“To discuss issues of bilateral trade and mutual benefit to both parties.”
“Go easy on the coffee,” Susan cautioned as Pilar topped off her cup.
“Oh, that’s not fair,” the other woman groaned. For her it was as necessary a start to the day as breathing, often far more welcome than opening her eyes.
Susan shrugged. There were evident signs of strain around her eyes, Elora saw, and her mouth as well.
“Nothing I can do. As far as the highgrove blend is concerned…”
“Of course,” Pilar groused, “my favorite.”
“…what we’ve got is what we’ve got. And that appears to be the end of it.”
“I thought the roads were still clear to the south,” Elora said.
“Roads are clear every which way, for the most part,” Susan told them. “Provided you can keep self and stock from freezing along the way. Wagon train’s in, they just don’t have the freight we need. No crop this year from highgrove. Frost caught ’em by surprise, sounds like they lost everything.”
“The Chancellor’s office issued a statement,” Duguay announced, a trifle exasperated by the interruptions and lack of attention, “to the council and parliament noting that the diplomatic initiatives of past months appear to have born fruit and that they look forward both to a positive exchange of views and a speedy resolution of any outstanding differences.”
“Such as,” Elora suggested as she savored the last of an orange, “are you and yours still hell-bent on conquering the world?”
“That’s a bit cynical.”
“In the case of the Maizan, perfectly justified.”
“You don’t like them, Elora?”
“Susan,” Pilar asked, her voice touched with apprehension, “if the crops don’t come in this harvest season, if the weather’s so lousy that the plants themselves are crippled, what happens next year? What does the city do for food?”
“What’s to like, Duguay?” Elora challenged. “We came, we saw, we killed, we conquered, who’s next? The Maizan credo and life story, in a nutshell. They’re perfectly prepared to share with others, provided it’s their sandbox, their toys, and only their children allowed.”
“Is that what you hear, Elora,” the troubadour responded, “on all those peregrinations to the cataracts down on the prairie, or out beyond the tableland suburbs? Or,” he finished pointedly, “on your frequent sojourns to the university, hmnh? Learning a lot, are we? Bettering ourselves every day, in every way?”
“What I hear is that people are frightened.” For emphasis, she tilted her head toward Pilar. “What I know is that they have fair reason.”
“Only two choices available, pet.” She bridled at the intentional diminutive and shot him a glare to remind him so. His answer was a slow smile. “Do you sanction a slaughter of the embassy the moment they dismount?”
“What would that accomplish?”
“Says here, the Maizan delegation will be led by their warlord.”
“Anakerie?”
“The same. Strike off her head, you’ll no doubt do the body some considerable harm. Take time presumably to choose a replacement, and who knows, they might not be as good.”
“I assume they’re here under a safe conduct, not to mention the fact there’s been no official declaration of war.”
“Technicalities”—Duguay sighed dramatically, as if the entire exchange was no more than a running joke—“always technicalities. I assume then that assassination is quite out of the question.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Merely dancing the steps you’ve choreographed, pet. You outlined the structure, I’m putting it together. You can’t ignore them, they won’t go away, or be wished away. If you won’t kill them, there’s but a sole alternative. Make a deal.”
“Here endeth the lesson.”
“Hardly. But you brought it on yourself.”
“What could Mohdri offer that the Sandeni would accept?”
“Survival’s always a good place to start.”
“The Republic’s been threatened before, Duguay, it’s never yielded.”
“Suppose it came down to a choice: the city’s survival or that of the Sacred Princess?”
“What?”
“She yields of her own free will, or if the city gives her up, all is well. But if she flees, annihilation. Tell me, Elora, as a concerned citizen, would you consider that a fair exchange? One life for a multitude? Or a fair price, the multitude slain for that one to escape?”
“This isn’t funny, Duguay.”
“Perhaps not. But amusing. And definitely relevant.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, she didn’t know how to respond, with humor or silence or her fists. She was saved from the choice by a summons to the door, where she found an official ministerial messenger. A thick envelope of heavy vellum was delivered, bearing the official seal of the Chancellor, its very appearance reeking of importance.
With a twist of her fingers, she broke the seal.
“We have a commission,” she announced after reading the contents. “An invitation to perform at the gala state banquet welcoming the Maizan delegation.”
Immediately there was applause from Susan and the others, plus cheers and whistles and a toast that clinked mugs with juice tumblers. Duguay looked indecently pleased with himself, as though this was something he alone had brought about.
“Where is it?” he asked her, acknowledging the congratulations and pats on the back and a kiss from one of the women.
“The Cascani Factor’s house, in Kinshire, the borough at the foot of Lake Morar.”
“Will we attend, pet?”
“Hellsteeth, Duguay, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
* * *
—
Anakerie rode off the plains with less of an escort than Elora remembered Mohdri bringing with him to Angwyn. A company of cavalry, numbering an even hundred, and that included their baggage train. They wore armor, she wore none, though she had adopted the gleaming jet hues of their own apparel. She rode her horse like they were as one and commanded her men with equal assurance.
The years had scarcely touched her, Elora saw through Bastian’s eyes. The eagle kept a respectful distance from the Maizan, describing lazy circles through the sky well beyond their bowshot. There was death between these two races and a hatred even Elora knew better than to try to assuage. Among the Maizan it was considered a badge of honor for their young men to claim the feathers of a golden eagle. The means by which they did so involved the ritual slaughter of their captive, in a spell that bound the anima of the eagle’s soul to that of its killer. The eagles in turn considered the Maizan their mortal enemies and took any opportunity to exact swift and bloody vengeance for their dead.
Anakerie had rarely smiled when Elora knew her. Now she looked like she’d forgotten how and the soul behind her eyes was deeply shrouded, keeping both thoughts and secrets to itself. Her height wasn’t outstanding, it was carriage and demeanor that made her appear far taller. Her form was slim, but possessed a whipcord power far out of proportion to her actual size. Far more important was a phenomenal speed that allowed her to evade the attacks of men two and three times her bulk. True, they could crush her with a single blow, but by the time they got around to delivering it, they’d already be dead.
Black wasn’t the color for her, Elora noted critically. There was too much warmth in the faintly bronzed cast of her skin, too much life represented by hair the color of polished mahogany, shot through with strands and flashes of fiery auburn. The shade reminded Elora of Ryn, of all people, especially since his fur was touched by the same autumnal hues. There was no slack to the skin over her cheekbones and the lines trailing off the eyes and around the mouth were deeply etched. They were calculating eyes, never at rest, gauging every situation, seeking out he
r opponent’s every weakness, warily anticipating a surprise attack or deciding how best to make one of her own.
“Is there something perhaps I might help with?” asked the professor.
Elora let out a yelp of startlement that burst forth from Bastian’s beak as a piercing cry. She floundered in her chair, he in the air, and with a tremendous wrench she severed the mental ties between them, apologizing profusely as the contact faded for the headaches such shock would bring to both.
She blinked over and over again, her eyes so wide and staring that she looked like someone in a fit of panic when in fact she was only seeing through them the way the eagles did through theirs. For those few moments her body seemed to be composed of cast metal. Her hands had clamped tight on the arms of the chair as though for fear that if she released her hold she’d fall straight up into the sky, off the world entire and all the way to the end of Creation. The only part of her that moved was the surface of her chest, and that only a little as her breath came in staccato huhf sounds, one inhalation after the other.
Gradually her pulse slowed and she found time to take a decent breath. Her eyes were closed and she wanted to keep them that way, the better to deny the pounding in her temples as yet another field of phantom spikeblossoms bloomed beneath her skull. She flexed her hands, one after the other, as though this was some new experience. Watching her, the professor could have sworn he beheld someone who didn’t remember how to move.
“Please don’t do that,” she said at last, creasing her eyes open and giving the professor a small smile of reassurance.
“I,” he repeated a number of times, clearly flustered and concerned by what had happened, chastising himself for not knowing better and desperately afraid he’d done her harm, “I’m terribly terribly sorry!”
“It’s all right. Could I…” Now it was her turn to pause and swallow and cough as she tried to speak through a larynx laced as thickly with spikeblossoms as her head. She cleared her throat but the best she could manage was a croak. “Some water, please?”
“Of course, my dear, right away, right away.”
There was a carafe on a nearby table, the water flavored with mint the way she loved it. She polished off a tumblerful right away, then slumped into the depths of her chair in hopes that a few minutes’ relaxation would restore her enough to deal with her ailments.
Banishing the headache took more effort than she anticipated. She wasn’t aware she’d dozed until the clink of china and silverware heralded the professor’s return. More blinking as she dragged herself out of the chair and to a semblance of wakefulness. As the table came into focus she couldn’t help breaking into a smile.
“What’s this?” she asked incredulously.
“You were kind enough to treat me to tea,” the professor explained, “when we first met. I thought it was past time to return the favor.”
There was a chased silver pot of some antiquity, mismatched with a tall stoneware jug filled with steaming water. A pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar, a pair of mugs completed the service. On a serving plate was a fruitcake with marzipan icing that she knew was his favorite, and one of hers besides. The scones were fresh and were presented with a selection of butter, clotted cream, and jam preserves. There were sandwiches as well, nicely stuffed, although nowhere near as elegant in presentation as she’d seen in downtown tea shops.
He took his tea with milk, she preferred it black with sugar. They both reached as one for the same piece of fruitcake, shared a chuckle, then shared the cake, Elora making sure when they broke it that the professor got the larger piece.
“Was it impressive,” he asked, “the Maizan procession?”
She cocked an inquiring eyebrow but said nothing, preferring to savor the rich taste of her cake and wash it down with a swallow of tea. She had decided from the first to take the scholar into her confidence, and Thorn had agreed without the slightest argument. It turned out that he and the professor were old acquaintances, who regularly whiled away an afternoon or evening, when duties permitted, over tea or brandy and a game of chess. Elora’s rationale was that the more the professor knew of her, the more help he could be.
“It wasn’t so hard a deduction, my dear,” he said, though he was proud of himself for having made it. “You’re not the only one who watches the Citadel semaphore, which is how I knew when they arrived. I’ve seen how you withdraw your concentration from time to time, evidently to merge it with some other person or creature. When I saw you here, I assumed that’s what you were doing. I”—and here he looked shamefaced—“didn’t realize what effect my interruption would have. After all the time we’ve spent together these past weeks, especially considering all that I’m supposed to know about you and the Veil Folk, such a presumption is inexcusable.”
“It’s all right. No harm done, to Bastian or me. My own fault really, I have better things to do. In a couple of nights we’ll be face-to-face, Anakerie and I.”
“Is that wise?”
Elora shrugged. “How much do you know?” she wondered.
His turn to make the same gesture. “As much as can be read, or asked, or divined. Within these walls is one of the greatest storehouses of raw intelligence about the Great Realms on the continent. I’ll wager, even the world. The labor of my lifetime, and a goodly score before me, collecting, collating, codifying—all of which is utterly worthless if we cannot find a way to put it to use.”
As he spoke then, something altogether unexpected occurred. Without warning, her eyes brimmed heavy with tears. While her face was working fiercely to deny their presence, the professor gently pulled her into his arms and enfolded her in a rough and fatherly embrace.
“It’s all right,” he said over and over, useless as the words sounded to his own ears. He knew she was crying and in a way these were far worse than hearty sobs, the grief and sorrow as naked in her as any bared blade, and able to cut just as deeply.
“All I want are answers.” She snuffled but made no move to disengage.
He nodded sympathetically. “To questions as yet unknown.”
“It’s as if the Deceiver knows everything. He has a plan. All we’re doing is making things up as we go along.”
“Reactive, not proactive.”
“Huh?”
“Consider police work, my dear. You can either wait until the crime has been committed and then track down the malefactors. Or, not so easily accomplished, determine what inspires those crimes and find a way to head them off before they happen.”
“Learn their plans, you mean?”
“No, my dear, it’s not quite so simple. If a man steals because he’s hungry, find a way to help him earn that bread. Provide a legitimate means of winning self-respect, or providing for yourself and your family. Let the community know your purpose is to be their defender, win their regard, earn their trust. Help them, that they may better help you.”
“I have a dozen such communities to preach to, Professor,” she said wearily, pushing away from him and fishing in her pockets for a handkerchief. All those tears had made her nose run as well, while her face looked so wet and puffy she might just have been slapped by a sodden cloth. She waved her hands helplessly. “I don’t even know what some of them are, much less what they want.”
“Elora.” He looked her in the eyes; she met his searching gaze as he used his thumbs as a pair of impromptu towels to wipe her cheeks dry.
“Yes?”
“Is there anyone else to do the job?”
She shook her head, suddenly feeling more six than sixteen.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said, with meaning.
“What I want sometimes, more than anything, is to run away and hide under my bedcovers and tell all the Great Realms to go hang themselves.”
“I like that. Those Maizan, are they as impressive as their reputation?”
“Breed ’em big, dress ’em bigger. The
armor and the horses help. You see them coming, it’s like the whole of the Wall is tumbling down on top of you. But that’s only part of what they do.”
“This you’ve seen or this you’ve learned?”
“Both. Up-country, when Duguay and I were at the fort up by the Cascadel headwaters, the Colonel commanding held court with his staff every night at dinner, almost like a seminar in tactics.” She smiled shyly. “I like to listen. I remember what I hear. There are three divisions of Maizan horse: heavy brigade, light brigade, and flankers. Those who rode in with Anakerie, they’re the heavy mob. Think of them as a sledgehammer, used to smash the opposition in a mass head-on attack. Light brigade focuses on speed, they wear mail instead of plate armor, quicker horses, lighter spears, to exploit the holes in the enemy line opened up by the heavy attack. The flankers are harriers. Favorite weapon’s the bow. Use them to scout, to hit-and-run. They make you so crazy with distractions that you miss what’s happening right in front until it’s too late, or maybe goad you into some stupid, ill-considered response.
“Now, that’s ideal for open country warfare. And that’s all folks assumed the Maizan were good at. Like looking at a master bowman and never imagining he knows how to use a sword. Or better yet”—she smiled inside and out at the thought of Luc-Jon—“a country boy with country manners; would you think of such a lad as a licensed scribe?”
“Most wouldn’t, no,” he replied.
“There you have it. The supreme advantage of the Maizan is not that they move so fast and hit so hard, but that they do everything else required of an army. They have engineers, they understand siegecraft, they fight as well on foot. But since that doesn’t fit the preconception, nobody thinks of them in those terms.”
She scarcely touched her mug after she sat down, silent for so long a time with her knees folded snug to her body, her heels resting on the lip of her chair, that her tea went cold. The professor took it to pour her a refill.
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