“Back where?” Lila asked. “Do you know where, Pamra Don?”
It was the first time the child had called her by name, and Pamra looked into her face, wondering at this adult, understanding tone. “Why, to the Chancery,” she said. “We will see Great-Great-Grandfather again.”
The child shook her head, reaching up to pat Pamra’s face. “Pamra Don,” she said. “You don’t listen.”
“Where are the Thraish?” Tharius asked the Jondarite officer who was stationed at the guardpost.
“The fliers are mostly on those two buttes over there, Lord Propagator,” the man answered, pointing them out. The rocky elevations he indicated were so near the pass that the river washed their feet. They were about forty or fifty feet high, very sheer-walled, their bases carved inward into low, smooth-walled caves by the water’s flow, Tharius put the glass to his eye and stared at their slightly sloping tops. There were fliers there, certainly, quite a mob of them on both butte tops, but there were fliers on several of the farther buttes as well, coming and going, all of them staying well away from the edges.
“Did you plan to shoot at them?” he asked the Jondarite, noting the crossbow case on the man’s back.
The Jondarite shook his head. “Not unless ordered to, sir, and even then not so long as they stay in the middle of the butte that way. It’s too far from here, and we can’t get them from below unless they come to the edge. They’re too smart for that.”
Tharius shook his head, wondering why they always thought of weapons first and talking later. “Do you have any seeker birds for the general?”
The Jondarite saluted and ran off to get one from the cage. Tharius laid paper on his knee and wrote out the message. “To the Protector of Man. The Thraish plan some ceremony to discredit Pamra Don because she defends the Protector of Man. They seem to be gathering on the buttes at the entrance to the pass. Tharius.” They sent the bird off, watching it winging down the river toward the Jondarite tents.
“I’ve sent three messages by that bird already today,” the Jondarite said. “That bird knows right where he is.”
Tharius reached into his pocket for bread. He had been eating constantly since he left the Chancery, trying to convince himself he had strength enough to do whatever would need doing. “Can you get on top of that thing?” He indicated the nearest butte. If the ceremony was to occur on that height, it might be necessary for them to get close in order to talk with Sliffisunda.
“With grappling ladders, sure. Trouble is, we start to climb it, they’ll just move to another one. We don’t have enough men here to put a guard on all of them. The general’s already sent a message for all troops at Highstone Lees to join him here.”
All the troops? Tharius stared at the man in amazement. There had never been a time when all the Jondarites had left Highstone Lees. “What are the fliers up to?”
“I don’t know. They’ve been coming and going all day. Carrying trash. Look like a bunch of birds building a nest.”
A nest, Tharius thought. For nestlings. Juveniles. One could be discredited in the eyes of a multitude by being reduced to the status of a juvenile. Would the mob understand that? Or would Sliffisunda explain it to them? He was too shrewd to let them misunderstand it, that was certain.
“Have any of them come in carrying people?”
The Jondarite shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”
Tharius sighed. If Pamra Don was not yet here, then he was in time. There could still be negotiations. He gave quick instructions to the Jondarite. “You can see better from here than I’ll be able to from below. The minute you see any fliers carrying people—or any people approaching across the valley from the direction of the Red Talons—send me word. I’ll leave a man here with half a dozen of my birds.”
He took another bite of the bread and started on down the pass, Martien close behind him. Martien was holding the green banner. Somewhere high above them among the encircling peaks there were signal posts and watchers, their eyes on that banner. Since Pamra Don had failed, he would have, to send the signal for the strike soon. Better for everyone if he had sent it a year ago. “Weak,” he castigated himself. “You’re weak, Tharius Don.”