Still Fornis made no reply. They were both standing by the window and her eyes--though she was directly facing the late afternoon sunlight--looked steadily and unblinkingly into his own.
"Well, that's all I have to say, esta-saiyett, and I must say I'm glad to have finished saying it." He laughed self-consciously. "It's not always easy for me to--well, to carry out the duties of the High Baron. You've heard me very patiently. Thank you. If I can help you in any way at the end of this year--"
The Sacred Queen laid her hand on his arm. "You suppose that you will depose me."
From her inflection, it might or might not have been a question. Durakkon found himself answering it.
"I've explained to you, esta-saiyett, that there's no question of deposition--"
He broke off, but spoke again as a thought occurred to him. "Perhaps you would like to hear the Lord General and the Council--"
At this Fornis burst into a peal of laughter. "Perhaps you would like to hear the Council, would you? What they think of you?"
Suddenly she was grave once more. "Master Durakkon--may I call you Firebug, since everyone else does and we have known each other so long?--I am the Sacred Queen of Airtha, the intermediary of the gods. It is for me to say what will happen to you at the end of this year-- to you and those of your fellow-conspirators who may still be left. Sencho, of course, is no longer a problem."
"Conspirators? And pray, esta-saiyett, were you not also a conspirator, since that's the word you've chosen?"
"Did you come here to waste my time playing stupid games with words?" answered the queen. "Well, I'm not altogether surprised: that's about all you've ever been fit for these past seven or eight years. Still, it's as well you did come, since it enables me to tell you what's going to be done and what part you'll play. At the end of this year, you will abdicate as High Baro--"
Durakkon bowed coldly. "I'll leave you, esta-saiyett: you're plainly not yourself. Kindly think over what I've said and let me know when you're ready to talk with me again. For the time being--"
Suddenly Fornis took a step towards him, so that they were nearly touching each other. Durakkon almost threw up a hand to defend himself. When she spoke, it was in a hissing whisper.
"If regard is not paid to what I say, innocent people are going to suffer."
"Esta-saiyett," said Durakkon, with all the force at his command, " I rule here. I am sorry to be obliged to remind you of it."
"And you know, of course, that half the Council want to get rid of you?" she asked. Turning on her heel, she walked away from him towards a cabinet on the opposite side of the room. "You can hardly blame them, after all. The empire's full of disaffection as things are, and it hardly helps when the High Baron's universally known to be an ineffective dupe who commands no respect whatever."
"It will do you no good to talk in this way, esta-saiyett," said Durakkon. "Remember, too, that if you compel me to take action against you, it will be in neither your interest not the public interest."
"The public interest?" cried Fornis, her eyes for the first time bright with anger. "Oh, yes, you've always had the public interest so much at heart, haven't you? You were going to do so much for the empire, weren't you? So much for the common people!" She fixed on him a look of such evil malevolence that he stared back at her appalled. "You really make me laugh! Why, the peasants--yes, the very beggars, too--they curse your name! You want proof? Do you seriously believe you'd be safe in any province of the empire without a guard? And as for the lower city, why don't you try walking by yourself as far as the Tower of Leaves one nice, dark evening? Do you really think you'd get there and back alive?"
"Silence, esta-saiyett!" cried Durakkon. But she had touched him on the raw, and the very fact that he spoke again showed it. "I have more support as High Baron than you as Sacred Queen, and that I may have to prove to you."
"Oh!" she answered. "Oh, I see! Yes, really, what a lot they all think of the High Baron and his wonderful family! You did say 'Silence,' didn't you? That will be quite convenient, since I've something to show you, and I can keep quiet while you read it instead of talking nonsense to me."
She unlocked a drawer in the cabinet and, without the least hesitation or searching, took out a sheet of written parchment, which she put into his hand.
"Of course, that's only a copy," she said, "but I'm sure the Lord General will show you the original if you ask him."
"What is this, esta-saiyett?" said Durakkon. "I don't wish--"
"Well, if you read it you'll know, won't you?" she said, and sat down in the window-seat.
He was about to give it back to her when his eye caught, written on the sheet, the name of his younger son. Startled, he read on.
"--embarrassing and extremely awkward if we were obliged to tell the High Baron in so many words that this young man is a grave liability as an officer. Yet he--" Here Durakkon came to the foot of the page. He hesitated a moment, then turned it and read on: Fornis watched him as he did so.
"Yet he has twice, now, shown himself unfit for action and you will understand that merely in the interests of discipline--to say nothing of the safety of others--I cannot retain him in his present command. I suggest that in the circumstances perhaps the most advisable and discreet course would be a transfer, with promotion, to the fortress at Dari-Paltesh--"
The letter, being a copy, was unsealed, but Durakkon could feel no doubt that it was authentic and that the writer was Sendekar. Naturally, he remembered very well his son's promotion and appointment to the staff of the fortress about eighteen months earlier. Kembri had congratulated him on the lad having been selected for so honorable a post. "Now he's proved himself in the field, we feel he's exactly the sort of young man we need at Dari. It's a responsible position--"
How many people knew this shameful truth? Was it com-mon knowledge throughout the army? How many other lies had been told to him? He could hardly keep tears from his eyes, for he had always greatly loved his younger son-- a gentle, kindly young man--and felt proud of him. Clutching the parchment between trembling fingers, he looked up at the woman who had thus deliberately wounded him to the heart and now sat enjoying his misery.
"This document, esta-saiyett; it--it's no business of yours. It doesn't concern you in any way. How did you--?"
"Oh, do keep it," she said lightly. "You're welcome: I don't particularly want it. I'm sure it's of more use to you than to me."
She was still sitting by the window. Silently, he laid the parchment beside her and was about to go when she spoke again.
"Would you care to see a note which your wife wrote to Spelta-Narthe?"
"Spelta-Narthe?" he said. "Who is Spelta-Narthe?"
"Oh, no one at all. He's a slave: Elvair-ka-Virrion's huntsman. But he's very--er, accomplished and well-liked by a number of ladies, I understand. It's rather surprising that he can read, don't you think?--or perhaps not, all things considered."
Without another word Durakkon left the room. Outside, one of the queen's waiting-women--dark and middle-aged, with the high coloring of a Palteshi--raised her palm to her forehead. After a moment he realized that she must have asked him some question.
"What?" said Durakkon. "What did you say?"
"Your escort, my lord. Are you leaving her Sacred Majesty now? Do
you wish me to summon your escort?"
"Oh--thank you," answered Durakkon abstractedly. However, it had slipped his mind that he had already dismissed his escort some time ago, since before arriving he had accepted an invitation to supper with the Sacred Queen.
He waited nearly half an hour alone in an ante-room while a runner was sent to recall them.
67: SUPPER WITH MILVUSHINA
The summer advanced. Pink water-lilies and beds of tiny-flowered, yellow meleda came into bloom along the shallows of the Barb, while the flocks of cranes which frequented it every spring departed in their thousands for the north, leaving the lake to ibis, egret and heron. Dragonflies, bronze and green, hovered in the sunny gardens and the bullocks grazing on Crandor's lower slopes could often be seen tossing their heads or suddenly leaping, tormented by gnats and clegs. In the middle of the day the only birds to be heard were the bluefinch and the little damazin, whose monotonous "Treachree, tfeachree, treachree!," from his high song-post among the zoans, seemed the very sound of the still, hot sunlight. The bright flowers of the melikon tree--"False Lasses," as the peasants called it-- shed their petals and began to turn to the glinting, golden berries which, though they looked so fine, were of no use to man or beast.
To and from the upper city, rich men came and went on profitable journeys--to their farm-lands in the provinces, to the timber forests of Tonilda, the silk and jewel markets of Ikat Yeldashay or the iron foundries of Gelt. Shearnas entertained and made money. Wealthy wives, alone with time on their hands, spent their days gossiping and over-eating, spending long hours in the cool bath or naked on the massage-couch, fancying themselves in love with others' husbands, or covertly visiting supposedly se-cret places of assignation well-known to every winking slave in their households. The Monju brook shrunk in its bed. Daily, messengers brought news from the frontiers and the Council deliberated in the Barons' Palace on the Leopard Hill.