'Amnon,' he said.
'Speak, at last,' the big man turned to him. 'I have sensed your words unsaid all this time.'
'You have heard the reports of my people,' Totho said.
'The Ministers have heard them,' Amnon replied vaguely.
'I don't care about the Ministers,' Totho snapped, grabbing for the man's attention. 'You yourself have heard. You, the First Soldier of Khanaphes. The man who will lead.'
Amnon regarded him silently.
'You are now going to go and have the same fight you always have with the Scorpions,' Totho continued. 'Or that is what you think. That is what the Ministers have told you. You are going to go and put your shields up, and expect them to charge, and charge again. You see, I've done my research. I'm not just an ignorant foreigner. That's how it's done, yes? The wild Scorpion-kinden descend on you with axes and beasts, and you shoot them with arrows and brace your shields, and eventually they run out of manpower or will-power, and then they go away. They're just the mad desert savages, while you're the solid soldiers of Khanaphes. That's what you're all thinking?'
Still Amnon said nothing. His expression discouraged further pressing, but Totho looked up into his dark gaze without a flinch.
'You haven't understood a word that any of us have said. My people have spent time with the Many, long enough to see that the wind's changed. The Empire has been busy sharpening the sword, and the Scorpions, at least, aren't so attached to their cursed past that they're too proud to change. They have crossbowmen now, Amnon. Hundreds of crossbowmen. At medium range, a heavy crossbow bolt will go through a wooden shield without slowing much, and those Scorpions have the muscle to recock a heavy crossbow without breaking sweat. And you know what I see out there? Half your militia are carrying shields of shell or wicker.'
'I listened to you,' Amnon said, turning back to view the assembling army. 'I heard.'
'Then what?' Totho demanded. Why am I even getting involved? It was not just that he liked Amnon, although he found that was true, but this situation was an offence to his profession, and a criminal waste of raw material.
'The Masters have spoken,' Amnon said patiently. 'We will meet the Scorpions and defeat them, as we have always done. What can I say against that?'
'But-'
'No!' Amnon clenched his fists, knuckles swollen by his Art until his hands were like maces. 'Do not think I did not listen, when you spoke. Do not think I have not heard all this before, from one dearer to me than you are. She told me… She said such things… But she did not understand. I am commanded. The will of the Masters has been made clear to me, Totho. Therefore we will fight them as we have always fought them.' His breathing sounded ragged with repressed emotion. 'I have given some orders, that go beyond my own. I have ordered… a rearguard, if need be. In case we need to find our walls in haste. That is all. Even in that, I betray the Masters with my lack of faith.'
But there are no Masters! But Totho knew that to say this would be to go too far.
'I must go find my own mount, and then join my soldiers,' Amnon said. 'May we meet again.'
Totho clasped hands with him. 'Technically all my people and I have been banished from the city. It's just that so far they've not had the spare hands to make us go. I will try to stay for your return, at least. So, yes, may we meet again.' Totho tried to smile, but he saw doom reflected in Amnon's solemn nod. Amnon's tread was heavy as he descended to the stables. Totho's words were like a weight on him – and not the only weight.
Amnon was not a stupid man, by any means, for the First Soldier's role could not sustain a fool in office. He oversaw the city watch and the militia's training, received reports from every settlement along the Jamail river, liaised with the Marsh people. It was more than just shiny armour and parades.
He believed Totho's story. It was not simply the Many of Nem on their way, who the Khanaphir had repulsed a hundred times before. The Empire, too, was coming by proxy. The Empire was coming in the shape of the new weapons they had gifted to the Scorpion-kinden. And why does this Empire hate us so? The answer was clear and uncomfortable. They barely know we exist. They woo the Scorpions with gifts, and bid them make use of them. It is simply because we are here, waiting for their attentions.
But Totho did not know the might and the will of the army of Khanaphes. The halfbreed's own people were strange, aloof and passionless. They spoke too much and too loud, these foreigners. They strutted and bragged, and had many marvellous inventions, but they lacked true spirit. This was what the Masters had preserved their city from, this shallowing of the soul.
His mind tugged itself towards that marvellous suit of armour, strong as stone, light as leather, that Totho's people had made for him. It had been forbidden him. The Ministers had spoken and, through them, the Masters.
In the stables, amidst the muted smell of the insects, he instructed grooms, 'Saddle up Penthet. I will ride him into battle.' To command his army truly, he would need to be mobile when the battle came. He flexed his broad shoulders, hearing the slight scrape of metal scales. The Many of Nem had not raided so near the city for eight years now, and never had they come in such numbers. That alone lent Totho's warnings more truth than Amnon needed to hear.
Why is he still here? Does he seek to profit somehow from the fight? It was an uncharitable thought and Amnon regretted it instantly. The unhappy halfbreed was still here because he was bound by chains that all his artifice could not break. Amnon understood, because he felt the tug of those chains himself.
He had gone to Praeda last night, seeking distraction, finding only argument. She thinks she is so clever, with all her learning. She does not understand. She had not understood when he had told her he must go to war on the morrow. Her objections had been Totho's objections, taken from that patronizing position of superior culture that all these foreigners seemed to hold, and not know they held. Amnon had weathered it – he was good at that – and in the end she had broken down, swearing that she would never speak to him again, that he could go hang himself if they could make a rope thick enough to hold him. The expressions on the faces of the other foreigners, the old man and the fat man, had been horribly embarrassed, as he made his exit. It was clear they had heard every word.
And, of course, he had thought that she might come here, before the army marched, with some last words to clear the bad air between them. She had not come.
One of his grooms brought him his favourite bow, short for cavalry work but curved back and back on itself, coiled with tautly strung power, of Mantis craftsmanship. He slung a broad quiver over his back, the arrow-tips spreading out like a chitin-fletched fan across his shoulders, ready for his fingers to pluck. When he turned round, it was to find a Beetle woman standing there.
It was not her, though. It was the other one, the ambassador who was shorter and rounder than Praeda. She was looking awkward, yet she had talked her way into the stables of the Royal Guard, and for no other reason than to see him.
'Yes, O Foreigner,' Amnon addressed her, 'how may I assist you?'
'Just Cheerwell, please,' she said. 'Or even Che.' She looked ragged, as if she had been short of food and sleep for a good while. 'Amnon…' she started, and stopped.
'Speak,' he told her.
'I've been talking to Praeda.' And she paused again, scowling at her own inability to push the matter forward. Then the grooms brought out Penthet, and she exclaimed, 'Hammer and tongs, what's that?'