From “A Child’s History of Vasyllia”
(Old Tales, Book I)
Chapter 21
Complications
“Highness,” said Sabíana’s trembling maid—she trembled constantly these days— “the representative of the Dumar has been waiting to be admitted for the last hour.”
“Let him wait,” said Sabíana, not raising her eyes from her scribbling. They all think too much of themselves, these third-reachers, she thought.
There had been nothing but complaints from the rich ever since she mandated that every citizen of Vasyllia donate their food and clothing stores to the refugees now camped in the second reach. She knew what this man would say to her. More complaints, more bitterness. More insinuations that had she been a man, things would not be so dire.
Her nib cracked under her hand. She cursed. She had no more quills. With a reluctant sigh, she looked at her maid.
“Let him in.”
To her surprise, it was not Yadovír, whom she expected. It was Elder Pahomy of the warrior seminary. She stiffened. Battle with the old warrior required tact as well as forcefulness.
Elder Pahomy lumbered in, dressed in the black, flowing robes of a cohort father. The traditional dress did little to diminish his significant belly. He bowed formally. She saw his jawline ripple as he rose.
He is as unsure as I am, she thought.
“I did not expect the Dumar to send you, Elder,” she said, standing up and approaching him. She lightly took his forearms and reached up to kiss him thrice on the cheeks. His jawline relaxed a little, and his eyes changed from stormy to merely threatening.
“I do not relish the role of errand-boy, Highness,” he said, his jowls quivering in irritation.
“I do understand you, Elder.” She kept her left hand light on his arm and continued to look him directly in the eyes. “But I promise not to be cross with you, no matter what their nonsense.”
“Sabíana,” he said, sighing heavily. “May I sit?”
“Of course.” She smiled and led him to a chair, which creaked dangerously when he sat down. She remained standing by him. It gratified her perversely to see how uncomfortable that made him.
“Highness, the third reach is very… unhappy about your arrangements concerning the refugees,” he began.
She sighed very loudly, and he stopped.
“Get to the point, Pahomy.”
He flushed briefly and cleared his throat. “It’s been three weeks since the siege began, and the weather is only getting colder. They fear a long winter. If their stores are used on these refugees, many will starve.”
“And they think I do not know this?”
“Highness, I think it an admirable thing that you do. I do. But necessity sometimes dictates that we become cruel and hard, for the sake of the many. And treachery is a terrible disease to catch during siege-time.”
“I know all this, Elder. But if we cannot extend our compassion to our neighbors in the times when that compassion is most needed, we do not deserve to survive this siege.”
“In that case, you leave me no choice.”
He stood up ponderously and drew himself to his full height. The room seemed to shrink as he stood.
“Highness, the third reach demands, by its ancient right, to convene a Council of the Reaches.”
Sabíana felt the blood drain from her face, and spots began to dance before her eyes. The nobles wanted to elect a new Dar. The nobility of Vasyllia had just committed treason.
“Rogdai!” Sabíana called, and immediately the door flew open and the old swordsman strode in and saluted. He looked slightly perturbed at seeing the elder, but only for a moment.
“Rogdai, Elder Pahomy has just informed me that there are traitors in the third reach. Take a full detachment of the palace guard. The elder will lead you to the houses of the conspirators. You are to arrest all of them. Our dungeons have stood too long unused.”
The elder looked at her for a long time, then his eyes creased and twinkled. He bowed low and offered her a hesitant hand. She extended hers, and he kissed the tip of her right forefinger.
“Come, Vohin Rogdai,” he said and walked out of the room.
Sabíana stood for a long time, smiling. She had taken a tremendous risk, won an important ally, and removed a dangerous infection from the city in one move of the chessboard. It excited her, far more than she expected.
Kalún and Yadovír each held a torch that smelled unpleasantly of burnt lard. The nether regions of the palace, far below even the dungeons, were hardly more than caves. In some of the rooms stalactites dripped water in a maddening, steady rhythm. Every drop made Yadovír want to jump out of his skin. He knew that there was a significant possibility that they were walking into a trap. He was ready to give up and turn back. The darker the caves became, the more the recent stories of the Gumiren’s atrocities bubbled up to his conscious mind.
You think you can reason with blood-drinkers? asked his mind. What sort of madness possesses you to think you can reason with savages?
“Not much farther now, Otar,” he said, more to distract himself than anything.
And yet he recognized that a kind of madness had bitten and infected him. Yadovír wanted power, absolute power, and he was even willing to speak with the Ghan, to give up his own city on the enemy’s terms, if only it meant a chance at that power. It was increasingly becoming an irrational urge. The knowledge that he would sell his own family for it no longer bothered him.
“Yadovír.” The priest’s voice was insufferably calm. “Tell me again why you waited so long to meet with them?”
Yadovír wanted to scream. They had spoken of this already at least five times.
