Petgrad. It was the largest and most powerful of the southern city-states, located not too far from Febretree. However, no single state of the Isthmus could, at this stage, muster a force to stand against the Felk. Cultat was trying to gather an alliance of the remaining free states. It was a formidable task. But he needed more than an army to meet Weisel and the Felk.
Cultat, Petgrad's premier, had visited her. Specifically. She had known some while now that Trael was the next logical step for the Felk. Devising a plan of counterattack, however... that had been a categorically different task for her—far more difficult, far more rewarding. But she had succeeded. She was certain. The Battle of Torran Flats. Use the tactics of Dardas against the Felk military leader; turn the tables.
Afterward Cultat, that great fierce man, had gone with his entourage. Obviously the entire meeting was meant to be secret. Honnis had directed Xink—who'd waited all the while inside one of the archways into the dome—to return her to their quarters.
Xink was doubtlessly a part of this ... though she still didn't know exactly what this was.
"You're working with Honnis, too," she said. Her sandaled feet still felt cold from that old underground chamber.
"Working ... with ... ?"
She was staring directly at him now, but he was still watching the floor.
"How conveniently you appeared," she said, a quiver tugging at her voice. "And with you these comfortable quarters. And so I neglected my other studies. Honnis means for me to work exclusively on his war project— means to squeeze every possible effort from me. And so I am kept... k-k-kept happy. By you. You ..."
He was awash in blurs now, as if the lamplight overhead had turned to liquid. Through the haze, she saw him take a few steps toward her, hesitate.
"B— Praulth. Please. I beg you to believe. If it's a machination, I've only played the slightest role in it. Surely if you're being used, so am I."
"You?" It was a sob.
"And I don't care. I'm grateful for the time we've had together ... the times I hope we'll still have. I don't care if—why—Honnis—"
"He put you on to me," she said; then stopped and choked down the tears, fiercely. She would not whimper like a child. "He ... what? Offered a reward, perhaps, to you? Payment?"
Wiping her eyes, she saw him clearer, his handsome face etched with pain, tears of his own in his limpid blue eyes, the flecks of gold in them sparkling.
"I have loved you, Praulth. I have. I wish to go on doing so."
"What are you getting?"
"You're beautiful to me. When I first saw you, you were like a radiant child—"
"I'm not a child."
It was the first sharp thing she'd ever said to him, the first she had dared to say. But now she dared. In among the churning confusion and fear, she most certainly felt anger.
He hastily licked his lips. "I—I know you are not—"
"What reward are you getting from Honnis for... for being with me?" Hateful, so hateful to say the words, to even think the thoughts.
Xink drew a breath, drew himself erect. He shook his head once, as if to clear it. His features became composed. "Master Honnis has promised me an eventual seat on the sociology council. He has the means to leverage it."
It was a confession. Praulth stared at her lover, her beautiful lover, feeling the hotness in her throat, feeling emotions tearing and ripping.
But Xink wasn't done. "I have also fallen genuinely in love with you during the course of this. My heart belongs to you—whether you choose to reject it or not, it's yours. Now and forever. In this ... I'm helpless."
He spoke it in the same level divulging tone, even as the tears continued to ooze from his eyes.
Believe? Disbelieve? It seemed impossible. So much to sort through. Her very existence had been upended tonight; but perhaps it hadn't been utterly destroyed after all.
Xink remained where he was. Waiting. Waiting for her judgment, her pronouncement of sentence.
She gazed at him, and, yes, he was still beautiful, and, yes, her heart soared even as it desperately ached. Her mind whirled.
Evidently Cultat was in cahoots with Honnis—the war studies master using her, Praulth, to predict Weisel's movements ... and now Cultat using her to formulate the winning plan of battle.
It was overwhelming.
Praulth lifted a trembling hand toward Xink. A look of hope flowed over his face.
"Come to me," she said. "We must talk. We have ... so much to talk about."
RADSTAC (3)
SHE ROCKED UP and forward, standing on the stirrups, and took the arrow just above her right breast.
Do the thing that'll most confuse your enemies.
It had carried over a substantial distance. She'd seen the startled bird wing and squawk into the sky, far back in the brush—the creature's movement too sudden, its cry too alarmed. Whoever was back there was a terrifically skilled—or lucky—archer.
The arrow had lost some of its momentum. Still, it hit more than hard enough to punch her off the saddle. She went with the movement, rolling her body at the hips, reaching out and seizing Deo's heavy buckled belt as she tumbled toward the ground. He came off his saddle with a half-yelp of surprise. She managed not to pull his full weight down on top of herself.
The shaft had bit into her weathered leather armor, the flanged head lodged there. If it had gone past her, struck her employer, her charge ... well, she would have failed in this her first job as a bodyguard/escort. That wouldn't have sat well with her. Actually it was possible the arrow had been meant to go past their noses, a warning, but the archer was either off the mark or so talented he or she could cut it just that finely; either way, Radstac hadn't felt inclined to risk it.
Their horses fussed, but neither reared. They had landed between the beasts, just a few paces from the riverbank where they'd been heading. Water the horses, fill the waterskins. A brief rest. Deo talking, telling one of an apparently limitless store of anecdotes about the topsy-turvy travails of growing up as a noble in Petgrad. Then she'd seen the bird. Instinct sprang like a coiled trap.
He was scrambling for his feet. Radstac, still gripping his belt, kept him on the ground. She rolled, stayed low, getting her scabbard out from under her but not yet drawing the combat sword. Her head swiveled. She checked every bearing. They were on a northward road, a minor one. Brush on one side, thick; trees over there. There the river.
They weren't alone. More than just the archer. She saw the telltales—the bushes stirring in the breezeless midday, the small swirls of dust. There—and there. She heard, over the river's disinterested gurgle, the crackle of the brush. Closing from three different points. It was a good ambush.
She turned, still on her elbows, and had a throwing knife in her right hand. Deo had loosed his sword. He remained on the ground. Rugged face set—primed, not panicky. His eyes were picking out the more obvious signs of their waylayers.
"Stay," she said and, in a ball, rolled herself under the strong black-bodied horse she'd been allocated. She came out, up onto her feet, the sword flashing into her left hand—the hand that wore the weighted leather glove, its hooks still retracted.
The startled face looked up at her, a body prowling through the tall yellow grass on its belly. Her metal-toed boot struck the brow above the shock-wide left eye. Then she performed another pivot, hearing the arrow's whistle going through the air she no longer occupied. Not as good a shot. Different archer, this one.
Back to the horses. Deo up on one knee but holding there, sword in a two-fisted grip at the ready. She went past. Three figures were racing up the road, charging. They wore mismatched bits of armor. One carried a shield, also a cudgel. The other two, swords.