by Lori Martin
“Nonsense. Rhonna doesn’t give up that easily. I often get her outvoted in the Assembly, you know; she’s not very good at keeping members on her side. So sometimes she does it this way – going right to the people. At this, she’s a master. That’s how she came to power in the first place.”
“But the people can only vote on a nomination, not on a question like this,” Paither said. He could almost hear his mother’s bafflement, at the inefficient workings of Mendale government. “It’s up to the Assembly, isn’t it? And they’ve already decided. They chose mercy.”
“Yes, but you see, my boy, things don’t always turn out the way they’re supposed to. Now, we can say: the Assembly’s voted for leniency, it’s settled. But if Tribune Rhonna gets half of MenDas out here complaining and shouting, massing in the streets, bellowing under our windows – well, it’s likely someone will motion that the matter be brought up again, for another Assembly vote. The same question can be voted in Chamber three times, you know, if repeat votes are demanded. Frankly –” He considered the animated woman, one dark hand thrust up, striking into the air. “I think she’s going to manage it.”
Rhonna, a listtel with a deep forceful voice, was thundering denunciations of the “murdering Defiers,” approaching the climax. The crowd waited in eager expectation. Everyone knew what was coming. “... to send these foul lins a message! To show them we are their masters. Defeat them at their own blood-spilling!” She pounded one fist into the other, a practiced movement. “It is time to end our wellmeant but mistaken mercy. The leader of this plague of killers is their so-called queen – a poisonous, plotting, grasping woman who has repaid the Assembly’s forbearance with spiteful intrigue. The souls of her victims cry out to us! Berrold, Dissus, Planna, Gajin – noble servants of all Mendale, they call to us for justice! Let the lins bury their dead now, and we shall rid ourselves of this demon queen at the same time. Let us bring her to justice. Put her to death!” The roar of the crowd’s approval slammed into Paither, as if he hadn’t expected it. He cursed under his breath, taking the goddess’s name. The First Tribune glanced at him with disapproval, then pressed his lips tightly together. He has a sword at his side again, Haol thought, as if he thought he were among enemies. Nichos shouldn’t permit it. Ah well, that’s the primitive lin blood in the boy. Tribune Rhonna had whipped them into a delighted chant. “Destroy
– the – queen! Destroy – the – queen!”
“When will you speak?” Nichos asked.
Haol raised two white eyebrows, a surprised smile dawning across his puffy cheeks. “After this? My friend, I’m not going to take on a crowd in this mood.”
“But you have to speak against it. We can’t just let Rhonna have her own way. Yesterday you –”
“Yesterday I was addressing the Assembly, not a pack of hunting dogs on the scent.”
“You said, quite reasonably, that it would be unwise to execute the queen,” Nichos said. “You pointed out that it would only drive the Defiers to more desperate measures, perhaps greater violence, that the Lindahnes themselves might even rebel across the country –” “All very real possibilities. But you can’t tell people what they refuse to hear.”
“And in fact, you refuse to try?”
“My dear friend, why try to do what can’t be done?”
In a hollow voice, Paither said, “It was settled before it began. Influence has to be hoarded like gold.”
Nichos, confused and alarmed, did not recognize his own words; he focused on Haol. “This isn’t justice. You and I, even Rhonna here, know that Queen Ayenna can’t really be responsible for the Defiers’ activities. She’s completely cut off from them. She’s being made a scapegoat. It’s a travesty. It’s against the truth.”
Haol’s smile broadened to show his sharp front teeth. “Nichos, you truly are delightful. I’m very glad you’re our Third Tribune.” He laughed. “You’re going to keep us all honest, eh? Now, now, don’t tell me what your next thought is. I’ll guess, shall I? You’re going to speak to them now, is that right?”
“Yes, I am.” Nichos’s dark eyes met Paither’s. The young man felt a peaceful burning in his chest, like the soothing heat of rentar brandy on a winter night.
Haol shook his head, suddenly serious. “My friend, you’ve been Third Tribune for – is it six days? And I’m the man who helped you get there, aren’t I? Then listen to me. This is a foolish, foolish idea. And it’s especially foolish for you. You’ve been known to visit this ridiculous queen. Do you want to be accused of conspiring with her?”
“I merely accompanied my wife.”
“Your lin-wife,” Haol retorted, and held up his hand. “Now please, I do beg your pardon! I’m only trying to show you what easy targets you and your family are on this kind of question. You of all people cannot speak out on behalf of criminal lins.”
“Tribune,” Nichos called over the heads of Assembly members. Rhonna, pausing for a gulp of water, threw him a startled look. “Honored Rhonna, may I speak?”
Her hesitation was just barely perceptible. Then she smiled and bowed. She turned back to the crowd. “Friends and fellow Mendales, our new Third Tribune, Tribune Nichos, will now address you!”
“Cheer up, Haol,” Nichos said. “I’m only saying a few words. I’m not leaping into the Valtah.”
“You hope you’re not, you mean.”
As Nichos mounted the platform, Paither pushed forward for a better view. “Excuse me, excuse me, I’m sorry, excuse me,” he murmured to the jostling bodies. The alarmed Assemblage House sentry, who had remained nearby, lost sight of him.
He squeezed into a tiny space on the very edge of the top stair. His gaze traveled the crowd, measuring their expectation and their curiosity about the new Tribune, whose nomination they had ratified just three days before. Only residents of MenDas were permitted to vote on nominations; the townspeople took great pride in it. They wanted proof that they had been right. They wanted Nichos to distinguish himself.
Paither picked out leatherworkers, pottery makers, the smiths and horse trainers, nobleborn and masters, tailors and shoe crafters, all of the livelihoods of the capital. Army solders, of course. House guards. Movements on the roof... archers. A shiver ran down his arm.
Something?
Nichos greeted the crowd. The cold wind changed direction, and a stinging mist from the fountain hit Paither’s cheek and shoulder. Figures were wrapped around the statue of the long-ago Second Tribune. A tall, graceful woman, leaning on the marble’s extended arm, craned forward.
The Defier.
He stared, distracted from the faint perception that had almost crystallized into thought. She was dressed in a bread baker’s apron
– it even had flour spilled down the front – but it was the same woman, the one his uncle had called Mejalna. Her red-gold hair, the perfect curve of her neck –
A Defier in this crowd?
His father was speaking well. The crowd, unwilling to follow his cool reasoning but for the moment respecting the flow of his mind, stirred. They muttered in discontent.
Paither was no longer interested in speaker or audience. He slid behind one hard body after another, moving towards her even as she began to slide back into the crowd. He had to follow her.
For most of the afternoon he was able to stay close behind her through the streets. The speeches had evidently finished; the crowd had poured out of the welcome-yard, carrying news and gossip, exclaiming in indignation or shouting explanations to neighbors and workers up and down the avenues. He kept his eye on the flash of soiled white, the bread baker’s apron, as it threaded through the crowd.
But in the third market he missed her. He stood, indecisive, in front of a stall, his eyes running across the surging bodies of the sellers and their customers. Where had she gone?
Rough hands pushed at his hip. “Get moving, like an honest man,” a tiny old woman growled at his chin. “Why are you standing here if you don’t want to buy?”
He stepped a
round her and was shoved into a basket weaver, whose wares were piled on top of his head to half again his height. The top three baskets swayed dangerously. “Look out!” the weaver shouted.
He escaped down a quiet byway. A baby cried somewhere. No one was about. But framed in a doorway, lounging at ease, was the Defier.
“You did well, for a first effort,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were following me until we were in the first market.” She added, as an offhand instruction to a beginner, “You kept too close.”
He put one boot on the step below, blocking her in. The apron wasn’t her own, of course; it fit too tightly, drawn taut across her high breasts. No sign of a weapon, but she might have a hidden pocket. He moved his leg slightly, causing his sword to clank. “What are you doing in MenDas? Did you follow us here?”
“Your family fortunes are of no concern to me, halfer.”
“Did my mother agree to help you? Is that why you’re here?”
“If Mistress Pillyn didn’t see fit to tell you her plans, perhaps she didn’t trust you. Nor will I.”
“Perhaps,” he said deliberately, “perhaps you’re here on other business. Tell me, Defier, where were you on the day of the last assassination? I’m sure the Assembly would be interested in hearing what you have to say about it.”
“No doubt. Why don’t you call for a soldier or guard to bring me in? My friends told me, I should have killed you the last time.”
They paused. She glanced away, a little embarrassed, as if she had said something not quite tactful. He said, “But you didn’t. And I didn’t denounce you.”
“No,” she admitted. Her eyes were a vibrant blue, speckled with light.
He said abruptly, “This isn’t a good disguise. You don’t look like a bread baker. Oh, the outfit’s all correct, right down to the boots, I’ll grant you. But you stand out too much. Because of your looks.”
She gave a half-shrug. She was used to receiving compliments, though he was not used to paying them. “What do you want of me, halfer?”
“What are you and these friends of yours going to do to save the queen?”
“Am I supposed to tell you our plans just for the asking? So you can pass them on to this Tribune father of yours?”
“My father! My father just spoke out on the queen’s behalf. You heard him.”
She repeated, “What do you want?”
He came up to the top step. Though she was tall, he could still look down if he kept his spine straight. The stairway was narrow; they were crowded together. “You approached my mother, you approached my uncle. You should have tried me. I can help you. I can get you to the queen.”
“You? That’s absurd.”
He grabbed at her elbows, startling and angering her. “I’ve visited the queen many times. And now that my father is a Tribune, he can probably get me permission to see her again. If you tell me –”
“Are you saying,” she demanded, “that the Third Tribune of Mendale will help the Defiers?”
“I – no, no. He’s loyal to his country, as you are, as any honorable person. I only meant –”
“Then you would deceive him? Make use of his power without giving him the truth?”
His fingers tightened on the rough wool of her sleeves, pulling the material up and exposing her fair soft skin to the cold. “No.”
Her mouth curved in contempt. Again she gave her half-shrug; it was a mannerism he would come to know well. He said, “I want to join you. To join the Defiers.”
It was the only choice to make, he saw suddenly. He could not keep flailing in the seas of his father’s love and the cold currents of Mendale disdain. He must have one quick clean parting. One sharp surgeon’s cut. Then blood pain, and the scarring, and finally a healing. He would walk away with her now and not look back.
For a moment she was too astonished to answer. She gave a gasping laugh and turned to go down the steps; he kept his hold and pulled her back. “You’re a halfer,” she spat. “You’re a Mendale.”
She had been born in the Hills, one more soul of a dark generation, fierce and defiant and lovely as Lindahne itself must be. She had to believe him. She had to acknowledge him. He screamed the truth at her. “I am a Lindahne!”
They stared at each other. She was aware of the firm pressure of each of his fingers, still determined, on her arms. Her own father had once been a priest of Armas. Against her will admiration of his resolve stirred in her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Abruptly he released her. She looked up into his clear eyes, shining above the desolation of his face. “The others would kill you, they would never accept you.”
“I see. And does killing come so easily to you, too?”
“Truly, I am sorry. I must go now.”
“Mejalna.” He hadn’t used her name before. “Tell me, what are the Hills like? Are they green? Are they beautiful?”
A rush of homesickness hit her at the words “I haven’t been home since... I hope I live to go back.” She went down the steps.
“If you tell the others about me and how much I know, they’ll track me down?”
“Yes. And if you tell the Assembly about me they’ll hunt me all over MenDas.”
“Trust for trust,” he offered lightly. “Danger for danger.”
She nodded. Their eyes met. Then she turned away, hunching her shoulders against him, and vanished around the buildings.
Nichos, seated like an erring child before authority’s wrath, watched Tribune Haol pace up and down the faded rug. Haol was any number of men at once: the disappointed teacher, the angry father, the unfailing supporter, and of course the politician with an eye open for new possibilities. Nichos was unmoved; he was one man only, who had made a decision and followed it through. He pulled out his pipe and lit it.
“Disastrous,” Haol repeated. “Tribune for a week and you’ve managed to turn half of the city and the Assembly against you. I had hoped for better. I had hoped for better.”
Nichos’s speech had ended in a confused uproar. It had taken only one or two mocking shouts – “Lin-lover!” “Go home to your linwife!” – to turn his disgruntled audience into a sneering mob. They had jeered, screamed, and stamped their feet, refusing to quiet until Second Tribune Rhonna returned to the platform.
“Will the Second Tribune be able to get another Assembly vote?” Pillyn asked. She was the only other person in the room. Her feet drummed nervously on her footstool.
“Of course. Rhonna will take it up again at the next full Chamber session. She’ll be able to say that the people demand the queen’s execution. And now, thanks to this foolhardy – well, anyway, now she’ll also be able to say that MenDas heard the pleas for mercy, and rejected them.”
Pillyn, hating him, said, “But the Assembly is free to do exactly as it wishes, whatever the people want, and the Assembly vote only yesterday was to spare her.”
“No one wants to be unpopular,” Haol said. “This news will be all over the country in one moon’s time. No Assembly member will want to be linked with a policy that the people are so violently against.”
“Not even when the people are wrong? Isn’t it the Assembly’s duty, your duty as a Tribune, to lead them, to guide them to –”
“My dear,” Nichos said, “you’re thinking like a Lindahne. It’s not like the royals, with power and righteousness given from the gods.”
“Certainly not.” Haol flashed his easy smile. “A sweet idea, I grant you, Mistress Pillyn, but not of much use in politics. Now, Nichos, the best we can do is not bring on any more trouble. When Rhonna calls for the vote – I don’t suppose you’d be willing to have a change of heart and second her?”
Nichos drew on his pipe.
“Well, then,” Haol said, “I’ll do it.”
“But you don’t even agree with her!” Pillyn blurted.
The First Tribune reined in his impatience. One could see where a gifted man like Nichos got some of these extraordinarily childish ideas. He said, “I believe executing the q
ueen will bring on more Defier violence here and, I’m almost sure, a good deal of anti-Oversettle unrest in Lindahne. I was hoping to avoid it, but as it’s become inevitable... Still, we may get some good out of it. The Defiers will lose their figurehead. Perhaps it will weaken them.” He paced again, up, down, one full circuit. “After all,” he added, “after this queen of theirs is finally gone, who will they have to turn to? They can’t fight in the name of shadows. No one else will be left.”
Nichos kept his eyes averted from his wife, immobile now in her chair. He sucked on his pipe stem, and blew out smoke.
It was an area where farmland gave way to neglected woods. They had arranged to lodge a couple at the bottom of the road, to play the parts of a Mendale husband and wife, tending fields that refused to prosper. Behind this setting, deep in the darkness of the trees, a few shack houses had been erected: this was called the “spearhead” camp of the Defiers, because it was closest to MenDas.
It was possible to travel far down the approaching road without being visible to the few neighboring farms. To reach the camp itself, however, it was necessary to cross the fields, in plain sight of the watchers in the trees.
The sun was retreating behind Mejalna’s back. Her horse, eager for food and stable, picked up his speed without urging. Mejalna knew that the watchers were training their arrows on her from the woods – had been, no doubt, since she had left the road and come into range
– but she felt no alarm. The only mortal within vision was a young man, dressed for outdoor work, who appeared to be examining a handful of soil. As her horse neared he glanced up, considering, in a careful farmer’s way.
“Even’, miss,” he said, with a commoner’s accent.
“Good even’,” she replied.
His cloak was worn and faded, though his face was unlined. She
knew him well.
“Out for a ride, miss?” He knew her well, but his eyes scanned
her hands and the saddle cases. The hidden archers, who surely now
could see her well enough to identify her, would keep their arrows
ready yet, as instructed.