Chapter two

Amansk

 

‘I have brought letters’ said Marthian, stiffly, in Visneorian.

Lord Arnon stared at her. He’d never seen this elf before in his life but he knew exactly who she was. She was shorter and slightly more bedraggled than he’d seen her in his mind’s eye but otherwise she was just as he’d imagined.

‘Proconsul Marthian – you are welcome…’ he said, moving to embrace her in formal Visneorian style.

Marthian accepted his embrace and then broke free, grimacing.

‘Ambassador Marthian, my lord, not proconsul’

Arnon looked completely shocked. This was the first that he’d heard of her demotion.

‘I don’t understand….’

Marthian pushed the papers into his hand. He took them reluctantly.

‘I have been… translated…’ explained Marthian, softly.

Arnon remembered something, something from their earlier correspondence.

‘Are you seeking asylum, then… is that it?’

Marthian shook her head.

‘That was my initial intention, but the Emperor rather cleverly finessed me…’

Arnon had no idea what to say. He gestured for his guest to sit down – she looked fairly unsteady on her feet – and she sank into a chair. Arnon sat down too, with his desk to his right.

‘I have been removed from the post of Proconsul, to make way for a more ‘experienced’ westerner’

‘Why on earth?’ exclaimed Arnon

‘It’s all explained in the letters. I must apologise for bringing them myself – circumstances meant that I wanted to leave as soon as possible’

Marthian stopped talking and indicated that Arnon should read the documents that she had brought. So he did, poring over every word on every page as he spread them out on his desk. Marthian waited for him to finish, sitting quietly.  She was beginning to feel the keen pain of exile – the sense of having been uprooted from the walled garden and replanted far away.  She knew that it was best to absorb the pain and not try to avoid it. She also knew that it may never go away, but it might, with luck, diminish slowly.

 

Arnon finished reading. He looked across at his unexpected guest. 

‘Does that mean that you’ve come to take control of the city, my lady?’

Marthian looked surprised and shocked.  She shook her head emphatically.

‘No, no. I have no power and I suspect no real legal role’

 ‘Then why appoint you?’

‘Because then I can’t claim to have run away. It just seems to everyone that I have been given a different job’

Marthian waited for a second.

‘Why would you think that, anyway?’ she continued, ‘why would you think that I’ve come to rule here?’

Arnon glanced up at the door of his office – it was shut. This seemed to satisfy him.

‘May I speak freely, my lady, as a friend?’

‘Of course…’

‘Did you know that there is now a small imperial garrison stationed in the town?’

Marthian shook her head.

‘No – I did not know. That wasn’t included in my scanty briefing. I have been assuming that military matters are no longer my concern’

‘I understand…’ said Arnon, ‘… and I am sorry for it, but, even given that, do you have any idea what that may presage?’

Marthian shrugged.

‘Pallatian is a very ambitious elf’ she said, ‘I am quite sure he would like Amansk to revert back to the Empire. I also think he has grand plans for the cross-continental road. Brand new trading routes – reconnection with Oket  - greater glory of the empire – and so on… and, of course, you are on that route…’

Arnon got up and began to put the Emperor’s letters back into a neat pile.    

‘The Emperor has invited me to discuss matters of transport, commerce and mutual support with you…’ he said

Marthian smiled bitterly.

‘Well, that will be a delight, I’m sure. However, I’m not certain that it will achieve much. He’s probably already made up his mind to bring you back into the fold, one way or another’

Arnon sighed; he had many other questions but he felt like he needed a break. He sat down again and called Viktor, his assistant, to step inside. He ordered him to file the letters and then bring them some wine.  They waited until their glasses were full and Viktor had left before they resumed their conversation.

Arnon drained his wine glass indecently quickly.  

‘It’s nine hundred years since we declared independence! How can he come back and claim anything after all this time?’

Marthian laughed gently.

‘Thirty settings of the sun, but you have aged by only one…  Do you know that old poem, or is it only an Ortian thing?’

Arnon looked confused. Marthian realised that this would need some more explanation.

‘How old do you think I am, my lord?’

Comprehension dawned in Arnon’s eyes. He’d made a rather obvious mistake.

‘I have lived in a human-dominated society for too long’ he admitted, ‘I know little of elves and their peculiar aging habits’

‘Well, we age like humans until our early twenties and then we slow down rapidly…’ she explained, ‘which means , it’s more like thirty years to him – and that’s no time at all in terms of global politics’

Arnon sighed and shook his head in an irritation that was only directed at himself.

‘Yes, of course. Foolish of me not to have worked that out more clearly in my head’

Marthian smiled, a little more brightly than before.

‘I believe that mages call it non-linear aging…’

‘Right’ said Arnon, looking a bit lost again.

‘But the phenomenon might be used to your advantage, perhaps…’

‘How?’

‘You might propose that he temporarily bestows the proconsulship on your familial line.  I doubt that he’ll mind waiting a few more hundred years for your bloodline to die out…’

‘Do you really think that he might agree to that?

‘It might just be worth a try; just don’t tell him that the idea came from me’

Arnon thought about this for a little while, not entirely sure whether Marthian was teasing him:  he found her difficult to read. He decided that it was best to change the subject. 

‘Why was he in such a hurry to eject you?’ he asked

Marthian hardly hesitated – it was obviously a question that she’d considered in depth.

‘For various reasons: First, he doesn’t like or understand Ortia – I think he thinks it’s a bit arcane, a bit esoteric, perhaps even a bit eerie. Second, following on from that - he doesn’t trust anyone in the city, particularly not the High Priestess or me; Third, he wants to impress the High Lord and his faction, and that means moving at human speeds. Fourth, I’m female, and I don’t think he thinks much of “women”, of any species.  Overall, to be honest, I believe that Pallatian is cursed with one strong, unusually human, trait….’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s very intelligent and he’s very well aware of it…’

‘I see…’

‘I’ve learnt an excellent Ethian expression to describe him – one that doesn’t make much sense grammatically, but that I find rather rolls off the tongue…’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s too clever by half…’

Arnon was baffled by the words, but knew exactly what she meant.