The Reluctant Champion

Bashanadar

Once again Lidah was dressed in her careful best—cloth-of-gold this time, with a red sash and the same emerald at her hip. The countess had made her a present of it despite all Lidah's protests, saying she was sure she would love her as a daughter, and the emerald was nothing compared with the ambassadors' discomfiture. It gave her countenance, the fine clothes and the great jewel, and the confidence to walk through these halls straight and erect as though she owned them.

Lidah had gone to bed the night before dizzy with exhaustion and too much wine. She had traveled twenty-five miles; she had argued her way into the palace; she had braved an assembly of her country's enemies; and she had passed an interminable evening turning away barbed comments and making a few of her own. She thought she had done well; the king had smiled and shown her every consideration while the ambassadors scowled into their cups.

At the end of the evening, Genneret had stood and announced that, in honor of her visit, there would be a week's fête—a week of parties and pleasuring, and no serious business done. A week for the ambassadors to kick their heels, chafing at the delay.

But the issue still hung in the balance—and, indeed, what could she hope for, in the end? That Genneret would repudiate the Alliance and send the ambassadors home? That would mean war, and Tynat overrun. Would he then arrest her, send her a hostage with them as proof of friendship? Or send her empty-handed to Napesh?

In truth this was no holiday, this week of grace. This week would see the success or failure of her mission. But what was she to do?

She shook the questions from her head impatiently, as a weakness. They had nothing to do with the business of the moment, which was the summons she had received first thing this morning. Janesh had arrived, hard on the heels of the maid who brought her breakfast. His majesty wished to see her at the fifth hour, before the noon meal.

"Is this a private audience?"

"No, Highness. It is more by way of a working meeting."

All Lidah's senses came on the alert. "During this week, when he has declared holiday?"

"Yes. He has made an exception." Janesh looked rattled, as much as a statue can be said to have an expression. But there was a faint, definite tremor in his voice.

"Will the ambassadors be there?"

"I'm sure I don't know, mistress." Janesh had recovered himself. Then he unbent. "It is unlikely."

"I must look my best, and I have no clothes. Would you be so kind as to inform the countess I must impose on her again?"

Almost a smile. "Begging your pardon, but I took the liberty of doing so as soon as I received the message. She should be here shortly."

The countess hadn't known what the summons was about either, or had been unwilling to say.

"My dear, I have eyes and ears all over the place, and never till this morning have I distrusted them all. It's best that you make your own judgment. And I have no idea what Genneret has in mind."

She had dressed Lidah with particular care, fussing over the set of her tunic and sash, and sending her forth rather with the air of a mother sending her only child off to war.

But this was all past. Now there was only the moment, only the audience hall looming before her—the small audience hall, they called it. She suddenly was very tired of all this—tired of being at others' beck and call; tired of having to fence every day with a new set of dangers, so much more subtle and devastating than the dangers of the road. That was a simple existence, if you like. She shook her head again, dismissing another weakness. The doors swung open before her.