“I would support you in that, Jondrigar.” He turned to find two faces frozen upon his own, Jorn’s and Nepor’s. Ah, so they had been up to something. “Tharius, you would support Jondrigar’s accession to the title, would you not?”
“I would,” said Tharius in a strangely husky voice. It was another sign. A sign from heaven. From the God of man, if one cared to say it that way. From Pamra Don. “I would support General Jondrigar. He knows what is needed to protect mankind.”
“I have already begun,” the general boomed. “When I returned with Pamra Don from the pass, I sent commands to all the mines that the slaves should be released and taken over the mountains to their homeland.”
There were gasps from around the table. Shavian bit his tongue. Tharius looked upon the general with loving, glowing eyes.
“Now I must go to the place Queen Fibji is, to beg her forgiveness. And when that is done, I will return to take up this great office, which Lees Obol intended from my birth.” He turned away, strode away, the feet of his troops drumming behind him, the chamber echoing with the sound. Behind him was silence.
“No slaves in the mines?” Bormas breathed at last.
Shavian shook his head warningly. “There is metal in the warehouses. Enough for a very long time. We can bear a hiatus.”
“Queen Fibji will have evidence of slavery when her people come home.”
“Cross that stream when it splashes us.”
Ezasper Jorn and Koma Nepor said nothing. They were frozen with shock.
“Let be,” said Tharius Don. “It may be we are entering a new age.” Jondrigar had not said anything about the fliers, but if he had truly understood Pamra Don—it would not be long before he moved in that direction as well. First the Noor, then the fliers. First those close by, then those more remote. Tharius Don placed his hand over his eyes, covering the weak tears that gemmed the corners. Almost he could see through those hands, so thin they were, so translucent. He should eat. He should. There were things he had to do. His stomach turned at the thought. No. No, he would eat after everything was done.
And everything would soon be done. After which he could die—die in thankfulness that it had not been necessary to invoke the strike, in gratitude that Pamra Don would be safe in the general’s care. . . .
As would the world of man.
Seeker birds had been bred originally by the Noor. On the vastness of the steppes, messages could be sent, as they were from the signal towers of the Chancery, by heliograph during the day or by reflector lantern at night. Information was exchanged in these ways on a more or less regular and formal basis among Queen Fibji’s guards and outliers. For more spontaneous sharing of information or to carry greetings among near-kin, seeker birds were used, flying back and forth between their two masters, sometimes over enormous distances. Possession of a seeker bird was no longer considered de facto proof that the owner was a Noor or Noor sympathizer, though that had once been the case. Many merchants used them now. Medoor Babji had taken half a dozen Fibji seekers with her when she sailed away on the Gift. Every troop of Melancholies had two or three home seekers, imprinted to seek some near-kin on the steppes. And, of course, Fibji’s spies had seeker birds.
One of these arrived in the cage late in the afternoon, after the audiences for the day were done. Strenge thrust his little finger into the bone message tube and twirled it around, bringing the paper out in a crackling cylinder, frowning as he did so.
“Which one of our people sent that?” the Queen asked, splashing her footbath at him with one toe. The attendant looked reproachfully at the Queen, pumice stone held ready. “That’s all right, Jenniver.” She smiled. “Give me the towel. You don’t need to rub at my horny feet tonight. After half a century walking on them, it’s no wonder they’re tough as old fish hide.”
He put the message he had just received into his sleeve and took another instead, twirling a finger into the end of it. “This one first, Fibby. It’s from Medoor Babji.”