Ambassador of progress, p.14
Ambassador of Progress, page 14
Fiona shook her head, and she saw surprise in Campas’ eyes. “No, Campas,” she said. “These were other peoples altogether — two other planets rose, simultaneously, to that position; and they began to seek out the planets the Terralla had populated, first by signaling and then by sending ships.”
“There are others, then?” Campas asked. “Not just Demro and Igara, but others?”
“Eleven that we know of, counting your own,” Fiona said. “My own planet, Igara, had advanced enough to understand the signals when they came — ships weren’t sent to us. After that, Igara leagued with the other planets, and agreed to send out ships, as the others had done. Most of the ships found nothing — no planets at all, or worlds that were dead. My own ship was lucky.”
Fiona fell silent, seeing Campas trying to absorb the idea; there was a frown on his face, and he stared down at his boot-tip. Then his gaze rose. “It’s a lot to understand, all at once.” He shook his head. “The priests won’t like it — they have their own notions of how we got here.”
“I’m not telling the priests,” Fiona said.
“No,” he said, with a quiet smile. “You’re not.”
“I have yet to come to my moral,” Fiona reminded him. Campas gave a short laugh.
“I forgot,” he said. “Pray continue.”
“My point is that out of the all the descendants of the Terralla we’ve yet discovered, none have equaled the Terralla civilization. None as large, none as wise, none as brilliant. Whatever we’ve done, the Terralla have done before. Whatever discoveries we’ve made, the Terralla made them first. But we’ve found that it’s not a reason for despair!
“The discovery that a given idea was conceived of first by someone else does not mean that the idea is false, or the conceiver a lesser being than his predecessor. The fact that two other civilizations recovered from the Terralla holocaust and began to travel among the stars some hundreds of years before Igara did — this does not make Igara false. Nor does it make your own life less, or your work.”
She leaned back in triumph, straightening her shoulders, proclaiming now with a flourish, her hands waving. “My coming hasn’t invalidated your poetry, it’s just put it in a different perspective. Perhaps it was a perspective that was needed.”
Campas sat still for a moment, watching her with brooding eyes, and then he began to applaud, his handclaps echoing in the small room. Fiona, pleased with herself, gave him a flourishing stage bow, bending from the waist.
“Ambassador, I grovel before your eloquence,” he said. “Had I such a thing as a fat purse, I would throw it. In future, I shall make a point to write for a stellar audience.”
“Your servant,” said Fiona.
Campas drew in his long legs and stood. “Ambassador, this was most enlightening,” he said. His craggy face was serious, carefully appraising. “You’ve given me much to think about.”
“Must you go?”
“Alas, yes,” Campas said. He smiled and bowed, suddenly breezy. “Necias wants me to meet with Marshal Palastinas’ staff this afternoon, to discuss logistics.” His tone turned to one of dry mockery. “No doubt I shall learn a great deal about march rates, and bridging trains, and other matters of no interest whatever.’’
Fiona reached down to her waist to turn off her recorder — damn the ship anyway, this was none of their business — then uncoiled from her settee and rose. “Visit again, if you wish,” Fiona said. “Believe it or not, I’ve enjoyed this talk. And I appreciate your candor... and your discretion.’’
“The pleasure was mine, as was the enlightenment,” Campas said — typical Arrandalla speech, flowery and complimentary, but Fiona thought she detected a measure of sincerity. “Forgive my discourtesy, which you are so good as to call candor. I shall call again, if I can.”
“I am glad to have made a friend,” Fiona said. Campas seemed startled, looking at her sharply for an instant; then he said, “Ambassador, your servant,” opened the door behind him, and backed out.
Tibro was still tootling dutifully away, and Fiona, exhilaration filling her, stepped into the parlor, leaning her shoulder on the door jamb. She felt as if she had just passed a test... and almost certainly she just had. Campas’ objections to her presence had not been unanticipated; but the man had surprised her, coming to her so quickly. Campas was surprisingly acute.
She realized suddenly that she was very hungry. Giving speeches on an empty stomach: bad for her. “Tibro, bring me luncheon,” she said. The girl put down the flute.
“Yes, Ambassador.”
“The white wine, I think — the gift from Fastias.”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
Fiona smiled as Tibro bustled out of the room: there was going to be a lot of talk downstairs. Probably it would get to Necias, eventually; and then Campas might be in for an interrogation. Well, the man was inventive: no doubt he could create a suitable story if he had to.
She frowned as she realized that Campas might simply go straight to Necias and give the Abeissu everything she’d just told him — there was certainly no proof to the contrary, nothing but her intuition that his promise to keep a confidence meant something. She had to trust someone, she thought stubbornly; she was all alone here.
Not that it much mattered. If Necias had asked the same questions, she would have told him the same story.
With, she knew, the same, appalling, inbuilt lie. The worst kind of lie, the sort that can be told while telling the most scrupulous, factual kind of truth. Campas’ accusations had been far too close. We ask nothing of you: Campas had been perfectly right that her subtle emphasis contained an evasion, and that eventually the spacefarers from Igara would ask payment for their help. She hadn’t dared answer that accusation, and so she’d turned the subject: her story, without containing a single lie, had diverted him from the most overwhelming truth of all.
She had called Campas friend; and he’d been surprised. Could a friend conceal such a truth from a friend? No: not a truth of that sort. Not the most gigantic truth, the truth why the Igarans had so hastily begun to travel from star to star.
The meal came, and Fiona, her exhilaration fading, ate it without enthusiasm. That lie would be paid for; she knew it.
Afterwards she returned to her room, to find that Vico had quietly cleaned it in her absence. She opened her trunk to transfer the recording of Campas’ visit to her larger-capacity recorder, and discovered, to her surprise, an urgent message from the ship. She frowned: this hadn’t happened before. She cued the communicator. The reply was instant.
“Fiona.” Tyson’s voice, sounding weary, discouraged.
“Yes, Tyson.”
“A problem, Fiona. Kira’s dead.”
And suddenly there were ridiculous tears stinging Fiona’s eyes — appallingly useless, of course, no good to Kira or anybody. But still the emotional hammer came, and flattened her against the anvil; she hadn’t realized that any news could strike her with such force.
Kira, laughing Kira, eager, so vibrant — now the first to pay the penalty for her idealism.
“What happened?” Fiona asked, when she had confidence her voice wouldn’t crack.
The tale was one of lunacy, of bad judgment by everyone concerned.
Kira had been pleased with her reception, and treated with all courtesy — and then, last night, Tastis had struck. Brodaini had come smashing into her apartments, seizing her in her bed, dragging her down to the prison. An emissary from Tastis had given her an ultimatum: she would inform her superiors that their knowledge would be used for the benefit of Neda-Calacas alone, or her life would be forfeit.
Fiona, seeing her knuckles whiten on the spindle as she heard of the attack, was suddenly thankful Necias had insisted on such proof in her own case — if Tastis had seen that huge atmosphere craft cruising above his city, he might have thought twice about using such brutal tactics.
Kira had told them their demands were impossible, but they hadn’t listened. They had simply shown her the instruments of torture available there in the dungeon, explaining their uses — and demonstrated them, in a few cases, on their other prisoners. She would have a night to think it over.
She was alone, her spindle having been confiscated; she’d taken off her privy-coat before going to bed. But the mission planners had foreseen even this; there was still a means of defense, and also of communication, both hidden beneath her own flesh. Kira had done what was necessary; she’d touched a point in her left armpit, at the soft bend of the left elbow, at another place on the wrist — that would have numbed a little area on her forearm. And then she would have begun to rub that spot with a spoon, or a piece broken off from a stool, or with her fingernail — with anything available — until the flesh was scraped away and her new communicator revealed among the bloody tissue. The ship had been contacted and the atmospheric-maneuverable shuttle sent down. While air-dropped flares lit up the sky around the city, attracting the attention of the watchers on the walls, Kira had, with a weapon hidden in her right arm, blasted her way out of prison and fought her way to the roof of the keep, where the speeding aircar dashed to meet her.
Too late. She was found dead on the roof, a Brodaini arrow in her ribs. The aircar crew burned every guard they could see and carried her body to the ship. They had been reprimanded for excessive use of violence.
Fiona, her fingers digging into her palms, repressed the urge to shriek at Tyson. Excessive use — my god! These people had purged half the great houses of the city. If she had been in the rescuers’ position, looking down at Kira’s body, she would have burned the entire keep down about their ears.
“New rules, Fiona,” Tyson said. “Keep your privy-coat on at all times, even when sleeping. We’ll want reports twice each day, instead of once.”
“Of course.”
“Anything to report?”
“No, nothing,” she said — why couldn’t they leave her alone? But then she remembered she had news after all. She rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. “Oh, yes. Arrandal will declare war on Neda-Calacas tomorrow. The rest of the Elva cities will follow.” And not soon enough, she thought savagely.
“I’m sorry, Fiona,” Tyson said. “This must be a shock. She was someone very special. There will be a service for Kira tonight at the eighth hour, your time. Will you want to listen?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We’ll signal when we begin. Oh, Fiona, one thing.”
“Yes?”
“This news — it brings no joy, Fiona. But don’t let this overwhelm you. You won’t do Kira any good by growing angry. Try to think what she would have wanted you to do.”
Fiona swallowed hard. Tyson knew her well; his words were well-meaning, but also pointed.
“I’ll try to remember,” she said. “Thank you, Tyson.”
Her numb fingers dropped the little spindle as she tried to switch it off; she cursed and kicked it across the room, knowing it would take no harm. Damn this world and its madness. These people didn’t deserve Kira; they didn’t deserve anything.
A sudden idea struck her, and she leaned back on her couch, considering it. Necias had asked her to accompany the army; and now the idea seemed an attractive one.
Of course the original purpose was gone. She would not be going as a neutral.
But she would see Tastis’ towers fall. That would be satisfaction enough.
CHAPTER 10
Tegestu looked at the four burn-scarred stone walls, then at the shade trees planted nearby with the fresh graves among the sod. Tastis’ men had passed this way, and left their devastation behind.
“Noon meal here,” he said. “There will be an hour’s halt.”
For the last three days he had seen much the same thing, over and over. Farmhouses burned, barns put to the torch, women outraged, animals slaughtered. Often, if the farmers hadn’t been able to get to their strongholds in time, the bodies of the peasants lying amid their animals. At least here there’d been some survivors — otherwise the dead wouldn’t have had burial.
It was logical, he had to admit. Tastis held the deissin and their motives in contempt: he knew they scorned demmin and cared overmuch for profit. Therefore he intended to make this war far too costly for Arrandal to wage— all he had to do, from his point of view, was to hold out until the deissin of the Elva realized there was no profit to be made here. And then, no doubt, they would give up and recognize his revolt as legitimate.
And so, to that end, he’d unleashed a horde of raiders into Arrandalla territory: unprincipled mercenaries for the most part, and the scum of the cities’ jails, armed only with a few light weapons and fast horses. Their purpose was simple: to cause as much murder, devastation, and chaos as possible — and also to divert as many Arrandalla forces as they could.
Thus far Tastis’ plan had worked well. The slow-moving baronial forces couldn’t cope with the invasion, though they helped — and of course they provided valuable garrisons in the towns and strongholds. But it was the city forces that had to chase these renegades. It was proving difficult, since it required waiting until the raiders were so burdened with loot that they were slowed down.
But, Tegestu thought, ultimately Tastis was wrong. The Arrandalla did possess demmin, he thought, at least demmin of a sort. Tastis’ rebellion had violated what the Elva cities cherished most, their freedom from foreign domination. Tastis threatened them all, and they would not rest until the threat was ended.
Besides, Tegestu had seen the Arrandalla forces as they’d marched past those first few devastated crofts, the first butchered bodies lying in their yards... the Arrandalla would not forget such sights easily; their eyes had burned for revenge.
Well, Tegestu thought. Revenge they’d get, sooner or later.
He signaled for the midday halt and Thesau, mounted just behind, slid from his horse to help Tegestu from the saddle. Tegestu came wearily to the ground, pain crackling through his stiffened muscles. He gave Thesau a weary smile; but he needed Thesau to carefully support his elbow for the long moments it took for him to find his feet.
“There is a bench beneath the tree, bro-demmin Tegestu,” Thesau said. “You can take your ease there.”
“Thank you, ilean,” Tegestu said. He walked deliberately through the sudden bustle of his staff dismounting, Classani servants jumping to tend the horses, his standard bearer Ghantenis raising his banner by the road so riders would know where to deliver their dispatches, messengers departing to order the column to halt. A drifting cloud of brown dust, stirred by the thousands of hooves and feet, moved over them like a pall — riding at the front of the column, they’d been ahead of the dust, but now it came looming over them, floating down to settle on their armor and banners. Tegestu came to the smooth wooden bench and sat down. He slitted his eyes against the dust as Thesau took off his helmet and coif, unlaced the quilted under-padding, then unpinned Tegestu’s long grey braids and let them fall down his back. The long Brodaini hair was braided on campaign, and coiled around the top of the head: it provided extra padding for the helmet, and also helped to ward a head cut. Tegestu leaned back against the tree.
“Will you eat now, bro-demmin?” Thesau asked. Tegestu shook his head.
“Not yet, ilean. But I would like some cider, if there’s some handy.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.’’ Thesau gave a commanding movement of his hand, attracting the attention of one of his younger assistants. “Cider for the drandor Tegestu!” The Classanu halted in his tracks, bowed, then ran to the little two-wheeled gigs that carried headquarters supplies.
Other members of the staff — Cascan, Acamantu, the Arrandalla poet Campas — began to gather beneath the tree, bowing, then lowering themselves to the ground near Tegestu. Tegestu began to scent, lightly through the dust, a charnel stench: those graves were shallow. Then a gust of wind came, shifting the brown cloud, and the scent was gone.
“Please eat, if you wish, ban-demmini,” Tegestu said. “Don’t stand on courtesy.” They bowed, and some called for their servants to bring them the prepared meals that had been packed the night before. The Classanu arrived with a wine skin and the cider; Tegestu uncapped the skin and let the cool liquid slide down his dust-covered throat, tasting of last summer’s apples.
There was a clatter of hooves and a group of riders came out of the dust: Tegestu recognized Necias seated uncomfortably on a big-boned gelding — a bad rider, he had spent most of the march in his covered gig, leather curtains drawn against the dust. Necias was accompanied by the Marshal Palastinas, the army’s commander, various members of his staff, and the Igaran Ambassador, Fiona. All had bandannas wrapped around their lower faces to guard against the dust, except for Fiona, who had drawn the hood of her undergarment around her head, enclosing it completely, even the eyes. She looked as if she were wearing a bleak carnival mask. Today the color of the hood and the rest of the garment was a deep, near-black brown, several shades darker than her skin; yesterday it had been a cheerful yellow. Tegestu wondered whether she had many such garments, or if she could, with her off world magic, somehow change the color of the one.
Necias dismounted heavily and began gesturing to his people, who, Tegestu knew, would begin setting up a pavilion in which the Abessu-Denorru, accompanied by the Marshal and their respective staffs, would take their leisurely luncheon. The pavilion, Tegestu knew, was a luxurious one: there were carpets, a field kitchen, portable tables, folding chairs, a silver dinner service; it filled three ox-wagons and required a staff of six, not counting the teamsters. A ridiculous waste of resources better spent in moving and feeding fighting men; but then Tegestu’s advice had not been solicited. His own equipage took up the backs of two horses, and he ate what the other Brodaini ate.
It was lucky the march to Neda-Calacas was not intended to be a fast one. They were moving deliberately, scouts always on the alert for Tastis, who had a deserved reputation for appearing where he had no right to be.
Palastinas handed his broadsword to a lackey, nodded to Necias, and then walked toward Tegestu. He was an Arrandalla, a portly, vigorous, graying man of about sixty, with a funny dab of white beard on his chin; he was both a prosperous merchant and Arrandal’s most successful soldier. He and Tegestu understood one-another well enough, and had fought together before: Palastinas had even learned to speak Gostu, which was more than most Arrandalla managed.
