All of which meant they would have to be careful.
By the time nightfall came and the lights of the Capital City crested the horizon, he was fast asleep. It was Avelene who woke him, shaking him gently and whispering, “Sorry I was so hard on you,” as he pulled himself to his feet.
Although afterward, when he thought back on it, he wasn’t at all sure that was what she had said.
He slept poorly that night, in part perhaps because he had slept earlier while still aboard ship, but in part, too, because he was anticipating the events of the coming day. He went to sleep thinking of them and woke without any resolution. He was troubled by the role Avelene had assigned him–as instigator or investigator where comments merited intrusion. He had no idea how he would manage this or what he would say. He imagined it was not possible to know until the moment was at hand. He could anticipate, but probably not by more than a sentence or two. It was like lying in ambush without knowing who might be coming.
After washing and dressing, he met Avelene for breakfast in a dining hall that served members of the Coalition Council and their staff as well as visitors housed in the complex that comprised the Federation government offices. He saw a few faces he thought he recognized, but no one spoke to him. He was dressed in loose–fitting hunter’s clothes overlaid by his well–worn black cloak, which bore the emblem of the Druid Order. Avelene wore similar clothing, although her cloak was the more distinct and recognizable garb that marked her clearly as a Druid. They ate alone and with little conversation, absorbed in thoughts of the meeting ahead, focused on thinking through what they imagined the Prime Minister might have to say to them and how they might respond.
When breakfast was finished, they walked from the dining hall to a tiny garden off to one side and sat on a bench while waiting for the appointed time for their meeting to arrive.
“Have you met him?” Paxon asked finally.
Avelene shook her head. “Everyone says he is a good man.”
“Aphenglow Elessedil thought so. She had a high opinion of him. She said he could be trusted.”
“Be careful anyway.” She caught his eye. “We are babes in the woods in this business. Don’t forget it. Tread lightly.”
When the time for their appointment arrived, they rose from the bench, walked over to the building that housed the offices of the Prime Minister, and climbed the stairs three flights to where his staff greeted them. With no waiting at all, they were ushered into his empty offices and seated in chairs in front of a massive wooden desk polished to such a high sheen that the glare of the diffuse daylight off its surface caused them to squint.
There they sat, waiting. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. Paxon felt his nerves grow taut and his expectations heighten. He had removed the Sword of Leah from where it had been strapped across his back and had laid it on the floor next to his chair. He felt oddly naked without it, and wondered how fast he could reach it and draw it free of its sheath if the need should arise. It was foolish thinking, given where he was, but it was the kind of thinking he had grown used to as a protector of the Druid Order.
When the Prime Minister finally arrived, he was smiling broadly and anxious to reassure them that his tardiness was the result of another meeting and in no way intended to suggest this meeting was any less important.
“No one wants to feel as if they are being dismissed prematurely,” he added, reaching down to shake their hands warmly. “So I had to exercise some caution in ending the previous meeting. How are you? Did you sleep well? Were your quarters comfortable?”
He was a slight man, taller than average and rather spindly in appearance. He was probably in his late sixties or early seventies, and there was a somewhat worn look to his expressive face. His grip was strong, though, and he seemed to have abundant energy in spite of his age and the toll his position as leader of the Federation might have taken on him. Glancing at the glare off his desk, he asked them to sit with him off to one side where there was a small grouping of couches and easy chairs, all padded and pillowed and comfortably drawn in for private conversation.
Before joining them, he stuck his head back out the door and asked that tea and ale be brought. While waiting for that, he kept the conversation limited to small talk–how were things in Paranor, was Isaturin settling in as Ard Rhys, was the order continuing to add new members to its roster? — all of it accomplished with a smoothness and openness that attested to a lifetime spent mastering the fine art of engaging in easy communication with others.
When the beverages arrived, he asked the bearer to advise the staff not to disturb him until he was finished with his visitors.
“Now then,” he began, as the other departed, pulling the door closed tightly behind him, “where to begin.”
He rocked back slightly, considering. “I am faced with a difficult and potentially embarrassing situation. It all revolves around Arcannen Rai, but he is not the instigator of the problem. You may have already heard some of what has happened. Almost two years ago, a band of airship pirates operating out of a coastal village called Arbrox began raiding Southland freighters and transports. The thefts were annoying at first, but grew steadily more troublesome until they became intolerable. So to try to discourage further raids, I asked the Federation Army High Command to put an end to it one way or the other. Unfortunately, the command assigned the job to the Red Slash division out of Sterne, which pretty much determined how things would go. The commander of the Red Slash, a man named Dallen Usurient, has little patience and less tact. He quickly decided a scorched–earth approach was warranted. He conveyed his soldiers to Arbrox, attacked the village, and killed everyone–men, women, and children. He did this without anyone’s authorization and without any measurable consideration for the consequences. Then he tried to cover it up, insisting that only men–the pirates in question–had been killed. I found out soon enough that this was not the case. But I let the matter slide because the disciplining of soldiers in these situations is a tricky matter. How clear were their orders? How much leeway did they have? If Usurient overstepped himself, should punishment be visited on his men? What sort of resistance do I encounter if I intervene and ask that he be removed as Red Slash Commander and another be appointed to fill his shoes?”
He sipped his tea. “All questions I could only answer as Prime Minister and not as philosopher to my conscience. In any case, a new wrinkle developed shortly afterward. Unfortunately for the Federation, the pirates were sheltering Arcannen at the time of the attack, and although the Red Slash were quite thorough in killing everyone else in sight, they somehow missed him. Arcannen took the attack personally and decided to avenge the deaths of his protectors. He sent word to Usurient that–and I quote–‘Arbrox is coming.’ ”
“Odd that he used the name of the village and not his own,” Avelene noted.
“Arcannen is nothing if not enigmatic. When I learned of this–something not reported to me by Usurient, but by another who values loyalty over self–interest–I waited to see what my commander would do. What I expected was that he would not wait for Arcannen to come to him but would go after Arcannen first–most likely taking a large contingent of the Red Slash with him. He has authority to do that, although only in situations in which he views Federation interests to be in immediate and substantial peril. But Usurient has his own measuring stick for these things. Do you like the tea?”