“I thought there were just three types of rings,” I said.
“That’s true for the most part,” Bredon said. “But the giving of rings goes back quite a ways. The common folk were doing it long before it became a game for the gentry. And while Stapes may breathe the rarified air with the rest of us, his family is undeniably common.”
Bredon set the white ring back onto the board and folded his hands over it. “Those rings were made of things ordinary folk might find easily at hand. A young lover might give a ring of new green grass to someone he was courting. A ring of leather promises service. And so on.”
“And a ring of horn?”
“A ring of horn shows enmity,” Bredon said. “Powerful and lasting enmity.”
“Ah,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “I see.”
Bredon smiled and held the pale ring up to the light. “But this,” he said, “is not horn. The grain is wrong, and Stapes would never give a horn ring alongside a silver one.” He shook his head. “No. Unless I miss my guess, this is a ring of bone.” He handed it to me.
“Wonderful,” I said glumly, turning it over in my hands. “And that means what? That he’ll stab me in the liver and push me down a dry well?”
Bredon gave me his wide, warm smile. “A ring of bone indicates a profound and lasting debt.”
“I see.” I rubbed it between my fingers. “I have to say I prefer being owed a favor.”
“Not just a favor,” Bredon said. “Traditionally, a ring such as this is carved from the bone of a deceased family member.” He raised an eyebrow. “And while I doubt that is currently the case, it does get the point across.”
I looked up, still slightly dazed by it all. “And that is. . . ?”
“That these things are not given lightly. It’s not a part of games the gentry play, and not the sort of ring you should display.” He gave me a look. “If I were you, I’d tuck it safe away.”
I put it carefully into my pocket. “You’ve been such help,” I said. “I wish I could repay—”
He held up a hand, cutting me off midsentence. Then, moving with solemn care, he pointed one finger downward, made a fist, and rapped a knuckle on the surface of the tak board.
I smiled and brought out the stones.
“I think I’m finally getting my teeth into the game,” I said an hour later after losing by the narrowest of margins.
Bredon pushed his chair away from the table with an expression of distaste. “No,” he said. “Quite the opposite. You have the basics, but you’re missing the whole point.”
I began to sort out the stones. “The point is that I’m finally close to beating you after all this time.”
“No,” Bredon said. “That’s not it at all. Tak is a subtle game. That’s the reason I have such trouble finding people who can play it. Right now you are stomping about like a thug. If anything you’re worse than you were two days ago.”
“Admit it,” I said. “I nearly had you that last time.”
He merely scowled and pointed imperiously to the table.
I set to it with a will, smiling and humming, sure that today I would finally beat him.
But nothing could be further from the truth. Bredon set his stones ruthlessly, not a breath of hesitation between his moves. He tore me apart as easily as you rip a sheet of paper in half.
The game was over so quickly it left me breathless.
“Again,” Bredon said, a note of command in his voice I’d never heard before.
I tried to rally, but the next game was worse. I felt like a puppy fighting a wolf. No. I was a mouse at the mercy of an owl. There was not even the pretence of a fight. All I could do was run.
But I couldn’t run fast enough. This game was over sooner than the last.
“Again,” he demanded.
And we played again. This time, I was not even a living thing. Bredon was calm and dispassionate as a butcher with a boning knife. The game lasted about the length of time it takes to gut and bone a chicken.
At the end of it Bredon frowned and shook his hands briskly to both sides of the board, as if he had just washed them and was trying to flick them dry.
“Fine,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I take your point. You’ve been going easy on me.”
“No,” Bredon said with a grim look. “That is far gone from the point I am trying to make.”
“What then?”
“I am trying to make you understand the game,” he said. “The entire game, not just the fiddling about with stones. The point is not to play as tight as you can. The point is to be bold. To be dangerous. Be elegant.”
He tapped the board with two fingers. “Any man that’s half awake can spot a trap that’s laid for him. But to stride in boldly with a plan to turn it on its ear, that is a marvelous thing.” He smiled without any of the grimness leaving his face. “To set a trap and know someone will come in wary, ready with a trick of their own, then beat them. That is twice marvelous.”
Bredon’s expression softened, and his voice became almost like an entreaty. “Tak reflects the subtle turning of the world. It is a mirror we hold to life. No one wins a dance, boy. The point of dancing is the motion that a body makes. A well-played game of tak reveals the moving of a mind. There is a beauty to these things for those with eyes to see it.”
He gestured at the brief and brutal lay of stones between us. “Look at that. Why would I ever want to win a game such as this?”
I looked down at the board. “The point isn’t to win?” I asked.
“The point,” Bredon said grandly, “is to play a beautiful game.” He lifted his hands and shrugged, his face breaking into a beatific smile. “Why would I want to win anything other than a beautiful game?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Within Easy Reach
LATER THAT EVENING I sat alone in what I guessed might be my drawing room. Or perhaps my sitting room. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was.
I was surprised to find I liked my new rooms quite a lot. Not for the extra space. Not because they had a better view of the garden. Not because the inlay in the marble floor was more pleasing to the eye. Not even because the room had its own exceptionally well-stocked wine cabinet, though that was quite pleasant.
No. My new rooms were preferable because they had several cushioned, armless chairs that were perfect for playing my lute. It’s uncomfortable to play for any length of time in a chair with armrests. In my previous room, I’d usually ended up sitting on the floor.
I decided to dub the room with the good chairs my lutery. Or perhaps my performatory. I would need a while to come up with something suitably pretentious.
Needless to say, I was pleased by the recent turn of events. By way of celebration, I opened a bottle of fine, dark Feloran wine, relaxed, and brought out my lute.
I started quick and tripping, playing my way through “Tintatatornin” to limber up my fingers. Then I played sweet and easy for a time, slowly growing reacquainted with my lute. By the time I’d played for about half a bottle, I had my feet up and my music was mellow and content as a cat in a sunbeam.
That’s when I heard the noise behind me. I stopped in a jangle of notes and sprang to my feet, expecting Caudicus, or the guards, or some other deadly trouble.
What I found was the Maer, smiling an embarrassed smile, like a child that’s just played a joke. “I trust your new rooms are to your satisfaction?”
I collected myself and made a small bow. “It’s rather much for the likes of me, your grace.”
“It’s rather little, considering my debt to you,” Alveron said. He sat on a nearby couch and made a gracious gesture indicating I should feel free to take a seat myself. “What was that you were playing just now?”
I returned to my chair. “It wasn’t really a proper song, your grace. I was just playing.”
The Maer raised an eyebrow. “It was of your own devising?” I nodded, and he motioned to me. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Please, c
ontinue.”
“What would you like to hear, your grace?”
“I have it on good report that Meluan Lackless is fond of music and sweet words,” he said. “Something along those lines.”
“There are many types of sweet, your grace,” I said. I played the opening to “Violet Bide.” The notes rang out light and sweet and sad. Then I changed to “The Lay of Savien,” my fingers moving quickly through the complex chording, making it sound every bit as hard as it was.
Alveron nodded to himself, his expression growing more satisfied as he listened. “And you can compose as well?”
I nodded easily. “I can, your grace. Though it takes time to do such things properly.”
“How much time?”
I shrugged. “A day or two, or three. Depending on the sort of song you desire. Letters are easier.”
The Maer leaned forward. “It pleases me that Threpe’s praise was not exaggerated,” he said. “I will admit I moved you to these rooms with more than gratitude in mind. A passage connects them to my own rooms.We will need to meet frequently in order to discuss my courting.”
“It should prove most convenient, your grace,” I said, then chose my next words carefully. “I’ve learned her family’s history, but that will only go so far toward courting a woman.”
Alveron chuckled. “You must take me for a fool,” he said gently. “I know you’ll need to meet her. She will be here in two days, visiting with a host of other nobility. I have declared a month of festivities to celebrate the passing of my long illness.”
“Clever,” I complimented him.
He shrugged. “I’ll arrange something to bring the two of you together early on. Is there anything you require for the practice of your art?”
“A goodly amount of paper should suffice, your grace. Ink and pens.”
“Nothing more than that? I’ve heard tell of poets who need certain extravagancies to aid them in their composition.” He made an inarticulate gesture. “A specific type of drink or scenery? I’ve heard of a poet, quite famous in Renere, who has a trunk of rotting apples he keeps close at hand. Whenever his inspiration fails him, he opens it and breathes the fumes they emit.”
I laughed. “I am a musician, your grace. Leave the poets to their superstitious bone rattling. All I need is my instrument, two good hands, and a knowledge of my subject.”
The idea seemed to trouble Alveron. “Nothing to aid your inspiration?”
“I would have your leave to freely wander the estates and Severen-Low according to my will, your grace.”
“Of course.”
I gave an easy shrug. “In that case, I have everything I need for inspiration within easy reach.”
I had barely set foot on Tinnery Street when I saw her. With all the fruitless searching I had done over the last several months, it seemed odd that I should find her so easily now.
Denna moved through the crowd with slow grace. Not the stiffness that passes for grace in courtly settings, but a natural leisure of movement. A cat does not think of stretching, it stretches. But a tree does not even do this. A tree simply sways without the effort of moving itself. That is how she moved.
I caught up to her as quickly as I could without attracting her attention. “Excuse me, miss?”
She turned. Her face brightened at the sight of me. “Yes?”
“I would never normally approach a woman in this way, but I couldn’t help but notice that you have the eyes of a lady I was once desperately in love with.”
“What a shame to love only once,” she said, showing her white teeth in a wicked smile. “I’ve heard some men can manage twice or even more.”
I ignored her gibe. “I am only a fool once. Never will I love again.”
Her expression turned soft and she laid her hand lightly on my arm. “You poor man! She must have hurt you terribly.”
“’Struth, she wounded me more ways than one.”
“But such things are to be expected,” she said matter-of-factly. “How could a woman help but love a man so striking as yourself?”
“I know not,” I said modestly. “But I think she must not, for she caught me with an easy smile, then stole away without a word. Like dew in dawn’s pale light.”
“Like a dream upon waking,” Denna added with a smile.
“Like a faerie maiden slipping through the trees.”
Denna was silent for a moment. “She must have been wondrous indeed, to catch you so entire,” she said, looking at me with serious eyes.
“She was beyond compare.”
“Oh come now.” Her manner changed to jovial. “We all know that when the lights are out all women are the same height!” She gave a rough chuckle and ribbed me knowingly with an elbow.
“Not true,” I said with firm conviction.
“Well,” she said slowly. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” She looked back up at me. “Perhaps in time you can convince me.”
I looked into the deep brown of her eyes. “That has ever been my hope.”
Denna smiled and my heart stepped sideways in my chest. “Maintain it.” She slid her arm inside the curve of mine and fell into step beside me. “For without hope what do any of us have?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Telling Faces
I SPENT A FAIR PORTION of the next two days under Stapes’ tutelage, ensuring I knew the proper etiquette for a formal dinner. I was already familiar with a great deal of it from my early childhood, but I was glad for the review. Customs differ from place to place and year to year, and even small missteps can lead to great embarrassment.
So Stapes conducted a dinner for just the two of us, then informed me of a dozen small but important mistakes I had made. Setting down a dirty utensil was considered crude, for example. That meant it was perfectly acceptable to lick one’s knife clean. In fact, if you didn’t want to dirty your napkin it was the only seemly thing to do.
It was improper to eat the entirety of a piece of bread. Some portion should always be left on the plate, preferably more than crust. The same was true of milk: the final swallow should always remain in the glass.
The next day Stapes staged another dinner and I made more mistakes. Commenting on the food wasn’t rude, but it was rustic. The same was true of smelling the wine. And, apparently, the small soft cheese I’d been served possessed a rind. A rind any civilized person would have recognized as inedible and meant to be pared away.
Barbarian that I am, I had eaten all of it. It had tasted quite nice too. Still, I took note of this fact and resigned myself to throw away half of a perfectly good cheese if it was set in front of me. Such is the price of civilization.
I arrived for the banquet wearing a suit of clothes tailored just for the occasion. The colors were good for me, leaf green and black. There was too much brocade for my taste, but tonight I made a grudging bow to fashion as I would be seated to the left of Meluan Lackless.
Stapes had staged six formal dinners for me in the last three days, and I felt prepared for anything. When I arrived outside the banquet hall, I expected the hardest part of the evening would be feigning interest in the food.
But while I might have been prepared for the meal, I was not prepared for the sight of Meluan Lackless herself. Luckily, my stage training took hold and I moved smoothly through the ritual motion of smiling and offering my arm. She nodded courteously and we made our procession to the table together.
There were tall candelabra with dozens of candles. Engraved silver pitchers held hot water for handbowls and cold water for drinking glasses. Old vases with elaborate floral arrangements sweetened the air. Cornucopia overflowed with polished fruit. Personally, I found it gaudy. But it was traditional, a showcase for the wealth of the host.
I walked the Lady Lackless to the table and held out her chair. I had avoided looking in her direction as we walked the length of the room, but as I helped her into her seat, her profile struck me with such a strong resemblance that I couldn’t help but stare. I kn
ew her, I was certain of it. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember where we might have met. . . .
As I took my seat, I tried to guess where I might have seen her before. If the Lackless lands weren’t a thousand miles away, I would have thought I knew her from the University. But that was ridiculous. The Lackless heir wouldn’t study so far from home.
My eyes wandered over maddeningly familiar features. Might I have met her at the Eolian? That didn’t seem likely. I would have remembered. She was strikingly lovely, with a strong jaw and dark brown eyes. I’m sure if I’d seen her there . . .
“Do you see aught that interests you?” she asked without turning to look at me. Her tone was pleasant, but accusation lay not far beneath the surface.
I had been staring. Hardly a minute at table and I was already putting my elbow in the butter. “I beg your pardon. But I am a keen observer of faces, and yours struck me.”
Meluan turned to look at me, her irritation fading a bit. “Are you a turagior?”
Turagiors claimed to be able to tell your personality or future from your face, eyes, and the shape of your head. Pure-blooded Vintic superstition. “I dabble a bit, m’lady.”
“Really? What does my face tell you then?” She looked up and away from me.
I made a show of looking over Meluan’s features, taking note of her pale skin and artfully curled chestnut hair. Her mouth was full and red without the benefit of any paint. The line of her neck was proud and graceful.
I nodded. “I can see a piece of your future in it, m’lady.”
One of her eyebrows went up a bit. “Do tell.”
“You will be receiving an apology shortly. Forgive my eyes, they flit like the calanthis, place to place. I could not keep them from your fair flower face.”
Meluan smiled, but did not blush. Not immune to flattery, but no stranger to it either. I tucked that bit of information away. “That was a fairly easy fortune to tell,” she said. “See you anything else?”
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