Balkar chan Tesh lowered his field glasses with a thoughtful frown. He'd gotten to Platoon-Captain Parai chan Dersal's forward observation post from the Hell's Gate side of the portal while the boat Loumas had detected was still a good mile out. He'd stood beside the Marine and watched it during its final approach, and he hoped his perplexity was less apparent to his men than it was to him.
How the hell do they make the thing move? he wondered. There was no sail, no oars, no paddle, and certainly no steam launch's tall spindly funnel or plume of smoke. Yet the boat—not more than fifteen feet long, at most—came sliding through the deeper channels of the swamp fast enough that its stern squatted and its bow planed across the water.
It's not natural . . . and isn't that a silly thing to be thinking after everything that's already happened out here?
He slowly and deliberately cased the field glasses, then folded his arms and stood waiting while the boat slowed abruptly as it slid the last few dozen yards to the raised hillock before the portal.
As Loumas had reported, there were three men in it. Two of them wore what was obviously civilian clothing of some sort, although—not surprisingly—chan Tesh had never seen garments cut that way. They were much more tightly tailored, more formfitting, than any current Sharonian fashion, and the civilian jackets were long-tailed, with broad, cutaway lapels and outsized silver buttons. Both jackets were dark colored—the larger, chestnut-haired fellow in the bow, who looked to be the older of the two, wore one that was the color of port wine, while the younger, Uromathian-looking one on the midships thwart wore one of a dark, rich green—but the tight trousers were light-colored, and tucked into pointy-toed dress boots which rose to midcalf. All in all, chan Tesh couldn't imagine a less practical outfit for wading around in swamps.
The man sitting in the stern of the boat and managing the simple rudder—at least I know what that's for, chan Tesh thought wryly—was obviously in uniform, although as Loumas had already informed him, it didn't match anything they'd seen yet. There was something about him which suggested a noncommissioned officer, chan Tesh decided, and his red jerseylike tunic reminded the company-captain vaguely of naval uniform, for some reason. Possibly, he thought, because the man seemed to be doing what one might expect a sailor to do.
The boat drifted gently and silently through the reeds in the shallower water, then nosed into the mud with a soft slosh of swamp water and a muddy slurp. Its occupants sat very still, their hands in plain sight. Even the man at the rudder was very careful to make no sudden moves as he released the tiller bar and placed his open hands palm-down on his thighs, and chan Tesh smiled humorlessly at the sight. He'd be doing exactly the same thing if twenty Model 10 rifles and at least one machine-gun (that he could see) were aimed at him.
The older of the two civilians had busy eyes, chan Tesh observed. They swept back and forth across the waiting Sharonians, and the company-captain had the distinct impression that they weren't missing much. Then the moving eyes seemed to narrow slightly as they settled on chan Tesh himself.
"Hello!" the stranger said, in oddly accented but perfectly intelligible Ternathian. "We come talk?"
Chan Tesh stiffened. Despite everything, he was shocked to be addressed in his native tongue, and he hoped his astonishment didn't show. Nor was he the only one who reacted strongly. He heard someone inhale sharply behind him, and then someone else snarled in what he obviously thought was a whisper, "Those bastards have a live prisoner!"
The talkative civilian started to stand up in the boat, then froze as half a dozen rifles tracked him. He obviously knew what the weapons were, and he swallowed hard, sweating more heavily than the swampy heat alone could explain. But he didn't panic; chan Tesh had to give him that much.
"No shoot," he said in a commendably level voice. "We talk, please? Much killing mistake. You send word? Say we talk. Important."
"You think they really want to parley, Sir?" chan Dersal said softly behind chan Tesh.
"I'd sooner parley with a fucking cobra!" Platoon-Captain chan Talmarha half-snarled, and the Marine grunted.
"We hit them hard, Morek," chan Dersal pointed out to chan Tesh's mortar commander. "Twice. In their shoes, I'd think about talking truce. Hard."
Chan Tesh made a very slight gesture with his right hand, and the two platoon-captains shut up instantly. The company-captain gazed back at the Arcanan in silence for several seconds. Although he'd cut off the conversation behind him, he realized that he found himself favoring chan Talmarha's position. Unfortunately . . .
"Master-Armsman chan Kormai," he said quietly.
"Yes, Sir?" his senior noncommissioned officer replied from behind his right shoulder. Frai chan Kormai was a typical Ternathian, unlike chan Tesh. He was a good foot taller than the company-captain, with shoulders broader than an icebox, and if he carried more than two ounces of excess weight anywhere about his person, chan Tesh had never noticed them. The master-armsman had enlisted in the Imperial Ternathian Army when he was sixteen, and he would be celebrating his forty-sixth birthday in two months. Over those thirty years he'd seen just about everything, and chan Tesh found his unflappable professionalism more comforting than he cared to admit. Especially at this moment.
"I think we need to make certain these . . . gentlemen aren't carrying anything we'd prefer for them not to be carrying, Master-Armsman."
"Understood, Sir." Chan Kormai's cool green eyes surveyed the boat. "You want it polite, or thorough, Sir?"
"After what they've already done, I think I can stand it if their feelings get a little bruised, Master-Armsman," chan Tesh said dryly. "Let's just try not to leave too many physical bruises, shall we?"
"I think we can handle that, Sir."
"Good." Chan Tesh looked back at the man in the boat. "We'll talk," he said, speaking slowly and carefully and wondering how much the other fellow actually understood. "First, though, we're going to take a few precautions."
" 'Pre-cautions?' " the civilian repeated, obviously not understanding the word.
"First we search you," chan Tesh told him, and pantomimed slapping his own pockets with his hands. The civilian cocked his head to one side for a moment, then grimaced.
"Understand," he said in less than enthralled tones. "You—" He paused again, obviously trying to find the word he wanted, then used one in his own language. Chan Tesh looked politely blank, and the civilian puffed out his cheeks in apparent frustration. Then he twitched his shoulders in an obvious shrug and said something to his companions. Chan Tesh recognized the language their prisoners had spoken, but he hadn't had the opportunity to learn to understand it, and so he simply waited until the civilian turned back to him.
"Understand 'precautions,' " he said, speaking the new word carefully.
"Good," chan Tesh said, and nodded to chan Kormai.
The master-armsman had been quietly picking his assistants while the company-captain explained to the ignorant foreigner. Now he moved forward, followed by four more men. All of them were Marines, chan Tesh noted, and they were also older, more experienced men.
"Get out of the boat," chan Kormai told the talkative civilian, speaking as slowly and carefully as chan Tesh had. "Slowly. Put your hands like this."
He demonstrated lacing his fingers together behind his head, and this time a flash of anger showed in the civilian's eyes. That was fine with chan Tesh. Frankly, he didn't give a damn how angry they got.
The younger civilian said something sharp in their own language, but his superior shook his head. Then, as chan Kormai had instructed him, he stepped slowly and carefully ashore. His boots sank to the ankle in the mud, and he grimaced in obvious distaste as suction tried to pull them off his feet. He managed to reach solider ground without losing them, then put his hands behind his head as chan Kormai had demonstrated.
The master-armsman stepped around behind him, and the civilian's jaw set hard as the noncom proceeded to search him very thoroughly, indeed. Chan Tesh was impressed as the master-armsman demonstrated a previously unsuspected talent. The company-captain had seen very few police—civilian or military—who could have frisked a man so competently . . . and thoroughly. Chan Kormai wasn't especially gentle about it, either, although it was obvious to chan Tesh that he wasn't being deliberately rougher than he had to be, and the civilian winced once or twice. By the time the master-armsman was through, however, it was quite obvious that the civilian couldn't have anything hidden away outside a body cavity.
Chan Tesh was tempted to insist that those be searched, as well, given the bizarre things of which these people appeared to be capable. There were limits to even his paranoia, however, he decided. If these people were equipped with some sort of super weapon so small that it could be hidden someplace like that, then they had no need to send anyone out to talk to them in the first place. Besides, if this really was an effort to establish some sort of diplomatic contact, there was probably some professional code of conduct which ought to be followed. He didn't have a clue what it might insist that he do, but he was pretty sure it existed and that ordering a foreign envoy to bend over and spread his cheeks wasn't very high on the list of approved greetings.
Chan Kormai finished and stood back. The civilian turned to face him with what struck chan Tesh as commendable aplomb, and raised his eyebrows.
"Finished," the master-armsman told him, and pantomimed lowering his hands.
"Are satisfied?"
"For now . . . Sir," chan Kormai replied, and gestured for the man to move further away from the water. Two of the master-armsman's Marines kept a careful eye on the civilian without being particularly unobtrusive about it, and chan Kormai turned to the second civilian.
His search was just as thorough this time, and the younger man lacked his older companion's self-control. His face flushed with anger, and his jaw muscles bunched in obvious humiliation as he was searched. Chan Kormai was no rougher than he'd been with the first man, but neither was he any gentler, and it was obvious that the ire in the younger civilian's eye left him totally unmoved.
"Finished," he said eventually, for the second time. The younger man wasted no effort on conversation. He simply stamped across the damp ground to his companion, and chan Kormai glanced at chan Tesh. There was a slight, undeniable twinkle in the master-armsman's eyes, the company-captain observed, and felt his own lips twitch as they tried to smile.
The man who'd managed the steering on the way in was calmer and more phlegmatic about it than either of the two civilians had been. Unlike them—or, unlike the younger of them, at least—he clearly understood there was nothing personal about it, which suggested to chan Tesh that his original estimate that the man was a long-term noncom had probably been correct.
Once all three of the Arcanans were safely ashore under the watchful eye of chan Kormai's Marines, the master-armsman turned to the boat itself. As with his search of the passengers, he took his time, proceeding with methodical thoroughness.
Each of the civilians had come equipped with what was obviously a briefcase, and chan Kormai went through both of them carefully. He took pains not to damage or disorder any of the indecipherable documents he found inside them, but he examined each folder individually. Then he paused, halfway through searching the first case, and held something up.
"Look at this, Sir," he said to chan Tesh.
The company-captain crossed to the boat and frowned as the master-armsman held out a rock. That was certainly what it looked like, anyway. A big chunk of clear quartz crystal, larger than chan Tesh's fist. For that matter, it was larger than chan Kormai's fist, which took considerably more doing.
"What do you make of it, Sir?" chan Kormai asked as chan Tesh accepted it just a bit gingerly. It wasn't quartz after all, he decided. It was too heavy, too dense, for that. In fact—
"Well, Master-Armsman," he said dryly after a moment, "I doubt they brought it along just to use as a paperweight. It reminds me of the stuff those artillery pieces of theirs are made of, which suggests at least a few unpleasant possibilities, doesn't it?" He grimaced. "It's not the same thing—not quite. But it's got that same . . . feel to it."
"I think you're right, Sir. And—" chan Kormai's eyes flicked sideways at the envoys, if that was what they were "—they're watching you like hawks."
"Really?" chan Tesh murmured, never looking up from the piece of crystal as he rotated his wrist to catch the hot sunlight on its polished surface. "Do they look nervous, Frai?"
"Don't know as I'd call it 'nervous,' Sir," the master-armsman replied softly. "Curious, though. And maybe a little worried. Hard to say. But I'd say they're at least as curious about your reaction to it as we are about what the hell it is."
Chan Tesh snorted in amusement. He wondered how the Arcanans would react if he suddenly tossed the piece of not-rock as far out into the swamp as he could. He was actually quite tempted to do just that, if only to see how they responded. But he didn't. Instead, he handed it back to chan Kormai.
"Put it back in the bag," he said. "And I'll bet you you'll find another one in the other briefcase."
"Sorry, Sir. I don't take sucker bets—even from officers."
As both of them had expected, there was, indeed, a second, almost identical crystal in the other briefcase. Those two enigmatic artifacts made chan Tesh a bit nervous—more nervous than he wanted to let on, at any rate—and he carefully didn't immediately return the briefcases to their owners. Instead, he set them to one side while chan Kormai finished with the boat.
In addition to the briefcases, there were three canvas knapsacks which contained food and water and what looked—and smelled—like some sort of insect repellent. Aside from what were obviously eating utensils, there was nothing even remotely resembling a blade or any other recognizable weapon.
Once the boat had been emptied, chan Kormai waved a half-dozen more troopers forward and had it hauled completely out of the water. Chan Tesh wasn't sure whether the master-armsman was taking caution to its logical conclusion, or whether he was simply as curious as chan Tesh himself about how they'd made the boat move. Whatever it was, neither of them found his question answered. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about the boat, aside from the fact that it was obviously designed for a higher rate of speed than most boats its size which chan Tesh had ever seen before. Well, nothing besides that and the small, dense, glittering block of crystal fastened to its keel near the stern.
Unlike the lumps of not-quartz in the briefcases, the block clearly was made of exactly the same material as the rod-like weapons they'd captured from the other side and the perplexing bits and pieces Soral Hilovar and Nolis Parcanthi had turned up. Which clearly suggested that it was the source of the boat's motive power. It just didn't do a thing to explain how it provided that power.
Finally, chan Kormai straightened with a reasonably satisfied expression.
"That's it, Sir," he said. "Aside from those rock-things, and this," he waved at the glittering block, "I don't see anything they could be planning on using as some sort of weapon."
"I just wish we knew whether or not they were weapons," chan Tesh said dryly, and the master-armsman shrugged.
"If you want, Sir, I'll see how this block stands up to a forty-six," he said, tapping the butt of the Halanch and Welnahr holstered at his hip.
"And would you be willing to fire at the fuse of a twelve-inch naval shell, Master-Armsman?" chan Tesh inquired in an interested tone.
"Depends, Sir," chan Kormai replied with a slow grin. "Wouldn't be willing if it were a Ternathian shell, but if it was one of those Uromathian pieces of shit, I might take a chance."
"Well, I don't think we'll do that this time," chan Tesh told him.
"Yes, Sir. In that case, begging the Company-Captain's pardon, but what are we going to do with them?"
"Now that, Master-Armsman, is the pressing question, isn't it?"
"I'm going to get that bastard," Uthik Dastiri muttered, glaring at the big, red-haired Sharonian who'd searched them.
His voice was soft, but he was unable to suppress the bitter hatred in its depths. Rithmar Skirvon understood his reaction, although he didn't share it. After all, he'd understood the reason for the search, as well, and he couldn't hold it against the soldier. It hadn't been personal, merely professional, which was obviously something Dastiri hadn't quite grasped yet. But personal or not, it had been brutally thorough, and because Skirvon understood Dastiri's distress he only shrugged and refrained from reprimanding him for his anger.
"I've had warmer welcomes in my life," he observed instead.
"Is that all you've got to say?" Dastiri demanded, his face heating, and Skirvon patted his shoulder.
"I understand you're a little upset, and I can't blame you for that. But remember this—the longer you hold onto your anger, the longer you'll spend at a disadvantage in this situation. The angrier you are, the less clearly you'll be able to see or think, notice important details about these people."
"How can you be so calm about it?" Dastiri asked, his expression wavering between contrition and bitter hatred. "When he shoved—"
"He was doing his job, Uthik," Skirvon said gently but firmly. "In his boots, I'd have done exactly the same thing, for exactly the same reasons."
The younger diplomat chewed on that in silence for several uncomfortable moments. Then, finally, he sighed.
"I'll try to remember that, Rithmar. But as Torkash is my witness, I'd sooner put an arbalest bolt between his eyes than smile at that bastard for any reason."
"Yes," Skirvon said dryly. "I gathered that."
The older diplomat started to say something more, then changed his mind. There wasn't much point, at this stage, and Dastiri had to learn someday. In the meantime, he had other things to think about.
They'd been careful in their approach to deny the Sharonians any additional militarily useful information. Including, especially, any hint of the existence or capabilities of their own dragons. It was always possible, perhaps even probable, that the Arcanan prisoners these people had taken had already revealed the existence of the beasts, but there was no point in giving the other side any better feel for what they could do. So Five Hundred Klian had ordered the transport dragon to fly them and their boat to within forty miles of the swamp portal. They'd made the rest of the trip the hard way, and Skirvon devoutly hoped that the Sharonians would be thinking solely in terms of other boats for the future.
There wasn't anything else he could do about that at this point, so he'd concentrated on the Sharonians' reaction to his and Dastiri's PCs. Their curiosity had been obvious to someone with Skirvon's training, although he wasn't prepared yet to venture a guess as to exactly what had spawned their curiosity. It was always possible, he supposed, that Olderhan and Kelbryan's preposterous theories about a civilization which didn't use magic at all were accurate, but that still seemed so—
His thought broke off in mid-sentence as the man who was clearly these people's commanding officer said something to the man—probably a chief sword or something of the sort, Skirvon had decided—who'd conducted the search. The hulking noncom said something back, then the officer nodded, turned, and walked across to Skirvon.
"I am Company-Captain Balkar chan Tesh," he said. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
Well, Skirvon thought. That's certainly blunt and to the point.
"Rithmar Skirvon," he said, speaking slowly and carefully. Then he introduced Dastiri, as well.
Chan Tesh—whose name indicated he was Ternathian, according to the information Magister Kelbryan had assembled for them—didn't look particularly happy to see them. His expression was controlled, but Skirvon had been a diplomat for a long time. He didn't need any "Talent" to recognize the anger crackling around in the back of chan Tesh's outwardly calm eyes.
"How did you learn Ternathian?" the company-captain demanded, as soon as the introductions were over, and Skirvon nodded mentally. He'd been reasonably certain that was going to be the first question, and he'd prepared his answer carefully.
"One person live. Short time," he said. "Bad hurt. Spoke words, recorded. Try to save, but Arcanan healer die in fight. Long days to new healer. Many, many days. Bad hurt. Talk words, but not live. Die before see healer," he ended sorrowfully. "Arcanan grief. We talk?"
Chan Tesh's expression never wavered, but his eyes were cold, suspicious.
"Who was it?" he asked. "Who survived?"
Skirvon and Dastiri had argued repeatedly over how to address that particular point. Thanks to the girl, Shaylar, they had a complete list of names for the dead crew, not that he intended to admit that, even if this chan Tesh held him over hot coals. But they did know everyone's names, and they even knew which men she'd personally seen die. The Sharonians would have that same list, as well, since the little bitch had sent out her report—her visual report, no less!—right in the middle of the fighting.
Dastiri had wanted to select a name from the list of Sharonian men Shaylar hadn't seen die, rather than admit that she herself had survived. Skirvon had waffled back and forth over that choice, but he'd finally decided that they couldn't afford to take chances, given the number of Arcanan soldiers these people had taken prisoner. They'd had the survivors of Olderhan's company in custody for a month now, and if they'd had another of those damned "Voices" available to help interrogate them, gods alone knew how much they'd managed to learn. Shaylar had insisted she couldn't "read minds," and she might even have been telling the truth. However . . .
Skirvon found it disturbing that both survivors from a crew as small as the one Olderhan had encountered had "Talents" of the mind. They weren't even the same Talents, for that matter, which meant there was no way to know what else these people could do with their minds. Skirvon wasn't quite willing to risk everything by getting himself caught in an easily detectable lie this early in the negotiations, so he'd decided to play the hand cautiously.
"Arcana much, much grief," he said sadly. "Girl bad hurt. Try hard to go healer. Far, far walk. She die," he added, and actually managed to summon a few tears.
"Shaylar?" Shock exploded in chan Tesh's face. The man's hand dropped to the butt of the weapon—the "pistol"—holstered at his side, and his fingers curled around the polished wooden grip. "Shaylar survived? And you let her die?"
The sudden violence seething in chan Tesh's eyes was a terrifying shock, especially given the obvious strength of the man's self-control. Nor was he alone in his reaction. Every Sharonian soldier in sight mirrored the same sudden, explosive rage.
"Try hard save life," Skirvon insisted, dredging up more tears. "But bad, bad hurt. Hard talk. Long, long walk go healer. Arcana big, big grief. Arcana, Sharona, no shoot. Ne-go-ti-ate," he said with exaggerated care. "No shoot."
"If she was so badly hurt," chan Tesh demanded coldly, "how did you manage to get enough of our language out of her to learn to talk to us?"
Skirvon saw the man's knuckles whiten around the pistol grip and realized abruptly—emotionally, not just intellectually—that his own life hung by the proverbial thread. Obviously, Olderhan's estimate of Shaylar's importance in these people's eyes had been on the mark. In fact, Skirvon was beginning to think Olderhan had underestimated it.
He managed (he hoped) to keep his thoughts from racing across his expression, but it suddenly occurred to him that his strategy of insisting Shaylar was dead might have been a mistake. Returning her and her husband before they'd been thoroughly interrogated back in Arcana or New Arcana was clearly out of the question, of course. He'd figured that insisting they were both dead—and he knew from Olderhan's report that Shaylar had believed Jathmar was dead even while she was busy sending her accursed report back home—would be the simplest and neatest way of keeping their return off the table. Now he was suddenly confronted by the fact that because he'd claimed she was dead he couldn't put her return onto the table even if he wanted to. Which, given the hatred looking at him out of all those Sharonian eyes suddenly seemed as if it might have been a very good idea, indeed.
Unfortunately, there was no going back now.
"She hurt bad," he said instead. "Head hurt—inside." He tapped his own temple, where—again, thanks to Olderhan's invaluable report—he knew the little bitch actually had been injured. "Not . . . work right," he continued, deliberately searching for words. "She talk. Not to us—to her. We recorded it."
He intentionally used the Andaran verb for "recorded," and chan Tesh glared at him right on cue.
"That's the second time you've used that word—'record,' " he said. "What does it mean?"
"It mean—" Skirvon paused and rolled his eyes in obvious frustration. "Not know words. Can show. Please?"
He managed not to heave an overt sigh of relief as chan Tesh's eyes narrowed. The company-captain's anger didn't disappear, but he was obviously forcing it back under control.
He even managed to take his hand away from his pistol.
"Show how?" he asked skeptically.
"Please, bag," Skirvon said, pointing to his own briefcase. Chan Tesh cocked his head for a moment, then nodded and said something to the big chief sword. Although Skirvon's Ternathian language skills were far better than he was prepared to admit, they weren't good enough to follow the rapidly spoken sentence. On the other hand, they didn't need to be, as the noncom handed him the briefcase.
Skirvon opened it cautiously, then withdrew his PC. To his surprise, chan Tesh tensed obviously, and the diplomat found it less than easy to ignore the half-dozen rifles which were suddenly pointed in his direction once again.
"What is that?" chan Tesh asked sharply.
"Is only personal crystal," Skirvon said soothingly, once again using the Andaran words and holding the crystal up. Chan Tesh looked blank.
"What does it do?" he demanded.
"Rock hold talk. It records talk."
"What?" chan Tesh blinked.
"Hold talk," Skirvon said again, and murmured the activating incantation. The PC's glow as he initiated the spellware was lost in the brilliant sunshine, of course, but it was angled so that he could see its display. He tapped the menu with the tip of his stylus, calling up the special, limited word list they'd manufactured from Magister Kelbryan's primer specifically for this exchange. Then he touched the playback command.
"Shaylar," a woman's voice said.
Putting together that word list had required days of careful work. He and Dastiri had deliberately limited the audio recordings Magister Kelbryan had downloaded to them, choosing individual words on the basis of how clear Shaylar's voice had sounded when they were recorded. All of them were recognizably her voice, but distorted by fatigue . . . or pain. In some cases, he knew, the pain had been purely emotional, but that didn't matter for his purposes. What mattered was that the chosen words sounded like someone who'd been severely injured. Like someone who was muttering to herself, wandering through her own injury-confused thoughts.
He'd expected a powerful emotional reaction, but not the one he got.
Chan Tesh's jaw fell. Literally.
Skirvon stared at him and experienced a sudden epiphany. Despite everything Olderhan had told him, despite his study of the notes Kelbryan had meticulously recorded, despite even chan Tesh's obvious reaction when his chief sword had found the PCs in the first place, he hadn't really believed until that moment that Sharonians had no experience with magic. He couldn't believe it, because no one could possibly build a real civilization without it. He'd been absolutely convinced that Shaylar and Jathmar had been shamming in a successful effort to confuse and mislead their captors.
But chan Tesh wasn't shamming. The company-captain was clearly a disciplined, confident officer, and what his forces had done to Hadrign Thalmayr's command was brutal evidence of his competence. Yet his astonishment at hearing a simple recorded word played back from a completely standard personal crystal was total. Indeed, it appeared to border on superstitious terror, and deep inside, Rithmar Skirvon grinned like a kid with his daddy's jar of accumulators.
Olderhan had been right. They had no magic!
Why, they weren't nearly as formidable as he'd first believed. If they couldn't do something this simple, they were babes in an adult world—a mean and nasty one. Mul Gurthak had been right, too. All they had going for them was their machines, the "guns" they'd used—used by surprise—in both violent encounters. And, as mul Gurthak had pointed out, it was only that surprise, that totally unanticipated ability of theirs to throw not a spell, but a physical projectile, through a portal which had defeated Thalmayr.
Skirvon had been convinced these people must actually have their machines and their "Talents" in addition to the magic which was the necessary foundation for any advanced civilization. But they genuinely didn't have it, and that reordered everything he'd thought about them.
But first things first, he told himself firmly. First things first.
He waited until chan Tesh shook himself.
"How did you do that?" The Sharonian's voice was ever so slightly hoarse, Skirvon noted with carefully hidden satisfaction.
"Rock is personal crystal," he repeated the Andaran phrase carefully. "Shaylar talk, it record—" again he used the Andaran "—her word. Then spellware—" yet another Andaran word "—work words. Make . . . list our words, your words."
He tapped the menu again, bringing up the Andaran and Ternathian words for "word" side by side in the display, then angled it so that chan Tesh could see it. The company-captain's eyes narrowed once again. Clearly, the phonetic spelling of the Ternathian word meant no more to him than the totally unknown characters of the Arcanan alphabet floating beside it. Equally clearly, he was intelligent enough to realize what he was seeing. He stared into the crystal for several seconds, then shook himself and looked back at Skirvon.
"So you say this . . . 'personal crystal' of yours let you capture Shaylar's words and then analyze our language?"
"Please," Skirvon said, summoning up a pained expression, "too many words. Not have big number."
Chan Tesh scowled in evident frustration.
"If you could do that," he gestured at the PC, "why couldn't you save Shaylar?"
"Tried. Tried hard," Skirvon insisted soulfully. He remembered Olderhan's account of the prisoners' reaction to magic healing. Given these people's total ignorance about magic, it would undoubtedly be even simpler than he'd expected to convince them that Shaylar had died of her injuries. Especially since she undoubtedly would have without the healers' intervention.
"Head hurt bad," he said once more. "Our healer killed in fight. Tried walk to second healer, but many, many days. She die before we reach. She very brave," he added sadly. "Arcana much grief."
"Yes," chan Tesh said harshly, glowering at him. "She was very brave. And my people will demand punishment for whoever killed her."
"Please," Skirvon said again, earnestly. "Too many words. Must learn more. But now, come talk Sharona. No shoot, talk."
"A truce?" Chan Tesh sounded massively skeptical, but that was a distinct improvement over the white-hot fury of a few moments before. "You want to negotiate a truce?"
"Truce is no shoot?" Skirvon said, and chan Tesh nodded.
"A truce is a time to talk, yes. A time to talk, not shoot. That's what you want? To talk about not shooting us again?"
"Sharona no shoot, Arcana no shoot. Yes."
"I can't authorize a truce. You understand? I must talk to someone higher than me. With more power, more authority. Understand?"
"Yes. Send talk?"
"I'll send a message."
"Ah . . . message." Skirvon tapped the crystal's menu again, dutifully recording the "new" word into it. The word "message" was already in its real vocabulary list, of course, but these yokels would never know that.
Chan Tesh watched as the word appeared in both Andaran and phonetic spelling. Then Skirvon looked back up at him expectantly, and the company-captain frowned.
"You understand you can't talk to me about a truce?" chan Tesh pressed. Skirvon only looked at him and said nothing, and the Sharonian tried yet again.
"I'm not a diplomat. I'm a soldier—a 'diplomat' is someone who speaks for a government. You understand?"
Skirvon nodded sharply, busily coding the "new" words into his crystal.
"I'll have to send for a diplomat," chan Tesh continued. "I'll send a message, and the diplomat will come here."
"Ah!" Skirvon nodded again, more enthusiastically. But then he stopped nodding and shook his head instead. "No," he said. "Not here."
"What?" Chan Tesh's eyes narrowed once more, and Skirvon knelt in the mud with a silent apology to his tailor as he contemplated what it was going to do to the knees of his trousers.
"Sharona portal," he said, using a dead twig to draw a circle in the mud. Then he drew another circle, about two feet from the first. "Arcana portal," he said, and indicated the portal soaring high above them.
Chan Tesh scowled and opened his mouth, but Skirvon held up one hand, gesturing for patience. Chan Tesh looked at him, then shrugged and nodded.
"Go on. Say the rest, I mean."
"Arcana, Sharona di-plo-mats meet here."
Skirvon drew an "X" in the mud between the two circles he'd already drawn and tapped it to indicate the approximate spot of the slaughter. He let his face fall into a deeply sorrowful expression which Dastiri mimicked beautifully. Even the Navy petty officer who'd managed the boat for them contrived to look sad.
"Great grief," Skirvon said. "Much hurt." He touched his chest to indicate his heart, then patted the "X" again. "Diplomats talk here." Then he pointed to the portal overhead and said, "Sharona stay here. Arcana want Sharona stay here." He pointed at chan Tesh's soldiers and their sandbagged positions. "But diplomats go, talk here."
He pointed to the "X" again, and chan Tesh cocked an eyebrow at him.
"You mean you're willing to accept that we keep this portal? You just want your diplomats to meet our diplomats here?" It was chan Tesh's turn to point at the "X" in the mud.
"You stay—soldiers stay," Skirvon said, very carefully not answering chan Tesh's first question directly, then indicated the "X" once more. "Diplomats talk here. Me. Dastiri. Sharonian diplomats."
"Under a flag of truce?"
"No shoot, yes. Talk. Negotiate."
Chan Tesh gazed thoughtfully at the muddy diagram, then studied Skirvon and Dastiri carefully before he finally spoke once more.
"I'll send a message to bring a diplomat here." He pointed at the "X." "To Fallen Timbers."
"Fall En Tim Burr?" Skirvon asked, this time genuinely puzzled, and chan Tesh pointed at the massive trees behind him on the Sharonian side of the contested portal.
"Trees," he said. "Also 'timber.' " He pantomimed a tree with his arm, positioning his forearm vertically with his fingers outstretched as branches. "Timber." Then he blew hard at his hand and lowered it as if his arm were a falling tree. "Fall. So we call the site where you murdered our civilians 'Fallen Timbers.' "
"Ah . . . grief place." Skirvon nodded. "We walk, negotiate Fallen Timbers."
"Why?" Chan Tesh's eyes were cold again, the soul-deep anger back again, burning coldly in their depths. "Why at Fallen Timbers?"
"Sharona fight hard. Arcana grief. Arcana want see, want re-mem-ber—" Skirvon spoke the Ternathian word carefully "—brave Sharona."
Chan Tesh's eyebrows soared. Then he frowned thoughtfully.
"You want to meet where they were murdered? To do them honor?"
" 'Honor'?" Skirvon repeated.
"If someone does a brave thing and dies doing it, we feel respect. We feel honor. We say they were good and brave and should be remembered with a good feeling here." Chan Tesh touched his own heart, and Skirvon nodded emphatically.
"Yes. Meet at Fallen Timbers, honor brave Sharona." Then he gave the soldier a concerned look. "No bad anger, meet at Fallen Timbers?"
"Will we be so angry we won't negotiate?" Chan Tesh shrugged. "I can't say. I don't have the authority. Meeting there to honor our murdered civilians will help, but it won't be easy to set aside our anger. We didn't start this."
Skirvon cocked his head and smiled gently.
"Arcana no start," he said. "Who start? Two men dead, no man see. Who start?"
Chan Tesh blinked, then grimaced.
"So that's your story? You didn't start it because no one saw who killed Falsan? I find that profoundly interesting."
He gazed at Skirvon thoughtfully, but, to Skirvon's surprise, the uneducated rube didn't continue. He neither badgered Skirvon in an attempt to forcibly change his mind, nor pointed out—as they certainly could have—that it was Arcana who had run a party of civilians to ground and then slaughtered them. Skirvon kept smiling, gently, and revised—just a tad—his opinion of this particular provincial rube in uniform. At least the man was intelligent enough to leave that chore to the diplomats.
"When meet?" Skirvon asked.
"Stay here," chan Tesh replied. "We'll send a message. Wait here until the answer to that question comes back."
Either chan Tesh didn't know where the nearest diplomat was, Skirvon reflected, which was an interesting piece of information. Or he didn't want to admit how far away he was, which would be another interesting piece of information.
"We'll feed you while we wait," chan Tesh added stiffly. "We'll give you water and loan you blankets, if they're needed."
If they were needed? Could these thought messages, which Skirvon still found almost impossible to credit, really travel that fast? Or was a diplomat that near? The lack of information was maddening, but at this stage in the negotiations, their best was all they could do.
"We wait," Skirvon agreed.
Chan Tesh nodded sharply and turned on his heel as smartly as any Andaran aristocrat on a parade ground. That was interesting, as well. Out in the middle of the godsforsaken wilderness, this company-captain—the equivalent of a mere commander of one hundred, assuming Kelbryan's primer had gotten it correct—was as spit-and-polish formal as some self-important, blue-blooded Andaran.
Either these people were as virulently militant as Andara itself, or else he was putting on a show for them, exaggerating his militancy for effect. Either answer would present its own possibilities, once Skirvon managed to figure out which one applied. It would, he realized with a slowly building emotion almost akin to relish, be a very interesting little exchange all around, wouldn't it?
The possibilities, he thought, licking his mental chops, were boundless.