Chapter ten

Ortia – The Proconsul’s Palace.

 

It was a very sunny day and Marthian had had the windows and doors of the palace thrown open. In the walled garden the peacocks strutted and called, and each huge hibiscus flower was periodically visited by large orange bees and blue humming birds; the birds were only slightly larger than the bees. Most of the flowers in the garden were exotics – collected from across the wider Empire in more peaceful times. The gardeners now struggled to keep all the plants alive – the winters in Ortia were mild, but frosts could come from nowhere and envelop the city for days. In the winter the garden was everywhere wrapped in cloth and paper.

Marthian was restless – she wanted to sit out in the garden and read, or walk around the well manicured flower beds examining what was newly come into bloom. However, her position made this impossible, and so, instead, she had had to endure a series of meetings about the city sewers, agricultural disputes, and proposed changes in the victualing laws. This was all essential stuff, she supposed, but not as compelling as the sights and sounds of a beautiful spring day.

Halfway through the day, however, she did have a visitor with something very interesting. It was Viola, whose main job was to keep her ear to the ground within the city and act as Marthian’s sounding board. This wasn’t an onerous task, but she did it well. She was reliable and sensible –a rare and valuable quality as far as Marthian was concerned.  Viola was a useful information gather – she could slip into parts of the city unseen and was happy to talk to anyone. She had also been in Marthian’s family coterie all her life, as she was an orphan, brought up in the temple, and had been working for the proconsul, father and daughter, ever since she was a very young woman. She had extraordinarily acute sight and hearing, which were very useful characteristics in a domestic spy.  

She was, however, unusually flustered and excited as she ran into Marthian’s room. She spluttered as she spoke.

‘Proconsul, I have received an unexpected letter’

 Marthian, rather alarmed, gestured for her to sit.

‘Viola, calm down – we can’t have you choking, can we. What is this letter?’

Viola seemed very worried.

‘I’m not sure, ma’am, it’s from some human organisation’

‘From Amansk?’ Marthian asked. Her interest was sparked.

Viola shook her head.

‘It says it’s from an Ethian merchant’s guild! How can that be?’

Marthian laughed.

‘What? Are you teasing me?’

Viola handed over the letter.

Marthian looked down at it. It was written in a flowing, but clearly human hand, and it was in perfect Visneorian. She read it aloud.

‘To the Imperial Leader, province of Ortia, East Visneoria, greetings!’

‘Please let me introduce myself and my organisation. My name is John Ismay, and I am an Ethian wool merchant, based in Kinspit, South Paror.’

Marthian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Extraordinary’, she whispered.

‘I am president of a diverse group of merchants from Rhylan, in western Eth, known as the Hybitor. The purpose of our organisation is to explore and develop mercantile links with friendly and like-minded political entities. We like to think that these links will be mutually beneficial to both parties, and foster not only commercial ties, but also the ties of friendship and mutual understanding.’

‘See…’ said Viola, ‘it’s mad…’

Marthian read on.

‘Our records suggest that there are no commercial or cultural links between the peoples of Ortia or the peoples of Rhylan. Given the rich history and considerable accomplishments of your noble city, we feel that it would be greatly to our mutual advantage to develop such links. We can offer only our simple Ethian goods – wool, `timber and beer, but they are of a high quality and we can hope that they may find approval with your citizens. With this all in mind, we are proposing, with your permission, to send a trusted member of our commercial team, Mr Laurence Hardacre, on a trade mission to your city, to talk with you and your officials. The meeting will last just a few hours and the burden on you will be no more than a few minutes of your time.’

Marthian glanced up at Viola.

‘Utterly mad’, Marthian agreed.

‘To reply to this letter, just append a note in the space at the end of the letter, sign it, and add any official seal that you trust. Then tap on the sealed letter three times. The letter will then return to us automatically. This method of communication is safe and secure and I hope you will forgive us for the necessity of using such an odd way of making contact with you.’

‘I hope to become, and remain, your obedient servant.’

‘John Ismay, wool merchant and president of the Hybitor.’

Marthian carefully placed the letter on her desk.

‘I have a number of questions’ she said, choosing her words carefully.  ‘First – how did you get this letter’?

‘It was on my kitchen table this morning’ replied Viola. She was calming down now, pleased to have passed on her burden.

‘How did it get there?’

‘I have no idea. I went to slice some bread and then I saw a flutter out of the corner of my eye. When I turned round I’m fairly certain that I saw it drop gently on to the table...’

‘Had anyone come to the house that morning? Could it have been thrown through an open window?’

‘No, I don’t think it could. But…’ Viola hesitated. ‘There was a slight smell of brimstone – when I picked up the letter ‘

‘Well, that looks like magic to me…’ said Marthian

‘…smells like it…’ murmured Viola, with a hint of a smile.

Marthian gave her a sharp look.

‘If we can concentrate…’

‘Did you get Cicerian to have a look at it?’ continued Marthian. Mage Cicerian was her advisor on anything vaguely magical. He wasn’t very effective, in Marthian’s opinion, but he was all she had.

‘Yes. He said it had a “residual dwimmer”…’

‘Right; very helpful… Could he find out anything else?’

Viola searched for something useful to say.

‘Umm, he said that it would probably work if you wrote something on it. You know – to send back…’

‘Did he? Right. What is your view of that?’

‘It’s someone trying to make contact with us, but presumably not actually for commercial reasons.’

Marthian nodded.

‘I know nothing about Eth. Where is Rhylan?’

Viola shrugged. ‘Somewhere in the west. It’s in children’s stories. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes – the Land of the Witches. I never liked those stories very much’

‘I didn’t either. Too scary!’

They laughed conspiratorially.  The tension that had hung in the air was dispelled.

‘But – just stories’ said Viola, pulling herself together.

‘Presumably…’, said Marthian. 

She walked to the window and looked out over the garden. Three tall tree ferns framed her view. A bluebird was perched in the fronds of one of them.

‘Have you walked in the garden today, Viola?’ she asked, reluctant to get to the point.

‘Not yet, Proconsul – I came straight here with the letter’

‘Well, try to find the time. The spring blossoms are wonderful’

Marthian forced herself to focus.  

‘I think that we have to invite this Mr Hardacre here. I can’t see how anyone can get any political advantage from us. We have nothing to lose.’

Viola nodded; she was so relieved to have passed on the message.

‘True enough. I think you should certainly answer the letter…’

‘Anyway – it will take him ages to get here from Kinspit…’

Viola looked puzzled.

‘Can’t witches blink… or something like that?’ she said

‘In fairy stories, yes, of course. In real life – it seems unlikely… well, we’ll see, won’t we…’

Marthian sat down at her desk and wrote a reply at the bottom of the letter. She signed it, folded it and then sealed it with the Great Imperial Seal.  Then, rather self-consciously, she tapped it three times. The letter lay on the table for a few seconds more, and then disappeared. The room was briefly filled with the unmistakable smell of sulphur, but then a gust of wind blew in the fragrance of cherry blossom, which immediately obliterated it.