Had he been, in truth, Rendish, he might well be dead, the courtesy owed guests one had offered the hospitality of the hearth notwithstanding. But he would not have offered anyone but Garroc’s son this opening—and the child was Garroc’s son. If the boy did not understand his birthright, if he did not understand his father’s senseless betrayal of their entire life, it was not, in the end, his fault.
“Be careful what you say, boy.”
Angel, eating slowly and methodically—as he had done at a lunch that now seemed in the distant past—swallowed. “It wasn’t meant as an insult,” he said carefully. “But you don’t. You don’t understand my father’s role. You don’t understand why he left, or for what reason.”
“And you do?”
Angel said nothing. But it was a nothing that held no fear, no timidity. He was not bold, this boy; he did not try to stake out space by size or temper; he did not care, in fact, to cut out a place he might stand in and call his own. This, at least, Terrick had seen clearly when he’d watched the boy on the docks and in the Port Authority. But if he did not seek his safety in this most obvious of gambits, he did not relinquish whatever it was that made him Garroc’s son.
Terrick waited.
After a long pause, the wait was rewarded.
“No,” Angel said quietly. “I don’t. I understand what he believed,” he added, and for just a moment, the boy’s loss was fresh, and his eyes, wide, were shadowed by it: death, and mourning that had not yet run its course. “But, Terrick, he was asked to leave.”
“By who?”
“Who else could ask?” The boy now placed his hands, palm down, upon the tabletop, just as Terrick had done, but without the obvious anger to make of that gesture a statement. “He loved my mother,” Angel said quietly, as if he now picked up the threads of an entirely different discussion; as if the discussion he was continuing could have the same import as the one he had—at least for now—abandoned. “And he understood the farm. He worked with the mayor, even if he didn’t like him much. He taught some of us.”
“Taught?”
“How to use a sword,” Angel said. “How to kill a man.” He looked away, his profile caught and heightened by the lamp’s light. “It saved us, in the end, but it didn’t save him.”
“They came back to kill him,” Terrick said heavily.
“They? Oh, the Northerners.” As if he weren’t one. “No. Not them. There are many things, my father used to say, that will kill a man. Most of those don’t even know that they’re killing us. The cold,” he added softly. “Water. Fire. Time. Other things.”
“He said that, did he?”
“All the time,” Angel said, his voice uninflected. “But when he taught us to use the sword? He said, in the end, that you fight the things that can be fought. You fight those things as if they were everything—anything—in the world that could kill you, or that had harmed you, or your family.”
Terrick nodded. “That, at least, I can believe. I can almost hear him.” “He also said that stupidity and anger aren’t the same,” the boy added, with a wince. “He had a lot to say about stupidity. Most of it ours.”
“Why did he teach you?”
“He thought we should know. My mother—many of our mothers—didn’t approve, but . . . he thought it was something we should know.” He stopped for another moment. “When the rains come late,” he said at last, “the Free Towns have problems with raiders. They cause merchants problems as well, on the routes through the Towns; if it’s bad enough, the Kingdoms or the Empire will send men, quietly.”
“And the rains came late.”
“For three years,” Angel replied. “He taught us. We learned. He wasn’t the only one to die.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother, as well. And Emily, and David—” He paused. Shook his head. “They were children. From another farm.”
“And so you came here.”
“Yes.”
“To meet the Ice Wolf.”
“Yes.”
“What do you hope to learn, Angel?”
“Why.”
“Why?”
“Why my father was asked to leave. Why he chose to live in the Empire. What he wanted, from Weyrdon, and what Weyrdon wanted from him.”
“And then?”
Angel shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on his answer.” He added, quietly, “My father wanted me to do this.”
Terrick nodded. This, at least, did not surprise him. “And you?”
“Me?”
“What do you want?”
Silence again, a different silence. Terrick bowed his head. The boy had come this far to fulfill a duty that he, as a son, could not ignore. But that duty consumed all thought; it was the only future Angel could see. Beyond that? He had not considered.
“Will you tell me, in the end, what Weyrdon says if you survive?” He kept all hope and all desire from the words; only the fact that he had asked at all exposed them. But to a man from Arrend, it would have exposed everything. And perhaps, in some fashion, blood ran true, no matter where the child had been raised. The boy met his gaze, and held it, searching for something. What, at his age, and with his life, he might search for, Terrick could not be certain.
Nor could he be certain what, in the end, was found—but something was.
“If I survive,” Angel nodded bleakly. “I give you my word, Terrick. If I survive, I will tell you what I know.” He paused and tore a piece of bread into something that could comfortably fit in his mouth. “The bread here is so hard,” he added, speaking as if to himself. Sounding, for a moment, much younger than he looked.
Then he drew breath. “I will tell you what I know, and I hope it makes more sense to you than it does—than it ever did—to me.”
And after that, silence for a long stretch of time. Terrick let the oil burn; it was costly, but as he seldom entertained guests of any significance, he could afford the hospitality. There was never any question about Angel’s significance. Boy or no, he was the son of the man that Terrick had served for much of his adult life. He watched the boy eat in silence, and found the silence difficult.
But words presented a different difficulty. Were the boy Garroc, they might have spoken, or they might have passed the night in companionable silence; were he Garroc, they might have argued, raising voices as if they were blunt weapons, and words as if they were edged. Garroc and Terrick had seldom come to blows—but not never.
Service and servility were only conflated in the confusing and complicated cultural grayness of the South, and nowhere more so than in Averalaan.
But against this boy? Terrick could not raise voice; could not even imagine raising hand. They had fought no wars together, survived no conflicts, tested no loyalties; nor had they felt the keen and biting edge of an oath’s many restrictions, circling different sides of it, seeking the advantage of terrain. Seeking, perhaps, the truth that lay at the heart of all great oaths; that gave them the power to bind a life, year after year, to the Port Authority.
Terrick found himself mulling over words as if they were the sodden leaves that blanketed the Common at the start of the rainy season. They were thin and flat and limp, and they had no resonant power, not yet; power, with words, was something both given and taken—and how could one do either, when one did not have the measure, in the end, of the man?
Or of the boy.
Angel’s hair, so pale it was almost white, rose above his face and his porcelain forehead like a crown. Like, in truth, a crown that fit poorly and might topple at even the slightest of turbulence. Garroc had done this, he thought. Garroc had taught the boy how to plait his hair, how to wire it, how to mimic adulthood.
But—and this from the vantage of years—was that not what they all did? Was it not how they all learned? By mimicking adults and adult behavior until the mimicry and the fact could no longer be easily separated?
No, it wasn’t his age that made Terrick uncomfortable, for he had been such a boy, and se
en many more such boys when boyhood had passed—thankfully—beyond his grasp. Not to one of those boys would he offer this embarrassing and tongue-tied silence. And why?
Because those boys were not foreigners.
This one was.
Angel could speak Rendish, and could even speak it well; he could openly declare his allegiance by styling his hair in that particular design. He could wear a weapon as if it were not a hoe, not a farmer’s tool. But all of this was superficial; what the boy was, beneath these things, was hidden. Terrick—and Garroc before him—had never trusted the superficial to tell them what they needed to know; they read a man’s intent by more than the color or style of his hair or the clan- marks, more common, that he wore across his skin.
But the boy’s caution, while commendable, gave little away; were it not for the quiet comment he had made about, of all things, bread, he might have lied about his age, either raising or lowering the number. He stood on the threshold, this one, or perhaps on the fence; one way or the other, he would have to jump off.
And he would do that, tomorrow, regardless of whether or not he understood the decision.
“Angel,” Terrick said quietly, when the boy had stopped eating for long enough that he might indeed be finished.
Angel met Terrick’s gaze and held it, an acknowledgment that younger children often failed to offer. In the face of that steady gaze, Terrick momentarily lost the words, for there was, in the lines of the boy’s chin and cheekbones, something of Garroc—the Garroc that Terrick had met in the snow and cold of a distant youth.
Angel surprised him. “You’ve met Weyrdon, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“His son?”
Terrick shook his head. “While he lives, he is Weyrdon. When he dies, perhaps his son, after him. Perhaps his brother, or a cousin.”
“But—the hair—” He lifted a hand self-consciously to touch his hair, as if aware that he wore the hair the way another might wear a hat—it was external, not yet of him, if it would ever be.
“It marks you as Weyrdon, yes.”
“But not the man who commands all of Weyrdon.”
“A man does not exist apart from those who serve him. He is Weyrdon, but those who serve him are also Weyrdon. Those who serve will never be confused with the man who leads—but they will be seen as an extension of that man, more valuable in all ways than even the sword he wields, although the sword might be older. Weyrdon is judged by the strength of those men, and judged, as well, by the strength of their oaths.” He let the words settle around the boy, wondering if Angel understood.
Angel thought about this for a while. “In the Empire, the ruler of the House takes the name. So the ruler of Kalakar is The Kalakar, and all those who take the House Name are AKalakar.”
“It is not of the South you must think,” Terrick said, frowning.
Angel’s lips creased in a smile that was startling, if brief. It was unfettered, for a moment, by oaths or worry; it made him look young—or rather, appear as the ideal of youth. There was no caution at all in the expression. “My father—” he began. The smile dimmed, fading into something that was grayer and darker. It was, Terrick thought, very like the smile that Garroc had offered him so many years ago. “My father would have said that.”
“Then I will stand in his stead,” Terrick replied gravely. “I cannot take his place, nor would I be fool enough to try. The South, once you reach the Ice Wolf, is not your concern.”
Angel, reaching for a slender rind of cheese, said, “But it is. And it was my father’s as well.”
“Aye,” Terrick replied. “Do not look to me for explanations; I little understood his choice, years ago—and I understand it no better now.” But now, boy, he thought, I fear its weight and its consequences.
“Then tell me about Weyrdon. You met him.”
Terrick nodded.
“Did you meet him before or after you met my father?”
And allowed himself a half smile. He could not see where the boy’s conversation would lead, but he was willing to follow it to its natural conclusion. Garroc’s son, indeed. “Many years after,” Terrick replied.
Angel chewed thoughtfully on the rind, and Terrick almost rose to get more food. But the boy chose to speak as Terrick placed his hands on the table to push himself out of his chair, and the boy’s voice pulled him back down again, as if it were gravity.
“You said you served Garroc.”
“Yes.”
“And my father served Weyrdon.”
“Yes.”
“Did you give him the oath that he gave Weyrdon?”
Silence. The pause of drawn breath and gathered words. All of these words, Terrick rejected. “No,” he said quietly. Just that.
“So you were friends?”
“We were.”
“But he wasn’t your lord?”
Terrick lifted both hands to his face and pressed his fingers against his closed lids. “He was,” he replied at last, as he lowered his hands.
“I don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t.”
“But I need to.”
“Yes.”
“Can you explain it to me before the Ice Wolf reaches port?”
“No.” He lifted a hand as Angel’s mouth parted. “I can try,” he said heavily. “But I fear it will make little sense to you.”
“Little is better than none.”
“That would be your mother speaking.”
Angel’s face showed a hint of surprise; it was a subtle shift of brow, a slight widening of the eyes. “It was something she used to say.” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “How did you know?”
“Because Garroc would never have said it. We hold the opposite to be true: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. It is like the ice above water that looks solid, but is too thin to support a man’s weight; you break the surface and the water takes you. Better never to trust that ice in warmer weather.” He frowned. “You will excuse me if I attempt to salvage my reputation.”
“Pardon?”
“I am your host, and I have invited you into my home for a meal. You are still hungry. I have therefore failed, and unless I wish to brave the fury of my ancestors’ hearth spirits, I must make amends.” He glared at the boy, and added, “I am getting more food.”
He was rewarded by a flush that, in the dim light, would have been hidden by a darker complexion. But he was also rewarded by a rueful smile.
Terrick took his time gathering both food and wine. The lamplight wasn’t necessary to the work, and he worked slowly and methodically, as was his wont. He was at home here, in a way that he could not have foreseen in his youth.
“Garroc was older than you are now when we first met,” Terrick said quietly, feeling the boy’s attention at his back. “He was not yet at his full height, but he was strong and quick—quick to think, quick to speak, but still cautious in action. We had, in our village, some problem with raiders from farther north, and we had seen fighting, and death.
“We did not like each other much when we were introduced; he came from a village some few miles through the snow, and I thought him proud and reckless. I distrusted him; he intended to fight in my village, and not, in the end, in his own. A way to minimize losses,” he added. “His own. As he—and the men who came with him—were outsiders, it was a commonly held opinion—but we were desperate enough to accept aid. And he, although I did not appreciate it at the time, was desperate enough to offer.” His hands had ceased their motions—what had he been doing? Cutting. He returned to the task, seeing snow and ice and the red spill of frozen blood that spoke of battle.
“We are often called a harsh people, for a harsh climate. There is truth in it; those raids were not the first time I had witnessed death, nor would they be the last. We do not—as the Southerners do—dream of peace. But we dream of strength, for there is safety in strength, if safety can be found at all.
“Leading men is not a simple task. Giving orders may ap
pear simple to those who have never given them,” he added, reaching for a plate, “but when you see the cost of those orders in the corpses of the men—and women—who followed them faithfully, you begin to understand the price paid by those who undertake the burden of leadership.
“It is not easy to be a good leader. It is very easy to be a bad one. Most of us, in the end, would become bad leaders,” he added as he turned, carrying the plate back to the table. Angel was watching the fire, but listening to the words as he did. It was a small fire, and the words were Rendish, although throughout the meal they had wandered casually between their two tongues.
“Why?”
“Because it is impossible to be perfect, in this life. And when we make mistakes—and our mistakes are measured in the lives of those who are forced, by circumstance, to trust us—many of us will hide from the cost of our power, without surrendering that power itself.” He frowned at Angel’s expression. “In order to lead effectively, when we know men will die no matter what we do, we protect ourselves from pain by refusing to care or countenance death. We lay blame anywhere else. We hide from the truth of ourselves.
“Eventually, it is power that we are left with—but power unleashed from its moorings. We no longer remember why we took power in the first place, and the reasons we come up with to justify continuing to hold that power? They are all bad.”
“My father never wanted power,” Angel said quietly.
“No. But when we met, he had taken it anyway. I did not trust him, not then. But I was younger then, and he burned, his eyes like dark fire. Things that angered or enraged me, he could accept as simple fact, as if it were snow or ice floe. He did not let his temper rule him—not when lives depended on it. And lives did,” Terrick added.
“We are not afraid of tears, in the North. Grief does not unman us. The women are harsh,” he added, “and often hide grief behind faces no warmer than stone. But we—we know how to grieve. He grieved for our dead as if they were his own, and he would not leave our bodies behind. The men, many older, followed him. I followed him. When we at last found the raiders, and destroyed them, Garroc and his men were no longer outsiders; they were ours. And we, in turn, were theirs. That was his gift, boy.
City of Night Page 4
