Endgames

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  Social torture … a very good phrase.

  My favorite sweet is Pharsi baklava, the kind made with pistachio nuts and clover honey, but my second favorite sweet is simply the perfect Orundo cherry. I enjoy riding, but only in temperate times, and I find hunting abhorrent, because its sole purpose appears to be to gratify the ego of the hunter while rendering the game being pursued even less edible.

  That sentence alone, if mentioned to many High Holders, would definitely turn heads, but Charyn couldn’t dispute it.

  For the most part, you have written in thoughtful and disciplined fashion, yet I have no idea how your life proceeds from day to day, only that it must be far more complex than what the gossips and newssheets portray.

  In short, tell me more before I make any decisions.

  I remain, as always, with the warmest of regards.

  The signature was also the same—“Alyncya.”

  Since Wyllum had not returned, and there was nothing immediately pressing, Charyn took out pen and paper and began.

  My dear Alyncya—

  In response to your letter, I had not intended my words to be taken as charming, for, to me at least, charm embodies a certain amount of dishonesty, and that is the last talent I would wish to display or employ in writing or conversing with you.

  Now what can you say? Charyn took a deep breath and again picked up the pen.

  Let me just say that while subterfuge is unfortunately necessary for a Rex in dealing with the strong personalities and apparently inflexible agendas manifested in my dealings with the councils and ministers, such indirectness, even masked by charm, is the last behavior I would wish to bring into personal and family life. That being said, neither should rudeness, abruptness, nor crude words or behavior be excused under the guise of honesty, and I would hope that my words and acts follow that standard …

  From there, Charyn simply discussed some of the events of the past week, including his attending services with Aloryana, the general substance of a few of the more interesting petitions he had received, the possible problems with the True Believers and their nine theses, as well as his response, and his tour of damaged buildings with Eshmael.

  In closing, I would very much thank you for the loan of your book, which I will begin to read this very evening so that we can discuss it when next we meet.

  With my greatest appreciation and warmest regards,

  Charyn

  As he sealed the envelope, he just hoped he’d struck the right balance. He looked at the small, green, leather-bound volume again.

  Not now. He needed to read it when he was alone, when no one could interrupt him.

  42

  Sometime after third glass, Charyn heard the faint sounds of the clavecin drifting up from the first level of the Chateau. While he suspected that either Karyel or Iryella was practicing, there was something about the playing …

  He opened the study door and walked to the grand staircase, and then halfway down. After less than half a quint, he nodded. The pattern of well-played notes, followed by a more hesitant version of the same piece, meant that Palenya was at the Chateau and giving one of his cousins a lesson, most likely Iryella, from the hesitancy that followed the first player, since Karyel, like Bhayrn, played wrong notes and tempos without hesitation. After several moments, Charyn made his way to the music room, where he eased inside and waited, listening.

  “… playing well is not just striking the correct keys one after the other…” Palenya looked up as she realized Charyn was in the music room. “Rex Charyn.”

  “Might I have a very quick word with you, Musician Palenya?”

  “Of course.” Palenya turned to Iryella. “One moment.” Then she walked swiftly to meet Charyn.

  “Might I prevail upon you in two fashions, both musical?”

  “Musically, yes, Your Grace.”

  “First, would you spend a little time helping me with those two pieces this afternoon, before you depart for the Collegium? Second, if you could arrive a glass early on Samedi in order to give me a proper lesson. As always, you will be paid. Your expertise should never be unpaid.”

  Palenya’s voice was barely above a murmur when she replied, “You have been more than generous.”

  Charyn replied in an equally low voice. “I have been as generous as the times and events have allowed. I can never fully repay you, but I can pay you fully for every moment you work as a musician. That is the least I can do.” Then he raised his voice slightly. “If that is acceptable, have Iryella or Karyel let me know when you are finished with their lessons.”

  “I will do that.”

  “And feel free to tell them how much work it was to teach me in the beginning.”

  “I just might, Your Grace.” Palenya smiled.

  Charyn smiled in return, then stepped back. “I won’t interrupt again, but I didn’t know how long you’d be here.” Then he turned and left the music room.

  As he walked back up the grand staircase, he thought over the brief meeting with Palenya. She’d been friendly, but warmly reserved.

  What else could you expect? So were you.

  Since Wyllum was still gone, Charyn picked up the latest petition and Sanafryt’s suggested response and began to read.

  More than a glass later, Iryella knocked on the study door, then opened it and peered in. “Your Grace, our lessons are over.”

  “Thank you.” Charyn stood and left the study.

  Palenya was standing by the clavecin when he entered the music room. “If you wouldn’t mind, Your Grace … keeping this a bit shorter. I don’t want to keep the Collegium coach waiting too long.”

  “I should have thought about that. What if I play each piece through, and you give me your suggestions. That way, I’ll know what to work on, or at least some things to work on, and you can give me a proper lesson on Samedi.”

  Palenya nodded.

  Charyn seated himself at the clavecin and began with “Variations.”

  After he’d only played ten bars, she stopped him.

  “Your Grace … your fingering is acceptable, but … the melody from which Covaelyt adapted it was a dance. You show some of that, but not nearly enough.”

  Charyn stood. “I don’t know that dance. Could you please play just a few bars so I have an idea?”

  Palenya did so.

  Then Charyn did his best to use a hint of the same rhythm.

  “Much better…”

  Two quints later, Charyn rose from the clavecin, hoping he could remember all of Palenya’s comments. “Thank you.” He handed Palenya three silvers. “Two for you and one for the poor coachman.”

  “Two is too much.”

  Charyn shook his head. “One of the two was for reminding me about the coach. Since you left, I don’t get as many reminders.”

  “You should be very careful, then, Your Grace, about whom you marry.”

  Charyn laughed softly. “That thought has occurred to me ever since you first suggested it. Often.”

  She inclined her head. “By your leave?”

  “Of course. Until Samedi.”

  Charyn had thought about walking her to the coach, but that would have been outside the bounds they both had agreed upon, and unfair to her. Instead, he just said, “Do take care.”

  She smiled a smile of rueful amusement. “I should be saying that to you, Your Grace. No one shoots at a musician.”

  “Sometimes being a merely competent musician sounds very good … except…”

  “No one will let you. Not now.”

  “You’re right. Again.”

  As he watched her leave, he realized, again, that he had already made too many choices that could not be reversed, not if he wanted to be even a moderately competent and decent Rex.

  And with the thought of Bhayrn being Rex … Charyn shuddered.

  Before all that long, it was time for dinner, and, for the first time in days, everyone was seated around the table.

  Immediately after the grace, offered by I
ryella, as Charyn served his mother and then himself, Chelia looked to Karyel. “How were your lessons this afternoon?”

  “They went well enough,” he replied pleasantly. “Musician Palenya said that it was obvious that I’d been practicing more.”

  Iryella looked away from her brother.

  “And you, Iryella?” asked Chelia gently.

  “She said I was making progress. She also said I needed to work harder than Karyel.” Iryella looked accusingly at Charyn.

  “I never said a word to Musician Palenya about either of you.”

  “Why are you still taking lessons, Your Grace?” asked Karyel.

  “Because I still want to play better. It’s a skill that doesn’t depend on what other people do, except for whoever tunes the clavecin. Besides, I enjoy playing, at least when I’ve worked on a piece to the point where I know I’m playing it at least competently.” Charyn took a small swallow of the Tuuryl red wine, and then a bite of the game pie.

  “But … most High Holders don’t play.”

  “They should,” interjected Chelia. “Mastering an instrument requires mastering yourself, and that’s something lacking in too many High Holders.”

  “What about hunting?” asked Bhayrn. “That’s a skill worth mastering.”

  “It’s useful if you need to support yourself, or if you intend to be an officer in the army, or possibly a butcher,” replied Chelia dryly. “It’s also good for boasting rights.”

  “You’re just saying that…” Bhayrn stopped short.

  “Because I’m a woman, and women know nothing of arms and killing? Might I remind you that Maitre Malyna is far better than you with a blade and has killed far more men than you ever will. She’s also better at the clavecin and other skills as well. By the time your sister is Malyna’s age, she’ll be able to do the same.”

  “But they’re imagers.”

  “Imaging doesn’t help with blade skills or playing the clavecin,” Charyn said mildly, recalling all too well how easily Malyna had bested him when they’d sparred that one time … and how elegantly she had concealed that mastery.

  “Why do the imagers let women use blades?” asked Karyel, in a tone of innocence that Charyn suspected was largely feigned.

  “Because there are too few imagers for women to have the luxury of being protected,” replied Chelia immediately.

  That response surprised Charyn, and it must have showed, because Chelia went on, “I asked Malyna about a great number of things while she stayed here, especially after your sparring with her.”

  “Is that why you exercise with the guards, Your Grace?” asked Karyel, with the tone of innocence that was already beginning to grate on Charyn.

  “No. It’s because I saw how fit all the imagers were, and also because the other forms of exercise, such as riding through the hunting park, would be unwise at present.” Charyn didn’t want to get into the point that he’d started exercising before the latest assassination attempt.

  “It’s safer to be a High Holder,” said Karyel, not quite smugly.

  “A loyal High Holder,” replied Chelia sweetly, looking at Karyel, “unlike your treacherous great-uncle Ryentar … or others.”

  Karyel swallowed.

  Iryella hid a smile.

  “You haven’t touched the vegetable ragout, Iryella,” said Chelia.

  This time, Karyel almost managed to hide his satisfaction.

  “They’re soft, and they squish,” declared Iryella dolefully.

  “I’ve never cared much for the vegetable ragout,” said Bhayrn, “but we need to eat vegetables.”

  Charyn managed not to choke on Bhayrn’s falsely sanctimonious tone.

  “By the way,” said Bhayrn to Charyn, “why didn’t you take the regial coach on Solayi? You said you were.”

  “I changed my mind.” Charyn offered what he hoped was a clueless smile. “How was Chorister Faheel’s homily?”

  “Adequate, but less tariffing than Saerlet’s,” replied Chelia. “Bhayrn wouldn’t know. He slept through most of it.”

  “I was tired, and it was boring, all about responsibility to the Nameless.”

  “That’s because you never get any sleep anymore. You’re up late glasses with Laamyst and Gherard,” replied Charyn.

  “At least they’re not boring. More lectures on responsibility are boring.”

  “At times, enduring repetition is a price we all must pay,” replied Chelia. “For some, repetition is the only way they learn. Then there are those who never learn because they find learning itself boring. They usually die either young or poor, if not both, especially if they’re also not responsible.”

  “Responsible to whom?” asked Bhayrn sardonically. “The factors, the rabble, the Nameless who has never once proved to be interested in our welfare?”

  “For better or worse, you’re beyond my lectures on responsibility, Bhayrn,” replied Chelia coolly. “I will say that responsibility begins with being responsible to yourself, to be the best you can be.”

  “I’ll be responsible to and for myself. My brother the Rex has set an excellent example.”

  “That’s enough about responsibility,” Charyn declared firmly before turning to Iryella. “Which piece of music that you’ve played or heard do you like the best?”

  “I like all of them, but differently…”

  By the time dinner was over, Charyn was more than ready to escape to his sitting room and the green leather-bound volume that Alyncya had sent.

  Sitting in his favorite armchair, in the light of the oil reading lamp on the side table, Charyn studied the book. There was no title on the spine or the outside cover. Noting that there was no frontispiece as he opened it to the title page, he studied the few words set there in a script that was neither formal nor standard merchant hand.

  VERSE FOR AN UNQUIET TIME

  Pyetryl D’Ecrivain

  L’Excelsis, Solidar

  Fevier 237 A.L.

  He’d never heard of Pyetryl D’Ecrivain. He also wondered why his name wasn’t Pyetryl D’Bard, or had the surname “Bard” been reserved back two hundred years only for those who practiced sung verse or music?

  Charyn turned to the first page and the four lines set in the middle of the yellowed parchment.

  Rhythms in thought complex and words in rhyme,

  Last, as they are, beyond their present time.

  May these rhymed lines carry meaning and care

  To those who think, those who love, those who dare.

  Almost a challenge to anyone who opens the book. Somehow, the verse introducing the volume seemed fitting for Alyncya, at least from what he’d seen so far.

  He frowned, noting several thin strips of pale teal ribbon, almost the regial colors, protruding from the pages in several places. He turned to the first marker, noting that, in obvious extravagance, each poem was written only on the face page, the one on the right as the volume lay open.

  A QUESTION

  The moons rise, then they set, as does the sun,

  Time enough for lust, never so for love.

  The iris blooms when spring has just begun,

  The apple full fruits late, harvest being done,

  They know not love, nor of the Nameless above.

  What matters that when life’s short course is run?

  He read the words twice, aloud the second time, just letting the words echo silently in his mind.

  After a time, he turned to the second ribbon bookmark, wondering what verse might greet him.

  FOR A FAST FRIEND

  Of all the glorious mornings I have seen,

  That flatter fair the woodlands and their vales

  With golden light aflame on leafy green

  And shimmers bright from brooks in silver trails,

  Was there a single dawn I’d wish to greet,

  A solitary day I’d hope to spend

  In bookish chores or studies most discreet

  Before your eyes showed me a better friend?

 
; Although we may put trust in stars and sun.

  And praise the hunting moon we once thought god,

  Cold ice presides where rivers used to run.

  For what we have and where we trod,

  Will vanish starless in the coming years

  Unless we still hold fast against fate’s fears.

  Is that a message or a hope … or either?

  Slowly, he opened the book to the last marker, taking in the lines set there and reading them aloud.

  “MOONSTRUCK

  “Tell me not of hearts faithful to the end,

  Or minds entwined by brilliant word or thought.

  For we’ll have neither time nor gold to spend

  With all the strifes of heart and mind we’ve fought.

  “For Erion’s the moon to whom you’ve pledged,

  And Artiema’s gold what suffices me.

  This conflict so direct, yet unacknowledged,

  Wounds us both, yet never sets us free.”

  Charyn swallowed as he finished the last line, then saw the lightly penciled question mark set in the margin opposite the last two lines, a mark that appeared fresh.

  At least, she’s posed that as a question. The mark couldn’t have been an accident, not with the care that Alyncya had taken with everything else.

  But how can you answer those questions?

  Abruptly he looked back at the book and smiled. He definitely had some more reading to do … careful reading.

  Which is exactly what she hoped.

  43

  At sixth glass on Vendrei, Charyn was already in the unmarked coach, heading south on L’Avenue D’Commercia toward the Sud Bridge and then farther south to the ironworks. He wore his factor’s garb, including the gold jacket lapel pin that signified he was a member of the exchange as well, and his belt wallet held sufficient golds and silvers for what he might require. The driver, footman, and guards all wore the brown jackets and trousers.