The Totem-Maker (part one hundred fifty)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Thirteen

The Citadel

(part one hundred fifty)

“And how, when the day comes, will an enemy overthrow you?”

My three zhatabe gave me gentle looks, and the one who named himself Chos, and the woman I had ridden with, who called herself by a god I had never heard of, Rithrith, and another, naming herself Bashtat, who wore her face painted with stripes, and rimmed her eyes dark like a cat’s, made a busyness, of adding more sweets to my plate, more wine to my cup…

Bashtat adjusting some fault in my costume. And when she had fixed my sleeve at the elbow, she took one of her bracelets and slid it over my hand.

“Aha, better. We love pretty things.”

I was to keep it. I was being flattered and pampered to near docility, but I persisted.

“How, when the day comes.”

“Is the question serious? I don’t mind games.”

“I do not play one, Chos.”

Rithrith quibbled, a playful wag of the finger. “But you are a great War-Maker. I hold you to your promise—Ami and I, and a newly laid board. Oh, I know, I presume the promise. Take it all back, as you like.”

“No.” They were making my head hurt, with frustration.

Now Bashtat took a preoccupation with changing my hair, and began to undo one of the plaits. Difficulties at this table I had imagined as veiled anger, the rightful complaints of their peace being troubled, their duties disturbed.

Or contempt at myself, too paltry an offering from the Emperor, as envoy.

To which I would say, the Emperor is a child. What else? His whims are not disputed. They are his whims and must be brilliant, applauded. Toadies surround him to give this applause, to do his bidding. He knows of no timely moment for his remarks, but makes them as they occur. I have heard of him order his chariot halted, to summon a woman seller from the street, that he might ask what accident had made her so ugly. He wished once to be given a gamecock, and the man who got his living by it let dismay for an instant cross his face. The Emperor had a soldier dash the bird against the stones.

But of the Prince (should they ask), can you parley with the Prince? The Prince believes he will cut off your road and starve you, throw the tide of his army against you, wear you to defeat by numbers. You might take such a man to Aran and show him the Arca, and all the trade roads that remain to you. You might wreak terrible sufferings with your engines of fire. But the Prince, being what he is, must be broken before he accepts he can be.

I thought they would not trouble, after this, to name ministers and lords one by one, but even as to these, even of Cime and Sente, I had crafted my reasons against.

154

The Citadel

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)