Tetrarch

'You – you can't do that, surr,' he choked.

'As marshal, I believe I can.' Nish held out his hand. It took an effort to stop it from shaking, for he was taking a monumental risk. If the soldier refused, Nish might as well go home, for he would never recover.

It was a contest of wills, one Nish had often fought with his father, who invariably won it. On the other hand, the trials of the past months had grown a few fibres in Nish's soul. He had faced opponents more formidable than this one. The man was just a soldier, used to obeying orders no matter how stupid they might seem. The advantage was on Nish's side.

Taking a step forward, Nish looked the man in the eye. This was a game he had learned from the scrutator, and one of the easiest paths to dominance, if you had the will for it. Nish screwed his down hard. Nothing is going to beat me. Nothing! As Troist has seized his chance, I will take mine. I've waited long enough for it.

He put that fire and fury into his eyes. The soldier held him for a minute, then his eyes slid away and Nish knew he had won. The man put out his hand. Nish took the badge and baton.

The former sergeant bowed his head. 'You have broken me, surr. When I go back I will be finished. No soldier will ever respect me again.'

Nish was about to point out that it was on Mounce's own head, until a sudden, rare feeling of empathy came over him. He had been just as low, more than once, and but for the generosity of the overseer one time, and Scrutator Flydd another, might now be a soldier in the front-lines. Or in the belly of a lyrinx.

'You will have the chance to earn back your baton on this journey. Whether you do so is, of course, up to you.'

The soldier did not grovel, for which Nish was grateful, but he did bow. 'Thank you, Marshal Cryl – Thank you, Nish.'

Nish bowed, the man turned away and they all went about their business. After dinner Nish sat up talking to Ranii, who now tried to conceal her hostility. She briefed him on the character, the manners, the protocols and the Histories of the Aachim.

'You must appreciate,' she concluded, 'that everything I have told you relates to the Aachim of Santhenar, who have dwelt here for four thousand years. A culture and a people can change immeasurably in that time, even one so self-contained as theirs. The Aachim of this world are, no doubt, more like us than these newcomers. You must be cautious; who knows what proprieties an innocent remark or gesture might infringe. And yet you must be bold, for they do not respect timidity. Above all else we must avoid the impression of weakness.'

'Which is the true impression.'

'Yes, and no. Militarily, we are weaker than we have been. The war has taken a toll. But we have endured it, and are tougher and more resilient because we have. And even if we are weak, we can act strong. We must, just as you faced down Mounce earlier. There are all kinds of strength, Marshal Hlar.'

'I'm just beginning to realise it.'

'The Aachim can be bluffed. The Histories tell us that. And they are at a disadvantage. Their constructs are more than the equal of our own machines, but they have no home base, no friendly lands to provide them with supplies, no safe place to send their wounded. They must carry everything with them and there are but one hundred and fifty thousand of them.'

'Rulke took Aachan from them with a hundred Charon, so the Great Tales say.'

'That was the boldest stroke of all time! But Santhenar is not Aachan and we old humans are not Aachim. We are lesser, yet greater, and we would never give up our world so easily. Besides, these Aachim do not know Santhenar, and that is the greatest disadvantage of all.'

'Though one readily remedied with advisers and scouts from their own kind in Stassor.'

'Stassor is a long way from here and accessible only on foot. Help could be months in coming. We must capitalise on their disadvantage so as to bring them to negotiate.'

'What is our objective?'

'To have them as allies against the lyrinx! Surely you realise that?' She stared at him as if he was an idiot.

Nish flushed. 'I asked Troist but he did not say.'

'It's so obvious I'm astounded you needed to ask.'

'Well, I did.'

'Whatever we do, we must avoid offending them, and from what I hear of Vithis, that will be difficult.' Nish considered his approach as he bounced on his black and blue backside across the hard soil of Rencid. It would be his greatest test. He was not sure he was up to it.

As they drew near the Aachim camp, a triplet of constructs whined out to meet them. Nish drew level with Mounce and passed him the baton and badge. 'I must have a sergeant while we are here; the toughest and most unflinching in the east. Are you up to pretending?'

'Surr!' Mounce touched his cap, spurred ahead and put up his pole. The blue truce flag cracked in the breeze of his passage. He pounded up to the clankers, wheeled around them in a circle, ignoring the spear-throwers trained on him, skidded to a stop and jammed the pole into the ground. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his horse up on its hind legs, danced all the way round the flag, then turned his back and trotted back to Nish.

Ranii was smiling. 'I think that sets the right tone. The Aachim are not put off by arrogance, since it is one of their defining characteristics.'

'What do we do now?' whispered Nish. 'Should I present my credentials?'

'To a group of soldiers? Of course not!'

'We must state our business, surely?'

'Let's see what they do first. Since they have not come down from their machines they may be an escort. We'll go forward, mounted, and see if they challenge us.'

Nish gestured to Mounce, who fell in beside Tchlrrr. The pair rode forward in perfect formation. Nish followed several lengths back, Ranii at his side. When Mounce's horse was a bare length from the leading construct, its hatch cracked open.

A tall dark woman cried, 'Who are you who ride so recklessly into the Aachim camp? Name yourselves!'

As Nish opened his mouth, Ranii hissed, 'Leave it to the sergeant, Marshal Hlar. Do not assume lackey's duties or they will think you are one.'

Mounce called out their names and business, whereupon the tall woman said, 'You are expected, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar. Go ahead. Keep your hands away from your weapons.'

They rode down the rank upon rank of constructs, and even Nish was hard put not to gape like a village yokel. In Tirthrax he had seen the machines only from a distance. Up close, they outclassed the clankers he had worked on as a prince's yacht surpasses a toy floating in the bathtub.

He forced himself to look impassive. Their marvels were no secret: the Aachim were the greatest engineers and designers in the Three Worlds. His horse was the best Troist had to offer, but it was not a construct.

They entered a heptagon of bare ground with the rows of constructs radiating away from it. At its centre was, clearly, the command tent. Mounce and the soldier moved to either side to allow Nish to pass through.

'Ride to within ten lengths of the tent, then dismount,' said Ranii in a low voice. 'This time try not to fall off. Bow and introduce yourself. I will come behind with your credentials.'

She fell back and Nish walked the horse forward. He felt incredibly conspicuous. A wall of Aachim surrounded the open space. He rode the distance, stopped and swung down. His knee wobbled as he struck the ground and for a horrified instant Nish thought that he was going to fall on his face. He steadied himself and waited.

The wait was a long one. As he was wondering why they did not come, the horse defecated noisily, splattering his left boot and lower leg. Nish tried to wipe it off with his other foot.

Three people emerged from the tent. The first was a very tall, haggard-looking fellow dressed in blue-black robes, his cheeks etched with creases and his mouth cast down in bitterness. He was followed by two others, a dark-skinned woman with black curling hair, handsome rather than beautiful, and another man whose close-cropped hair was iron-grey.