A little way away from him, two women lay in the sun touching each other slowly and dreamily, occasionally glanced at by those around them, and Dewar lifted an eyebrow and politely looked away, stirred nonetheless: but they weren’t the only ones doing so, he realized, and he tried to ignore the movements and noises, and wondered instead whether it was immodest of them, or whether modesty was a false notion where there was no shame—and there was indeed no shame. He was unclothed, and so was everyone around him. The sun and the warm air lay on his body like a blanket, as it did on all of them. He observed that the population of Argylle was composed entirely of young women and young men and children, and there were no grizzled beards or grey hairs among them: a favored group, he thought, Prospero’s favor. Most of the men were scarred, and some were maimed or limping: souvenirs of Prospero’s war with Landuc. Most of the women were either nursing or pregnant.
This led him to think again of Prospero’s Spring, which Freia had not wanted to show him when he first came here with her, and of the Well and the Stone. The absence of those forces, on which he was accustomed to draw to strengthen or sustain himself when he needed strength or sustenance, was very noticeable to him now in his weakened state. He was gnawed by hunger and could not dull it by the sorcerer’s method of living on pure power; he needed food, and as cooking smells began drifting his way from open-air hearths, the need became annoyingly distracting. Dewar tried to blunt his hunger by thinking of this Spring, which he thought must be somewhere not too distant. Prospero’s notes had seemed to put it very close to where he lived, but Dewar could see nothing hereabouts that might be such a power source, either concealed or open. He swallowed on his empty stomach and recalled the indirect approaches to the Well of Landuc and the Stone of Pheyarcet.
Soon, though, people rose and went toward the cooking-fires, and Dewar joined them, for the supper was ready. A man who had only half a right hand gave Dewar a large, shallow bowl and a wooden spoon. The food was mostly winter-food still, but there was salad made of sweet and sour greens and buds, peppery yellow blossoms, and a strong-flavored crushed root, all dressed with salt and verjuice; shellfish that were tossed into a big basket of stone-boiled water until they opened; coarse but flavorful flat bread, cooked on hot rocks around the fires; a thick savory vegetable stew that tasted different from every pot; and dried fruits that had bland, almost greasy nuts tucked into the seed-hollows. He ate ravenously. They drank water or weak-bodied beer from clay or wooden beakers, so that Dewar surmised that the wine he’d had at other meals here was Prospero’s private stock. It was a pleasant meal, eaten outdoors. Someone handed Dewar a piece of cloth to drape around himself as the air grew cold after sunset, and he managed to get it to stay put after some fumbling. Everyone sat around the four cooking-fires, talking and laughing, shoulder-to-shoulder in the firelight, a warm tangle of legs and arms developing as the evening went on, and although Dewar understood none of the language, he found it a congenial experience nonetheless. He liked the Argyllines. There seemed nothing dislikable about them.
Soon a wave of yawns went around the company, and clumps of people got up, picked up sleeping children, and left the fireside for the darkness. Dewar rose when Utrachet did, with a handful of others, and strolled with them back to the city walls. There was only a thin moon; the starlight sufficed to see shapes, but not faces, and so Dewar could not see who it was that took his hand, pressed it, and then slipped her hand into his improvised wrap. Startled, he stopped, and his assailant rubbed against him, unclothed for all he could tell. Teeth nipped his shoulder.
“What—” said Dewar, making to move away, but couldn’t with her holding on to him like that. He touched skin, curly hair, flesh. Were people so free and casual here? Well. He smiled. It would hardly do to insult her by refusing.
His faceless, nameless friend’s warm hand was stroking him, accompanied by a hip movement that made the intention perfectly explicit. She tugged playfully, and he took a step and began to laugh, and so did she, a rich alto ripple lovely to hear. Dewar gave her his hand again and led her through the open city gate to the bed where he had awakened.
“And where are your lodgings?” asked the Countess of Surluse.
“We shall go to Lys House, of course,” said Luneté of Lys. “I sent a letter by the Emperor’s courier, telling the steward to open the place and prepare it for me. It must be in a sad state, though—it cannot have been used for more than twenty years.”
“And all that time, the staff have been boarded and paid for no service! A bad business. Sarsemar would have been wiser to lease it.”
Luneté pressed her lips together. “That would have been unseemly, I think,” she said. Sarsemar had taken liberties in his position as it was.
“But it is in Firdrake Square, still a very favored area, and he would have had no difficulty finding a tenant. A careless man, Sarsemar. I am pleased never to have had much to do with him. Such people will chill the prospects of everyone around them.” The Countess shot as significant a glance as possible at the Baron of Ascolet, of whom she had formed an opinion that he was rackety, an upstart, and not at all what he claimed to be.
Luneté caught the insult, though Otto, who was supervising the loading of the Surluse coach, did not, and Luneté’s previous patience with the Countess of Surluse’s sharpness vanished. Ottaviano had behaved entirely like a gentleman to the rasp-tongued lady, and she had no business disparaging him in the slightest matter.
“Madame,” said Luneté, “I must remind you that I cannot hear such things said of a gentleman as close to me as my former guardian.” And she added a significant look of her own.
The Countess of Surluse humphed, but wisely left the issue: Lys House was, to be sure, in a favored part of the town, and it would not do to chill her welcome there. The tumult of the inn-yard, their last stop before the city, prevented much more conversation between them, and the Countess of Surluse was handed into her coach not long after with great address by the Baron of Ascolet, and was wished farewell very gratefully by the Countess of Lys—who did, after all, bid Surluse to call upon Lys when she had settled herself, and Surluse in turn bid Lys and Ascolet come dine the next day but one, the day before the great Court assembled, and so they all parted as amiably as might be hoped for, for near-strangers who had shared a difficult and crowded journey in midwinter.
Otto rode inside the Lys coach with his wife, her maid, and the page on this last half-day’s stage to the city. The Countess of Surluse had explained to them that, as desirable as it might seem to press on and arrive late at night at one’s own house, in practice a house that has only just been opened for one’s arrival is usually less ready to receive one than an inn, no matter how many preparatory commands have been sent in letters. And since many did press on to reach the city in the weariest hours of the night, the inn was not as crowded as the worst they had seen on the trip; and Luneté in particular, wondering what sort of servants the Lys House steward might have been able to hire in such a brief time, saw the wisdom of this approach. They halted thrice—once to let Dinas out to climb onto the box beside the coachman, once to rest and care for the horses and themselves, and once to stand on Hunter’s Hill outside the city, the famous panoramic view of land and harbor spread before them on this very cold, very clear day. A weathered kingstone smiled over carved numbers telling them that it wanted but ten miles to the city center. Otto, who had been to the city more than once before, pointed out an assortment of monuments, arches, and towers to his wife, who really wanted to know where Firdrake Square was and how much longer she must rattle along to get there. And over the whole city, behind it as it were, backed by the tongue of the great forest that was part of the Emperor’s own preserve, watched the Palace, whose angled high white walls were clearly seen, and the golden-domed building within them glimpsed behind trees and lesser buildings. Within those walls was the Well: Luneté did not think of this, but Otto did.
Firdrake Square lay near the Palace. Luneté realiz
ed she should have guessed that, and wished, as her coach stopped and rumbled and stopped and rumbled over the cobbled streets, that Lys had been just a little less favored—just a little, so as to be closer to the city gates, sparing her this last, most fatiguing piece of the journey. Otto had left the coach and was riding, leading the coach and deploying his men to push through the crowded streets when such was possible. Laudine had a headache and was as out-of-sorts as Luneté, wondering that the Emperor would put up with such conditions in his own city. Dinas was in raptures, having a grand view of more houses, more shop-windows, more fine horses, more carriages, more chairs, and more people than he had ever imagined there could be in the world, and the coachman and footman were reminding one another that there would be some kind of punch, and some kind of food, and a good welcome generally, at Lys House when it opened its doors to the long-awaited new Countess.
They made one last, climbing turn; they left, of a sudden, the clamorous traffic behind them; the horses put their shoulders to it and drew the Countess of Lys’s coach up a curving street that led into a closed loop of road, which was Firdrake Square. Otto tapped at the window and told Luneté so, and she could not resist leaving the shutter down and leaning this way and that, looking at the houses of her neighbors and their carriage-entrances and the trees that curved over the street. Everything looked very tidy and well-kept: she saw a child playing hoop, with four attendants; bare tree-branches reaching above high garden walls; a pair of liveried maid with covered baskets followed by two liveried footmen with greater baskets, all marching along decorously quiet; she saw window-boxes of late greenery and a muffled-up gentleman in a light, dangerous-looking open carriage. They all glanced at the coach, at the Lys shield on the coach-door, and looked away, not staring. A very good neighborhood, thought Luneté. Outside one door, across from her own, stood a horse and eight soldiers, the horse like a statue, uncommonly still, and the soldiers ranked in neat order, four and four to each side of the iron gate. But she hardly noticed that: it was across from her own house.
“Lys House,” said Otto, for it was carved, though not painted, over the arched front door, and he sent his Chancellor of the Exchequer to bang on the closed door of the carriage-entry.
There ought to have been people watching for her, thought Luneté. She had written to them; they knew she’d be arriving. It looked too quiet.
No one came to the door.
“Knock again,” Otto said, and he sent the footman up to yank the bell as well, and the page to knock and ring at the front door.
“Why aren’t we in?” Luneté demanded, sticking her head out of the coach.
“Something’s amiss,” said Otto. “Did you—”
The Chancellor’s hammerings had attracted some attention: the muffled-up gentleman had turned his carriage back to them. Now the house-door opened and a portly man came out, and with him a handful of others, footmen and valets by the looks of them. Otto seized the first fellow at once.
“Are you deaf? The Countess of Lys bids you open the door of her house and has been so doing for the past ten minutes.”
“Unhand my steward, sirrah!” said the muffled gentleman.
“Your steward? Lys’s steward, I should think,” said Luneté, who had left her coach with Laudine. “Are you not Pometer?”
A small number of passersby, appearing as by magic, began to take an interest in the proceedings.
“Pometer is my steward, and this is my home,” said the muffled gentleman.
“Pellico Sarsemar!” cried Luneté, a peal of rage in her voice. “This is Lys House and it is mine! You will remove yourself in the instant, sir!”
“The so-called Countess of Lys, I take it,” said Sarsemar.
“I remember you,” said Otto, nearly snarling. “I remember that I saw you in the stables buffling that dairy-maid on your last visit to Sarsemar. What the hell are you doing in the Countess of Lys’s house, and how fast can you run?” He too had been seized by a rush of anger: to have come so far and find the Baron of Sarsemar’s oily son squatting here was too much.
“Otto!” said Luneté.
“The pretender of Ascolet, as well,” said Pellico. “I must ask you to leave; you are blocking the street before my carriageway, and I have no intention of receiving such distinguished company. The neighborhood is slipping as it is,” he said, gesturing toward the house guarded by eight of the Emperor’s soldiers, “and I am sure no one would desire it to go any further.”
“It’s gone already, if you’re here,” said Otto. “This is Lys House; Sarsemar has no more business with it than Sarsemar has with the Countess of Lys.”
“The house has long been an emolument of Sarsemar, by the Emperor’s grace,” said Pellico Sarsemar, “and—”
“It has not,” said Luneté.
The bystanders began to offer opinions and histories among themselves.
“You lie,” said Otto, and he bounced up and lifted Sarsemar out of his carriage, onto the pavement, releasing him. Otto’s men pressed around him, as much as they could. A certain amount of shoving began among the Sarsemar men and the Ascolet men.
“You jack-knave,” said Sarsemar, and struck at Otto with his stick; Otto caught it, tore it from him, and broke it on his knee.
“Pometer, give me your keys,” said Luneté, drawing herself up and holding out her hand. “You are relieved of your duties.”
Pometer fidgeted from foot to foot, pale with fear, wringing his hands. “Your Grace, with greatest respects, I cannot, I—”
“Kester” (for this was the Chancellor’s name) “relieve Pometer of his key-ring,” said Otto.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer of Ascolet seized Pometer by the collar, but Pometer showed exceptional spirit and wriggled out of his coat. Voices were being raised now among the bystanders, who were drawing back to give the confrontation breathing-room, and among the disputants, who were calling one another liars and worse and beginning to finger their weapons. It must go badly with the Sarsemar side, who were unarmed, save that more people were beginning to come from the house (though still the carriage-entry remained closed).
“This is outrageous,” declared Luneté, angrier than she had ever been.
“You have no business here, madame,” said Pellico. “Begone. The decent inns are no doubt full, but you can certainly find some doss-house suited to you and your company.”
“That’s it,” said Otto, and began wading through the crowd with murder in his eye. Pellico backed around, separated from his carriage and trying to reach it.
On the other side of the square, the front door of the house guarded by eight soldiers and a patient horse opened. A tall man, crimson-cloaked, came out, and the movement and color caught Otto’s eye as he lunged to grab Pellico. Otto froze, then stood quite still. Pellico sprang into his carriage.
As the attention of most present had been on Otto, their heads were turned by his distraction, to look at the guarded house and the man speaking to the soldiers outside it.
“By the Fire, it’s the Prince Marshal,” said Otto quietly.
Luneté of Lys, mortified beyond belief, wished the earth might open and swallow her: a wish unlikely to be granted even in former days of the Well’s most overt potency and presence. That so august a person as Prince Marshal Gaston should see her in the middle of a street brawl ought to be a fatal humiliation. Laudine gasped and curtseyed, staying down.
“Bosh,” said Pellico Sarsemar, uncertainly.
“Calling on old Valgalant, the traitor,” whispered someone. “The great fool he; should have stayed out of town.”
The Prince Marshal had taken the bridle of his horse in hand and turned, and now his eye lit on the drama across the pavement, really seeing it for the first time. His distant, serene expression shifted slightly as he focused on the street and the coach and the people arguing there, whose voices had all dropped in an instant when Otto had said, “It’s the Prince Marshal.” For everyone knew who Prince Gaston was, and no one partic
ularly desired to be singled out for his notice at the moment, not in the throes of an altercation they all felt to be crass and common, though of enormous importance.
Luneté prayed in her thoughts, a heartfelt prayer of but a breath’s duration, that the Well might take pity on her embarrassment and send the Prince on quickly before he recognized the Baron of Ascolet, who had fought against and then under him in the recent wars.
But the Well was deaf, or busy, and instead of mounting his enormous horse and taking his regal self elsewhere, Prince Gaston walked toward them, leading the horse, and six of the eight foot-soldiers who had waited for him followed. The other two opened the ironwork gate of the house and took places to either side of the door.
The voices raised in argument in the street had fallen utterly silent when Prince Gaston had taken his first step toward them. Now the bodies fell as well, bowing. Despite the dirt, Luneté curtseyed, a presentation curtsey; so did Pellico’s housekeeper, even deeper. Pellico managed some awkward repositioning of himself in his carriage, which he feared to leave. Ottaviano, however, straightened, his backbone arranging itself into the habitual military erectness it had learned to assume in the vicinity of the Fireduke or Prince Herne.
The Price of Blood and Honor Page 8
