Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4)

by Ann Somerville

  “Best at everything, I think. I’m going to be a father again. Feels very strange.”

  “We both are, in a way.”

  “Yes, Romi-Pa.” Karik tossed the cloth into the basin and set it aside. “Is it enough for you?”

  Romi clasped him firmly and tugged him down on top of him again. “More than enough. All I want is you. The rest is a bonus. I’m enjoying things as they are.”

  “Good.” Karik snuggled close, as Romi put out his fire sprites, leaving them in silent darkness. Soon Karik’s breathing changed, and the weight of his body altered subtly, so Romi knew he was falling asleep. He wouldn’t be far behind him, but as he slipped into the half world between sleep and wakefulness, he had a vision of himself as a father, dandling his son on his knee, being called ‘Pa’ and teaching him the ways of life just as his own father had taught him.

  “‘d be nice,” he muttered sleepily, then curled closer around his sleeping lover and between one heartbeat and the next, he was off.

  Bearing Fruit: 2

  “Well, this is familiar,” Kei muttered as they stood on the deck in the brilliant sunshine, waiting for the royal barge to make its way across the water towards their ship, ready to take them to the dock for the official reception and a formal lunch. Once more they stood with troops behind them, Arman on one side, Lord Peika on the other, and Jera there to protect them. Only this time, as Arman had pointed out at dinner the night before, they came not as prisoners, not as victors, but as equals. This was a mission to solidify a peace already made, not a peace yet to be won.

  Arman squeezed Kei’s hand as he peered hawkishly across the water. Lord Peika, his wife, and Jera were perfectly relaxed, looking as if they quite enjoyed things, but Kei simply couldn’t be that sanguine. The next hour or so would either prove Arman right or disastrously wrong, and only Jera and their soldiers stood between them and the might of the Prijian army and navy.

  So far, things had gone nicely—a smooth trip, a polite reception in the harbour, with generous supplies of fresh food and water ferried to them along with his Serenity’s compliments and an invitation to the formal reception this morning. Two senior palace officials had come to present the invitation, and had stayed to share supper in the captain’s cabin, an assurance, unspoken, that the donated food was quite safe to eat. Such an assurance was not merely for show, or at least, it once would not have been. No one really knew if the new sovereign was more honourable than his predecessor, though the indications were promising. Nivuman was an unknown quantity, even to many of his subjects. He’d been a compromise candidate, plucked from the obscurity of his country estate on the strength of a distant familial connection with the ruling family and hastily installed after the assassination of the previous sovereign, and doubtless many might have thought him a pliable and easily manipulated puppet. This had not proved to be the case, to the delight of some and the displeasure of others.

  So far, Arman’s father and brother had been cautiously impressed, and Tijus had been elevated to one of the inner councillors, not without some trepidation on his family’s part. It wasn’t always a good thing to be an intimate of the sovereign, as the brief but bloody uprising five years before had demonstrated. Lord Peika was curious to meet the man. Kei would be simply glad to get out of the country alive and with all his limbs intact.

  The Darshianese delegation wasn’t a small one—they had two hundred troops with them, and thirty people from the Rulers’ officers and the academy, not including Kei and Arman themselves. However, only he, Jera, the Rulers and Lord Peika’s wife, Veta, would go across to dry land this morning, accompanied by fifty of the troops. It would be expected, Arman said. Too small a display would be seen as either contempt or stupidity. Too large, of course, could be seen as a threat.

  The negotiations over protocol had made Kei’s brain hurt, and he’d only been involved peripherally. Even the exact clothing he wore now—a brand new shirt, jerkin and trousers, though not his Master’s robes since he was there this morning as consort, not Master—had been settled in advance. Naturally, Arman looked absolutely splendid in his crimson Ruler’s robes, a rarely seen chain and medallion—a gift from the king and council of Andon—adorning his neck, while an exquisite silver clasp that Meda had made for him as a birthday present was fastened to the end of his braid. He looked magnificent, and betrayed not an iota of the anxiety Kei could feel pulsing through him.

  The barge was within hailing distance now and a polite exchange was carried out before Arman and Lord Peika were formally requested to step on board the barge. Jera floated all of them down onto the barge’s deck, while the troops were loaded in more mundane fashion into the longboat to follow behind them. The Rulers were greeted with low bows, and Veta graciously escorted to a cushioned seat. There was a slight delay until the long boat had been filled and was ready to go, and then the barge was set in motion. “Could have flown us across,” Jera whispered. “Much faster.”

  “I think you probably scare them,” Kei whispered back out the side of his mouth, keeping a serene expression on his face. The barge was very luxurious, for sure, and the dozen oarsmen had them moving fairly swiftly towards the docks. Kei remembered the docks very clearly and with no fondness. He really hoped he could put his fears about this city to rest on this visit, but the fluttering in his gut simply would not stop. Arman seemed lost in his thoughts. Kei didn’t want to interrupt them, but he already hated this, and wondered why on earth he’d agreed. Oh...it had been his suggestion. Silly him.

  As they drew close to the pier, a blast of martial music startled him, but it was simply a welcome from the Prij. They were led, again with almost painful courtesy, up the ramp, and discovered quite a crowd of people waiting for them, some in elaborate senatorial robes, all obviously of high rank. These were the great and the good, doubtless meaning to bring lustre to the occasion, though Kei couldn’t help a painful flashback to his first arrival in Utuk as a tired, heartsick, rope-bound prisoner, being displayed to an arrogant mob. Arman laid an apparently guiding hand on his shoulder, the discreet pressure meant to comfort. Kei pulled his courage together and smiled. Smiles were good.

  A senator stepped forward, and to Kei’s unutterable relief, he recognised Arman’s brother. Tijus bowed low, smiling broadly. “His Serenity sends warm greetings and regards to the illustrious Rulers of Darshek. He welcomes you to our country, as indeed do I.”

  Lord Peika grinned—he and Tijus had become friends on Tijus’s few visits, and they were much alike in many ways. “The Rulers and people of Darshek and of Darshian thank his Serenity for his graciousness, and for the kind welcome. Senator, I believe you know my companions.”

  Tijus winked at Kei. “Yes indeed, and you are thrice welcome.” He bowed to Veta, and greeted her, then held out his hand. “Brother? Or should I call you Sei General Lord Arman?”

  “Only if you want to be spanked,” Arman muttered in a voice intended only for the immediate circle. He clasped his brother’s hand and shook it. “Greetings, brother. Is our father well?”

  “Well and delighted that you’ve come to Kuprij once more. Kei, how good to see you again.”

  “And you, Tijus. More than you know,” he added in a low voice.

  “Ah. His Serenity thought you might like a familiar face or two. Arman, you recall my companions?”

  Introductions were made, then Tijus invited them to step into an elegant calash. By now, the Darshianese troops had landed, and were asked to form an honour guard directly behind the vehicle, before their party was driven at walking pace up the Avenue of the Gods, Prijian troops ahead of them, the senators and their ladies in calashes behind them. Kei was surprised to see they were expected by the populace lining the avenue and watching curiously, even cheering from time to time.

  “Why isn’t anyone throwing anything?” Kei muttered, smiling graciously all the while.

  “Things have changed, my dear Kei. A lot of these people have your soldiers to thank for their homes being saved
along with their lives. I’m not saying there isn’t resentment—but there’s more goodwill than you’d think.” Tijus shrugged and grinned. “Besides, everyone likes a show, and it’s a decreed day of rest in your honour. People like that.”

  Canny. A little bribery, a little entertainment, and a lot of curiosity. He wondered how many of the people watching them had seen the show the Gifted had put on for the populace on their last visit, and were hoping for more of the same. It made him wish they’d brought Reis and Neras after all, but Arman and Neka had decided that they weren’t the best people they could send on a delicate diplomatic mission. Jera was a much more stable and genial person. Right now, he looked completely harmless, and clearly just enjoying himself.

  Kei didn’t know Utuk well—he’d had little enough chance to see it—but it seemed to him there were changes. There were statues he didn’t remember, a couple of buildings which looked new or at least, newly refurbished, but what struck him most was the lack of underlying anger in the people around him. The first time he’d encountered it, the population of Utuk had felt almost like a carcho waiting to pounce, though he had hardly been in a fit state to really appreciate all that had been going on. After victory had been won, there had been a dull resentment of the Darshianese, punctuated by fury and overlain by a general hostility which might not, Kei now realised, have been entirely directed at them. The war had not been popular—too many ordinary people’s sons, brothers and fathers had been caught up in it. Many of those men had come home, of course—but many had not.

  It had been long-held, slow-burning anger over that, but more so over rising unemployment and the ever-increasing taxes to pay for pointless extravagance, which had played into deliberately fomented agitation and had led to vicious riots and the assassination of the sovereign. Utuk had taken years to fully calm and stabilise. That it had done so at all had certainly not been thanks to the now departed Senator Mekus, who’d been behind an attempt to assassinate the new sovereign in order to put his granddaughter on the throne, and to stir up more unrest in a city still smoking and bloodied from months of rioting.

  Still, Utuk, and indeed Kuprij, had been peaceful for some time now, and it appeared that peace was not purely artificial. Problems remained, and Kei was under no illusion he was visiting a just or equal society. But Nivuman seemed wedded to rule by law rather than force, and that made him someone Kei wished success upon, at least as a governor of this country. For the rest—he would wait and see.

  Though Arman had relaxed considerably for the presence of his brother, and they and Lord Peika chatted amiably about nothing much at all, Arman was actually watching the crowd as closely as he would watch any enemy. Since he clearly detected no threat, Kei could trust to his judgment and also relax. Jera’s presence helped, no doubt about it, but without Neka, they wouldn’t have any early warning of trouble. Kei’s own gift was about all they had in that regard—but he sensed nothing untoward. The crowd wasn’t being especially warm, but it was a long way from the jeering and arrogance Kei had experienced the first time.

  Their journey took twenty minutes, though it couldn’t have been a mile from the docks to the palace. At the royal residence, the gates swung open smartly and they were ushered in without the slightest challenge. Kei couldn’t help remembering the hostility of their last arrival, and the angry (and probably long dead) senator who’d blustered so. Also dead, perhaps thankfully, was Arman’s former superior, Blikus. Time didn’t heal all wounds, but it did heal some. As those with the greatest hate died or lost influence, things were bound to change.

  They were conducted to a large courtyard, and only when all the calashes had arrived and the nobility had disembarked, were Kei and his companions invited to descend, to a flare of horns and thudding of huge drums. He knew what that meant, and looked towards the large brass and wood door, now being swung slowly open. Sure enough, through it came a figure dressed in long, full robes, followed by a dozen courtiers.

  More horns, then the crowd fell entirely silent. Arman and Lord Peika walked toward the sovereign, Tijus at their side. This, Kei knew, had also been the subject of intense discussion. The correct form when meeting the Prijian sovereign was to kneel—but the Darshianese bent the knee to no man. The correct form in greeting a Ruler was to bow—but the sovereign bowed to no one, since they did not acknowledge there being anyone of higher rank anywhere in Periter. As Kei watched, the agreed compromise was perfectly—and gracefully—executed. Arman and Lord Peika bowed politely, as if to one of their own, and the sovereign acknowledged it with a slight bend of his head, as one senator would greet another. Honour served, all three men relaxed.

  Kei, Jera and Veta could now approach. The sovereign was a man of about his own age, or perhaps Arman’s, short, slightly balding, with intelligent green eyes set in a deceptively ordinary face. Passed in a crowd, he would excite no attention at all, and though he stood straight and proud, there was no arrogance about him. Veta curtseyed—she’d been practicing—and the sovereign held out his hand. “My dear lady,” he said in perfectly clear, pleasantly accented Darshianese. “Welcome to Kuprij.”

  “Thank you, your highness. I am very glad to be here.”

  He smiled, then turned to Kei. Arman was behind him. “Your highness, allow me to present Master Kei of Darshek and Ai-Albon.”

  “Ah, Master Kei, what a delight. I ordered copies of your paper on timkir leaf oil to be placed in our library, and studied most carefully. I believe it will be of great use in developing a stronger resin for boat caulking.”

  Kei blinked, before remembering his manners and bowing hastily. “Your highness honours me.”

  “Nonsense, we’re honoured to have such a scholar among us. Though I wasn’t aware you were interested in the commercial application of plants so much as their healing properties.”

  The man was staring at him intently. “Your highness, I discovered the properties of the timkir oil while looking for a better wound suture. Such is the nature of investigations.”

  “Yes, I know. I look forward to talking to you further about your work. Lord Arman, would you introduce this other gentleman, please?”

  Arman cleared his throat. “Your highness, this is Jera, one of our Gifted citizens.” Jera bowed on cue, then straightened and smiled at the sovereign, quite unabashed.

  Kei could feel the curiosity rolling off the man. “So, you are one of the magicians of Darshian, sir?”

  For the first time, Jera looked a little taken aback. “No magician, your highness. I just...do things.”

  “Oh, care to demonstrate?”

  Jera glanced helplessly at Kei. “Uh...well, like this.” One of the calashes—complete with all four jesigs—rose slowly into the air. The jesigs squealed a little in fright, but Jera controlled them so they couldn’t move. Gasps of astonishment came from the crowd—but from the sovereign, only more curiosity. He waved his hand to indicate that this was quite enough for now, thank you, and the calash was lowered carefully once more. Jera was still controlling the animals—very wise of him, Kei thought.

  “How wonderful to have such power,” the sovereign said, almost conversationally, then turned to Arman. “Of course, I remember a somewhat more impressive display twenty years ago, down on the harbour. As do you, no doubt.”

  Arman was completely calm—at least outwardly—as he answered. “Yes, your highness. Jera was with us that day too. He was the one who lifted the statue of Lord Niko.”

  “Ah. Made quite an impression. That was an achievement, Sei Lord Arman—to end a war without the loss of a single civilian life, and with honour. However, we shall speak no more of those days, because we are at peace, and earnestly wish to remain so. Madam, do me the favour of accompanying me inside? Senator, please, bring everyone? We have people waiting to meet you all.”

  And then he walked Veta in as if she was a Ruler herself, and he but her humble attendant. Kei followed behind them, shocked to his core. He’d met the previous sovereign. She’d have no more offe
red her arm to a Darshianese than she would have eaten it raw, and as for chatting politely and knowledgably about timkir oil.... He sensed Arman was equally surprised. Lord Peika was rather pleased with everything, and Jera mainly radiated relief, presumably at not having been told off for causing such a fuss the last time he’d been in town.

  “Are you sure he’s Prijian?” Kei muttered as Arman took his arm politely, as a good spouse should, to lead him into the palace.

  “Blond hair, green eyes, think so. Shhh.”

  “But he’s nice!”

  “He’s also on home territory and with a point to prove. Be quiet and smile, please,” Arman said, doing just that and bowing slightly to someone he appeared to recognise. And still no one threw anything. Amazing.

  Dazed and wondered if he was dreaming the whole thing, Kei followed Arman’s lead—and the sovereign’s—through the imposing, heavily ornamented hallways, until they came to a pair of massive, brass-bound and studded doors. A brief delay, and then armour-bearing soldiers opened the doors as another harsh, warlike fanfare was sounded. The sovereign, still leading Lord Peika’s wife, stepped through, and Kei and Arman followed.

  The sight before him dazzled him—sun poured through the large glass windows onto gilt and gold and silver, while elaborate jewellery sparkled and glinted wherever he looked, almost blinding him. The colours overwhelmed too—bright Andonese gemcloth on the women, and vast, intricately made pictures on the walls, all formed a kaleidoscopic effect. It was a real effort to restrain himself from shading his eyes like a provincial. Even before he could adjust, his ears were deafened by a sudden rush of sustained and apparently genuine applause from what seemed like hundreds of hands. He sensed, rather than saw, Arman bowing, and hastily followed his lead. When he stood again, he realised that the gathering was not quite as large as it first appeared, though there were at least a hundred people in the room, not including the guests and the guards.