For Tremaine at least the wait had been excruciating, but she had known it would take some negotiating for the other Syprians to let more of the Ravenna’s crew land. She didn’t know how convincing Ilias and Giliead and the others had been, but at least nobody was pushing catapults out onto the docks. The god’s visit to the Ravenna might have had something to do with that.
It had appeared first on the Sun Deck, badly startling the refugees and crew who had gathered there for a view of Cineth. Niles and Gerard had arrived immediately and with them Tremaine had followed the god on its brief tour of the ship. It had visited the ballroom with the spell circle that allowed the ship to create etheric gateways; ignoring the strange symbols of the circle painted onto the marble tile, it had seemed more interested in the crystal light fixtures. It had finally ended up in the room outside Ixion’s cell, sparkling around the door as if it knew what was inside but either couldn’t, or chose not to, cross the wards.
Captain Marais had come down to look at it in consternation. “What does it want?” he had demanded. “And what is it, for that matter?”
“It’s just curious,” Tremaine had told him, aware she wasn’t quite answering the question. They knew Arisilde had some kind of connection with the god, either before or after he had been trapped in the sphere. When the sphere had been stored at Coldcourt, it had influenced her writing without her conscious knowledge, sending her images of Ilias’s and Giliead’s experiences from this world. Arisilde could only have gotten that information from the Syprian god, though they still had no idea where or how he had come into contact with it.
“Fascinating,” Niles murmured. He glanced down at the sphere. “Arisilde doesn’t seem to find it a threat.”
“It might be some sort of elemental,” Gerard explained, frowning thoughtfully as he watched the play of light around the door. “Whatever these ‘gods’ are, the entities provide some protection for the Syprians against sorcerers like Ixion.”
Marais lifted his brows. “Well, I wonder what it would do if we let it in to him.”
Tremaine stepped up to the door and lifted her hand, her skin tingling as the god’s humming energy briefly touched her. “Oh, I bet it could get in if it really tried.” She raised her voice, “Hey, Ixion, the god’s here. It wants to say hello.”
Ixion hadn’t replied, and after a time the god sparked more faintly, then gradually vanished.
Ander’s message to come ashore had arrived not long after. Gerard must have also told Captain Marais about the eyes painted on Syprian galleys; when the accident boat had been lowered and they were moving away from the Ravenna, Tremaine saw a small scaffold had been hung off the bow and a couple of crewmen in safety harnesses were putting the finishing touches on the white paint outline of a stylized eye. It couldn’t hurt, she thought. And from what she could see, ramming the Gardier ship hadn’t even left a dent in the bow.
“There doesn’t seem to be much activity,” Gerard said in a low voice. He was standing at the rail next to her, surveying the line of docks with a worried frown. “Wait, there’s Ander.”
“What’s he doing?” Tremaine came to her feet, grabbing the rail. Ander’s message had asked for her specifically, and she had no idea why, though she supposed he might need her for a spare translator.
“Watching us with field glasses,” Gerard told her dryly.
Finally they reached the dock, the motor coughing as the boat slowed to bump awkwardly against the pilings. The seamen scrambled out to tie it off, and Tremaine was right behind them, Gerard grabbing her elbow when her foot slipped on the wet wood.
Ander met them at the end of the dock. His shirt was sweat-stained and he had a rifle slung back over his shoulder. “You were right,” he said without preamble. “They are willing to discuss an alliance with us.” For some reason his expression was grim.
Gerard nodded, holding up a leather file case he had brought with him. “Colonel Averi had a document prepared, a letter of intent. It’s not binding until the government-in-exile ratifies it, of course, but it’ll be a start.”
Considering it was probably prepared by Count Minister Delphane and the Solicitor General, it will be more than a start, Tremaine thought. But Ander was eyeing her as if she had done something. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
He stared at her for at least a full minute, as if expecting her to break down and confess. Tremaine folded her arms and stared back. He finally said, “They want you to negotiate.”
Tremaine frowned, not understanding. “Negotiate with them?”
“Negotiate for them,” Ander clarified, still watching her. “With us.”
“Me?”
“Tremaine?” Gerard echoed, startled.
Ander looked at him, exasperated. “I can’t talk them out of it. These people are so stubborn—it’s like talking to stone walls.”
Tremaine’s mouth was open to protest; the very idea of that much responsibility curdled her stomach. But Ander’s tone stopped her in midbreath. He doesn’t think I can do it. Well, she knew she couldn’t. But she could fake her way along until she found someone else who could. She told Ander, “Then you can take that letter back to Count Delphane. The Syprians are not going to sign anything without the advice of an independent solicitor who is an expert in international affairs.” A dimly remembered phrase from an old newspaper article surfaced, and she added, “And I want an arbitrator from a nonaligned nation.”
Ander stared at her, pressing his lips together. Then he said, “Perhaps we can get you a Gardier arbitrator.” He turned on his heel and strode away up the dock.
Good exit line, Tremaine thought, eyes narrowed as she watched him go. Yelling a comeback after him would be highly unsatisfactory. And she didn’t have a comeback.
She looked at Gerard, expecting another grim expression, but he was smiling faintly. “Your father would be proud,” he said softly. “He couldn’t have done a better job himself.”
It struck her to the core and her eyes stung. No, he wouldn’t be proud, she thought, looking away. But Gerard was, and that was good too. She forced the emotion down, putting it away where she could examine it later. “If my father was doing this,” she muttered, “the Syprians would end up with a long lease on Chaire and most of the west coast.”
Ander led them up the dirt path through the town, and Tremaine saw people were beginning to stir, coming out to check the damage in the harbor or gathering around the little fountain houses in the communal squares to talk. Some of them were standing on top of their roofs, using primitive spyglasses to look at the Ravenna. They got many curious glances, or at least Ander did; Tremaine and Gerard were still dressed in Syprian clothing.
From what Tremaine understood, Syprians had come from two different peoples who had blended together along the coast, one tall like Giliead, with brown or reddish hair and olive skin, the other smaller and blond like Ilias. Most of the young men wore their hair in long braids or queues like Ilias and the others from the Swift, though many of the older men seemed to cut it off at the shoulders or crop it short. Their clothes were in soft colors, with leather and cloth dyed or block-printed with designs. The women wore long skirts or dresses or the same cotton pants and sleeveless shirts as the men. Many of the people who worked on the boats or near the water wore little more than cloth wraps around their waists.
They reached Cineth’s central plaza, a large area of open ground where spreading trees shaded little markets of awnings and small tents, still deserted after the attack. The plaza was bordered by several long two-story buildings with columns and brightly painted pediments that formed a ribbon of color just under their rooflines. The large one with the pillared portico was the town Assembly, the smaller round one with a domed roof was a mint, and the one with a forbidding square façade was the lawgiver’s house. The city Fountain House was next to it, a low square structure with what Tremaine now knew were anatomically correct sea serpents winding sinuously over its pediment. There were a number of men armed
with swords or long spears on horseback, making a loose perimeter around the plaza. The horses were distinctly Syprian, with rough dun-colored coats and patterns of small spots along their backs and down their hindquarters.
Heading toward the lawgiver’s house, Ander gestured warily toward the largest tree, an old oak with heavy spreading branches that had sunk to the ground under their own weight. “The god came into town during the attack. It’s settled in that tree now.”
Tremaine stopped to look, squinting to see past the shadows under the branches. She couldn’t spot any light or movement that couldn’t be accounted for by the gentle breeze. But near the base of the tree, someone had stuck up a post with a goat skull as a warning, a few colored ribbons tied to the horns to catch the eye. “It visited us on the ship too.”
Ander glanced at her as if he thought she was insane, but Gerard nodded, asking him, “Did it appear to take part in the battle?”
Ander let out a breath. “Not that I could tell. Except Giliead caught a spell that should have slowly strangled him from the inside out.” He shook his head, incredulous. “The Gardier could have done more damage hitting him with a mud clot.”
Tremaine nodded. “He’s a Chosen Vessel.” Gerard just looked thoughtful but Ander stared at her again. “What?” she demanded. “We knew that. Did you think they were making it up?”
Ander snorted in annoyance and stamped away. Tremaine followed, feeling like she had somehow gotten her revenge for that comment of his on the docks but not quite sure how.
Ilias met them at the door to the lawgiver’s house, where he had been pacing with his arms folded. He looked like he had rolled in the dirt a few times but otherwise wasn’t the worse for wear. “How is it going?” Ander asked him, keeping his voice low.
“I think they’ve convinced Nicanor,” Ilias replied, with a glance back over his shoulder at the open door to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Now they have to convince Visolela.”
“Oh, lovely,” Tremaine commented under her breath. Visolela was Nicanor’s wife, the head of his household and a major power in the city. On their last visit she hadn’t even wanted Nicanor to speak to his scandalous relatives and their wizard guests where anybody could see him.
Ilias gave her a rueful glance in acknowledgment as he led the way inside.
A rather dark stone-walled foyer opened into a broad portico around an atrium, which Tremaine realized must be standard for large Syprian houses. It was bigger than the one at Andrien House and had less of the kitchen garden look about it. The trees were cyprus, their roots poking up into the formal flower beds, and there was a square reflecting pool down the center.
In a room opening onto the portico, Giliead, Halian, Nicanor and Visolela sat on low chairs and couches with brightly woven cushions. Halian nodded in greeting as Gerard and Ander stepped in. Giliead looked up with a slight smile. Nicanor, broody and thoughtful, glanced at them but said nothing. Visolela, stone-faced, didn’t glance.
Ilias stopped at the entrance to the room, standing back against a stone column painted with red-and-black bands. Tremaine stopped with him, a reflexive habit she had picked up from following him through the caves and the underground city on the island. He gave her a gentle push on into the room.
The floor was all mosaic, with stylized waves along the border and flowers and vines entwining through the center panel. Wine cups and a carafe of some delicate white pottery stood on a low table, but no one was drinking.
Nicanor was Halian’s son from his first marriage. He had long dark hair, and the family resemblance showed in the shape of his face and eyes, though Nicanor wasn’t quite as tall as his father. Visolela was a beautiful dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and, Tremaine saw now, ice-cold eyes. She wore a light sleeveless dress of dark red, a silk stole with black-and-gray square designs looped over one arm.
Looking at Visolela, Ander cleared his throat. “This is Gerard, and Tremaine.”
Nicanor actually looked at her this time, with an appraising expression. Visolela’s jaw hardened, but she still didn’t look. Nicanor asked, “You agree to speak for us to your people?”
It took Tremaine a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “Uh, yes.” She started to add Until you find someone better but realized in time that it wouldn’t exactly engender confidence.
Nicanor accepted that with a glance at Visolela for confirmation. “It won’t be easy to convince the council,” he said. “And if we do, it will still have to go to the Matriarch’s council in Syrneth.”
Halian nodded. “Karima could speak for us there. Her cousin Ilyandra is still influential on it.”
Her voice hard, Visolela said, “When she tells them that Ixion still lives, I doubt any amount of influence will matter.”
Tremaine saw Ilias’s gaze go to Giliead. Giliead, fortunately, said nothing, though a muscle jumped in his cheek.
Nicanor flicked a thoughtful glance at Giliead as well, but said, “They will have to be made to understand that the alliance is necessary.”
Visolela grimaced, and for an instant the hard lines in her face were visible, the ones that would become permanent evidence of bad temper as she grew older. “If Karima fails to convince them of that, then all of Cineth could end up ostracized. And even if she does, when the Hisians and the Menelai learn we have made a treaty with wizards, they will stop sending their trading ships. The trade with the Chaeans isn’t enough to make up the difference. It might not matter to us at first, but people will starve in the smaller towns along the coast.”
Halian let out his breath and rubbed his eyes. Tremaine sympathized. It would have been easier to argue with Visolela if she was wrong, but Tremaine suspected that wasn’t the case, and they all knew it.
“If the Gardier invade, there will be no trade, no cities or towns to starve.” Gerard spoke quietly, and they all looked up, startled. “You saw what they did in your city today. They can’t be appeased, because they don’t ask for anything. All they seem to want is territory, and people to turn into slaves so they can build more weapons to take more territory. We’ve found out from Gardier prisoners that they won’t make Syprians into slaves because they can’t or won’t learn your language and they know you consider their tools cursed and will die before you use them. So they’ll destroy this coast just to get you out of the way.”
Visolela didn’t look at him, but her mouth set, and a flush crept up the olive skin of her cheeks. She stood abruptly, gathered her stole with a sharp gesture. “I must speak to the portmaster and the trading guilds.”
As she strode out of the room, Nicanor looked after her with a frown. He said, “She’ll agree. She just…doesn’t like the necessity of it.”
Tremaine saw Giliead flick a dry look at Ilias. She strongly suspected it represented a repressed sardonic comment that would have undone all Halian and Ander’s careful work. With that out of his system, Giliead sat forward, telling Nicanor, “I’ll have to go with them, to make sure of Ixion.”
Nicanor nodded slowly, tapping his fingers on the table. “They agree to this?”
Giliead looked at Gerard, who cleared his throat and said, “We were hoping you would send some representatives with us. If all goes well, we’ll be rejoining the government of Ile-Rien in exile, and they will want to establish formal relations. It will be an exceedingly dangerous journey.” He shook his head with a slight rueful smile. “But I know you’re all very aware of that.”
Later, Tremaine paced out in the plaza. It was early afternoon, and the last remnants of the storm streaked the sky. Ander and Gerard were waiting there too, though most of Ander’s men had gone back to the Ravenna.
Nicanor had gotten Visolela to agree to Giliead going with the Ravenna to keep an eye on Ixion, and also that she would receive representatives from Ile-Rien’s government as soon as they could be brought here. Now they just had to convince the rest of the Syprians at their council meeting, where Tremaine would have to be present to answer questions. At least she woul
dn’t be stuck in the large town assembly, but in the much smaller council chamber that was part of the lawgiver’s house.
Coming up to pace next to her, Ander said, “You have to make it clear, we can’t sign a formal treaty with them. Only the government-in-exile in Parscia has that authority.”
Parscia, their ally to the south of Ile-Rien. It had been under attack as well, and now that the Gardier had overrun Ile-Rien, it was sure to be next. Maybe they’ll stop to destroy Bisra and buy us some time. “Yes, I know,” Tremaine said. “As long as we don’t promise anything stupid, the government-in-exile will probably ratify our agreement. If we make it back there before they’re all dead too.” She grimaced and glanced up at Ander’s exasperated face. “I’m sorry, that part wasn’t supposed to be out loud.”
He swore under his breath. “Tremaine, you have to take this seriously. Don’t you understand—”
“I am serious! God, what does it take?” she shouted. She saw Giliead beckoning to her from the portico. “I’m going now. If you’re so convinced I’m going to wreck this, then you can always shoot me.”
Leaving him glaring after her in frustration, she stamped across to the lawgiver’s house, stepping up onto the portico.
“Are you ready?” Giliead asked, managing to sound more encouraging than concerned. Ilias was looking past her at Ander, frowning slightly, and she knew the argument hadn’t escaped either of them.
She nodded, feeling the tension start to gather in her chest. “Karima told me all the rules. And she said Halian would help.” From what she understood it wasn’t necessary to get the council to vote, as it would be in the Ministry of Ile-Rien; all they had to do was answer the objections of any council members and hope that any objections they couldn’t answer were shouted down by the others.
Giliead frowned slightly. “Well, Halian isn’t good at speaking to the council.” At Tremaine’s inquiring look, he added, “He gets angry.”