Fiona knew that story: the spikes had picked it up in many places, so many that the computers had flagged it as important. Hamila was ordered to hold a particular stronghold with a small band; when the enemy army came Hamila’s superior ordered him to withdraw, but through a bungle the order never reached Redtooth Keep: there was a gallant and ingenious defense, though in the end the defenders died. And Hamila’s side, through various other blunders, lost the war.
“I know that one,” Fiona said.
“Good: then you know it’s used to teach the value of obedience,” Campas said. “But there are loftier morals to draw from it, if the storyteller is clever enough. It depends on what he wishes to emphasize. There is one long poem — there was a furor over it when it appeared, but since the author was a proven warrior it was eventually accepted — it treats Hamila quite differently. As an example of waste: brave man lost through oversight, his gallantry made pointless since his sacrifice meant nothing in the long run. The moral drawn was the value of initiative: the poet clearly thought that Hamila was a fool for staying, though he didn’t quite dare to say so — but it’s clear he thought Hamila should have retreated and rejoined the main army, where his skills might have been put to better use.”
Campas fell silent for a moment, trying to knit his thoughts together. “Nartil, demmin, tolhostu... they’re not as rigid as they seem,” he concluded. “The Brodaini treat them as if they were inflexible, but it’s not so. They’re subject to interpretation, they have different shades of meaning.”
Fiona nodded. Any code transmitted orally would prove subject to change, she thought. Human nature being what it is, any ambiguity or shade of interpretation would be exploited. But, she wondered, how was it done?
“So nartil, for example, can be used to justify an act that, on the surface, disregards the obligations of nartil?” she asked.
“Or demmin can be invoked to justify violation of nartil, or any number of other combinations,” Campas said. “That’s what Tastis has done — he overthrew the Nadielas coalition and claimed they’d violated a code they couldn’t possibly have understood.”
That pragmatic streak, again. Tastis, once he’d decided to take Neda-Calacas, had chosen the most covert and deceptive way to go about it — his moves had been absolutely practical; but he’d found cultural justifications for everything he’d done.
“How do you think Tastis’ mind worked?” Fiona asked. “Was he simply waiting for an excuse to take the city, and then found the justifications for his actions afterward; or do you think he was responding to circumstance?’’
Campas shrugged. “Who can say? I’m not a member of his aldran.”
“Your opinion, then,” Fiona insisted.
Campas picked up a dried pear and began tearing at it absently, popping the bits into his mouth as he thought. When he spoke he was staring off into the valley below, abstracted. “I would say Tastis is not a simple man,” he began. “I don’t think his actions are that simple — I don’t think any Brodainu is as simple as he pretends to be. There’s a mingling of traditions, of codes, of practical necessities, of motivations. His laws and his motives were mixed, shall we say, as they are with us all; and it would require a god to sort them out.” He turned to her with a dismissive half-smile. “I’m sorry, Ambassador. You keep asking me about things I haven’t thought about. It’s difficult for me to be wise on the spur of the moment.”
She reached out to touch his elbow, reassuring. “Thank you, Campas,” she said. “You’ve been helpful, truly.”
He looked up at her cynically. “But you have some more questions,” he said.
She drew back her arm and grinned. “Yes. I do.”
Campas tilted his head back as he drained his beer, then absently tossed the empty bottle downslope. She frowned at the waste — her reflexes, born of a planet with scarcer resources, were hard to overcome. She tried to put it out of her mind.
“Go ahead,” Campas said. “I’ll try to summon up what wisdom I can.”
“We spoke once before, you remember, about the Brodaini. And you mentioned all of the elaborate methods that Tegestu had devised to keep your people separate from his.”
“Yes. I remember that conversation.” He smiled ruefully. “Even the parts I wish I could forget.”
Fiona smiled. “I’d like some idea,” she said, “of what happens when these two people do meet. They must have developed some ways of working together, of getting along — otherwise Neda-Calacas would have happened everywhere.”
Campas shrugged. “There are ways of getting along with foreigners,” he said. “It requires some extra effort. Extra courtesy, and extra tolerance.”
“You can make yourself understood by the Brodaini?” she asked.
“Most of the time,” he said. “But, you see, nothing I say or think truly matters to them — I’m not Brodaini, so my opinions don’t count.” He shrugged. “I got along better with the Classani, as you did. We understood each other better. They’re warmer, more open... friendlier, if you like.” He frowned, his fingers absently dismembering the pear. “But there’s a furtive quality to them I don’t care for. They’re too used to moving about quietly, skulking behind stairs, as if they don’t want the Brodaini to notice them — they’re too submissive.”
They were silent for a moment. Both, Fiona thought, had an idea of what being noticed by a Brodaini might consist of.
“Has that attitude changed, do you think?” Fiona asked. “If they don’t like their masters, they can run away — if they ran away back home, they’d still be Classani, but here there’s a whole new continent, with more opportunities.”
“Some do run, of course,” Campas said. “But not many. Most of the Brodaini and their folk haven’t bothered to learn Abessas, for one thing, except maybe for a few words here and there. So if they do run they find things hard, and strange. And for the most part the Classani are well off; they live in the same conditions as the Brodaini, eat the same food — and they aren’t required to do a lot of military service.” He ate a piece of pear, then went on. “And of course their family will have stayed behind, and these Brodaini set great store by their families. All four classes of society in a kamliss, you see, are all supposed to be one family, even if few of the lower classes are actually related to the Brodaini. Life outside would be lonely, as well as hard. It’s not the Classani who run, it’s the Hostli.
“They’re the lowest class, the merchants, small traders, storekeepers. The most despised.” He smiled. “They have the most contact with our people, acquiring supplies and the like, doing business for their kamlissi; so they’ve learned the language quickly. They see how much easier it would be for them outside, and many have come across.”
“Has the status of the remainder improved as they’ve become rarer, more valuable?”
“Indeed yes,” Campas said. “No more insults, no more shouldering Hostli aside on the street. The Classani feel threatened by the change.” He gave her a sly look. “You’ve been talking to the Classani about this, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” She finished her beer and returned the empty bottle to the pack. “They’re proud of their status, next to the Brodaini. Sometimes I have the feeling that they’re more tradition-bound than the Brodaini themselves.”