“Of course,” said Clement.

She was able to stand and began to follow the Truthken, but then turned back to clasp Zanja’s hand in farewell.

“You are becoming a Shaftali already,” said Zanja na’Tarwein. In the black center of her dark eyes there was a flame.

While Clement had been preoccupied, the room had become crowded: soldiers and Paladins in what appeared to be equal numbers were standing against the walls. The Paladins, all of whom seemed to possess extraordinarily graceful manners, were attempting to engage the uncomprehending soldiers in conversation. In the center of the room, the G’deon’s people formed a constantly loosening and tightening knot around Karis, who was kneeling at Gilly’s feet with his hands clasped in hers. No one appeared to find her behavior unusual.

Herme hurried over when she beckoned him. “Tell your people to ask the Paladins to teach them Shaftalese,” she said.

Herme managed to maintain his bland countenance. “Yes, General.”

The Truthken murmured, “Watch Karis, General. See how he refuses, she insists–there, it’s over already.”

Karis had risen. Her big hands stroked down the twisted, hunched line of Gilly’s back. Then, she stood talking to him casually, with a hand on his shoulder. Clement’s cynical old friend stared up at Karis with an expression of bedazzled adoration.

Clement said, “Very instructive. But I think I’ve already studied that lesson.”

The Truthken said, “Save yourself some trouble, then. Ask her what Shaftal needs of you, and promise to do whatever she says. Call her by name, look her in the eye–though it makes your neck hurt–and don’t mince words.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Clement wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers, and stepped forward to clasp the G’deon’s hand. “Karis, what have you done to my friend?”

She replied blandly, “Nothing, really. I just made his back stop hurting.”

Well, for her perhaps it was nothing,thought Clement. By the gods, the woman was big, and wildly disordered, as though she had come in from a storm wind and had not yet caught her breath. But her devastatingly gentle handclasp was still warm. “I thought we should discuss Shaftal,” she said, as though the problems they faced could be dispensed with in a single conversation.

“Karis, I want my people to become Shaftali. Do you think that would be possible?”

Karis gave her a very surprised look, then cast an amazed glance at the Truthken, who said dryly, “Zanja is already doing what she does best.”

“Oh,” said Karis. Her face crinkled up as though she were suppressing a sneeze–no, a laugh–and she said with exaggerated disgust, “Fire logic!”

“Oh ho!” cried the peculiar little man in spectacles. He peered at Clement with intense curiosity, as though he could scarcely wait to see what she did next. Councilor Mabin, who remained excessively upright under these very strange circumstances, gave the little man a look of withering disapproval–a wasted effort.

Clement bent to mutter in Gilly’s ear, “You’ve never looked at me the way you were looking at Karis.”

“Of course not, Clem. You never deserved it.” He added, straight‑faced, “Has anything important happened?”

Gabian announced his presence with a loud yelp. Clement lifted him out of his basket, and he flapped his arms enthusiastically. “Don’t make me giddy,” she admonished him. “Gilly’s obviously lost his mind, and one of us must keep a clear head.”

Karis held out her big hands, and Clement put her son into them. Competently cradled, Gabian blinked at Karis with dim‑witted devotion.

Then Emil pushed his way in, assured Clement that they all certainly hoped the Sainnites could become Shaftali, and introduced Medric, who said cheerfully, “I imagine you hoped you’d never hear of me again. What did you make of that cow farmer, eh?”

“Watch out,” Karis interjected. “You are completely surrounded by dangerous busybodies.”

Clement suddenly had to sit down again: she was so dizzy with trying not to laugh, and her face hurt abominably. Karis sat next to her with Gabian in the crook of her arm. So gently that Clement could hardly feel it, Karis nudged Clement’s broken nose into better alignment. The pain went completely away.

So the seven of them sat knee‑to‑knee, passing Gabian from lap to lap, arguing vehemently about what to do next. Medric said that transforming Sainnites into Shaftali was possible but not easy, for they would have to neither hurt the soldiers’ pride or arouse the Shaftali anger. The Truthken reminded them that it was human nature to escalate conflicts and hold grudges. Emil thought they might counter old bitterness with intelligence, insight, hope, good will, generosity, self‑interest, education, and wisdom.

“And coercion,” Clement said.

“Persuasion,” said Karis.

“Oh, persuasion,” said Medric. “Like iron before your hammer? That kind of persuasion?”

“I doubt it will be that easy,” said Karis.

Clement said, “If my people aren’t attacked or forced to go hungry, they’ll follow my orders–for a time. But eventually I’ve got to win their consent, not just their obedience. I think it’s the same problem you’ve got, Karis, only worse. I have to give them a reason to surrender the only thing they’re proud of, in exchange for something they’ve always scorned. Right now, I’ve got no idea how to do that.”

Medric peered at her and said, quite unnervingly, “The same way it happened to you, General.”

So Clement found herself thinking what had happened, really: the plague, Alrin, the fire, Kelin’s death, the kidnapped children, the storyteller, Davi’s rescue, Seth’s embrace, Gabian’s birth, Medric’s book, Willis’s death, Cadmar’s fist, and the madness of the last two days. Each situation had been accidental or unpredictable, yet together they had changed her, so that when Zanja insisted that she confront the last, radical truth, she had been prepared to do so. Clement shut her eyes, pressing her fingers against her eyelids, trying to remember the storyteller’s glyph card pattern. In the middle, there had been a wall. A pile‑up of images leaned against it, one after another.

“The wall fell down,” Clement said.

“Ho!” cried Medric triumphantly. “Exactly!”

Emil put a restraining hand on the giddy man’s knee. “By the land, General, you do astonish me. You would not believe how many nights we spent studying those cards.”

“Which cards?” asked Zanja. Supported by the healer at one side and the child at the other, she was standing shakily at the edge of their close‑crowded circle. As they hastily put Zanja in the chair the Truthken vacated for her, Gilly produced the storyteller’s card pack out of a pocket. She accepted the cards as if they were old friends she had feared lost, but gave him a puzzled look.

“Gilly was your–the storyteller’s–friend,” said Clement.

“I am sorry I do not remember you, sir. But thank you.”

She handed the cards to Medric, who, declaring vehemently that he never wanted to see a glyph card again, hastily passed them to Emil. “These cards get resurrected as often as you do,” Emil commented as he knelt on the floor and began laying down the cards.

Zanja watched intently as Emil reproduced the pattern the storyteller had made for Clement in the gaol. When he finished, Zanja let out her breath in a huff. “It’s as bad as Koles.”

The seer collapsed in a paroxysm of laughter. Grinning, Emil collected and handed Zanja the pack of cards. Mabin, apparently as baffled by their amusement as Clement was, commenced a speech about the historical importance of this occasion. But she was summarily interrupted by the runaway cook, who led in a parade of self‑conscious townsfolk carrying steaming hot, luscious‑smelling dishes. Under the influence of this extraordinary meal, seriousness became impossible. Even the soldiers, who had been dutifully but grimly attempting to say a few words in Shaftalese, began to laugh a little as they ate standing up with their erstwhile enemies.