“1 am listening, ban-demmin,” she said. Brodaini manners, always abrupt and arrogant between strangers.

  “I am ordered to inform you, ilean Ambassador,” Dellila said, “that negotiations will shortly begin between the Brodaini of Calacas and the Brodaini of Neda. Bro-demmin Tegestu hopes that you will be able to attend the negotiations in the same capacity you served in the late talks between the Elva and the Brodaini of Neda.”

  Fiona felt her heart sink at the words. Tegestu and Tastis in alliance: she had always dreaded the possibility. It was one thing to know that two or three hundred years hence the Brodaini would have been absorbed by the Abessla, or become so like them there would be little or no difference; it was another to be confronted, in the now, with the possibility of civil war in every Elva city as the united Brodaini tried to avoid extermination, and warred to exterminate their enemies in turn.

  “I shall have to consult my superiors, ban-demmin,” she said. “I can give you no immediate answer.” But she knew how Tyson would rule: the Igarans were attempting to establish principles of strict neutrality, which meant assisting negotiations between any governmental entity. But, Fiona thought firmly, she wasn’t going into those cities without better protection than she currently possessed. Tyson knew how Kira had died: she was certain he’d agree.

  “May I ask the ilean Ambassador when she will have her answer?” Dellila asked.

  “Tomorrow morning,” she said. That would give her time to prepare, to strengthen herself for this meeting with the enemy. She turned to him. “Part of my function in the other negotiations,” she said, “was to keep a third copy of any proposals or treaties in my own language, to refer to in case of disagreement between the parties. Will you require my assistance in this fashion?”

  “Bro-demmin Tegestu says, respectfully, that you will not be needed in this regard,” Dellila said. “We do not have the problem in translation, you see.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  Suddenly Fiona remembered where she’d heard Dellila’s name before. He was a hero, she remembered; he’d rallied a few villagers early in the war and exterminated a whole squadron of Tastis’ murdering raiders. Now, perhaps, he’d be warring on the same side as the prison scrapings Tastis had taken into his service. What would he think of that, allying with such refuse? She cocked an eye at him, seeing his stolid, scarred, arrogant face... damn these people, she thought angrily, they never smile.

  “Can you present yourself at the White Tower Gate at noon tomorrow and give us your answer, ilean Ambassador?” Dellila asked. He had turned to face the half-circle of mercenaries, the bearded faces with their cruel smiles; his voice was pitched for Fiona alone. “If your superiors give you permission to observe the negotiations,” he said, “we request that you bring clothing and anything else you may require, as you will have to stay in the city at least one night.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “Have you any questions ilean Ambassador?” he asked, turning to her.

  “Yes,” she said. “What are the negotiations about?”

  She caught a tight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I have no idea, ilean Ambassador Fiona,” he said. “They wouldn’t tell junior whelkran like myself. I just obey orders.”

  “I see. Well. I’ll be at the White Tower Gate tomorrow, noon, and give you your answer.”

  “Thank you, ilean Ambassador.” Dellila bowed again, then straightened into an arrogant, iron-spined pose and paced toward his escort. They closed in behind him as Dellila walked toward the grim wall of cavalry, refusing to slow his long strides. The lancers opened a way reluctantly, then closed behind him like a living gate. They moved off together at the walk, the lancers keeping their horses on the heels of the Brodaini party, testing their tolerance, obviously hoping they could provoke them into a fight.

  Leaving one figure behind: Campas in his mail shirt, leading his horse. “Necias wants to see you,” he said. She nodded.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  She began her walk down the riverbank path to Necias’ barge with Campas, leading his horse by the bridle, walking beside her. He looked at her curiously.

  “What did they want?”

  “They wanted me to attend some negotiations Tegestu and Tastis are conducting.”

  Campas blew his cheeks in surprise. “Necias won’t be happy,” he said. “Will you do it?”

  “I have to. I’m supposed to be neutral in this war.”

  Campas raised his head to look toward where Necias’ banners were waving above his barge. “Are Tegestu and Tastis allying against us?” he asked us.

  “I don’t know. I suppose they’re at least talking about it.”

  He looked at her with slitted eyes. “Can you keep us informed of their discussions?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You know I can’t.” She saw his troubled frown and reached a hand out to touch his wrist. “I may be in the city for several days. Can you come see me tonight?” she said. “After midnight sometime; I’ll have business until then.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I can come.”

  “Good.”

  Necias’ guards saluted her with their pikes, then escorted her to where he waited on his settee, his fingers drumming on its arm. Campas followed her into the room, not having been told to stay out.

  “Ambassador,” he said. His smile seemed strained. “Sit down. Have some tea. Wine if you prefer.”

  Necias seemed shrunken: Fiona knew he’d been under strain in recent weeks, ever since the negotiations with Neda had begun to go sour. There had been too many demands: the Neda-Calacan Government-in-Exile had wanted safety for their kinfolk in the cities, even at the expense of giving Tastis much of what he wanted; the other Elva ambassadors had insisted on a position of no compromise; Handipas had argued for one thing or another, less for reasons of conviction than to make himself an important part of the proceedings. In the end both sides had been far apart; they had presented irreconcilable ultimata to one another and retired to their lines to wait.

  To wait for what? Fiona had wondered at the time. For Tastis and Tegestu to be driven farther together, perhaps, by the Elva’s inability to agree on policy.

  In due course Necias asked her what the Brodainu had wanted, and Fiona, having no reason not to tell him, gave him an exact record of the conversation. Necias seemed surprised.

  “They haven’t cautioned you concerning secrecy?” he asked.

  “No. Maybe they wanted you to know.”

  Necias frowned as he considered that possibility, then nodded. “That’s likely,” he said. “They may be trying to put pressure on me.’’ His blunt fingers thumped several times on the arm of his settee.

  “They don’t realize,” he said, speaking more to himself than anyone else, “my hands are tied. The Elva can’t agree, and if I make any more proposals without their united backing they can refuse agreement and leave me hanging.” He gave a cynical smile. “That’s what they’ve been wanting all along, and I won’t let them. I can’t move in any direction without their agreement ahead of time.”

  “I’m sorry, Necias Abeissu,” Fiona said.

  He looked up at her suddenly, the smile turning sober. “Tegestu is making a mistake if he’s thinking of allying with Tastis,” he said. “That’ll unite the Elva all right, and I won’t be able to stop them from butchering every Brodainu they can find. I hope you’ll find a way of telling that to Tegestu.”

  “If you give me a commission to tell him that, I will,” Fiona said.

  “You can’t do it unofficially?”

  She smiled. “I will, Abeissu, if I can. But as far as unofficial messages go, I can’t make promises.”

  Necias nodded. “Your word that you’ll try is good enough for me, Ambassador.”

  He rose ponderously from the settee, the stoutly-built furniture creaking under his weight. “Thank you, Ambassador, for your candor,” he said. “I’m afraid I have business to occupy me for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Fiona was quick on her feet. “I understand, Necias Abeissu. I’ll see myself out.”

  He gave her a careful embrace, as if he was afraid she might shatter in his arms; they said their farewells. Fiona returned to the sun, Campas following quietly. He turned to her, his blue eyes solemn.

  “If the other Brodaini ally with Tastis, that will destroy him,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s how Necias will be remembered, the man who let the mad-dog Brodaini into our cities. The Elva might not be broken, but it wouldn’t be his Elva any more.” His eyes returned to the barge. “He knows that. He also knows he’s run out of choices. He’s got to sit here with his army and take whatever comes. And the rest of the Elva are gloating over it; he knows that, too.”

  “Come to my tent,” Fiona said. “We’ll drink a bottle of wine together. After that I’ll have to talk to my superiors, and tell them what’s just happened.” She looked at the horizon, seeing the Brodaini flags dotting the grey walls of the cities. She took a deep breath. “And then I’ll have to get ready to ride into the city tomorrow. And I don’t want to.”

  He reached out to take her hand. “Maybe your people will say no,” he said.

  She shook her head, saying nothing. At least, after midnight, he might provide her a little comfort, something to remember as she journeyed toward the enemy walls of grey, implacable stone.

  CHAPTER 26

  Tegestu gazed at the sculpted profile of his wife’s face, silhouetted as it was in the pale radiance of the predawn light that glowed through the leaded windows of their bedchamber. He knew he would have to rise shortly: there was much to accomplish today, before the hostages took their walk to captivity across the Neda Long Bridge. The captives, with Tegestu’s wife Grendis among them.

  The decision had been made coldly. Tastis had offered Aptan, his son, one of his welldrani, and another important member of his coalition of clans. Tegestu, with the limited personnel available, had to make a comparable offer. Besides himself, Tegestu had two members of his family with the army: Grendis and his son Acamantu. Acamantu commanded a mixed brigade and was expendable enough in a purely military sense, but Tegestu wanted to keep him safe: he was part of the new generation, having spent most of his life in exile. He was able to deal with the Abessla on a more familiar basis than were his elders — Acamantu would, Tegestu concluded, be indispensable in the coming years, when existence would depend on understanding the Abessla and living alongside them in... in whatever new relationship came out of this war. Tegestu did not wish to sacrifice the future to the ravenous demands of the present.

  Cascan was present, another welldran, but he was head of the spies, assassins, and secret agents: he knew too much to be risked in enemy hands.

  Grendis, Tegestu had concluded, would have to be one of the hostages. She was both family and a welldran; she commanded the light cavalry brigade and the mounted scouts, but the army would shortly be without its horses and her job could in any case be handled by someone else.

  One of the hostages had to be Grendis: she was the only logical choice.

  It had been a heartbreaking decision. For Tegestu’s plan to succeed, it would require, almost certainly, the sacrifice of all the hostages.

  And furthermore the hostages could not be told of their upcoming sacrifice: they would have to walk to their deaths, and the most convincing way of walking to certain death is not to know that death is at the end of the trail.

  Tegestu watched as Grendis shifted under the coverlet, a pleased sigh escaping her lips. At the simple, homely sight, the sight that as boy, man, and elder he had seen on the neighboring pillow for fifty years, Tegestu felt his heart begin to shatter. A few lives, he admonished himself, and the war could be over, if he had calculated aright. Any Brodaini was committed, from birth, to sacrifice his life in the name of his kamliss: there were no exceptions, least of all from sentiment.

  Madness, he thought.

  No, not madness. Only logic. We will terminate the war, and the Brodaini will survive in this land. What sacrifice would not be worthy of that goal?

  Silently he watched her sleep, cherishing the sight, the curve of her cheekbone, the arch of her throat.... It was, perhaps, the last time he would be blessed with the sight. Impulsively he reached out to embrace Grendis and kiss her. She smiled sleepily, her hands reaching out for him, and her eyes opened drowsily, then widened as she saw his intent look.

  “Yes?” she said.

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. She touched his long unbraided hair and smiled.

  “I’ll be well, my love,” she said. “Tastis won’t dare harm me. We have both been hostages, at one time or another; this will be no different.”

  “If something goes wrong, today or tomorrow,” Tegestu said, “stay with Fiona if you can. She might be able to protect you.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he hadn’t been able to keep the urgency from his voice. She nodded. “I’ll remember,” she said.

  Tegestu had given her all the warning he dared. He closed his eyes and committed the project to the gods. Let her be safe, he thought fiercely. Let me not be the means of her death.

  You have known all along, an inner voice told him, that this might become a possibility. That you might have to order her to her death. Why have you denied the truth so long?

  He clutched Grendis’ body desperately and held her to him. She returned his embrace, her cheek against his. Remember this, he commanded himself. You can never forget this.

  Long moments passed; Tegestu, at last, forced himself to relinquish her. She kissed him again and smiled. “Shall I ring for our dressers?” she asked.

  “Not yet. A little while yet.”

  She smiled indulgently. “Of course.” He took her hand, and they watched one another in silence. The smile remained on Grendis’ face and in her eyes.

  The light entering the windows was brightening; Tegestu willed it to halt. What remains to be said? he thought. That you have guarded my back these long years, and that now I must refuse to protect yours? That for reasons of cold policy I must sacrifice you?

  Cold policy, he thought: it has ruled our lives, both our meeting and our ending. It is the code we live by, that we all are ready to be sacrificed when policy demands. I have lived my life by that code: the gods help me, I cannot change.

  The dawn, resisted hopelessly, came; and the moment of touching was over.

  CHAPTER 27

  Did Kira take this path? Fiona wondered. Did Kira’s heart so thunder with fear as she rode to the gate?

  Nonsense. Kira had not ridden; she had come as Fiona had come to Arrandal, by barge. She swallowed, trying to still the fear that trembled in her limbs, and rode through the herds of Brodaini horses that were grazing outside the moated walls. She carried the Brodaini spear of parley, a short weapon with the haft painted white and the point reversed. Those of Tegestu’s men who guarded the horses against a raid, heavy cavalry with their lances at the ready, had apparently been warned about her approach: they gave her stern glances but made no move to interfere.

  She was dressed simply in her privy-coat with the hood pulled tight around her face, a pair of trousers and a belted tunic pulled on over it. Clipped to her belt were her recorder, her spindle, and a pistol she had asked Tyson to deliver the previous night. It was more powerful than the needle she had in her wrist; and furthermore a pistol was a weapon she could aim. It was also safe: the holster was attuned to her body and mind, as her privy-coat was tuned, and no one else could use the weapon. She had ridden out of camp just after nightfall, heading several miles south of the perimeter to a clear area in the middle of a farmer’s stubbled, harvested field; there, fully aware of the cloaked scouts that had followed her out of camp in order to make certain she wasn’t meeting the Elva’s enemies, she’d planted a homing device in the dry, dusty soil, retired a cautious few hundred feet, and waited for the message tube to spit out of the heavens. The tube took only a few moments to cool, then she extracted her pistol and heaved the tube up onto the saddle in front of her. Afterwards, riding back, she’d flung the tube into the flowing Neda. The scouts had made no comment. When she returned, Campas was waiting, crouched by a watchfire outside her tent.

  The White Tower Gate loomed before her. She wondered why it was called that: it seemed as grey as the rest of the walls. Perhaps it had once been white, before generations of chimney soot had blackened it. The drawbridge over the moat-canal was down, the fanged portcullis raised. Through it she saw the towering form of Dellila, seated atop a huge dappled horse and surrounded by an escort of bannermen. Fiona raised the spear of parley and urged her horse to a trot.

  The hooves drummed on the planking of the bridge, echoing hollowly from the brackish canal, and then the shadow of the tower fell on her and she was inside. She saw a pleased smile on Dellila’s scarred face as she reined in.

  “Bro-demmin Tegestu will be gratified by your presence,” he said. “With your permission, ilean Ambassador, I would like to escort you to where the hostages from Neda will be quartered.”

  She gave a nod, Dellila turned his horse, and with the escort of bannermen following in behind they began to move off through the cobbled streets.

  The buildings were tall and narrow, as they were in Arrandal, and as in Arrandal the city was composed of rings of interlocking canals edged by narrow cobbled paths that were squeezed in between the canals and the peak-roofed buildings of grey stone. There were three rings of inner walls, some showing sign of hasty repair but all as grimly functional as the current outer wall. Many of the bridges had key parts removed, with a drawbridge built to span the gap; all bridges were guarded. To take such a city by storm, she thought, would be almost an impossibility: an attacker would have to progress by short leaps across canals, under fire from the high buildings that overlooked the battle. No wonder that months ago the Elva forces had settled down to a siege rather than accept the huge casualties that would result in any attempt to storm the walls.