Marcher Lord Sigord dismissing the Imperial Ambassador.
“No.”
“What?” The ambassador was incredulous.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were so hard of hearing.” Sigrod raised his voice. “No!”
“But… but…” For the first time since Yuri had met him, the urbane and polished diplomancer was speechless. Sigord smiled a vicious little smile of victory. As he began to expostulate, the Lord cut him off with a jerk of his hand.
“No. For seven generations, my family has served under your Empire’s benign neglect. Seven of my forebears have toiled under you, touched their forelocks, and sent supplies as ordered. Apparently, there was once something out here to guard against. That’s why we are even here. And now you march up here to demand not merely our livestock but our sons as well?
“Enough. I say Enough. Here and now, this stops. What would you take our sons for? Some distant underground war. Worms, you call these Vineleut. Pale, unlettered worms. If they are the worms beneath the rock, then you are the centipedes, consuming without giving. And we are the grasshoppers. And now, we say no more.”
The Imperial ambassador stared at Sigord, as though he had grown a new head. Sigord sighed.
“When was the last time you took that blindfold off, Emeritus? When was the last time you saw the sky.”
“Last year, in the Solar, at the Imperial Court.”
“Hah.” Sigord’s laugh was humourless. “Under a crystal ceiling.” He reached out, and tore the blindfold from the man’s eyes. “Look up.”
Emeritus crouched, shielding his eyes.
“Look up!” The note of command in Sigord’s voice was just right, and the ambassador straightened, looking up to the sky. He was rigid with terror.
“This is us, Emeritus. This is our world. We are no longer interested in the wars of the moles in the ground under our feet. We are the children of the sky, and we are no longer Imperial. Tell your Emperor…” Sigord trailed off, looking for the right words. “Tell your Emperor he could send the troops up here, to pacify us. But we can hide. We know the mountains, and the passes, and the rooftops like birds. If his fight with the Vineleut is so precious, will his pacifying troops march back from us to find the Empire fallen?
“Go back to your Empire. Go back and play at being above the ground in your glass cities. You are ants to us, and we are birds. Look up, at the sky stretching to the edge of everything.” The ambassador moaned with fear. Sigord threw the screwed up blindfold back at him. “Put it back on. Hide your eyes from the glory of the skies. And get out. I will have no more part with you or your Empire. Crawl back beneath the ground, and fight with the worms. But you will not take our sons to do so.”
The ambassador tied the strip of cloth across his eyes, before turning and running from the Tingfield. Behind him, the raucous laughs of the bodyguards echoed, like crows.