Fortunately Brito responded well. “Rise, enventan, you do me too much honor,” she said. “Would you like some tea, my lord, or cakes? We know Brodaini prefer a special diet; these are made to a Brodaini recipe.” Necias looked at Brito with relief as Tegestu clanked to his feet. Luco would have smiled, giggled probably, but would never have recovered as swiftly. Brito was his cenors-censto, his most honored wife and official hostess; she was also his first wife, and had shared with him the long rise to power, and many of his confidences. She was a thin, hard, plain-faced woman of sixty, two years older than he; she possessed a cunning on which Necias had learned to rely, and an anildas, a desire for display and property, that would have done credit to a man.
“Cenors-stannan does me too much honor,” Brito said again, correcting him gracefully as she poured tea into a glass. Cenors-stannan was a masculine appellation — Necias remembered, from his attempt to learn Gostu, that Tegestu’s language did not distinguish between the sexes in regard to titles, but rather between degrees of respect.
“I am stansisso Brito, if you please,” Brito said. “Will you take honey or sugar?”
“No, thank you, stansisso Brito,” Tegestu said formally, with a bow.
They took their tea and sat, Necias semi-reclined on his settee, bolstered by soft cushions, Tegestu lowering himself onto one of the small, three-legged stools the Brodaini seemed to prefer — because they were so uncomfortable, Necias had thought at first; but then he realized that however uncomfortable they were, for a man wearing a full suit of armor to sit on anything else might be positively painful.
Campas, the poet, sat in a stiffbacked chair that had wide arms on which he propped his pen and pad. He dressed strikingly in black, his clothing unornamented, presumably the better to stand out in a crowd. Despite his affectations Necias had employed him for ten years now, since he was a youngster, for Campas was a brilliant linguist who, at Necias’ bidding, had first lived among the Brodaini to learn their tongue and ways, and had done so with considerable success.
Brito placed a plate of tea-cakes by each elbow and quietly slid from the room after assuring that, if anything were needed, they should simply ring. Tegestu almost jumped up again for a formal bow, but Necias saw Campas make a quick gesture that halted the impulse, and Tegestu simply bowed from his seated position.
“My friend,” Necias said, after a brief silence in which he waited for Tegestu to volunteer to speak, “I have received a communication from Neda-Calacas. I require your assistance.”
“Cenors-efellsan,” Tegestu said, “I shall help where I can.”
Campas’ pen scratched on his pad as he kept the minutes in shorthand. Necias glanced at him, then at Tegestu. He knew the Brodaini preferred direct speech, and he usually tried to provide it — he was known as a direct man anyway, for an Arrandalla — but there was a question that demanded an answer, and the question was ugly: “Tegestu, under what circumstances would you kill me and take the city?” He would have come to the question indirectly; and even then he might be giving deadly insult.
“Campas, read the letter,” Necias said. They would start with the text and go on from there.
Campas produced a ribboned scroll and read it aloud. There was little detail concerning the actual capture of the twin cities; the rape of Norvenan and Nadielas’ failure to provide satisfaction was given as a justification; most of the message seemed to be a plainly-stated wish for amity between the cities, mixed with a formal application for Neda-Calacas to be allowed to remain in the Elva vor Denorru-Dorsu.
“A bad style, on the whole,” Campas volunteered, rolling up the scroll. “There are a few minor grammatical errors characteristic of the Brodaini. While it is possible that this was written by a very literal-minded scribe to a Brodainu’s dictation, the evidence suggests it was written by Brodainu. Very little care appears to have been taken in its style or its calligraphy; and that would suggest it was written in haste, or by someone unfamiliar with Abessla writing.”
“Thank you, Campas,” Necias said. He reached for a tea-cake and nibbled it gingerly, wary of his teeth, again waiting for Tegestu to volunteer information; when Tegestu did not, Necias finished his cake and spoke.
“Tegestu, this communication is quite extraordinary. What has happened in Neda-Calacas is without precedent.” Necias groped for a way to approach the problem, his thoughts spiraling into one another. Under what circumstances would you take the city?
“Is this possible, Tegestu?” he asked. “Did Tastis take Neda-Calacas because one of his women was attacked?”
There was a moment of silence. Campas’ pen stood poised for the reply. “It is possible,” Tegestu said. He spoke Abessas with slow precision. “It is the reason Tastis has given you. He is a clever man. He would not give a frivolous reason for this kind of behavior.”
Necias’ head spun. A city for a woman — for some insignificant mercenary female. I can understand this, he thought insistently.
“I have been assured — I have always assumed,” he began uncertainly, “that Brodaini loyalty was unconditional. That obedience was a hallmark of the Brodaini character.” Tegestu’s eyes blazed, and Necias almost stopped. He felt the touch of fear on his heart. …I am insulting him, even with this indirection! he thought. But he had to know.
“How can this be, friend Tegestu? I do not understand. I wish to understand.”
“You are our canlan, our lord,” Tegestu said. His glare was fierce, aroused. “We obey you.”
“Tegestu, understand me!” Necias said. “I am not questioning your loyalty. I wish to know how such a thing can be. How can a people so devoted to loyalty rise against their, their canlani?”
Tegestu paused, his eyes falling, his frown tightening. “We obey nartil, Abeissu Necias,” he said. “It is our law: it demands obedience and respect. We serve our lord, and he aids us by giving us a place, by making it possible for us to exist, for allowing us to care for our dependents. Do you understand me, cenors-efellsan?”
“Yes, my friend.” Nodding. “I understand this.”
“But nartil is not simply obedience. It is respect. It cannot go one way only. We obey and respect our lord, but he must respect us, as we respect our servants. If our lord does not hear our just requests, if he treats us as if we were ar-demmin — I am sorry, but there is no word for this in your language — then he has violated nartil. He has not fulfilled his obligations.”
“Ah,” Necias said. “It is like a contract. You are saying that Neda-Calacas did not fulfill the terms of its contract with Tastis, hey?”
“It is not a contract. It is nartil.”
Necias looked helplessly at Campas for assistance. Campas’ pen halted on its pad.
“Cenors-stannan, perhaps we ought simply to accept that Neda-Calacas did not live up to its obligations,” Campas said, “and that Tastis saw this as justification for rebellion.”
“Is this understanding acceptable to you, Tegestu?” Necias said.
“I understand this as approximation,” Tegestu said. “It will suffice for present understanding. I wish to correct a statement you made earlier; it is not I who claim Neda-Calacas failed in its obligations; I do not know this. Tastis claims it, in his message.”
Necias blinked. “Very well,” he said. The point seemed insignificant, but Tegestu seemed to be attaching an importance to it. Was Tegestu disassociating himself from Tastis’ actions? He made a mental note to ask Campas afterwards.