by Danie Ware
Tense now, he shoved the dice in a pocket, and sat up. The first rays of the dawn were just touching the tops of the pillars, making them flare like a warning.
More shouting. The marching stopped; there was a scatter of running, then the surge and shatter of real violence. A sergeant’s voice whip-cracked across the cold air, feet responded in faster pace, running in hard rhythm. Flames crackled to life. He heard the distinct slide of drawn metal…
A roar of outrage…
Screaming.
Proteus froze.
But the battle was brief, shockingly one-sided. He followed its progress, the outrage soon overpowered, the shouting replaced by more orders and by fading cries of pain. He heard the greycoats’ bursts of laughter, and then a series of splashes.
By the hells.
The greycoats were already here, the weapons that followed City Hall’s sharp eyes. Remembering what he’d told Austen about the politics of Vowen harbour – and only days ago – Proteus wondered if its new power had been Claisal, and hence very short-lived. It seemed that, when a Selection was called, even the deniable murk of the wharf was no protection.
Birds rose, crying like children.
He needed to move – and if there were greycoats at the harbour, then the gate-guard would be doubly alert, and he’d need to be careful. Almost ritually, he exhaled, hopes and thoughts and doubts. He cleared his mind completely, counted calmly through to twenty, drew in a long breath…
And, again, he began his day.
*
The summons came with first light.
Caph was agitated. He hadn’t slept or eaten, and he was edgy and sandy-eyed. He’d been pacing his rooms, staring out of the windows as the garden slowly paled, watching the creeping-long fronds of the rising light. There was an old kit-bag in the middle of the floor, laying where he’d filled it and then changed his mind. It slumped there like a dying thing, accusing.
Much as some part of him needed to, he couldn’t just leave. Faced with the reality, he’d realised that there was a whole world of difference between storming out of the house, and fleeing with no intention of coming back. All his stamping and noise, and when it came to it, he was just too damn scared, okay? He had no idea where he’d go, what he’d do – he had no practical skills, only a headful of academic knowledge. He couldn’t as much as busk, for hells’ sakes. He had no idea how he’d feed himself.
City boy.
How long would he last, really? If he left his high tower?
The thought was sharp, cutting through layers of self-protection and denial. It had him seeing himself, his behaviour, in a whole new light. He was trying to understand what had changed, but all too swiftly, long streaks of pink and lavender had striped the clouded sky.
As if warning of the storm to come, the colours of the morning were particularly glorious.
And the storm came early.
The knock on the door was sharp. When Caph opened it, Darrah stood in the shadowed hallway, bearing tea on a shining metal tray. He walked in without an invitation, his amber eyes cold, his topknot flawless, his perfect face completely composed.
‘Your father wishes to see you, sir.’ He put the tea on a side table. ‘As soon as you’ve arisen and bathed.’
Caph had known it was coming, but the rush of nervous tension overtook him anyway. It was always the same – the confrontation, the aggression and control, the war he could never win.
And this time, he was out of both weapons and credibility.
‘Why did you do it?’ The question was bitter, and he didn’t expect an answer.
But Darrah turned and levelled him with a look. The rising sun lit his skin to a gleam. ‘I did think about it, if that helps.’
‘Wrestle your conscience, did you?’ For no reason, Caph realised that Darrah was wearing the same robe that he’d once worn in the moonlit garden, the one that had knotted round both of them in bouts of kissing and tangling limbs. He had no idea if the choice was deliberate.
Darrah answered him, ‘Not for very long.’ His demeanour shifted, back to its professional precision. ‘Now, may I pour you some tea?’
‘Get out.’
Still smiling, Darrah offered him a half-bow, backed out of the room and closed the door. Caph sat down on the bed, fuming. A moment later, he got up again, and hurled the tea tray against the wall.
The tray clattered, ceramics exploded in all directions, tea splashed, steaming. He had a sudden flash-memory of the windblown rubbish at the harbourside, and sat back on the bed, bridge of his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger.
Well done, idiot, he thought, that really helped.
He got up, and he picked up the pieces.
And then, with a certain angry defiance, he dressed in every last stitch of his full household armour. High collar shirt, long waistcoat, the finest embroidered jacket he could find. Metal jewellery at throat and wrists, blue-and-gold sash around his waist. The choice had nothing to do with his personal appearance and everything with the layer of confidence that the garments brought with them – they made him feel taller, and surer of himself.
If he had to face his father, he was going to need it.
When Caph knocked on the door, there was a moment of silence before his father answered, ‘Come in.’ Feeling like he was walking to his own execution, Caph stepped into the room.
Caphen Jularn Kolmarch was waiting for him; stage all set, seated calm behind his desk. His chair was carved wood, high-backed and slightly taller than the chair opposite – but Caph knew that game of old, and he stayed standing.
Around him, the walls were full of family memories – moments of pride and wonder. There was the zanyar, glowing with lost warmth. There was his father’s longsword, sheathed and silent. There was a painting of himself and his sister when they were much smaller – he sort of remembered posing for it. There were Bec’s fencing medals, all three of them, and several of the music scores from his performances. And there were other images, older – his parents on their wedding day, more than forty years before. Layers of ancestors, grandparents and great-grandparents, the history of house Caphen that he’d learned as a child and mostly forgotten. And one of his father, crashing though the finish-line as a champion step-runner, his youthful face and form so like his son’s were now.
The ambition and accomplishment of it all were crushing, walls leaning down to laugh at him with wide mouths full of disappointment and jagged, painted teeth. Despite his armour, the room felt mocking.
‘Sit down.’ His father’s voice was calm, interview rather than interrogation – he was far too sure of himself to pick a fight.
And that thought was more unsettling than ever.
Caph stayed standing.
Kolmarch looked up at him, saying nothing. At well past seventy, he’d lost none of his presence and almost none of his hair – he was stern, lean-faced and all dignity. If Caph’s mother could make him feel like a gawky boy, then his father had always looked like a schoolmaster, and the one that wouldn’t spare the cane.
Caph looked back. The room shrank round them.
At last, Kolmarch said, ‘I understand they released Ganthar.’
Caph blinked – this wasn’t the opening he’d expected. He said guardedly, ‘Yes.’
‘And that he shows little remorse,’ his father said. He tapped his fingertips together, as if thinking it through. ‘I wish I could say I was surprised.’ Kolmarch almost smiled, though it didn’t last long. ‘Perhaps, this time, you’ll consider standing up to him.’ He rejected the whole thing. ‘If you can.’
Stung, Caph said, ‘I’ve told you before.’ His voice cracked, angry, a demand for understanding that had been dismissed so many times. ‘I might as well have tried to fight a rockslide. You know that.’
‘So you’ve said.’ More finger tapping, then, Kolmarch leaned back. His attit
ude was weary, disinterested in excuses. ‘But this is old ground and we have no need to cover it again. Perhaps we can cut, instead, to the chase.’
Caph stood still, feeling played. He knew his father, knew his games – the conversation had been to unsettle him, to put him off-balance and rattle his confidence. To set him up for whatever was coming next…
And it came swiftly.
With no pre-amble, his father said, ‘Where have you been?’
The sheer bluntness of it took Caph aback – he’d expected to have to tiptoe round this. Giving himself time to catch up, he kept his answer short, ‘Out.’
‘Another conquest?’ The question was rhetorical, with a hint of scorn. Kolmarch disliked his son’s sexuality, but he was socially astute enough to keep it to himself. It was always there, though, another layer of disappointment, another way his son had let him down. ‘I understand it was all but dawn by the time you came home.’
Caph inhaled; he had known this was coming, but his father’s mind- and word-games were notorious, and he didn’t know the correct response. He wished he could just tell the truth, about Aden, about the wharf; wished his father would just understand.
Kolmarch surveyed his son, waiting.
But Caph said nothing. Around him, the room was being slowly drowned in sunlight and becoming less and less real. It was almost like he could see other figures, other shadows – they were moving around him in the shining dust--
‘Talmar.’ His father leaned forward again, using his name like a brushstroke, a dark mark through the brightness. ‘Listen to me. Last night, while you were… carousing, house Claisal surrendered to the formal judgment of City Hall. They’ve renounced their holdings and assets. Claisal Danwar herself has been incarcerated, her immediate family is being… held… and their property has been confiscated and is awaiting redistribution. For the first time in four decades, a new Selection has been formally called.’
‘Oh no…’ Caph felt his shoulders sag.
But Kolmarch’s face was dangerous. ‘Talmar, you show woefully poor awareness of the city’s politics, and this is a critical time. If I wish to stand for the place of the new family Elect – and please understand that Caphen is not alone in this wish – I am required to submit a bid. And that bid must reflect our assets, wealth, property, influence, credibility, decency, charity, public opinion… and you – you have nothing to add to this, no success of your own. You’re out of time, Talmar, and you’re out of second chances. This isn’t a game, anymore.’
Caph stared at him, knowing exactly, now, the play that his father was making – there were many named families that were not Elect and could be bidding for the place… and Kolmarch did not intend to lose.
‘So, tell me,’ Kolmarch said, ‘Who is Aden?’
‘Why?’ Caph threw it back at him, refusal and denial and suddenly rising panic. ‘Is he a threat, now?’ He felt caught, like the walls of the room were closing round him, suffocating him with light. This was the point at which he should throw himself to his feet and rage out of the house – again – but this time, it wasn’t that simple.
Checking a sigh, the old man reached into a breast pocket. He dropped on the desk the crumpled piece of paper that bore Aden’s message about the Festival.
‘You’re not leaving this room until you give me answers, Talmar. I take it this ‘Aden’ has no family name?’
‘No.’
‘He’s an artisan, or a performer. Or a… merchant.’ The last word with a curl of dislike. ‘
‘No.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question.’
‘It was a statement, not a question.’
Kolmarch sniffed. Somehow, Caph had scored a point, and they both knew it.
‘Talmar, we imposed the curfew on you for good reason – to help you get back on your feet, and to contribute to this family in a constructive fashion. The fact that you took the very first opportunity to flout the restriction – and that you involved your sister—’
‘She wanted--!’
‘I’ll deal with Bectar separately. You two uniting against the family’s best interests has happened before, and I will not have it. Your behaviour is critical, both of you. The fact that you’ve even dragged her into this—’
‘Into what?’
‘This ‘Aden’ is a dockworker.’
It was deliberate, ice-cold.
Caph snorted. ‘Why ask me, if you already know?’
But his father ignored the barb. ‘Name of all hells, boy, have you lost all sense of discretion? It’s bad enough you pick these… people up… but having them message the house? What did he want? Money?’
‘No!’ The denial was emphatic, to himself as well as his father; it bought Caph a pace forward, fists closed. ‘I didn’t even tell him who I was.’
Not at first.
But Kolmarch didn’t hear or care. ‘And if that’s not enough, you cavort with this dockworker, at a noted public event, where you are seen. And lastly, to add salt to the wound, you drag your sister through your sordid games with you. As if Darrah wasn’t enough!’
Caph was shaking now. ‘Darrah. I’ll wring his bloody neck for him one of these days.’
‘Be careful he doesn’t overpower you as well.’ The words were vicious.
Caph inhaled sharply, stung to the core. He gripped the edge of the desk so hard it made his twisted fingers hurt.
Kolmarch exhaled, steadied himself. ‘Talmar, I apologise, that was out of order. I stood to your defence over Ganthar’s cruelty and would do so again.’ He relaxed, hands resting on the desktop. ‘But this dockworker – this stops, and now. I will not have your – habits – calling this family into disrepute.’
‘How?’ Caph spread his hands, challenging his father. ‘Aden isn’t a criminal. Nor is he a smuggler, a thief, a pirate, a dealer, a gang-member—’
‘How do you know?’
The question caught him. Actually – he didn’t know. All he knew was a handful of funny stories, and a heat that left him shaking, even now.
But that wasn’t the point.
He said, very softly, ‘You don’t get to tell me whom I can see.’
‘I don’t think you understand, Talmar.’ His father’s voice was soft, but absolutely uncompromising. ‘City Hall is everywhere, and the criers and the newssheets would be all too happy to spread any family misdemeanour – this is a delicate business. You will not see this man again.’
Caph blinked. Sudden ice went down his back.
‘What the hells does that mean?’ His heart was really pounding now. ‘Are you threatening--?’
‘That’s enough,’ Kolmarch snapped. ‘Our bid—’
‘And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’ Caph had never been angrier in his life. ‘I’m sick of this family’s hellsdamned prejudice. I’m sick of you judging people on their income. And I’m already sick of the bloody Selection and everything to do with it. You treat me like a child—’
‘Because you act like one.’ His tone was cold. ‘And if you don’t like it, you can leave.’
The baldness of it stopped Caph mid-rant. He stared at his father, bereft of words, not actually believing that the old man would call his bluff like that.
‘Pack a bag, and go,’ Kolmarch said, rising to his feet and perfectly calm. ‘I will not have you compromising everything I’ve worked for. Make your choice, one way or the other. If you choose to leave, I will not pursue you. If you choose to stay, no more will be said on the matter – but you will not be seeing this ‘Aden’ again. Do I make myself clear?’
Caph gaped.
‘And you’ll apologise to your mother.’ Kolmarch’s face was like steel. ‘One way or the other, Talmar. This time, if you walk out, I will not take you back.’
Caph stared at him for a moment, looking for a chink, a flaw, a break in the smooth and let
hal metal of his expression, but there was nothing.
‘One day,’ he said, his voice low, ‘You’ll learn that our name isn’t everything.’
Without another word, he turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.
Back in his own chambers, Caph stood alone, poised on a blade-edge with no idea which way he would fall – or if it would just cut him in half. The broken tea bowl still sat on the side table; the kit-bag still squatted in the centre of the floor. His high shirt collar was itching but he ignored it – he stared at his fingers as if they held some kind of answer.
He knew one thing, clear and cold as a single star – if he left, it had to be for himself. Nothing to do with Aden, or with any nebulous fantasies about the future. If he walked out, he must take full responsibility for his decision and be prepared to face the consequences.
The realisation felt like a breakthrough, like a truth he’d never previously understood.
But though it was equally enticing and terrifying, he didn’t honestly know if he had the courage.
Yet – if he stayed, he would have to face the social sentence. The imprisonment of his name and his rank and his scratchy high shirt collars. The Selection. The constant eyes of bloody City Hall. The ‘decent gentleman’ his mother would choose for him. And the return to his music, to the thing he’d been hiding from for the last two years…
A flash of memories: the screaming and the snapping and the weeks and months of splints. The being helpless, unable to do anything for himself. The humiliation of it all, the acute pain in cold weather. The exercises, stretching and relaxing in a hopeless, pointless effort to regain his dexterity. The first time he’d tried to play, and heard himself, the jarring mess that his skill had become. He’d been so full of himself, as well – two years of success had made him think the city owed him. And he’d thrown a massive sulk – he realised that now.
The understanding made him feel ridiculous.
But… could he play again?
From somewhere, he found he really wanted to – he wanted to beat this, to feel the music back in his blood.
