'It is the woman Rakespear,' Amnon announced, and Totho felt a wash of relief. He had only a vague idea of who Amnon meant, but it was not Che and that was all that mattered.
'In Collegium, one normally speaks to her father or her guardian' — and that worked well for me, didn't it? — 'but there is no reason not to speak with her direct, or to offer her gifts. I think you'll find that Collegiate women are probably quite forward compared to what you're used to.'
'Good,' said Amnon, and he was about to say something more when Corcoran came in, not with the armour but escorting another guest. Amnon straightened to attention immediately, and Totho recognized the robed figure of the First Minister standing there with his quiet smile.
'My lord,' Totho bowed to him quickly, 'we had not expected you, but you are welcome, of course.'
'Of course,' Ethmet replied, glancing from Totho to Amnon. 'I had heard our First Soldier was to receive some gift today. It is very kind of you, Honoured Foreigner, and I would see it presented, if I may.'
'We would be happy,' said Totho, aware of a feeling of discomfort from Amnon. Is he breaking some rule of theirs? But Corcoran had done his groundwork, surely, and presenting gifts to high officials was every bit a part of Khanaphir life. Ethmet's face offered no clues.
They brought the armour out just then, four of his men manhandling the table on which it was laid. The mere empty shell of it, cast to Amnon's proportions, made Totho feel dwarfed.
'This is forged in what we call aviation steel, that the Solarnese developed for their flying machines,' he explained, as the Iron Glove men buckled the arming jacket on Amnon and then began to piece the armour onto him. 'It's very light, and still very strong, but they had never thought of using the material for armour until we came along.' The mail undershirt was already on, and Totho relished Amnon's surprise at how light it was. 'The mail rings are drawn from silver-steel wire, and they'll bunch on impact to block an arrow or a sword.' Totho walked around, observing as his people attached the metal plates, watching Amnon slowly disappear, becoming something huge and metallic. It was a glorious transformation, in Totho's eyes. 'The plates themselves are machined into flutes, which makes them as strong as much thicker metal, and which also helps deflect an enemy's weapon. Every surface a blade might impact on is curved or, where those curves meet, is an angled line. That means that you have the absolute maximum of protection against attacks from any angle. With the mail, and the jack beneath, the only weak points are the groin and armpit, although there is fine mail even there.' When the helm was lowered onto Amnon's head, they had to stand on the table to do it.
For a long moment there was silence. Totho watched Amnon making small movements, feeling the way the metal slid over metal. He looked like some creation of artifice, some colossal war-automaton. They had stripped from him all human frailties.
Then, 'No,' said Ethmet softly.
Amnon's helm turned quickly to face him.
'First Minister?' Totho asked, uncertainly.
'We cannot accept this gift,' the old Khanaphir declared. There was some expression, at last, on his face. He was shaken by what he had seen. 'We had thought it was mere armour. This is not armour as we understand it.'
Amnon wrenched off the helm, looking aggrieved. 'But, First Minister, I like this armour. It is lighter than my battlemail. I have never worn anything like it.'
'No,' Ethmet said again, 'we regret that Khanaphes cannot accept this.'
'But, First Minister …!' Amnon began again, till Ethmet turned on him sharply, his glance alone quelling any argument.
'The Masters would not approve,' he proclaimed, and Amnon's face sagged. The Minister's expression was still stern as he turned to Totho again. 'Trade us your arrows and your swords, your shields and such things as we approve of, but you are henceforth warned, O Foreigner. There are limits, in this city, to what may be done, and the Masters' will may not be crossed.'
'I don't understand,' protested Totho.
'I think you do.' The man facing him now was a stranger, stripped of all the mild patience of the First Minister. There was no compromise at all in that face and Totho saw that Amnon was visibly frightened. He could snap the old man in half with one hand, but things didn't work that way, it would seem. What does this remind me of, that I have seen before? Mantis and Moth, that is what it reminds me of. The strong whipped into submission by the weak.
As they stripped the armour from Amnon, his expression remained resentful but cowed. Whatever power Ethmet held over him, it was something that the First Soldier would not provoke at any cost. Who exactly are these Masters of Khanaphir? Totho wondered. A fiction, Corcoran had assumed — some invention of the Ministers, to ensure their continuing power. Totho himself had not been sure, until now. Nothing but such a deception could allow this old man to get away with it.
'I had thought that the Honoured Foreigner might come on my hunt,' Amnon muttered, almost too quiet to be heard.
'It is not appropriate,' Ethmet replied, as though Totho was not there. 'Your hunt is for dignitaries, not for merchants.'
The two of them departed after that, the old man shepherding the huge warrior out of the Iron Glove factora, leaving Totho quizzing Corcoran futilely in an attempt to understand what it had all been about.
Twenty-One
The boat cut through the water at a surprising pace, its shallow draught moving cleanly and with almost no wake. Che huddled inside her cloak and felt miserable.
'I don't see why I have to join this circus,' she complained. Her last few days had been hectic — the Fir was still giving her occasional stabs of queasiness and she had not come to terms with meeting Totho either — so the last thing she wanted was to be dragged from her bed to go on some hunting expedition.
'It's in your honour,' Manny explained airily. 'Or perhaps our honour.'
'Berjek didn't have to come along.'
'Master Gripshod isn't the ambassador.'
Che shook herself irritably. The locals had come to fetch them two hours before dawn, which had been a surprise to everyone except Mannerly Gorget. Manny himself had been downstairs and ready, drinking hot spiked tea, having neglected to tell anyone else of the arrangements he had made. It had meant a bungled rush for Che and Praeda to get dressed, and then be bustled down to the docks. They had reached the river to see the first bare streaks of dawn kindling in the eastern sky.
The boat that awaited them there was not what Che had expected. For a start it had no mast, and it seemed very small. It was a long, slender craft that rocked alarmingly when Manny transferred his bulk on to it, little more than an oversized canoe. At both prow and stern the curving shape tapered and rose into a stumpy carving of something that Che could not identify.
There were two boat crew, standing fore and aft, and although they must already have been waiting an hour they did not show it. Che, cowled and half-asleep, did not get a proper look at them until they had cast off and were under way, each standing upright to paddle with great strong strokes, alternating left and right. Then, belatedly, she realized that they were not Khanaphir. They were slender, with silver-grey skins, and though they had shaved heads and simple tunics like Khanaphir servants, Che recognized their angular features instantly.
'Mantis-kinden?' she exclaimed, blinking herself wider awake.
'They call them the Marsh People,' Praeda informed her. 'They seem to be attached somehow to the city, under its control, though the relationship between them and our hosts seems complex. We're going out into the delta now, you see. It's their place.' She spoke distractedly, something else clearly on her mind.