by Tom Lloyd
He had declined the invitation to go hawking with the suzerain and his fellow guests, determined to spend at least one day out of the saddle. Instead, he had spent the morning lying on the grass, a cushion under his head, and a cup of apple juice to hand, enjoying the birds and butterflies swarming over the countess' flowers. A book lay unopened at his side and a grey-muzzled hunting hound, the suzerain's favourite, stretched out untidily at his feet. The dog might be too old to go hunting with its master, but it was more than willing to spend a lazy day being pampered by Isak.
Unable to summon the effort to get up properly, Isak indicated Morghien should sit. He was dressed in fresh leathers and a new shirt,
a gift from the countess, whose delicate sensibilities were offended by his own filthy, tattered clothes. It was a scrubbed, shaved and nearly presentable Morghien who sat now before Isak, though the overall ef¬fect was still one of slightly dishevelled elegance. Morghien reminded the white-eye of his Chief Steward, whose fine clothes always looked untidy and rumpled, simply because he was the one wearing them. And that's not the only similarity, Isak thought. Perhaps I should keep Morghien with me just to keep Lesarl off-balance when I return to Tirah.
Morghien cupped the hound's whiskery muzzle in his hand and wiped a trace of sleep from the corner of its eye with a deft movement. 'I've not visited the Yeetatchen for a reason. They don't like outsiders
– they are a most inhospitable people.'
'Do you think I would be more welcome?'
Morghien shrugged; there was no need to comment. Isak shifted a little to see the man's face a little better, prompting a reproachful look from the dog, now wedged against his hip. Stroking the grey fur, Isak wondered what he needed to say to persuade Morghien. Mihn had accepted the charge easily, as he accepted any order from Isak, but that was because the penance Mihn had imposed upon himself for failing in his life's calling appeared to include indulging the whims of a white-eye, no matter how ludicrous. The journey would be long, hard and dangerous – the Yeetatchen were notorious in their dislike of all outsiders, not just Farlan.
'It's not a political delegation – if Lord Leteil discovers why you're there, he'll kill you both, along with Xeliath.'
'You are sure of that?'
'He's a white-eye, isn't he? Xeliath has a Crystal Skull, and if he finds out about that I can't see any other possible outcome, can you? It's not going to be easy, but I am quite sure you could think of some-thing that might compensate you for the trouble.'
'Rewards are no good to a dead man,' snorted Morghien. He ran a hand through his own grey hair, as rough and wiry as the dog's coat.
'Don't die then!' Isak snapped back. 'You've managed it thus far! I wasn't offering you gold – though that's easily given if it's all you want
– I assumed you'd want some sort of a favour in return.'
'You assume you have something I want,' Morghien replied coolly.
'Correct. I don't know exactly what your relationship with King Emin is, but I know you've got plans for the future, and I suspect my involvement would be helpful. Just what you are up to is your own business – for the time being, at least. I'm caught up in quite enough plots as it is.' He sighed. 'I assume it has something to do with Azaer, so I think we would both benefit from our alliance.' He felt rather than saw Morghien tense at the name.
The dog whined as Isak pulled himself to a seating position. His massive body cast a shadow that almost completely enveloped the wanderer. 'Decide now whether you want my friendship or not. Emin already has, but I've yet to decide which one of you is truly in control of whatever bargain you two have going. I suspect you were – Emin said you met before he took over Narkang, and that happened when he was my age – but that man's too clever to still be taking anyone's orders for long. So enough of the games. I need this of you. Will you do it?' Isak spat in his hand and held it out.
After a moment of consideration, Morghien did the same and they shook on the strange bargain. Despite the warmth of day, Morghien's leathery hand felt chill to the touch.
'If we must go, let it be soon,' Morghien called to Mihn, who was standing in the shade of the doorway. 'Storm season on the Green Sea isn't much fun. If we have a ducal warrant from you, Lord Isak, then we can be ready to leave tomorrow.'
Mihn nodded at that and walked over to join the two men. He too had stripped down to just a thin shirt and Isak could see how slender he was, all sinew and whipcord strength. It was no wonder Harlequins could hide their gender so effectively if even the men were so slim. They looked androgynous, and many thought them not even human, for their talents could appear almost supernatural. The Harlequins were trained from birth; they carried in their memories the history of all the Seven Tribes of Man, and they could mimic the speech of each of them.
'Mihn, you've been travelling for weeks,' Isak said. 'At least take a break before starting out again. I'm sure there's time.'
Mihn shook his head. 'Morghien's right. Better to leave as soon as possible. I will be ready by tomorrow morning. A ducal warrant will mean we don't need to carry much in the way of supplies, we can requisition what we need en route. Give us fresh horses and we can be off.'
Isak's own heart sank at the thought of getting into the saddle again; he was astonished that Mihn was willing to just up and go, especially as he wouldn't be back in Tirah before winter paralysed the country.
But it was his fault they were going in the first place, now he would have to let Mihn and Morghien do it their own way.
'You're both as stubborn as each other,' he groused. 'Fine, if that's how you want it, so be it. You leave tomorrow.'
The return of the hawkers led to lunch, followed by an afternoon of summer games. Isak found himself as delighted with the small jokes made at his expense by normally reserved matrons as with the children who enlisted the huge white-eye in their own entertainments.
Summer was a time for relaxation for the Farlan nobility, and as the season was short, and too often occupied by campaigning, any opportunity for socialising was met with added gusto, a spirit of liv¬ing Isak hadn't experienced before. He'd never even imagined people could live like this when he had been working every daylight hour with the rest of the wagon-train. From the duty of the lord of the manor to present, on bended knee, a bowl of wild strawberries to any female child amongst his tenants on her birthday, to the highly juvenile Feast of Apples that made most soldiers' drinking games look sensible in comparison: the Farlan nobility took summertime amuse¬ments seriously. To his surprise, Isak loved it all.
That afternoon, he found himself kneeling on the grass with three whooping children, young relatives of the countess, balanced on his broad back. Vesna and Tila were standing close together, fingers inter¬locked, watching.
'Of such things are the most perfect childhood memories made,' said Vesna, grinning.
'Absolutely,' agreed Tila with a laugh. 'Within four summers they'll be horrified when they remember clambering over Lord Isak, let alone how they bit the duke on his white-hand!' She giggled as Isak stretched out an arm so the boys could swing from it, as if it were the branch of a tree. With a roar, a little girl lunged for the arm as well, struggling to dislodge the boys. Isak could almost imagine that he was playing with Tila's children while she and the count watched on in parental approval. As he tickled the girl, provoking squeals of laughter, Isak grinned as he realised that for the next few weeks he could have a childhood of sorts, one denied to him in the past. The impositions of adulthood would return all too soon; for now, it was summer, he was surrounded by friends and the sun was shining.
Groaning, Isak swung himself into his saddle. Though the morning was a little cooler, Isak still found his new dragon-emblazoned green tunic uncomfortably warm, but he would look the part of a duke as he saw Morghien and Mihn off. As it was customary for the Saroc house¬hold to accompany those leaving for the first hour of their journey, the suzerain had decided to turn this into a visit to the nearest town.
Red oak-le
aves embroidered all the way up Isak's left sleeve drew attention to the exposed skin of his hand, but he couldn't deny the overall effect. With Eolis hanging from a bright red swordbelt and scarlet leather boots, Isak looked more like a Farlan noble than he ever had before. Only the white cloak around his shoulders ruined the image a little, but they had officially proclaimed Bahl's death now, so every person in the party wore similar cloaks, embroidered with ancient symbols of mourning. The women wore white scarves, and would keep their hair covered for the fortnight of mourning.
'I must say, Countess, your seamstress has surpassed herself,' com¬mented Tila as Isak wheeled Megenn around.
'The very image of a gentleman,' agreed the countess with a smile. Isak glowered at the two of them, but goodnaturedly. He had to admit it was nice to be dressed in new clothes; the months of travelling had taken a toll on their wardrobes.
'Everyone will be talking about times changing,' Tila continued. 'Lord Bahl's image was rather that of a hermit, and a threadbare one at that. I'm afraid it didn't serve him well.'
'I hardly think people's opinion on his dress worth worrying about,' Isak said. He spoke without rancour, but Tila stopped. Isak had be¬come extremely protective of Lord Bahl since his death.
'This is your first public appearance as Lord of the Farlan,' Tila said firmly. 'You may not like it, but word of how you appear today will spread to the other suzerainties very quickly. They have heard only that Lord Bahl is dead. They will be reassured that you look the part, that you look like the Duke of Tirah.'
'I suspect they've heard too much about me already.'
'Then we have a new image to present,' Tila said, still composed. 'The refined, sophisticated Lord Isak, Duke of Tirah is a quite differ¬ent beast to the uncivilised Suzerain Anvee!'
'The things a woman will do for a state wedding,' Isak retorted, remembering Lord Bahl's parting words. He grinned at her blush. State wedding indeed, he thought. Better be sooner rather than later, or there might be a little embarrassment – I'd be surprised if a virgin smiled like that!
Before either could say more, Count Vesna ushered them all through the gates. Morghien and Mihn were already there, waiting impatiently, and as soon as they spotted Isak they swung their horses around and broke into a gentle canter. The procession took a while to catch up, but soon everyone settled in to an easy stride.
The early morning mist didn't linger for long and the air was filled with birdsong. Isak noticed the difference in the Land here, far from the mountains and dark forests a wagon-brat had considered home. The undulating ground of Saroc was mostly scrub, where the forest had given way, populated by goats and long-horned sheep, inter¬spersed with cultivated fields neatly enclosed by drystone walls or high bramble hedges.
The hour went quickly as the warmth increased. Brief goodbyes were exchanged on the highway, under the watchful gaze of a solitary, ageing roadman whom Suzerain Saroc had greeted by name. When the time came, Isak found he didn't know what to say to Mihn, the man who had been his shadow for six months now. The words caught in his throat as he realised how much he would miss the silent presence, almost fatherly, though Mihn was only just thirty summers.
As they clasped arms, Morghien stepped away, to allow them some privacy. Isak opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He released Mihn and withdrew his hand, feeling foolish and awkward.
'Don't go and get yourself killed, you hear?' he said, sounding almost angry. 'I'll have things for you to do when you bring her back.'
'Yes, my Lord,' Mihn replied, as inscrutable as ever.
Isak shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Well then, I suppose you should be off,' he said gruffly.
'Yes, my Lord.' Mihn gave a bow and turned to leave.
Ah, damn, I'm being a fool, aren't I? Isak thought suddenly. Never had much need for goodbyes before, not to a friend. 'Mihn, wait,' he said on impulse. Right, what do I say now? 'Thank you for agreeing to go; Xeliath is really my responsibility after all. You've been as loyal a bondsman as I could have ever hoped for, as well as a friend.'
A smile crept onto Mihn's usually expressionless face. 'I am glad to have purpose in my life again,' he said. For a moment he hesitated, off-balance himself. 'I- when I was young and still with my people, weaponsmasters from the furthest clans came to watch me in a practice duel. I am- I was the best with the blades they'd ever seen. One said he thought he was watching the King of Dancers.'
'The what?'
'A myth among the Harlequin, that one day we would have a king of our own, one who will end our years of service to the Seven Tribes of Man. It isn't a prophecy – even among the Harlequins we do not know its origin – but it is told to every child, down through the gen¬erations, because it is the only tale we have of our own. None of the history we relate involves the people of the clans. After that day I was treated differently, as though my destiny was assured and I carried their hopes with me.
'When I failed, the old men wept as if they had no future. I know it isn't the same for you, but I do know what it is to bear expectation. It was something I resented. I thought of it as a burden. Now I am glad I have the chance to be part of something magnificent again.'
Isak didn't speak. He was transfixed by the outwelling of emotion, and by Mihn's unwarranted decision to reveal such a personal matter.
'Just remember,' Mihn continued as he composed himself, 'you've been blessed by the Gods. Never forget that, and never regret it.' With that, he turned and walked away to his horse. He had a spring in his step, as though a weight had been lifted from him.
'I hope you remember that too,' Isak said to Mihn's back, but whether he heard, Isak had no idea.
When the pair had disappeared behind a great outcrop of grass-topped granite, Suzerain Saroc led the procession in the opposite direction, eastwards, toward the town. As they travelled, the suzerain explained to Isak that the town was in fact owned by the abbey at its centre, run by the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings. His grandfather had bequeathed them land that hugged the banks of the river, but the second abbot, being a man of sharp business sense, had overseen the village's expansion and now the once-sleepy hamlet was a busy town.
As they drew closer, Isak began to note increasing numbers of fit young men in blue habits, beyond that of any normal monastery. The suzerain was a popular man, and stopped frequently to talk to the townsfolk. He introduced the most important to Isak, but most were too intimidated by the huge white-eye to do much beyond bow and mutter greetings. Even so, Isak felt the atmosphere was one of welcome, more than anything else, and his fears about the Brethren began to subside – until he reminded himself that it was easy enough to put on a show for one day. He would need to hear Lesarl's opinion before he accepted it wholly at face value.
At the abbey a small party stood waiting to greet them. The men were all dressed in dark blue, as befitted monks in the service of Nartis, but on their deep cuffs were thick bands of yellow, which Isak had never seen before. The abbot looked young for his position, barely forty summers, by Isak's guess, although his head was clearly bald, unlike many of his companions, who had had to resort to shaving to correctly mimic their God, Nartis.
Suzerain Saroc went through the formalities, introducing Abbot Kels and Prior Portin. There were two unnamed monks, who were standing beside a third man, dressed as a lay brother and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, his right leg raised off the ground. The man wouldn't look at Isak, but scowled at the ground between the Duke of Tirah and Abbot Kels. There was something familiar about the man, but nothing he could put his finger on. In the distant re¬cesses of his mind, Aryn Bwr, who had been quiet since the battle, chuckled infuriatingly. Isak tried to concentrate on what people were saying, but when the injured man did at last speak, the words escaped Isak completely.
'But of course!' exclaimed the abbot in response to whatever the man had said. 'I should not have kept you here at all. My Lords, please excuse Brother Hobble, for he has just returned from the hospital with vi
tal medicines, and as you can imagine, it is rather tiring to walk with a crutch.'
Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.
'Brother Hobble?' Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
'It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He's a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.'
'I know him,' mused Vesna. 'I've seen him at the palace, I think – a Swordmaster? His name escapes me, but I know I've met him.'
As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak's mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn't even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle – the ankle that still hadn't healed.
'Oh Gods.'
'What is it?' Vesna asked. 'Can you place him?'
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, 'Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?'
'Of course, my Lord,' the abbot replied, 'we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.' He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. 'Unfortunately, our best efforts – and we do have a number of talented healers here – have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble's ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.'
