The emissary returned to Solymer on a mule so old and so placid that it seemed to have no opinion on the dramatic nature of the news its rider carried. Shaykh Burhan al-Khalil was seventy-three years old, a man of immense dignity and even more immense patience, whose beard was dyed a henna red so bright it could be seen from the battlements. He had served three sultans as a diplomat and had once negotiated a trade agreement with the Vestimarian emperor while suffering from a toothache so severe he could barely speak, a feat of endurance that had entered the annals of the chancery and was still cited by junior secretaries whenever a task seemed impossible. He rode through the Azran Gate at the head of the returning gift train—the donkeys now empty of their burdens, their green ribbons somewhat bedraggled—and the news of what he carried spread through the corridors of the Citadel of the Sun like fire through dry grass.
The Esberian king had laughed. He had laughed, and then he had smashed a wine jar against the ground, and then he had spoken of negotiation. He wanted to parley. Face to face. At the Spring of Two Olives. The King of Esberia—the Lion—had accepted the insult and asked for terms.
Seylim convened his inner council in the Hall of the Fountain within the hour.
They gathered around the long cedar table: Emir Farid, serene and calculating as always; Emir Hishan, glowering at the polished wood as though it had personally offended him; Shaykh Rashid al-Maqdari, his ink-stained fingers steepled beneath his chin; Imad al-Qalam, his pen already scratching; and Prince Zeid, who had been summoned from the kitchens and who still carried, faintly, the scent of roast lamb and cinnamon on his sleeves. Prince Zayn was not present. His absence was a statement, and it was a statement he had made loudly and at some length in the corridor outside, where his voice could be heard informing an impassive mamluk that the Sultan's counsels had become a haven for women and eunuchs and other creatures unfit for the rigours of war. The mamluk had not replied. The mamluk had been trained by Seylim himself, which meant he had learned that silence was the sharpest weapon in any arsenal.
"He broke the wine jar," Emir Farid said, with the air of a man examining a rare manuscript. "Not the bread, not the lamb, not the dates. The wine. He chose the one item that was specifically forbidden to us and destroyed it. That is a message."
"It is a tantrum," Hishan growled. "The Infidel king throws things when he is angry. I have seen mules do the same."
"It was a controlled tantrum," Zeid said. "A tantrum with intent. He wanted to show that he understood the insult—that he was not too dull to recognise mockery—but he destroyed the wine, which is haram to us, and left the rest for his men to eat. He accepted the hospitality while rejecting the provocation. That is the act of a man who is angry but not irrational." He paused. "A man who is angry and irrational breaks everything. A man who is angry and intelligent breaks only what matters."
Shaykh Rashid nodded slowly, his old eyes thoughtful. "The prince speaks with the wisdom of one who has studied the scriptures. 'The wise man breaks not the vessel, but the illusion that the vessel contains.' The Esberian king has shown us that he is not deceived by our generosity, but he is willing to accept it nonetheless. This is a man with whom one may negotiate."
"You wish to negotiate with an Infidel who defiles the One Covenant with his very breath," Hishan said flatly. "I have served this house for thirty years. I have killed more Esberians than I can count. I have seen them burn villages and slaughter children and desecrate the tombs of our saints. And now we are to sit with their king and share bread and call it peace?"
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"We are to sit with their king," Seylim said, his voice very quiet, "and we are to listen to what he has to say. That is all. A parley is not a surrender. A conversation is not a capitulation. You have served this house for thirty years, Hishan, and in that time have I ever given you cause to doubt my commitment to the Covenant or to the people under my protection? Have I ever sold our honour for a handful of silver and a temporary truce?"
Hishan's jaw worked, but he said nothing.
"Then trust me now. Rydric of Esberia is cornered, and a cornered animal will sometimes bite. But he has chosen, instead of biting, to talk. That is a rare thing. That is a gift, of a kind. I will go to the Spring of Two Olives, and I will speak with him, and I will see what kind of man he is when he is not throwing wine jars at my emissaries."
"The risk—" Hishan began.
“The risk is calculated,” Seylim said. “I will take only a small guard. I will speak Vestimarian. Shaykh Burhan’s report makes clear that the Esberian king listens closely when addressed in his own tongue; he hears the insult more keenly, but he hears the courtesy too. A man like Rydric respects an enemy who does not need to shout across a gulf of interpreters. I will go, and I will talk, and the One willing, I will find a way to end this war without another battle.”
Zeid leaned forward slightly. "When you speak with him, speak as a soldier to a soldier. Rydric is not a zealot. He is a man who has spent his life at war, and he is tired. Men who are tired of war do not want sermons. They want to know that their enemies are as tired as they are. Show him that you are tired. Not weak—tired. There is a difference."
Seylim looked at his son, and a small smile creased the corners of his eyes. "You have never met this man, and yet you understand him better than half my generals."
"I have been studying him for seven weeks. He is not difficult to read. He gives his rations to his squires. He walks among his soldiers without a bodyguard. He laughs at his own defeat. These are the actions of a man who has nothing left to prove and everything left to lose."
“Then let us see what such a man will offer,” Seylim said. “The parley will take place tomorrow, at dawn. Hishan, you will accompany me. I want one man beside me who has no love of Esberians and no talent for courtly self-deception. If Rydric is false, you will smell it before his own priest does. Farid, you will remain at the House of the Green Pennant with Zeid and keep the gate, the scribes, and the messengers in order. If the Esberians mean treachery, I want the city’s mind intact as much as its sword-arm. Shaykh Rashid, prepare a draft of terms, should terms be required. Zeid...” He paused, and something flickered in his eyes—something that Zeid could not quite read. “Zeid, you will wait at the House of the Green Pennant. If I have need of your counsel, I will send for you.”
It was not a dismissal, but it was not an invitation, either. Zeid inclined his head. "As my Sultan commands."
The council broke up. The emirs filed out, their robes rustling, their faces a spectrum of doubt and calculation and carefully concealed hope. Zeid lingered for a moment, watching his father gather his dispatch scrolls with the slow deliberation of a man who was already thinking of other things—of the Spring of Two Olives, of the Esberian king, of the terms that might be offered and the terms that might be demanded.
"Father," Zeid said quietly.
Seylim looked up.
"Whatever you decide—whatever he asks—I will support it. You know that."
The Sultan held his son's gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, and his expression was unreadable, and Zeid felt the cold thread of foreboding pull tight around his heart once more.