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.
Nish bowed. ‘I am Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar; son of Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar of Einunar Province; Envoy to General Troist.’
‘You are not the first, Marshal Hlar,’ said the haggard fellow, ‘though you are certainly the littlest. What do you want?’
Nish was taken aback by the affront. Having been told that the Aachim were a formal species, much taken up with ritual and protocol, he had expected the formalities to take hours. Moreover, he was paralysed by the thought that he was about to make a major blunder. He could not think of the right words to say, or how to say them.
He opened his mouth and closed it again, but before he could make a complete fool of himself the woman with the curly black hair moved out from behind Vithis. She wore a scarlet blouse, black pantaloons and long black boots.
‘Good day to you, Marshal Hlar,’ she said. ‘I am Tirior of Clan Nataz. Beside me stands Luxor of Clan Izmak. We are both of the Eleven Clans. Our leader, for the moment, is Vithis of Clan Inthis. We bid you welcome.’
‘Clan Inthis, First Clan!’ Vithis snapped.
There came a rebellious mutter from behind him. Others introduced themselves by their clan and given names, all being members of the Eleven Clans. At the end, a red-haired couple came forward. They were smaller of stature and paler of skin.
‘I am Zea,’ said the woman. ‘My partner is Yrael. We represent Clan Elienor and seek news of our Aachim brethren on Santhenar.’
‘Clan Elienor!’ sneered Vithis. ‘Least Clan, Last Clan. Not of the Eleven Clans nor ever will be.’ He stepped in front of them, dismissively.
Zea moved to one side. ‘We are one with the Aachim kind,’ she said gently. ‘All Aachim, not just the Eleven Clans, whose rivalry has ever held us back.’
Nish could see that rivalry in the body language of the leaders. Was that an advantage or a disadvantage? ‘Thank you, Tirior of Clan Nataz,’ he said faintly, perspiring in his uniform. ‘Good day to you, Vithis of Clan Inthis and Luxor of Clan Izmak.’ He bowed again. ‘Thank –’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ranii said out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Come into the shade,’ said Luxor. ‘Will you take a glass of wine with us?’
Nish was prepared for this. Aachim wine was notoriously strong and he’d not had a drink in months. He might have begged for water on the grounds of a religious prohibition, which they must respect, but he’d made such a shaky start that Nish did not dare.
‘I would be glad to,’ he said.
Vithis grimaced, but stood back so that Nish and Ranii could follow Luxor and Tirior into the annexe of the tent. It was an enormous affair with five apexes held up by engraved poles and taut wires.
Tirior showed Nish to a chair and drew others up opposite. He tried to hide his stained boot and trousers, but was uncomfortably aware of the smell of manure. Refreshments were brought. Nish held his glass up to the light, as he knew the custom to be, and praised the colour for being as green as seawater. Vithis sneered. Evidently the comparison was infelicitous. They waited for him to take the first sip.
He did so. The wine was superb. Nish said so. Vithis smiled thinly.
Tirior chuckled. ‘It is from my own estate, held by many to be the finest on all Aachan.’
‘It may have been once,’ grated Vithis, ‘though Inthis would dispute that. But the vineyards of Izmak lie under a span and a half of ash and will never sprout again.’
‘Alas, true. And so we have come to Santhenar,’ said Tirior, ‘to make a new life, we few to have survived the calamity. I brought cuttings of the best vines and will plant them with my own hands.’
‘Where do you propose to do that?’ Nish asked.
‘Ah,’ said Luxor. ‘Wherever we are made welcome. Have you come to talk about that, Marshal Hlar.’
‘I have,’ said Nish, ‘or at least to open a dialogue. Those with the power to negotiate concessions will follow.’
‘Bah!’ said Vithis. ‘This little fellow isn’t even the watchdog, much less the master. He’s just a puppy and all he can do is piss on First Clan boots, as his horse craps on his. Go home, Marshal Hlar. If you are a marshal.’
‘I am duly appointed to negotiate with you,’ said Nish, signing for Ranii to pass forward his credentials. ‘These are my papers.’
Vithis gave them a perfunctory glance, then tossed them on the floor. ‘Any forger could have done better in a night and a day.’
Nish reached for them but Ranii shook her head. What was he supposed to do now? Pretend it had been an accident? ‘My papers,’ he said with an apologetic glance at Tirior. ‘Would you –’
Picking them up, she handed them to Ranii, inclining her head minutely. Vithis turned his back, which Nish knew to be an even greater insult. He struggled to maintain his temper, though he must at all costs. Surely even Vithis would not attack them under the blue truce flag. Maybe this was a test. Vithis must be baiting him, to test his mettle.
‘Let me be honest with you,’ he said, looking to each of the three in turn.