Ambassador of Progress

None of this was final and the proposals changed with every session as Tastis’ aldran and Necias’ committee of ambassadors hewed at every proposal. And all the while, Tegestu was waiting for only one development that, if it appeared, would give him freedom to move once again. If, at some point in the negotiations, the Elva was willing to concede the possibility of allowing sovereign Brodaini territory somewhere on the continent, then Tegestu could approach Necias with his own proposals. It would mean trading Calacas for something else, but at least it would be for something real.

Thus far Tegestu had waited in vain.

He looked down from the tower, felt the sweat collecting under his armor, and tried to think. His mind could find no answers; it only spun hopelessly in old backwaters, unwilling to bring anything new to the surface.

His hope had been that Necias would try to make a peace before autumn. Once the other Elva cities were represented by armies instead of ambassadors Necias would find it more difficult to end the war with anything short of unconditional surrender; and even so he would have to share the credit. He had thought Necias would wish, if at all possible, to arrange a peace before the autumn storms.

Apparently he had been wrong. Necias, to all appearances, seemed perfectly willing to wait until the other Elva forces arrived and strengthened his hand. Unless, of course, Necias was concealing his eagerness as a ploy to force Tastis to make concessions.

Time was coming near to forcing Tegestu’s hand. One problem that could not be delayed was that of his cavalry and transport horses: the city was nearly out of fodder for them, and though he had taken advantage of the main Elva force being on the other side of the river to graze his beasts outside the city walls during the daylight hours, all available grazing would be exhausted in a matter of days. He would either have to slaughter his horses or somehow get them out of the city, and he resisted the consequences of either decision. He would, he thought, try to get them out to the west and let Tanta look after them — but it would cost him in terms of his readiness here, where it was needed, and he disliked admitting such vulnerability.

That, he supposed, was a minor matter, compared with his main dilemma. Should he send his own negotiators to Tastis or not? Tastis had been utterly silent since the night Tegestu had occupied Calacas, arid there was no guarantee he would not instantly retaliate by hacking off the heads of any heralds Tegestu sent, whether under a spear of parley or not. Tegestu suspected Tastis wouldn’t do anything quite so drastic, simply because he didn’t have the luxury of turning away someone who might offer something to his advantage, but there was no way of knowing.

No, Tegestu didn’t want to send an emissary simply because it would be a confession of his own desperation, a confession Tastis would certainly use to his own advantage. Tegestu’s situation, he knew, was superficially strong, here in the city with enough food to last a year, and he didn’t want to dispel that illusion.

Patience, he thought. Patience is the choice of the wise leader.

It was also, he knew, the only choice that offered itself to him.

Cursing the necessity for patience, Tegestu looked out the window and hoped for inspiration. It did not come.

*

Two days later Tegestu had still not found his answer. He was lying in his living quarters on a massage table, a light sheet thrown over him, his eyes closed. He sensed, through the scent of perfumed oil, Grendis lying on the table next to him. The masseurs had finished and quietly left the chamber, and Tegestu listened idly to the sound of the bohau and tedec in the next chamber, behind the screens. A leather pillow lay beneath his head, and his body was perfectly relaxed; in the stillness of his mind he sought hostu, and did not find it. His mind still drifted hopelessly in its sluggish old channels, unable to find its way out.

If he had truly trapped himself here, he thought, he would suicide and hope to find hostu in the afterlife. That would give his successors a chance to negotiate with Necias on a new basis, without the embarrassment of his presence.

“Bro-demmin drandor.” A soft voice, Thesau’s. He had not heard his servant’s quiet footsteps. “I apologize for the interruption. Bro-demmin Acamantu begs to see you on a matter of urgency.”

Tegestu opened his eyes, the tranquility he sought banished forever. He heard Grendis shift on her platform. “Aye, ilean,” Tegestu said, hoping his voice did not show his weariness. “Let him enter.”

He heard, rather than saw, the rattle of his son’s armor as he knelt in respectful greeting.

“What is it, ban-demmin?” he asked.

“Tastis has sent a herald asking to speak with you or your emissary,” Acamantu said. “I’ve allowed him entrance.”

Tegestu felt a trickle of satisfaction entering his mind. Tastis had come to him. Patience, he thought with contentment, always patience until the time to strike, and then move like lightning. Tastis, he thought, is brilliant, but he has never been patient. That is his weakness.

“Is it a kantu-kamliss matter, ban-demmin?” he asked.

“Nay. A full parley.”

Tegestu craned his neck back, seeing his son head-downward from his reversed angle. “Did they come with reversed spears?” he asked.

“Aye, bro-demmin.”

Tegestu gave a tight smile. “That is good, ban-demmin,” he said. “It appears Tastis has learned manners.” He saw Acamantu’s answering carnivore smile; then he closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “Treat them with all courtesy, ban-demmin,” he said without opening his eyes. “Tell them my emissary will meet with them in an hour. This will be in the grey meeting room — you know the one. Decorated with the molded winged figures.” The former deissu’s palace he had chosen as his headquarters was huge, and even after two months Tegestu occasionally found himself lost in it.

“Aye, bro-demmin. I know the one.”

“I shall see to its preparation myself. Please send whelkran Hamila to me.”

“Aye, bro-demmin. Here or in the conference chamber?”

Tegestu considered for a second. “In the conference chamber. I shall be there in half an hour.”

“He shall be informed, bro-demmin.” There was a pause. “Beg pardon, bro-demmin,” Acamantu said hesitantly, “but do you know where ban-demmin Hamila is stationed at present?”

Tegestu smiled. “Inspecting the reserve swordsmen in the Square of the Weavers, ban-demmin,” he said.

“Thank you, bro-demmin,” Acamantu said, a touch of relief in his voice. He knelt, said his farewell, and was gone.

The bohau and tedec throbbed onward. Tegestu opened his eyes and turned his head toward Grendis. She had risen to a seating position, and was swinging her legs off the table. When she saw his expression she looked at him questioningly. His smile broadened.

“He has come to us, Grendis,” he said. “His need must be great.”

“I hope it may be so,” she said, doubtfully. He laughed, swung off the table, and took her hands. He looked at her naked form, the trained body, still strong and limber but with the inevitable slack folds of flesh, the calluses that the weight of armor had made on her broad, swordsman’s shoulders, the small breasts with their dark nipples. I will guard your back, she had promised, and never failed.

He felt a sudden surge of love that was so extreme he felt almost frightened by it, so much did it exceed what was proper.

He took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her. “We must make a last throw of the dice, my love,” he said. “And accept them, however they land.”

She said nothing, but only embraced him, sensing, perhaps, the desperation beneath his light tone. He allowed himself the luxury of her nearness for a long, wordless moment, and then, reluctantly, he returned, as he must, to his duty.

*

The conference chamber had been expertly prepared. It was a large, airy room, with a handsome frescoed and domed ceiling, and with beautifully molded plasterwork accenting the lovely proportions of the chamber. Tegestu had been impressed by the harmony of the room’s design, and despite its un-Gostu appearance he often used it for staff meetings.

He sat concealed behind a screen in the rear of the chamber. Two Classani secretaries were with him, as well as a small writing desk, several newly-cut pens, and a ream of paper.

There was another, larger screen placed near the front of the chamber, placed behind where Hamila sat on his stool to receive Tastis’ emissaries. The screen naturally attracted the eye, and if the heralds had an assassin among them he would strike first for the larger screen, thinking Tegestu would be behind it — at least that was Tegestu’s hope. The spear of parley meant little in a matter of angu, and Tastis had always had an impetuous streak. It paid, Tegestu thought, to take precautions against anything an enemy was prepared to do.

Hamila adjusted his position on the stool and cleared his throat, then nodded to the guards placed on the doors. The doors swung open, and Tastis’ embassy entered.

There were long moments of formality in which the herald and Hamila proclaimed their name and lineage and presented their credentials, and then the real business of the meeting got underway.

“It is possible,” Tastis’ herald said, “that the negotiations currently under way between the aldran of Neda and the emissaries of the Elva may not bear fruit. My lord Tastis hopes that an embassy to bro-demmin Tegestu and his aldran may be blessed with greater success.”

Tegestu sucked in his breath. Aiau, he thought. The talks must have collapsed entirely; the man had virtually admitted it. Tastis had no choice but to approach Tegestu and hope for an alliance.

How he must have had to swallow his pride for that! To approach the man who tricked him out of a city and then hacked off the heads of two of his welldrani.

Unless, he thought cautiously, this itself was a trick. To lure Tegestu into negotiations, perhaps, and then reveal the fact to Necias, hoping to force Necias to declare Tegestu outlaw, thereby gaining an ally without the need for concessions. Tegestu frowned. He would have to think about that.

Hamila spoke:

“Ban-demmini,” he said, “for what purposes to you wish to approach my lord Tegestu?”

“To explore the possibility of uniting our quarreling race under a single banner,” the herald replied. “To explore the possibility of eventually establishing a sovereign nation for the Brodaini on this continent.”

“My lord Tegestu,” Hamila said, “will concede that the latter is desirable. We consent to the negotiations.” Excellent, Hamila! Tegestu thought with grim satisfaction. Keep them in their place.

“My lord Tastis has a condition for the negotiations,” the herald said. “He feels that, to guarantee the sincerity of the talks, there should be an exchange of hostages.”

To keep me from chopping up any more emissaries, Tegestu smiled to himself; Tastis should have thought of that before, instead of being so greedy as to leap at my occupation of Calacas.

“On what level, ban-demmin emissary?” Hamila asked.

“The highest. My lord Tastis is prepared to offer his son, Aptan Tepesta Laches y’Pranoth, and two others.”

“Their names?”

The herald gave them. Tegestu recognized them as highly-placed members of important kamlissi in Tastis’ coalition, and one was a welldran. And of course, Aptan, the laughing young man of immature tolhostu who had met him at the ford of the West Rallandas. None of them were individuals Tastis would throw away lightly: even if he were inclined to sacrifice his son, which Tegestu doubted, the loss of the other two would alienate two of his most powerful clans.

“My lord Tastis,” the herald continues, “intends they should be exchanged for hostages of equal rank and position.”

“I will have to speak to my lord Tegestu before I can give an answer,” Hamila said.

“Do not concern yourself with us, ban-demmin Hamila,” the herald said. “We will be happy to wait.”

Tegestu grinned at the herald’s irony, then took a pen and wrote HOSTAGES AGREED — DETAILS LATER on a piece of paper, then handed it to one of his Classani. The young woman took it, bowed hastily, and slipped out the back door, presumably where the heralds would not see her. Once outside she would run around the corner, down the corridor, and emerge through a door behind the large screen in the front of the chamber. She would then slow her approach, creep out, and apologetically hand Hamila his instructions, giving all along the illusion that Tegestu was hiding himself behind the large screen at the front of the room.

“I hope, ban-demmini, that you will enjoy your tea,” Hamila was saying, “It is bro-demmin Tegestu’s special blend.”

“The aroma is most pleasant.”

Hamila was delaying until his instructions appeared. Tegestu, paying little attention, furrowed his brow and scratched his chin as his mind sped swiftly from one implication to another. The talks between Tastis and the Elva had failed, at least for the present. That put not only Tastis in a bad position, but also Necias, for Necias had lost much demmin — or cimmersan, which seemed to be demmin as the Abessla imperfectly understood it — first from allowing Tegestu to occupy Calacas against his will, secondly by failing to negotiate an end to the war before the arrival of the other Elva forces.

Was Necias as desperate as Tastis? Tegestu wondered suddenly. Would Tegestu be able to move himself into the role he desired most, a broker between Necias and Tastis?

How could he put pressure on Necias? And, if Necias finally cracked on the issue of sovereignty, what could he give the Elva in exchange?

“Ban-demmini,” Hamila was saying, “I believe my lord Tegestu will agree on the exchange of hostages. But we must have some time to be able to choose hostages of suitable stature to match your own. I beg your indulgence on the matter.’’

“I understand,” said the herald, “the need for consultation.”

“I hope, ban-demmin emissary,” Hamila said, “that you will favor me with an understanding of your lord Tastis’ proposals for achieving his aims, so that I may have the honor of presenting them to my lord Tegestu as soon as possible.”

“My lord Tastis’ proposals are simple,” the herald said. “Unification of our two aldrani. An appeal to the Brodaini elsewhere in the Elva to come to our assistance. An effort made to break the siege of Neda-Calacas before autumn.”

“The unification of the aldrani would indicate the choice of a new drandor,” Hamila said. “Has bro-demmin Tastis reached any decision on his choice for the honor?”

Tegestu, feeling a laugh exploding inside him, tried his best to stifle it. Tears leaked from his eyes. Hamila’s question reached, perhaps not tactfully, to the heart of a potential dilemma: who would lead any unified Brodaini, Tastis or Tegestu?

There was a shocked silence from the heralds’ spokesman. “That will be a decision of the united aldran,” he said finally, his tone flat.

Hamila began questioning the heralds concerning the details of Tastis’ offer, the implementation of any unification of the Brodaini forces. Tegestu listened only with half his attention, concentrating meanwhile on his tactics. Necias, he thought, was vulnerable politically: how best to exploit it?

The talks had collapsed, he repeated to himself. Tastis can get no peace with the Elva, not on terms he’s willing to accept. Necias will have to resort to military force to make any point, and that will mean uniting the Elva command under his choice of leader, which would be Palastinas. But would the others agree? The ambassadors, he thought, must be going madly from one tent to another, trying to reach a united position.

Except, he thought, for Fiona. Fiona’s job of neutral observer was over.

With a start he realized that she could play a part in this, as a neutral observer in the talks. That, he thought gleefully, would serve to put pressure on Necias, letting him know of the existence of negotiations between the Brodaini factions and putting that much more pressure on him to create a peace.

Tegestu snatched up his pen and began writing, frustrated that he couldn’t form his letters with the speed of thought. He finished, glanced at the letters again to make certain that they were clear enough for Hamila to read, and then handed the paper to one of the Classani. The boy took it and ducked soundlessly around the corner of the screen.

Tegestu listened for the sounds of his arrival behind the larger screen, his mind in the meantime sliding over his plan. It would work, he thought; but if he thought the better of it in the next day or so he could alter it easily enough, and no longer insist on Fiona’s presence as a neutral observer at the negotiations.

It would, he thought, serve as an encouragement to courtesy, to have present a person who could call down lightnings if any rudeness occurred.

And then with a start he realized his opportunity. Perhaps a chance lurked within his first plan that, at first, he hadn’t perceived. His mind slipped over it again, probing at the newly-formed idea. Fiona hated Tastis and his people, and that hatred could be used. He would check again with Cascan to see if the Igaran ambassador had been attacked in Tastis’ Keep — that knowledge could prove important. But it was the hatred that mattered.

There were flaws in the plan, he thought, but they could be worked out. If only he could arrange for the hostages to be quartered near the Long Bridge...

He bent to his desk again, his pen dashing heedlessly over the paper. He heard Hamila’s words.

“Beg pardon, ban-demmini. There is another message I must read.”

“Please read it, ban-demmin Hamila,” the spokesman said. “Pay us no attention.”

There was a silence broken only by the crackle of paper as Hamila read the message, then refolded it and put it in his belt. “Ban-demmini,” he said. “I beg your pardon once again for the interruption. It was a memorandum concerning the posting of the guard this evening. It will be my duty to supervise.”

“We understand perfectly,” said the spokesman, who saw easily enough through the convenient falsehood.

“It has occurred to me,” Hamila said, “that my lord Tegestu may wish, to further guarantee the sincerity of any negotiations between our parties, that the Ambassador Fiona of Igara attend the talks in her capacity of neutral observer, the same capacity in which she attended the other negotiations. And my lord may further wish that she inspect the quarters granted to the hostages would be comfortable.”

“I will have to consult with my lord Tastis on this,” the spokesman said. Tegestu listened closely: was there surprise in his voice? If so it could indicate that Tastis was not prepared to reveal the negotiations to Necias.

“I am afraid my lord Tegestu will insist on this,” Hamila said. Tegestu returned to his writing.

He finished with a flurry, his heart pounding as he contemplated the beauty of his plan. He would consider it tonight, hoping to fill the gaps in his knowledge. He would, he knew, have to send a messenger to Necias. He must hope that Necias was as desperate for peace as he suspected.

The Classanu girl slipped out, the piece of paper clutched in her hand. Contained in it was a simple condition for the exchange of hostages, that the hostages be held in the city of Neda, rather than in the Brodaini Keep, and that they be held in a place from which they could be seen daily by a spyglass in Calacas, in order to assure Tegestu of their continuing survival and well-being. Tegestu would perform a like courtesy by parading his own hostages on the Calacas walls. It was an innocent enough condition, he thought; there was no reason why Tastis wouldn’t grant it.

Yet he held his breath while Hamila announced the demand, and would not expel it until the spokesman, apparently seeing no need for consultation, agreed.

Tegestu smiled. His course, he thought, had just been set.

He would have to review the documents concerning Igaran capabilities, he thought, those prepared in the wake of the incident between the Brodaini patrol and Necias’ archers. He would also have to interview each of the surviving members of the patrol personally. One of them, he knew, had seen an arrow strike Fiona squarely between her unarmored shoulders, yet bounce off as if she had been wearing proof. How certain was that witness?

The witness would have to very certain, he knew. So many lives, including Fiona’s, would depend on it.

CHAPTER 25

“Ambassador Fiona!” Fiona could hear the Gostu voice through the port on the barge’s roundhouse. She turned her head to look out the port, squinting against the glare. “Ambassador Fiona, are you there?”

“Some big armored bastard out there,” reported Castaghas, the barge Second Cousin’s chief mate. He stepped into the roundhouse from the deck. “I think that’s your name he’s yelling.”

“It is,” said Fiona.

“Damned barbarian.” Rubbing his chin. “I wonder what the bastard wants.”

Fiona declined to guess. She finished her glass of wine and thanked her hosts, a family of the barge people with whom she’d become friendly. She decided to be cautious, and as she made her way out into the sunlight she pulled her hood over her head and drew it tight. She turned to face the bank.

“I am Fiona,” she said.

The Brodainu was a huge man, made larger still by his massive suit of plate armor. He bowed, the sun winking off his helmet.

“I am Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu, ilean Ambassador,” he said. “Bro-demmin drandor Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth has sent me to you as his emissary.”

Has he, now? Fiona wondered. She raised her hand to shade her eyes and looked at the near-giant, seeing a battered, square-jawed face scarred by both disease and war, intelligent blue eyes, a red knife-cut crossing the knuckles of a massive hand. She knew she’d heard his name before, but could not recollect where or why.

She felt the Second Cousin’s gangplank bend beneath her weight as she walked to the shore. Dellila towered over her as he straightened from another bow. There were a handful of arrow-straight Brodaini escort, including a banner-bearer with a scarlet Abessla flag of truce. They were on foot, apparently having left their horses on the river’s other bank. In a half-circle about them was a troop of mercenary cavalry, Khemsinla lancers in ornate armor and elaborate ruffled clothing, beards braided with ribbon to look as ferocious as possible, all watching the intruders carefully. Fiona looked up at Dellila, narrowing her eyes.

“1 am listening, ban-demmin,” she said. Brodaini manners, always abrupt and arrogant between strangers.

“I am ordered to inform you, ilean Ambassador,” Dellila said, “that negotiations will shortly begin between the Brodaini of Calacas and the Brodaini of Neda. Bro-demmin Tegestu hopes that you will be able to attend the negotiations in the same capacity you served in the late talks between the Elva and the Brodaini of Neda.”

Fiona felt her heart sink at the words. Tegestu and Tastis in alliance: she had always dreaded the possibility. It was one thing to know that two or three hundred years hence the Brodaini would have been absorbed by the Abessla, or become so like them there would be little or no difference; it was another to be confronted, in the now, with the possibility of civil war in every Elva city as the united Brodaini tried to avoid extermination, and warred to exterminate their enemies in turn.

“I shall have to consult my superiors, ban-demmin,” she said. “I can give you no immediate answer.” But she knew how Tyson would rule: the Igarans were attempting to establish principles of strict neutrality, which meant assisting negotiations between any governmental entity. But, Fiona thought firmly, she wasn’t going into those cities without better protection than she currently possessed. Tyson knew how Kira had died: she was certain he’d agree.

“May I ask the ilean Ambassador when she will have her answer?” Dellila asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said. That would give her time to prepare, to strengthen herself for this meeting with the enemy. She turned to him. “Part of my function in the other negotiations,” she said, “was to keep a third copy of any proposals or treaties in my own language, to refer to in case of disagreement between the parties. Will you require my assistance in this fashion?”

“Bro-demmin Tegestu says, respectfully, that you will not be needed in this regard,” Dellila said. “We do not have the problem in translation, you see.”

“Yes. I understand.”

Suddenly Fiona remembered where she’d heard Dellila’s name before. He was a hero, she remembered; he’d rallied a few villagers early in the war and exterminated a whole squadron of Tastis’ murdering raiders. Now, perhaps, he’d be warring on the same side as the prison scrapings Tastis had taken into his service. What would he think of that, allying with such refuse? She cocked an eye at him, seeing his stolid, scarred, arrogant face... damn these people, she thought angrily, they never smile.

“Can you present yourself at the White Tower Gate at noon tomorrow and give us your answer, ilean Ambassador?” Dellila asked. He had turned to face the half-circle of mercenaries, the bearded faces with their cruel smiles; his voice was pitched for Fiona alone. “If your superiors give you permission to observe the negotiations,” he said, “we request that you bring clothing and anything else you may require, as you will have to stay in the city at least one night.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Have you any questions ilean Ambassador?” he asked, turning to her.

“Yes,” she said. “What are the negotiations about?”

She caught a tight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I have no idea, ilean Ambassador Fiona,” he said. “They wouldn’t tell junior whelkran like myself. I just obey orders.”

“I see. Well. I’ll be at the White Tower Gate tomorrow, noon, and give you your answer.”

“Thank you, ilean Ambassador.” Dellila bowed again, then straightened into an arrogant, iron-spined pose and paced toward his escort. They closed in behind him as Dellila walked toward the grim wall of cavalry, refusing to slow his long strides. The lancers opened a way reluctantly, then closed behind him like a living gate. They moved off together at the walk, the lancers keeping their horses on the heels of the Brodaini party, testing their tolerance, obviously hoping they could provoke them into a fight.

Leaving one figure behind: Campas in his mail shirt, leading his horse. “Necias wants to see you,” he said. She nodded.

“I’m not surprised.”

She began her walk down the riverbank path to Necias’ barge with Campas, leading his horse by the bridle, walking beside her. He looked at her curiously.

“What did they want?”

“They wanted me to attend some negotiations Tegestu and Tastis are conducting.”

Campas blew his cheeks in surprise. “Necias won’t be happy,” he said. “Will you do it?”

“I have to. I’m supposed to be neutral in this war.”

Campas raised his head to look toward where Necias’ banners were waving above his barge. “Are Tegestu and Tastis allying against us?” he asked us.

“I don’t know. I suppose they’re at least talking about it.”

He looked at her with slitted eyes. “Can you keep us informed of their discussions?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You know I can’t.” She saw his troubled frown and reached a hand out to touch his wrist. “I may be in the city for several days. Can you come see me tonight?” she said. “After midnight sometime; I’ll have business until then.”

“Yes,” he said. “I can come.”

“Good.”

Necias’ guards saluted her with their pikes, then escorted her to where he waited on his settee, his fingers drumming on its arm. Campas followed her into the room, not having been told to stay out.

“Ambassador,” he said. His smile seemed strained. “Sit down. Have some tea. Wine if you prefer.”

Necias seemed shrunken: Fiona knew he’d been under strain in recent weeks, ever since the negotiations with Neda had begun to go sour. There had been too many demands: the Neda-Calacan Government-in-Exile had wanted safety for their kinfolk in the cities, even at the expense of giving Tastis much of what he wanted; the other Elva ambassadors had insisted on a position of no compromise; Handipas had argued for one thing or another, less for reasons of conviction than to make himself an important part of the proceedings. In the end both sides had been far apart; they had presented irreconcilable ultimata to one another and retired to their lines to wait.

To wait for what? Fiona had wondered at the time. For Tastis and Tegestu to be driven farther together, perhaps, by the Elva’s inability to agree on policy.

In due course Necias asked her what the Brodainu had wanted, and Fiona, having no reason not to tell him, gave him an exact record of the conversation. Necias seemed surprised.

“They haven’t cautioned you concerning secrecy?” he asked.

“No. Maybe they wanted you to know.”

Necias frowned as he considered that possibility, then nodded. “That’s likely,” he said. “They may be trying to put pressure on me.’’ His blunt fingers thumped several times on the arm of his settee.

“They don’t realize,” he said, speaking more to himself than anyone else, “my hands are tied. The Elva can’t agree, and if I make any more proposals without their united backing they can refuse agreement and leave me hanging.” He gave a cynical smile. “That’s what they’ve been wanting all along, and I won’t let them. I can’t move in any direction without their agreement ahead of time.”

“I’m sorry, Necias Abeissu,” Fiona said.

He looked up at her suddenly, the smile turning sober. “Tegestu is making a mistake if he’s thinking of allying with Tastis,” he said. “That’ll unite the Elva all right, and I won’t be able to stop them from butchering every Brodainu they can find. I hope you’ll find a way of telling that to Tegestu.”

“If you give me a commission to tell him that, I will,” Fiona said.

“You can’t do it unofficially?”

She smiled. “I will, Abeissu, if I can. But as far as unofficial messages go, I can’t make promises.”

Necias nodded. “Your word that you’ll try is good enough for me, Ambassador.”

He rose ponderously from the settee, the stoutly-built furniture creaking under his weight. “Thank you, Ambassador, for your candor,” he said. “I’m afraid I have business to occupy me for the rest of the afternoon.”

Fiona was quick on her feet. “I understand, Necias Abeissu. I’ll see myself out.”

He gave her a careful embrace, as if he was afraid she might shatter in his arms; they said their farewells. Fiona returned to the sun, Campas following quietly. He turned to her, his blue eyes solemn.

“If the other Brodaini ally with Tastis, that will destroy him,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s how Necias will be remembered, the man who let the mad-dog Brodaini into our cities. The Elva might not be broken, but it wouldn’t be his Elva any more.” His eyes returned to the barge. “He knows that. He also knows he’s run out of choices. He’s got to sit here with his army and take whatever comes. And the rest of the Elva are gloating over it; he knows that, too.”

“Come to my tent,” Fiona said. “We’ll drink a bottle of wine together. After that I’ll have to talk to my superiors, and tell them what’s just happened.” She looked at the horizon, seeing the Brodaini flags dotting the grey walls of the cities. She took a deep breath. “And then I’ll have to get ready to ride into the city tomorrow. And I don’t want to.”

He reached out to take her hand. “Maybe your people will say no,” he said.

She shook her head, saying nothing. At least, after midnight, he might provide her a little comfort, something to remember as she journeyed toward the enemy walls of grey, implacable stone.

CHAPTER 26

Tegestu gazed at the sculpted profile of his wife’s face, silhouetted as it was in the pale radiance of the predawn light that glowed through the leaded windows of their bedchamber. He knew he would have to rise shortly: there was much to accomplish today, before the hostages took their walk to captivity across the Neda Long Bridge. The captives, with Tegestu’s wife Grendis among them.

The decision had been made coldly. Tastis had offered Aptan, his son, one of his welldrani, and another important member of his coalition of clans. Tegestu, with the limited personnel available, had to make a comparable offer. Besides himself, Tegestu had two members of his family with the army: Grendis and his son Acamantu. Acamantu commanded a mixed brigade and was expendable enough in a purely military sense, but Tegestu wanted to keep him safe: he was part of the new generation, having spent most of his life in exile. He was able to deal with the Abessla on a more familiar basis than were his elders — Acamantu would, Tegestu concluded, be indispensable in the coming years, when existence would depend on understanding the Abessla and living alongside them in... in whatever new relationship came out of this war. Tegestu did not wish to sacrifice the future to the ravenous demands of the present.

Cascan was present, another welldran, but he was head of the spies, assassins, and secret agents: he knew too much to be risked in enemy hands.

Grendis, Tegestu had concluded, would have to be one of the hostages. She was both family and a welldran; she commanded the light cavalry brigade and the mounted scouts, but the army would shortly be without its horses and her job could in any case be handled by someone else.

One of the hostages had to be Grendis: she was the only logical choice.

It had been a heartbreaking decision. For Tegestu’s plan to succeed, it would require, almost certainly, the sacrifice of all the hostages.

And furthermore the hostages could not be told of their upcoming sacrifice: they would have to walk to their deaths, and the most convincing way of walking to certain death is not to know that death is at the end of the trail.

Tegestu watched as Grendis shifted under the coverlet, a pleased sigh escaping her lips. At the simple, homely sight, the sight that as boy, man, and elder he had seen on the neighboring pillow for fifty years, Tegestu felt his heart begin to shatter. A few lives, he admonished himself, and the war could be over, if he had calculated aright. Any Brodaini was committed, from birth, to sacrifice his life in the name of his kamliss: there were no exceptions, least of all from sentiment.

Madness, he thought.

No, not madness. Only logic. We will terminate the war, and the Brodaini will survive in this land. What sacrifice would not be worthy of that goal?

Silently he watched her sleep, cherishing the sight, the curve of her cheekbone, the arch of her throat.... It was, perhaps, the last time he would be blessed with the sight. Impulsively he reached out to embrace Grendis and kiss her. She smiled sleepily, her hands reaching out for him, and her eyes opened drowsily, then widened as she saw his intent look.

“Yes?” she said.

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. She touched his long unbraided hair and smiled.

“I’ll be well, my love,” she said. “Tastis won’t dare harm me. We have both been hostages, at one time or another; this will be no different.”

“If something goes wrong, today or tomorrow,” Tegestu said, “stay with Fiona if you can. She might be able to protect you.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he hadn’t been able to keep the urgency from his voice. She nodded. “I’ll remember,” she said.

Tegestu had given her all the warning he dared. He closed his eyes and committed the project to the gods. Let her be safe, he thought fiercely. Let me not be the means of her death.

You have known all along, an inner voice told him, that this might become a possibility. That you might have to order her to her death. Why have you denied the truth so long?

He clutched Grendis’ body desperately and held her to him. She returned his embrace, her cheek against his. Remember this, he commanded himself. You can never forget this.

Long moments passed; Tegestu, at last, forced himself to relinquish her. She kissed him again and smiled. “Shall I ring for our dressers?” she asked.

“Not yet. A little while yet.”

She smiled indulgently. “Of course.” He took her hand, and they watched one another in silence. The smile remained on Grendis’ face and in her eyes.

The light entering the windows was brightening; Tegestu willed it to halt. What remains to be said? he thought. That you have guarded my back these long years, and that now I must refuse to protect yours? That for reasons of cold policy I must sacrifice you?

Cold policy, he thought: it has ruled our lives, both our meeting and our ending. It is the code we live by, that we all are ready to be sacrificed when policy demands. I have lived my life by that code: the gods help me, I cannot change.

The dawn, resisted hopelessly, came; and the moment of touching was over.

CHAPTER 27

Did Kira take this path? Fiona wondered. Did Kira’s heart so thunder with fear as she rode to the gate?

Nonsense. Kira had not ridden; she had come as Fiona had come to Arrandal, by barge. She swallowed, trying to still the fear that trembled in her limbs, and rode through the herds of Brodaini horses that were grazing outside the moated walls. She carried the Brodaini spear of parley, a short weapon with the haft painted white and the point reversed. Those of Tegestu’s men who guarded the horses against a raid, heavy cavalry with their lances at the ready, had apparently been warned about her approach: they gave her stern glances but made no move to interfere.

She was dressed simply in her privy-coat with the hood pulled tight around her face, a pair of trousers and a belted tunic pulled on over it. Clipped to her belt were her recorder, her spindle, and a pistol she had asked Tyson to deliver the previous night. It was more powerful than the needle she had in her wrist; and furthermore a pistol was a weapon she could aim. It was also safe: the holster was attuned to her body and mind, as her privy-coat was tuned, and no one else could use the weapon. She had ridden out of camp just after nightfall, heading several miles south of the perimeter to a clear area in the middle of a farmer’s stubbled, harvested field; there, fully aware of the cloaked scouts that had followed her out of camp in order to make certain she wasn’t meeting the Elva’s enemies, she’d planted a homing device in the dry, dusty soil, retired a cautious few hundred feet, and waited for the message tube to spit out of the heavens. The tube took only a few moments to cool, then she extracted her pistol and heaved the tube up onto the saddle in front of her. Afterwards, riding back, she’d flung the tube into the flowing Neda. The scouts had made no comment. When she returned, Campas was waiting, crouched by a watchfire outside her tent.

The White Tower Gate loomed before her. She wondered why it was called that: it seemed as grey as the rest of the walls. Perhaps it had once been white, before generations of chimney soot had blackened it. The drawbridge over the moat-canal was down, the fanged portcullis raised. Through it she saw the towering form of Dellila, seated atop a huge dappled horse and surrounded by an escort of bannermen. Fiona raised the spear of parley and urged her horse to a trot.

The hooves drummed on the planking of the bridge, echoing hollowly from the brackish canal, and then the shadow of the tower fell on her and she was inside. She saw a pleased smile on Dellila’s scarred face as she reined in.

“Bro-demmin Tegestu will be gratified by your presence,” he said. “With your permission, ilean Ambassador, I would like to escort you to where the hostages from Neda will be quartered.”

She gave a nod, Dellila turned his horse, and with the escort of bannermen following in behind they began to move off through the cobbled streets.

The buildings were tall and narrow, as they were in Arrandal, and as in Arrandal the city was composed of rings of interlocking canals edged by narrow cobbled paths that were squeezed in between the canals and the peak-roofed buildings of grey stone. There were three rings of inner walls, some showing sign of hasty repair but all as grimly functional as the current outer wall. Many of the bridges had key parts removed, with a drawbridge built to span the gap; all bridges were guarded. To take such a city by storm, she thought, would be almost an impossibility: an attacker would have to progress by short leaps across canals, under fire from the high buildings that overlooked the battle. No wonder that months ago the Elva forces had settled down to a siege rather than accept the huge casualties that would result in any attempt to storm the walls.

The civilian inhabitants of the city were going about their business in large numbers, though because many had been evacuated they were not in the thronging thousands as in Arrandal; but their natural liveliness was inhibited by the presence of the cold, armored Brodaini guards that stood glowering at every major intersection, and at the sight of Dellila and his bannermen moving briskly down the towpath they ducked quickly into doorways to let them pass. Fiona, looking up, saw a few white faces peering out of the windows and doorways, almost all of them masks of hatred and fear. They were the pawns of this war and they knew it, and whatever peace was made, they would have no part in it.

The party made its way to the Old City, the first Abessla settlement made across the river from Old Neda. Here Fiona was invited to dismount and inspect an old gatehouse that had been converted to the hostages’ quarters. She dismounted and went up the narrow, winding stair, which curved in such a way that any right-handed attackers, advancing from below, were unable to swing their weapons without hitting the center post, while defenders faced no such handicap. Sunlight, reflected by the surface of the canal outside, swam crazily on the tapestries, carpets, and furniture that had been moved in. Blazing fires had been lit in the grates in order to drive out the cold and damp. One vast room had its floor scored by dozens of murder holes, through which defenders in the gatehouse could fling boiling oil and missiles on attackers trying to crash the inner gate below. Guards had been placed at the doors, and from the roof of the gatehouse, overlooked by the firing slits of the towers on the harbor wall, Fiona could see clearly across the outer harbor to the walls of Neda and the flags decorating its Old Citadel.

The hostages, Fiona concluded, would be fairly comfortable, would be able to exercise themselves daily on the roof where they could be seen by their comrades in the Old Citadel, and would have a fair measure of privacy — but they would be vulnerable to Tegestu’s people, which presumably was the point. Fiona nodded.

“I’ll tell the — the other people what I see,” she said, not knowing what to call them. Was Tastis, in the official vocabulary of the Arrandal Brodaini, still the “rebel ar-demmin Tastis,” or had he become “bro-demmin drandor Tastis” once again?

Dellila seemed pleased. “Good,” he said. “Let’s move you down to the Long Bridge Gate. Once you’ve inspected the hostage quarters on the other side, we can get on with the exchange.”

They moved down the narrow stairway, and then stepped out into the streets. Dellila took his horse by the bridle, and they walked the short distance to the Long Bridge Gate.

Guards were tripled here, standing ranked on the battlements above. Below was the party of hostages-to-be, the three principal hostages plus twelve escorts, bannerbearers, and servants, all standing calmly in the shade of the gate, with grooms holding their horses.

Tegestu alone was mounted. Fiona saw the old man sitting bolt upright on his horse, wearing armor but bareheaded, his grey braids coiled around his head and pinned into place. He was standing squarely by the inner gate and Fiona’s path took her past him.

She bowed as she came close, and as she rose she realized that Dellila had bowed and retired. Tegestu, it appeared, wished to speak privately with her.

His horse stepped forward a few paces; and then Tegestu twitched its reins and the horse gravely bent its forelegs and head. Fiona realized with surprise that he’d had his horse return her bow, and that Tegestu seemed to be an exceptional horseman. The horse straightened.

“I am gratified, ilean Ambassador, that you have consented to act as an observer,” Tegestu said.

“The Igarans are happy to contribute to any negotiations likely to result in peace,” Fiona said, a standard reply to be sure, but Tegestu’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he caught her inflection — were these negotiations truly going to result in peace, or further bloodshed as the Elva erupted in internal war with their own Brodaini?

The horse clopped closer to her. He leaned down and for the first time she saw him up close: an aged man, his skin mottled and sagging, losing the war with gravity and the years; but with eyes that reflected fierce, burning intelligence.

“Ilean Ambassador,” he said in a low voice intended only for her. “I hope this will not put you in danger. I can’t guarantee Tastis won’t resort to treachery. I hope — I hope your people have prepared you for any eventuality.”

The coarse whisper sent chills flittering down her spine, and she looked up at him in surprise. Had he received a hint of treachery, then? His face was intent, hawklike; there was a hint of steely nervousness in the bunched muscles of the jaw and a throbbing vein in the forehead — he was, she realized, under ferocious pressure, and it was beginning to show. “I am as prepared as I can be,” she said cautiously. “But if you have any intelligence of Tastis’ intentions I hope you can tell me.”

Tegestu shook his head. “No, nothing,” he said. “But Tastis is not — he is not to be trusted, understand? Take good care, Ambassador. The gods go with you.”

“Thank you, bro-demmin. I’ll keep your words in mind.” Nodding reassuringly as she spoke, and trying with all her will to control the fear whipsawing through her — the old fear, weaponed men coming in the night, as they had come for Kira. Tegestu straightened, still looking down at her.

“Are you ready, Ambassador?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Some of our heralds will go with you part way.” Tegestu looked up and gave a signal: Classani dashed to man tackles that heaved up the massive iron-reinforced bars that held closed the inner gate, and someone in the second storey of the barbican began to work the mechanism that would raise the bar of the outer gate as well, and then lower the drawbridge to open the Neda Long Bridge.

Tegestu looked at her levelly. The vein still throbbed in his temple. “Good luck, ilean Ambassador.”

“Thank you, bro-demmin.”

She mounted her horse and watched the square of sunlight that was the gate brighten, and wondered whether or not to lower the mask that would give her full facial protection. No, she thought, that would be overcautious, and show them she was afraid, which might in itself invite attack.

The drawbridge thudded into place and she kneed her horse forward, her escort falling into place behind. Did Kira take this path? she thought again, and then cleared the thought angrily from her mind. She was protected; the ship was on alert; Tastis could not take her. She knew this; but yet the fear remained.

The Neda Long Bridge was a fantastic construction, connecting the two cities across the base of the harbor itself; it was a good half-mile long, built of long, high stone arches that stood atop ancient pilings. Built along the bridge were arcades and little shops of wood, some of them hanging perilously over the brink — all deserted now, the nesting-place of birds and the eerie haunt of the wind, their bright colors already fading. She heard trumpets blaring behind her to announce her arrival.

She reached the top of the rise, the halfway point, and heard her escort reining in. Ahead she could see the drawbridge coming down on the other side as Tastis’ trumpets acknowledged the parley. She raised the white spear in her hand and rode on.

Black shadow covered her as she rode through the gate, and then the high sun illuminated her waiting reception committee as the portcullis began its downward journey behind her. On her right a troop of cavalry stood in ranks, raising their lances in salute as she came through the gate. Across the way from the cavalry was another party of three: a bannerbearer, a herald with a spear of parley, and another man standing in front, dressed in heavy formal armor, his sunbrowned face framed by a coif of chain. He was a sturdily handsome man, at least fifteen years younger than Tegestu, his face split by a broad, white smile. As Fiona reined in, for a brief hallucinatory moment she fancied she saw fangs.

“I am the drandor Tastis,” the man said. “Ambassador Fiona, on behalf of our aldran and denorru-censtassin, I welcome you to Neda.”

*

Tastis guided her through the hostages’ quarters himself, his two assistants trooping behind him. The hostages were to be kept in a large tower that had once formed a section of Old Neda’s outer wall. The city had grown up around it, and the tower had fallen into disrepair, but signs of recent work were evident, and peat fires blazed to drive out the damp. Like the hostage quarters in Calacas, the place was livable enough. The hostages could take their exercise on the tower roof, from which they could be seen by their friends in Calacas; and the roof, like the roof in Calacas, was overlooked by another, enemy-held structure, in this case the Old Citadel.

Tastis himself was smiling and deferent — he was trying consciously, Fiona thought, to be charming. From someone else the charm might have had its effect, but from a man she had hated for months the efforts seemed unreal, ludicrous. Did Kira like his smile? she wondered. Did he smile at her this way, when he viewed her in her cell?

She kept her face a face of stone, conscious of how her coat’s protective hood pressed its oval opening against her skin: She viewed the rooms thoroughly, enjoying Tastis’ sense of impatient disapproval as she searched behind tapestries and poked the repaired stonework. She turned to him.

“I think this will be satisfactory,” she said. “The lodgings provided in Calacas for your folk are similar to these, perhaps even a little more comfortable.” She glanced at the round, narrow room. “Larger, certainly,” she said.

“I am pleased to hear it, ilean Ambassador.” Again, that pleasant, sincere, un-Brodaini smile. Fiona was suddenly aware of the weight of the pistol at her hip. One shot and I end the war, she thought. Who would know these three hadn’t attacked me?

No: the thought was poison. Interference of that sort, so soon after their appearance, would make impossible any more work by the Igarans. She had already jeopardized their position with her response to the archers’ riot, rousing suspicions that would not easily be put to rest. A murder, even of a thoroughly deserving individual, would wreck everything she was trying to achieve.

“Shall we arrange for the transfer then, bro-demmin?” she asked.

Tastis nodded. “Certainly.” He led her down the internal stairway of the tower, then out to where their horses waited by the outer canal. Fiona glanced down the canal and was surprised to see town militia guarding a bridge, until she remembered that Tastis’ ruling coalition, his denorru-censtassin, was composed in part of representatives from the town, and that townsmen as well as Brodaini and mercenaries had formed a part of Tastis’ army at the Rallandas.

She mounted her horse and turned its head toward the Long Bridge Gate. The cavalry squadrons waited, still drawn up in their motionless lines, and as they rode up Tastis gave a signal and the double gates began to open. Fiona simply walked her horse to the inner gate and waited for it to swing clear.

There were footsteps by her side and she looked down to see Tastis standing by her stirrup, followed by a Classanu with a bundle.

“Ilean Ambassador Fiona,” he said, “I wish to give you, as an Igaran ambassador, the personal possessions of Ambassador Kira. We have had them for some time, but did not know where to deliver them.” He looked up at her, his face solemn. “We regret the misunderstanding that led to her death, Ambassador. We should like to petition your people to have another ambassador in residence.”

Rage, blazing rage, flashed through her at his words; but her speech, when it came, was ice cold. “It was no misunderstanding that led to her death, bro-demmin Tastis,” she said, glaring into his reassuring eyes. “No misunderstanding at all, nothing but your own policy.”

Tastis seemed scarcely to blink at her intensity. “I assure you, it was a misunderstanding,” he said blandly. “Communication was difficult — she did not understand our intent.”

“Kidnapping, prison cells, and threats of torture are difficult to misunderstand, bro-demmin,” she said. “The only misunderstanding was yours. You failed to understand our talents — we were talking to her the entire time, you see.” Tastis seemed to absorb this without reaction — did he believe her? she wondered. It scarcely mattered. The sound of the drawbridge roaring downward filled the small arched tunnel beneath the gatehouse, and she raised her voice to compensate.

“As for your request for another emissary, I will relay it to my superiors,” she said. “I doubt they will accept — not as long as conditions remain as they are. They’ll have no wish to share a siege with you, drandor. And even then, I think they’ll have to insist on certain guarantees.”

Tastis’ eyes had half-closed, as if to conceal the calculations behind them. Go ahead, she dared him mentally, strike at me — and then I’ll have the pleasure of blowing your gate down on your head. But Tastis did nothing; he only stepped back to allow the Classanu to come forward with the bundle.

She plucked it from his hands as the drawbridge thudded into place, and then she jabbed her horse with her knees and rode into the tunnel, then out onto the bridge. She heard trumpets blaring behind her again, to be answered from the far side.

Halfway across the bridge Fiona brought her horse to a halt. She let out her breath slowly, hoping her tension, her anger, would ebb with it. She had escaped Neda, at least for the present. She would have to return, in less than an hour, with the hostages, and stay with them through tomorrow noon; and after that she’d be visiting the hostages regularly, assuring each side their people were being treated well.

She would be trotting across the Long Bridge regularly, she thought. She had better get used to it.

The bundle balanced on her saddle was wrapped in purple cloth, the Brodaini color of mourning. She touched it, feeling its silken texture, trying to detect any resonances of Kira. She could find none, and she had no time to open it.

The drawbridge ahead of her was coming down again, she reached for the spindle on her belt and transmitted a brief message, through the more powerful transmitter in her trunk, to the ship, telling them she was safe, that she would report again after delivering the hostages. As they had agreed.

She took a deep breath and urged her horse forward. It was time to be on her way.

CHAPTER 28

Tegestu watched Necias’ dark and startled eyes. “I must have your answer tonight, Abeissu Necias,” he said. “Delay would not be in our interests.”

Necias’ fingers drummed on the arm of his settee as he listened to simultaneous translations from Campas and the Classanu scribe that Tegestu had brought with him. His eyes narrowed. “It’s difficult, very difficult,” he said, and then his speech faltered.

Tegestu, cloaked and hooded, had come to Necias after midnight in a small six-oared messenger craft, slipping out of Calacas’ water gate with a murmur of the password. There had been no challenge as they stroked with muffled oars to the Elva camp, no challenge at all until after he and his interpreter had scrambled up the bank and walked to Necias’ barge, where the interpreter had called for the captain of the guard.

“To see the Abessu-Denorru. Something to his advantage.” Tegestu, hooded still, turned away from the guards’ inquiring eyes.

Little Necias had been roused at the appearance of Brodaini and had come clattering up the gangplank with a lantern and a pair of hulking, armored men with two-handed swords. “For you only, cenors-stannan,” the interpreter had said, gesturing for Little Necias to come up the bank. The big man carefully obeyed, raising the lantern to meet Tegestu’s frowning face, and then gasped an oath.

“We must see the Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. “No one but you and he must see us. A matter of urgency.”

Tegestu and the Classanu were brought into the dark reception room, clanking guards posted at the doors. A lantern was lit. And then Necias, draped in a vast dressing gown that did not entirely muffle the delicate rattling of the knee-length coat of chain he wore under it, came warily into the room. His shadow bulked huge on the paneled wall, but his mouth seemed shrunken: Tegestu realized he hadn’t put in his front teeth. Tegestu, making certain they were alone, pulled back his hood.

“I bring my interpreter along to make certain we do not misunderstand,” he had said. “I think we can end the war, favorably for us both.”

That had been an hour before. Necias had listened quietly, with a few of the nervous gestures, the rubbing of his jowls, tapping of fingers, twisting of rings, to which he was prone. And then, uncomfortably, he had raised objections. Tegestu had, he thought, dealt with them all.

“I must have an answer now, Necias Abeissu,” Tegestu said.

Necias shook his head, the move amplified in grotesque shadow on the barge’s beamed deckhead, then turned his head away, his eyes closed. “More time,” he muttered.

“Think, Abeissu,” Tegestu said. “Think until dawn, if you must. But not beyond.”

And so they sat in silence, Tegestu staring intently at Necias as Necias stared into himself. The Classanu, practiced at the art of not existing when he was not wanted, sat on his heels and waited. Tegestu listened abstractedly to the sound of the river as it lapped at the barge, the faint creaking of its timbers, the sound of his own breathing. It was nearing dawn.

Necias, his eyes still closed, raised a finger. Tegestu felt his pulse leap into his throat at the gesture.

“Yes,” Necias said quietly. Just the single word.

“I have the documents,” Tegestu said. “In both our languages. I have already signed. It needs only your seal. You must sign as chairman of the Elva, not as Abessu-Denorru of Arrandal.”

Necias brought the lantern to his side and read the papers carefully, his eyes moving slowly down the lines. It did not take long: the documents were brief. “I’ll get my seal,” he murmured, and returned with a pen and ink.

He signed and sealed, and handed the copies back to Tegestu.

“Remember, Abeissu,” Tegestu said. “Have your forces in place by noon, outside the Old Cart Road Gate. Be there yourself, ready to send them in.”

Necias gnawed worriedly on a hangnail, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll announce a parade or a review.” He lowered his voice, looking abstractedly at the hangnail. “Can’t get too close,” he murmured, “it might alarm them. The distance will call for careful judgment.”

“Our forces must not fight each other,” Tegestu said. “That could be a catastrophe. Let them know the passwords. The challenge will be, The Elva, the reply, Victory. They are words my people can say without much trouble.”

“Elva. Victory. Very well,” Necias muttered “I’ll announce a change in passwords at noon. Good.” He looked up, and Tegestu saw his expression had changed, his eyes full of lively curiosity and a kind of tigerish intensity. He had committed himself, and now seemed eager for the battles that would come.

Slowly, holding Necias’ gaze, Tegestu lowered himself to one knee. “Canlan,” he said.

Necias, knowing this to be the final time, looked down at him solemnly and nodded as if confirming something to himself. “Bro-demmin drandor Tegestu,” he said. “Please rise. You are no longer mine to command.”

Tegestu rose with difficulty, Necias assisting him at the end, and then threw his hood over his face again. He made his way out of the barge, then down the bank to the waiting boat. “The city,” he said.

As he sped past Necias’ barge he saw the vast figure of the Abeissu brooding on the foredeck, looking down at the water — and then Necias glanced up and saw him, their eyes crossing once again.

Wordlessly, they sped out of one another’s sight. Necias had released the Brodaini from their oath of allegiance to Arrandal, and confirmed another relationship. They were equals now, and allies.

And fellow conspirators, whose conspiracy would hatch in blood.

The boat sped swiftly down the river, entered a canal, moved through the water gate and to the Deissu’s palace that Tegestu had made his headquarters. “Call Dellila and Cascan to me, and tell the staff they will meet at dawn,” he ordered, throwing off his cloak. “Bring tea to me now, and breakfast in an hour.”

Dellila, who had charge of the hostage guard, came stamping in full armor just seconds before Cascan arrived hastily lacing up his coat of light chain and blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Ban-demmin Dellila,” Tegestu ordered. “You will call the guard together quietly at dawn. When the hostages are brought their breakfast, you will enter with the guard and kill them.”

“Bro-demmin?” Dellila said in astonishment; and Cascan cried out in surprise. Tegestu fixed them with a furious stare.

“Ban-demmini,” he spat, “The hostages are traitors. They deserve death, and all shall die.”

Dellila swallowed hard. “Aye, bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said.

“Tell your people not to strike for the face. We want them all recognizable. Afterwards, strip their bodies, wash them, and report to me.”

“Aye, bro-demmin.” Dellila bowed.

“Questions? Nay? You are dismissed.”

The warrior bowed and turned. Cascan was still staring. “Bro-demmin, are you certain?” he asked. “Our own people — “

“Their fate is in the hands of the gods, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said, and closed his eyes. Grendis, forgive me! he cried in his heart — and then he opened his eyes and gave the orders that would, he hoped, make good the sacrifice.

CHAPTER 29

Alone in the darkness, Fiona woke with shrilling nerves, her lips parted and ready to cry out — or had she cried already? Gasping for breath, her pulse thudding in her ears, she listened carefully, but detected no sign that any of the hostages had heard her.

No, then, she hadn’t cried out. She swung her legs out of bed, feeling an instant of vertigo as she came upright, then put her head in her hands, gulping air. She couldn’t remember the dream that had brought her awake; but there was no need. She knew well enough what it was.

The vertigo faded, and she looked up at the doorway to her tiny room, one identical to the room given all the hostages, made by the assembly of small, portable screens, furnished barely, with a bed, press, and an overtasteful arrangement of flowers. Lantern-light glimmered faintly through the cracks of her door, and from not far away she heard the tread of one of the sentries.

Her head throbbed with languid, slow-motion pain. There would be no more sleep, she knew. Not in Tastis’ city.

She stood up and thought the color of her privy-coat darker, to near-black. She would wear it every moment she was among Brodaini — that was one of Tyson’s orders, and one she agreed with wholeheartedly. She threw her surcoat over it, donned her belt, then took the pistol from under her pillow and clipped it to the belt. Quietly, so as not to disturb her neighbors, she slipped from her room.

The common room was to the right, and there Fiona nodded tersely to the Brodaini on watch — there were three at all times, one at each giant, heavily-barred door, another on the roof. The room was bare and clean, still well lit even at night; she passed through it quietly and walked up the winding stair to the roof.

A hot fitful wind struck her as she opened the door: the heavy stone had kept the tower’s rooms cool, even here in high summer, and she gasped with the force of the heat. She could feel sweat beginning to prickle her scalp. She returned the sentry’s challenge, then stepped out onto the warm flags, relieved, even if she was hot, to be out of the confining stone of the tower and under the canopy of the sky.

The southern winds had brought high scudding clouds with them, and the bright nonmoving light that was the Igaran starship was obscured. Deprived of the comfort of its sight, Fiona walked quietly to the rampart, seeing the black bulk of the Old Citadel, Tastis’ looming threat to the hostages, as it rose above the tower only a hundred yards away. She pulled herself into a crenelation, drawing up her legs and planting her back firmly against the cool stone. Then she tilted her head back to watch the stars. Unreachably high, the starship was momentarily revealed by the streaming clouds, and Fiona, unreasonably, was comforted. Her face licked by the wind, she closed her eyes.

When she woke it was past dawn. The lookout had been changed, she realized, but she hadn’t heard it. The hot blast from the south still gusted through the battlements, and the entire sky was roofed by high, grey cloud. She stretched her legs out, blood returning to the cramped muscles, and then went down for breakfast.

At midmorning, in what little privacy her quarters provided, she called in a brief report to Tyson, informing him, as she put it, of her continued existence; and told him more would come later, after she’d returned to Calacas. Then, quietly so as not to disturb the sleep of the night guards, she asked to speak to Grendis. The Brodaini chieftain seemed pleased to have something to do: Fiona asked about her life, her ancestors, the way she had lived in Connu Keep before Pranoth had been forced into exile. She found Grendis was a soft-spoken woman, thoughtful and grave; she spoke plainly about the life she had led, the children lost to accident or war, the homes she had been forced to abandon — there was no trace of self-pity in her tone, just a dignified acceptance of her life and its turbulence. Fiona found herself admiring the old woman considerably.

And then it was noon, and time for the hostages to parade themselves on the roof, under the spyglasses of their kin in Calacas. Fiona followed Grendis up the roof, the Brodaini in their armor tramping after, followed by the Classani with their umbrellas to keep between the Brodaini and the sun.

Fiona gasped at the furnace-blast of heat from the flagstones, then stood apart from the others as Grendis was handed her long glass and began viewing the battlements. In an hour or so, when the escort came, Fiona would leave the tower and cross the bridge to Calacas, away from Tastis’ city. The nightmare, for the present at least, would be over, and she would have survived. She would be visiting the hostages regularly from now on, but she would never again have to spend a night in the enemy city.

“Aiau!” Fiona looked sharply up at Grendis’ startled cry, and then watched in alarm as the expression on Grendis’ face turned from surprise to horror. Grendis dropped the glass and turned to her party, visibly mastering her shock in order to speak. Her voice was soft, but its tone was urgent and undeniable.

“Ban-demmini, we must leave the roof,” she said. “Gather our people, and guard the doors. Capiscu, fetch your rope. We must break out of the city, and quickly.”

Fiona stared at her for an instant; and then a sudden blare of trumpets from the Old Citadel spurred her limbs and she leaped for the stairway along with the rest. Tastis, she thought as her pulse began to beat about her ears, he’s given the order to kill us. She pulled her hood up over her head, then slid the facemask down.

“Bro-demmin!” A voice from below, where a guard stood at the base of the stair. “The court is filling with guards!”

Fiona’s heart sank. Tastis’ people were moving too fast. Grendis hesitated only a second. “Make certain your door is barred, then join us,” she called, then ducked into the common room, now filled with Classani strapping on their armor and snatching up their weapons. Grendis swiftly counted heads, found all present, then gave her orders.

“We’ll have to try to move along the battlements toward the Old City gatehouse,” she said. Her voice, amazingly, was still calm, speaking in an ordinary tone of voice but with compelling urgency. “We could be under fire from the Citadel, and we’ll have to move quickly to keep the men in the gatehouse from shutting us out. If we can’t get through the gatehouse we’ll lower ourselves down Capiscu’s rope on the opposite side of the wall, then fight our way to the Long Bridge Gatehouse. Capiscu and Sethaltin have the lead.” She raised her arms swiftly, a brief and hurried blessing. “Go, cousins!” she called, and her people were in sudden motion.

A door from this second storey of the tower led to the old city wall, and from its battlements to the big gatehouse. From there, the hostages could descend to ground level, cross a canal/moat and two blocks of tenements, and then arrive at the Long Bridge Gate.

Capiscu and Sethaltin, two young, heavily armored men with rhomphia, ran down the passage between the screened-in sleeping area, slamming gauntleted hands on the iron bolts in the door, sending them shrieking back into place. The metal-bound bar was flung aside, and then one of the Brodaini burst the door open at a run, moving with surprising speed down the battlement toward the citadel gatehouse. The rest followed: Fiona tried to stay in the middle with Grendis, thinking her coat to a stone-grey color to blend in with the wall.

The door to the second level of the gatehouse slammed in Sethaltin’s face, and his rhomphia bit at the timbers. The courtyard below was filled with milling soldiery, responding to the cry of trumpets; and then from the warriors throats came an ominous, dreadful moan as they saw the hostages above them. Fiona glanced left and right: they were trapped here on the inner wall. Arrows began whistling down from the keep, thudding into the shields the Classani held high to protect their lords. Too late, Fiona thought with flashing anger. Too late. In another few seconds those soldiers would realize the hostages’ intentions and start to pour up into the gatehouse, making it impossible for the hostages to fight their way through even if they battered down the door. Others would smash their way up into the tower, and then the hostages would be cut into fragments beneath an advancing wall of steel. Her nightmare come to terrifying life.

Grendis must have realized the same thing, for she began to give swift orders for Capiscu to ready his rope so they could descend into the clear, on the other side of the wall. A Classanu lurched to the flags, a long arrow slicing into his knee as deep as the cock feather. More arrows began to come down from the gatehouse battlements, a crossfire. Fiona heard a muttered Brodaini curse. Too late, she thought, and came to the inevitable decision.

“Stand back!” she shouted, her larynx burning with the force of her cry; and she drew her pistol. She shouldered her way through the milling hostages, hearing the arrows smacking solidly into the shields, trying to get a clear shot. At last she was at the front of the narrow line, seeing Capiscu, nonchalantly disregarding an arrow jutting from his shoulder, looping his line around a merlon, dropping the length to the ground below. Too slow, she thought. If we go down that way we’ll be cut up one by one.

Sethaltin was still smashing at the door, hoping to convince the enemy they were still interested in making their escape that way. There was a Classanu trying frantic-eyed to shield both her and Capiscu, and she pushed him away. “Stand back!” Fiona shouted, and when Sethaltin didn’t pay any attention she seized him by the collar and dragged him back, hearing him snarl. “Shield your eyes!” she commanded, feeling an arrow snap madly off her hood, and then she pointed the pistol at the door and fired.

The door was blown apart with the roar of lightnings, and before the echo died away Fiona was in motion, leaping into the dark gatehouse, stumbling over a blasted figure in blackened, half-molten armor. She looked left and right, seeing the capstan that controlled the drawbridge, its guards sprawled in stunned confusion: she fired, tearing the capstan apart, seeing the long cables slacken. No one had yet made a move to raise the drawbridge: now it was impossible.

The hostages were filling the door behind her; Fiona saw a stair to her left and ran for it, spiraling downward, her pistol outthrust. The forces in the courtyard seemed not to have realized just yet what had happened; as Fiona emerged from the stairway their eyes, blinking with the aftereffects of the flash, were still directed toward the battlements. She faced the soldiers, knowing she would have to keep them back somehow; she couldn’t let them get near her, where they could pin her down by sheer numbers. The lead hostages reached the bottom of the stair, behind her, and began to pelt away over the bridge. There was a sudden snarl from the soldiers; their eyes lowered; there was a clash as their arms were raised. Again, they gave a unanimous, terrible moan, composed of a hundred separate elements all giving the alarm at once, that almost froze Fiona in place; and then they began to dash forward.

Fiona raised her pistol. She could feel her lips curling back in a death’s head angry grin and felt a sudden flood of angry joy, knowing Kira would have her revenge: she burned the first rank down, hearing shrieks and wails and claps of thunder, flagstones torn upward to clang against shields and armor. She thought it would have discouraged the rest; but these were Brodaini whose instincts, when threatened, were to attack, and they kept coming, a wall of armored figures, no one of them was a threat to her; but all together they could knock her flat and pin her down by weight of numbers, and then they could get her coat open and kill her as they pleased. Fiona’s madness turned to horror as she realized what was happening; there could be no joy in this insanity. She shrieked at them to run and save themselves, but still they came on: Fiona fired until the courtyard was a mass of blackened corpses and upflung flagstones, until the surviving Brodaini were deafened and confused and running, or praying or staggering in lunatic circles — and then, as the last of the hostages came running from the stair behind her, she followed them, dashing into the sunlight.

Arrows were hissing down on their backs from the gatehouse and she could see the Classani were carrying at least four wounded hostages, and that several others were limping or had arrows sticking out of their armor. The hostages were moving with painful slowness, their leaders flashing weapons at a threatening, fleeing population. Fiona ran to the head of the column, where Capiscu and one of the Classani were dealing with a militiaman who had, bravely but foolishly, tried to impede their way. An arrow sped down between them, striking sparks from the cobbles. Fiona ran on, the streets clearing ahead of her.

She spun around a corner to find the Long Bridge Gate looming ahead, its battlements crowded with black, busy figures trying to determine the origin of the alarms ringing out from the citadel. The inner doors were securely shut. Above, on the battlements, war engines stood massively against the sky — they were dangerous for Fiona; her coat could not protect her against a big enough stone, or a giant arrow. Behind her she heard panting as Capiscu ran on, burdened by his armor and wounds. She raised her pistol and fired.

It took several shots to blow down the huge inner gate, militia, Brodaini, and the civilian population scattering before her fires. The hostages halted behind her, gazing in awe at the lancing thunders, the ruination of the massive gate. Fiona saw the siege engines moving on their rumbling pivots, coming to bear on her: she blew them to splinters. And then she was running, her panting breaths echoing in her closed hood, and she heard the hostages following.

She blew the outer gate off its hinges, ignoring the arrow that whistled down from the murder holes above, and then aimed at the massive iron staples that held the drawbridge cables. Two high-power blasts and they were gone, the drawbridge crashing down with a noise that rivaled her weapon’s; and then she was running across, arrows whipping down around her, with her feet on the solid stone of the Neda Long Bridge.

After two hundred yards she turned to make certain the siege engines on the gatehouse had been thoroughly wrecked, and she saw the hostages scattered out behind her, moving with agonizing slowness as they bore their wounded away from the enemy city. The mad flight for safety was over: now they were conserving their strength, hoping to last long enough to cross the bridge. Capiscu was still in the lead, half a dozen arrows jabbing from his brigandine — at least one had got through, penetrating to the hamstring: he was limping badly. Triumph filled her as she saw them. It hadn’t been her task to rescue them — she had done it almost by accident, while rescuing herself — but she was glad to have brought them out, fellow victims of Tastis’ treachery.

She holstered her pistol and walked back, taking Capiscu’s arm over her shoulder, helping him keep moving. Two Classani, bearing a burden, rushed past her, and she saw with a shock that it was Grendis, lying white-faced in their arms with a feathered shaft pinning her side, her armor penetrated. She heard Capiscu cry out as his leg gave way altogether: she bore his shocking weight until a Classanu came up on his other side, and they carried him away.

There was a clattering sound ahead, and dully she recognized the sound of the Calacas drawbridge coming down — and then there was the thunder of hooves on the bridge, and she looked up to see a moving wall of horsemen advancing. Rescuers, she thought at first, and then she saw the glitter of their lance points and knew they wouldn’t stop.

“Off the road!” she called, surprised at the weakness of her voice, and she and the Classanu bore Capiscu into the shelter of one of the stalls that clung to the flanks of the bridge. Grendis was already there, her Classani bent over her, holding her head as she vomited blood onto the dusty planks. Careful of his injuries, Fiona and the Classanu laid Capiscu down, awkwardly due to the jutting arrows, and then Fiona turned toward the roadway again, and watched Tegestu’s army come.

She thought she recognized Dellila and his huge horse in the lead, but he was encased entirely in steel and she could not be certain. The lancers thundered past, ignoring the ineffectual arrow fire that dribbled out of the gatehouse, and rode without stopping across the Neda bridge and into the city. They were followed by other horsemen, heavy and light and mounted archers, and then there came others, footsoldiers bearing their sword-bladed spears on high. Tegestu’s entire army seemed to be on the move.

“Aiau, cousins,” Grendis said, through her bubbling blood and pain. “Our master is wise. We have come out, and the city is ours.”

And Fiona, far too late, realized how she had been used.

Fury struck her, her coat blackening with her thoughts, and blindly, deaf to the call of one of the Classani behind her, she stalked out into moving mass of purposeful soldiers, keeping on the edge of their column as she fought her way through them, moving always toward Calacas. She would have used her pistol if necessary, but in spite of the soldiers’ hurry and the shouts of their officers, they gave way in surprise before her angry black-faced figure with its featureless mask, and those who didn’t give way she easily enough shouldered aside. The column was slowing now, as if it had encountered resistance somewhere; and she could hear the clash of arms from the gate.

At last she jostled her way to the drawbridge, and fought her way across it, calling out angry curses to the soldiers who impeded her. On her way up the ramparts, she caught a glimpse through a narrow view-slit of an inner gatehouse, seeing there the butchered bodies of the hostages from Neda, the hostages Tegestu had killed, then displayed, to start the slaughter.

The attack in the citadel had not been treachery on the part of Tastis — it had come in answer to Tegestu’s hanging the dead hostages from the battlements, the naked bodies all dangling from the crenelations, easily recognizable with a long glass. Tegestu had anticipated Fiona’s being embroiled in the fight, and of having to use her offworld weaponry to smash her way out.

And to smash the defenses on which Tastis’ city depended. Neda’s gates were in ruins, its drawbridge down, and Tegestu’s people were pouring into the city.

A lithe light-absorbing form, the lunacy of death possessing her, she came up to the roof of the gatehouse, seeing Tegestu standing calmly at the battlements, his helmet tilted back on his head. There was a stir around him, his guards closing in; but he turned his head and saw her, then ordered them back, facing her, his arms lowered.

“If you intend to kill me, ilean, I make no objection,” he said, his voice calm, accepting. “But I would like to see my wife first, if she still lives.”

Fiona raised her pistol, then hesitated.

CHAPTER 30

Fiona’s clothes, her featureless mask, were the color of night, of death. Tegestu, accepting the need for his own death, stood with arms outstretched, facing the alien woman’s weapon. As soon as he’d seen Fiona moving with angry purpose along the bridge, among the long column of soldiers, he had known the woman would take revenge, and he had prepared himself. His mind was at peace, yearning for vail; for the end.... He hoped only to see Grendis first; but it seemed that was not to be.

Tegestu stood, his arms outstretched, and waited.

The weapon, held at the end of a shadow arm, fell. Fiona’s voice came clearly through her mask.

“Grendis is wounded badly,” she said. “An arrow through a lung. She is on the bridge, and is being tended by her people.”

A lung... Tegestu remembered the assassin’s arrow his own lung had taken years ago, the way Grendis had nursed him through the pain and lunatic fever. He would repay her now, with all the time Fiona allowed him before her inevitable revenge. Grendis was alive: a little flame of hope kindled in Tegestu’s breast. Slowly, deeply, he bowed to his death. “Thank you, ilean,” Tegestu said, and gave orders for a surgeon and assistants to make their way out along the bridge to tend his wife and the other wounded hostages. And, since his death was not yet to come, he returned to his business.

Black, poised, unmoving, Fiona stood behind him at the tower entrance, watching him as he received his reports. At one point she unclipped a small object from her belt, held it to her mouth, and spoke into it in her own language — perhaps a fetish to which she was praying, he thought. His flags were already flying above the Long Bridge Gate, and the column of soldiers was still pushing into the city, though it was moving slowly. It was some hours before he received a clear notion of what was happening behind the enemy walls.

The first column of cavalry, led by Dellila, had not stopped at the gate: their orders had been to drive at the gallop for the Old Cart Road Gate, stopping for nothing. Once there, they were to seize the gate, open it, lower the bridge, and hold to the death against the counterattack that would inevitably come from the Brodaini Quarter built nearby.

Dellila had succeeded: he’d seized the gate from Tastis’ people, who had thought them friendly reinforcements until it was too late. The counter attacks had come and in overwhelming numbers, but Dellila had beaten them off at the cost of half his men and, in the end, his own life. The last counterattack had been broken by Necias’ mercenaries, galloping over the bridge and into the enemy city. Their route was hazardous, for the Old Cart Road was under the walls of the new-built Brodaini Quarter, but Necias and Palastinas kept their people moving in all day, running past with their shields raised high, not stopping despite the chaos and bloody ruin caused by Tastis’ archers and engines.

There had been another group of cavalry following Dellila, and these had also had their orders: they were to seize every canal drawbridge they could, wreck the mechanism that would raise the bridges, then hold the bridges for as long as possible. Many drawbridges were dropped permanently, but few of the cavalry held them for long after Tastis’ reinforcements began flooding the streets.

The rest of the battle was a mad dance of streetfighting and ambush, but the allies’ weight of numbers began to tell. Tastis’ Neda militia, for the most part, simply went home in hopes of protecting their families, and many of his mercenaries, concluding the war lost, forted up somewhere and began making offers of surrender with honor, which would allow them to march out with their weapons and find employment elsewhere. These were offers their enemies were swift to accept. Some Elva captain got a water-gate open and Necias began moving his people in by barge, and that in the end broke the enemy: they could hold the bridges, perhaps, but once the bargemen arrived they could span any gap of water and outflank any defense. By the end of the day Tastis’ forces still held the Old Citadel and the Brodaini Quarter, but there was no effective resistance in the rest of the town. Tegestu had won.

That news came late, however, and found him no longer in the gatehouse. The column of soldiery on the bridge had, at last, passed into Neda, and the hostages been brought back. Tegestu saw Grendis on a litter, surrounded by surgeons and guards; and he turned to Fiona and bowed. “My wife is coming,” he said. “By your leave, ilean, I would see her.”

Fiona, black-visaged, nodded and stood aside; Tegestu came down the tower stair and met Grendis at the gate.

Grendis was pale, her flesh waxy and the lines of her face deepened, but her eyes were open, and he saw a smile of recognition tug at the corners of her mouth as he looked down at her. He reached down to the litter and took her hand, and walked with the litter-bearers to his palace, and then to her chambers.

His death followed on silent feet.

Grendis seemed not to feel any pain as she was moved from her litter to her bed; the surgeons had probably given her a narcotic. They showed him the arrow, its long, narrow steel point forged to pierce armor. “One lung is pierced, bro-demmin,” one said. “We think it has collapsed; she is breathing with the other only, and there is no air coming through the wound. There was hemorrhage at the beginning, but it ceased.”

The Classanu surgeon seemed strained and apprehensive: no doubt he knew that surgeons had in the past been executed for losing patients as important as Grendis. Steeling himself, he spoke on.

“It is possible she may recover, bro-demmin” he said. “But I would not hold out hope for a woman her age — if she were younger there would be a chance. My apologies, bro-demmin Tegestu.”

He gazed at the Classanu levelly. “Do what you can, ilean surgeon,” he said, and then walked to the bed.

Her eyes flickered as he touched her hand. A drowsy smile came across her face, and she tried to speak. Her words came as dry whispers, and he leaned close in order to hear.

“Bro-demmin,” she said, her faint voice a twig dragging in the dust. “I hope we have done our duty.”

Tears sprang to his eyes. He clutched her hand. “You have given us the keys to Neda,” he said, speaking in her ear. “We have won the war. Aye, bro-demmin, you have done well.”

Grendis smiled; he felt her fingers squeeze his hand. And then she closed her eyes.

Somehow he knew that she would not open them again. He bent low to kiss her cheek, and let his heart crack.

CHAPTER 31

Bitter anger spinning in her mind, Fiona watched as Tegestu bent over the quietly breathing form. Grendis was dying, Fiona thought, in the style in which she lived; quietly and with fine dignity. Exhausted, her legs aching from the tension with which she’d stood, Fiona leaned against the doorframe and holstered her pistol. She could not kill Tegestu now. At this instant he did not seem a bloodthirsty, cunning warlord who had thrown her to his enemies: now he was an old grieving man, bent and without majesty; he was punishing himself for his treacheries, and there was no need for her to do it. She breathed a quiet sigh. You have your life, Tegestu, she thought. For her sake, not your own.

A soft-voiced Classanu entered, an elderly man who wore his fine armor and his Pranoth blazon proudly. “Caltias Campas is here, bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said. “He bears a message from the Abeissu Necias.”

Tegestu gave at first no sign that he had heard; but then he slowly straightened, turned to the Classanu, and gravely nodded. Campas, in dusty riding boots, entered. His eyes flicked left and right, halting at Fiona for a second; and then he stepped forward and bowed.

“I beg your pardon, bro-demmin, for this intrusion,” he said, speaking fluently in Gostu. “Necias asked me to tell you that most of the city is ours, and to give you his supreme thanks for seeing this way to victory.” He gave a nervous glance toward Fiona and then continued. “He asked me to assure you that our surgeons are looking after your wounded. He will be presenting our treaty between the Elva and your people to the ambassadors later this evening. He wonders if it will be possible for you to attend.”

Tegestu slowly shook his head. “I cannot come, ilean Campas. But I will send a representative.”

Campas bowed. “I understand. Please allow me to convey my sorrow, and the sorrow of Abeissu Necias.”

“I thank you, ilean Campas,” Tegestu said; and he turned away. The interview was at an end.

Campas bowed again, deeply, and withdrew. Fiona looked at the scene again, the old man bent over the dying woman, and then turned and followed the poet from the room. The curtain rustled shut behind her; he led her out of view of the guards and then turned to take her in his arms.

“Gods, I’m glad you’re safe!” he breathed. “Aiee, I almost went mad with fear for you!”

She leaned back to tear the mask from her face, breathing in his scent, the smell of exercise, dust, his body. Numbly, she shook her head.

“I was never in great danger,” she said. “Tegestu tried to warn me, that last minute before the gate... he put me on my guard.”

“I didn’t know what he’d done till this afternoon. Till the bridge came down and Necias sent in his troops.” He shivered. “Gods! What a plan!” He touched her neck, her cheek.

“He used me,” Fiona said, coldly accusing herself, her willing gullibility. “He used me, and his wife, and the others — but his plan hinged on manipulating me, and he knew just how to do it. And I let him.” She broke from his embrace and banged a wall with her fist; the material of her glove cushioned her blow, preventing the sharp knowledge of pain she desired to inflict on herself, punishment for her stupidity.

“I’m finished here,” she said bitterly. “I can’t be effective here if I let myself be used this way.”

“Your superiors,” Campas said, “they agreed, yes? They ordered you to Neda, didn’t they? Aren’t they as responsible as you — more so, even?”

“I was the one on the spot,” she said: “I could have refused.”

“How could you have known what was in Tegestu’s mind?” Campas demanded. “How could you have known he would sacrifice the hostages in such a way?” He looked at her unblinkingly. “You helped to end the war, however it was done,” he said. “With the Elva at peace, you can return to your mission. Bringing us your knowledge, Fiona, and helping us to grow.”

A savage laugh burst past Fiona’s lips. “Do you think that’s what we’re really here for, Campas?” she asked. “Simply to help you, out of our greater goodness?” She leaned close to him, feeling her cheeks taut in a devil’s relentless grin, reflecting the helpless anger roiling in her mind. “Shall I tell you what we’re really here for, Campas? You’ll be amused at the irony, I’m sure.” She spat out a cruel, mad laugh; he reached out a hand to touch her, to calm her, but she shrugged it away. “We’re recruiters, Campas!” she told him. Her voice was a painful sob. “We’re here to help you to our level, so we can enlist your children in the biggest interstellar war of all! That’s the sole reason we’re here, my friend, so that you can help us beat our enemies!”

His hand, still outstretched to comfort her, hesitated and then fell. His eyes were somber. “Best tell me all,” he said quietly... and, hating herself, her race, she did.

The long-ago catastrophe that had destroyed the Terrans hadn’t confined itself to human space: it had spread far beyond, a long wave of chaos and destruction. Far away, other beings, not human, nearer to the galactic core, had suffered from the Terrans’ mistake.

But, at some distance from the center of the disaster, the effects had been lessened; their recovery had been swift. Knowing the cause of the holocaust, computing its point of origin, they had decided to take precautions against a repetition of the racial catastrophe. Their precautions were sensible and direct.

For centuries now the descendants of the Terrans, at least those who had recovered enough to scan the skies for evidence of others of their kind, had been picking up the signals of the other interplanetary species. Not all the signals were coming from planets orbiting stars. The rest were coming from a vast fleet, hundreds of ships, coming to Terran space.

The signals had been decoded. They were military in nature. The aliens were coming to sterilize human space, to prevent the Terrans from triggering another holocaust.

But they were coming slowly, at sublight speed: it would be thousands of years before they would begin to touch on human space. There was time, if the project was gone about in the right way, for the humans to recover enough to resist the assault; and that meant mobilizing as many of the human survivors as possible.

The result was the mission of starships of Igara and their ambassadors to other planets, the attempt to raise the levels of human technology in order to bring every planet within an alliance against the alien race.

Campas wasn’t equipped to understand all of the truth, but Fiona told him what she could. “Don’t you see the irony, Campas?” she demanded. “Tegestu involved me in your war, and he found me willing enough; but what he did to me is only what my people are trying to do to your entire planet!” Campas frowned inwardly, absorbing her rapid words; she looked up at him with a cynical grin. “You remember when you came to my apartments, those months ago?” she asked. “You said you didn’t believe me when I told you about our disinterested, benevolent attempts to aid your people; you implied there was some less honorable motive.

“You were right. And now you know what it is.”

He nodded. “Now I know,” he said. He rubbed his chin, his eyes abstracted. Then he shook his head. “I don’t see what else your people could do,” he said. “Any war between planets is going to be up to my descendants, not to me. Right now, I’ve got to report to Necias.”

Choking on a bitter laugh, Fiona pressed herself to Campas, her arms going around him; she wondered if he was truly opaque to the irony, or did he simply not care? She stepped back, looking up at him.

“Will you tell him?” she asked.

“Probably not. Do you think I should?” He seemed irritable. “It’s between yourself and my descendants. I’m sure you’re capable of dealing with their questions, when they arise.” He kissed her forehead and turned.

Fiona watched him walk away; then her anger ebbed and weariness took her; she leaned against the paneled wall, closing her eyes, seeing only visions of slaughter, of the brave, uncomprehending enemy falling before her other worldly fires. Lives she had taken willingly, as Tegestu had intended, rejoicing in her power. At what cost, she wondered, to her own people? Would the Elva announce restrictions on the Igarans, horrified by the destruction she’d caused? She couldn’t blame them, not after the butchery she’d done.

It’s between yourself and my descendants, Campas had said, and she conceded to him a certain amount of truth. But what understanding Campas’ descendents had of the Igarans depended on the ground work she was laying; and at the moment her groundwork consisted largely of blackened corpses in the courtyard of the Old Citadel, lying amid puddles of their melted armor.

Ah, Campas, she thought. You’re right in a way, but what do you know about your descendants? We’ve chosen them to carry our message, and their future is fixed. First we’ll give them the tools to conquer the planet, and then they’ll do it. The Elva trading stations will be sent farther and farther abroad, garrisoned with troops brought across the water; and then there will be wars with natives and more troops, and then colonies and domination, and in the end the word the Igarans have come to spread will blanket the planet, spread on a wave of Elva conquest. Your descendants will be born into the most viable culture for such a mission, and they have been chosen by us for their part, poor puppets, before they were ever birthed. Your people have a destiny to fulfill, whether they like it or not, and I am a part of their destiny.

I have brought knowledge, she thought, and I have also brought the butchery with which the knowledge will be spread.

She took a deep breath, then straightened, her head spinning. She smelled of sweat and fear, and she wished she dared have a bath, but that would mean taking off her privy-coat and that would be too dangerous — Tegestu might yet decide she was too great a threat to let her survive. She decided instead to attempt a few hours’ rest, then assemble her baggage and ride to Necias’ camp. It was obvious enough that her mission here had ended.

She turned and began her journey to her quarters. As she rose to its level, she saw a Classanu knocking politely on her door. He was the same dignified, armored old man she had seen in Tegestu’s chamber; he turned at her footsteps and bowed.

“Ilean Ambassador,” he said. “Bro-demmin Tegestu sent me to you with a message. I had hoped to find you here.”

She moved past him to open the door to her sitting room. “Please enter,” she said. “You are, ilean... ?” The questioning was automatic: she tried to remember the name of everyone she encountered — it was recommended for achieving rapport.

“I am Thesau, Ambassador,” the old man said with a bow. “I am a Classanu of the first rank, and personal servant to lord Tegestu.”

Fiona summoned a polite smile. “Please sit down, ilean Thesau,” she said. “I will hear your message.”

“Forgive me, ilean, I do not think I should sit,” Thesau said with an apologetic look. “The message is of great importance.”

Fiona straightened, feeling herself scowl: she’d had quite enough of important messages from Tegestu. “Very well,” she said.

The old man’s face was grave. “Bro-demmin drandor Tegestu says that he is aware that he owes you a life,” he said. “He hopes you will be satisfied with his, and not hold angu against his household. He is willing to surrender his life at any time, but he begs your indulgence for a few days. He has announced his intention of voluntarily drinking poison, and following bro-demmin Grendis to Ghanaton.”

Fiona felt surprise strike her with almost physical force, and she looked at Thesau sharply. Why would Tegestu kill himself now, at the height of his triumph? Perhaps he was simply trying to buy himself time. Well, if that were the case, let him have his time, his schemes. Tegestu had used her as his instrument, and the knowledge was bitter to her: but she would not seek a petty revenge on his life.

“This is acceptable to me, but I will consult my superiors,” she said. “They will decide these matters, not I. Bro-demmin Tegestu may do as he wishes: my duty is only obedience, as is yours.” She did not relish her speech, or its effects on the bent old man holding vigil over his wife’s bedside, but she suspected it would not be politically wise to let Tegestu off entirely — it would simply be an invitation for the natives to involve her people in their wars and feuds whenever they pleased — so she would let him sweat for a few hours, or days, before she informed him that her superiors did not demand his life.

Thesau’s eyes widened slightly at her words, perhaps at the Brodaini-ness of it; then, without a word, he bowed and withdrew.

Fiona wandered into her bedroom and stretched herself on the soft feather mattress, feeling relief swim into her limbs. She closed her eyes, seeing again the courtyard of the Old Citadel with its dead scattered like firescorched leaves — no, there would be no sleep, not now.

She would try to compose her thoughts, and then send a full report to the ship. Let them handle it: her own reactions were too dazed, too full of immediate sensation.

Tegestu, she thought, his image floating in her mind. Damn him.

He had won his damned war, hadn’t he?

CHAPTER 32

Hamila, his eyes showing no emotion, glanced at the dispatch the messenger had carried from Tegestu’s headquarters, then handed the message to his translator, whose eyes widened as he spoke.

“Cenors-stannin,” he said. “We have received word from the rebels in the Brodaini Quarter of Neda. Tastis and his children, at the orders of his aldran, have taken poison, and the aldran is now negotiating with bro-demmin Tegestu for surrender under the terms of the Agreement.”

Necias saw the ambassadors’ heads turning and heard the sudden babble of voices — and felt an immediate surge of triumph. Despite the ambassadors’ almost unanimous opposition to the Agreement he, as chairman of the Elva, had signed with Tegestu last night on the barge, Necias knew that it, and the Hundred-Year Peace, would prevail.

He wiped his brow. The small room on his barge smelled of sweat, of spilled drink and food gone stale. It had been a long meeting, and it had taken until hours past midnight for the balance to finally swing his way.

The Agreement possessed one giant obstacle, and for hours Necias had been smashing at it with all the persuasion he could muster. Tegestu would keep Calacas, and as head of a sovereign Brodaini government, subject to no one. Necias had released the Arrandal Brodaini from their vows of obligation, and with the hope that the other Elva cities would do likewise. Tegestu’s new government would become a part of the Elva, with special functions.

The Brodaini would be obligated by treaty to maintain a force of fifty thousand fighters, to be deployed as the Elva saw fit, by majority vote of the Elva’s cities. It was a vast army, forever at the Elva’s disposal, able easily enough to crush the forces of any individual city that opposed the Elva’s will, and able to swing the balance in any war of coalitions. The ambassadors had begun to count on their fingers, and had been appalled.

The dozen or so men composing the Neda-Calacas Government-in-Exile had, as one, shrieked with choleric outrage; but neither they nor the Elva ambassadors, all of whom took their part, could suggest any remedy to the alternative, which, as Necias pointed out, involved the continuation of a war in which the civilian population of Calacas would be caught in the middle — and which would also involve war in every city in the Elva, as the Brodaini revolted against their lords.

Gradually, without saying it in so many words, Necias had begun asking the ambassadors whether the cause of an native government in Calacas was worth the chance of losing their own cities... and, just as gradually, Necias had some of them at least considering the question when he’d made his next point.

Tegestu had informed him, just the night before, that drandor Astapan of Prypas had placed his forces under Tegestu’s command, and that Tanta and his whole force would soon be marching to Neda to reinforce Tegestu’s army. Since Necias’ own government considered the Agreement binding until such time as the Elva ambassadors all received instructions from their governments to vote it down, he would withdraw his own forces from the area of Neda-Calacas and go home, as he put it, to “prepare for the inevitable civil unrest that would follow a disavowal of the Agreement.”

Which left them all madly counting heads once more. If Necias withdrew his forces, that would leave only General Handipas’ Prypas forces present, to cope with the united forces of Tegestu, Tanta, and (presumably) Tastis’ own surviving people. With such odds any dissenters would have no hope of enforcing their point of view, at least not till after the late autumn winds brought their own reinforcements, and by that time there would be civil war throughout the Elva, with Tegestu and his available Brodaini firmly holding Calacas and at least most of Neda.

Handipas leaped up to object, wincing at the pain from his bound ribs — he’d had three horses cut out from under him in the fighting — and he ranted about the desertion; but it had all been wind and everyone knew it. Necias saw the despairing looks in the eyes of the Government-in-Exile, and knew he could safely disregard them in the future — they had no force with which to dispute any conclusion come to by the rest of the Elva. He saw also the calculating looks in the Elva ambassadors’ eyes; and Necias knew the ambassadors were prepared to sell Calacas for whatever silver button Necias might care to offer.

He had been about to proffer his button when the messenger had come to Hamila, who had been watching the turmoil of the meeting with his interpreter muttering in his ear, and the announcement of the last rebels’ surrender filled the room. “Under terms of the Agreement,” the message had concluded; and Necias thought that as the old Brodaini resumed his seat he saw a glitter of pleasure in his eyes. Necias could barely restrain himself from leaping onto the table to dance a jig. Instead he nodded profoundly, as if the news only confirmed what he had already suspected, and rapped on the table for order.

“Cenors-stannin, I’m sure this only confirms the wisdom of the Agreement, hey?” he said. “Tastis’ aldran would never have ordered his suicide and started surrender talks if we hadn’t shown a little flexibility.” And when he saw one of the Government-in-Exile’s people begin to boil over, Necias swiftly changed the subject.

“There will be some disruption, of course, and we of the Elva must unite to make things as smooth as possible,” he said. “Those inhabitants of Calacas who won’t wish to live under Brodaini rule will have to be settled elsewhere, and Neda can’t take them all. Also, thousands of Brodaini, their dependents, and all their goods will have to be moved from the other Elva cities to Calacas, hey? The Brodaini have inherited a war fleet from Tastis, but they’re all galleys good only for coastal work and they don’t have any merchant vessels to speak off — so someone’s going to have to rent them transport. Also, the Brodaini will be in dire need of foodstuffs for the journey, and probably until they’re settled in on their new lands, and someone will have to sell them food. I propose that we should reach an agreement on this as soon as possible.”

There: the silver button. Profits to be made on transport and supplies, brokerage commissions to be earned settling Calacas refugees. He saw the looks the ambassadors began giving one another, and he knew it was time to end the meeting. Necias knew he had won enormous cimmersan from this Agreement, that his momentum had slowly gathered and was now unstoppable: he had won, and the future was his.

Thank you, friend Tegestu, he thought; and he stifled a laugh at the irony of his thought, that he would ever thank such a man for such a favor.

“It’s been a long night, cenors-stannin,” he said, “and a difficult day for us all. I propose we adjourn for the present, and meet again tomorrow noon. Those in favor?”

“We need to settle the matter of Calacas first,” Handipas snapped, with a chorus of panicked assent from the Provisional Government:

Necias pursed his lips doubtfully, enjoying his charade. “Cenors-stannin,” he said, “I doubt we can settle anything tonight. It’s very late. Best make a fresh start in the morning.”

“Are we in principle going to support the surrender of an Elva city?” Handipas shouted, banging his cup on the table. “The Brodaini got it by treachery — how do we know they’ll stop with conquest of the one? How do we know they’re not simply uniting their forces in order to seize the whole continent? How do we know Neda isn’t next?”

Necias was ready with his answers, but it was the Cartenas ambassador who rose to his feet and shouted Handipas down. “Because they can’t even feed themselves as it is!” he said. “They’ll be dependent on us for generations! If they misbehave we can starve them!” He, Necias thought, had been easy to convince: his city was in civil turmoil after the assassination of their Abeissu and the resulting scramble of merchant houses frantically putting together coalitions and purging their enemies, and Cartenas in its current fragile condition would all too easily be shattered by an assault from the Brodaini quarter. Necias could scarcely keep himself from laughing out loud — if he could adjourn the meeting now, he thought, the other Elva cities would sell out Calacas before breakfast. Even Handipas was unsupported by anyone else in the Prypas delegation.

“Adjourn! Adjourn!” The other ambassadors were banging the table and glaring at Handipas. Handipas turned white with anger and folded his arms, eyes burning outrage. Necias called the meeting to an end.

The delegates were quick to take their leave — eager, Necias thought, to begin to turn the new political reality to a profitable account. The Government-in-Exile left with Handipas, looking with bitter resentment over their shoulders as they left. Necias leaned back in his massive chair, stretching his spine and shoulders, then signaled to the servants to pour the last cup of wine.

“Beg pardon, Abeissu,” one of the guards murmured. “Ambassador Fiona wishes to see you.”

“Now?” Necias gulped wine, wondering what he should do, and how he could avoid a meeting.

“She’s been waiting for some time, Abeissu. She wished a private audience.”

Necias gnawed his lower lip. Fiona had to know that he’d had a part in throwing her to Tastis, and the woman had enormous power and an unknown capacity for revenge. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Gods, how to get rid of her? How to get rid of all her people and their danger?

He didn’t know, he thought: he’d have to find out more about her. And until then he couldn’t simply avoid her — she’d get through to him somehow; and if it were revenge she was after, she’d get it without his permission.

Gods, he thought with a shudder, if all he’d heard was true she could burn his barge at its moorings, with all aboard her. He pictured for a terrified, fascinated moment the fireblasts mounting higher, the melting tar raining down from the rigging, his own face and hands blackening in the flames as Fiona stood on the bank, sending her lightnings down...

Put the best face possible on it, he thought, feeling a desperate nausea oozing into his belly. We knew she wouldn’t come to harm, didn’t we? he thought, feeling sweat speckling his brow.

He took another swallow of wine. “Send her in,” he said.

She entered all in black, her hood drawn tight around her face. Her eyes glittered the lamplight; they seemed fevered, not entirely human — transformed, perhaps by what they’d seen, into the eyes of a bird of prey. He rose from his seat and put on a smile.

“Ambassador!” he cried. “Please forgive the untidiness — big doings here tonight, hey?” He propped his arms on his hips, fighting joy as he watched those predator eyes with sickly fascination. She could burn me in an instant, he thought. “I’m glad to see you safe!” he boomed; and wondered if, in his nervousness, he was speaking too loudly.

“You knew,” she said, levelly. He felt his mental rhythms skip a beat at the accusation. His nerves froze. Divine Pastas, he thought, help me.

Necias forced his face into a beaming, benevolent smile. “You were in no danger, I’m sure — if Tegestu had thought there was actual danger to you, I’m certain he would have—”

“You knew,” she repeated. “You and Tegestu used me in your squalid, parochial little war; you deliberately compromised my neutrality, and to my cost.”

“To end the war, Ambassador,” Necias said. His muscles shrieked with the effort to keep the smile on his face. “To end the war, to prevent civil war in all the Elva. We need peace, Ambassador enventan, if we are to listen to your wisdom.”

Fiona took a step closer, her head cocked, her eyes unblinking. “Tegestu,” she said, “offered me his life in apology. What does Abeissu Necias offer me?”

Necias felt his blood freeze. It had to be the truth; Tegestu would offer his life like that, the cold-blooded cunning old murderer. Necias licked his lips. “Ambassador...” he said, and then shook his head.

“I want,” Fiona said, “a building to use as an embassy. I want to be able to hire my own servants and guards — the guards will be Brodaini, I think; Tegestu’s successors will be happy enough to loan them to me. I want permission to bring two more Igaralla into the city, and with the understanding that they may travel anywhere without restriction, and speak to anyone within your area of influence without interference. I also would like permission to open a school.”

Necias looked at her dully. They will come, he thought, they will come, perhaps to overwhelm us as the Brodaini threatened to overwhelm us. Impossible to stop them, as long as they have such power, holding over us their bludgeon of knowledge that none of us dares to allow others to possess alone, lest it make them too powerful. “What sort of school?” he asked.

“An academy of,” she paused for a brief second, as if she were performing a difficult mental act of translation. “Let’s call it... practical philosophy. Teaching useful application of mathematics, philosophy, logic, rhetoric... similar to your academies of rhetoric, but with an emphasis on application rather than theory.”

“You will teach your own — your own system of mechanics?” Necias asked, meaning her systems of communication, of travel... and of war. What demons’ knowledge did she intend to bring to Arrandal?

A slight shake of the head. “No.” Confidently. “We teach no new knowledge, only modes of thought suitable to discovery of new knowledge.”

And what, Necias wondered, did that mean? He sighed, lowering himself onto his settee. “Very well,” he said.

“I will give an agreement in writing to your people tomorrow,” Fiona said. “I hope it will have your signature by nightfall.”

“Of course, of course.” Waving his hand hopelessly. He would submit to the inevitable with as much grace as possible.

For the first time Fiona allowed herself a thin smile. “Thank you, Necias Abeissu. Perhaps some good will come out of this disaster after all.” She bowed, Brodaini fashion, and wished him good-night.

He could not find the energy to rise at her departure. A moment ago he had been gleeful, thinking of himself as the inventor of the future, of the Elva, of the Hundred-Year Peace... and how he knew differently, He was watching the future leave his cabin, small, black-garbed, and confident, with the burning eyes of a killer.

He looked down at his huge, capable hands, the hands that had been unable to keep a grip on tomorrow… I am old, he thought, for the first time. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions.

She has won, he thought, and clutched the table as his mind, unable to help itself, rode a long, turbulent river into a tomorrow over which he had lost all control.

CHAPTER 33

A sweet hymn of the autraldi filled the small domed chamber, a pleasant chapel in his borrowed deissu’s palace. Tegestu stood on a platform, gazing down at Grendis’ body laid before the altar in full armor, the badge of kamliss Dantu blazoned on her surcoat. She had slept, growing ever weaker, two days before infection had taken her; during that time she had never regained consciousness. Below, lain at her feet, were the bodies of those she had, with her sacrifice, triumphed over: Tastis, his son Aptan, his sister and two daughters, all ordered by his aldran to drink their cups of death, that they might with a clean slate begin their negotiations for surrender.

Look what you have accomplished, he thought, looking down at Grendis.

Soon, he thought, his mind soothed by the hymn. Soon I will join you. Have patience.

He looked up at the guests: Acamantu and Cascan representing the aldran, important welldrani and staff, representatives from the kamlissi of Arrandal, autraldi to sing the rites. All had their hair unbraided, styled in the long, elaborate ringlets of the Brodaini, for the war was over. The Elva ambassadors had, in principle, accepted the Agreement over the objections of the Government-in-Exile. Within the next few years all the exiled Brodaini would be living in their new home.

The hymn ended, and the amen chorused by all. Tegestu raised his head.

“Listen, O cousins, to my testament,” he said. He took the scroll handed him by Thesau, opened it, and read it into respectful silence.

It consisted of his political wishes for the future Brodaini state of Calacas, and he knew that such was his prestige now it would be obeyed to the letter. In it he admonished his successors to live in peace with the Elva, and obey the pact by which they would furnish the Elva soldiers. This, he knew, was the only way Calacas would survive its first few years.

He also made mention of the specific political ordering of the city. The Brodaini aldran would constitute the supreme authority within the state — but Tegestu knew that the tidy social structure of a homeland Brodaini kamliss would never work here. The city’s population was too large, too diverse, and too ethnically polarized; and furthermore Tegestu knew that for Calacas to survive and prosper, it needed to retain most of its native population.

Necias and the rest of the Elva thought, no doubt, that Tegestu would dispose of the political machinery Tastis had set in place in his cities, and rule as dictator. Instead Tegestu proposed to use the machinery rather than abolish it.

The Denorru-Censtassin, for example, the Council of the Populace. It embraced a far wider spectrum of the population than the Denorrin-Deissin of the other Elva states, and was more suitable for conveying their needs and desires to the aldran, and in return for conveying the aldran’s wishes to the population. The League of Journeymen within the guild structure was likewise useful, and would remain, though its power would be curtailed. The masters’ wills would remain balanced against the journeymen; with the Brodaini aldran always standing between, holding the balance of power.

With the journeymen granted a share of power, Tegestu thought, the masters would be forced to treat them fairly, and pay them a fair wage guaranteed by the aldran. That, Tegestu thought, would attract journeymen from all over the Elva: Calacas could take its pick, choosing only the most skilled and talented. That would, in the end, raise the quality of Calacas goods.

The Brodaini, with their expertise in crafting arms and armor, were far advanced over the Elva in the arts of metallurgy. With their advantage in the working of metals combined with their attracting the finest in craftsmen, Tegestu expected Calacas would prosper under Brodaini guidance. The other Elva states, who expected Calacas to be dependent on them for decades to come, might well be surprised at how soon Calacas recovered, and established itself as a successful rival.

“I believe that my successors will choose welldrani wisely, and represent all kamlissi in the new state,” he said, reading from his scroll. “I hope they will choose, as their new drandor, some one of them familiar with this new land, and familiar with the new ways necessary to live here in harmony. I recommend to you my son Acamantu, who is a proven commander, and wise in the ways of the people who live in Calacas and in this land.”

He saw Acamantu straighten at the mention of his name. Tegestu had drafted most of his testament with his son’s consultation, as well as that of Cascan and other representatives of his coalition, but this had been a clause kept secret till now.

Acamantu would, he knew, be the new drandor, despite his youth. The aldran would never go against his wishes in a matter of this sort.

And that, truly, was why Tegestu would drink his cup. The new Brodaini state would require new leadership, not an old man who looked always to the past, to the land he could never regain and would never see again. It would need someone raised among local conditions, who was familiar with them and who, in fact, knew nothing else. Survival, Tegestu thought, survival with demmin. That is all-important.

He would retire honorably, of his own free will, and in triumph.

“I recommend also to the aldran my servant Thesau,” he read on. “Ilean Thesau has shown himself to be outstanding among those of his rank, with a full understanding of the arts of war and of demmin. My shade would be pleased were it to hear that ilean Thesau, his wife, and all his descendants be granted the rank of Brodaini, and be honored as such for their lifetimes and the lifetimes of their descendants’ descendants.”

He heard a gasp from Thesau and smiled to himself; Thesau would protest he was not worthy, that it was too late to begin life anew as a Brodainu. That, he thought fondly, might be true: but I do this for your children, and to honor your memory, old friend.

His final wishes referred to his household pets. He hoped the cats would find good homes, and wished that his old hound Yellowtooth would have his final days eased by the loving attention of a new master appointed by the aldran. It was, perhaps, a little unusual to include dogs and cats among a warrior’s final wishes; but Tegestu had cherished his animals and cared for them, and the thought of his pets dispersed at random among uncaring households was more than he could bear.

“Keep always the name of Brodaini, and honor the memory of our ancestors,” Tegestu said, a standard admonishment but no less heartfelt for that. “Honor the gods, and seek to understand vail and demmin. Understand this land and its people, that our kind will survive. Witness this, cousins, under my hand and seal.”

He signed the document with his pen, sealed it, and handed it to one of the autraldi, who received it reverently for placement in the demmis-dru. There, he suspected, it would become a holy artifact, to be brought before the aldran at moments of great decision. My words, he thought, will guide them. Gods grant my words wisdom.

“A petition, bro-demmin.” This was Acamantu, coming forward to kneel with head bowed.

“Aye, ban-demmin, speak,” Tegestu said. This had not been planned; he wondered what could be so important as to interrupt his ceremonious death.

“We — the aldran — “ Acamantu started, then licked his lips and continued. “We beg you will accept an honorific, bro-demmin. We hope to gain your permission to call you Tegestu the Treacherous, in honor of your brilliant triumph.”

Caught by surprise, Tegestu grinned. “I accept the appellation,” he said, “though it give me too much demmin.”

Acamantu bowed again and returned to the ranks. Tegestu rose to his feet, the armor weighing him down, Thesau’s arm under his.

The autraldi began a hymn again, a paean to the blessed gods, and Tegestu walked down the steps of the platform to the bed where Grendis lay. He turned and held out his hand; and Thesau, his eyes brimming with tears, brought forward the silver cup. Tegestu took it and held it reverently up for the autraldi to bless; they did so, and Tegestu brought the cup to his lips.

Well, Death, he thought with a private grin. You must be pleased to see me at last, I who have eluded you for so long.

He took a breath, then drained the cup, feeling the narcotic numbness touching his throat with chill fingers. He gave the cup to the autraldu, who would put it in a family shrine for others of Pranoth to use at need, and then lay down on the bed next to Grendis.

He reached out for her armored hand, and took it. The poison was painless, he knew, and would take perhaps half an hour.

The hymns filled the domed chamber.

Grendis, he thought, soon I will hold you in my arms!

Patiently, as he had always waited patiently, he waited for his death.

CHAPTER 34

“Here,” Campas said. “I’d like you to read it.”

He held out a thick sheaf of papers, wrapped in a thick file-holder and tied carefully with white tape. Fiona took the bundle, then raised her gaze from the papers to her lover. He must have seen the question on her face, for he nodded.

“Yes.” He said. “I’m done.” His word, his new poetry, written on the long months of campaign.

“It went quickly at the end,” he said. “Once I’d found my way.”

“Thank you.” She looked down at the manuscript, touching the surface of its protective cover. He cleared his throat, uneasy.

“I’ll be in my quarters,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

She looked after him. “Thank you,” she said again; he gave an awkward wave and was gone.

Outside, through the window of the apartment she had rented in Neda, she heard the sound of marching feet as mercenary pikemen, dismissed from Necias’ service, took their leave of the city, heading for the southern baronies and, they hoped, employment there. The soldiers were leaving, some on foot, others by barge; only Necias and a few thousand of the Arrandal militia remained, to keep order in Neda until its government was capable of doing the job itself.

Wind whined through her shutters, burying briefly the sound of the marching pikemen. The winds were shifting to the north; within days the autumn storms would have arrived. She was glad she was returning to Arrandal the leisurely way, by the canals, and not by ocean-going ship.

She was waiting only for the arrival of two more of her people, the new ambassadors for Neda and Calacas, who were preparing for their tasks on the orbiting ship above. She would introduce them to the new rulers of the cities, Acamantu, who seemed almost certain to be chosen drandor of Calacas, and to whoever would be chosen as the Abessu-Denorru of Neda. She would spend a few grateful weeks with them, speaking her own language to her own kind, and then take her barge to her own post...

Where Necias had guaranteed her access to the city, to all Arrandal’s domains and dependencies, and, most importantly, to the minds of his people, through her academy. It was there that the future would be built, the foundations laid for the scientific investigation of their world, indeed the universe, by Arrandal’s citizens. And, as well as investigation, less honorable things: exploitation, conquest, domination. The two faces of the progress she symbolized, and was here to encourage.

Fiona moved to a comfortable settee and untied the tape on the package, slipping the sheaf of manuscript out of its protective cover. The title was written in Campas’ neat secretarial hand. Songs for the Star People.

Fiona blinked.

So, she thought, he had taken her words to heart, to write his verse not to fit the fashion of the time, but to embrace a universal audience. She set down the title page on the settee next to her, and read.

The wind howled, and the first tentative drops of rain splattered down on the shutters. She paid them no attention; she read languidly, absorbing every word, every turn of phrase, until she placed the last leaf on its pile, and then she only stared quietly ahead of her, not seeing the details of the room, her mind still resonating with the power of Campas’ verse.

It was, she thought, brilliant; but brilliant seemed an inadequate description, the word itself a failure of the imagination.

It started with a series of short poems speculating about the inhabitants of other worlds, trying to see them in Abessla terms, describing them in terms of nature, of legend, of styles of perception and of emotion — trying to define, not simply what they were, but how they related to the Abessla, and how much they shared a common humanity.

This merged gradually into a second theme, a series of longer verses relating complex ideas. Many of them were addressed to a lover, and in addition to presenting a sophisticated picture of a loving relationship between two intelligent, independent, and very different people — from ecstasy to puzzled misunderstanding, from resentment back to ecstasy again — there was added the element of the lover’s alienness, her estrangement from customs and values the poet had considered universal. There were jangling elements of discord introduced, the poet’s resentments of the lover’s accomplishments and knowledge, angry, naked jealousy as the poet, condemned to mortality, considered his lover’s extended youth, and her extended old age as well, culminating an unearthly wisdom the poet could not hope to match.

The third section, long verse meditations, resolved the conflicts. The poet had learned acceptance; he had learned to seize what joy and wisdom he could from his experience; he understood that his knowledge was far from whole, far from, universal; and yet he was proud of the knowledge and understanding that, in his flawed life, he had achieved. He understood that he would, in the end, have to let his lover go; and he had achieved acceptance of that idea, and found himself at peace with it.

The final verse was a hymn, a brief lyric that praised the gods for creating the universe in all its diversity, and for populating it with people. And lastly it praised the human race itself, for achieving knowledge, for gaining wisdom, and most importantly for being able to bridge the gaps between nations and peoples, and between the stars themselves, with a commonality of humanness.

Fiona took a breath, the conception, the scope of Campas’ achievement overwhelming her. Songs for the Star People was a masterwork — no, not simply that, but a definitive work. It was unlike anything the Abessla poets had done before, and its publication would transform poetic thought. Future poets would either imitate, or react against it, for generations.

And when their descendants finally achieved the stars, Fiona knew, they would take this work with them, to help them speak to any they might find of the scattered children of Terra.

Fiona took up the manuscript and pressed it to her. I, in some way, have inspired this, she thought.

Whatever else she might accomplish here, whatever brilliant graduates her academy might produce, she would never achieve a greater success. Here was something she could point to with joy: an accomplishment that never hated, that did not exploit, that did not conquer, but which strove through the bridge of art to connect the diverse threads of humanity and find a common bond between them.

Wrapping the manuscript in its folder and tape, she rose from the settee to find Campas. For the first time in months she was filled with satisfaction and joy, and she wanted to tell him so.

THE END

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APPENDIX: GLOSSARY OF FOREIGN TERMS

I

The Abessas language: The Abessas language is spoken over much of the great northern plain of Echidne, including the city of Arrandal as well as Cartenas and Calacas (though not, originally, in Neda, which was spared the original Abessas conquest.). “Abessas,” as a political concept, exists no more than did the concept of a “Germany” prior to 1871.

Abessas is a highly inflected language, with a complex variety of case declensions and verb forms: many nouns possess gender, though a majority are neutral. Due to the Abessas conquest of an aboriginal population speaking a different language, Abessas has become polluted (or enriched, depending on one’s perspective) with a variety of foreign words, particularly place-names, that do not fit into either of the two major declensions and are thus irregular. (“Arrandal” is an example of this.) Like modern German, Abessas permits, by the seemingly random stringing together of nouns with other nouns, pronouns, and even verbs, the creation of compound nouns (Abessu-Denorru, cenors-efellsan). Abessas nouns are usually pronounced with the accent on the penultimate syllable: eFELLsan, BEGgru, AcRAGas. Exceptions have been marked with an accent.

Abeissu pl. Abeissin - Common abbreviation for Abessu-Denorru

Abessu-Denorru pl. Abessin-Denorru: Literally “Community Speaker.” Chief administrative official of a Denorru-Deissin, principal oligarch of a city. Abbreviated “Abeissu.”

Amil-Deo: “Wheel of fortune.” A philosophical abstract assuring the rise and fall of human societies, lords, families, fashion and so forth. An instrument of boonan.

Anildas: Acquisitiveness; desire for display and property; urge toward conspicuous consumption. Considered a desirable quality.

Beggru pl. Beggrin: A merchant house, usually consisting of one extended family, headed by a Deissu.

Boonan: Evolution, change. Boonan is considered inevitable, and usually for the better.

Boonan-re: Progress, considered as a beneficial quality necessary to human betterment.

Cenors-stannan pl. cenors-stannin: Literally “most fortunate,” a term of high respect.

Cenors-efellsan: Literally “most advantaged,” a term of awed respect applied only to the very powerful.

Cenors-censto pl. cenors-censtinno: Senior, or most favored, wife. Hostess.

Cimmersan: Advantage, initiative.

Deissu (pl. Deissin): Oligarch, merchant prince. Usually the head of a large trading house, or beggru.

Deo: Wealth, honor, moral advantage.

Demro: Earth. Native name for home planet.

Denorru-Deissin pl. Denorrin-Deissin: City council, ruling board of oligarchs.

Dinessu pl. Diné: Hustler, merchant, “little deissu.” Familiar term of affectionate respect.

Elfellsan: Commercial advantage.

Elva: A long-term alliance, as contrasted with Ghilta. Also, marriage as opposed to concubinage.

Elva vor Denorru-Dorsu: Literally “Alliance of/for Community of Interest.” A trading federation of major cities, formed to maintain monopolies, assure political stability, and exploit unused markets.

Enventan: Gentleman of leisure. A term of respect. Also, an abbot or high-ranking priest.

Envo-Deo: Favored by fortune. “Lucky bastard.”

Flenssu pl. Flenssin: Mercenary. A term often used with disrespect, not because they fight for money but rather because of a reputation for unreliability.

Ghilta pl. Ghiltin: Friendship, alliance for political or commercial gain. Assumed to be short-term, in order to secure temporary advantage, as opposed to Elva.

Klossila pl. Klossilin: “Romantics,” followers of an anti-commercial, pro-agrarian philosophical and artistic movement developed by city intelligentsia.

Lariman pl. Larimin: Dotard, old fool.

Mallanto pl. Mallantinno: A large, predatory bird native to Echidne, living principally on shellfish (for the consumption of which it possessed a hooked beak and opposed talons), but also on small animals and fish, and living principally on seacoasts. Also, the heraldic symbol for the city of Arrandal.

Ozannu pl. Ozanni: Cuckold. A vicious insult.

Partillo pl. Partillinno: Wives’ quarters. Harem.

Reygran: Competition, “free enterprise” Considered morally beneficial.

Scottu pl. Scottin: Bumpkin, country clown. Used insultingly to describe feudal barons.

Stansisso pl. Stansissinno: Literally “goodwife:” A term of respect applied to a married woman.

II

The Gostu language: Gostu is spoken by the Brodaini families of the northern continent, and by their dependents. Gostu, unlike Abessas, is not a greatly inflected language: instead of cases and verb forms, Gostu depends on a wide variety of compound and periphrastic expressions, prepositional phrases, and a syntax of word order that generally takes precedence over case. Many of the translations given here are approximate, partly because certain Gostu concepts (hostu, vail) are rather vague to begin with, but chiefly because many concepts in use among the Brodaini will not translate in all their meanings.

Gostu, like Abessas, allows the creation of compound nouns with new meanings, created by stringing other words together. The “ch” sound is hard, as in loch. Gostu words are generally accented heavily on the first syllable (not counting prefixes), with a secondary accent on the third syllable, if there is one: TEGestu, DEMmin, MENingil.

Achadan: Earth; the Gostu name for their home planet.

“Aiau!”: An exclamation of surprise or approval.

Aldran: The body of elders ruling a kamliss.

An-demmina: The act of losing one’s honor, becoming ar-demmin. See demmin.

An-hosta: Change, evolution, disharmony. An evil condition. See hosta.

An-vaila: Gross disharmony, satanic evil. See vail.

Angu: Blood feud.

Ar-demmin pl. ar-demmini: Honorless, outcast. See demmin.

Aspistu: Vengeance, considered as an art. Also, the religious cult of vengeance.

Autraldu pl. Autraldi: Literally “incorruptible.” Priests, usually proved warriors, appointed to guard the demmis-dru.

Ban-demmin pl. ban-demmini: “Honored,” a term of polite respect. See demmin.

Bearni: Mercenaries. A term of insult, as mercenaries fight for pay rather than for the acquisition of demmin.

Bohau: A large stringed instrument, played with a plectrum. A 3-stringed, horizontal bass fiddle.

Brodainu pl. Brodaini: A member of the warrior class, the highest caste of Gostandu society. Often used incorrectly by the Abessla to describe both the Brodaini and their dependents.

Bro-demmin pl. Bro-demmini: “Most honored,’’ a term of high respect. Use of bro-demmin, as opposed to ban-demmin, implies acknowledging the fact of higher status, or greater authority, than oneself. See demmin.

Cambranu pl. Cambrani: Spy. Among Brodaini, an honorable occupation

Canlan pl. Canlani: Liege lord.

Cathrelku:. Chief of bodyguards.

Cathrunu pl. Cathruni: Bodyguard

Classanu pl. Classani: “Servant,” a member of the second class of Gostandu society. In addition to providing personal servants to the Brodaini, Classani form an auxiliary military force.

Clattern pl. Clatterni: Kinglet, prince. A chieftain owed allegiance by more than one clan.

Clattern-y-Clatterni: “King of kings,” a recently-invented title assumed by the conquering overlord of Gostandu, and not recognized by the Gostandi exiles such as the Brodaini of Arrandal.

Dai-terru: Overreaching, attempting to gain more demmin than required by the situation or by one’s status.

Demmin: Honor, in its peculiarly Brodaini sense, meaning also correctness, advantage, esteem, self-worth. Required for status in warrior society. Related etymologically to demmis-dru, shemmina; see also an-demmina, ar-demmin, ban-demmin, bro-demmin, kamliss-demmin, demmin-drax.

Demmin-drax: Gaining demmin at the expense of another’s demmin.

Demmis-dru: Holy place; household shrine, where wills, secret documents, treaties, etc., are kept under the protection of gods, ancestral spirits, and the autraldi.

Dentraldu: The head of the autraldi.

Drandor: Literally “eldest.” The leader of a kamliss, elected for life by the aldran.

Ghanaton: The Brodaini afterlife, a bleak, bloodless, shadowy land where status is granted the shades of the dead based on the amount of honor rendered them by the living.

Gostandu (1): The land of the Gostu-speakers, i.e., the homeland of the Brodaini and their dependents. A recently-invented term, coined because of the need for the Clattern-y-Clatterni to describe the place he was king of. (Previous to the uniting of the continent, Gostandu rulers would have described themselves as being from a particular geographic area, or simply as being a member of a governing kamliss.)

Gostandu (2) pl. Gostandi: A native of Gostandu.

Hostu: Stasis, perfection. An ideal earthly condition, a manifestation of vail.

Hostlu pl. Hostli: A tradesman or merchant, member of the lowest class of Gostandu society. Often used as an insult. Ar-demmin almost by definition.

Ilean: “Sir,” “Madam.” A term of polite respect, accorded by Brodaini to Classani, Meningli, foreigners, and others assumed to lack proper understanding of demmin.

Kamliss pl. Kamlissi: Clan, extended family, normally consisting of all four classes of Gostandu society. On their native continent a surviving kamliss has claim to territory: previous to the appearance of the Clattern-y-Clatterni the territory was sovereign unless its drandor had made himself vassal to a canlan from another clan.

Kamliss-demmin: Clan honor.

Kantu-kamliss: Literally “clan-matter.” Kantu-kamliss is a religious taboo invoked to guard diplomatic correspondence between a clan and its ambassadors, with the intent of its preventing dispatches from being read by outsiders.

Lersru pl. Lersri: Assassin. In times of war or declared angu, an honorable occupation.

Meninglu pl. Meningli: Peasant. A member of the third rank of Gostandu society. The Meningli constitute a reserve military force used only in dire emergency; thus the term “summon the Meningli” has a colloquial meaning indicating extreme urgency.

Mardan-clannu: “Thrust of mercy,” coup de grace.

Nartil: Fealty, service, obligation, respect, custom, justice, lawsuit. Usually referring to the mainstay of Gostandu society, the law of obedience, obligation, and respect.

Repinu pl. Repini: Literally “spearman.” Colloquially a term of affection, like “doughboy” or “grognard.” Ordinary soldiers.

Shemmina: Noticing something beneath one’s notice, or killing (noticing) a person whose death cannot bring one honor because he is honor-less himself. (Killing below one’s station.)

Tedec: A five-stringed relative of the guitar or lute.

Tolhostu: Propriety, dignity, gravity. The Brodaini art of proper public performance.

Vail: Approximate translations include “harmony,” “heaven,” “tao.” An ideal condition in which human and cosmic forces are in perfect alignment.

Welldran pl. Welldrani: Literally “elder.” Person, old or young, chosen to sit on the aldran by a vote of its members.

Whelkran pl. Whelkrani: Officer commanding at least 100 soldiers. The term is usually followed by a number to indicate the precise delineation of status and authority, i.e., “a whelkran of five hundreds.”

Other Books by Walter Jon Williams

Novels

Hardwired

Knight Moves

Voice of the Whirlwind

Days of Atonement

Aristoi

Metropolitan

City on Fire

Ambassador of Progress

Angel Station

The Rift

Implied Spaces

Divertimenti

The Crown Jewels

House of Shards

Rock of Ages

Dread Empire's Fall

The Praxis

The Sundering

Conventions of War

Investments

Dagmar Shaw Thrillers

This Is Not a Game

Deep State

The Fourth Wall

Collections

Facets

Frankensteins & Foreign Devils

The Green Leopard Plague and Other Stories

Table of Contents

Copyright (c) 1984, 2012

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

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APPENDIX: GLOSSARY OF FOREIGN TERMS

Other Books by Walter Jon Williams