“Who are they, can you say?” Biterulve asked, excited.

“From Dawinno,” Salaman said. “See, the red-and-gold banners flying from the roofposts? One, two, three, four, five wagons, coming up the Southern Highway. A real strangeness, boy — you spoke the truth!” But were they merchants, he wondered? Why would merchants come out of season, when there’d be no goods ready for them to buy?

Had the Dawinnans acquired a sudden whimsical liking for conquest? Hardly. Warfare wasn’t Taniane’s style, and certainly not Hresh’s, and in any case those absurd xlendi-wagons didn’t look like military vehicles.

“There’s someone very powerful in that caravan,” said Biterulve. “It’s his spirit that I’ve felt getting closer, all this night past.”

“This must be an embassy,” Salaman murmured.

There’s trouble somewhere, he thought, and they’ve come here to entangle me in it. Or if there’s no trouble yet, there soon will be.

He signaled to Biterulve, and they descended from the wall. Quickly they rode back to the palace. The hour was still very early. The king went to awaken his sons.

The struggle to win appointment as Dawinno’s ambassador to King Salaman had been much like the frenzy that occurs when a slab of tender meat is tossed into a cage of hungry stanimanders or gabools. The ambassador would be gone many months; he would have ample time to forge a close bond with the powerful Salaman; he would be one of the prime figures in whatever alliance of the two cities ultimately emerged. And so the great men of the city circled fiercely around, vying for the rich morsel: Puit Kjai, Chomrik Hamadel, Husathirn Mueri, Si-Belimnion, and others besides.

But in the end it was Thu-Kimnibol whom Taniane picked to make the journey northward.

It was a choice she made with no little uncertainty and hesitation, for Thu-Kimnibol and Salaman had quarreled famously, long ago, when Thu-Kimnibol still lived in the city that his father Harruel had founded and Salaman now ruled. Everyone knew that. They had angry words, an exchange of threats, even, and finally Thu-Kimnibol had fled, taking refuge in Hresh’s new city in the south. There were many, Husathirn Mueri and Puit Kjai among them, who felt that sending Thu-Kimnibol on a diplomatic mission to his old enemy was a strange thing to do, and unwise.

But Thu-Kimnibol argued his case eloquently, saying that he understood the nature of the King of Yissou better than anyone, that he was the only plausible man for the task. As for the quarrel he had had with Salaman, he said, that was something ancient, an episode of his hotheaded youth, a matter of foolish pride, long put aside by him and certainly of no moment to Salaman after so many years. And also Thu-Kimnibol made it known with great force that he longed to serve his city now in some new and strenuous high capacity, to ease the grief that he still felt over the loss of his mate. Pouring his energies into this mission to Salaman would distract him from his pain.

Ultimately it was Hresh who tipped the decision toward his half-brother. “He’s the right one,” he told Taniane. “The only one who can stand face to face with Salaman. The others who’ve put themselves up for the job are small-spirited men. Nobody can say that of Thu-Kimnibol. And it seems to me he’s grown even stronger since Naarinta’s death. There’s something about him now that I’ve never seen before — a kind of greatness growing in him, Taniane. I can feel it. He’s the one to send.”

“Perhaps so,” said Taniane.

Thu-Kimnibol’s journey began in prayers and fasting, and a lengthy consultation with Boldirinthe; for he was in his way a devout man, loyal to the Five Heavenly Ones. There were those who said he was simple for holding such faith in these modern times. What such people said mattered nothing at all to Thu-Kimnibol.

“I’ll invoke Yissou for you, of course,” Boldirinthe said, wheezing as she reached into her cupboard for the talismans. She was a broad sturdy woman, very old now: cocoon-born, in fact, one of the last ones left who had been alive at the time of the Coming Forth. Boldirinthe had gone heavily to fat in recent years: she looked like a barrel, now. “Yissou, for your protection,” she said. “And Dawinno, to help you to smite any enemies you may encounter.”

“And also Friit, to heal me if they do the smiting first,” said Thu-Kimnibol, with a grin.

“Yes, Friit, of course, Friit.” Boldirinthe laughed, setting the little stone figurines out on the table. “And the goddess Mueri to console you, if you grow homesick in the northland. And Emakkis to provide for you. We’ll ask the benefits of all the Five for you, Thu-Kimnibol. It’s the wisest course.” Her eyes twinkled. “And should I invoke Nakhaba for you, too?”

“Am I a Beng, Boldirinthe?”

“But their god is a mighty one. And we accept him as our own, these days. We’ve become one tribe.”

“I’ll make my way without Nakhaba’s help,” said Thu-Kimnibol stolidly.

“As you wish. As you wish.”

Boldirinthe lit her candles, sprinkled her incense. Her hands trembled a little. Age was lying more burdensomely on her these days. Thu-Kimnibol wondered if she might be ill. A kindly old woman, he thought. A little mischief in her, perhaps, but not of any malicious sort. Everyone loved her. He wasn’t old enough to have clear memories of Torlyri, who had been offering-woman before her, but those who did said that Boldirinthe was a fitting successor, as warm and kind as Torlyri had been. Which was high praise, for even now, so many years later, the older people spoke of Torlyri with great love. Torlyri had been the offering-woman of the People in Koshmar’s time, first in the cocoon and then in Vengiboneeza after the Coming Forth. But when the People had left Vengiboneeza to make their second migration she had stayed behind, for she had fallen in love with the Beng warrior Trei Husathirn, and hadn’t wanted to leave him. That was when Boldirinthe had become the offering-woman in Torlyri’s place.

Hard to understand, Thu-Kimnibol thought, how a woman as widely beloved as Torlyri had been could have brought forth a serpent like Husathirn Mueri as her son. It was the Beng blood in him, perhaps, that had made Husathirn Mueri what he was.

Boldirinthe said, “How long will the journey take you, do you think?”

“Until I get there. No more than that, but no less.”

“I remember the City of Yissou. Seven miserable wooden huts is all the place was, every one of them very crudely made, even the one they called the royal palace.”

“The city is somewhat bigger now,” said Thu-Kimnibol.

“Yes. Yes. I suppose it is. But I remember it when it was next to nothing. I was there, you know, once. We passed through it, on our way from Vengiboneeza to here. I saw you there, then. You were a little boy. Not so little, in truth. You were always large for your age, and warlike. You killed hjjks in a great battle that was fought at Yissou around that time.”

“Yes,” Thu-Kimnibol said indulgently. “I remember that too. Shall I kneel beside you, Mother Boldirinthe?”

She gave him a sly look. “Why is Taniane sending you to be the ambassador?”

“Why not?”

“It seems strange. There’s bad blood between you and King Salaman, I understand. Isn’t it true that you were his rival for the throne of Yissou? And now you come back to him as an envoy, but I wonder if he’ll trust you. Won’t he think you’re still trying to push him aside?”

“All that was very long ago,” Thu-Kimnibol said. “I don’t want his throne. He knows that. And I couldn’t take it from him even if I did. Taniane is sending me because I know Salaman better than anyone else, except perhaps Hresh and Taniane themselves, and they can hardly be the ones to go. Pray me a safe journey, Mother Boldirinthe, and pray with me also for my mate Naarinta, whose soul is on a journey of its own. And then let me be on my way.”