Morale among the rank and file was higher than ever, but two consecutive refusals discouraged the officers. Odibink, a lieutenant placed in charge of fussing, complained, “These fairies, are they the most stubborn living things that refuse to see sense on the continent? I have not met a single person less willing to listen than they are. That is after gallery exhibitions for a public that has the most . . . they simply . . . the criticisms are at times frustrating. The difference is that in eighty out of every hundred cases, if I explain personally that a reconstruction is intended to aid our understanding of an ancient people entirely without accounting for modern techniques and tastes, the person thanks me for the clarification. And then! In nineteen of the remaining cases, fellow patrons mock the dullard unable to understand that. The last case is the only case among the fairies, it seems to me. Is there reason to abandon this farce and simply attack? I think there is.”

  “What do you think, Ressi?” asked Takki, a lieutenant assigned the responsibility of belonging to a good class. “Does Mr. Odibink really have to tell people what a reconstruction is?”

  Ritualist Lieutenant Dirant responded, “Undoubtedly, but I'm unsure about the proportions he assigns.”

  While the majority of the officers thought Odibink slightly overwrought in his objections, they agreed with the probable futility of the diplomatic endeavor. Atkosol tolerated their discontent until talk about it flagged, at which time he smiled after the fashion of a man who owns a horse scheduled to compete in a race in Egilof and has contrived to subvert all the competing jockeys. “Our negotiations with Ydridd may as well not have happened, but gentlemen, you say you believe the same about our recent effort, or?”

  Everyone except Odibink recognized the answer to a question posed in that manner ought to be no. He suffered from an exercised state which interfered with his judgment and consequently complied with Mr. Atkosol's evident wish. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. I am happy to have your opinion. My own is that either the first letter or the second we receive from Mr. Paosolt will contain an offer to betray his master.”

  “He's right! Why did I not see it?” Taomenk exclaimed, and before the army left the beach, a fairy courier handed over a missive which fulfilled the prediction. Atkosol refrained from gloating, whether from the stolidity of his character or because Lommad smiled smugly enough for the both of them, their children, assorted other relatives, and the entire state of Opstliknetta which had the wisdom to make him its representative for a time.

  The fantastical qualities of the fairy world sometimes resulted in conveniences unavailable in the normal for all that one had to put up with ogres and, reportedly, chimeras to avail oneself of them. Every day people incurred neck pains from gazing at the clouds to appreciate their beauty, decide whether to go visiting, or attempt to divine information relevant to their livelihoods. The sky district did away with that nuisance of looking up, and if looking down risked the same problem, it discouraged that through fear.

  The sky there was underfoot and more of a picturesque element on which fairies walked as carelessly as they did the water in Ydridd's moat. No town square had so many cross it with so little concern for the stability of their footing. The soldiers demurred, and when reminded of the traversable water elsewhere, they made a distinction between the two in that they could swim, or at least knew someone else could. Not just a rope but an entire harness designed by continentally recognized engineer Taomenk Genarostaf and attached to iron rods sunk into the earth was the prerequisite for persuading the possessor of the highest Verve, a Small Fry of course, to take a single step. The second step came after several other volunteers took their first.

  Eventually, most were able to convince themselves the district's ground deceived the senses by its color, that clever artistic methods had been employed to give the appearance of clouds and scattered peeks of the ground below when in reality they existed only as embellishment for a flat plane. A minority lacked the capability to forget contradictory evidence so readily. For one thing, nothing they knew about fairies could be interpreted as clever.

  “We should have done the ziggurat first,” Mr. Gabdirn said out of the hearing of the common thinboot. “It is made to be sophisticated.”

  “'Baffling' is closer to what I think, but it is impressive, certainly.” Medant returned to the body of the army after giving his troops who believed themselves incapable of advancing the important yet shameful duty of preparing certain facilities unmentionable in polite company in the borderlands as close to the center as they could get. He thereupon led the army forward, and his undiminished cheer encouraged everyone to step lively.

  Many condottieri liked to word simple statements in grand fashion, and the interviewers liked for them to do it. Studying a map might become, “I caused myself to be reborn as a native of this region. Did I not climb that tree when a child? Was it not on that hill that I watched, waiting for her to pass whom my youth fancied as my love? The records dismiss the idea, but during the campaign, then it was so.” In the same mode they likened themselves to forgers required by greed and hope of evading the law to study scenes of battles, of patrol schedules, and of troop dispositions until they knew them better than did the original painter. What they meant of course was that they preferred to have some idea of how the other fellow did things.

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  Any of them, from a single look at Guard-Captain Medant, would have understood his thoughts then as if his mind had indeed been recreated from the stuff of careful observation. “Under no circumstances will I allow a combat here. More than that, I must resign and find a new career the instant that occurs.” The lively steps lasted approximately the length of an archery range before they degenerated into wobbly ones. Every now and then a marcher dropped to check with inquisitive hands that the ground was there. The volume of sweat produced, if concentrated rather than allowed to drip haphazardly, sufficed to convert that country into a second lake district. Atkosol made half the journey with his eyes closed, guided by his wife, and the other half with them raised, guided identically.

  Before the troops began to decorate the ground in natural colors, the column arrived. Not at Zatdil's tower, visible in the distance as a pillar shaped like twisting clouds or three tornadoes intertwined which rose higher and higher in the manner of a ziggurat's spiral staircase. The army had reached Zatdil himself.

  None of the humans knew that at the time. They saw a fairy who chose not to confine his more ridiculous inclinations to his own property or a theatrical production. Theater came to mind on account of his dress, which appeared to be a set of plate armor designed by someone who had never worn or so much as seen any, which described most costume designers. The same could be said of the greater population, but they never tried to make their own. Two reds covered it, blood and ruby, and in the fairy world it might be believed rubies were involved in its creation. Closer inspection revealed it had black as well where joints between segments ought to be, for the entire bodily portion consisted of a single piece that was in reality a long-sleeved tunic. The part of the helmet was played by a simple red cap, perhaps at the request of an actor unwilling to deny the world his visage. That was gracious of him, since he had the face for a nobler production than a show in the middle of a field. Audiences like a solid chin and a wide, expressive mouth when the hero declaims. His height damaged his suitability, however.

  Then he spoke, and half the army bowed. The listeners felt no urge to jump out a window, but if one had been available, and the speaker ordered it, they would have thought the matter over. His voice, though not intimidatingly deep nor skillfully high, resonated so that it seemed his earlier words continued to echo throughout his speech in the manner of a drumbeat behind the string section.

  “The man able to defeat Zatdil Akavinnux Scaurrdex Ikakach is not a man but a god. You humans, what fairy has sent you? Sullen Ishtu? Dull Ydridd? False Jiojjil? Transparent Ava? The sole sign of intelligence in any of them is that they know their own impotence. They rely on humans to win their battles. Why not? They admired humans enough to adopt their names. I, Zatdil, took as my model a more exalted being worth four hundred of the highest-leveled warriors. I trained to reach that peak of strength. Are you the finest fighters of the day? Do you have four hundred?”

  For all his masterful presence, those questions sounded other than rhetorical, indicating a person not entirely sure how high his training had taken him. The army's confidence rose with visible signs. No longer did the soldiers look down every few seconds or have the expression of a first-time candidate for a local office who, five minutes before his speech to an assembly of undetermined voters, realizes he has forgotten everything he rehearsed. The sentiment of the rank and file, inchoate yet nevertheless perceptible, shifted to, “Can we not grab this fairy king on the spot?” Even Medant reconsidered his recent conclusions.

  Among the more academically inclined members of the officer corps, the greatest interest in Zatdil's introduction was not the inference of martial weakness but the implication of people neither human nor fairy who bore names and performed deeds worth emulating. Must the ancient legends long dismissed as imagination, exaggeration, or confused accounts of authentic but mundane occurrences be reexamined? Certainly this Zatdil may have been mistaken about that Zatdil just as their ancestors misinterpreted unknown class abilities, atmospheric phenomena, and unusual animal behavior, creating from them stories of talking animals, mobile trees, mountains with volition, and storm lords who roamed the land to seize the daring and make them guardians of the horizon. Even so, the topic seized the curiosity of several minds.

  Atkosol opened the negotiations by addressing an apparent contradiction he thought indicative of an avenue conducive to a productive discussion. “Do you then not share the desire to claim the name of Hacanthu, a human king as I understand the matter?”

  That began a debate full of subtle arguments and clever counterarguments confined entirely within Zatdil's mind. He said nothing, but his features revealed his inner deliberations through movements of his mouth, eyebrows, his tongue as revealed by his bulging cheek, and more. At last he came to a decision. “Challenge my tower if you dare!” he shouted and leapt backwards toward it with such a lengthy bound as would bring him trophies and accusations of cheating at any athletic competition. After landing, he made a gesture possibly of rude significance to people however many millennia ago and sprinted to his base.

  “Guard-Captain?”

  “I recommend against challenging his tower, Mr. Atkosol.”

  “Yes.” With that, the legion turned and marched.