by Bunch, Chris
The first to greet me was Baron Sala, sad-eyed as ever. I wasn’t sure if I outranked him, but there was little harm in being the first to bow, especially since the emperor wanted peace, and a peaceful man is never arrogant. Sala looked a little surprised, bowed as well, first to me, then, to my surprise and pleasure, to Alegria, whom he greeted by name and gave the title of woizera — noble lady. She might have been no more than property, but Sala had decency.
“Baron,” I said. “You told me once you doubted if my emperor would allow me to visit your land. I’m delighted you were wrong, even though I’m deeply unhappy about the circumstances.”
“As am I, as is my king,” Sala said. “And by the way, my title is now ligaba. My king has honored me greatly.”
“And wisely,” I said honestly. Ligaba was the title of the court’s highest chancellor.
“Thank you, Ambassador. I hope to prove you right. The king has also named me to represent Maisir in our negotiations.”
“That is truly excellent,” I said, a little less truthfully. It might be good I’d be dealing with someone familiar with Nicias, the emperor, and Numantia, but on the other hand it would make it very hard to run any sort of bluff.
Another man came toward us, dressed in a very dignified dark gray tunic and pants, with many decorations on a sash over one shoulder. I knew him by portrait, although we’d never met. He was Lord Susa Boconnoc, Numantian ambassador to Maisir. He came from a very old family that had been well rewarded when they declared loyalty to the emperor a day after the Rule of Ten had given in to Tenedos’s demands. Boconnoc had always been a diplomat, and so he was named to the extraordinarily important post in Jarrah. I’d read his file, talked discreetly to others in our Foreign Service, and found he was considered no more than averagely bright, and not particularly creative. He was very good with people, particularly high-ranking ones, and moved easily among them.
One person said, frankly, that most people thought him somewhat thicker than sand, and I wondered why the emperor had chosen him. Then I realized Tenedos thought Maisir too important for anyone but himself to deal with, and had picked the ideal man for the job, someone who would obey any instructions to the letter but no further, someone who would report exactly what was going on without interpretations, someone who was utterly loyal.
Boconnoc was in his fifties, had a distinguished, carefully shaped gray beard and short hair, and carried himself with dignity. He could, depending on his choice of expressions, look like a favorite, if a bit stern, grandsire, or, when angry, or simulating that emotion — as all diplomats, commanders, and parents must learn to do — like the embodiment of Aharhel the God Who Speaks to Kings.
“Ambassador á Cimabue,” he said, “there’s a bit of a surprise. Originally you were to be quartered in our embassy. But the king determined otherwise, and requested you lodge within Moriton. This is a great honor, Ambassador, one which no other Numantian has ever been granted. I’ll see your men are well provided for.”
“The king made this decision,” Sala broke in, “not merely as an honor, but to show how seriously he takes this dispute, and how quickly he hopes to have the matter resolved … before other alternatives are forced on him. He and I both hope a peaceful solution is possible.”
“It is,” I said. “Quickly and immediately. I have explicit orders from my emperor.”
Both professionals looked surprised and a little shocked. Sala suddenly smiled. “Well … I wondered why you were chosen for this task, since I hadn’t been aware of your talents in subtle negotiations.”
“I have none,” I said. “That’s exactly why I was picked.”
“This,” Sala said musingly, “may be a very interesting time.” He hesitated. “Ambassador á Cimabue,” he asked, “may I inquire as to the state of your vitality?”
I was perplexed, then grinned. “Are you challenging me to a footrace, perhaps?”
Sala laughed. “I was instructed to ask the question, because if you feel up to it, there is someone who wishes to meet you immediately, even before you refresh yourself.”
Both Boconnoc’s and my eyes widened. There could only be one such person. And one such response.
“I am at your command, sir.”
• • •
I climbed into a ceremonial coach with Sala, and we proceeded to enter Jarrah. The streets were filled with people, cheering, singing. I admired King Bairan for being able to mount a spectacle so readily. The people were chanting, in somewhat rehearsed unison, for their king, for the Emperor Tenedos, for Maisir, for Numantia, and every now and then, for me.
I waved graciously and kept a smile on my face. I noted that as many faces were looking up as at our small procession, and I peered out myself. Overhead was a horde of magical figures that came and went, twisting like kites in a strong breeze. Some were mythic beings, some monsters I guessed were native to Maisir, and I even saw the swamp-slug and that spiderlike ape.
As in Oswy, the buildings were frequently stone for lower stories, fantastically worked wood on the upper, and overall garishly painted and decorated. Unlike Oswy, roofs were often metal, and as loudly painted as the wooden walls. But Oswy had few tall buildings, and Jarrah had many. Some were even eight or nine floors tall, tipped with fantastically configured domes. They appeared to be apartments, and Sala confirmed this. “Generally of the poor,” he said. “We are always building, but the people seem to have children faster than we can nail wood together. I suppose it’s because making babies is a deal more interesting than pounding nails.”
I commented on how well laid out Jarrah was. “That’s a hidden blessing Shahriya gives us with her fire,” Sala said, and explained that the city had burned three times in the last two hundred years — once by arson, once in a great fire that sprang from the forests around to devour Jarrah, once for unknown reasons.
The people dressed a bit better than in other villages and towns we’d passed through, but not much. Other than in its size, architecture, and lavish use of paint, Jarrah wasn’t as spectacular as I’d dreamed.
I heard screams of fear and shouts of wonder, and looked up again. In the sky were legions of warriors, some marching, some riding. All were fiercely armed, and their armor was worked to cause terror. They were silently shouting and waving their weapons. Who were these magical warriors supposed to impress? The crowds? Or me?
We passed an enormous temple, and I heard a chorale rising and falling from within, ever-changing. There must have been at least a couple of thousand men and women in the congregation. “What is being celebrated?”
“Nothing,” Sala said, “at least as far as I know.”
I realized they were praying to Umar the withdrawn Creator. “We’ve always worshiped him,” Sala said. “The oldest, the wisest, the one who gave all of us, men and gods, life. Perhaps, if we pray hard enough, he’ll return.”
He said this as if he actually believed it.
• • •
There were no crowds at the gates of Moriton. The grim black walls that rose before us would have discouraged anyone’s presence. There were no visible guards, no challenges, and the gates swung wide with never a sound. There was an inner courtyard half an army could have assembled in, then a second set of gates. These opened, and we were inside the King’s Own. Moriton was huge, a city within a city, except that few cities are composed entirely of palaces. Some were enormous, others merely huge, and they were interspersed with barracks and unobtrusive buildings Sala told me were the offices of the diplomatic corps and other administrators. Everyone seemed intent on his business, and no one bothered to look when we passed.
Our carriage turned onto a long drive, cobbled with stones of many colors. That led to a immense building with flanking buttresses, wings to sweep you into its stone heart.
The carriage drew up, and I waited for a servitor. None came. “Go ahead,” Sala said. “You’ll not get lost.”
I obeyed, and walked up the steps. At each step a great gong sounded, and my heart
trembled as I approached. The rain hesitated, as if it, too, were afraid. Half-crescent doors more than fifty feet high opened as I approached, and I walked into a long antechamber, arching high into gloom. There were tapestries of the richest silk, gold-and silver-worked, some abstract, some showing fabulous creatures of, I hoped, myth.
Another set of doors opened, and I walked into another huge room. Its windows were covered by translucent shades against the rain and chill, and fires roared at the four corners. The room was perhaps two hundred feet long, fifty or more feet wide, and seventy-five feet high. It was evenly lit, but I saw no torches, no tapers. At the far end of the room, on a great circular rug of red and gold, stood a man whose size was almost equal to this chamber. There was a curtained alcove behind him.
I am tall, but King Bairan was a head taller. He was in his late forties, or early fifties, lean, hard, with a hawklike, clean-shaven face and a predator’s expression. He wore a simple gold diadem, with a gem the size of his fist in its center, gray pants and tunic, with thin gray leather pads outlining his muscled shoulders, upper chest, and lean waist and thighs, suggesting armor. At his waist was a simple leather belt, with an equally plain dagger on it.
He could not have chosen his costume better to suggest he was a man of war. Approach in peace, it said, or be prepared for what you shall face.
I knelt on one knee and bowed my head. I might have been familiar with one grand ruler, but this was different. I’d known the Emperor Tenedos as a young wizard, and so there was familiarity, knowledge Tenedos was all too human. King Bairan was the last in a line that had held the throne for centuries, and his kingdom dwarfed Numantia.
“Welcome to Maisir, to Jarrah,” he said. His voice was chill, firm.
I rose. “I thank you, Your Highness, for the greeting and for honoring me by welcoming me into your presence so quickly.”
“We have great business,” he said. “I assume that you, like I, wish to reach a settlement … of one sort or another … so our two kingdoms may either find a new course or continue the old one.”
“Your Majesty,” I said, “may I be so bold as to suggest a third alternative? One which my master devised?”
“Which is?” King Bairan’s voice was even colder.
“Peace, sir. A peace that will end any troubles between us, and guarantee amity forever.”
“I would settle, Ambassador á Cimabue, for something that would last your emperor’s and my lifetimes. Approach me, if you will. If we are to discuss important business, I dislike having to bellow it about.” I obeyed. “So your master wishes peace?”
“With all his heart.”
“Then I must say that I’m perplexed by certain signs from Numantia,” he went on. “For some time, there’s been growing tension. I felt we were coming to the brink of … unfortunate events, and so ordered certain measures taken. Now you say your emperor wishes peace. I am puzzled.”
“That is why I am here, Your Majesty. The emperor has granted me full powers to negotiate a full and complete treaty between Numantia and Maisir, one that will, indeed, give us the peace and tranquillity both nations want.”
The king was silent, looking hard into my eyes. “Ligaba Sala said you are a man of direct means.”
“So I would like to be thought.”
“He further advised me that you are the emperor’s closest friend, and most trusted confidant.”
“Such would be my proudest claim, sir. But I cannot know for sure that’s true.”
“Until very recently, I thought events between our two countries were on an unchangeable collision course,” Bairan went on. “But when I received word you were appointed ambassador plenipotentiary, I allowed myself a bit of hope. For know this, Ambassador Baron Damastes of Ghazi,” he said, his voice crisp, firm, each word a clear chisel stroke carving law into stone. “I do not wish war. Maisir does not wish war. I would hope you and I might reach an understanding to ensure peace.”
“Your Majesty, you have my word that I can, and will, do anything to reach that same end.”
“Then I truly bid you welcome to Jarrah,” and he extended his hand. It was the firm clasp of a warrior.
• • •
I stepped out of the carriage in front of the estate I’d been told was mine for the duration of my stay. It was certainly private — its stone walls, topped with razored metal bills facing outward, reached almost thirty feet high. There was a door in one wall, with a large ring for a knocker. I lifted it, and heard the sonorous blast of trumpets. An instant later it was opened, and Alegria stood there, in a small anteroom, whose walls, floors, and ceiling were exotically inlaid wood. The room’s back wall opened into a sprawling garden.
Alegria wore a floor-length purple gown with a low neckline, and a black floral pattern that ran asymmetrically from her navel to her right hip and shoulder. I could almost, but not quite, see through it.
“You’re damned lucky it was me,” I said, a bit acidly.
“Oh, but I could see. Look.” She bade me lift the door’s knocker once more, and I obeyed. As I did, it was as if a sorcerous porthole opened in the door’s blank exterior. “If it wasn’t you, I had this heavy robe to pull on, so no one would get any ideas.”
“By the way,” I asked, “where’s our staff, where are our retainers, if we’re such terribly honored guests?”
“I shocked the gateman by sending him away, saying I wanted to wait for you.”
“A good thing King Bairan wasn’t in the mood for all-night drinking,” I said.
She sighed theatrically and muttered, “Men!”
I looked beyond the anteroom into the garden, and saw that it was in the first bloom of spring, instead of the dankness of the last of the Time of Rains.
Alegria started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ll see.”
As she spoke, I did see. In the center of the garden was the house. But it wasn’t exactly a house. It appeared to be a huge, square tent. I didn’t believe it. “This is a sorry jest,” I muttered. “We’ve been living under canvas for almost sixty days, I’ve been sleeping in the open for longer than that, and by the king’s kindness, we’re going to do it again? This is a high honor? Better we should go back to that inn beyond Jarrah. At least they gave us a bed, even if it really belonged to a creepy-crawly.”
“I know,” Alegria gurgled, and now she started laughing hard. “But it isn’t really canvas. Look harder.”
I saw that the “tent” was actually elaborately worked wood, built to exactly resemble a campaign tent with its flies tied up for good weather. “This is what King Bairan calls his Warrior’s Retreat,” Alegria said.
“Lucky, lucky us,” I muttered.
“Actually, it’s wonderful. Come, let me show you.”
Actually, it was quite wonderful, a work of art in both wood and magic. The “tent” was enormous. The outer areas were for us to live and eat in. In the center was an area we never entered, where our servants readied meals and waited for a summons. They came and went through an underground tunnel to kitchens, stables, and quarters hidden at the estate’s rear wall.
Each side of the “tent” had four rooms — a study, a washroom, a dining area, and a bedchamber, each decorated in different, rich styles. On each side was the garden, exactly the same on all four sides, except that on one side it was in spring, the next summer, the third fall, and the last the depths of a snowy winter. It appeared as if each garden went on forever, with no high wall to end it. There were no walls, no windows, but a spell kept the rooms balmy, summerlike, with a gentle breeze coming from nowhere. When the lights were shut down, the temperature lowered as well, and a light wrap felt wonderful. Alegria showed me this marvel as proudly as if it were hers.
“How far do the gardens actually go?” I asked.
“Not as far as it appears. When you walk toward the end, all of a sudden you lose all desire to go farther, and find yourself turning back.”
“All right,” I
conceded. “It’s wonderful. But a gods-damned tent!?”
“I quite like it,” Alegria murmured. “Each night we can sleep in a different time. That way, it’ll seem as if we’re being together for a very, very long time, instead of …” She didn’t finish the sentence, but turned, and looked out as a bird splashed down in a fountain.
I put my arms around her, nuzzled her hair.
“And,” she said softly after a while, “I can pretend there’s no world beyond ours.”
I said nothing, not knowing what to say. I was beginning to come alive, but there was still the shadow of the past, the shadow of Marán, between us. Sooner or later … but I wasn’t here to worry about one man or one woman; I was here to worry about my country. Sooner could come later. First was King Bairan.
• • •
The next day, with Ambassador Boconnoc, I began preparations at our embassy. It was almost deserted. When the troubles began, Boconnoc had sent all Numantian women and children north to Renan, to safety.
Boconnoc was full of ideas about diplomatic niceties, and how we should spend the first day discussing what we should discuss. I was a bit — well, more than a bit — rude to him.
“The king said he wished to discuss peace, and to settle matters as rapidly as possible. This was also what the emperor ordered me,” I said in a I-wish-no-discussion tone.
Boconnoc looked down his nose at me and said, “Very well then, Ambassador. What shall we begin with?”
I told him, and his eyebrows crawled toward the top of his head. He dearly wished to call me either a young fool or an idiot, perhaps worse. But whole generations of terribly discreet ancestors cried out. He finally heaved a great sigh and said, “Very well. This is hardly regular … but it will serve as an interesting lesson.” He couldn’t resist adding a jab, though: “For one or another of us.” He sighed again. “Do you wish me to ask if there’s a representative from that kingdom here in the capital?”