(no subject)
Helen sat at her desk, sleeves rolled up as she read the most recent treaty negotiations from the Rejid. There was a knock at the side of the archway, and Helen looked up to see her guard bring in a new pot of coffee. She tilted her head to him, took a sip, and continued reading and taking notes.
--
“Haras-uquara, the ambassadors from the eastern nomadic nations have sent a messenger; they will arrive within the week,” the head Hand said, when she entered his office. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us the afternoon meal as we discuss this.”
Helen nodded slightly, sideways, and she and the Hand began to discuss the possible outcomes.
--
“Pani,” Helen said as she entered the vault, causing the young Hand’s head to come up with a jolt, “what can you tell me about acids?”
“It depends, what do you want to know?” Pani asked, closing the book on his lap and standing to vacate the best seat for her.
Helen sat in it, and looked at him for a long moment. “Nitre,” she said, folding her arms, “especially in the concentrations used ceremoniously by the eastern nomadic nations.
And tell me the length of their king-song.”
Pani drew in a breath through his teeth, as he sat in the other chair. And he started to explain.
--
The concentration was 50% nitre, in water.
(“They will not be united by someone weak,” the translator told her, quietly. “This is their tradition for choosing a king over all of their nations.”
“They have not had a united king in centuries,” Helen replied.
The translator said that to the ambassadors, though Helen hadn’t meant it as a question. They paused and replied.
“That’s because strong people are hard to find,” the translator told her. Helen nodded.)
One arm in the acid, for the length of the chant of their first king’s crowning (7 minutes and some seconds). Not her right arm, for even though she felt pain in it she could wish away the nerve endings. Her left, normal, arm instead. No signs of weakness, or flinching. Those were the rules.
Helen raised her head and looked the ambassadors square in the face.
At five minutes they started to pale.
--
In the infirmary she closed her eyes and leaned her head back as her arm was treated. The doctor was not making disapproving noises, but Helen knew he wasn’t best pleased.
“Hand Fesa-Maraq says they are calling you a desert spirit,” Pani said, and she could tell he was standing behind her.
“I’m not,” she replied back, angry, “and they dare not act like I cheated.”
“Helen,” Pani’s voice was quietly amused-but not at her, otherwise-otherwise she’d have been very angry at him when she could move, “I think it’s a compliment.”
--
“Haras-uquara, the ambassadors from the eastern nomadic nations have sent a messenger; they will arrive within the week,” the head Hand said, when she entered his office. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us the afternoon meal as we discuss this.”
Helen nodded slightly, sideways, and she and the Hand began to discuss the possible outcomes.
--
“Pani,” Helen said as she entered the vault, causing the young Hand’s head to come up with a jolt, “what can you tell me about acids?”
“It depends, what do you want to know?” Pani asked, closing the book on his lap and standing to vacate the best seat for her.
Helen sat in it, and looked at him for a long moment. “Nitre,” she said, folding her arms, “especially in the concentrations used ceremoniously by the eastern nomadic nations.
And tell me the length of their king-song.”
Pani drew in a breath through his teeth, as he sat in the other chair. And he started to explain.
--
The concentration was 50% nitre, in water.
(“They will not be united by someone weak,” the translator told her, quietly. “This is their tradition for choosing a king over all of their nations.”
“They have not had a united king in centuries,” Helen replied.
The translator said that to the ambassadors, though Helen hadn’t meant it as a question. They paused and replied.
“That’s because strong people are hard to find,” the translator told her. Helen nodded.)
One arm in the acid, for the length of the chant of their first king’s crowning (7 minutes and some seconds). Not her right arm, for even though she felt pain in it she could wish away the nerve endings. Her left, normal, arm instead. No signs of weakness, or flinching. Those were the rules.
Helen raised her head and looked the ambassadors square in the face.
At five minutes they started to pale.
--
In the infirmary she closed her eyes and leaned her head back as her arm was treated. The doctor was not making disapproving noises, but Helen knew he wasn’t best pleased.
“Hand Fesa-Maraq says they are calling you a desert spirit,” Pani said, and she could tell he was standing behind her.
“I’m not,” she replied back, angry, “and they dare not act like I cheated.”
“Helen,” Pani’s voice was quietly amused-but not at her, otherwise-otherwise she’d have been very angry at him when she could move, “I think it’s a compliment.”