‘We’ll work on finding an answer for you, your Majesty,’ Tynian promised her.
Berit returned shortly before noon with three hundred armoured Pandions, and the rest of the journey to Chyrellos had some of the air of a military expedition.
Their arrival in the Holy City and their stately march through the streets to the Basilica was very much like a parade, and it caused quite a stir. The Archprelate himself came out onto a second-floor balcony to watch their arrival in the square before the Basilica. Even from this distance, Sparhawk could clearly see that Dolmant’s nostrils were white and his jaw was clenched. Ehlana’s expression was regal and coolly defiant.
Sparhawk lifted his daughter down from the carriage. ‘Don’t wander off,’ he murmured into her small ear. ‘There’s something I need to talk with you about.’
‘Later,’ she whispered back to him. ‘I’ll have to make peace between Dolmant and mother first.’
‘That’ll be a neat trick.’
‘Watch, Sparhawk – and learn.’
The Archprelate’s greeting was chilly – just this side of frigid – and he made it abundantly clear that he was just dying to have a nice long chat with the Queen of Elenia. He sent for his first secretary, the Patriarch Emban, and rather airily dropped the problem of making arrangements for Ehlana’s entourage into the fat churchman’s lap. Emban scowled and waddled away muttering to himself.
Then Dolmant invited the queen and her prince consort into a private audience chamber. Mirtai stationed herself outside the door. ‘No hitting,’ she told Dolmant and Ehlana as they entered.
The small audience chamber was draped and carpeted in blue, and there were a table and chairs in the centre.
‘Strange woman that one,’ Dolmant murmured looking back over his shoulder at Mirtai. He took his seat and looked at Ehlana with a firm expression. ‘Let’s get down to business. Would you like to explain this, Queen Ehlana?’
‘Of course, Archprelate Dolmant.’ She pushed his letter across the table to him. ‘Just as soon as you explain this.’ There was steel in her voice.
He picked up the letter and glanced at it. ‘It seems fairly straightforward. Which part of it didn’t you understand?’
Things went downhill from there rather rapidly.
Ehlana and Dolmant were on the verge of severing all diplomatic ties when the Royal Princess Danae entered the room dragging the Royal Toy Rollo by one hind leg. She gravely crossed the room, climbed up into the Archprelate’s lap and kissed him. Sparhawk had received quite a few of the kind of kisses his daughter bestowed when she wanted something, and he was well-aware of just how devastatingly potent they were. Dolmant didn’t really have much of a chance after that. ‘I should have read through the letter before I had it dispatched, I suppose,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Scribes sometimes overstate things.’
‘Maybe I over-reacted,’ Ehlana conceded.
‘I had a great deal on my mind.’ Dolmant’s excuse had the tone of a peace-offering.
‘I was irritable on the day when your letter arrived,’ Ehlana countered.
Sparhawk leaned back. The tension in the room had noticeably relaxed. Dolmant had changed since his elevation to the Archprelacy. Always before, he had been a self-effacing man, so self-effacing in fact that his colleagues in the Hierocracy had not even considered him for the highest post in the Church until Ehlana had pointed out his many sterling qualities to them. The irony of that fact was not lost on Sparhawk. Now, however, Dolmant seemed to speak with two voices. The one was the familiar, almost colloquial voice of their old friend. The other was the voice of the Archprelate, authoritarian and severe. The institution of his office seemed to be gradually annexing their old friend. Sparhawk sighed. It was probably inevitable, but he regretted it all the same.
Ehlana and the Archprelate continued to apologise and offer excuses to each other. After a while they agreed to respect one another, and they concluded their conference by agreeing to pay closer attention to little courtesies in the future.
Princess Danae, still seated in the Archprelate’s lap, winked at Sparhawk. There were quite a number of political and theological implications in what she had just done, but Sparhawk didn’t really want to think about those.
The reason for the peremptory summons which had nearly led to a private war between Ehlana and Dolmant had been the arrival of a high-ranking emissary from the Tamul Empire on the Daresian continent, that vast land-mass lying to the east of Zemoch. Formal diplomatic relations between the Elene Kingdoms of Eosia and the Tamul Empire of Daresia did not exist. The Church, however, routinely dispatched emissaries with ambassadorial rank to the imperial capital at Matherion, in some measure because the three western-most kingdoms of the empire were occupied by Elenes, and their religion differed only slightly from that of the Eosian Church.
The emissary was a Tamul, a man of the same race as Mirtai, although she would have made at least two of him. His skin was the same golden bronze, his black hair touched with grey and his dark eyes were uptilted at the corners.
‘He’s very good,’ Dolmant quietly cautioned them as they sat in one of the audience chambers while Emban and the emissary exchanged pleasantries near the door. ‘In some ways he’s even better than Emban. Be just a little careful of what you say around him. Tamuls are quite sensitive to the nuances of language.’
Emban escorted the silk-robed emissary to the place where they all sat. ‘Your Majesty, I have the honour to present his Excellency, Ambassador Oscagne, representative of the imperial court at Matherion,’ the little fat man said, bowing to Ehlana.
‘I swoon in your Majesty’s divine presence,’ the ambassador proclaimed with a florid bow.
‘You don’t really, do you, your Excellency?’ she asked him with a little smile.
‘Well, not really, of course,’ he admitted with absolute aplomb. ‘I thought it might be polite to say it, though. Did it seem unduly extravagant? I am unversed in the usages of your culture.’
‘You’ll do just fine, your Excellency,’ she laughed.
‘I must say, however, with your Majesty’s permission, that you’re a devilishly attractive young lady. I’ve known a few queens in my time, and the customary compliments usually cost one a certain amount of wrestling with one’s conscience.’ Ambassador Oscagne spoke flawless Elenic.
‘May I present my husband, Prince Sparhawk?’ Ehlana suggested.
‘The legendary Sir Sparhawk? Most assuredly, dear lady. I’ve travelled half-round the world to make his acquaintance. Well met, Sir Sparhawk.’ Oscagne bowed.
‘Your Excellency,’ Sparhawk replied, also bowing.
Ehlana then introduced the others, and the ongoing exchange of diplomatic pleasantries continued for the better part of an hour. Oscagne and Mirtai spoke at some length in the Tamul tongue, a language which Sparhawk found quite musical.
‘Have we concluded all the necessary genuflections in courtesy’s direction?’ the ambassador asked at last. ‘Cultures vary, of course, but in Tamuli three-quarters of an hour is the customary amount of time one is expected to waste on polite trivialities.’
‘That seems about right to me too,’ Stragen grinned. ‘If we overdo our homage to courtesy, she becomes a bit conceited and expects more and more obeisance every time.’
‘Well said, Milord Stragen,’ Oscagne approved. ‘The reason for my visit is fairly simple, my friends. I’m in trouble.’ He looked around. ‘I pause for the customary gasps of surprise while you try to adjust your thinking to accept the notion