CHAPTER THIRTEEN

People poured into Chaya for the coronation: Siers and their families, merchants and craftsmen, musicians and jugglers and dancers and mimes. The crown prince of Tsaia sent his regrets, owing to the unsettled times, nor could the Regency Council members attend, for the same reason. Kirgan Marrakai, he wrote, would represent him, and was on the way with a squad of his father’s militia. Aliam and Estil Halveric had already arrived, to stay with Sier Halveric.

Every inn bulged with travelers, packed as many to a room as they could manage, and anyone with space on the floor to let could make a quarter’s living from it.

“Some families are moving into their outbuildings and renting the house,” Sier Belvarin said. “Not ours, of course.”

“Of course not,” Kieri said. He did not smile; Sier Belvarin had already demonstrated a very limited sense of humor.

“Are your relatives staying with you?” Sier Halveric asked Belvarin. “I’ve got Aliam and his wife and two of their children and gods know how many grandchildren.” Belvarin nodded.

The Pargunese had been informed, with cool courtesy, but not actually invited; to Kieri’s surprise, their king dared send a representative, an elderly woman who arrived in Riverton in a boat with white and gold ribbons fluttering from every possible attachment. She was, she told the alert and very nervous port militia, Hanlin Orenalt, the king’s wife’s oldest sister.

“Pargunese arrogance,” Halveric said, when the report came that she was on her way from the port.

“She’s not likely to get drunk and assault us all,” Kieri said. “Pargunese women don’t drink alcohol. And who else could he send? A boatload of women was the only possible envoy we wouldn’t kill or turn back.”

“I didn’t know they had women who could handle a boat,” Belvarin said.

“Fisherfolk, along the river,” Kieri said. “I imagine every fishwife can row, at least a little. Well, if they mean to show courtesy, so must we. A guest is a guest—but the host is allowed to be wary, though not inhospitable.” Given the lady’s age, he insisted she must be housed in the palace. The Council protested.

“We can also watch her better here,” Kieri said. “If the Pargunese have agents in Chaya, as they well may, she cannot meet them without one or the other coming through the gates.”

The lady’s carriage arrived under guard; Kieri watched from a window to the courtyard as she climbed down, with help from her two attendants, both middle-aged, sedate women in plain dark dresses with the Pargunese king’s crest in brilliant embroidery. She herself was a hand taller than they, almost as tall as Kieri. White-haired, moving a little stiffly, dressed in sumptuous clothes of the Pargunese style, she had the regal carriage of someone who has never had to ask someone to step out of her way. Kieri watched as his steward gave her formal welcome and offered an arm, which she refused for that of one of her women.