The Legion of Videssos (39 page)

“Do you say that as a seer?” Targitaus asked eagerly.

“No, only as one who’s seen a good deal,” Lipoxais answered, smiling at the distinction with as much pleasure as an imperial might have taken over such wordplay.

“Still not bad,” Viridovix said. He had gained a great deal of respect for the
enaree
’s shrewdness in the weeks since he came to Targitaus’ clan. He was still not sure whether Lipoxais was a whole man—unlike most of the Khamorth, he kept his modesty, even in the cramped conditions of nomadic life. Whole or not, nothing was lacking from his wits.

A pessimist by nature, Targitaus had no trouble finding new worries. “For all the allies we may bring in, what good will they do us, V’rid’rish, if your Avshar is as strong as you say? Will he not help Varatesh’s renegades ride over us no matter what we do?”

The Celt chewed at his lower lip; he lived with that fear, too. But he answered, “It’s a tricksy thing, battle magic, indeed and it is. Even himself may have it turn and bite him.” Lipoxais nodded vigorously, his chins hobbling. Sorcery frayed all too often in the heat of combat.

A fresh thought struck Viridovix. “Sure and it was a braw scheme, for all the Romans thought of it,” he exclaimed, and then remembered: “Nay, they said ’twas first used against ’em.” He reddened when he realized that, of course, his listeners had no idea what he was talking about. Targitaus was standing with folded arms, impatiently drumming his fingers on his elbows.

The Gaul explained how the legionaries had frightened a band of Yezda out of a valley one night by tying fagots to the horns of a herd of cattle, then lighting the sticks and stampeding the crazed beasts at the nomads. He did not make light of his own role either, for he had ridden at the head of the herd and sworded down one Yezda who did not panic. “But the rest o’ the kerns were running for their lives, shrieking like so many banshees,” he finished happily. “They must have thought it was a flock o’ demons after ’em—and likely so would Varatesh’s rogues.”

All of the Khamorth, though, even Seirem, even Borane’s gossip partners, looked at him in horror. When Targitaus made as if to draw his sword, Viridovix saw how badly he had blundered, but did not know why. Lipoxais reminded his chief, “He is not of us by blood and does not know our ways.”

Muscle by muscle, the khagan relaxed. “That is so,” he said at last, and then to Viridovix, “You fit well with us; I forget how foreign you are in truth.” Viridovix bowed at the implied compliment, but Targitaus was speaking to him now as to a child. “Here on the plains, we do not let fire run wild.” The nomad’s wave encompassed the vast, featureless sea of grass all around. “Once started, how would it ever stop again?”

Coming as he did from damp, verdant Gaul, Viridovix had not thought of that. He hung his head, muttering, “Begging your pardon, I’m sorry.” But he had the quick wits to see that the ploy might still be used, or something like it. “How would this be, now?” he said, and gave them his new idea.

Targitaus ran his hand through his beard as he thought. “I’ve heard worse,” he said—highest praise.

Seirem nodded in brisk satisfaction, as if she had expected no less.

His sons flanking him, councilors grouped around him, Arghun found the key question and asked it directly of the rival embassies: “Why should my people take service with one of you instead of the other?”

Perhaps Goudeles had expected some polite conversation before getting down to business, for he did not have his answer instantly ready. When he hesitated, Bogoraz of Yezd seized the chance to speak first. Forehead furrowed in annoyance,
Goudeles—and Gorgidas with him—listened to Skylitzes’ whispered translation: “Because Videssos is a cow too tired and old to stay on its legs. When a beast in your own herds—may they increase—cannot keep up, do you rope another to it to help it along for its last few days? No, you slaughter it at once, while it still has flesh on its bones. We invite you to help with the butchering and share the meat.”

Against his will, Gorgidas found himself respecting Bogoraz’ talents. His argument was nicely couched in terms familiar to the Arshaum and doubly effective because of it.

Yet Goudeles, though robbed of the initiative, thought quickly on his feet. “Having seen his own Makuran collapse at the first shout, Bogoraz may perhaps be forgiven for his delusion that such decay has befallen us as well. He ministers to his new masters well.”

Arigh interpreted for his father and the elders. “Your pun didn’t translate,” Skylitzes muttered when the plainsman’s version was through.

“Never mind. I meant it for Bogoraz,” the bureaucrat answered. The shot went home, too; the Yezda envoy gave him a fierce glower. Goudeles was not bad at finding weaknesses himself, Gorgidas thought. Serving overlords only a generation off the steppe had to be humiliating for Bogoraz, who was as much a man of culture as the Videssian.

“I give Wulghash all my loyalty,” the ambassador said, rather loudly, as if to convince himself. He must have succeeded, for he returned to the attack: “Yezd is now a young, strong land, filled with the vigor fresh blood brings. Its time is come, while Videssos falls into shadows.”

Proud in the full power of his strength, Dizabul threw back his head. As Bogoraz doubtless intended, he identified Yezd’s situation with his own. But Gorgidas wondered if the envoy had not outsmarted himself. There were few young men among Arghun’s councilors.

One of the oldest of them, a man with a scant few snowy locks combed across his skull, slowly rose and tottered toward Bogoraz. The diplomat frowned, then yelped in outrage as the Arshaum reached out and plucked a hair from his beard. Holding it at arm’s length, he peered at it with rheumy eyes. “Fresh blood?” he said, slow and clear enough so even Gorgidas and
Goudeles could understand. “This is as white as mine.” He threw it on the rug.

“Sit down, Onogon,” Arghun said, but as much in amusement as reproof. Onogon obeyed, as deliberately as he had risen. Several of the elders were chuckling among themselves; Bogoraz barely hid his fury. Abuse would have been easier for him to bear than mockery.

Gorgidas, for his part, started when he heard the old man speak. The devil-mask had distorted the chief shaman’s voice, but the Greek still knew it when he heard it again—a powerful ally to have, if ally he was. Gorgidas reached forward to tap Goudeles on the shoulder, but the pen-pusher was speaking again.

“Our presence here gives the lie to the Yezda’s foolish effrontery,” he said. “As it always has, Videssos stands.”

Bogoraz bared his teeth in a shark’s smile. “Khagan, the senile Empire has no bigger liar than this man, and he proves it out of his own mouth. I will show you the state Videssos is in. This Goudeles, when he offered you his desperate tribute, paid you in old coin, not so?”

“Oh, oh,” Skylitzes said under his breath as Arghun nodded.

“See, then, what the Empire mints these days and tell me if it stands as it always has.” And Bogoraz reached into his wallet, drew forth a coin, and cast it at the khagan’s feet.

Even from several paces way, Gorgidas could see what it was—a “goldpiece” of Ortaias Sphrantzes, small, thin, poorly shaped, and so adulterated with copper that it was more nearly red than honest yellow.

Bogoraz retrieved the coin. “I would not cheapen myself by offering you so shabby a gift,” he said to Arghun.

The dramatic flourish hurt as badly as the damning money itself. It grew very quiet in the banquet tent, which now served another function; all the Arshaum watched Goudeles to see what response he had.

He stood a long time silent, thinking. Finally he said, “That was the coin of a usurper, a rebel who has been put down; it is not a fair standard to judge by.” All true, though he did not tell the Arshaum he had followed Ortaias until Thorisin Gavras took Videssos. Just as if he had served Gavras all his life, he went on, warming to his theme, “Now we have an
Emperor who is strong-willed and to be feared, well able to do that which is necessary in administering the state, both in war and in the collection of public revenues.”

“Sophistry,” Bogoraz fleered in Videssian. The Arshaum tongue lacked the concept, so he was blunter: “Lies! And your precious Emperor had best be skilled at war, for it is not merely Yezd he fights; his paid soldiers from Namdalen have revolted against him, and in the east he wars with the Duchy itself. His forces are divided, spread among many fronts; since we are fighting no one but Videssos, it is plain victory will soon be ours.”

Gorgidas, Skylitzes, and Goudeles exchanged glances of consternation. Isolated on the plains for months, they knew nothing of events in the Empire; it was only too likely Bogoraz had fresher news than theirs. The very set of his body, the enjoyment he took from his revelation, argued for its belief.

The Greek had to admire Goudeles then. Rocked as he was by Bogoraz’ announcement, the seal-stamper laughed and bowed toward the Yezda envoy as if he had brought good news. “What nonsense is this?” Bogoraz said suspiciously.

“None at all, sir, none at all.” Goudeles bowed again. “May all be well for you, in fact, for though born a man of Yezd, you have testified to the courage of Videssos and not hidden the truth out of fear.”

“You have gone mad.”

“No, indeed. For unless the Videssian power was distracted, as you said, and was extending its army against various foes, do you think the Yezda could stand against it in battle? Were we facing Yezd alone, even its name would be destroyed along with its army.”

It was a brave try, but Bogoraz cut through words with a reminder of real events. “We fared better than that at Maragha. And now we and Namdalen grind Videssos to power between us.” He made a twisting motion with his hands, as though wringing a fowl’s neck.

The Arshaum murmured back and forth; Goudeles, at last with the look of a beast at bay, had no ready answer. Beside him Skylitzes was as grim. In desperation, Gorgidas spoke to Arghun: “Surely Yezd is a more dangerous friend for you than
Videssos. The Empire is far away, but Yezd shares a border with your people.”

If he expected the same success the tale of Sesostris had brought him, he did not gain it. When his words were interpreted, the khagan laughed at him. “We Arshaum do not fear the Yezda. Why should we? We whipped them off the steppe into Yezd; they would not dare come back.”

That reply hardly pleased Bogoraz more than the Greek; he might have mixed feelings toward his overlords, but he did not care to hear them scorned.

And Skylitzes seized on Arghun’s words as a drowning man would grab a line. “Translate for me, Arigh,” he said tensely. “I must not be misunderstood.” Arigh nodded; he had watched Bogoraz take control of the debate with as much anxiety as the Videssians. If their cause went down to defeat, his as their sponsor suffered, too—and Dizabul’s grew brighter, for backing the right side.

“Tell your father and the clan enders, then, that Gorgidas here is right, and Yezd menaces your people even now.”

Understanding the officer’s Videssian, Bogoraz shouted angry protest. “More twaddle from these talksmiths! If words were soldiers, they would rule the world.”

“More than words, Yezda! Tell the khagan, tell his elders why Yezd is making cats’-paws of the Khamorth outlaws by the Shaum, if not to use them against the Arshaum. Then who would be between whom?” With wicked precision, Skylitzes imitated Bogoraz’s neck-twisting gesture. The Videssian officer might lack Goudeles’ flair for high-flown oratory, but with a soldiers’ instinct he knew where a stroke would hurt.

The clan leaders’ eyes swung back to Bogoraz, sudden hard suspicion in them. “Utterly absurd, your majesty,” he said to Arghun. “Another load of fantastic trumpery, no better than this suet-bag’s here.” The broad sleeve of his coat flapped as he pointed at Goudeles. He sounded as sure of himself as he had when wounding the Videssians with word of Drax’ revolt.

But Skylitzes still had his opening and pounded through it, “How is it that Varatesh and his bandits struck west over the Shaum this past winter, the first time in years even outlaws dared act so?”

The Gray Horse clan was far enough from Shaumkiil’s
eastern marches that Arghun had not heard of the raid. He snapped a question at the elders. Onogon answered him. Triumph spread over Skylitzes’ saturnine face. “He knows about it! Learned from another shaman, he says.”

Bogoraz remained unshaken. “Well, what if these renegades, or whatever they are, came cattle-stealing where they don’t belong? They have nothing to do with Yezd.”

“No?” Gorgidas had never heard so much sarcasm packed into a single syllable. “Then how is it,” Skylitzes asked, “that Avshar rides with these renegades? If Avshar is not second in Yezd after Wulghash, it’s only because he may be first.”

Now the Yezda envoy stared in dismay and disbelief. “I know nothing of this,” he said weakly.

“It’s true, though.” That was not Skylitzes, but Arigh. “This is what I spoke of, father, when I rode ahead of the embassy.” Skylitzes interpreted for Gorgidas and Goudeles as Arigh told the elders of Viridovix’ kidnapping on the Pardrayan steppe, and of the part Avshar’s magic had played in it.

“You see he did not scruple to attack an embassy,” Goudeles put in, “contrary to the law of all nations, who recognize envoys’ persons as sacrosanct.”

“What have you to say?” Arghun asked Bogoraz. As usual, the khagan kept his face impassive, but his voice was stern.

“That I know nothing about it,” the Yezda ambassador repeated, this time with more conviction. “This Avshar has not been seen in the court at Mashiz for two years and more, since he took up the army that won glory for Wulghash at Maragha.” An eyebrow quirked, a courtier’s grimace. “There are those who would say Wulghash has not missed him. Whatever he may or may not have done after he last left Mashiz should not be held to Yezd’s account, only to his own.”

“Khagan!” That was Skylitzes, shouting in protest; Goudeles clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. The officer cried out, “If your men go to tend a herd five days away from your yurt, they still ride under your orders.”

Several of the councilors behind Arghun nodded in agreement. “Well said!” came Onogon’s thin voice. But others, unable to take seriously a threat from the despised Khamorth, still seemed to think Bogoraz’ arguments carried more weight, nor did Dizabul pull away from the man whose cause he backed. The deadlock held.