Liar's Oath

Chapter Twenty-six

Luap had no idea what to expect from the Khartazh ambassador. Seri and Aris had described the soldiers and their captain in terms of weapons, and tactics. To his questions about what they wore, and what they looked like, they’d returned doubtful answers. “They’re all sunburnt, of course,” Seri had said. “Very brown.”

“I think it’s their natural skin,” Aris had said. “Not just the sunburn. Perhaps a natural protection.” Both had had much to say about the soldiers’ gear, the use of headcloths to keep the sun from their helmets, the small, light horses they rode, the very different shape of their bows . . . but he had gained no insight at all into the men themselves. Nor had Seri been able to describe their language. She and Aris both were quick-tongued; they had learned the horse nomads’ difficult speech with ease, and would no doubt learn this before anyone else, but she had spent the past hands of days in the west, with the Khartazh soldiers: she had not been back to teach him what she had learned. He would have to rely on her and on Aris for translation.

Although the captain Seri and Aris had met had told them it might be easily six hands of days before an ambassador would come (“at your convenience” Luap recognized as a term of courtesy, not a reality), in fact he had appeared in less than four. The earlier decision to allow Arranha and the Rosemage to go wandering off to explore the gray mountain now seemed less wise; Luap did not expect them back for days yet. In the meantime he was having to meet a royal ambassador alone, without their help, and it bothered him. He knew it had been his decision to let them go, but he had to fight off the temptation to blame them anyway.

He wished he knew more about protocol in royal courts. His was not, of course, a royal court, but the ambassador represented a king. He ought to show some magnificence, he thought. He had decided to offer the man a chance to rest and eat, if he wished, before their meeting; it was what he himself would want, after a journey up the canyon. He had a chamber prepared, with what luxuries they had brought, and hoped it would do. He had a sinking feeling that it would not.

Seri and Aris, in Marshal’s blue, escorted the ambassador from the lower entrance to that chamber by a route that did not take him past the kitchens. One of Aris’s prentices ran by the shorter way to let Luap know the man was inside.

“And he has moustaches down to here,” the boy said, excitedly. “And four servants with boxes and bags and things, and—”

“Did you hear whether he would eat and rest, or whether he wished to meet at once?”

“He was glad of a chance to rest, I think. I can’t understand his talk, but Seri and Aris seem to. Aris said he’d come talk to you in a little while.”

Luap waited in his office, forcing himself to do necessary copywork to stay calm, until Aris appeared.

“Seri’s staying beside the door,” he said. “He’s happy enough to rest first; he’s used to riding wherever he goes, and that climb up into the mountains tired him. We should build a horse trail there, he said. I’d agree; if we ever want to trade, that would make it easier. He didn’t think much of our horses when we got to them, but he rides well.”

“What’s he like?”

Aris shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We barely understand each others’ words; I think the captain we learned from has a different accent. He’s very polite, but then that’s what ambassadors are: it’s his duty. He talked about some kind of demon that used to live in these mountains, but also about those who built the stronghold. They knew it was here, I think, but were afraid of something if they tried to come. Brigands, possibly; the captain said robbers had been in these mountains forever.”

“I wish I could speak their language. It’s awkward—”

“Perhaps not. He can’t understand us, either. And misunderstandings can be laid on the language problems, not on any ill will.”

“Do you have any idea what he wants? Why they sent an ambassador now, rather than letting that captain you met come talk to me?”

“If I understood them, they would consider that disrespectful. Once the captain had agreed that we weren’t demons of some kind, he seemed to think we were something more than human. He would not dare, he said, to—I think the word means ‘insult’—you by coming himself, when at the very least you should be welcomed by a royal ambassador, if not the king.”

“What did you tell them about our settlement?”

“Not much—we’re still learning the language. We tried to tell them that we had come from far away sunrising, and we had to travel by magery, not overland. That we lived in a great hall carved in the stone, and were friends of those who built it, not invaders.” Aris looked doubtful. “I know that’s not all the story, or exactly what you would have said, but it’s the best we could do.”

“That’s fine—it may make us sound grander than we are, but that has its advantages. We don’t want to be anyone’s conquest.”

“That’s what Seri said, sir. Today, riding up the canyon, we could tell he was impressed, as much by the children playing in the stream and the fields as by the fields themselves. ‘Is it safe?’ he kept asking. ‘You have not been attacked?’ We said no, not by any worse than brigands, and his captain could tell him how we dealt with brigands.”

“Good. We want peace with our neighbors, whoever they be. But trade could not hurt us, either.” Luap stretched, easing tight shoulders. “Do you know anything of the way they spend the days? Would it be better to meet in the morning or evening?”

“I would think morning, not too early. Perhaps after an early breakfast?”

“Very well. I’d like you and Seri both to be there.”

Luap chose to receive the ambassador in the great hall, where he had had two chairs and a table placed near the dais. The banner Dorhaniya had embroidered hung behind it. He awaited the ambassador in his Marshal’s blue, which the Council had agreed he should wear even though his title was Archivist, not Marshal. He had shaved his face, since Seri reported that the captain had not had a beard, but the soldiers did.

Aris’s messenger had brought word that the ambassador was on his way, and had withdrawn hastily. Luap’s heart pounded; he felt a great weight on his shoulders. If he failed, if this man became an enemy, all his people would suffer. He turned to the doorway, struggling to appear calm. A moment more . . . then Aris paused in the door, standing very straight. It had not occurred to Luap before just how impressive a man he had become.

“My lord . . . the Khartazh ambassador.” Or how formal; in Aris’s deep voice, that sounded as courtly as anything he’d ever heard, and his bow was as smooth as if he did it every day. He said something in a foreign tongue; Luap assumed he was repeating his announcement.

The ambassador came through the door, and seemed to freeze in place an instant, his eyes roving up and around. Then he bowed very low, spoke, and waited in that position for Aris’s translation. “Great prince, it is an honor . . .”

“We, too, are honored,” Luap said smoothly. “Will you come forward and take a seat?” Seri, not Aris, translated for him. He was surprised; had they worked this out between them? The ambassador looked paler than he had expected, and almost frightened. What had he thought he would see? He himself noticed the long moustaches, the face otherwise cleanshaven except for a tuft at the chin, the hair hidden in an embroidered cap. He was not quite Luap’s height, and his build was impossible to determine, robed as he was in richness that reminded Luap of the wealthiest mageborn women. Layer upon layer of cloth, slashed and puffed, embroidered and decorated with chips of shell and polished wood . . . he rustled as he walked forward, then bowed again. But for all that, his eyes were shrewd, the eyes of a man used to judging others. They were a strange golden-brown Luap had not seen before.

Luap waited another moment for the man to seat himself, then realized why he would not: he, Luap, was assumed to have the higher rank here. Slowly, as if that were part of his own protocol, Luap stepped back and seated himself. Slowly, eyes watchful, the ambassador sat in the other chair. Aris moved to stand at the ambassador’s right hand; Seri came to Luap’s. In the doorway, the ambassador’s servants knelt, laden with their boxes and bags. The ambassador spoke again, looking at Luap. Aris translated: “I have brought gifts from our king, not worthy for one of your rank, but we beg you will accept them.” The ambassador gestured, as if for permission, and Luap nodded. The servants came forward on their knees, and once in the hall began laying out an array of gifts.

A length of glowing scarlet cloth, edged in gold, tossed out to lie fanlike on the stone floor . . . a wide collar of black fur . . . a set of small pots of brasswork, with brilliantly enameled lids . . . a wide silver tray, on which a servant heaped mounds of preserved fruit, and smaller mounds of spices so pungent Luap could smell them from his seat. A belt of scarlet leather, stamped with gold sunbursts . . . matching scarlet gloves, deeply fringed with a gold sunburst on the back of each hand . . . and tall scarlet boots, stitched in sunburst patterns; the tops turned down to dangle tiny gold disks from them. Luap could not imagine how one could ride or work in such boots—they must be intended for ceremonial occasions. Finally, with a musical ringing, the eldest servant drew from its padded bag a necklace of many gold links and pendants, and laid it carefully on the black fur where it showed to best advantage. Luap tried not to stare like any farm child, but found it difficult. And what could he give in return? He had expected an exchange of gifts, but nothing like this. He had a few things from Dorhaniya’s house that she had left him, but nothing so grand.

He nodded, smiled, and said “Our thanks for your graciousness; your people’s workmanship is remarkable.” That was too flat; he hoped Seri’s command of their language was equal to improving it. He waited while she translated, then heard the ambassador answer, then finally heard Aris’s translation of that.

“Prince, we are relieved to find you accepting these few gifts, all we had time to collect. It is the king’s hope that you will grant us your blessing—” Aris looked uncertain; he turned and asked the ambassador something in his own language. Finally he resumed. “—the favor of those we think may be more than human, if not the gods themselves.”

Luap had the uneasy feeling that he and Aris had both misunderstood something. But he went on as best he could. “We, too, would offer your king what trifles we have . . . nothing to equal this magnificence, but tokens of our friendship.” The ambassador listened to Seri’s translation of that with close attention; he seemed to relax a bit, and offered a tentative smile. Luap sat back in his chair, and sent Seri to fetch the gifts he’d made ready.

These she lay on the table between the two men. Luap himself unwrapped and displayed them—he hoped this would be taken for honor, not weakness. A sea-green bowl, in which Dorhaniya had once kept dried rose petals, filled now with the precious selon beans Eris had given him, a blackwood bow, and a richly decorated sword, part of the spoils of Fin Panir, which no Marshal would carry because of its origin and decoration. Luap had always enjoyed looking at it, but had to agree that it was better to look at than use.

The ambassador’s eyes widened; he stared at the sword. “And the horse you rode yesterday,” Luap added, “if it pleased you.” Seri translated; the ambassador gave Luap a desperate look, then stood, his rich clothes rustling, and grasped the sword. Aris and Seri stared at him, both alert but unmoving. Luap wondered what he had said wrong. The ambassador said something that sounded formal, drew the sword quickly, and held it poised for an instant. Luap had that moment to think he was being attacked before the ambassador plunged the tip towards his own body.

“No!” Luap yelled, grabbing for the sword. Decorative it might have been, but it was sharp; it cut his hand to the bone. Aris and Seri tackled the ambassador and wrestled the sword away; Luap squeezed his wrist with his good hand and wondered what had gone wrong. Blood soaked his best gray trousers and splattered the floor; he could not wipe it up without letting go his wrist. He had bloodied the ambassador, too. . . .

“Sir!” The young men Seri had been training crowded the door. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Luap said through clenched teeth. His hand hurt more than he would have thought. “Help Aris with the ambassador—and don’t hurt him. He wasn’t after me; he was going to kill himself.” In a few moments, two solemn young men were holding the ambassador, an easy task since he did not struggle. Seri had the sword; Aris came at once to Luap and took his hand.

“I can heal this,” he said, with a sideways look at the ambassador. “Should we have him taken away?”

“No. Let him see.” Whatever had gone wrong, Luap sensed, would not be made worse by a show of power. With Aris holding his arm, he dared to look at his hand. Two fingers dangled by a shred of skin; he saw bone and tendon laid bare.

“It’s all right,” Aris said. “Just relax—” Easy for him to say. Luap thought—but he knew better. He leaned back in his chair, trying to relax, and let Aris work. The pain eased; he felt something tickle his hand, a feather-touch on the palm. When he looked again, his hand looked almost normal, if pale: the long gash was closing smoothly. It made him dizzy to watch; he looked past Aris to Seri.

“Do you know what happened?” She shook her head, and said something to the ambassador, whose reply was long and broken as she asked questions repeatedly. By the time she turned to him, Aris had released his hand; he felt no pain, and it looked normal except for the blood on his skin. The ambassador, he saw, was staring at it, wide-eyed; the man’s servants had all put their foreheads on the floor.

“I think he thought you wanted him to kill himself,” Seri said.

“What?”

“He keeps saying, ‘He gave me the sword and told me to ride away.’ ”

“But that’s not what we—what I—said.”

“I know. But it’s what it means to them. I think.” Seri sighed, smoothing her tumbled hair. “He says if a king gives a servant such a sword—not a soldier’s sword, but one with gold and jewels—it means the servant has displeased his lord and should kill himself. He was not sure that’s what you meant, since you are not of his people, but the gift of the horse made it clear, because where could he ride that horse from here but to the afterworld? There is no trail back to his land.”

“But I said the gifts pleased me,” Luap said. “Isn’t that what you told him?”

“I thought so.” She asked the ambassador a question, and listened to his reply. “Yes, he heard that, but thought it was a joke—sarcasm. You liked the gifts so well you told him to die.” Luap thought about that. What kind of people would think that way? Did he want to befriend people who thought that way?

“Tell him,” he said carefully, “that among our people we do not make such jokes—we do not lie about things like that. The gifts pleased me. And among our people the gift of a sword is a gift of trust. Do you think he will understand that?”

“I hope so,” Seri said. She talked, and the ambassador spoke to her, and she talked again. Luap watched the servants, who knelt motionless all this while. What kind of people had such servants? Abruptly, the ambassador yanked his arms free of the two young men, as if they had not been holding him at all, and threw himself at Luap’s feet. All down his back, Luap saw, his outer robe buttoned with tiny black buttons . . . he realized the man could not reach those buttons himself; he could not get dressed without servants. Luap looked down; the ambassador had taken his boots in his hands and was kissing them. He felt sick.

“Tell him to rise, and sit in his chair,” he said to Seri. He could feel the hot flush on his cheeks. “Does he still think I’m angry?”

“He thinks he’s disgraced his king, and will bring war on his people,” she said, before speaking again to the ambassador. This time he rose, shook himself to resettle his clothes, and sat once more in his chair, his hands linked in apparent composure. Those strange amber-yellow eyes stared at Luap as if trying to penetrate his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, directly to the ambassador. “I am not angry with you. Please do not injure yourself. As you can see, I am not hurt.” Bloody, yes, and confused, but not hurt. “Please ask your servants to rise; I will have someone show them where to take the gifts.”

Seri translated that, and the ambassador spoke a few phrases to his servants. They set to work repacking the gifts, without looking up. The ambassador continued, speaking slowly, and waiting for Aris to translate each phrase. “It is my shame. It is my mistake. Do not be angry with my king. Great lord, let your vengeance fall on me, and not on my king. Great prince, your wisdom excels all; be merciful.”

Luap put out his hand; the man flinched but did not pull away when Luap touched him. “Do not fear. I am not angry.” He smiled, and thought of a joke of Gird’s. “Don’t worry: when I am angry, you will know it.” Seri gave him a look, but translated that. The ambassador blinked, and stared, and then essayed a tentative smile. “That’s right,” Luap said, as he would have encouraged a frightened child crossing the rapids.

The ambassador spoke again, this time more fluently. “He asks about the healing,” Seri said. “And perhaps I should have told you before, but Aris healed a soldier: the captain may have mentioned that.”

“Tell him we have various powers, but this we consider the gods’ gift,” Luap said. The man listened to Seri, and made a curious but graceful movement with his hands as he spoke again.

“He says his king would be honored by our friendship,” Aris said. “But, sir—there’s a problem with that word. The captain told us there were different words for friends—if I understood him—according to rank and intention both. I’m not sure what this one really means.”

Luap smiled at the ambassador again. “I’m not sure we need to know at the moment, and any kind of friendship is better than war. Tell him I wish to bathe and change, and have the blood cleaned up; perhaps he would like to rest, or walk outside, for awhile, and we can meet later.” This suggestion, translated, seemed to calm the man more than anything else. He rose, bowed deeply again, and seemed rooted to his place. Luap finally realized he was waiting for the “great lord” to leave first. He was afraid to insist on anything else, for fear of causing another dangerous misunderstanding.

Even a bath and a change of clothes did not completely dispel his shakiness. Seri had evidently assigned her entire group of trainees to help him; one of them took his blood-stained clothes away to wash, and two more hovered outside his door, eager to help with anything he could imagine. He asked for something to eat, and got a tray of bread, sliced meat, and fruit. While he was eating, Aris came in.

“Seri or I will stay with the ambassador until we’re sure he’s not going to hurt himself,” Aris said. “He seems better, but—”

“He scared me,” Luap said. “I never saw anything like that.”

“You saved his life,” Aris said. “We were impressed.” Luap found himself smiling. “You never saw me in the war, did you? I spent most of it as Gird’s scribe, but he trained me, and his training stays.” He looked at his hand. “And I’m glad you were here, Aris; I’d have lost those fingers. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“Saving him?”

“No. Talking to him at all. Making agreements, or thinking about it.” Luap shook his head. “What kind of people can they be, to take a gift as a command to kill themselves?”

“It’s the language problem,” Aris said. “He seemed nice enough, on the way in. We just didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand us. What did you think of his gifts?”

Luap looked at the bundles piled in the corner of his office. “Gorgeous, but the Marshals back home wouldn’t approve. Those boots—!” He had a sudden urge to look at them again, and bent to unroll the bundles. “And this fabric—it must be the same stuff as Dorhaniya’s dresses . . . silk, I think she said.” He felt the scarlet material; it slithered through his fingertips like water, smooth and cool and slippery. “Look at it.”

“Mmm.” Aris touched it, then stroked it. “Lovely feel. They gave us clothes like this the first night we spent with them, only in gray and white. This would make a fine tunic for Midwinter Feast.”

“Only with a fur undershirt.” Luap found the boots, gloves, and belt curled together. He tried a glove, and found it short in the fingers, made for a stubbier hand than his. “Can you imagine what the Marshal-General would say if I wore these in Fin Panir?” The boots, he could see, were also too short. He shook them; the gold disks chimed softly together. But the belt almost fit; he could punch another hole in it. It looked garish with his gray and blue, he thought, but against the red silk it looked perfect. He laid the leather things aside, and found the little sacks of spices. “I’ll have to take some of these to Meshi, the next time I go back to Fin Panir. I had no idea they had such spices out here.”

“I wonder if that’s where ours came from,” Aris said, frowning. “The spice merchants rarely say.”

“Still hoping for a land route? I suppose it’s possible. But until we can talk to these people and be sure we understand what they say, we can’t know.” Luap sniffed the sacks, one after another. “I’m sure this is one of the spices she uses with peaches and pears both. I wonder if she’d come out here, even for a short while, and teach our cooks.” He rummaged again, and came up with the little brass pots. Set in a row on his desk, they looked like a set intended for some purpose. Each had a slightly bulbous bottom, eight delicate ribs, and a flat lid. The brightly enameled lids, in blue and white and red, fit snugly, but Luap pried them up. Inside, the pots had been enameled in a dark but brilliant blue. The largest would hold perhaps two handfuls of grain; the smallest perhaps five pinches.

“They would store spices,” Aris pointed out. “I’ve always seen spices stored in boxes, but boxes let in damp.”

“I wonder if the designs on the lids mean anything.” Those swirls might be letters or symbols, he thought, but in no script he knew. “I suppose we could ask the ambassador, first making sure he had no weapon at hand.” Almost before he knew it, he had found the leather sacks of preserved fruits, and dipped into one. It almost melted on his tongue, a confection of honeyed fruit and spice. “Try this,” he said to Aris, offering the sack. “Whatever it is, the merchants in Fin Panir would pay dearly for it.”

Aris tasted the sticky brown lump and his face changed. “Anyone would. I can’t imagine what it is.” He began picking up the many little sacks and sniffing them. “Here’s another—no—it’s not the same. This is plums, I’m sure.” Together they explored the contents of each sack with the slightly guilty pleasure of children rummaging in a pantry.

“I suppose these should go down to the kitchens,” Luap said finally. He and Aris looked at each, then both burst into laughter.

“Not until Seri’s had a taste,” Aris said. “And then I think I might classify these fruits as medicinal. At least until we can figure out how to make them.”

“You’d better go relieve Seri, then, before I lose all self-control and gobble the lot of them. What I should do is take a sample to Meshi—if anyone can figure out how to copy them, she can.”

Aris left, grinning, and said he’d send Seri down; Luap decided he might as well unpack the rest of the presents and figure out where to put them. He had laid out the fur collar on the back of one scribe’s chair, the silver tray on his desk, and had the gold necklace in his hands when Seri appeared in his doorway. He grinned at her.

“Did Aris tell you about the honeyed fruit?”

Seri gave him a look he could not quite interpret. “Yes . . . he said I should come taste it. That’s—what are you going to do with that?” Luap looked down at the necklace.

“I don’t know. I can’t wear something like this. Perhaps the Rosemage can. Or perhaps we can use it for trade in your town.”

“No, we can’t do that. They’ll be upset; it’s the king’s gift. Although you could sell it in Fin Panir.” She looked thoughtful. “Although I don’t think anyone in Fin Panir could afford it.”

“Tsaia, then,” Luap said. He let the necklace slide through his hands onto the silver tray, and picked up one of the sacks of fruit. “Here—smell this, then taste it.” Seri sniffed, then poked in a cautious finger.

“It’s sticky.”

“Yes, and it’s delicious.” He watched as she tasted it, but to his surprise she didn’t react as he and Aris had.

“It’s too sweet; it’d be better spread on bread.” She didn’t taste the others, but did approve the spices, and looked at the set of pots with interest. “Those could be signs from their script,” she said. “I haven’t seen much but the captain’s watch list and the book we mentioned, but the shapes are similar. Fat and thin squiggles, it looks like to me, but I daresay that’s what our script would look like to them.”

“While you’re here,” Luap said, “Can you start telling me about their language? Even a few words would help.”

“We started on that back in the town,” Seri said. She fished out a grimy scrap of parchment covered with tiny script. “Aris and I used this for notes—it’s fairly hard to read, but I can copy it for you.” Luap cleared the scribe’s desk and chair for her, and decided to have the gifts carried up to his own quarters to get them out of the way. The youngsters were glad to do that, eager to handle things that had come from outsiders.

Luap made sure the ambassador was given the choice of eating in his guest chamber, or with the others; he chose to eat alone. Manners, thought Luap. We’ve already discovered that we don’t have the same manners, and he doesn’t want to offend. Luap himself took the note Seri had made and started trying to learn a few words of the Khartazh tongue. He went out in the early afternoon, walking up and down the path reciting to himself. Words were easy; he’d always had a quick ear, so calling a horse a pirush didn’t bother him. Seri had marked multiples: one pirush, two pirushyin. He practiced counting: not one or two pirushyin, but nyai pirush, teg pirushyin. The sounds felt strange in his mouth, as they had felt strange in his ears when the ambassador talked. But the structure of the language defeated him. He knew the language of the mageborn, which they thought of as Old Aarean, and the language of the peasants, which they called Speech. In between was the bastard tongue each race spoke to the other, now called Common. Each had its own ways of saying things, some easier than others. But this—this language seemed to make everything difficult. Seri had given him eight ways to say “Please come in”—not just a ranking from simple to ornate, but completely different words. Even the simplest greetings varied widely with the relative ranks of the speakers.

Thinking about the formality of the language, and what Arranha had told him about the Old Aareans, Luap decided that the Khartazh must be an old and very complex society. They would not be the same as the Old Aareans, but surely any old, complex civilization would have some attitudes in common. They were rank-conscious: that much was clear from Seri’s first reports, and the language confirmed it. Wealth he could judge from the gifts he’d been sent, and attention to detail by the fine craftsmanship. They might or might not have magery—the ambassador’s response to the morning’s excitement could be taken either way—but they feared demons and had gods they respected. Arranha should have been here, he thought. Arranha would know how to interpret what they’ve already said and done.

He knew he could not wait for Arranha or the Rosemage. However the ambassador interpreted the morning’s events, those amber eyes had been shrewd. The man would observe closely everything he saw, and report all of it. The longer he thought about the implications of that gold necklace, the silk, the heaps of spices, the set of pots, the more Luap worried that the Khartazh was more than it had seemed to Seri and Aris. What did they know of empires? He himself had read everything in the royal archives; he had listened to Arranha and Dorhaniya; he knew what Seri and Aris could not, how empires dealt with small princedoms on their flanks.

And it had been going so well. Why, he asked himself, couldn’t the Khartazh have been some petty dukedom, no worse than a—a Marrakai? Why did it have to be what it so clearly was: a mighty and ancient empire, wealthy and sophisticated? And why did the ambassador have to come while the Rosemage and Arranha were off somewhere in the wilderness? He knew the why of that: he had agreed, in the certainty that nothing was going to happen until fall. So he would have to deal with this ambassador himself, and somehow convince the man that the mageborn were worth befriending and far too powerful to attack.

By late afternoon, he was ready to try again; he inquired and found that the ambassador had rested, eaten, and was willing to see him once more. His people had managed to get the bloodstains out of his good shirt and trousers, and get them dry again. His Marshal’s blue tunic, so much thicker, had not dried; he put on one of the tunics Eris had made him. Remembering the ambassador’s elaborate clothes, a length of brocade from Dorhaniya’s dress could not be too formal. He wondered if he ought to wear the red leather belt, but decided against it; he had chosen his tunic for its color—the nearest to Girdish blue possible—and thought the belt looked garish with it.

This time, without the awkwardness of the gift exchange, things went better. The ambassador too had changed clothes; Luap realized that his blood must have splattered the ambassador’s robe as well. Now he wore an over-robe of glistening black. Luap hoped it didn’t portend anything dire. The ambassador bowed repeatedly on entering the room, but once he sat down seemed more relaxed. Luap knew he might be misreading the man’s face, but hoped a smile meant the same thing for both of them.

To put his visitor at ease, Luap suggested, through the translators, that the ambassador might want to ask questions—some of which, he admitted, he might not be able to answer. The ambassador stroked his long moustaches and blinked. Then he said something which Aris translated as “Is this formal or informal?”

Luap thought about that. Either answer might be wrong, and give offense, but he had to answer. He turned to Seri. “Tell him it is informal, that I would not require formality from one to whom all our ways are strange.”

The ambassador responded with a bow from his seat, and more apparent relaxation. “We are honored to be accepted without formality in your hall,” was Aris’s next translation of the ambassador’s words. Before Luap could consider what that might mean in light of what he’d said, the ambassador went on, speaking in short phrases and waiting for Aris’s translation. “It is clear that your people have many powers. Our king asks if you come in peace.”

“Yes,” Luap said, nodding. “We do not love war, though we are not without warriors.” He hoped that would deter any aggressive tendencies; he watched the ambassador’s face closely during the translation and his response to it.

“So our captain said.” The ambassador let his eyes rest on Seri and Aris, one after the other, as Aris translated. “In our land, powerful lords rarely take the sword . . . it is common with you?”

Powerful lords—did that mean him, or Seri and Aris, or all the mageborn? “All our folk study weaponlore,” he said, remembering Gird’s sayings about peace and war; he paused there to allow Seri’s translation to catch up. “We find it the best way to keep peace.”

That earned a blink; the amber eyes narrowed, then relaxed. What he had said had gone home; he could only hope it was in the right target.

“Your folk did not build this hall?” was the next question.

“No,” Luap said. “We are—” He had no word for it, really: they had not been given the hall, nor were they renting or borrowing it. “The builders,” he said, “were our friends.” That ought to make it clear: they had not built it, but they had permission to be there.

The ambassador sat straighter, if possible. After a long pause, during which Luap tried to think what he could have said wrong, the ambassador slid a thick gold ring off his finger and placed it on the table between them. Luap looked at the ring, and then at the ambassador. Was it a bribe? Another gift? A threat? A promise? The ambassador simply stared back at him. Finally Luap spoke.

“Your customs are different.” He listened to Seri’s words, which seemed a lot longer than that, and fretted at the need for translation. The ambassador looked anxious as he heard his version, then spoke again.

“He says that this ring is only a sign—a token—and that one more suitable will be brought later.” A sign of what? Luap wanted to say. Aris went on. “He hopes you will permit the king to continue as your trusted steward. If you take the ring, he expects that you will not invade or use magic against them; if you refuse, he thinks you will conquer the Khartazh by force.”

Astonishment swamped all other feelings, followed closely by triumphant glee. He had done it; he had bluffed an old, rich, empire into thinking itself menaced. But none of that must show, he felt the years of work with the scribes taking over. Blandly, almost casually, he said, “Tell the ambassador that I have no need for kingship of the Khartazh; his king may rule in peace. But I wear no man’s ring—” Some memory of the horse nomad’s ceremonial rings for Gird at his death came to him, and he held up his hands, thumbs upward. “—my thumbs are free.”

Seri gave him a startled look before she began translating; the ambassador received those words with outward rigidity. Luap could tell he had made an effect. He felt another burst of satisfaction. Perhaps he was only a king’s bastard, whose years in a palace had been far in the past—but it came back to those for whom it was natural. He was the prince, a true prince, with all the royal magery and the gift of command. He belonged here, dealing with a royal ambassador; he did not need the Rosemage or Arranha after all.