Fiona pulled off her glove, seeing the bright dot of blood on her wrist that marked the place where the needle had come through her flesh. There was no pain; the nerves had been deadened when she had been modified. She rubbed her forehead, trying to decide what she would say — not just to Necias and Tegestu, but to her own people in the ship. The ships’ alarms would have tripped as they detected the flow of energies she had unleashed with her needle, and her spindle, back in her tent, would be buzzing with urgent demands for communication. There was probably a team of rescuers diving into atmosphere craft, ready to ride down to her assistance.
She wondered if she could have escaped without use of the needle. She had been thoroughly protected by the privy-coat against the worst their weapons could have done; she probably could have jostled her way out of danger, pushing through the bowmen to safety.
But that would have left Campas in the middle of it all, unprotected save by his light chain shirt, amid the hacking spears and flying arrows. No, she thought, she’d had no choice; what she’d done was necessary. Her instructions gave enough amount of latitude in these situations that she felt sure she could justify her action to Tyson when the time came.
She would have to get to her spindle soon, to call the ship, and to call her rescuers off. But for the moment she sat and tried to calm herself, watching as the blood was cleaned from Campas’ eyes and he looked up painfully to recognize her, and flash her a first faint smile.
CHAPTER 19
There was no possibility that a solution would promote healing: there were too many wounds, too much anger. Necias, in the end, needed the Brodaini much more than he needed a gang of truculent bowmen. Besides, even if the Brodaini had provoked them, they had assaulted the Abessu-Denorru’s personal representative and an ambassador — and Necias’ blood still ran cold at the thought of the hellish powers Fiona had then unleashed. Fiona had been asked if she wanted to recommend punishment, with Necias dreading the possibility she’d want to exact it herself; but Necias’ messengers had returned saying she considered it a matter of internal army discipline and no business of hers. So Pantas’ archers were arrested — by mercenary pikemen rather than by Brodaini — disarmed, and after being held prisoner overnight in the broken remnants of the barn, an experience calculated to create as much mental unease as possible, their crimes were itemized by a herald, their standard was ceremonially burned, one out of five were flogged, and then the unit was disbanded and its men broken up and assigned to other companies. Captain Pantas, who had been visiting brother officers in the Prypas camp and hadn’t been within two miles of the riot, was quietly given a staff assignment.
But there was going to be bad feeling between the militia companies and the Brodaini as a result of this, and that would spoil the good feeling that had existed in the army after the victory on the East Rallandas. And Necias sensed there would be worse consequences than these.
Necias pushed away his empty luncheon plate and, wincing, tried to dislodge a piece of food from between two of his rotting teeth. Ai, Pantas and his net of souls! he thought, remembering the scene of the riot as he’d toured it, the barn blackened with its gaping wall and tumbled roof, the bodies of the dead bowmen, lying shriveled and burnt, armor melted, some unrecognizable. Had Fiona called down the lightning? There had been a flash and a sound of thunder, all witnesses agreed to that, and then men had died and the walls had come crashing down.
There was a lesson to be learned here, and that was the power these star people represented. If one of them could do that, what wonders, what horrors, could a company perform?
There would be a report on this sent to every city of the Elva, he thought. Unless these things were known, the Elva would be tempted to involve the star folk and their power in their own disputes. The Igaralla claimed to have no interest in local issues, but Necias knew human motivations better than that. There would have to be a convention limiting the numbers of Fiona’s people allowed in the cities, and strictly regulating their neutrality. That much power, unregulated and uncontrolled, dwelling in the heart of the Elva capitals, represented a far greater danger than the Brodaini in all their numbers.
But what, he wondered, can we do to enforce the convention? If they should decide to bring more down from the sky, how could we stop them? We didn’t even know Fiona was among us until she made herself known; they could move a battalion into Arrandal and be in command of the place within a day.
He had regarded Fiona as a curiosity, as a useful source of information, as an object by which he might gain prestige. Now he was compelled to regard her with apprehension and fear. How would he be known, he thought; as the man who brought otherworldly knowledge to Arrandal, knowledge to benefit the city and its inhabitants — or perhaps as an infamous figure, who first let the conquerors from the stars past the city gates?
Last night, in the timbered calm of his bedroom on his barge, he’d spoken to Brito on the subject; she had counseled, as usual, patience. “The girl was caught in a riot and defended herself,” she’d said. “That’s nothing to base a political judgment on. But you’re right that the Igaralla’s numbers should be limited — there’s a lot of nonsense going on in the cities about Fiona and her people, and it ought to be contained if possible.”
As for the “nonsense,” he’d had reports about that as well. Fashions based on Fiona’s style of dress, the sale of good-luck charms or artifacts said to have originated on Igara, the appearance of priests who claimed to spread her gospel of stellar salvation among the population. Shortlived, Necias thought, knowing exactly how long these tides of fashion would last; in another year there would be some new diversion for the mob to pursue, and for the merchants to profit from.
He wondered if he could use Campas to acquire information concerning her attitudes. Care would be required, however, since camp rumor proclaimed they were lovers. It was a rumor Necias didn’t quite believe, and hoped he would never have to believe officially. He’d have to interview Campas on the subject of the riot, and try to glean what information he could.
Whatever resulted from those efforts, an official disavowal from Fiona that she had any intentions of being worshiped, or that she was not in the charm business, might serve to make Arrandal that much calmer. As it was, half the population expected her to somehow conjure the gates of Calacas open and allow the allied armies to enter... .
Perhaps, he mused, he might be able to make use of the official dinner scheduled for this evening. Necias, Palastinas, and their respective staffs would be playing host to General Handipas of Prypas. Handipas was a difficult character by all accounts, touchy on points of precedence and honor and inclined to veto any proposal for cooperation between the two forces unless he was given the sole command. Thank the gods, Necias thought, that at least Tegestu seemed to have achieved some sort of working arrangement with his Brodainu opposite, Tanta.
Fiona, with the rest of the ambassadors, would be present at the dinner, and perhaps Necias could get a public disavowal from her of the stories circulating in the city. Necias would have preferred to have found some way of canceling the dinner altogether, since Handipas was almost certain to object to Fiona’s presence as one that would attract attention away from himself.
Damn all faction! Necias thought violently. Ah, well... he had handled men like Handipas before, and all it required was patience: either the man would overreach himself and be dismissed by his own employers; or Necias would wait until autumn brought the fleets from the north carrying the other allied Elva armies, at which point Necias would be able to do without him, and would then give him the choice of voluntarily accepting a subordinate position under Palastinas or of going home without having accomplished anything except a slow march along the coast and back, a humiliation he would never be able to face.