We stopped at noon to eat and refresh ourselves beside the waters. The ground was littered with dried branches. While the horse and the umminhi sucked at the stream, while Oyk and Irk lapped noisily beside the kneeling umminhi, Izzy’s servant, Osvald, lit a fire and brewed a large pot of tea. Izzy sat idly on a stone, toying with several of the dry twigs with which the ground was strewn.
“These trees,” said Izzy, “have a strange habit of growth. Have you noticed?”
We looked up, for a moment not seeing what he meant. He set his hand on the nearest trunk, where a tuft of leaves emerged from a round, smooth scar. Above the tuft, another branch had dried, and when Izzy seized it, it broke cleanly, leaving a round sapless scar on the tree. Izzy held a stick of firewood. “A firewood tree. I’ve read about them, but these are the first I’ve seen.”
“Not all of them,” I pointed out. “Look, some of them are all furry with leaves, all the way down.”
Flinch had noticed the same habit of growth and was browsing on the leaves of the nearest tree, young, succulent leaves quite different from the glossy, almost black ones higher up.
“What happens if you try to break a green branch?” asked Sahir in an interested tone.
Izzy opened his mouth, but before he could get the words out, Soaz had risen and tried to break a green one, only to emit an agonized yelp. When he held out his hands, his fingers were bloody. “Thorns,” he whispered, half to himself. “I didn’t see any thorns….”
“I didn’t yell fast enough to warn you,” said Izzy. “Is it very painful?”
“Enough that I won’t do it again,” he snarled, eyes slitted and teeth showing.
I went to Soaz’s aid, finding ointment and bandages in one of the boxes. “Izzy says every world has its own rules, and evidently you broke one of them. If it’s a firewood tree, we must take the firewood and let the tree alone. If it’s a browsing tree, it’s for the browsers!”
“Since when does a tree decide when we will or will not do with it as we please?” demanded Sahir. “If we were in Tavor, I would have it chopped down for presumption.”
A little breeze swept the branches above us, followed by a hush so profound that we found ourselves holding our breaths. The silence continued, becoming wider and deeper with each passing moment, an abyss of silence.
“He didn’t mean it,” said Izzy, dropping a verbal pebble into the depths. “He was joking. I hadn’t yet told him about firewood trees, so he was somewhat surprised….”
The hush contined. Sahir cleared his throat. “Of course I was joking. A bad joke. I wouldn’t…chop down a tree.”
The breeze departed, leaving normal forest sounds behind it.
Silently, as though by agreement, we packed up our things and went back to the road, looking eagerly upward for a glimpse of sky. Sahir started to say something, and Soaz put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. Though Tavorians are historically a desert people, they have dwelt long enough among groves to know something about trees, and I thought Prince Sahir’s comment had been pure petulance and arrogance, particularly for someone who claimed to be Korèsan.
None of us spoke until we had traveled several circums, at which point the road departed from the brook and ascended onto a high prominence from which we could look down into hilly Isher and beyond it toward the green water meadows of Fan-Kyu, the stream showing silver among them.
“I have traveled here,” Soaz mused. “I have been here before. I have been through Isher and Finial and Sworp. I have even traveled into the Dire Marches, east of the sea. When I was a youth in Isfoin, I longed for travel, and when I was old enough, travel I did. I was not always eunuch to the sultan. I have been other things in other times! And when I was another thing, there were no trees like those that listened!”
Izzy remarked calmly, “So, their type must have come recently. Things do just come. Like a wind, or a great wave. We’ve always had fruit trees that bend down to be picked, and flowering trees that bend down to be smelled, and trees that get up and move if they’re not getting enough water. From that to a tree that understands language isn’t a huge step. These trees aren’t that different, really.”
“These may not be,” snarled Soaz. “We haven’t seen them yet!”
11
Countess Elianne Receives an Unwelcome Visitor
“When the great composer, Geelyflur, was completing his opera, Madama Missletoe, he was asked what singer he would cast in the role of Madama. “I care not,” he cried, “so long as the audience is at least half scuinic.” Thus the master gave credit for his success where credit was due. As appreciators and supporters of the arts, the scuinic people are without parallel. In government, they have long shown a talent for easing the burdens of the people. As citizens they tend toward cheerful compliance with the needs of civility….”
THE PEOPLES OF EARTH
HIS EXCELLENCY, EMPEROR FAROS VII
In Zallyfro, the Countess Elianne of Estafan was wakened early by her ladies of the bedchamber who reminded her, with squeals of mixed anxiety and amusement, that the Dire Duke Fasahd had announced his intention of lunching with the countess today, whether the countess would or no.
Elianne was annoyed. It wasn’t funny. After a cup of hot tea and some thought, however, she decided to put a good face on the matter and lunch elegantly on the north terrace, among the lily ponds, surrounded by spice bush and roses, beside the bubbling fountains where the shade was deep and cool. The Dire Duke would see and smell nothing but tranquility and might thus be moved to peacefulness.
She, unlike her giggling ladies, knew what he wanted. He wanted an alliance against his brother, Fasal Grun. Antipathy was not inevitable among ersin brothers, this she knew, but this made no difference to Fasahd. A mere three minutes separated the birth of the Dire Duke from that of his so-slightly elder brother, and the Dire Duke was unwilling to accept the lifelong implications of such a brief delay. The Dire Duke saw no reason whatsoever that he should not be in command of Sworp now and of the empire later on.
A pity that Faros VII had no son and must rely upon these nephews. The Countess Elianne had met Fasal Grun on several occasions and had found him to be a sensible and even somewhat kindly person, all in all, a credit to his tribe. As for Faros VII, she heard many good things about him, more good than bad, at any rate.
“Plain muslin for now, Cerise,” she directed a maid. “And I do mean plain. Also, that short wig. I want to go down to the kitchens to talk with Blanche and the new armakfatidian chef, what’s his name?”
“Dzilobommo, Your Grace.”
“Right. Dzilobommo. Did Kletter find out what the duke eats?”
“He eats most things, though he’s allergic to cheese. He particularly enjoys fish or fowl.”
“He would. We’ll have to make sacrifice to the Silver Swimmer if we serve fish to a pagan, and Blanche will be upset if we serve fowl. The chickens are her friends, so she says. How about sweets? Ersuniel folk are known to be lovers of sweets.”
“Kletter didn’t find out.”
“Well, we’ll have a selection and let him choose.” She sat before her mirror and let Cerise fit the wig and comb it over her ears, a simple style, taking little time. All would have to be done over before she welcomed the Dire Duke, who would try to get an agreement she could ill afford to give him.
Thus far, Estafan and Finial had been allowed to retain their own governance and religions and ways of doing things. The countess and her people revered the hemi-ghoti, the Silver Swimmer, who swam in the ocean of light and brought that light to his people. Still, the countess had agreed to accept Faros VII as the emperor to whom loyalty was owed; she had agreed that no other alliances or entanglements would take place, that no rebellion would be fomented, and that no anti-Korèsan teachings would be promulgated. The estafani, said the Emperor Faros VII, might continue believing in Sweet Silver Swimmer so long as no disorder resulted.
The countess exemplified the pragmatism common among her people. S
he felt there was no choice but to comply. Estafan was small, lovely, and well cared for, its people a multiethnic mix who were devoted to song and dance and fertility, not warfare. They were not even particularly interested in the theory or practice of government. They were quite willing to have the hereditary rulers manage things, so long as they did so smoothly and without corruption, remaining decorative, decorous and diligent in the process. Elianne, when readied for ceremonies of state, sometimes felt like a pet horse, caparisoned for a parade and, like the horse, curried, cosseted and given an apple in thanks.
And now the Dire Duke Fasahd. Who did not care for peace or the teachings of either Korè or Bandercran. Who wanted power. Who thought Elianne might be a help to him. Who had to be discouraged from that anticipation without being insulted.
Muffling a sigh, trailing trotting ladies as a goose trails down, she descended to the kitchens. Across that vaulted room, in the shadows, her clerk Blanche perched silently on a high stool, watching everything with her dark, beady eyes. Nothing escaped Blanche. She had an eye for trifles and an ear for nuance. Dzilobommo, dressed in ice blue apron and high pleated hat, bowed deeply. Elianne fought down the urge to chuckle which the armakfatidi always roused in her, assuming instead an expression of regal imperturbability.
“Dzilobommo, great culinary artist, I am faced with a most difficult time. I beg your assistance.”
“Grummel grummel grummel,” which translated, after a moment’s consideration into, “How may I assist?”
“The Dire Duke who lunches with me today, Dzilobommo, is a difficult person. He is allergic to dairy products and is said to like fish.” In deference to Blanche, she did not mention chicken.
“Grummel grummel,” meaning, “No problem, religion aside.”
“Ah, but this is only the surface, Dzilobommo. Beneath that surface lies another, and beneath that, another. Hath not the Sweet Silver Swimmer said, green depths lie beneath silver, and beneath the green lies blue, and beneath the blue, darkness?”
“Grummel.” An assent.
“This man would threaten me into an agreement which would be bad for us all, including the armakfatidi. If I say yes, it will go ill for us. If I say no, it will perhaps be worse. He must feel kindly toward us when he leaves. He must think us charming small folk. Oh, Dzilobommo, he must believe we are both harmless and worthless. Of no help to him.”
“Grummel!” Meaning, “I will serve you myself.”
She bowed. “My thanks, Dzilobommo.”
He touched his lean fingers to the edge of his folded hat and smoothed his apron over his substantial body, leaning back a little and nodding ponderously. “Grummel.”
The countess turned and left the kitchens, walking quickly to be out of hearing before she giggled. It was an effect left over from childhood. The armakfatidi were not amusing. They had a dark nature hidden behind that amiable facade. So her father had told her over and over. “They are of a warrior race,” he had said, more than once. Still, she found them amusing. Each grummel reached her humor as though she had been tickled.
Blanche came flying around the corner ahead of them to wait breathlessly at the cross corridor. She had come the back way to meet them. Elianne left Cerise and went to speak to her clerk. “What have you for me today, my friend?”
Blanche said in a whisper: “The armakfatidi talk of war, lady. There is a rebellion among the trees near Fan-Kyu.”
“Among the trees? What is this?”
“They think it may be the Dire Duke who has stirred them up, lady.”
“Odd. And the kitchen people still have no idea you can understand them?”
“None whatsoever. They believe I am deaf and mute.”
“Thank you.” She turned away from Blanche and went down the corridor at a furious rate, thinking madly.
“Countess…”
“Yes, Cerise.”
“How can you and Blanche understand the armakfatidi? All I hear is a kind of rumbling.”
“It comes, Cerise, if one simply holds still and keeps the mind…quiet. They seem to speak…silently as well as vocally. My father taught me how to hear them, though I’ve never been able to understand their humor. Sometimes one of them will grummel and then they’ll all bend over going hnarf, hnarf, hnarf until their hair stands out like a brush. I’ve seen it over and over, but I’ve never known what was funny. Blanche can’t figure it out, either.”
“Do you think they are laughing at us?”
“I don’t get any sense that they are. I don’t think we’re sufficiently important for them to laugh at.”
“Not important enough?”
“Not to the armakfatidi. They feed us, but it’s the art they take pride in, not our perception of their art. Dzilobommo regards the effect of his food on diners as a painter regards the effect of his picture on an observer. The observer, or the diner, is only a recipient of an art which was accomplished without his, or her, help. By asking him to help me, I challenge his artistry. Dzilobommo rises to the challenge.”
“How odd.”
“No odder, however, than certain other creatures.” She was thinking of the Dire Duke Fasahd, but the thought went nowhere. She was more comfortable when she did not think of him at all.
She turned to Cerise and held out her hand. “Come, lady. Let us get me up like a circus horse to glitter in the eyes of our guest. Perhaps the glitter will distract him. If not, pray the Silver Swimmer that Dzilobommo does.”
It seemed a very short time until Countess Elianne was sitting across the table from the Dire Duke Fasahd, smiling with concentrated sweetness upon his dour and dreadful face, wondering, as she had before, how this one could be twin to the Prime Duke Fasal Grun when that one looked like a maiden’s dream of naughty passion and this one looked like six weeks on short rations. “Do have more fish,” she murmured. “Cerise, give our guest more fish.”
“Excellent fish,” he growled, the jowls at either side of his face jiggling, his teeth showing at the corners of his mouth, yellow and sharp as old thorns, dead and dried and evil even unto winter. “Though I did not come for the food.”
Still Dzilobommo had prepared it, and Fasahd had eaten some of it. And if he could just hold himself in patience until some of it started to digest, he might find himself in quite another mood.
“Explain it to me again,” murmured the countess in desperation.
He was not averse to explaining it as many times as need be.
“My brother is a fool,” he began.
She could have recited his tale of woe. His brother was a fool who had accepted Faros VII’s desire for peace and prosperity and for avoidance of armed conflict along tribal or social lines. The Dire Duke, on the other hand, was a realist who knew that conflict was coming. “The emperor’s own seers tell him so. They say somewhere a dreadful conspiracy is taking place, one that will end our world and kill us all. But will the emperor act? He will not.”
The countess murmured, “Perhaps it is difficult to know what to do.”
“There is only one thing to do! Arm ourselves. Build up our armies. Whenever we find out who conspires against us, we will be ready! Therefore let all persons choose sides now, before the trouble starts.”
Let the countess ally herself with the Dire Duke, he demanded, who already had made other such alliances, as, for example, with trees.
“Why have you made an alliance with…trees?” she asked in disbelief.
He gave her a sharp look. “The trees have learned of a conspiracy against them, as well, and they have reason to be outraged. If they will assist me in fighting my enemies, why should I not ally myself in their battle?”
“How have the trees learned of this conspiracy?” she asked.
“I have my sources, lady,” he said, a shadow crossing his face as he answered, something bleak and horrid briefly looking out of his eyes. “My source knows much that the world is ignorant of. There are wheels moving within wheels, plots within plots. You would be wise to be on the winni
ng side, so why should you not form part of this alliance, and with you all the people of Estafan?”
“Firstly, though you and your trees may be outraged, I am not, nor are my people. Secondly, I am not an absolute monarch. If I attempted such a thing, I would be deposed, and someone else would be appointed to rule.”
“But you would be backed by my armies!”
“Who would kill my people, and then you wouldn’t have allies, you’d have a subject province. Do you want a subject province?”
He did, of course, but it wouldn’t do to say so, yet. Though Faros was known to have forbidden cannibalism, the Dire Duke’s followers were known to practice that filthy custom, and it was said they did it from appetite rather than in an attempt to terrorize. Though the ponji were too thin and stringy a people to tempt such creatures, many of the people of Estafan were of the countess’s own more fleshy race. She felt his eyes undressing her, considering her in the light of various appetites, and she could almost see those appetites gain in strength.
His mouth watering, the Dire Duke helped himself to more fish, to more wine, to more fish yet again. When he left, he was in what for him might pass as an ebullient mood, by which the countess meant merely that he did not attempt to kill anyone during his departure. He had not obtained her promise of alliance, but he had not been directly refused. Perhaps that would hold him, for a time.
Blanche was waiting in her private chambers along with a very ruffled and breathless messenger who, though one of Blanche’s kindred, did not share her usual calm.
“Countess,” he gasped, bending forward until his beaky nose almost touched the floor.
“Get up,” she said impatiently. “A slight bow would be quite enough. What’s this you bring me…Dessur? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Your Grace is kind to notice.” He fluttered his hands, cocking his head flirtatiously.
The countess was annoyed, though she knew the manner was simply a cultural artifact. Many of Blanche’s people acted in that fluttery way, even the males. “My Grace is not kind to notice. She wants to know who in Estafan is flitting about with messages. Who’s this from?”