She could not, of course, describe it fully. Instant communication on worlds that had depended on footborne messengers. Modern weapons on worlds that had depended on armored horsemen to keep the peace. Practical medicine introduced in countries that had depended on periodic epidemics to prevent overpopulation. Chaos, followed by utter demoralization; entire cultures devitalized by contact with a superior technological power that abolished their civilization virtually overnight.
As a result, a change of tactics was mandated for all interstellar embassies, resulting in the current emphasis on carefully selective interference, on suggestion, on teaching theory rather than offering practical examples. Ambassadors now were required to live among the primitive cultures, living for years as a native would live — a disciplined body of volunteers, sacrificing their own well-being so that, several hundred years in the future, the descendants of their pupils might climb out into space — and if the ambassadors, with their prolonged lifespan and the ability to freeze themselves, were lucky, and if they survived the changes they had wrought, they would be able to watch the first ships shining as new stars in the heavens.
Long centuries from now. For the moment Fiona was too discouraged to feel inspired by her work. Campas, clearly, was not convinced; she doubted he had understood anything she had tried to say. This will happen again, she told herself. Over and over. I should get used to it.
It bothered her. There was so little of her experience that she could share with Tyson, Campas, anyone. Her peers on this continent were buried in their work, showing strain but, it seemed, accomplishing so much more than she. They were stronger, perhaps.
She could feel the loneliness plucking at her. It was not worth the energy to fight it off any longer.
Kira, she thought, would have understood.
They finished their luncheon, then the wine. Watching her hand as if it were foreign to her, a part of someone else, Fiona saw it reach across the table to wrap his fingers in her own.
She saw that he was not surprised. Clever boy, she thought.
In this, at least, hands and tongues could speak without misunderstanding. The jacket and upper privy-coat came off with a shrug; his hands touched her shoulders lightly, caressed her arms, the muscles over her ribs, the small brown breasts.
What would Tyson think? she wondered, standing with her face tilted up, her eyes closed, hearing the whisper of his fingers on her skin.
Tyson’s opinion, she thought firmly, was not solicited.
“Your skin is so soft. I hadn’t known.” Campas marveled in her ear. She had herself thought she was harder.
He even bathed this morning, and let her know it. Clever, clever boy.
She found herself laughing, her amusement hard to define. I shall keep this data, she thought, to myself.
This is art, she thought, not science. Poetry.
The stanzas succeeded one another, slowly.
To myself, she thought, to myself.
Clever boy.
CHAPTER 17
Standing in the shade of the umbrella that kept the summer sun from his armor, Tegestu slit his eyes against the bright summer sunlight as a long line of barges came up the canal, strings of four or five each warped along by a pair of mules. Supply barges mostly, bringing food and fodder for the besieging armies. The barges flew flags to indicate their ownership, flags of the merchant houses of Arrandal, Acragas prominent among them with its blazon of the god Pastas, flags of minor trading companies, house flags of the independent bargemen who rented their hulls to the city... and flags of the Brodaini kamlissi of Arrandal, marking their own possessions.
The barge convoy meant comfort, among other things. The siege would be a long one. Part of Necias’ household was being moved in the barges, one of which was fitted out as his private residence, several others for servants and functionaries, another of which was modified as a floating partillo for the benefit of his wives, two of whom Tegestu could see standing on the foredeck in their elaborate, layered skirts, their faces shadowed by their parasols.
Tegestu’s security people, he knew, would be thankful that Necias’ barge had finally arrived — moored in one of the canals, it would be much easier to guard than his giant pavilion. One of Arrandal’s deissin had been assassinated last week, an ally on the Denorru-Deissin whose absence weakened, albeit slightly, the ruling coalition... the prominent Abessla had suddenly gone security-mad, and it seemed that everyone above the rank of captain was suddenly demanding Brodaini bodyguards. As if Tastis cared for their foolish lives... .
The Brodaini barges, twelve of them, moved down the canal last of all. They were filled for the most part with Classani, some of them armed but mostly servants of the nonmartial sort: actors, singers, men and women of the Gentle Way to cater to the social and sexual needs of the soldiers — long sieges had a way of being bad for morale, and the Classani were badly needed.
It would take more than a few entertainers to cheer Tegestu, he knew. The siege would drag on for months, and every week brought several casualties. Two nights ago Tastis had unexpectedly sortied with his rowing fleet, striking by surprise against the deep-sea squadrons anchored off the roads. Arrandal’s rowing fleet had come to the rescue and the attack was beaten off, but over a hundred fifty Brodaini lives had been lost, hacked or drowned when their ships, unable to make sail fast enough and not built to move under oars, were rammed or boarded. His men were being whittled away, Tegestu thought despairingly, dying in small lots — even small numbers of dead could prove tragic. This war of the cities would involve, in the end, all the Brodaini exiles, and the cities would not hesitate to ask the Brodaini to shoulder the main burden of warfare, and the main casualties as well. And why not? The Brodaini were not their own folk, and with Tastis’ rebellion had proved themselves untrustworthy. Why not spend them now, in fighting one another, weakening them so they would not be a threat to anyone?
Tastis offered me the city, Tegestu thought. But that cannot be. I am Brodaini, and I cannot disobey an order given in honor. My life is my canlan’s; and I knew this when I took service here.
The barges passed, the Classani on deck halting their busy movements to bow hastily in Tegestu’s direction as they glided past his standard. Tegestu nodded back, acknowledging the proper respect shown by his inferiors, and then glanced out to sea at the long galley that rode just off Calacas’ outer harbor, the summer sun glittering off the gold banner of kamliss Pranoth that fluttered from the maintop, just above the scarlet pendant that signified the presence of a member of the aldran.
Amasta was aboard, commanding the rowing squadron that had escorted the barges from Arrandal. It was a duty that would normally have been assigned to a subordinate, but Tegestu felt in need of Amasta’s cunning, and also wanted another member of the aldran here, to welcome the commander of Prypas’ Brodaini force. With himself, Grendis, Acamantu, Cascan, and now Amasta, the Arrandal aldran would now have five representatives at the siege.
The Prypas army had begun arriving two days before, and the vanguard of cavalry and light foot were now setting up their camp opposite Neda, barricading the only safe land approach to the city, the mile-wide causeway of firm ground that stood between a treacherous salt-marsh and the river. Neda was at least much easier to besiege than Calacas, which had miles of wall to guard.
The main body was expected to arrive tomorrow, its Brodaini contingent commanded by Tanta Amandos Dantu y’Sanda, a Prypas welldran Tegestu had never met. Kamliss Sanda had been allied with Pranoth in the great war, but for geographic reasons their forces had never been able to fight side by side, and Tegestu knew very little of this Tanta’s reputation. He hoped that Amasta, who had once been an emissary to the Sanda court, would be able to assist him until such time as he made his own judgments.