by David Weber
"I don't doubt it, My Lord." chan Tesh shook his head. "Still, according to these people, it was all mistake."
"So I've been told." chan Baskay glanced at the Arcanans again. "I would dearly love to find that that's the truth, and that we can end all of this without still more bloodshed."
"Well, My Lord, I suppose that's largely up to you. And to these … gentlemen, of course."
"True enough, Company-Captain," chan Baskay agreed. "True enough. So I suppose we'd best get started. Could you perform the introductions for us, please?"
"Of course, My Lord."
chan Baskay dismounted, handing his reins to one of Arthag's troopers. Then he and chan Rothag accompanied chan Tesh across to the waiting Arcanans.
The Arcanans in question had set up a conference table at which the deliberations were to take place, and that "table" was sufficiently startling to capture chan Baskay's attention for several seconds. It was made from several narrow slats of wood which had been hinged together to form a folded up bundle that could fit onto a pack saddle. When it was unfolded, crosspieces slid into place across the bottom, stiffening it and locking it in the open position.
That much was fairly unremarkable, but it did have one small feature guaranteed to arrest his attention instantly: it had no legs.
The tabletop simply floated there, perfectly level despite the rough terrain, hovering in midair at the ordinary height of a standard table, and chan Baskay's scalp crawled at the sight. It wasn't natural, he thought, and the back of his brain even whispered the word "demonic," before he squelched it back down where it had come from.
Not demonic, he told himself. It's just different. Very different, perhaps, but only different.
He told himself that rather firmly, and he knew?intellectually?that it was true. That this was merely a form of technology his own people had never seen before, assuming that anything which caused a ten-foot-long tabletop to float thirty-six inches off the ground under a canopy of flame-shot autumn leaves could be called "merely" anything.
It was the obvious solution to their need for a portable table, of course, but it was sufficiently alien to distract chan Baskay from the business at hand. It took him a heartbeat or two to realize it had. Then he glanced up, swiftly and without moving his head from its "gosh-look-at-the-table" position, and saw the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in the Arcanans' eyes.
That satisfaction vanished instantly when they realized he was watching them closely without seeming to do so. Their own eyes narrowed, and they stood up straighter, put on notice that they weren't dealing with a total babe-in-swaddling. He noticed that, too, and gave them a polite little smile which, he was pleased to observe, replaced their satisfaction with an edge of speculation, instead.
chan Baskay managed to keep his smile from growing and very carefully concealed his own flicker of satisfaction. He'd also noticed?and ignored?what looked remarkably like a half-dozen chairs whose legs had been amputated. They were tucked underneath the floating conference table, as if the Arcanans had hoped they wouldn't be immediately spotted, and he carefully paid them no attention at all even as he filed away their presence for future consideration.
"Viscount Simrath," chan Tesh said formally, "this is Rithmar Skirvon and Uthik Dastiri, the diplomatic representatives of something called the Union of Arcana. Master Skirvon, Master Dastiri, this is Sir Dorzon Baskay, forty-sixth Viscount Simrath, of the Ternathian Foreign Ministry, acting in behalf of the Portal Authority and the Emperor of Ternathia, and Lord Trekar Rothag, his associate and adviser."
Everyone bowed gravely to everyone else, and chan Baskay raised one aristocratic eyebrow.
"I understand you gentlemen speak our language?"
"Speak some," the older of the two Arcanan civilians?Skirvon?said. "Learn more with PC while talk. Can show?"
He indicated the large lump of quartz sitting in the center of the floating table, and chan Baskay allowed his other eyebrow to rise.
"By all means," he invited.
Skirvon bowed slightly, then murmured something in his own language. The lump of quartz glowed briefly, and then the floating words chan Tesh had already described to chan Baskay appeared within it. Skirvon leaned over it, touching it with a crystal stylus, then said something else, much longer and considerably more involved, in his own language.
"The PC can help learn languages," another voice said suddenly. It sounded a great deal like Skirvon's, but not exactly, and it was coming not from the Arcanan, but from the glowing lump of rock. "When we talk, it listens. Learns. It will turn words in my language into your language, and your language into my language."
The words coming from the "PC" were much clearer, smoother, than anything Skirvon had produced in Ternathian. Even chan Tesh, who'd already seen multiple examples of the Arcanans' astounding technology, was clearly taken aback, and it took all of chan Baskay's self-control not to show his own astonishment. But he managed it somehow, and looked at Skirvon levelly.
"So, if I speak to your rock, it will translate whatever I say into your own language?" he said, and heard a voice which wasn't quite his saying something in a language he'd never spoken.
Skirvon watched the Sharonians' response to his newest ploy and managed not to smile like a fox in a henhouse. Despite their best efforts to conceal it, they were clearly impressed by this fresh manifestation of magic. Of course, they didn't know the PC had an unfair advantage. They thought it was still learning the language as it went, and he had no intention of suggesting otherwise. In fact, he'd loaded the same translation spellware Magister Kelbryan had used with Shaylar into his own crystal. It contained the complete vocabulary the magister had acquired from her prisoner, as well, and Skirvon had to remind himself to phrase his comments in Andaran rather more simply then he would have normally. It would never do to inadvertently reveal the fluency in Ternathian which he already possessed.
On the other hand, he thought, it won't hurt a bit to impress these yokels with how quickly the "learning spellware "improves its grasp of Ternathian in the course of our little chats.
"Is this acceptable?" he asked earnestly in Andaran.
"Is this acceptable?" the crystal on the table said in Ternathian, and chan Baskay nodded.
"Indeed. And quite convenient, too," he said calmly.
Skirvon was impressed. This Viscount Simrath obviously had been just as surprised as chan Tesh and the others, but there was remarkably little evidence of it in his expression or his voice. The man's title?forty-sixth Viscount of Whatever??indicated an incredibly long aristocratic pedigree, which was entirely in keeping with the preposterous age Shaylar had imputed to this Ternathian Empire. That was impressive enough, but his obvious self-control and total self-confidence was even more impressive. Clearly, the man was an experienced diplomat, as well, despite his apparent relative youth, and Skirvon wondered what stroke of luck had put him far enough down the transit chain from Sharona to get him to this place at this time.
Perhaps I'm better matched than I expected, he thought almost cheerfully. After all, it was always more satisfying to match wits with a fellow professional, rather than simply steal candy from unwary babies. Not that the end result was likely to be any different.
"In that case," he gestured casually and spoke the word which activated the spell accumulators on the camp chairs he'd had a member of his military escort arrange around the conference table. The comfortably cushioned chairs rose immediately, floating levelly at the exactly correct height.
"Be seated, please," he invited blandly.
This time, chan Baskay didn't even turn a hair. He'd expected nothing less, and he simply smiled, handed his cloak to one of Platoon-Captain Arthag's troopers, and seated himself. The pit of his stomach felt just a bit hollow as he parked his posterior on the unnaturally floating chair. A part of him couldn't quite help expecting it to collapse under his weight, but no sign of it showed in his expression, and he laid his forearms on the conference table, folded his hands neatly, an
d gazed at them with a politely attentive expression.
Like the comfortably padded chair underneath him, the conference table didn't even quiver under the weight of his arms. It was as rock-steady as any table he'd ever sat at before, which his intellect had known would be the case. It would scarcely have worked to the Arcanans' advantage for it to be anything else, after all.
Definitely a professional, Skirvon thought ungrudgingly, giving the Sharonian diplomat points for composure.
He glanced at Dastiri as the junior Sharonian diplomat, Rothag, seated himself somewhat more gingerly at Simrath's right. Then they took their own seats, facing the Sharonians across the conference table. Skirvon opened his mouth, but Simrath spoke before he could say anything.
"This translating rock of yours will be most convenient," he observed. "On the other hand, words are only tools, are they not? What truly matters are the answers to two simple questions. Do you plan to end your acts of violence against Sharonian civilians? And do you intend to stop attacking soldiers attempting to negotiate under flags of truce?"
Skirvon's eyes widened. Despite his own many years of experience, he couldn't quite conceal his surprise at the other man's directness.
"With all respect, Viscount," he said after a moment, "those questions are not as simple as you suggest. You say your people were civilians. Our soldiers did not know that, and many of them were killed in the same fight. Arcana deeply regrets what happened, but how it came about is not at all clear to us at this time."
"It is very clear to us," Simrath said with a pleasant smile. "Your soldiers attacked our civilians. When one of our officers?Platoon-Captain Arthag, I believe?" he gestured at one of the officers who had accompanied the Arcanans and their escort from the swamp portal "?attempted to approach your soldiers under a flag of truce to inquire as to the fate of our people, he was fired upon. From our viewpoint, it's quite clear who fired the first shot in each of those incidents."
Skirvon ordered his expression not to change. Clearly, Simrath intended to cut right to the heart of things, and it was equally obvious that his plan was to place Arcana squarely on the defensive. To some extent, that would work out very well for Skirvon's chosen strategy, but it would never do to allow the Sharonians to feel they were driving the negotiations. Or, rather, to allow them an expectation of a quick resolution to those same negotiations. He had to keep them talking for at least a couple of weeks, and allowing this Simrath's forcefulness to push him into premature concessions or admissions could make that considerably more difficult. What he needed was something that could keep them "negotiating" without reaching any premature final agreement.
"Excuse me, Viscount," he said, "but I am afraid you are speaking too quickly and using too many new words for my crystal to translate them correctly. It will get better as we continue to speak to each other, but it has not yet learned enough words for long, complicated talk."
chan Baskay laced his fingers together atop the conference table as he considered what the Arcanan had just said. It made sense, he supposed. And he certainly had no way to judge what the glowing hunk of rock's true capabilities might be.
"So," he said with a thin smile which would have done his most arrogant ancestor proud, "your … crystal isn't up to the task after all?"
"That is not what I said," the crystal translated a moment later. "What I said is that it will take time. We wish to talk, wish for there to be no more shooting, but it is important that we understand what is said. That we are clear when we talk. And that you understand what we think happened while we understand what you think happened."
chan Baskay cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips thoughtfully. He suspected that the Arcanans' marvelous hunk of rock was doing a better job of translating than this Skirvon wanted to admit. At the same time, he had to concede that the man had a point. If they were going to talk to each other at all, they had to at least listen to the other side's view of the events which had led them to this point.
"Very well," he said after a moment. "You asked us to meet with you. What does Arcana wish to say? Sharona is willing to listen."
That's better, Skirvon thought. Get him tied up in formal exchanges and we can kill lots of time without actually saying a damned thing we don't already both know anyway.
"Arcana is grateful that Sharona is willing to listen," he said aloud, and arranged himself into what he thought of as "formal discourse posture" to make it clear that what he was about to say was a formal position statement.
"Arcana is shocked by the violence that has taken place between our people and yours," he continued. "It caused us great grief to discover that the sole survivor was a young woman. We do not allow women to serve in our military, so we were not expecting to find one."
"She was not serving in the military," Simrath said in a voice chipped from solid ice. "They were civilians."
"Yes," Skirvon said. "We know that now. We did not know that then, however. And we did not expect to find a girl in the middle of such combat."
chan Baskay considered pointing out that the Arcanans had gone into that same battle with a woman of their own in tow, but he chose not to play that particular card just yet. So far, the other side had given no indication that there were any Talented Arcanans. It was difficult for him to conceive of a human civilization in which that was true, but, then, he'd never seriously conceived of one which routinely used magic to float tables in midair, either. So it was entirely possible the Arcanans were as ignorant of the possibilities open to the Talented as Sharona was?or had been?to the possibilities of magic. If that was the case, the less the Arcanans knew about the capabilities of Sharonian Whiffers and Tracers, the better.
"Very well," he said instead, after a moment. "I will accept that you were not aware our people were civilians … at first, at least. Continue."
"Thank you, Viscount," Skirvon replied, then drew a breath.
"We were horrified to find her," he resumed after a moment. "We tried hard to keep her alive. But the healer attached to our soldiers was killed in the fighting. They had a magister with a minor arcana for healing, but nothing even remotely close to an actual healer. So they tried to carry her to a real healer."
chan Baskay frowned, then unlaced his fingers and leaned back in his floating chair, tugging at the lobe of his right ear in one of his prearranged signals to chan Rothag. The Narhathan petty-captain didn't appear to notice, but he sat back himself and crossed his legs.
So, chan Baskay reflected, not exactly a lie, but not the entire truth, either. Well, that's hardly a surprise from a diplomat, now is it?
"A moment," he said. "Your crystal failed to translate two of the terms you just used. What is a 'magister'? And what is a 'minor arcana'? Isn't Arcana the name of your world?"
Skirvon blinked in what certainly looked like genuine surprise. Then he smiled.
"Ah, I see the problem. First, Viscount, a 'magister' is someone with a Gift, an ability to use magic." He tapped the floating table. "Like this. Some people with Gifts can make things float or perform other similar actions. Others?what we call 'magistrons'?are able to use healing magic. The only magister our soldiers had with them immediately after the fighting was not a magistron.
"Second, we use the word 'arcana' to mean a specific Gift or magical ability. The tradition among my people is that the same word is used to mean the entire world because the world is a gift from the gods to all men. That is where the confusion about 'minor arcana' came from.
"What I tried to say was that the magister who was with our soldiers had only a minor, weaker, Gift for healing. It was not a strong, trained Gift, which could have healed the young woman's injuries."
"I see." chan Baskay nodded, then glanced at chan Rothag. The petty-captain's posture was unchanged, but he rubbed the tip of his right index finger gently across the cuff of his left sleeve. Which meant that this time, at least, the Narhathan was confident that pretty much everything Skirvon had just said was the truth.
"Very
well," he said. "You say you were horrified to discover a woman among your victims." He allowed his eyes to harden slightly. "How and when did Shaylar die?"
"She had suffered a terrible head injury," Skirvon said. "She was burned, as well. Not as badly as some of the others, but the burns made her other injuries worse. We transported her as quickly as we could to our nearest base with a fully trained healer, but we were unable to get her there in time. She lived for six days."
chan Rothag sat up, uncrossing his legs, and chan Baskay's nerves tightened abruptly.
"A moment, please," he said courteously, and glanced at chan Rothag. "Look sad," he said in Farnalian. "Then tell me what he's lying about."
"He's lying through his teeth about the burns, and about the six days," chan Rothag replied in the same language. He looked as if he wanted to weep. "The rest of it is pretty much true. Do we want to call him on the part that isn't?"
"Not yet." chan Baskay leaned towards the other man, laying a hand on his shoulder with a concerned, sorrowful expression. "There's no point letting them know you can tell when they're lying," he said softly, gently. "Besides, let's see how much rope he'll give himself."
chan Rothag nodded, still looking stricken, and chan Baskay patted his shoulder comfortingly, then turned back to Skirvon.
"Lord Rothag is Shurkhali," he lied with an absolutely straight face. "The confirmation that his countrywoman suffered such horrible wounds and lingered for so long is very painful to him."
He watched Skirvon's expression carefully without seeming too. Presenting such a bald-faced lie would have been unthinkable if he'd faced other Sharonians, since both sides knew the other one was bound to bring its own Sifters to any negotiations. But he'd done it deliberately, as a test, and he saw no sign Skirvon could tell that he'd just lied. Which was something to bear in mind. Clearly, Skirvon and Dastiri came from a totally different tradition, one which used no equivalent of Sifters.
I'll bet they're used to being able to lie to each other, he thought. Which means they'll do it at the drop of a hat. That's something else to bear in mind.
