“Clean the blood off that tablecloth: I still want to use it tonight,” he said. “Replace the soiled carpets with fresh ones. Nothing out of the ordinary, understand?” He hauled himself out of the chair, found to his delight that his legs would support him, and then gave a laugh to his household staff. “We’ve got to learn to expect assassinations, hey?” he said. “I’ve survived two, now — Pastas Netweaver must be looking out for me. I’ll give thanks tomorrow.” He looked down at the bloody carpet, then rubbed his chin. He’d give an endowment to the survivors of the Deputy Steward, and add his name to the family memorials that took place on Castas’ Day.
For the moment, he thought, he’d make a visit to his wives’ barge. He didn’t want rumors preceding him and causing a panic in the floating partillo: arriving safe and sound should scuttle rumors more thoroughly than any delivered message. And by walking to the barge he would also be showing himself to many of the army, and show he was still on his feet and making decisions.
“Captain Acragas!” he called out to Little Necias. “Form your men outside. I’m returning to the landing.”
“Yes, Necias Abeissu,” Little Necias said, somewhat surprised, and immediately obeyed. While Necias waited, he saw Listas looking at him hesitantly.
“You did well,” he said, nodding briskly — might as well give the boy a compliment now that he’d done something right for a change. Listas seemed surprised.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, and Necias wondered for a doubtful second whether his compliments had ever been so rare as to be viewed with such wonder. No, he decided, dismissing the idea; the boy was just a fool.
Necias nodded again and stepped out into the sun. A shame to have missed a day like this, he thought, enjoying the breeze on his face. That lersru’s first strike had surely been foiled by the gods. Or nerves, perhaps, if Brodaini truly possessed them.
His mind buzzing thankfully with plans, Necias grinned up at the sky and paced rapidly for his barge.
*
That evening Handipas, followed by his staff and his Brodainu commander Tanta, walked to the pavilion through a double row of servants bearing torches and another lane of mercenaries in all their finery with lances at the salute. Handipas was dressed entirely in white from leggings to bonnet, his costume heavily embroidered with gold lace: he was a short, quick, vain man, clearly pleased with himself and his appearance. Necias welcomed him with a hug, introduced him to the officers, staff, and dignitaries present, and ushered him to the banquet and sat him down in the place of honor. He saw Handipas’ eyes move slowly in a careful, sidelong examination of the room — no doubt he’d heard about the assassination attempt — but there was no sign of the fight: new carpets had been layered in place of the stained ones, the brocade tablecloth had been cleaned, and all battered tableware replaced. The roof of the tent ballooned with banners, the flags of Arrandal, Prypas, and the Elva, as well as the standards of the Brodaini.
Necias looked down at his first course already in place — pickled cold beef and onions, cut small the way he liked it, so he could chew it with his good teeth. He sipped his wine, making certain his guests were seated, then signaled Brito and Luco to come forth to be introduced; they were complimented by Handipas for their splendid gowns — particularly Luco, who was dressed in the most radical new style. It was inspired by the strange hooded undergarment the Igaralla ambassador had been observed to wear, and was therefore called the Fiono style. There was a tight-fitting black hood, embroidered in gold, that made a pale, exquisite oval of the face, and that was further complimented by a few of Luco’s pale curls that had escaped the hood; the flounced skirts had been drawn in about the middle to suggest the trousers Fiona had worn privately in her apartments, and publicly on campaign — the rest was slashed, studded with jewels, puffed, ruffled, and otherwise embroidered in the typical Arrandal manner, done principally in green to reflect Luco’s eyes. The effect was unusual, and quite striking. Handipas leaned forward, intrigued, his hand on his chin.
“What style of gown is that, stansisso Luco?” he asked.
Luco colored at being so addressed, and dropped another curtsey; under her lashes she covertly looked up at Fiona as she answered. “It is called a Fiono gown, Handipas cenors-efellsan,” she said. “It is patterned after the dress of Igara. I wear it in honor of the ambassador.”
Necias glanced at Fiona during the answer, seeing her surprised look. Handipas, with a grin, turned to Fiona as well.
“Is this what the Igaralla wear at home, Ambassador?” he asked. “Our own Igaralla ambassador hasn’t spoken much of fashion.”
Fiona, taken aback, composed her reply quickly. “It is — it is an interpretation,” she said, glancing down at her own scarlet gown, simple and plain by Arrandalla standards, with only modest amounts of embroidery and no precious stones at all. Necias mentally complimented her on her diplomacy: he suspected she’d never seen anything remotely resembling Luco’s gown before. “And quite a becoming interpretation,” Fiona added. “On behalf of my people, stansisso Luco, I thank you for the compliment.”
Luco blushed bright red and made her final curtsey and exit. There was a partillo screen set up so that she and Brito could eat privately, view the entertainment, and watch the dinner without having to overstrain their delicate sensibilities among the rude company of men.
The meal went well enough. There were some small entertainers — as many competent jugglers, balladeers, and comics as could be found traveling with the army, with a Classanu troop of acrobats, about the only Brodaini entertainment palatable or understandable to the Abessla. Handipas asked about the assassination attempt: Necias brushed it aside as a trifling matter, knowing Handipas had no real interest and might have welcomed Necias’ removal as a threat to his own authority. He then turned the conversation to Handipas’ own campaigns. Handipas was only too happy to expatiate upon his martial prowess, and his glorious career in which he’d demonstrated the might of Prypas to truculent barons and murderous river pirates.
A puppy, Necias thought. He can be managed, more easily than if he were cunning.
“Your own skill, Ambassador, is celebrated in the camp,” Handipas said, turning suddenly from an anecdote of his own skill to Fiona: and for a moment Necias wondered if the puppy had more teeth than he’d thought. “You quelled that riot with a firm hand.”
Necias watched carefully, wondering if Fiona could be thus surprised; but her answer was quiet and spoken without hesitation. “There were arrows flying, enventan General Handipas,” she said. “I had to protect myself.”
“It was most effective, Ambassador. I congratulate you,” Handipas said. “Twelve men dead, a stone building brought down as if a troop of pioneers had been working on it half a day.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “Are all you Igaralla so deadly, Ambassador?” he asked. “So splendid in warfare?”
Necias, with surprise, realized that the room was utterly silent; he looked at the others at the table and saw them all watching Fiona and Handipas with calculating eyes, taking their measure, Tegestu looking like an old, proud mallanto, his glowing eyes fixed on distant prey. But Fiona’s own expression seemed confident in a quiet way, and the expression in her half-lidded, lazy eyes showed she knew exactly what game she was playing.
“No, we are not,” Fiona said. “There are very few of us who carry weapons at alclass="underline" it’s not necessary. Those who may need it are allowed weapons for their own defense.”