Time's Children

by D. B. Jackson

  “Is there anything you need, m’lord?” the page asked.

  Tobias nearly corrected him. Never before had he been addressed so. But likely the lad knew the ways of this court better than he. “No, thank you.”

  The boy bowed and left him. Tobias placed his sack on the pallet and stepped to the window, which offered a striking view of the city, the river, and the waters of the gulf. He wondered if the Skate had already left the wharf for open sea. He crossed to the wash-basin and removed his shirt. A knock at the door stopped him. Before he could put the shirt back on, or tell whoever had come to enter, the door opened and a man bustled in.

  “Ah, good. You knew I was on my way.” He was bald, short, rotund. He spoke with a deep voice and didn’t hesitate to enter the chamber and stride to Tobias’s wardrobe. Two young women, both yellow-haired, hovered near the door.

  “Um… No, I… Who are you?”

  “I’m Lars,” the man said, looking through the robes, “the sovereign’s head seamster. He’s directed me to see to it you have suitable clothing for tonight’s banquet.” He pulled out one robe and handed it to Tobias. “I believe this is the best fit. Try it on.”

  Tobias took the robe, but didn’t put it on. “Banquet? The sovereign said I’d be supping with his family. He didn’t mention a banquet.”

  The seamster snatched the robe back and held it up, clearly intending for Tobias to put it on. Tobias turned and slipped his arms into the sleeves.

  “Anytime the sovereign sups, it’s a banquet. That’s how royals are. One of many lessons you’ll learn in coming days.” Lars grasped Tobias by the shoulders, spun him, and buttoned the robe. He stepped back, and appraised him with a critical eye. “Yes, I think that will do.”

  “But I’m to wear it with a shirt, right?”

  Lars stared at him, impassive. “I really haven’t the patience for poor humor.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “I suppose that’s reassuring. Yes, you’ll need a new blouse, not to mention breeches, hose, and shoes. Thank goodness we’re in Her Waking. If this were one of the colder turns, I’d need to find you a cape, scarf, and gloves as well. As it is, we’ve only a few bells.” He unbuttoned the robe again, pulled a chalk from behind his ear and made a few quick marks and notations on the waistline and cuffs of Tobias’s breeches.

  He beckoned to the women with a flutter of his fingers. “Take the shirt and breeches and shoes. We’ll get him fitted–”

  “No!” Tobias said, clutching the top of his breeches. “I mean, at least let me put the robe back on!”

  Lars rolled his eyes. “Gods give me patience to endure the foolishness of children.”

  Tobias straightened, stung by this. One of the young women laughed. The other covered her amusement with a slender hand.

  “Yes,” the seamster said, voice dripping with irony, “by all means; cover yourself with the robe. These poor virgins have never before seen the male form in all its naked glory.”

  He resented being mocked, but still he took back the robe, unable to bring himself to remove his breeches without first covering up. When he had undressed, he handed the breeches to Lars, who passed them to the nearer of the two women.

  “Do you have anything to wear in the meanwhile?”

  “No,” Tobias said, still sulking.

  “Then you’d best remain here until we return.” He crossed back to the door. “Next time, I’ll have the ladies wear blinders.”

  They left, and Tobias could do little more than sit in his room and stare out the window. After a time, he stretched out on the pallet. The next thing he knew, Lars was back, shaking him gently.

  “Time to get up, bashful.”

  Tobias opened his eyes. The seamster stood over him, the same two young women behind, their arms laden with clothes. The light from the window had faded, and the patch of sky he could see from the pallet had shaded toward indigo.

  He sat up. “How soon until the banquet?”

  “Half a bell, at the most.” Lars pointed to the wardrobe. “Put his things in there.”

  The women did as instructed and exited the chamber.

  “Those should last you for a time, provided you don’t gorge yourself at tonight’s meal, or do something else foolish.” He smiled, perhaps to soften the words. “The cobbler had time only for a single pair of shoes. He promises boots in the days to come. I can’t help you impress the sovereign – or his daughter for that matter – but at least you’ll look the part of the young noble.”

  He started toward the door.

  “Thank you, seamster.”

  Pausing on the threshold, the man said, “Stay away from the Miejan reds. They stain.” He pulled the door closed.

  Alone again, Tobias chose a pair of pale blue breeches and a white silk shirt from the items the seamster had brought him. He dressed in haste, but had to pause as he pulled on the robe. Somehow these new clothes fit better than had his old rags. So did the shoes. He wasn’t usually given to vanity, but he would have liked to see himself in a looking glass, just this once.

  He wasn’t sure how to find the hall in which they would be dining, but he expected a guard would be able to direct him. When he opened the door, however, he found the page sitting against the opposite wall of the corridor. The boy scrambled to his feet.

  “Have you been there all this time?”

  “Nat’rally, my lord. I wouldn’t sneak off!”

  “No, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

  The boy frowned.

  “It doesn’t matter. What’s your name?

  “Grig, my lord.”

  “Very well, Grig. Can you lead me to where we’ll be eating?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  This time as they walked, Tobias paid more attention to the twists and turns of the corridors, stairways, and tiled paths. The hall was on the ground floor near the stairway to the sovereign’s quarters. It was enormous, the largest chamber Tobias had ever seen. Its windows of colored glass burned with the glow of the setting sun, casting tinted ghosts of light on the stone walls and illuminating tiny motes of dust that swam in the air overhead.

  Several tables and chairs had been pushed to the walls, leaving only one lengthy table in the middle of the floor. This had been set with wooden trenchers, and knives, forks, and spoons of bright silver. It was laden with platters of cheese and smoked meats, with bowls of fruits and steamed roots and greens, and with rounds of fresh bread. Any remaining space had been filled with carafes of wine, both red and golden.

  The headache and sour stomach with which he’d started his day a distant memory, Tobias longed to grab the nearest bowl and gorge himself. Fortunately, the arrival of other guests saved him from himself. Several men and women entered the hall together, all of them chatting and laughing amiably. Upon spotting Tobias, they converged on him and began to introduce themselves. The flurry of names and titles overwhelmed him, but a few lodged in his memory.

  A handsome older woman in a pale blue gown presented herself as Gillian Ainfor, the sovereign’s minister of state, and an ancient man, his face wizened, his hair white and wild, was introduced as Mikel, the sovereign’s Spanner. Tobias didn’t hear his surname. Mara would have been pleased to know the Spanner was a man of such advanced years.

  The one name he recognized belonged to a slightly disheveled, gray-haired man.

  “Master Jarrett,” Tobias said, bowing to the Binder. He carried his new chronofor in his pocket, its weight both alien and reassuring. “I wish to thank you for the fine chronofor. I’ve already had occasion to use it, and it’s as beautiful as any I’ve seen.”

  “Its appearance means nothing,” the Binder said. “How did it function?”

  “What Jarrett means,” the minister of state said, giving Tobias no time to answer, “is thank you, you’re most kind.”

  The Binder scowled, but Gillian slipped her arm through his and kissed his cheek, eliciting a wince that might have been intended as a smile.


  “He’s not one for compliments, nor, for that matter, does he like expressions of affection.” She leaned forward, and added in a conspiratorial half-whisper, “But I don’t really care.”

  Tobias laughed. To the Binder he said, “It worked brilliantly, thank you. I’m still learning my craft, but I’ve no doubt this chronofor will serve me well.”

  Jarrett nodded, clearly pleased. The minister caught Tobias’s eye and gave a wink that bespoke her approval.

  They had no opportunity to say more. The blare of a herald’s horn announced the arrival of the royal family. Mearlan entered the hall first, accompanied by a slender woman, slightly taller than he, whom Tobias assumed must be his wife. She wore a simple white gown and a circlet of silver on her brow, and she favored those in the hall with a dazzling smile. Her hair was dark and long; some of it had been tied back in an elaborate plait. Her complexion was very nearly a match for Tobias’s; she stood out in this hall as much as he must have. He wondered if she came from the Labyrinth or perhaps Trevynisle itself.

  Behind the royal couple came two more figures. One wore ministerial robes similar to Tobias’s. Tobias noticed little else about him. His gaze had locked on the face of the young woman walking half a pace ahead of this man.

  What had Lars said? I can’t help you impress the sovereign – or his daughter for that matter…

  At the time, Tobias had paid little attention, consumed as he was with preparing for the banquet. Now he wondered how he could have cared about anything else. She was the perfect blend of her parents: shimmering black hair and mahogany skin from her mother; startling blue eyes and an open, oval visage from her father. She stood nearly as tall as the sovereign, and so was Tobias’s height as well. Her gown was as elaborate as the queen’s was plain, with layered skirts of shimmering gold, purple, and black, and a bodice of matching purple embroidered with fine gold stitching. The effect – the gown, the hair, the complexion, the eyes – was intoxicating.

  “That’s Sofya,” Minister Ainfor whispered.

  “Sofya,” he repeated.

  “Careful, Walker. That bloom has thorns.”

  He glanced her way. “I’m–” He gave a small shake of his head, and looked away once more, back to the sovereign’s daughter. Sofya. “I’m just a Walker.”

  “Normally, I’d build you up with a word or two of praise, but in this instance, that’s the right approach. You’re a Walker, and she’s a royal you want nothing to do with. Trust me on this.”

  “Walker!” the sovereign called, waving him over.

  “Time to take stage,” the minister whispered.

  Tobias walked to where the royal family waited, feeling every pair of eyes in the hall upon him. In Windhome, he had welcomed the attention of Mara and his teachers, though it invited the envy of others. This felt different, undeserved, at least for the time being.

  The skin under the sovereign’s eyes was still bruised with fatigue, but his pleasure as he addressed his wife appeared genuine. “I present to you Tobias Doljan, of Redcove on the isle of Onyi, by way of Windhome in Trevynisle. Hayncalde’s new Walker. Tobias, this is my wife, Keeda, sovereign queen of Daerjen.”

  Tobias bowed low. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, your majesty.”

  “And a pleasure to make yours, Walker. I hail from the Labyrinth, not so far from your home. I look forward to speaking with you of the northern isles. I miss them.”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  With a light hand on Tobias’s shoulder, the sovereign steered him where he already wished to go.

  “This is my daughter, Sofya, sovereign princess of Daerjen. Sofya, this is Walker Tobias Doljan.”

  The princess curtsied, her hard stare never leaving Tobias’s face. He bowed, breaking eye contact. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”

  She offered no reply.

  “I wish I could introduce you to my son,” the sovereign said, “but he’s currently serving in the Herjean, pursuing privateers. He’s a commander aboard the Daerjen ship Fulmar.”

  “You and the queen must be very proud, my liege.”

  The sovereign thanked him; Sofya rolled her eyes.

  “And finally,” the sovereign said, steering Tobias again, “I present to you my Seer, Osten Cavensol, who hails from the isle of Wyehrel in Sipar’s Labyrinth. Seer, our new Walker, Tobias Doljan.”

  As he neared the man, an odd smell reached him. At first Tobias thought it merely the smell of drink. Maybe the Seer had partaken of too much wine before coming to the hall. But another scent underlaid that hint of spirit. It was both cloyingly sweet and subtly bitter. The man was dark-skinned as well. Maybe Tobias wouldn’t stand out in the court as much as he had feared.

  “Walker Doljan,” the Seer said in a slow drawl. “A pleasure.” He wore a vague smile on his thin lips and his dark eyes had a glassy cast to them.

  “The pleasure is mine, Seer.”

  The queen led them to the table, and took some care with the seating. She and the sovereign were to sit at the center, naturally. As the honored guest for the evening, Tobias was positioned just to the left of the sovereign, with Sofya on Tobias’s other side, an arrangement that both thrilled and terrified him. The queen placed the Seer, Gillian, and the Binder nearest to her seat.

  Tobias started to sit, but the sovereign stopped him with a sharp clearing of his throat. At the same time, a short, lean woman rose from a seat at the end of the table and raised both arms in supplication, her white robes marking her as a priestess from the Temple of Sipar. Tobias lowered his head with the others, embarrassed to have allowed his hunger and excitement to distract him so. Back in Windhome every meal began with a show of obeisance to the God and Goddess. He had spent too many days aboard the Skate.

  The priestess finished her prayer, and the sovereign and his guests punctuated it with a ringing “Hear us.”

  With a rustle of cloth and the grating of wood on stone, the diners sat and began to eat.

  Mearlan peppered Tobias with questions throughout the meal, and when the sovereign paused to eat, the queen took up where he left off. They wished to know about Windhome and life in the palace. The queen in particular had questions about his training, and the skills he had learned from the palace masters.

  On occasion, Tobias chanced a glance to his left, to see if Sofya was listening. The princess, however, gave no indication that she cared a whit about his former life; she maintained an implacable silence for much of the evening.

  As servants brought out a confection of chocolate, wild berries, and sifted sugar, the queen finally leaned forward to address her daughter.

  “Sofya, don’t you have anything to ask our guest? He’s no older than you, and already he’s lived such a fascinating life.”

  “Actually, yes,” the princess said, her voice lower and stronger than Tobias had expected. She raised her gaze from her trencher. “I find myself wondering if he ever grows tired of speaking about himself.”

  “Such comments ill-become you,” her father said, his voice low.

  “It wasn’t directed at him, Father. The two of you haven’t let the poor boy do anything more than speak. His trencher is still half-covered with his supper.”

  She was right; he had been too busy answering questions to eat much of his meal. Yet Tobias couldn’t decide which bothered him more: her first comment, when he thought it directed at him, or her referring to him as a boy.

  The sovereign stared at Tobias’s trencher, and then at his daughter. At last, he hung his head and laughed.

  “Forgive me, Walker. Forgive us. We haven’t had many visitors of late, and it’s refreshing to speak of something other than provisions, alliances, and battles.”

  Around the table other conversations faltered.

  “I don’t mind, my liege. Before this evening, I’d never been given reason to think myself particularly interesting. It was a pleasant fantasy while it lasted.”

  Mearlan and his queen laughed. Even Sofya looked amuse
d. She didn’t actually give in to laughter, but she regarded him, seeming to consider him anew. The rest of the sovereign’s guests resumed their discussions.

  Mearlan leaned toward him and said in a low voice, “That was well done, Walker. You rescued an evening that I nearly ruined. I’m grateful.”

  “Thank you, my liege.”

  Tobias turned to Sofya once more, but as he did, she pushed back from the table and stood.

  “I grow weary,” she said. “Goodnight, Father, Mother.”

  The sovereign and queen frowned at this, but made no attempt to stop her. Sofya left without sparing Tobias another glance.

  Chapter 10

  16th Day of Kheraya’s Ascent, Year 647

  Tobias thought Sofya’s departure might signal an end to the evening. It didn’t. The sovereign’s other guests lingered over dessert and cups of black tea from the Labyrinth. Jarrett and the minister of arms engaged in a spirited argument over the question of which isle produced the finest weapons, the minister arguing for Aiyanth, and the Binder championing Oaqamar, albeit reluctantly. The sovereign followed every word, occasionally adding a remark himself.

  As they continued their debate, the minister of state rose from her seat, walked the length of the table, and sat where Sofya had been.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said to Tobias. “I’m not as stimulating company as the princess, but I was fascinated by what I heard of your history, and I have more questions for you.”

  “It would be my pleasure, minister,” Tobias said, his enthusiasm genuine, his interest in the arms conversation long since gone.

  Most of the minister’s questions pertained to his training in diplomacy. She wanted to know which of the great thinkers in statecraft he had read, and responded with enthusiasm when his list included men and women from so many isles: Bentner from Daerjen, Fetgarth from Oaqamar, Goraan from Rencyr, Muul from Safsi, the Tev sisters from Liyrelle.

  “Muul was always my favorite,” she said, sipping gold wine from a freshly filled goblet, the blue in her eyes a perfect match for her gown. “Some think him fusty, but I find his treatise on war and alliances simply brilliant.”