“You were right. And now you know what it is.”
He nodded. “Now I know,” he said. He rubbed his chin, his eyes abstracted. Then he shook his head. “I don’t see what else your people could do,” he said. “Any war between planets is going to be up to my descendants, not to me. Right now, I’ve got to report to Necias.”
Choking on a bitter laugh, Fiona pressed herself to Campas, her arms going around him; she wondered if he was truly opaque to the irony, or did he simply not care? She stepped back, looking up at him.
“Will you tell him?” she asked.
“Probably not. Do you think I should?” He seemed irritable. “It’s between yourself and my descendants. I’m sure you’re capable of dealing with their questions, when they arise.” He kissed her forehead and turned.
Fiona watched him walk away; then her anger ebbed and weariness took her; she leaned against the paneled wall, closing her eyes, seeing only visions of slaughter, of the brave, uncomprehending enemy falling before her other worldly fires. Lives she had taken willingly, as Tegestu had intended, rejoicing in her power. At what cost, she wondered, to her own people? Would the Elva announce restrictions on the Igarans, horrified by the destruction she’d caused? She couldn’t blame them, not after the butchery she’d done.
It’s between yourself and my descendants, Campas had said, and she conceded to him a certain amount of truth. But what understanding Campas’ descendents had of the Igarans depended on the ground work she was laying; and at the moment her groundwork consisted largely of blackened corpses in the courtyard of the Old Citadel, lying amid puddles of their melted armor.
Ah, Campas, she thought. You’re right in a way, but what do you know about your descendants? We’ve chosen them to carry our message, and their future is fixed. First we’ll give them the tools to conquer the planet, and then they’ll do it. The Elva trading stations will be sent farther and farther abroad, garrisoned with troops brought across the water; and then there will be wars with natives and more troops, and then colonies and domination, and in the end the word the Igarans have come to spread will blanket the planet, spread on a wave of Elva conquest. Your descendants will be born into the most viable culture for such a mission, and they have been chosen by us for their part, poor puppets, before they were ever birthed. Your people have a destiny to fulfill, whether they like it or not, and I am a part of their destiny.
I have brought knowledge, she thought, and I have also brought the butchery with which the knowledge will be spread.
She took a deep breath, then straightened, her head spinning. She smelled of sweat and fear, and she wished she dared have a bath, but that would mean taking off her privy-coat and that would be too dangerous — Tegestu might yet decide she was too great a threat to let her survive. She decided instead to attempt a few hours’ rest, then assemble her baggage and ride to Necias’ camp. It was obvious enough that her mission here had ended.
She turned and began her journey to her quarters. As she rose to its level, she saw a Classanu knocking politely on her door. He was the same dignified, armored old man she had seen in Tegestu’s chamber; he turned at her footsteps and bowed.
“Ilean Ambassador,” he said. “Bro-demmin Tegestu sent me to you with a message. I had hoped to find you here.”
She moved past him to open the door to her sitting room. “Please enter,” she said. “You are, ilean... ?” The questioning was automatic: she tried to remember the name of everyone she encountered — it was recommended for achieving rapport.
“I am Thesau, Ambassador,” the old man said with a bow. “I am a Classanu of the first rank, and personal servant to lord Tegestu.”
Fiona summoned a polite smile. “Please sit down, ilean Thesau,” she said. “I will hear your message.”
“Forgive me, ilean, I do not think I should sit,” Thesau said with an apologetic look. “The message is of great importance.”
Fiona straightened, feeling herself scowclass="underline" she’d had quite enough of important messages from Tegestu. “Very well,” she said.
The old man’s face was grave. “Bro-demmin drandor Tegestu says that he is aware that he owes you a life,” he said. “He hopes you will be satisfied with his, and not hold angu against his household. He is willing to surrender his life at any time, but he begs your indulgence for a few days. He has announced his intention of voluntarily drinking poison, and following bro-demmin Grendis to Ghanaton.”
Fiona felt surprise strike her with almost physical force, and she looked at Thesau sharply. Why would Tegestu kill himself now, at the height of his triumph? Perhaps he was simply trying to buy himself time. Well, if that were the case, let him have his time, his schemes. Tegestu had used her as his instrument, and the knowledge was bitter to her: but she would not seek a petty revenge on his life.
“This is acceptable to me, but I will consult my superiors,” she said. “They will decide these matters, not I. Bro-demmin Tegestu may do as he wishes: my duty is only obedience, as is yours.” She did not relish her speech, or its effects on the bent old man holding vigil over his wife’s bedside, but she suspected it would not be politically wise to let Tegestu off entirely — it would simply be an invitation for the natives to involve her people in their wars and feuds whenever they pleased — so she would let him sweat for a few hours, or days, before she informed him that her superiors did not demand his life.
Thesau’s eyes widened slightly at her words, perhaps at the Brodaini-ness of it; then, without a word, he bowed and withdrew.
Fiona wandered into her bedroom and stretched herself on the soft feather mattress, feeling relief swim into her limbs. She closed her eyes, seeing again the courtyard of the Old Citadel with its dead scattered like firescorched leaves — no, there would be no sleep, not now.
She would try to compose her thoughts, and then send a full report to the ship. Let them handle it: her own reactions were too dazed, too full of immediate sensation.
Tegestu, she thought, his image floating in her mind. Damn him.
He had won his damned war, hadn’t he?
CHAPTER 32
Hamila, his eyes showing no emotion, glanced at the dispatch the messenger had carried from Tegestu’s headquarters, then handed the message to his translator, whose eyes widened as he spoke.
“Cenors-stannin,” he said. “We have received word from the rebels in the Brodaini Quarter of Neda. Tastis and his children, at the orders of his aldran, have taken poison, and the aldran is now negotiating with bro-demmin Tegestu for surrender under the terms of the Agreement.”
Necias saw the ambassadors’ heads turning and heard the sudden babble of voices — and felt an immediate surge of triumph. Despite the ambassadors’ almost unanimous opposition to the Agreement he, as chairman of the Elva, had signed with Tegestu last night on the barge, Necias knew that it, and the Hundred-Year Peace, would prevail.
He wiped his brow. The small room on his barge smelled of sweat, of spilled drink and food gone stale. It had been a long meeting, and it had taken until hours past midnight for the balance to finally swing his way.
The Agreement possessed one giant obstacle, and for hours Necias had been smashing at it with all the persuasion he could muster. Tegestu would keep Calacas, and as head of a sovereign Brodaini government, subject to no one. Necias had released the Arrandal Brodaini from their vows of obligation, and with the hope that the other Elva cities would do likewise. Tegestu’s new government would become a part of the Elva, with special functions.