They scurried like rabbits.
“Sergeant Glinnoch! Get a litter! Have General Quaie taken to the surgeon!” Who can declare him officially dead. “Captain Flion! Pass the order that we’ll camp here tonight!”
Then he himself stepped to Macurdy, who sat staring at the ruined corpse. “Are you able to stand, Commander?”
Macurdy pulled his attention from what had been Quaie. “Not without help,” he husked. “My legs are weak as noodles.”
Cyncaidh had a second litter brought, and Macurdy, quaking now with aftershock, was lain on a pallet beneath a shady tree, and an ylvin healer sent for. Then Cyncaidh seated his staff as a committee of evidence, to draft a statement they all agreed on, describing Quaie’s death and how it happened. They’d all witnessed it, and there were no disagreements on what had been said or done. They also agreed on the legality of the duel, that it was Quaie who’d issued the challenge and been first to use magic, and that when Macurdy had seemed helpless, Quaie had said he was going to mutilate him.
On the other hand, Quaie had issued his challenge only after Macurdy had called him the Rapist of Ferny Cove, and had emphasized his scorn by spitting on the ground.
Given the unanimity of the general staff, Quaie’s aide, who’d also been sworn in as part of the committee, could hardly avoid signing a statement of witnessed evidence. But he added a complaint that Macurdy’s tone, in speaking to Quaie, had been insulting in the extreme. Cyncaidh then added a rejoinder, pointing out that considering the extremity of Quaie’s actions in Kormehr, and the intensity of southern feelings, Macurdy’s having spat only on the ground could be regarded as an exercise in restraint.
Actually, Quaie had been called the Rapist of Ferny Cove by more than a few of his peers, some of them publicly. There’d be a fuss, and some long-lasting bitterness, but by persons who already hated both himself and the Emperor. Certainly the situation would be far less serious than he’d anticipated during the fight.
When the committee of evidence had completed and signed their statement, the scribe took it to another room to write copies, before the original was sent off to Duinarog. Then Macurdy was brought in, on his feet now, supported by two ylvin soldiers. After a lunch eaten at the conference table, they began discussing the basic features of a peace agreement. Cyncaidh had felt optimistic, but hadn’t expected it to go as smoothly as it did. He and Macurdy had similar ideas of what was desirable and just.
They didn’t break for supper, but ate again at the conference table, still discussing. Finally Cyncaidh suggested they stop for the evening. His scribe could organize their discussion as a draft agreement for review in the morning. It seemed to him probable that never in the history of the empire had a major agreement, nor many minor agreements, been worked out to mutual satisfaction so quickly.
“Fine,” Macurdy said. “But before we sleep, there’s something you and I need to talk about, unrelated to the treaty. A personal ambition I have.”
Cyncaidh frowned. “Very well, Commander. I’ll have our horses saddled and we can take a ride.” He turned to his general staff. “Gentlemen, you are dismissed. We’ll meet again after breakfast.”
The two commanders watched the others file out. Then Cyncaidh turned to the couriers and door guards. “You too,” he said. “All but you, Alhnar. I want you to have our horses saddled and brought to us.” When they were gone, he spoke to Macurdy in an undertone little louder than a whisper. “We have a few minutes to wait. What is this all about, Commander? Not the details, but the major matter.”
Macurdy too spoke in a murmur. “I’m a married man, general. My wife, who was a Sister, was stolen from me, and after a time passed into ylvin hands. Your hands personally: I’m told she’s your slave now, or has been, and I want her back. But if your staff knew, someone might say you’d given in on points of the agreement because of it. And I don’t want anything to threaten that. Too many have died for it.”