Foxfire (46 page)

“I'm sure he'll send another report from Little Falls,” she said.

Rigat nodded and turned to the Khonsel. “Were there any messages from your nephew awaiting you? Or did you come straight from the ship?”

The Khonsel took a deep breath. So did Jholianna, fearing another contest of wills.

“I went to my quarters. My lord. To change before my audience with the queen. There were no messages from Geriv. The last one I received was from Eagles Mount. But you know that. You had the queen's scribe read it to you. And the reply I sent.”

The Khonsel had been livid when Rigat insisted on inspecting his private correspondence. His fury only increased when Jholianna assured him that she was allowing Rigat to monitor her messages to Geriv as well.

“I read
a
reply,” Rigat said. “It would have been easy enough to send another while you were in Iriku.”

Watching them glare at each other, she wondered again what lay behind their enmity. Rigat seemed to blame the Khonsel for what had happened to his half brother and foster-father all those years ago. Surely, he must realize that she had given the order that had sent the Spirit-Hunter to the sacrificial altar. Perhaps Rigat was simply jealous of her relationship with Vazh. Certainly Jholin had been.

Rigat's gaze shifted to her. “I'm curious.” The tension in his body belied his musing tone. “Did you tell the Khonsel about the Gathering?”

“Of course.” Eyeing his rising color, she added, “You never asked me to keep it a secret.”

“Perhaps I should have!”

“What does it matter?” the Khonsel demanded. “Yes, the queen told me. And yes, I passed the information along to Geriv. But it's a five-day voyage to Graywaters. Another two or three upriver to Little Falls. He won't get my message until this damn Gathering is over.”

“Then why bother telling him about it?”

“Because you don't withhold information like that from the commander of your army!” With an effort, the Khonsel controlled his temper. “I know you're concerned about the situation in the north. But by now, Geriv's received the queen's orders for a truce. He would never disobey them to attack the Gathering.”

“Because he's a loyal servant of the queen,” Rigat observed.

“That's right.”

“As loyal as his uncle?”

Oddly, the Khonsel's expression froze. As Jholianna struggled to understand the undercurrents of their exchange, the Khonsel gasped and tottered backward. His stick clattered onto the bricks as his hands flailed for the arms of the bench.

Jholianna rushed over to him. His mouth worked soundlessly and his eyes bulged, wild with shock.

“Stop! You're killing him!”

The Khonsel groped for her hand and squeezed it. Then his breath exploded in a wheeze and the viselike grip relaxed. He fixed Rigat with a look of such loathing that Jholianna recoiled. Even Rigat took a quick step backward. Then he recovered his equanimity.

“I had to be sure. That he was as loyal as he claimed.”

“I have never disobeyed an order from my queen,” the Khonsel managed between gasps.

“I did try to be gentle.”

“Damn your gentleness! No man wants another poking around inside his spirit.”

Jholianna's hand clenched convulsively around the Khonsel's, silently urging calm. “Please excuse him,” she begged Rigat. “He's upset.”

Before her eyes, Rigat transformed from an implacable interrogator to an awkward boy. “No. He's right. I should have asked. My apologies, Khonsel. I was . . . showing off. Trying to impress you.”

The taut lines of the Khonsel's face relaxed. “Well, you certainly managed to do that.”

To Jholianna's astonishment, they grinned at each other.

With a grunt of effort, the Khonsel pushed himself to his feet. “I suggest we go to the council chamber.”

Relief made it difficult for her to concentrate on the meeting. When the Zheron launched into a tedious description of the recognition ceremony, her thoughts drifted to her narrow escape.

She had sent a message to Geriv with information about Rigat's parentage and power. And later, the order to cease hostilities. She had dictated that one in front of Rigat. And still he had insisted on touching her spirit to verify that the message had been sent. Feigning shock and sorrow at his lack of trust, she had acquiesced.

Rigat's touch lasted only long enough to learn that she had given the message to the ship's captain as she'd promised. Then he retreated from her spirit, inundating her with apologies.

So eager to retreat that he failed to notice that she had neglected to affix the copper badge to the tablet-box. And still so unfamiliar with the Zherosi communication system that he would never have known to ask about it. But her simple omission ensured that some clerk at Graywaters would set the orders for the truce aside to await his commander's return instead of transferring them to another ship that would carry them upriver immediately.

The Khonsel knew nothing of her plan; loyal as he was, he was still Geriv's uncle. At the time, she had felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving him. Now she was simply relieved.

Rigat still might discover the truth if he chose to attack her spirit. But so far, he was eager to maintain her goodwill. And strangely ambivalent about his power. So odd, the Tree People's reluctance to touch the spirits of others. Odder still for the son of a god to shrink from using his power. But that, of course, was why she had risked deceiving him in the first place. She only hoped the results would merit the risk.

If Geriv could find the site of this Gathering and destroy the rebels, it would solve their problems in the north. Geriv might protest that he had never received the order for a truce, but she doubted Rigat would care, especially if any of his family was harmed. She would console him for his terrible loss. And his wrath would be directed at Geriv.

A pity to lose him; he had served her well. But she could always appoint another Vanel. There was only one Son of Zhe.

The sound of raised voices interrupted her thoughts. Belatedly, she realized that the Stuavo was grumbling about the census of the Tree People.

“I've been inundated with complaints, Earth's Beloved. From the tax collectors, the mayors, the slave owners protesting the seizure of their property.”

“They're human beings,” Rigat snapped. “Not property.”

“With respect, my lord, in Zheros, slaves are property. And their owners insist on being compensated for their losses.”

“Then we'll compensate them,” Rigat replied, casually dispersing untold sums from her already depleted treasury.

“It's not that simple,” the Stuavo insisted. “Most of the women have borne children since they were brought to Zheros. Are they to be considered Tree People as well? Not to mention the fact that some of the slaves don't want to leave.”

“That's ridiculous!” Rigat retorted. “The slave owners are just saying that.”

“Perhaps some are. But many of the slaves have lived here since they were children. It's the only home they know and—”

“Enough!” Rigat snapped. “To question my judgment shows disrespect.”

As a greasy film of sweat appeared on the Stuavo's forehead, the Supplicant cleared her throat. “I'm sure the Stuavo intended no disrespect, my lord.”

As always, the priestess seemed undaunted by the threat of Rigat's power and, alone among Jholianna's counselors, even dared to reprove him. Always politely, even diffidently, but clearly with the intent to curb him.

Jholianna's spies had informed her that Rigat often met the Supplicant during his morning stroll around the plateau. They spoke only briefly, but she doubted such encounters—despite appearances—were by chance.

Although the Supplicant denied it, Jholianna was convinced that the priestess had somehow engineered Rigat's return after their disastrous encounter in this very chamber. Clearly, something lay between them. And just as clearly, it weighed on the Supplicant's mind. She looked thin and strained these days, the teasing mockery that had enlivened so many council meetings replaced by watchful silence.

Still, her words encouraged Rigat to bestow one of his most charming smiles on the sweating Stuavo. “The heat has made me irritable. Of course, you meant no disrespect. Please present me with a report outlining the difficulties that have arisen and your suggestions for addressing them.”

As the Khonsel turned the discussion back to the security measures for the recognition ceremony, Jholianna studied Rigat covertly. Hard to reconcile this confident young man with the eager one who had whisked her off to that northern forest only ten days ago. Or the contrite one who had apologized to the Khonsel for “showing off.” All young men enjoyed their first taste of power, but if Rigat was this difficult to control now, what would he be like after she declared him the Son of Zhe?

At the sound of voices outside the chamber, the Khonsel broke off. A guard called out a request to enter and upon receiving it, strode into the room.

“Forgive me, Earth's Beloved. A message from Iriku.”

She frowned when she saw the small bronze cylinder. The news was either very good or very bad. No one ever sent a routine report by bird.

When she saw the Alcadh's seal, she sighed impatiently. She would have to appoint a new mayor for Iriku; this one was always sending hysterical pleas for help.

“Summon my scribe.”

As the guard retreated, Rigat extended his hand. “May I?”

Reluctantly, she surrendered the cylinder and watched him break the seal and extract the tiny roll of fetal calfskin.

“Could the Carilians have broken through again?” the Motixa asked.

“No,” the Khonsel replied. “I just returned from Iriku. Our troops are still holding their position. But the city's unsettled. More refugees are arriving every day.”

“Yes,” Rigat said. “And now it seems there's been a food riot. And looting.”

Jholianna was the first to break the silence. “You can . . . read the message? Without the aid of a scribe?”

Rigat nodded, peering at the strip of calfskin. “But he should read it, too. Just to make sure I'm getting it right. The Alcadh fears the whole city will go up in flames.”

“The Alcadh is a fearful man,” Jholianna said, still stunned by Rigat's revelation.

“That's true,” Rigat agreed. “Wasn't it last summer that he was certain the yellow plague had broken out?” At her start of surprise, he added, “I was studying some of the histories the other day. That's when I began deciphering the writing. It looked like bird scratches at first. But the Biteko . . . that's his title, isn't it? The head of the library?”

She nodded.

“He was very helpful.”

Jholianna smiled and silently vowed to have her helpful Biteko flayed. “I wonder that you had the time.”

Rigat looked up. “What could be more important than learning about my people?”

“If the situation is as serious as the Alcadh indicates, we'll have to send troops,” the Khonsel said.

The gods only knew where she would get them. Or the grain the city desperately needed. The royal treasury had been drained by the war; compensating the slave owners would further deplete it. The royal granaries were nearly empty, and the recent Carilian offensive had left a swath of ruined villages and burned fields. Without the province's harvest of barley and millet, all of Zheros would suffer this winter.

“Why don't I go to Iriku?” Rigat suggested. “I can be back in plenty of time for the recognition ceremony. It'll be just like playing eagle for—” A telltale blush flooded his face.

“Playing eagle?” she echoed.

“When I spied on Zheros,” he mumbled. “Before I appeared in your throne room.”

She didn't dare let him go to Iriku; it would be far too easy for him to flit off to the north again. And if he somehow discovered that she had deceived him . . .

Suddenly, she realized how to keep him in Pilozhat. Who better to interrogate the traitors? Skilled as her examiners were, men would say anything under torture. Only Rigat could uncover the truth. That's why he was so valuable—and so dangerous.

 

 

 

As Rigat entered his bedchamber, the dozen slaves assigned to serve him prostrated themselves.

“A bath, Nekif.”

“It has already been drawn, great lord. And there is chilled water or wine—”

“Wine.”

“Yes, great lord.” Nekif beamed and waved one of the slaves toward the low stone table where two sweating bronze pitchers stood.

Although Nekif had served him only a sennight, he seemed to have learned all of his preferences. A bowl of honeyed figs sat on one end of the table and a basket of those plump purple grapes he liked on the other.

He had yet to learn the names of the other slaves. They all looked alike, these slender, young men who served him with bowed heads and averted eyes. The efficient Nekif usually anticipated his needs. If he required something unexpected, he had only to tell Nekif who snapped out orders to the rest.

Until yesterday, he had slept in the winter bedchamber one floor below, while a horde of artisans redecorated the summer bedchamber to Jholianna's exacting specifications. It seemed a useless expense, especially since the bath adjoined the winter bedchamber and that was the greatest luxury he could desire. But he had given in to her wishes, praising the thick rugs with their brilliant flowers of scarlet and gold, the stylized adders that slithered along the base of the walls, and the mural behind his bed that depicted Zhe soaring above a pine forest. Clearly, Jholianna's visit had provided the inspiration; the artist had painted a line of does and fawns picking their way across a stream.