Cymru - Chapter 26

MADOG

Ta da! Remember that sex scene I took out of chapter 23? I've adapted it! So here you go. One adapted sex scene into harmless pillow talk that only requires a 12a rating, rather than the 18 it had before. My money is still on Jom asking for the original.

The intermittent sounds of happily raised voices filtered in from behind the door, mingling with the husky panting of two people trying to catch their breath and Madog's own heart beat hammering from his chest to his ears. The blindfold around his eyes had completely cut off his vision, making the rest of his senses work overtime; the harness of ropes that Hannibal had wound around his torso and groin tightened with every laboured inhale, making him tremble with over-stimulation, and the feeling of Hannibal's chest against his back and arms holding him close seemed to form the entire world. He shivered as Hannibal's fingers stroked his throat gently. Madog had seriously underestimated the amount of casual affection likely to be given by a Phoenician sailor. It was strange; especially when contrasted with Hannibal's clearly incredible expertise with rope-based kinks. Or there again, perhaps skill with ropes and knots was to be expected from sailors.

"Impressive as that was," Madog said wearily after a few minutes as his heart-rate fell back to normal, "if the ropes don't come off now I shall hate you and have to scream, Hannibal."

"Hmm, yes." Hannibal sounded contented, like a well-fed cat in front of a fire. One hand dropped from around Madog's chest and moved to his back. "I will be as gentle as I can, but you had best brace yourself, perhaps."

"I thought so." Madog willed his reluctant muscles into holding him as still as possible. But it wasn't quite as bad as he'd expected; he'd changed size somewhat since the ropes had gone on, so there was significantly less agonisingly teasing contact. He waited patiently while Hannibal adroitly reversed his handiwork, and removed the harness in considerably less time than it had taken to put it on.

"Do you do that to everyone, then?" Madog asked as Hannibal carefully undid the blindfold. Considerately, he left one hand partially over Madog's eyes, helping him readjust to the light again. "Is this standard practice?"

"With variations." He felt the broad chest behind him rise and fall in a shrug. "It is a creative medium. If I am blessed with a second time with you, I will show you."

Madog blinked. "Shouldn't that be the other way -" he began, and was cut off by Hannibal's snort.

"Riders," he said drily. "Honestly, my friend. I'm unsure of the greater tragedy; that you don't understand, or that you never will."

He removed his hand finally and wrapped his arm back around Madog's ribs and bound arms, lowering him to the bed onto his back as though he were the most precious thing in the world, and kissed him deeply full on the mouth.

"That's an unfair way of ending a conversation," Madog protested when he could. "Especially as I'm still tied up, which I say pointedly with much raising of my eyebrows to give you a hint."

"You look better this way," Hannibal grinned, and laughed as Madog gave him a Wingleader Look.

"I've mentioned I hate you?" he said archly. Hannibal's eyes gleamed.

"Very well," he mock sighed, and rolled Madog gently over onto his stomach, fingers moving to his thigh. "Far be it from me to upset an Alpha Wingleader. Especially since I hear the rest of your Wing out there now, and they would probably come running if you called."

"My Deputy wouldn't," Madog said morosely. "I threatened to drop him off a Landing Tower today, and he bears a grudge over that sort of thing. And anyway, he's an ingrate."

"How unfortunate," Hannibal said mildly. The rope came off and he stretched Madog's leg out carefully for him. "And in a Deputy, too. You must be so disappointed."

"I cry myself to sleep," Madog said solemnly. "And I met the Alpha Wingleader of Casnewydd again today. Her Deputy obeyed her when all she did was knock on the table. Life is so unfair."

"Hmm." Hannibal plucked delicately at the knots holding Madog's other ankle to his thigh. "Awen Masarnen, yes? And... Owain."

"Her acting Deputy," Madog corrected, as his leg was stretched out to join the other. "Adara, at the moment. Do you know every name in the Alpha Wings?"

"Most," Hannibal nodded. He straddled the small of Madog's back elegantly to begin work on his wrists. "As I say, I like Riders. But there are very many names to learn. I know most of the Archipelagan Wings, since we have a lot of trade with them; I know most along the western coasts for much the same reason, especially Aberystwyth and Milford Haven and such. Fewer inland, and only the Leaders in places like Trallwng."

"Wow." Madog thought about that. "How many have you actually met?"

"A few," Hannibal said, pausing in the untying for a second to run an affectionate hand across the swirling blue tattoos on Madog's shoulder. It was disconcerting. "Fewer than I'd like. None from the east, in fact, I've yet to be on a ship on those trade routes. Until you, of course."

Madog glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Really?" he asked, surprised. "So I'm the first you've met from the border?"

"Yes," Hannibal said, his eyes oddly tender as he stroked his fingertips over the scars and tattoos on Madog's back. Madog shivered. "You are the first, my friend."

"You're weird, Hannibal," Madog said, shaking his head. "You have a Rider fetish. No one normal has a Rider fetish."

"You would truly be amazed," Hannibal said quietly, and then shook his head and pulled the last of the rope free. He kept hold of Madog's wrists with one hand, running his fingers along his spine with the other. "You truly would, my friend. People speak of you in lands so far away you haven't heard their names; the winged warriors of Cymru, whose souls are stored in their mountains and who never fear death, and yet who consider themselves less than human."

He unfolded Madog's arms one by one and laid them on the bed beside his head, his movements almost reverential. Madog hesitated, and then rolled over between Hannibal's thighs, looking up at him.

"That's not true," he said quietly. "You're making it sound wrong -"

"It's okay," Hannibal said softly, pressing a finger to Madog's lips. "I know you can't understand. I'll stop."

Outside the window the wind blew the rain in a splatter against the glass, the sea a muted roar at the base of the city walls. The sky had lost all light, the only illumination in the room comming from the softly flickering oil lamps that cast Hannibal's night-dark skin into shades of deeper black. Madog stared up at him, trying to decipher the fond smile, the soft humming of an unfamiliar tune, the affectionate tracing of scar tissue and ink and muscle.

"You're wrong," he said again, unnerved. Hannibal's smile developed an edge of sadness.

"It's okay," he repeated. "I'll stop."

There was another pause. Hannibal's fingers found the streaks of arrow-scars on Madog's arms, apparently oblivious to his mental discomfort. Madog stared.

And finally, he sighed.

"I don't hate you," he said quietly. Hannibal froze for a second, their eyes locked together as the rain tapped at the windows and the shadows danced; and then he leaned down, his smile beaming, and kissed Madog's forehead.

"I know," he whispered.

They stayed like that for a while, Madog with his eyes closed, listening to the combined sound of the rain blowing past outside and Hannibal's quiet, contented humming, feeling the gently moving fingers roving over his body.

"You said you were here for the Archwiliad," Madog murmured finally.

"Yes," Hannibal agreed. "Hopefully, anyway. If we are chosen. It would be a great honour."

"Hmm." Madog smiled. "You'd get to go to the Union. Lots of Riders."

"Yes." He could hear the happiness and longing in Hannibal's voice. "A dream come true! I rather feel I could die happy then. But, we shall see. We are... what is the expression? An outside chance."

"Why?" Madog asked lazily. Hannibal's fingers were running along his collar bones, and for such a simple gesture it felt amazing.

"Only one group is ever chosen from each... nation, or group of nations, represented." The palms of his hands came into play, and Madog resisted the urge to arch like a cat. "The Union chooses based on a few factors; chiefly among them, which questions it feels it most needs to answer, and how much support each group has from back home, which represents their political importance. And we are neither Carthaginian nor Tyrian. We are Numibian, which is not a central part of Phoenicia."

"I've never paid all that much attention to the Audiences," Madog admitted. Hannibal chuckled.

"Of course not, my friend!" he said merrily. "They are of little concern to Riders. Yours is to be involved with Cymru herself, and her internal dealings. The Audiences are foreign, and not a threat. It is understandable."

"What will you ask for, if you can?" Madog asked. Hannibal snorted.

"Trading things," he said wryly. "As a Phoenician it occupies my whole world! I could explain, but I am unconvinced you want full details."

"What do the others want?" Madog asked, opening his eyes. "Surely they -?"

"Trade as well, yes," Hannibal said, cautiously. "But... of nothing that I approve of. Something you may not realise, my friend, is that many Phoenician trading companies still deal in slaves."

"Seriously?" Madog stared at him. "Slaves?"

"Yes," Hannibal sighed. "So, obviously, it is generally the case that the Union chooses to grant these groups an Audience, in order to publically deny them."

They lapsed into silence again, contented and quiet. Despite Madog's tiredness Hannibal was showing no signs of flagging, apparently absorbed in following the dark, swirling tattoos over Madog's skin, and the scar tissues that lay beneath. Oddly, he seemed equally fascinated by both, which Madog wasn't entirely sure how to take. Who the hell liked looking at scar tissue? Battle tattoos were beautiful, yes, but... scars?

"I don't understand you," he said eventually. His speech slurred slightly as sleep snatched at him. Hannibal sighed, a touch sadly, Madog felt.

"No, I know," he said, and there was definitely a melancholic edge there. "You won't, either. You can't, my friend. You're truly incapable of it. The one weakness of the Riders is understanding yourselves. You're so used to never considering yourselves that you forget how."

"That's not a weakness," Madog said.

"Everyone has a breaking point, my friend," Hannibal murmured. "Everyone. But you'd never notice yourself reaching yours."

"I wouldn't need to." Madog stretched, his arms above his head. Given that a large Phoenician man was sitting on his stomach he was surprisingly comfortable. "That's why we're in Wings. They'd notice. Dylan would definitely notice."

"That's fine, then," Hannibal said wryly. "And it only leaves the problem you're currently facing, my friend, which is that you don't understand my really very simple motivations."

"You won't explain them," Madog protested, aware that he sounded slightly sullen. Hannibal smirked.

"I believe you'll find that I did," he said. "You just didn't accept them."

"You know," Madog said, opening his eyes and giving Hannibal a mock glare, "I was in that tavern and trying to get drunk so that I didn't have to think about stuff that was making me uncomfortable."

"So you were," Hannibal smiled, trailing a finger almost lovingly across the long-healed scar on Madog's forehead. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Love to," Madog muttered. "Except I can't really. I just..."

He trailed off, watching the shadows nudge and whisper their way across the ceiling. How on earth could he explain it? How did he put it into words? He felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under his feet. He felt like he'd spent forty years mastering an incredibly important job only to find out he'd been doing it wrong. He felt like the only reason he'd gotten away with it was because his Deputy had been clever enough to pick up the pieces...

... and even as he thought it, something that had been nagging at Madog's subconscious for a few hours now sidled into the forefront of his mind.

Why had Dylan never told him?

Madog stared, unseeing, at Hannibal's calmly contented face. It was such a small thing, and with anyone else, any other Rider in the Wing, he wouldn't have stopped to question it. After all, in a manner of speaking, Dylan had been telling him for years; he'd never made any secret of his conveniently helpful information, or his theories on events, or his, thinking about it, uncannily good sense of whom to trust with what information...

Wow. Exactly how much had Madog missed, here?

"Are you well, my friend?" Hannibal trailed his fingers down Madog's temples, looking faintly concerned. "Something bothers you, I see."

"I think," Madog said carefully, "that I've made a serious misjudgement of someone."

Because with anyone else in the Wing, this would have been enough. But not Dylan. Dylan always, without fail, told him if he thought Madog was being a tit about something. He wasn't shy about it. He saw it as a privilege of being a Deputy. And if he genuinely thought that someone in the Wing needed to covertly learn political information... Dylan just wasn't arrogant enough to take that on by himself while never telling Madog. Even if he honestly thought he'd be better at it - which, clearly, he was - he would have said. Even if he did genuinely believe that it was necessary for Madog to act as though the world was all beautifully and neatly black and white - he would have said.

"Of anyone important?" Hannibal asked seriously.

"Very," Madog murmured, almost wonderingly.

You don't seem to realise that being a Rider is about more than you, Madog.

The words echoed back to him, Dylan's suddenly furious expression anchoring his usually wandering eyes to Madog's inside his head.

You've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else.

He'd been angry. Genuinely, fully angry. Dylan had never been angry with him before. In fact, he'd never been that angry at anything as far as Madog could remember. Even the gods damned border warnings coming late hadn't made him that angry.

Above him Hannibal had gone quiet, his nimble fingers lightly massaging the muscles on Madog's chest, apparently giving him room to think. Madog appreciated it.

Leader Awen is gifted with being able to see the bigger picture.

Dylan had been angry in Awen's defence. He'd been getting testy until that point, but that had been what made him snap. Defending Awen, for playing the same role that he did. To him, he'd been defending himself.

"Oh, shit," Madog muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing at them with his fingers as he tried to think. They had the same role. Assume that assertion was correct, and where did it lead? Well; Dylan's main skill set was his ability to gain information, and his suspiciously strong talent for picking the right people to trust. Now that Madog thought about it, that usually meant which Riders to trust. Only yesterday, in fact, when they'd only just met her he'd picked Aerona -

- who was remarkably happy to be running round the country diving head-first into conspiracies that, given her rank as a tutor, had nothing to do with her. Who had, in fact, apparently tracked down Awen to Aberystwyth just to tell her in person about the border warnings. Whom Dylan had blithely suggested as a good candidate for garnering all evidence on Gwenda's ill-deeds, on the grounds that "she'd be able to amass more than us".

Adara? No. Adara hadn't known about Flyn's plans. Awen had kept it from her. Madog had got the impression she'd kept it from Owain, too. Awen had, apparently, told none of her Wing about their Sovereign's evil schemes. But she'd told Aerona, and Dylan and Madog, Riders who weren't even from her City, in Lord Gwilym's meeting room; something she wouldn't tell her own Wing, but merrily let them in on after only that brief hesitation -

- in which she'd looked at Dylan.

You've got this idealistic idea as to what being a Rider is. You're wrong, Madog. Being a Rider is about being whatever this country needs. There's nothing else.

There was authority behind those words. That wasn't a snapped, angry come-back. That was a deeply held, ingrained belief. Madog recognised those. The Union was very good at instilling them.

"Our time is over, isn't it?" Hannibal asked softly. Madog blinked, looking up at him.

"What?" he asked, as his brain ran to catch up. "No."

In one smooth movement he reached up and rolled, and in barely the time it took to blink he was on all fours over Hannibal, who was lying on his back, grinning from ear to ear and idly stroking his chest where Madog's beads were now resting.

"No," Madog repeated. "It's... well, I've just worked out something potentially massive that I absolutely in no way can tell you about, but... it can also absolutely wait until the morning." After all, Dylan had been doing this for years. Years and years. And clearly to the benefit of all. Madog was only going to be chasing this up for his own peace of mind, and that could wait for a few hours. He wouldn't have Hannibal for much longer than that.

"Stay?" he asked, his voice sounding slightly more pleading than he'd intended. Hannibal gave him one of his addictively tender smiles and carefully caught the beads in one fist, making Madog catch his breath. In Rider terms it was a startlingly intimate gesture; but obviously, Hannibal knew it.

"Of course," he agreed softly, and Madog kissed him as deeply as he was able.

**********

"Ooh, you did well last night." Dylan's voice chirped brightly, lancing through Madog's happily sleeping mind and hauling him unceremonially back to the land of the waking. Madog groaned.

"One day, Dylan," he murmured, not opening his eyes, "you will either learn not to waltz into my bedroom when I've expressly told you not to the night before or I shall throw you out of the window."

"But who would you cry to then?" Dylan quipped back. "Hello. I'm Dylan. If you tell me Madog's really bad in bed I'll pay you."

"Oh good gods," Madog muttered. Beside him, Hannibal laughed his incredibly deep laugh and tightened his arms around Madog's torso beneath the blankets.

"I'm afraid you cannot tempt me, my friend," he said, mercifully amused. "For one thing I must give him top marks, and for quite another I am Phoenician. I am already rich."

"No you aren't," Dylan said indifferently. "Because that's a stereotype, and my mam always told me not to believe stereotypes."

"You don't even know who your mother is," Madog said wearily.

"That hurts, dude," Dylan sniffed. "Nor do you. Hey, if you're rich and that stereotype is true, are you also staggeringly well-hung?"

Madog's eyes slammed open.

"Would you like to see?" Hannibal purred, and Dylan laughed from - Madog's eyes narrowed - his crouched perch on the nightstand.

"I like it," Dylan grinned. "You should come again! Which you ought to have if Madog's genuinely as good as you say, anyway."

"I hate you," Madog sighed. "Why, that's all I want to know. Why was I given you? You're an ingrate. Didn't I say he was an ingrate?"

"You did," Hannibal said, his thumb stroking Madog's hipbone. He tried not to shudder.

"Well so's your mam," Dylan said decisively. "And since you don't know her I could very well be right. Can we go now? I don't like cormorants. They look like they want a hug."

"And he just gabbles." Madog propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Hannibal's merry face. "Do you see that? Starts on one topic and finishes on another. Get out, Dylan. And we're going nowhere before breakfast."

"Yeah, I wonder what yours will be," Dylan smirked, and leapt nimbly off the nightstand as Madog threw a pillow at him. "Fine. Caeron owes me a beer, anyway."

He left, making a point of shutting the door behind him, and Madog sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm so sorry. Even I can't take him this early in the morning. No one should have to be confronted with that."

"I like Riders," Hannibal shrugged, his easy smile firmly in place. The grey morning light filtering in through the small window dulled the gold in his nose and ears, but somehow made his skin seem even deeper than it had in the shadows the previous evening. "This definitely includes interactions. And I've never been part of a Wingleader and Deputy interacting before! It is a privilege, my friend."

"You're bloody weird, Hannibal," Madog said, shaking his head. "You see, I thought you were anyway, what with your Rider fetish, but no one sane and normal considers Dylan a privilege. And gods, please don't judge all Wingleader/Deputy interactions on that. Everyone else has intelligent professionalism."

He sat up, kneeling on his heels in much the same position as Hannibal had tied him in the night before, and stretched. Hannibal grinned.

"You mean you are not sold on his exuberant sense of humour?" he asked, trailing his fingers up Madog's knee, and laughed at the look he received. "I see not. Still; he has good ideas..."

Madog froze as Hannibal's hand moved abruptly higher.

"Ah," he said. "Yes, well, it's his first..."

Well, he was the Wingleader. They could spare an hour or so.

********

"Good job it's Marged now, you know," Dylan shouted across to him over the wind as they swept down towards Caerleuad. "She won't mind the rope burns."

"I don't have any rope burns, you pleb," Madog shouted back. "Shut up or I'll stab you."

"You and your threats, Madog," Dylan called. "I'm just happy my little boy is growing up."

"Hey, Lady Marged is waving at us!" Glesni shouted, and Madog squinted down at the runway of the Landing Tower. Sure enough, the small figure of Lady Marged was bouncing up and down excitedly, waving both arms enthusiastically. Madog shook his head.

"Sovereigns," he muttered, waving back. It seemed to excite her all the more; by the time they swept in to land Lady Marged was positively bouncing on her heels still, clapping her hands and grinning one of the most infectious grins Madog had ever seen. And if nothing else, you could say this for Lady Marged: unlike Gwenda, you knew that when she put on a welcoming party it was because she was genuinely thrilled at your arrival. There was none of Tregwylan's excessively and unrealistically cleaned splendour, none of its incredulous polish. The area he could see through the Landing Tower archway was neat but functional, straw swept to the sides but floor unscrubbed, the odd cobweb in the rafters full of dust. There was, however, a quintet of bards playing a merry jig and a slightly bemused-looking man with a tray of buttered honey-bread. Madog knew which approach he prefered.

And, of course, there was the Sovereign herself. He was quite willing to bet that she had the usual spring of some flowers or other wrapped around her torque, but he couldn't tell just yet on the grounds that she was wearing half a scarf over the top. Only half, because she seemed to still be knitting it; currently she'd stored the loaded knitting needles in her cleavage in order to clap, while a cheerful stable hand was holding her ball of wool for her.

As Calon's hooves landed neatly on the runway carpet - a green carpet here, of course - Lady Marged stepped forward, arms spread joyfully wide.

"Riders!" she said merrily. "Welcome to Caerleuad! Ooh, exciting, isn't it? Only a day or so to go!"

"That little already?" Madog smiled in spite of himself. "Time flies. I'm -"

"Madog, I remember, of course!" Lady Marged put out a hand hopefully and Calon nuzzled it; from the look on Marged's face it was like she was celebrating her birthday. "Oh, lovely! She's so beautiful. As are you all, of course. Come in! And there's bread for you."

"Thank you, Sovereign," Madog grinned, and in the general shuffling aside of bards, servants and stable hands a space was made for them all to ride in. Unsurprisingly, Lady Marged followed next to him, followed by her wool-holder. She ran a hand down Calon's neck.

"Beautiful, she is," she repeated happily. "What's her name? How old is she?"

"Calon," Madog answered. Calon whickered beneath him. "And... about thirteen now, I think. We've had two foals from her, and they're both active now, so that makes sense."

"How lovely!" Marged beamed. "Riders aren't good at counting years, I find. What are her foals like?"

Madog turned in the saddle as a stable hand drew him to a halt and began undoing the flying harness.

"Three merod back, the gelding by the pitchforks, just folding his wings. See him? He was her first."

"And he's in the same Wing!" Marged said happily. "Clever mare! Can I do this side?"

"I'd be honoured, Sovereign," Madog said pleasantly as the stable hand moved to Lady Marged's side to show her how with a resigned expression. Clearly, he'd been expecting it.

It didn't take long; the harnesses were designed to be easily put on and removed in a hurry, and so basically comprised a few clips on each side attaching Rider to meraden. Once Madog was down Lady Marged wanted to see how the harness came off the meraden on the ground, so he ended up spending a few minutes leaning against the stable door eating a slice of the honey bread while Calon chewed at a hay net happily and completely ignored the Sovereign and the stable hand very slowly removing her harness.

"Hey loser," Dylan's voice said companionably in his ear. Madog glanced back at him. He was leaning his forearms along the top of the door diffidently, watching the proceedings with Bronwen and Caeron standing just behind him, all with obligatory slices of bread.

"Everyone done?" Madog asked. Bronwen grinned.

"Yeah, but we have bread, so it's good," she shrugged. "Oh, and Glesni is pestering one of the bards to play his harp. Doing well, there, Sovereign!" she added. Lady Marged beamed.

"Such fun!" she giggled. "Maybe if I retire as Sovereign I'll become a stable hand. She's so lovely, Leader!"

"She is," Madog agreed with absent affection. Calon's head turned in his direction, looking at him for a moment with her gentle eyes, before turning back to her hay net. Madog glanced back at Dylan. "Are you all set? Flying leathers fine, harness unbroken, brain as present as it's ever going to be?"

"Moreso than yours," Dylan retorted as Marged giggled. "But as it goes, they did an awful job in Tregwylan, so no, I need to re-wax my flying leathers."

"That's a shame," Lady Marged said sincerely as she unclipped the final strap holding the harness behind Calon's wings. "There's cake, you know."

"Oh, Sovereign, you temptress," Dylan grinned as Marged giggled. "How well you know the way to my otherwise manly and stony heart. But sadly, no. Madog?"

"Sod off, then," Madog told him, jerking his head over his shoulder. "Know that you're a disgrace to all, go on."

"You're a loser," Dylan told him indifferently. "Later."

He pushed himself off the door and wandered away past Menna, who promptly moved in to take his place. Madog looked at her.

"What," he asked, "no complaints this time? No requests to join him?"

"Nah." Menna settled down, contentedly watching Lady Marged slowly sliding the harness up and over Calon's head and neck. "I'm in it for the cake."

*********

"... proper trade links with Alba," Lady Marged was saying an hour and a half later, still knitting her scarf. Caeron was now holding her wool. "Because Alba and Erinn are getting along nicely, and I think that's lovely. Also the Erinnish exchange rate is nice right now. And Alba likes to buy our dyes; they like to use it in Fortriu, apparently. Although they do keep asking me to ask the Union to sell merod."

She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, oblivious to the nine wide-eyed stares she was getting around the table, and then shook her head.

"But they're good sorts if you pay that no mind," she said merrily. "I wonder if Gwilym's relatives ask him the same thing? Probably not, though, I hear his uncle is a bit crazy. People say that about me! Anyway, where were we?"

"Alba keep asking you to ask the Union to sell merod?" Madog repeated, and Lady Marged shook a hand dismissively.

"Oh, and Erinn, and Phoenicia, and Celtiberia... the list goes on!" She knitted a few more stitches. "Celtiberia regularly ask me how much I'd charge for mercenary Riders, actually. And the Graeco-Egyptians keep asking how much I charge just for Riders; they don't distinguish you from slaves, you see. Bless them."

Phoenicia. Ha. The trading that Hannibal disapproved of; no wonder he didn't think he'd get granted the Phoenician Audience.

"How long have -?" Madog started, but she waved a knitting needle again, making Caeron leap forward with the wool and Glesni dodge hastily.

"Oh, years and years!" she said merrily. "It's all you get as a Sovereign if you agree to meet envoys. Any country with a war on will ask."

"All Sovereigns?" Madog asked, his head spinning. "Really? Has anyone told the Union?"

"We don't like to, really," Marged said thoughtfully. "They might be offended, and anyway, we all say no. We don't have the power to agree to any of it, after all. Except asking the Union, and they clearly wouldn't agree. Oh, maybe they should know, though. Well, there. I've told you. Now you can tell them. Really nice, these cakes are, I should have them again."

No one met each other's eye. Bronwen was staring at the table top with the intense expression that meant she was trying not to laugh. Beside Madog Glesni's breathing was just audible as trembling slightly. Caeron was studying the wool in his hands, fighting the quirking muscle in the corner of his mouth. Madog took a deep breath, and hoped to every god listening that Marged would speak first.

Mercifully, she did.

"Anyway, where were we?" she said happily. "Oh, yes. Better protected trade routes through Cymric waters. It won't be anything fancy, don't worry, and I only think through our waters, not the whole route. But I think we could work out a good system, especially along the Archipelago. Might take some negotiation, mind. What else? Let's see..."

She looked down at the dossier in front of her, trailing the points of her needles down it.

"Another holiday!" Lady Marged said brightly. "I do love them so."

And this, Madog reflected, was Flyn's scape-goat for evil. The world had never felt more insane.