The hooves drummed on the planking of the bridge, echoing hollowly from the brackish canal, and then the shadow of the tower fell on her and she was inside. She saw a pleased smile on Dellila’s scarred face as she reined in.
“Bro-demmin Tegestu will be gratified by your presence,” he said. “With your permission, ilean Ambassador, I would like to escort you to where the hostages from Neda will be quartered.”
She gave a nod, Dellila turned his horse, and with the escort of bannermen following in behind they began to move off through the cobbled streets.
The buildings were tall and narrow, as they were in Arrandal, and as in Arrandal the city was composed of rings of interlocking canals edged by narrow cobbled paths that were squeezed in between the canals and the peak-roofed buildings of grey stone. There were three rings of inner walls, some showing sign of hasty repair but all as grimly functional as the current outer wall. Many of the bridges had key parts removed, with a drawbridge built to span the gap; all bridges were guarded. To take such a city by storm, she thought, would be almost an impossibility: an attacker would have to progress by short leaps across canals, under fire from the high buildings that overlooked the battle. No wonder that months ago the Elva forces had settled down to a siege rather than accept the huge casualties that would result in any attempt to storm the walls.
The civilian inhabitants of the city were going about their business in large numbers, though because many had been evacuated they were not in the thronging thousands as in Arrandal; but their natural liveliness was inhibited by the presence of the cold, armored Brodaini guards that stood glowering at every major intersection, and at the sight of Dellila and his bannermen moving briskly down the towpath they ducked quickly into doorways to let them pass. Fiona, looking up, saw a few white faces peering out of the windows and doorways, almost all of them masks of hatred and fear. They were the pawns of this war and they knew it, and whatever peace was made, they would have no part in it.
The party made its way to the Old City, the first Abessla settlement made across the river from Old Neda. Here Fiona was invited to dismount and inspect an old gatehouse that had been converted to the hostages’ quarters. She dismounted and went up the narrow, winding stair, which curved in such a way that any right-handed attackers, advancing from below, were unable to swing their weapons without hitting the center post, while defenders faced no such handicap. Sunlight, reflected by the surface of the canal outside, swam crazily on the tapestries, carpets, and furniture that had been moved in. Blazing fires had been lit in the grates in order to drive out the cold and damp. One vast room had its floor scored by dozens of murder holes, through which defenders in the gatehouse could fling boiling oil and missiles on attackers trying to crash the inner gate below. Guards had been placed at the doors, and from the roof of the gatehouse, overlooked by the firing slits of the towers on the harbor wall, Fiona could see clearly across the outer harbor to the walls of Neda and the flags decorating its Old Citadel.
The hostages, Fiona concluded, would be fairly comfortable, would be able to exercise themselves daily on the roof where they could be seen by their comrades in the Old Citadel, and would have a fair measure of privacy — but they would be vulnerable to Tegestu’s people, which presumably was the point. Fiona nodded.
“I’ll tell the — the other people what I see,” she said, not knowing what to call them. Was Tastis, in the official vocabulary of the Arrandal Brodaini, still the “rebel ar-demmin Tastis,” or had he become “bro-demmin drandor Tastis” once again?
Dellila seemed pleased. “Good,” he said. “Let’s move you down to the Long Bridge Gate. Once you’ve inspected the hostage quarters on the other side, we can get on with the exchange.”
They moved down the narrow stairway, and then stepped out into the streets. Dellila took his horse by the bridle, and they walked the short distance to the Long Bridge Gate.
Guards were tripled here, standing ranked on the battlements above. Below was the party of hostages-to-be, the three principal hostages plus twelve escorts, bannerbearers, and servants, all standing calmly in the shade of the gate, with grooms holding their horses.
Tegestu alone was mounted. Fiona saw the old man sitting bolt upright on his horse, wearing armor but bareheaded, his grey braids coiled around his head and pinned into place. He was standing squarely by the inner gate and Fiona’s path took her past him.
She bowed as she came close, and as she rose she realized that Dellila had bowed and retired. Tegestu, it appeared, wished to speak privately with her.
His horse stepped forward a few paces; and then Tegestu twitched its reins and the horse gravely bent its forelegs and head. Fiona realized with surprise that he’d had his horse return her bow, and that Tegestu seemed to be an exceptional horseman. The horse straightened.
“I am gratified, ilean Ambassador, that you have consented to act as an observer,” Tegestu said.
“The Igarans are happy to contribute to any negotiations likely to result in peace,” Fiona said, a standard reply to be sure, but Tegestu’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he caught her inflection — were these negotiations truly going to result in peace, or further bloodshed as the Elva erupted in internal war with their own Brodaini?
The horse clopped closer to her. He leaned down and for the first time she saw him up close: an aged man, his skin mottled and sagging, losing the war with gravity and the years; but with eyes that reflected fierce, burning intelligence.
“Ilean Ambassador,” he said in a low voice intended only for her. “I hope this will not put you in danger. I can’t guarantee Tastis won’t resort to treachery. I hope — I hope your people have prepared you for any eventuality.”
The coarse whisper sent chills flittering down her spine, and she looked up at him in surprise. Had he received a hint of treachery, then? His face was intent, hawklike; there was a hint of steely nervousness in the bunched muscles of the jaw and a throbbing vein in the forehead — he was, she realized, under ferocious pressure, and it was beginning to show. “I am as prepared as I can be,” she said cautiously. “But if you have any intelligence of Tastis’ intentions I hope you can tell me.”
Tegestu shook his head. “No, nothing,” he said. “But Tastis is not — he is not to be trusted, understand? Take good care, Ambassador. The gods go with you.”
“Thank you, bro-demmin. I’ll keep your words in mind.” Nodding reassuringly as she spoke, and trying with all her will to control the fear whipsawing through her — the old fear, weaponed men coming in the night, as they had come for Kira. Tegestu straightened, still looking down at her.
“Are you ready, Ambassador?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Some of our heralds will go with you part way.” Tegestu looked up and gave a signaclass="underline" Classani dashed to man tackles that heaved up the massive iron-reinforced bars that held closed the inner gate, and someone in the second storey of the barbican began to work the mechanism that would raise the bar of the outer gate as well, and then lower the drawbridge to open the Neda Long Bridge.
Tegestu looked at her levelly. The vein still throbbed in his temple. “Good luck, ilean Ambassador.”
“Thank you, bro-demmin.”
She mounted her horse and watched the square of sunlight that was the gate brighten, and wondered whether or not to lower the mask that would give her full facial protection. No, she thought, that would be overcautious, and show them she was afraid, which might in itself invite attack.
The drawbridge thudded into place and she kneed her horse forward, her escort falling into place behind. Did Kira take this path? she thought again, and then cleared the thought angrily from her mind. She was protected; the ship was on alert; Tastis could not take her. She knew this; but yet the fear remained.