The Book of Athyra

by Steven Brust

“That seems odd.”

  “Yes, it seems odd to me, too.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Shortly after the Uprising.”

  “What uprising?”

  Vlad granted him another indecipherable look, this one a quick frown. He said, “There was some trouble in the city with the Easterners and the Teckla.”

  “Oh,” said Savn. “Yes. I heard something about that. Didn’t some traitors kill Her Majesty’s personal guards and try to kidnap her?”

  “Not exactly,” said Vlad.

  “Wait a minute,” said Savn. “Were you involved in that? Is that why you had to—”

  “No,” said Vlad. “I was involved, I suppose, but only in trying to stay out of the way.”

  “Well, what did happen?”

  Vlad shook his head. “For the most part, I don’t know. There was almost a war, and there was conscription, and there was blood, and then it was over.”

  “What’s conscription?”

  “When they put you in the army or the navy and send you off to fight.”

  “Oh. I should like that, I think.”

  Vlad gave him another quick glance, then almost smiled, and said, “I wouldn’t know, myself. I’ve never been in the army.”

  “Well, but you’ve killed people. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

  Vlad laughed briefly. “Good question. There are soldiers who would disagree with you. I tend to think you’re right, though. Who’s to say?”

  “I used to dream about being a soldier,” said Savn.

  “Did you? That seems odd. On the one hand a soldier, on the other a physicker.”

  “Well, but . . . I see what you mean. But when I wanted to be a soldier it was, I don’t know, different.”

  “I know,” said Vlad. “When one dreams of being a soldier, one imagines killing the enemy but not seeing the enemy bleed. Or seeing friends bleed, for that matter.”

  Savn nodded slowly. “I was young and—” He shrugged and smiled a little. “I thought the uniforms looked so nice.”

  “And the idea,” said Vlad, “of getting away from here?”

  “Maybe, though I never thought about it that way. Have you ever known a soldier?”

  “I’ve known warriors,” said Vlad.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Another good question. I’m not sure, but that’s how they described themselves.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Arrogant, but not unpleasantly so.”

  “Did they frighten you?”

  Vlad laughed. “At one time or another, nearly everyone I’ve ever known has frightened me.”

  “Even your friends?”

  “Especially my friends. But then, I’ve had some unusual friends.”

  “Yes, and one of them is a vampire.”

  “Indeed.”

  “That would frighten me,” said Savn thoughtfully. “There’s something about the idea of someone who should be dead that—You still say His Lordship is undead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  Savn shook his head. “I still don’t believe it.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you talk to someone who’s undead? I mean, isn’t it creepy?”

  Vlad shrugged. “You get used to—” He stopped, his eyes straying toward the door. “Ah. You must be prescient. The minstrel, I suppose.”

  Savn turned, and, indeed, a lady was just coming in the door to the smiles of Tem and the few patrons of his house. She wore a travel-worn white blouse and pants, with a green vest and a light green cloak. She carried a pack slung at her hip, and hanging at her back were a long-necked kordu and a shiny black horn- or pipe-like instrument that Savn didn’t recognize. Savn thought she was very pretty.

  “An Issola,” remarked Vlad.

  “Green and white,” agreed Savn. He was always excited when a minstrel arrived, but especially so when it was a noble, because they always had a wider variety of instruments and songs, and could tell stories of what happened in the courts of the highborn.

  By whatever magic caused news to spread, people were beginning to drift into Tem’s house already, before the minstrel had finished speaking with Tem, presumably making arrangements for a room and meals in exchange for songs and stories, news and gossip.

  Vlad said, “I’m going to have to speak with her, but that can wait.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Minstrels know things.”

  “But will she speak to you?”

  “Why not? Oh. Because I’m an Easterner? I suspect that won’t be a problem.”

  Savn started to ask why, but changed his mind. He was, he decided, beginning to be able to anticipate when he was reaching a subject the Easterner wouldn’t want to discuss. The minstrel finished her discussion with Tem, and, with a surprisingly shy-looking smile directed at everyone present, she went back toward the chambers that Tem let out to travelers.

  Tem cleared his throat and said, “She’ll be back and play for us in a few minutes, after she’s refreshed herself.” This seemed to be a pleasing prospect to everyone. More and more people drifted into the house.

  As they did, Savn couldn’t help but notice that many, perhaps most of them, looked at him sitting with the Easterner, then quickly looked away. He caught a glimpse of what might have been disgust in Firi’s expression, and dark-haired Lova, who was sitting next to Firi, seemed faintly puzzled. Lan and Tuk were sitting together with some of their friends, and, though Tuk only looked at the table in front of him, Lan seemed, for a moment, to be looking at Savn unpleasantly.

  For the first time, he began to seriously question whether he ought to be seen with Vlad so much. Vlad looked at him with a slightly amused expression, and Savn wondered if his thoughts were being read. But Vlad said nothing, and presently the minstrel returned.

  She had changed to a loose, clean, white blouse with green embroidery, and her leggings were a light, fresh green. Her hair was brown, with a subdued but unmistakable noble’s point, and her eyes, very dark, stood out sharply in contrast to her complexion and clothing. She carried both of her instruments, and set them at a table in the corner that was hastily cleared for her. Her teeth were white when she smiled.

  “Greetings, my friends,” she said in a melodic, carrying voice. “My name is Sara. I play the reed-pipe and the kordu, and I sing, and I even know a few stories. If there were a drink in front of me, I might play something.”

  The drink was provided quickly. She smiled her thanks and sipped from whatever she’d been given, nodded approval, and poured some of the liquid over the mouthpiece of the long black flute.

  “What’s she doing?” whispered Savn.

  Vlad shrugged. “It must be good for it. She wouldn’t wreck her own reed.”

  “I’ve never seen one of those before.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “I wonder what it sounds like.”

  This question was answered almost at once, when a low, rich dark sound emerged and at once spread as if to fill every corner of the room. She went up and down the scale once or twice and the instrument went both higher and lower than Savn would have guessed. Then she began to play an eerie, arhythmic tune that Savn had never heard; he settled back to enjoy the music. Vlad’s face was expressionless as he studied the minstrel

  She sat on a table, one foot resting on a chair, tapping slowly and steadily, though Savn could not find a rhythm that she might be tapping to. When the tune ended, she played another, this one more normal, and, while Savn couldn’t remember its name, it was very familiar and seemed to please Tem’s guests.

  After playing the pipe for a while, she picked up the other instrument, quickly tuned it, and with an expression of sweet innocence, began singing a scandalously bawdy song called “I’ll Never Trust a Shepherd, I’ll Never Trust a Thief,” that, without ever saying anything directly, implied things about her character and pleasures that Savn found unl
ikely. Everyone pounded on the tables, laughed, and bought Sara more drinks.

  After that, she could do no wrong, and when she began singing an old, sweet ballad about Chalara and Auiri, everyone sighed and settled back to become lost in music and sentimentality. In all, she performed for about two hours. Savn liked her singing voice; she chose good songs; and there were stories he had never heard before, as well as some that were as familiar to him as his sister’s face.

  Eventually Sara stood and bowed to the room at large, making it seem as if she were bowing to every man or woman present. Savn found himself whistling and slapping the table with everyone else. She said, “You are all charming and very kind. With your permission, I will have something to eat, and then, if you wish, I will play again in the evening and tell you what news I have.”

  Everyone in the house did, indeed, so wish. Sara bowed again to acknowledge the compliment, and carefully set her instruments down.

  For the first time since the minstrel had begun, Savn remembered the Easterner sitting next to him, and said, “Did you enjoy the music?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes, it was fine,” said Vlad. He was looking quite fixedly at the minstrel, and his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Savn decided against asking what he was thinking about; he sipped his watered wine and looked around the room. Once more he noticed people at other tables surreptitiously glancing at him, at Vlad, or at both of them.

  Savn drank slowly and let his mind drift, until, after perhaps a quarter of an hour, Vlad suddenly stood up.

  “Are you leaving?” asked Savn.

  “No, I wish to speak with this minstrel.”

  “Oh.”

  Vlad walked over to her. Savn stood up and followed.

  “Good evening, my lady,” began Vlad.

  The minstrel frowned at him briefly, but said, “And a good evening to you as well.”

  “My name is Vlad. May I join you for a moment?” As he spoke, he seemed to show her something in his hand. Savn looked at her face in time to see her eyes widen very briefly.

  Then she recovered and said, “By all means. Please sit down. It is a pleasure indeed to meet you, Vlad. Who is your friend?”

  “My—” Vlad turned, and Savn realized that the Easterner hadn’t known he’d been followed. For an instant he seemed annoyed, but he only shrugged and said, “His name is Savn.”

  “How do you do, Savn?”

  Savn found his voice and made a courtesy. “Very well, m’lady.”

  “Would you both do me the honor of sitting with me?”

  They sat. Vlad said, “Please accept my compliments on your performance.”

  “Thank you,” she said. And, to Savn, “You seemed to be enjoying the music a great deal.”

  “Oh, I was,” said Savn, while he wondered if the Issola’s remarks contained a hint that she had noticed how little attention Vlad had actually been paying to the music. If so, Vlad gave no sign of it.

  “First things first,” said Vlad. He handed her a small piece of paper, folded so that Savn couldn’t read it.

  The Issola opened it up, glanced at it, put it into her pouch, and smiled. “Very well, my lord,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  ‘My lord’? thought Savn, startled. How can an Easterner be ‘my lord’?

  “I have a few questions for you. Perhaps you can answer them, perhaps not.”

  “I will certainly try,” said the minstrel.

  “Do you know Baron Smallcliff?”

  “Indeed, yes. I gave him a performance yesterday.”

  “Excellent.” He paused, thinking, then glanced at Savn. “I wonder,” he said, “if you would be so good as to return to the table, Savn. I’d really rather make this private, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” lied Savn. He stood and gave the minstrel another courtesy. “It has been an honor to meet you, my lady,” he said.

  “And a pleasure to meet you, Savn,” said the minstrel.

  As Savn walked back to the table he felt that everyone was either staring at him or pointedly not staring at him. He glanced at his friends, and this time there was no mistake; Coral, who was speaking to the others, was at the same time directing a look of unconcealed hatred at Savn.

  The feeling of being the center of hostile attention suddenly became so strong that before Savn could reach his seat, he found that he had turned and begun walking toward the door.

  And by the time he reached it, he was running.

  * * *

  HOW LONG HE RAN or where he went he did not know, but at last he found that he was lying on the soft grass of a hill, staring up at the dead night sky, breathing in the smell of autumn leaves.

  He tried to account for his friends’ behavior, but he couldn’t. He tried to understand his own reaction, his panicked flight, but his mind shied away from the subject.

  He thought about going back to Tem’s house and asking his friends to tell him what the problem was. But what if they did? What if, as they were almost certain to do, they berated him for associating with the Easterner? What would he say?

  And, for that matter, why was he spending so much time with the Easterner?

  He stood up and looked around. He was west of town, not far from Master Wag’s, and quite near the road. The way home would take him past Tem’s house. He thought of taking a long way round, but chided himself for cowardice.

  He climbed up to the road and turned toward town. It was late; Mae and Pae would be starting to worry about him soon. He broke into a jog. He passed Tem’s house. It was quiet, and he thought about going in, but quickly rejected the idea; he had no intention of confronting his friends tonight—not until he knew what to say to them.

  His lengthening shadow, cast by the lamp from Tem’s, preceded him down the road out of the cluster of buildings he thought of as “town.” As it disappeared, he nearly ran into an indistinct shape that appeared in front of him. He stopped, and the shape resolved itself into several, he thought three or four, individual areas of darkness darker than the night around them. It took the length of two breaths for Savn to realize that they were people.

  The panic that had gripped him before was suddenly back, but he resolved not to give in to it. If it was only his imagination at work, he’d look ridiculous if he ran away. And if it wasn’t, running probably wouldn’t help.

  “Hi,” he said. “I can’t see who you are.”

  There was the sound of soft laughter, and he knew, with stomach-dropping certainty, that his fear was not misplaced.

  “Who are you?” he said, trying to think of something to say that might get him out of this.

  “We’re your friends,” said a voice he recognized as Coral’s. “We’re your friends, and we want to know why you don’t introduce us to your new buddy?”

  Savn found that he had some difficulty swallowing. “You want to meet him? Sure. I mean, he’s just a guy. You’d like him. Why don’t we—”

  “Shut up,” said Coral, and, at the same time, someone pushed Savn. He said, “Coral? Look—”

  “Shut up,” repeated Coral.

  He was pushed again, this time so hard that he fell over. His fall was cause for more laughter. He wondered who else was there. He thought uncomfortably about how big Lan was.

  He thought about trying to run, then, but one of the three was bound to catch him, and it would probably make it worse if he tried to run. He stood up slowly, trying to think of something to do, and not succeeding.

  Coral called him a name and waited. Savn didn’t do anything. He was sent sprawling once more, and once more he got up. He thought about charging them, but he couldn’t make himself do it; some part of him kept hoping that they’d be satisfied just to push him around a bit, although he knew the hope was vain.

  Then the boy next to Coral called him another name, and Savn recognized Lan’s voice. He guessed the third to be Lan’s brother Tuk, and this was confirmed in a moment.

  Savn stood and waited, feeling as if none of this could really be h
appening. Someone pushed him yet again; then someone else pushed him, and this continued for a dizzying time until he fell to the ground again. He wondered what would happen if he just lay there, and decided they’d probably kick him. He stood up slowly, wondering in a distant way if they could see him well enough to hit him.

  Then someone punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. Answers that question, he thought, beginning to feel as if he were somewhere else.

  “Here, let me,” said Lan, and Savn waited.

  * * *

  Her mate was trying to tell her there was a problem, and she didn’t understand what he meant. Well, she understood the part about there being a problem, but not what it was. She tried to tell her mate this, and he, in turn, got confused.

  They wheeled about in the sky.

  After a time, he managed to convey what he wanted, if not why he, or, rather, the Provider, wanted it done. She didn’t have any real objection, but she didn’t understand how they were to tell one of them from the others.

  Her mate seemed to think that this didn’t matter, that things would work out anyway. This was somewhat puzzling, but she trusted him.

  He led her through the sky, below the overcast.

  On the ground, a grey wildcat prowled the night, leaving her nest briefly unattended. She called her mate’s attention to this, but he insisted that this other matter, whatever it was, should be attended to first.

  They came to a place, and through the darkness, she became aware of a group of animals, much like the Provider himself, huddled together as if in a herd.

  They circled, and, after a time, it began to look as if one was being singled out by the others, either to be driven off, or to be mated with, or for some other reason. Was that the one? she wondered. No, all of the others.

  Very well, then. Now?

  Now.

  They flew down together. She felt her wings cup the air, and she was suddenly very close to one of them, his face white and ugly in front of her—

  And, her mate insisted in her mind, they were not to bite. How could she not bite? How?

  Very well, she would do her best for him.

  She hissed and veered away, looking for another, but the others were already running away. Would her mate allow pursuit? Yes, he would allow pursuit. A little, at any rate. She set off after them.