“Ah,” he said. “Druisius?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, after a moment. “He seems a decent man.” He went to wash and dress. I moved the lamps back to the low table; Prisca would not concern herself if I left them where they were, but I was uncomfortable in allowing her too much insight. Everything, I knew, was being relayed to the palace. I wondered briefly if that was Druisius's role too, then rejected the idea: Sorley and I were not important. I hoped I was right: Sorley deserved something real, and uncomplicated by intrigue.
Turlo was decidedly out of sorts at breakfast. “How are we supposed to make a treaty for a war we know nothing about?” he growled.
“We will know more, in a day or two,” Cillian replied. “It is a puzzle to be solved, Turlo, and one we can find the answer to.”
“I hope you are right,” Turlo said.
Sorley came to breakfast alone, but in a buoyant mood. “Of course I'll help,” he said, when Cillian told him the plan. We finished eating. Sergius came to tell Cillian our escort had arrived, and a few minutes later we walked through the morning streets to the palace.
The building was truly enormous. We were shown to a medium-sized room, with several tables and stools. On one table, a map had been unrolled and weighted down; on another, a pile of scrolls and vellum sheets awaited attention. Two men, both grey-haired, stood at another door.
Cillian spoke to them at length, at one point gesturing Turlo forward. Finally he turned to us. “These two men are Atulf, from the Boranoi, who speaks for Casil's opponents, and Quintus, who has negotiated for Casil. Their role is only to answer questions. We should begin with the map, so we all understand the borders and the disputed lands.”
In the end, Sorley and I both stayed. There was enough to do for us both: scribing, finding names and places on the maps, sorting through documents and keeping them organized. Sorley proved the better organizer, and I was the faster writer.
Cillian read a document, or part of it, and then told me what to write in summary. Sometimes he would take the paper from me to add a few words, or occasionally a sketch, or the answers to questions posed to Quintus or Atulf. I handed summaries to Turlo, and every so often Cillian would stop reading to have a quiet discussion with him, usually leading to more questions for the two previous negotiators.
My hand ached by late morning, but I ignored it, concentrating on keeping my writing legible. Food and drink arrived and we stopped long enough to eat. But the pile of documents remained high, and as the afternoon wore away, I wondered if we could get through them in the time allotted.
In the late afternoon, Cillian put down the vellum he was reading, rubbing his eyes. “Enough,” he said. “Turlo, I suggest we talk again, after a meal, to ensure we agree in our understanding of what we learned today.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “Is there a copy of the map we can take to the house?”
“I'll draw one,” Sorley offered. I helped tie scrolls and order the sheets of vellum. I had long ago stopped trying to understand what I had been writing, how it all connected. Certain names had repeated, but who had conquered what, and when, and for whom, was nothing but a jumble in my mind.
“Thank you,” Cillian said to Sorley and me as we walked home. “The task would have been impossible today, without you.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “And it nearly is with you both helping, and would be, without your ability to find what is important among all those words, Cillian. I see a pattern emerging, I believe.”
“And from that pattern, the shape of a solution, I think,” Cillian said. “But I can't be sure, until I have read the rest of the documents.”
In our room, he dropped onto the bed, stretching out. “Do you still have willow-bark?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so.” I went to my pack to check.
“Would you mix me a draught? My head is pounding.” I wasn't surprised; the writing on some of the scrolls had been small and faded.
“Wine or water?” I asked.
“Wine, but water it well. Today's work is not done.”
I gave him the drink, and went to relieve myself and wash my face and hands. Ink stained my fingers, impervious to soap and water. “Let me rub your back,” I suggested, when I came back to the bedroom.
“No,” he said. “Your hands will be aching. I have done that much writing in the past.”
“They are,” I agreed, “but not as much as your neck and shoulders. Or I can ask Sergius to fetch a bath attendant?”
He rolled onto his chest. “Not too long, or I will fall asleep,” he warned.
“Would that be a bad thing? We have some time before dinner.” I began to knead his shoulders.
“I do not like napping. I wake up with my thoughts confused. Talk to me, instead.”
Strange, I thought, how I can know exactly what that scar on his back feels like, and yet not know he doesn't like to nap.
“Do you really see a solution?”
“Potentially. The largest issue is the eastern trade route and who controls it. But I need to know more.” He stopped. “Did you hear footsteps outside the door?”
“Sergius, maybe?”
“Maybe. We should not speak of this here. Tonight, when I talk with Turlo again, can you and Sorley stay in the sitting room? Music, if Sorley has the energy, would be even better.”
“But the servants don't speak our language.” His shoulders felt looser, under my hands.
“We will mention names of cities, the river—I would prefer to be cautious.”
“What about Sorley and Druisius?”
Cillian swore. “You are sure they are lovers?”
“If not now, soon. Could he be a spy?”
“It is possible. I hope not. One of us needs to ask Sorley not to talk to him about what we are doing.” He sighed. “Awkward, coming from me.”
I saw his point. “I'll do it.”
“Meas, käresta.” He flexed his neck. “That's better. Lena, would you mind leaving me alone until dinner? I need some silence.”
I bent to kiss the back of his neck. “I'll go and talk to Sorley. I'll come back when it's time to eat.”
I left him to find Sorley, who was sitting outside, a glass of wine in his hand. A good idea, I thought, and went to the sideboard first, to pour myself one. Then I joined him in the cooling evening air.
“Where's Cillian?”
“Resting,” I answered. “And letting willow-bark soothe a headache. He has a request for us.” I explained to Sorley about ensuring the servants couldn't overhear tonight.
“I can play, certainly.”
“There's something else,” I said. “We can't talk about what we are doing to anyone. That must include Druisius, Sorley.”
He flushed. “He's not a spy for the palace.”
“I—we—don't think he is. Cillian is being very cautious. Everything we are trying to do here depends on this treaty, Sorley.”
“You're right. Druisius and I—we talk about music, and instruments, and songs, mostly.”
“I like him. He's kind; he stopped me for behaving incorrectly, while we were out yesterday. Women don't touch men in public here, I have learned.”
“He is kind,” Sorley said. “And a good musician.”
Turlo came out from his room. Seeing us on the roof, he joined us. “One glass of wine won't cloud my head,” he decided, pouring one, and adding a little water. He sat at the table. I told him what Cillian had asked us to do, and why. “Aye, better to be wary,” he agreed. “Although—what were their names? Quintus and Atulf?—know what Cillian asked questions about.”
“They do, but not what he was really interested in,” Sorley said. “I was paying attention; I didn't always have as much to do as Lena. He asked questions about every document, even if he didn't really want to know details. And he wrote the answers down, every time. But he'll know what was important, and what was diversion.”
“I cannot match him for subtlety,” Turlo said. “I exp
ect that is what the Empress saw, to ask us to do this.”
“I thought that was due to how he negotiated for Irmgard,” Sorley said.
“Aye, in part. But they had long conversations, Cillian and the Empress, both nights, after the negotiations were done. She called him back, and Irmgard and I had to wait some time. With wine and other comforts, so not a hardship. I suppose she was judging if he could handle this task.”
Why hadn't he told me that? A memory nagged at me: 'little different than a hundred other conversations I have had, over wine, late at night, with an Eirën or a Harr or even with the Teannasach.’ That was why; it was just part of the work of diplomacy, not worth mentioning.
Prisca came out with plates and bowls, to ready the table for dinner. We moved to the low wall at the edge of the roof, looking out over the city, glowing golden in the setting sun. Voices floated up from the street, and the sounds of wheels and harness and the clop of hooves. Familiar, and yet foreign.
“I had better fetch Cillian,” I said, seeing Prisca with a basket of bread. He was sitting by the window, looking out. “Dinner is almost ready. Is your headache gone?”
“It is,” he replied. “Thank you, käresta, for taking care of me.”
“I was pleased you asked,” I replied. “Was it so very hard?”
He smiled. “Not very. But not what I am accustomed to, either.”
“I spoke to Sorley,” I told him. “He will play tonight, and he understands about Druisius.”
“Good,” Cillian said, standing. “Shall we eat?”
Over dinner, I talked about seeing the women practicing archery from horseback yesterday. “I would like to learn how to do that,” I said.
“The women from Han can shoot arrows from horseback,” Turlo told me, “and their horses are broken to it, although it's not something we do, except to hunt, occasionally.”
“It could be useful, against a Marai force on the ground,” I pointed out. “Or even to shoot at a close ship, and be able to retreat quickly.”
“Aye, it could,” Turlo said thoughtfully.
“Why do you not learn, then?” Cillian said. “After tomorrow, Turlo and I, and Sorley if he is willing, will be busy with the negotiations. I would like you there, Sorley,” he added, turning to him, “because you read Casilan, and understand it. Another pair of ears and eyes will be useful, and they will not deny me a scribe.”
“I would be honoured,” Sorley said. “Perhaps Druisius could arrange for Lena to learn from the archers?”
“A very good idea,” Cillian said. “Will you ask him, Sorley? If this is what you want, Lena?”
“Yes,” I said. I did want it. I wanted the simplicity and the demand of a bow, and a horse, and a target towards which I could channel that cold sliver of revenge that lay deep inside. I had been ignoring it, letting it be quiescent, patient, but it wasn't gone.
“I'll talk to him, then,” Sorley said. “Beginning tomorrow, or as soon after as possible?” I nodded.
After we ate, Cillian and Turlo exchanged a long, resigned look, and took themselves to Turlo's room to talk. Sorley fetched the ladhar, and we sat in the living room, Sorley playing desultorily. Sergius came in and out, filling wine flasks and oil lamps. He approached Turlo's door.
“Should I stop him?” Sorley murmured.
“No. It would arouse his suspicions. He'll knock, and they'll stop talking.”
“And hide the map, I hope.”
Coming back from Turlo's room, Sergius said something to Sorley. Sorley smiled, shook his head, replying in a mild voice. He waited until Sergius had gone downstairs before translating. “He suggested the night was fine, and we might want to sit outside. I declined. I think Cillian was right.”
“Good to know,” I said.
Druisius arrived shortly afterwards, his cithar in his hand. “I should stay,” I said to Sorley. “Sorry.”
“It's all right,” he assured me. “We're just going to make music. And you should be here when I ask him about the archers, anyway. I'll do that, right now.”
As far as I could follow, Druisius asked a lot of questions, but all ones Sorley could answer. Finally Sorley turned to me. “He says he will ask tomorrow. I have assured him you ride well and that you shoot a bow very well, but that you have never done the two together, and that is what you want to learn.”
“Thank you, Sorley,” I said. “Gratiás, Druisius.”
Druisius grinned. The men began to play, slowly, copying notes and chords, the two instruments blending pleasingly. The music was not familiar. This must be a tune from Casil, I thought, listening to the unusual melody, its notes not following the patterns I knew. Sorley's face was intense, concentrating on the new demands on his fingers and his mind, but as he grew more confident, he began to smile. The music merged and swirled, something new being created, and, I thought, watching the glances between Sorley and Druisius, something else being fed. I wished I could leave them alone. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else around, those first days with Cillian.
Chapter Seventeen
The second day of reading and notes and discussion passed much as the first, except that it was much later when we finished. We would all need willow-bark, I thought, as we walked through the early evening streets to the house, but Cillian seemed quietly satisfied. He closeted himself with Turlo again after we ate, but this time I decided Sorley and Druisius, playing music again in the sitting room, were enough to dissuade Sergius. I took my aching head to bed.
At breakfast the men were quiet, Cillian's eyes distant, as if he were rehearsing arguments or analyzing potential opposition. As we finished eating, Sorley turned to me. “Druisius will take you to the archers this morning, if you still want, Lena. He spoke to their captain yesterday, and she is happy to give you some training.”
“I'd like that,” I said. “Thank you, Sorley.”
In our room I hugged Cillian, feeling both the strength and the tension in him. Sergius had, with his usual efficiency, provided the appropriate clothes, not as elegant as the court dress, but of finer quality than his everyday tunics. “I will see you tonight,” I said.
“Maybe,” he replied. “I have no sense yet for what the hours of negotiation will be, or the requirements of us in the evenings. I expect today, and perhaps tomorrow, we will hear from Quintus and Atulf; they were not allowed to present their views these last two days. Then the real work of forging an agreement will begin.”
“Surely you will be allowed your evenings?” I asked.
“Some, yes, I expect,” he told me. “But think of Fritjof's hall, Lena. We were all expected to be present at dinner, and entertainment, and it will be little different here, I think. The disputes of the day will be smoothed over by the formality of diplomatic dinners, with the Empress present at least for a few minutes, to remind us all she is paying close attention.”
“When do you have time to discuss your responses, to plan the next move?”
“Late at night, or early mornings, or not at all. Sometimes, the response must be made in the moment, and this is in part why I need Sorley. His Casilan has improved, and I want him to be translating for Turlo as the words are spoken. Otherwise, I could find myself needing to make a counterproposal without Turlo's understanding, or agreement.”
“But with the authority, yes? From the Empress?”
“Yes. But—and this is another form of diplomacy, Lena—the next negotiations are for what Casil will demand from the Empire and Linrathe in exchange for their support, and then the authority must lie clearly in Turlo's hands. I must maintain at least the illusion of his primacy during these first talks, or have his position weakened in the ones that truly matter to us.”
“You are doing this while all I will be doing is riding horses and shooting arrows.”
“Skills that could prove decisive in a battle,” he pointed out. “I can, I hope, persuade the Empress to send support, and perhaps give some useful thoughts on how to best deploy that support, but battles are won o
r lost through the skills and courage of soldiers on the field. But,” he bent to kiss me, “those are thoughts for another day, käresta. Now I must go and listen to old grievances, and offer a new solution.”
I wished I spoke Casilan and could go with him to watch the negotiations. To watch him do this work, to try to comprehend it. And not only, I realized, because I would understand Cillian better, although that was part of it, but because I would learn from it, as I had learned to think about each move in xache, and its implications.
When Cillian had gone, I found the sheath for my secca and strapped it on my belt, blousing the tunic over it to disguise it. I wondered how I would ride in these clothes. Perhaps the archers would lend me whatever they wore for today, and Prisca could get me the equivalent.
I heard a tap on the door. Druisius waited for me, grinning a greeting. He gestured me forward, and we went out into the still-cool morning, along narrow streets shaded from the sun, heading for the city walls. I thought he was more alert, his eyes always moving. My skin prickled. As we turned from one street to another, I saw three men ahead of us. One, slightly in the lead, turned, perhaps hearing our footsteps. He began shouting and the men started pushing each other. I saw the glint of a blade. Druisius said something, running towards the men, his short sword in his hand. One turned to challenge him, feinting with the knife. The other two scattered, but one ran directly towards me.
The brawl had been a diversion, a ploy. My hand went to my waist. They will not expect me to have a blade, I thought. I saw no weapon in the man's hand: his plan was just to overpower me, drag me into one of these buildings while Druisius was occupied. Where had the second man gone? I turned as if to run, shielding my right hand from view, pulling the secca from its sheath. Druisius shouted, one word, over and over. As the man reached for me, I half-crouched, pivoted, and stabbed my knife into his abdomen.
Too high. I felt it deflect off his ribs, tearing through skin and flesh. But he screamed in pain and doubled over. I ran towards Druisius. His man was on the ground, his leg bleeding from a sword wound. I heard footsteps behind me, and spun, secca out. Two guards approached at a run, one stopping to apprehend the man I had wounded. The second shot questions at Druisius, who answered in short, angry bursts.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 92