Now several spoke at once, in tones that ranged from questioning to open fury.
“No,” said Viyeki’s colleague Naji, and seemed surprised to discover he had spoken. “That is, surely it is a trick. They wish to take our beloved general from us. The people will not stand for it.”
“Ha! Let the people do what they please—I will go, yes!” said Suno’ku, and slammed her fist against the tabletop. “By the sacred walls of Tzo, I will go to the gates, then before the mortal chieftain speaks a word I will pull out his heart with my bare hand and show it to him. Let his liegemen kill me then. It will not matter. We will have given the only answer we can give!”
Competing voices rose louder and louder, until Zuniyabe reached out his hand in the gesture demanding immediate silence.
Even the Chief Celebrant cannot make us behave well, thought Viyeki in something like despair. With the queen gone and Akhenabi now sleeping too, we are a hair’s breadth from chaos. It would take only a mistake, a single hot word, to have the orders at swords-point with one another.
“You will not harm the mortal leader, Suno’ku,” said Zuniyabe, making a sign of displeasure. “At parley, it would be beneath us. We will hear their demands.” The High Celebrant turned to Muyare. “Marshal? Will you make certain your cousin-descendant understands?”
For long moments Muyare stared back at him, his handsome face unreadable. “I will vouch for the general’s understanding,” he said at last. “And, if need be, her willingness to do what the council decides.”
“Good. We want to know what the mortals think and plan. There must be no attack from us during the parley, unless they show treachery.” Zuniyabe now turned to Jikkyo the Singer. “I do not think even so illustrious a hero as General Suno’ku should go by herself, however. What do you think, Host Singer?”
Jikkyo also waited long moments before replying. “I agree. Some of the other orders should also be represented, that we may all feel comfortable we have heard the mortals’ demands correctly.”
“Do you doubt my honesty?” Suno’ku asked him. “Or my loyalty to our queen?”
“Neither, but I do admit to doubting your restraint, General.” Jikkyo folded his long hands, which—like his subordinate Nijika’s face—were covered with intricate black designs. “I think one of each of the orders who make up this war council should accompany General Suno’ku. Since there is to be no negotiating during this parley, Host Singer Nijika is capable of representing our order on my behalf.”
The masters of the other orders agreed and also chose subordinates to attend the parley, promising that nothing would be decided until the news of the Northman’s words had been brought back to Nakkiga.
Viyeki’s master Yaarike was the last to speak. “I agree that my order should be represented as well,” he said. “But I have an urge to see these mortal creatures face to face. Sadly, I was only able to show them my back as we returned from the South. I myself will go to the parley on behalf of the Order of Builders.”
This seemed to cause only a little surprise among the other orders—Yaarike was known for his unconventional ideas and general stubbornness—but it startled Viyeki, and the words were out of his mouth before he realized. “Master, you cannot go! Please forgive my forwardness, but short of only the leaders of the Sacrifices, you are crucial to the defense of the city. What if it is a trick by the mortals, as some fear? Bad enough we lose important leaders from the other orders, but at least their magisters remain behind. We cannot afford to risk you on such a dangerous task, my lord.”
Yaarike turned toward Viyeki, an uncharacteristic anger pulling at the magister’s lean face, but General Suno’ku spoke up from the far side of the table. “I think the Host Foreman is right. At best, the mortal vermin will honor their promise, and we will hear their terms for our surrender—a demand that the Order of Sacrifice will never accept. At worst, it is a trap, and the city will still need to protect itself and prepare to deal with the mortals should they breach the gate. Send your second-in-command, High Magister Yaarike.”
Viyeki’s master tried to argue, but it was clear that with Akhenabi still recovering, the possibility of losing the lord of the Builders as well, worried everyone present. Viyeki could sense the fear behind the array of careful faces. At last Yaarike appealed to Zuniyabe, but the High Celebrant only shook his head. “Your whims cannot win out this time, caste-brother. You have heard the will of the entire Council of War. Host-Singer Viyeki will go in your stead.”
There was still much to discuss, both about the parley and the larger matters of the siege and the city, and so the meeting went on and on until the evening bells finally began ringing in the Temple of the Martyrs.
From the moment Viyeki had gainsaid him before the council, Yaarike would not even look at him. Viyeki did his best to remain outwardly unmoved, but inside he was hollow. I have ended my career, it seems. But I did it because I knew it was right for our people. Still, he could not escape the idea that it might have been his own jealousy and hurt as much as fear for his master’s safety that had driven him to speak up.
He would have to tell his wife Khimabu that he was going out unarmed to face the enemy. Why did he fear that more than the blades of the Northmen?
I wonder if all of history was as muddled as this? Viyeki was filled with the weary hopelessness of one who had lived for a long time under siege. The chroniclers of future years, if there are any, will only be able to guess at what a mass of contradictions we were, who lived in such times. He had a moment of sour amusement. If the lives and deaths of such small creatures as myself ever reach their notice at all.
News had spread through Duke Isgrimnur’s army that there was to be a parley with the White Foxes. The troops were to withdraw back down the line of the valley before twilight came, but first the duke wanted to make sure no nests of Norn bowmen remained in undiscovered holes on the heights above the gate, and a task like that was work for the Mountain Goats. They had already labored long to find and seal all the Norns’ escape routes, but the immortals were as crafty and determined as they were hateful.
As the cold afternoon faded, Aerling Surefoot led Porto and four others on a patrol across the lower slopes. For the first hours of the gray day they found nothing but traces of earlier skirmishes, broken Norn arrows, and remnants of their own camps. The Norns never left the bodies of their fallen behind, so even places where the Mountain Goats had killed some of the mountain’s defenders only days before now seemed to have been deserted for years, and the brooding sky seemed to hang low over their heads.
“Make no mistake,” said Aerling as they rested on an outcrop and scanned the dark slopes above, “the whiteskins won’t give up. As well expect a nest of snakes to surrender. We’ll have to kill every cursed one of them.”
Porto had already had his fill of tunnel-fighting in the Norn passages which they had found and cleared during the weeks of siege. Even when the Mountain Goats outnumbered the pale things by a dozen to one, the silent, swift Norns were horribly difficult to kill. The idea of trying to clear an entire underground city made him feel sick at his stomach.
When they had all caught their breath Aerling led them farther up the mountain. They followed the faint tracks they had made in earlier forays, and if Porto did not quite have the confidence of some of the veterans, his long legs had become strong, and he could move uphill and leap from one perilous spot to another as well as any of his comrades. Thus it was that he was near the front of their small line, just behind Aerling, when he saw something flash in a thick copse of trees above and a little toward the southern side of the mountain. Porto tugged at the leg of Aerling’s breeks to get his attention. The Goats following behind took note and wordlessly crouched to wait.