“A month,” he repeated.
The stairs and the plaza continued to bear the scars of battle. Scorch marks blackened the nearby walls, and the eastern steps were still missing. The paint in the market that had looked so much like blood had been cleaned up. An ancient tree was gone from the plaza, but the remaining stump still smelled of sawdust. To one side of the gathered group, the deer in the fountain had yet to be repaired; its severed stone legs were all that remained.
Weeks had passed since the revolt. The days had flown, blurred in a smear of anxiety. Mawyndul? had lost weight. A lot of people had. Imaly looked thinner, too, and paler.
“We are Fhrey,” Imaly said. “We do things slowly.”
“It’s just frustrating.” The fane frowned. “I want it cleaned up. I want this whole episode erased and forgotten so we can move on.”
The Curator of the Aquila gave him a strained smile. “I believe that is exactly what the surviving members of the Aquila, and the tribes they serve, are afraid of, my fane. These scars serve to remind the Miralyith of the need for restraint, so they don’t want this particular corpse buried too soon.”
Mawyndul?’s father scowled but nodded just the same. “How bad is it inside?”
The fane began to climb the steps, and everyone followed, including the giant Sile and the other one—the girl whose name he still couldn’t remember. She was short and ugly. Not claw-your-own-eyes-out ugly, not even Rhune-ugly, but revolting enough that Mawyndul? didn’t bother remembering her name. She was supposed to be a gifted Artist. The word he kept hearing was fast. Apparently, Miss What’s-her-name had been in the plaza the day of the attack and done something right.
“Not as bad as it could have been.” Imaly allowed her sight to focus on Mawyndul?.
The fane saw it, too, and acted as if he had forgotten his son was there. “Oh, right.”
Mawyndul? waited until his father looked away before frowning and shaking his head ever so slightly. Miss What’s-her-name was the talk of Estramnadon, but he, Mawyndul?, who had saved the most important landmark in the city and the lives of most of the Aquila, was lauded with such lofty praise as oh, right.
Mawyndul? turned to discover that the girl had seen his reaction.
Tiny little hobgoblin sees everything.
“Any news from Rhulyn?” Imaly asked.
“Not yet,” the fane replied, taking care to avoid a shattered step. “I’m told such things require preparation, and that the Instarya have yet to begin culling the Rhune horde.” He gestured around them. “Apparently that tribe shares the same lightning-fast response to my decrees as the Eilywin.”
Imaly nodded with that same stoic calm she always used when speaking to his father. Mawyndul? imagined she was making an assortment of lewd mental gestures.
“I hear there are something close to a million Rhunes,” she said. “Mindless but dangerous animals, it seems. Perhaps you should have addressed their numbers centuries ago, before they took root. Now it will take years to exterminate them.”
“My fane!” a voice called from behind.
Everyone turned to see Vasek frozen in mid-step at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth was open, his eyes locked. He held one hand up, a finger pointing toward the sky. Dressed all in gray, he could have been a new statue.
“Really, Synne?” Lothian said. “He’s a trusted adviser.”
“Which is why he’s not dead, your greatness,” the hobgoblin explained.
Synne! That is her name.
“Release him.”
“As you wish.”
Vasek stumbled, sighed, and adjusted his asica before resuming his climb up the stairs. “My fane.” He gave a tentative glance at Synne. “I have news.”
“What is it?”
Vasek looked at the others and hesitated. “It’s not good, my fane.”
Mawyndul?’s father frowned. He turned to face Imaly and sighed. “See they clean this up.”
With that, the fane and Vasek marched back down the stairs, followed by Sile and Synne—the giant and the hobgoblin.
Imaly turned to Mawyndul?. “What do you think it is?”
He shrugged. “Probably nothing. Vasek jumps at shadows all the time, even more often as of late.”
“With good reason, don’t you think?” Imaly adjusted the sling on her shoulder.
Mawyndul? couldn’t be certain if this was meant to illustrate her point or if she was merely uncomfortable. Mawyndul? always had to be wary of her. Imaly often used insinuations that he didn’t always understand. This was partly why he found speaking to her so interesting. Their conversations were little puzzles to work out. There were times after concluding a talk that he went home, thought about it, and realized he’d gotten the discussion all wrong.