Inos had not foreseen the difficulty of meeting someone she did not know, and who did not know her, because she had expected a far smaller place, and never such a turmoil. For two days she had been dreaming of a friendly family senator appearing to provide hospitality and protection, and perhaps a little sane, cultured relaxation after half a year of mad adventure. He might very well have answered her plea and come to the rendezvous, or sent someone in his place, but how could they locate each other? She had not dared mention that she was traveling with four djinns.
They had turned in their horses and recovered their original deposit. They had left that office, and now they were outside in the rain and Azak was leaving the next move to her, scowling ferociously but saying nothing as the minutes crawled by and she stared this way and that way and wondered where on earth to go first. Horses and travelers milled past, and then—from all sides like wolves emerging from a forest—legionaries closed in with drawn swords.
Followed by her four djinn companions, she was escorted indoors and then up a somber staircase to a room that already contained a tribune, a centurion, and one unremarkable civilian. About a dozen legionaries filed in with the captives, and spread around, still holding naked blades. There was one table and no chairs. The door was then closed, and bolted.
Fear throbbed at her temples; the forgery had been exposed, the senator had betrayed her. The deliberate overcrowding of the room was designed to add to the stress; she felt she could hardly twitch without contacting an armored torso. They were all around, eyes too close. She could smell the leather and the polish and the men’s breath.
The tribune leaned back against the table and read over the passport. Then he regarded his five captives with satisfaction. “This is very good work,” he said. “A very good fake.”
“No, it isn’t,” Azak replied.
The tribune smiled and handed it to the civilian, who was young, balding and bookish—an inoffensive little man, obviously dangerous, else he would not be there. He carried the document over to the window and peered at it, holding it almost at the end of his long nose. “Yes, very fine,” he concluded. ”Elvish, almost certainly.” He continued to study the penmanship.
The tribune turned his patient smile on Azak. He was a short man, and middle aged; surprisingly old for a soldier. His face and arms were swarthy, weatherbeaten, but he could afford an expensive uniform, the bronze inlaid with gold. His dark eyes glinted brighter than his helmet. “Now the truth?”
“You have the truth,” Azak replied evenly.
“The persons named in that forgery have never heard of you.”
“Of course not. I’m coming, not going.” Azak had not blinked, but Inos felt her heart sink another notch. Obviously every spy and every doubting official along the Great South Way had sent in a report. A tidal wave of reports must have hit Hub, all at about the same time. The authorities had merely let the suspect strangers complete their journey, right to the gates of the capital. Now they would be examined to find out what they were; taken apart in the process if necessary.
The tribune looked Inos up and down. “Uncover your face!”
For ladies to wear riding veils was not unusual, but normally they removed them indoors. Inos took off her hat and pulled the veil free of her collar. She was so filthy she could barely live with herself. I am the long-lost Queen of Krasnegar, in the far northwest of Pandemia, and my large, equally evil-smelling companion is my husband, sultan of a powerful state in Zark, in the extreme southeast. We are here to meet with a prominent member of the senatorial order. What else would you like to hear?
The tribune nodded, as if he had just confirmed what had been reported. ”Not djinn, not pure anything. Part elf and part what?”
“No elf. Imp and jotunn.”
“Who branded you, and why?”
“That is my business.”
He shrugged, as if the point were of no import. “You are consorting with djinn spies, traveling under forged papers. Worse may befall you than that.”
“It is not yet noon,” Azak remarked calmly. “What of it?” asked the tribune.
“We are to be met here by an important person at noon. I suggest you restrain your curiosity until then, Tribune.”
The tribune folded his arms. “Do I really look so gullible? You can gain nothing by insulting me.”
“If you truly believed that our credentials were false, you would have dragged us away in chains long since. My authority is unusual, I admit, but that is not your concern. just wait until noon. I cannot guarantee that your questions will be answered, but you will be stopped from asking any more of us.” Azak folded his arms also.
He was filthy and travel-worn, and a red-hairy thigh was visible through a tear in his breeches, but the Sultan of Arakkaran knew all there was to know about intrigue. He was probably right—the tribune was still not quite certain. Djinns were fair game at the moment, or very soon would be, but the war was not yet official. There could be diplomatic moves underway still, and the man was smart enough to know that.
It felt like already past noon to Inos, although the weeping gray sky made the point debatable. It felt like past time for the senator to show up if he was coming. He might be out of town, and her letter still on its way to wherever he was. He might have thrown it in the fire as a fake. He might have turned it over to the secret police, and this tribune might be just playing with her by not mentioning it.
Had she not persuaded Azak to let her send that letter, then their case would be hopeless. If someone did not answer the letter very soon, then their case was hopeless anyway.
“Any doubts, Scrivener?” the tribune asked.
“Oh, none at all,” said the young man. He tossed the roll of vellum on the table.
“Right.” The tribune spoke to the centurion. “Search them.”
The centurion sheathed his sword and signed to two men to do likewise. They advanced on Azak, who glared but offered no resistance while the men poked and peered. They clinked his bags of gold on the table, they relieved him of two daggers and a couple of thin knives Inos had not known about.
Then Char, Varrun, and Jarkim were given the same treatment.
The tribune eyed Inos thoughtfully. “Are you carrying any weapons or documents?”
“None.”
“You swear this by the God of Truth?”
“I do.”
“Very well. Now, we’ll start with that one.” He nodded at Char.
The two legionaries grabbed Char’s hands, spun him around, and slammed his face into the wall. Then they held him there. Azak took a step forward and was stopped by a hedge of swords. The centurion threw a heavy punch at Char’s kidneys and kicked his ankle. Inos shut her eyes.
Char took two more blows in silence, then he began to cry out. Azak growled wordlessly.
“Ready to talk?” asked the tribune.
“You will regret this!”
“Carry on, Centurion. Don’t be so squeamish.”
“Look!” the ineffectual little civilian said.
Inos looked. The man was still standing by the window, and must have been staring out of it for the same reason she had been keeping her eyes closed.
“A carriage with armorial bearings has just driven in, Tribune. And its outriders are Praetorian Hussars.”
“God of Torment!” the tribune said.
It still wasn’t quite settled. The hussar who exchanged salutes with the tribune was several ranks lower, but he was young and glamorous and supremely satisfied with himself and the status that came with his plumed helmet. He was very tall and almost chinless, but any man who could win his way into the Praetorians had great influence to start with, and just being a Praetorian gave him much more—he was almost certainly a future lictor, at least. There was very little fight left in the tribune.
But the passenger in the coach was no senator, merely a portly, well-dressed lady who looked aston ishingly like a younger version of Aunt Kade. Swathed in warm, soft furs, she directed a cold, hard stare at the rain-soaked waif standing in the mud beside the carriage, surrounded by troops.
“You know this woman, ma’am?” the tribune asked glumly.
“No.”
He brightened. “No?”
“She wrote to my father, claiming to be related to us, but neither of us has ever met her. Moreover, the person she claims to be has been reported on unimpeachable authority to be dead.”
The tribune beamed.
The chinless young hussar frowned silently. He had obviously decided that he approved of Inos, despite her disgustingly bedraggled condition. “Can you prove who you are, miss?”