Nobody’s Son

by Sean Stewart

  “I have tried to stave this moment off as fiercely as I could, but the crisis comes upon us soon. You two have work to do, and you must do it.”

  Mark looked at her, mystified. “You may be speaking plain, but I’m not understanding you. I’m working every day, as hard as any other man, right down to humping blocks of stone or chopping firewood.”

  “That is play, my lord. Not work.”

  “Play! You try it for an afternoon!”

  “Boys sweat when they play ball,” Lissa said tartly. “It does not excuse them from lessons. You are Duke of Borders now. The duty of a Duke does not reside in hauling rocks or stoking fires: his obligation is to rule.”

  Mark looked at Gail. “I take it from that guilty face you think she’s right. Very well then: order folk about? I can do that.”

  Lissa smiled. Looks like a cat watching a mouse creep from its hole. “I am so glad you feel that way—my lord.”

  As it turned out, there was much ruling to be done.

  Without Mark really noticing, the camp in the river valley had swollen greatly since they first arrived at April’s end. Many newcomers were workmen, of course, sent by Astin to build Gail’s home. But soon other folk were drifting in as well. Merchants and peddlers, adventurers, tinkers, pilgrims. High-spirited youths who came because they thought it fine to serve the man who broke the Ghostwood’s spell. People so poor and desperate they were willing to leave everything behind and head west in the hope of a better life.

  Most of these pilgrims came with tents, food, and money, but some did not. Master Orrin wanted them sent packing before they interfered with his work, but Mark wouldn’t hear of it. He was a Duke now: a father to the people on his land. It was his job to find them food, and shelter, and hope. His job to protect them.

  “You can’t protect them from everything,” Gail said. “No ruler can do that.”

  But Mark said, “He must try.”

  At first he asked Valerian for advice. “Come on, Val: you’re Somebody’s Son. Tell me about laws and taxes and armies, mayors and tithes and town councils and common land.”

  “…Er, well, this is rather embarrassing,” Val mumbled, “but I really, em, don’t know anything about all that.”

  “Goat’s piss. You know everything. Lord Peridot said it himself.”

  “Lord Peridot, may I remind you, is not famous for his truthfulness.” Valerian squirmed and stroked his beard and blinked. He’s ashamed, Mark realized. Shite and swanpiece. “You see, my lord,—”

  “Mark!”

  “Mark, yes. The issue is I never did…I was not very good at, at all that sort of thing: at governance. It was my father’s shame and cross.” Val forced out a little laugh. “My interests were somehow ever of another star, or in the sky, or growing in the earth. I collected beetles more than taxes, gave out alms more easily than justice. I might perhaps compel myself to think on, on land disputes or fishing rights, but then by imperceptible degrees my thought would shift to the invention of a water-wheel that could lie flat, for instance, instead of standing vertical…” His eyes brightened. “Which reminds me! What a thought I have for Orrin! I saw a perfect place upstream for such a wheel. You see, one need only cut a semi-circle in the bank, like thus—”

  “Val, I’ve two villages worth of souls to care for here, and more coming every day.”

  Valerian stroked his soft beard and fluttered one plump hand. “W-well, you will need a water-wheel eventually,” he said meekly. “This design of mine not only will mill grain, but will drive a bellows too, if executed properly.”

  “Shite.” Mark gave Val a long, hard stare. “So you grew up without a day’s work in your life, and t’only thing you didn’t learn was—”

  “My duty,” Val said softly. “Yes, you have it right. I cannot stand to give an order, force a point, tell another what to do.”

  Mark looked at him with wonder and exasperation and pity all mingled together. For the first time he had an inkling of how Val’s father must have felt.

  But he’s your friend, and you’ve no right to shame him for not knowing what you don’t know either, he thought, clapping Val on the back and leaving him to his water-wheels.

  It’s a pain in the arse, though, and no mistake.

  Well, it isn’t as if you can’t find it in you to order folk around.

  It was thinking of sensible orders to give that was the problem. Lissa was invaluable, of course, but she was used to managing a Princess, not an estate. She too was learning as they went along.

  Mark found he liked ruling. He had always been handy, had always prided himself on being a man who got things done. Though building his duchy from the ground up was a bastard, and each night found him battered into the ground, each morning he woke glad to fight again.

  He sent messengers out into neighbouring counties to announce that he had land to lease. He set the rents low, but with the catch that for the first five years they must be paid in goods or service, not in coin. “We need their backs and arms and crops. Coin’s not much good until the road’s fixed up and we’ve steady trade through here,” he argued, and even Lissa admitted that his plan was sound.

  Lissa was most impressed by how Mark dealt with the Vagabonds, as she called the many young men who had run away from the farming life, and arrived at Borders with nothing but their pride. “You see that?” Mark would ask each lad, waving at his Keep, now busy as an anthill. “Today this place is crawling wi’ masons and glaziers and cabinet-makers and shinglers and who knows what else. The King has lent us a clothier, a dyer, a tanner, four seamstresses, a huntsman, a chef, a tent-maker—even a perfumer, I think.” Here he would meet the young man’s eyes, and make him feel he was being given a special duty. “I want you to help one o’ these men. Stick to him like a leech and suck him dry. Learn everything he’ll teach and spy out what he doesn’t tell you. By Christmas he’ll be back in Swangard, and we’ll have to dye our own cloth, or tan our own leather, or hunt for our own game: and you’ll be in charge of it.”

  It nearly always worked.

  The craftsmen didn’t like it much: ’prentices take more time than they’re worth, as Orrin said, and nobody liked giving out his trade secrets.

  But Mark was the Duke. Which means you have the hammer, he thought with satisfaction. Orrin and his clan can bark and snap, but you hawd the leash and they know it.

  “You are a natural leader,” Gail said simply. “I knew that from the first moment I saw you.”

  “The Princess was quite eloquent that night,” Lissa said. “‘Like a hawk among the songbirds.’ Those were her words.”

  Mark shot a wicked grin at Gail. “And she a fox among hens.”

  It was a fair morning in the middle of June when Deron came trotting down the track toward Borders on a fine white stallion.

  Mark walked up to meet him. “Good God lad, welcome! Any man that hits Lord Peridot is a friend of mine.” He rides easy: good. Wasn’t hurt too bad, then. Though Mark was sure Sir William had gone easy on the lad, Deron had fought long and well, refusing to surrender until his collar-bone was broken. Looks like it healed up well.

  Gravely Deron inclined his head. “My Lord of Borders, thank you for your courtesy. I hope I may redeem it with a minted coin of loyalty, and swear to you my fealty, if your household can withstand the tarnish which a young and unaccomplished knight must bring.”

  Mark smiled. “You’ll tarnish nowt but my pride, Deron: I think I always wanted to be just like you. Get off this bloody beast before he kicks me, will you?”

  “How could you, the hero of the Ghostwood, ever long to be like me?” Deron said, startled.

  “You’ve a quick sword an’ you smell nice,” Mark laughed. “Get down!”

  Deron dismounted and Mark looked him over. Grow out that short blond hair a bit and he could be Lissa’s cousin. About the same age as me; about the same most ways. Except for him being taller, and prettier, and finer, and better able to read and dance and sing: except for those th
ings, you mean?

  Shite.

  “So—what brings you to t’outhouse of the kingdom?”

  Deron blushed, beautifully of course. “I must have great regard for the man who broke the Ghostwood’s spell, my lord. And…and more than this, I cannot help but love the lord who chose to play Janseni’s music at his nuptials, and throw the gauntlet of a ripe disdain between Lord Peridot’s teeth. I am third of my father’s sons; I have no purpose on our estate. Even if I did, our seat is on Duke Richard’s land: a demesne I cannot bear to frequent.”

  Envy twisted in Mark’s gut. Oh aye he’s a gracious son of a bitch. A fighter and a dancer too. Look at him, Shielder’s Mark: you could have been that, if you’d been Somebody’s Son.

  Deron’s blush grew deeper. “And Swangard for me is haunted by unhappy memories.”

  Janseni. Must be. Like snow melting in the sun, Mark’s envy turned to pity. He’s not some young knighted God; just another luckless corked-up whelp running from a broken heart. He loved Janseni and she couldn’t tell him from polecat piss. The same awd story. Poor bugger.

  A shadow crossed Mark’s heart. You might not always feel so superior, Shielder’s Mark. Not if Gail gets tired of her ploughboy and trades you in for summat more her style. If she leaves you it’ll be for just so soft a tongue, for hands just so white.

  “Come on,” Mark growled, feeling like Deron was his friend and enemy and younger brother at once. “Get your beast to Ostler’s Bill, and then we’ll talk.”

  “Deron says we rank just after gall to your father’s taste, and just before goatshit,” Mark said later that night.

  He and Gail had slipped away from the camp, leaving Lissa and Valerian to see about finding Deron a place to sleep. The night was dark, but warm. They sat at the edge of the old bridge, with their feet dangling over the rushing water.

  “There is something magic in a midsummer moon,” Gail said. “Look at it! Hanging over the Ghostwood: so bright it almost hurts your eyes. Ghost clouds too, up there, drifting in a dark purple sky.”

  “He wasn’t fond of me to start with, I guess, but the Janseni business didn’t help, Deron says.”

  “Have you ever noticed how clouds move? Especially on moonlit nights like this. They seem so purposeful, sliding to a destination in another world, always changing shape, and you’re sure what the next shape will be, only it never turns out like you expect, and you think you know where they’re going, but you don’t.”

  A snatch of laughter and a bit of song carried to them from the camp. “And then there’s the bloody ghost. Walks about t’ High Holt in broad daylight these days, Deron says. Tradesmen won’t come up no more. Not that I blame them. The Ghost King’s come back and I brung him: that’s what they say in Swangard now.” Mark took out the black iron dagger and slapped it anxiously against his thigh. The blade was cold.

  Old men on battlements, or staring into ashes.

  Old men’s magic.

  “This mad quest to wake the darkness…”

  “The same moonlight we see here is glinting on the mere around the Red Keep,” Gail whispered. “And beneath the water, something feels the light, and sinks yet farther into darkness.”

  “It’s all dried up,” Mark said shortly. “I told you that. Nowt but a ditch I walked across to get Sweetness.” His mind fell swiftly back to plans, worries, calculations. “Our last night in pavilions; tomorrow the Hall.”

  “O God. Don’t remind me.”

  Eh? “What was that?”

  “This is our last night!” Gail grabbed his arm. “Don’t you understand? After tonight we are trapped inside that mausoleum. The Duke and Duchess of Ghostwood, with valets and footmen and ladies-in-waiting. Then it will be ten times harder to walk alone by the river on a June night, and smell the moonlight in the air. God, Mark, you don’t even see how beautiful this is. This was my fairy tale: my prince and I alone in the summer night, under the stars. I don’t want to give it up.”

  Her grip loosened from his arm.

  He reached to hold her hand. “I’m sorry, Gail. I just got to thinking…”

  “Not about me, that’s certain.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Steady on, lad. Ease up. “There’s been a lot of work to do. And it’s not so easy to think about your wife, when she isn’t really…”

  “Can’t you just think of me as a friend?”

  “Well, no,” Mark said.

  Shite. Get out of here. It’s no good talking love at her. Damned if you end up like Deron. If you babble out your feelings you’ll only make a bad thing worse.

  “I’m in love wi’ you,” he snapped.

  O, great. Very subtle.

  He loved her.

  He had tried to forget that, tried to lose himself in his duchy. But as he spoke the words he suddenly saw how true they were, as if the moonlight showed him a corner of his heart the sunlight never reached. “I loved you the first time I saw you, with a dagger in your belt and laughing like a fox.” Marvellous. That’s it you silly bastard. Pull out your heart and put it in her hand. “I thought we were a story,” he stammered. “I thought we were meant to be. And after I knew you better, I loved you more. But by then I’d found out we weren’t to be a story after all.”

  “Is that what you found out?” Gail said quietly. “Is that what I said when I kissed you on our wedding day?”

  Moonlight fell like mist over the world. Willows crouched beside them on the bank, their trailing leaves the hair of hunchbacked old women, hiding their faces, their secret eyes. Beneath Mark’s feet the river bubbled over stone; moonfoam trailed around each rock, glimmering glinting vanishing gone: swallowed by the sweep of shadow.

  The moonlight witched their clasping hands from friends’ hands into lovers’. They were touching now, in the darkness; the thought crawled up Mark’s wrist like a spider and scuttled into his heart. Against his thick arm her slender one; one of her woman’s slim pale fingers between each of his.

  Then pulling, shifting, her flank pressing against him as she turned, her lips on his like moth wings. “We are,” she whispered. “We are a story.”

  She kissed him then. A shock ran deep into him, into his groin, his heart, the hollow of his body: a shock at the press of her breasts against his side, her thin lips now soft and opening for him, against him.

  The blood shimmered under his skin; his sex was like an iron bar, enchanted by her nearness.

  I’m alive!

  His whole body had been dead, or sleeping; now it woke, blessed into life by her warmth, her mouth opening under his, the smell of her hair, the wild near stroke and smell of her hair, beautiful beyond all singing. He slid his hand up the back of her neck, holding her. From her ears dangled hoops of gold, bumping and swinging against his hand, each touch filling him with unbearable desire, made sweeter still because he knew, he knew now that he would have her. The smell of her hair, the warmth of her back against his arm, her lips open under his: these things eternal as the stars, as true.

  “Oh God,” Gail whispered.

  “Hmmm. M’hmm. Do…d’you think—?”

  “Yes.” Gail nodded. She stared at Mark with naked eyes. “Definitely yes.”

  O boy o boy o boy. “Let’s, uh, let’s get off this bridge. I don’t want to fall off it while, um—”

  “Yes.” Gail leaned forward and kissed him again. “You know,” she murmured into his neck, “I’m sure that there’s a way to make love right here. The Maker would have foreseen that this span would be left—”

  “And that we would come here…” Mark giggled.

  “And that I would want to take off this button here,” Gail whispered.

  “We’re in the bloody open, Gail!”

  “…and this one here…”

  “Gail?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Just this once, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take off this bonny hat you gave me.”

  She laughed into his neck and they rolled over into the grass together. “Never!�
� she whispered.

  10

  The Broken Bridge

  O sweet devils! Mark thought some hours later, flushed and alive. You’re not going to sleep again this night! A warm wind blew in his blood. He left Gail snoozing in their ducal tent, dressed and crept out into the June moonlight.

  He picked his way into the Keep and entered the Great Hall, a dark cavern smelling of cedar beams and sawdust. The stone flags had all been washed and strewn with rushes gathered from a fenny spot a few miles down the river. A flood of moonlight welled in from tall mullioned windows, dappling the floor with diamonds. Orrin’s making damn quick work of it. Two windows each side he said, ready in a week. But here are three each side, already fitted! Must have been inspired.

  A door had been hung in an archway at the back of the hall. Intrigued, Mark walked through it. Tomorrow he would be hungry for sleep, but he didn’t regret being up now. Throughout Mark’s life this hour, the last before dawn, had always been the time of his secret mastery. Now it was good to be alive in the night, tasting his happiness.

  It was also good to see how Master Orrin was getting on; the business of governance was taking up most of Mark’s attention these days. Lay some of that on Deron? Surely he would have learned to be a gentleman.

  Oh, right. Third sons are warriors: they do death, not taxes. Damn.

  The door led to a corridor, the corridor to other passages. Mark was impressed. The corridor ended in a flight of stairs. Mark went up, testing each one: he didn’t want to step off into space if the flight was only half built. Stepping through a door at the top, he found himself in open air, on the western battlements. “By the Devil’s thumb, that’s quick work,” he muttered, grinning like a fool. Lerelil’s Son came through a door just like this before you thwacked him and pinched his dagger, remember?

  The memory drove a nail of ice through Mark’s palm and he gasped with pain. He felt the dagger too, like an icicle belted at his hip.

  The door behind Mark opened and a figure stepped lightly through, then stopped. “Dost a right, mate?”