The flurry of knocks on the door of the Arbran ambassadorial suite startled the three Arbrans mid-meal. Sir Collum, junior-most of those present at breakfast, got up and hurried to answer the impatient thumping. No sooner had the messenger-Knight opened the door, however, than he stumbled back, giving ground before the furious, flushed appearance of the Consul-in-Chief.
Waving a sheet of tablet paper, she stalked into their parlor without waiting for permission and shook the scrap in Zeilas’ face as he hastily rose to greet her. “Your king is
impossible
! Or at least, he’s
demanding
the impossible! Do you know what he’s expecting us to do?”
Wiping the crumbs of his breakfast from his mouth, Zeilas swallowed not only his food but the urge to tell her she looked absolutely beautiful in her gown. The outer garment was black, like all of her clothes, and knitted from finespun wool in a complex, almost delicate pattern. A silvery gray linen undergown could be seen peeking through beneath the holes knitted into the pattern, the first sign of nonblack in any of her apparel so far. Instead, mindful that his duty came first, he asked, “Actually, no, I don’t, but if you’ll explain, I’d be happy to listen.”
She flapped the tablet sheet in front of him again. He belatedly recognized it as the same size used by their “talker box operators” like that fellow Stevan. The talker boxes, he had learned, were a clever, complex, nonmagical solution to the scrying mirrors used for long-distance communications by most other countries. They were particularly useful for nonsensitive or time-sensitive communications; for those missives requiring discretion but which weren’t time sensitive, delivering the messages personally were what his fellow Knights like Sir Collum did best.
“Your king,” Marta growled, “expects us to pay for
everything
! Regarding the road-building projects,” she clarified as he gave her a blank look. “I
told
you, we don’t have a lot of arable land to spare—and frankly, we’ll need every hand we
do
have to bring in the harvests this next year, because we’re having to push for bigger farms and fields, and yes, that means taking laborers from other guilds and cross-training them in the agricultural ones. If I have to take those men and women
out
of the fields to build roads connecting us with Arbra, then how the hell am I going to
feed
them?”
Plucking the tablet sheet from her grasp, Zeilas read over the message, relayed by mirror and talker box all the way from High Hold. “His Majesty is refusing
to pay
you in coin for the roads. I don’t think it is unreasonable for him to ask
your
people to build those roads. First of all, it reassures him, if the roads are first built from the Guildaran side, that you have no fear of us invading
you
, because you’re making it easier for us to do so, if that were our intent. Which it isn’t.
“Second ... even our own road-builders would have to admit that
your
roads are far better constructed than ours. It only makes sense to have the best builders do the job, so that they’ll last a good long time,” he added. “Third, we’ve already agreed that trade in food items can begin immediately. You can buy whatever you need.”
“With what money? Our entire economy has been self-sufficient, until now. Poor, but self-sufficient,” Marta argued. “If we send you our coinage for your food—an enduring commodity for a consumable one—that means we’re weakening
our
economy. We don’t have
that
much in the way of gold and silver in our mines. Most of what we have is tin, copper, and iron. If your king wants us to build those roads—and thank you for the compliment; yes, we do build very good roads—then
he
will have to feed us for them!
And
house us. And clothe us, besides!”
“Oh, now that’s asking too much,” Zeilas protested. Mindful of Sir Collum and Sir Eada, who hadn’t finished their breakfasts, he gestured at the table. “Would you care to sit and join us, Milady Chief? We have some fruit and some pastries left, and half a sausage.”
“I’ve broken my fast, thank you, though some fruit juice would be nice,” Marta replied, settling into the chair he quickly held out for her. “I apologize for the intrusion, but this is a ridiculously expensive request. Peace and trade both require cooperation, and if he will not compromise at least somewhat favorably for us, then we will have no incentive to comply. Thank you,” she added as Sir Eada poured and passed to her a fresh goblet of apple juice.
“Forgive me my ignorance,” Sir Collum offered somewhat hesitantly, “but surely this could have waited for later?”
“Yes, and no,” Marta explained to the younger Knight. “Technically it could, but now that winter is on its way out, my schedule is filling up rapidly with all that we have to do once the weather improves. Sir Catrine—by the way, where is she?”
“She broke her fast early and went out to exercise her Steed, along with the others,” Zeilas explained.
Marta nodded. “Right. Yes, you’ve certainly given our motorhorse corps some fits of envy with your horsemanship skills. For all they’re nearly inexhaustible, our motorhorses are still merely machines, and must be constantly guided ... As I was saying, Sir Catrine has been teaching our mages how to read and predict the weather. They and she both predict that the weather will start improving this next week.
“
That
means, if we’re to get a head start on breaking ground for the roads, we need to clear up the details of who will be responsible for what as soon as the conditions are perfect for digging, grading, and laying new roadbeds. It will
also
be good weather for planting, soon,” she finished pointedly.
“Sir Eada, would you fetch the border map?” Zeilas asked. The lady Knight nodded and rose to fetch it from the scroll rack in the room serving as their office. Once she came back with it, he unrolled it and spread it out on the table, using some of the emptied plates to hold down the corners. “If you’re concerned about the food to feed all the road workers, then how about we concentrate on
one
new road ... um ... this one, between the Arbran town of Brightglade and the Guildaran one of ... Poverstowne? It’s a short enough distance, you can do some preliminary clearing of the trees and such, lay down a rough track, and then maybe Arbra can ship in cartloads of grain and vegetables to feed your workers while you turn the rough track into a decent road?”
“Not Poverstowne,” she corrected, shaking her head. “Too many hills and trees on its west side—it’s near where Gabria grew up, and she’s described the terrain a time or two. It may seem a short distance, but it’s actually not very good. Between these two towns up here in the north might be better. The distance is longer by several miles, but the terrain is flatter, and there isn’t as much forest to clear-cut. I
do
know something of how you Arbrans revere your trees, and I wouldn’t ask you to let us chop down too many of them.”
“Your care for our values is appreciated,” he allowed. Eyeing the map, Zeilas tapped the river valley at the southern edge. “What about the River Evada? It does turn more toward Sundara down here than toward Arbra, but you could cut a road up over this line of hills ... ?”
He leaned closer as he outlined his idea ... and became aware of his knee, which now brushed against her thigh. There hadn’t been too many opportunities to sneak a discreet kiss or three in the intervening weeks, but there had been a few. Now, though it wasn’t exactly an intimate touch, he was aware of just how feminine she looked, clad in the first dress he had seen on her. A dress which, for all it flared out over her legs in a swirl of knitted wool and linen, clung to her figure from the waist up.
The sight of her breasts from this close, which looked to be the perfect handful in size, made him flush and fix his gaze firmly on the map. He didn’t remove his knee from its proximity to her leg, though. His flush deepened when he felt her leg shift, nudging her foot against his in a subtle, under-the-table caress.
“That line of hills ... at that point ... are actually a line of cliffs and steep escarpments,” Marta said. She took a sip of juice, her boot, calf, and fabric-draped thigh brushing against his own. “There
is
a viable method of trading goods, without needing any new roads. It would require taking the caravans down this road from Arbra into Sundara, then porting them up the river on barges from this Sundaran town here ... but we still don’t have a Sundaran ambassador on hand to negotiate with and clear things up with their border guards, allowing the food to get through.”
“Plus, it would add months to the journey.” It wasn’t easy to focus on their negotiations, but he did, tapping the northern route. “If this one has the fewest terrain obstacles, perhaps if we sent a few preliminary shipments of foodstuff via pack animals? Sending spare grains, dried fruits, and root vegetables that way might not bring you a lot, but it should supplement your workers’ diets enough to get that preliminary track laid through the no-man’s-land of the border. You’d be on your own for meats, since those don’t transport quite as well on pack animals. Most of it tends to be salted and stored in barrels, which are better suited for cart-based travel. And carts require roads, preferably good ones.”
“We have plenty of meat, if you like lamb and mutton,” she said. “Though if you’d care to ship us dried fish, that’d be lovely. Dried fruit, dried fish, grains, and so forth. We’d be willing to accept food as payment for our road-building services, in lieu of coin. But it would also help if you arranged for shelter, too.”
“You’re not asking for much,” Zeilas muttered wryly. He tucked his left hand into his lap, then shifted it over a few inches, until it brushed her thigh. Her breath caught slightly and she blinked twice, but otherwise didn’t react. Unless he counted the way her calf slid against his in a caress. He returned it, though he shook his head. “His Majesty won’t go for that.
Unless
it’s confined strictly to his side of the border. I think if you word it as such, and point out that the buildings could then be turned into barracks for road patrols—”
“—I’d
rather
word it as future inns for traders,” she countered firmly. “I suppose we could do the same on our side, as our part of the bargain. But if you want us to build those roads, you have to offer a suitable incentive for building them. Feeding and housing our workers would be a very good start. If a cheap one.”
“A cheap one?” Sir Eada interjected.
Marta gave her a half-sided smile. “We build
very
good roads.”
Given she had seen those roads for herself, the lady Knight couldn’t dispute that fact. Instead, she rose to fetch paper and pen. With her taking notes, and Zeilas writing the final draft, the four of them crafted a reasonable counterproposal for Marta to take to her fellow Consuls. If they concurred, it could be sent back again via talker box and mirror scryings to the capital of Arbra.
Soon enough, the young Sir Collum was sent off to the talker engineers with a neatly penned sheet detailing the counteroffer. Standing, Sir Zeilas escorted the Consul-in-Chief back to the door. There, he lifted her fingers to his lips for a kiss, and a subtle caress of his thumb. “May all our morning encounters end so pleasantly, milady ... and may they one day begin even more so.”
Blue eyes gleaming with mirth—she knew what he was implying, thankfully—Marta dipped her head politely. “May every morning begin with a pleasant interaction and a cooperative proposal, Sir Knight.”
She left in a swirl of black knit and gray linen, looking lovely and graceful as well as her usual competent self. Sighing, Zeilas shut the door and returned to the cold remains of his breakfast. No sooner had he seated himself than Sir Eada spoke.
“So,” she asked without preamble, “when are you going to bed her?”
His fork clattered back onto his plate. Had it made it all the way to his mouth with the slices of fruit speared on its tines, he might have choked. As it was, Zeilas coughed and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
Eada, only a handful of years older than Collum and a bit younger than Zeilas, lifted her brows. “You feign ignorance, after the two of you canoodled your ankles together under the table all that time?” She smirked when he blushed. “I noticed it when I went to fetch paper. Not that we haven’t noticed all the
other
courtly things you’ve been doing around her.”
“Well, I won’t deny it,” Zeilas stated, composing himself. “But neither have I
bedded
her.”
Eada sobered, fixing him with a slightly worried look in her hazel gaze. “Is it really wise to court the queen of this land? When you’re an envoy?”
“I’ve wondered that myself.” He sighed. “But we both know our duty comes first. And she may not
stay
queen. Or rather, Consul-in-Chief. In a few years, they’ll hold another Manifestation-borne election, their Goddess will choose someone, and it just might be someone else.”
Eada snorted, refilling her glass with the dregs of the apple juice. “Unlikely. She’s highly competent, and her people both like and heed her. You don’t switch horses midstream, if the horse is wading through just fine.”
“True.” That did worry him. “The more I get to know her— Marta, the woman—the more I like her. And yet the more I admire her as I learn about the Consul-in-Chief, too. And I know I can’t
bed
her,” he added, emphasizing the slightly crass term. “She deserves far more respect than that. I am what I am, the chief envoy from Arbra, and she is what she is, ruler of Guildara.” Sighing, he stabbed at the fruit slices again. “Nothing will happen between us, beyond a little calf ‘canoodling’ as you put it.”
“Technically I said ankles, but yes,” she agreed. “You are a Knight of Arbra. Your honor is strong. A little curved, mayhap,” Eada teased, pausing to drain her cup, “but not bent or broken.”
Zeilas didn’t bother to say
yet
. He knew his duty and would not let things go that far. Not without approval from his own government. The only problem was how to broach the subject without looking as if he
had
bent his honor. That part would be tricky.