He took it for affirmation.
“Rest,” he told her with an exultant glad smile. “I’ll come back and talk with you more later.”
He went down to the council meeting, where Jorn and Mitiar, with their arguments for sending Pamra to the Thraish well rehearsed and arranged, were amazed to find such disputation unnecessary.
“I agree Pamra Don should go to the Thraish. Take her,” Tharius said. “Keep her safe, Gendra, but take her along. Take her, and the child, but be sure she talks to Sliffisunda himself.”
“I think Sliffisunda will require that,” Shavian interjected in a dry voice. “There will be no problem.” He wanted to ask Tharius what had happened to him. The man was dizzy with joy, like a child on festival morning when the Candy Tree had grown in the night. Like a young Chanceryman at his first elixir ceremony. Full of light. Buoyed up. It was almost tempting to delay the meeting a little in order to find out why, but Gendra’s offer to leave the Chancery was too much a godsend to risk losing. Easier on everyone if she’s away for a while, he assured himself. Gives us time to get ready for it. And he glanced at the chairs against the wall where Glamdrul Feynt and Bormas Tyle huddled together, exchanging occasional whispered words. The perfect picture of conspirators, Shavian thought, shaking his head at them warningly.
The three of them had only the bare outline of a plot as yet. It would require three deaths: that of the general, that of Gendra Mitiar, and that of Lees Obol. One, two, three. Like a starting chant for a race. One to get steady, two to get ready, three to go. Since Glamdrul Feynt was to end up as Lord Marshal of the Towers, he would dispose of Gendra Mitiar. Bormas Tyle wanted to be General of the Armies, which meant Jondrigar was his meat. Since Glamdrul and Bormas had charge of the elixir, nothing should be easier for them than a little selective adulteration. One, two. And then Lees Obol, with Shavian Bossit to take his place as Protector of Man—three votes in the council guaranteed: Bormas, Glamdrul, and his own—and the assembly already primed to vote for him.
Shavian started from agreeable visions of this future and was brought to himself.
“It’s decided, then,” Gendra Mitiar intoned. “I’ll take her to Red Talons.”
“That’s closest, yes,” Tharius Don approved.
“You’ll keep her safe?” asked General Jondrigar, his voice heavy and obdurate as iron, oily with suspicion. “You, Mitiar, you’ll keep her safe?”
Gendra smiled maliciously. “Of course, General. Of course I will. That’s why I’m going.”
The smile made Tharius wince, but only for the instant. Of course the old fish was up to something, but it didn’t matter. What did she think of Pamra Don? Did she think anything at all? How could she know that Pamra Don was the divine intervenor, the peace bringer, the messenger of God, sent to mitigate violence and death? The messenger sent to Tharius Don to say he had been right in holding his hand, right to delay the strike. It would not be needed. The Thraish could be converted. The cause might be fulfilled without violence.
“It’s settled, then,” said Gendra Mitiar. “We’ll leave in the morning.” She cast an enigmatic look at Ezasper Jorn, who had been silent throughout the meeting. He and Koma Nepor had exchanged two or three carefully casual glances, nothing more, though inwardly they were jubilant. The old crock had fallen for it. She thought she was going to gain support for herself. By the time she got back—it would be too late. If she got back at all. So, the Council of Seven adjourned. Both they and their ancillary personnel rose to move about the room. Shavian Bossit rang a small bell, its sound hanging in the hall like a strand of tinsel, a bright shivering of metal. Through the high doors came screeching carts bearing tea; a dozen soft-footed servitors in gray livery to tend the tall silver and copper kettles with handles worked into nelfants and gorbons and other mythical animals, the charcoal stoves below them emitting a pungent smoke. Plates of cakes were passed: puncon tarts, nutcakes, sweetbean, and mince. The council members floated upon an ebullience that was infectious, every member of it assured that his or her own ambition was shortly to be fulfilled.