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Campas nodded and made his exit. The lights dimmed and the concerto began, but Necias found that his mind wasn’t on it; and neither, he suspected, was anyone else’s. The applause was desultory, the flung purses were few; and even the program’s finale was a disaster. It was a one-act farce by one of the city’s finer playwrights, guaranteed to send the audience on their way laughing, but every joke fell flat, and the clowns sweated for every grudging laugh. Necias was glad when it was over.

After that the dining rooms reopened for a later supper, and the ballrooms for dancing; but Necias sent Brito to the dining room to bring him a plate of food and a mug of beer, dispatched his other wives and their escorts to play hostess at the various other events, and then made his way to the small conference room.

The conjuror Fiona was seated calmly, her hands folded in her lap, on one of the three-legged Brodaini stools, with Campas sitting, notes in hand, to her left. She had thrown a grey shawl around her shoulders, and a halfdrunk cup of tea stood on a tray by her side. Fiona looked up as Necias walked in, then rose, her skirt rustling. There was a dignity, a gravity, in her bearing; she was, he thought, bearing herself as an ambassador would, conscious that she was representing not simply herself, but her people.

An “ambassador from the stars.” Well, he thought, we’ll see.

“Sit,” he said, waving an arm, and dropped onto his settee. He put one of his feet up and watched Fiona as she seated herself. Her eyes, black and calm, turned to his. She seemed prepared to wait.

“You are comfortable?” he asked. “Would you like another chair? Something to eat? Drink?”

“I thank you, Abessu-Denorru, but no,” she said. Her voice was self-possessed and calm, and Necias thought he saw a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth. Is she amused, then? he wondered. At the fools she’s made of us with her trickery?

Necias leaned back suddenly, tapping one hand restlessly on the arm of the settee as his nervous energy sought an outlet. “What do I call you?” he asked. “Do you have a title?”

“Not as such, no,” Fiona said. “You can call me Ambassador, if you like. It’s as good a description as any.” Campas’ pen began to scratch across his pad.

Necias frowned. “Ambassador” was a masculine noun; it didn’t apply to women. But “Fiona” wasn’t a standard Abessla name, with a feminine ending: it wouldn’t clash quite as much with the title as, say, Luco or Brito would.

“Very well,” Necias said. His hand tapped on the settee’s arm twice, lightly, then he became conscious of the nervous gesture and halted it.

“You say you are from the stars,” he said. “Are we to take this seriously, or was this merely a part of your act?”

“It was part of my act, yes,” Fiona said. Her manner seemed a bit distracted, distanced, as if she were concentrating on choosing her words very carefully. “But I was very serious. I am from a star — or rather, from a planet circling another star. My planet is called Igara. You have seen the — the views of that planet I’ve provided.” She paused, then added: “The star is visible from here. I’m not sure if your people have a name for it: I think not. But I can tell your astronomers where to find it.”

Necias gave a jerk of his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “One star’s much the same as another.”

Fiona smiled, then gave a serene nod. “Very true,” she said.

What, Necias wondered, was the girl feeling? She seemed strangely relaxed in these circumstances, very cool, very loose — she ought to be keyed up, he thought. Instead it’s as if she’s terribly relieved.

There was a scratching at the door; Necias, annoyed at the interruption, barked out his query, and Brito’s voice came in answer. Brito with his plate of food and mug of beer. Necias was suddenly aware of his hunger, of the cavernousness in him. This was going to be a long night: he’d need to keep alert. “Come in,” he said.

Brito entered the room with a tray, plates heaped high with goose, roast pig, pickled eggs, grilled sea-rampalla, cheese. A maidservant followed with a pitcher of beer and a heavy mug. They set it down on the table in front of Necias’ settee. Necias waited for the beer to be poured and then took the mug, taking a deep draft. He gestured to Fiona.

“Sure you don’t want something?”

A gentle shake of the head. “No. Thank you.”

“Campas?”

The poet looked at the heap of food, then nodded. “Yes. A little goose and cheese, I think.”

“You,” Necias said, addressing the maidservant. “Go fetch it.”

“Yes, Abessu-Denorru.”

The girl bobbed her goodbyes and went. Necias looked from Brito to Fiona.

“This is Brito,” he said, “my cenors-censto.”

“Honored,” said Fiona.

“Fiona,” Necias told Brito, “says she is from another planet.” He picked up a slice of pig and devoured it.

“I heard,” said Brito.

“We all heard,” Necias nodded, beginning to enjoy, himself. This was something he well understood: the complexity of negotiation, of truth-finding, here in this little, familiar room. Fiona wouldn’t stand against him: he’d get the truth tonight, crack her composure somehow. He took another swallow of beer, watching the faces in the room, Fiona with her smile, Campas with his pen poised, his face set in a slight frown as if contemplating a problem, the two Brodaini guards with their elaborate hairstyles and arrogant, masklike faces.

Brito was watching Fiona closely, he saw. She was a good judge of character; he’d keep her in the room and ask her opinion later.

“Sit by me, stansisso,” he said. “Keep my mug full.”

“Yes, husband.” Brito sat on one of the hard Brodaini stools. Necias wiped his greasy fingers on his jacket and turned his eyes to Fiona.

“Another planet.” he repeated. “Can you offer any evidence?”

“I have already offered a great deal,” Fiona answered promptly.

“Witchcraft, perhaps. Demralla witchcraft — it doesn’t have to come from another planet.”

“If you can find a local witch who can duplicate my performance, Abessu-Denorru, your supposition may be proven. Until then, not.” The conjuror’s answer came pat. Necias grinned.

“You sound like you’ve been to Fastias’ Academy of Rhetoric,” he said, tugging an ear. Fiona smiled at the statement. Necias held up a finger. “But it’s not my place to offer proof,” he said. “That job is yours. Prove what you say — and prove it now.” He lowered his voice to a menacing seriousness, fixing Fiona with his eyes, his gaze holding hers. For the first time she seemed uneasy, shifting on her seat. “Prove it,” he said quietly, “or get out of my city.”

There was a moment of silence in which Necias could hear the blood pounding triumphantly in his ears, and Fiona pursed her lips slightly, her black eyes turning abstractedly upward. Then she turned to Necias.

“What,” she asked, “would you consider proof?”

“That’s up to you,” Necias said. “You claim to have come alone from some other planet — no heralds, no credentials, no escort — and of all the cities on Demro you come to mine, but you live like a spy for days before revealing yourself. I’m flattered,” he said, bowing with his hand on his chest, an exaggeration of humility. “I’m flattered, but I find all this suspicious. I need more proof than you’ve shown so far.”

Fiona held up a hand. “I understand,” she said. “I can, of course, give you credentials — I can provide them tonight, if you give me leave to walk on the roof, or in some courtyard, and let me take my trunk with me.” She lowered her hand, then continued: “But you misunderstand. I never said I was alone. Igara has sent ambassadors to other cities, other nations — to all the cities of the Elva, and to the Clattern i Clatterni of Gostandu. You can inquire of the other cities if you wish.”