The day trickles away to dark in quiet political wrangling, while Pepperidge sits and listens and does her best not to offer a word unless called upon, and as few as possible then. A thought gnaws at her, and eventually she bows out on the plea of tiredness and hunger; instead of seeking fire and food and a bedroll, she strides instead to where the Termists, in the midst of their tents, have also efficiently flung up simple timber headquarters.
Amongst other things, to securely hold prisoners.
"You may wait outside," Pepperidge says firmly to the guard on the door.
"Madam, my orders are to allow no possible harm to the bastard 'fore he can face judgement," he says, equally firm despite the grim look he shoots toward the cell.
"On my honour, on my ranger commission, and on the Heart, he takes no further harm by my hand today." She stares the elf down. "Outside, if you please."
The guard's eyes flicker to her belt. Perhaps to judge the likelihood that a human wears, or wears correctly, a Highlander's honour; but by the wary light in his eyes, the world is upside-down — he takes her word for granted, weighing only the priority between his orders and the promise of the Heart-Bearer.
He decides, sketches a bow to her, and slides aside on silent feet.
It's dark within, tiny high slots letting in only wavering slices of distant campfire. In the dimness, her assassin watches her calmly. His eye sockets are darkening with bruises, nose swollen and rimmed with blood. A large lump marks the impact on his forehead.
"Well, sir," Pepperidge says softly. "I met the Ecclesiarch, briefly. The Fürsten, even briefer, before Hightop burned."
He sits simply, elbows on his knees, at rest. Even relaxed, he is intense, glamour palpably barely-leashed, a bird on the falconer's fist, watching.
"I come from Hightop," he says.
"I'm sorry." She inclines her head. "It was beautiful. I regret that I won't live to see it restored — but you, sir, you might. Something about you seems to tell me I've yet to meet any other elf of greater age."
He half smiles, inclines his own head in reply.
"Which makes an absurdity, sir, of any claim that a human scholar with scant months' training in the skills of soldiering could possibly have fairly bested you. Pure theatre, sir." She fixes him with narrowed eyes. "Who do you work for? To what end?"
The half smile twitches into a startled laugh. He almost touches his nose, fingertips lingering in the air above his skin. "Ah, Professor, you do yourself a disservice — that is quite a fist you wield! But you see it aright. I answer to the spymasters of the Termist army."
She sighs. "Speak."
"An attempt on your life was inevitable. This is a time of turmoil, madam, and you represent disturbing things. Rather than let events take their course and perhaps fail to save your life, we staged our own event and collapsed the shapes of what-might-be into more pleasing arrangement."
She stares. "You need the rangers," she ventures finally, thinking through aloud. "Your troops are confined to the Plains not out of hesitancy, but because the Fürsten hold their home ground. You seek advantage with the rangers' knowledge of the land."
He spreads his hands. "As you say."
"And so, because they have somehow chosen to view me as a mascot, I have become important — "
"No. Once again: a disservice." He nearly touches his nose again, flaps his hand disgustedly. "The Heart chose you, as you yourself recount, and none may say what that means — but we have all heard of you, of your courage and loyalty. You chose to stand with the Fist o' Ribs — and having named you family, you are family to us all, every elf, from myself to the Fürsten to newborn babes in arms. Any harm that comes to you will end in blood on this field, madam — your rangers will fight to the death in your name.
"Outnumbered by Plainsmen as they are, they would all die, but they would sell their ends as dear as any Highlander ever has. It would gut our ranks. It cannot be allowed."
She pinches the bridge of her own nose, head whirling. "A child could see though this subterfuge," she complains peevishly. "I saw through it. You surely cannot tell me that it convinces entire armies of your people!"
He sputters. "Madam, please! Laughter is currently painful...when this is over, we must talk over dinner some day, you are a delight. Convince? Perhaps, perhaps not — it served its purpose. It shamed our chiefs into a show of unity, dissipated the potential for a genuine attempt on you for the time being; and however false, the show of unity gained my masters the permission to seek out spies and assassins in our ranks."
She covers her eyes. It is worse than faculty politics, inasmuch as the whole thing is, despite the stakes, in some way dreadfully reminiscent.
"Enough, sir!" she says. "Your offer of dinner is kind — may we see this over sooner than not! Your masters — if I were to seek them out, to whom might I find myself speaking?"
"You'd confirm what I say? True wisdom, Professor! Your young Captain Taelin is a man who travels much and seeks counsel in strange places; he knows whom to seek."
Taelin, who'd stood on the octagon, white-faced, hand clenching reflexively near the hilt of his honour.
Perhaps the Termist spymasters would have found her death equally useful, equally steerable to more pleasing arrangement. Perhaps this smiling aristocrat was ready to die under flashing Highland knives, if his actions could be blamed on the Fürsten, if the Termists could still use it as reason to purge their ranks.
He names her kin to all elves, by virtue of joining the Fist o' Ribs. Perhaps the real lesson is to remember that the elves have been slaughtering their kin without remorse for the whole history of the world.
"He does seem to know a great many people," Pepperidge murmurs. "Thank you, sir, for this talk, and good evening."
He stands slowly, sketches a bow to her. "Professor Wolf," he says, still smiling his smile.
She returns the gesture. "Sir," she says, and gently exits.
Outside, the guard and a newcomer reinforcement are squared off, scowling, with a handful of her friends.
"Longeye," she says wearily, and touches the shoulder of one of the guards. "Thank you, sir," she says aside to him, then steps past him to offer herself, arms spread a little, for an inspection of her wellbeing.
"Professor," Longeye says, still glowering at the guards.
"They do their task, Longeye. Let them be. I spoke to the man, came to no harm." She rubs her eyes. "He comes from Hightop. You may understand that his feelings are inflamed."
"And what did you speak of, Professor?" Longeye says, not remotely mollified.
"Of Hightop. Of family. Of the enemy, who we came to agree is neither of the two of us, but waiting in the Highlands, hoping we all kill each other to save them the trouble." Pepperidge waits for the elf to meet her gaze. "Let us not do that, Longeye," she says softly.
Longeye takes a long breath. "Forgive me, Professor," she says after a moment. "You speak wisdom; I'm humbled."
"It is too long since any of us ate well, slept well, rested. Come, while we have the luxury." She pats the elf's arm, gently urges her to turn away. "Watch him well, gentles," she adds over her shoulder to the guards, before leaning close and breathing softly, "The Termists search their ranks for spies, Longeye; let us walk soft, speak soft, let them work. And I must speak to the Captain."
"Heyo, Professor," Longeye breathes back. "He was most insistent on that himself, and also that he'd skin us if we let you wander unaccompanied again."
Sure enough, they find the Captain pacing jerkily around a campfire, while Lilli sits serenely by it, brewing tea.
"You see?" the poet remarks when they straggle into the firelight. "It's as I said — Amaranth has excellent sense."
"It's not hers that frets me." He catches Pepperidge's eye, and holds a hand out to forestall her. "I know. I know, Amaranth, and trust that I mislike every bit of it, but it will wait for daylight, the better to know which ears are pricked to us. Sit — all of you, sit, let's rest for once, aye?"
They sit.
"Not worried at all for me?" Pepperidge murmurs, accepting tea from Lilli.
The elf smiles serenely, and unsheathes her honour as if it's a casual act, to display the nick in pad of her thumb, the dried brown print on the blade.
"That's an oath," the poet says, soft and easy. "Regarding Avren the Sparrow's throat, should any touch a hair on your head tonight."
"Such a relief to be among allies at last," Pepperidge sighs, and sips the tea; a more similar brew to those found in her hometown than to the ones the Highland favours.
"Oh, they'd understand," Lilli says cheerily, tucking the blade away. "And look, you're fine, which eternally does my heart good."
It is, in truth, extremely unsettling to Pepperidge to have Lilli be calm and her cousin, for once, be pacing and worrying. She looks across the rim of the copper cup, around at them all; friends old and new, from Lilli herself to one of the long-scattered scions of the Fist o' Ribs, Vetch Footsteps-of-the-Passing-Rabbit, come home grim and ready for blood when news reached them, shaven-headed and venom-mouthed, bearing a deadly bow of foreign design and a heartful of newborn hate.
For a moment, she can scarce believe that she won't wake at any moment to a day like any other at the University, where perhaps even Lilliana will prove a phantom of sleep. But then the elf casually brushes the back of her hand down Pepperidge's forearm, and the Professor breathes the scent of woodsmoke, and there has perhaps never been anything more real in the whole world than this.
