“It works because he does care,” added Lehr. “If he’d just been trying to use you, you’d have seen through him.”
Avar, leaning against the door, rubbed his face. “Would someone care to tell us why we’re here now? Certainly there are better times for theatrics than the wee hours of the morning.”
“The Path is preparing a move to preempt me from taking control of the young men from them,” said Tier. “Myrceria told me that they are intending to have a Disciplining—a particularly brutal method they employ to keep their secrets. One of the boys is singled out and punished by everyone. I gather that the boy who is punished sometimes doesn’t survive. I think that they’ll choose Collarn—but they might take Toarsen or Kissel as they are the three who are my closest associates.”
Phoran humpfed, then said, “I can warn Collarn on my way back to bed without anyone being the wiser. But we ought to finish the introductions before we attend to business further. Do be a credit to your parents’ instructions in manners and introduce us to your family, Tier.”
Tier bowed and grinned sheepishly. “This is my wife Seraph, Raven of the Clan of Isolda the Silent. My son Jesaphi, whom we call Jes, Guardian. My younger son Lehr, Hunter. Seraph, Jes, Lehr, may I introduce you to Phoran the Twenty-Seventh.”
Over the polite murmurs and shuffles, Toarsen said, “Twenty-Sixth.”
Phoran grinned. “Only if you don’t count the first one. I always do, since without him there wouldn’t have been an Empire, whatever his son Phoran the First or Second said.”
Toarsen smiled reluctantly. No wonder her husband liked this boy who happened to be emperor, thought Seraph. They were very much alike.
“I had intended to warn Collarn,” said Tier, returning to the matter at hand. “But my wife pointed out that this Disciplining is the best chance we’ll have of clearing the whole lot. Everyone is supposed to attend them. They’ll be expecting some resistance from the Passerines—too many of them have begun to look at the things the Path wants of them—but they won’t be expecting an outside attack.”
“When will it be?” asked Phoran.
“Sometime in the next few days,” replied Tier.
Phoran shook his head. “There are two hundred of them—and five wizards, and the Sept of Gerant and his men aren’t here yet. I have—”
“I have twenty men here,” said Avar, “who are my men, not my father’s.”
“And my wife tells me that she can bring another fifty or so—light foot, armed mostly with knives with a few swords,” said Tier. “Travelers.”
Suspiciously, Avar asked, “Why would you Travelers be interested in this?”
“Because our people are dying out,” Seraph said. “For as long as I remember the Septs have been trying to destroy them. If my friends help you, Phoran—would you be willing to return the favor?”
Phoran nodded his head slowly. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t have the power that an emperor should, and championing the Travelers is not going to help. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Will that be good enough?” asked Avar.
Seraph smiled. “The Path have been killing Travelers for centuries. We just didn’t know about them until now—if Phoran would not invite us in to help him, we would go after them on our own. But it’s much safer to invade the palace under imperial command.”
“Myrceria will try and find out when this Disciplining will take place,” continued Tier.
“I’ll know sooner,” said Toarsen. “Myrceria will have to wait until someone tells her about it—me they have to send for. With your permission”—he glanced from Tier to Phoran as if he didn’t really know whose permission he needed—“I’ll let Kissel know, too, in case it’s me they’ve decided to use as an example.”
“How much lead time do you need to bring in the Travelers?” asked Phoran, and they all began planning.
Seraph settled back and gave them information as they asked for it. Clearly the Emperor, Avar, and Tier were having the time of their lives, and the younger men were almost as bad—except for Jes, who seemed content to stay in the background.
It amused Seraph to see that the Emperor, the Sept of Leheigh, and his younger brother all ceded the leadership to Tier, though they all outranked him—and he had them hanging on his every word.
CHAPTER 16
The next morning Tier was bone-tired, but more peace- ful than he’d been for a long time. Seraph was here. Well, not here. She’d gone off to play diplomat among the Travelers, which was pretty strange—the only person that he knew less suited to diplomacy was Alinath.
“Keep your guard centered,” he told one of his Passerines. “Remember this isn’t about first blood, it’s about who lives and who dies. Make sure you’re one of the former and not the latter.”
He paced behind his troops, watching foot positions, when a servant caught hold of his sleeve.
“Telleridge requests a moment of your time.”
“Toarsen,” called Tier. “Kissel. Run the drills for me. If I’m not back, break when every man’s shirt is wet through.”
Toarsen stepped out of the line and made a quick mocking salute as he did. He didn’t look nearly as tired as Tier felt, and he’d had no more sleep. It made Tier feel old.
The servant took Tier to one of the smaller rooms that served as the Raptors’ meeting halls and opened the door for Tier’s entrance. The room had been partially screened off with a delicately carved wooden panel. Four black-robed figures sat in gold upholstered chairs ringed in front of a cheerful fire, two empty chairs in the center. Telleridge, also in his robes, stood in front of the fire.
Telleridge looked up when Tier entered, though the others kept their eyes on the fireplace.
“Ah, thank you for attending me. Baskins, you may leave.”
The servant shut the door, leaving Tier alone with the Path’s wizards.
“Come have a seat, Bard,” Telleridge said in an unreadable tone.
Warily, Tier sat on the edge of one of the empty chairs as the Master took the other. He had the odd impression that Telleridge’s calm was just a thin film spread over turbulent waters.
“You have cost us much, my friend,” Telleridge said. “Whatever possessed you to try and take the Passerines from us? Did you think that we would allow it?”
“You aren’t doing anything with them,” replied Tier. “There are a number of fine young men amongst the Passerines—and a few who are a waste of shoe leather.”
“They are useful to us.” said Telleridge, sounding distantly amused. Tier took note of the effect, planning to save it for some time when he wanted to be obnoxiously patronizing. “Just as they were. We’ve called a Disciplining, which will return control to us, but I fear that very few of these Passerines will make it to Raptor now. I was particularly upset when you took the Sept of Leheigh’s young brother. I had great hopes for him. And it’s too bad about the young musician, Collarn—we shall miss having music in these halls when you both are gone.”
“I see,” said Tier, deciding to let the Master direct the conversation into the gently ironic tones he seemed to prefer. “I take it that my demise will happen a little sooner than you planned?”
There was a noise from behind the screen, but it was too faint for Tier to identify.
“I’m not any happier about it than you are,” the Master said. Apparently the others had all been told to sit and be silent, because none of them had done anything more exciting than breathe since Tier entered the room. “Owls are few and far between, and this haste will destroy our plans. That makes two failures in as many years. We’ve never had this much trouble controlling a Bard—I assume it’s a Bardic talent you are using to win over the Passerines?”
Tier frowned at him. “How could it be? You’ve told me that you have my Order under control.” He’d used the methods Gerant had taught him instead, because he’d never relied on his Order for much—unlike a Traveler-raised Bard.
“I wonder that none of our other Bards have done such a thing,”
said the Master.
Because a Traveler Bard was hardly likely to worry about the lives of a bunch of solsenti thugs-in-the-making, thought Tier, but he didn’t say anything.
The Master waited politely, but when Tier didn’t respond he shrugged. “At any rate, I, personally, am most distressed at a few other things you’ve cost us,” he got to his feet and strolled to the screen, “Come, Bard. And maybe you will be sorry as well.”
For want of a better thing to do while surrounded by five mages, Tier got slowly to his feet and followed the Master’s beckoning. The others got up silently and followed.
A woman was tied naked to a chair, and someone had obviously been testing, in the time-honored fashion, how well flesh fared against knives and other things. Her face was so battered that it was unrecognizable—but Tier knew the hair.
“Myrceria,” he said.
She stiffened when he spoke, and he realized that her eyes were so swollen that she must not be able to see at all.
“Myrceria has been telling us things,” said Telleridge. “Haven’t you, my dear?” He patted the top of her head, then took out a dagger and cut off the gag.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her face turned blindly toward Tier. “I’msorrysorry.”
“Shh,” said Tier, putting some force behind the words. “It doesn’t matter. Shh.”
She kept shaking, but she quit apologizing. Either his words worked, or Seraph was right about the unraveling of the Master’s spells and she’d felt the magic push he’d given them.
“I was angry about the Passerines,” said Telleridge. “Angrier still when I questioned Myrceria this morning and realized that instead of keeping an eye on you as she was supposed to—you had taken her from us, too. She has been a valuable tool for years, and you’ve ruined her.”
His movement was so quick, so unexpected that before Tier realized what the Master had done, Myrceria’s blood showered him from chest to knee.
Telleridge pulled up her head and held it through the throes of death. “She’s been so useful over the years. Where am I going to find another wizard who is so good at getting close to our Traveler guests? I have no more daughters.” He dropped her head and wiped his hands on his robes. Black robes hid the blood much better than Tier’s light-colored clothing.
It wasn’t, thought Tier, that he hadn’t believed they were evil. He had just forgotten how sudden death could be, and how final. He’d liked Myrceria.
Tier still had his sword from practice, but this was too well-orchestrated. If his sword would have done him any good, they’d never have let him keep it.
Had Myrceria betrayed their plans? She hadn’t known it all—but she’d known enough.
“But you know the thing that bothers me the most?” asked Telleridge, intruding on Tier’s grief and anger. “How did you get to the Emperor? Do you know how long it took us to come by a harmless ruler? How many people gave their lives so that I could mold the proper emperor? Then suddenly, he is making an effective grasp for power. It wasn’t until I spoke with you the other day that I drew a parallel between what you’ve done to the Passerines and what happened to the Emperor.”
Telleridge shook his head. “And what have you left us to rule in his place? Avar is next for the throne; but although he is an idiot, he is a well-meaning idiot. You’ve ruined Toarsen.” He heaved a theatrical sigh. “Not that it will matter to you how much trouble you’ve caused, but I thought you might enjoy sharing the stage tonight. I’ll leave you for last so you can watch your little projects die.”
Tier stared silently at Myrceria’s corpse.
“Ah, no words for me, Bard?” taunted the Master.
Yes, thought Tier, it was time to see just how much control they had over his Order.
“Only cowards torture women,” he said, not bothering to dodge the staff that took him across the cheekbone.
Toarsen rubbed his hair dry with a towel as he walked down the secret ways that would lead him back to the rest of the palace. Alone, he allowed himself to smile with remembered satisfaction at Avar’s face when Toarsen had burst into his rooms and demanded to be taken to the Emperor.
Firmly convinced that it was some stupid wager, Avar had almost refused him. But he hadn’t.
Toarsen was surprised about that. His brother had seldom paid any attention to him at all, except to order him about.
When he’d sworn on his honor that he carried an urgent message to the Emperor, Avar had heaved a martyred sigh, rolled out of bed, dressed, and done as Toarsen asked. On the way back to their rooms after they’d spent the night in councils of war, Avar had patted him on the back, an affectionate, respectful gesture he’d never given Toarsen before.
The passage Toarsen had taken opened not far from his rooms in an obscure storage room. He glanced cautiously out of the room, but there was no one in the hall to see him as he slipped out of the storage room and into his own.
He’d changed into the uncomfortable clothes of court and was halfway to the door before he realized that there was a vellum envelope on the cherrywood table near his bed.
His pulse picked up as he slit it opened and read the invitation.
“Now?” he said.
Seraph curled up, enfolded in the bedding that smelled of Tier. She’d left him while the sun was only a faint hint in the sky. It had been even easier than she expected to talk Benroln and his clan into serving as the Emperor’s foot soldiers. She’d left Lehr and Jes sleeping and left the sheep farm just outside of Taela where they’d been staying to come back here.
Tier hadn’t been here when she’d returned to tell him of her success, but she’d known that he would have to continue his normal habits or risk alerting someone. So she’d climbed into his bed and reminded herself that he was alive. If someone came in, they’d not see her unless she wanted them to.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Tier? It’s Toarsen. Are you back?”
Reluctantly, she got out of the bed and pulled the covers flat. She opened the door and motioned the young man in.
“He’s not here,” she said.
“I can’t find him anywhere,” Toarsen said, sounding a little frantic. “The Disciplining is set for early this evening, and I can’t find Tier.”
“It’s all right,” said Seraph, his anxiety lending her calm. “He’ll want to know, but it’s Phoran, your brother, and my people who really need to know right now. Go to your brother and tell him to get word to Phoran and to get his men and meet my people in the passages we discussed. I’ll get the Travelers, and after you’ve told Avar, you go about your day as if nothing were wrong. Avar can get word to Phoran. Just make sure you are armed when you go to the Disciplining.”
He nodded and left the room. Seraph set out at a dead run through the labyrinth of passages—there was no time to waste. She needed to get Benroln. Tier had survived a long time here without her to watch over him. She had to believe he’d be all right.
Avar and his men waited for them as he’d promised, in a long, dark corridor large enough to have held twice as many people. Relief crossed his face when he saw Seraph and the Librarian’s clan.
“I don’t like this,” he said without waiting for introductions. “Toarsen said he couldn’t find Tier anywhere. He looked for Myrceria to give her a message for him, but he couldn’t find her either, and none of the other whores knew where she was. He said that he’d last seen Tier at sword practice, but that one of the Masters called him to a meeting. Then I couldn’t find Phoran in any of his usual haunts, though his horse is still in the stable.”
Seraph pushed her anxiety aside and forced herself to think clearly. The Path were upset with Tier for taking control of the Passerines… so they took him and… Her thoughts stuck there. Would they simply have killed him?
“I don’t see anything to do except follow the plans we laid out last night,” she said at last.
Beside her Benroln nodded his head. “If what Seraph told us about this group is true, this is th
e best chance to destroy them. It would be better for us if the Emperor is there to bear witness for us—but the Path needs to be destroyed here and now.”
“Neither Tier nor Phoran are essential to the destruction of the Path now,” said Seraph with painful honesty. “Without Tier, though, we might have to fight the Passerines, too. And if Phoran is not there, Benroln, your men will have to try and get out as soon as this is finished and take all of our fallen, too. Maybe Telleridge has taken them for part of the performance tonight. If the Masters have hurt Tier, they’ll have a hard time controlling the Passerines.”
“You don’t know the Passerines,” said Avar.
“I know my husband,” she said.
She didn’t miss the uneasy way Avar’s people surveyed the exotic lot of armed Travelers or the puzzled looks aimed at Brewydd. Old women were not usually part of a battle force—but Healers could look after themselves on a battlefield.
“We need to take them tonight,” Seraph said again.
Avar nodded slowly, then turned to the troops around him. In short, punctuated sentences he described what they were doing and why.
The white robes she’d taken from an unwary Raptor were woolen and itchy, but Seraph stood quietly next to Brewydd, who was carrying on a conversation with the white-robed Raptor beside her, talking, of all things, about growing tomatoes.
Hennea had laid spells on all of them: look-away spells to keep them from being noticed and minor illusions to hide things—like Seraph’s lack of height and her sex—that would otherwise attract attention. When Hennea had told them all to avoid being noticed, Seraph didn’t think that exchanging gardening tips with the first Raptor they happened upon was what she’d had in mind.
Seraph looked out over the room. Jes was somewhere, too, though he hadn’t bothered with the white robes. No one would see him until he wanted them to. Lehr was with the rest of their little army.
The Passerines were gathered already; she’d counted them. Assuming Tier’s protégé was the boy they intended to produce, all of the Passerines were there. Though they didn’t have hoods on their robes, Seraph found that the robes obscured enough differences that she had a hard time picking out Toarsen, the only Passerine she knew, from the rest. There were chairs in rows in front of the stage, and the Passerines were all directed to those; even as she watched, the last of them took his seat.
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