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When the delegation from Grann arrives, they come like wildflowers in spring: all at once, garbed in every color, the mass of them overtaking a whole hillside.
Naesala watches, careful, spyglass in hand, from the very highest turret of Mainal Cathedral. The closer they come, the more orderly the chaos seems—yes, they have no uniform, and no matching arms, yet they march in perfect order. A nice show of poise and determination, if not strength. They haven't the numbers for strength. They cover the hillside but only for a moment, and then they are small once more, a bandit gang ringed by mountains on three sides. But what a gang it is! on each side they are flanked by drummers and bannermen; the banners are bright and well-woven, with a great lion's-head crest and matching trim, almost like a proper nation.
Which they are not.
So, two hours later, when the delegation is ushered through Sienne's great gates and down the path to the cathedral itself, while they are treated with all due courtesy, it is not Empress Sanaki who waits to greet them, but only her humble servant Naesala.
Naesala smiles as he waits. Sits in her throne and sprawls his wings hugely on each side, watches for a nod from the guard on the far side of the room, watches the huge doors slowly, slowly part, and at last, in they come, in a perfect triangle formation, and—
"Naesala!" one of their number calls out. A gray-haired fellow, built like a water nymph, all willowy sinew. "Fancy seeing you here."
Naesala lets the sharp tilt of his head be his answer: Do I know you?
Their leader Stefan—and there can be no doubt he is the leader, he has that bearing, his ragged hair bright like a halo around his face—shoots the man a fast glare, and the man falls silent, stepping back into parade rest, though the grin on his face is now irrepressible.
"Welcome to Sienne." Naesala does not bother moving from his seat, does not even move his wings back into place. "I am Naesala and I speak on behalf of Empress Sanaki."
"We've come for the peace talks."
Which was not what Sanaki agreed to. Peace talks are a thing held between nations, and Grann is no nation, so this is not a peace talk.
And, furthermore—peace? One only talks of peace when there is war, and there is no war. A squabble, yes. Some transient misunderstanding on the border. But no war. How funny of Stefan to bring it up at all.
Naesala smiles. "Her Majesty is away at the moment, unfortunately."
Stefan tilts his head. "And so you sit on her throne?" There's a sneer in his voice.
Which Naesala cheerfully ignores. "But you are of course welcome here, and we will make your stay comfortable as possible until she can see you. There eastern wing of the palace has been set aside for your—group, and you have free use of the grounds—"
"She knew our arrival was today." Stefan's got his feet locked like it's a fighting stance. "We were very clear."
"And she very much regrets that she is unable to attend you," Naesala soothes. (Regrets it from a length of two stories away, a mere five minutes' journey above them, lounging in her chambers. Naesala did suggest she might at least feign some other business, go to some senator's estate for canapés, grace some backwater village with her kind presence, anything. She'd looked at Naesala as if he'd suggested she go bathe in a sewer. For all their sameness, this part of the empress he never understood: how someone who so abhorred pretense managed to still excel at politics.)
"That is the whole of her excuse?" Stefan's face tightens.
Naesala braces. He'd warned Sanaki that Stefan might storm out, or worse, make a whole scene about it. Skrimir would have, certainly, along with most any other lion, at such a slight, and Stefan seems lion enough. Seems that way now, with that great tan cloak draped over his shoulders, making him seem twice his already-formidable size, trembling as though with some low growl. Naesala feels his own wings bristling in return. It would be amusing enough, to have a tussle with this man, even if it'd be a diplomatic disaster—
And Naesala had warned Sanaki, after all, hadn't he? And Sanaki had only glowered in return, answering with a chilly, "I will run my country." Well, just watch this lion-blooded fellow take another step forward—the I told you so is on the tip of Naesala's tongue, honey-sweet—
But the moment passes, and at length, Stefan stills. Shakes his head like a mane. Then he announces, voice heavy and dark, "We will remember this." But darkness is better than a sneer. And he makes no further motion, save a gruff nod toward the eastern wing: "Show us the way, then."
The next day, Sanaki keeps her remove, leaving her will to be interpreted by signs.
Which are all blatant in their ambiguity. There is a way to treat guests, and a way to treat dignitaries, and every courtesy she's extended so far sits squarely in the middle. She won't insult Stefan's delegation by failing to feed them. But neither will she proffer the finer dishes befitting so much as a minor prince, let alone a king. The east wing is sparse and unadorned, more like barracks than a proper sleeping-place—she'd set the servants to that, had them pull down the art and carry it elsewhere, switched the fine bedding for something coarser, had the books on the bedside tables all removed. Stefan's quarters, in particular, are drafty. One of her masons offered ages ago to fix it, and Sanaki had told him to stay his hand. For occasions such as this, evidently.
Stefan acts as though he is above it all. As though he is above even noticing the slights. Makes no mention of them, only looks Naesala squarely in the eyes the next morning and patiently asks, "When will Sanaki see fit to greet us?"
Stefan does notice the slights, of course, Naesala's sure he notices. For all his homespun affectation, Stefan's fought alongside royalty enough to understand the difference between those two worlds. It was an inevitable consequence of that whole Tower of Guidance business—having the rabble mixed in alongside the royals, all fighting as one, was bound to cause trouble down the line. It had made the lesser nobles twist their stomachs in knots as they fretted over those peasants who had been deemed worthier than them. And it had made those same peasants, who had only ever destined to return to their farms and their villages and their little lives, hunger for something larger. For the sorts of things that could only be won with blood.
Dangerous, that.
(Stefan's little group is far from the only faction in Begnion that's trying to claw themselves away, as of late. And his is far from the most concerning. Sanaki's unavailability yesterday may have been feigned, but today it is not. She's been locked in a war room with half her Holy Guard since before dawn, ever since the latest news of the northeast rebels arrived, forcing her immediate attention.)
"She'll be with you later," Naesala says, with his blandest smile. "As soon as possible. In the meantime, you and yours have the run of the grounds, and Her Majesty hopes you will enjoy the gardens while you await her presence."
Naesala had expected more grousing. He was used to that sort of thing, used to it the way one becomes used to a ringing in their ears—a sound notable only in the lack. If the ravens had been put off this way, there would've been no end to their petulant whining, and probably the lot of them would have started tearing up the furniture within a few hours—not even out of malice, just boredom and restlessness. (Naesala feels a nostalgic pang just thinking of it.)
But Stefan's people, even as they wander the grounds, are well-ordered, one walking after the other. At first Naesala thinks it is only martial discipline—the awkward stiffness of jumped-up young soldiers who are told to rest and hardly know how—but these men are not all soldiers. Even the bespectacled ones, the scholarly sorts, and the more civilian ones among them, spread out in that same odd way.
Rather like horses, Naesala decides. They have the same way of gathering, and spreading, and milling about—but always keeping their head turned just so, always with one eye on their leader.
(Stefan stands tall wherever he goes. Perfect posture. A perfect leader.)
Once, decades ago, Naesala had tried to take a horse from a wild herd in midflight. It had been a drunken bet with Rausu, of course. (They'd been awfully young.) He'd thought he could take one of the mares the way you'd pluck a deer, or a goat. Fall on the poor beast fast, watch the others scatter away, and you'd have your meal.
He hadn't made that mistake a second time. Not only because the horse had been damn heavy and damn huge. The thing about horses is they kick, and herd together, and even stampede, if the stallion looks at you the wrong way, and decides you'd look better trampled underfoot—
There are a few among Stefan's group, though, who don't herd like the rest. Just a few, scattering themselves here and there along the perimeter. They don't crane their neck toward Stefan. Don't seem fussed or anxious or eager for approval.
And among those few is that gray-haired fellow who'd recognized Naesala before, fancy seeing you here, the one who is—interesting, Naesala decides. (That he can't place why is of no import. His hunches have always served him well.) Naesala stares at him until it feels indecent, and of course that's the moment the man turns and meets his eyes. And smiles, walking closer, clearly wanting a little chat—
Naesala glances at the crowd behind him, well out of earshot, then the man himself. "Not one of theirs, hm?" Naesala says.
"I'm under contract, if that's what you're asking." That wry smile again. "I'm a mercenary, remember?"
"Do I?"
"I thought ravens never forgot a face." And when Naesala only blinks in return, the man holds out a hand in greeting: "Zihark."
He tries, and fails, to remember. As king, he would have, certainly; keeping track of every subject, enemy, friend, and everyone in-between was a professional competency. But in his retirement, he could only marvel that he'd ever had such capacities—he sees Sanaki doing it, night after night in her grand, beautiful, far too crowded court, and feels exhausted at the mere prospect.
But if he can't remember when it matters, then what good is he to Sanaki?
"We were in the Tower of Guidance together," the Zihark fellow adds.
"Right," Naesala says, "right." That tickles something, and of course of all the things Naesala could choose to mention, he chooses the lowest: "You and that redhead were always getting into it."
At least Naesala can still make people twist their lips like that. He's court jester, then, here to irritate and rankle. Could be worse.
After a moment, Zihark's expression evens. "It's good to see you again, Naesala. How's Begnion treating you?"
Naesala bites back a number of crass innuendoes. Last time word got back to Sanaki that he'd told a minor duke her majesty's regard is tender indeed, she'd torn out a feather, swore she'd chase him out if he dared impugn her dignity again, and for all his feigned insouciance, well—if Begnion won't have him he'll be running short on places to go.
He offers an airy shrug. "Politics."
"Right." That smile again. "I'm glad to just be the muscle, you know?"
Liar, Naesala thinks. He may not remember Zihark well but it only takes two seconds of looking at him to realize this one will always be more than just muscle.
"I'm envious," Naesala says with a smile to match, and makes a note to keep a sharp eye on this one, this Zihark fellow.
Sanaki is late returning to her chambers. Well past sundown (not so unusual), and also, well past when the wick of the candle Naesala was reading by has burnt to nothing (rather moreso).
He's burnt halfway through a second candle when she at last arrives—she leans into the door with her shoulder rather than pushing it open properly, and she staggers a little as she does so. Her hair's matted and tired. Her shoulders sag.
When she looks to her right and sees Naesala there, sitting in the plush armchair directly opposite her bed, she blinks as though surprised. (She can't be. He's in this same spot every night.) Then she makes an irritated noise, as though the mere thought of a simple hello is too great an imposition to be borne, and sloughs her way across the room.
Naesala closes his book. Watches Sanaki wrench the headband from her head, toss aside her shoulder cape and scarves, dig her fingers through her hair and fling her hairpins, one after another, into a dish by her bed. (She has ladies-in-waiting for this. She ought to wake them. Have them attend her. But Naesala will hardly be the one to tell her that.)
When she's finished, stripped down to only the simple white clothing she wears beneath all her finery, she just stands there, staring at the wall. Her back is turned to Naesala; he can see the fine angles of her shoulderblades, outlined beneath the thin fabric of her undershirt. Like this, Sanaki seems somehow both more frail and more imposing—it's the height of her, he thinks. A new development. She's shot up so much lately she might even be taller than Sigrun before long. It's easier to see that when she's free of those adornments, when it's just her lanky sinew.
Sanaki stands there a long while. Her expression suggests she's trying to remember something she's only just forgotten—
"Babysitting went fine," Naesala says after a moment, with a sardonic quirk of his brow. "One of the younger ones got a little colicky, but he settled by midafternoon, just in time for a nap—"
"Grann," she says, turning to face Naesala again, blinking into awareness. "Them. Today. Right."
Her eyes are still barely focused. Things with those northeast rebels must be going very poorly indeed.
She squints her eyes shut for a moment. When she opens them again, they are not just focused but sharp: "I would have them all killed." There's real heat behind her words. "For having the impertinence to stage their little show of strength, now, of all times. I'd have Stefan's head."
She never speaks so darkly in front of Sigrun or Tanith. If she ever did, Sigrun would say, of course you don't mean that, Sanaki, and Sanaki would be forced to agree, and she'd have to bite her tongue and swallow her resentments for the whole tedious length of the rest of the meeting. And if Tanith heard her talk this way—she would knit her brow all too seriously, go through some checklist of every little reason why such a maneuver would be unwise, all things Sanaki would know perfectly well already, the list would be missing the point—
But Naesala only shrugs. "It would be a rather tidy solution. There's an awful lot of them here. A clean sweep now might well spell the end of them." He smiles wryly. "It would tarnish that humanitarian image of yours a little, of course."
"No price too high," Sanaki says grimly, "if it spares me even one more damn meeting."
She does not sit so much as she collapses onto her bed, right across from where Naesala sits. She eyes the whiskey-glass that he's swirling in one hand. Stares at the amber glint of it for a moment. Then looks pointedly away.
Naesala shrugs and takes another sip.
"Or I could send them away unheard," she says, like it's a joke, except her face is solemn. She wants it to be serious. "The offer to hear them out was only ever a courtesy. They're owed nothing."
Naesala takes another careful sip of whiskey before answering. "That Stefan's not one to bear humiliation lightly. You're pushing your luck as it is." He shrugs his shoulders and tries to sound offhanded: "You could have one of your ministers hear his piece, if you find the notion of a meeting so wholly distasteful."
She does have other ministers. But none of them are Sephiran, so. She doesn't make use of them.
And Naesala can't speak for her, not the way a minister could. He's fine as an attendant, a babysitter, an advisor and a jester. He's fine for draping over her shoulders like some expensive set of furs.
But he's not beorc, and not Begnion, so. He can't speak for her.
"I have no ill will toward the branded, you know," she says. "My senate has been more than generous with the reforms they've passed."
(She's taken to calling them that lately, my senate. It's interesting.)
"But that leader of theirs," she continues. "He's insufferable. Attacking our trade routes. Snubbing the senator I sent to parley with them. The way he speaks of me." Her lip curls savagely. "That can't be allowed. It's an insult, an outage, a—"
Naesala can't help but snicker. For all her shrewdness, her courtly grace, her pinprick-precise command of her court—sometimes, just sometimes, Sanaki does still sound like the fledgling she is. More shrill than haughty, more petulant than magisterial. For all her wings feathered out early (had to, given the circumstances), they're still all-too-easily ruffled.
"I'm not the one who needs convincing, empress," Naesala cuts in gently.
And that stops her fuming, makes her pause, makes her frown. She's thinking of that little fire mage friend of hers, probably. Or that oh-so-purehearted sister of hers up north, whose quick reforms have been the envy of all Tellius. Maiden of Dawn into the Queen Who Can Do No Wrong.
Sanaki frowns and stares for a long moment—until she wobbles where she sits. Blinks asleep for a second, catches herself, startles back awake.
"You've had a long day," Naesala says, not unkindly.
"Yes." She looks at the bed, then at Naesala, who's still sitting in his chair. "Stay there until I fall asleep," she commands.
It's the same command she gives every night. She likes things in their place, it seems. The good whiskey on her bedroom shelf that she'll watch others drink, but never drink herself. The man she'll invite to her chambers every night, but never touch herself.
He knows the way the court talks of the two of them. Just little whispers and titters, for now, and from only the nosiest and least reliable of the courtiers—for now. Such words would be easy enough to dispel if she were so inclined. That she does not is a puzzle. Why stir up scandal and not get any of the benefit?
Naesala has a few ideas. Holding at arm's length is just another way to say keeping close enough to grasp.
Or maybe: close enough to choke. Wouldn't be wise to trust him entirely, after all. Too many have lived to regret that. Keep him just close enough to end him, if she has to.
She crawls her way up the bed, toward the pillows, and falls into them facefirst. Doesn't so much as reach for her nightclothes, nor does she pull any bedding over herself. Too exhausted for any of that.
Naesala doesn't need to wait long. She's out in minutes. He waits until he can see the steady rise and fall of her back, unbroken by any fidgeting or extra motion, to be sure. He asks "are you awake" to the darkness, a last check, and hears nothing in return.
He wonders for a moment if he ought to throw a blanket over her or something. She'll wake up shivering in a few hours if she lies like that.
He walks to the side of her bed, considers, and touches her pillow instead. It's already a little damp with drool. His hand hovers over her head, tempted by that hair—it looks so soft, so touchable.
Then he leaves, without moving or touching a single other thing. Everything in its place.
Naesala's awake for some hours after that. He's become something of a creature of the night, ever since taking up residence in Mainal. Something about all this torchlight, and the brightness of Sienne glinting just outside every window.
So he makes himself useful. He decides to pace a very particular set of halls in the highest part of Mainal, far from everywhere else. The sort of halls where only a particular set of people should ever be. Call it a hunch.
And sure enough, who does Naesala see after a scant hour but Zihark—five stories up from where he ought to be, the opposite wing from his quarters entirely, nosing around unasked.
He takes a turn too slowly and sees Naesala seeing him. Then he tries to duck away. Turns down a corridor where there's nothing of note, doubles the speed of his walk—
—and when he comes out the other side, Naesala's already there, waiting, and catches him by the wrist.
"Zihark," Naesala says, voice low. "Fancy seeing you here."
Ziharks smiles as brightly as though this were simply some chance coffeeshop encounter. "You remembered my name this time."
Naesala's lip quirks. "You're up late."
"I tried to find myself a glass of water," Zihark says, with a little laugh. "Got lost. My sense of direction's awful."
"Mmhm." Naesala suspects Zihark's sense of direction is excellent, actually; he'd bet his life on it. "Well. Let me lead you back to your quarters, then. And, you know you can ask the attendants we've provided for this sort of thing, yes? That's what they're for."
"Old mercenary habits," Zihark says with a shrug. "I'm used to doing things for myself."
"I see."
Amazing how you can have a whole conversation where every word is lies. Naesala doesn't let his eyes drift from Zihark for even a second, the whole way back to his quarters, and once they're there, he adds another lie to the pile: "Good night, Zihark. Hope you sleep well."
In the end, Sanaki does deign to greet the Grann delegation.
It's a private audience, in the early evening. No senate, no ministers or courtiers—just herself, Naesala, Stefan, and whoever Stefan's brought along.
If Stefan's still perturbed at the delay, he makes no mention of it. He cuts a pretty figure, standing at the forefront of his men. Cuts straight to the point.
"Grann is two thousand strong, fully self-sufficient, independent in every way." Stefan smile's so bright, so even, better teeth than most nobles. "We've built our nation with no help from outsiders, taken no aid from Sienne. We are a nation in every way that matters." He dips his head a bit, but only a bit. "We would be most gratified if Begnion would recognize us as such."
"And I would be most gratified to have the attacks on my people's caravans cease."
Stefan laughs—a dangerous laugh, stiff-necked and brittle. "Is that what you call them."
Of course Sanaki can match him in kind; whatever barbs those two exchange is hardly interesting. (Like so many formal meetings, the final outcome of this is preordained. Any good leader already knows exactly how this sort of thing will play out, already knows who thinks what and why, well before the meeting has even convened. Sanaki won't be yielding an inch to Stefan, not this evening. If Stefan doesn't understand that by now, the more fool he is—should've paid more attention to his betters in the Tower.) What is interesting—the way watching the sky turn green before a summer storm is interesting—is the way Stefan's followers behave.
The way they watch Stefan. The way they seem to move as one, breathe as one. Naesala feels an uneasy prickling on the back of his neck. On the grounds he saw them as horses, a loose herding-together of a like kind. Now he looks at them and sees—cultists. The lot of them.
Naesala recognizes it because ravens are prone to this sort of thing. Superstitious creatures by nature. During his reign, every few years, some two-bit charlatan "soothsayer" would crop up on one of the more ragged Kilvan aisles, and either you snuffed them out right off or you had a decade-long mess on your hands.
Stefan wants to liberate the branded, sure. Hard to argue with the good sense in that. They always start with something nice, sweet, unobjectionable. But what next, Naesala wants to know. This Stefan won't stop with just the desert.
Stefan's followers all seem under his spell—except for Zihark, Naesala notes. Zihark doesn't have that same feverishness to him. He stands slightly apart from the rest. His motions are slightly out-of-sync. He looks for all the world like he's due to turn to Naesala any second and crack a knowing smile, though he doesn't. But he could, that's the thing. What's he doing with this little gang, Naesala'd like to know.
"You will leave in the morning," Sanaki pronounces, with a ring of finality—Naesala missed whatever had preceded the declaration. "You've said your piece, Stefan of Grann. And we've put you up long enough."
Stefan's bearing is steady, and matches Sanaki's glare with his own. Naesala thinks he senses a bit of it, then, the thing that is keeping all his followers so rapt. Some sort of animal magnetism. "You will regret this," Stefan says. "Every bit as much as your nation regrets its failure to protect Serenes." Then he tilts his head with a smirk. "Ostensibly regrets."
And now it is Sanaki's turn to pretend she is above such slights, above even noticing them. (She's a poorer actress than Stefan is. Naesala can see how she bites her tongue, how her fingers twitch for a tome, anything with fire. A bit like Reyson, that way, and Naesala feels a pang at that.)
Her guards enter, then, and hustle the delegation out without any further words or any further trouble. Everything nice and peaceable til the end.
When the doors close behind them, for a long moment, Naesala and Sanaki both sit in silence. Then Sanaki asks, "What do you make of those followers of his?" and Naesala smiles. She noticed too.
"I could tell you the Kilvan answer to that question," he says. "Which might not do for Bengion." Naesala dips his head deferentially, keeps his expression even. Plays the perfect diplomat.
Sanaki waves a hand. "Speak freely."
Naesala shrugs. "Best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head."
For a moment she is quiet, and gives the barest tilt of her head, like she'd been thinking the same thing. Then she narrows her eyes. "They are guests of the empire," she huffs, like she hadn't been contemplating even worse things just last night. "Is treachery all you ravens ever think of," and she makes a single hard gesture for Naesala to leave.
Somehow Naesala gets the sense she isn't quite so volatile with her other attendants. Which is a compliment, in its way. I'm at your service entirely, he'd said, when he'd first come to her, hunting for someplace that would have him, where he'd fit, after he'd abdicated his throne. Someplace where he could atone. If that service entails being a bit of a punching bag because no one else fits, well, so be it.
Mainal has any number of secret places. There's the tunnels beneath the place, by which Her Majesty might make a swift escape to an undisclosed location if some disaster should arise. And there's the relic chamber, watched over by priests, in which holy artifacts are blessed and sanctified and oh-so-carefully guarded. (Naesala has never grasped the finer points of how exactly the beorc choose to honor the goddess. Seems to involve an awful lot of things.)
But poor Zihark has gotten himself lost near the archive room, of all places.
The other archive room, that is; the one that went unmarked on the tourist maps and unremarked on by any of the staff.
The archive room the tourists saw was all gilt and glamor, with a huge copy of Begnion's founding charter splayed on the far wall like a flag. And all around, nestled under glass, were what bits of Apostle Yoram's writing that had survived the ages, with little explanatory placards for all to read. Kindly librarians hovered about every twenty steps, happy to explain what was special about this old piece of paper or that one.
The other archive room, however, was a sparse place. It lie at the end of a long hall in a little-traveled corner of the cathedral, five stories up and very far away from anything else.
Very near where Zihark had gotten "lost" the other day.
It was guarded not by librarians but by proper guards. Only the Empress's own seal could admit one in.
That, or a distraction and a very fine set of lockpicks.
Naesala had gone to the room before sundown, nodded as he passed through the guards at the door, shifted raven, nestled himself firmly into the rafters of the place, and waited.
He could've warned those guards in advance of his suspicions. Sanaki's staff are all competent, if unremarkable. Sure, they'll slack in the predictable ways all men do if given some repetitive daily post. But warn them about something specific, something real, and they'll do quite well. If he'd told them they might've even caught the intruder themselves.
But this is more interesting.
When something lures those two guards away—Naesala can't tell quite how, not from his vantage point—and the awaited intruder comes creeping into the room, well after midnight—it's Zihark, of course it's Zihark again. Stefan would send the merc, the beorc, rather than risk any of his own men. Naesala feels the feathers on the back of his head bristle.
Zihark shoots a quick glance every which way (except upwards), then goes straight to the cabinet two places from the far left corner. Which is interesting. Either he somehow knew precisely where to go or he got very, very lucky. It's where Naesala would go—mixed in among some rubbish, that cabinet is where the juiciest bits of paperwork lie. The secret terms of Begnion's treaties with her peer nations, as well as agreements with various protectorates that weren't spoken of in public, and a few rather delectable pieces that would make excellent blackmail if only Sanaki ever let him use it—
Naesala watches Zihark paging quick through all those little papers for a full five minutes before the man finally realizes he's being watched. He stiffens all at once, then dares a glance upwards to see him: perched in the rafters, right above, hardly blinking. And the moment Zihark turns is the moment Naesala falls on him, talonfirst, pinning him in a second.
So slow, Naesala thinks. It's amazing how effective beorc are, given that even the best of them are as deaf and blind as this. He digs a talon into Zihark's back until he feels the man wince, then holds it there.
When Naesala shifts human it is a slow, cautious thing. It would be Zihark's chance, if he's inclined to struggle, to get in a cheap swipe. It's tricky for a laguz to properly defend themselves in that in-between state. Not that many beorc know that—they're too unsettled by all the glowing—but clearly this man's spent enough time among the laguz to know their tender spots.
But Zihark remains still, as Naesala's talons turn to toes, and as they become the boot that's pressing hard against the center of Zihark's back. Naesala pulls a knife from his boot, as extra protection—the man looks wiry but tough, better safe than sorry—but still, he only lies there.
"Need a glass of water?" Naesala sneers at last.
Zihark says nothing.
"You made it easy," Naesala adds after a moment. "You aren't squirming."
"I know when I'm had, Naesala."
"Excellent." Naesala sheathes his knife. "I take it that means you'll explain right off what you're doing here in this particular room, of all rooms, and share any other intel you've got on Grann, without any further fuss...?"
"I didn't say that."
"Hmm." Naesala digs his heel in harder, though Zihark doesn't so much as wince, keeps his face perfectly placid. "Interesting choice. Your man Stefan would sooner gut you like a fish than lift a finger for you, you know."
"I know," Zihark says. "But it's not him I'm fighting for."
"Really? Pray tell."
Zihark is silent long enough that Naesala starts to suspect he hasn't really got an answer, that he's only flustered, embarrassed at having Stefan's fecklessness called out. A shame.
But at last he says, "He wishes for Grann to be free. For the Branded to be free. I share that wish." The man manages a surprisingly dignified affect for someone who's currently pinned flat on his stomach beneath someone else's boot. "I needn't share anything else with him."
"Is that so." That pings some faint memory, from their march on the Tower. He'd been one of those laguz-lovers, hadn't he. He'd said something about wanting to be a peacekeeper after the war. (Too many people talked rather too much on that march. Naesala had never thought he would've been annoyed at too much yapping, before that, annoyed at too many people spilling their secrets and desires everywhere, but, well. The end of the world did things to people.)
Well. Zihark had wound up more like a troublemaker, hadn't he.
"A treaty would be a start," Zihark says.
"Nations can press for treaties," Naesala hisses. "Otherwise it's just talk."
"What are we doing here, then?" and there's an amused lilt in Zihark's voice. "Is this just talk?"
Fair question, really. Naesala considers. And slowly, slowly lifts his foot.
Zihark rolls himself over just as slowly. Sits up and scoots backwards so that his back is against the cabinet behind him. "Stay there," Naesala says, and squats down so that they're at eye level. So they can talk.
For a moment Naesala just fixes Zihark with a baleful stare. Then: "Your man Stefan's fault isn't striking, it's that he didn't strike hard enough." He's not looking at Zihark, as he speaks. He's twirling that knife between his hands. "Sometimes an eagle drops a fish that thrashes too much to be worth its bother. But a stinging gnat only ever gets swatted flat. You follow?"
Zihark nods once. "Interesting advice, Naesala."
Naesala makes a tsch sound and smiles a little. "Who said advice? We're just talking."
"Right. Well. If we're just talking." Zihark sits up a little straighter. When he speaks he does look Naesala in the eye. "If the empress waits for a perfect avatar to rise to represent the branded, that day will never come." He's all earnestness, now. "Stefan can be reasoned with. He's better than most."
Naesala smirks. "I'll pass that along in a comment card."
Then Naesala falls silent. And Zihark stays silent. Both of them are comfortable with silence, Naesala realizes, after a very, very long moment. Both of them are comfortable waiting for others to break their silence, specifically.
It's a shame when the usual bag of tricks doesn't work the way it ought.
So it's a very, very long time before either of them break the silence. And when someone does, it's the earnest one:. "I would speak with Sanaki," Zihark says slowly.
Naesala laughs. "Would you."
"I fought beside her in the war; I know the strength of her character. She wants to do right by her people. Beorc, laguz, everyone. Only let me speak with her and I'm sure she'll see—"
"Zihark?" Naesala interrupts. "That was a long time ago. So you fought together, so what. That was when the world was stone. Now it's the same as it was before." His face is close to Zihark, now, so he can't be misunderstood: "Now all that's left for the both of us is taking whatever we can get."
Naesala had stepped down from his kingship. To wash his hands of this sort of backroom dealing. To find atonement in work.
But beorc don't dirty their own hands, do they. They leave that to the laguz and the mercs and the grubby masses beneath them, all those people they like to hold at arm's length, close but never too close, friendly but never friends.
He ought to resent it. But the secret, shameful truth is: Naesala misses it. Misses this. Knife in hand, lording over someone like they're a fish caught in a net. Misses it more than he ought.
Naesala stands up abruptly. Flares his wings so that Zihark's hemmed in on both sides. Stares down at Zihark. "I could hold you, of course," he says slowly. "Stefan would deny you, you know he would. He would say you acted on your own. Leave you to our dungeons while he and his go back on their own."
If Reyson had been born a beorc he might look a bit like this Zihark fellow, Naesala thinks. The same height, the same stubborn cut to his chin, the same touch of coldness in his eyes. He's still lanky—it's hard to imagine a Reyson in any form who isn't a bit of a waif, no matter how much he'd wish otherwise—but there's muscle beneath, long-trained, well-exercised, more than a match for men twice his size. Reyson would like that.
Naesala likes that.
Naesala paws a hand through Zihark's hair, then, unbidden. Drags his fingers down the curve of Zihark's jaw, then pulls the man's chin upward. So that they're both staring each other in the eyes, unblinking. "I could entertain myself quite a while with you down there," Naesala says, tilting Zihark's face one way, then the other. "The whores in this city have started to bore me. At least you'd be a change of pace." Naesala runs his tongue over his teeth. "You seem limber enough. And the lips on you. Hm."
He's pulled Zihark's face closer to him, so close it's almost at his crotch.
If Zihark's unsettled, he doesn't show it. "That sounds like quite the diplomatic incident," is all he says, with a touch of wryness and iciness both.
Naesala answers by knotting one hand thickly into Zihark's hair, pushing the man's face toward his crotch, and undoing the front of his own pants with the other.
And once Naesala's undone his pants, he means to reach for his knife, to offer a stern reminder for Zihark to behave—but there's no need, as it turns out. Zihark's lips are wrapped around his cock before Naesala says a single word, without a single ounce of hesitation. And Naesala was right about the lips on the man; they're every bit as soft and supple as he'd hoped. And insistent. Naesala hadn't even been particularly hard, when he'd started running his mouth, but Zihark's quick tongue is fixing that fast.
Which unsettles Naesala more than it ought. So the man likes this sort of thing; so he's done this before. That's a surprise, not a problem. But now it's all happening faster than Naesala would strictly like, and—fast in a way that's driven by Zihark, not by himself. He reaches out his hand again for the back of Zihark's head, and tries a shove to make Zihark match his pace rather than whatever the man's got in mind—except Zihark just grabs Naesala's wrist and wrenches the hand away, the way you'd yank a child's hand away from a stove, without so much as a side glance.
All the while, Zihark's still licking and sucking and pursing those lips around his cock (those fine, fine lips; Naesala goes a touch dizzy when they pull just so)—sucking him off with bloody singleminded determination.
Which is a shade different than skill, of course. It's a little too much, a little too often. Naesala has to clench his own jaw a few times. He feels his breath go funny in a bad way. Here and there he grouses hold up and easy, and is entirely unheard. Again: the man's insistent.
Insistent—but not wholly unresponsive. After a little while, Zihark pauses for a breath, frowns like he's considering something—then he grabs Naesala by the hips, wrenches him around, and now it's Naesala with his back against the cabinet. He flexes his wings against it as Zihark shifts how he's kneeling, and then Zihark's going down on him again.
And something about that starts to work, starts to build toward something—maybe it's the ever-so-slightly-slower pace, or having his back shoved against that cabinet, or the way Zihark's staring up at him with one unbroken gaze the whole while like some proper Sienne slut. Or maybe the new thing he's doing with his tongue right beneath the tip, hell, it's nice. Whatever it is, it makes Naesala slacken his jaw and start to huff for breath. Makes him twist his wings into a half-dozen unsensible shapes. When he comes, faster than he'd like, it's less a climax and more like an unspooling, muted and tangled and strange—but it's still a release, still near enough to the thing he hungered for, still a decent enough satisfaction. And it's certainly better than no satisfaction at all.
Zihark even swallows that come, unbidden—he makes a little show of it, even, tips his head back so Naesala can see the bob of his throat—and that sends a base thrill all the way down Naesala's spine. It's the chaser for the shot that was—whatever just happened. Whatever they just did here.
And then Zihark's just staring up at him.
It's not the kind of look that suggests Zihark's expecting reciprocity, exactly. (Which is smart of him; Naesala's not interested.) But like he's expecting something nonetheless.
(The thing-at-arm's-length. Close enough to grasp, close enough to choke.)
"The next spy we find is a dead one," Naesala says, voice brisk. He's fastening the buttons on his pants. "And we'll count it as a declaration of war. Make sure your man Stefan knows that."
Zihark wipes his arm across his lips, then nods. "Noted."
Naesala's got the nagging sense there's something else he wants to say, ought to say, some tip-of-the-tongue thing that's failing him. That look from Zihark hasn't faded a bit. Naesala's got the dim sense that he's been played but he can't quite see how.
But to be seen puzzling over it would be even worse. Naesala steps to the side and gives his wings a single stiff flap. "Make sure you're not seen on the way out."
When Zihark rises to his feet he's smiling. "Thanks," he says, slapping a hand on Naesala's shoulder. Naesala twitches away, his expression level. Zihark's smile deepens at that—and then he's gone.
Naesala stares after him a long while. Peace talks, he thinks, and laughs to an empty room.
Some kind of talks these were. Some kind of peace.