“Is it possible,” he began again, “for Brodaini to take offense at their lords’ actions, and to attack them without warning? Without a notice to the effect they were displeased?”
Tegestu’s answering silence was prolonged, and then he turned to Campas and spat out rapid-fire Gostu until Campas waved his hands helplessly to signal the Brodainu to slow down. Tegestu began again, Campas nodding, his pen scratching on the pad as he made notes. He turned to Necias.
“Cenors-stannan,” he said, “it seems there is an aesthetic principle involved.”
“A what?”
Campas smiled apologetically. “An aesthetic principle, cenors-stannan. It is called aspistu — I do not understand it entirely, but it is quite important in Brodaini society. Much of their literature, or what passes for literature, concerns it. Aspistu is revenge considered as art. Imagination and appropriateness are major considerations — for a small insult a small revenge; a large insult demands a revenge of large proportions, inflicted with suitable imagination.
“Tastis’ revolt has to be considered in the light of aspistu,” Campas said, “much in the same way as a poem’s tone and approach must be compared with its subject matter.”
“If Tastis rebelled for the reasons he claimed,” Tegestu added, breaking in abruptly, “then it was for aspistu. His people were grossly insulted, or so he claims; a great aspistu was necessary.”
“If it is aspistu,” Campas said, “then the question becomes aesthetic, not politicaclass="underline" was the aspistu satisfying, was it appropriate?”
“My question wasn’t an aesthetic one,” Necias, “but it seems I’ve been answered. Brodaini can, it seems, revolt against their lords.”
“Insult is given,” Tegestu said ponderously. “Aspistu is necessary. Aspistu takes many forms. The question becomes one of appropriateness.”
“Aspistu may involve informing the victim in advance, or it may not,” Campas said. “Whether or not to do so is a matter of artistic judgment.”
The words spun like falling leaves in Necias’ mind, circling in the wind, never alighting. He was close to despair. What kind of beasts had he allowed into his city, when he had permitted the Brodaini to come in their tens of thousands? A people who murdered their overlords and called it art?
“To clarify,” he said, trying not to show the desperation he felt, “once insult is given, all bets are off, hey? The insulted party can be attacked without warning.”
“The insult would have to be great,” Tegestu said. “It would have to be... noticed.”
“I think I see what the drandor means,” Campas interjected. “There are people who are beneath notice — their insults are also beneath notice.”
“This is true, ilean,” Tegestu said. His tone was satisfied.
“And Tastis’ rebellion?” Necias asked, still seeking clarification. “Was it good aspistu or not? Was the thing justified?”
“Justified is not the point,” Tegestu said. “It is not a moral issue. It is or is not appropriate.”
“Very well. Was Tastis’ action appropriate?”
Tegestu was silent for a long time, his white head bowed, his eyes narrowed as he concentrated. Campas’ recording pen scratched on for a moment and then stopped. Tegestu looked up.
“I do not have enough information to make that judgment,” he said.
“I understand,” Necias said, not understanding at all. Was Tegestu simply refusing to commit himself, or was it truly an issue on which he did not have information?
“Tastis has rebelled, hey,” Necias went on. “He has done so — we are told — for reasons which our people find difficult to understand. I can say with perfect confidence that Neda-Calacas will be expelled from the Elva, and that the cities of the Elva may take military action, either together or unilaterally.”
Tegestu nodded, silent. Necias continued.
“Friend Tegestu, we do not know the Brodaini well; there is a great deal my people do not understand. You may be uncertain about us as well, about our motives, our intentions. In this situation there must be trust, there must be openness. My friend, this question is not meant to offend; and if there is offense I apologize sincerely. But I must ask: would the Brodaini of Arrandal, if the decision were taken, hesitate in fighting Tastis’ people?”
The fanatic gleam returned to Tegestu’s eyes, and Necias shivered. The Brodainu’s voice, when it came, was cold, matter-of-fact, as if he were stating simple facts to a child of slow understanding.
“You are our canlan. We are Brodaini. We serve.”
Necias drew a long breath. Brodaini had fought Brodaini before, in the service of the cities; it seemed as if they would fight one another again. Necias felt his anxiety ebbing.
“Tegestu,” he said, beginning once again. “We know you have received a message from Tastis.”
“We have, cenors-efellsan.”
“The minds of this city would be greatly relieved should you inform us of its contents.”
“Cenors-efellsan, I cannot,” Tegestu said. Necias leaned back, surprised.
“Tegestu, I am your canlan,” he protested. “Why should I not be told?”
Tegestu’s distress was plain to see, even through the arrogant mask of Brodaini bore in public. He turned to Campas and spoke quickly in his own tongue. Campas listened, clearly surprised, and then turned to Necias.
“Cenors-efellsan, it seems the message was sent with certain restrictions,” he said. “The restrictions are called kantu-kamliss, a rather archaic custom, I gather, but still respected. The point of them is this: anyone not of his clan, his kamliss, may not touch the message or know of its contents. It is a clan matter only; it is a disgrace to kamliss Pranoth should anyone defile the message — there is a religious element involved here, too, some manner of taboo.”
“But I — I am their lord,” Necias protested.
“You are not kamliss Pranoth,” Campas said. He shrugged wryly, and suddenly Necias wondered: Do Brodaini shrug? I’ve never seen it. Do they even have a different language of gesture?
“It seems, cenors-stannan,” Campas said, “that Tastis has taken the matter out of your jurisdiction.”
Necias turned to Tegestu, bewildered. “You may not discuss this? Not even discuss it?”
Tegestu bowed; he held himself low while he spoke. “That is true, cenors-stannan. I regret it.” He rose, and for a moment Necias was looking again into those cold, fanatic eyes. Tegestu’s speech was slow and deliberate.
“Our reply to Tastis will be sent tomorrow,” Tegestu said. “Due to the unsettled conditions, two copies will be sent, together with copies of the original message. One answer will go by dispatch boat, three Brodaini plus crew; another will go by land, with three Brodaini to guard it. Both,” Tegestu said very clearly, “will leave tomorrow at noon.”
Necias absorbed Tegestu’s sacrifice with awed silence: despite his shock, his mind worked swiftly on the implications of Tegestu’s announcement. The message carried by land would be the one intercepted, Necias thought quickly; the waterborne one might go in the drink. Of course there would have to be no survivors; he’d send twenty mercenaries at least.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said; he heard his speech coming out thickly, slow to recover from the shock. “I am happy to have achieved this, this communication with you. Shall I ring for more tea?”
“Thank you, cenors-efellsan,” Tegestu said, and bowed again. There was triumph in those cold, glittering eyes.
As Brito entered and poured the tea, Necias’ thoughts ran uncontrolled. The man is surely mad, he thought. He will tell those soldiers to go, knowing they will die. All because he can’t violate some ridiculous custom or other.
His eyes wandered to the bronze shrine standing in the corner.
Ai, gods, he thought. What have I let into my city?