Branwyn Alanive listened quietly, without a dramatic change of expression, but Zelen saw her jaw tighten. He felt for her: he wanted to throw inkstands at half the council on a regular basis, and he wasn’t generally pleading for help in a war.
“It seems to me,” he said, leaning back in his chair and drawling in a manner that had always infuriated his father and older brother and did much the same to Marton now, “it doesn’t matter much whether the Bloody-Handed himself has made an appearance or not. The lady’s speaking of a damned large army on the Criwath border, with at least one magician who’s Thyran’s equal in power. Unless we claim Olwin and the rest are imaginingthat, it sounds as though the rumors are true, and we have a problem.”
The other five glanced at each other. Kolovat and Starovna were nodding, grave. Yansyak was chewing on her lower lip. If Thyran wasn’t leading the army, she was too polite to say in front of the visitor, maybe whoever it was would be content with Criwath. Maybe it wasn’t Heliodar’s fight. Marton was tapping his fingers on the table, considering a number of issues, none of them likely matters Zelen wanted to hear about.
Rognozi surveyed all of them and then lifted his thin hands.
“Enough,” he said. “Madam Alanive, you have stated the premise of your case and stated it well. We’ve asked those questions which come to mind, and you’ve answered. This matter deserves more consideration than that we can give in an afternoon’s audience. We will take it up again…” He considered, glanced at the faces of his subordinates, and then said, “Two weeks hence, at noon.”
This time, Branwyn’s dismay was far more evident. The others might not have noticed the tension in her shoulders or the widening of her eyes, but her quick inhalation nearly echoed in the room. “My lord,” she said, taking a step forward, “I don’t wish to question your judgment, but the matter is urgent. The border holds for now, but there’s no knowing when Thyran’s next attack might come or what he’s doing in the meantime.”
“All the more reason for caution,” said Starovna, with the same lack of passion they’d used to support Branwyn’s claim.
“As you say,” Rognozi agreed. He addressed Branwyn again, a perfect formal blank that Zelen knew from experience was utterly immovable. “Madam, your passion speaks well for your cause. But if the matter is an urgent one, so too is it weighty, and I will not see our blood spilled in haste. The schedule stands.”
Branwyn, without Zelen’s experience, nonetheless clearly had caught on to the futility of arguing. “As you say, my lord.”
Only then did Rognozi allow himself his dry version of sympathy. “Where are your lodgings?” he asked.
“The Leaping Porpoise, my lord, near the harbor.”
“I would house you as befits an ambassador,” said Rognozi, “and my wife would welcome the company.”
Knowing Lady Rognozi, Zelen was sure that was true, but Madam Alanive wasn’t. He recognized the struggle on her face as she battled between not wanting to impose and not wanting—or not daring—to decline an offer from the high lord. “My lord is too kind,” she finally said.
Rognozi gestured to one of the footmen. “You will tend to her belongings.” Not bothering to get an answer, he turned back to the room at large. “The hour comes for us to take our leave,” he said, the first step in the closing rite. Servants began circling the room, putting out candles.
Kolovat stood, the amethysts in his circlet catching the light, and walked to stand at Rognozi’s right. “In the name of Poram’s might and the power of creation.”
“In the name of Sitha’s craft and the webs that uphold civilization,” Starovna chimed in, walking to the left-hand position.
Marton positioned himself beside Kolovat. “In the name of Tinival’s justice and the truth we all must seek.” As always, Zelen tried not to roll his eyes.
“In the name of Letar’s healing,” said Yansyak after a few quick steps to the furthest left of the room, “whether that be union, vengeance, or death.”
Zelen and Rognozi stood at the center, eldest and youngest, and finished in unison, “May the gods favor that which we’ve done here and guide us in the world outside.”
Chapter 3
There were certain difficulties, Branwyn was learning, with being an actual guest in a social sense, rather than a paying customer, seconded soldier, or half-welcome visitor boarding until she could kill the appropriate beast and move on. Chief among them just then was the fact that, while the rest of the court’s inhabitants seemed to know precisely where to go after the closing rite, she didn’t, thanks to Lord Rognozi’s generosity, and thus stood in the middle of the room like a lost duckling. Many of those present, councillors and servants alike, gave her a minute of scrutiny, but none approached.
If diplomacy hadn’t been involved, Branwyn would have found the nearest servant and made inquiries, but her briefing had been not only lengthy but foreboding.There are more layers in Heliodar’s etiquette, Adept Consus had said,than in a Silanese feast-day cake, and any of them can be a weapon for an enemy. Don’t provide it.
Branwyn surveyed the room, noting points of entry—official and less so—possible hiding places for traps or assassins, stained-glass windows in complex rose patterns that glowed red and blue even in the afternoon’s subdued light, thick tapestries with soaring dragons and dancing long-limbed stonekin, and furniture that appeared far too heavy to break over a foe’s head, even for her.
Yathana’s absence from her side left her off-balance. Branwyn thought—prayed, really—that she’d disguised the soulsword enough that the servants who moved her wouldn’t gossip, but there was no way of knowing—and she missed Yathana’s presence regardless. The spirit had grown up in Heliodar, for one thing, before she’d joined the Blades, the militant priests of the Dark Lady, and she might have had useful notions about the situation.
Gods knew Branwyn didn’t. She stood, tried not to look too lost, and examined the stained-glass windows. Their designs were the gods’ symbols, repeated and joined in patterns: a golden spider for Sitha, a green pine tree for Poram, a blue sword for Tinival, and, for Letar, red droplets that could be blood or tears, or both.
The craftsmanship was lovely, and the scenes on the tapestries were fascinating, but neither was likely to be any help. Perhaps, Branwyn thought, she should go assist the servants down at the Porpoise.
Then she saw Verengir turn from a diffident conversation with the mustached lord and head in her direction.
Standing and in motion, he confirmed her earlier impression. The doublet framed a figure narrow at shoulder and hip and fell just far enough on Verengir’s thighs to encourage speculation. What Branwyn could see of the man’s legs between the hem and the top of his dark-brown boots was clearly lean and well maintained: his burgundy hose left little room for concealment.
A belt with a bronze buckle in the shape of a topaz-eyed lion held a money pouch, a bronze-hilted knife, and a matching sword. The council got to go armed; Rognozi didn’t, likely for the same reasons he didn’t wear jewelry, and neither did Marton nor Starovna, but the others wore swords of various lengths.
“Madam Alanive,” he said with a sweeping, flourishing bow, one leg stretching back behind him. “Forgive me if I presume, but you look as though you’d welcome assistance.”
