CHAPTER 4
There had been a small amount of strained small talk over tea, and it had been so halting that Necias wondered if the Brodaini had any small talk at all among themselves — there seemed so many taboo subjects among them. He had tried once, years ago, to speak to a Brodainu about trade — it was the usual conversation starter in Necias’ circles — but the Brodainu began staring at him as if he were mad, and Necias had silenced himself before the man had taken insult. He’d learned later that Brodaini did not participate in trade agreements directly — they had a whole class of dependents for just that purpose — although they approved or disapproved of those made by their people. It appeared they considered trade itself dishonorable.
Necias had never repeated the offense.
After the second cup of tea was finished, Necias rose to escort Tegestu to his companions. Tegestu rose, turned to give elaborate thanks to Brito for the tea and cakes — Brito was flattered by the attention, and gave flustered thanks in return — and then, Campas trailing, they returned to the audience hall.
“Cenors-efellsan,” Tegestu said as they walked, his eyes sliding over the room, watching the people bustling on their various errands, “if I may, I beg to mention something concerning security here. If there is to be a war with Tastis, we must realize the kind of war it is likely to be. Tastis will know he cannot fight all the cities of the Elva at once; he will try to break the Elva, or cause internal conflict in the cities.”
“Yes,” Necias said. “I realize that. With the message he sent you, he has already begun.”
Tegestu paused, then apparently decided not to dispute Necias’ analysis. “You must realize your personal danger, cenors-efellsan. There could be no provocation so great as the assassination of the Abessu-Denorru by a Brodainu. This place is too open. I would like to assign my whelkran y cathruni — my head bodyguard — to the task of guarding you, or at least to the task of conferring with your own guards. Your access should be very strictly controlled.”
Necias looked at Tegestu grimly. His palace was open to almost anyone: he had always moved freely among his people, without guards, without a large entourage, and he took pride in it. The guards around the palace were chiefly for display and to prevent theft, rather than for the prevention of assassination, which despite Necias’ personal history was not an Arrandalla trait. Tegestu wanted him closeted away, remote like a Brodaini ruler, untouchable — and he would be surrounded by Brodaini guards, guards who could take offense and attack at the smallest slight.
“If there is a problem with your confidences,” Tegestu said, seeing Necias’ hesitation, “I could assign guards who do not speak Abessas.”
“Later,” Necias said, brushing the matter aside.
Necias said farewell to the Brodainu and his escort, going through the parting bowings and kneelings with resigned patience. As he watched the Brodaini stalk from the room, the guards at the door shifting uncomfortably as they passed, Necias sucked at his false front teeth and slowly began to absorb the implications of Tegestu’s last remarks. This was not a war of city against city, or beggru against beggru; this was a war of all the Abessla against a Brodaini clan, and that was different.
He had fought wars with cities before, but the Brodaini on both sides had been directed by their native lords, and certain conventions had been in effect. Spying had been permitted; outright assassination had not. But assassination and this — what was the word? — aspistu, this imaginative revenge, were hallmarks of Brodaini wars. He would have to guard himself well if he were to war against Tastis, and that would, he realized with growing apprehension, probably involve accepting Brodaini protection. And that would make him even more vulnerable should Tegestu attempt a rising in Arrandal, as Tastis had in Neda.
With a sick feeling he remembered the attempted assassination twelve years before, by a deranged merchant who thought Necias had ruined him. His younger brother Castas had saved him then, intervening only to fall beneath the assassin’s dagger himself while Necias, paralyzed with horror, had watched helplessly — Castas had been commemorated by a day in his honor, when all the household and much of the city honored his memory with prayers... . Gods, Necias thought, don’t let it happen again.
“Cenors-efellsan,” said a voice at this elbow. “I have arranged the program for next week, the fête.”
Necias glanced sidelong at Ahastinas, his steward; when he answered his voice was brusque. “Yes? Is this necessary?”
“There are Fastias’ mimes, which he has generously lent us,” Ahastinas went on, blind to Necias’ annoyance. “And the spectacular conjuror Fiona —”
“Fiona! What kind of name is that?” Campas interrupted, his blue eyes shining with mischief.
Ahastinas paused for a moment, flustered. “I don’t know, cenors-stannan. It’s an outland name of some sort. But the conjuring tricks, ah, yes,” he smiled. “They are spectacular. The woman is truly astonishing.”
“A woman. It should be Fiono.”
Ahastinas shrugged, unaware that he was being baited. “An outland name, cenors-stannan: And then there are our musicians, and, ah — “
“The poet Caltias Campas,” said Campas, “will recite from his new Pastoral Cantos.”
“Of course,” Ahastinas said. “Beg pardon, Campas, but it escaped my memory.”
“Your memory,” Campas said, “is riddled, like wormwood, with the passages carved by escaping facts.”
Ahastinas glared at the poet, then decided to ignore him.
“Concerning the banquet, cenors-efellsan,” he began, “I think it should perhaps begin with —”
“I trust you,” said Necias, “entirely in these matters.”
“Thank you, cenors-efellsan.” This time the steward hadn’t missed the tone of dismissal. Muttering, he scurried away.
Necias, fingering his collar absently, turned to Campas. The poet was paging through his notes. Necias was blind to the merits of Campas’ verse; the klossila school, with its tedious insistence on the corruption of city life and the purity of pastoral existence, had never impressed him. If the pastoral life was so glorious and pure, why were the klossila never found seeking employment as shepherds? Yet Campas was brilliant, in his way: a good linguist, an intelligent scribe, an invaluable secretary — and Necias was willing to accept the judgment of others concerning the merits of his verse, and knew that to employ a young man of such evident talent would add to his own anildas.
“Do you wish a fair copy of my notes, cenors-efellsan?” Campas asked, looking up.
“Yes. Together with any observations that may occur to you. Do it now, while your memory is fresh; you may have the conference room if you like.”
Campas nodded, his thoughts abstracted. He plucked his pen from the inkwell at his waist and made a brief annotation.
“Campas,” Necias frowned, “you know the Brodaini. At least as well any of us know them.”
“I try,” said Campas. “I’ve lived in their quarter, studying their language, their arts. There is a certain virtue in their poetry — most of it is so straightforward that it lacks the subtlety I think verse should possess, but there’s a kind of formal, harsh truth to it, as there is to so much that is Brodaini.”
“You’ve lived among them,” Necias said. “You’ve said they’ve tolerated you. How do you think they tolerate us at all, Campas? Why haven’t the Brodaini revolted elsewhere as they’ve revolted in Neda-Calacas? Surely we offend them often enough, even without meaning to. You’ve seen it, the way Tegestu turned murderous the moment I mentioned Brodaini and disloyalty in the same breath. And the rest of them — this aspistu business, all this emphasis on killing and revenge. It seems insane, completely deranged.”