by Ari Marmell
For the first time in years, Corvis found himself desperately missing Rascal. He'd been such a good horse; the poor thing just, after trying so hard for so long, hadn't proved up to being Corvis Rebaine's horse.
And then there was Irrial herself, who spoke with him as infrequently as feasible. The prior discussion on whether or not to murder Corvis in his sleep was perhaps the longest exchange they'd shared since Rahariem.
'Have you considered cuffing her across the nose?'
"Shut up." Corvis actually found himself hoping, for an instant, that the voice in his head was genuine; he didn't like the idea that such a thought came from him, crazy or not.
But as summer entered its downward slope-not that one could tell by the stifling heat-and they drew ever nearer their destination, passing by larger towns and ever more numerous travelers, Irrial's curiosity apparently overcame her hostility. As they made camp that evening, she moved to sit across the fire from him, rather than taking her meal to the far side of the campsite as had been her wont. He tilted his head, his expression puzzled, and maybe just a little pleased.
"Where, exactly, are we going?" she asked him, one hand clutching a sharp stick from which hung a greasy haunch of rabbit.
"We're heading to Mecepheum. I told you that."
"Yes, but you never explained why."
"That," Corvis told her, "is because you didn't want to know. Told me to 'do whatever needed to be done,' and then stomped away in a huff."
"Corvis…"
"It was a very nice huff, if that matters at all. Skillful. Easily one of the best I've seen."
Irrial scowled, but she looked as embarrassed as she did angry. "All right, maybe so. But now I want to know."
"It's all pretty simple," he said, pulling his own skewered rabbit from the flames and blowing on it before taking a healthy bite. "Lessh looka whawno."
"What?"
Corvis swallowed and tried again. "Let's look at what we know. We're facing a full-on Cephiran invasion. Even if they don't advance any farther than the eastern territories, they've come farther than any prior skirmish. Imphallion can't just let that pass."
"Except that so far, we have," she reminded him.
"Exactly. Now, the Guilds and the nobility are really good at letting their differences stop them from accomplishing anything. I've seen it myself-decades ago, and again during the Serpent's War-and things have just gotten worse in the past few years. So it's possible-even after the lesson they should've learned from Audriss-that they'd rather argue with one another while Cephira pulls the walls down around their ears.
"What's not possible-or what I'd have thought to be impossible, anyway-is for them to completely ignore the situation like they have been. Even if they can't agree on a unified response, many dukes, barons, and Guildmasters would've responded on their own. We should've seen at least a few armies by now-mobilizing near the border, if not attacking outright."
Irrial nodded thoughtfully. "But the only soldiers we've seen have been guarding the cities and estates we've passed along the road. So something's keeping them not only from unifying, but from mobilizing entirely." She frowned. "Part of it, of course, is those murders."
"Which we both know I didn't commit." Then, at her expression, "Oh, come on, Irrial! No matter how much you might distrust me now, you were there."
"I don't actually know how much magic you have, Rebaine."
"If I could just whisk myself from city to city, do you think I'd be pounding my rear end raw on that saddle? Besides," he added, "you pretty much knew where I was every minute, didn't you?"
Irrial actually wrapped her arms around herself. "Don't remind me."
'Me, either.'
"The point," Corvis continued, pretending not to be stung by the revulsion in her tone, "is that my supposed reappearance is awfully convenient. Either whoever's impersonating me is in league with Cephira, or they're using the Cephiran invasion as a distraction from something else. In either case, while I can see the return of Corvis Rebaine causing quite a stir, I don't know if it's enough to keep every noble and Guild in check. So we have to find out not only who's pretending to be me, but what else is going on in the halls of power. And that means going to, well, the halls of power."
"And how, pray tell, do you plan to get anyone to tell you what's going on? Or convince them you're not responsible for the attacks?"
"As to the latter, I'm working on that. And as to the former…" Corvis grinned. "Let's just say that I still have a certain amount of influence."
"What sort of influence?" she asked suspiciously.
"Why, my lady, the same sort that inspires a Cephiran siege team to attack their own people."
Irrial had further questions-he could see it in her face-but her rising from the campfire and walking away was sufficient indication that, for tonight, she'd heard enough.
It was a modest celebration by any standard, attended by a scant two dozen souls-and if most had known the happy couple for less than a year, that made them ignorant, not blind. So when the groom vanished from the hall of that small wooden temple, someone was bound to notice, but for the moment he just didn't much care.
Outside in the courtyard, he strode through the sparse spring precipitation, feeling the water drip down the back of his fancy (albeit secondhand) doublet, watched the petals of the brightly colored flowers bend and rebound against the rain. Finding a marble bench that was likely older, and certainly sturdier, than the temple itself, he lowered himself to the stone. The accumulated rain that instantly soaked through the seat of his pants was a small price to pay for getting off his feet for a bit. Precisely what sadistic inquisitor, he wondered sourly to himself, had come up with what modern society laughably called "formal shoes"?
"You know," a gentle voice said from behind, "you're supposed to get cold feet before the wedding. Fleeing afterward doesn't really do any good."
He smiled and raised a hand to cover the smaller fingers on his shoulder. "I was actually just thinking about feet," he answered. "Aren't we supposed to be married longer than an hour before you start reading my mind?"
Tyannon, absolutely resplendent in a borrowed gown of whites and greens-and utterly oblivious to what the rain was doing to the fine materials, or the elaborate coiffure that had taken hours to arrange just so-stepped around the bench and took a seat beside him. "What is it?" she asked, her tone far more serious.
"It's just… Cerris."
She blinked, and he knew it wasn't because of the water. "What?"
"Cerris. Tyannon, the priest called me 'Cerris.' "
"Well, yes. That's what we told him your name was. It's not as though we could have-"
"I know. But…" He waved helplessly, sending a spray of water arcing over the flowers, perpendicular to the rain. "Can we build a marriage-" he asked in a whisper, "can we build a life-on a lie?"
"No! Not a lie." She slid from the bench, dropping to her knees before him, allowing the gown to soak in the rivulets of water and mud as she clasped both his hands in her own. "Cerris? The man you are now? He's a good man, and he's not the man you were. How can it be a lie for me to be married to Cerris, when that's who you are?"
Corvis-Cerris-stared down at his new bride, and gave thanks for the gentle shower that washed away his tears. AND THEN TYANNON WAS CALLING his name, her voice low but harsh. Except it wasn't Tyannon, as his bleary eyes opened, but Irrial standing opposite the embers of the dead fire, waking him for his turn at watch. She nodded brusquely as he awoke and returned to her own blanket without another word.
He was grateful, then, that the second woman Corvis had stolen from Cerris's arms fell swiftly asleep, for today no rain fell to hide his tears. THE LAST FEW LEAGUES OF ROADWAY GREW somewhat more crowded again, not with refugees-a few had come this far, true, but only a few-but with more traditional travelers: farmers and merchants, laborers and couriers.
And soldiers.
Not nearly enough, as Irrial had hoped when first spotting them, to suggest tha
t Imphallion was finally mobilizing. No, these were sporadic patrols of a dozen or fewer, less concerned with advancing eastward than in carefully scouring those coming west. After their third time being stopped and questioned without explanation, Corvis realized that these sentinels must have been assigned to ensure that none of the fugitives come from the border were actually Cephiran agents in disguise.
As if there were any way to tell. "Damn fools," he grumbled to himself, his words lost to the tromping of the warhorse's hooves. "Even when they decide to do something, it's a bloody waste of effort."
'Sort of like leading an untrained resistance against the Cephiran army on behalf of a woman who'd now sooner behead you than bed you, Corvis?'
If this is just all in my mind, Corvis bemoaned silently, I must really hate myself.
Thanks to some quick shopping in towns along the way, the travelers who finally arrived at the towering gates of Mecepheum were not entirely the same pair who had fled Rahariem. Irrial wore a fine green cloak, lined in velvet, over a startlingly white tunic and thick riding trousers. The fellow accompanying her was clad in the formal but practical outfit of a household servant, and sported a few weeks' worth of neatly trimmed beard.
He also, due rather less to new clothes than to judicious use of subtle illusions, didn't especially resemble Corvis Rebaine. It had been a long time, but there were too many among the capital's elite who might recognize him.
When Irrial had asked how he could make use of his local contacts when he didn't resemble himself, he'd merely wiggled his fingers and said "Maaaaagic."
She hadn't spoken to him since.
Although it required standing in line for upward of an hour, they entered the city with little hassle or fanfare, stopping just inside the gates to take a long look. After occupied Rahariem, Mecepheum was an alien land. The streets were bustling-one might even say "flooded"-with people and horses, carts and wagons, all shoving their way through walls of sweaty flesh. The tumult was nigh overwhelming, but it was the typical rumble of daily life, with nary a sob of despair or a barked command to be heard. The absence of shattered homes and piles of rubble seemed somehow improper, as though Mecepheum were rudely refusing to acknowledge the troubles of its distant sister.
Which wasn't all that inaccurate, really.
Though many blocks separated the gates from the political offices in and around the Hall of Meeting, the travelers chose to make the trip on foot rather than trying to ram their horses through the throng. A nearby inn provided quality stabling at only slightly hair-raising prices, and Corvis also acquired a couple of rooms before they braved the streets again. This time, Irrial walked with the slightest trace of a limp and leaned on what looked to be a plain but expertly carved cane. Corvis wore her Cephiran sword at his waist; Sunder was nowhere to be seen.
The baroness, who'd not been to Mecepheum in many years, gawped like a yokel, not taken by the capital's finery so much as by the sharp delineations between the poorer and richer quarters, as well as the obviously new repairs to the ancient structures. As the apparent age of those repairs finally sank in, she cast a suspicious glance at her supposed "servant," trailing a few steps behind.
"Audriss," he said defensively. "Not me."
Irrial didn't look convinced.
They mounted the steps to the Hall of Meeting, noses held high as though they not only had every right to be there, but questioned everyone else's presence. Recognizing the arrogant mien of the nobility-and the servant thereof, which was frankly even worse-the clerk positioned near the entrance didn't even bother to ask their business.
Unfortunately, stopping to ask him directions might have ruined the effect, and Corvis hadn't the slightest idea where they were going. Running through a mental list of Guildmasters and nobles over whom he still held "influence," he stepped up the pace a bit and whispered "Mubarris. Cartwrights' and Carpenters' Guild."
Irrial's hair barely twitched, so shallow was her nod, but clearly she'd heard. As they rounded a corner, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting-which, if ubiquitous throughout the Hall, must have cost enough to buy a small village-she raised a hand to stop the next passerby. "Tell me, good sir," she asked, voice distant but stiffly polite, "where might I find the office of Guildmaster Mubarris?"
The fellow they accosted sported immaculately curled blond locks and was clad in the blue-and-white livery of one of Mecepheum's numerous aristocratic Houses. "And what, do pray tell," he asked with a disparaging sneer, "would a highborn lady such as yourself need with one of those merchants?" It might have been the most foul, blasphemous epithet the way he choked it out, and Corvis groaned inwardly. Things were obviously even worse between the Guilds and the nobility than he'd thought.
That, or the guy was just a jackass.
'You're such a pessimist. Why can't it be both?'
Irrial's expression grew so cold and so stony, it might well have convinced an angry basilisk not to waste its time. "That would be between me and the Guildmaster, wouldn't it? Now kindly tell us where to find him."
"So you can make more concessions? Give away more of our power?" The pugnacious fellow was on a tear; apparently having found a target for his frustrations, he wasn't about to surrender it without a fight. "You're not from Mecepheum, my lady, I can see that right off. So why don't you go back wherever you came from and leave the real politics to the people who know what they're doing?"
Corvis sucked in a breath between his teeth and began to step forward, but Irrial raised a hand to stop him. Her voice, when she spoke, had gone completely calm. "You, dear fellow, will answer my question."
"Oh? And why is that?"
"Because if you don't, my servant here is going to find the nearest blunt object and play your head like a drum until your eyes switch sides."
"I-you…!"
"I still remember some great military cadences," Corvis told him. "Very impressive. Lots of percussion."
"You can't lay a finger on me!" the aristocrat whined, though he took a hesitant step back.
"I'll swear blind that you raised a hand to me first," Irrial said. "My servant was just defending me."
"Third floor." It was a surly mutter, scarcely audible. "Fourth hall to the left of the stairs, third door on the right."
"My thanks, good sir. You're a credit to your kennel."
They were gone, Irrial leading the way in a billowing flurry of cloak, before he could cease gawking long enough to formulate a response.
"Where," Corvis asked, voice quivering with suppressed laughter, "did you learn to do that?"
"That's all politics is really about, Reb-Cerris," she corrected swiftly, lest anyone overhear. "Finding some way to get the last word." For just an instant, her lips twitched in that smile Corvis hadn't seen in weeks.
"I think I'm rubbing off on you," he said-and right away, even before her smile vanished and her face hardened once more, he knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say.
'How's that foot tasting, Corvis? Have you really gotten this stupid, or are you just trying to prove something?'
They climbed numerous stairs, traversed numerous halls. It was easy enough to see which doors led to the offices of anyone remotely important: Those were the doors flanked by mail-clad guards. They were armed with broad-bladed short swords, brutal thrusting weapons well suited to the tight confines of the corridors, and loaded crossbows leaned against the walls at their feet.
"You'd think they were afraid of something," Corvis whispered. This time, Irrial didn't smile at all.
Without pause, she approached the mercenaries standing outside the room to which they'd been reluctantly directed. "Would you be so good as to inform Guildmaster Mubarris that the Baroness Irrial of Rahariem requires an audience?"
In a practiced maneuver, one of the guards moved to block her way while the other opened the door just wide enough to ask whether or not they were to be admitted. The one whose attentions remained fixed on the newcomers gestured over Irrial's shoulder with his chin
. "Your man all right, m'lady?"
She glanced back and was startled to see Corvis's face-well, the face he was currently wearing-furrowed in concentration, beaded slightly with sweat.
"He's fine," she answered with far more conviction than she felt. "It's just been a long journey."
"I understand." Then, "Is it as bad as we've heard out there?"
"I don't know what you've heard, but it's bad enough. We've basically lost the border towns entirely."
That brought a fearsome scowl. Apparently, not everyone here was thrilled with the government's failure to act. "I'm glad you got out, m'lady," he added politely.
The second warrior turned back from the door. "The Guildmaster will see you."
Irrial began to step forward. "Thank you so-"
"Uh, I'm sorry, m'lady," the first guard interrupted with a nervous smile. "But nobody's permitted into a Guildmaster's or noble's chambers under arms. Nervous times, you understand."
"Of course." She waved a finger at Corvis, who dutifully detached the sword from his belt and handed it over. When the soldiers looked her way, she shrugged, leaning on her cane. "I'm unarmed. That's what I keep him around for."
The guards glanced at the cane, which could have functioned as a makeshift club-but then, so could the chairs inside the room. With a mutual shrug, they stepped aside.
Irrial swept between them and offered a shallow curtsy to the fleshy, balding fellow behind the desk. Corvis followed, shutting the door behind him.
The Guildmaster rose and bowed, his movements slightly stilted. His expression was just the tiniest bit unfocused, something she'd never have noticed had he not looked directly at her. He looked-preoccupied wasn't quite the right word, but she could think of none better.
Brow furrowed, Corvis appeared at Irrial's side. "Hello, Mubarris."
"Hello."
Irrial nodded in understanding. "You weren't joking, were you?"
"About using magic? No."
