regularly, and find a way to quell the nausea that roiled in him each time he thought of those ocean waves. And the Auldek … Please let them be more refined than the Numrek! Two months, though. Only two months and he would be home again. He could handle that.
When he was finally ushered into Sire Dagon’s chambers he found he was late in joining the meeting. Along with Dagon, Neen, and several league navigators sat the bulky and all too familiar forms of Calrach and his two seconds. The leaguemen sat at repose in their intricate, presumably uncomfortable chairs. The Numrek dwarfed them—all hard-edged muscle and rough features—and yet both parties seemed at ease.
“Ah, Rialus Neptos,” Sire Dagon said, speaking through an exhalation of mist, “you join us at last. We’ve nearly concluded our meeting. Be prompter in future.”
Rialus began an explanation that he had been sitting in the outer offices for nearly an hour, but nobody seemed interested. Calrach rose and greeted him with a crushing hug and then stood back, smacking his massive hand down on the frail man’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said in Numrek, “good to see you. You are not so much a rat anymore. More of a weasel now.” He turned to his companions for agreement, which they gave. Each of them in turn inflicted the same chest-crushing embrace on him.
Rialus fumbled through it in terse Numrek. He still hated the language for the barbarity of it and for the contortions it demanded of his tongue and lips. He did speak it well, though, having learned it during his tenure as Hanish Mein’s ambassador to the foreign invaders turned allies. Not a thing he liked being reminded of for many reasons. It had been a humiliating period of his life, worse, in some ways, than his exile in Cathgergen. Actually, his wrestling with the Numrek language had helped cure him of his stammer. He now spoke almost as smoothly as he would like.
Once he was seated, rail-thin servants gave him a sweet plum wine in a glass that would not sit straight when he set it down. Nobody else seemed to have the same trouble, which was odd because their glasses looked just like his. It suddenly seemed quite important that he did not spill any of the sugary liquid. He sat back in his chair, small glass held in his lap with what he hoped passed for composure. He wondered what they had discussed before he arrived. The best stuff, he was sure.
Sire Dagon cleared his throat and spoke without a hint of emotion, humor, or irony. “So, good Calrach, you see in Rialus a loyal servant of the queen. He’s to shepherd the young prince about; keep him safe from harm, treachery, and such. Just between us, I sometimes suspect the queen thinks we harbor ill intentions toward her brother. I’ve assured her the league can forgive and forget as well as anyone. Dariel is a prince now, not a brigand, thief, and saboteur. Anyway, Rialus will, no doubt, strive to work in the Akaran interests in every way. But what of the Numrek? Is it at the queen’s bidding that you will journey to Ushen Brae? Or have you your own purposes?”
“I believe Queen Corinn demanded that they go,” Sire Neen offered, “no doubt to keep an eye on us. The Numrek, too, are loyal to her majesty—”
Calrach stopped him by snapping forth his arm, palm out. He looked for a bare spot on the floor to spit and then did so. “We care nothing about the queen. She is not our queen anyway. She is a bitch who flaunts her tail but doesn’t give it up. Instead, she bares her teeth and snaps. We have grown tired of her.”
In the silence after this, the two leaguemen exchanged troubled glances. Sire Neen put a hand to his throat as if a cough needed to be soothed down by his fingers. It was a reasonable reaction for any not well acquainted with the Numrek, except that Rialus had spent enough time among these foreigners to know that belligerence was the norm in their speech. They could not be judged by Acacian standards of
When he was finally ushered into Sire Dagon’s chambers he found he was late in joining the meeting. Along with Dagon, Neen, and several league navigators sat the bulky and all too familiar forms of Calrach and his two seconds. The leaguemen sat at repose in their intricate, presumably uncomfortable chairs. The Numrek dwarfed them—all hard-edged muscle and rough features—and yet both parties seemed at ease.
“Ah, Rialus Neptos,” Sire Dagon said, speaking through an exhalation of mist, “you join us at last. We’ve nearly concluded our meeting. Be prompter in future.”
Rialus began an explanation that he had been sitting in the outer offices for nearly an hour, but nobody seemed interested. Calrach rose and greeted him with a crushing hug and then stood back, smacking his massive hand down on the frail man’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said in Numrek, “good to see you. You are not so much a rat anymore. More of a weasel now.” He turned to his companions for agreement, which they gave. Each of them in turn inflicted the same chest-crushing embrace on him.
Rialus fumbled through it in terse Numrek. He still hated the language for the barbarity of it and for the contortions it demanded of his tongue and lips. He did speak it well, though, having learned it during his tenure as Hanish Mein’s ambassador to the foreign invaders turned allies. Not a thing he liked being reminded of for many reasons. It had been a humiliating period of his life, worse, in some ways, than his exile in Cathgergen. Actually, his wrestling with the Numrek language had helped cure him of his stammer. He now spoke almost as smoothly as he would like.
Once he was seated, rail-thin servants gave him a sweet plum wine in a glass that would not sit straight when he set it down. Nobody else seemed to have the same trouble, which was odd because their glasses looked just like his. It suddenly seemed quite important that he did not spill any of the sugary liquid. He sat back in his chair, small glass held in his lap with what he hoped passed for composure. He wondered what they had discussed before he arrived. The best stuff, he was sure.
Sire Dagon cleared his throat and spoke without a hint of emotion, humor, or irony. “So, good Calrach, you see in Rialus a loyal servant of the queen. He’s to shepherd the young prince about; keep him safe from harm, treachery, and such. Just between us, I sometimes suspect the queen thinks we harbor ill intentions toward her brother. I’ve assured her the league can forgive and forget as well as anyone. Dariel is a prince now, not a brigand, thief, and saboteur. Anyway, Rialus will, no doubt, strive to work in the Akaran interests in every way. But what of the Numrek? Is it at the queen’s bidding that you will journey to Ushen Brae? Or have you your own purposes?”
“I believe Queen Corinn demanded that they go,” Sire Neen offered, “no doubt to keep an eye on us. The Numrek, too, are loyal to her majesty—”
Calrach stopped him by snapping forth his arm, palm out. He looked for a bare spot on the floor to spit and then did so. “We care nothing about the queen. She is not our queen anyway. She is a bitch who flaunts her tail but doesn’t give it up. Instead, she bares her teeth and snaps. We have grown tired of her.”
In the silence after this, the two leaguemen exchanged troubled glances. Sire Neen put a hand to his throat as if a cough needed to be soothed down by his fingers. It was a reasonable reaction for any not well acquainted with the Numrek, except that Rialus had spent enough time among these foreigners to know that belligerence was the norm in their speech. They could not be judged by Acacian standards of
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