She set the mug down. “I don’t know, Val,” she said. “The actors say that you used to write poetry to Tamra, and even to Callia, before she became queen. And how many were there before her?”
How well she knew him, after all: she could strip him bare with a look. She had summed up his life in a phrase, the way the poet-mages did in the old books. “Tamra meant nothing,” he said. “The others meant nothing—”
“Then how do I know what I mean to you? If this is a game, something you do for your own amusement—”
“No. No, it’s nothing like that.”
“If this is a game, then it’s one I don’t know how to play. And I don’t understand why you would want to send me poetry otherwise. I’m a daughter of fisher-folk, and you—you’re a lord, a king.”
“I send you poetry because you’re beautiful. When I came back to Tobol An after the war it was like returning home. I saw you for what you were that day—”
“You saw me dressed in court finery. I’m nothing like that.”
“Taja, I swear by Callabrion—”
“Hush,” she said. “Don’t swear. What would I do now, if I were a lady of the court?”
“You would thank me for the sonnet. But you would leave me in doubt as to your meaning, and I would have to write you another, and probably a few more after that. Then you would chance to drop something of yours while talking to me—a scarf, perhaps, or a handkerchief. And I would wear it on my sleeve, so others would know that I courted you.”
She shook her head, smiling a little. “Why is it all so complicated?”
“It’s not complicated. It’s amusing, enjoyable—”
“A game,” she said.
“No—no, it’s—”
“Good night, Val,” she said, still smiling, and turned to go.
The days ran on, one into the other, and the company created a court in miniature in Tobol An. They talked about the attributes of the gods, about the Virtues and Vices, about the old poetry and plays they were finding in the library. But no one spoke of politics, or the Shai, and no one mentioned what they all surely thought, that they would have to make plans before their money ran out. None of them, Val knew, would be at all suited to the life of the fisher-folk.
Val had not spoken directly to Narrion since his first day in Tobol An, though he had watched him carefully. Was his cousin speaking the truth for once when he said he had nothing planned? How could he trust Narrion after all the other man had done to him?
Rehearsals of The Tragedy of King Galin continued. Taja suggested that they stage the play in the library, but a few of the actors disliked the presence of so much magic and the company decided to use the open plain instead. They had one final rehearsal, and then they announced the date of their performance.
On the day of the play Val arrived at the makeshift stage early. Nearly the entire village had turned out on the plain, and he was hard-pressed to find a place from which to see the stage. Finally he sat on a slight rise at the back of the crowd, close to Mathary.
The Prologue stepped forward. As he watched the woman speak Val felt a superstitious dread; the last play he had seen had been marred by the presence of the Maegrim at just such a moment. He looked at the plain around him, unable to help himself. The sound of the ghost-knight’s trumpet came toward them, faint and far away.
The Prologue stopped. “Soldiers!” someone on the stage said, and at the same moment someone in the audience called out, fearfully, “The Shai!”
“They’ve come for you,” Mathary said to Val.
“What?”
“They’ve come for you. They know who you are.”
He did not think to doubt her. “What should I do?” he asked.
“Play a part,” she said. “You should be good at that, at least.”
He studied her for a moment, not understanding. Then he ran to the stage. “Give me a costume,” he said urgently to Osa. “Teach me what to say.”
“What?” Osa said. She peered at him nearsightedly.
“The Shai. They’re here for me. Find a costume for me—they’ll never think to look for me among women.”
Taja grinned at him. “You can be the King’s Pen,” she said. “You’ll be on the stage in almost every act, but you only have two sentences to speak. Do you think you can do that?”
Val nodded. “Quickly,” he said. Someone handed him a costume of faded velvet and a chain of office, and he hurried behind the stage to change.
The costume had been made for a woman; it was too broad in the hips and chest and too tight at the waist. The breeches, Callabrion be thanked, were almost long enough; he remembered the tall woman who had spoken the Prologue at court. He left them unfastened and tied a belt around his waist; to his relief the tunic came down far enough to cover the belt. He ran his hand over his face, glad that he had shaved that morning in honor of the play. Then he tucked his amulet beneath the tunic, said a brief prayer to Callabrion, and went to find the others.
A few of the Shai stood on the stage; in their gold breastplates and helmets they looked like actors in a play about strange and fantastic outlanders. “We are looking for a man named Valemar,” one of them said.
Val glanced up, then looked away quickly. He had only caught a glimpse, nothing more, but he felt certain that he had seen the man who had shaken Arion’s hand the day they had all been betrayed: Rakera, the commander of the Shai. He remembered that Arion had called the commander brilliant, and his heart sank. How could he hope to fool this man?
The troupe of actors clustered by the stage. Val joined them hurriedly, standing near Taja. No one in the audience spoke. With his senses sharpened by fear Val could see Narrion and Pebr and Mathary, and beyond them more soldiers guarding Duchess Mariel.
“Valemar,” Rakera said again. “We know he is here. Bring me the lady Mariel.”
One of the soldiers led Mariel to the stage. “Where is he?” the commander asked her. “You know him—tell me which one he is.”
Mariel looked out at the audience and then at the small group of actors. Despite his apprehension Val felt shocked at the change he saw in her face; she looked haggard, bled white, as if she had been tortured on the ladder. “I don’t—I don’t see him,” she said.
“Come, Lady Mariel. You know what happens when you lie.”
“I don’t—he’s not here.”
The soldiers began to move through the audience. Would Mariel betray him? And what of Narrion? The other man had given Val scant reason to trust him.
Two of the soldiers came over to the troupe by the stage and looked at them closely. “Actors,” one of them said. “They pretend to be other people. They’re all women.”
The other soldier peered at Val. He did not seem to have understood his companion. Could it be that they had no plays at all in Shai?
Finally the second man shrugged and moved away. “Women,” he said, sounding doubtful.
“Yes,” his companion said. “So I said.”
The soldiers returned to the stage. To his horror Val saw the man who had studied him speak to Rakera. Both men turned toward him, and then the commander grinned. “Come,” he said. “Let’s see a play.” He led the soldiers off the stage and they took seats among the audience.
Val looked at Taja. She had not even had time to teach him his lines. “Don’t stand like that,” she whispered.
“What?” he said. He had been leaning against the stage; his legs were shaking.
“Don’t sprawl like that. Women take up less space than men.”
“What are my lines?”
She told him. They marched onto the stage and stood ranged behind the king.
For the first few scenes Val saw and heard nothing of what went on around him. He left the stage with the king and court and returned with them, and all the while he wanted only to glance in the soldiers’ direction. They must have guessed, he thought; surely he looked nothing like a trained actor.
By the second act, though, he had calmed
enough to pay attention to the play. He saw with admiration how Osa, the actor playing the king, commanded most of the space around her, how she became a king in the eyes of the audience. He saw how the wicked councilor managed to suggest disloyalty with a few words and a manner of standing. He heard gasps from the audience when Tamra, dressed as a fortuneteller, spoke her prophecy. And soon, to his great surprise, he began to look forward to saying his lines. He was a man disguised as a woman disguised as a man; the part would call for great subtlety.
Finally he heard his cue. He risked a look into the audience and saw that the Shai were watching him intently. He faltered. What had he been about to say? Taja whispered something but he could hear only the blood pounding in his ears.
“My lord must guard against his treachery,” he said finally, warning the king against his evil councilor.
The play continued around him. Val could not bring himself to look directly at the audience but it seemed to him that no one moved, that his deception had been successful. But as they marched off at the end of the scene Taja passed him and whispered, “Too loud.”
He nodded, feeling his fear return. Had the Shai noticed?
Nearly everyone appeared in the final scene. The evil councilor poisoned Taja, the king’s wife; she lay on the stage and winked at Val with her head turned away from the audience. Finally, too late, the king began to realize the extent of the treachery around him; the nobles had conspired against him, the trap in the garden had been laid, the tragedy continued inexorably to its end.
Despite himself Val began to get caught up in the drama unfolding in front of him. The king and his councilor killed each other in a duel and lay in a heap together. “And so are good and evil strangely mixed,” Val said. Then all that remained was to carry the three dead bodies off the stage.
He had never heard any audience applaud so loudly and so long, not even when Callabrion climbed to the heavens at the Feast of the Ascending God. He looked out into the crowd and saw that the Shai had gone. The audience was applauding for him, he realized, for him and for themselves; together they had triumphed over the Shai.
He jumped down from the stage and joined the crowd of actors and villagers. “Val!” three or four people said at once. “We did it, Val. We fooled them!”
Pebr laughed and clapped him on the back; Val had never seen the old man so demonstrative. Even Mathary was looking at him with something that might have been approval. “You did well, Val,” someone said. He turned, and saw Narrion.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” he said, grinning.
“Why were the Shai looking for you?” Narrion said quietly.
“I don’t know.”
“Come, Val—surely you must have some idea.”
“I tell you I don’t know,” Val said, irritated. He sought Taja in the crowd and waved at her, then pulled away from Narrion.
He had been wrong; he could not be at ease at Tobol An, could not be an idle courtier, ignoring the world around him. He had to spend every moment guarding against his cousin. It seemed as if all the world knew his secret: Taja and Callia and Mariel, and now the Shai knew it as well. It would be only a matter of time before Narrion guessed, or bribed someone to tell him.
And then what? What would Narrion do with the knowledge, Narrion with all his ambition? My lord must guard against his treachery, he thought.
“Why so grim, Val?” Taja said.
At any other time he would have been glad of her concern for him. Now, though, his worry forced all other thoughts from his mind. “Narrion,” he said. “He guesses something.”
“Why don’t you tell him the truth? He might have some idea of what to do.”
“I can imagine the kind of idea he’d have. King Narrion the First—he’d like that.”
“Do you think so? Is he that ambitious?”
Val laughed harshly. “He’d climb the ladder and storm heaven if he could,” he said. “Cast down Callabrion and Scathiel and rule in their place.”
Taja looked doubtful.
“He’s an ambitious man,” Val said. “Do you know why I came to Tobol An the first time? He’d convinced me that our lives were in danger, that we had to flee the anger of the king. And then he returned to Etrara, betrayed Gobro, married Tamra, became a council member. All the while I was in exile he was spinning a web so complex I’m still not certain I’ve unraveled it all.”
“Well, then—what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I know only that I have to be on my guard against him. He said he has no plans, but I don’t believe him.”
“The queen is dead—did you know that?”
“Callia? Dead?”
“Narrion managed to talk to Duchess Mariel during the play. The Shai killed Callia, and Talenor as well. There’s only Mariel left now, and she’s under guard. She said Talenor turned traitor—that’s why they killed him. He tried to offer the Shai a masque.”
“Traitor?” Val said. He felt sorrow for the man’s death, but there was relief as well. Talenor would surely have pointed him out to the Shai.
They talked a little more, and then Taja left. He would have to decide what to do soon; his few sovereigns would not last much longer. And then what? Perhaps he could join the acting troupe, and travel over the countryside. He laughed. He did not think he was much of an actor.
A week later Val left his room to walk along the cliffside. He had spent the day reading and thinking and had not realized how late it had become until he stepped outside. The strange early dusk had fallen, casting a sooty darkness over the village. Spring had failed to arrive, Val knew; trees which should have been putting forth new green leaves remained stark and bare. Folks in the neighboring countryside had planted their crops but whispered about the possibility of failed harvests, of plants dead in the ground.
He left the path and walked toward the ocean. As he came toward the ruined arch of Sleeping Koregath he heard the sound of voices above the hiss of the waves. At first he thought the women he heard were rehearsing a play. But then a voice spoke louder than the others, and he realized that Narrison was there with them.
Val started to move forward. Then he stopped, and without thinking about it he crouched behind the ruin and listened. Cold wind whistled through the arch.
“Say it again,” Narrion said. “It’s not like acting, where you can drop a line or two. If you forget a single word here we might as well have done nothing.”
“Great king,” one of the women said. “Sovereign and ruler, we beseech you—”
“Our sovereign. Our sovereign and ruler.”
“Our sovereign and ruler—”
“Narrion!” someone said, another woman’s voice. The actor broke off. “Is that you?”
“Over here,” Narrion said.
“Good fortune, Narrion,” the second woman said, coming up to the group of actors. Taja, Val thought. “I found the book you asked for.”
“I thank you. And I wanted to ask you about another matter as well. Do you know why the Shai asked for Val?”
Val leaned forward and peered around the arch. The actors were black shapes against the dark gray sky; they looked a little like ruined stone themselves.
“No,” Taja said. “No, I wondered that myself.”
“Have you asked him?” Narrion said.
“Yes. He says he has no idea. What are you doing out here in the dark? It’s cold as Scathiel’s heart here.”
“We were just going in,” Narrion said. “We’ll walk you back to the village.”
The actors left. After a while Val followed them, walking slowly. What in Callabrion’s name had Narrion been doing? Who was the great king? There was no king in Etrara now, nothing but—
He stopped. Nothing but the Shai, and their kings who died each year at the Feasts of the Ascending and Descending Gods. Narrion had been rehearsing a play to present to them, to the ancient enemy of Etrara. Like Talenor and Arion, he had decided that the quickest way to rise on the ladder was by treachery.
Val continued, barely feeling the wind against his cloak. How much would Narrion do to gain the Shai’s favor? Narrion had been there at the play, and had heard them ask for Valemar. Would he betray the man he thought was his cousin in exchange for a little power?
Val thought that he would. Narrion had proved that he had no morals at all; he pretended to work for several sides at once but his true loyalty was to himself alone. He had already killed at least one man, and helped poison another; Val thought he would surely be capable of killing again to get what he wanted.
Val hurried toward the village and Pebr’s cottage. Suddenly he felt the cold; he started to shiver and could not stop.
The next day Val went to the cottage Narrion and Tamra rented from one of the fisher-folk. “Val!” Narrion said, looking up from the book he was reading. “I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been thinking about that strange visit the Shai paid us.”
“Have you?” Val said.
If Narrion noticed the edge in Val’s voice he didn’t show it. “Do you have any idea why they were so interested in you?” he asked.
“No, I don’t. Why do you want to know? Are you planning to sell the information to the highest bidder?”
“I wish you trusted me more, Val.”
“How can I trust you? Look where trust got me—a month in exile, shivering in fear of the king. And all the while you were living comfortably in Etrara—”
“I told you—Gobro said he wanted you in Tobol An.”
“Gobro said. And then you helped poison him. Do you see why I can’t trust you? What are you plotting now?”
“Nothing.”
“Come, Narrion—I’m sick of lies.”
“I haven’t lied to you since you returned to Etrara.”
“You lied the moment I stepped in the door, when you said you were glad I’d come. You weren’t glad to see me—you wanted to ask me another of your endless questions. And how can you say you’re plotting nothing? I heard you yesterday, rehearsing a play—”
To his surprise Narrion laughed. “Yes, we were rehearsing something,” he said. “Is that treasonous?”
“It can be. Talenor offered the Shai a masque—perhaps you had the same idea.”
Summer King, Winter Fool Page 16
