Tegestu snatched up his pen and began writing, frustrated that he couldn’t form his letters with the speed of thought. He finished, glanced at the letters again to make certain that they were clear enough for Hamila to read, and then handed the paper to one of the Classani. The boy took it and ducked soundlessly around the corner of the screen.
Tegestu listened for the sounds of his arrival behind the larger screen, his mind in the meantime sliding over his plan. It would work, he thought; but if he thought the better of it in the next day or so he could alter it easily enough, and no longer insist on Fiona’s presence as a neutral observer at the negotiations.
It would, he thought, serve as an encouragement to courtesy, to have present a person who could call down lightnings if any rudeness occurred.
And then with a start he realized his opportunity. Perhaps a chance lurked within his first plan that, at first, he hadn’t perceived. His mind slipped over it again, probing at the newly-formed idea. Fiona hated Tastis and his people, and that hatred could be used. He would check again with Cascan to see if the Igaran ambassador had been attacked in Tastis’ Keep — that knowledge could prove important. But it was the hatred that mattered.
There were flaws in the plan, he thought, but they could be worked out. If only he could arrange for the hostages to be quartered near the Long Bridge...
He bent to his desk again, his pen dashing heedlessly over the paper. He heard Hamila’s words.
“Beg pardon, ban-demmini. There is another message I must read.”
“Please read it, ban-demmin Hamila,” the spokesman said. “Pay us no attention.”
There was a silence broken only by the crackle of paper as Hamila read the message, then refolded it and put it in his belt. “Ban-demmini,” he said. “I beg your pardon once again for the interruption. It was a memorandum concerning the posting of the guard this evening. It will be my duty to supervise.”
“We understand perfectly,” said the spokesman, who saw easily enough through the convenient falsehood.
“It has occurred to me,” Hamila said, “that my lord Tegestu may wish, to further guarantee the sincerity of any negotiations between our parties, that the Ambassador Fiona of Igara attend the talks in her capacity of neutral observer, the same capacity in which she attended the other negotiations. And my lord may further wish that she inspect the quarters granted to the hostages would be comfortable.”
“I will have to consult with my lord Tastis on this,” the spokesman said. Tegestu listened closely: was there surprise in his voice? If so it could indicate that Tastis was not prepared to reveal the negotiations to Necias.
“I am afraid my lord Tegestu will insist on this,” Hamila said. Tegestu returned to his writing.
He finished with a flurry, his heart pounding as he contemplated the beauty of his plan. He would consider it tonight, hoping to fill the gaps in his knowledge. He would, he knew, have to send a messenger to Necias. He must hope that Necias was as desperate for peace as he suspected.
The Classanu girl slipped out, the piece of paper clutched in her hand. Contained in it was a simple condition for the exchange of hostages, that the hostages be held in the city of Neda, rather than in the Brodaini Keep, and that they be held in a place from which they could be seen daily by a spyglass in Calacas, in order to assure Tegestu of their continuing survival and well-being. Tegestu would perform a like courtesy by parading his own hostages on the Calacas walls. It was an innocent enough condition, he thought; there was no reason why Tastis wouldn’t grant it.
Yet he held his breath while Hamila announced the demand, and would not expel it until the spokesman, apparently seeing no need for consultation, agreed.
Tegestu smiled. His course, he thought, had just been set.
He would have to review the documents concerning Igaran capabilities, he thought, those prepared in the wake of the incident between the Brodaini patrol and Necias’ archers. He would also have to interview each of the surviving members of the patrol personally. One of them, he knew, had seen an arrow strike Fiona squarely between her unarmored shoulders, yet bounce off as if she had been wearing proof. How certain was that witness?
The witness would have to very certain, he knew. So many lives, including Fiona’s, would depend on it.
CHAPTER 25
“Ambassador Fiona!” Fiona could hear the Gostu voice through the port on the barge’s roundhouse. She turned her head to look out the port, squinting against the glare. “Ambassador Fiona, are you there?”
“Some big armored bastard out there,” reported Castaghas, the barge Second Cousin’s chief mate. He stepped into the roundhouse from the deck. “I think that’s your name he’s yelling.”
“It is,” said Fiona.
“Damned barbarian.” Rubbing his chin. “I wonder what the bastard wants.”
Fiona declined to guess. She finished her glass of wine and thanked her hosts, a family of the barge people with whom she’d become friendly. She decided to be cautious, and as she made her way out into the sunlight she pulled her hood over her head and drew it tight. She turned to face the bank.
“I am Fiona,” she said.
The Brodainu was a huge man, made larger still by his massive suit of plate armor. He bowed, the sun winking off his helmet.
“I am Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu, ilean Ambassador,” he said. “Bro-demmin drandor Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth has sent me to you as his emissary.”
Has he, now? Fiona wondered. She raised her hand to shade her eyes and looked at the near-giant, seeing a battered, square-jawed face scarred by both disease and war, intelligent blue eyes, a red knife-cut crossing the knuckles of a massive hand. She knew she’d heard his name before, but could not recollect where or why.
She felt the Second Cousin’s gangplank bend beneath her weight as she walked to the shore. Dellila towered over her as he straightened from another bow. There were a handful of arrow-straight Brodaini escort, including a banner-bearer with a scarlet Abessla flag of truce. They were on foot, apparently having left their horses on the river’s other bank. In a half-circle about them was a troop of mercenary cavalry, Khemsinla lancers in ornate armor and elaborate ruffled clothing, beards braided with ribbon to look as ferocious as possible, all watching the intruders carefully. Fiona looked up at Dellila, narrowing her eyes.
“1 am listening, ban-demmin,” she said. Brodaini manners, always abrupt and arrogant between strangers.
“I am ordered to inform you, ilean Ambassador,” Dellila said, “that negotiations will shortly begin between the Brodaini of Calacas and the Brodaini of Neda. Bro-demmin Tegestu hopes that you will be able to attend the negotiations in the same capacity you served in the late talks between the Elva and the Brodaini of Neda.”
Fiona felt her heart sink at the words. Tegestu and Tastis in alliance: she had always dreaded the possibility. It was one thing to know that two or three hundred years hence the Brodaini would have been absorbed by the Abessla, or become so like them there would be little or no difference; it was another to be confronted, in the now, with the possibility of civil war in every Elva city as the united Brodaini tried to avoid extermination, and warred to exterminate their enemies in turn.
“I shall have to consult my superiors, ban-demmin,” she said. “I can give you no immediate answer.” But she knew how Tyson would rule: the Igarans were attempting to establish principles of strict neutrality, which meant assisting negotiations between any governmental entity. But, Fiona thought firmly, she wasn’t going into those cities without better protection than she currently possessed. Tyson knew how Kira had died: she was certain he’d agree.