“My name is Andir Toshida,” he said. His accent was liquid, strangely at odds with the harshness of his tone. It did little to hinder comprehension, for which Damien was grateful; given a possible eight hundred years of isolation, there was no telling what English might have become here. “It is my duty to assess your origin and your intentions, and to render judgment accordingly. You will speak,” he commanded, and he looked first at Damien, then to the captain, “and you will explain yourselves.”
There was no question of who should begin, and Damien did not hesitate. “My name is Damien Kilcannon Vryce, Reverend Father twice knighted of the Eastern Autocracy of the One God.” He was watching the man for a reaction—any reaction—but the dark-skinned face was like stone. Utterly unreadable. “This is Lio Rozca, Captain-General of the Golden Glory, and Halen Orswath, of his crew.” We come in peace, he wanted to say, but words like that meant nothing; they were cheap, they were easy, the legions of Hell could have voiced them with impunity. This man had too much substance to be taken in by empty platitudes. “We came here from the west to determine if humans had settled here, to make contact with them if they had, and to establish trade with them when and where that was appropriate.”
One of the civilians whispered to another; a sharp look from Toshida cut the exchange short. “A mercantile expedition.”
“Some came for that purpose.”
“Verda? Not to colonize?”
The captain exhaled noisily. “We all have homes to go back to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“We knew that five expeditions had already attempted the crossing,” Damien said. He saw neither surprise nor confirmation in Toshida’s eyes, nothing that might say or unsay whether he knew about all five or not. How many had landed? How many were lost? “We assumed at least one of them made it, and that therefore this land would be occupied. And since the most recent expedition was launched nearly four hundred years ago-” again, no hint of surprise in the man’s eyes, “-we believed it likely that by now mankind had settled here. We hoped that you would welcome contact with your kin, and permit us to learn from your trials.”
“The crossing was made, verda. And mankind has . . . flourished.” A slight hesitation there, fleeting but eloquent. “As to whether we would welcome contact . . .” His expression hardened. “That has yet to be determined.”
He looked out toward the Golden Glory, now close enough to the other ship that some details were apparent to the naked eye. “You fly no flag,” he challenged.
“The ship’s mine,” the captain said, “and I’m an independent. The crew’s a mixed lot, from half a dozen cities at least. Likewise the passengers.” He paused. “I can run my initials up the mizzenmast if it’ll make you happy.”
If he heard the challenge in his tone, Toshida didn’t react to it. If anything he looked pleased, and nodded his head slightly as though in approval. The woman nearest him gestured for his attention; he leaned down so that she might whisper in his ear, then nodded again.
“My adviser says that you must be genuine. An enemy ship would have presented itself better.”
There were smiles at that, albeit minimal ones. Damien allowed himself the luxury of a long, deep breath, and wondered if it was his imagination or if the atmosphere had just lightened measurably. He decided to chance a question of his own.
“How many expeditions made it here?”
For a moment Toshida said nothing; he knew as well as Damien did that once this inquisition turned into an equal exchange its texture would have been altered permanently.
At last he offered, “Of the five ships that set sail with Lopescu, one reached these shores. The Nyquist expedition arrived ten years later, entodo. Those were our ancestors.”
“And the others?”
“No other westerners settled here,” he said smoothly. And then, before Damien could question him anew, “This land belongs to the One God, as do all the people in it. Our land is governed by the Prophet’s Law; our politics are structured in accordance with our faith. May I assume that was the quera verda, Reverend Vryce?”
He bowed his head in affirmation. “And the answer is what I’d hoped for.”
Again the woman whispered to Toshida. He glanced about at the other civilians—his advisers?—and took quiet council from one of the men as well. Damien glanced over at the captain, noted that he was visibly calmer. Good. The man’s instincts, unlike his own, would not be clouded by religious optimism. If he thought all was going well, it very probably was.
He could hear his heart pounding as he waited, and wished he had the fae to draw on for insight. This Toshida clearly had the power to grant them official sanction, or consign them to an ocean-bound grave. He would have given anything to Know the man better.
At last he spoke to them. “I will see this ship, of yours for myself, before I render my verdict. Verda?” He paused, as if waiting for a response. “Unless you object.”
Without hesitation—because he had picked up enough of what was going on to recognize that hesitation would be damning—Damien bowed his assent. “In God’s Name.” And he added, “We are your servants.” Just for good measure.
“But Your Eminence-” one of the civilians protested, and another began, “Lord Regent—”
Toshida held up a hand in warning and the protests were silenced. “The first trade mission from west to east deserves no less,” he said. “If that’s what this is. I came out here precisely because I felt the situation merited it. Would you have me make my decision without seeing the truth for myself?”
The advisers were silent. They didn’t look happy.
He turned to the captain. “I’ll need to inspect your vesseclass="underline" its crew, its cargo, its passengers, every nook and cranny and packing crate within its hull. If you are what you say you are, then you have nothing to fear. If not . . .” He shrugged suggestively.
“The merchants wonn’t be happy,” he warned.
“Merchants rarely are.”
“They’ll want reassurance that their goods won’t be fooled with.”
“If all we find are simple trade goods, then they have it.”
“On whose authority?” he challenged.
Far from being insulted by the captain’s tone, Toshida seemed almost to approve of it. The captain’s protecting his own, Damien thought. That’s a good sign in any decent company. For some reason that exchange, more than any other which had preceded, reassured him as to their captors’ intentions.
“On the authority of the Lord Regent of Mercia. Who is high priest and ruler enfacto of the capital city of this region, and therefore of its ruling center. Bien basta?”
The captain looked at Damien, who nodded slightly in approval. The exchange did not go unnoted. “If they’re at war,” Damien dared, “they need to know we’re not the enemy. You and I would do no less under the circumstances.”
The captain winced but nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. And then to Toshida: “You can tour the ship all you like, for that purpose. Just make sure it doesn’t go beyond that, okay?”
“You have my word,” the Regent promised.
We are not at war, the Regent told him, as they rowed their way back to the Golden Glory. A half-dozen guards sat erect in each of the two boats, as tense and alert as if they feared something might leap from the sea to devour them. Damien was glad they were beyond the reach of the earth-fae, which might have created just such a creature for them. We are not at war, but we have an enemy to the south. And sometimes the best way to avoid a war is by preparing to fight it.