“Wise they grew in the ways of alchemy, and of handling metals. They harnessed the fires of the dragons. Their priests were granted to knowledge about other worlds the dragons had created, and the planets where the dragons had made humanity. Their alchemists wished to know these other humans, to visit them, and to this end they built a ship powered by dragonfire. A ship such as the universe had not known, capable of moving between the stars.”

  Here the display showed the great ship a-building on a barren plain of the brown world — an outright lie, since the ship had actually been built in orbit and could never taste atmosphere, but Fiona could not expect her audience to understand that. “The ship,” she said, “was built of metal, smelted in the fire of the dragons, and was crewed by hundreds.

  “But there was one problem,” Fiona said. “The spaces between the stars were such that the ship would take years to complete its journey — not years only, but lifetimes. So the artificers of this world contrived to put the crew to sleep for the duration of the journey, and so built the ship that it might pilot itself, all with machinery.” The simulation showed the crew in their glass-fronted coffins, moving down the rows of sleeping to a porthole that showed the stars. “And the ship rose at last, and moved among the stars with its sleeping crew,” Fiona narrated, and the view showed the stars moving past, faster this time. “Years passed, and the crew slept, and the ship moved straight and true on its course, until another star approached.”

  The star appeared, and its blue-white planet; the viewpoint rushed downward, down through the cloud to the city of Arrandal and the palace of Necias — there were gasps from the audience as they recognized the endpoint of this journey — and then the perspective tilted up again, showing the night sky: the same night sky the simulation had shown first of all, different but in one detail.

  “The ship, flying high over the land, appeared as a fixed, gleaming star,” Fiona said, and there was a murmur among the crowd as the fixed star winked in the revolving heavens. “The crew of the ship rose from their beds and for two years studied the land below, before sending their people down to greet the humans, so like themselves, who lived in this strange world. But at long last the ambassadors came down from their ship, and traveled the long miles to greet you.”

  The vision faded, the white fog suddenly only fog, dissipating slowly in the drafts of the upper hall. And suddenly there was only Fiona, standing alone in the brightness of her scarlet gown, her hand at her throat. She raised the hand.

  “From my world to yours, greetings,” she said.

  And the world changed.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the mad pandemonium that followed, half the audience applauding, half near-riot, purses flying through the air, dozens breaking from their places to cluster up about the foreign conjuror as if she were a goddess come to earth, Necias thought quickly. He leaned toward Tegestu and bellowed: “Get her out of here! Someplace safe, and quiet!” Tegestu made a gesture and suddenly there was a wedge of Brodaini slicing through the crowd, its ardis aimed at Fiona. Necias felt the grip of Brito’s hand on his arm.

  “Get Campas!” she said, her eyes glittering with urgency. “Tell Campas to go with her!”

  Necias nodded and roared the poet’s name. There was another hand on his shoulder, a hand that glittered with rings, and Necias turned to give Campas his instructions. Campas listened with a strange, knowing, half-cynical smile, nodded, and then followed in the wake of the Brodaini. The woman was reached, cordoned off, snatched from the crowd. Classani swept through the crowd to pick up her table, her equipment, her trunk, her litter of purses. Necias saw the bewildered, white-haired figure of his steward Ahastinas in the melee. He tried to signal Ahastinas to continue the program, but it was no use — Ahastinas was already banging his staff and shouting to no avail; the poor man was almost weeping with frustration.

  Enough.

  Necias lurched to his feet, climbed onto his stoutly-built settee, and cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Silence!” he roared. “Silence, all of you! Silence!”

  That did the trick. The milling crowd grew less noisy and then stilled, staring up at him in surprise, the upturned faces demanding an explanation Necias could not provide.

  “We will investigate this matter,” Necias said, his voice sounding hollow in the stillness. “I’ll have the heralds announce the results tomorrow. In the meantime,” he said, gesturing brusquely, “the program will continue, after you return to your seats. Ahastinas, what’s next on the program?”

  “A new concerto by Naralidas Pastas, sir,” Ahastinas quavered, and Necias clapped his hands.

  “Excellent!” he bellowed. “The man’s good!” He looked out at the crowd, then scowled. “Back to your seats, then, so the show can continue.”

  They moved, grudgingly, and Necias clambered carefully down from his perch and sat himself. Brito leaned over to whisper into his ear.

  “Very well done, Necias.”

  “Thanks,” Necias said, tugging at his ear and frowning. Ai, gods, he thought. What in the name of the dragons and demons did all this mean? If that girl was a charlatan he’d have the hide off her. But if she wasn’t... no, it had to be trickery, or witchcraft. Had to be. The alternative was too dizzying.

  As dizzying as the stars burning in the void, as dizzying as flying high above his palace on the wings of a mallanto... He shook his head, clenched his fists. He’d get to the bottom of it, just wait.

  There was the touch of a hand on his shoulder: Campas. “She’s in the small conference room,” he said. “Guards are keeping her safe. She said she’d be pleased to speak with you.”

  Necias tilted his head back, looking into his secretary’s businesslike face. “Good,” he said. “Has she said anything?’’

  There was an amused, smug gleam in Campas’ eye. “She complimented me,” he said, “on my verse.” And then he frowned. “We didn’t get all her gear out. Some of those people were after souvenirs.”

  Necias shook his head. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said. “Go stay with her. Don’t ask any questions yet, but if she volunteers anything, write it down.” He looked at the crowd, dispersing now, murmuring among themselves, still casting him looks ranging from bafflement to suspicion. “Make her comfortable, hey?” he said. “Give her anything she wants: food, drink, anything.”

  “Except her freedom, as I take it?” Campas asked, his tone light. Necias looked at him sharply, seeing the quick, cynical mockery in his eyes, and then gave his secretary a grin.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “She didn’t cause a sensation like that just to disappear into the night, hey?” He jabbed a blunt finger into Necias’ chest. “She’s after something, my boy, and we’ll just have to find out what it is. Cut along now.”

  Campas nodded and made his exit. The lights dimmed and the concerto began, but Necias found that his mind wasn’t on it; and neither, he suspected, was anyone else’s. The applause was desultory, the flung purses were few; and even the program’s finale was a disaster. It was a one-act farce by one of the city’s finer playwrights, guaranteed to send the audience on their way laughing, but every joke fell flat, and the clowns sweated for every grudging laugh. Necias was glad when it was over.

  After that the dining rooms reopened for a later supper, and the ballrooms for dancing; but Necias sent Brito to the dining room to bring him a plate of food and a mug of beer, dispatched his other wives and their escorts to play hostess at the various other events, and then made his way to the small conference room.

  The conjuror Fiona was seated calmly, her hands folded in her lap, on one of the three-legged Brodaini stools, with Campas sitting, notes in hand, to her left. She had thrown a grey shawl around her shoulders, and a halfdrunk cup of tea stood on a tray by her side. Fiona looked up as Necias walked in, then rose, her skirt rustling. There was a dignity, a gravity, in her bearing; she was, he thought, bearing herself as an ambassador would, conscious that she was representing not simply herself, but her people.

  An “ambassador from the stars.” Well, he thought, we’ll see.

  “Sit,” he said, waving an arm, and dropped onto his settee. He put one of his feet up and watched Fiona as she seated herself. Her eyes, black and calm, turned to his. She seemed prepared to wait.

  “You are comfortable?” he asked. “Would you like another chair? Something to eat? Drink?”

  “I thank you, Abessu-Denorru, but no,” she said. Her voice was self-possessed and calm, and Necias thought he saw a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth. Is she amused, then? he wondered. At the fools she’s made of us with her trickery?

  Necias leaned back suddenly, tapping one hand restlessly on the arm of the settee as his nervous energy sought an outlet. “What do I call you?” he asked. “Do you have a title?”

  “Not as such, no,” Fiona said. “You can call me Ambassador, if you like. It’s as good a description as any.” Campas’ pen began to scratch across his pad.

  Necias frowned. “Ambassador” was a masculine noun; it didn’t apply to women. But “Fiona” wasn’t a standard Abessla name, with a feminine ending: it wouldn’t clash quite as much with the title as, say, Luco or Brito would.

  “Very well,” Necias said. His hand tapped on the settee’s arm twice, lightly, then he became conscious of the nervous gesture and halted it.

  “You say you are from the stars,” he said. “Are we to take this seriously, or was this merely a part of your act?”

  “It was part of my act, yes,” Fiona said. Her manner seemed a bit distracted, distanced, as if she were concentrating on choosing her words very carefully. “But I was very serious. I am from a star — or rather, from a planet circling another star. My planet is called Igara. You have seen the — the views of that planet I’ve provided.” She paused, then added: “The star is visible from here. I’m not sure if your people have a name for it: I think not. But I can tell your astronomers where to find it.”

  Necias gave a jerk of his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “One star’s much the same as another.”

  Fiona smiled, then gave a serene nod. “Very true,” she said.

  What, Necias wondered, was the girl feeling? She seemed strangely relaxed in these circumstances, very cool, very loose — she ought to be keyed up, he thought. Instead it’s as if she’s terribly relieved.

  There was a scratching at the door; Necias, annoyed at the interruption, barked out his query, and Brito’s voice came in answer. Brito with his plate of food and mug of beer. Necias was suddenly aware of his hunger, of the cavernousness in him. This was going to be a long night: he’d need to keep alert. “Come in,” he said.

  Brito entered the room with a tray, plates heaped high with goose, roast pig, pickled eggs, grilled sea-rampalla, cheese. A maidservant followed with a pitcher of beer and a heavy mug. They set it down on the table in front of Necias’ settee. Necias waited for the beer to be poured and then took the mug, taking a deep draft. He gestured to Fiona.

  “Sure you don’t want something?”

  A gentle shake of the head. “No. Thank you.”

  “Campas?”

  The poet looked at the heap of food, then nodded. “Yes. A little goose and cheese, I think.”

  “You,” Necias said, addressing the maidservant. “Go fetch it.”

  “Yes, Abessu-Denorru.”

  The girl bobbed her goodbyes and went. Necias looked from Brito to Fiona.

  “This is Brito,” he said, “my cenors-censto.”

  “Honored,” said Fiona.

  “Fiona,” Necias told Brito, “says she is from another planet.” He picked up a slice of pig and devoured it.

  “I heard,” said Brito.

  “We all heard,” Necias nodded, beginning to enjoy, himself. This was something he well understood: the complexity of negotiation, of truth-finding, here in this little, familiar room. Fiona wouldn’t stand against him: he’d get the truth tonight, crack her composure somehow. He took another swallow of beer, watching the faces in the room, Fiona with her smile, Campas with his pen poised, his face set in a slight frown as if contemplating a problem, the two Brodaini guards with their elaborate hairstyles and arrogant, masklike faces.

  Brito was watching Fiona closely, he saw. She was a good judge of character; he’d keep her in the room and ask her opinion later.

  “Sit by me, stansisso,” he said. “Keep my mug full.”

  “Yes, husband.” Brito sat on one of the hard Brodaini stools. Necias wiped his greasy fingers on his jacket and turned his eyes to Fiona.

  “Another planet.” he repeated. “Can you offer any evidence?”

  “I have already offered a great deal,” Fiona answered promptly.

  “Witchcraft, perhaps. Demralla witchcraft — it doesn’t have to come from another planet.”

  “If you can find a local witch who can duplicate my performance, Abessu-Denorru, your supposition may be proven. Until then, not.” The conjuror’s answer came pat. Necias grinned.

  “You sound like you’ve been to Fastias’ Academy of Rhetoric,” he said, tugging an ear. Fiona smiled at the statement. Necias held up a finger. “But it’s not my place to offer proof,” he said. “That job is yours. Prove what you say — and prove it now.” He lowered his voice to a menacing seriousness, fixing Fiona with his eyes, his gaze holding hers. For the first time she seemed uneasy, shifting on her seat. “Prove it,” he said quietly, “or get out of my city.”

  There was a moment of silence in which Necias could hear the blood pounding triumphantly in his ears, and Fiona pursed her lips slightly, her black eyes turning abstractedly upward. Then she turned to Necias.

  “What,” she asked, “would you consider proof?”

  “That’s up to you,” Necias said. “You claim to have come alone from some other planet — no heralds, no credentials, no escort — and of all the cities on Demro you come to mine, but you live like a spy for days before revealing yourself. I’m flattered,” he said, bowing with his hand on his chest, an exaggeration of humility. “I’m flattered, but I find all this suspicious. I need more proof than you’ve shown so far.”

  Fiona held up a hand. “I understand,” she said. “I can, of course, give you credentials — I can provide them tonight, if you give me leave to walk on the roof, or in some courtyard, and let me take my trunk with me.” She lowered her hand, then continued: “But you misunderstand. I never said I was alone. Igara has sent ambassadors to other cities, other nations — to all the cities of the Elva, and to the Clattern i Clatterni of Gostandu. You can inquire of the other cities if you wish.”

  Necias grunted in surprise and sat back in his chair. He saw the two Brodaini guards, startled enough to drop their masks for an instant, give one another alarmed glances — the Clattern i Clatterni, King of Kings, was the Brodaini princeling who had conquered their entire continent, driving Tegestu, his clan, and the other mercenary clans into exile; Necias could well understand the Brodaini being disturbed. But Necias was more appalled by another implication of what the conjuror had said.

  “All the cities of the Elva?” he grunted in astonishment. “Including Neda-Calacas?”

  Fiona nodded. “Yes. Neda-Calacas as well,” she said.

  “Ai, gods!” Necias leaned forward, anger filling him. “What were your people thinking of?” he demanded. “Neda-Calacas is an outlaw city, a renegade! All embassies will be withdrawn. And then the rebels will be destroyed.”

  Fiona looked solemnly into his eyes. “Igara has no quarrel with Neda-Calacas, or with any other city or institution. We take no sides in your wars. We will deal with anyone who will deal with us.”

  Necias frowned, then took a piece of grilled rampalla and gobbled it while he thought. “Deal,” he said. “You said deal. What kind of deal are you after?”

  “Trade,” Fiona said simply. “We are interested in your people, your — your artifacts. Metalwork, painting, sculpture, your ideas, your —” She nodded to Campas. “ — your poetry.”

  “And you will pay for this?” Necias asked, still frowning.

  “In gold, if you like,” Fiona said. “We have a supply. We also ask permission to make certain — suggestions and criticisms,” she said. “Suggestions and criticisms that may help you, though you may feel free to disregard them if you wish. There are conditions attached to this, however — we insist that any suggestions we make be shared by all, and not benefit any one person or city.”

  Necias scowled and shook his head. The girl wasn’t making sense. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What sort of suggestions are you talking about?”

  “Suggestions that may alert you to possibilities of which you may not have been aware. Suggestions that may help you with, for instance, trade, or with, say, alchemical knowledge. Suggestions that may, in the end, help you to travel between the stars, as we have traveled.”

  Necias drained his mug and held it out to Brito to be refilled, certain there was something wrong with what he was hearing. This was ridiculous — no one offered knowledge like that free of charge.

  There was a scratching at the door, and he barked out a curt order to enter. It was Luco, his youngest wife, carrying a tray. She was flushed, and her eyes were wide as she looked at Fiona; then she swallowed and turned to Necias.

  “I brought Campas’ tray,” she said. A transparent excuse: clearly enough she’d just wanted to see the woman from another planet, and perhaps hear part of the discussion.

  “Our husband sent someone else to that task,” Brito said, her tone sharp. “We do not carry trays for our husband’s employees.”