It was Maldereld, Rhillian knew. Elsewhere in the Saalshen Bacosh, humans called her a general, yet in Tracato most recalled her for her contributions to law, in the years of occupation following the fall of King Leyvaan. Rhillian also knew that this particular statue was the third, and little more than ten years old, the previous two statues having been defaced. Not all Rhodaanis liked to be reminded of serrin overlordship, least of all by a woman. Particularly not here, in the wealthy centre, where every building spoke of commerce and power, and the clothes of the common cityfolk were rich indeed.
The crowds here were huge and rapturous without reservation. Blackboots lined the road, and some garrison soldiers in full armour, to hold back the cheering people, many of whom threw flowers or grain. No dark looks for General Zulmaher here, Rhillian noted. The wealthy folk loved their general.
Then they came upon a particularly grand courtyard, pressed against the eastern wall of the Ushal Fortress. A line of soldiers and Blackboots held the crowd back from the courtyard, for within were arrayed the various importances of Tracato-perhaps fifty people, mostly men: ten standing on a great platform and forty seated on a scaffold behind.
The flagbearers turned into the courtyard, followed by Zulmaher and the captains, then Rhillian and her two lieutenants. The marching Steel did not follow, but continued their way up the road, headed to the south edge of Tracato, and the barracks there. There would be barely a night’s rest, before deployment to the western front, to face the invasion threat. No time at all, in truth.
Rhillian followed the officers about the central fountain, trying to keep her mare to a steady formation between Aisha and Kiel. She was not a natural rider, and serrin were not much given to formations anyhow. They all stopped before the platform and waited, while trumpets blew, and the crowd behind cheered some more, and a herald shouted a long announcement in Rhodaani that Rhillian caught only in part-something about glorious victories, and triumph in the name of the gods, and freedom for all humanity. Truly she was an appalling linguist, to not be fluent in Rhodaani. But then, she’d simply had more important matters on which to apply her mind.
More cheering, and then some young men in ceremonial gold came forward to hold the horses’ halters, while the general and his entourage dismounted. The lad holding the halter of Rhillian’s horse looked very nervous, and barely more than fourteen. Rhillian gave him a smile. He swallowed hard, and turned several shades paler.
Zulmaher stepped forward, and Rhillian followed, Aisha and Kiel having enough sense of human protocols to fall in behind. Zulmaher ascended three steps to the platform, where a priest gave him a holy book to place his palm upon, and a ring for him to kneel and kiss. Premier Chiron then placed a garland of leaves on his head, and Zulmaher rose and kissed Chiron on one cheek, and then the other.
Captains Renard and Hauser followed, to more cheering, as Zulmaher completed the circle of importances arrayed across the platform behind, clasping hands and kissing cheeks. Rhillian could not help but reflect how strange it was that Rhodaani men should kiss in public, while in Lenayin, a man could be killed for making the attempt.
Then it was Rhillian’s turn, and the cheering was just as loud when the herald announced her name. That surprised her. The trumpets blew, and the priest hovered with his book and ring, as though in hope. Rhillian granted him a smile, and that was all. Some serrin, on occasion, had touched the book, and kissed the ring, not wishing to offend, and being serrin, having no strict belief that could in turn be offended. “What was the harm?” they’d asked.
The harm, Rhillian was certain, lay in encouraging human uniformity. In that, Kiel was correct-it was the most dangerous of all human instincts. If Rhodaan wished Saalshen’s friendship, then it must accept Saalshen’s strangeness. To accept such strangeness, without hatred, would surely do them good. Serrin, after all, had been doing the same for humans since humanity had first appeared in Rhodia.
She exchanged kisses with Premier Chiron, an unremarkable man of lesser height than she, balding and dark featured. His eyes held a certain confidence, however, that was neither arrogance nor power lust.
“You and all your talmaad have the thanks of all Rhodaan, Mistress Rhillian Resil’dyi,” he told her in Torovan.
Rhillian repressed a wince at the last name. It was rare to meet a human who knew what serrin last names meant. “And the thanks of all Elisse one day, I should hope, Premier Chiron,” she replied.
Chiron smiled grimly. “Quite, quite,” he agreed. “One day I am sure, they shall erect statues in your honour in Vethenel, as we have for your glorious predecessor Maldereld. But for now, you have Tracato. The city is yours, Mistress Resil’dyi.”
Rhillian wondered if the premier might soon regret he’d said that. “I thank you, Premier. Saalshen thanks you for your friendship.”
She kissed cheeks and clasped hands with the others-there were councilmen and justiciars, wealthy merchants, senior civil officers, a general, an ambassador each of Enora and Ilduur and, of course, nobility. Some of those with appointed rank were nobility too. Some kissed too wetly, a few from lechery, and a few from that peculiar attitude of Rhodaani men in the presence of attractive women, part fatherliness and part lust.
“You’d make a good statue,” Aisha told her in Haati dialect, so none would be likely to overhear. She took her place at Rhillian’s side, looking amused.
“I’d rather be carved by a Petrodorian,” Rhillian replied.
“Nude?” Rhillian shrugged. Aisha raised her eyebrows. “That would be an interesting addition to a Tracato courtyard.”
“With a great python about my neck,” Rhillian added. “Its tail about my thigh, and stroking it with one hand, like so.”
“They stare at you as though you were a demon,” said Kiel, taking his place on her other side. “If they could only understand what you say, they would be convinced of it.” Rhillian grinned.
The courtyard’s new arrivals were climbing the steps to the platform now, and Rhillian’s smile faded. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured.
Lord Crashuren was first, a pale, tall man with a bald head save for great, grey whiskers. He was the first of the Elissian lords that General Zulmaher had made peace with. He took the knee before Premier Chiron, a palm upon the book, and kissed the priest’s ring. And he remained on one knee, as a junior justiciar held a Tracato city flag at Chiron’s side, a shield in blue and white checkers, and the words in Rhodaani-Levas dei to mertas. Live free or die.
Lord Crashuren kissed the flag. Premier Chiron asked for his allegiance, upon his word of honour. Lord Crashuren gave it, on behalf of all the lords of Yertan Province…that was a good chunk of middle Elisse, right up to the outskirts of Vethenel. There was no way the crowd about the courtyard’s far perimeter could hear the words, yet when Crashuren rose, the trumpets sounded, and the crowd all cheered to see Crashuren and Chiron embrace. The Rhodaani leader of the people’s office, selected by the general will of the Rhodaani population, and the feudal tyrant whose peasants Rhillian had found in pitiful condition, half starved despite the fertility of their lands, poorer than dirt, and brutalised by Crashuren’s thugs. Rhillian recalled corpses in the mud of the little village square, a woman and child amongst them. She’d killed the man who’d slain them. She’d have gladly done the same to Crashuren.