Mihae himself came, only a short while later. Two women were with him, which I thought odd. He called something up to Cillian, who frowned, and then responded with what sounded like a question. The conversation went back and forth, neither man sounding happy. I watched Mihae, seeing the change in his stance, the anger building in his body. I glanced at Turlo: he had seen it too. Quietly he reached for his sword, moving to stand beside Cillian. As I did, my hand on my secca.
Cillian said something, very firmly, an undercurrent of anger—real or feigned, I wasn't sure—in his voice now too. Mihae made a gesture of unwilling capitulation, and spat something. He gestured: come. Cillian held up a hand, saying something now in a conciliatory tone.
“He wanted Irmgard and her women,” he told us. “Fritjof apparently told him he would send women, pale women, Mihae said, and he thought we had brought them. He has no concept that we and Fritjof are not from the same people, in part because of this ship, I suppose. I cannot let him know Fritjof is an enemy, or they may not let us pass at all. “
“Aye,” Turlo said, “I can see that.”
“He has accepted, I hope, the story I have told him about Casil, but he will demand more tribute instead. I must speak to Irmgard, before we go. Sorley, tell Geiri to have the oarsmen on watch, with weapons to hand. I do not entirely trust Mihae.”
Mihae waited impatiently as Cillian spoke rapidly to Irmgard. He shouted something, after a minute or two. Cillian called something back, and then turned, smiling, apologetic. Practiced deference, I thought, watching him, insincere but convincing. It made me just slightly uncomfortable, seeing him do this, so apparently easily.
The men went off toward the centre of the town. The women Mihae had brought stayed, sitting cross-legged on the jetty, beside the ship. Why? Perhaps Mihae did not trust the men of the town to leave us unmolested, and the women's presence was to tell any man that we were not to be approached. I wasn't convinced by my own argument, though.
“Lady Irmgard,” I said, a minute or two later, “I am worried.” I explained about the women, below. “If we need guarding,” I said, “is the ship safe?”
“You think like a soldier,” she said. “I think like a woman who has had some experience of this. The women below are not guarding us from men; they are ensuring we do not leave this ship. Only they are allowed to be here with us, but there will be men not far away.”
I had not thought of that, and I told her so. “Your life has been different,” she said, shrugging. “I would not have thought of it either, not so long ago.”
I thought about how to frame the question I had. Just ask, I told myself. “Lady Irmgard, why did you react when Cillian suggested I pretend to be his wife? It is only a subterfuge.”
“Is it?” she asked. “Cillian na Perras is a man entitled to respect, honour, even, in his own land.”
“But we are not in his land, Lady,” I persisted, “and he is Cillian of the Empire, now.”
“And son to the Emperor, I understand? And so, a man of status?”
“No,” I said, a glimmer of comprehension appearing. “Emperors are elected. There may be expectations for their sons, but no predetermined status.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly doubting me. “Ask Turlo, if you do not believe me,” I offered. “And since status matters to you, you should know that my mother and my aunt are headwomen of my village.” Were, I thought, and pushed the idea away. I wondered why I was defending myself to her. It was not as if she could convey her doubts to anyone beyond our ship. But I did not want to make an enemy of her, and I did not want trouble with the Marai men.
“Would you be his wife, if you could?” she asked suddenly.
“In the Empire,” I said slowly, “we do not think in those terms. Men and women may pair, even for a lifetime,” I added, thinking of Turlo and his Arey, “but there is no formal agreement made. And they do not live together.”
“Not even in old age, should they both reach it?”
“No,” I answered slowly. “Not even then.” Why not? I wondered suddenly. Why not then? I had never thought of love extending to the end of life, but why would it not? I had made an unspoken promise to Cillian, and the nature of the promise meant we had to be together, until one of us died. And in the Empire I had left—and we were sworn to—that was not allowed.
“It seems a cruel way to live,” Irmgard observed.
“Perhaps,” I said. “It was all I knew.”
“We—Ǻsmund and I—held Cillian na Perras in high regard, the few times he came to King Herlief's hall, for his learning and his insight. And his wit,” she added. “A man with distances in him, to be sure, but good, amusing company.
“Fritjof treated him like a clerk,” I said.
“Fritjof!” She spat the name. “He cared nothing for civilised speech; he preferred drinking with his men. I cannot remember if he ever spoke to Cillian, or if he was even at the King's hall, when Cillian was there.” She calmed herself. “Of you, I thought, a soldier, a fisherwoman, yes?” I nodded. “What can she give him? And what does she want from him, other than to raise her status? She has no learning, no depth of thought: all she can offer is pleasure, which does not last.”
It was an apology of sorts. “Status was the last thing on my mind, Lady Irmgard,” I said. “It is just not how we think, in the Empire.”
“I can see that. And I see too that you are happy together. You remind me of Ǻsmund and myself.” She smiled, sadly.
“May I ask you something?” I said, impulsively.
“Go ahead.”
“Had you no children, Lady Irmgard?”
A flash of pain crossed her face. “Two,” she answered. “Two sons. Fritjof took them. Seven and eight, they are, my two boys.” There were tears in her eyes. “They are lost to me, and were before I fled.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “I should not have asked.”
“There is a price for all our choices,” she answered, head high, the princess again. “We leave something, or someone, behind, each time we choose.”
Very late, I heard the men return. I waited. After a while, Cillian came to our sleeping place on the deck. He leaned against the rail, bending to take off his boots. “What happened?” I whispered.
“Lena,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I thought you'd be asleep.” He lay down beside me. “Too much depends on my imperfect ability with a language I never expected to speak, let alone negotiate in,” he answered. “Being able to read ancient philosophers does not have much application here.”
“You should sleep,” I observed. He sounded discouraged, and worn out.
He shook his head. “I can't, not yet.”
“Turn over, onto your stomach.” He did as I asked, too weary to argue. Gently, I straddled his back, reaching forward to begin to massage the muscles of his shoulders and neck. I could feel the knots of tension under my hands. Cillian groaned as I dug my fingers in, and then sighed, a minute or two later. The tension was beginning to ease. I kept massaging, but with less pressure, hearing his breathing beginning to slow. Only when I was sure he was sleeping did I stop stroking his back. I slipped off him to pull the blanket up, and slid in beside him to be there when he woke.
Shouts from the guard woke us before dawn. We scrambled to our feet, reaching for weapons, gathering with Sorley and Turlo mid-deck. But there was no need. Marai oarsmen pursued three boys along the jetty, other men stood alert at each end of the ship, scanning for movement. I studied the harbour. I could see nothing that appeared threatening.
A man ran towards us from the town. I tightened my hold on my secca. “It's Mihae,” Cillian said. “Wait.” He stepped forward to meet the headman.
This hadn't been a serious attack. It hadn't been a distraction, either, to pull our men and attention away from the ship. Then, why? Only one possibility made sense: they had wanted us disturbed, woken far too soon. Cillian and Turlo had not slept until the early hours of the morning. Tired negotiators made mistakes. I said as
much to Turlo.
“Aye,” he said, “I expect you are right.”
We watched Cillian and Mihae talking, Mihae's face and hands indicating apology, regret. Cillian, stern and unsmiling, listened. Eventually he nodded, spoke, then turned to return to the ship.
“Mihae claims just an irresponsible band of boys, out for fun. One of them has a sword wound on his leg, for his enjoyment.”
“Do you believe him?” Sorley asked.
“No,” he said, “it was a ploy, I have no doubt. To complicate the negotiations. He'll expect us to ask for reparation for the attack, since he had placed the ship under his protection and failed, while they will ask for payment for the wounded boy.”
“Which they are not entitled to, as he attacked,” Turlo said. “But we will call the matter even, in the end, I expect.”
“Why are today's negotiations more difficult?” I asked. “What is different from last night?”
“Of course, the women do not know,” Turlo answered. “Forgive me, Lady Irmgard. It was too late last night to disturb you. I had meant to tell you over breakfast.”
“No matter,” Irmgard said. “But you will tell me now, please.”
“After much discussion,” Turlo said, “Mihae agreed to twenty-five percent of the amber and ivory we carry as his fee to allow us to leave.”
“You agreed to this?” she asked. I thought she looked upset.
“No,” Cillian answered. “I made it clear you had to approve.”
“This is more than I want to give,” she said. “I will need my treasure, in Casil.”
“We will not get to Casil,” Cillian said bluntly, “if you do not agree. Even with the oarsmen, Ǻdla, we would be easily overpowered. Perhaps this morning's feint was also to remind us of that.”
“I have no choice, then?” she murmured.
“Not truly,” Cillian said. “If it matters, Ǻdla, his first price was half.”
Sorley said something to her then, in Marái'sta. She looked uncertain for a moment, and then she nodded. “I accept,” she said. “Come speak with me, laerth, while I decide what to give?” He followed Irmgard to her part of the ship. I turned to Turlo.
“Do you have any idea of how long today's negotiations will take?” I asked.
“No, lassie, I don't. Much depends on the complexity of Mihae's demands, and our—Cillian's—ability to detect and respond to that complexity.” He shook his head. “Do not take this badly, lassie, but I am glad he was not negotiating our truce with Linrathe at Donnalch's side. We might not have done so well, had he been.”
“What is still to be decided?”
“An agreement of tariffs, for when ships begin to trade between our lands and Casil. It was what he offered in exchange for a reduction in the amount of treasure. “
“But—” I began.
“But trade is not our goal, the ships will never come, and we have no authority to do so?” Turlo supplied. “All correct, lassie. But we cannot let Mihae know that, or what our real mission is, and so we must go through these talks treating them seriously, paying attention to each detail as assiduously as we would if trade were our intent.”
“Hampered,” we heard Cillian say, as he joined us, “by a negotiator whose knowledge of trade agreements is nil, and is unsure of the precise terms and subtleties of the language.”
“Do not undervalue yourself,” Turlo said, sharply.
“Sorley,” Cillian said. “You must tell me the words I need. You know more about negotiating prices and tariffs than any of the rest of us. Come.” They walked to the rail, Cillian already focused on Sorley's explanations. I felt drained, from the rapid awakening, and the rush of energy needed, and then not needed. I went back to our sleeping area to sit. Maybe I could sleep again, but I doubted it. I closed my eyes, drifting.
“Lena,” Cillian, said, softly. I must have drowsed. I opened my eyes. He knelt beside me. “Before I forget. Meas, Lena, for last night.”
“For what? What did I do, Cillian?”
“Ah, käresta,” he replied. “Something no one has done for a very long time, not since my childhood, I believe. You saw what I needed, and you gave it to me, without question.”
Now was not the time to tell him of the dream by the riverbank. “Cillian, of course I did. Is that not what you have been doing for me, since the spring? It is what you do for someone you love.”
“I am still learning that,” he said softly. He smiled. “Thà mi gràh agäthe, Lena,” he said.
“Are you going to translate that?” I asked.
“I could leave you guessing,” he mused. “I had better go.”
“Cillian,” I said. “Turlo says your negotiations have been brilliant. You can do this.”
“Perhaps,” he replied. He was standing now. “About that translation...”
“Yes?”
“Nothing you do not know. Just I love you.”
Chapter Twelve
I did know. But he had never used those exact words before, and it mattered, somehow. Which, after I had blinked away the tears, took my thoughts down some unexpected paths. I found my journal, and my pen and ink, and after I heard the men leave, I sat on the deck to write.
I tried to sort out the inchoate ideas forming in my mind. About language, and meaning, and if all concepts were universal, and could be translated. About the gap between intent and comprehension, between what was meant and what was understood, and the assumptions and shared experience encompassed—or not—in any exchange.
I had stopped to flex my aching fingers when Sorley arrived back at the ship. “Lena,” he greeted me. “You are wanted, so I have been sent for you.”
“What for?” I asked.
“I am not sure. The negotiations are done, over the trade terms: Cillian was splendid today, firm and precise. I think he is growing comfortable speaking Casilan. Now it is all being written down. I will be needed then, to check the rates and terms, but until then, my job is to fetch you. But we have some time.”
I stood up, glancing over the rail of the ship. The tide was out. Birds probed in the exposed mud, and shellfish clung to rocks and pilings. It was all so familiar, and so foreign. Beyond the harbour, I could see water, deep blue, stretching out to the horizon. Sorley followed my gaze.
“Does it remind you of home?”
“A bit. A lot, in some ways.” I looked at the man beside me. “Sorley,” I asked, impulsively. “Why don't you hate me?”
He flushed. “I can't,” he said, not looking at me. “Cillian loves you. How could I hate anyone he loves? Anyhow, I like you, liked you before, at the Ti'ach, I mean. I told him to tell you I was glad it was you. Didn't he?”
“He did,” I answered. “Thank you, for that. I didn't look for this, you know, Sorley. It took me by surprise, because I would have expected that were I ever to give my heart so completely to anyone, it would have been to a woman.” I stopped. “I am not sure what I am trying to say.”
“That love comes where it will, and not where we may want it to?” he offered.
“Yes. Exactly that.”
“What a pair you are,” he said, trying for levity. “Both surprised by each other.” He must have seen my puzzlement, because he added, “Cillian said something similar, about being taken unawares.”
His hand rested on the rail. I put mine over it, squeezing lightly. He turned his hand to grip mine. “He needs friends, Sorley,” I said quietly. “Friends who can talk to him of ancient poets and Linrathe's history, and in his own language, and teach him about tariffs...and play xache with him. I can do none of those things, except play xache.”
“Has Irmgard been saying things to you? I told her yesterday she was wrong.”
“We talked, yes. But Sorley...” I hesitated. Should I be asking of this of him, to listen to my fears?
“Go on,” he said.
“She is not entirely wrong, is she? I watch him now, and I see a man accomplished beyond my understanding, learned and...honoured for that learning,
Irmgard said. Welcomed for his insight, and his wit. I hear him called brilliant, incisive, and I see what he has done here, these past two days. I can fish, and shoot a bow, and throw a knife. There is a discrepancy there, don't you think?” I had not meant to say so much, but once I gave voice to my concerns, I couldn't stop.
Sorley shook his head firmly. “You underestimate yourself,” he said. “You have far more to offer than those things. But, even if that were true, Cillian has made a promise to himself about you, and he never breaks his promises. Not since childhood, after what Donnalch said about him.”
“Wait,” I said. “Sorley, I'm not sure what you're talking about.”
“He has not told you this?” he asked, looking contrite.
“No.”
“Perhaps I should not, then.” He watched a gull chasing another. “Or perhaps this is fair. I will not tell you anything that you would not have heard, had you stayed at the Ti'ach longer. Because when Cillian had made a promise to himself, he always told Perras, and eventually others; I think it helped him to keep them, at first, and then became habit, or part of the ritual. Is that reasonable, Lena?”
“I think so.” I thought, too, that he needed to talk about Cillian, and that I should let him.
“So as I understand it, when Cillian was eight or so, and Donnalch...thirteen, I suppose, the talk over supper one night was of a statement one of the ancient philosophers had made. I never remember their names,” he added, “just what they wrote. Whoever it was had said 'All there is to know of a man's character is laid down in his first seven years.’ Apparently, Donnalch said that he believed this to be true, and it was why he would never fully trust Cillian, because his mother had been a traitor to Linrathe, and if his grandparents had raised their daughter to be such, then they must have raised Cillian the same way.”
“But that is so cruel,” I gasped. “Donnalch? He seemed so...fair.”
“And he was, in almost everything. But I don't think he ever, quite, changed his mind about Cillian. Who took it badly, as you would expect a boy of that age to do. Perras,” he paused. “It's odd: I always think of Perras as an old man, but he'd have been about the same age Cillian is now, newly Comiádh, then. Anyhow, Perras told him that he would have to work hard to counteract that belief, because Donnalch would not be the only person who thought that way, as wrong as it was, and he—Cillian—would have to be a man of impeccable trust, and always, always, keep his word. And as far as I know, he has.”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 84