Free Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 by Harry Turtledove

without its sudden reversals, its alliteration, its twisting tenses. It did not matter; Goudeles had the nomads under his spell whether or not they understood him. Like most unlettered folk, they set great stock in oratory, and the seal-stamper was a master in an older school than theirs.
    He went on, “I pray I might know my end by your swords today, now that I have heard my Avtokrator greeted with false words. Let me persist, though, in entreating you, first, to look upon us more gently and to slacken your anger and soften your quick choler with charity; and, second,to be persuaded by the common custom of ambassadors. For we are the shapers of peace and have been established as the dispensers of its holy calm.
    “Therefore remember that until the present our relations have been incorruptibly tranquil—surely we shall continue to enjoy the same kindness. I know well that your affairs would not otherwise be secure. For understanding most properly offered to those who are near—understanding, of course, which does not turn aside from that which is suitable—will not be evilly influenced by the yet-unrevealed exchange of fortune.”
    He bowed to the Khamorth. They nodded back, dazed by his eloquence. “What was all o’ that meaning?” Viridovix asked Gorgidas.
    “Don’t kill us.”
    “Ah,” the Celt said, satisfied. “I thought that’s what the omadhaun said, but I wasna sure.”
    “Don’t trouble yourself. Neither were the nomads.” The turgid Videssian oratory, awash in rhetorical tricks, never failed to oppress Gorgidas. He was used to a cleaner, sparer style. The height of Videssian eloquence was to say nothing and take hours doing it. Still, Goudeles’ harangue had served its purpose; the Khamorth lapped up every gaudy phrase.
    “Ha, Silvertongue!” Olbiop was saying to Goudeles. “You come to village with us, eat, spend night, be happy.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the Videssian’s cheek. Goudeles accepted it without change of expression, but, when Olbiop turned to bawl orders to his followers, the pen-pusher gave his comrades a stricken look.
    “There are exigencies in the diplomat’s art I never anticipated,” he murmured plaintively. “Do they never bathe on the plains?” He surreptitiously rubbed at the spot, then wiped his hand on his robe over and over again.
    Most of the Khamorth rode back to their herd. A handful stayed with Olbiop to escort the embassy. “Come with me you,” the leader said. Agathias Psoes looked a question at Skylitzes, who nodded.
    “How do the barbarians come by villages?” Gorgidas asked, Olbiop being safely out of earshot. “I thought they were all nomads, forever following their flocks.”
    Skylitzes shrugged. “Once Videssos held more of the steppe than Prista alone, and planted colonies of farmers on it. Some linger, as serfs to the plainsmen. In time, I suppose, they will die out or become wanderers themselves. Already most of them have forgotten Phos.”
    They reached the farming village not long before sunset. Olbiop led them straight through its unkempt fields, trampling the green young wheatstalks with lordly indifference. Gorgidas saw other similar swathes and wondered how the villagers raised enough of their crop to live.
    Yapping dogs met the incomers at the edge of the village. Already they had passed crumbling buildings which said it had once been larger. One of the Khamorth shot an arrow at a particularly noisy hound. He grazed it in the leg. It fled, yelping shrilly, while the plainsman’s comrades shouted at him. “They mock him for nearly missing,” Skylitzes explained, anticipating Gorgidas’ question.
    “Headman!” Olbiop bellowed in Videssian as he rode down the grass-filled central street. He followed it with a stream of abuse in his own language.
    An elderly man in rough, colorless homespun emerged from one of the dilapidated houses. The rest of the villagers stayed out of sight, from long experience with their