buckled.
The ocher-scaled Tymantheran stooped low, dropped his opponent with a drawing slice to the knee, then pulled back his sword for a thrust to the guts.
The paladin slipped a cut, shifted in close to his windsoul foe, and pounded the pommel of his sword against the genasi’s temple. Then, not slowing down an iota, he lunged and caught his friend’s arm, preventing him from delivering the deathblow he intended.
Gaedynn stood up, retrieved his longbow, and then set about brushing off and straightening his garments. “We really do represent the watch,” he announced to the crowd at large, “even if we hate wearing those ghastly tabards. In my judgment, the genasi started this quarrel, so we’re placing them under arrest.”
Khouryn moved to join him. So did Jhesrhi. The silent scrutiny of the crowd weighed on her as she crossed the room.
“What are we supposed to do with people we arrest?” Gaedynn murmured.
“I assume the town has a lockup someplace,” Khouryn answered.
“The town is full of all sorts of fear and hatred,” Jhesrhi said. “This brawl didn’t have anything to do with the Green Hand killer or the prejudice against mages.”
Gaedynn gave her a grin. “Well, not until you got involved.”
“It isn’t fair,” said Daardendrien Balasar. “The genasi started it.”
“We’re in Luthcheq to practice diplomacy,” Ophinshtalajiir Perra answered. The ambassador was an unusually tall and gaunt dragonborn, with the two jade rings of her clan glinting in the loose hide on the right side of her neck. Age had bent her back a little and speckled her brown scales with white. “Fairness and reason have relatively little to do with it. The war hero is upset. Accordingly, you and Medrash will apologize.”
A servant thumped the butt of his staff on the floor. The arched double doors, ornately carved from the living sandstone of the citadel, swung open to reveal the audience chamber beyond. Walking with a slow and stately gait, Balasar, Perra, and Medrash headed inside.
Balasar could wield a sword better than most. Better, even, than most of his fellow Daardendriens, initiates of a clan renowned for its prowess. Still, he occasionally found his people’s focus on the martial virtues tedious. For better or worse, the war hero’s hall reflected similar preoccupations. The gorgeous tapestries depicted the clash of armies, and most of the statuary portrayed mortal combat, although here and there a sculpture of a runner or discus thrower suggested that even in Chessenta it might be possible to contend without shoving a blade through the other fellow’s guts.
Shala Karanok looked at home amid the depictions of slaughter. She was a scowling, solidly built woman in her middle years, with a ridged scar on her square jaw and dark hair chopped short. The bits of polished steel adorning her masculine garments apparently symbolized armor.
An assortment of her counselors and officers stood before her throne, and-to Balasar’s disgust-so did Zan- akar Zeraez and some of the lesser members of his delegation. The Akanulan ambassador had remarkably long and slender silver spikes projecting from his scalp, and skin the color of the duskiest grapes. The pattern of argent lines etched into his face was so intricate that he looked like he was wearing a wire mask. Sparks tended to crawl on him even when he was in repose, and judging by his glower, that wasn’t the case now. Balasar felt an impulse to make a funny face at him, just to see if he could elicit a glowing, popping shower of them, but it probably wasn’t a good idea.
When they reached the customary distance, the dragonborn stopped and bowed. “Welcome, my lady,” said Shala, her tone no warmer than her expression.
“Majesty,” Perra said. “I’ve brought the guards involved in the confrontation.”
The war hero turned her cold stare on them. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Majesty,” said Medrash, “I regret the disturbance. If a similar situation arises again, we’ll do everything in our power to avoid violence.”
Trained to lead, paladins studied etiquette and rhetoric, and Medrash’s tutors would have approved of his performance. It was deferential yet dignified. It gave Shala what she wanted while somehow subtly asserting the dragonborn’s fundamental lack of culpability.
Balasar didn’t try to match it. He just inclined his head and said, “I’m sorry too.”
“As well you should be,” said the woman on the throne. “It’s unacceptable for any outlander to foment disorder. But the Akanulans you fought were simply traders from a caravan. You two are gentlemen attached to your kingdom’s embassy. I expect you to conduct yourself according to the highest standards.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said. “We demand no less of ourselves.”
Well, give or take, within reason, Balasar thought.
Perra waited, making sure that she and the war hero wouldn’t speak at the same time. When the human offered nothing further, the ambassador said, “If Your Majesty is satisfied, these two have duties awaiting-”
“I’m not satisfied!” snarled Zan-akar. His anger, the ire of a stormsoul, darkened the air around him and made the room smell like a downpour was on the way. The sparks jumping and crawling on his skin looked especially bright inside that smear of gloom. “With respect, Majesty, I thought you called these ruffians here to conduct an inquiry.”
“Surely,” said Perra, “the facts are already clear.”
Zan-akar sneered. “Oh, there’s a story we’ve all heard. But does it account for the facts? Does it explain how the Akanulans-even with the advantage of numbers and even though allegedly the aggressors-ended up with broken bones, while these two escaped unscathed?”
“I can explain that,” said Balasar. “Your traders fought like hatchlings from spoiled eggs.”
Perra elbowed him in the ribs.
“Isn’t it likely,” Zan-akar persisted, “that in fact, as the genasi assert, these two dragonborn attacked them by surprise?”
“No, my lord,” said Medrash, “it isn’t. Balasar and I emerged from the fight unharmed because officers of the city guard came to our aid. And any fair-minded person would accept that as the truth because the watchmen say so too.”
“But their involvement,” said a plummy bass voice, “raises other questions.”
Balasar turned. The speaker was Luthen, one of Shala’s counselors, a big man running to fat in his middle years. His round head with its receding hair and neatly trimmed goatee looked small atop his massive shoulders.
Apparently he meant to take Zan-akar’s side, which puzzled Balasar a little. He hadn’t heard that Luthen was any great friend to Akanul, although he supposed he could have missed that particular nugget of information. His mind tended to drift when his associates discussed the labyrinthine alliances and rivalries of Shala’s court.
Lean, broken-nosed Nicos Corynian gave his fellow advisor a level stare. “What other questions, my lord?”
“For starters, why weren’t they wearing their tabards?”
A man Balasar hadn’t seen before stepped up beside Nicos. He was muscular and thick in the torso like Luthen, but short rather than tall. His head was as hairless as a dragonborn’s, and a mask of tattooed marks surrounded his weirdly luminous blue eyes.
“Because they were off duty,” he said. “But they still recognized their responsibility to restore order. Would you want them to stand idly by while blood spilled?”
Balasar inferred that the tattooed stranger must be Aoth Fezim, commander of the sellswords who’d just entered Nicos’s service.
“I would wish the sorceress,” Luthen replied, “to obey the laws of Chessenta and carry the mark of her essential nature at all times. And frankly, war-mage, were it up to me, I’d require the same of you.”
A goodly number of the assembled retainers murmured in agreement.
“We’re not going to stay in Chessenta forever,” said Aoth, “and Her Majesty has given us a dispensation.”
“What she’s granted,” said Luthen, “she can rescind. And she might want to consider doing precisely that. She might want to reconsider whether having you in Luthcheq is a good idea at all.”
