Ghost Warrior by Gav Thorpe

Author:Gav Thorpe [Thorpe, Gav]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Black Library
Published: 2017-08-30T12:31:46+00:00

Chapter 17

Thus Spake Zaisuthrans

A picture is a poem of a thousand verses, claims the wisdom of the ancient philosophers. In that regard, the meeting between the delegations on the broad balcony of the manse spoke a long ode to discomfort, distrust and disdain, via lyric diversions to mutual antagonism, secret agendas and simple clash of personalities.

It was more than negotiation, it was war by body language. To the casual observer it appeared as a polite but heated discourse. To the informed observer it was a series of salients and thrusts, counter-offensives and hapless slaughter. The aeldari are a people ever given to the most subtle of non-verbal communications and the least subtle of interpretations. They offer little offence but take much.

A glance, a tilt of the head, a pause of a half-breath carried the same weight as a flat denial or soliloquy. Every measured sip of wine, each shift of posture, the merest change of intonation signalled a thunderous charge or terrified rout; a surprise flank attack could be initiated by a blink and an untimely cough might bring about utter capitulation.

Imagine the scene:

Two groups, seated for the most part though occasionally they stood, paced, or otherwise displayed patience, frustration and irritability in the cycle of never-ending debate.

On the one side, the Ynnari and Iyandeni. The tables before them held platters of barely touched food, their goblets of crystal clear water, fruit juices and aromatic spiced wine equally neglected.

Yvraine sat like a queen among a court, resplendent in full aristocratic attire, immaculately coiffured and arranged with her war fan held lightly in her lap. She feigned the appearance of a doll, but none present were deluded enough to believe the facade. Her lips formed a tight line when not speaking, her eyes alert for the slightest gesture or expression that would expose the intent of those opposite before it was made plain in word or deed. Even if not for this telltale sharpness of demeanour, the psychic purring of the blade beside her chair betrayed that she was anything but an animated figurine.

The Visarch stood at her shoulder, a splash of blood against the grey and pastel blue of the surrounds, unmoving and silent. For the entirety of the conclave he had remained static and unspeaking, not the slightest tremor or reaction to anything that was said or done. Yet for all his immobility there was a latent energy in him, of a storm behind a door that could be opened on a whim. So utterly without involvement had he been that it was hard not to study him, waiting for the moment for his opinion to be unleashed with all the fury of an artillery bombardment and full aerial assault.

And yet even when Yvraine was hardest pressed he held his tongue, true to his promise made before the talks had begun that he would not act until called upon.

About them sat and stood several of the Ynnari, present to murmur appreciation or damnation as required, and to add an undeniable physical edge to Yvraine’s petition.

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