“I find it amusing. Also, interesting. I like to learn new things, too.” She pointed at the underground colony pictures. “I don’t see you living underground, Adam. Not without being in a cold sweat for the rest of your life.”
He made a face at her. “Maybe we won’t have ghul on the moon.”
“I think humans will drag their problems with them, no matter where they go.”
“Careful. You sound like Kanmi.”
“No, he’s the cynic. I’m just an observer of human nature.” Sigrun pointed to their left. “Conference room’s that way.”
As they got ready to go on full duty, Adam, in the conference room, tossed each of the other lictors a flexible vest made of very heavy material. “Put these on,” he told them. “These won’t stop a rifle bullet, but they should stop most revolvers.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Assuming no one’s invested in tungsten-core bullets. At the least, it’ll slow the bullets down a bit.” He took off his cloak and pulled on his own vest.
The other three looked at the vests, and looked at Adam. Kanmi shook his head slightly. “You have any idea what I’d do to someone wearing one of these, ben Maor?”
“Roast them alive, probably.”
“That, or tighten all the filaments so that it constricts them and renders them unable to move or breathe.” Kanmi grimaced. “We’re going to be seeing Chaldeans and Medians, ben Maor. We’re talking about the original sorcerers. I’m not worrying about bullets. I’m worried about fire. I’m worried about being drowned where I stand, in open air. I’m worried about one of them knowing how to turn the poured stone under our feet to dust and sinking us in it, like Matrugena here can do.”
“And I know that someone took a shot at the Chaldean emissary with a high-powered rifle today,” Adam returned, evenly. “There’ve been experiments with ceramic inserts for these vests for rifles, but nothing successful so far. This is the best I can do to keep us all alive.” He looked around, and added, looking into the mid-distance, “Though, to be honest, I don’t think the attack on the Chaldean woman was actually meant to kill her.”
Sigrun’s eyebrows rose. “Why not?”
“The gardia finished checking the scene. Only one bullet appears to have been fired. And it missed. Personally, I was trained to double-tap. Either this is someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, they were interrupted, or they deliberately didn’t take a second shot.” Adam shrugged. “Wear them. You, too, Sig.”
“You three can at least wear shirts over them,” Sigrun muttered, and began struggling with the fastenings. “It’s going to be obvious that I’m wearing this, Adam.”
“Let it be obvious. You’re on a protective detail in Judea. Everyone knows we have guns here.” Adam helped her get the vest over her head, and cinched it up for her. “There. How’s that feel?”
“Like a turtle’s shell.”
“I’ve seen you wear thirty pounds of chain mail before. This is less than ten.”
“Yes, but chain mail moves. This does not.” Sigrun grimaced. “Let’s go meet the propraetor’s car, shall we?”
And thus, ten minutes later, Adam had doffed his skullcap once more to become a faceless protector around the propraetor; all four of the main lictors were on duty, and Sigrun could feel the energies both Kanmi and Trennus were maintaining around Livorus’ form, though neither man showed any visible strain as they walked. But because the two mages had their attentions occupied in this manner, it was up to Sigrun and Adam to watch the crowd and the booths that much more carefully. Each row was cleared out by security, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t hide in this booth or that. And while there were lictors around Poppaea and the children, it was still up to them to protect Livorus.
And then their steps happened to take them down a row of booths already cleared for another visiting dignitary’s deputation. “Everyone smile,” Livorus said, doing so, faintly, himself. “Let us prepare for diplomacy.”
“Lie and pass the teacups, yes, dominus,” Kanmi muttered.
Livorus paused in his steps, and beckoned his lictors closer. “Keep in mind,” he murmured to them all quietly, “From the perspective of the Persian Empire, and its various subject nations, Rome has largely . . . how have you all taken to putting it? Ah yes. Brandished the fasces in their faces since the days of Antiochus IV. Nevermind that those were Hellene emperors in Persian clothing; they still see two thousand years of being told no.” Livorus’ smile was faint. “You know, and I know, that what we largely did was tell them no, they couldn’t try to take Egypt over, and no, they couldn’t have Judea or Tyre or Asia Minor, either. As I recall my history, the Lydians cheered the Legions in the streets when they arrived.” Livorus looked around at them all. “You’re all members of the . . . forgive me . . . subject states that Rome built as a protective ring around the heart of the Empire. The Chaldeans and the Medians are very much in the same position as each and every one of you.”
“Understood,” Adam returned, his tone even. “Somewhat hard to keep track of, sir, when one lives next door, and not actually among the Seven Hills of Rome.”
___________________
The Chaldean deputation practically seethed with enchantments. Sigrun had rarely sensed this much magic in one place, at one time before. The Chaldean emissary, herself, Erida Lelayn, was known to be an absolute firepower of a magus, which was unusual; while women with sorcerous powers were trained as magi, few attained her level of power . . . though her family was very highly placed among the Magi. Through the bodyguards flanking her, Sigrun could see the woman’s dark, curling hair, dressed in elaborate ringlets, under an elaborate headdress of multiple layers of silk scarves. Her eyes gleamed like basalt pebbles, marked out with kohl, and kohl had been used, again, to trace symbols on her forehead, cheeks, and chin—informing anyone who looked at her that she was of the Magi. Her clothing was made of rich, heavy silks, an over-robe of dusty red brocade above a black underdress, with heavy gold embroidery everywhere, and she had a half-dozen small pokes dangling from her belt, and wore a small fortune in jewelry that was all probably heavily enchanted. In spite of it all, she had a round, surprisingly sweet face that, to Sigrun’s eyes, actually wavered slightly from spirit energies around her. Invisible to most mortals, a python twined around her throat and shoulders like a stole, lividly green, and radiating power; a second snake, this one a cobra, twined around her right wrist like a bracelet, radiating red fire as it raised its head to hiss. A hawk, apparently made of moonbeams, landed on her shoulder, and another layer of translucent light pulled up around the young woman’s form. “Three spirits on her,” Sigrun murmured. Her eyes shifted to the rest of the guards, and she tensed, slightly. The man to Erida’s right carried the kind of sword one really wished would be left in the history books—about three feet in length, with a vicious sickle curve. He also carried a bow, strung, over his shoulder, and a quiver at his waist. Not god-born, though. I think.
“Three spirits manifesting,” Trennus corrected, softly. “I’m sensing about a dozen others, between her and the bodyguards.”
“I don’t see a damned thing,” Adam muttered.
At which point Lassair manifested, physically, landing on Trennus’ shoulder and shrilling a single note that pierced the air.
The Chaldeans, as one, looked at the firebird, and their eyes widened slightly as Lassair settled down to preen lightly at Trennus’ braids, even as he tried to shoo her, gently, away. “Propraetor Antonius Livorus? I’ve heard so much about you. What an unexpected pleasure,” Erida finally said, with a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes, as she stepped forward through her flanking bodyguards, offering, not a hand to be clasped, but putting both hands together at her heart to bow, minimally. Sigrun caught a glimpse of a bandage under Erida’s brocade sleeve, mostly concealed. All right. She hasn’t healed completely from the attack, no matter how composed her face is right now.
Livorus didn’t bow. He did, however, nod, briefly in response. “Lady Erida,
I presume? I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before.” He gestured Poppaea closer. “My lady wife, Poppaea. Our children.” He gestured again, and the children lined up, wide-eyed, but drilled in formal manners since the day they were born. “May I enquire as to what brings you to an air and space exposition?”
The words were a set piece, light and inane. Erida replied, airily, “Personally, I wanted to see how, precisely, the Hellenes and the Judeans were spending their money. There are those among my people who believe that they are building weapons platforms in space, with which to rain down death on Persia.”
Livorus looked around. “And do you believe that, Lady Erida?”
“My mind is open, and therefore, unclouded. I am here to see what I may see.”
“Then perhaps you might join my small party. We might make less trouble for security in that fashion.”
“You display a surprising amount of solicitude for your underlings, Propraetor.” There was a brief hint of ice in her eyes, but she accepted Livorus’ left arm, while Poppaea remained on his right. There was a brief exchange of stares between the two sets of bodyguards . . . and then they all fell in, moving to encircle their various protectees, as they made their way through the convention hall, and to the side room, where the Median emissary was already waiting for them. Kashir Maranata was in his mid-forties, and stocky. Not fat; muscled, rather, and his dossier suggested that the man, who was a relative of the current satrap of Media, Daiukku, spent much of his free time working out with his bodyguards. His dossier also indicated that he currently had two wives, neither of whom were along with him on this trip, though his chief bodyguard, strikingly, was another female magus. Sigrun evaluated, fast. Maranata wore a saffron-colored over-robe, an inner one of white linen, and a matching, rounded cap. Heavy gold rings . . . and no spirits directly perched on him, though he, like Erida, had heavy magical shielding around him, as well. Well, this could be worse, Sigrun told herself as twelve bodyguards and three negotiators moved into the conference room that they’d inspected no more than twenty minutes ago, and had been under guard all the time since. “Poppaea, my dear,” Livorus told his wife, lightly. “I’m sure you would prefer to continue to examine the exhibits with the children and your lictors. This is about to become dreadfully tedious.”
Poppaea shrugged, her expression already bored. “Yes. Of course, my dear husband.” She gathered the children and her guards, and left, and the door dogged shut behind them all.
Sigrun untucked the watch she kept chained to her belt and usually snugged inside the newfangled hip pocket of her jeans. Snapping the case open told her that it was well after five postmeridian. They’re going to need something to eat during this meeting. We checked catering, we have food-tasters on hand in the kitchens . . . but this is convention-hall food. The tasters might not be able to tell the difference between that and genuine poison . . . .
“Thank you all for joining me today.” Livorus told the other emissaries, and settled his elbows lightly on the table as he sat. “I trust you have not been unduly discommoded in your travels?”
“Other than a minor incident, doubtless with Judean agitators yesterday?” Erida murmured in reply. “Not at all.”
Livorus noted, lightly, his eyes sharp, “Apparently, someone imported some sort of Persian relic that caused a traffic entanglement that caused me a few delays.”
“Yes, I did hear something about that,” Erida replied, coolly. “I troubled my staff to do a little research about this relic. Quite interesting. Apparently, a number of antiquities were stolen from the Persepolis Museum last month. A very large clay urn, as well as about three dozen of what were categorized as ‘spirit bottles.’ Half of them were categorized in the museum’s file card system as djinn containers. The others were all older, and categorized as alu.” She folded her hands together neatly. “No one seems to know where they might have gotten to.”
“A puzzle,” Livorus agreed, tightly. “Forgive my ignorance, but alu?” He glanced at Trennus. “Matrugena?”
Trennus shook his head. “I’m not familiar, myself, sir.”
Erida shrugged, tilting her head to the side slightly. “They are very ancient. Every last one of them, that we are aware of, was caged centuries ago, and their bottles laid to rest in a variety of tombs. We rather used to treat the tombs of our kings as . . . ordnance disposal sites, I’m afraid. We would send powerful spirits to rest with them, to protect them. Forever. At least until the archaeologists came along and dug everything back up again. Now, we haven’t precisely opened any of these bottles, but contemporaneous writings on cuneiform tablets left in the tombs describe tall, gaunt creatures with the heads of hyenas and eyes that glow green in the darkness. They are spirits of the night, apparently. They hunt in packs, following a female pack-leader, just as hyenas themselves do. And there is nowhere they cannot reach in the dark. They supposedly become wisps of smoke in the darkness, passing through the cracks under doors. Nothing can bar them in their hunt besides light. Their laughter terrifies, and their bite is death.”
Sigrun stirred uneasily. “Perhaps at some point in the future,” she said, very quietly, and to Livorus, not to anyone else at the table, “these two kingdoms should consider locking such items in secure ordnance facilities? Or ensuring that the creatures within should be banished permanently, rather than . . . stored?” Her tone was as neutral as she could make it, but after dealing with the pazuzu last night, she was in no mood to hear about anyone’s cultural treasures or cultural history. These were weapons. Living, self-motivated weapons that could be turned against a single target, or unleashed in a public area to slaughter civilians. She’d seen a fair number of summonings on the Mongol border, but the pazuzu had been devastatingly powerful, if primitive in its methods.
“A point to add to any future discussions. Thank you, my dear.” Livorus’ voice was just as quiet as Sigrun’s had been, but she knew that the other negotiators had likely missed little.
“For myself, only ghul rising in the streets around my hotel. Most disagreeable,” the Median emissary noted, letting the by-play pass him by, rather than making an issue of Sigrun’s words. “Even if this were a warning, I would still push on with these talks, Propraetor Livorus. May we begin?”
Livorus raised his eyebrows slightly. “Straight to business.” This was unusual for a Median, Sigrun knew. They tended to like a few hours or even days of getting to know the feel of someone, before getting to business. Even haggling in a market might take place over several cups of coffee.
Maranata looked around. “Can we arrange a little privacy?”
Livorus gestured to Kanmi. “Eshmunazar? If you would be so kind?”
Kanmi lowered his head and murmured for a moment, and a ripple of energy pushed out through the room. This was a larger version of the sound-deadening field than he’d used in the past; the edge of the field stopped the energy of sound waves from transmitting through the air past a certain point . . . and, just for verification purposes, Kanmi said, “Radios off, please,” and sent out an electromagnetic pulse, as well. One sure to disrupt any listening equipment that their guests might have brought in, since the room had been secured by the lictors and the gardia, though it shouldn’t affect the radios that everyone carried, so long as they were currently turned off. As the lictors’ were. “You can turn your personal radios back on now,” Kanmi added, and Sigrun clicked the switch on the one at her waist.
There were a few murmurs from the various sorcerers in the retinue of the Chaldean and Median emissaries, and Lady Erida’s fine brows rose, slightly; Sigrun took that as an indication that Kanmi had just surprised them. When the sorcerer from Tyre raised his head, his expression was blank, but there was a sardonic twinkle in his eyes that suggested that Kanmi was enjoying himself.
Sigrun glanced at Livorus for permission, and then stood, planting herself by the door, so that she could listen to the conversation inside the bubble with one ear . . . and listen for trouble outside
the door with the other. That was one of the unfortunate side-effects of Kanmi’s ability; it worked both ways. “There,” Livorus said now. “Much better. You were saying, Lord Maranata?”
“Yes.” The Median ambassador toyed with the gold chain of office that swung across his chest. “Well, it’s hardly a secret that over the past five years, I’ve pushed Satrap Daiukku to pursue trade policies that would allow us better access to Roman markets. It’s also hardly a secret that the Mongol Khanate is putting pressure on our northern border again.”
“And you cannot turn to Persia for assistance?” Livorus commented, his tone neutral.
“Emperor Tiridates, tenth of that name . . . is aging and ill. His mind wanders. The court physicians say it is no more than the natural effects of aging, but given the wide number and variety of favorites the Emperor enjoyed in his youth, one must wonder if it is a more social ailment than mere dementia.” Maranata’s voice was as dry as sand. “He has twelve sons, Propraetor. The Empress herself is barren. His twelve sons are thus spread out between three official queens and five concubines. He has not named an heir, and the Persians have never allowed the throne to fall to merely the eldest, except if he happened to be born of the legitimate Empress.”
“You expect infighting, then?” Livorus said, calmly.
“Propraetor, I expect nothing less than civil war inside the next three years. Satrap Daiukku agrees with my assessment. And we believe that it is time to remove our people and our country from the reach of that incipient conflict.” The envoy toyed with his chains again. “We wish to retain our ports along the southern Caspian Sea. History tells us that every time the Empire has had one of these dynastic spasms, neighboring nations attempt to scavenge from the Empire’s middens. Better to be absorbed by Rome, than eaten alive by the Mongols or overrun by Raccia, yes? And in exchange for that, we’re quite willing to give you levies of troops. Minor tribute.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 65