The messenger, fortunately, was the poet Campas. He bowed, Brodaini style, and looked up with a smile he could not entirely conceal beneath his attempt at tolhostu. “I see Calacas is ours,” he said. “Necias will be overjoyed.”
“Aye. I have taken the city as planned,” Tegestu said. “I will have a message to take to you in a few moments. Please wait in the tower, ilean poet.”
Campas bowed and withdrew. Other messengers came and went: it seemed now that all the city was secure. Below Tegestu heard the hollow drumming of hooves on the bridge as the last few baggage animals came into the city.
Cascan came next. “Bro-demmin, the hermit has had his supper,” he said. “His guards have his body below.”
“Give him to the chiefs of his kamliss,” Tegestu said. “Tell them he has gained much demmin by his death, in a service we cannot name. He should be buried with much honor.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.” Over Cascan’s shoulder Tegestu saw the tall form of Grendis walking from the tower, and was ready for her message.
“I have three emissaries from Tastis below, with their escort,” Grendis said. She leaned near Tegestu’s ear. “They say they wish to discuss the merging of his aldran and ours.” Her voice was emotionless. She assumed, then, as well as Cascan, that he and Tastis were now allies, and her voice carefully reserved judgment.
Tegestu gave a short, bitter laugh. Grendis looked at him with surprise. “Did they come under spear of parley?” he asked.
“Nay, bro-demmin. Their spears were not reversed.”
“Our rebel cousin forgets himself,” he said with another laugh. “Please discover these messengers’ names, and write them down. Then separate their heads from their shoulders and give their heads to me, so I may give them to the ilean poet Campas to present to our lord Necias. Their bodies, along with a written admonition to Tastis concerning the rules of parley between enemy camps, should be thrown across the Great Bridge to the gates of Neda.”
Grendis and Cascan stared, all tolhostu forgotten. Tegestu looked at them both deliberately, holding their eyes. “Did you think I was a traitor?” he demanded. “Did you think I acted without the knowledge of our lord? See that my will is carried out!”
“Aye, bro-demmin!” Grendis said with a swift bow. Her step, as she ran for the tower door, was lighter... she, too, had judged his treachery blacker than it was.
There was the sudden clang of weapons below, but it lasted only a few seconds. A moment thereafter Grendis was back, carrying a dripping net of heads, their eyes staring horror and surprise.
“Send for ilean Campas,” Tegestu said.
The poet arrived and bowed. Tegestu saw his eyes go to the net of heads, and then swiftly away.
“Please present these heads to the Abessu-Denorru, ilean Campas,” said Tegestu. “They are the heads of messengers Tastis has sent me. Their names are on this list — they are not unimportant people, I think.”
Campas gave the heads another glance. He took a moment to master his distaste, then bowed. “Necias will be grateful, bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said.
“I hope this may be so.” Tegestu looked at the poet for a moment. He was almost the ideal messenger, he thought, and thanked the gods for sending him. He spoke.
“There is a message of great importance to be sent with these heads, ilean,” he said. “Tell our lord Necias that the aldran of Arrandal thanks him for the city of Calacas, which he has given us.” He saw Campas blink in surprise, and the faces of his officers suddenly fill with astonishment and joy. “Tell him,” Tegestu continued, “that the Brodaini of Arrandal continue ready to make war on Tastis and all his rebel hosts.” He leaned closer to Campas, emphasizing his words clearly. “Tell him,” he said, “that it shall never be the Brodaini of Arrandal who break the bonds of nartil and courtesy that exist between a canlan and his subjects!” His tone softened. “We shall hold all his words in honor,” he said carefully, “even if it is not possible for us to obey them all. Do you understand my words, ilean?”
Campas’ eyes darted from one Brodaini to the next, and then to the heads that Grendis held in her hand. He swallowed. “Aye, bro-demmin,” he said.
Tegestu smiled grimly to himself. The poet knew how to put on a brave face. “Please repeat them, ilean, I beg you,” he said.
The poet repeated his words. Tegestu nodded. “Take my words to our lord,” he said, and as Campas turned to go, he added, “Do not forget the heads.”
The shaken messenger withdrew. “It is true, then, bro-demmin?” Grendis asked. “Is Calacas our own?”
Tegestu faced the thin edge of dawn that crept above the blackness. “It is,” he said, and smiled. “If the gods bless us, it is. We may not unbraid our hair yet, ban-demmini, we must always be vigilant. If we are not watchful against all treachery, and against all who would take Calacas from us, then we shall not deserve this fine city.”
“Aye, bro-demmin,” Grendis said in an awed whisper as she realized what Tegestu had done: he had moved his forces into the middle position, squarely between Tastis and the Elva, where he and he alone held the balance of power.
Treachery, they would call it, and treachery it was. But Tegestu had given them all a city where there had been nothing but landless exile, and hope where there had formerly been nothing but duty.
“The gods bless this beginning,” Grendis said, and turned with Tegestu to face the dawn.
CHAPTER 21
Necias, standing with arms akimbo on the afterdeck of his barge, looked at the Brodaini banners dotting the tops of the towers of Calacas and felt the anxiety gnawing at his heart. Tegestu’s camps were abandoned, every one of them, with every stick of baggage — that superb Brodaini staff work had shown itself to advantage once again. The latest convoy of supply barges had been shepherded into the city, which would leave Necias’ agents madly scrambling to find food in the countryside. The Brodaini galleys had entered the Outer Harbor and were safe behind their boom, and they’d taken with them all the Brodaini marines from the ships not directly under Brodaini command. Two attempts to enter the city, by some of Palastinas’ staff, and then by Palastinas himself, had been turned away at the gates by junior officers who claimed they were not authorized to let anyone enter. And of course there had been Campas’ message, which he had refused to believe until the confirming evidence had started trickling in. The city of Calacas, which Necias has given us... . Whenever had he done such a mad thing as that? Hadn’t he specifically forbidden it? What absurd claims was Tegestu making?
He smashed a huge fist into his hand repeatedly in time to his bursts of irritation. “What’s he up to?” he barked, seeing the frightened, uncomprehending looks from the faces of his staff. “What in the name of the Netweaver does Tegestu want?”
Had he joined Tastis? But he had sent Necias the heads of some of Tastis’ best advisors, including two of his aldran. Necias even recognized one of them: one scarred visage was unmistakably that of a grey-haired old bastard who had headed a delegation to Arrandal a year ago.
Necias scowled at the battlements, planted his fists firmly on his hips, and turned, seeing Palastinas sitting abstractedly on a coil of rope, stroking his little white beard and frowning down at his boots.
“What the hell does it mean?” Necias bellowed. Palastinas winced slightly at his volume, but otherwise didn’t change expression, didn’t even look up.
“No telling, just yet,” Palastinas said. “Tegestu will let us know when he’s ready.” He looked up at Necias, cocking an eye against the glare of the rising sun. “I’d like to stand the army down. No sense in tiring them until we know why we’re doing it.”
“No!” Necias barked. “Not yet!” He was keeping thirty thousand armed men between himself and Calacas until he understood the situation, and that was that. Tegestu’s eighteen thousand added to the twenty-five thousand or so of Tastis’ force could give the enemy a terrifying advantage — and if Prypas’ Brodaini had joined them the Arrandalla could not count on any help from Handipas.