Fortunately Sarazin – weary, footsore, and tired of grappling with the complexities of Churl – had rebuffed that keen-minded bureaucrat's diligent efforts to initiate a conversation. And, once brought into Farfalla's presence, Sarazin behaved as noblesse oblige compelled him to: after exchanging formal greetings with his mother, he pleaded his case of his loyal retainers.
Tvly lady,' said he, in Churl only fluent because this was a much-rehearsed speech, 'these are my tutors, constant companions of my captivity in Voice. This is Thodric Jarl, a Rovac warrior: my swordmaster.'
'What mention is made of me?' said Jarl in curt, loud- voiced Galish.
'Do you speak no Churl?' said Farfalla, in a Galish as good as his own.
'None,' said Jarl, 'for till six days ago I had never set foot in the Harvest Plains.'
Then my translator will render all which has gone before into a tongue you can understand,' said Farfalla. 'Also, he will translate what is spoken hereafter.'
Jarl gave a low-sweeping courtly bow mastered years before in the city of Chi'ash-lan in the Cold West. As the translator set to work, Farfalla noted a tight smile on Plovey's lips.
What did that smile mean? Fear? Quite possibly. And if Plovey feared friendship between a Rovac warleader and the kingmaker of the Harvest Plains he might act to end it. So Farfalla had best keep her distance from Jarl, lest her friendship prove his destruction. Only fools, slaves and criminals could safely befriend the kingmaker. Belatedly, she realised Sarazin had resumed his speech:
'… is Epelthin Elkin, a scholar, who has tutored me most marvellously in the ways of words.' Sarazin was praising Elkin at length. And Jarl? Lemons without sugar! The Rovac warrior had no love for the scholar. And Plovey,? Fidgeting. Bored by Sarazin's rhetoric. Hands furtively scabbing at an itch at his crotch. Then eyes… shifting to Jarl.
Yes, Jarl worried him. The Regency feared assassins by night, riot by day. Coup, revolution, civil war. Thus any blade in Farfalla's fee was a threat. But a scholar…? No. So it was safe to grant Elkin whatever was in her boon. Giving much to Elkin and little to Jarl would widen the gap between those two.
– But that's not my problem. I want Jarl left alive. I might have use of him in future. Sarazin was concluding.
'… therefore ask you to grant what you can to these two who have been so loyal for so long with so little reward.'
Farfalla was decided, yet forced herself to make a show of hesitation. The less that Plovey saw of her ability the better. While she was thinking thus, Plovey caught her eye. Both, embarrassed, looked away. And Farfalla thought:
– He's not fooled for a moment. He knows just how good I am!
He must. Unless there was a fool behind his facade of razor-sharp intelligence and unlimited efficiency. As they customarily did business 'a step away from each other's steel', as the saying had it, she found it difficult to truly gauge his calibre.
Sarazin, disconcerted by Farfalla's evident indecision, cleared his throat, as if to speak. But she held up her hand for silence, then delivered her judgment.
The scholar Epelthin Elkin is welcome in the city of Selzirk the Fair. I, as kingmaker, chosen from the common people by the Regency, ruling in accordance with the Constitution, welcome him.'
Thus Farfalla reminded her son of things he surely knew already: unless ambition had led him to discount what he had been taught. She continued:
'Certain appointments lie within the gift of the See of the Sun. One such is the position of Archivist in-' Horrors! She had forgotten the name of the place!
'-in the famous library of Libernek Square. This position carries a stipend of five sanarands a month. Accommodation for the Archivist is provided within the library itself; it is, if memory serves, at least adequate.' Elkin bowed his head in gratitude, then said: 'My lady is as generous as she is beautiful.'
Farfalla smiled on Elkin, for, while she governed herself severely, she allowed herself this one luxury: to accept all compliments to her flesh at face value. She let her smile last to the limits of the allowable, then turned to Jarl.
Truly,' said she, 'as a mother, I rejoice that my son has learnt the use of weapons. For the Constitution decrees that he serve with the army of the Harvest Plains. No other future lies open to him. His doom is written in the law, and rightly so.'
What could be more plain than that? Farfalla was telling Sarazin, and in public, exactly what he could expect. Though he must have known as much before.
'So,' said Farfalla, 'while Thodric Jarl has taught Sarazin in exile, now the army will provide his military education.'
She kept her voice cool, controlled. As a mother long deprived of her eldest child, she longed to sweep him into her arms, to hold him, to laugh, to weep. But she forbade herself such public display, thinking him safer if the Regency believed a breach to exist between mother and son.
Thus Farfalla, when saying 'my son', found it politic to use the neutral 'yo chorol', literally 'my child-male', instead of the words of love and passion: 'yo sovrol', 'my womb- male'. Her phraseology made her sound cold, remote, analytical.
Sarazin did not wonder at this, for his rudimentary grasp of Churl left him incapable of following the nuances of Farfalla's speech. In fact, as he saw no point in bending his brain without cause, he had stopped listening to Farfalla: he attended instead to the translator rendering her words into Galish.
Would this audience never end? He was finding the throne room too hot and too cold by turns, and once he felt quite dizzy and the whole world wavered before his eyes. Despite his saddle-chafed backside, he longed to sit down. He hoped, desperately, that he would not disgrace himself by fainting.
Meanwhile, Farfalla, having lectured on the sterling service rendered to the state by the sons of kingmakers who had entered the army, returned to the future of Thodric Jarclass="underline"
'… therefore, as my son's training is spoken for, he no longer needs a mentor such as Thodric Jarl. However, the Watch has lacked a properly qualified Master of Combat these last five years.'
She paused. Jarl, on hearing her words translated into Galish, said suspiciously: 'Why should a good job go begging for so long?'
'Because,' said Farfalla, offended by his ingratitude, 'by law a prerequisite for the job is military experience, but, thanks to an enmity between the Watch and the army which is as ancient as it is senseless, no soldier will take the job on retirement.' 'On retirement?' said Jarl. 'Is this an old man's job?'
'An experienced man's job,' said Farfalla, now close to losing patience with him. The pay is five ilavales a month.'
If Jarl ran true to form, he would now object, since Elkin's job would pay five pieces of gold, whereas Jarl would draw but five of silver. He did object. But not on account of the size of his reward.
The ilavale,' said Jarl, 'is a coin of the Confederation of Wizards. I am of the Rovac, as you know. Is it any secret that there is a feud of long standing between wizards and Rovac? Why then name my pay in such coinage? Do you seek to insult me?'
Farfalla, ignorant of any such feud, wondered whether she was meant to smile at this extravagance. Then realised the man was serious. Gods! As if there weren't enough real problems to worry about
…
'The honour of Rovac is legendary,' said Farfalla drily. Yet in recent years the inflation of Selzirk has been finding its own place in legend. The debasement of our coinage has worsened this inflation. Some nine years ago, the Regency in its wisdom decided to denominate all state salaries in hard coinage.' Wizard coinage,' said Jarl.
'The coinage of trade,' said Farfalla smoothly. "Rest assured, however, that you need not take such into your hand. Triners, ilavales and sanarands do but measure official salaries, which are in fact paid in our local coinage at the prevailing rate of exchange.'