Ishtu's mountain district suited the tastes of the visitors far more. While taking their break at the prepared facilities in the border zone, speculation of what awaited the army converged on the idea of a single mountain with sheer sides which of course the climber could surmount simply by walking vertically. With surprised joy they contemplated the reality, if such a term might be applied to a playground molded by a fairy king.

  Broad trails wound gently upward next to and over streams suggestive of the landscapes made by painters who were more popular inside homes than in galleries. The absence of fish disappointed soldiers hoping to be given land there, but perhaps Mrs. Atkosol would gain the means to remedy that once she took over. At places a flat shelf gave a platform for something which approached a garden, full of flowers blooming beneath pines, firs, and red bayberries. An occasional boulder may have been designed for comfortable reclining, and if not, fairies put them to that use regardless.

  The mountain had one unnerving element. Though the travelers knew it to be day, for they had started in the morning and the fairy realms, while Mr. Taomenk calculated them to be greater in area than an Ertithan city, extended not so far as the state of Enpasatosalkir, evening intruded there. Moreover, the stars just beginning to shine, or that was the impression one had despite suspecting them to be fixtures, seemed close enough that a single ladder or perhaps a siege tower sufficed to reach them. The various theories about the nature and composition of stars were a short climb away from validation, provided the scientific establishment could be persuaded that Ishtu knew more about it than it did.

  Among those pleasant environs and relaxing residents the army came upon a tent of the sort a Dvanjchtlivan scholar would devise if attempting to gain a better understanding of his tribe's past through practical recreation. A dozen lines from scattered epic poems, as effectively as they transported the reader (or, ideally, listener) to a past age of glory and virtue, the latter what his ancestors possessed and the former their reward, did little to elucidate the actual conditions which prevailed on the Dvanj Plateau of centuries past.

  Fairies who anticipated a battle but suspected it needed help to get underway pointed at the fairy crouched in front of the tent. “That's Ishtu,” they called out. Ishtu looked up in response, saw an army, and stood. He was the first fairy who measured up to the taller among the Adabans, or the Riks to be fair to Mr. Odibink. Perhaps a rough mountain life contributed to his stature, though the simple combination of a topographical map and a Jalpi Peffu adequately refuted the notion. For the rest of his appearance, perhaps the cost of acquiring that much wool prevented him from putting any decorative accents on it. The humblest farmer of Greater Enloffenkir dressed himself up more ostentatiously than did Ishtu, though the humblest farmhand might not. The simplicity of his costume of course did not proof the identification false. A king might camp in the mountains, rule his kingdom from a tiny tent, and receive ambassadors while clothed in the simplest coat and leggings but still be a king.

  He watched the delegation approach with blue eyes which, contrary to the recommendations of medical specialists, continuously shifted as if waves were contained therein. Hearing Atkosol's introduction, he grunted, pointed to another tent a few yards away, and squatted again.

  “Does he intend for us to put my palace there?” Lommad wondered.

  Though unlikely, no other theory for the reason behind Ishtu's seemed plausible with the available information. Seeking more, Medant peered inside, saw a human, and informed his employer, who greeted the inmate.

  “Meeting here must be a blessing. My name is Atkosol Tellanstal. I am here to negotiate with Ishtu. Are you his general, or?”

  “Seems so. We should have met earlier, Mr. Atkosol, but misfortune interposed itself. Not everyone can overcome it. My name is Hwohyesu.” The man spoke while extricating himself from the tent, a process obviously unfamiliar to him. He still looked hunched over compared to Ishtu after he managed, but most people did. He probably beat Zatdil in height, and how that compared to his fellow citizens of the country of Zeuhyac far south across the ocean was a mystery only the most cosmopolitan could solve. Travel journals suggested his blond hair so light as to approach white fit in with his compatriots well enough, as did his bowl cut.

  As expected of a man with his reputation, Mr. Hwohyesu belonged to that age when someone could be considered established in his career yet had time to enjoy it, similar to Mr. Taomenk and Mr. Odibink. Certainly he had a reasonable income to judge by the quality of his Stegzin silk shirt decorated with fruits and nuts. Authorities on intercontinental travel recommended hardier clothing, and he had not neglected that advice altogether. His high, thick boots and broad Adaban hat protected the top and bottom of his person, the regions most at risk from common hazards.

  He, Atkosol, Odibink, and Gabdirn exchanged warm greetings, warm in both the sense of geniality and in that they fell to arguing about Iflarent's Hideout before Hwohyesu had been rescued and taken to it. “The fairies have let me look at some caverns,” he clarified. “Very kind of them. For a time I thought perhaps they were Ertithans. I learned otherwise when they condescended to talk about them a little. It wasn't how we speak of our forebears.” Taomenk and Dirant looked at each and nodded authoritatively.

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  The conversation heated up as the participants set out their observations and insights without always distinguishing the two. Takki nudged Dirant. “Ressi, don't you think Ishtu is interpreting all this as a prelude to violence? He's sharpening a knife.”

  Dirant glanced over, unobtrusively he hoped. To him, the junior ambassador's role consisted of demonstrating by his existence that the head ambassador had the prestige to be given subordinates, asking the local Stadeskosken branch office if that package had come in yet, and sweating. Drawing notice would exceed both his responsibilities and good taste. “He is, though I must apologize if it is discourteous to suggest 'knife' is too humble a term for that blade.”

  “Any weapon someone that tall holds looks like a knife. Oh, but he's just a little taller than you are, Ressi.”

  As much as Dirant appreciated the sincerity of her assurance, he had not needed one before she offered it. He further conjectured he would have preferred wording more along the lines of, “Your height is nearly as overwhelming as his,” but since he saw no way to justify the preference, he kept silent on the issue. He did alert Medant to the observation about the short sword.

  “Be ready to follow your orders, Lieutenant. Also that is inarguably a knife.”

  “Permit me to argue the proposition.”

  “Denied.”

  In the end, the experts averted a sudden onset of violence by agreeing further excavation was required, as everyone always did aside from the people paying for it, though in that instance he too wholeheartedly agreed. The participants rose to go home or to other engagements, likely as the speaker of honor somewhere, before they realized the actual meeting had not yet started. Atkosol cleared his throat to remind them. He then laid out his proposals.

  “What are the applications of the Ertith Energy? Ertith Energy.” Hwohyesu repeated the phrase in the surprised, contemptuous manner of a father whose son has informed him of the career he wishes to pursue.

  “Undetermined aside from increasing the size of a fairy king's domain.”

  “Hm. I will relay all this to Ishtu if eloquence doesn't fail me, but I can't claim you should feel optimistic. He's motivated primarily by a territorial instinct.”

  “Unfortunate. It is to be hoped your intervention will tell with him.”

  “I don't know about that.” Hwohyesu, recovered from the distasteful Ertith Energy nomenclature incident, spoke after the thoughtful fashion of someone wondering where he had left an item he ought to recover, though no urgency was indicated. An umbrella perhaps, or a son. “Ishtu and his people have baffled death for so long. Providence failed to preserve the Ertithans, so who can say fairies who have some memories of them aren't better stewards of their legacy than . . . than us?”

  By “us” he intended “you,” and “you” was to be replaced by “Adabans” according to the cipher which nobody mentioned aloud but everyone understood. That Atkosol belonged to the Riks rather than the Adabans counted for nothing to foreigners, let alone ones still trying to make up their minds about events which transpired several thousand years ago. Allowing for that, Atkosol did not feel it necessary to correct him.

  “Besides, your intent is to drive the fairies out. Mine is to get information from them.”

  For the first time on the tour, the other party had said something which Atkosol believed he owed consideration. “Is there a method for doing so, or? Any tidbit we have learned has been an accident.”

  “Likewise, but I haven't given up.”

  With no more concessions to make, the embassy moved on, acknowledged by Ishtu with a grunt. That time Atkosol did not expect a swift offer of cooperation, for all that the general again wished to maintain a diplomatic channel, or rather an avenue for scholarly correspondence.

  “He may do a turn when he gets nothing from them,” Gabdirn speculated.

  “It isn't unthinkable,” Odibink allowed. “In a decade or two. You know about the stubbornness of researchers, do you not? You must.”

  When asked for his military opinion, Guard-Captain Medant broke from the learned officers insofar as he hoped Hwohyesu would remain Ishtu's general for the campaign's duration. “A fortified mountain is a dangerous mountain, but they aren't fortifying it. A replacement might have the right idea. Right now, this is my favorite district, and I want to draw Zatdil here.”

  His fondness for the waste district was less, though historical considerations affected his judgment just as much as the strategic. On the way to Ava's dual ziggurat, he asked for clarification. “Sir, this is the last district. In the event that your offer is rejected here, do we begin the campaign forthwith?” The eagerness in the question suggested the desired answer as well as the reason he asked it at all.

  Atkosol nodded. “Yes, do that once my wife and I return.” Medant's stride gained intensity, like a critic en route to a play he anticipated giving a humorously biting review.

  The more combat-attuned officers noticed. “That's a good sign, Ressi. Morale is important.”

  “Yes, and therefore I will confine my gloomy distrust to select company. Is something changed about this district from our previous visit, or?”

  The old hands looked around the ugly and barren landscape. That aspect had remained constant. Buildings continued to be placed with no plan or evidence of use, a palm tree faced a cherry tree without regard for geographical respectability, and the sky remained clear and dully blue, as if laziness prevented it from ever changing to night.

  “I think you're right, Mr. Dirant, but I can't say why.” Taomenk shuddered from a sudden chill. “Ah! The wind!”

  He was not referring to a past construction project undone by the vicissitudes of weather, or if he was, a breeze blew through notwithstanding. Alone among the districts and unlike before, wind existed there. Moreover, its intensity increased as the army marched, though not to that pitch which sent the wise home and the foolhardy to a theater where a subpar goslikenar was to be performed.