Jakon’s chin came up and his nostrils flared. The tendons in his neck stood out. I could not tell if he were more angry or terrified. I knew the temper of his courage, the passion to lead his people in new and dangerous ways. Isolated in the heart of his enemy’s stronghold, he was near his limits. The moment passed, and he held out one hand. “Come, then, and let us learn about each other.”
Esmelda and Avi took up the long benches in the opposite corner, heads together, going over procedure, scheming and such.
Me, I’d rather sit on the floor if I had to sit at all, but this was Laureal City, so Terris and I settled ourselves on two chairs around a table bearing a particularly scabby-looking succulent plant. Terris had that pinched, white-around-the-mouth look again.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Montborne loose in the city. If I’d learned anything about killing, it was that the first time was the hardest. Montborne wouldn’t rest easy as long as Terris was alive. He’d learned one final way of solving his problems. And even I had to sleep sometime.
Terris listened to what I had to say. He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment I saw the boy he used to be — earnest, impulsive, loving. It came to me that he didn’t know why he’d let Montborne live; he’d acted on trust and instinct, as if some god had moved him to it.
If that were true, it better not have been the demon chance.
My muscles itched, wanting to hit something. “You should have left him in that swamp, let him and the things with the light beams fight it out between them. They deserve each other.”
He shook his head at my words, laughing humorlessly. “You sound just like Avi.”
“Avi’s got the right idea about Montborne.”
“Avi thinks only in terms of what’s good for Laurea. That’s not so bad, since she’ll be Guardian of Laurea after Esme. But Laurea and Harth are not the same thing.”
My eyes rested on the ring he wore, the one he’d scooped up from the charred bones of the gate world. Not just the gate world, I thought, the home world, the one we’d come from. The one we must remember, so that the same thing did not happen to our own Harth.
The ring bore the symbol of a doubled circle surrounding a single dot. He wore it openly, as Esmelda wore hers. Mother knows what they’d said to each other about it. Avi might be the next Guardian of Laurea, but Terris had taken on a far heavier burden with this ring.
o0o
The Senate chamber’s walls were covered in polished stone instead of wood. Some kind of marble, I thought, cold and echoing. Solar lights, high on the ceiling, cast muted shadows everywhere. Above us in the galleries, people hurried to claim the last few seats.
I followed Terris and the old dragon through the double doors and down the wide central aisle. An oval table had been placed at the front of the room, with chairs for the Inner Council and their aides. Avi, Jakon, and Grissem stayed behind in the little room, along with the two expert witnesses, to wait for Esmelda’s signal. The rest of the Council filed in from the side, wearing their long green robes, surrounded by their pages and adjutants. Last came the gaea-priest, carrying a silver bowl of water and a dwarf tree in a planter.
As I stood with Terris behind Esmelda’s chair, my eyes jumped around the room. I glanced from the half-circle of clear space around the table to the low railing and then the rows of chairs for the Senators with aisles running up to the crowded public sections, the balconies above them, the doors now being closed by uniformed Senate ushers. I marked where the City Guards stood, the extra security around the oval table, how Montborne had placed his own men. They were too few for the coup Avi had feared, but enough to cause trouble. I recognized a big-shouldered man as Montborne’s bodyguard from the day Pateros was killed. There was no sense of immediate threat from any of them, just waiting and watching, marking my presence even as I did theirs.
The gaea-priest took his place at one end of the table and Montborne at the other. Esmelda, as Guardian of Laurea, stood in the center, facing the audience. At her signal, the gaea-priest began the opening ceremony. He must have done it a hundred times, but for me the ritual held a fascination — the way the room fell still, the way the priest set down the bowl and planter, the musical clinking of his amulet charms. The way he dipped his fingers in the water and touched it to his lips, then dipped again and sprinkled the drops over the tree.
“In the name of all oneness,
Which we pledge to preserve
In thought and deed.
May the cycle of life
Bless these proceedings.”
His voice sounded a little quavery, and not just with age. I hated priests, but how could I hate him? He was nothing more than an old man who’d spent his life in wishcrap rituals like this one, believing with all his soul that some Laurea-loving god was up there listening to his prayers.
Maybe there was. Ay Mother, maybe you’ve been listening to me, too, all these years.
The priest set the bowl in front of Esmelda. She dipped her hand into the water. The dotted doubled circle incised on her ring gleamed as she let the drops fall on the roots of the tiny tree.
The bowl passed then to an older man with a fancy medallion of copper and gold — Hobart, the Senate Presidio. Then to the red-haired medician and a stern-faced man I recognized as the Senior Judge. Then to Montborne. He too dipped his fingers into the water and sprinkled it on the tree. His face, with that too-smooth skin, was intent and calm. Did he, like the bald priest, believe? Was I wrong about him, holding a grudge against a man who was no longer an enemy?
The other Council members performed the ritual and returned the silver bowl to the priest. He signaled that everything had been done right. The Inner Council sat down in their padded armchairs at the table and the rest of us in the wooden seats behind. Terris readied his notebook and pen, still officially Esmelda’s adjutant. I almost laughed aloud that Terris, who’d stood in the Northlight and taken me and Montborne to hell and back, should now be sitting here like a schoolboy writing down his lessons. What he had done — what he had seen — these things couldn’t be taken out of him.
As Esmelda rose, I sensed a subtle change in the room, like the shift in a dusty steppe sky before a twister breaks. I’ve never been one for listening to speeches, and I didn’t now, not much. Most of my attention centered on Montborne and his men, the two officers standing behind him and others by the doors and the stairs to the gallery.
Gradually my focus shifted back to Esmelda’s speech. She’d finished with her opening comments — boring wishcrap about Laurea’s long and honorable traditions. She sounded just like a scholar, and I reminded myself she’d once represented the University on Pateros’s Inner Council.
Montborne’s expression didn’t change as he listened, just the tightness around his eyes. His gaze flickered to Orelia, sitting on the far side of Esmelda in her black uniform. She kept glancing from Esmelda to Montborne, looking more unhappy all the time. I wondered what Montborne had told her. She wasn’t a likely ally. Her priority would be keeping order in the city. I wondered how much one Ranger could do against Montborne’s and Orelia’s people together.
I couldn’t put my finger on what made me so twitchy. I used to be able to feel out a place, to pick the breaker with my eyes closed, but now everything seemed all jumbled and twisted.
All the while, Montborne watched Esmelda like a hunting snake.
If she felt his eyes on her, she gave no sign. I couldn’t concentrate any more on what she was saying — something about turning Pateros’s dreams into reality. Maybe leading up to convincing these people that bringing Jakon here was Pateros’s idea.
Then Montborne was on his feet, shouting, punctuating the air with sharp gestures. For a confused moment, I couldn’t make out what either he or Esmelda were saying.
“It’s time to tell the truth about Pateros!” Montborne cried. “Not about his dreams but about his death!”
“Out of order!” A Senator in the front row, a white-hair wi
th a pinched mouth, stood up, waving one skinny arm. “Out of order!” His voice was lost in the sudden outcry.
“What about Pateros’s death?” someone else shouted.
“Shut up and let him speak!”
Silently I cursed Esmelda for how easily she’d allowed him to seize the advantage. Maybe she was too old to face him down after all, too slow, too weak —
“General Montborne, I fear my colleague is correct. You are indeed out of order.” With a gesture and a few calm words, Esmelda took the center once more. The rumbling subsided. Senators leaned forward in their seats, and behind them, spectators watched with open mouths.
“However,” she went on, “these extraordinary times demand flexibility as well as initiative. Each new point of view can, in its own way, add to our resources. If you have some special insight to share with us, pray continue.”
I saw now that she’d anticipated this move of his. She was giving him room to hang himself, certain that she could counter anything he brought up. But she was taking a calculated risk with Montborne. She might know him here in the city, but she hadn’t fought with him through the Brassa Hills. He wasn’t called Butcher for nothing. I didn’t like the feel of this at all.
“It was Pateros, with his courage and vision, who led us to victory at Brassaford, who held back the norther horde and kept our homes and families safe.” Montborne stepped forward, gesturing to the room. “It was Pateros who sought to forge a new future for our nation — a future of strength and freedom from fear.”
Montborne knew how to work the crowd, that was sure. I could imagine him calling out battlefield orders in those same ringing tones. I bet the audience could, too. He used everything — his powerful speaking voice, his military bearing, the shock of the moment — to his advantage. He had everyone’s attention as surely as if he held them in his outstretched hand.
“But Pateros was cut down before those dreams could become reality, murdered in the center of this great city — in plain day — by the most treacherous villainy. But not...”
The room had gone dead silent now, the spectators craning forward to catch his every word. Even the skinny old Senator who’d challenged him sat rapt.
“...not by the isolated act of a madman or a disgruntled trader, as some would have us believe. By the most vile and cunning conspiracy, one that reaches from the barbaric north right into the heart of our oldest and most trusted institutions.”
A mixture of dismay and incredulity rippled through the crowd. Their whispers sounded like the far-off rustling of bloodbat wings.
“People of Laurea, Senators and citizens, hear me! I have discovered evidence — undeniable, incontrovertible proof of this very conspiracy!”
The audience surged and muttered, their cries blending into a dull roar. I remembered the crowd on the day of the Funeral Riot — the many-headed enemy. The City Guards moved forward, positioned to intercept any movement from the audience, but Orelia held them back with a signal. They’d be no help if things got too tight. For right now, we — Terris and I — were down here and the crowd was up there, and we had a precious little space between us. Not even a pea-brained twitterbat would call that an advantage.
On a signal from Montborne, a City Guard marched down a side aisle and up to the table. Had Montborne somehow gotten Orelia to do his dirty work for him? The Guard wore a patch over one eye and carried two long, slender leather-wrapped bundles.
I didn’t like the look of this at all. Neither, apparently, did the rest of the Inner Council. A few of the Senators rose to their feet in protest. At my side, Terris turned pale.
The one-eyed Guard unwrapped the two bundles and laid them on the table in front of the general. I did not need to look to know what they were. One of them had an official-looking card tied to it.
Montborne picked up the tagged dagger. With a dramatic flourish, he lifted it overhead, the slender blade catching the light, and laid on the oval table. “This is the norther dagger that killed Pateros!
“And this — ” he picked up the second blade and held it high, with exactly the same gesture. If I’d blinked, I wouldn’t have known it was different except for the tag fluttering like a rock-dove pinion. The crowd held its breath as he set the second dagger down.
“Unbelievable as it sounds, yesterday this exact duplicate was smuggled into Laureal City — ”
The audience rumbled like an avalanche about to bust loose. Montborne held them back with a gesture.
“ — and discovered, hidden...in the possession of that man!”
He whirled and pointed straight at Terris.
Chapter 40
Montborne’s voice thundered above the general outcry. “I accuse Terricel sen’Laurea, who just yesterday returned from a secret mission to our norther borders.”
Esmelda stood motionless, as she had through Montborne’s entire speech, but now the Councillor in the fancy neck chain pushed forward and gestured for order. Terris tensed, ready for action. I grabbed his shoulder and held him firm. Anything he said would only make things worse. It was only one small step to ask Who sent Terris north? Montborne meant to bring Esmelda down as well, or else tie all Laurea into knots trying. By the time things got sorted out, he aimed to be in control, and no one would remember that Esmelda had also made accusations against him.
“These allegations are outrageous!” cried Hobart, the fancy-chained Councillor. “Outrageous and monstrous!”
“But if they’re true?” demanded Orelia, rising and pounding the table so that water splashed from the silver ritual bowl. “What if they’re true?”
Ah, so that was how Montborne had gotten to her.
“Truth? You want the truth?” Quick as a striking snake, Esmelda seized the opening. Any other time, the old dragon might have gotten the room back under her control. The Inner Council would have listened, as well as half the Senators. I caught the flashes of unguarded feeling on their faces, fear and suspicion warring with the bone-deep need to believe in her. But the crowd at the back and up on the balconies, the many-headed monster, wavered on the very edge of riot.
“Truth is not something to be determined by a popularity contest.” Esmelda’s voice sliced through the uneasy murmurs. “Montborne has raised some very serious charges, charges that bear on the very heart and future of our nation. These charges merit the most thorough and careful investigation. How can we possibly do them justice here, bandying them about like a pack of irresponsible playground insults?”
A few people in the front rows sat down again. A Senator in the front row wiped his florid cheeks with a handkerchief, as if the sudden reversal was too much for him.
“These allegations will be heard in the proper time and setting,” Esmelda went on, “as well as evidence that the weapons produced by Montborne were manufactured right here in Laureal City — in a secret military facility — under the orders of General Montborne himself.”
“Impossible!” Montborne shot back, still brandishing the second dagger. “Any fool can see these are norther daggers!”
“If the distinguished general will kindly —” Hobart, the Senate Presidio, tried again.
Esmelda made a slashing gesture with her hands. Suddenly the doors under the spectators’ balconies flew open. Head high, Avi strode down the wide central aisle, Jakon and Grissem only a pace behind her. In their quilted vests and elkskins, their hair like spun gold, faces stern, they seemed proud and strange but not, as Montborne said, savage. I’d fought as hard as anybody at Brassaford, I’d spilled as much blood, but I knew now what savage really was.
The entire chamber went wild — people screaming, jumping up and waving their arms, ushers vainly trying to calm them, Senators and Councillors calling for order, the priest chanting, Montborne’s men looking confused and astonished, some of them unnerved — the whole mess worse than a barnfowl coop after a raptor bat has just swooped in, and twice as brainless. A bunch of spectators rushed for the doors, but Orelia motioned her people forward. They moved qu
ickly to hold back the worst of the panic. Me, I was on my feet with one hand on my long-knife hilt and the other on Terris’s shoulder, grimly counting how many throats I’d have to cut to get him out of there alive.
In front of the oval Inner Council table, Esmelda waited, still as a carven statue. The two northers had turned round to face the audience, Avi between them. They stood, legs apart, balanced lightly on the balls of their feet, arms folded across their chests. It was too bad, I thought, that Jakon couldn’t dance for the crowd — then they’d really sit up and notice.
How it happened, I didn’t know — whether it was something Esmelda did or the strength of her presence or the northers’ inhuman calm, or maybe just plain curiosity winning out over batshit stupidity, but the room grew quiet again. People cleared the aisles and sat down, some still pointing and whispering to their neighbors, others hushing them up. Montborne glanced around — he knew the moment had gone to Esmelda. Behind that waxy-smooth face, I sensed him juggling for another opening, trying to outguess what she’d try next.
Esmelda’s voice was intense, but clear and low, as if she had no need to shout or make dramatic gestures. It was enough to talk as she did about desperate times, about hope and dreams. She was no Pateros, even I saw that. Pateros could take someone like me and make me think I could do great things — Esmelda made these people think she could. For this time and place, though, it was enough.
If Avi could do the same thing, she could also sign that treaty with Jakon’s people, marry him, and bear a half-norther heir to succeed her as Guardian. Maybe there was a chance for peace with the north after all.
After a moment or two, I caught the change in the faces of the crowd. Most of them were children when Esmelda stood out there on the plaza and the rains came down to put out the foundry fires and the plague ended. Yet they seemed to somehow remember, as if that history were bred into their blood.
As if to underscore the mystery of Jakon and Grissem, she began by reminding the audience of the long history of conflict between Laurea and the north. Times I’d never heard of, not being a scholar, things that happened hundreds of years ago. And Brassaford. Ah yes, these people remembered Brassaford. A murmur passed through the room like a gust of bitter wind and then as quickly died down. If Jakon or Grissem felt it, they gave no outward sign.
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