The Price of Blood and Honor

by Elizabeth Willey

  “He wouldn’t. As you notice, he didn’t say anything about it—nobody did—”

  “Who would know?”

  “Golias’s mother and anyone good enough at using the Well to see. Not many people.” Including his Mistress in sorcery Neyphile, thought Otto, who knew about the ability and had not figured out how to do it.

  “Did you know?” Luneté asked.

  He hesitated and said, “No,” softly.

  Luneté steeled herself. “If he didn’t lie about that, he wouldn’t have lied about something similar, would he?”

  “I don’t think Prospero would tell an outright falsehood to anyone,” Ottaviano said. “It would be beneath him. Even though it killed him, he wouldn’t lie to your face. He’d lead you to come to a false conclusion on your own. What else did he say, Lu? I’ve never seen you so upset. Sit down—you look sick.” He gestured to a pair of chairs by a small alabaster table. They sat, staring at one another, he puzzled and curious, she biting her lip to fight tears.

  “Otto, he said Sebastiano was not your father.”

  “He said what?” yelled Ottaviano, standing.

  Luneté spread her hands, helpless, horrified to hear the thing said again by her own lips.

  “You misunderstood!”

  “I didn’t. I know I didn’t. Otto, if he wouldn’t lie, if he’d know it to be true, how—what—why would he say that?”

  “He doesn’t like me,” Otto said, sitting down. “And he said this to everybody.” He gazed at the low-banked fire, thinking. Prospero had said something when he’d had Otto at sword-point—something that had sounded like rhetoric at the time. Yes. Cecilie was thy mother, at least. No man can be sure of more than that.

  “I heard. Certainly the others heard too. Otto—” whispered Luneté.

  “Yeah.” What would the Emperor do? Otto chewed his lip.

  “Otto, I never asked you—where is your mother?”

  He looked from the fire to his wife. “She died when I was born. They had to cut her side to get me out—they told me I was a big child, and there was something about the way I was facing, and she was a little lady like the Empress—and she died.”

  Luneté nodded. She had heard of such births, which always brought death to the unhappy mother, who often welcomed it. She touched his arm. “Oh. Otto, I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I never knew her. I know my father Sebastiano better; he left a letter for me, a couple other things like that, and he had—some of his people hide me in Ascolet, other places too, and bring me up.”

  Luneté frowned. “Why? Why did he not bring you here to Court?”

  “He was out of favor, far out of favor, and he didn’t know he was going to die right then, Lu—he probably figured he could bring me to the King and acknowledge me any time, but hiding me again would be hard, and there were wars on and he was busy. I always figured he just didn’t have time and I never held it against him. He did a lot for me, more than I can say.” Otto swallowed. His mouth was dry. He rose and went to a cupboard, got two glasses and a bottle of the Lys wine Luneté had brought with them. It cut sharply across his palate and took the nasty taste of apprehension out of his mouth. He brought the glasses and bottle back to her.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Do? Nothing. What can we do? It’s in the Emperor’s lap. Sebastiano’s dead; he can’t be embarrassed by it and I’m not going to let it bother me.”

  “Otto,” said Luneté, a little exasperated at his thickness, “if Sebastiano isn’t your father, shouldn’t you know who is?”

  “Luneté, I have no idea. None.”

  “Can’t we find out somehow?” She accepted a glass of wine.

  “How? As I said, it’s in the Emperor’s lap. He can ignore it if he wants to, treat it like a dirty rumor the way he treats Prince Josquin’s carrying on. And he can use it to dump me out of Ascolet if he wants to, or he can leave me there, having just confirmed me in the office. I don’t know what he’ll do, Lu. It’s unguessable.”

  “We should talk to someone. Find out. Something. Somehow.” Luneté drank all her wine quickly and tried to think; the wine steadied her, and she refilled the glass. Who would know? What would happen to them if Ottaviano weren’t Sebastiano’s son?

  Otto shrugged. “I don’t know who’d know. Most of the people who were that close to my parents died when Sebastiano died, in the battle with him.”

  “Would Prince Gaston know?”

  “Why him?” Otto asked, reasonably enough.

  “He just seems to know everything,” Luneté said, wretched. “Somebody must know!” She drank half her wine in quick sips.

  “Lu, stop thinking about it. There’s not a damned thing we can do about it now. We’ll have to follow the Emperor’s cue. If he ignores it, we don’t mention it. If he wants to make something of it, we can claim Prospero is being malicious.”

  “But you said he wouldn’t lie.”

  “The Emperor would believe that he would.”

  “Could Prince Prospero prove you’re not Sebastiano’s son?”

  “I’m sure he—no. He can’t practice sorcery anymore.”

  “Could Dewar?”

  Otto paused and then nodded reluctantly. “Probably, yes.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “Well, no. It’s— Luneté, I know a few tricks. That’s all. Dewar—the kind of sorcerer Dewar is, is the kind of sorcerer Prospero was, and that’s never been the kind of sorcerer I wanted to be.”

  “A competent one,” Luneté said bitterly. “If they could, why not you?”

  Otto’s jaw clenched and he took Luneté’s wineglass from her hand. “Because sorcery has its price, and the more a sorcerer you are, the higher the price goes—and it’s not one I’ve cared to pay. Dewar paid, and he’s a sorcerer now—a hot one—and he must have paid high for it, considering.”

  “Then let’s ask him if there’s some way to find out who your father is as well as who he isn’t,” Luneté said triumphantly.

  “He’ll say he doesn’t engage in trade,” Otto said.

  Dewar was dancing with a sleek silvery-haired lady, who was entertaining him enormously with witty scandal from his father’s days at Court. She danced well, also, and she had clearly read and done more than most of the other women of the Court, and he had nearly decided to accept her implied offer of a later, private, more detailed exchange of pleasantries. When the dance ended, he bowed over her hand, not touching it with his lips, straightened, and damned if Ottaviano wasn’t standing there.

  Couldn’t he find his own partners? “Good evening, Baron,” said Dewar, allowing his annoyance to show.

  Ottaviano put on his best Court manners. “Lord Dewar, madame, I am sorry to interrupt you. If his lordship would be so kind as to accompany me, there is a dispute of some importance which he might be of aid in settling.”

  A duel, thought Dewar. It was inevitable; Otto was just inept enough to have stumbled into some such mess. “Madame, I must abandon you; if you can forgive me, perhaps we shall meet again later.” He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Gentlemen often have disputes requiring settling,” his partner said, “and they are always important. Indeed they are half the interest of the Court. I shall look forward to hearing about this one, if you would call on me tomorrow after the third hour.” She smiled.

  The sorcerer bowed. “Madame, I cannot guarantee that I shall have anything of interest to report, but I shall be honored to call.”

  “Of course it must be of interest! Why, all the talk of the court is that sorcerers are such interesting people; they must lead such interesting lives.”

  Dewar laughed. “Excessively so at times, madame. Until tomorrow,” and he bowed over her hand again.

  “You really move,” muttered Otto, leading Dewar from the room.

  “Move?”

  “Broul’s wife first, now Lady Keneage; are you using some spell?”

  The sorcerer smiled superciliously. “Sorcery is
wasted on these people. They are consumed with curiosity, however, regarding sorcerers. I cannot allow the opportunity to enlighten them with a few hours’ interview to escape me.”

  “Be careful Broul and Keneage don’t take notice of your interviews.”

  “Shall I introduce Her Ladyship the Countess to those two charming girls from Ithellin?” Dewar wondered. “Or to the blonde with the convenient mole on her—”

  “Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Or perhaps to Lady Miranda of Valgalant?” Dewar continued, turning and fixing Otto with a cold, watchful stare.

  Otto halted, halfway along the hall; Dewar stopped with him, still scrutinizing him.

  “Lady Miranda,” repeated Otto, as though he had never heard the name before.

  “Lady Miranda,” Dewar agreed, speaking softly but clearly, and somehow he drew Otto, without touching him, aside to an alcove. “You know her.”

  “I didn’t, actually.”

  “You know she’s dead.”

  It had not occurred to Otto that this might be something he ought not to admit. “Well! Everyone does.”

  “No, it’s been kept mum,” said Dewar. “I learned in a most awkward way myself. You knew her.”

  “I didn’t. I did not know her, Dewar. Never saw her.” Otto glared at Dewar, slowly heating to indignation. “Ask Gaston about it.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  Otto’s breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, he understood: Lady Miranda’s father was Dewar’s father’s partisan. Keeping the lady’s death hidden while the Emperor administered the final blow to Prospero’s claim to the throne would be imperative; were it known she’d been murdered, there might be outcry, opposition, sympathy, who knew what.

  “Did he?” Dewar pressed him.

  “No. He was very angry about it; insisted on going to the old man himself,” said Otto, deciding that the Emperor’s advantage did not, in this particular area, serve his own.

  “You know who did kill her.”

  Otto opened his mouth—halted himself—sighed, looked away.

  “Tell me, Otto. Or I must conclude you have some shared need for concealment, and some share of the blame.”

  “Golias,” said Otto—whispered Otto, a breath-word—to the frescoed wall, on which horses’ and riders’ heads were already turned away, attending elsewhere.

  “Golias. Your boon companion.”

  “I had nothing to do with it and he’s no particular friend of mine.”

  Dewar fixed Otto with a piercing, probing look; Otto felt warmth, the Well Summoned to the sorcerer. Dewar said, “You have entered a number of undertakings together, at least one of them bearing some similarity to this.”

  “I said I had nothing to do with it! The other business— I never meant—” Ottaviano tried to return Dewar’s stare, but was weakened by his own feeling of culpability. No one had said anything, not yet, but there had been hints from Prince Gaston that the affair at Perendlac and Chasoulis might not be buried mercifully in the past. Freia was in the Palace; he had heard her spoken of, had seen her wild and angry in Court this very night. He would smooth that over if he could, but she’d sent him no word in answer to his conciliatory note and he’d had no opportunity to speak to her. “If you wish to take that up, there are formalities.”

  “I am inquiring about Lady Miranda of Valgalant, nothing else.”

  “Are you taking that on yourself, then,” said Otto.

  “No,” Dewar said firmly, shaking his head once.

  “Taking it elsewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Then why in hell are you asking me about it?”

  “My own reasons, Baron, which suffice for me. So you knew nothing, eh?”

  “I didn’t know her name, who or what she might be—she was a spy, he said. Seemed likely enough. She was picked up by some of his men, scouting. Golias kept her as a prisoner.” Otto disliked this line of conversation; it might yet lead him into a very dangerous situation with the sorcerer. “If you want to make anything of it, go to Broul,” he said. “He’s got it in for Golias, or so I hear. Argued against confirming the title.”

  The sorcerer shrugged, seeing the redirection for what it was. For the moment, he needed no more than that name, Golias, and so he collected Otto with a glance and strolled along the corridor again, still talking, but not loudly. “From what I hear, his dislike is not unfounded; Golias was insolent to his wife, and the Baron was told of it.”

  “I’m told she only complains to him when—” Otto stopped himself. “But she’s a friend of yours. Your pardon.”

  “The Baroness of Broul rather fancies the look of you. She asked me to tell you so,” Dewar said, “and I add, on my own, that she is a thoroughly delightful person.”

  “With a warm coach.”

  “Also handsomely upholstered. Where are we going?”

  “My apartment. Luneté’s there. We have to talk to you. Have you heard the gossip?”

  “What Prospero said to the Empress, very loudly? Yes.”

  Again they paused, now at the end of a hallway standing before a high, tastelessly gilt looking-glass, and Dewar looked at Otto in the reflection and Otto looked at Dewar.

  “And?” Dewar prompted Otto. “You want me to curb the wagging tongues? Persuade Prospero to say it was a joke in monstrous taste? Either is beyond my inclination and my ability.”

  They still looked in the glass, studying one another. Dewar was serious, no hint of humor in him now. Otto swallowed, glanced to either side: no one around.

  “Dewar, if Sebastiano wasn’t my father, who the hell is?”

  “Excellent question. I presume you’re going to investigate it?”

  Otto writhed. It galled him to admit he couldn’t do something, and he’d faked his way through a number of things, at divers times, which he hadn’t done before. But sorcery couldn’t be faked, and it couldn’t be fooled. “I don’t know how,” he said.

  “So you’d like me to do so,” Dewar said, still watching Otto in the looking-glass.

  “If that’s what it would take.”

  “May I offer some friendly counsel?” Dewar said gently.

  “Sure.” Otto clenched his fists.

  “Stars above, you are distressed,” observed the sorcerer. “Two points, actually. One: don’t go looking into this unless you truly want to know. Consider the worst case, and ask yourself whether you could live with it being true. Two: I will only do this once. You had better get reliable witnesses, including the Emperor or someone he trusts completely like that wizened winkle Pallgrave, or all you will have is an allegation.”

  Ottaviano looked at Dewar: so cool, so unruffled. “How did you feel when you found out who your father was? You didn’t know, did you, during the war.”

  “I did not. I was surprised. I was also pleased. I am still pleased. I was further pleased by your telling me what my father was about when we met in the forest that time,” and Dewar’s mouth lifted just a bit, “and that is why I have given you that advice.”

  “Measure for measure. All right. I can’t imagine what the worst case would be, and I don’t really care. I suspect that it won’t matter to the Emperor—since I’m not Sebastiano’s, I’m nobody but the Countess of Lys’s husband and a rebellious upstart.” Otto grimaced and turned to lead Dewar on down the corridor. “Come on, Luneté’s waiting.” He looked back.

  Dewar was looking at Otto with a peculiar smile, his head tilted on one side. He began to laugh softly, shaking his head.

  “What’s so damn funny now?”

  “If you cannot think of a reason I should tell you something else, you could be in for a shock,” Dewar said, still laughing quietly. “Dear me, Otto, what did Neyphile teach you?”

  Otto ignored the taunt and concentrated on the offer. He thought hard. “I don’t think I have a reason for you to do me any favors,” he said. “If you can’t think of one, I can’t either.”

  “I didn’t think so. Pity. You’re not in terribly go
od odor with my father just now, but I’m more easygoing,” Dewar said, his aggravating smile still there. “Well, let us join the anxious Countess.”

  Prospero stormed.

  “I’ll tear his lungs out!” he cried. “Rend his throat with my hands, my teeth; skewer his heart and twist it on its cords ’fore his very eyes— And Gaston! Meddling, self-righteous son of the Sun! Ten thousand ills ’pon them both, that hinder and hamper my every deed! By what right doth he interfere in a just duel, O Emperor, in a duel that your own guards caused? Where were they that my daughter could be outraged and abused in your house, Emperor?”

  The Empress sat very still. The Emperor leaned rigid against the mantelpiece, miming a casual stance. Glencora, not Avril, answered. “Prince Gaston said he thought Prince Golias would be killed. He—he did not know why you were—duelling Prince Golias, Prince Prospero. The Marshal thought it must be a quarrel of the war.”

  “Damn Golias to oblivion! Damn Gaston for his upright, noble, meddling conscience! And where in the eight Halls of Damnation were the guards set o’er her, Avril? Why were they nowhere near? And where in the Palace is she? Demons bugger thee, Avril, my daughter’s suffered enough here! You dare claim her as your ward, and ward her thus? I’ll brook no further harm to her!”

  “We do not know where the guards were,” the Emperor said stonily. “Herne is investigating. Calm down.”

  “Calm down! Calm! I find that false-titled bastard hound of thine forcing my daughter and I’m to be calm thereat? Shall I tap him on the shoulder and deliver a lecture on manners, perhaps, or technique? Excuse my interruption, bow, and leave? I’ll see his head on a pike! Didst never wonder why the maid feared him, that dealt her such violence as Gaston himself, carnifex magnificus, hath admitted he found abhorrent, from which her health’s not yet recovered? Didst never bridge doer and deeds, thou ass?”

  “Prospero!” yelled the Emperor. “We did not know!”

  Prospero replied with an explosive, hissed obscenity: “Shit-witted snail! My daughter is missing; hath been looked for; cannot be found. A vild upon thee!” He turned away and paced to the windows, back to the Empress. “I cannot find her,” he said, in a nearly normal, strained voice. “She’s run, fled—could be hurt, I did not see; Golias could have her again, by the Well! Let her be found!”