Ambassador of Progress

And then the giddy spinning slowed, and Tegestu felt his mind coping with realities again, with the must-be instead of the dream. To accept Tastis’ offer would be a betrayal of Necias’ trust, and of his own way of life: a new Brodaini society could not be built on treachery or disobedience. Such a beginning would curse the exiles forever.

And then, through the dim haze of his astonishment, he thought he saw a way. Necias would not be betrayed, but still Pranoth might come into being, not through dai-terru and the breaking of nartil, but in ways that would reassert order in this chaotic situation. If only this boy proved pliable.

“This is not a kantu-kamliss matter,” Tegestu said firmly. “This proposal does not involve our kamliss only, but all the other kamlissi of Arrandal. If I am to consider this, I must have permission to bring it out of Pranoth.”

For a moment he saw triumph in Aptan’s eyes. The boy thinks I will accept, he thought; he has lived for too long among these Abessla, who leap all unheeding after gold and the promise of power.

Aptan bowed. “You are the elder, drandor bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said. “Your judgment is sounder than mine. If you must consult your people, my fa — drandor bro-demmin Tastis will certainly understand.”

And now Tegestu himself slitted his eyes to hide his own feeling of triumph; for his mind had embraced possibilities, he thought, that hadn’t occurred to Tastis, and Aptan had just given him permission to break the ban of kantu-kamliss and inform others of Tastis’ offer. “Your people,” Aptan had said, not “your aldran” or “your staff.’’ Tegestu intended to make the most of that ambiguity.

Ah, Tastis, he thought. Cousin, you should have come yourself. This boy has not seen enough of treachery.

“If we reach agreement on this matter,” Tegestu said, “how do you suggest we contact drandor Tastis?”

“A messenger, sent with a note under your seal, will always find access to the city,” Aptan said. “Or you can send an embassy — we have prisoners of yours, you have some of our people; we can discuss anything under the guise of an exchange.”

“You may say to drandor Tastis that I find his offer interesting,” Tegestu said. “That is my present answer.”

“He will be pleased.”

“You will surrender the fort, then?”

Aptan grinned. “I had forgot,” he laughed. “Oh, aye, we’ll surrender if you grant us honors. Within the hour — I’ll beat a drum to let you know when we’re coming out.”

“Very well, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said. “I will have a pass ready to let you pass our pickets.”

He put his hands on his knees and rose, trying not to let Aptan see the pain that flickered through him. He bowed, feeling his head swim, either from his sudden rising or from the giddiness that walking so careful a line would bring. He walked across the turf to his own lines, seeing the tense postures of his guards relaxing as he came away from the enemy.

His staff was there, Grendis, Cascan and the others; and he saw tense curiosity in their faces. “He will surrender within the hour,” he said. “Arrange to pass them through the lines.” He looked at them and smiled. “I must see Necias, ban-demmini,” he said. “Something interesting has occurred.”

He could see their curiosity rise; but for the moment it was best that few of them knew of Tastis’ offer. But Grendis, he thought, should be informed: she was cunning, and would be able to give valuable advice. “Ban-demmin Grendis, I would be honored if you would accompany me,” he said, and with his wife at his side he walked to Necias’ pavilion.

Necias, once told of the need for privacy, cleared the place of his hangers-on, then he offered them stools and lay down on his own settee.

“What did the man want?” he said with a scowl. Scowling, Tegestu thought, at the idea of intrigue, for that was what this was bound to be.

“He wanted,” Tegestu said, enjoying the sheer drama of the situation and unable to keep the smile from his lips, “to discuss the surrender of Neda-Calacas.”

He had made a bet with himself that Necias’ mouth would fall open at the news, and he was gratified to discover that he had won.

CHAPTER 15

The ban of kantu-kamliss was broken; and Tegestu was free to do the thing that, he had no doubt, Tastis would never have anticipated: he would give Aptan’s offer to his canlan. Pride warmed him as he thought of Tastis’ ultimate fury, when he learned what dispositions Tegestu and Necias together would make.

Necias called in Campas as his translator, and for twenty minutes he listened solemnly, nodding as Tegestu made each point, fidgeting with the rings on his stubby fingers.

“The city,” Tegestu said, “will surrender to me, as drandor of Pranoth. I am subject to you, our canlan. Neda-Calacas will become a Brodaini state, but subject to you and to the Denorru-Deissin of Arrandal. Tastis can be exiled to one of the baronies, or ordered to kill himself — whichever you prefer. In the end, I will hold Neda-Calacas in your name, and as your perpetual ally. My people will have a homeland in which they can settle if they desire, but of course they will also be available to serve the cities of the Elva, as before.”

Necias lay motionless on his pillows, his small eyes flitting from Campas to Tegestu and back again. The posture seemed odd, unnatural and disturbing: Necias was usually a physically active man, always moving, frequently pacing, his hands gesturing broadly or occupying themselves with the tea-cakes he always had placed by his elbow. Doubt began to creep into Tegestu’s mind. “Tastis and his rebels,” Tegestu said, trying to explain the advantages more clearly, “will be punished for their presumption. Hostu and nartil will be restored. And Neda-Calacas, instead of being your greatest rival in the Elva, will be your ally.”

Necias frowned, reaching for a cup of tea; he drank slowly, staring into the dark liquid as he swirled it about the rim of the cup. Tegestu looked at Grendis in surprise. He had expected a more enthusiastic response than this: why wouldn’t Necias leap at such an idea?

“This offer argues weakness, hey,” Necias said finally, speaking as if he grudged every word. “Had Tastis won the battle of the ford, he would not be laying down conditions for surrender.”

“That is likely, cenors-efellsan,” Tegestu agreed. “He is not a man to give up his independence without reason. Had he won the battle, he would be demanding our submission, rather than offering his own.”

Necias glanced at Campas again; there was some nervousness, Tegestu thought, in the look. Then he placed his teacup very carefully on his table, orienting it with a finicky carefulness that seemed unusual in him, as if he were trying to set carefully into place the elements of a puzzle; he rose from the settee and shook his head.

“Tegestu, I am aware of the magnitude of what you offer,” he said, “but surely you’re aware that I’ll have to say no to this.”

Tegestu felt his heart turn over. He could only gasp out a stunned reply. “But why, Abessu-Denorru?” he asked.

Necias began to pace, his arms folded on his massive chest; he turned and looked at Tegestu.

“The cities of the Elva cherish their independence,” he said. “It’s a cardinal point in all that we do. No Elva city has ever ruled another. No Elva city will ever rule another. For me to claim Neda-Calacas now would be to tear the Elva apart. They would all league against us. It would destroy all I’ve worked for.” He shook his head slowly, emphatically. “I won’t risk that, Tegestu. I daren’t.”

Tegestu glanced at Grendis in amazement, then back at Necias. “But we march now to take the city!” he said.

“But not to rule it,” Necias corrected. “We mean to restore its native government, not impose our own. Naturally,” he nodded, “our people, and the others of the Elva, will take what advantage we can. The city’s markets will be disrupted, and we’ll try to gain what we can from the disruption. Our banks will make what profit they can in loans to the new government, once it’s installed.” Necias waved his hands. “That’s all conceded,” he said. “But to rule directly, or even indirectly — it’s out of the question. And to let foreigners do our ruling for us — “ He hesitated for a moment, then went on. “That’s impossible. I’m sorry, Tegestu. But I speak truly. I know my people.”

And so the dream ends, Tegestu thought. We will remain a homeless people, wandering among strangers, until we are finally dissolved among them like a handful of salt in an ocean, losing everything that makes us ourselves.

But what made him Brodaini was also obedience, and he bowed to that. “I hear you, Abessu-Denorru,” he said, sick at heart. “What answer am I to make to Tastis?”

“None at all,” Necias said. “Keep him guessing as long as you can. And in the end, refer him to me.” Necias smiled grimly. “That’ll put an end to his hopes.”

No doubt it would, Tegestu thought numbly.

“I want the army marching again once the fort surrenders,” Necias said briskly, businesslike. “We’ve got to move swiftly, as long as Tastis sees compromise in us.”

“Aye,” Tegestu said. “I’ll give the orders.”

Necias walked back to the settee and sat down, looking with concern at Tegestu. “You understand why I have to give these orders, Tegestu?” he asked.

Tegestu nodded. “I understand.”

“Very well.” Necias fell silent for a moment, then licked his lips. “If there’s anything your people want,” he said, concern on his face. “Anything within reason, please inform me, and I’ll grant it.” He reached out to touch Tegestu’s knee. “But not this, old friend. Not this.”

Tegestu bowed, then stood. “I will transmit your orders to the army, Abessu-Denorru,” he said.

Necias nodded, then turned to Campas. “No record of this, Campas,” he said. “Burn your notes, and do it now. And you’ll say nothing of it, ever.”

Campas nodded. “As you wish, cenors-efellsan.”

Tegestu knelt, then walked from the pavilion into the sun. He heard Grendis’ tread behind him and turned to her, seeing her gazing at him with troubled eyes. “I didn’t foresee it,” he confessed. “I didn’t understand Necias well enough.” He laughed bitterly. “That was what I said to Aptan, that Tastis didn’t understand who he was dealing with. Now my words are turned against me.”

She reached up a hand to touch his cheek. “It was a bold try,” she said. “Brilliant.” She tried to smile encouragingly. “It wasn’t your fault it failed.”

Tegestu kissed the palm of her hand, then turned away, feeling the unrelenting ache of the armor on his shoulders and neck, an ache that seemed insignificant beside the one in his heart. “Can you see the orders are given?” he asked. “I would like to lie down a while, before we march.”

“Aye. I’ll see it’s done,” Grendis said. He began to walk to his small tent, trying to keep his back straight, his shoulders back. Trying to stay Brodaini to the last, even in this unhappy land of exile.

CHAPTER 16

Fiona, standing on the siege works thrown up before the city, gazed at the walls with sullen anger, the cards flickering through her fingers as she performed tricks to calm her spirit. Snapping cards out of the deck, she looked up at the hundred eighty grey stone towers of Neda-Calacas and tried to guess on which of them Kira had died. Across the river, probably, in the Brodaini quarter of Neda, where Tastis’ banners flew boldly in warm summer breeze.

For two days the army of Arrandal had been building its siege lines in front of Calacas, the easternmost of the twin cities. Neda was an older city, a capital of one of the Captilla kingdoms that had been shattered by the Abessla invasions hundreds of years before. Neda had never been taken, and marked the end-point of Abessla expansion: to end the wars, an agreement had been reached to allow the Abessla people to settle across the river and built their own city of Calacas. Gradually the people, and their cities, had become one, and the formality of purging the royal family of Neda, who had long before lost all real power to the deissin, had come late, only a hundred years ago.

And now the banners of a new invader topped the walls, and the Abessla of Arrandal and Cartenas, the Captilla of Prypas, and the half-dozen other ethnic varieties that made up the rest of the Elva, were coming to take it back. The problems the siege presented were enormous, Fiona had been told. There were a quarter of a million inhabitants behind those walls — half the normal population, since many had fled or been evacuated to the islands where the Elva fleet was obliged to feed them — and the walls were massive and stout. The cities had grown in the last four hundred years, and walls had been built outward to protect them: once an outer wall was breached, there were three or four lines of inner defense, each a wall guarded by a series of interlocking canals that doubled as moats, each line marking the limits of an older, smaller city.

The army of Arrandal had settled before Calacas, the easternmost city, as Tegestu had thought it might prove easier: Neda had an additional line of defense, the new Brodaini city that had been added in the last twenty years, and built with all the craft and strength of a warrior people. Neda was unsieged at the moment — the army of Arrandal was too small to encircle both cities, straddling the Neda river, without risking having one part of it overwhelmed by an attack — but there were patrols in front of Neda day and night to discourage the enemy, and when the army of Prypas arrived in a few days the circle would be closed.

The sea route was already cut off. The united fleets of Arrandal, Cartenas, and Prypas held the islands and maintained a strict blockade, with other Elva squadrons expected daily. Tastis appeared to have realized that he could do nothing against them: his own fleet had been drawn up on the beach and short of an anchor watch appeared to be abandoned.

The cards flickered through Fiona’s fingers. A pair of Brodaini engineers, mapping the area forward of the lines, looked at her with interest, then returned to their work. Fiona frowned, remembering Tyson’s words as she’d spoken to him that morning.

“It’s moderately interesting data you’ve been collecting, all that information on the mercenaries,” he said. “But it’s not your real work. You could have done this, and more, if you’d stayed in Arrandal.”

“I was asked to come,” she’d said with surprise. “You agreed that it would be a good idea to make myself useful to Necias.”

“But what has he used you for, Fiona?” Tyson asked. “Could he be using your presence to put pressure on Tastis? Telling Tastis to go along with him, or he’ll send the star people in after him?”

“That,” Fiona snapped, “would imply he knows about Kira. I don’t think he does. There’s no evidence for what you’re suggesting.”

“Perhaps not.” Tyson’s deep voice, as always, was annoyingly calm, a Tyson-knows-best tone of voice Fiona had always thought patronizing, if not infuriating. “But unless Necias can suggest a less... a less opaque role for you here, you might suggest to him that you might do your work best in the cities.”

“The army of Prypas will be here in a few days,” Fiona said. “They’ll be bringing another group of diplomats with them — I think I’ll be able to make myself useful then.”

“Keep what I’ve said in mind, Fiona,” Tyson said, in warning tones, and she scowled at the spindle in her hands, then shut it off without saying goodbye. A petulant act; but then Tyson had done his best to be annoying and certainly deserved it.

She knew he was right, however. Her time could be better spent elsewhere. It was ridiculous to think she could remain here for long: unless Necias managed to buy open a gate some dark night, the siege might well last a year.

Her hands deftly broke the deck of cards in half. She turned the cards over: black cards in her left hand, gold cards in her right. Flawless.

“Ambassador.” She turned at Campas’ voice. He gazed at her with diffidence, uncomfortable in his mail shirt — he’d been wearing it ever since the enemy battlements came in sight, but still did not look at ease in it.

“There’s a problem, Ambassador,” Campas said. “The Abessu-Denorru would like to see you, if it’s convenient.”

“Of course.” She picked up her rucksack and slung it over one shoulder. “What’s the nature of the problem?” she asked.

“Some strangers have arrived, with a bargeful of goods. From a country far off, to the south. Necias wonders if you might know them.”

Fiona frowned. “I don’t know everyone from the south, just because I traveled there.”

Campas grinned. “I don’t think Necias quite understands what being from another planet truly means,” he said. “He just thinks it means from far away. You’re from a far country; this other man is from a far country: therefore you might know one another. This man is dark, also, like you.” He shrugged, and immediately winced at the chafe of the mail shirt on his neck. He sighed. “I was relaxing in Necias’ bath house,” he complained, “up to my neck in nice hot water, and now these people have showed up.”

She followed Campas toward where Necias had pitched his pavilion on the banks of a canal, half a mile into the lines. Campas glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Necias isn’t in a good mood today,” he said. “There were dispatches from the city. Some of the weavers’ apprentices and journeymen rioted, burned down the workshop of Nalsas — he was a real slavedriver anyway, so it’s no great loss, but the Denorru-Deissin is terrified Tastis’ agents were behind it.”

“Were they?” She glanced back at the banners on the grey walls. Tastis had exploited the cities’ weaknesses well, she thought; he had allied himself with those who had always been on the edge of power, but never had a chance to grasp it. Could it be that he was allying himself with the future? she wondered, the forces that would inevitably succeed? Fervently, she hoped not.

Campas, in answer to her question, started to shrug, remembered his mail shirt, and threw up his hands instead. “I don’t know. I’m sure Tastis has agents aplenty in Arrandal — he had enough time to send them out. And he’s been sending some into our camp, disguised as sutlers with goods to sell, trying to seduce the mercenaries and the soldiers, but we cut off a few heads and sent the rest packing.’’ His voice grew reflective. “And of course we’ve agents aplenty in Neda-Calacas,” he said, then cocked an eye at the barred enemy gates, above which a dozen heads rotted, grimacing at the besiegers, “but they have a harder time getting in and out.” He grinned. “I hear you’ve been talking to the mercenaries,” he said.

“Yes.” She had assembled a lot of raw data: individuals in the mercenary companies had come from half a world away, from half a hundred nations. She frowned. “Many of them aren’t very nice people.”

“No. They enjoy their work too much.” He paused. “Have you given up on the Brodaini, then?”

Fiona shook her head. “It’s just that the mercenaries were here, and I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to speak to so many of them.” She glanced up at the hot midsummer sun, wishing she’d thought to bring a hat.

“Your poetry goes well?” she asked.

“Well enough. I’d thought the hours on horseback would have been a good time to work out the patterns, but Necias keeps me up half the night doing his correspondence, and I use the horseback journeys to catch up on my sleep. I’ve learned the trick of it, and the beast keeps to the track.’’

He looked at her with a half smile. “But what I’ve done is good, yes. I’m pleased.”

“I’m glad it’s working. I’d like to see it.”

“Not till it’s done. I’m strict about that.”

“I understand.” They reached the pavilion, and Fiona saw at once the strangers outside. There were half a dozen of them, dressed mostly in travel-stained leather. Fiona felt a sudden pang of homesickness as she saw the dark, elaborately-folded cloth over their heads, a sundrape, practical in a hot homeland, almost identical to the one her own people wore.

“Came up on a barge this morning,” Campas said. “Were going to deliver their goods to Calacas on contract, and ran into the war instead. He’ll try to sell them to Necias.”

Fiona shook off the treacherous stab of memory. In this alien world, even a superficial familiarity could awaken a longing ache she preferred not to recognize.

“I see,” she said.

“You don’t know him?” Campas’ voice seemed to hold out some vestige of hope.

“No.” She shrugged.

“I’ll tell the Abeissu.” He started to step toward the tent, then hesitated. He turned back to her. “Would you like to share luncheon with me?” he asked. “I have the afternoon free — I’ve packed my meal in a haversack and was going to take it out in front of the lines and enjoy the sun.”

Fiona nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

Campas gave a quick grin. “Good. Let me speak to Necias for a moment, then I’ll be out.”

Campas took longer than a moment. The strangers in their sundrapes scowled at her and muttered to one another in their own language. She moved a distance off, sat down on a block that had been used to chop Necias’ wood, and took out her deck, the cards flicking through her fingers. She tried to snap a card out and it hung in the deck, a clumsy, amateurish move, and she frowned.

Campas, a rucksack on his shoulder, came out of Necias’ tent, and the leader of the foreign traders was allowed in amid a moving rectangle of guards. She stood, glancing automatically at the enemy towers again, her hands instinctively sorting the cards. Campas’ question came as a blow.

“Why do you hate them so much?”

Her hands froze on the cards as she stared blankly ahead in shock; she recovered, not quickly enough, and turned to Campas. “Why do you ask that?”

“You look at the city with such hatred.” Reasonably. “I saw you the morning after the battle, too, and I remember the expression on your face. You hate them. What happened to your embassy there?” He looked away, frowning uneasily. “It’s not my business, of course.”

“No.” Tartly. “It’s not.”

She had told them the Igaran embassy to Neda-Calacas had been refused; she hadn’t told them what had happened, fearful they’d try to recruit her for their war. She hadn’t wanted to be recruited.

But she had, she knew, instead volunteered.

She looked at Campas again, resenting both the question and the compulsion that wanted her to answer — to clear up at least one of the misunderstandings between herself and someone else.

She turned to the city again, feeling her eyes narrow, the words, buried so long, coming out of her slowly, with deliberate anger. “They killed her,” she said. “They wanted her to give — to give what she had — to them alone.” She breathed out deliberately, letting the anger out with the breath. “There was threat of torture, too,” she said, then looked up at Campas, seeing his steady glance, his sympathy. “That’s why I’m here,” she admitted. “I wanted to have — have revenge, I suppose. Not a very good reason. As my people have been telling me.”

She looked down at her hands as they busied themselves sorting the cards, then put them in her pack.

“I’m sorry, Ambassador,” Campas said evenly. “It’s never easy to be caught in the middle of a war.” He turned his head, looking thoughtfully at the enemy walls. “I would have thought Tastis was more clever than that. Perhaps they were panicked, somehow.”

Oh, yes, Fiona thought with a flash of anger. It was Kira’s fault, of course. She frightened them, the poor simple savages. Those dear renegades are far too unsophisticated to practice deliberate cruelty, deliberate terror, deliberate murder.

Campas turned back to her. His tone was puzzled. “They’ve killed one of your ambassadors and you haven’t responded?” he asked. “Not declared war yourselves?”

Fiona shook her head. She could feel the resentment in her tone but couldn’t halt it. “No. We’re not allowed to meddle in your affairs: if we didn’t hold to that firmly, you’d never trust us. We’re permitted self-defense, but we can’t take part in your wars. Military involvements are beyond our capabilities, anyway.” She looked up at him. “You’ve seen the announcements that I asked Necias to distribute. You know this.”

He looked at her frankly. “Beg pardon, Ambassador, but I’ve learned to mistrust any announcements from diplomats.”

“You can trust this one.” She paused, then frowned at him. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Necias. He’d try to take advantage.”

“Yes. He would.” Flatly. “I will keep this in confidence, Ambassador.”

“Thank you.”

He fell silent for a moment, then reached for his rucksack. “Beefsteak pies,” he said. “Necias’ cook is a good hand with pastry. Sweet noodles for desert.” He raised a bottle. “And wine. It’s loot, from a country house we passed. For some reason the mercenaries didn’t get to it first.” He smiled in satisfaction. “I’m becoming an old campaigner. Heading for the cellars first thing.”

She looked at the luncheon, then again at the enemy walls. “Shall we go to my quarters for luncheon, Campas?” she asked. “I’m not in a mood to move out forward of the lines, not if it means going closer to Calacas.”

Campas did not seem surprised. “As you wish,” he said briefly, and returned the bottle to its rucksack.

They walked to her tent in silence. Guarded by dozens of soldiers, it was in an area reserved for officers and diplomats, including the Government-in-Exile of Neda-Calacas, a heterogeneous, bickering group that consisted of members of purged trading houses who’d happened to be in Arrandal during the coup, plus a number of diplomatic personnel. Her tent was an anonymous cone-shaped structure, unmarked by any flag or banner to proclaim her ambassadorial status; it was larger than those used by most of the soldiery, but far smaller than Necias’ grand pavilion, or the Government-in-Exile’s canvas palace. She’d hired a male servant to keep it clean, and to buy fuel and food, and since she did most of the chores herself he found it easy work.

Her servant wasn’t there at present; he was probably gambling his wages away with a crowd of his comrades. There were four Brodaini stools and a short folding table standing neatly by her pallet; she let the tent flap fall behind her, and gestured Campas to one of the stools.

“I’m sorry that you’re not used to eating sitting up,” she said.

“I’ve lived among Brodaini, remember,” Campas reminded her. “I can digest at attention if I have to.”

There were plates, cups, and knives in one of her trunks; she got them out. The wine splashed into the cups; it was a dark-red claret that the deissin made fortunes exporting abroad, and it went down well. The pastry was lovely, but as always the filling lacked spice. At least, she thought resignedly, she hadn’t landed in a culture where they boiled things.

“Reports from the city indicate our new ships are performing well,” Campas said. “The new sails can point into the wind with amazing ability.” He paused. “They’re called fiono sails, after you. The sailors gave the name the feminine ending.”

How would Tyson take that? she wondered. He would disapprove, she thought, as usual. She was supposed to be invisible, always the observer, never a participant.

“That’s nice of them,” she said.

Campas leaned back on his stool, regarding her carefully as if deciding whether or not to speak. “That sail,” he said finally. “It will change everything, that’s obvious. But since then you haven’t...” He paused a moment, choosing his words. “You haven’t given us anything. Just put out a list of things you can’t or won’t do, and spent the rest of your time visiting people, finding out about things.” He fell silent again, then leaned forward and quickly took a drink of wine, as if frustrated by his inability to phrase his thoughts with the precision he demanded of himself.

“You’re wondering when I’ll give you more suggestions?” Fiona prompted.

He blinked. “Yes,” he said. “I didn’t want to sound too eager.” He gave a nervous smile. “It might sound as if I — we — were ungrateful.”

She shook her head. “It’s an understandable question,” she said. “I’m asking questions, as you put it, because we want to find out more about you before making any more suggestions. But it’s not exactly my task to give you things, not as I did with the sails. That was simply to help establish my credentials. My job is more to... to be a kind of guide. To help your people move in a more fruitful direction. To help you to avoid dead ends.”

Campas knit his brows in thought, uncertain. Fiona searched her mind for an example. “As I did with your poetry, Campas,” she said, and saw his surprise. “I didn’t tell you how to write it; I didn’t tell you the themes to use. You understood that you had a problem, and I offered... I offered a structure that helped you think about it.”

“I see.” Slowly, with a frown.

“I’m here more to teach a mode of thought,” Fiona continued. “That things may not be assumed, that suppositions must be tested.” He looked at her blankly, and she gave it up: another attempt failed. Philosophy, here including natural philosophy and what they knew of science, was a sport of gentlemen and professional rhetoricians: their tests were not whether a thing was objectively true but whether it followed from its premise and made a consistent philosophical whole; the premises themselves were never tested. She could teach them otherwise, she knew, given enough time, given enough practical examples. But here she’d failed: Campas simply hadn’t seen her method in use often enough.

“I suppose I know what you mean,” he said. She knew he was merely being polite; she sighed and told herself it didn’t matter. He raised a hand. “But you could give us more, Ambassador,” he said. “Why not simply do it? We would — we would move more quickly that way. No dead ends at all.”

Fiona shook her head. “It wouldn’t work, Campas. It would destroy you.” She saw his surprise and spoke quickly. “Everything you’ve made here, all the relationships in your society — they’re based on how you’ve adapted to your capabilities, to your environment. If you change too fast, things can crumble.” He still seemed unconvinced. She took a breath and plunged on. “We could give you all our knowledge,” Fiona said. “But it wouldn’t turn you into us. Profitable change has to come from within, not be imposed from without — we’d be worse than conquerors, then. Making you conform to our pattern, abandon all that you know, all that you are. It’s what you accused me of, once. Making your world over, making all that you’ve done and become irrelevant. It would destroy you, in the end.”

“So we must do it ourselves, because that’s the only way it’s meaningful,” Campas said, frowning. She was uncertain whether he believed it, or was merely parroting her ideas.

“We Igaralla have the time,” Fiona said. “We can wait for you. There’s no hurry with us.”

Campas shook his head. “If you say it’s so, Ambassador,” he said doubtfully — and then he looked up, his blue eyes challenging, forthright.

“Do you know this?” he asked. “Have you tried it with others?”

Fiona felt a stab of alarm. She had forgotten how acute the man was.

Challenged this way, she could not lie. She was sick of evasion.

“Yes,” she said. “Our first star ships — they caused chaos. Change happened too fast. It was like handing swords and spears to a people that have only thrown rocks at one another. There were terrible wars, and other changes — nations fell apart, vast numbers of people lost their occupations. Terrible. They recovered eventually, but it took generations. This slow way is easier.”

She could not, of course, describe it fully. Instant communication on worlds that had depended on footborne messengers. Modern weapons on worlds that had depended on armored horsemen to keep the peace. Practical medicine introduced in countries that had depended on periodic epidemics to prevent overpopulation. Chaos, followed by utter demoralization; entire cultures devitalized by contact with a superior technological power that abolished their civilization virtually overnight.

As a result, a change of tactics was mandated for all interstellar embassies, resulting in the current emphasis on carefully selective interference, on suggestion, on teaching theory rather than offering practical examples. Ambassadors now were required to live among the primitive cultures, living for years as a native would live — a disciplined body of volunteers, sacrificing their own well-being so that, several hundred years in the future, the descendants of their pupils might climb out into space — and if the ambassadors, with their prolonged lifespan and the ability to freeze themselves, were lucky, and if they survived the changes they had wrought, they would be able to watch the first ships shining as new stars in the heavens.

Long centuries from now. For the moment Fiona was too discouraged to feel inspired by her work. Campas, clearly, was not convinced; she doubted he had understood anything she had tried to say. This will happen again, she told herself. Over and over. I should get used to it.

It bothered her. There was so little of her experience that she could share with Tyson, Campas, anyone. Her peers on this continent were buried in their work, showing strain but, it seemed, accomplishing so much more than she. They were stronger, perhaps.

She could feel the loneliness plucking at her. It was not worth the energy to fight it off any longer.

Kira, she thought, would have understood.

They finished their luncheon, then the wine. Watching her hand as if it were foreign to her, a part of someone else, Fiona saw it reach across the table to wrap his fingers in her own.

She saw that he was not surprised. Clever boy, she thought.

In this, at least, hands and tongues could speak without misunderstanding. The jacket and upper privy-coat came off with a shrug; his hands touched her shoulders lightly, caressed her arms, the muscles over her ribs, the small brown breasts.

What would Tyson think? she wondered, standing with her face tilted up, her eyes closed, hearing the whisper of his fingers on her skin.

Tyson’s opinion, she thought firmly, was not solicited.

“Your skin is so soft. I hadn’t known.” Campas marveled in her ear. She had herself thought she was harder.

He even bathed this morning, and let her know it. Clever, clever boy.

She found herself laughing, her amusement hard to define. I shall keep this data, she thought, to myself.

This is art, she thought, not science. Poetry.

The stanzas succeeded one another, slowly.

To myself, she thought, to myself.

Clever boy.

CHAPTER 17

Standing in the shade of the umbrella that kept the summer sun from his armor, Tegestu slit his eyes against the bright summer sunlight as a long line of barges came up the canal, strings of four or five each warped along by a pair of mules. Supply barges mostly, bringing food and fodder for the besieging armies. The barges flew flags to indicate their ownership, flags of the merchant houses of Arrandal, Acragas prominent among them with its blazon of the god Pastas, flags of minor trading companies, house flags of the independent bargemen who rented their hulls to the city... and flags of the Brodaini kamlissi of Arrandal, marking their own possessions.

The barge convoy meant comfort, among other things. The siege would be a long one. Part of Necias’ household was being moved in the barges, one of which was fitted out as his private residence, several others for servants and functionaries, another of which was modified as a floating partillo for the benefit of his wives, two of whom Tegestu could see standing on the foredeck in their elaborate, layered skirts, their faces shadowed by their parasols.

Tegestu’s security people, he knew, would be thankful that Necias’ barge had finally arrived — moored in one of the canals, it would be much easier to guard than his giant pavilion. One of Arrandal’s deissin had been assassinated last week, an ally on the Denorru-Deissin whose absence weakened, albeit slightly, the ruling coalition... the prominent Abessla had suddenly gone security-mad, and it seemed that everyone above the rank of captain was suddenly demanding Brodaini bodyguards. As if Tastis cared for their foolish lives... .

The Brodaini barges, twelve of them, moved down the canal last of all. They were filled for the most part with Classani, some of them armed but mostly servants of the nonmartial sort: actors, singers, men and women of the Gentle Way to cater to the social and sexual needs of the soldiers — long sieges had a way of being bad for morale, and the Classani were badly needed.

It would take more than a few entertainers to cheer Tegestu, he knew. The siege would drag on for months, and every week brought several casualties. Two nights ago Tastis had unexpectedly sortied with his rowing fleet, striking by surprise against the deep-sea squadrons anchored off the roads. Arrandal’s rowing fleet had come to the rescue and the attack was beaten off, but over a hundred fifty Brodaini lives had been lost, hacked or drowned when their ships, unable to make sail fast enough and not built to move under oars, were rammed or boarded. His men were being whittled away, Tegestu thought despairingly, dying in small lots — even small numbers of dead could prove tragic. This war of the cities would involve, in the end, all the Brodaini exiles, and the cities would not hesitate to ask the Brodaini to shoulder the main burden of warfare, and the main casualties as well. And why not? The Brodaini were not their own folk, and with Tastis’ rebellion had proved themselves untrustworthy. Why not spend them now, in fighting one another, weakening them so they would not be a threat to anyone?

Tastis offered me the city, Tegestu thought. But that cannot be. I am Brodaini, and I cannot disobey an order given in honor. My life is my canlan’s; and I knew this when I took service here.

The barges passed, the Classani on deck halting their busy movements to bow hastily in Tegestu’s direction as they glided past his standard. Tegestu nodded back, acknowledging the proper respect shown by his inferiors, and then glanced out to sea at the long galley that rode just off Calacas’ outer harbor, the summer sun glittering off the gold banner of kamliss Pranoth that fluttered from the maintop, just above the scarlet pendant that signified the presence of a member of the aldran.

Amasta was aboard, commanding the rowing squadron that had escorted the barges from Arrandal. It was a duty that would normally have been assigned to a subordinate, but Tegestu felt in need of Amasta’s cunning, and also wanted another member of the aldran here, to welcome the commander of Prypas’ Brodaini force. With himself, Grendis, Acamantu, Cascan, and now Amasta, the Arrandal aldran would now have five representatives at the siege.

The Prypas army had begun arriving two days before, and the vanguard of cavalry and light foot were now setting up their camp opposite Neda, barricading the only safe land approach to the city, the mile-wide causeway of firm ground that stood between a treacherous salt-marsh and the river. Neda was at least much easier to besiege than Calacas, which had miles of wall to guard.

The main body was expected to arrive tomorrow, its Brodaini contingent commanded by Tanta Amandos Dantu y’Sanda, a Prypas welldran Tegestu had never met. Kamliss Sanda had been allied with Pranoth in the great war, but for geographic reasons their forces had never been able to fight side by side, and Tegestu knew very little of this Tanta’s reputation. He hoped that Amasta, who had once been an emissary to the Sanda court, would be able to assist him until such time as he made his own judgments.

The last of the barges slid noiselessly past. Tegestu saw the sweeps of Amasta’s galley suddenly flash sunlight as they rose in unison, then dipped water. The galley surged forward, light on the water, a bone growing in its teeth.

Tegestu heard the sound of a horse behind him and turned: it was Cascan, arriving late to Amasta’s reception. Cascan dismounted from his sweating horse and bowed, then came forward, brushing dust from his surcoat. “Drandor Tegestu, I beg a word apart,” he said, bowing again. Tegestu glanced at Amasta’s galley and saw he had the time.

“Very well,” he said. “I hope this will be brief.”

“As brief as I can make it, drandor.”

Tegestu signaled his umbrella-bearer to remain in place and then walked quickly away from the welcoming party, hearing the rattle of his guards’ armor as they deployed themselves carefully out of earshot, yet between Tegestu and any possible attack.

“There is a new rumor in the camp,” Cascan said. “Spread by Tastis’ agents, no doubt — he has enough of them.”

“Aye,” Tegestu said. It was impossible to keep Tastis’ people out, spies who attached themselves to mercenary bands, or who lived among the various unofficial military brothels and commissaries that sold their wares to the soldiers, or who posed as traders coming up and river to buy or sell — Necias had tried to keep all unlicensed persons away, but his own official commissaries were unable to keep the soldiers fully fed and happy, and infiltrations happened. It was inevitable.

“The rumor states that, in your private conference with the commander of the West Rallandas garrison, you were offered command of the Neda-Calacas, to hold as a Brodaini city. And that you refused.”

Tegestu felt his heart thunder at the news, but he recovered swiftly from his surprise. He looked carefully into Cascan’s impassive face, glaring at him until Cascan’s eyes fell, and when he spoke he spoke harshly. “Why do you ask me this, ban-demmin Cascan?” he demanded. “To quell the rumor, or for your own information?”

“Beg pardon if I have offended, bro-demmin Tegestu,” Cascan said, bowing. “I wished only to know how to reply to this rumor.”

“Say that it is false.”

“Aye, bro-demmin. It is false.” Cascan straightened, licking his lips. “It is a difficult rumor to quell, bro-demmin.” he said. “It speaks to the secret wishes of so many.”

“Those who possess such wishes are fools!” Tegestu snapped. “Such wishes could never be realized,” he growled. “They would lead to the destruction of all our people. Don’t they realize we have dependents in every Elva city? Thousands of hostages to our good behavior?”

Cascan hesitated for a moment, then bowed. “Aye, bro-demmin,” he said. “Praise to your wisdom.”

“Is that all, ban-demmin?” Tegestu asked.

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

“Very well.” He turned on his heel and led Cascan back to the group gathered on the canal, awaiting Amasta’s galley. The rumor speaks to the secret wishes of so many, Cascan had said. True enough, he thought regretfully, and some wishes not so secret. If only it were possible.

Tastis must have tired of waiting for his reply, he thought. He meant to force the issue and so spread the rumor, hoping Tegestu’s own people would force him to act. That was why Tegestu had reacted so coldly, so angrily, hoping to squash any conspiracies before they began. For the good of discipline he had to enforce absolute obedience to the Elva, and do it now.

He would find it easier, however, if his heart were in it.

No matter. His heart, like the rest of him, must obey.

He returned to the shadow of his umbrella and awaited the galley.

*

The following night the welldrani of Arrandal played formal host to Tanta of Prypas, who proved to be a middle-aged, well-fleshed man, balding and powerfully built. “He was famous in his youth for his use of the war axe,” Amasta had told Tegestu. “It is said he could wield it so dexterously that he could almost fence with it.” As for his character, Amasta remembered him as a plain-spoken soldier, intelligent but scarcely a reservoir of great cunning. He was a reliable subordinate: that was why he was here, commanding on behalf of the drandor of Kamliss-Sanda-sa-Prypas, who was too elderly to take the field himself.

“We are honored, bro-demmin Tanta,” Tegestu said, bowing as Tanta and his party approached, “to have as our guest a welldrani of such distinction, and of such peerless fame with the war axe. We would be honored if you would favor us soon by inspecting our forces.”

Tanta flushed with pleasure as he returned the bow, clattering in his heavy formal armor, steel breast- and backplate, bracers and greaves, plumed helmet tilted back on his head. In return he praised the cunning, sagacity, and ferocity of his hosts. The dinner thereby started off on the proper note, and Tanta was offered the place of honor at the head of the table. He declined, of course; but his hosts insisted and eventually, as manners dictated, he accepted. Two Classani stood behind him, keeping his glass and plate filled, while a third held his helmet.

The dinner was out of doors, partly because no Brodaini tent was capable of holding such a gathering, but also because security was so much better out of doors, on a flat drill ground well-lit by torches, where no one could approach within two hundred yards without being seen by the cathruni. Conversation was light and inconsequential, consisting mainly of formal greetings sent from one welldran to another, or talk about relations: Tosta, through his mother, was cousin in some obscure way to Grendis. It wasn’t until the meal was at an end that its real business began.

“Bro-demmin Tegestu,” Tanta said, draining his cup. “I find myself needing to stretch after such a meal. I would be honored if you would accompany me for a short walk.”

“The honor is mine, bro-demmin,” Tegestu said, bowing. Tanta bowed to each of the welldrani in turn, thanking them, and then signaled to a Classanu for a torch as he rose. Tegestu strained upward, needing the assistance of Thesau’s arm before he could rise, pain shooting through his thighs and hips. He breathed his thanks to Thesau, feeling sudden sweat popping out on his forehead, and wished the occasion hadn’t demanded the formal steel armor rather than the light chain-and-leather he wore in the summer.

“Perhaps it would please you to walk this way, bro-demmin Tanta,” he said as Thesau carefully coiled his braids atop his head and fixed his helmet in place, its visor raised. “The sight of Second Moon rising above that river may prove soothing.” It was, of course, the path his cathruni had been guarding since noon, making certain no assassin could have hidden himself somewhere along its length.

“A profoundly stirring sight,” Tanta said politely, his Classanu setting his helmet back on his head as he took the torch from another servant. “I would find it inspiring, I’m sure.”

The torch in one hand, Tanta took Tegestu’s arm with the other and walked with him into the night. They walked in silence until they reached the broad, silver-sheened, muttering river; they stood on a small bluff while Second Moon, scarcely brighter than a star, rose over the distant, dark horizon. Tanta broke the silence with a sigh.

“A lovely sight, bro-demmin,” he said. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

“It is my honor, bro-demmin.”

“It reminds me of your victory poem, the one you wrote after the fight on the East Rallandas. Starlight and steel, like Second Moon on the river. And a lament for the brave dead. I have no such way with poetry.”

“I am pleased the poem gave you pleasure,” Tegestu said.

“The battle gave me more,” Tanta said. “Aiau, what a victory! Tastis will be desperate for friends. He’s where we need him, ’twixt hammer and anvil.” He gave a feral grin. “Where we need him,” he repeated, and took a scroll from his pouch.

“My lord Astapan gave me this, for you,” he said. “If its contents are what I suspect, this should be burned.”

Tegestu looked at Tanta in surprise. “It is not in cipher?” he asked.

“It came by a trustworthy hand,” Tanta said.

Tegestu frowned, not liking the possibility of such a private message coming into unfriendly hands unenciphered, then he realized that the trustworthy hand had been Tanta’s own. He nodded and broke the seal.

Astapan was the Brodaini drandor in Prypas, seventy-eight now, a revered and cunning warrior unable to take the field. Tegestu broke the double seal and flattened the roll of delicate paper, squinting at the delicate writing. Tanta helpfully moved the torch to give Tegestu better light.

“Hail, bro-demmin drandor Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth,” he read. “Greetings from your cousin, Astapan Hamila Sanda y’Sanda, and from the members of our aldran.

“We send you congratulations, once again, for your victory on the Rallandas and your successful investment of Calacas. May your arm never weaken, and your cunning never fail. We hope our rebel cousin Tastis will continue frustrated in his aims.

“Word has reached our ears of a meeting at a fort on the West Rallandas, and of what may have been spoken there.” Tegestu sucked in his breath in surprise, feeling his anger rise. There was only one way Astapan could have heard of this — through Tastis. Tastis is trying to drive a wedge between us, Tegestu thought as he fought down his anger. Dangling the same bait before each Brodaini drandor, hoping one will snap at it.

“This news, if true, raises possibilities that intrigue us,” the message continued. “If a Brodaini aldran can achieve sovereignty, and can do so without becoming ar-demmin, then other aldrani can but praise them.

“Bro-demmin Tegestu, you are renowned for your sagacity, and all Brodaini in service to the Elva owe you a debt. We believe your actions cannot be without wisdom, and that you will not, like our unwise cousin Tastis, be tempted into rash action that will lose demmin and break hostu. Our aldran pledges to support the decisions of the drandor of Arrandal, and of your aldran; we further pledge to subordinate our forces to you in the area of Neda-Calacas. Our cousin Tanta understands this.

“Hail, cousin Tegestu, may your demmin increase. You have our confidence.”

Aiau, Tegestu thought. He read the message once more, then carefully crumpled it and raised it to the torch, watching as it flared and blackened. The ashes were scuffed into the dirt, broken.

If he chose to accept Tastis’ offer and take command of the city, the Prypas aldran would support him. The consequences were obvious: his actions, and that of Prypas, would signal for a general demand by the exiled Brodaini for establishing Neda-Calacas as the capital of a Brodaini state. If the Elva agreed, fine; if not there would be general revolt. And afterwards a war of extermination, with every man’s hand against the rebels.

If he refused to lead this revolt, would Prypas act unilaterally? The message implied not. He had to find out.

He raised his eyes from the dust, seeing Tanta look at him expectantly, as if awaiting orders. Careful, his mind warned, you cannot let him think you have committed yourself to this. You cannot even imply it.

“May I ask the way in which this rumor came to you?” he asked.

“Under a flag of truce, bro-demmin. We had captured some of Tastis’ people, and they wanted to exchange prisoners. There was a messenger with the party, one of Tastis’ autraldi, dressed in the robes of a priest. I spoke to him privately.”

“I understand,” Tegestu said. He glanced northward, toward the darkness of the enemy city. “Could you favor me with the content of his message, as you remember it?” he asked.

“Aye, bro-demmin, I’ll do my best,” Tanta said. He frowned abstractedly, as if calling the scene to his mind, and then spoke. “I apologize for not remembering his words exactly. There was a prelude concerning how those native to this land cannot treat us with honor, as they are a different people and do not understand us. I treated the idea with the contempt it deserves, and told the man I would hear no more talk of disloyalty. He apologized, and then went on about Tastis’ intentions, to create a city where Brodaini could rule Brodaini and live without misunderstanding.” He spat, then smiled arrogantly. “I told him that though his city might be without misunderstanding, it was also without demmin. He seemed greatly offended. But then he said that Tastis had offered command of the city to you and to your aldran.”

“Did he say I had accepted?” Tegestu asked sharply. Tanta hesitated, then shook his head.

“Nay, bro-demmin. He said only that you had not refused.” Tegestu felt tension ebb from his joints: Tastis had at least told the truth. “I considered that this information, if true, would be of interest to my lord Astapan, so I left the army and posted back to Prypas, where I met with the aldran. I was given this message for you, and then returned to the army.’’

“Why do you think Tastis has invited us to join in his treason, bro-demmin Tanta?” Tegestu asked. “Could it not be to simply divide the forces against him?”

“Tastis is a traitor and a rebel, but even traitors have their uses,” Tanta answered simply. He smiled, showing his teeth. “It does not matter to me when his head rolls, before or after the Brodaini come into their own.”

“We have dependents, bro-demmin,” Tegestu said. “Our main force is here, not in the cities. Any action here could put them in jeopardy.”

“Should there be disturbances in Prypas, my lord Astapan can hold his citadel for a year, at least,” Tanta said. “He is ready to seal himself in at a moment’s notice. Your own quarter in Arrandal is stronger. A year is a long time — a great deal can happen in a year.”

Are you authorized to act on your own? Tegestu wanted to shout. It was clear enough that Tanta found Tastis’ offer tempting, though it was less clear whether the Prypas aldran as a body agreed with him: their message seemed cautious and interested, but no more; and perhaps there was a hint that they trusted Tegestu’s judgment more than Tanta’s. But that was surmise: Tegestu needed to know the truth. How to find out?

“Have you received any more emissaries from Tastis?” he asked.

“Nay, bro-demmin. The Denorru-Deissin of Prypas forbade any prisoner exchanges. They will not give back traitors.”

“Very wise,” Tegestu said. He hesitated a moment, trying to keep his face impassive while he thought furiously: he had to keep Tanta from communicating with Tastis on his own. Tanta seemed to be what his reputation claimed, an intelligent, vigorous, straightforward soldier, not at home in the world of intrigue, and Tastis was too clever — Tanta would be manipulated all too easily by a clever man.

“Bro-demmin welldran Tanta,” he said. “I think it would be inauspicious for any — any communications with Tastis to be conducted from the Prypas camp. I do not wish to slight you in this matter, but Tastis must not be allowed to think he can play us one against the other.”

Tanta nodded, conceding the point easily. “Very well. My aldran has already given you authority in this, to speak on our behalf. Provided of course no demmin is lost — we will do nothing dishonorable.” Tegestu felt relief filling his bones at Tanta’s words, and he nodded.

“May your cunning never fail, bro-demmin Tanta,” he said. “I believe with all my heart that this is wise.”

The Prypas aldran had been more cunning, Tegestu was aware, than Tanta probably realized. On the one hand they conceded negotiating power to Tegestu, but on the other hand their stipulation meant that any resulting dishonor would accrue to Tegestu alone, Astapan having washed his hands of the talks. They were therefore in a position to enjoy the benefit from any dealings with Tastis, while being able to blame Tegestu for any disgrace and even — if the thing went totally wrong— disavowing any of Tegestu’s actions and holding to their old allegiance. Aiau, Tegestu thought, Astapan is brilliant. Unfortunate we have never met face to face.

“Please understand this,” Tegestu said. “My not giving Tastis an answer was a tactic — I wanted him to continue hoping that I would defect, so that he would not oppose our march to the city. That was all. I could not see a way to accept his proposal without becoming ar-demmin.” He looked carefully into Tanta’s face, seeing an impassive frown there.

“If you say so, bro-demmin,” Tanta said. His tone seemed dubious.

“My cousin Tastis has disgraced my kamliss once, bro-demmin Tanta,” Tegestu went on. “I will take no further action that will bring infamy to my family name.”

“Aye, bro-demmin,” Tanta said, his tone as before.

I have told the truth, Tegestu thought hopelessly, but he does not believe. What more can I do? Aiau, it is Tanta’s fate not to believe the truth when it is given him. His fate and my misfortune.

“Come, bro-demmin,” Tegestu said. “Let us watch the river again, and soothe our souls after this irritating discussion of treason and traitors. Afterwards, if you find it interesting, there are some actors who would be honored should you consent to view their drama. They beg permission to perform Aspistu of the Drandor Sanda, if it pleases you.”

That was the Sanda family drama; Tanta grunted with gratified surprise. “I would find that interesting, yes,” he said. “I’m sure I will be well pleased.”

Throughout the moment of silence as they watched the river and the tiring walk back to the camp that left him breathless and praying for release from the heavy steel armor, Tegestu’s mind churned with plans proposed and rejected. How to take advantage of this? A siege was a fact, a long and dreary fact, as solid as a stone set well in mortar; but Tastis and his attempt at conspiracy had added a certain liquidity to the situation: there was an uncertainty now, perhaps an advantage to be gained. But how to seize it?

The play was classic in style, partly in mime, partly in poetry, partly in verse chanted to music. The story told of the drandor Sanda — one of Tanta’s remote ancestors — who had been told by enemy lords, abetted by evil courtiers in his own household, of his wife’s infidelity. Not entirely convinced, he put his wife to a number of imaginative and excruciating tests that convinced him of her devotion, and then, in a model act of aspistu, arranged to catch his enemies in a trap they had themselves set for the wife. At the end of the play the conspirators were tortured to death offstage, their eerie screams blending musically with the songs of adoration chanted by the happy, faithful couple.

Moral tension was provided less by the convolutions of plot than by the drandor’s soliloquies, who throughout debated with himself the parts he was forced to play — he had to assume the role of a man who believed in his wife’s adultery, convincing even she, while secretly laying his traps for the lying enemies. Should a lord, a successful general renowned for his truthfulness, play such a deceptive role, flattering and praising his enemies for their sagacity and wisdom in order to lure them into revealing themselves, or should he act as straightforwardly as his instincts demanded, and lead the nation to open war to avenge the suspected insult to his house?

It was after the denunciation, while the wailing conspirators were led away to the torturers, that Tegestu realized with a start his opportunity. He glanced self-consciously at Tanta in the place of honor, hoping the man hadn’t seen his sudden inspiration. For the plan would betray Tanta and his house, leaving them open to the avengers of the Elva, and there would be more betrayals on top of that... and a betrayal of honor as well? Tegestu fervently hoped not.

He turned his eyes deliberately back to the play, shading them in order to hide the flare of triumph he felt rising in him. Amasta is here, he thought, Amasta the cunning and ruthless; and she will understand what I tell her. But there must be an instrument... .

He was exhausted following the play, the formal armor weighing him down, and it must have shown on his face, for Tanta, after praising the interpretation, bowed and after more compliments, withdrew with his party. Tegestu in turn complimented his own people on a hospitality worthy of their guest’s status, and before they dispersed he took Cascan’s arm. “A private meeting with you, ban-demmin,” he said. “In an hour. Meet me at my tent.”

“Aye, bro-demmin,” Cascan said, his slitted eyes expressionless, and he bowed.

Grendis took his arm and they walked in silence to their tent, Tegestu leaning on her more than he would have wished. Cascan was such a perfect lord of spies, Tegestu thought as he walked. Such a perfect holder of secrets. His kamliss was too small to seize power; he must ever be a loyal follower, not a leader, for his status depended entirely on Pranoth favor: to use his knowledge against Pranoth would only be to insure his own fall from power.

Tegestu let his servants strip the heavy armor from him; then he called for tea and the masseurs. His weary body must be made ready for the meeting with Cascan, and the tea would insure alertness. Secret things had to be accomplished tonight.

When, after his massage and refreshment, he called for his light armor, Grendis’ eyes widened in surprise.

“I will not be long, love,” he said. “There is a piece of business that cannot wait.” Her eyes filling with care, she asked if she could accompany him; he shook his head. “It will only be a matter of a few moments,” he said as Thesau strapped the leather undercoat to him. “Rest easy.”

Cascan was seated patiently outside the tent when he came out. “This way,” he said, bowing. “My people have secured a place where we can talk.”

It was not far, fortunately: even the light leather-and-chain was an unwelcome weight. In the center of a hundred-yard-diameter circle of bowmen, Cascan glanced at the disposition of his men with a critical eye, and then turned to Tegestu.

“How may I be of service, bro-demmin Tegestu?” he asked with a brief bow.

“I need a man for secret business, Cascan,” Tegestu said. “He must be intelligent and discreet, preferably someone who has been attached at one time or another to an embassy, or who is familiar with diplomacy. He must be reliable and able to operate on his own, on a mission of the utmost importance. He must have a good memory, to carry information in his head. And he must be expendable — for he must die at the end of his mission, to protect the honor of our aldran.”

Cascan considered for a few moments, then knelt, bowing his head. “I beg to be allowed to undertake this mission myself, bro-demmin, if you consider me worthy.”

Tegestu felt his lips tighten in a smile: Aiau, what tigers the Tosta bred! “I must forbid it, bro-demmin,” he said, pleased. “I shall need you for some time yet. Pick another man.”

“Very well, bro-demmin,” Cascan said, rising, his eyes still downcast. “May I have a few hours to consider the choice?”

“Aye. But isolate the man once you’ve chosen him. Put him in a tent apart — put him in quarantine, say he’s got a contagious disease. No one but myself must be allowed to speak with him.’’

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

“He’ll have to be provided with passwords to get him through the lines. And the poison must always be ready — it would be best if you told him the mission was hazardous, and he should have his will made out and his death wishes recorded ahead of time, in case his death must be sudden.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

Cascan’s face was shadowed by darkness, but the shadows could not entirely disguise the look of curiosity. Tegestu nodded to himself. No, my cunning Tosta, he thought; this tidbit is not for you; It is far too dangerous. There will be Pranoth men guarding the quarantine, not your own.

“Inform me of your choice in the morning,” he said, bowed, and made his way back to his tent.

A messenger, Tastis’ son had said, with a note under your seal will always find access to the city. Tegestu smiled grimly, pleased with his plan. This unknown, already-doomed man, he thought, will have such a seal. As he goes about my business of treachery.

CHAPTER 18

“There,” Campas said. “I thought you’d like to see it.”

Leaving the landing, where it had been discharging cargo all night, was a heavy, bluff-bowed seagoing barge, ninety feet long and made for the coastal trade, clinker-built, with huge iron-strapped wooden leeboards and two masts: the first amidships, leaning slightly forward like a tipsy sailor, and the other, much smaller, aft of the tiller. Both sails, unfurled now in the light breeze to help the barge move along the placid canal, were big lugsails, slatting loudly in the uncertain breeze.

“Fiono sails,” Campas said. “The first time they’ve been put on a big boat.” He looked at her and nodded. “With the wind from a little west of south like this, other barges would have to be towed,” he said.

Fiona turned her eyes from the barge to Campas. “You seem to know a lot about barges for a literary man,” she said.

Campas grinned. “Most Arrandalla know about the sea, and about the river traffic,” he said. “Also, my father had an interest in a chandler’s shop, and I apprenticed there for a time when I was twelve or so, keeping the books. Met a lot of the bargemen that way, and the deep-sea sailors as well.”

The barge passed, the two visible crewmen too occupied with steering the vessel, and with keeping the sails drawing, to pay attention to the two figures on the bank. The barge, varnished a deep brown all over, had no ornamentation except for a little red trim on the transom, on which the barge’s name was picked out in gold leaf: FIONA’S BLESSING. Fiona, as she made out the lettering, felt herself flushing.

Campas’ grin broadened. “Sailors give benefactors their due,” he nodded. “They’ll never forget you, not for what you’ve done for them. Every seaman who ever was trapped on a lee shore will bless you for the sail that will let them claw off it.”

“That’s kind of them.’’ Fiona said. “But not necessary.” These bargemen were people whose lives she had affected in a direct, personal way; and she hadn’t even met them. The sail had been her passport into the inner circles of Arrandal, given coldly as a matter of policy: now she was being credited by sailors with a compassionate intervention she had never intended.

Well, she thought. At least her credit was good someplace.

The barge having passed, silver ripples closing easily over its wake, they walked toward her tent. Campas was cheerful, bubbling with happy conversation — now that the barges with part of Necias’ household had arrived he had less work to do, and more time to spend with his poetry, and with her.

Fiona peered upward, past the brim of her sun hat, at her lover. Barring accident, she thought coldly, my life expectancy is four times his. In another fifteen years he will be an old man, his teeth going bad, rheumatism or body parasites or a host of other wasting diseases making permanent conquest of his body. There is so much we cannot share, including all my history prior to this: he couldn’t hope to understand even the smallest part. We cannot share our lives; that would be a tragedy for us both. The most we can hope for is a season or two. Then I will help him find some deissu’s daughter for a first wife, and make an end. That would be for the best.

He glanced at her, arid she smiled up at him, contented pleasure filling her. Enough, for the moment, to enjoy his company, his wit, his laughter. Even for her, the future was uncertain enough to make her value the present, an interlude to be treasured in the memory.

Ahead she saw a Classanu in quiet livery running across the empty parade ground, puffs of dust rising from his boots as he dashed for the tents of one of the Brodaini encampments — and then the Classanu looked in their direction, stopped dead, and started running directly for them, his arms waving. Campas muttered something under his breath and increased his pace to meet him.

“Translator, ilean Campas!” the man said, breathless. “My lord needs a translator — there is some trouble. In the camp of Captain Pantas! Hurry, please, ilean!”

Campas cast a look back at Fiona, a look that said stay back, and then began to run toward the flag that marked Pantas’ camp. The Classanu sketched a bow in his direction and ran for the Brodaini tents.

Pantas, Fiona thought. Bowmen, members of the city militia who used the laminated Arrandalla bow. Pantas had bought them all black wide-brimmed hats and blue neckerchiefs, and they considered themselves elite.

She began to run. She was a fast runner, having for sport or pleasure run long, dusty distances over the arid plains of her homeworld, and she settled to a fast ground-eating stride that, despite his longer legs, almost caught Campas before he arrived at the bowmen’s camp.

Pantas had quartered his men in an old stone cow-barn belonging to one of the farms that occupied the firm, fertile ground near the city — the hay had long gone to feed Tastis’ animals, but the big building was a cool contrast to the midday heat, and better shelter than tents would have been. As Fiona approached she saw a roiling mass of men outside, milling in the dust, and an angry babble of voices.

She slowed, taking her gloves from her belt and pulling them on, then reaching to the back of her neck to pull the hood of her privy-coat out from beneath her Arrandalla shirt. She heard Campas’ voice raised, cutting through the shouting, demanding angrily.

The crowd parted for him and Fiona saw, in the middle of a circle of the bowmen, a party of a dozen grim-faced Brodaini standing back-to-back in a defensive circle. The bowmen, she saw, had their bows strung, but as yet no arrow had been drawn from their short, ornamented quivers; the Brodaini had their long, sword-bladed spears planted firmly in the ground, ready for instant use, but for the moment they were threatening no one. Coming closer, Fiona saw the Brodaini had a prisoner, one of the bowmen, forced on his knees in the center of the group.

“What’s the meaning of this? Where’s your captain?” Campas demanded, to be immediately answered by a dozen outraged voices. He shook his head violently and cut the air with his hands, and the noise subsided. One strangely hissing, nasal voice came rising above the throng.

“They’ve got one of ours, and we mean to get him back! We’re not going to let them take away our corporal!”

“Treason!” It was a Brodaini-accented voice, speaking Abessas with effort. “Man speaks treason. Arrest man. Man traitor or spy.”

Campas, his mouth a tight line, wheeled to speak to the Brodaini in their own tongue. Fiona thought she saw relief in their besieged faces.

“I was making an inspection with my men, ilean translator,” the Brodainu said. He was a short, stocky, self-important-seeming man, his face sun-browned and brutal. “We’re ordered to inspect the sanitary arrangements — these Abessla pigs don’t understand about slit trenches, they just drop their trousers wherever they want, and so we have the authority to police the camp, and make them defecate like human beings.” Campas’ frown deepened as he heard his people so described, but he waited patiently for the man to get to the point.

“We heard this man speak treason,” the Brodainu said, turning to scowl down at the captive. “We heard him say to his friends he wanted Tastis’ government in Arrandal.” His tone was stubborn as he recited the story, as if insisting on a point that seemed obscure even to him. “We can’t have corporals talking like that to their men,” he continued. “We arrested him to take him before the Judge Advocate. His friends interfered.”

He thumped the butt of his spear into the ground and jerked his chin up, glaring with angry pride at the bowmen. “I won’t be interfered with, ilean translator!” he said. “I am Hantu Sethentha Dantu y’Dantu, son of Sapasta Hantu Pranoth y’Dantu, who was whelkran of five thousand under our lady Grendis Destu Luc y’Dantu, and a trusted advisor to our lord Tegestu. If any wish to detain me, let him state his name and lineage and I will fight him with bow, spear, and sword.”

Fiona watched as Campas struggled mentally with how much of the Brodainu’s message to translate, and in what spirit — Hantu’s arrogant, uncompromising attitude was obvious enough to his watchers, and Hantu seemed to understand enough Abessas to follow Campas’ translation roughly.

Pulling her hood over her head and tightening it, Fiona walked into the circle. There were surprised murmurs as a few of the bowmen recognized her, and a worried glance from Campas.

“He says,” Campas said, turning to the bowmen, “that he was going about his duties when he heard your corporal saying that he wanted Tastis’ government in Arrandal.”

“That’s not so!” It was the strange hissing voice Fiona had heard earlier; it proved to belong to an unshaven, gangling soldier with a pair of missing front teeth. “He didn’t say anything of the sort!”

“What did he say, then?”

The soldier scratched his chin, clearly trying to decide how much to reveal. “Many of us in this company are bricklayers, see?” he said finally. “Journeymen and apprentices. Corvas was just saying that the idea of a League of Journeymen in our Guild wasn’t such a bad idea — he’d like one in our city. He didn’t say anything about wanting that bloody Brodainu bastard Tastis in our city.” His voice rang with contempt. “Why the hell should we want to be ruled by them?” he demanded. “We don’t want a bunch of foreign mercenaries running our affairs!”

Suddenly Hantu’s eyes blazed. He took a step forward and shook his spear. “Challenge!” he howled in his bad Abessas. “I fight that man! Call me mercenary, spy-traitor-money-grubbing Hostlu!”

Fiona felt herself gasp in surprise as a sudden arrow took the Brodainu in the throat. She hadn’t even seen who had fired it. Clawing at its shaft, Hantu staggered backward into the arms of one of his men. The soldier who had spoken seemed stunned by the sudden violence, and with rising anger in his eyes he turned to demand who had drawn bow... but one of the Brodaini was quicker, lunging with the curved sword-blade on the end of his spear, disemboweling the spokesman with a practiced swipe. Fiona, her inbred reflexes taking swift charge, struck up the spear with her arm, hearing Campas shouting, “Down weapons! Peace here, in the Abeissu’s name!”, but there was a sudden chaos of motion as other Brodaini spears leaped out and arrows began hissing through the air, Hantu’s armor rattling as he slipped from his man’s arms and fell kicking to the earth, with Campas in the middle of it calling for order, trying clumsily to strike up the flickering, bladed spears until an arrow clipped him and he fell. Fiona ducked between the spears, snapping her right arm in toward her chest while rotating her wrist sharply, and felt the needle snap out through her glove, protruding from the bone of her wrist.

It was meant for hurried self-defense, and was not an accurate weapon. With it she burned down the first row of bowmen, slitting her eyes against the flash. The air, outraged by the sudden release of energies, cracked like thunder. There were screams and confusion, the bowmen falling back in a yelping body; in the stunned silence that followed she barked out swift orders in Gostu. “Pick up your officer and carry him with us. Take the ilean translator. I’m the Ambassador Fiona — I’m taking command here. Now!”

Fiona saw confusion and naked fear on the Brodaini faces as they saw what her needle had done, but they responded instinctively to the chain of orders and once they began moving they moved efficiently, gathering Campas up as he clutched at his bleeding head. Fiona caught a scent of burned flesh as she pulled the hood-mask down to protect her face, then she barked orders for the Brodaini to keep on guard and draw back, with their wounded, to their own camp.

As they began to move Fiona saw that Hantu’s prisoner was dead. In the first swift seconds of the fight, some practical Brodainu, not expecting to survive, had quietly prevented the corporal’s escape by slitting his throat.

In the hood-mask she heard the rapid rasping of her own breath, the surge of her hammering pulse as she wondered whether the bowmen would be mad enough to pursue this fight. She began to breathe deliberately, trying to force both lungs and heart to slow, telling herself that she was not as vulnerable as she felt, her back turned to hostile bowmen. She worked her way into the middle of the Brodaini and felt them move protectively around her, shielding her with their bodies as they would one of their own officers, not knowing her armor was better than their own. She fought to control her body’s instinctive reactions — she didn’t want people crowding her, but it would be unsafe to force them to disperse. Through the darkened, one-way material of the face mask she could see Campas blinking through the blood that covered his face, one hand still pressed to his scalp where the arrow had scored him. The wound, though bloody like all scalp wounds, seemed superficial, and Fiona felt a breath of relief cooling her anxiety.

Three Brodaini faced toward the bowmen as they walked backwards with their spears on guard. They passed the barn, then moved past a rubbish dump toward the parade ground. Fiona could see dust rising in the Brodaini camp as they formed to come to the rescue of their comrades, summoned by the running Classanu. Suddenly there was a cry from the rearguard as arrows hissed again from the air. Fiona felt an impact between her shoulder blades and stumbled, seeing one of Campas’ bearers fall, an arrow in his side. Rage filled her, both because of the attack and because of what she knew the attack would force her to do, and she turned to see another savage flight of arrows whistling in their direction from where archers were crouching on the roof of the stone barn. She heard an answering snarl, and realized it was her own.

A Brodainu leaped in front of her to shield her body with his own, and she cursed in her own language and shouldered her way past him. She made a fist of her right hand and pulled it toward her body, increasing the power of her weapon, then fanned her arm out in the direction of the barn, her fire tearing holes in the air with the sound of lightning gone mad, blowing the barn wall away and bringing its roof down, the insect-figures of the archers falling among the rubble. Perhaps some would survive — more, anyway, than would have been the case if she’d raked the barn roof.

She heard an awed intake of breath from the Brodainu next to her as the roof came down, then she brushed past him again and shouted at them to begin moving. The Brodainu with the arrow in his side was staggering to his feet; another took his place carrying Campas, and then the group was shambling onward across the bare parade ground.

There was no more interference. Brodaini archers came pelting up, their long, powerful steel bows ready to cover the withdrawal; and they were followed by a battalion of swiftly-marching spearmen. Fiona tore her mask back, shouting out a version of the incident to their officers, making the hurried suggestion that the camp of Captain Pantas be cordoned off immediately, but that no action be taken against them until Palastinas, Necias, and Tegestu had been informed of the situation. The Brodaini officer, uncertain of his authority and hers, frowned, considered, and then acceded.

Fiona, her heart hammering, followed the Classani surgeons who were called to treat the wounded. Hantu, drowning in his own blood, was dead by the time they arrived. The other wounded Brodainu, it seemed, would survive, and so would Campas. Fiona sat cross-legged in the dust, trying to stay out of the surgeons’ way, while the marching columns rushed past, and while Campas’ wound was washed and bound.

Fiona pulled off her glove, seeing the bright dot of blood on her wrist that marked the place where the needle had come through her flesh. There was no pain; the nerves had been deadened when she had been modified. She rubbed her forehead, trying to decide what she would say — not just to Necias and Tegestu, but to her own people in the ship. The ships’ alarms would have tripped as they detected the flow of energies she had unleashed with her needle, and her spindle, back in her tent, would be buzzing with urgent demands for communication. There was probably a team of rescuers diving into atmosphere craft, ready to ride down to her assistance.

She wondered if she could have escaped without use of the needle. She had been thoroughly protected by the privy-coat against the worst their weapons could have done; she probably could have jostled her way out of danger, pushing through the bowmen to safety.

But that would have left Campas in the middle of it all, unprotected save by his light chain shirt, amid the hacking spears and flying arrows. No, she thought, she’d had no choice; what she’d done was necessary. Her instructions gave enough amount of latitude in these situations that she felt sure she could justify her action to Tyson when the time came.

She would have to get to her spindle soon, to call the ship, and to call her rescuers off. But for the moment she sat and tried to calm herself, watching as the blood was cleaned from Campas’ eyes and he looked up painfully to recognize her, and flash her a first faint smile.

CHAPTER 19

There was no possibility that a solution would promote healing: there were too many wounds, too much anger. Necias, in the end, needed the Brodaini much more than he needed a gang of truculent bowmen. Besides, even if the Brodaini had provoked them, they had assaulted the Abessu-Denorru’s personal representative and an ambassador — and Necias’ blood still ran cold at the thought of the hellish powers Fiona had then unleashed. Fiona had been asked if she wanted to recommend punishment, with Necias dreading the possibility she’d want to exact it herself; but Necias’ messengers had returned saying she considered it a matter of internal army discipline and no business of hers. So Pantas’ archers were arrested — by mercenary pikemen rather than by Brodaini — disarmed, and after being held prisoner overnight in the broken remnants of the barn, an experience calculated to create as much mental unease as possible, their crimes were itemized by a herald, their standard was ceremonially burned, one out of five were flogged, and then the unit was disbanded and its men broken up and assigned to other companies. Captain Pantas, who had been visiting brother officers in the Prypas camp and hadn’t been within two miles of the riot, was quietly given a staff assignment.

But there was going to be bad feeling between the militia companies and the Brodaini as a result of this, and that would spoil the good feeling that had existed in the army after the victory on the East Rallandas. And Necias sensed there would be worse consequences than these.

Necias pushed away his empty luncheon plate and, wincing, tried to dislodge a piece of food from between two of his rotting teeth. Ai, Pantas and his net of souls! he thought, remembering the scene of the riot as he’d toured it, the barn blackened with its gaping wall and tumbled roof, the bodies of the dead bowmen, lying shriveled and burnt, armor melted, some unrecognizable. Had Fiona called down the lightning? There had been a flash and a sound of thunder, all witnesses agreed to that, and then men had died and the walls had come crashing down.

There was a lesson to be learned here, and that was the power these star people represented. If one of them could do that, what wonders, what horrors, could a company perform?

There would be a report on this sent to every city of the Elva, he thought. Unless these things were known, the Elva would be tempted to involve the star folk and their power in their own disputes. The Igaralla claimed to have no interest in local issues, but Necias knew human motivations better than that. There would have to be a convention limiting the numbers of Fiona’s people allowed in the cities, and strictly regulating their neutrality. That much power, unregulated and uncontrolled, dwelling in the heart of the Elva capitals, represented a far greater danger than the Brodaini in all their numbers.

But what, he wondered, can we do to enforce the convention? If they should decide to bring more down from the sky, how could we stop them? We didn’t even know Fiona was among us until she made herself known; they could move a battalion into Arrandal and be in command of the place within a day.

He had regarded Fiona as a curiosity, as a useful source of information, as an object by which he might gain prestige. Now he was compelled to regard her with apprehension and fear. How would he be known, he thought; as the man who brought otherworldly knowledge to Arrandal, knowledge to benefit the city and its inhabitants — or perhaps as an infamous figure, who first let the conquerors from the stars past the city gates?

Last night, in the timbered calm of his bedroom on his barge, he’d spoken to Brito on the subject; she had counseled, as usual, patience. “The girl was caught in a riot and defended herself,” she’d said. “That’s nothing to base a political judgment on. But you’re right that the Igaralla’s numbers should be limited — there’s a lot of nonsense going on in the cities about Fiona and her people, and it ought to be contained if possible.”

As for the “nonsense,” he’d had reports about that as well. Fashions based on Fiona’s style of dress, the sale of good-luck charms or artifacts said to have originated on Igara, the appearance of priests who claimed to spread her gospel of stellar salvation among the population. Shortlived, Necias thought, knowing exactly how long these tides of fashion would last; in another year there would be some new diversion for the mob to pursue, and for the merchants to profit from.

He wondered if he could use Campas to acquire information concerning her attitudes. Care would be required, however, since camp rumor proclaimed they were lovers. It was a rumor Necias didn’t quite believe, and hoped he would never have to believe officially. He’d have to interview Campas on the subject of the riot, and try to glean what information he could.

Whatever resulted from those efforts, an official disavowal from Fiona that she had any intentions of being worshiped, or that she was not in the charm business, might serve to make Arrandal that much calmer. As it was, half the population expected her to somehow conjure the gates of Calacas open and allow the allied armies to enter... .

Perhaps, he mused, he might be able to make use of the official dinner scheduled for this evening. Necias, Palastinas, and their respective staffs would be playing host to General Handipas of Prypas. Handipas was a difficult character by all accounts, touchy on points of precedence and honor and inclined to veto any proposal for cooperation between the two forces unless he was given the sole command. Thank the gods, Necias thought, that at least Tegestu seemed to have achieved some sort of working arrangement with his Brodainu opposite, Tanta.

Fiona, with the rest of the ambassadors, would be present at the dinner, and perhaps Necias could get a public disavowal from her of the stories circulating in the city. Necias would have preferred to have found some way of canceling the dinner altogether, since Handipas was almost certain to object to Fiona’s presence as one that would attract attention away from himself.

Damn all faction! Necias thought violently. Ah, well... he had handled men like Handipas before, and all it required was patience: either the man would overreach himself and be dismissed by his own employers; or Necias would wait until autumn brought the fleets from the north carrying the other allied Elva armies, at which point Necias would be able to do without him, and would then give him the choice of voluntarily accepting a subordinate position under Palastinas or of going home without having accomplished anything except a slow march along the coast and back, a humiliation he would never be able to face.

Well, the dinner would go forward. It was time to move from the barge to his pavilion and make certain the preparations were complete. He’d dictate some correspondence while there — the pavilion was no longer a residence, but was being used as an office still — and also make his proclamation for a day of fasting for all the armies in honor of the goddess Lipanto, whose rites were celebrated two days hence.

Necias heaved himself out of his settee, put some biscuits in his pockets for later, and climbed heavily up the companion to the deck of the barge. There he blinked in the bright sun, seeing the flags of Arrandal and the house of Acragas whipping in the brisk wind, and waited while his guards were assembled by Little Necias, their captain. His bodyguards were mostly relatives, with a few trusted retainers thrown in: he didn’t want Brodaini around him, and if he’d used mercenaries there would always be the worry that one of them could be bribed to allow an assassination.

As the guards formed up on the gangplank, Necias turned to the other family barge moored astern and saw, with a leap of joy, Luco’s golden hair glittering on the foredeck. A lovely girl, he thought, remembering their ardent reunion and the fact that he was scheduled to sleep with her tonight. He had sent for two of his wives, letting the other four occupy themselves with household matters in Arrandal: now he had Brito for her brains and Luco for her loving, something that happily took place every second night instead of every fifth. A young wife did a man good, whatever the old saws said. She turned, seeing him on deck, and stood on tiptoe to wave, her brilliant smile warming his heart; he raised his own arm, smiling, and when his men had formed up he walked up the tilting gangplank and began his stroll to the pavilion.

His fool of a son, Listas, joined him with his pad and pencil and Necias dictated some correspondence to him as they walked, all of it routine but necessary. The guards deployed themselves about the pavilion and Necias went into the bright, airy main room, where a series of collapsible tables had been assembled, then covered with a long brocade tablecloth and a vast array of silver plate. “Very good,” he nodded to his Deputy Steward — Ahastinas had pronounced himself too elderly to accompany the army — and lay down on his settee, adjacent to the place of honor that Handipas would occupy.

The expressions of horror on the faces of his domestic staff came too late for warning, so it must have been some vague impression of movement behind him that made him throw himself forward just as the settee shuddered to a blow... and then, amid the sudden shrieking and confusion and desperate bellows from his staff, he pushed off from the couch, kicking it back, and was crawling like a vast insect across the table, scattering ringing silver plate in all directions. Castas all over again, he thought with a sick and hopeless despair, remembering the brother who had died shielding him from the assassin’s dagger; but now there was no Castas between him and the killers, nothing but whatever inches of brocade tablecloth he could put between himself and his assailants.

Tableware flew over his head: Listas, his popeyes almost leaping from his head as he shrieked for the guards, was scooping up plate with both arms and flinging it for all he was worth; and there was a metallic clang from behind to demonstrate he’d connected with at least one of his missiles. The Deputy Steward dashed out, seizing Necias by his arms, and then dragged him forward across the table by main strength; Necias, breathless, crashed to the carpeted floor just as the table reverberated to another thud as a blow went home.

The Deputy Steward gave a high-pitched shriek and threw himself across Necias in the direction of the table, his dagger out... Necias cursed him as he tried to find a path between his legs; then Necias heard a squelching thud as a weapon struck home and the Deputy Steward fell back, clutching at the light spear in his chest. Necias, wanting to scream himself but not having the breath for it, rolled for safety, tangled with the nerveless body of the Deputy Steward, feeling blood splattering his face with liquid warmth. At last Little Necias was there, his pike out, followed by a swarm of his people, and there were yells and clanging and in the end Necias sat up in safety, his lungs pumping desperately for air, and watched as his guards transfixed, with half a dozen pikes, his would-be assassin. There was only one attacker after all.

There was no proof — the man was a short-haired nondescript individual — but his equipment screamed Brodaini, and he was therefore assumed to be one of Tastis’ lersri, a trained, dedicated spy and assassin who worshiped the goddess of Death and who was supposed to be ready, with the bottle of poison found on his belt, to meet her voluntarily rather than accept capture. He was armed with a heavy double-edged dagger on a thong around his neck, but his principal weapon was a short, light hollow metal spear. In his pouch there was found a digging tool: it had been attached to the other end of the spear, and with it the lersru had burrowed his way beneath the canvas walls of the pavilion, hiding in a little hole under the carpets directly behind the couch of honor, waiting with cool patience for Necias to appear. The household staff had probably been treading on him since morning.

The lersru should have succeeded with his first thrust, but Necias was not in the place of honor, which must have surprised him, and then Necias had thrown himself forward and perhaps broken the assassin’s concentration; at any rate the spear had gone into the back of Necias’ settee with enough force to splinter it. Having wrenched the spear free, the lersru climbed over the chair and onto the table, parried the plate Listas threw as he advanced, and then been forced to kill the Deputy Steward to get to Necias, losing more seconds... and then Little Necias and his squad had impaled him on their pikes that outreached his short thrusting spear, and made his bottle of poison redundant.

Necias, trembling, rose breathlessly to his feet, dashing the sweat out of his eyes and staring at the chaos of the canvas-walled room, the strewn array of silver plate and the bodies of the Deputy Steward and the assassin. “Are you hurt, Father?” Listas demanded, supporting his elbow; then he turned and screeched out in the pedantic, nagging voice that Necias had always disliked. “A chair for the Abessu-Denorru! Have you all gone mad?”

A chair was brought, and Necias subsided gratefully in it. His guards tore about the pavilion, anxious to prove their zeal, flinging up the carpets and looking for more enemies to kill; they found none. The bodies were quietly carried out. A drink came hastily to Necias’ chair; he drank it down without tasting it, his mind slowly recovering from the attack.

“I’ll write the notes calling off the dinner, don’t bother yourself about it,” Listas said in his ear. “Just rest yourself, and I’ll take care of the arrangements.”

Necias only gradually understood the words. “No!” he gasped out quickly; and then he found his mind working again, calculating swiftly the results of the near-assassination.

“No,” he said, more firmly again, seeing Listas’ pop-eyed surprise. “The dinner will continue — I’m not going to let that carrion interfere with matters of state.” He jabbed a finger into Listas’ chest, and gave him an encouraging grin. “Draft a report to the Denorru-Deissin, and make certain you urge them all to look to their own safety. And another report to the city — we don’t want any rumors starting a panic.” He rubbed his chin. He had to look undisturbed by this occurrence: otherwise people would begin saying he was so terrified he’d lost his grip. Normality had to be returned as quickly as possible.

“Clean the blood off that tablecloth: I still want to use it tonight,” he said. “Replace the soiled carpets with fresh ones. Nothing out of the ordinary, understand?” He hauled himself out of the chair, found to his delight that his legs would support him, and then gave a laugh to his household staff. “We’ve got to learn to expect assassinations, hey?” he said. “I’ve survived two, now — Pastas Netweaver must be looking out for me. I’ll give thanks tomorrow.” He looked down at the bloody carpet, then rubbed his chin. He’d give an endowment to the survivors of the Deputy Steward, and add his name to the family memorials that took place on Castas’ Day.

For the moment, he thought, he’d make a visit to his wives’ barge. He didn’t want rumors preceding him and causing a panic in the floating partillo: arriving safe and sound should scuttle rumors more thoroughly than any delivered message. And by walking to the barge he would also be showing himself to many of the army, and show he was still on his feet and making decisions.

“Captain Acragas!” he called out to Little Necias. “Form your men outside. I’m returning to the landing.”

“Yes, Necias Abeissu,” Little Necias said, somewhat surprised, and immediately obeyed. While Necias waited, he saw Listas looking at him hesitantly.

“You did well,” he said, nodding briskly — might as well give the boy a compliment now that he’d done something right for a change. Listas seemed surprised.

“Thank you, Father,” he said, and Necias wondered for a doubtful second whether his compliments had ever been so rare as to be viewed with such wonder. No, he decided, dismissing the idea; the boy was just a fool.

Necias nodded again and stepped out into the sun. A shame to have missed a day like this, he thought, enjoying the breeze on his face. That lersru’s first strike had surely been foiled by the gods. Or nerves, perhaps, if Brodaini truly possessed them.

His mind buzzing thankfully with plans, Necias grinned up at the sky and paced rapidly for his barge.

*

That evening Handipas, followed by his staff and his Brodainu commander Tanta, walked to the pavilion through a double row of servants bearing torches and another lane of mercenaries in all their finery with lances at the salute. Handipas was dressed entirely in white from leggings to bonnet, his costume heavily embroidered with gold lace: he was a short, quick, vain man, clearly pleased with himself and his appearance. Necias welcomed him with a hug, introduced him to the officers, staff, and dignitaries present, and ushered him to the banquet and sat him down in the place of honor. He saw Handipas’ eyes move slowly in a careful, sidelong examination of the room — no doubt he’d heard about the assassination attempt — but there was no sign of the fight: new carpets had been layered in place of the stained ones, the brocade tablecloth had been cleaned, and all battered tableware replaced. The roof of the tent ballooned with banners, the flags of Arrandal, Prypas, and the Elva, as well as the standards of the Brodaini.

Necias looked down at his first course already in place — pickled cold beef and onions, cut small the way he liked it, so he could chew it with his good teeth. He sipped his wine, making certain his guests were seated, then signaled Brito and Luco to come forth to be introduced; they were complimented by Handipas for their splendid gowns — particularly Luco, who was dressed in the most radical new style. It was inspired by the strange hooded undergarment the Igaralla ambassador had been observed to wear, and was therefore called the Fiono style. There was a tight-fitting black hood, embroidered in gold, that made a pale, exquisite oval of the face, and that was further complimented by a few of Luco’s pale curls that had escaped the hood; the flounced skirts had been drawn in about the middle to suggest the trousers Fiona had worn privately in her apartments, and publicly on campaign — the rest was slashed, studded with jewels, puffed, ruffled, and otherwise embroidered in the typical Arrandal manner, done principally in green to reflect Luco’s eyes. The effect was unusual, and quite striking. Handipas leaned forward, intrigued, his hand on his chin.

“What style of gown is that, stansisso Luco?” he asked.

Luco colored at being so addressed, and dropped another curtsey; under her lashes she covertly looked up at Fiona as she answered. “It is called a Fiono gown, Handipas cenors-efellsan,” she said. “It is patterned after the dress of Igara. I wear it in honor of the ambassador.”

Necias glanced at Fiona during the answer, seeing her surprised look. Handipas, with a grin, turned to Fiona as well.

“Is this what the Igaralla wear at home, Ambassador?” he asked. “Our own Igaralla ambassador hasn’t spoken much of fashion.”

Fiona, taken aback, composed her reply quickly. “It is — it is an interpretation,” she said, glancing down at her own scarlet gown, simple and plain by Arrandalla standards, with only modest amounts of embroidery and no precious stones at all. Necias mentally complimented her on her diplomacy: he suspected she’d never seen anything remotely resembling Luco’s gown before. “And quite a becoming interpretation,” Fiona added. “On behalf of my people, stansisso Luco, I thank you for the compliment.”

Luco blushed bright red and made her final curtsey and exit. There was a partillo screen set up so that she and Brito could eat privately, view the entertainment, and watch the dinner without having to overstrain their delicate sensibilities among the rude company of men.

The meal went well enough. There were some small entertainers — as many competent jugglers, balladeers, and comics as could be found traveling with the army, with a Classanu troop of acrobats, about the only Brodaini entertainment palatable or understandable to the Abessla. Handipas asked about the assassination attempt: Necias brushed it aside as a trifling matter, knowing Handipas had no real interest and might have welcomed Necias’ removal as a threat to his own authority. He then turned the conversation to Handipas’ own campaigns. Handipas was only too happy to expatiate upon his martial prowess, and his glorious career in which he’d demonstrated the might of Prypas to truculent barons and murderous river pirates.

A puppy, Necias thought. He can be managed, more easily than if he were cunning.

“Your own skill, Ambassador, is celebrated in the camp,” Handipas said, turning suddenly from an anecdote of his own skill to Fiona: and for a moment Necias wondered if the puppy had more teeth than he’d thought. “You quelled that riot with a firm hand.”

Necias watched carefully, wondering if Fiona could be thus surprised; but her answer was quiet and spoken without hesitation. “There were arrows flying, enventan General Handipas,” she said. “I had to protect myself.”

“It was most effective, Ambassador. I congratulate you,” Handipas said. “Twelve men dead, a stone building brought down as if a troop of pioneers had been working on it half a day.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “Are all you Igaralla so deadly, Ambassador?” he asked. “So splendid in warfare?”

Necias, with surprise, realized that the room was utterly silent; he looked at the others at the table and saw them all watching Fiona and Handipas with calculating eyes, taking their measure, Tegestu looking like an old, proud mallanto, his glowing eyes fixed on distant prey. But Fiona’s own expression seemed confident in a quiet way, and the expression in her half-lidded, lazy eyes showed she knew exactly what game she was playing.

“No, we are not,” Fiona said. “There are very few of us who carry weapons at all: it’s not necessary. Those who may need it are allowed weapons for their own defense.”

“Such as ambassadors?” Handipas asked, his tone silky, languid. “Are all your diplomats capable of such destruction?”

“Any diplomats setting out alone to a war, certainly,” Fiona said. “War is a dangerous business, and it’s easy for a neutral to get caught in a dangerous situation.”

“You seem to come from a dangerous place, Ambassador,” Handipas continued, his fingers circling idly on the crystal rim of a goblet. “If your diplomats are capable of such destruction, how destructive can your soldiers be? Or are your diplomats soldiers as well as ambassadors?”

There was a moment of silence. Fiona smiled, then spoke, her tone confident, reassuring. “We have sent no soldiers to your world, General Handipas cenors-efellsan.”

Handipas shrugged; there was still a smile on his face. “I didn’t say you had, Ambassador,” he said. “I was merely speculating.” He pursed his lips, looking down as his finger circled the cup. A subtle ringing tone came from the cup; Necias repressed a shiver as the sound touched his nerves with delicate aural claws. “You brought down that building in a flash of lightning and thunder,” Handipas said. “I imagine that with little more effort you could bring down a city wall, if you were convinced it would benefit you.”

“We will not,” Fiona said, “intervene in your affairs. We will never fight against you, nor will we fight with you as allies. There are very few of us and there is no possibility of our being a threat to you. But we must be allowed to defend ourselves if attacked. I regret the necessity, yesterday, but I had little choice.”

“Of course, of course, so you have said,” Handipas’ said hastily, with a complimentary smile. “I didn’t mean to sound as if I were questioning your assurances, Ambassador.” He took his hand from the wine cup.

“Previously your people had been known for their inquisitiveness, for their wish to gather as much information about us as possible. Now you are known to be deadly. I was praising your skill, that is all, one soldier to another.” And before Fiona could reply he turned to one of the servants, holding out a purse. “Give this to the cooks, with my compliments,” he said. “They’ve performed well, under these difficult circumstances.”

Necias silently drew a breath. Handipas had been cunning, making his point with skill that no Igaralla could be trusted as long as any one of them could wield such power. Necias was glad he had seen it: Handipas was far more dangerous than he had thought.

And, for that matter, so was Fiona.

The dinner came to an end in a series of formal toasts: the company pledged eternal fidelity and friendship, undying enmity to Tastis, and vigilant cooperation; and probably meant little or none of it. Luco and Brito came from behind their screen to bid farewell to the guests; Handipas bussed Necias on both cheeks and made his way out, followed by his company. Necias felt a touch on his elbow.

“Beg pardon, Abessu-Denorru.” It was Tegestu, his voice pitched low. “I beg leave to speak privately, I hope this evening. It’s most urgent.”

Necias looked at Tegestu’s face for a clue of what this might be about, seeing nothing but frowning seriousness; then he glanced at the remaining guests and calculated the amount of time it would take to empty the pavilion, compliment the staff, and detail the guards necessary to take Luco and Brito back to their barge. “Can you wait half an hour, cenors-stannan?” he asked. “It will take a while to disengage from this company.”

“Aye, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said, bowing.

“Seat yourself, Tegestu,” Necias said, throwing out an arm toward unoccupied chairs. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Tegestu bowed again and stepped back, his face resuming its normal arrogant scowl, and Necias made his way to where one of the Neda-Calacas Government-in-Exile seemed wrapped in ferocious argument with a junior member of the Cartenas Embassy — all of which proved not to be over policy, but rather over the relative merits of the dancing of a pair of camp followers. Necias soothed them both, called for wine, and then noticed Luco in conversation with the Ambassador Fiona. The fact of one of his family being in touch with her without his supervision made him nervous: he knew Fiona spent most of her time gathering information, and he did not want himself gathered. Besides, he thought with a shiver, she’s dangerous. As Handipas has done us all the favor of pointing out.

“Ambassador,” he greeted her. “I hope the evening was pleasant.”

Fiona nodded with her usual self-assurance. “I enjoyed myself, Abessu-Denorru,” she said. “I believe your guest of honor enjoyed himself as well.”

“That horrible little man!” Luco said suddenly. Necias looked at her in surprise. Luco laughed suddenly, and then spoke, smiling; it seemed to Necias as if she gave Fiona a covert look, as if she shared a secret. “Well,” she said, “we know what will happen to him, don’t we?”

There was a slight pause before Fiona’s answer. “I’m sorry, Luco stansisso. I’m not sure what you mean.’’

Luco smiled nervously; but Necias saw that her secret look was still there. “I mean that I’ve heard the Enventan. Enventan Lidrapas.”

Necias saw Fiona’s blank response. “Enventan Lidrapas,” she repeated. “I’m not familiar with the name. A priest, I suppose? The Enventan concerns himself with what will become of General Handipas?”

“And with the others who refuse you, Ambassador Fiona,” Luco said happily. “He is preaching your faith, the faith of Igara. The city is astonished by his wisdom, as well as his miracles.”

“Is it now?” Fiona asked quietly, and the tone of her voice made Necias look at her in surprise. It was, he thought, a dangerous tone; he wondered if he had really heard it, or whether Handipas’ suggestion had made him hear things. Fiona pursed her lips in thought for a brief moment, then looked at Luco with knitted brows. “Please tell me what the Enventan has said regarding my faith, Luco stansisso. I would be grateful.”

“You wish a catechism now, Ambassador?” Luco seemed startled by the request. “I’ll do my best,” she said doubtfully, “but I’ve seen the Enventan only twice, and I haven’t been initiated into the mysteries.”

“Please tell me what you’ve heard, stansisso Luco,” Fiona said. She smiled, Necias thought, with effort. “Anything you can. I’d appreciate it.”

“Please oblige the Ambassador,” Necias said grimly. Where had Luco been exposed to this charlatan? he wondered. Was his son Rinantas, looking after Acragas interests in his absence, allowing him access to the palace? If so there was going to be a stiff letter going to Arrandal by the next boat. “I’d like to hear of this Enventan myself,” Necias said.

Luco gave a swift glance at Necias, surprised by his wish, and then smiled. “Of course, husband cenors-efellsan,” she said. “But I would have thought that you would have heard the new preaching from the Ambassador Fiona herself.”

Fiona’s answer was accompanied by an ironic smile. “I don’t consider it my duty to preach, stansisso Luco,” she said.

“Don’t you? I’m sorry — I would have thought —” Luco dissolved in confusion. “Maybe I’m not the person to advance the preaching here. I’m not used to speaking in front of people, and I’m sure I don’t understand enough of it.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Fiona said. She reached out to take Luco’s hand, giving her encouragement. “Just tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Oh. Of course,” Luco said, blushing to her ears. She gave another nervous glance to Necias, then spoke. “The Enventan preaches that the Igaralla have come to our world in order to offer us salvation,” she said. “That you and your people are going among us in secret, and that you are gathering information so as to know which of us accepts your faith, and which reject you. And that some day soon, your star ships will come down from the skies and take all the believers to Igara, where we will live forever in happiness.” She looked up at Fiona, her eyes radiating worshipful awe. “And those who don’t believe, like Handipas, will have to remain here, to die in misery.” She gave a brief, nervous smile. “I hope I’ve got it right, Ambassador. I’m not used to speaking like this.”

“I’m sure you’ve represented the Enventan very well,” Fiona said. She looked at Necias with a slight smile. “Will you excuse us for a moment, Abessu-Denorru?” she asked. “I think I would like to speak with stansisso Luco privately.”

“Certainly, Ambassador,” Necias said. Rinantas was going to get a scorching letter, he promised himself; Lidrapas shouldn’t have even been allowed to preach in public, let alone in the Acragas palace. He watched as Fiona and Luco went behind the partillo screen; then he went in search of Brito.

“Who the hell is this Lidrapas?” he demanded, after he’d got her away from the guests. Brito looked up at him sourly.

“A charlatan, I’m sure,” she said. “I don’t know where he came from, but he’s a good preacher, and he does conjuring tricks, like the Ambassador — I’m sure he enjoys letting people think he’s from Igara. He claims to preach their new religion.”

“Why hasn’t he been suppressed?” Necias demanded. “Not only that — how was he allowed to preach where Luco could hear him?”

“Rinantas thought he might actually be representing the Igaralla — who could know?” Brito said, her thin face disapproving. “He thought it best to be cautious — he didn’t want to offend Fiona, if she was actually behind it.”

“Pastas and Lipanto!” Necias swore. Anger raged through his limbs; he felt himself tightening his fists. “I’ll smash the man! I’ll have the priests draw up charges of atheism!”

Brito put a cautious hand on his arm. “Careful, Necias, you don’t want to make the man a martyr — persecutions can do that.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been giving the matter some thought,” she said. “I think it would be best to ask the Ambassador to publish a denial, and then have him arrested for fraud. With Fiona denying his preaching, he’ll have no support left.”

Necias felt his rage ebbing as rapidly as it had come. Brito’s advice made good sense. “Very well,” he nodded. “I think that’ll work.”

Brito gave him a thin, reassuring smile. Necias nodded in the direction of the partillo. “I think you’d best go comfort Luco — she’s losing her faith right at this minute, if I don’t miss my guess.”

“It’s about time,” Brito said with a grim smile. “Ever since that Lidrapas appeared, I’ve heard nothing else.”

Fiona came from the partillo a few moments afterwards, a self-satisfied light in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Necias Abeissu,” she said. “I’ve set Luco stansisso straight.”

“Is she very upset?”

Fiona considered, her head tilted to one side. “A little,” she said with a slight smile. “But I was as gentle as I could. I don’t think she’ll grieve for long.”

“Acragas thanks you, Ambassador,” Necias said. “Perhaps it would be possible for you to issue a denial, giving disavowal to this charlatan or any other who claims to preach on your behalf.”

Fiona nodded. “If you will be so kind as to make sure it’s distributed in the city — and within the army, just to head off any trouble — I can give you the text in the morning, under my seal.”

Necias nodded. “Very well, Ambassador.”

She took her leave then. Necias escorting her to the pavilion’s entrance. He watched her scarlet gown disappearing into the darkness, inhaling deeply of the fresh, cool air, tasting the distant tang of the ocean.

Yes, he thought, I’ll distribute your denial, and I’ll take Lidrapas’ head if I can. But I can thank Lidrapas for one thing, showing me how dangerous you are, should you choose to incite the populace against me. They are already half-inclined to believe any miracle worker that comes along, and if you and your wonders should ever strike against the Denorru-Deissin we’ll be hard put to fight you.

He would have to put a stop to Fiona’s going among the army and the people; it was too dangerous for her to be allowed unregulated contact. He’d simply suggest it was a matter of her own safety, after the incident the day before, and keep her in the ambassadorial compound unless he could give her escort.

Yes; and if she petitioned to bring others of her kind down from the sky he’d find some way to delay it, to keep the petition alive but never to say yes or no. He would have to keep her as isolated as possible, and try to move her back to the city and the Acragas palace as soon as possible.

Word came from the partillo that Luco and Brito were ready to leave, and he ordered their escort to stand ready, then went to bring them out. Luco seemed blotchy and distraught, as if she’d been weeping; and Brito seemed grim, as if her none-too-ample patience had been tried. He gave Brito a kiss and Luco a pat, and sent them both on their way.

He saw the other guests off, and then remembered Tegestu, sitting patiently in his chair, his stern face fixed firmly on nothing in particular. He walked back to him, airily waving him back to his seat as he tried to rise in order to kneel, then sat carelessly in the chair next to him. He looked up at the servants, each busy clearing away the remains of the feast, and called out to them. “Give the drandor Tegestu and me some privacy, boys. This won’t take long, hey?”

He watched as they all left quietly, then leaned close to Tegestu and spoke quietly.

“You wished to speak with me, drandor?”

The old mallanto’s eyes were expressionless. “Congratulations, Abessu-Denorru, on your timely escape from the lersru,” he said. “I hope you have taken no injury.”

Necias grinned. “Pastas had his finger on me,” he said. “No ill effects, the Netweaver be praised.”

“Among my own people,” Tegestu said, “any captain of bodyguards who so failed his lord would ask permission to kill himself. If he were not invited into the Ghanaton at his lord’s command.”

Necias blinked. Was Tegestu offering to have Little Necias killed? He shook his head.

“That’s not our way,” he said firmly. “We just aren’t used to fighting Brodaini. I don’t think such a thing could happen again.”

“I hope not, Abessu-Denorru Necias,” Tegestu said. “Might I suggest you abandon the pavilion entirely now that the barges have arrived? The security here will always be difficult.”

Necias nodded. “I’ll take that advice, drandor Tegestu. Thank you.”

“I am happy to be of service, Abessu-Denorru.” Tegestu glanced behind him, then leaned closer, his voice lowering.

“I have a message from Calacas,” he said. “In four nights, Tastis will launch a sortie against Handipas’ army in front of Neda. He hopes that, if the sortie is successful, he can throw in the bulk of his army in support and smash the Prypas forces before we can intervene.”

“How good is your information?” Necias asked automatically, while inwardly calculating the wisdom of whether or not to inform Handipas of this. A defeat for Handipas early on might make him more tractable. But no... he couldn’t risk a rebel victory, even a limited one, that might hearten Tastis’ forces. He would tell Handipas at sunset tomorrow, he thought; that would give him time enough to repel the sortie without making his preparations obvious.

“My source,” Tegestu said, “is a member of Tastis’ aldran, Ataman Doren Dantu y’Tosta. Ataman is a loyal Brodainu, and when Tastis empties Calacas of most of his forces in order to launch his attack, Ataman has announced his readiness to open the gates to my own people.”

Necias fought the surprise, the catch at the throat and the hammering of his heart. “You — you’re sure?” he gasped.

Tegestu’s gaze was steady. “Aye,” he said. “Ataman will do as he promises.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Necias’ mouth. “We’ll take Calacas, then?” he asked in laughing amazement. “That’ll show Handipas a thing or two, hey!”

“Ataman,” Tegestu said, “will open the Inner Harbor Gate and the White Tower Gate four nights from now. But he has a condition — he wants only my own Brodaini to enter the town, to take it in the name of our aldran. Are you agreeable to this?”

Necias thought, for an instant, that he saw a strange gleam in Tegestu’s eye, as if something was hanging on Necias’ assent... but what could hang on it but the keys of Calacas, taken from Tastis by treachery?

“Yes, Tegestu, of course!” he said, and saw the strange look fade. “Our city forces will support, and will be ready to enter the city whenever you can get the other gates open.”

Tegestu, his eyes hooded, nodded slowly. “Very well, Abessu-Denorru. I beg you, inform Palastinas of this, but let it go no further.’’

“Oh, aye,” Necias said, feeling a laugh bubbling up in him. This would show the other Elva cities that Arrandal was still head and shoulders above them all! he thought. What a lovely coup.

“Please reward this Ataman for his loyalty,” Necias said. “I’ll support you in whatever you think is appropriate — I trust you in these matters.”

“I thank you, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. He bowed. “I will begin preparing immediately.” He leaned back. “Amasta is leaving for Arrandal tomorrow,” he said, speaking in a more normal tone of voice — Necias realized the secret part of the conversation was over. “I hope you will receive her before she goes.”

“I will be pleased to see her,” Necias said, suppressing his reaction to Amasta — a cunning, frigid bitch, he thought, as murderous as Tastis. “She leaves on the tide, I assume?” he asked. “Just after noon?”

“Aye.”

“I will see her in the hour before noon, if that is convenient,” Necias said.

“Aye. I will inform her. She will be honored.”

“The honor is mine, old friend,” Necias said, his mind still bemused by the prospect of the city delivered into his hands. That would almost force Tastis to negotiate his surrender — he’d have no hope shut up in one of the twin cities, and midsummer not even passed.

Tegestu tried to come out of his seat to kneel, but lurched forward, his armor jingling, an expression of agony on his face. Alarmed, Necias reached out to support him and briefly took his weight. In spite of his armor, Tegestu seemed light as air.

“I am sorry, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said slowly, his eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It was a little slip, Tegestu,” Necias said. “Who doesn’t slip from time to time?” He took Tegestu’s arm and led him toward the pavilion entrance. “You’ll have to take better care of yourself, drandor. Don’t exhaust yourself — you’re too important to us.”

“Thank you, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. He seemed steadier now, walking with more confidence. When he came out of the pavilion and joined his escort he could walk unaided.

Necias watched Tegestu’s torchbearers disappear into the distance, feeling his heart lightening. Calacas in four nights! And without Prypas’ help! It was a lovely prospect.

His own escort fell in around him and he began walking briskly toward his barge. Luco would need help getting over her upset — nothing like a lusty husband, he thought, to cheer a girl up!

Calacas, four nights from now, and Luco tonight. He grinned. The population of Calacas would need feeding, he thought, and there was no organization better qualified to feed them than the House of Acragas. For, of course, a reasonable profit.

But, he thought as he saw the barges ahead, bright with lantern-light, first things first. And the first thing scheduled for tonight was his comforting of Luco. And her comforting of him.

CHAPTER 20

Tegestu, contemplating his treacheries, stood in the approach trench outside of the White Tower Gate of Calacas. Behind him he heard the sounds of the assault columns assembling in the dark: the muffled chink of armor, the whisper of officers, the treading of feet on the duckboards. His staff were back some distance in another trench: he’d wanted a quiet look at the enemy gates himself, alone. A dark figure loomed out of the night: Tegestu recognized Cascan.

“I have placed watchers, bro-demmin,” Cascan said. “They will let us know the second the bridge is lowered.”

“Very well, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then chastised himself for it. The night was black — only Third Moon was in the sky, the least of First Moon’s husbands, and there was black, scudding high cloud — but that was no reason to assume that his guards weren’t doing their job. He lowered his voice.

“Is the hermit in his cell?” he asked. “The hermit” was the code name for his messenger, the young cambranu who had journeyed to the city at night, carrying his words to Tastis.

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

Tegestu considered for a moment, wondering if he should change his plan. The cambranu had performed well, and with discretion; it would be reassuring to have such a man on hand if needed. But no: the man knew too much that could be dangerous, a long list of betrayals and crimes. It was unfortunate, but the exchange was fair: one man for a city.

“Let the hermit drink his cup,” Tegestu said. “See to it personally.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.” Cascan bowed. He turned, then hesitated. “A favor, bro-demmin,” he said.

“Speak.”

“May I inform him of the contents of the cup before he drinks it? I would regret the necessity of sending such a man into Ghanaton without his being prepared.”

Tegestu considered, then shook his head. “Nay, ban-demmin,” he said. “I ordered the man to make his will before setting out; he should have dedicated himself to Death at that time.”

“Very well, bro-demmin,” Cascan said. “I understand the necessity.”

“Perhaps,” Tegestu said, allowing his annoyance to show at Cascan’s presumption. Cascan could have guessed most of what had passed, having provided a young man with passwords to move freely among the lines, then suddenly being ordered to assist in moving the Brodaini forces to the gates of Calacas. But Cascan could not have guessed the why of it, nor the promises he had made to Tastis, or the multiple betrayals of enemies and allies. It was best that such knowledge remain only in Tegestu’s mind — there, and with the dead.

“See it done,” Tegestu snapped.

“Aye, bro-demmin.” A bow and Cascan was gone. He would see the poison in the man’s evening drink, and watch while the messenger drank it. Half an hour afterwards the man would sleep with his ancestors and the blessed gods.

The death of a loyal, brave man; another treachery laid to Tegestu’s account. Ah, he thought, this is an infamous thing I am doing. I am glad the night is black, to shroud my shame.

According to the emissary, Tastis had been surprised to hear that Tegestu wished command of only Calacas, rather than accepting Tastis’ full offer of both the cities. But after Tegestu had assured him that he would never surrender the city to an outside overlord, Tastis had agreed swiftly enough — happy, Tegestu supposed, to retain supreme command over at least one city.

Two runners came carefully through the darkness of the trench.

“Bro-demmin drandor, a message from bro-demmin Grendis. Her party is ready at the Gate of the Outer Harbor.”

“Very well.”

“Bro-demmin drandor, a message from bro-demmin Acamantu. The barges are secured and await your signal.”

“Very well. Thanks to you both.”

Tegestu felt relief slip into him. The long line of supply barges moored along the canal were the key: with them, Tegestu could feed his army in Calacas for as long as a year, longer if Tastis actually left him part of his own supply, which was promised in their agreement but which he was inclined to doubt.

The tramp of feet in the access trenches died away. The columns were in position.

Tegestu leaned against the wall of the trench, seeking its support as he stood in the darkness and contemplated his treacheries. They were his alone; he had consulted no other, not even Grendis — all was on his head. Was he ar-demmin, as bad as Tastis? Or worse, since he was betraying a lord who had behaved toward him only with honor and decent intentions?

He shook his head, trying to clear it of self-reproach. It was too late: the decision had been made. He could always claim that he had been pushed by circumstance.

It bothered him that he would have to claim anything at all. Actions, he thought, should be clean, unambiguous, like a swordstroke — they should serve as their own justification.

He jerked his head up as he heard the sound of a distant trumpet. Then there was the booming of a drum, then more trumpets. Tastis’ sortie had come crashing against the men of Prypas. He knew that the sortie would not fare well; Palastinas had “suggested” to the Prypas commanders that they stage an exercise in repelling a sortie; and Tegestu had also made a private suggestion to Tanta that he take the exercise seriously indeed — neither Handipas nor Tanta were the sort to take a suggestion like that lightly.

Another treachery, Tegestu thought; this time he had betrayed Tastis’ sortie.

The distant sounds of battle did not entirely hide the sudden clack of slipping pawls, and Tegestu’s heart leaped as he realized that the drawbridge of the White Tower Gate was coming down. Victory! he thought.

No, not victory, he corrected. Only the start of another war.

The scouts reported back as ordered, though their messages were redundant by the time they arrived. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, and they had heard the hoofbeats as Tastis’ remaining gate guards ran for the Long Bridge to Neda. Tegestu gave heartfelt thanks to the gods, then walked down the trench to the roof dugout where his staff waited.

“Send to tell ban-demmin Grendis I will send in my assault columns,” he said. “Ban-demmini, we may begin.”

The first column, spearmen in light armor, began their race through the assault trenches: Tegestu could hear their drumming feet through the earth. They were under the command of Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu, the young captain who had so distinguished himself fighting Tastis’ raiders weeks ago, before the battle at the ford; they would enter the city at the run, turn left, and make a dash to raise the water gate blocking access to the barge train. There would be other obstacles as well, no doubt, cables stretched across the canal and so forth, and Dellila and his people would have to remove these.

After that, Tegestu knew, his people would be safe. For at least a year, until requisitioned food ran out.

Tegestu heard the reverberating sound of the spearmen’s feet on the drawbridge. The leaders were already in the city.

The second column came dashing out of the trenches. This group, heavily armored men with rhomphia, would secure the gate itself. After that the entire Brodaini force, every one of them, including the Classani and their Hostli men of business, all their tents and supplies and baggage animals, would begin to file into the Calacas, and Tegestu’s banners would be raised from every tower.

Messengers began to come back to the bunker, reporting gates seized, towers occupied, palaces overrun. There was no resistance in the silent city: Tastis’ soldiers had crossed the bridges into Neda. Any left behind would be spies, and they would not be seen, not yet. And then at last the message came that Tegestu had been waiting for:

“Ban-demmin Dellila reports the water gate has been seized, and cleared of obstacles.”

Tegestu allowed himself a smile. “Order ban-demmin Acamantu to bring the barges into the city.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

“Send a message to our fleet commanders. Tell them scarlet tide.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.” Scarlet tide was the code word to bring the galleys under Brodaini command into the now-secure outer harbor of Calacas. Once there, they could be protected by a cable stretched across the harbor’s mouth.

“You have the messengers to Amasta, Astapan, and the north standing by?” Tegestu asked.

“Awaiting your command, bro-demmin.”

“Send them.”

Amasta, commanding now in the Arrandal keep, would receive word of his actions before the two days were out, thanks to a fast twelve-oared dispatch galley with the new fiono sails. Amasta had already been warned, orally the night before she left, to move as many supplies as possible into the Brodaini quarter and to be prepared to cut herself off from the rest of the city; she had also been told to prepare orders informing the Brodaini forces on the islands and in all the provinces to return to garrisons and shut themselves in.

Amasta, like the others, had not been told why. No doubt she, like Cascan, had drawn her own conclusions.

Astapan, the drandor of Prypas, would also have the news, and be able to make what preparations he could. Other fast dispatch boats would be running north before the wind, carrying Tegestu’s messages to the other Brodaini aldrans-in-exile. Tegestu could not command them, but he hoped they would make preparations to protect their folk if the Elva wished to make this a cause for a war of extermination.

“We will move our command post to the White Tower Gate,” Tegestu said. “Leave an officer here to direct any further messages.”

Tegestu felt a thrill as his foot touched the drawbridge, knowing he was stepping, though no one but he knew it, onto his own land. Sovereign Brodaini territory, here on the southern continent, subject to his own aldran, flying his own banners. For what lesser prize, he thought, would a man of demmin risk so much, and betray so many?

He climbed wearily up one of the towers that guarded the gate and then stepped into the guarded walk, seeing the slate roofs of Calacas below him. Our city, he thought fiercely. To replace Pranoth, and all that we have lost. Pray the gods our betrayals will not curse it.

“Send for a messenger,” he said. “Make him one of those Cascan has trained.” Cascan’s scouts and spies were trained to memorize oral messages swiftly, and repeat them without flaw.

The messenger, a young woman hardly more than a girl, came onto the battlements and bowed. “A message to bro-demmin Tanta Amandos Dantu y’Sanda,” he told her. “Give him salutations, and my wish that his arm never weaken. Remind him of the conversation we had while watching Second Moon, and say that it would be wise for the Brodaini of Prypas to meet the morning under arms. Say that it would be unwise to move from their camp. Say that bro-demmin Tanta would be wise if he were to obey his canlan, General Handipas, and all their commands. Say also that he is wisest of all if he does not alarm Handipas or any of the Elva men in the next few hours. Repeat this, ban-demmin.”

The girl repeated it flawlessly. Tegestu smiled and sent her on her way.

Perhaps, he thought, Tanta will forgive me this. If not, my house has made an enemy it can ill afford.

The messages continued to come. Tegestu looked down at the drawbridge, seeing the long files entering the city, burdened down with their baggage. How much more lightly would they step, he thought, if they knew they were entering their own nation?

A messenger had come. “A message from bro-demmin Acamantu. The barges are all in the city, and the gate is down.”

Slow triumph filled him. “Give ban-demmin Acamantu my thanks,” he said.

“There is a herald, bro-demmin,” said one of the officers. “He comes from Necias, who wishes to know if we have yet entered the city.”

“Let him come.”

The messenger, fortunately, was the poet Campas. He bowed, Brodaini style, and looked up with a smile he could not entirely conceal beneath his attempt at tolhostu. “I see Calacas is ours,” he said. “Necias will be overjoyed.”

“Aye. I have taken the city as planned,” Tegestu said. “I will have a message to take to you in a few moments. Please wait in the tower, ilean poet.”

Campas bowed and withdrew. Other messengers came and went: it seemed now that all the city was secure. Below Tegestu heard the hollow drumming of hooves on the bridge as the last few baggage animals came into the city.

Cascan came next. “Bro-demmin, the hermit has had his supper,” he said. “His guards have his body below.”

“Give him to the chiefs of his kamliss,” Tegestu said. “Tell them he has gained much demmin by his death, in a service we cannot name. He should be buried with much honor.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.” Over Cascan’s shoulder Tegestu saw the tall form of Grendis walking from the tower, and was ready for her message.

“I have three emissaries from Tastis below, with their escort,” Grendis said. She leaned near Tegestu’s ear. “They say they wish to discuss the merging of his aldran and ours.” Her voice was emotionless. She assumed, then, as well as Cascan, that he and Tastis were now allies, and her voice carefully reserved judgment.

Tegestu gave a short, bitter laugh. Grendis looked at him with surprise. “Did they come under spear of parley?” he asked.

“Nay, bro-demmin. Their spears were not reversed.”

“Our rebel cousin forgets himself,” he said with another laugh. “Please discover these messengers’ names, and write them down. Then separate their heads from their shoulders and give their heads to me, so I may give them to the ilean poet Campas to present to our lord Necias. Their bodies, along with a written admonition to Tastis concerning the rules of parley between enemy camps, should be thrown across the Great Bridge to the gates of Neda.”

Grendis and Cascan stared, all tolhostu forgotten. Tegestu looked at them both deliberately, holding their eyes. “Did you think I was a traitor?” he demanded. “Did you think I acted without the knowledge of our lord? See that my will is carried out!”

“Aye, bro-demmin!” Grendis said with a swift bow. Her step, as she ran for the tower door, was lighter... she, too, had judged his treachery blacker than it was.

There was the sudden clang of weapons below, but it lasted only a few seconds. A moment thereafter Grendis was back, carrying a dripping net of heads, their eyes staring horror and surprise.

“Send for ilean Campas,” Tegestu said.

The poet arrived and bowed. Tegestu saw his eyes go to the net of heads, and then swiftly away.

“Please present these heads to the Abessu-Denorru, ilean Campas,” said Tegestu. “They are the heads of messengers Tastis has sent me. Their names are on this list — they are not unimportant people, I think.”

Campas gave the heads another glance. He took a moment to master his distaste, then bowed. “Necias will be grateful, bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said.

“I hope this may be so.” Tegestu looked at the poet for a moment. He was almost the ideal messenger, he thought, and thanked the gods for sending him. He spoke.

“There is a message of great importance to be sent with these heads, ilean,” he said. “Tell our lord Necias that the aldran of Arrandal thanks him for the city of Calacas, which he has given us.” He saw Campas blink in surprise, and the faces of his officers suddenly fill with astonishment and joy. “Tell him,” Tegestu continued, “that the Brodaini of Arrandal continue ready to make war on Tastis and all his rebel hosts.” He leaned closer to Campas, emphasizing his words clearly. “Tell him,” he said, “that it shall never be the Brodaini of Arrandal who break the bonds of nartil and courtesy that exist between a canlan and his subjects!” His tone softened. “We shall hold all his words in honor,” he said carefully, “even if it is not possible for us to obey them all. Do you understand my words, ilean?”

Campas’ eyes darted from one Brodaini to the next, and then to the heads that Grendis held in her hand. He swallowed. “Aye, bro-demmin,” he said.

Tegestu smiled grimly to himself. The poet knew how to put on a brave face. “Please repeat them, ilean, I beg you,” he said.

The poet repeated his words. Tegestu nodded. “Take my words to our lord,” he said, and as Campas turned to go, he added, “Do not forget the heads.”

The shaken messenger withdrew. “It is true, then, bro-demmin?” Grendis asked. “Is Calacas our own?”

Tegestu faced the thin edge of dawn that crept above the blackness. “It is,” he said, and smiled. “If the gods bless us, it is. We may not unbraid our hair yet, ban-demmini, we must always be vigilant. If we are not watchful against all treachery, and against all who would take Calacas from us, then we shall not deserve this fine city.”

“Aye, bro-demmin,” Grendis said in an awed whisper as she realized what Tegestu had done: he had moved his forces into the middle position, squarely between Tastis and the Elva, where he and he alone held the balance of power.

Treachery, they would call it, and treachery it was. But Tegestu had given them all a city where there had been nothing but landless exile, and hope where there had formerly been nothing but duty.

“The gods bless this beginning,” Grendis said, and turned with Tegestu to face the dawn.

CHAPTER 21

Necias, standing with arms akimbo on the afterdeck of his barge, looked at the Brodaini banners dotting the tops of the towers of Calacas and felt the anxiety gnawing at his heart. Tegestu’s camps were abandoned, every one of them, with every stick of baggage — that superb Brodaini staff work had shown itself to advantage once again. The latest convoy of supply barges had been shepherded into the city, which would leave Necias’ agents madly scrambling to find food in the countryside. The Brodaini galleys had entered the Outer Harbor and were safe behind their boom, and they’d taken with them all the Brodaini marines from the ships not directly under Brodaini command. Two attempts to enter the city, by some of Palastinas’ staff, and then by Palastinas himself, had been turned away at the gates by junior officers who claimed they were not authorized to let anyone enter. And of course there had been Campas’ message, which he had refused to believe until the confirming evidence had started trickling in. The city of Calacas, which Necias has given us... . Whenever had he done such a mad thing as that? Hadn’t he specifically forbidden it? What absurd claims was Tegestu making?

He smashed a huge fist into his hand repeatedly in time to his bursts of irritation. “What’s he up to?” he barked, seeing the frightened, uncomprehending looks from the faces of his staff. “What in the name of the Netweaver does Tegestu want?”

Had he joined Tastis? But he had sent Necias the heads of some of Tastis’ best advisors, including two of his aldran. Necias even recognized one of them: one scarred visage was unmistakably that of a grey-haired old bastard who had headed a delegation to Arrandal a year ago.

Necias scowled at the battlements, planted his fists firmly on his hips, and turned, seeing Palastinas sitting abstractedly on a coil of rope, stroking his little white beard and frowning down at his boots.

“What the hell does it mean?” Necias bellowed. Palastinas winced slightly at his volume, but otherwise didn’t change expression, didn’t even look up.

“No telling, just yet,” Palastinas said. “Tegestu will let us know when he’s ready.” He looked up at Necias, cocking an eye against the glare of the rising sun. “I’d like to stand the army down. No sense in tiring them until we know why we’re doing it.”

“No!” Necias barked. “Not yet!” He was keeping thirty thousand armed men between himself and Calacas until he understood the situation, and that was that. Tegestu’s eighteen thousand added to the twenty-five thousand or so of Tastis’ force could give the enemy a terrifying advantage — and if Prypas’ Brodaini had joined them the Arrandalla could not count on any help from Handipas.

“He said he’s ready to fight against Tastis,” Palastinas said, his gaze turning to his boots again. “He’s told us he will never be disloyal. Tegestu’s a man of his word. Why not stand the army down?”

“Because he’s Brodaini, that’s why! Haven’t you heard of aspistu?” Necias demanded. “If he’s after revenge he’ll hand us a hundred lies if he thinks they’ll work — that’s what aspistu’s all about!” Gods, he thought, what if that assassin didn’t come from Tastis at all, but from Tegestu’s camp? There was no way to tell. And it had been Tegestu who’d tried to suggest that Little Necias be killed for his failure — and who would that benefit but the rebels? Gods, how could he ever know?

He spun away from Palastinas at the sound of hoofbeats, and saw Campas pull his horse to a halt on the bank. Necias strode to meet him.

“Tanta’s men are still in their lines,” he said, smiling grimly. “Handipas said they fought well against the sortie last night — drove Tastis right back to the moat, in fact.” A worried look crossed his features. “But they’re under arms in their camp — standing ready.”

“Ai, gods, that does it,” Necias said, twisting his rings in anxiety. “I’ve got to tell Handipas.” And lose every piece of cimmersan I’ve ever had with the man, he thought. Admitting that I’ve let Tegestu and his entire force get away and fort up in a situation in which he can join the enemy and outnumber us. There’s no getting Handipas to accept a subordinate position now... no possibility in the world. And it would weaken him with the Elva as well.

Aiee, the Elva! With Tegestu protesting loyalty and claiming the city as a gift, how could he ever convince the Elva ambassadors, and their Denorrin-Deissin back home, that he hadn’t intended to give the city away as part of some plot to increase his own territory by gifts to his Brodaini? They’d all lay the credit for this disaster at his door, however they chose to interpret the matter, and who could blame them? The only way to keep the Elva on his side would be to disavow Tegestu entirely, and that would mean losing him to the enemy.

Necias looked up at the grey towers of Calacas, feeling sweat popping up on his forehead as the midsummer morning heat lapped at him. Gods, he had to get the gates of the city open and quickly. He had to think. Take the first galley back to Arrandal, disassociate himself from this disaster? No, too late. He’d expected to take the credit for a victory; now all blame would be his.

Think! There had to be some escape. He pounded his fist rhythmically into his hand. He couldn’t see Handipas until he had explanations for him, and as yet there were no explanations. What could he do?

He glanced up, irritated, at the sound of hoofbeats; but when he saw it was one of the mercenary officers from the outposts near the city pounding up on a sweating horse, he turned to face him. How much did the flenssin and the militia know? he wondered. They were standing to arms, facing the banners on the city wall they knew were friendly: surely they were aware that something was wrong; but did they know what? Rumors must be circulating frantically in the camp. He’d have to make them an announcement soon.

“Abeissu!” the officer called from his horse. “Messengers from Tegestu, come to see you!”

“How many? And who are they?” Necias barked, feeling relief and anxiety mixed. At last he’d find out what was happening — but how badly did he really wish to know?

“A man named Hamila. His standard-bearer, and an escort of four.”

Necias gnawed his nether lip. Hamila he knew, one of Tegestu’s trusted commanders, but not a major figure by any means, which meant that Tegestu was not risking sending one of his welldrani lest he be taken hostage or killed in return for treachery. Necias reached into his memories about Hamila, and produced the fact that he was absolutely ignorant of Abessas. Why was Tegestu sending Necias a herald who couldn’t speak his language?

“Captain Acragas!” he barked to Little Necias. “Alert all your guards! You and three of your best to be with me at all times. Only Hamila is to be allowed on the barge — the others are to wait on the bank.” He turned to Campas. “You’ll greet him as he’d expect to be greeted, then escort him below to meet me.” he said. He jabbed Campas in the chest with his thumb, seeing him wince, and grinned. “We’ll get to the bottom of it yet, hey?” he said. “Hamila can’t speak Abessas — so you tell me what you think he’s thinking as well as what he’s saying. He may be able to understand what you’re doing, but he won’t understand what you say. Understand?”

“Yes, Abeissu Necias!”

Little Necias put his hand on the hilt of his sword and gave a grin as if he enjoyed the possibility of having to give a swipe at Hamila. Necias frowned at him, hoping it wouldn’t come to that, and wished he was wearing armor. For a moment he considered donning his breastplate, chain skirts, and helmet, but decided against it: it might indicate he was afraid, and that would cost him cimmersan. At the moment, he thought, the little he had left had become just that much more precious.

Followed by three guards, Necias went below decks to his receiving room, placed a Brodaini stool about ten paces before his own massive chair, placed the three guards in positions to intercept Hamila if he lunged out at him, and ordered tea and cakes. He sat in his chair and drummed his rings on the arm of his chair until Campas entered, followed by Hamila and Little Necias. Hamila stood by his stool, knelt, then rose again. Necias looked at him carefully for a long second, locking eyes. Hamila’s seemed lively, as if he were interested, perhaps even enjoying himself. Gradually, as Necias stared at him, the liveliness faded, was replaced with hooded stubbornness. There was a trace of uncertainty there as well. Good, Necias thought; he doesn’t know for certain that Tegestu holds trumps.

“Sit,” said Necias.

Hamila was elderly, seventy or so, burly with a face leathered by the elements. He was wearing light leather armor of the sort that was easy on the limbs of an old man, with a mantle of chain that covered his shoulders and upper chest. The chain rang lightly as he sat.

Hamila leaned forward earnestly, spoke in rapid Gostu to Campas — Necias had the impression that he was reciting a speech he’d been given — then he straightened and watched Necias with interested eyes as Campas translated. Necias watched him back. Neither of them watched Campas.

“He carries a message from lord Tegestu,” Campas said. “Tegestu kneels before you as his canlan and lord and does you homage for the city you so generously have awarded to his aldran. Lord Tegestu believes that his folk will prosper in their new domain, and that he will order a ceremony which will do public homage to you as the benefactor of the Calacas Brodaini and all their dependents.”

“Ah,” Necias said, and held up a hand. He thrust out a finger and pointed it at Hamila. “Tell General Hamila that the Abessu-Denorru appreciates the homage that Lord Tegestu has paid us,” he said. “But that the Abessu-Denorru knows that he had forbidden lord Tegestu and his people from taking Calacas for their own. The Abessu-Denorru would like to know why lord Tegestu has disobeyed his explicit command.”

Hamila listened to the translation with a placid expression and no hint of surprise. His answer came back swiftly, as if, once again, it was memorized.

“General Hamila says that the lord Tegestu was surprised when you yourself reversed the order, and was so surprised to hear it that he forgot to thank you at the time, for which he apologizes.” Necias snorted in disbelief. “The lord Tegestu begs you to remember,” Campas continued, “the conversation after the banquet four nights ago, in which he renewed his request for you to allow him to seize the city in the name of his aldran. He says that you granted the request at that time, Abeissu.”

Necias stared at Hamila in astonishment, then anger. What in blazes had Tegestu asked him that night? He could not remember exact words — but no doubt Tegestu would be able to quote the conversation verbatim, the skinny old schemer! Tegestu would not have to lie, he did not doubt; he would have been clever enough to word his request such that Necias didn’t realize what favor he was granting. Necias slammed his meaty hand down on the chair arm. “Tegestu did not make the nature of his request clear!” he blurted.

“General Hamila is certain the lord Tegestu would not make that kind of mistake,” Campas replied smoothly. No doubt, Necias thought, he hadn’t, the cunning old white-haired bastard. And no witnesses to the conversation, either.

“The lord Tegestu is certain that you would never break hostu — that would be to create disharmony — by ignoring the bonds of nartil — that’s obligation, Abeissu — between a lord and his subjects,” Campas went on. “He is confident you would wish nothing but harmony between his people and yourself.”

“If he wishes harmony, he will leave the city immediately,” Necias said flatly. “As his lord, I order it. I will occupy the city with my own troops.”

He saw Campas hesitate, and then the poet turned back to Necias, looking troubled. “Are you positive you want to give that order, Abeissu?” he asked. “I think that’s what Tegestu is getting at with all this talk about nartil. As it stands now, the Brodaini are obligated to you, both as their lord and because they believe you’ve given them the city. If they think they’ve got a right to the city, and you order them out,” Campas said, “that would be the act of a bad lord. It would break nartil, and that would serve as an excuse for Tegestu’s people to declare all treaties void. They’d have the city for their own, and you wouldn’t have any hold over them at all.”

Necias felt fury bubbling up his spine. “What’s the point of being their overlord if they don’t obey my orders?” he demanded. “Why not have it out in the open right now, if it’s to be war?”

“They say they’re willing to fight Tastis for you,” Campas said. “That’s one hold you’ve got over them. And another is their dependents back in the city, and out in the country and island garrisons. They’re your hostages, tens of thousands of them, and you’re controlling the lines of communication between them.”

Necias looked down at his hands, which always betrayed him, and saw they were gripping the chair arms with fury, the knuckles white. He relaxed them. Think! he demanded of himself. Campas was a bright boy; perhaps he knew what he was saying.

“Very well,” Necias said. “Tell the lord general that Tegestu and I will disagree on this, and that I will issue a formal statement later, with which I hope the lord Tegestu will agree.”

The answer was swift. “General Hamila agrees.” No doubt he does, Necias thought. It’s to no one’s advantage but Tegestu’s... unless I can use it to buy a little time.

“Tell the general,” he went on, “that the Abessu-Denorru and the Denorru-Deissin of Arrandal will be certain to look after the welfare of such of lord Tegestu’s people as are still remaining in our lands and the lands of our allies.”

“General Hamila hopes that it may be arranged for these people to be moved safely to Calacas as soon as possible.’’

Sometime after I take my trip to the Third Moon, Necias thought fiercely. “We will discuss this at another time,” he said.

This time the answer was not as swift. “General Hamila will agree, but hopes the time will be soon,” Campas translated. Necias looked deliberately at Hamila and allowed himself a slow, predatory smile, catching a brief flash of uncertainty in return. I’ve got your people, you murdering bastard, Necias thought. Most of them are right in the old quarter of Arrandal, and many of the rest are on islands where they can’t get away. You may have Calacas in the end, but your dependents will pay for it dearly, of that you may be certain.

Hamila leaned forward to speak to the translator again. “General Hamila,” Campas reported, “begs that he be permitted to continue his message from lord Tegestu.”

“Very well.”

“Lord Tegestu reports that the city has been seized, but that it is far from secure.” Campas opened his mouth to speak on, but Necias spoke quickly.

“Tell him that if control of the city is uncertain I will send city troops to assist lord Tegestu in securing it.”

The answer was quick. “General Hamila says,” Campas reported, “that the city troops will not be necessary.”

“Say it will do them good. They are tired of sitting in their lines and doing nothing.”

“General Hamila says it would only cause confusion.”

“No doubt it would,” Necias murmured, and leaned back in his chair with a frown. He caught himself tapping his rings on the arm of his chair and ceased at once. Campas wisely did not translate his remark.

“Lord Tegestu says that as the city has not been secured,” the message continued, “it would not be wise for yourself to enter the city at present, as there is danger from spies, murderers, and an unruly population.”

Necias nodded. He had no intention of going into the city, not as long as Tegestu controlled it alone.

“Thank the lord Tegestu for his concern,” Necias said.

Hamila bowed in reply, then continued his message. “Lord Tegestu wishes to suggest that the army be united with that of General Handipas, before the city of Neda, so as to surround the rebels.”

“I will consult with Marshal Palastinas,” Necias replied. “It will, of course, be necessary to maintain a force on this bank of the river, to prevent any rebels from escaping the lord Tegestu’s forces in the city.”

“My lord does not believe that will be necessary.”

“I believe it will,” Necias said. “The lord Tegestu admits the city is not secure, and a blockade will be necessary to prevent any of Tastis’ sympathizers from moving in or out. Particularly if they hope to profit from the war by moving supplies into the city.”

Hamila listened to Campas’ translation with a face of stone. There was a moment’s silence in which Necias looked at Hamila again with the ghost of a smile, and then the Brodainu turned to Campas and spoke.

“Lord Tegestu believes that Tastis may have suffered a terrible blow,” he said. “He may have suffered such a loss of prestige that his aldran may force him to negotiate a peace. Lord Tegestu wonders if he may approach Tastis with a message on your behalf.”

Oho! Necias thought. Here we see it. Tegestu hopes to stand between Tastis and the Elva with the intention of playing us off against one another, forcing us to make concessions, seeing who will give him the best settlement. We’ll see about that, my boy, he thought.

“Tell him that the Abeissu will consider the lord Tegestu’s kind offer, but will probably wish to conduct his own negotiations with the rebels,” he said. He watched the effect of the translation sink into Hamila, the eyes deepening, the mouth turning down; and Necias exulted. Two, he thought, can play at this. Tegestu may find that he is not, after all, the balance of power; he may be in the scales with the rest of us.

Time, he thought, I’ll have to play for time. The forces from the other Elva cities will arrive after the autumn storms, and then I’ll be able to squeeze them both. In the meantime, I believe I know just how I’ll handle the Elva ambassadors.

Hamila, scowling now, bowed and repeated Tegestu’s thanks and praises for allowing him possession of the city; and Necias repeated his belief that Tegestu was in error. Hamila asked if Necias had any messages to carry back to Tegestu, and Necias replied that he had none at present, but would soon.

Pressure, Necias thought. Gentle pressure at first, to worry them, then increase later on. And I’ll be forever busy in the background, keeping everything dancing, and ready to strike when I see my time.

The interview over, Hamila knelt once more, then was escorted out of the room by Little Necias. Necias bounced out of his chair and clapped his hands gustily. “Well, Campas?” he asked. “Have I handled him well?”

“Very well, Abeissu Necias,” Campas said. “I think you’re right not to make demands, now.”

Necias clapped him on the back. Campas staggered a bit, his chain coat jingling. “Thanks to you, hey,” he boomed. “That warning of yours was right on target.” He reached down to the plate of untasted tea-cakes and swallowed two.

“I’ll need the ambassadors here right away, and then alert the scribes,” he said. “I’ve got to send some messages to all the Elva cities, and to the Denorru-Deissin.” He grinned. “I’m going to have a few orders to give concerning the Brodaini that Tegestu was unfortunate enough to have to leave behind. There are more ways than one to apply pressure, hey?”

CHAPTER 22

“Brilliant,” Campas said. He was stretched out on Fiona’s bed, his hair still wet from a recent bath, while Fiona knelt over him, her nimble magician’s fingers working at the tense, knotted muscles over his ribs. He’d been crouching over his scrivener’s table for too many hours, and he’d cramped.

“Necias was brilliant,” Campas continued. “And afterwards with the Elva ambassadors — incredible! Here he was, faced with half a dozen angry, suspicious, confused political men, all of them half-convinced he’d connived at Tegestu’s occupation of the city, with General Handipas ranting up and down about Arrandalla treachery and Brodaini double-dealing — and before the meeting was out Necias convinced them to issue the statement he’d had me draft before the meeting ever started, and furthermore he had them all thinking it was their idea. Aiee, woman! Careful of my bones!”

Fiona jabbed her thumb again into the tender place below Campas’ rib, hearing him hiss in pained response. “You’ve got a knot there,” she said. “Best we work on it.” Fiona oiled her hands, and Campas suffered in silence while the muscle was eased. She bent down to kiss his clavicle, then looked up at him.

“What was in the draft?” she asked.

“Hm? Oh. An announcement that Tegestu’s claim on Calacas was unauthorized, and that the Elva will not recognize it. But it stopped short of ordering Tegestu out — that was what Necias had to fight longest for — since ordering him out would serve as an excuse for Tegestu to claim we were not fulfilling our obligations as his overlords, and to join Tastis.”

“Will he anyway?” Fiona asked. With three Brodaini armies in the vicinity, the Elva forces were, perhaps, outnumbered, certainly outclassed, and furthermore divided by the river.

“I don’t think so,” Campas said. “Not right away. He’s going to try to negotiate with both sides in order to get what’s best for his people.” He looked up at Fiona with a grin. “You’re as good as the Brodaini masseurs,” he said. “They were what I missed most, after I stopped living with them.”

“Mm.” She bent over him and kissed his neck. He put his arms around her and hugged her.

“Fiona?” he said, close to her ear. His tone made her sit up and look carefully down at him.

“Yes?”

“I think Necias knows about us.”

Fiona shrugged. “Probably half the camp knows by now. Does it matter?” She tossed her head. “I’m past caring what people think of me. I know it should matter, as I’ve got to deal with them and a good opinion helps, but I don’t. I can’t seem to muster up any concern on that account any more.”

“It might affect me,” Campas said. “Necias may be afraid I’d pass on any of his secret decisions to you. I think he may be wondering that already — he’s been asking me questions about you.”

Fiona grinned, then bent to kiss him again. “If he lets you go, I’ll hire you as embassy staff. I’ll be around longer than Necias, and I won’t work you nearly as hard.”

He looked at her sharply. “What d’you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“That you’ll be around longer than Necias.” She sat up again, looking at him carefully. He was looking at her with a frown creasing his brow, his eyes uncertain.

“I meant,” she said, “that I’ll be living longer than Necias. I’m younger. That’s all.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, love.” He reached up to touch her cheek. “I just thought you might have heard something through your... your sources.”

“No,” she said simply. “I haven’t.”

“Forgive me. This situation has everyone on edge.” She nodded, stretched out her legs, and lay down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Fiona,” he said again. It was the same tone as before: something else was coming.

“Yes.” Patiently.

“Don’t be surprised if, in a few days, Necias requests that you stay in the ambassadorial compound. For your own safety, he’ll say.”

With a sudden movement Fiona propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Campas carefully. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

He frowned. “Necias mentioned it today, very casually,” he said. “He said that Handipas had started him thinking, and that you’re too dangerous to be at liberty in the camp. But he doesn’t want to give the order right away, because it would look as if he was doing it at Handipas’ suggestion.”

“Damn the man!” Fiona said in her own language. Seeing Campas’ baffled look, she changed back to Abessas. “If I’m confined to the compound here,” she said, “I may as well go back to Arrandal. I won’t be able to do any of my work.”

Campas looked grim. “I’m not sure you’ll be doing any back in Arrandal, either. You’d be staying in the Acragas palace, and your movements could be restricted there as well as here. Better, perhaps.” He reached out to stroke her hair. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I wish I had more comforting news to bring you.”

He hesitated, then spoke thoughtfully. “The odd thing is, I think he wanted me to tell you. I got that feeling from him, the feeling I get when he’s got some plot in mind.” He shook his head. “But I’ve no idea what it is.”

Fiona considered, chin cupped in her hand. “What could it be?” she wondered. “Could he be trying to see whether I’ll declare for Tegestu? I won’t — I couldn’t — but since I helped that Brodaini patrol last week perhaps he thinks I sympathize with them.”

“Do you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not politically,” she said. “I think Tegestu’s behaving like a bandit.” She looked at him candidly. “But there’s a lot to admire about the Brodaini, isn’t there? They have a code of honor and stick to it. They’re honest. Their women aren’t treated like expensive bits of furniture, to be collected, decorated, and shown off to the neighbors.” She gave a short, sorrowful laugh. “In a way, it’s a pity they’re doomed.”

Campas looked at her in surprise. “Are they?” he asked.

“Yes,” Fiona said. Was she giving away too much by answering that question? Possibly; but in the long run this, too, didn’t matter. “Even if Tastis wins this war and keeps his city, his people are doomed in the long run. The Elva cities will win in the end. Cities like Arrandal are the future. The nature of power has changed: it’s based on trade rather than ownership of land, and the Elva cities dominate trade. Already they control almost all the overseas trade in the Brodaini homelands: before they know it the Brodaini will be dependent on them. Plus the cities have a flexible enough system of government to be able to respond to changing conditions. In another few hundred years they’ll have absorbed the baronies and be sending colonies abroad.” She looked at him. “The Brodaini aren’t flexible enough to survive; their system is too rigid, and it’s based on land tenure, not trade. Either you’ll absorb them, or they’ll have to become like you in order to survive — and that will happen, though much more slowly, in the Brodaini homelands as well. Either way, your people win.”

“You know this?” Campas asked, his tone incredulous. “You can tell what’s going to happen over the next two hundred years?”

How to answer that? she wondered. How to explain the vast amounts of data correlated by her ship’s computers, and the long reams of probabilities they had produced?

And then, she thought, there was the cynical answer. Your people will survive to dominate the planet because we will be helping them.

No. Best be brief.

“We can’t see into the future, no,” she said. “We can’t be certain. But we think that’s the likely outcome.”

Campas blew his cheeks, lying back on his pillow, overwhelmed by the idea. “Can I tell Necias?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “If you like,” she said. “But it won’t help him. His problem is to somehow survive the next year politically, and after that to arrange an orderly transition of power to his heirs. What happens in two hundred years doesn’t matter to him.”

“What does your — your foresight say about his chance of success?” he asked.

Fiona shook her head. “We can’t make predictions of that kind. Trends over a long period of time, yes; but there are too many factors involved in the fate of a single individual.”

He shook his head dubiously. “This is what you’re bringing to us?” he asked. “This kind of magic foresight? To be able to plan our fortunes over centuries?”

“It’s possible,” Fiona said. She reached out to put a finger on his oiled sternum. “But no person will ever know his own fate, Campas,” she said. “No one can ever predict that. And most people are more interested in what they’re going to eat for dinner, and where they’re going to get it, than in what political power will be dominant for the next century.”

She caught a shade of wariness in his eyes as he asked his next question. “Fiona?” he asked, his voice hesitant. “How old are you?”

A laugh bubbled up inside her: he’d come up with another puzzler. What would he say, she wondered, if she’d told him the truth: she had been born on Igara slightly over six hundred of his years ago. But that answer would be deceptive, as well as alarming; almost all of those six hundred years had been spent in hibernation. Counting only the years she’d been awake, she was thirty-three in her own reckoning. That would be thirty-one in Standard, used by Igara and the other advanced planets in communication with one another, and was based on the old Terran year. Or, in the slightly longer years of Echidne, she would be twenty-seven. That was what she told him.

Campas seemed relieved. “With foresight of centuries. I thought perhaps you were an immortal, hundreds of years old. That would have been a surprise!” He cocked his head and looked at her, his palm brushing his cheek. “You look younger than twenty-seven,” he said.

She gazed at him for a long moment, watching the pulse beat in his throat as she reached her own decision. It had to come sooner or later, she knew; and this night seemed made for truth.

“Campas,” she said, “you’re righter than you know.” She propped herself on her elbows over him, looking carefully down at his expectant face. “I’m not an immortal,” she said. “And right now I’m only twenty-seven. But I can live centuries, barring accident, or murder. With luck I’ll live over two hundred, and be young enough in body to enjoy it.”

Campas gazed back at her for a long moment, a little frown on his face, his expression fathomless. “True?” he asked, finally.

“True,” Solemnly.

He turned his eyes away, gazing up at the blank roof of her tent. When he spoke his voice seemed to come from a long distance. “Is this one of the gifts you bring, Ambassador?” he asked.

“No,” she said, as gently as she could. She knew that even if it were possible to begin giving the treatments to the people of this planet — and it wasn’t; there was no place for long-lived people here; the population would grow to huge proportions and starvation would result — but even if it were possible, it was already too late for Campas. The treatments had to be started when very young.

Best to lie, she thought sorrowfully, wishing the realities were otherwise, that the decisions her people made were not so heartbreaking as to deny long life to so many, even with justification. But it would be too dangerous if the local rulers realized that they could demand extended life in return for their cooperation.

“My people are naturally long-lived,” she said. “That’s the way we’re born. It isn’t anything we can teach you.”

“I see,” he said, his voice still distant. He took a deep breath and turned toward her. “That will change things with us, won’t it?” he asked. “I’ll grow old, you won’t.”

She took his head in her hands and kissed him solemnly. “It doesn’t have to change tonight,” she said. “Or tomorrow night.”

“No,” he said. “But it will matter eventually.”

“I suppose it will.” She gave him a small smile. “I don’t think about eventually very often. Like most people, I spend more time thinking of tonight.”

His arms came around her and he held her close, his hands moving over her back, stroking her through the supple material of her privy-coat. She pressed her cheek to his neck, feeling his pulse close to her ear. He drew in a long breath, then let it out slowly, a long, ragged sigh. She sensed he had made a decision.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. You said it yourself, no one can predict his own fate. Everything could change tomorrow, not just between us, but for everyone, and possibly even you couldn’t stop it from changing.” He looked up at her soberly, and she nodded. “But no matter what happens tomorrow,” he said, “we still have tonight. Tonight is what matters.”

“Yes,” she said, simply. He began to kiss her slowly, first her cheek, then the line of her chin, then lastly, gravely, her mouth. So, she thought, another barrier passed, passed only for tonight, if not forever. We have survived, she thought. Affirmed.

And accepted, with grace, the things that must be.

CHAPTER 23

Fiona was walking from the river barge to her tent when she saw Necias’ messengers waiting for her. Her busy stride slowed for a moment, then she took a breath and went on. This, she thought, was where she was asked, politely, to stay in her tent so that the Abessu-Denorru could look to her safety. And where she would demand to see Necias, make her protests, and after listening solemnly Necias would, ever so regretfully, confirm the order.

Well. She was ready, as ready as she’d ever be.

The delegation seemed to be led by Listas, Necias’ popeyed son. “Beg pardon, Ambassador,” Listas said, “but the Abeissu would like to see you.”

“Very well.” So Necias was going to do his own dirty work. Fiona looked down at her plain grey dress. She had been talking to the barge people for a long hot afternoon, and it was marked with sweat. “Have I time to change?” she asked.

“Of course. There’s no hurry. Please take your time.” Listas seemed to be going out of his way to be assuring. Fiona ducked into her tent, let the flap drop shut behind her, and opened her chest of clothing. She washed her face, neck, and arms in the water her servant had brought — he always complained that she’d wanted it boiled first — and then chose a gown of purple velvet she hadn’t yet worn in Necias’s company. It was plain by Abessla standards, but remarkably gaudy by her own; she topped it off with a broad-brimmed black hat trimmed with silver brocade. Always look your best, she thought, when you’re going to get the chop.

“I’m ready,” she said as she stepped out.

“You’re looking very well, Ambassador,” Listas said.

“Thank you.”

They walked across two hundred yards of the busy, crowded camp on their way to Necias’ barge. In the three days since Campas had warned her of her coming restriction two heavy pontoon bridges had been thrown across the river, and most of the army of Arrandal had crossed onto the narrow strip of solid land facing Tastis’ city of Neda, joining Handipas’ army. Tanta, the Brodaini commander from Prypas, had been ordered to withdraw his people from the siege, and was currently on a hundred-mile march to Laptillo, a minor Prypas dependency roughly halfway between Neda and Prypas. There he would camp while awaiting further orders.

Tanta, Campas told her, seemed to be cooperative enough. It was obvious that Brodaini forces could not be trusted in the siege, but likewise the government of Prypas didn’t want them back in their home city, where they might threaten revolt. Having them halfway between seemed a suitable compromise, even if it meant having them squarely along their line of communications. It was better than having to live cheek-by-jowl with an armed force one didn’t trust.

The united Elva forces were in a near-impregnable position, behind a breastwork thrown up behind an old green canal that had, Fiona suspected, been dug in an unsuccessful attempt to drain the vast swamp that hung off the army’s left flank. There were small forts in front of the position to provide a base for patrols and a warning in case of assault, and the armies were busy throwing an earthwork up behind them, in case Tanta proved treacherous and tried to attack from behind.

Across the river, where the pontoon bridges still allowed reinforcements to move from one bank to the other, a huge earthwork had been thrown up, where most of the Elva cavalry were barracked. It was their duty to patrol the long plain in front of Calacas day and night, to prevent Tegestu from getting reinforcement or supplies.

Tegestu, Fiona thought, was going to be allowed to rot in Calacas for as long as he liked, ignored by the Elva until sufficient force came across the sea to invest him safely, and that would not be until late autumn. The day before Necias had ostentatiously sent a parley to speak to Tastis, heralds with their trumpets blowing outside the main gate of the new Brodaini citadel, and Tastis had responded with heralds of his own; so something was brewing there.

Fiona had not been paying much attention. Warned her movements might be restricted, she’d started cultivating a source of data that she could continue to work with if she were forced to return to Arrandal, and that she could even work on during the journey: she was working up a survey on Abessas’ barge people — the polyglot, traveled, hardworking folk, sometimes entire families, who made their living up and down the rivers and canals of the continent. They were an interesting group: open, competent, self-assured, anything but the group of drunken, irresponsible louts the shore people thought them to be. They seemed to respond to her skill at sleight-of-hand with more interest than the fact she was from another planet, and hospitably offered to share their meals as soon as they’d finished their daily tasks, which mostly consisted of loading or unloading, entirely by hand, tons of food, forage, or equipment for the armies. Fiona found them fascinating, and fancied she had made some friends.

Listas led her to Necias’ barge, and courteously offered her a hand on the gangplank. “Thank you, no,” she said, hitched up her skirt, and went down nimbly with half the guard on deck grinning at the sight of her ankles. Guards escorted her to where Necias awaited in his audience room.

“Ambassador Fiona!” Necias roared at the sight of her, his face split by a vast grin. “I’m glad to see you!” He stood looking at her, his feet planted squarely on the deck, fists on his hips. “Can I offer you tea? Wine? Brandy?”

“Tea, thank you.” Necias, she thought, was enjoying this far too much.

“Sit down, Ambassador,” he said. “I have a request to make of you.”

Fiona sat on the guest settee and looked up at him. The atmosphere, she thought, was wrong for what she expected him to ask her. If he were to restrict her, he would be full of soft-spoken, apologetic, and feigned regret — instead he was ebullient. What, she wondered, was he up to?

Necias rubbed his nose, frowned to himself for a moment, and then wandered to his own settee and sat down, the cushion under his arm. “Ambassador,” he said, “the Elva will shortly be opening negotiations with Tastis for the eventual surrender of Neda.”

“Congratulations, Abessu-Denorru. You must be pleased.”

He glanced up at her sharply. “Yes. I am,” he said. She wasn’t certain whether he was telling the truth or not, or perceived her own remark as ironic. He rubbed his nose again.

“I would count it a favor if you would be present at the negotiations,” he said. Fiona looked up at him in surprise. “I would very much like to have a neutral party present,” he went on. “I’m told you know Gostu very well; and of course you speak excellent Abessas. Perhaps you could keep a third copy of the agreement in your own language, that we could appeal to if the terms of the treaty were not abided by. We like to have a neutral party present in these cases, as a guarantor of our good faith.”

You cunning bastard! Fiona thought with inward delight. He had wanted Campas to tell her of his intention to restrict her movements, putting additional pressure on her to cooperate in the matter of the negotiations.

But, she thought, exultant, none of that was necessary. She would be delighted to play a part in the negotiations; it was the sort of thing most likely to quickly legitimize her presence here, as well as that of the other Igaran ambassadors. It would also, she thought, help justify her presence at the siege to Tyson.

She frowned as if considering the invitation for a moment, then nodded. “Abeissu Necias, I would be honored,” she said.

Necias jumped to his feet and banged his hands together. “Lovely!” he said. “Now all I’ll have to do is convince Tastis of it!”

She looked up at him sharply. “He hasn’t agreed?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Necias said. “But we’ll make it a condition of the negotiations — he’ll go along.”

Fiona, watching his carefully, could detect nothing but innocence, but still she wondered: had Necias found out about Kira? Would he use Fiona’s presence at the talks as an additional form of pressure on Tastis — come to an agreement soon or we’ll unleash the Igarans on you?

This, she concluded, would require some thought. And, perhaps, a discrete Igaran listening spike planted in Necias’ barge, a spike requested as soon as she returned to her tent.

Necias grinned and clapped his hands again. “Ambassador,” he said, “I’m happy you’re so obliging. But I warn you, the talks will be dull, at least at first. I’m not anticipating any sudden developments. You may have to resign yourself to spending the autumn with us.”

Fiona smiled. “I have no other plans, Abeissu,” she said.

Necias beamed. Does he know about Kira? Fiona asked herself again. With luck, she thought, she’d know tonight.

The answer did not, she admitted, particularly interest her: she knew she was being used, and was simply curious about how.

Any pressure she could put on Tastis, she concluded, she would put there willingly.

CHAPTER 24

The two archers standing guard in the Calacas tower were sweating as they stood at rigid attention. Tegestu let them sweat. In this late summer heat, they would not sweat alone.

With eyes narrowed against the blinding glare, Tegestu looked through the shimmering waves of heat at the treaty pavilion set carefully in the no man’s land between Neda and the Elva lines. He picked up the long tube of his spyglass and braced it on the embrasure, and the picture leapt into focus: he could see parties advancing from both sides, flags of truce above their heads, heading toward the pavilion and the day’s negotiation. He saw the black-hooded, scarlet-gowned figure of Fiona walking among them, her head high as she looked warily toward the other party. Why had she involved herself in this?

Ostensibly, he knew, it was to guarantee the good faith of both sides. But Tegestu also knew that she hated Tastis and his people, though he had never known why. Was Necias using her to pressure Tastis with the threat of vengeance from above? But if so, why would she agree? Unless, of course, she had been ordered by her superiors to cooperate. Or unless she was pursuing some hidden motive of her own.

Tastis, Fiona had reported, had refused an Igaran embassy. Tegestu knew from the reports of his spies that a miracle-working woman had appeared in the town claiming to be from another world; he knew that she had been invited into the Brodaini quarter and kept secure. After that there had been no word of her whatever.

But wait — hadn’t there been a report of a freak accident in one of the towers of Tastis’ Keep? Some kind of lighting storm, the word had gone, with a spectacular display of lighting in the sky surrounding the city, that had also hit the tower of the Keep....

Tegestu had heard of lightning once before, recently, on the day when Fiona had used her witchery against Captain Pantas’ archers, and brought the old barn crashing down. Had the Igaran ambassador to Neda-Calacas been forced to defend herself against Tastis’ people? Was that why Fiona was filled with such hatred?

It seemed a likely possibility. He would ask Cascan if he remembered the dispatches from those early days, and which tower had supposedly been struck. If it had been the tower used to house important prisoners, Tegestu would have his answer.

Not, of course, that the answer would seem to be worth a great deal at the moment. Tegestu blinked sweat from his eyes and peered through the long glass as the two sets of negotiators disappeared under the sun canopy they’ve been using for the talks.

This meeting represented the first resumption of the talks in several days. Tegestu sucked in his lips and tried to ignore the heat that enveloped him, tried to think. His mind ran hopelessly in blind alleys; he could find no answer.

The negotiations had been going on for two months, right through the summer. In another few weeks the autumn storms would begin, beating on the coast for a month while every ship ran for a safe anchorage — and then, after the storms, would come the strong cold winds from the north, bringing Elva ships choked with soldiers and weapons.

His people in Calacas were as ready as they could be. Food had been slipping in regularly, bundled on the backs of horses and mules, all provided by contractors happy to exchange their produce for the inflated prices Tegestu was paying, and moving safely through the gates because the mercenary captains who were supposed to be patrolling the walls had proved bribable. Tanta was also sending food from his base at Laptillo, where he could buy it legitimately. Messages moved back and forth easily enough, either by swift men on horseback or by even swifter small galleys slipping out past the blockade at night. Tegestu was well aware of developments outside his city walls — as perhaps Necias wanted him to be, since they were not encouraging.

Amasta had barricaded herself in the Brodaini quarter of Arrandal and was letting no one in or out, claiming as her reason the danger of local unrest. The forces of Arrandal had little hope of forcing her out, and she had food for a year. On the other hand, she had little chance of taking the rest of the city should the need arise, since it had been filled with a new draft of the militia, large numbers of mercenaries, and even baronial forces hired for the occasion — undisciplined men for the most part, but fighters. Amasta and the Arrandal Brodaini were, in the end, little more than hostages to Tegestu’s good behavior. Elsewhere, the forces on the islands and in the countryside had withdrawn successfully into garrison and were for the moment physically safe, though isolated; but in reality they were in much the same situation as Amasta.

The exile Brodaini elsewhere in the Elva were also stalemated. They were firmly in control of their own areas, but would never leave them without permission of their overlords. None of them would be accompanying the Elva forces overseas; they would all remain in their quarters, prevented from action by swarms of newly hired native soldiers. Perhaps a revolt would be successful here or there; but it would not succeed everywhere.

The only Brodaini force free to act was Tanta’s. Perhaps, with Tastis and Tegestu assaulting the Elva army from the front while Tanta cut their lines of communication and attacked from the rear, the Elva army could be smashed. But that would result in a war of extermination, perhaps ending in the death of every Brodaini in exile. It was a step Tegestu was reluctant to take — he would, he concluded bitterly, surrender first.

Seen from the tower, the two parties involved in the negotiation had arrived in the central pavilion. Tegestu had no clear idea what was on the agenda for today, but he knew the talks were proceeding slowly, in part because neither Tastis nor Necias trusted the other enough to attend in person, and instead used deputies whose actions were easy enough to disavow if they proved inconvenient. Tegestu wiped a bead of sweat from his nose and focused on the distant pavilion.

He was accurate reports on the other parties, principally from Tanta and Astapan, the drandor of Prypas, who had their sources within the Prypas government; there were also occasional reports from Amasta and a more irregular source within Necias’ household, a servant who was occasionally in a position to overhear something, who passed on what he heard to one of Cascan’s spies, and who thought he was actually working for the government of Cartenas, where the servant had relatives.

The negotiations, as far as Tegestu had heard, had not produced a great deal of substance. Tastis had demanded independence for himself and his Denorru-Censtassin, which Necias had refused. Necias had demanded instant and unconditional surrender, which Tastis had refused. They had then sat down to negotiate what would, in the end, be a surrender, but which would, Tegestu suspected, avoid the word and stigma of “surrender” but go by another word. “Armistice,” perhaps, was a word neutral enough to eventually work as a compromise.

What to do with Tastis and his aldran? Tastis wanted to return, of course, to his old allegiance, but the Neda-Calacas Government-in-Exile said no. Tastis had then hoped to take his folk out into the baronies to carve out a duchy for himself, but that proposal had been quashed quickly enough — there was nothing more guaranteed to unite the baronies than the Elva unleashing fifty thousand homeless warriors on them. And so the current answer seemed to be to somehow split up Tastis’ people, and there it hung. The Elva were less than enthusiastic about taking even small numbers of them into their service, lest the revolutionary virus infect their own Brodaini; and the alternative seemed to be to force them to become mercenaries abroad, preferably with Tastis and his aldran being sent in the opposite direction, a proposal Tastis was resisting, and which had problems of its own insofar as small wandering bands of mercenary Brodaini were going to cause trouble wherever they went.