prepared meals that had been packed the night before. The Classanu arrived with a wine skin and the cider; Tegestu uncapped the skin and let the cool liquid slide down his dust-covered throat, tasting of last summer’s apples.

There was a clatter of hooves and a group of riders came out of the dust: Tegestu recognized Necias seated uncomfortably on a big-boned gelding — a bad rider, he had spent most of the march in his covered gig, leather curtains drawn against the dust. Necias was accompanied by the Marshal Palastinas, the army’s commander, various members of his staff, and the Igaran Ambassador, Fiona. All had bandannas wrapped around their lower faces to guard against the dust, except for Fiona, who had drawn the hood of her undergarment around her head, enclosing it completely, even the eyes. She looked as if she were wearing a bleak carnival mask. Today the color of the hood and the rest of the garment was a deep, near-black brown, several shades darker than her skin; yesterday it had been a cheerful yellow. Tegestu wondered whether she had many such garments, or if she could, with her off world magic, somehow change the color of the one.

Necias dismounted heavily and began gesturing to his people, who, Tegestu knew, would begin setting up a pavilion in which the Abessu-Denorru, accompanied by the Marshal and their respective staffs, would take their leisurely luncheon. The pavilion, Tegestu knew, was a luxurious one: there were carpets, a field kitchen, portable tables, folding chairs, a silver dinner service; it filled three ox-wagons and required a staff of six, not counting the teamsters. A ridiculous waste of resources better spent in moving and feeding fighting men; but then Tegestu’s advice had not been solicited. His own equipage took up the backs of two horses, and he ate what the other Brodaini ate.

It was lucky the march to Neda-Calacas was not intended to be a fast one. They were moving deliberately, scouts always on the alert for Tastis, who had a deserved reputation for appearing where he had no right to be.

Palastinas handed his broadsword to a lackey, nodded to Necias, and then walked toward Tegestu. He was an Arrandalla, a portly, vigorous, graying man of about sixty, with a funny dab of white beard on his chin; he was both a prosperous merchant and Arrandal’s most successful soldier. He and Tegestu understood one-another well enough, and had fought together before: Palastinas had even learned to speak Gostu, which was more than most Arrandalla managed.

Tegestu rose from his bench and bowed, hearing the rattle of armor as the other Brodaini rose to make their respects. Palastinas waved them all back to their places.

“Don’t get up, we’re all old repini here,” he said in Gostu — he was a hearty man, ingratiating, with no understanding of tolhostu; but Tegestu liked him nevertheless.

“Take my bench, whelkran,” Tegestu said, stepping aside; but Palastinas took him by the elbow and directed him to sit:

“There’s room enough for two, drandor Tegestu.” They sat, and Palastinas drank deeply of the cider, smiled, wiped his chin, and then fixed him with a careful eye.

“News, drandor?” he asked.

It had been obvious from the beginning that such a major effort on the part of the city, and in such a cause, could have no commander but an Arrandalla: a Brodaini would not have been trusted. All Arrandal’s major wars had been fought under their own commanders, those with Brodaini contingents included, though Brodaini commanders had been given independence in smaller assignments. Tegestu bore no resentment: he, and all his people, understood subordination well enough.

But the Brodaini superiority in combat, organization, and intelligence had been recognized, since Tegestu had been made chief of staff. It was his people who planned the complicated logistics for moving fifty thousand men across the four hundred miles, strewn with rivers and cut with canals, that separated the cities; it was the Brodaini who sent out the scouts, who processed the information; and if battle came about, it would be Tegestu who suggested the plan and who, assuming the plan was accepted by Palastinas, would be charged with implementing it. Palastinas would absorb much of the credit; but he was a fair-minded man, and had always given a fair share of the honor to the Brodaini in the past.

“Our scouts have gone to the border, and found nothing but this devastation,” Tegestu said. “This wreckage ends at the border, but on the other side people are starving. The peasants have had all their grain taken to the city, even the seed-corn. Tastis wants us to support his people as well as our own.”

Palastinas frowned. “We’ll have to, I suppose,” he said. “But it’s for the Abessu-Denorru to decide.”

Tegestu nodded, understanding: What was Necias along for, if not for Palastinas to pass on to him all the hard decisions of policy?

“There is a problem once again,” Tegestu said, “with sanitation.”

Palastinas grimaced. “I’ll send out another general order,” he said. The Arrandalla, with canals so close at hand, were used to defecating wherever they wished; and the country people, militia and mercenaries, also dropped their trousers wherever it suited them. This made a large encampment an odorous mess, and the Brodaini had, without any great success, been trying to introduce the custom of the slit trench.

“Beg pardon, Marshal, but there have been general orders before. Without any enforcement the situation will only...”

“Aye, aye,” Palastinas said wearily, pulling his little white beard. “We’ll have to start lashing the ones who don’t obey, I suppose.”

“I think that would be wise, Palastinas Marshal cenors-stannan,” Tegestu said, satisfied. He looked up. “Another piece of news,” he said. “There’s been a victory over the raiders, one of their columns chopped up. It happened at Fallonito.”

“Indeed?” Palastinas said. Fallonito was a small town, the center of one of the border areas that had been settled by Brodaini dependents, in this case mainly Meningli farmers, with a few Brodaini and Classani to keep order and to act as garrison. “There wasn’t much of a force, was there?” Palastinas asked.

“Three Brodaini, under command of a young man, Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu. Four Classani, and the rest Meningli,” Tegestu said with pride. “They were lucky enough to have warning of the raiders’ arrival. Dellila armed the entire population, knocked holes in the walls between the houses so he could move his people without exposing them, and then lay in wait for the attackers; he let them ride in, then slammed the gates behind. None got away. They counted over sixty dead, with three Meningli killed.” Palastinas said aiau softly, impressed, and Tegestu smiled his satisfaction. “Dellila suffered eighteen wounds, but is expected to survive,” he added.

“I’ll send him my congratulations,” said Palastinas.

“He would esteem it an honor.” Tegestu uncapped the wineskin and let the sweet cider roll down his tongue, then looked at Palastinas and said, “Delilah’s kin to my wife. I’ll be pleased to find more important work for him, if he lives.”

“It’s good to have a victory over these bandits,” Palastinas said, scowling. “It’ll show what can be done, if a few men stand up to them.”

If a few Brodaini stand up to them, Tegestu thought; but he didn’t say it. Abessla could fight surprisingly well if the spirit was with them, but he suspected they couldn’t have done what Dellila had done.

“Will you share our meal with us?” Tegestu asked. Palastinas laughed, then shook his head.

“I think I prefer Necias’ table to the stuff you people eat on the march,” he said, rising and gesturing the others to remain seated as, automatically, they rose to salute him. “There’ll be a staff meeting tonight?”

“Aye. When we call a halt.”

“I’ll be there. Drandor. Ban-demmini.” He nodded to all and began walking quickly toward the pavilion, which was staggering erect as yelling servants began pushing the center pole upward while others strained at the guy wires. Tegestu called for his meal, but paused as he heard the sound of hasty galloping coming from ahead of the column. He leaned forward to look out around the trunk of the tree and saw three swift, light horses riding breakneck toward him. The dust had settled by now and he could see their banner clearly: it was Grendis, who was chief of the scouts and often ranged ahead of the army with her riders. She reined in as she saw his own banner planted by the road, and then turned the lathered steed in. Behind her was her bannerman, then a breathless, travel-stained young man, one of her light cavalry whelkrani, a leather case containing a telescope bouncing at his side. Impatiently she pulled her helmet back off her head as she pulled the horse to a halt, then called out her message even before she dismounted.

“I think we’ve found Tastis!”

As he rose, leaving his untouched meal, Tegestu smiled to see Palastinas, halfway to Necias’ pavilion, suddenly stop dead in his tracks and spin around. There was a grin of feral exultation on his face...

*

All the staff was present, so the staff meeting was held on the spot, over luncheon in Necias’ grand pavilion. Grendis presented her whelkran, who had commanded the squadron sent ranging ahead to the great bend of the East Rallandas River, the broad, sluggish band of muddy water that led north to the great salt marshes and thence to the sea. Yesterday morning he’d found the principal ford guarded by cavalry, but his scouts had infiltrated through them to find the ford blocked, heavy iron stakes planted along its bottom, the bluffs behind set with Tastis’ engines, ready to fling stones down on the heads of anyone trying to force a passage. There hadn’t been a sign of any large force, however, and the young man was thorough: that night he swam his horse across the river and scouted the enemy himself. Campfires, he’d reported, by the hundreds.

Assuming six people to a campfire, he said, there were at least ten thousand men on the other side of the river. Probably at least twice that, since he was sure he hadn’t seen all the fires.

Smiles broke out, and relieved chattering. The whelkran, his ears burning with compliments, was dismissed.

“So: we have their force located,” Palastinas said, smiling. “The riverbed fortifications won’t hold us for long; we’ll get across somewhere, upstream or down, once we bring the bridging train up. Someone send for it, hey?” One of his staff grinned and began a note.

Tegestu looked down at his hands, and frowned.

“Doesn’t sound like Tastis,” he said, aware that his voice, speaking Abessas, sounded harsh and angry. There was silence in the tent: eyes turned toward him.

“Doesn’t sound like Tastis, a battle at the ford,” Tegestu insisted. “I fought with him; he was one of my whelkrani, a kinsman, one of the best.” He gestured with his hands, trying to emphasize his points, painfully aware of his inadequacy in the language. “He... he moved. Not like this, not behind stakes, no. Light. Quick. Attacked with surprise. Ambush. Cunning. Nothing like this, not ever.” He saw the eyes of Grendis on him, comprehending. “It’s not like him. There’s something in this we haven’t seen.”

“Yes,” Grendis said. “That bothered me.” She looked down at the table, her brows knitted in concentration.

“Perhaps it isn’t Tastis,” Necias offered. His meal, half-eaten, lay before him; he made quick, impatient moves with his hands as he spoke. “Perhaps Tastis is still in the city, or out with the fleet, somewhere.”

“Has other whelkrani to take care of the fleet,” Tegestu said. “Is not his, his specialty. Was light cavalryman himself at first; always thinks of moving fast. Cunning is his specialty. There is a trick in this, I think.”

Palastinas watched him with a grave frown, then nodded. “We must be alert.” he said. “Keep our scouts busy.”

“They are overburdened,” said Grendis. “So many of our cavalry are chasing the raiders. We’re going to lose a lot of horses if we keep running them the way we’ve been doing.”

That, Tegestu realized, was like Tastis. Sending out the raiders, realizing that in addition to the damage and confusion he was causing the Arrandalla forces to detach a lot of valuable light cavalry to chase them down; he’d given himself a better chance at an ambush. And so he’d prepared this fixed defense at the ford, hoping to rivet his enemies’ attention on that river crossing, while he did something elsewhere — but what?

“The country,’’ he said. “We need to know the country.’’

“It’s flat,” Grendis said. “Many little canals, yes, but no obstacles till the river. A few little orchards, but no forests.” No place for ambush, then. “The river twists,” Grendis added, illustrating with her hands. “Slow, shallow, but footmen can only cross in this one place. Lots of woods on the river bottom. The west bank is higher than the east, Tastis has that advantage.”

“It doesn’t sound,” Palastinas said, “like good ambush country. Maybe that’s all Tastis could do, hope to delay us at the ford. Or maybe he’s hoping that we’ll divide our forces in order to cross somewhere else, and he can fight us in detail.”

They looked at Tegestu for his answer, but he had none: he could only frown and shake his head. “There’s more in it than we see,” he said. There had been too many small frustrations, he thought; he longed for something clean and straightforward, a battle, a clear challenge. Much of the strategy of the war had been necessitated by political considerations, rather than military ones — the very choice of the country they marched through was dictated by the necessity of cutting Tastis off from such of the country barons as might support him, while Tegestu, for safety’s sake, would rather have embarked the army aboard the fleet and transported it swiftly to the enemy cities by water. Instead there was this ponderous march, Brodaini engineers moving out ahead to bridge rivers and canals, barges having to come by water to bring the army its supplies at prearranged points. Even with all the handicaps they’d been moving quickly, but Tegestu found himself fretted by the delay. It wasn’t the merging of political considerations with military... no, he’d had to deal with those sort of compromises all his life. It was the fact that Tastis was being given time to expand his base of power, to make some kind of accommodation with his new-taken city.

Tastis, he knew, was an intelligent man, and something of an unorthodox thinker. A generation younger than Tegestu, more flexible in adapting to this new continent. Good at improvisation. He had been valuable as an independent commander, and had always shown an ability to act on his own initiative, often with irregular forces, and to do so brilliantly: he’d always kept the enemy off-balance, uncertain how to respond. He could shine in a situation like this. The war could be a long one.

“Bro-demmin, we will keep a good watch,” Grendis said. “He won’t be surprising us; our riders are keeping watch.”

Tegestu nodded, unhappy. Something, he thought, was missing here. He would have to hope that after he’d seen the ford the pattern would somehow would fall into place.

CHAPTER 11

Fiona looked down at the ford, seeing the dark iron of the stakes reflected in the silver waters, an intricate, geometric certainty reflected by the eddying, shifting, fluid medium. Behind, on the bluffs overlooking the river, was a solid black line of torsion engines, ready to smash the placid water into froth at the sign of a crossing. There was an old castle there, its walls torn down, its towers gaping. The white wood of hasty repairs showed clearly. Over it floated the enemy banners, Brodaini, city, baronial, and others that were strange to the invaders, new ensigns describing the new reality in Neda-Calacas.

“It won’t be difficult to get around, they tell me,” said Campas. “We’re having boats sent round behind us by canal, then the boats get portaged over the last twenty miles, and we’ve got a bridge wherever we need one. The scouts are deciding where it’s going to be. Somewhere near a ford that the cavalry can use, so foot and horse can cross at the same time.”

She gave him a look. “You’ve learned a lot about this, all of a sudden,” she said.

“I’m staff,” he said simply. “I see most of the dispatches. And I spent an entire damn day with my eye glued to a long glass set up on a tripod, making notes about what I saw. Deadly work! The headache lasted for hours.”

“And Tegestu?” she asked. “Two days ago he thought it was a trap.”

“He still thinks it,” Campas said. “But he can’t find one.” He hesitated, then spoke. “I have an intuition he’s right, and Grendis and Cascan agree with him, too. But none of us can see how.”

Campas frowned. He glanced downriver, then over his shoulder at Necias’ big pavilion. “Can we move out of sight of Necias?” he asked. “He’s been inundated with dispatches from the city this morning, with barons squalling for help against the raiders — and I don’t want to spend the rest of the day finding diplomatic ways to tell them no. Necias brought half his household with him — let them do a little work for a change.”

“As you like.” They turned their horses’ heads downriver and moved off at a slow jog. The slope gentled down to the thick, tangled underbrush and trees that surrounded the river. They heard the sound of axes: pioneers and assistant cooks were here, getting firewood and cutting brush away in case the enemy made a sally across the river and Arrandalla forces had to be moved through the tangle in a hurry. They rode northward along the slope in silence, keeping out of the tangles.

“Have you been sleeping well?” Campas asked suddenly, turning to her.

A thrust, straight at the heart of vanity. Fiona, suddenly self conscious, glanced up at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Everyone sleeps well after riding horseback half the day.”

“You look tired.” His frowning face seemed concerned.

She shook her hair back out of her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. Not true, she knew, not entirely. It was the burden of hatred that was draining her, hatred for Kira’s killers, for all that was represented by those fluttering banners on the west bank. She passed a hand over her brow. “I’m all right,” she said again.

They passed out of sight of the camp, seeing two gallopers dashing toward them, each carrying a dispatch: Grendis’ people, heading for the pavilion. “News,” she said. He laughed.

“All I can do is offer thanks that it won’t be me reading it,” he said. “I appreciate your borrowing me for the afternoon.”

“You’re welcome.”

The messengers tore past, one of them, a young woman, raising an arm in greeting as she galloped by. Fiona turned her head to look after her.

“That woman Brodainu,” she said. “That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about.”

“Ask. I’ll tell you what I can.”

“It seems unusual that the Brodaini grant women equal status — make them officers, even. It’s not what I’d expect from a military culture. The Brodaini are physically large, with the women being built to scale, but they’re not as strong — they can’t pull a bow as far, or strike as hard with a sword. Men have such superior upper-bobyd strength.”

Campas shrugged. “Our people simply think they’re crazy,” he said. Fiona grimaced: no culture that had survived for so many hundreds of years was crazy. Campas spoke on. “I’ve talked to the Brodaini; but they just say it’s always been that way.” He looked up at her, curious. “Do you approve?”

“It’s not important whether I approve or not,” Fiona said, preferring to leave that particular issue unexamined. “I — I and my people — we want to understand them, if we can. And understand the Arrandalla, as well. My questions won’t offend, will they?”

“We’ll see.” Easily, with a shrug. “Ask what you like.”

“I haven’t talked to the Brodaini that often,” she admitted. “For the most part they’ve been too busy to answer my questions. But I’ve been talking to the Classani, when I can.”

“It didn’t take you long to learn that the servants are always the best sources of information,” Campas grinned. “My congratulations.”

“Thank you.” A large, dull-colored bird came fluttering up from the underbrush almost under the feet of Fiona’s horse; it snorted and half-reared. Fiona brought it under control, soothed the horse by stroking its neck, and then looked up at Campas.

“After the Classani got over their surprise at having their opinion solicited at all,” she said, “they talked very freely. I’ve been trying to make sense out of what they told me. And of what the Brodaini have told me about themselves, and of what your own people have told me about them. So I thought I’d ask for you for the afternoon, to help me sort it all out.”

He looked at her with a wry smile. “I once started a history of the Brodaini,” he said. “The Brodaini were very much in fashion for a season or two, you see, about ten years ago. All the city fashion brats trying to dress simply, imitating their direct speech, striving to affect martial virtue. No doubt it amused the Brodaini to no end. But the fashion changed... and suddenly there was no audience for my history. I abandoned it, but whatever I learned is at your service, Ambassador.”

“Thank you, Campas.” The history was a surprise, a stroke of good luck. She rode on for a moment in silence, wondering how to begin. She’d had abstracts of the formal history the Brodaini taught their own children, of course: there was a lot of strange legend in it, gods and spirits wandering among the mortals and motivating their behavior, but there had also been large swatches of careful statistics — which lord brought how many men to which battle, that sort of thing — that seemed factual enough. There were also a great many madmen running through the histories, with nothing made of it: it was as if the Brodaini considered it a fairly usual thing to go mad, and never held it against the madman after he’d recovered his wits. It had all been difficult to untangle, particularly since the motivations of everyone in the histories had been so difficult to fathom. They went here, they did this: but why? Motivation and psychology were unknown to the Brodaini; they simply didn’t bother explaining behavior, aside from the appearance of an occasional god or demon whispering in a warrior’s ear. There was no distinction between fact, supposition, legend, and myth. The personalities had to be understood in the context of Brodaini culture, and it was a context Fiona found entirely opaque.

There were also enormous gaps. The Brodaini warriors held center stage; the Classani were occasionally given a footnote, if valiant enough; the other two classes were scarcely mentioned at all. It was not unusual, she supposed, for the ruling class to be blind to the thoughts and actions of their inferiors, but it was frustrating.

“The Brodaini,” Campas said, filling the silence, “came as conquerors. They were living in the mountains to the north of their land, in the deep valleys there... and their gods told them to go down and conquer the flatlands and the islands, which they did, though it took them sixty years. There were a lot of revolts, of course, and the Brodaini had to be wary; their gods told them how to order society for the betterment of all, and things settled down. But after the revolts had all been put down the gods started fighting among themselves, with their Brodaini adherents battling right along. There hasn’t been peace up there since.”

“Yes,” Fiona said. Barring the nonsense about the gods, it made sense. A poor people living on the fringes of the glaciers, looking down with envy on the more prosperous folk below. And then the climate changed, perhaps, forcing them south; or their numbers increased, demanding a migration in search of living space — and then a sixty-year war, won by the invaders thanks to the total militarization of their society and a certain technological superiority: their armored lancers, once they’d learned proper tactics, had run smash over their enemies’ infantry-based armies. The numbers of Brodaini had never been very large — less than one-tenth of the entire population of the area they controlled — and their survival depended on their constant military preparedness. The class barriers would have risen in an attempt to keep arms from the conquered; the danger of revolt would have demanded constant military readiness, and a firming of the military system. And after the situation had been stabilized the military caste would have needed a justification for their existence, so they began fighting one another.

Another society might have expanded outwards in search of conquest, but the Brodaini had been too inner-directed: a possible revolt of their subjects would never have been far from their minds, and they would not have dared to send a military force abroad lest their inferiors rise up while they were away. The result: a feuding upper caste obsessed with its own security and committed to maintaining a rigid class system that kept them safely on top. Anything alien, anything foreign that threatened to upset the system was an enemy: their ideal was stability, rather than evolution. Vail, in their own language, an ideal, eternal, unchanging harmony... .

“After that the chronicles are filled with wars to the point of tedium,” Campas said. “Also genealogies: those people were always allying by marriage, but the alliances didn’t always hold, so a lot of first cousins ended up giving each other the chop.”

“Do you think the women would have become militarized during the conquest?” Fiona asked. “To be able to hold down the peasants while the men were off at war cutting off new bits of territory?”

Campas frowned. “I don’t know. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me.” He gazed abstractedly northward, toward a great east-bending swoop of the river. “The idea seems reasonable,” he added. “I can think of any number of Brodaini heroines who were celebrated for conducting epic defenses of their homelands while their menfolk were off fighting somewhere else.”

“Do they reach as far back as the conquest?”

Campas knit his brows. “Let me think. There’s Amasta Toronu y’Tosta — the Tosta family epic is about her. There was a big defense of the home castle against an uprising; she won by spreading plague among the attackers. Later she went mad, poisoned her husband, and started a war that ended tragically. Committed suicide in the end; there’s a famous verse drama about that, all dramatic monologue, hell on the voice but a part to kill for.” He looked up. “But it was the siege that made her famous. And she’s from the time of the conquests. You may be right.”

He looked at her with open curiosity. “Do women fight on your world, Ambassador?”

Fiona glanced away. Why was she finding it so hard to lie to this man? The answer, in all its full implications, was such that he couldn’t possibly understand it in any case.

“Yes, we do,” she said. “I would be thankful if you kept this private.”

“Of course, Ambassador.”

“We’ve made our weapons very small,” Fiona said. “Physical strength isn’t required. Anyone can carry them.”

Now why had she said that? It would do nothing but raise further questions, questions that she would be bound not to answer. He couldn’t possibly understand the nature or evolution of energy weapons, nor was it proper that he should. Nor the nature of war on Igara, the carefully formal dance of death between the complex interwoven country families, the city block republics, the tenuous, infirm nations, theoretically controlling so much planet surface but with such little real power. War was real, but it was kept small; it was murderous, but in its way it was also very personal, almost intimate. And, when it happened, sudden and incredibly violent.

But Campas was apparently satisfied with her answers; he asked no more questions. Fiona glanced ahead. They had ridden upslope once more, and were on a grassy bluff overlooking the river valley. The river itself was invisible, hidden by the trees and brush covering its banks, but from the bluff she could see the dark trees winding on ahead, following the jagged course of the river. Behind she could still hear the sounds of axes.

“Shall we eat our luncheon?” she asked. Campas nodded. They dismounted, hobbled their horses, and opened Fiona’s satchel: cheese, bread, fresh goat-meat, dried pears, two bottles of black beer. Fiona sat cross-legged on the ground, facing the river — it felt good to be out of skirts again — and opened her beer. Campas pointed to a smudge of dust hovering above the opposing bluff.

“Reinforcements for Tastis,” he said. “Or cavalry on maneuvers. We’ll be getting another galloper at the pavilion tonight to tell us which.” He looked down at the beer in his hand and twisted the cork. “They’ve got thirty thousands of men over there. That’s more than we expected — we thought he’d have to leave a larger garrison back at Neda-Calacas.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Fiona said, “that a campaign was so slow-moving. I thought there’d be a lot of marching, a battle, and then it would be over. But nothing’s happened yet, and nothing seems likely to happen for a long time; and no one seems to be concerned.”

“So far as I understand it,” Campas said, “we’re moving slowly because we don’t want to make any mistakes. We have advantage in numbers, and so long as we don’t leave Tastis any openings we’ll win. Plus, as time goes on, the other cities will be able to mobilize and put their own forces into the field.”

Fiona slit open a narrow loaf of bread, inserted the goat-meat and cheese, and bit down. The blandness of the food here still bothered her. the locals had little in the way of spices, and few of the spices were taken on campaign.

“You say that Brodaini women are first mentioned in the chronicles as defending their homes,” she said.

“And as advisors. Prophets, seers, and so on. Divinely mad. Expressions of their clan’s will, or their god’s.”

Fiona nodded. “When are they first mentioned as military leaders?” she asked.

“As opposed to clan leaders?” She nodded. “Let me think.” He chewed meditatively, then turned to her. “During the time of the tyrant Grestu, about a hundred years ago. His wife was a famous general, and there were several other prominent women military leaders at the same time.”

Grestu. Fiona, searching her memory, recalled the name. Vilified by the Brodaini histories for his attempt to put all of Gostandu under his rule, but that hadn’t stopped others from trying in the hundred years since. Two had succeeded, though the first of these empires had once again come to nothing on the death of the founder; the second was the man who now ruled Gostandu, the Clattern i Clatterni — “King of Kinglets,” as Tyson, a year or more ago, had once facetiously translated.

The shipboard computers had concluded that the northern continent had reached a level of communication, sophistication, and economic interdependence so that a centralized government had begun to be possible. But the shipboard computers had only a limited vision; their conclusions were based only on what their programming permitted them to understand — vast amounts of data were set aside, either not understood or judged irrelevant. The computers could point out large, visible trends, but lacked the capacity to interpret its own statistics. The framework in which to set the data was lacking. It was a framework Fiona was expected to help construct.

There were anomalies in any human system, serving to throw light on how they operated: the position of women in Brodaini society was one — a culture that prized combat and physical strength offering theoretical equality to those less strong was unique. If, as Fiona suspected, it were true that the women had been given military training in order to defend their homes against invasions or peasant revolts that occurred when the menfolk were away, this helped to explain a lot. The women would have to have been given civil rights in order to manage clan affairs while the men were absent; and they would have to have been given high status in order to command any defense.

The Brodaini system had been under increasing pressure for the last hundred years or more: the continent of Gostandu had been in continual war. Possibly, Fiona thought, women Brodaini had grown increasingly valuable as the wars drained the supply of men — valuable both as soldiers and as breeders of future generations of fighters: a contradictory demand, probably settled in contradictory ways, both by increasing their status and making them available as front-line soldiers, if the situation called for it.

There was a pragmatism in their deployment, however. It was obvious, simply by observing the columns of marching troops, that the Brodaini on this campaign of conquest were still overwhelmingly male, while those left in garrison were chiefly female — and though many of these were officers, they commanded Classani militia, not soldiers of their own class. Those women used as front-line troops tended to be used as light cavalry and scouts, duties better suited to the smaller physique, and also requiring a higher premium on riding ability than on physical strength. Many women were employed carrying the Brodaini sword-tipped spear, a duty requiring less physical strength than that of a bowman or swordsman. And the front ranks of the spear formations, where increased exposure required heavier armor and the demands of battle required more physical strength, were almost universally male. There were, Fiona had been told, many female cambrani and lersri — spies and assassins, professions demanding wit, stamina, and intelligence rather than strength.

There was, Fiona concluded, a strong pragmatism underlying most Brodaini decisions, a pragmatism that did not seem entirely consistent with their rigorous code of conduct. When pragmatism demanded a decision that conflicted with nartil, how was the contradiction resolved? It was a question that demanded an answer.

“Nartil,” she said. “Nartil and Tolhostu. I don’t understand them.”

“No one does. Not outside the Brodaini world, anyway.” Campas seemed amused.

“A code of behavior,” she said, “expressly designed to avoid giving offense, and explicitly stating the obligations of one Brodainu to another. Supposedly all of this is clear, and there should be little room for misunderstanding. So long as everything is understood, peace is part of the natural order, and war contrary to it. But,” she said, jabbing the air with her beer bottle, “the Brodaini are always fighting one another.”

“So you want to know why they fight?” Campas asked. His tone was light, a little condescending. Fiona looked at him sharply.

“No,” she snapped, more nettled than she would have liked to admit. “I’m not so naive as to wander about this planet like a little simpleton asking rhetorical questions about why you people fight wars. I’m not interested in giving you rein to wave your arms to the heavens and philosophize about the perversity of mankind.”

“My apologies, Ambassador,” Campas murmured, surprised.

“What I was wondering,” Fiona want on, “was how the Brodaini justify it to themselves. In terms of their own code of behavior.”

Campas looked dubious, frowning and rubbing his jaw. “That’s a deep question, Ambassador,” he said. “I would rather have answered the one I thought you had asked, in truth.”

Fiona said nothing; she sipped her beer and waited for a response.

“I don’t understand nartil,” Campas said slowly. “And I’m not supposed to understand demmin — that’s for Brodaini only. The codes are complex, and I wasn’t born into that way of life, I only observe. But it seems to me that the codes are — are capable of variation.” He looked at her, his own confusion plain. “They’re not written down, you see. They’re taught by example, by tradition. There are stories that every Brodaini child is taught, to learn the nature of one particular virtue, or one particular evil. Hamila and the Redtooth Keep, for example, to learn about obedience to a superior.”

Fiona knew that story: the spikes had picked it up in many places, so many that the computers had flagged it as important. Hamila was ordered to hold a particular stronghold with a small band; when the enemy army came Hamila’s superior ordered him to withdraw, but through a bungle the order never reached Redtooth Keep: there was a gallant and ingenious defense, though in the end the defenders died. And Hamila’s side, through various other blunders, lost the war.

“I know that one,” Fiona said.

“Good: then you know it’s used to teach the value of obedience,” Campas said. “But there are loftier morals to draw from it, if the storyteller is clever enough. It depends on what he wishes to emphasize. There is one long poem — there was a furor over it when it appeared, but since the author was a proven warrior it was eventually accepted — it treats Hamila quite differently. As an example of waste: brave man lost through oversight, his gallantry made pointless since his sacrifice meant nothing in the long run. The moral drawn was the value of initiative: the poet clearly thought that Hamila was a fool for staying, though he didn’t quite dare to say so — but it’s clear he thought Hamila should have retreated and rejoined the main army, where his skills might have been put to better use.”

Campas fell silent for a moment, trying to knit his thoughts together. “Nartil, demmin, tolhostu... they’re not as rigid as they seem,” he concluded. “The Brodaini treat them as if they were inflexible, but it’s not so. They’re subject to interpretation, they have different shades of meaning.”

Fiona nodded. Any code transmitted orally would prove subject to change, she thought. Human nature being what it is, any ambiguity or shade of interpretation would be exploited. But, she wondered, how was it done?

“So nartil, for example, can be used to justify an act that, on the surface, disregards the obligations of nartil?” she asked.

“Or demmin can be invoked to justify violation of nartil, or any number of other combinations,” Campas said. “That’s what Tastis has done — he overthrew the Nadielas coalition and claimed they’d violated a code they couldn’t possibly have understood.”

That pragmatic streak, again. Tastis, once he’d decided to take Neda-Calacas, had chosen the most covert and deceptive way to go about it — his moves had been absolutely practical; but he’d found cultural justifications for everything he’d done.

“How do you think Tastis’ mind worked?” Fiona asked. “Was he simply waiting for an excuse to take the city, and then found the justifications for his actions afterward; or do you think he was responding to circumstance?’’

Campas shrugged. “Who can say? I’m not a member of his aldran.”

“Your opinion, then,” Fiona insisted.

Campas picked up a dried pear and began tearing at it absently, popping the bits into his mouth as he thought. When he spoke he was staring off into the valley below, abstracted. “I would say Tastis is not a simple man,” he began. “I don’t think his actions are that simple — I don’t think any Brodainu is as simple as he pretends to be. There’s a mingling of traditions, of codes, of practical necessities, of motivations. His laws and his motives were mixed, shall we say, as they are with us all; and it would require a god to sort them out.” He turned to her with a dismissive half-smile. “I’m sorry, Ambassador. You keep asking me about things I haven’t thought about. It’s difficult for me to be wise on the spur of the moment.”

She reached out to touch his elbow, reassuring. “Thank you, Campas,” she said. “You’ve been helpful, truly.”

He looked up at her cynically. “But you have some more questions,” he said.

She drew back her arm and grinned. “Yes. I do.”

Campas tilted his head back as he drained his beer, then absently tossed the empty bottle downslope. She frowned at the waste — her reflexes, born of a planet with scarcer resources, were hard to overcome. She tried to put it out of her mind.

“Go ahead,” Campas said. “I’ll try to summon up what wisdom I can.”

“We spoke once before, you remember, about the Brodaini. And you mentioned all of the elaborate methods that Tegestu had devised to keep your people separate from his.”

“Yes. I remember that conversation.” He smiled ruefully. “Even the parts I wish I could forget.”

Fiona smiled. “I’d like some idea,” she said, “of what happens when these two people do meet. They must have developed some ways of working together, of getting along — otherwise Neda-Calacas would have happened everywhere.”

Campas shrugged. “There are ways of getting along with foreigners,” he said. “It requires some extra effort. Extra courtesy, and extra tolerance.”

“You can make yourself understood by the Brodaini?” she asked.

“Most of the time,” he said. “But, you see, nothing I say or think truly matters to them — I’m not Brodaini, so my opinions don’t count.” He shrugged. “I got along better with the Classani, as you did. We understood each other better. They’re warmer, more open... friendlier, if you like.” He frowned, his fingers absently dismembering the pear. “But there’s a furtive quality to them I don’t care for. They’re too used to moving about quietly, skulking behind stairs, as if they don’t want the Brodaini to notice them — they’re too submissive.”

They were silent for a moment. Both, Fiona thought, had an idea of what being noticed by a Brodaini might consist of.

“Has that attitude changed, do you think?” Fiona asked. “If they don’t like their masters, they can run away — if they ran away back home, they’d still be Classani, but here there’s a whole new continent, with more opportunities.”

“Some do run, of course,” Campas said. “But not many. Most of the Brodaini and their folk haven’t bothered to learn Abessas, for one thing, except maybe for a few words here and there. So if they do run they find things hard, and strange. And for the most part the Classani are well off; they live in the same conditions as the Brodaini, eat the same food — and they aren’t required to do a lot of military service.” He ate a piece of pear, then went on. “And of course their family will have stayed behind, and these Brodaini set great store by their families. All four classes of society in a kamliss, you see, are all supposed to be one family, even if few of the lower classes are actually related to the Brodaini. Life outside would be lonely, as well as hard. It’s not the Classani who run, it’s the Hostli.

“They’re the lowest class, the merchants, small traders, storekeepers. The most despised.” He smiled. “They have the most contact with our people, acquiring supplies and the like, doing business for their kamlissi; so they’ve learned the language quickly. They see how much easier it would be for them outside, and many have come across.”

“Has the status of the remainder improved as they’ve become rarer, more valuable?”

“Indeed yes,” Campas said. “No more insults, no more shouldering Hostli aside on the street. The Classani feel threatened by the change.” He gave her a sly look. “You’ve been talking to the Classani about this, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” She finished her beer and returned the empty bottle to the pack. “They’re proud of their status, next to the Brodaini. Sometimes I have the feeling that they’re more tradition-bound than the Brodaini themselves.”

Campas seemed curious. “Why do you ask me, then?”

“I might be wrong. It’s good to have independent confirmation.’’

Campas frowned, seemingly puzzled. Truth was a received thing in his culture, Fiona thought, transmitted by family, tradition, religion, personal observation; the idea that data might be assembled from different sources to create a new whole, a new truth, was foreign to him.

“And of how many people have you asked these questions?” Campas asked.

“Not many. The Classani, mostly. But I wanted to talk to someone outside their world, someone who doesn’t share their... attitudes.” She looked up at the sound of hoofbeats: a galloper was trotting north from the camp, a dispatch-case bouncing on his hip. An Arrandalla this time, tall in a plumed helmet, a case of javelins strapped to his saddle. The rider trotted past, ignoring them.

Campas was looking at her steadily. “Will you be asking the Brodaini about us?” he asked.

“I have already.”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s as if you don’t trust your own judgment.”

“I don’t.” She spoke quickly, trying to drive home her point. “Not in everything. I haven’t known your people long enough, so I ask them to explain themselves, and I ask others — other foreigners — to explain them to me.” She paused, trying to think of an example. “It’s like your poetry,” she said. “I admire your gift with words, your understanding of their rhythm, the way the sounds can be linked into music, all resonating, echoing one another. That much I can understand; that much I know.

“But I don’t understand the subject matter. All the shepherds and shepherdesses, all the plant symbolism, all the references to other poets. I come from another place; our poetry is based on other traditions, other forms. I have to have kloss — klossilo — “

“Klossila,” Campas corrected.

“Klossila. Thank you. I need to have it explained to me; I haven’t lived in Arrandal long enough to understand it.”

Campas, uneasy, looked down into the valley. “It’s as I said before, in that other conversation,” he said. “My life’s work is suddenly out of date. Your people can’t comprehend the form.”

“There are many people on this planet,” Fiona said, “who can’t understand your work. Many of them in Arrandal. Why should you suddenly be concerned for the opinions of a few Igaralla?”

“Because you’re the future,” Campas said. His answer was prompt, though his tone was moody, uncertain; it was clear he’d been thinking this out. “A poet writes for posterity, you see — or at least he does if he has any sense of his own worth — and suddenly posterity has appeared in Arrandal, and doesn’t understand my work.” He looked down at his hands, then pushed them out, a gesture of denial. There was a grating desperation in his voice. “I’ve been forced to look at my work again, with new eyes. Your eyes. And there’s so much I don’t like, don’t understand. It’s frightening.”

He looked at her suddenly, his uncertainty plain. “Your poetry — Igaralla poetry,” he said. “What’s it like? I’d like to know.’’

Fiona shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s not written for you, any more than your work is written for us. It wouldn’t make sense here.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You can’t simply adopt Igaralla forms; they’re not suitable for you, and you’d just be an imitator. You have to find your own way. You don’t need our approval.”

He absorbed her words in silence, his hands absently plucking at the sod. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant, without assurance. “I — I’ve had some ideas, some words running through my head. I don’t know what to make of them... they’re not klossila, though. This is something new. A new form. Brodaini, almost, in its straightforwardness, but much more lyrical.” He frowned. “Maybe it’s time for klossila to die,” he said. “It was a revolution, fifty years ago, insisting on the rights of poetry to be itself, to be independent of the popular understanding; perhaps it’s moribund now.” He shook his head. “I haven’t written it yet. It’s slow in coming.”

“I would like,” Fiona said, “to see your new work, if you ever write it. Not to approve or disapprove. Just to read it.”

His eyes rose to hers, held them for an instant; then he nodded. “I’d like that,” he said.

A possible revolution in poetry, Fiona thought. It wasn’t what she’d been sent to accomplish; but it certainly hadn’t been forbidden, either. An interesting conceit, to think of herself as a muse.

She gave him a grin. “I’m done with my questions,” she said. “I’ve got as much as I can deal with, for the moment.”

Campas gave her a slow nod. “You’re very welcome, Ambassador,” he said. “I hope you can take me away from my dreary tasks some other time.”

Fiona busied herself repacking their meal, while Campas brought the horses back. She looked down the slope, seeing the bottle Campas had thrown; and then she walked down the slope to pick it up and return it to her pack.

Old habits die hard, she thought. The bottle would be thrown on the camp rubbish heap in any case, but at least she would keep this grassy slope uncluttered, in case another couple ever came for a picnic. She laughed at the silliness of it all — a lone foreign woman, tidying up after this horde of soldiers — and then walked merrily up the slope, digging in her pack for a handful of grain, a treat for her horse.

CHAPTER 12

Tegestu felt his muscles tighten with anger as he read the dispatch. Some of Tastis’ cavalry had forded the river and circled behind him; they’d intercepted one of the trains of bridging-boats that were being carried overland to the army, chopped up the escort, and made a pyre of the boats. All this would set the river-crossing back several days, until the boats were replaced.

He looked up at the solemn faces of the staff, seeing the hesitation in their eyes, their apprehension at his sudden blaze of anger. Deliberately, disdainfully, Tegestu crumpled the dispatch one-handed and let it fall to the floor of the tent. He turned to Cascan.

“Who is this Osta Tolmatu Tosta y’Tosta?” he asked.

Cascan bowed. “My cousin, drandor Tegestu,” he answered carefully. “A whelkran of two hundreds.”

“Your cousin has shown himself a fool,” Tegestu said. “A fool with the bad taste to survive his disgrace.” Tegestu’s tone grew brisk. “You will convene a kamliss court in ten days to decide his punishment. Inform him.”

“Thank you, drandor Tegestu,” Cascan said, relief apparent through his grave mask. The ten days’ delay would allow some time for Cascan’s cousin to redeem himself, traditionally by a raid, with a few friends to act as witnesses, on the enemy. If, that is, he could find any friends to accompany him on such a suicidal mission — if not, he’d have to bring back proof of his actions, usually in the form of enemy heads accompanied by rank badges. Either Osta would die on his raid or he’d bring back enough heads so that the kamliss court would not have to embarrass themselves by handing out a major reprimand: either way kamliss Tosta would avoid the major disgrace Osta might otherwise represent.

“Acamantu,” Tegestu said. “You will assign someone of proven competence to guard the next bridging train.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

Tasting bile in his throat, Tegestu rose from his stool, the others rising with him, and then walked out of the staff tent toward his own. There was a skin of cider hanging from his tent pole; he pulled the cork and drank, washing away the bitter taste of anger. He had given that young cadet more leniency than he deserved, he knew: he should have had him back in camp, reprimanded publicly, and broken in ranks to a spearman; yet something had urged him to be lenient.

Perhaps, the thought came to him, because he himself had seemed unable to do anything but as Tastis wished. And in Osta’s incompetence he had seen a reflection of his own.

Tegestu spat, dismissing the notion. He entered the tent and his Classani servants stripped the armor from him and dropped a robe over him, belting it; they made his cot ready, placing a pillow for his head and another for his feet.

He dismissed the Classani and lay down, feeling pleasant relief ease slowly over his limbs, wishing he’d been able to bring some of his household animals with him, cats and dogs to share his tent with himself and Grendis. He was unable to rest: thoughts of the war, of Tastis, kept tugging at his mind, demanding attention. He could feel the first feather touches of the net that surrounded him, ready to be drawn tight; but he didn’t yet see the nature of the trap. He could only preach vigilance and hope that Tastis’ design would make itself apparent in time.

The war news had not been good. Twelve days ago the Abessu-Denorru of Cartenas had been assassinated by a man readily identified, by his equipment, as a Brodainu, and so presumably Tastis’ agent; the city was in turmoil, and there would be a delay in sending their army, though fortunately their fleet had already arrived in Arrandal. Perhaps it was lucky that Necias had chosen to accompany the army, and was now surrounded by fifty thousand bodyguards. A few days after the assassination Tastis’ fleet had launched a surprise dawn attack on the fleet of Prypas that had been advancing slowly on Neda-Calacas from the west, opposite the Arrandalla army, their fleet paralleling the army that marched slowly along the shore; two dozen galleys, drawn up on the beach, had been burned, and a number of the deep-draught sailing vessels taken — but Tastis had lost some ships as well, and the raid had served only to delay matters. Arrandal’s own fleet, joined now by that of Cartenas, should have arrived in the Neda-Calacas area by now, preparing a blockade. Tastis’ fleet could not hope to match the united squadrons; their strike at Prypas had been all they could do.

Other good news had come. Tastis’ raiders had, for the most part, been dealt with: they’d either slowed down enough to be caught by the Arrandalla pursuers, had withdrawn with their loot to neutral areas, or returned to Tastis with enemy cavalry snapping at their heels. More and more of Tegestu’s light cavalry were returning to the army, improving his sight and reach.

Word had come from the northern Elva cities, brought by galleys in the teeth of the seasonal southern winds, of their declarations of war, of their promise to raise and equip armies that would sail south as soon as the autumn storms were over and the strong north winds could push them across the sea.

Once the armies arrived around the walls of Neda-Calacas, the war would turn into a long siege that could have only one outcome; but now, while the armies were still separated, Tastis had a chance to strike hard with his smaller force. If he defeated Tegestu, then turned and smashed at Prypas again, he might be able to prevent a siege, and give himself another year to force a peace.

Tastis would not pass up that opportunity. Tegestu knew that. And his principal armed force was here, opposing Tegestu at the ford; it was therefore here that Tastis would strike.

All of Tastis’ actions formed a pattern. He was striking everywhere, moving quickly, hoping to disorganize his enemies before they could unite against him. He couldn’t afford not to attack Tegestu; it would be a waste of his greatest force.

But how? Tegestu’s force outnumbered Tastis considerably; its lines of supply were fairly secure, Osta’s example to the contrary; and it would take many hours for Tastis to get his force across the river, and there was little hope of getting it across in secret except far to the north or south, where Tegestu would hear of it and be able to bring Tastis to battle with the river at his back.

But yet it was not in Tastis’ pattern not to attack. There had to be a piece of the puzzle that Tegestu hadn’t seen — and so he’d driven Grendis, Cascan, and the scouts half-frantic with his demands for information. Tastis’ force had been scouted repeatedly, some of Cascan’s daring cambrani slipping into Tastis’ camp to come back with careful descriptions of his force.

Thirty-five thousand men now, half Brodaini and Classani, the other half city men and mercenaries. The city men were good, no half-trained militia among them; Tastis had taken the cream of his fighting force. He would not let them sit idly on the high back of the river, waiting for Tegestu to force a crossing on one flank or the other.

Tegestu heard the drum of hoofbeats, then the heavy tread of spurred boots entering his tent. He opened his eyes and saw Grendis, her grey braids piled high on her head. She was looking down at him with her soft affectionate eyes, plucking at the straps of her supple leather armor. She shrugged out of the cuirass, then bent to kiss him lightly; he could smell her familiar warmth through the scent of leather, animal and exercise, and he smiled.

There was excitement in her glance, and triumph. “I’ve found it, I think,” she said. “What we’ve been looking for. The key to Tastis’ plan.”

*

Necias looked up at Tegestu and Grendis as they walked quickly into his pavilion, and rose hastily as they went down on one knee before him. “Canlan Necias, Grendis brings news,” Tegestu said as he straightened. “We know Tastis’ intentions.”

Necias frowned for a moment, then turned to one of his servants. “Where’s Palastinas?”

“Ah — with a hunting party, Abessu-Denorru.”

Necias frowned. “Fetch him.” He glanced up at the other servants. “The rest of you, get out.”

They backed quickly out of the pavilion while Necias looked impatiently after them; then Necias moved across the room to the table normally used by one of his secretaries. “You have a map, I see,” he said as he settled his bulk onto the settee.

“Yes.” Tegestu took the rolled map from Grendis, then pinned it down on the table with inkpots and a glass of stale beer. He looked at the map with pleasure, appreciating it as a purely functional piece of design, clean and informative. Cartography in Arrandal had been much farther advanced than in Tegestu’s homeland, a result of the need for nautical charts; but the Brodaini engineers had learned quickly, and now produced fine, precise, and accurate works of their own. The map was of Tastis’ camp, the known elevations marked in a precise hand, banners emblazoned precisely to mark the tents of Tastis’ commanders, with notes as to the strength of their regiments.

Tastis’ main camp wasn’t directly above the ford, but rather two miles to the southwest along the road, south of a thin line representing an old, small canal that emptied into the river. The purpose was clear enough: Tastis could water his horses and men in the canal without having to bring them to the river, within shot of Tegestu’s own men; and if the ford were threatened Tastis could get his men across the fields to the ford speedily enough.

Tegestu put a stubby finger on the little canal. “Two of bro-demmin Grendis’ scouts,” he said, “went up the canal last night.” Arrandalla men in fact, two deissins’ sons in the quest of adventure. They’d certainly found it.

“The canal has been deepened by Tastis’ engineers, and there has been a double dam constructed at the river entrance,” Tegestu said, spraying the difficult Abessla words in his haste. “We thought they did this for the purpose of keeping enough water in it for the horses and men.”

“All our scouts,” Grendis said, “came into the camp from the south. It’s open that way. To get in from the north they would have to sweep behind the castle fortifications and then circle well behind, then cross the canal.”

“I see,” Necias said.

“And then these two boys,” Tegestu said, “swam across the river last night. The dam was guarded so they went around, then got into the canal to follow it to the enemy camp. They wanted to steal an enemy banner, to boast to their friends.” Necias looked up at them, bewildered. “So what did they find?” he asked.

“Barges,” said Grendis.

“Many barges,” Tegestu added. “Taken from the river and hidden in the canal.”

“Boats,” Necias repeated. He seemed bewildered. “So you found boats in the canal. Why shouldn’t there be boats in a canal?’’

Stumbling over the unfamiliar words in their haste, Grendis and Tegestu explained. Tastis had, of course, sent men up and down the river to destroy or confiscate every boat and barge he could to prevent Tegestu from using them to aid his crossing. But the barges hidden here, in the carefully deepened canal, suggested he was intending to use them for purposes of his own.

The deep water in the canal meant that when the dam was broken down the barges would all float effortlessly into the river on the current. Tastis’ engineers could assemble them into a bridge — probably more than one bridge — in a few hours. If done at night the chances of being seen were slim, particularly since the heavy timber in the river valley would obscure the vision of anyone on the heights above; and if the cavalry forded above the bridge while the infantry crossed over the barges, Tastis could get most of his army across before dawn.

And then, Tegestu explained, there would be a smashing dawn attack on the Arrandalla camp. The defenders would be caught by surprise, with no plan of action, probably without time even to don their armor. Such of the army as survived would be driven back in disorder, delaying the campaign for months, and allowing Tastis time to move his forces against Prypas, presumably to attempt the same sort of surprise.

It had been only because two Arrandalla youth had gone in search of adventure that the barges had been discovered at all — all the safe scouting approaches were well away from the canal. And the cavalry raid Tastis had launched had faded away to the north, suggesting that Tastis was hoping to draw his enemies’ attention there, away from a river crossing. It was masterful.

Tegestu felt a warm certainty filling him as he spoke. The plan was pure Tastis: an opposed river crossing to delay the enemy and lull them into security, a diversion to draw attention away to the north, a sudden crossing to fall on the enemy camp from an unexpected direction. Swift, sudden, flexible, the attack in strength and unlooked-for. The hallmarks of a Tastis campaign. It would have worked, too, but for those two young scouts. And Grendis. A seeming accident, still their escapade would never have taken place without her insistence on finding Tastis’ intentions, trying to slip into the camp from an unusual direction.

Tegestu glanced at Grendis, standing travel-stained on Necias’ fine carpets, feeling his heart fill with joy at the sight of her. She had kept faith, believing Tegestu even though there was no evidence to support him she’d kept her scouts working night and day until, at last, the revelation had come. He reached out to touch her arm; and she glanced up at him, her eyes filled with pride.

“I’ll reward those two young men,” Necias was saying. “Their fathers will be proud.” He looked up at them, pulling his lower lip. “When will the crossing be?” he asked.

“Soon.” Tegestu said. “Or he will have wasted that cavalry raid.”

“So,” Necias said. “We can meet him, there on the water’s edge. Push him back.”

“May your arm never weaken. Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. “I would wish to let him build his bridge and bring his army across.” He saw Necias’ bewilderment and allowed himself a grim, reassuring smile. “We should let Tastis’ plan take its course.”

Tastis had devised such a good plan, Tegestu thought, it would be a shame to not to let him have his battle.

*

It was two nights later that Grendis’ watchers on the riverbank brought word that the barges were moving. Tegestu, lying in the dark repose of his tent as the tedec and bohau played outside under the stars, heard the hooves of the gallopers and their whispered conversation outside the tent. He reached out to touch Grendis’ arm as she lay on the next cot and felt her start as she came awake.

“The news has come,” he said with quiet certainty. Comprehension came into her eyes, and she raised a hand to touch his cheek.

“Tegestu.” A world of trust in the way she said the name. I shall ward your back from danger, she had promised; the promise was kept still.

There was a scuffling of feet outside the tent. “Beg pardon, bro-demmini.” Thesau’s voice.

“Once more, my heart,” Tegestu said. He kissed her hand. “I am grateful every day,” he said, and bent to kiss her, his unbound hair caressing her forehead, and then rose to his feet and told those outside to enter. Thesau was there, armored already in his leather; with him were Acamantu and Cascan.

“Inform Marshal Palastinas and the Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said, after he’d heard the news. “Then have the army called quietly to arms. No trumpets or drums — make certain of that.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

He and Grendis sat opposite one another on their cots, their knees touching, as the Classani braided their hair and coiled it carefully atop their heads. Grendis looked at him with a slight, tranquil smile, not speaking — no words were needed; it was perfectly understood, all that they meant to one another.

They stood to have their armor fitted, Grendis with her light cavalry leather cuirass and jingling coif of chain beneath her light helmet, Tegestu in the heavier linked plates of brigandine. The Classani handed them their swords and, Tegestu in the lead, they walked out of the dark tent.

It was black. There was a glow in the west where First Moon, with her stripes of deep azure and yellow, was setting; Third Moon had risen, but he was small and provided little light.

Ghantenis, Tegestu’s banner bearer, stood outside the tent, the heavy standard folded darkly over his head, next to others of the staff and a dark mass of whelkrani, commanders of hundreds and thousands who, forewarned by some uncharted sense, had known to migrate in this moment to the tent of their drandor. Tegestu received their salutes gravely. “Ban-demmini, Tastis is moving tonight,” he said. “I trust his welcome is prepared?”

“Aye, bro-demmin,” they chorused softly. Tegestu could see the fervid glow in their eyes, the glow that anticipated combat and rejoiced in the anticipation... he raised his gauntleted hands, and his limbs felt younger by twenty years.

“Blessings on you all,” he said. “Go to your places. There is no need for haste. There are many hours before dawn.”

They bowed again in silence, and the whelkrani dispersed, the staff standing ready beneath the folded banner. Tegestu called for the horses. There was a flurry of movement on the fringe of the group and suddenly it parted for the Abessu-Denorru, moving rapidly in the dark. Tegestu hastily went down to one knee.

“Rise, rise,” Necias said hastily, and Tegestu came to his feet again. Necias seemed agitated, shifting his weight rapidly from one foot to the other; he had a coat of chain on, with one arm fully armored and the other not, as if too impatient to armor himself fully. Necias put his fists on his hips.

“Tastis is coming, hey?” he asked quickly. “You’re sure about it?”

Tegestu bowed. “Is certain,” he said. “He will come tonight.”

Necias clapped his hands. “Good,” he said heartily. “Very good. We’ll beat him, hey?”

Tegestu bowed again. “Canlan, our arms are strong,” he said.

“Good,” repeated Necias. “I’ll be ready to ride with you, as soon as my armor’s strapped on.” He looked at Tegestu, his eyes dark and strange. “I trust you, Tegestu,” he said. He licked his lips and glanced up at the dark sky, then looked at the Brodaini faces under their tilted helms, the shadowed faces that watched him impassively. “I’m counting on you all.”

The faces seemed of stone. Tegestu saw spittle on Necias’ cheek. “We’ll get them, hey,” Necias said to the silence, clapping his hands again.

He is afraid, Tegestu realized. He rose to power in a series of wars, but he has never been on a battlefield before. It has made him nearly witless. The thought unnerved him, that he served a frightened man. Yet he had always known it, that Necias was not a martial man, that he had no understanding of demmin... he pushed the thought away, that a lord could have no demmin. He should take Necias away from here, he realized, before the others realized what they were seeing.

He took his canlan by the arm. “A word with you, Abeissu,” he said, as firmly as he dared. Necias nodded quickly, and seemed eager to be led away.

“My force will move soon, canlan Necias,” Tegestu said. “You wish to be with them, I know, but I think you must stay here.”

“Here? In the camp?”

“Aye. With Marshal Palastinas. Here you shall see more. Out in the dark, with me, nothing. I shall send messages, you will be informed.” He tightened his grip on Necias’ arm, trying to be reassuring. “We shall break Tastis tonight, with the gods’ help.”

“In the camp. Yes,” Necias said. He nodded briskly. “That makes sense, Tegestu. Thank you.” He tugged uncomfortably at the chain around his neck. “I’ll go, then,” he said, and clapped Tegestu on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you. Smash those rebels and we can all go home, hey?”

“No worry. We’ll beat them,” Tegestu said. He leaned closer to Necias. “Tell Marshall Palastinas I’m moving my headquarters to the old farm. He knows the one.” Necias nodded, repeated the message in a breathless voice, and then hurried away. Tegestu knelt, feeling a stab of rheumatism as his knee touched the cold ground, then returned to the silent group of Brodaini. The horses had been brought and stood saddled and ready. Tegestu looked carefully at the faces, watching for a sign that they had recognized the Abessu-Denorru’s fear, for any hint of contempt. Nothing, he thought, or they were keeping it to themselves.

His horse was brought; he put an armored foot into Thesau’s cupped hands and heaved himself up into the saddle. His horse was a mature beast, gentle and understanding of his old bones; it accepted his weight without protest. He looked down at the ring of faces.

“We shall triumph tonight, of that I am certain,” he said. “You have all done well.” He glanced at Grendis and saw her smile; he addressed the next words to her. “You have kept faith,” he said, “and you have made this victory possible. The gods reward you.”

They bowed in silence, the grave Brodaini response to praise; and then he signed them to mount. There was the sound of trotting hooves, and the interpreter Campas came out of the dark, looking uneasy in his unfamiliar and second-hand coat of chain. “Marshal Palastinas sent me,” he said, speaking his easy Gostu. “He thought I might make myself useful.”

“Come then,” Tegestu said; he donned his helmet and led the party to the south gate of the camp, where he could see the regiments moving into position behind him: armored cavalry, spearmen, bowmen, heavily armored figures carrying rhomphia — Brodaini, Classani, mercenaries, and the men of Arrandal, all marshaled silently between the rows of tents. Each had two strips of white wrapped around their upper arms to aid in identification — Tegestu would have preferred the forehead, but Tastis might think to use that himself, and he didn’t want confusion. The soldiers had rehearsed this, yesterday in the late afternoon and again this morning: their officers should know their tasks by now.

Grendis saluted and departed, to join her squadrons, the light cavalry detailed for pursuit. Tegestu watched her go, sadness in his heart, breathing a prayer for her safety. He knew that her job exposed her to no great danger — she would only be employed when the battle was already won — but still Tegestu felt the tightness in his jaw and belly, his worry for her.

Tegestu gave a signal and the pioneers dashed out on fast horses to their marks, ready to guide the column. Then the long line of men moved out of the camp, guiding themselves by the winking shuttered lanterns of the pioneers, each of whom was standing by a stake that marked the line of march, a route carefully designed by the engineers to keep out of sight of any of Tastis’ columns. A messenger came to Tegestu as they marched.

“They’ve completed two bridges,” the young woman said, breathless from her ride. “They’ve got men across already, clearing brush for the others.”

“Very well,” Tegestu said. “Sit you down yonder, and rest your horse. Join us later.’’

The march went on. Tegestu and Palastinas had divided the army between them, Tegestu taking the mobile column on its night march, Palastinas holding the fortified camp. They would crush Tastis between them as the rebels marched, strung out across country, en route to their own surprise attack.

The last stage of Tegestu’s march was made dismounted, each trooper holding his horse’s bridle and moving slowly, careful to avoid any sound that might alert Tastis or his men, their hands ready to clamp on their horses’ muzzles in case a shifting wind brought them the scent of other horses and the beasts tried to call out in welcome.

Tegestu turned aside to a tall stone farmhouse, his new headquarters; the inhabitants— , landowners owing allegiance to a baron who theoretically owed his own obedience to Neda-Calacas— were roused out of their beds by Classani and shut up in the attic. The column flowed past, down into a shallow fold in the ground that would shelter them from Tastis’ eyes until the time was right. The others were disposed carefully in their own places of hiding, the pioneers leading them with colored lanterns, each lantern shuttered to beam its light only at the approaching troops.

A night attack, Tegestu knew, demanded uncommon planning; but his staff was practiced, and he himself had been over the ground yesterday and again today. He would not go out again tonight; there would be little point, and he would serve better remaining here at the headquarters where any message would reach him. And messengers began to trickle in, from the whelkrani and mercenary captains and the city soldiers, breathlessly informing him that the men were in place and ready.

“They have all reported, bro-demmin,” Acamantu reported, ticking off the last messenger on his list. He looked up at his father with satisfaction.

“Very well,” Tegestu said complacently. “Tell the runners to return and tell their captains there will be no action for the present. The soldiers may sleep on their arms.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

“And send one of our own runners to the Abessu-Denorru. Inform him that our force is in place and ready.” He might as well ease Necias’ anxiety if he could. He hoped the elderly, patient Palastinas would serve as an example for Necias; he was certain that, even if things went utterly wrong tonight, the Marshal would lean back, stroke his dainty white beard, and take it with what philosophy he could.

No more messengers would come for a while: he had no watchers near the bridges, not wanting Tastis to stumble across one of them and take alarm. Instead his scouts were disposed overlooking Tastis’ likely route of march, ready to inform him when the enemy started moving. That wouldn’t be for some hours yet.

For the present there was nothing to do; Tegestu asked Thesau to bring him tea and eyed a plush settee sitting comfortably in the next room. His Classani, used to his ways, brought the settee hastily forth, and he sat himself down, leaned against the pillows, closed his eyes, and awaited events.

He must have slept, for when he awakened the glass of tea that had been so carefully put by his hand was cold. One of Cascan’s spies, her body and head shrouded in midnight black, had come in to report. “Tastis is moving, bro-demmin,” she said with a bow. “My companions remain and are trying to estimate his numbers.”

“Thank you, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said. His voice seemed cracked and dry; he had an unpleasant vision of himself sleeping with his mouth cracked open, snoring while his staff watched, and banished the thought from his mind. He sipped his tea, feeling it slide welcome and cool down his throat. “Return to your post,” he said; and the woman bowed and vanished, light as a cat in her tall buskins.

“Messengers to the captains,” Tegestu said. “Their soldiers are to stand ready.” He paused, then added as an afterthought, “And send someone to Palastinas. He will probably wish to know.” And Necias as well, he thought, who would be driving his companions half-mad, fretting for more news.

The runners, each knowing his destination, slipped quickly from the house. Tegestu finished his tea and smiled. Other reports came in, telling of numbers, hasty estimates made in the dark, and of Tastis’ progress. Tegestu nodded his comprehension of the picture and let his staff do the work.

He had another, fresher glass of tea, watching his people busy at their tasks, and then saw the poet Campas standing idle by the door, his hand tugging at the collar of his mail shirt where it chafed his throat. Tegestu, amused at the man’s hopeless awkwardness, wondered where he’d got the old byrnie; by looks it should have been scrubbing pots in the Acragas kitchens long ago. Campas yawned, covering the gaping mouth with the back of his hand, turned and paced to the other end of the room, one eye cocked toward the door and any further messages.

“You seem impatient, ilean poet,” Tegestu said. Campas turned to him and bowed.

“I had thought these things moved with more speed, bro-demmin,” Campas said. “All these days of waiting, and now with the enemy two little hills away there is still more waiting.”

“Things will move swiftly enough, by and by,” Tegestu said.

Campas smiled. “I said that myself, to the Ambassador Fiona, just a few days ago,” he said.

“Did you?” Tegestu said. His plans were shaping as they should; he felt in an expansive mood, rested and light-hearted. He looked up at the poet. “I haven’t yet spoken with her. Do you see her often?”

“I see her daily,” Campas said, tugging at his mail coat again. “I speak with her rarely — Necias keeps me too busy.”

“And she is busy herself, asking questions of my household,” Tegestu said. A wary look entered Campas’ eyes.

“She wants to know your people,” Campas said. “She does not mean to offend.”

“To know us is not difficult,” Tegestu said. “She may come and go, as any ambassador; her people are not our enemies.”

“No, they are not,” Campas said, seemingly relieved. He glanced toward the door as another midnight-garbed messenger came in, breathless from having run from an outpost two miles away. She stammered out her message: the enemy column, stretched out in its long line of march, lay like a strand of soft metal twixt hammer and anvil, and Tegestu had but to let the hammer fall.

Tegestu smiled, and rose slowly from the couch. “It is time to do some fighting, ban-demmini,” he said, “Give out the order to advance. Send someone to Marshal Palastinas to tell him — a galloper this time, no need for discretion. Tastis will think it one of his.” He glanced up at Campas. “Now you will have your wish: things will move rapidly from here.”

“I understand, bro-demmin.”

The messengers dashed out again, and Tegestu followed as far as the door, catching a whiff of the fragrant night air. He sensed that Campas had followed him. “I may as well go to sleep again,” he remarked. “Our people have but to follow the plan. I’ll only be needed if things go wrong, but I don’t think they shall.”

He felt a pressure in his bladder — all that tea — and stepped out into the darkness, receiving the surprised salute of some of the Classani grooms. To his left, dimly sensed, he could discern the dark shape of spearmen standing, their bladed shafts at rest in the ground before them as they stood ready, awaiting the order to move. A lovely night, he thought, to be a young spearman and stand at rest beneath the stars, breath catching in the throat in anticipation of the battle to come. Stars, dew on the grass, breath frosting in the night air, the chink of armor... there was a poem in that, he thought. He would try to write it tomorrow, his victory poem.

Tastis was out there, he thought. He would not miss this, he knew. He remembered his cousin, his cunning face, his agile wit. If Tastis was taken tonight, or killed, the war might well be over. But somehow he could not wish it.

He walked some distance from the farmhouse and urinated, then turned and came back. The dark forms that were bodies of spearmen heaved suddenly, the hundreds of men moving as one, sloping their pikes forward at the ready with a sound like the distant rattle of autumn twigs. Starlight glittered on the blades; and then, almost silently, the spearmen began to surge forward, moving swiftly in a compact mass, each man aligning on his file leader. He watched as they moved up the slope, their legs swishing in the grass; then they topped the rise and were gone. A poem, Tegestu thought, truly.

The bright lamps in the farmhouse dazzled him as he stepped inside, and he stood blinking in the doorway for a few moments as his staff stood ready. The force was divided into three main groups, each hidden along Tastis’ line of march; each, it was hoped, would strike Tastis at more or less the same time, though that was a difficult task at night. A few minutes’ difference either way would not matter.

He returned to the couch and his tea, his mind still full of the night, of the sight of those glittering blades topping the rise. The others stood by respectfully, waiting... and then it came, softly on the still night air, the sound of metal drumming on metal, thousands of weapons smashing on thousands of shields, helmets, pieces of armor. He saw Campas look up, a frown on his face as he tried to identify the sound; and he saw satisfaction slide into the eyes of the staff, and their triumphant smiles.

After that the messengers began to come and they were all busy. Reports were confused, not unnaturally, but they were all positive: many of the enemy had been broken at first contact, others were holding and trying to cut their way out, but were being contained. One detachment of heavy cavalry had been assigned to push its way to the bridges, cutting the enemy from retreat; this group reported an early success, but the group sent to follow, rhomphiamen to chop their way across the bridges to the other side, with pikes to establish a secure perimeter on the west bank, reported a failure: there were steady Neda-Calacas Brodaini there, repelling any attempt to take the bridge. Tegestu would have to be satisfied with denying the enemy retreat.

A message came from Palastinas, saying that he was moving: apparently the old marshal wasn’t content to sit in camp, waiting for the enemy to be driven to him; he wanted to do some driving himself. So long as the camp was garrisoned, Tegestu thought, so that enemy stragglers couldn’t loot it, Palastinas’ attack could do some good.

Messages came back, all reporting victory. Some of the enemy spearmen had held, their pikes forming an impenetrable ring to cavalry; but the reserve rhomphiamen had come up, heavily armored and with their long heavy sickle-blades, and chopped their way through the spears as they had been taught. Tegestu smiled with pride: those rhomphia were his particular innovation, something he had introduced to kamliss Pranoth during the long civil war, to break up the enemy’s invulnerable pike-hedges. They worked well, so long as the armored attackers were well trained.

Now, he thought, they were being used on their brothers, the Pranoth men on the other side. Because Tastis could not keep his allegiance. He frowned. The Brodaini in this land were so few, and now more were dying. It was best that Tastis was killed or taken; that way his people might survive.

All the messages were now of victory, of banners taken and Tastis’ people fleeing, all order lost, into the trees by the river. There they were holding out: Tegestu’s own soldiers lost their order trying to pursue into the thick woods, and the battle was swift and vicious. Little profit would be had, he thought, from heedless pursuit into the thickets, and he gave his one order of the fight, to sound the recall and wait for dawn.

There was not long to wait; the sky was already paling. Tegestu ordered up his horse; he left word as to where he could be found and rode out across the fields, his staff following him. The first people encountered were wounded, staggering back from the fight— and then, dark on the trampled ground, the dead. He could see how it had gone: here they had given way utterly; there some cavalry had pitched into a deep depression in the ground and came to a crashing leg-snapping halt; and here again the enemy had made a stand, beaten off Brodaini spearmen, then been broken by the rhomphiamen and died in their ranks. It had been a chaotic mess of a battle, as night fights always were, but surprise had been with Tegestu’s army and the impetus had carried them through the enemy.

And then he came to the slope overlooking the river, seeing the dark woods stretched out below in shadow, with the ranks of his own men forming just below the crest of the slope. He wished it were later in the season, for then fire could be used to burn the enemy out; now there was no way but to go after them and dig them out.

He rode along the ranks, receiving the silent salutes of the Brodaini and the bellowing cheers of the city folk. He rattled off his orders swiftly, improvising, wedges of men to pierce the woods and the enemy line, then roll them up from either side. “Is there any news of Tastis?” he kept asking; but Tegestu’s cousin had not been seen. His banner had not been among those taken; he and his entourage must be below, waiting in the forest with the wreck of his army.

We will not get him now, Tegestu thought, not unless his body turns up among the fallen, unnoticed. He can swim back to the friendly shore; he’s a strong swimmer.

So the attack progressed. The Brodaini guard on the bridge were inundated by arrows, smashed by infantry and then cavalry, and sent reeling back; but by then enemy engineers had salvaged most of their bridges, preventing Tegestu from using them. The fight in the woods, more broken and confused than any night battle could ever be, took longer; but in the end those enemy who could swim took flight, and those who could not died or joined the long lines of prisoners toiling up the hill.

Then Palastinas and his forces arrived — they were well-marshaled and still fresh, for they’d had little to do in their sweep but run down fugitives or take in prisoners — followed by part of his staff and the Ambassador Fiona — her hood was a deep blue today, Tegestu noticed. The Marshal rode up cheerfully, waving his riding whip, and Tegestu saluted him gravely.

“The enemy are broken, but there will still be many in the wood,” he said. “I would like to use your people to ferret them out; my own are done.”

“Take ’em,” Palastinas said with a shrug. He glanced behind him. “I’ve ordered the surgeons to move their field hospitals up here,” he said. “That should make it easier on the wounded.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Tegestu said. “That was thoughtful.” He looked at the faces of Palastinas’ staff — young faces for the most part, not all accustomed to war, most of them curiously glancing down into the trees, seeing the bright uniforms and armor, the banners staggering through the brush. “Has the Abessu-Denorru accompanied you?” Tegestu asked.

Palastinas smiled a private smile. “No, Drandor Tegestu, he did not,” he said. “He started with us, but fell ill and retired to the camp.” He leaned close to Tegestu, lowering his voice. “He was a little green, I think,” he said privately. “He’s seen heads lopped off felons and the like, but he’s never seen death in such quantity before — nothing like this field.”

Tegestu gazed bleakly down into the valley, wishing he hadn’t been told. The Abessu-Denorru, his canlan, afraid of a little blood... . Necias had always seemed a strong man, for an Abessla, unsentimental enough when ordering soldiers to do his work for him. The thought that Necias would turn ill at the sight of a massacre he had himself ordered made a black foreboding ooze slowly into Tegestu’s mind.

“Not like our little Fiona, now,” Palastinas went on, cheerful. “She’s like an old campaigner — won’t wear any armor, just that old robe of hers, and rode through that mess without turning a hair.” He looked over his shoulder at the small figure of the ambassador, perched frowning on her mare with one leg crooked carelessly around the saddle horn. “I wonder if they fight wars where she comes from, hey?” he asked.

Tegestu looked up at the brown face with its cap of dark curls, seeing Fiona looking down into the valley with the others, her eyes intent, glowing almost, her mouth tight and grim. She’s a hater, he thought with wonder. What’s happened to make her hate them so much?

“I don’t know, Marshal,” he said, recovering slowly from his surprise. “Perhaps we could ask.”

Palastinas sighed. “So,” he said. “We have other things to think about. I’ve got the Bricklayers’ Guild Scarlet Lights coming up behind me, and they haven’t wrestled with an enemy yet — where d’you think I should send ’em?”

Tegestu turned his mind from the ambassador, then glanced down into the trees, gauging the mixed, lurching, confusing battle. “I don’t know,” he said. “Give me leave to think a moment.”

CHAPTER 13

Necias swirled the wine in his crystal goblet, frowning.

“Over two thousand bodies,” Listas’ high-pitched, annoying voice went on. “I have the precise figure here somewhere — ah. Two thousand two hundred sixty-one, so far. There will have been as many undiscovered in the trees down there, and many more drowned. Almost fifteen hundred wounded and captured. Eight thousand suits of armor recovered at the water’s edge, abandoned when their owners swam for it. And,” Listas’ voice almost purred with satisfaction, “seven hundred and eighteen of the bastards captured unhurt. Ready to be delivered to your justice.”

“Good.” Necias said, his mind elsewhere. Listas was his son by Argo, and was a popeyed, neat, orderly person with a tidy clerk’s mind and a grating voice, happy in a world of numbers. He and two of Necias’ other sons were supervising the army’s commissary for the benefit of the House of Acragas, but Listas had been borrowed for the day to replace Campas, who was off supervising the interrogation of the surviving prisoners.

“They had thirty thousand men,” Listas said, his voice a little sharp, sensing perhaps that Necias wasn’t paying attention. “That’s almost one in five of their army that we’ve either killed or captured, not counting the bodies we haven’t found yet or the men drowned in the river, plus thousands more forced to abandon their armor and swim like water-puppies. And most of their cavalry scattered, Palastinas said, rather than fighting — they’ll be useless. Palastinas said that if he were Tastis he wouldn’t even try to oppose our crossing the river. He said if he were Tastis he’d already be sending his baggage to the rear.”

“Is that so?” Necias asked. He turned his head and looked at his son. “How many of those dead and captured were Brodaini — Tastis’ own men?”

“Ah — I don’t have those figures available.”

Necias grunted, then turned to scowl at the crystal goblet in his hand, the dark wine swirling within. Wine the color of blood, the color that had drenched the grass that morning. Feeling bile rising in his throat, Necias put the goblet on the table and pushed it away.

Men lying in the grass, hacked up with swords and spears and those Brodaini choppers, as if a horde of apprentice butchers, unused to their craft, had been loosed on the field. And with Tastis making his escape there would be more such butchery, until the renegade was caught.

At least Tegestu had proven loyal. It had seemed suspicious to Necias that Tegestu insisted on letting Tastis’ army across the river — almost as if he wanted to unite Tastis with his own Brodaini, and turn on the Arrandal men. The suspicion had grown as the hours advanced, and Necias had almost been driven mad with worry.

He suspected he had said a lot of foolishness last night while he was trying to reassure himself that Tegestu and his stonefaced henchmen weren’t eyeing his neck and wondering if they could hack it through with a single stroke.

Well. That worry was done with. All he had to do was treat Tegestu with respect; that was all the Brodaini wished, and not understanding that had been Nadielas’ big mistake. Necias should be relieved, but for some reason relief hadn’t come.

Necias grabbed the goblet suddenly and gulped the wine, trying not to look at it, trying not to think of those raglike bodies strewn over the fields. He put the goblet down and wiped his lips. He should write to the city to announce the victory — he should have done that first thing.

“Draft a proclamation,” he said, and without waiting for Listas to collect pen and paper he began, the words rattling off his tongue without need for thought — he’d dictated proclamations before, and their composition was easy enough. “From Acragas Necias Abeissu, to the Donorru-Deissu and the people of Arrandal, Greetings. The Marshal Palastinas and I are pleased to announce a victory — make that a brilliant victory — over the forces of the renegade Tastis, fought on the, ah, the right bank of the East Rallandas River. In the field the Brodaini Tegestu commanded the left, and Marshal Palastinas the right. Tegestu’s forces alone crushed the enemy before the right could engage. Marshal Palastinas then conducted a successful pursuit, resulting in the capture of hundreds of enemy soldiers.” He saw Listas lift an eyebrow, and turned to him with a belligerent snarl.

“That’s what happened, didn’t it?” he demanded. “Or did I get right and left turned around?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Listas protested.

“Tegestu earned his praise,” Necias growled. “I want to spare the city any anxiety they may feel about his loyalty. Understand?”

Listas nodded mutely. Necias turned away and held out his goblet for more wine. “White,” he told the servant, and the man took the cup, bowed, and withdrew in silence. Necias resumed his dictation.

“Then add those figures of enemy dead, wounded, and captured,” he said. “After that, write: A trophy will be set up on the field and dedicated by our priests, and suits of captured armor will be returned to Arrandal to be set in its palaces and temples. The city of Arrandal will be pleased to know that its forces behaved with invincible spirit, courage, and steadiness.” He looked at Listas. “Got that all?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Have it sent by messenger tonight.” The wine cup returned and Necias took a swallow. Next would come letters to the barons owing allegiance to Neda-Calacas, urging them to open their gates to the Arrandalla army. Most of them, he suspected, would have avoided declaring for one side or the other: this battle would change that. He turned at the sound of footsteps.

“Abessu-Denorru,” Campas said, walking in with his long strides. He had got rid of his coat of chain, and was back in his dark, tailored clothing. “I have a message from Tegestu. He’s got news about the new bridging train, and expects to cross the river within three days.”

“Good,” Necias said. He knew that Tegestu’s message had probably been a good deal more formal than that, and appreciated Campas’ editing it to its essentials. “Sit down,” he urged. “Have some supper and tell me what the drandor’s been doing.”

“Sleeping, mostly,” Campas answered, drawing up a settee and throwing himself down on the pillows. “Went to bed after turning things over to Palastinas, then got up early this afternoon and wrote his victory poem. A nice little verse, by the way — there’s an effective bit of imagery about spear-blades shining on the grass like dew.” He looked up with a grin. “Shall I translate?”

“Spare me,” Necias said. “I’m not interested in what Tegestu thinks is poetic.” Or poems about battle, either. Spear-blades on the grass, he thought. Who was going to write a poem about all those city boys on the grass with their tripes cut out?

Campas shrugged; then he smiled, as if privately amused. “Tegestu seems to have spent most of this battle asleep,” he said. “He was asleep through most of last night, until the battle actually started, and once he turned things over to Palastinas he went back to bed again. Wouldn’t it be nice,” Campas said, his eyes mischievous, “to be able to dream your victories the way Tegestu does?’’

Necias snorted at the notion. It wasn’t often that the poet dared to be so ridiculous in his presence. Campas grinned.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink, myself. Couldn’t understand why Tegestu and his people were taking things so calmly. I suppose it was because they knew exactly how things would go.”

“Yes,” Necias said. “That must have been it.” That calm that he had mistaken for frigid enmity: he shuddered at the recollection, then chose to change the subject. “How many recruits from the prisoners, hey?” He had offered amnesty to any who joined — it was better than slavery in the mines or galleys until the war was over, with execution for the leaders. Campas frowned, scratching his chin.

“Not many, I’m afraid. Only a hundred or so. I was surprised, I admit — a lot of these people support Tastis.”

“Eh?” asked Necias in surprise. “What d’you mean, support him?” He gestured irritably. “That man gave the chop to half the government of the city! How the hell could they support him?”

“He’s got his own government now, it seems,” Campas said. “He’s got this Denorru-Censtassinn he’s set up. And it isn’t as if the last government was exactly popular.”

Denorru-Censtassinn, Council of the Populace. One of the little puppet-boards Tastis had set up to help him rule the city.

“Popular?” Necias grated. “What’s that got to do with it?” He slammed the goblet down on the table. “Oh, yes, he’s got his little puppets. So what? It’s Tastis who’s got the power — it’s not as if these Denorrinn were anything more than a sop thrown to the city.”

“Beg pardon, cenors-efellsan,” Campas said regretfully. “But Tastis has been very cunning — he’s given power to many who haven’t had it before, and they’ll not wish to give it up. Neda-Calacas is still a divided city, uncertain of its allegiance, but there are more holding to Tastis’ faction than we’ve ever thought.”

“Faction?” Necias barked, laughing. “What kind of faction can Tastis have?’’

Gradually, under Campas’ prodding insistence and despite Necias’ reluctance to believe it, the appalling truth came out. The composition of Neda-Calacas’ Donorru-Deissin had been altered: most of the deissin had been purged from its ranks, a majority of Brodaini chiefs had been added, and the name changed to Denorru-Welldrannin, Council of the Elders, the latter a term barbarously borrowed from the Gostu. This council, Tastis had proclaimed, was charged with the “guidance” of the city and its people through the troubles.

But Tastis had created another donorru, the Denorru-Censtassin, a junior council of two hundred men of the city: it was elected by all the male citizens over the age of thirty, and anyone was eligible to take a seat. This was in contrast to all precedent: the Denorru-Deissin of Arrandal, and every other city, was composed only of men of substantial wealth. The Denorru-Censtassin had a broader base, including the poor; and Tastis had actually given his new council control of most of the actual working of the civil administration, the street patrols, magistrates, prisons, and so forth.

“The city is in terror,” Campas said. “Before there was no outlet for resentment against the deissin, but now Tastis allows it. Corrupt magistrates have been arrested and condemned, deissin have had their goods confiscated and distributed to the poor, usury has been outlawed.”

“Ai, gods,” Necias murmured. How many of his own allies in Arrandal could survive if those sort of standards were applied to them?

“He’s done more,” Campas explained. “He’s altered the makeup of the Guilds: now there’s a League of Journeymen within each Guild — policy’s no longer decided simply by the Masters.”

“Ai, gods,” Necias said again, the full horror of this easily penetrating. The craft guilds were composed of three classes, the Apprentices, Journeymen, and Masters: always power had been held firmly by the latter. This had always been resented by the Journeymen, who were kept on low wages until a Master died and they could fill his place, at which point the Guild gave permission for the new Master to seek contracts of his own. Now, with the Journeymen taking a more active part, they could start demanding higher wages, perhaps even seeking commissions. The entire system would crumble.

“Tastis has a lot of money now,” Campas explained. “He’s purged some houses altogether, confiscating their goods, and he’s forced other of the deissin to pay heavy fines; he’s also seized direct control of some of the banks. The dole to the poor has been increased, and the rest has been used to recruit mercenaries and pay his militia. He’s got a lot of volunteers for the city forces and the fleet because suddenly the volunteers are making more money than they’ve ever made before.”

“It can’t work,” Necias said. “Not in the long run. It’s too — too convenient for all these people.” His mind, after recovering its shock, was beginning to work on these little pieces of information, to assemble them into a mosaic; and he thought he saw that some of the pieces wouldn’t properly fit with the others.

“He’ll bankrupt himself,” he said. “How can he afford all those payments — to the poor, to his militia, to the mercenaries? He can’t keep confiscating the wealth of the citizens, not over and over — he’ll run out.” He gulped wine, then held up a finger to make a point. “And he can’t change the Guild system without debasing their product — it was set up to guarantee the quality of goods. With the journeymen being in competition with the masters everyone will lose; there’ll be too much craft coming out of the city, and too much of it will be poor craft, and prices will be too low to support anyone. He’s depending too much on the small traders. These little diné are too poor to control the big trading fleets the city depends on. He can make laws against usury on loans, but he can’t force the lenders to make loans against their will. The money supply will dry up.”

“He can keep the bankers terrified, that’s how he’ll do it,” Campas reminded him. “This new system will keep him afloat for a few years, and that’s all he cares about. If he can get a large part of the citizens to aid in the defense of their city, thinking the changes will bring them benefit, then he’ll be able to hold on longer, and any troubles he has can be blamed on us.”

“All the more reason to crush him now.” Necias frowned. “Before his notions have a chance to spread.”

Campas nodded. “Yes. Think how Tastis’ ideas might sound to our own poor, to our own journeymen — and for that matter, to our mercenaries. He’s paying his own a lot of bonuses. And however much the flenssin dislike the Brodaini, they respect them as fellow-soldiers; perhaps they’d rather serve soldiers than merchants.”

Necias heaved himself up from his chair, rubbed his chin briskly, and began to pace. “We’ve got to isolate our prisoners, then,” he said. He turned to Listas and prodded his chest with a stubby finger. “You,” he said. “Get to Tegestu immediately and tell him to relieve the prisoners’ guards with his own people. The Brodaini are to have sole custody, hey?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Listas said, rising unsteadily. He rubbed his chest where the finger had poked him, then snatched his cloak and made for the entrance to the pavilion.

“Listas!” Necias bellowed, as another thought struck him. Listas turned.

“Yes?”

“Request Tegestu to visit me at his earliest convenience.” He gave a look at Campas. “I want to know what the Brodaini think of this. They might have a notion or two that we haven’t thought of.” He swiveled back to Listas. “Use all courtesy, mind!”

“Right away, Father,” Listas said, and ran for it. Necias paced silently, his mind working doggedly on the problem of Tastis. Thank the gods Arrandal had won this battle; it would make Tastis’ more faint-hearted supporters fall away and make the others, at least, glance nervously behind them, wondering what might befall them if their side lost — both sides, as all knew, could play at this game of purges. And a lot of Tastis’ best troops were smashed up; that would make his militia wonder if their prowess was as great as Tastis told them it was.

There was a tramp and jingle of armor outside the pavilion, and the captain of Necias’ guards entered. He was a nephew, the only son of Necias’ brother Castas, who had died keeping the assassin’s dagger away. He was named Acragas Necias, and was therefore referred to as Little Necias, a name Necias suspected he resented, since he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, as tall as his father.

“Drandor Tegestu,” Little Necias reported, “with his retinue.” Necias nodded, then stepped from behind the screens that divided his private chamber from his public one and received the Brodaini, watching as they bowed in homage. “I trust your people will make their needs known to my servants,” he said as Tegestu rose. “My friend, I need to speak with you.”

He told a servant to bring Tegestu a stool and then walked with him into the private chamber, seeing Campas rise and bow in the formal Brodaini way. “Tell him,” he snapped at Campas; and the poet nodded and began rattling out Gostu. Tegestu listened in silence, his face impassive, his eyes slitted in thought.

“Well,” Necias said when the poet was finished. “What do you make of it, hey?”

Tegestu slowly shook his head. “It is not our way. Very strange.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned to Campas. “May your arm never weaken, canlan Necias, I am sorry that I do not have the words. In our own tongue, this is an-hosta, very bad. Dai-terru, to tamper this way with a governing. It breaks the lines of nartil.”

Campas took a deep breath and blew his cheeks, struggling with the dismal facts of translation, then turned to Necias. “Disharmonious,” he said. “Tastis has taken too much on himself, to break up authority that way. It is not the Brodaini way.”

Tegestu seemed to be pondering deeply. “It is very like Tastis, this news,” he said. “He has always been, ah, flexible. Thinks quickly. Ah, improvises very well. Adapts.” He shook his head. “But it is not Brodaini, it is something else. A strange... compromise. I do not know how to think of it.”

Necias pounced on Tegestu’s words, harsh delight bubbling through him as he saw Tastis’ weakness. “Tastis has compromised the Brodaini way, hey?” he said. “He’s made too many changes, acted too quickly.” He leaned closer to Tegestu, his voice eager. “Will his own people support him in all of this? Or will they think as you do?”

Tegestu paused for a moment, his deep eyes troubled. Then he looked at Necias and nodded. “Some will not approve,” he said. “But Tastis must have the support of most of the aldran; otherwise he could not proceed in this at all.”

“Can we work on that?” Necias asked. “Many of his, his kamlissi are divided between Neda-Calacas and Arrandal, with the senior people in Arrandal. Can you urge Tastis’ people, the ones who think as you do, to return to their old allegiance, to yourself and the others of your welldran?”

“It is — I do not like to break nartil in this way,” Tegestu said, obviously unhappy. “But it is declared angu, there are no courtesies between such enemies. I will do what I can.”

“Good, good,” Necias said, a grin curling his lips. He reached out a hand and patted Tegestu’s armored knee. “Good man,” he said. He glanced up at Campas.

“There are other holes in Tastis’ armor,” he said. “The deissin and bankers aren’t without influence, and the flenssin aren’t invulnerable to bribery. All we need is for a small company to take a gate and hold it for a few minutes. Neda-Calacas is composed of two big cities, with four harbors between them; there are lots of places for people to get in and out. A little prearrangement, a little gold, and we’ll have everything but the keep — maybe even that.

“But we’ll have to move quickly,” he added. He glanced at Tegestu, seeing the old warrior stolid behind his frozen mask of calculated ferocity. “We’ve got to get the army to Neda-Calacas as quickly as we can — force march if we have to. Before Tastis can arrange things to suit his convenience again.”

Tegestu bowed. “It will mean being less careful,” he said, “but it can be done safely enough. Tastis’ army is not harmless, but he can’t strike us hard, not without new strength from the city. But he will raid us, Abessu-Denorru, and there may be a few surprises.”

“We’ll take the risk,” Necias said.

“May your arm never fail,” Tegestu said, and bowed again.

“Proclamations to the barons — we’ll need those,” Necias said briskly, standing and rubbing his hands. “Tell ’em we’re here, hey, that their rights will be respected, that Tastis is finished.” He reached for the goblet and drank the last of the wine, beaming happily down at Tegestu and Campas, satisfied that things were moving his way at last, that at last, in spite of some nasty shocks, he was beginning to comprehend the flow of events. The Hundred-Year Peace, he thought; he might still be able to salvage it.

With, of course, the help of a little gold, and a little treason in the right places.

CHAPTER 14

Tastis’ forces faded from the ford an hour after Tegestu’s first bridges were thrown across five miles downstream, and though Tegestu pushed Tastis hard the armies of Arrandal never managed to catch their enemy. There were, as Tegestu had predicted, raids here and there, on the baggage trains, on isolated columns; the raids were of mixed success but even the worst did not delay the march.

Barons holed up in their strongholds were bypassed, but most threw open their gates and welcomed the Arrandalla, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, as friends. The army forged on, presumably to the barons’ relief, until it came to yet another river and another castle perched on a bluff.

It was troublesome, this little outpost on the West Rallandas. Knowing that their commerce depended heavily on control of the rivers and canals, the cities had conquered and destroyed most of the baronial keeps that could threaten the flow of trade, and the rest had been reduced by treaty or garrisoned by city troops. This small castle was one of the latter.

There it perched on its rock, right at the curve of the river where it could command barge traffic, a half-bowshot from the principal ford. The West Rallandas was easier than the East; it was slower and shallower and more fordable — but the other fords were not as convenient, and so Tegestu readied his assault on the castle and called on the garrison to surrender. Even if they refused, he calculated, it would not hold for longer than three days.

If they surrendered he would grant them the honors of war, allowing them safe conduct to Neda-Calacas. If not they would be exterminated, and presumably they knew it.

An officer in charge announced that he would surrender — Tegestu’s heart eased — but then produced a strange condition. He would give up the keys of the castle to none other than Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth in person, and only after being allowed to speak privately with him for the space of half an hour.

An assassin, Tegestu thought, and a clumsy one; but then the officer announced he was prepared to come unarmored and that he would willingly be searched for weapons first. Tegestu thought again. Perhaps, he concluded, this young man was a foe of Tastis; perhaps he was the one the Abessu-Denorru was looking for, the man who would open, in addition to the gates of the fort, the gates of the city.

And who was the man who made such demands? Aptan Tepesta Laches y’Pranoth, he called from the low battlements — Tegestu realized with a start that this was one of Tastis’ sons. Could a son be a traitor? But neither would Tastis ask one of his heirs to draw an assassin’s weapon: Aptan would be too valuable to throw away on such duty.

For a moment Tegestu considered throwing his forces against the castle now, hoping to seize Tastis’ son as hostage... he might be worth the losses. But no, he thought; Aptan would have instructions to have one of his men hack off his head before he allowed himself to be captured. The losses would be for nothing. Curiosity gnawed at him — and of course the castle would be surrendered that much more quickly.

And so Tegestu consented. A canvas awning was set up before the castle, well out of bowshot, and the besieging army withdrew a pace. Under its shade two stools were set. The gates of the castle opened a crack and a man came out — a slender, smiling, good-natured lad, it seemed, walking with open arms to where Cascan and his cathruni waited. The search was thorough, and a little rough: when Aptan walked to his stool, his hair mussed from being unbraided to discover strangling wires, he didn’t seem nearly as cheerful as when he’d first come out of the castle.

Then Tegestu came out, armored, with weapons ready to hand. His guards halting just out of earshot, he walked to the place appointed: the stools were still three paces apart. They faced one another, and then Aptan bowed.

“May your demmin ever increase, drandor Tegestu,” he said. He inclined his head, his tolhostu broken by a slight, rueful smile. “My compliments on the efficiency of your cathruni.”

“They know their duty, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said. “Sit and deliver your message.”

Aptan bowed and sat, his face still showing his small, appreciative grin. Tegestu lowered himself heavily to the stool, a shiver of pain running through the muscles of his upper thighs as, for a second only, they took his weight.

“I am charged with a kantu-kamliss matter,” Aptan said, “from bro-demmin Tastis Senestu Tepesta y’Pranoth, drandor y Kamliss-Pranoth-sa-Neda, to Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth, drandor y Kamliss-Pranoth-sa-Arrandal.’’

Another kantu-kamliss matter, Tegestu thought sourly. The ban would keep him from reporting the substance of this conversation to Necias, which, no doubt, was what Tastis had in mind.

“Speak,” Tegestu said shortly, then held up a hand.

“Confine yourself to matters relating strictly to kamliss Pranoth, however,” he added. “I will not see the holy label of kantu-kamliss assigned frivolously.”

Aptan, seemingly a little surprised, bowed hastily. “May your arm never fail, bro-demmin,” he said, “I hope you will keep me on the right track, should I stray from it.”

“I shall, ban-demmin Aptan,” Tegestu said grimly. “Never fear.”

Aptan sat back for a moment, apparently considering the proper opening; then he nodded, presumably to himself, and spoke. “Our kamliss,” Aptan said, “is divided. Most of Pranoth serves Arrandal; the rest rules Neda and Calacas with the help of its allies. In both places, Pranoth voices are the first to speak among the Brodaini, and they speak with the greatest authority.” He paused, his green eyes looking with curiosity at Tegestu as if waiting for him to agree; but Tegestu remained gravely silent. Let the boy say his piece, he thought.

“We have served the Elva cities well,” Aptan said. “Our people have been loyal for twenty years, and have overlooked many insults. We Brodaini have fought one another for the benefit of these people — and our divided kamlissi have fought against one another, cousin against cousin, and now we find ourselves fighting one another again.” Aptan held up a hand, leaning forward to bring himself nearer to Tegestu.

“With one exception, bro-demmin,” he said. “This time Kamliss-Pranoth-sa-Neda fights for itself, not for the benefit of others who do not understand us. It grieves us to fight our cousins, whom we admire and respect, whose arm is strong and whose demmin is unblemished.”

“And whose fault is this, ban-demmin?” Tegestu asked, seeing the direction this was heading. “It is not the fault of Kamliss-Pranoth-sa-Arrandal, whose demmin, as you say, is unblemished. We did not commit dai-terru by seizing an entire city and starting a general war within the Elva.

“There were more proper ways to take revenge for your woman of the spear; and we of Kamliss-Pranoth-sa-Arrandal feel shame for our cousins, who have committed such an inappropriate aspistu.”

Aptan listened to this without blinking, a troubled frown on his face. “Our aldran was convinced, bro-demmin Tegestu, that such action was necessary,” he said, then added, “But I was not sent to you in order to offer justification for our actions: we know our own hearts, bro-demmin, and we are convinced we were wise.”

“Speak on,” Tegestu said: he had made his point.

“Through these events, bro-demmin, we Brodaini find ourselves with command of two foreign cities.” Aptan went on. “We find ourselves with hundreds of thousands of dependents, dependents strange to our ways and unlike any dependents Brodaini have ever before been obliged to care for. We are often puzzled by them, but we know they must depend on us for protection, and we intend to do our duty.”

He waited for a reply, but Tegestu gave him none despite the sarcasm that came to his mind. Aptan, apparently encouraged, flashed a nervous smile and continued.

“When we first came to this country we were refugees, and we were grateful for any opportunity to serve our new homes.” Aptan said. “But now it seems clear that we and the Abessla are not suited to one another. Our debts to them have been erased by twenty years of unflinching service, and it is no longer fitting that Brodaini should have such overlords, who cannot know our minds.”

“My lord Necias has offered us no insult,” Tegestu said quickly. If this is an attempt to win me to sedition, he thought, let it end now: I will not submit to such affront. “He has treated us with honor, and we obey him dutifully and with willing hearts.”

“Does he know demmin, then?” Aptan asked in mock surprise. His grin broadened, his eyes winking good humor.

“Is he a martial man, this Necias whom you serve? Or is his concern only for acquiring gold and for displaying his wealth, to overawe the ignorant?”

“He is our canlan,” Tegestu said. “I will not stand for this insult.” But he felt Aptan’s words touch home, remembering Necias’ strange fright the night of the battle: no, Necias was not a martial man; he did not know demmin. It was regretful that it should be so: but the regret had to be carefully hidden away, unacknowledged.

But Necias was lordly enough, Tegestu thought, in his way: he recalled the conference the afternoon following the battle, Necias with his confidence restored, giving orders, making plans for the winning of the enemy cities, master of the political element. It was not a Brodaini type of authority, but it existed. Remembering this, Tegestu felt comforted.

Aptan smiled reassuringly. “Insult was not intended, bro-demmin,” he said. “I did not intend to say that Necias was not a good man, by his own lights: I wished only to point out that we do not understand them, nor they us. It is best that we live apart from them, or if alongside in such a fashion that they are compelled to respect us. Now we have the opportunity.”

He paused again. Tegestu kept silent, his face immobile, knowing that to even tell the boy to speak on would be to condone his premise, to acknowledge it as the basis for discussion. Even though it echoed Tegestu’s unspoken thoughts, Tegestu would not allow this. Aptan spoke on, his tone assured.

“We can make Neda-Calacas Brodaini cities, bro-demmin drandor Tegestu,” he said. “Those Abessla who wish to leave for elsewhere may have our permission to do so, and those Brodaini and their dependents who wish to live among their own kind can come within our walls. Kamliss Pranoth may live united once again, holding its own keep, protecting its own territory. If the cities of the Elva wish to employ us in war, they may do so — but under our own conditions, for our own benefit. Not to bleed for the benefit of the deissin.”

“And what must I do to achieve this fantasy?” Tegestu asked, putting as much bitter sarcasm in his words as he could. “Betray my lords merely, and attack our comrades-in-arms? March with my people into the walls of Neda-Calacas, accept the authority of drandor Tastis, and besieged up there to die or surrender, as Tastis shall? Know this,” Tegestu said, raising a hand for attention. “The Elva will not rest until Tastis and your house are brought down. This will take place whether or not I join you — their numbers and power are too great, even if every Brodainu in Abessas should join your standard. Your words are futile, ban-demmin. The best thing for drandor Tastis would be to surrender himself and the keys to the city, and in that way many of his folk may be spared. Otherwise they will not.” Tegestu lowered his hand, seeing Aptan’s eyes grow troubled.

“This is truth I speak, ban-demmin,” he said. “I try to do you service in telling you this. I hope you will give Tastis my words, and my meaning.”

Aptan bowed, his head low, and stayed bowed down for a long moment before rising. “You misunderstand me, bro-demmin,” he said. “My apologies for being unclear. My message was not to offer you a place under drandor Tastis. You are his senior, his teacher; he would not demean you. We wish rather to offer you the city. We will put the keys of the city in your hands, drandor bro-demmin Tegestu, and obey without question your commands and the commands of your aldran.”

Aiau, thought Tegestu, stunned. Through the shock, he heard himself asking, reasonably, “And the conditions for this surrender?”

Aptan bowed again. His voice was plausible. “That the city remain yours, bro-demmin Tegestu, and that you surrender it to no other, no native canlan or lord.”

For a moment Tegestu felt the world reel below his feet. The scope of Tastis’ vision was breathtaking, and his audacity limitless. To open his gates to the Brodaini who were his enemies, to allow himself to be put in their power, confident that once they stood in his place they would think as he... And to dare to fulfill the exiles’ longing for a homeland — Neda-Calacas was not, and could never be, the rock-strewn coast, the deep green dells, the dappled whispering forests that Tegestu had known in his northern domain: it could not bring Pranoth into being again, for Pranoth was forever dead; but it could be something — something of Pranoth again in the world, a place for the young to grow in and love, to cherish and guard as Tegestu had cherished Pranoth, something beside the rootless service, the perpetual exile... .