Page 32 of Something Human

“I want to tell you what I said, back there, when I drank the wine. We say—the Luth say—that when you drink, it is an act of worship to Nuthar. Especially when you drink deep. So when you have drained the last drops of your drink, you ask the blessing of Nuthar on someone you desire to bless. Nuthar is the god of bees and honey, but I do not think he would mind being honoured with foreign grapes. What I said was: ‘Nuthar give his blessing to the people of Tios, because they chose the right man to rule them.’”

There was a stretch of silence. Adares didn’t know whether he felt more ashamed or relieved.

“Do you think that?” he said finally.

“I do. I thought I had better mention it, because you will want to tell the Daine who you are, and you need not think you must keep concealing it from me. How do your names go together? Phyleros Adares, is it?”

“We do it—” He had to pause to clear his throat. “We do it the other way around. I’m Adares Doriades Phyleros. Archon of Tios. I lied when I said my job was not interesting. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Rus shook his head. “No. I understand. For yourself, you trust me—but for the safety of your city, you could not afford to take such a risk. It doesn’t matter. I knew the whole time.”

“Did you?”

“Not before you told me that the archon of Tios was young, and you thought he should not have been elected—but as soon as you said that, I knew that you were talking about yourself. It did not seem surprising. And I understood why you were determined to return to Tios, and when I said that I know you will prevent the Daine from attacking the Luth in open battle—I know it is in your power to do that.”

And he knew that he had not been sheltering in the temple complex with some unimportant Phemian administrator; he had known when the Luth warriors arrived with the horses that he could deliver the archon of Tios into their hands if he wanted to. If all he really wanted was an end to hostilities between his people and the Phemians, that would have done the trick.

“You see,” he said, looking away at the path ahead of them instead of at Adares, “I crossed that line you spoke of some time ago.”

And maybe that was true, Adares thought, but somehow he didn’t believe it. He wished he hadn’t mentioned it before.

“There’s something else I ought to tell you,” he said, “if we’re going to meet the Daine together. There’s no fishing village called Ikthyra.”

“Is there not?” Rus looked at him, surprised.

“No. It’s a, uh, naval shipyard. It’s called Naukos West. It’s quite new, not fully operational yet, and not at all where I said the village was.”

“That I did not guess,” Rus admitted. “But I am glad. You were more cautious than I realized.”

“Well, I do sort of know what I’m doing. But now you really do know all my secrets.”

“I will try to be worthy of the honour.” He said it with that feigned gravity that he seemed to use to mask real sentiment, smiling and tossing his hair back over his shoulder.

They rode on to meet the Daine. They found them just beginning to break camp, which was a little surprising since the day was well advanced by then. The disorder was such that Rus and Adares had ridden some way out of the forest before the Daine sentries noticed them and rode out to confront them, spears at the ready. Adares glanced down at the snake on the back of his hand, and across at Rus, with the Phemian officer’s pin in his kilt.

“We must be an interesting spectacle,” said Rus.

The sentries, two red-haired, moustached men in striped trousers, eyed the pair of strangers warily. Adares could guess what they were thinking. The dark young man before them was clearly a Phemian, the one covered in blue swirls clearly a Luth; what could they be doing riding side by side? Both were weaponless (they had left Rus’s spear behind with the dead bull), and the Phemian did not even have a helmet. One of them must be the prisoner of the other—but which was which?

Adares rode forward to meet them.

“I wish to see Baghan Kammel, your chieftain,” he said, in their language, before they had a chance to ask his intention. He had not ridden right up to them to say this, but pitched his voice to carry.

The sentries exchanged a glance. Adares had, quite deliberately, used the familiar form of the chieftain’s name. Whether or not the sentries knew enough about Phemians to know that a black tunic was the mark of their leaders, they seemed to get the message that the young man in black in front of them was someone to be reckoned with. They took him to the chieftain.

Derhent Baghan Arra-Kammel, as he was known to his subjects, was a big, bony man with a cloud of red hair frothing out from under a round fur cap. His victory against the Luth a summer ago had given him a right to call himself the second most powerful chieftain in the Karhan, which he certainly seemed to be doing. To greet the approaching strangers, he sat in state before his tent in a big, winged chair made of gilded wood. He started out of it, frank astonishment in his face, when he saw Adares.

“Lord archon!” He knew the correct Phemian form of address for a man of Adares’s rank, and he used it—but that was as far as his knowledge of the language went. “Has the siege been lifted?” he inquired, in his own tongue. “I heard no word of it!”

“No, Kammel—you’ve heard no word because it has not happened.” Adares swung down off his horse and handed the reins to a waiting squire. He had a sudden, pleasing sensation of being back in the world that he could understand and control; he felt like stretching, with a satisfied sigh. “With your help, I hope it will happen soon—I’ve come to talk over how best to go about it.”

“Splendid!” said Kammel, planting his big hands on his hips and looking sincerely relieved. “Taking on the Luth is no joke—we’d just as soon know what we’re up against. We’ve spent so much time debating the best way to approach them this morning that we’ve barely begun to break camp, as you see. Berhart!” he called to one of his attendants. “Don’t stand around! Bring a seat, and mead—and some food, while you’re at it.” Turning back to Adares, but glancing at Rus, he said, “Your prisoner, I take it?”

“Not exactly—call him an indebted ally.” It was a distortion of the truth, but one which preserved Rus’s honour, suggesting he had not exactly defected to his enemies, not exactly been captured—something in between. Adares knew Rus could understand the exchange, since it had been the Daine language that they had spoken at first, on the battlefield. “I have a plan which involves him. I’ll explain it to you. But first—how much do you know about the Luth attack?”

They talked on. Kammel had heard different reports from his scouts and wanted the details of the battle as Adares knew them; Adares asked how many troops Kammel had brought, and what kind. The chieftain’s attendants hurried up with a wooden folding chair, bowls of mead, and a dish of cold meat and fruit. Adares made Rus sit in the chair, while he perched on the arm of it himself.

“He’s hurt,” he explained to the Daine chieftain, who had raised his bushy red eyebrows questioningly. “He needs to rest. No, don’t bother with another chair—I’m fine where I am.”