He’d give the orders tomorrow, to modify a small boat. What harm would it do?
“And there’s nothing you ask in return for this piece of information?” Necias asked. “Nothing at all?”
There was a slight hesitation before Fiona’s reply. “We intend that this knowledge be considered part of my credentials, proof that I am who I say I am. We ask nothing of you in return: only that the suggestion be distributed to Arrandal as a whole,” she said, returning the pen and pad to Campas, “so that anyone who wishes can make use of it. Igara is not interested in giving information solely for the benefit of a few.”
Necias nodded, frowning, wondering how slow distribution could be and still be considered distribution. If he couldn’t be the sole beneficiary of this new system — assuming of course that it worked — he could certainly take a great deal of the credit to himself, by arranging to give it to the city. Likewise with any other bits of wisdom to come from the conjuror.
The time of Acragas Necias, he thought, the time when people came from the stars, and the world leaped forward. His name would never be forgotten... .
And then he shook the dream from his head. Not proven, he thought, nothing proven. He looked at his hand, seeing the fingers drumming on the settee arm again, and stopped himself, annoyed. There was something that didn’t fit, here.
“You want to give us knowledge,” he said. “And give it for free. Why?”
“It will help us to communicate with you,” Fiona said, “if we share a common knowledge with your people. But understand this, please: we won’t be making suggestions like this very often. This particular suggestion was just to help me prove my identity, that I am who I say I am.”
“Why not simply hand out all the information you possess?” Necias demanded. “It doesn’t make any sense that you’re so particular.”
Fiona nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, Abessu-Denorru, but it’s a necessary stipulation,” she said. “There are reasons for it — perhaps at another time I’ll be free to tell you. But now is not the appropriate time.”
Necias felt a nagging dissatisfaction. There was something wrong in what he was hearing, something beside Fiona’s refusal to explain the logic behind her stipulation, but he couldn’t find it. He gulped at his beer to buy a little time while he thought, his eyes scanning over those in the room, Campas with his little frown, Brito with her hard, intelligent eyes, Luco with her mouth open in an expression of reverent awe... the girl was staring at Fiona as if the goddess Lipanto had materialized in the room complete with dogs and horn. He scowled into his beer and then put the mug down.
“Credentials,” Necias said. “You said you could provide them.”
“I can send for them, if you think they’d help,” she said. “You realize why I wasn’t carrying any — you couldn’t tell them from forgeries. But, as I said earlier, if you will allow me access to the roof, or a small courtyard, I can produce them.”
“From your trunk?” Necias asked cynically; and to his astonishment he was suddenly aware of a glare from Luco — Luco, of all people! — who was glowering at him as if he had just committed gross blasphemy. He stared back at her, challenging, and she colored and dropped her eyes.
Fiona looked at her trunk on the floor, undisturbed by Necias’ sarcasm, then glanced up at Necias. “I think you’ll be satisfied as to the documents’ origin,” she said. “Can you give me a place?”
“The checkered terrace,” Necias said. “It’s private — just outside my own apartments.” He rose from the settee, his knees cracking; it felt good to be able to move again, to work off the nervous agitation that was gnawing at him.
“Follow me,” he said, and then gestured to the two Brodaini guards. “Take her trunk,” he said.
He could hear the sound of music and conversation from the fete as he stepped into the corridor. He turned left, away from it, and moved swiftly through the lantern-lit corridors until he came to his own apartments.
Here was a broad room where he entertained private guests, with an efficient peat-burning ceramic stove on one end and a vast, much less efficient fireplace that burned rare and precious wood — a display of anildas common among the deissin — on the other. The settees were plush and comfortable; tapestries, the products of Arrandalla looms, hung rustling on the walls, depicting important moments in the history of Arrandal, including the victories over Neda-Calacas and Cartenas and the formation of the Elva, all of which featured Necias prominently; imported rugs lay on the floor three-deep, Necias’ feet sinking to the ankle as he walked; there were desks and stools for clerks in case contracts had to be recorded; and there was a bronze-faced door that led to the partillo. Necias walked swiftly through the room, wishing he’d thought to bring his tray with him, then unlocked a small door and pushed out of the door into the cool night.
The checkered terrace was small, fifteen paces square, and flagged with black and white slate diamonds. Gargoyles decorated the sandstone railing that surrounded the terrace on two sides; below, to the right, the canal glittered coldly in starlight. Necias turned, puffing with the exertion of his swift pace, and saw Fiona, stepping swiftly to keep up, walk out onto the terrace, her red gown swirling about her ankles. Luco was on her heels, almost stumbling in her eagerness, with Campas, a bit indignant about this haste, following after, his pad jammed under his arm, his inkpot and pen balanced in his hands. Then the two impassive Brodaini, carrying Fiona’s small trunk between them — and then last of all came Brito, carrying Necias’ tray, and, Necias smiled and took it from her, kissing her cheek. Brito gave him a careful look.
“That conjuror is mad, Necias,” she said, lowering her voice so Fiona couldn’t hear. “A good witch, but mad. Mind she doesn’t bewitch you.”
Necias shook his head. “That’s not what she’s after,” he said.
“What is she after, then?”
Necias looked carefully at the small woman standing alone in the center of the square. “I don’t know. Yet,” he said.
“Put it down over there,” Fiona said, gesturing toward one of the far corners, and the Brodaini obeyed, then retired to the door. Fiona turned to the others.
“This will take a while,” she informed them. “Perhaps you’d be advised to get a cloak or shawl while you wait — it’s cool out here.”
Necias began clearing his tray of food as he watched Fiona kneel by the trunk for the space of three minutes or so; then she closed the lid, rose, and faced them. “Now we wait,” she said. “I think it would be wise if we all left the center area clear.” She looked up, her eyes searching the sky. “I don’t think we’ll see anything,” she added. “There’s too much cloud tonight.”
Too much cloud for her mallanto to find our city, Necias thought wryly. That will be her excuse when nothing happens.
Fiona walked to stand beside one of the gargoyles. She was straight as an arrow, a lone figure in her gown that seemed, in this light, the color of blood. Her eyes turned skyward every few seconds. No one spoke; only the sounds of the canal below, those and an occasional distant snatch of music carried to them by a gust of wind, broke the silence. Necias cleared his plate and began to pace, seeking an outlet for the restless energy he felt coiled inside him; he kept to the periphery of the terrace, though he knew not why.
Then Fiona cast her eyes upward suddenly, as if she’d heard something above; and Necias looked up himself, and then realized everyone was doing it. They had all heard it, whatever it was: some kind of whisper in the night, a sound somehow unnatural, that should not be there. Necias looked upward, feeling the strain in his neck, his eyes moving across the skyscape, the long, high chains of clouds crossing the stars, their undersides reflecting the silver moonrise. There! Was that a shadow crossing the clouds? No — it had gone, there was no way of telling.