“Oh, aye,” Necias said, feeling a laugh bubbling up in him. This would show the other Elva cities that Arrandal was still head and shoulders above them all! he thought. What a lovely coup.

  “Please reward this Ataman for his loyalty,” Necias said. “I’ll support you in whatever you think is appropriate — I trust you in these matters.”

  “I thank you, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. He bowed. “I will begin preparing immediately.” He leaned back. “Amasta is leaving for Arrandal tomorrow,” he said, speaking in a more normal tone of voice — Necias realized the secret part of the conversation was over. “I hope you will receive her before she goes.”

  “I will be pleased to see her,” Necias said, suppressing his reaction to Amasta — a cunning, frigid bitch, he thought, as murderous as Tastis. “She leaves on the tide, I assume?” he asked. “Just after noon?”

  “Aye.”

  “I will see her in the hour before noon, if that is convenient,” Necias said.

  “Aye. I will inform her. She will be honored.”

  “The honor is mine, old friend,” Necias said, his mind still bemused by the prospect of the city delivered into his hands. That would almost force Tastis to negotiate his surrender — he’d have no hope shut up in one of the twin cities, and midsummer not even passed.

  Tegestu tried to come out of his seat to kneel, but lurched forward, his armor jingling, an expression of agony on his face. Alarmed, Necias reached out to support him and briefly took his weight. In spite of his armor, Tegestu seemed light as air.

  “I am sorry, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said slowly, his eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean to...”

  “It was a little slip, Tegestu,” Necias said. “Who doesn’t slip from time to time?” He took Tegestu’s arm and led him toward the pavilion entrance. “You’ll have to take better care of yourself, drandor. Don’t exhaust yourself — you’re too important to us.”

  “Thank you, Abessu-Denorru,” Tegestu said. He seemed steadier now, walking with more confidence. When he came out of the pavilion and joined his escort he could walk unaided.

  Necias watched Tegestu’s torchbearers disappear into the distance, feeling his heart lightening. Calacas in four nights! And without Prypas’ help! It was a lovely prospect.

  His own escort fell in around him and he began walking briskly toward his barge. Luco would need help getting over her upset — nothing like a lusty husband, he thought, to cheer a girl up!

  Calacas, four nights from now, and Luco tonight. He grinned. The population of Calacas would need feeding, he thought, and there was no organization better qualified to feed them than the House of Acragas. For, of course, a reasonable profit.

  But, he thought as he saw the barges ahead, bright with lantern-light, first things first. And the first thing scheduled for tonight was his comforting of Luco. And her comforting of him.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tegestu, contemplating his treacheries, stood in the approach trench outside of the White Tower Gate of Calacas. Behind him he heard the sounds of the assault columns assembling in the dark: the muffled chink of armor, the whisper of officers, the treading of feet on the duckboards. His staff were back some distance in another trench: he’d wanted a quiet look at the enemy gates himself, alone. A dark figure loomed out of the night: Tegestu recognized Cascan.

  “I have placed watchers, bro-demmin,” Cascan said. “They will let us know the second the bridge is lowered.”

  “Very well, ban-demmin,” Tegestu said. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, then chastised himself for it. The night was black — only Third Moon was in the sky, the least of First Moon’s husbands, and there was black, scudding high cloud — but that was no reason to assume that his guards weren’t doing their job. He lowered his voice.

  “Is the hermit in his cell?” he asked. “The hermit” was the code name for his messenger, the young cambranu who had journeyed to the city at night, carrying his words to Tastis.

  “Aye, bro-demmin.”

  Tegestu considered for a moment, wondering if he should change his plan. The cambranu had performed well, and with discretion; it would be reassuring to have such a man on hand if needed. But no: the man knew too much that could be dangerous, a long list of betrayals and crimes. It was unfortunate, but the exchange was fair: one man for a city.

  “Let the hermit drink his cup,” Tegestu said. “See to it personally.”

  “Aye, bro-demmin.” Cascan bowed. He turned, then hesitated. “A favor, bro-demmin,” he said.

  “Speak.”

  “May I inform him of the contents of the cup before he drinks it? I would regret the necessity of sending such a man into Ghanaton without his being prepared.”

  Tegestu considered, then shook his head. “Nay, ban-demmin,” he said. “I ordered the man to make his will before setting out; he should have dedicated himself to Death at that time.”

  “Very well, bro-demmin,” Cascan said. “I understand the necessity.”

  “Perhaps,” Tegestu said, allowing his annoyance to show at Cascan’s presumption. Cascan could have guessed most of what had passed, having provided a young man with passwords to move freely among the lines, then suddenly being ordered to assist in moving the Brodaini forces to the gates of Calacas. But Cascan could not have guessed the why of it, nor the promises he had made to Tastis, or the multiple betrayals of enemies and allies. It was best that such knowledge remain only in Tegestu’s mind — there, and with the dead.

  “See it done,” Tegestu snapped.

  “Aye, bro-demmin.” A bow and Cascan was gone. He would see the poison in the man’s evening drink, and watch while the messenger drank it. Half an hour afterwards the man would sleep with his ancestors and the blessed gods.

  The death of a loyal, brave man; another treachery laid to Tegestu’s account. Ah, he thought, this is an infamous thing I am doing. I am glad the night is black, to shroud my shame.

  According to the emissary, Tastis had been surprised to hear that Tegestu wished command of only Calacas, rather than accepting Tastis’ full offer of both the cities. But after Tegestu had assured him that he would never surrender the city to an outside overlord, Tastis had agreed swiftly enough — happy, Tegestu supposed, to retain supreme command over at least one city.

  Two runners came carefully through the darkness of the trench.

  “Bro-demmin drandor, a message from bro-demmin Grendis. Her party is ready at the Gate of the Outer Harbor.”

  “Very well.”

  “Bro-demmin drandor, a message from bro-demmin Acamantu. The barges are secured and await your signal.”

  “Very well. Thanks to you both.”

  Tegestu felt relief slip into him. The long line of supply barges moored along the canal were the key: with them, Tegestu could feed his army in Calacas for as long as a year, longer if Tastis actually left him part of his own supply, which was promised in their agreement but which he was inclined to doubt.

  The tramp of feet in the access trenches died away. The columns were in position.

  Tegestu leaned against the wall of the trench, seeking its support as he stood in the darkness and contemplated his treacheries. They were his alone; he had consulted no other, not even Grendis — all was on his head. Was he ar-demmin, as bad as Tastis? Or worse, since he was betraying a lord who had behaved toward him only with honor and decent intentions?

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of self-reproach. It was too late: the decision had been made. He could always claim that he had been pushed by circumstance.

  It bothered him that he would have to claim anything at all. Actions, he thought, should be clean, unambiguous, like a swordstroke — they should serve as their own justification.

  He jerked his head up as he heard the sound of a distant trumpet. Then there was the booming of a drum, then more trumpets. Tastis’ sortie had come crashing against the men of Prypas. He knew that the sortie would not fare well; Palastinas had “suggested” to the Prypas commanders that they stage an exercise in repelling a sortie; and Tegestu had also made a private suggestion to Tanta that he take the exercise seriously indeed — neither Handipas nor Tanta were the sort to take a suggestion like that lightly.

  Another treachery, Tegestu thought; this time he had betrayed Tastis’ sortie.

  The distant sounds of battle did not entirely hide the sudden clack of slipping pawls, and Tegestu’s heart leaped as he realized that the drawbridge of the White Tower Gate was coming down. Victory! he thought.

  No, not victory, he corrected. Only the start of another war.

  The scouts reported back as ordered, though their messages were redundant by the time they arrived. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, and they had heard the hoofbeats as Tastis’ remaining gate guards ran for the Long Bridge to Neda. Tegestu gave heartfelt thanks to the gods, then walked down the trench to the roof dugout where his staff waited.

  “Send to tell ban-demmin Grendis I will send in my assault columns,” he said. “Ban-demmini, we may begin.”

  The first column, spearmen in light armor, began their race through the assault trenches: Tegestu could hear their drumming feet through the earth. They were under the command of Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu, the young captain who had so distinguished himself fighting Tastis’ raiders weeks ago, before the battle at the ford; they would enter the city at the run, turn left, and make a dash to raise the water gate blocking access to the barge train. There would be other obstacles as well, no doubt, cables stretched across the canal and so forth, and Dellila and his people would have to remove these.

  After that, Tegestu knew, his people would be safe. For at least a year, until requisitioned food ran out.

  Tegestu heard the reverberating sound of the spearmen’s feet on the drawbridge. The leaders were already in the city.

  The second column came dashing out of the trenches. This group, heavily armored men with rhomphia, would secure the gate itself. After that the entire Brodaini force, every one of them, including the Classani and their Hostli men of business, all their tents and supplies and baggage animals, would begin to file into the Calacas, and Tegestu’s banners would be raised from every tower.

  Messengers began to come back to the bunker, reporting gates seized, towers occupied, palaces overrun. There was no resistance in the silent city: Tastis’ soldiers had crossed the bridges into Neda. Any left behind would be spies, and they would not be seen, not yet. And then at last the message came that Tegestu had been waiting for:

  “Ban-demmin Dellila reports the water gate has been seized, and cleared of obstacles.”

  Tegestu allowed himself a smile. “Order ban-demmin Acamantu to bring the barges into the city.”

  “Aye, bro-demmin.”

  “Send a message to our fleet commanders. Tell them scarlet tide.”

  “Aye, bro-demmin.” Scarlet tide was the code word to bring the galleys under Brodaini command into the now-secure outer harbor of Calacas. Once there, they could be protected by a cable stretched across the harbor’s mouth.

  “You have the messengers to Amasta, Astapan, and the north standing by?” Tegestu asked.

  “Awaiting your command, bro-demmin.”

  “Send them.”

  Amasta, commanding now in the Arrandal keep, would receive word of his actions before the two days were out, thanks to a fast twelve-oared dispatch galley with the new fiono sails. Amasta had already been warned, orally the night before she left, to move as many supplies as possible into the Brodaini quarter and to be prepared to cut herself off from the rest of the city; she had also been told to prepare orders informing the Brodaini forces on the islands and in all the provinces to return to garrisons and shut themselves in.

  Amasta, like the others, had not been told why. No doubt she, like Cascan, had drawn her own conclusions.

  Astapan, the drandor of Prypas, would also have the news, and be able to make what preparations he could. Other fast dispatch boats would be running north before the wind, carrying Tegestu’s messages to the other Brodaini aldrans-in-exile. Tegestu could not command them, but he hoped they would make preparations to protect their folk if the Elva wished to make this a cause for a war of extermination.

  “We will move our command post to the White Tower Gate,” Tegestu said. “Leave an officer here to direct any further messages.”

  Tegestu felt a thrill as his foot touched the drawbridge, knowing he was stepping, though no one but he knew it, onto his own land. Sovereign Brodaini territory, here on the southern continent, subject to his own aldran, flying his own banners. For what lesser prize, he thought, would a man of demmin risk so much, and betray so many?

  He climbed wearily up one of the towers that guarded the gate and then stepped into the guarded walk, seeing the slate roofs of Calacas below him. Our city, he thought fiercely. To replace Pranoth, and all that we have lost. Pray the gods our betrayals will not curse it.

  “Send for a messenger,” he said. “Make him one of those Cascan has trained.” Cascan’s scouts and spies were trained to memorize oral messages swiftly, and repeat them without flaw.

  The messenger, a young woman hardly more than a girl, came onto the battlements and bowed. “A message to bro-demmin Tanta Amandos Dantu y’Sanda,” he told her. “Give him salutations, and my wish that his arm never weaken. Remind him of the conversation we had while watching Second Moon, and say that it would be wise for the Brodaini of Prypas to meet the morning under arms. Say that it would be unwise to move from their camp. Say that bro-demmin Tanta would be wise if he were to obey his canlan, General Handipas, and all their commands. Say also that he is wisest of all if he does not alarm Handipas or any of the Elva men in the next few hours. Repeat this, ban-demmin.”

  The girl repeated it flawlessly. Tegestu smiled and sent her on her way.

  Perhaps, he thought, Tanta will forgive me this. If not, my house has made an enemy it can ill afford.

  The messages continued to come. Tegestu looked down at the drawbridge, seeing the long files entering the city, burdened down with their baggage. How much more lightly would they step, he thought, if they knew they were entering their own nation?

  A messenger had come. “A message from bro-demmin Acamantu. The barges are all in the city, and the gate is down.”

  Slow triumph filled him. “Give ban-demmin Acamantu my thanks,” he said.

  “There is a herald, bro-demmin,” said one of the officers. “He comes from Necias, who wishes to know if we have yet entered the city.”

  “Let him come.”

  The messenger, fortunately, was the poet Campas. He bowed, Brodaini style, and looked up with a smile he could not entirely conceal beneath his attempt at tolhostu. “I see Calacas is ours,” he said. “Necias will be overjoyed.”

  “Aye. I have taken the city as planned,” Tegestu said. “I will have a message to take to you in a few moments. Please wait in the tower, ilean poet.”

  Campas bowed and withdrew. Other messengers came and went: it seemed now that all the city was secure. Below Tegestu heard the hollow drumming of hooves on the bridge as the last few baggage animals came into the city.

  Cascan came next. “Bro-demmin, the hermit has had his supper,” he said. “His guards have his body below.”

  “Give him to the chiefs of his kamliss,” Tegestu said. “Tell them he has gained much demmin by his death, in a service we cannot name. He should be buried with much honor.”

  “Aye, bro-demmin.” Over Cascan’s shoulder Tegestu saw the tall form of Grendis walking from the tower, and was ready for her message.

  “I have three emissaries from Tastis below, with their escort,” Grendis said. She leaned near Tegestu’s ear. “They say they wish to discuss the merging of his aldran and ours.” Her voice was emotionless. She assumed, then, as well as Cascan, that he and Tastis were now allies, and her voice carefully reserved judgment.

  Tegestu gave a short, bitter laugh. Grendis looked at him with surprise. “Did they come under spear of parley?” he asked.

  “Nay, bro-demmin. Their spears were not reversed.”

  “Our rebel cousin forgets himself,” he said with another laugh. “Please discover these messengers’ names, and write them down. Then separate their heads from their shoulders and give their heads to me, so I may give them to the ilean poet Campas to present to our lord Necias. Their bodies, along with a written admonition to Tastis concerning the rules of parley between enemy camps, should be thrown across the Great Bridge to the gates of Neda.”

  Grendis and Cascan stared, all tolhostu forgotten. Tegestu looked at them both deliberately, holding their eyes. “Did you think I was a traitor?” he demanded. “Did you think I acted without the knowledge of our lord? See that my will is carried out!”

  “Aye, bro-demmin!” Grendis said with a swift bow. Her step, as she ran for the tower door, was lighter... she, too, had judged his treachery blacker than it was.

  There was the sudden clang of weapons below, but it lasted only a few seconds. A moment thereafter Grendis was back, carrying a dripping net of heads, their eyes staring horror and surprise.

  “Send for ilean Campas,” Tegestu said.

  The poet arrived and bowed. Tegestu saw his eyes go to the net of heads, and then swiftly away.

  “Please present these heads to the Abessu-Denorru, ilean Campas,” said Tegestu. “They are the heads of messengers Tastis has sent me. Their names are on this list — they are not unimportant people, I think.”

  Campas gave the heads another glance. He took a moment to master his distaste, then bowed. “Necias will be grateful, bro-demmin Tegestu,” he said.

  “I hope this may be so.” Tegestu looked at the poet for a moment. He was almost the ideal messenger, he thought, and thanked the gods for sending him. He spoke.

  “There is a message of great importance to be sent with these heads, ilean,” he said. “Tell our lord Necias that the aldran of Arrandal thanks him for the city of Calacas, which he has given us.” He saw Campas blink in surprise, and the faces of his officers suddenly fill with astonishment and joy. “Tell him,” Tegestu continued, “that the Brodaini of Arrandal continue ready to make war on Tastis and all his rebel hosts.” He leaned closer to Campas, emphasizing his words clearly. “Tell him,” he said, “that it shall never be the Brodaini of Arrandal who break the bonds of nartil and courtesy that exist between a canlan and his subjects!” His tone softened. “We shall hold all his words in honor,” he said carefully, “even if it is not possible for us to obey them all. Do you understand my words, ilean?”