Necias’ fevered pacing was interrupted by a scratching at his door. He gave the door an annoyed glance.

  “Who is it?”

  “Luco. I brought fresh tea.” The answer brought an unconscious smile to Necias’ lips.

  “Come in.” The girl slipped in, carrying a brass teapot and fragile silver cups balanced on a tray; she gave Necias a brief, dazzling smile, carried the tray to the low inlaid table set between Necias’ settee and Tegestu’s low stool, and set the tray down.

  “Thank you,” Necias said. “You might ask the servants to bring glasses for the tea. Brodaini prefer to drink tea from glasses.”

  “Do they? I’m sorry.” She was a slim, delicate, pale-gold creature, his newest wife, the daughter of his old friend and ally Fastias Castas. She straightened and walked to him, reaching out to brash an imaginary bit of fluff from his broad shoulders. “I’ll bring some myself,” she said.

  “You couldn’t have known, hey?” She leaned forward, her cheek on his doublet-front. He touched her hair, smelling the perfume rising from her. She hugged his massive body and Necias felt, in spite of his anxiety, his response beginning to stir.

  “Can’t I stay?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a Brodainu scottu.”

  He frowned. She was insecure, new to the partillo and her sister-wives, uncertain of her place; he seemed to have to reassure her constantly.

  “Brito is hostess, you know that,” he said. “And don’t call a Brodainu a scottu, it’s impolite.”

  “Yes, Necias,” she said, with a petulant sigh.

  “You can watch Tegestu enter the audience chamber from the balcony of the partillo.” His arms went around her. “It’ll be politics, anyway,” he said. “Boring for you, hey?”

  She raised her head, straining up on her toes to kiss him. There was longing in the kiss, and desire; he responded instinctively, giving her the reassurance she wanted. The reassurance went both ways, he knew; he was over twice her age and it was gratifying to know he was himself still desirable.

  Luco’s green eyes slid deliberately to the settee by the table.

  Perhaps he allowed her too much, he thought; he was scheduled to sleep with Argo that night, and she would be right to resent...

  He wondered if there was time. Luco’s face was flushed; her hands slid over his doublet as she took pleasure in the power she had to arouse him. Necias decided there was time.

  His burly arms swept her from the floor; she laughed, her arms going around his neck. There was a childish pleasure in her laugh, and a childish kind of triumph. He bore her to the settee, burying his face between her neck and shoulder, inhaling the perfume of her pale hair. She was perfectly shameless, his latest wife, afraid of nothing, laughing in defiance of convention. He adored her fearlessness, recognizing something of his own younger self in it, but he recognized as well the danger of her, that he might all too easily let this become obsession, forgetting his other wives, his many responsibilities — yet the knowledge of the danger was itself arousing. Luco had given him much when she’d entered his life: a sense of youthfulness he had largely forgotten, the sense that every day held adventures, that every change was not an ominous portent of decay. Certain conventions could be sacrificed for this.

  But not all. Brito, his first and senior wife, would still play hostess to Tegestu. It was not to be forgotten that he owed her as much, if not more.

  *

  The palace of Acragas Necias sprawled over most of a city block in one of the newer quarters of the city, with a water gate that permitted access by the Acragas merchant fleet to the warehouses that fronted the canal. The bulk of the palace was constructed of the grey stone brought from inland and then fronted with brick. The brick was chiefly a dull red, but was patterned with sun-yellow and pale blue in geometric designs: Arrandal was famous for its brickmakers and the best was displayed in the Acragas palace, the patterns complimenting the architecture, accenting and commending the design, pleasing but not dominating the eye. Chimneys, twisted and ornamented, curled skyward; stone beasts, both natural and mythological, peered from the gables and gutters and the panes of glass cast inward light that was stained with the colors of the rainbow. Nine hundred people lived within its sprawling confines: the Acragas family, their servants, employees, and guests; fifteen hundred worked daily within its walls.

  Tegestu and his small escort were led from the water gate through courtyards of increasing size, each guarded by a brick-fronted tower, each decorated with carvings of stone and embellished with ornate clocks. The palace as it stood was not defensible against a skilled force — Brodaini could take it in an afternoon — but it was proof against the usual threat, a city mob, and a few weeks’ work could transform it into a respectable fortress. The outer layers were guarded by flenssin, mercenaries in gaily-colored, arrogant costumes that contrasted vastly with the tall, brawny Brodaini in their simple, purposeful military dress. The inner courts were guarded by junior members of the Acragas family who had the duty in rotation; their armor fit badly and their stance as they carried their pikes and great two-handed swords was awkward.

  Word of Tegestu’s prompt arrival had been passed ahead, and Necias was there to welcome him in the vast audience hall, his clothes adjusted and the crumbs of tea-cakes brushed from his doublet-front. Necias glanced up at the balcony of the partillo, seeing five of his six surviving wives leaning over the rail, including Luco in her green gown. He seemed to sense a flash of indignation in Luco’s eyes at being dismissed to the company of her sister-wives, and he smiled a satisfied smile at the remembrance of pleasure. Then the trumpet calls began, sweet, ornamented, echoing from the high groined ceiling, and the Brodaini delegation strode in.

  Necias had cleared most of the usual loiterers and petitioners from the hall as a compliment to Tegestu; there were a few high-ranking members of beggru Acragas, the trumpeters in their gallery, a handful of messengers, and the guards spotted at the entrances — these, and the wives at the partillo rail, were all. The enormous room, usually thronged with people, was almost empty — all this in courtesy to Tegestu, a symbol of the Brodainu’s importance in that Necias had cleared away his other business.

  Despite the years of cooperation between them and a frequent exchange of messages, requests, and commands, Necias saw Tegestu only rarely in person, and then chiefly on ceremonial occasions. Their tasks had been carefully delineated: Necias concerned himself with broader policy, and Tegestu with military security. The Brodainu rarely had reason to leave his keep, and Necias had less reason to enter the Brodaini quarter — perhaps because of this, perhaps because of the special tension between them, Necias felt an increasing apprehension as Tegestu approached. He felt, with a certain awful clarity, the fact of the Brodainu’s alienness, his utter lack of civilization, his fanatic contempt of life. Tegestu was old, over seventy, thin and seemingly frail; yet he walked with rigid, disciplined martial vigor; his belt weapons rode easily at his side, where he could snatch them at need. The lack of ornament in his dress and armor spoke of an overwhelming concern for the functional, with which the elaborately curled, dressed ringlets of his white hair contrasted weirdly — to Necias an almost psychotic contradiction. The alert, arrogant, expressionless countenance the Brodaini assumed in public — the mouth tightened to a grim line, eyes intent and restless, head held high — seemed, for a frightening instant, the face of a dangerous madman, a murderous fanatic and a conscienceless killer.

  No. Necias thought, rejecting the fear. Tegestu is no less human for all his strangeness. I can comprehend him if I try.

  And then the Brodaini were across the long hallway, the trumpets were crying their final triplets, and the five warriors came down to one knee and bowed their ringleted heads.

  “Rise, friend Tegestu. Rise all, loyal friends,” Necias said. He had always been embarrassed by the Brodaini insistence of rendering him homage, as if he were some half-civilized baron from the outback receiving a delegation of his shepherds, but he knew they thought it necessary and he’d long ago resigned himself to the sneers of his political enemies — “old Necias preening himself among his worshiping flenssin.” His usual style was to receive his visitors in one of the smaller anterooms, rise from amid his staff of secretaries and mounds of papers to give the visitor a roaring embrace, and then carry on his business while coping with a good many interruptions — but the Brodaini expected something more formal, if not majestic.

  Do the Brodaini greet visitors with trumpets? Necias suddenly wondered. Or do they use them only in war? Do they call their vassals “friend?” Have I been offending them all these years without knowing it, skating on the edge of their tolerance?

  The thoughts brought a hesitation to his usual decisive, noisy manner. “Come, Tegestu,” he said. “You and I must speak, hey. Your men, ah...” He slowed as he observed that one of the Brodaini was female. “Your soldiers will be entertained here. Ahastinas,” he turned to his steward, “call the musicians for our guests.”

  “Thank you, cenors-stannan,” Tegestu said, and bowed. Necias gestured to his secretary and interpreter, the poet Caltias Campas, a tall dark man with a cynical smile and a way with the ladies, and led Tegestu into an anteroom, hearing behind him the rattle of armor that marked another obeisance. He had probably just been rude again.

  He opened the four-inch-thick door and led his party inside. Brito, standing by the teapot, curtsied as her husband and Tegestu entered. Necias nodded abstractedly in reply, and then to everyone else’s surprise Tegestu dropped to one knee in a bow fully as elaborate as that he’d given Necias.

  Fortunately Brito responded well. “Rise, enventan, you do me too much honor,” she said. “Would you like some tea, my lord, or cakes? We know Brodaini prefer a special diet; these are made to a Brodaini recipe.” Necias looked at Brito with relief as Tegestu clanked to his feet. Luco would have smiled, giggled probably, but would never have recovered as swiftly. Brito was his cenors-censto, his most honored wife and official hostess; she was also his first wife, and had shared with him the long rise to power, and many of his confidences. She was a thin, hard, plain-faced woman of sixty, two years older than he; she possessed a cunning on which Necias had learned to rely, and an anildas, a desire for display and property, that would have done credit to a man.

  “Cenors-stannan does me too much honor,” Brito said again, correcting him gracefully as she poured tea into a glass. Cenors-stannan was a masculine appellation — Necias remembered, from his attempt to learn Gostu, that Tegestu’s language did not distinguish between the sexes in regard to titles, but rather between degrees of respect.

  “I am stansisso Brito, if you please,” Brito said. “Will you take honey or sugar?”

  “No, thank you, stansisso Brito,” Tegestu said formally, with a bow.

  They took their tea and sat, Necias semi-reclined on his settee, bolstered by soft cushions, Tegestu lowering himself onto one of the small, three-legged stools the Brodaini seemed to prefer — because they were so uncomfortable, Necias had thought at first; but then he realized that however uncomfortable they were, for a man wearing a full suit of armor to sit on anything else might be positively painful.

  Campas, the poet, sat in a stiffbacked chair that had wide arms on which he propped his pen and pad. He dressed strikingly in black, his clothing unornamented, presumably the better to stand out in a crowd. Despite his affectations Necias had employed him for ten years now, since he was a youngster, for Campas was a brilliant linguist who, at Necias’ bidding, had first lived among the Brodaini to learn their tongue and ways, and had done so with considerable success.

  Brito placed a plate of tea-cakes by each elbow and quietly slid from the room after assuring that, if anything were needed, they should simply ring. Tegestu almost jumped up again for a formal bow, but Necias saw Campas make a quick gesture that halted the impulse, and Tegestu simply bowed from his seated position.

  “My friend,” Necias said, after a brief silence in which he waited for Tegestu to volunteer to speak, “I have received a communication from Neda-Calacas. I require your assistance.”

  “Cenors-efellsan,” Tegestu said, “I shall help where I can.”

  Campas’ pen scratched on his pad as he kept the minutes in shorthand. Necias glanced at him, then at Tegestu. He knew the Brodaini preferred direct speech, and he usually tried to provide it — he was known as a direct man anyway, for an Arrandalla — but there was a question that demanded an answer, and the question was ugly: “Tegestu, under what circumstances would you kill me and take the city?” He would have come to the question indirectly; and even then he might be giving deadly insult.

  “Campas, read the letter,” Necias said. They would start with the text and go on from there.

  Campas produced a ribboned scroll and read it aloud. There was little detail concerning the actual capture of the twin cities; the rape of Norvenan and Nadielas’ failure to provide satisfaction was given as a justification; most of the message seemed to be a plainly-stated wish for amity between the cities, mixed with a formal application for Neda-Calacas to be allowed to remain in the Elva vor Denorru-Dorsu.

  “A bad style, on the whole,” Campas volunteered, rolling up the scroll. “There are a few minor grammatical errors characteristic of the Brodaini. While it is possible that this was written by a very literal-minded scribe to a Brodainu’s dictation, the evidence suggests it was written by Brodainu. Very little care appears to have been taken in its style or its calligraphy; and that would suggest it was written in haste, or by someone unfamiliar with Abessla writing.”

  “Thank you, Campas,” Necias said. He reached for a tea-cake and nibbled it gingerly, wary of his teeth, again waiting for Tegestu to volunteer information; when Tegestu did not, Necias finished his cake and spoke.

  “Tegestu, this communication is quite extraordinary. What has happened in Neda-Calacas is without precedent.” Necias groped for a way to approach the problem, his thoughts spiraling into one another. Under what circumstances would you take the city?

  “Is this possible, Tegestu?” he asked. “Did Tastis take Neda-Calacas because one of his women was attacked?”

  There was a moment of silence. Campas’ pen stood poised for the reply. “It is possible,” Tegestu said. He spoke Abessas with slow precision. “It is the reason Tastis has given you. He is a clever man. He would not give a frivolous reason for this kind of behavior.”

  Necias’ head spun. A city for a woman — for some insignificant mercenary female. I can understand this, he thought insistently.

  “I have been assured — I have always assumed,” he began uncertainly, “that Brodaini loyalty was unconditional. That obedience was a hallmark of the Brodaini character.” Tegestu’s eyes blazed, and Necias almost stopped. He felt the touch of fear on his heart. …I am insulting him, even with this indirection! he thought. But he had to know.

  “How can this be, friend Tegestu? I do not understand. I wish to understand.”

  “You are our canlan, our lord,” Tegestu said. His glare was fierce, aroused. “We obey you.”

  “Tegestu, understand me!” Necias said. “I am not questioning your loyalty. I wish to know how such a thing can be. How can a people so devoted to loyalty rise against their, their canlani?”

  Tegestu paused, his eyes falling, his frown tightening. “We obey nartil, Abeissu Necias,” he said. “It is our law: it demands obedience and respect. We serve our lord, and he aids us by giving us a place, by making it possible for us to exist, for allowing us to care for our dependents. Do you understand me, cenors-efellsan?”

  “Yes, my friend.” Nodding. “I understand this.”

  “But nartil is not simply obedience. It is respect. It cannot go one way only. We obey and respect our lord, but he must respect us, as we respect our servants. If our lord does not hear our just requests, if he treats us as if we were ar-demmin — I am sorry, but there is no word for this in your language — then he has violated nartil. He has not fulfilled his obligations.”

  “Ah,” Necias said. “It is like a contract. You are saying that Neda-Calacas did not fulfill the terms of its contract with Tastis, hey?”

  “It is not a contract. It is nartil.”

  Necias looked helplessly at Campas for assistance. Campas’ pen halted on its pad.

  “Cenors-stannan, perhaps we ought simply to accept that Neda-Calacas did not live up to its obligations,” Campas said, “and that Tastis saw this as justification for rebellion.”

  “Is this understanding acceptable to you, Tegestu?” Necias said.

  “I understand this as approximation,” Tegestu said. “It will suffice for present understanding. I wish to correct a statement you made earlier; it is not I who claim Neda-Calacas failed in its obligations; I do not know this. Tastis claims it, in his message.”

  Necias blinked. “Very well,” he said. The point seemed insignificant, but Tegestu seemed to be attaching an importance to it. Was Tegestu disassociating himself from Tastis’ actions? He made a mental note to ask Campas afterwards.

  “Is it possible,” he began again, “for Brodaini to take offense at their lords’ actions, and to attack them without warning? Without a notice to the effect they were displeased?”

  Tegestu’s answering silence was prolonged, and then he turned to Campas and spat out rapid-fire Gostu until Campas waved his hands helplessly to signal the Brodainu to slow down. Tegestu began again, Campas nodding, his pen scratching on the pad as he made notes. He turned to Necias.

  “Cenors-stannan,” he said, “it seems there is an aesthetic principle involved.”