“Good,” Necias said. He knew that Tegestu’s message had probably been a good deal more formal than that, and appreciated Campas’ editing it to its essentials. “Sit down,” he urged. “Have some supper and tell me what the drandor’s been doing.”

  “Sleeping, mostly,” Campas answered, drawing up a settee and throwing himself down on the pillows. “Went to bed after turning things over to Palastinas, then got up early this afternoon and wrote his victory poem. A nice little verse, by the way — there’s an effective bit of imagery about spear-blades shining on the grass like dew.” He looked up with a grin. “Shall I translate?”

  “Spare me,” Necias said. “I’m not interested in what Tegestu thinks is poetic.” Or poems about battle, either. Spear-blades on the grass, he thought. Who was going to write a poem about all those city boys on the grass with their tripes cut out?

  Campas shrugged; then he smiled, as if privately amused. “Tegestu seems to have spent most of this battle asleep,” he said. “He was asleep through most of last night, until the battle actually started, and once he turned things over to Palastinas he went back to bed again. Wouldn’t it be nice,” Campas said, his eyes mischievous, “to be able to dream your victories the way Tegestu does?’’

  Necias snorted at the notion. It wasn’t often that the poet dared to be so ridiculous in his presence. Campas grinned.

  “I couldn’t sleep a wink, myself. Couldn’t understand why Tegestu and his people were taking things so calmly. I suppose it was because they knew exactly how things would go.”

  “Yes,” Necias said. “That must have been it.” That calm that he had mistaken for frigid enmity: he shuddered at the recollection, then chose to change the subject. “How many recruits from the prisoners, hey?” He had offered amnesty to any who joined — it was better than slavery in the mines or galleys until the war was over, with execution for the leaders. Campas frowned, scratching his chin.

  “Not many, I’m afraid. Only a hundred or so. I was surprised, I admit — a lot of these people support Tastis.”

  “Eh?” asked Necias in surprise. “What d’you mean, support him?” He gestured irritably. “That man gave the chop to half the government of the city! How the hell could they support him?”

  “He’s got his own government now, it seems,” Campas said. “He’s got this Denorru-Censtassinn he’s set up. And it isn’t as if the last government was exactly popular.”

  Denorru-Censtassinn, Council of the Populace. One of the little puppet-boards Tastis had set up to help him rule the city.

  “Popular?” Necias grated. “What’s that got to do with it?” He slammed the goblet down on the table. “Oh, yes, he’s got his little puppets. So what? It’s Tastis who’s got the power — it’s not as if these Denorrinn were anything more than a sop thrown to the city.”

  “Beg pardon, cenors-efellsan,” Campas said regretfully. “But Tastis has been very cunning — he’s given power to many who haven’t had it before, and they’ll not wish to give it up. Neda-Calacas is still a divided city, uncertain of its allegiance, but there are more holding to Tastis’ faction than we’ve ever thought.”

  “Faction?” Necias barked, laughing. “What kind of faction can Tastis have?’’

  Gradually, under Campas’ prodding insistence and despite Necias’ reluctance to believe it, the appalling truth came out. The composition of Neda-Calacas’ Donorru-Deissin had been altered: most of the deissin had been purged from its ranks, a majority of Brodaini chiefs had been added, and the name changed to Denorru-Welldrannin, Council of the Elders, the latter a term barbarously borrowed from the Gostu. This council, Tastis had proclaimed, was charged with the “guidance” of the city and its people through the troubles.

  But Tastis had created another donorru, the Denorru-Censtassin, a junior council of two hundred men of the city: it was elected by all the male citizens over the age of thirty, and anyone was eligible to take a seat. This was in contrast to all precedent: the Denorru-Deissin of Arrandal, and every other city, was composed only of men of substantial wealth. The Denorru-Censtassin had a broader base, including the poor; and Tastis had actually given his new council control of most of the actual working of the civil administration, the street patrols, magistrates, prisons, and so forth.

  “The city is in terror,” Campas said. “Before there was no outlet for resentment against the deissin, but now Tastis allows it. Corrupt magistrates have been arrested and condemned, deissin have had their goods confiscated and distributed to the poor, usury has been outlawed.”

  “Ai, gods,” Necias murmured. How many of his own allies in Arrandal could survive if those sort of standards were applied to them?

  “He’s done more,” Campas explained. “He’s altered the makeup of the Guilds: now there’s a League of Journeymen within each Guild — policy’s no longer decided simply by the Masters.”

  “Ai, gods,” Necias said again, the full horror of this easily penetrating. The craft guilds were composed of three classes, the Apprentices, Journeymen, and Masters: always power had been held firmly by the latter. This had always been resented by the Journeymen, who were kept on low wages until a Master died and they could fill his place, at which point the Guild gave permission for the new Master to seek contracts of his own. Now, with the Journeymen taking a more active part, they could start demanding higher wages, perhaps even seeking commissions. The entire system would crumble.

  “Tastis has a lot of money now,” Campas explained. “He’s purged some houses altogether, confiscating their goods, and he’s forced other of the deissin to pay heavy fines; he’s also seized direct control of some of the banks. The dole to the poor has been increased, and the rest has been used to recruit mercenaries and pay his militia. He’s got a lot of volunteers for the city forces and the fleet because suddenly the volunteers are making more money than they’ve ever made before.”

  “It can’t work,” Necias said. “Not in the long run. It’s too — too convenient for all these people.” His mind, after recovering its shock, was beginning to work on these little pieces of information, to assemble them into a mosaic; and he thought he saw that some of the pieces wouldn’t properly fit with the others.

  “He’ll bankrupt himself,” he said. “How can he afford all those payments — to the poor, to his militia, to the mercenaries? He can’t keep confiscating the wealth of the citizens, not over and over — he’ll run out.” He gulped wine, then held up a finger to make a point. “And he can’t change the Guild system without debasing their product — it was set up to guarantee the quality of goods. With the journeymen being in competition with the masters everyone will lose; there’ll be too much craft coming out of the city, and too much of it will be poor craft, and prices will be too low to support anyone. He’s depending too much on the small traders. These little diné are too poor to control the big trading fleets the city depends on. He can make laws against usury on loans, but he can’t force the lenders to make loans against their will. The money supply will dry up.”

  “He can keep the bankers terrified, that’s how he’ll do it,” Campas reminded him. “This new system will keep him afloat for a few years, and that’s all he cares about. If he can get a large part of the citizens to aid in the defense of their city, thinking the changes will bring them benefit, then he’ll be able to hold on longer, and any troubles he has can be blamed on us.”

  “All the more reason to crush him now.” Necias frowned. “Before his notions have a chance to spread.”

  Campas nodded. “Yes. Think how Tastis’ ideas might sound to our own poor, to our own journeymen — and for that matter, to our mercenaries. He’s paying his own a lot of bonuses. And however much the flenssin dislike the Brodaini, they respect them as fellow-soldiers; perhaps they’d rather serve soldiers than merchants.”

  Necias heaved himself up from his chair, rubbed his chin briskly, and began to pace. “We’ve got to isolate our prisoners, then,” he said. He turned to Listas and prodded his chest with a stubby finger. “You,” he said. “Get to Tegestu immediately and tell him to relieve the prisoners’ guards with his own people. The Brodaini are to have sole custody, hey?”

  “Y-yes, Father,” Listas said, rising unsteadily. He rubbed his chest where the finger had poked him, then snatched his cloak and made for the entrance to the pavilion.

  “Listas!” Necias bellowed, as another thought struck him. Listas turned.

  “Yes?”

  “Request Tegestu to visit me at his earliest convenience.” He gave a look at Campas. “I want to know what the Brodaini think of this. They might have a notion or two that we haven’t thought of.” He swiveled back to Listas. “Use all courtesy, mind!”

  “Right away, Father,” Listas said, and ran for it. Necias paced silently, his mind working doggedly on the problem of Tastis. Thank the gods Arrandal had won this battle; it would make Tastis’ more faint-hearted supporters fall away and make the others, at least, glance nervously behind them, wondering what might befall them if their side lost — both sides, as all knew, could play at this game of purges. And a lot of Tastis’ best troops were smashed up; that would make his militia wonder if their prowess was as great as Tastis told them it was.

  There was a tramp and jingle of armor outside the pavilion, and the captain of Necias’ guards entered. He was a nephew, the only son of Necias’ brother Castas, who had died keeping the assassin’s dagger away. He was named Acragas Necias, and was therefore referred to as Little Necias, a name Necias suspected he resented, since he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, as tall as his father.

  “Drandor Tegestu,” Little Necias reported, “with his retinue.” Necias nodded, then stepped from behind the screens that divided his private chamber from his public one and received the Brodaini, watching as they bowed in homage. “I trust your people will make their needs known to my servants,” he said as Tegestu rose. “My friend, I need to speak with you.”

  He told a servant to bring Tegestu a stool and then walked with him into the private chamber, seeing Campas rise and bow in the formal Brodaini way. “Tell him,” he snapped at Campas; and the poet nodded and began rattling out Gostu. Tegestu listened in silence, his face impassive, his eyes slitted in thought.

  “Well,” Necias said when the poet was finished. “What do you make of it, hey?”

  Tegestu slowly shook his head. “It is not our way. Very strange.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned to Campas. “May your arm never weaken, canlan Necias, I am sorry that I do not have the words. In our own tongue, this is an-hosta, very bad. Dai-terru, to tamper this way with a governing. It breaks the lines of nartil.”

  Campas took a deep breath and blew his cheeks, struggling with the dismal facts of translation, then turned to Necias. “Disharmonious,” he said. “Tastis has taken too much on himself, to break up authority that way. It is not the Brodaini way.”

  Tegestu seemed to be pondering deeply. “It is very like Tastis, this news,” he said. “He has always been, ah, flexible. Thinks quickly. Ah, improvises very well. Adapts.” He shook his head. “But it is not Brodaini, it is something else. A strange... compromise. I do not know how to think of it.”

  Necias pounced on Tegestu’s words, harsh delight bubbling through him as he saw Tastis’ weakness. “Tastis has compromised the Brodaini way, hey?” he said. “He’s made too many changes, acted too quickly.” He leaned closer to Tegestu, his voice eager. “Will his own people support him in all of this? Or will they think as you do?”

  Tegestu paused for a moment, his deep eyes troubled. Then he looked at Necias and nodded. “Some will not approve,” he said. “But Tastis must have the support of most of the aldran; otherwise he could not proceed in this at all.”

  “Can we work on that?” Necias asked. “Many of his, his kamlissi are divided between Neda-Calacas and Arrandal, with the senior people in Arrandal. Can you urge Tastis’ people, the ones who think as you do, to return to their old allegiance, to yourself and the others of your welldran?”

  “It is — I do not like to break nartil in this way,” Tegestu said, obviously unhappy. “But it is declared angu, there are no courtesies between such enemies. I will do what I can.”

  “Good, good,” Necias said, a grin curling his lips. He reached out a hand and patted Tegestu’s armored knee. “Good man,” he said. He glanced up at Campas.

  “There are other holes in Tastis’ armor,” he said. “The deissin and bankers aren’t without influence, and the flenssin aren’t invulnerable to bribery. All we need is for a small company to take a gate and hold it for a few minutes. Neda-Calacas is composed of two big cities, with four harbors between them; there are lots of places for people to get in and out. A little prearrangement, a little gold, and we’ll have everything but the keep — maybe even that.

  “But we’ll have to move quickly,” he added. He glanced at Tegestu, seeing the old warrior stolid behind his frozen mask of calculated ferocity. “We’ve got to get the army to Neda-Calacas as quickly as we can — force march if we have to. Before Tastis can arrange things to suit his convenience again.”

  Tegestu bowed. “It will mean being less careful,” he said, “but it can be done safely enough. Tastis’ army is not harmless, but he can’t strike us hard, not without new strength from the city. But he will raid us, Abessu-Denorru, and there may be a few surprises.”

  “We’ll take the risk,” Necias said.

  “May your arm never fail,” Tegestu said, and bowed again.

  “Proclamations to the barons — we’ll need those,” Necias said briskly, standing and rubbing his hands. “Tell ’em we’re here, hey, that their rights will be respected, that Tastis is finished.” He reached for the goblet and drank the last of the wine, beaming happily down at Tegestu and Campas, satisfied that things were moving his way at last, that at last, in spite of some nasty shocks, he was beginning to comprehend the flow of events. The Hundred-Year Peace, he thought; he might still be able to salvage it.

  With, of course, the help of a little gold, and a little treason in the right places.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tastis’ forces faded from the ford an hour after Tegestu’s first bridges were thrown across five miles downstream, and though Tegestu pushed Tastis hard the armies of Arrandal never managed to catch their enemy. There were, as Tegestu had predicted, raids here and there, on the baggage trains, on isolated columns; the raids were of mixed success but even the worst did not delay the march.

  Barons holed up in their strongholds were bypassed, but most threw open their gates and welcomed the Arrandalla, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, as friends. The army forged on, presumably to the barons’ relief, until it came to yet another river and another castle perched on a bluff.

  It was troublesome, this little outpost on the West Rallandas. Knowing that their commerce depended heavily on control of the rivers and canals, the cities had conquered and destroyed most of the baronial keeps that could threaten the flow of trade, and the rest had been reduced by treaty or garrisoned by city troops. This small castle was one of the latter.

  There it perched on its rock, right at the curve of the river where it could command barge traffic, a half-bowshot from the principal ford. The West Rallandas was easier than the East; it was slower and shallower and more fordable — but the other fords were not as convenient, and so Tegestu readied his assault on the castle and called on the garrison to surrender. Even if they refused, he calculated, it would not hold for longer than three days.

  If they surrendered he would grant them the honors of war, allowing them safe conduct to Neda-Calacas. If not they would be exterminated, and presumably they knew it.

  An officer in charge announced that he would surrender — Tegestu’s heart eased — but then produced a strange condition. He would give up the keys of the castle to none other than Tegestu Dellila Doren y’Pranoth in person, and only after being allowed to speak privately with him for the space of half an hour.

  An assassin, Tegestu thought, and a clumsy one; but then the officer announced he was prepared to come unarmored and that he would willingly be searched for weapons first. Tegestu thought again. Perhaps, he concluded, this young man was a foe of Tastis; perhaps he was the one the Abessu-Denorru was looking for, the man who would open, in addition to the gates of the fort, the gates of the city.

  And who was the man who made such demands? Aptan Tepesta Laches y’Pranoth, he called from the low battlements — Tegestu realized with a start that this was one of Tastis’ sons. Could a son be a traitor? But neither would Tastis ask one of his heirs to draw an assassin’s weapon: Aptan would be too valuable to throw away on such duty.

  For a moment Tegestu considered throwing his forces against the castle now, hoping to seize Tastis’ son as hostage... he might be worth the losses. But no, he thought; Aptan would have instructions to have one of his men hack off his head before he allowed himself to be captured. The losses would be for nothing. Curiosity gnawed at him — and of course the castle would be surrendered that much more quickly.

  And so Tegestu consented. A canvas awning was set up before the castle, well out of bowshot, and the besieging army withdrew a pace. Under its shade two stools were set. The gates of the castle opened a crack and a man came out — a slender, smiling, good-natured lad, it seemed, walking with open arms to where Cascan and his cathruni waited. The search was thorough, and a little rough: when Aptan walked to his stool, his hair mussed from being unbraided to discover strangling wires, he didn’t seem nearly as cheerful as when he’d first come out of the castle.

  Then Tegestu came out, armored, with weapons ready to hand. His guards halting just out of earshot, he walked to the place appointed: the stools were still three paces apart. They faced one another, and then Aptan bowed.

  “May your demmin ever increase, drandor Tegestu,” he said. He inclined his head, his tolhostu broken by a slight, rueful smile. “My compliments on the efficiency of your cathruni.”