fingernails were long and painted a pale rose color. Tol had never seen such a fashion, not even in the imperial court.
Admiral Anovenax offered his vigorous agreement with this statement, but Lord Regobart interjected, “Your raids on our coast must end. Either you stop them, or we shall.” At that Anovenax took instant umbrage.
The arguments escalated, about fleets and trade and war indemnities to be paid to the empire in gold. At one point Prince Helx’s harsh expression drew into an even fiercer frown, and he asked sarcastically, “Why stop with gold? Why not enslave us all and be done with it?”
“I will gladly entertain alternatives,” Regobart answered, refusing to be baited. “Silver, copper, grain-”
“Hostages?”
The single word from Hanira silenced the room.
Tol and Regobart exchanged a glance. Tol asked, “What do you propose?”
“That a certain part of the indemnity be rescinded in favor of a number of volunteer hostages to be sent to Daltigoth in token of our peaceful intentions.”
“Noble hostages?” Tol asked. “You, lady?”
Valgold flushed, and Prince Helx looked furious, but Admiral Anovenax snorted with amusement. “As well try to put a panther on a leash!” he scoffed.
Most of the Tarsan men in the delegation laughed nervously and shifted in their chairs. Princess Shelei frowned in reproof. The three clerics lowered their eyes. Only Hanira herself seemed unperturbed.
“My countrymen jest with you,” she said evenly. “As head of the Golden House, I’ve had many sharp dealings with them.”
“Golden House?” asked Tol.
“The guild of goldsmiths and jewelers,” Prince Valgold explained, then quickly shifted the subject back to the more serious questions of trade.
The discussion lasted far into the night. Another meal was served by Ergothian orderlies. Wine flowed, but all kept their heads clear. At times tempers flared. Prince Helx, with arrogant rudeness, dismissed a compromise proposed by Lord Regobart.
Regobart smote the table with his fist, declaring he would turn Tarsis into a tidal pool if need be.
Helx jumped up, hand hovering over his dagger. “Do your worst, you savage! How will you breach our walls, eh? With sabers?”
The prince had a point, Tol reflected. Victorious as they were in the open field, the Ergothians still did not have the means to ravage and reduce the great city.
Tol had kept silent through most of the stalemate, watching and listening, and he felt he was beginning to understand what mattered to the Tarsan delegation. For all their talk of freedom and culture, what truly set their blood coursing was money.
Breaking the charged silence, he said calmly, “We don’t have to destroy your walls, Your Highness. We can occupy your country. If all supplies to the city were cut off, how long would your food hold out? How long would your gold supply last?”
“Gold is not bread,” said the admiral quickly.
“No, but gold is the lifeblood of Tarsis, is it not? Will you sacrifice your fortunes to save your lives? How about the fortunes of your comrades, not to mention the common folk of Tarsis?” Tol let his questions hang in the air, then added, “When you’re paupers, what good will your pride be?”
Silence reigned. At last, Prince Valgold stood. He rolled up the list of Ergothian demands and slid the parchment into his voluminous sleeve.
Scanning the assembly with tired, bloodshot eyes, he announced, “It is late. I will take your demands to the City Assembly. You will have our response soon.”
When the Tarsans were gone, Regobart filled a goblet with strong red wine and drained it.
“Bloody merchants,” he said. “Call themselves princes? There’s no nobility in counting money!”
Privately, Tol agreed, but then, he didn’t see that riding a horse and killing people made one noble either.
He and Regobart took their leave of each other. Tol was so exhausted he thought he would be asleep as soon as he fell into bed. Instead, he slept very poorly. The yowl of a panther out in the dunes disturbed his rest. He even stumbled outside, sword in hand, dressed only in his breechnap, seeking to kill the beast. The only sound to be heard was the wind, hissing over the sand.
At dawn, the Tradewind Gate was thrown open abruptly. Alarms sounded in the Ergothian camp, and warriors rushed to fend off what they imagined was a last-ditch Tarsan attack. Instead of soldiers, however, a band of officials emerged, flanked by heralds.
One of the horn-bearing heralds, his eyes bright with tears, announced, “By order of the princes, syndics, and City Assembly, the city of Tarsis hereby yields to the forces of the Ergoth Empire!” He choked, cleared his throat, and continued. “Here are our counterproposals to the emperor’s demands!”
A youth dashed out and presented a large scroll to Lord Regobart, who had arrived with hair uncombed and still in his sleeping gown. At his side, Tol, haggard from his unsettled night, watched as Regobart broke the seal and opened the scroll. The elder general’s expression grew hard.
“They refuse to give their fleet,” he reported, “and they offer only one hundred thousand gold pieces instead of five hundred thousand!”
Tol shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a goodly sum. Leave them their ships-or better, demand a token reduction of, say, one hundred galleys. They’ve surrendered. Leave them some pride and they won’t be so resentful in the future.”
Regobart struggled with conflicting emotions. As the warlord of a mighty empire, his inclination was to squeeze a defeated foe for every last drop of blood. As a diplomat, he knew even better than Tol that it was often wiser to let a loser retain some dignity.
The Tarsan officials were waiting, glaring at their conquerors with impotent hatred. Regobart drew himself straight and spoke loudly to them.
“In the name of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and Prince Regent Amaltar, I accept these terms,” he said. “Let every gate of the city be opened! We shall enter and receive your surrender at noon today!”
Cheers erupted from the warriors who’d rushed to the gate believing themselves to be under attack. The jubilant men engulfed their generals. Cries of “Ergoth! Ergoth!” alternated with “Regobart!” and “Tolandruth!”
In the confusion, a man in Tarsan livery sidled up to Tol and thrust a note in his hand. Tol turned to confront him, but the fellow melted quickly into the crowd. Tol unfolded the small square of foolscap. It bore the seal of the Guild of Goldsmiths.
Faintly, over the tumult of celebration, Tol heard the call of a panther.
Chapter 2
Tol struggled with the buttons on the high collar of his tunic, his face reddening.
“I say it’s a trap,” Miya repeated. “I say go,” countered Kiya, normally the more cautious of the sisters. She helped Tol fit the broad belt around his waist, adding, “She’s rich, beautiful, and a woman of influence in this city. She probably wants to discuss business.”
Miya snorted, and the two sisters were off again. While they argued, they helped him struggle into less martial finery. Since he’d returned to the tent and told them about the invitation from Hanira, Kiya and Miya had disputed nonstop about whether he should go. Miya feared an assassination plot. To put a stop to her relentless urging, Tol had donned a light mail shirt under his tunic. It wouldn’t stop an arrow or sword, but it would turn aside a dagger thrust from close range.
Kiya dismissed her sister’s fears. Trained forest fighter that she was, she had a low opinion of city-bred
