Fortune and Fate (Twelve Houses)

by Sharon Shinn

  Senneth settled against the fence to take in the sight. It was Justin pitted against Janni, a mismatch in the general sense. These days only Tayse could reliably defeat Justin; and even so, Justin bested the older Rider every third or fourth outing. At a year or so shy of thirty, Justin was in superb physical condition, burly enough to put real power into his swings but lithe enough to move with astonishing quickness. Tayse was bigger, older, sometimes a step slower, but so experienced that his guile usually made up for any loss of prowess.

  Janni, a sunny-tempered woman with curly dark hair and a blinding smile, obviously didn’t have Justin’s strength, but she was faster and completely fearless. She attacked him with lightning strokes and danced back out of reach, making him work hard to counter her agility with his brute power. Still, it was no real surprise when Justin eventually battered her down with a series of ringing blows. They were using practice blades, but Senneth, who was a decent swordswoman herself, knew that Janni would come out of this encounter covered with bruises.

  “Dead,” Justin announced, pulling back his sword and helping Janni to her feet. “But not without crippling me severely. Good job.”

  Janni was panting but cheerful. “I think you’ve got a gut wound that’ll lay you up for a month. Maybe it’ll get infected and you’ll die.”

  “I have mystic friends,” Justin retorted. “They’ll heal me.”

  One of the Gisseltess soldiers stopped making any pretense of fighting his own battle and came a few steps closer to the Riders. That’s when Senneth realized it was Warren. “How’d you learn to fight like that?” the boy asked. His face was alight with excitement, making him almost unrecognizable from the sullen serramar of the night before.

  Justin pulled a dagger, flipped it, caught it, and sheathed it again. He didn’t usually indulge in showy tricks, so Senneth assumed he was making a point about basic coordination. “Practiced every day, all day, till my hands were bleeding and I couldn’t feel my feet,” Justin said. “Never bothered doing anything else.”

  “I’ve never seen anybody that good,” Warren said.

  Justin looked him over deliberately, assessing height, reach, muscle tone. “You’ve got the right build,” he said. “You could probably do some damage if you were properly taught.”

  Warren’s sudden eagerness propelled him a step closer. “Would you teach me? Now? Show me how a Rider fights?”

  Justin didn’t even glance back at Senneth, though he had to know she was there. Justin always knew who was within a fifty-foot radius of him. “Why not?” he drawled. “I’ve got a little time. But you can’t moan if you get hurt. This is a hard business, and you have to be hard yourself.”

  “I will be. I am,” Warren promised. He was rebuckling his protective vest and hefting his practice sword.

  “Weapons up,” Justin said, and lunged for him.

  Senneth only stayed for another twenty minutes to watch the demonstration, but it was clear Justin knew exactly what he was doing. He never let Warren land a blow or indulge any thought of besting the Rider, but he slowly and methodically demonstrated some of his own most lethal moves, then walked the boy through them over and over. Warren was all rapt attention and boundless effort, and he watched Justin as if one of the gods themselves had dropped down to give him a fencing lesson. “Good,” Senneth heard Justin say as she walked away. “You’ve almost got it. More power in the swing. No, balance your weight on your left foot . . .”

  Justin a hero to Halchon Gisseltess’s son. Surely, the world was so strange Senneth would never be able to comprehend it.

  DINNER that evening was disagreeably formal. To please Nate and honor her royal charge, Senneth had worn a dress ever since she arrived in Gissel Plain, eschewing her usual trousers and plain attire. Tonight, of course, she must not just wear a dress; she must wear a gown and style her hair and try to look every inch the serramarra. She choose a dress of Brassenthwaite blue in striking lines, accenting it with the gold necklace Tayse had given her as a wedding gift. It lay just so it covered the Brassenthwaite housemark burned into her skin.

  She used to wear a moonstone bracelet as well, but she had given that up when she almost lost her magic. Moonstones leached power away from a mystic, and these days Senneth didn’t feel she had any to spare.

  She collected Kirra and they headed down to dinner. Tonight, of course, Tayse had not been invited to join them and Sabina had taken great care with the table arrangements. The two serlords were seated closest to Cammon, and a bejeweled array of other vassal lords and ladies spread from his central presence like an army outfitted from a treasure house.

  Senneth was seated among the lesser lords, and she spent most of the meal making laborious conversation with the man on her right. During lulls in conversation, she tried to listen to the rest of the talk around the table. The men sitting on either side of Kirra appeared to be having a much more lighthearted time of it, while those clustered close to Cammon wore looks of polite bafflement. She wasn’t surprised so many people didn’t know what to make of the royal consort.

  Cammon himself appeared entirely at ease, asking his usual artless questions and listening with his usual close attention. Every once in a while, Senneth saw him tilt his head sideways and a little back. Bright Mother burn me, she thought. Amalie’s in the room with us and Cammon’s listening to her.

  The lords who were puzzled by Cammon now would be even more stunned to think he was choosing his conversational subjects on the advice of disembodied voices. Despite herself, Senneth felt an unregenerate amusement. She caught Kirra’s eye and directed her attention to Cammon. Kirra broke into a delightful laugh and then turned to make some airy comment to her dinner partner. But she, too, kept half of her attention on the royal consort.

  So both of them were listening when Cammon leaned forward to address the serlord sitting across the table from him. “What do you think explains the higher incidence of banditry along the roads?”

  The serlord sat up, affronted and taken by surprise, and all around them the other conversations gradually stuttered to a halt. “I’m sure I have no idea what you refer to.”

  “Outlaws. Brigands,” Cammon expanded. “The roads around Gissel Plain are safe enough, but too far out in the country, and a small party is open to attack. Was this the case when Halchon Gisseltess sat in the House?”

  That drew a glare from Nate to add to the scowls of the serlords and vassals. Cammon ignored them all and just sat there waiting, wearing a look of courteous inquiry.

  “There have been incidents,” the serlord said stiffly. He was large and round in contour, but his eyes were narrow and sharp; intelligence shaped his whole face. “We assume that many of the raiders are soldiers who came back from the war too bitter or too broken to return to their old lives.”

  Cammon seemed to listen for a beat, and then he said, “Have there been any policies in place to try to help such men rebuild? In Merrenstow, for instance, the marlord has set aside gold for former soldiers to borrow at a low rate of return, to help them put their farms back in order or to hire help if they have been too wounded to work.”

  “In Merrenstow, the region has not been beggared by the costs of an ill-conceived war,” the serlord snapped.

  Cammon steadily returned his gaze. “Most of the war was fought in the northeastern part of the country,” he said. “Property damage was considerable. And the northern Houses paid a lot for this war, too, you know—and it wasn’t their idea, either.”

  The serlord lowered his eyes. “I beg pardon,” he said. “I know the entire country suffered.”

  The second serlord leaned forward over the table. He was thin and intense, with a pinched, scowling face. “What’s needed is not charity but force,” he said. “Gisseltess is hamstrung by limitations on its fighting strength. Even a marlord may not have more than fifty guards at his disposal! Give us leave to raise troops and you will see our roads become safe again.”

  Cammon sipped from his wine as if thinking thi
s over, but Senneth was certain he was listening to Amalie again. “You could pool your resources,” he suggested finally. “If the marlord can raise fifty men, and each serlord can raise thirty-five, and every vassal lord has his own small guard of fifteen or twenty, you could all contribute one or two soldiers to the common cause.” He drank a little more wine. “And the crown would be willing to send troops as well to boost your numbers. You should be able to patrol the roads effectively with such a force.”

  There was a small silence. “A generous offer indeed,” Nate said. His voice was very formal; Senneth couldn’t tell if he was angry or pleased. No marlord wanted interference from the royal court—but no marlord wanted to risk losing all his trade because of unsafe travel through his lands.

  The small scrappy serlord was plainer. “Gisseltess can solve its own problems without pressure from Ghosenhall,” he said.

  “If it can, then why hasn’t it?” Cammon replied in a quiet voice.

  This brought another silence, this one even longer and crackling with anger. Cammon looked around the table, seeming to give each individual a thorough inspection in one brief glance. “Look at all of you,” he said. “You are full of jealousy and spite—toward your neighbors, toward your House, toward your queen. You are each fighting for the prestige of your own small properties, but you don’t seem to understand that none of you will prosper if you don’t all work together. Gisseltess will never heal itself if you continue this way. I know you don’t like Nate Brassenthwaite leading the House, but I can sense from none of you a willingness to change when a true Gisseltess man is back in charge. By the time Warren is twenty-one, you will all have become so steeped in hatred that you won’t be able to support him, either, and Gisseltess will never again be the proud, strong House it used to be—at least, not while any of you are still alive.”

  It was a remarkable speech, all the more so because it was delivered in Cammon’s usual pleasant voice, and he displayed no scorn, no wrath, no malice. Just implacable honesty with no room for subterfuge. Everyone was staring at him; the table was so still there wasn’t even the sound of rustling clothing or silverware striking against china.

  “Hold a council. Figure out what each of you can do, and what kind of assistance you would like from the crown,” Cammon continued. “Amalie and I would be glad to see this resolved.”

  Nate drew a long breath. “Thank you, liege,” he said, and again his voice was unreadable. But Senneth rather thought he was impressed. “We will confer, and we will send a delegate to Ghosenhall.”

  Sabina was the next to speak, her light voice just very slightly quavering. “I hope you’re all still hungry,” she said. “The cook has made what looks to be a most delicious confection to end the meal.”

  SO that was a lesson in the sort of political acumen that Cammon and Amalie possessed between them, and made the dinner one that would be talked of for at least a decade, Senneth thought. She was hopeful that the meal at Seton Mayman’s house a few days later would be less momentous, but in its way it was even more eventful. Though the entire tenor of the two meals was different. Dinner at Gissel Plain was tense; dinner at the Mayman house was farcical.

  First, of course, there was simply the cast of characters: Cammon, relaxed and cheerful as always; Senneth, disgruntled at having to don a fancy dress for a second night; Kirra, in the form of a slim, silent, watchful young man dressed in royal black and gold; Donnal, shaped like Kirra and wearing a resplendent gown; and all nine of the Riders. Accompanying them were Nate, who spent the entire length of the journey giving them Seton Mayman’s personal history, and Sabina, who fussed over Donnal. Donnal was pretending to nurse a cold so that he would not have to do much talking as Kirra. The six guests of honor rode in a single cramped carriage, so there was no way to avoid any of the personality quirks. Nate and Sabina carried most of the conversation, helped by Cammon. Senneth was too annoyed to speak, and of course the “taster” was expected to be largely invisible. Every once in a while, Donnal would offer a consumptive cough and then pat his throat with a dainty hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” he would whisper, batting those big blue eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

  Sabina would pat his arm and say, “No, no, I’m sure no one minds as long as you aren’t too uncomfortable.”

  Once they arrived at the estate—a rather pretty place of white stone and black trim—the pomp was excessive. At least twenty footmen lined the hall leading to the dining room, but they had to press back to make room for the Riders, who paced around Cammon, solemn as funeral mourners. There was a general jostle in the dining room itself as the Riders stationed themselves at strategic points along the walls, and the servants and the other guests tried to make their way around them. Their host and his wife wore clothing that wouldn’t have been out of place for an audience at Ghosenhall, and their nineteen or twenty guests were in similarly opulent attire.

  When the whole group was finally settled around the table, there was one empty chair. Seton explained that this belonged to a young lord named Chelten, who would be arriving later. “He is most eager to renew his acquaintance with serra Kirra, of whom he has the warmest memories,” Seton said, smiling at Donnal.

  Donnal covered his mouth with a handkerchief for a discreet cough, managing to give Kirra a quick look and receive her slight nod in return. “Oh, it’s good to be remembered so fondly,” he said with a light laugh. “Not everyone finds me charming.”

  “Nonsense,” Seton said. “I imagine you win hearts everywhere you go.”

  The first course was served, then successive courses, each one an amazing challenge in logistics. Kirra was perched on a stool right up against Cammon’s chair, although everyone in the room pretended she wasn’t there. So the servants presented each dish to Cammon with an elegant flourish. He would hand the item to Kirra, and she would work her invisible alchemy on it while managing to get the occasional forkful to her mouth. The plate with its altered contents would be handed back to Cammon, who would have to take his first bite before anyone else dared to eat.

  “Delicious,” he would say, or, “Oh, I like this very much.” Senneth could tell by his polite tone that most of it was perfectly tasteless, and nothing like the feast the rest of them were enjoying.

  The conversation was equally insipid, centering on weather and travel and a few morsels of mild scandal. Topics such as business and trade crept in among the men, and the women talked fashion. Senneth’s dinner partners were planning a trip to Ghosenhall; could she recommend inns along the way? All very civilized, and she started to relax.

  The hostess had a moment of mortification when the fireplace began to smoke late in the third course. “When the wind blows from the south, the chimney simply doesn’t draw,” she explained, fanning the air as if to dissipate the smoke with her hands. “I was so hoping for an absolutely calm day!”

  “The chimneys at Brassen Court don’t like a northern wind,” Nate said. “I feel quite at home.”

  It was too chilly to douse the fire entirely. Besides, the dining hall at the Mayman house was an interior room, and the only illumination came from the fireplace, the wall sconces, and the candelabra liberally spaced along the table.

  “I’m sure there are odd little quirks at Danan Hall, aren’t there, Kirra?” Cammon asked, looking straight at his taster.

  “Plenty of them,” Donnal replied, raising his voice slightly, but keeping Kirra’s lilting tone. “But my father is immune to inconvenience, so he never lets them bother him. And Casserah is much the same.”

  Cammon started, blushed, and struggled not to laugh. “I’ve never found too much wrong with Ghosenhall, though,” he said a little breathlessly.

  Senneth was not particularly good at social discourse, but someone had to redirect the conversation. “This is a very nice property, Lord Seton,” she said. “How long has it been in your family?”

  So they were rescued by genealogy, and then the servants came through with the final course. It
looked to be some kind of cobbler, bubbling with fruit and sugar. Kirra had just tasted it and handed it back to Cammon when there was a sound in the hall and the door burst open.