If the young men would hold their peace. If they could move onward with the plan. If she could have seen the Protector.
Oh, surely, surely Lees Obol would have listened. Surely the Protector of Man would not consider the Noor unworthy of his protection. Were Noor not men? But she had not seen the Protector. Only Maintainer of the Household Shavian Bossit, who had put her through half a dozen inconclusive and frustrating sessions.
“Have you seen Jondarites take your people slaves?” he had asked half a hundred times. “Have you seen it?”
No, she had not seen it. Had not seen the slavers come, had not seen the tax collectors come, had not seen the murderers come, had only heard about it afterward, from the survivors, when there were any. “Take me to your metal mines, Lord Maintainer. Let me identify the slaves there. They are my people.”
“Tsk. Your Highness is misinformed. We have no slaves in our mines. Only bondsmen from Northshore. Ami _s for those who took your people, how do you know they were Jondarites? Rebel townsmen, perhaps, in Jondarite dress? I’m sure that’s who it was. Apply to the Supervisor of the Tower of whatever town they are from, Queen Fibji.”
As well apply to the moons, she thought viciously. There were no rebel townsmen, only Jondarites, Jondarites who kept the depredations remote from the Queen’s tents and thus could not be directly accused by the Queen.
“We will accept without question anything Your Highness has seen personally,” said Bossit, smiling, always smiling, dripping politeness and courtesy as a rotten fruit drips juice. “In accordance with the treaty the Chancery has always had with the Moor,” he said, showing his tiny teeth, a curve of threatening ivory, like a knife.
In accordance with the treaty! A treaty, made generations before, in an untrusting age when the Noor King had feared anyone speaking in his name and would speak only for himself. Used against them now to prevent her speaking. If she camped north of Thou-ne, the Jondarites struck above Vobil-dil-go. If she went to the lands above Vobil-dil-go, the Jondarites would take captives above Shfor. Wherever the Noor moved upon the open steppes, the Jondarites could find them. There was no stone, no tree, to hide behind. There were no chasms, no caves. There was only the steppe, open to the sky, and the tethered balloons of the Jondarite spies, who would see their quarry from miles away. And she, Fibji, would see the pain of the wounded and the mud graves of the dead-assuming there had been anyone left to bury the dead but she would not see Jondarites. She knew that someone reported on her movements. Perhaps those winged demons, seeing where she went and being sure the Jondarites knew it.
So, now, she heard the man from the slaughtered tribe. He was alone. Without near-kin. Well, that, at least, she could pretend to remedy. She gestured, a tiny movement, at once interpreted, as she called out a few words in the secret naming language of the Moor.
“Mumros, Her Highness takes you into her tribe, into her family. She calls you Kalja Benoor. Adopted Near-kin.”
The man who had brought the news leaned upon his hands and wept. It was not for joy. He knew as well as she the adoption was only a gesture. Near-kin could not be so easily replaced, nor grief so easily stayed. Still, when he left the tent it was with a steadier gait than that with which he had entered.
“Your Highness?” A murmured voice at her ear.
“Yes, Strenge, what is it?” Of all her men he was her favorite: strong, not at all servile, yet attentive to her dignity, virile, father of two of her children.
“The delegation from the boatmen.”
“Haven’t there been enough delegations for one day?” There was despair in her whispered voice. He heard it. Among all her people he was the only one she let hear it.
“They have Glizzee spice, Your Highness.” His eyes were down, his posture dignified. If they were alone, he would call her Fibby. They had been children together. And lovers later. And lovers still.