Even so, she sat and waited and did not behave in the way pathetic wretches who couldn't handle their addictions behaved.
When her leaf was finally procured and delivered to the tavern, she couldn't hold her hands still enough to get it to her mouth to bite off a piece. Deo held it for her. Deo, by now, was a shifting, erratic, almost ethereal presence who she could not quite identify any longer.
She bit away a quarter of the leaf and knew by the ache that sang through her teeth that it was of the proper potency. After that it was just a matter of waiting for the blue to recede and the clarity to assert itself. It happened quickly enough.
Radstac, with much composure, thanked her deliverer and counted out the necessary Felk scrip from her pocket to cover it. Next to her Deo was pale. He tried to lead her out of the tavern. But there was still half a watch before they needed to think about curfew, so Radstac sang another passel of songs and Deo accompanied on the vox-mellifluous. Once again their audience became enthralled and enthused. The songs took hold.
Criers were calling the first notice. Curfew in a quarter of a watch. She and Deo were on the streets, heading to their lodgings. Evening had brought an unpleasant snap to the air. A damp wind was blowing in irregular irritating gusts.
Between them was silence. Strained on Deo's part, uncomfortable, embarrassed, concerned. Radstac merely said nothing. From her deliverer she had learned where she could likely obtain more leaves.
The streets were emptying rapidly and orderly. These Callahans knew the rules of occupation, and they obeyed them. If not for the Broken Circle, this would surely be the model of a conquered city.
On a deserted stretch, just a short distance from their destination, Deo, taut and uneasy, suddenly erupted in a tense whisper, "When we find the rebels, I'm going to join them."
Radstac looked at him sidelong and wordlessly. They didn't speak again until they were indoors, up on the third level, in their shabby room.
She hadn't taken too large a bite from her leaf. The mansid had stabilized her, but the clarity wasn't so intense as to be distracting.
"Why?" she finally asked.
Deo propped the stringbox in a corner. "Because it could make a difference against the Felk."
"Like assassinating General Weisel might have?"
"It might have. It would have." His fists bunched at his sides.
"I know," she said. Her tone was flat, but she had meant it to sound softer. Instead of trying again, she crossed to him, put hands to his shoulders. At first his lips were unresponsive; then they did respond.
Later, after curfew was official, there came a knock on their door. Later still, they learned of the audacious feat the Broken Circle enacted that night.
PRAULTH (3)
There was no waiting this time, no lapse while she brooded over her place in the greater scheme of this war and this turning point in history. She heard the solid decisive footfalls, turned, and there was Cultat's broad frame—broader still in armor—blocking the chamber's doorway.
"Thinker Praulth," he rumbled, red-and-gold-maned head in silhouette, "I wished to make our farewell a private one. Thank you for meeting me."
Praulth bowed; it was almost an involuntary action. It was an artifice on the premier's part. The man had a great control of language, of etiquette. By taking the humbler stance of thanking her, he was contrarily reaffirming his already more powerful position. A manipulator, this one. Surely a prerequisite for someone holding such a high political office.
It never occurred to Praulth that Cultat might be sincerely thankful.
"We have very little time," Cultat said, striding inside, swinging shut the door behind him, "but enough, I think, to say what we will say."
"And what are we to say, Premier?" Praulth asked, her voice slightly edged. It was important she assert herself here.
The chamber was a small lounge in the same building where the Alliance conference had been held. It was expensively if indifferently furnished, and it smelled of disuse. Praulth was standing.
Cultat halted, rested his hand atop the sword at his belt; then began a slow circuit of the room, around the backs of the lush dusty furniture. A lone lamp burned. There was a painting on one wall of a nude woman sprawling on a leafy riverbank. Praulth hadn't noticed it until the premier passed before it.
"I would imagine," Cultat finally said, his tone now thoughtful, "that you will say your position in all these matters of war is unappreciated. Or underappreciated." The crags of his face shadowed his severe blue eyes.
Praulth gazed back at him, willing herself not to blink.
Cultat continued, "And I will say in reply that you are appreciated. Of course you are. When all this is done, I'll bestow some tawdry bauble on you and shower you with all the gaudy honors the Noble State of Petgrad has to offer, which won't mean much to you. As to what you'll say to that, I can't quite guess, since this grows increasingly speculative and abstract." He halted again. A wry smile moved under his beard. "But I'll wager I'm fairly accurate so far, yes?"
Praulth felt a tightness in her throat. She swallowed deliberately. "Without me you'd have nothing." It came hoarse and pained, but also audible and steady.
"We wouldn't have the Battle of Torran Flats."
"You wouldn't have my predictions about the Felk movements."
"True. We've had others—Petgradites, some who've studied wars with perhaps the same fervor you have, but not with the same total understanding. They've made their guesses, pored over the same maps you were receiving through Master Honnis in Febretree. They could not forecast with your success."
"No one can," Praulth said with a dire firmness.
"Again, true." Cultat didn't qualify the statement.
Her heart filled with pride, beating giddily. This was recognition. This was acknowledgment.
"But," Cultat added, "what do my words matter? Your place is in the chronicles that will make this war a history to be remembered above all others."
The Petgrad premier was still at the fringe of the chamber. Now he came toward the center, where Praulth stood beneath the lamp. His face, aged and robust all at once, came into glaring view. He came to a halt, looking down on her. Something had diluted the ruthlessness of his eyes. Perhaps fatigue. Perhaps wariness of the battle to come.
"Praulth," he said quite softly, "you are appreciated. You are necessary. You are crucial. I have sensed your discontent, and I respect it. How can I address it?"
Now she did blink. Repeatedly. She was taken aback. She turned her head. She hadn't expected this man—this man, this powerful man—to express such a keen awareness of her inner turmoils. How had he known? He was canny. That was how he'd sensed her thoughts. He needed her to be at her cooperative best before he took the assembling forces of the Alliance off to engage Dardas/Weisel on the Pegwithe Plains south of the city of Trael, which had of course fallen to the Felk.
His interest in her was self-serving. Yet his manner, the cast of his rugged features, made it seem sincere. He wanted from her what he wanted. It was nearly irrelevant that it was for a greater good, a much greater good. The defeat of the Felk. He was still manipulating her.
"I've been manipulated before, Premier," she said.
He wasn't fazed. He heaved a small weary chuckle. "Manipulated? Well, so have I, young Thinker. By my family, by the Noble Ministry, by the people of this state. Not once. Many times. It comes with the rank and the responsibility. Manipulation is a guiding force, if you're aware of it. And if you keep ahead of it. Can you keep ahead, Praulth?"