The Seedbearing Prince: Part I (50 page)

“This Aran Consul, Bargis. Do you know of
him?” he asked. They took a floating lift to one of the higher
levels of the Victor’s Arena, the most prominent area for viewing
contests.

“I do not, other than that he’s a cousin of
Shir-Hun. I expect he will be pliable enough, if we can keep the
Regents from interfering. Once we succeed in getting the Consuls to
give Dayn an audience, the entire Belt will know about Thar’Kur’s
attack on Shard before week’s end. Follow my lead in the
talks.”

Lurec ground his teeth, but said nothing.
This is too important to give in to squabbling. The Ring is
unified and must be seen as such.

The upper levels of the dome changed
considerably from below. They passed down a wide, brightly lit hall
with a glass roof to let in the sky’s light. Vapor arrays adorned
every wall, showing the preliminary bouts in detail, scrolling
through motion captures of Cycles past.
For betting,
Lurec
realized.
This opulence is so wasteful.

A servant soon stopped them, wearing a white
garment that looked ready to blow away at the slightest breeze. She
directed a suggestive look to Nassir, which the Defender ignored.
Lurec fought to keep his face smooth. A woman from Ista Cham would
blush to wear such clothes!

“Taking wagers?” she asked.

“Another time,” Nassir replied. “We have
business with Consul Bargis. Bring us to him.”

The servant dropped her former charm and spun
on her heel. They soon entered an observation lounge with a
dazzling view of the arena floor. Pillows, refreshments and
comforts of every sort filled every available surface. Lurec would
expect dozens of people for such a display, but the room held only
one man. He did not even look up when they entered, the bouts below
absorbed all of his attention.

“Sand and ash! I’ll throw myself from this
height if that Dervishi wins another match!”

Nassir cleared his throat. “Consul
Bargis?”

The man turned, and immediately stiffened at
sight of them. “What do you want?”

Nassir said nothing as he handed Shir-Hun’s
letter to the Consul. Bargis possessed the bronze skin typical of
so many Arans, but wore his hair slicked back like a Regent. His
face betrayed little as he read the letter, but Lurec noted that he
re-read it carefully.
Is he meticulous, careful or both?
His
bloodshot eyes suggested great stress.
Not faring well as a
betting man,
Lurec suspected. This he read in a glance, and
could only hope Nassir proved to be as observant.

“So. You are Ringmen.” Bargis secreted the
letter in a long, finely embroidered tunic. “A great risk you take
in coming here.”

“A greater risk to the World Belt if we do
not,” Nassir replied.

The Consul turned back to the bouts below. A
muscle twitched in the Defender’s jaw. “But what of the danger to
Ara?” Bargis asked. “You would ask me to summon the Consuls, so I
can be the laughingstock of the towers over some Shardian boy and
his village?”

You mean the danger to your standing, Lurec
thought with disgust.

“I would ask you to do as the Highest
instructed you,” Nassir replied tersely.

“Shir-Hun knows little of the maneuvering I
endure to keep Ara relevant among the Consuls. I would speak to him
directly before undertaking such reckless action. I will send a
servant to the Tower Axios for you, once I have...clearer
instruction.” A small smile played on Bargis’s lips. “I assume
you’ve lodged there?”

Nassir looked regretful over giving Vake his
sword.
This is going worse than we imagined. Forgive me,
Defender, but we must forge a different course.
Lurec spoke
quickly before Nassir could erupt. “A fine line you must walk,
Consul. A pity you would turn your back on such an
opportunity.”

Lurec turned to leave. Nassir’s eyes flashed,
but he took the cue. As expected, Bargis’s voice stopped them.
“Wait! You negotiate for a cup of water, but your palm holds only
sand.”

Lurec shrugged his shoulders precisely,
allowing just the right amount of inexperience to touch his voice.
“I’m but a Preceptor. My talents lie in other areas, I’m
afraid.”

The Consul looked skeptical, but predictably
enough, greed lit his eyes. “You speak for the Ring, then?”

“For this matter, yes. I understand Ara must
not lose respectability on any front. One of my areas of study is
probabilities. If you call the Consul to hear us, what is the worst
outcome? Dismissed from your position, or getting Ara’s seat
revoked entirely.”

Bargis’s face went ashen. “Go on.”

“If we are correct, the opposite will be
true. Our message is so urgent, I believe it will usher in a new
era of cooperation between the Ring and Montollos. You of course
know what that means.”

The skeptical mask returned. “Dancing on the
ribbons, I suppose.”

Lurec sighed heavily. “Trade, man. The
strictures would be lifted. New routes for transports would be
established. The man responsible for such a shift would be hailed
across the Belt. I’d suspect there would be little argument in
raising you to a High Seat.”

Bargis laughed so hard that tears shone in
his eyes. “Here I thought that Preceptors do not lie!”

Nassir shot Lurec a malevolent look. “If only
they did. Or at least knew how to hold their tongue.”

That made Bargis thoughtful again.
Well
played, Defender.

“What is this message from Shard? Knowing
that would better aid my decision. Are the crops failing, as the
Regents forewarned?”

“On my word as a Preceptor, they are not,”
Lurec swallowed. He could hardly believe the Regents were fomenting
such lies, but he must not focus on their brazen lunacy at the
moment. His next words would stretch his Preceptor’s oaths more
than any time since he swore them. “In fact, the bounty is in a
place to increase a hundredfold.”

Bargis’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Ara would weep for joy to hear such news. But...the risk is too
great to convene the Consuls on your hearsay. The Prevailers could
throw you in their keep, and me along with you. Perhaps you should
go now, Ringmen. Lest someone suspect you of plotting.”

Nassir pulled Lurec’s arm, insistent, but the
Preceptor pressed on. “A pity. You appeared a man who seized
opportunity when he saw it.” Lurec’s eyes flickered to the arena
floor. “Peace doesn’t smile on your odds of late?”

“Not in weeks,” Bargis muttered. “It’s good
that Ara’s Five arrives to give me a certain bout to bet upon. I
could fill a transport with my losses.”

“Your swords are strong in this contest?”

“Strong as they’ve ever been. There’s not a
team in the World Belt who will best three of our men.”

“I will agree to that,” Lurec said swiftly.
“Upon my word as a Preceptor.”

“Agree to what? I only mentioned...” Bargis’s
jaw dropped as he took in Lurec’s face. “A transport? That’s what
you would bet?”

“Preceptor...” Nassir rumbled warningly.

Relent now and he’ll refuse a lesser
offer. I’m sure of it.
“If you lose, you’ll carry out our
request before sundown.”

Never was a man so eager to shake Lurec’s
hand. “I will see it done, peace forsake me if I don’t!” At Lurec’s
pointed look, Bargis promptly strode to a vapor array to summon a
servant.

“Adazia will flail us over this,” Nassir
whispered gruffly. “To the bone. You don’t even know who the Arans
will fight!”

There was little time to waste with this
one,” Lurec whispered back. The same servant from earlier
reappeared. She took some quick orders from Bargis before trotting
off. “I’d empty the Ring of transports to see this task complete,
and consider the price a bargain.”

“Should three swords fall, you will have your
audience. I’ve seen to it.” Bargis made for the wine with new vigor
in his step. “Take your ease, please. We can watch the bouts
together. Let’s hope peace favors you with a team that can stand up
to Aran steel.”

“I’m sure peace will see us to a fair
contest.” The Consul’s grin slipped off his face. He drank deeply
from a cup of wine. Lurec gave a small smile. Probabilities were
his strongest area of study.

***

People milled about everywhere in more styles
of dress than Dayn could imagine.
What did the Preceptor say?
Thirty-eight worlds,
Dayn mused.
People don’t live on them
all, but peace if it doesn't look that way, sometimes.

The first pathman he pulled aside wore beads
in the hair of his chin. His breath stank of fervorberries, and he
spoke so fast that Dayn could barely understand him. “The Dome of
Achen Isee is to your right! Trial bouts begin there in two hours!”
Dayn thanked the man and continued on.

Stairways and ramps spiraled from the hallway
he walked, and he almost climbed one so he could see the inside of
a dome where the Cycle's contests lay. Ahead of him, a dozen long
lines of people snaked down the hall.
These must be where the
worlds can declare for the Cycle.
The nearest line easily
boasted a hundred people. A hastily erected banner near the front
read:
The Binder’s Dance.

He continued past, quickening his pace. The
hall was swollen thick with competitors in every imaginable skill.
Surely there must be...

Dayn stopped, heart pounding. Another banner
just ahead looked no different than the rest, but shone in his eyes
like the sun. It simply read,
The Course of Blades.

“Why not?” he murmured to himself. He was
here, after all.
There’s no telling what could happen between
now and the Cycle next year.
He took a deep breath and walked
closer.

The people standing in line murmured
nervously. Many were older and carried themselves with a quiet
confidence, but still looked uneasy at facing the Montollene
man.

“Dayn? By my grandmother's ale, is that
you?”

Dayn looked up in surprise at the familiar
voice. Of all the people he least expected to see, Milchamah
himself strode up! The farmer looked just as Dayn remembered him,
dressed plainly and carrying a staff with a sweet-tree branch
quirked in his lips.

“Milchamah!” Dayn exclaimed. “Peace, what are
you doing here? Is Joam here?”

“I could ask the same of you lad, but it's
rather obvious,” the farmer said wryly. “Of course he's here, along
with Prolo and the rest. I need you to come with me, right
now.”

“But I only just arrived,” Dayn protested. “I
have to declare for the Course of Blades.”

Milchamah’s mouth twisted in a grimace.
“Can’t believe that notion’s still driving you. If your old stump
of a father and I traded places, I would’ve knocked it from you
long since. Oh, alright! No need to scowl, boy. This line will
still be here by the time I'm done with you. A year and a day, up
until the Cycle begins. Come.”

Milchamah strode briskly into the bowels of
the arena with Dayn trotting at his heels. “Peace, but it’s good to
see you, boy. Are you well?”

“I'm alright for the most part,” Dayn said
hurriedly, bursting with his own questions. “How are my parents,
and my sister?”

Milchamah spat and his expression darkened.
People dodged out of their way at sight of his glower. “Things
turned ugly after you left, Dayn. Not that it was your fault. I’m
glad you made it out, old Nerlin told me all about it. A leap
point. Who knew?”

“Nerlin’s alive!” Dayn exclaimed. “Peace be
praised. I...I wasn't sure.”

“Aye, boy, more alive than I've ever seen
him. You certainly got him worked up. He finally plowed his fields
under again, first time in ten seasons. Planting spice corn, of all
things. Buril's so pleased he'd probably let him plant
tripweed.”

They angled right down a dim hallway. Dayn
felt a new lightness in his step, knowing that Nerlin was safe.
Montollene folk eyed the farmer oddly, but Milchamah paid them no
mind. “As for your folks, those Misthaveners got the village all
riled up, the fools. They were nice and bothered when they realized
what Laman pulled, sneaking you off. That got him kicked off the
Council. I think that’s what Payter wanted all along. Fool
Misthavener gets jittery when anyone shows they have half a brain
more than he does.” Milchamah chuckled again. “It’s a wonder the
man sleeps at night.”

“Sand and ash. They took my father off the
Council?” A lump rose in Dayn’s throat.
He’s lost so much
because of me. Will I ever make it all up to him?

“No need to fret, boy. Those Misthaveners
forgot that Wia Wells folk aren't sheep lost in the redbranch.
Buril got the Elders thinking, and soon enough they put Laman right
back where he belonged.” Milchamah snorted. “Though he gave up a
fine opportunity to free himself of all that nonsense, in my
opinion.”

Dayn took comfort in Milchamah’s words. The
hallway opened into one of the Great Arena's three domes, the Achen
Isee. Dayn craned his neck higher and higher until he finally saw
where the stone and metal walls touched the oblong ceiling.

“What a wonder, eh? And not even the greatest
of the three,” Milchamah said as they walked forward. Rows upon
rows of empty seats belted the space around a square practice
field. A few scattered onlookers gazed toward the wooden platforms
erected on the dome's floor. The sound of ringing metal and flashes
of light issued from the gathering.

“When I heard of these bouts, I didn’t think
you would come,” Dayn said.

“You thought right. A grand waste of time,
but Buril insisted. After everything that’s happened, he thought it
best that people remember Shard’s presence. Sort of like what we
heard you’re doing.” Milchamah glanced at Dayn, studying him. “I
want to know every drop of what these Ringmen have you about,
boy―but right now, I need you. One of our men got dreadful sick
yesterday, he can’t even wiggle a toe.” He shook his head
disgustedly. “Leave it to a Northforte mudwit to eat a meatpie from
the street.”