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Twenty

Eltrienn Cadriio had spent little time with Brokols since their return. The ambassador had less need of a guide and tutor now, and linguistically he'd made the switch from Djezian to Hrummean pretty thoroughly. His Almaeic-Djezian accent was interesting rather than troublesome, and only occasional words and idioms, relatively little used, caused glitches in communication for him.

The centurion had not been returned to his position on the amirr's guard though. He was to remain available to Brokols for the time being, and was quartered with the "unassigned" officers that formed a pool for miscellaneous temporary details. Mainly, just now, this involved helping the training cadre drill recruits, which were increasing sharply with the concern over possible invasion. Because of Cadriio's reputation as a swordsman, he'd been giving demonstrations and supervising drills with the weapon.

The palace messenger found him at the military compound, in the officers' dining room, and handed him the sealed envelope, then stood waiting. It was not, Eltrienn noted, an official envelope, nor was the seal familiar to him. Opening it, he began to read.

* * *

Dear Eltrienn,

It was my pleasure, during your visit at Sea Cliff recently, to talk a little with Ambassador Brokols. I found him to be a nice man and quite interesting. I would like to be better acquainted with him.

It would please me very much if you would arrange for him to meet me tomorrow at the palace after lunch, so that we may talk. I would like to know more about him and his country.

Fondly,
Juliassa

* * *

The centurion grimaced slightly, folded the message and tucked it in his belt pouch, then looked at the messenger. "Tell the namirrna," he said, "that I'll deliver her invitation."

When the lad had hurried off, Cadriio shook his head and returned his attention to his food. From captain of the amirrial guard to messenger boy for the namirrna. He didn't know where Brokols was today—in the library perhaps, or at home, or maybe visiting some merchant . . . probably not the latter, he told himself. He'd likely have asked me along on anything like that.

It would be interesting to know what was on Juliassa's mind. She'd been a nice child, and now she seemed a nice young lady. But she'd always been adventurous and impetuous, and a bit spoiled. She'd be better off, he thought, not to develop a romantic interest in Brokols. Not only was his political status somewhat uncertain; personally the ambassador was something of a stick. Quite a likable stick, basically a decent stick, but a bit of a stick nonetheless. The odds are, he wouldn't know how to respond to her.

* * *

The lady in waiting led Brokols into the garden, where Juliassa sat beneath a large umbrella, embroidering. She looked up as he came out the door, and smiling, rose to her feet. The lady in waiting turned demurely and went back in, leaving Brokols on his own.

It occurred to him, seeing Juliassa there, that a few evenings back he'd felt hopelessly in love with her. Then he'd arrived in Theedalit to an anti-Almeon rally, and after that there'd been the matter of Stilfos reporting behind his back to Kryger. He'd scarcely thought of Juliassa again till Eltrienn had delivered her message the day before.

As he walked toward her, he found her as lovely as before, as sweet, and the feeling rekindled inside him. But the emotion wasn't the same as it had been on the beach. On the beach there'd been her sense of loss and grief, his own sympathy . . .

Now she was smiling broadly, teeth white and even, and as he stepped up to her, she raised her hands for him to stop.

"You're wearing Hrummean clothes!" she said.

He grinned sheepishly. "They looked so much cooler, I decided it was foolish not to. I'll reserve my ambassadorial garb for ceremonial and official occasions."

She looked him up and down, warming him with her eyes. His suit was cut conservatively, white of course, and lightweight, with sleeves to the elbows. His fitted hose were snug from the knees down, and his lightweight blue calfskin boots ended a little above the ankles. He'd always had very good forearms and calves, and thought them comparable to those of most Hrummean men.

Reaching out, she took his hands, squeezing his fingers lightly, then motioned him to a chair on the other side of the tiny umbrellaed table, and they sat down.

"I'm glad you could come."

"I am too. Things are a bit unsettled, you know."

She nodded, sober now. "I've heard. Mother told me about it—about Eltrienn's brother and some of the nobles being worried about your country attacking ours." She brightened. "I'm not worried though. We're a strong people, a strong country. And if your country does something wrong against ours, I know whose side you'll choose."

Her conclusion, her confidence, her comment jarred Brokols to his heels. He'd been totally unprepared for it, hadn't considered that there might be a choice. She actually seemed to think he'd abandon his country and his emperor over a matter of principle! Of principle as she saw it!

It left his psyche in momentary confusion. For there were principles involved, an entire array of principles, and he hadn't looked at them. Now they began to roil within the borders of his consciousness: his senses of morality and propriety, of duty and responsibility and happiness and life and . . . and he wasn't sure where they led, how they fitted together, what they meant.

So he grabbed one of them, duty to emperor, as a stable datum. He was a loyal subject. Beyond that he'd go as far as he could to make things right—as far as he could while remaining loyal.

"I'm glad to have your confidence, Juliassa. This isn't a comfortable situation for me, I'm sure you know."

"I do," she said, nodding. "But now that you're here in a land where Hrum is listened to, you'll hear him too." Abruptly she smiled again and changed the subject. "Now that you've seen so much of our country, what do you think of it?"

In a minute or two he was out of himself, describing what he'd seen and what he'd made of it, with increasing animation. She added her own comments, asked questions, made faces. There was laughter. When he left, after almost an hour, it was with a promise to have lunch with her and her mother the next day. It seemed to Brokols that he'd never enjoyed any hour in his life as much as this one.

Not even, he realized, during that drug-heightened night on the pleasure boat. He'd forgotten about that, and it brought back the swirl of uncertainties about principle.

Instead of returning to the Fortress and its library, he walked back to his apartment, where the similarly introverted Stilfos was still troubled by his visit from Lerrlia that morning. And read some more on the history of Hrumma.

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