Firebrand

The next morning, they noticed a band of Khivan soldiers standing guard outside their embassy, and the Asterians suffered no further incidents. Martel could only guess at what kind of rumours now circulated the city after his display, but watching the rooftops from his balcony, all seemed peaceful. And two fivedays after their arrival, the lieutenant brought them the news. The king of Khiva had come.

“The shah will make camp outside the city,” Padmani explained. “There’s no house big enough for his retinue or worthy of his presence. Tomorrow, you will be presented to His Majesty and acknowledged.”

“Yeah, we’ve been told all that.” Martel received a nudge from Eleanor; his cue to behave.

“Please proceed, lieutenant.” This update ıs available on novel•fire.net

The Khivan cleared his throat. “That part won’t take long. The day after, we sign the treaty. This’ll take place in the guildhall of the fabric merchants, being the grandest building in the city. The shah felt it undignified for such an event to take place in a tent.”

Martel failed to see the importance, especially considering the first event could apparently be done in a tent just fine, but he kept quiet about it. “Sure.”

“And on the third day, you’re invited to a banquet, once again outside the city. I’ve been instructed to give you all details on how you must act when meeting the shah and so on, but we can do that tomorrow. Before the actual encounter.”

If possible, the lieutenant seemed more anxious about this than he had been the night of the mob. “We’ll be sure to listen to you really well,” Martel promised. Padmani acknowledged this with a grunt and left, which prompted another elbow from Eleanor. “What?” he exclaimed. “I was being serious!”

“I do hope you take it seriously,” Eleanor impressed on him later, once they were back in their chamber. “Do not let the tranquillity of the past days fool you.” “Of course not. I’m not going to mess up this peace. I have no particular fondness for kings of any kind, but I’ll do every little bit required of me to satisfy these Khivans.”

“That is not what I meant. If someone is out for revenge, Martel, the next days will be their opportunity. You, out in the open.”

“We’ll be careful, obviously. Not let our guard down,” he promised her.

“That rabble outside our gate was nothing. If anyone with actual cunning has made plans, they will strike soon. Most likely when we are on the streets, travelling to or from our meetings.”

“We have a closed carriage and an honour guard. That’s a good first line of defence should anything happen. Give us time to react.”

She crossed her arms but gave no reply.

“What is it?”

“I am simply frustrated because while you are right, it does not feel good enough. The only thing that would satisfy me would be if we had never come in the first place.”

“Too late for that. Hey, we’ll be fine.” He stooped a little to catch her eyes looking downward. “This’ll be over soon, and we go home. Wherever that is.”

“I would settle for anywhere in Aster currently, but very well. Let us get through the next three days.”

In the morning, Padmani arrived with a carriage and enough soldiers to crowd around it. For once, Martel had discarded his robe to wear formal clothing as befitted the occasion. He felt uncomfortable in the velvet doublet, and he disliked leaving his staff behind, even though he doubted he would need it, but today, he was not a wizard, but an envoy.

As for Eleanor, she wore the full armour of a mageknight, along with her enchanted sword. Acting once more as Martel’s protector, she had been spared any requests for formal wear; not that Martel imagined she would have complied. He envied her.

The Khivan lieutenant gave a few odd looks seeing Eleanor in arms, but he wisely said nothing. Along with a few of the other Asterians, chosen to be part of the delegation – Martel had heard their names and forgotten them again – the two mages climbed into the carriage.

He was silent throughout the drive, seeing no purpose in joining the superficial conversation made by the diplomats. Unable to look out of the carriage, he simply let his mind wander, only taking note as he felt the road underneath their wheels change from paved stone to dirt. They were outside the city, about to arrive at the king’s camp.

Due to past familiarities, Martel had expected something similar to a legion’s camp, which was far from the case. He did see a number of soldiers standing guard, but no other similarities. The encampment had no defences, not even a simple ditch. Every tent looked different from the others, but all were tall and large, allowing for comforts.

As they marched through, the honour guard surrounding them like a box, Martel let his eyes sweep over the nobility of Khiva. They wore traditional clothing like he had at times seen their countrymen wear in Morcaster; long, flowing robes with many layers, and different headpieces, often made from soft fabric. Yet whereas those residing in Aster had worn earthly tones, the opposite was the case here; vivid colours dominated, especially bright red and yellow.

All of them stared at the Asterian delegation, as could be expected; unlike the townspeople, however, if they had any distaste for the visitors, they hid it well. Finally, the visitors reached the largest tent in the middle of the camp, several times larger than a house. The soldiers stood aside, and a herald or servant of some kind bowed and beckoned for them to enter.

Plenty of Khivans filled the tents as well, all of them dressed in expensive fabrics and wearing jewellery. The air was heavy with perfumes and other smells, harder to identify. Across the interior, numerous oil lamps burned to illuminate the place. Martel noticed this in passing before he turned his eyes on the man seated in a great, gilded chair, serving as his throne.

Martel knew nothing of the Khivan king; he had only learned his name recently. Seeing him now did little to increase his understanding; a golden mask lay on the monarch’s face, with fabric flowing to cover his hair. His clothing was as resplendent and expensive as could be expected; he had heavy rings on his gloved fingers and a yellow sash on top of his red garb. As for his age, Martel could not determine anything, not even if he had a single grey hair.

“Lords and ladies of Aster, honoured guests and emissaries of the Senate, His Majesty King Kurus bids you welcome to his lands and his court,” the herald declared.

As he had been instructed, Martel gave a bow and delivered his reply. “On behalf of the Senate, we are grateful to accept your hospitality. I am Sir Martel of Engby, former imperator of all Asterian lands, founder of the Senate, and its chosen ambassador with all powers to enter into treaties on behalf of our realm.”

The king held out his hand, and Martel noticed red spots on his white glove. A servant placed a box in his grasp, which he with slow movements gave to the herald, who in turn stepped forward, opened the lid, and offered it to Martel. “As a token of our respect and our wish for peace and brotherhood between our countries, we offer this example of Khivan ingenuity.” Martel recognised the device, having seen it once at the Lyceum. It was a spyglass; a clever little apparatus that made the distant seem near.

Martel accepted it, closing the box and handing it to one of his companions. “The Senate is grateful for this gift, and in that same spirit, we offer our own token of eternal friendship.” He took a step to the side, allowing two guards to move forward with a heavy chest. Opening the lid, Martel revealed the various contents. “A bolt of silk from Cathai, a pound each of pepper, nutmeg, and saffron from the Western Isles, and a chess set carved in ivory from Sindhu.” The gifts caused faint murmur from the courtiers, and Martel knew why each had been chosen; these were all places where Khivan trade routes were affected by war with Aster.

The king bowed his head with a slow movement, making Martel contemplate how heavy that mask had to be; he did not appear comfortable. He wondered if the king always appeared in this manner before his court, or if this was a precaution born from their fear of magic.

This part done, Martel allowed himself a deep breath; he felt more on edge than he would be going into battle. A Khivan ritual followed; some manner of priest, Martel judged him to be, placed a brazier between the two parties and lit it on fire. As the priest mumbled various charts in Khivan, Martel did his best to stay focused rather than let his mind wander. At length, the king rose from his seat, and with a careful gesture, he threw a black piece of fabric onto the fire. Martel was given one as well, which he likewise fed to the blaze.

“The Eternal Flame blesses our meeting and endeavours. Be welcome among us,” the herald declared. The ceremony was at an end.