Tier put his left hand behind his back to get that blade out of his way. Then he turned the blade in his right so that when he hit Nehret he didn’t take off his arm, just numbed it so the boy lost his sword.
Tier tapped him on the cheek. “By the way,” he said, “never go after an opponent when his back is turned unless there is more at stake than your pride.” Then he turned his back to Nehret again, knowing that he’d gone a fair way to reducing the amount of influence the boy had upon the other Passerines in the last few minutes. “Toarsen, why don’t you try a round against me?”
After the council meeting, Phoran found that he was quite popular. People followed him wherever he went—to his bedchamber if he didn’t get the door shut fast enough. Tradition would keep all the Septs at the palace until just before harvest; if they kept this up until then, he’d have the whole lot of them thrown out. Finally, having had enough of the fawning, resentful Septs, Phoran sent for Avar to go riding with him.
He’d been avoiding Avar, since he’d put words to the fears he’d always had. It was poor payment for the Sept’s swift support during the council meeting, and Phoran had to do something to change it.
In the stable, he mounted without aid, but he had other things on his mind and took little note of it. For hours he dragged Avar from one merchant guild master to the next. It was not out of the ordinary for the Emperor to visit a guild master’s shop—an emperor would hardly buy goods from a lesser man. If anyone was watching Phoran—and he thought there was at least one man following them—they would see that Phoran purchased something at every shop.
Phoran knew all the guild masters of course, but this was the first time he’d set himself to be pleasant to them. After they left the Weavers’ Guild, Avar gave in to the curiosity Phoran had seen building all morning.
“You don’t need a bed hanging,” said Avar. “You could care less about silver candy dishes and tables with fluted legs. Just what are you doing?”
Phoran had come to believe Avar innocent of anything other than being assigned to keep the Emperor company and told to keep him occupied. Even so, he didn’t quite trust his own evaluation. He should not have had Avar come with him.
Blade tossed his head, and Phoran let his reins slide through his fingers then gradually shortened them again to keep a light hold on the stallion. “After my uncle died, who told you to befriend me?”
Avar stilled.
“It’s all right,” said Phoran, though he watched the crowded streets rather than Avar. “I just would like to know who it was.”
“My father,” said Avar. “But it wasn’t—”
“I suspect it was,” said Phoran ruefully. “I was, what, twelve? And you seventeen. It would have been an unhappy chore—and I thank you for it.”
He took a deep breath and chose to trust. “I’m trying to build some kind of a power base. The Septs will require a lot of work on my part before I know who will back me and why. But the city is as important to the stability of the Empire as the Septs. I thought it would be good to find backing here, where the Septs are too proud to look.”
“I do like you,” said Avar quietly. “I always have.”
“Ah,” said Phoran, for lack of anything better to say. How could Avar have liked him when everyone, including Phoran himself, had despised him? What had there been to like? But Avar had done his best to forward Phoran’s plans, and for that, and for so many years of duty, Phoran owed him the chance to keep his white lies.
They rode in silence to the shop of the master importer, who brought goods from all over the Empire and beyond.
“Is Guild Master Emtarig in?” asked Phoran of the boy who manned the shop.
“Not now, sir. May I help you?”
He was new, this boy, and Phoran doubted that he knew even who it was who entered the shop. Phoran was dressed in riding clothes without imperial symbols—there was nothing to say who he was except his face.
“Boy,” said Avar, gently enough, “tell your master that the Emperor awaits him in his shop.”
The boy’s eyes darted between Phoran and Avar, trying to decide who was the Emperor. At last he bowed low to Avar and scuttled through a curtained passage and, from the sound of his feet, up the stairs to the master’s private lodgings.
Phoran began sorting among the items on the laden shelves and hid his smile. Avar couldn’t help that he looked more like an emperor than Phoran did.
By careful negotiations with the other guilds, the importer’s guild members could sell items that were not made in the city. There were beautifully tanned skins of animals Phoran had never seen—and likely never would. Valuable blown-glass goblets stood on a high shelf where no one was likely to knock them off accidently. Phoran was fingering a handful of brightly colored beads that caught his attention when he heard the boy leap back down the stairs.
He didn’t turn until the guild master said, “Most Gracious Emperor, you honor my shop.”
“Master Willon?” Phoran said with honest delight. He had to turn back to put the beads away. “I thought that you had retired to some gods’ forsaken province, never to return to Taela?”
“Careful, Phoran,” said Avar, who was grinning. “He went to Redern, which is part of my Sept.”
“And Leheigh is truly a gods’ forsaken place,” agreed Phoran. “What business brings you back? I hope that there is nothing wrong with Master Emtarig.”
“My son is well,” said Willon. “But I have not seen my grandchildren in too long. I thought it was time to visit. My son is out to the market to speak with the Music Guild about a drum I brought back with me. Also, I had some people to see here.”
“Good,” said Phoran. He thought of asking Willon what he knew of a man named Tier—but when he spoke, all he said was, “What would you take for three of these hangings?” He would ask Tier about Willon instead.
They bargained briskly until they reached a price both thought fair. Phoran let it drag on for longer than he might have, hoping to catch Emtarig. Willon was an old friend of his uncle’s, but Emtarig was the master guildsman now, the man Phoran needed to impress. But Emtarig did not return, so Phoran paid for the hangings and asked Willon to send the goods to the palace at his leisure.
They went to three more guild masters and bought a cobalt blue glass jar, four copper birds that sang in the wind, and an eating knife inlaid with shell before Phoran headed back to his rooms for a private evening meal with Avar. They talked, but not about anything serious.
Soon, thought Phoran, he’d tell Avar all that he’d found out about the Path—but not yet. Avar wouldn’t believe him as easily as Tier had; he wasn’t used to Phoran being anything except a jaded drunkard. Though to do him justice, Avar didn’t have the motivation to believe in evil that Tier had.
Tier returned to his room tired, bruised, and ultimately satisfied—a usual state these days. His daily sword lessons had become more of a favorite activity than the dueling had ever been.
The Passerines blossomed under his attention and some, especially Toarsen, had come around and grown more than he’d thought possible. He’d always had a knack for turning boys into fighting men, which was why Gerant offered him a job in his personal guard when there were other men, born in the Sept, who were as good or better with weapons.
There were a few that weren’t worth saving. Nehret was one, and there was one of the youngest batch who was, if Tier wasn’t mistaken, one of those very few who seemed to be born without any morals or courage at all. He’d toady to those more powerful and hurt anyone he saw as weaker. In a few years, if he wasn’t already, he’d be a rapist and murderer, and never lose a night’s sleep over it. Tier had set Toarsen and his large friend Kissel to watch over that one and protect the younger Passerines.
The door to his room was open. Some of the boys would stop in at night, so nothing struck him as odd until he saw who it was.
“Myrceria?”
Sitting on his bed, her legs folded neatly underneath her, she smiled at
him brightly. “I hope that you don’t mind that I came here this evening.”
“Not at all,” he said.
She looked away. “Play something for me, please,” she said. “Something to make me laugh.”
He closed the door and sat on the foot of his bed, taking the lute off the hooks he’d had installed in the wall. He played a bit of melody on the lute, tuning automatically until it was acceptable.
“How do you do it?” she asked. “Collarn doesn’t like anyone—and they generally return his feeling with interest. The only thing he loves is music. He works so hard at it, and he is never good enough. He hated the thought that because of your magic you would play better than he, no matter what he did or how much he practiced. I saw you take his hatred and turn it to hero worship in less than an hour. Telleridge said that you can’t use your magic on us.”
“It’s not magic,” Tier said. “Collarn loves music, and that is more important to him than all the hurts the world has dealt him. I just showed him that I loved music, too.”
“What about the rest?” she asked. “The Passerines follow you around like lost puppies.”
“I like people,” said Tier with a shrug. “I don’t think most of these boys are used to dealing with someone who likes them.”
Unexpectedly she laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “The Masters are very concerned with what you have done to their control of the Passerines. Be careful.”
She turned her head and he saw that there was a bruise on her jaw.
“Who hit you?” he asked.
She picked up a pillow and began straightening the fringe. “One of the Masters told Kissel that they were worried because Collarn was spending so much time away from the Eyrie. They told Kissel that he was to remind Collarn where his loyalties should lie—and Kissel refused them. He said that you would not approve of him picking on someone weaker than himself.”
Tier stilled his strings. “I don’t suppose it even crossed his mind to agree and then either fake it—or tell me about it. Ellevanal save me from honest fools. Why couldn’t they have gone to Toarsen?”
Myrceria stared at him, her hands stilled. “You’ve done it on purpose, haven’t you? You’re taking control from the Masters on purpose. A month ago Kissel would have been happy to please the Masters, to win the fear of the other Passerines. How did you do it?”
Tier played a few notes of a dirge Collarn had played for him on a violin—it sounded odd on a lute.
“They are trying to ruin those boys,” he said at last, “to turn them into something much less than they could be.”
He’d been certain that she was a spy for Telleridge, and that might still be true—but his instincts told him that it wouldn’t take a lot to turn her against the Masters of the Path. He would just have to find the right words.
He played a few more measures. “What happens to the ones who don’t play their little game, Myrceria? Boys like Collarn who would never agree to the kinds of real damage the Path metes out? Or ones like Kissel, who is discovering that protecting someone weaker than he is makes him feel better about himself than tormenting them ever did?”
She didn’t say anything.
“There aren’t as many Raptors as there should be,” he said gently. “Not for the numbers of Passerines they have.”
“That’s how they progress in the Path,” she whispered. “The boys who would be Raptors are given the other boys’ names—the ones like Collarn. They have to bring back proof that they have killed the bearer of the name they were give before they are Raptors.”
She set the pillow aside. “How do you do that?” she said. “If they knew what I told you, they would kill me.”
“You know it is wrong,” he told her. “You know they must be stopped.”
“By whom?” she said, her incredulousness fueled by anger. “You? Me? You are a prisoner in their power, Tier of Redern. You will die as they all do at the end of their year. And I am as much a prisoner as you.”
“Evil must always be fought,” Tier said. “If you don’t fight—then you are a part of it.”
She rose to her feet and walked without haste to the door. “You know nothing of what you face, or you would not be so arrogant, Bard.”
She shut the door tightly behind her.
Well, thought Tier, that was unexpected. Whores learn early that survival means that they have to look out for themselves. Myrceria had been a whore for a long time, but she wasn’t talking like a whore who cared for no one else.
She cared about those boys. She wasn’t happy about it, but she cared.
Tier slapped one of the scrawny first-year Passerines on the shoulder after the boy finally executed the move Toarsen had been struggling to teach him for days.
“Drills,” Tier called. There were groans and half-hearted protests, but they formed up in three ragged lines, lines that straightened at his silent frown.
“Begin,” he called, and worked with them. Drills were the heart of swordplay. If a man had to think about his body and how to move his sword, he’d be too slow to save himself. Drills taught the body to respond to information from eyes and ears, leaving the mind to plan larger strategy than just how to meet the next thrust.
The sword he held wasn’t the equal of the one he’d taken from some nobleman on the battlefield, but it was balanced. Myrceria had brought it to him when he requested it.
Tier’d continued to work with his sword over the years, but the past weeks had sharpened him until he’d almost reached the speed and strength he’d held while he was a soldier. His left shoulder was always a bit stiff until he worked it out, but otherwise he hadn’t lost much flexibility to age.
He drilled with the boys until sweat made his shirt cling uncomfortably to his shoulders, then he brought his sword around in a flashy stroke that ended with it in its sheath.
“Pools!” shouted the boys in one voice, and they dashed, swords in hands, to the washroom to play in the cold pool.
Tier laughed and shook his head when Collarn stopped to invite him to the waterfight. “I’ve no wish to drown before my time,” he avowed. “I’ll wash up in my rooms.”
Loyalty, he thought, watching the last of them disappear into the hall, was won by sweating with them.
“They’ve improved,” said Telleridge.
Tier hadn’t noticed the Master, but he’d been concentrating on the boys. He took a glass of water from a servant.
“They have,” he said, after taking a long drink. “Some of them had further to go than others.”
“I knew that you were a soldier, but you were more than that—I’ve been looking into it,” Telleridge said. “Remarkable that a peasant boy, no offense, could be set to command soldiers. Are you one of the old Sept of Leheigh’s by-blows?”
“Do you know where I’m from?” asked Tier with a lazy smile as he handed the empty glass off to one of the silent waiters.
“The Sept of Leheigh,” replied Telleridge.
Tier shook his head. “I’m from Redern, the first settlement the Army of Man created after the Fall of the Shadowed, named for the Hero of the Fall, Red Ernave. We are farmers, tanners, bakers…” He shrugged. “But scratch a Rederni very deeply and you’ll find the blood of warriors. If you’ll excuse me, I need to wash up and change clothes.”
When Tier reached his cell, he closed his door and washed quickly with water from the basin left there for that purpose. Once he’d changed into clean clothes he lay down on his bed.
The last time Phoran had visited, a few days ago, Gerant had sent word that he was on his way. It couldn’t be too soon for Tier’s comfort: the Masters weren’t going to wait forever while Tier wrested control of the Passerines from them.
He woke for lunch and spent the rest of the day in his usual manner, talking and socializing in the Eyrie. In the evening he played for them, mostly raunchy army songs—but he feathered in others, songs of glory in battle and the sweetness of home.
Looking over the faces of the men who lis
tened to his music he knew triumph because, given a chance, most of them would grow into fine men. Men who would serve their emperor, a boy who was showing signs of being the kind of ruler a man could take pride in serving: shrewd and clever with a streak of kindness he tried hard to hide.
When he returned to his room for the night, Myrceria tucked her arm flirtatiously in his and accompanied him.
When they were inside his room, she dropped her flirtation and his arm and settled on his bed. Stroking the coverlet absently she said, “I swore I was done talking to you. I have survived here a long time—and I did it by keeping my mouth shut. How dare you demand more of me?” She said it without heat. “I have no power to affect the men who rule here. I am just a whore.”
Tier leaned against the wall opposite the bed, crossed his feet at the ankles and did his best to look neutral.
“I haven’t seen the sun since I was fifteen,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Sometimes I wonder if it still rises and sets.”
“It does,” said Tier. “It does.”
“Telleridge is planning a Disciplining.” She flattened her hand and stared at it as though she’d never seen it before.
“What is a Disciplining?” asked Tier, not liking the sound of it at all.
“When a Passerine disobeys a Raptor, they hold a meeting to decide what his punishment will be. Then they are punished in the Eyrie with all the Passerines in attendance. They usually do one every year, just as a reminder.”
“Who is being disciplined?” asked Tier. They wouldn’t pick him, he thought; they were too smart for that. They didn’t need a martyr, they needed an example.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Collarn,” he said. “Or maybe Kissel or Toarsen. But Collarn if they’re smart. If they hurt Toarsen, Kissel won’t stand for it. If they hurt Kissel, Toarsen will go to his brother—and Avar has enough friends, including the Emperor, to hurt the Path. Collarn has no close friends except for me, and he’s the kind of person that people expect bad things to happen to. When it does, it won’t disturb the Passerines much.”
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