by Tad Williams
Something we all need, Porto admitted to himself. What have I done that was different, except stay with the lords who paid me to go a-soldiering? A few more nights being caught drunk, or away from my post—God forgive me, there were many times I could have become a lordless knight, especially during my dark years—and I would be here too, begging for work as a sell-sword. A very weary old sell-sword.
But he was not. Instead, he was the one watching. Traders from Nabban seemed to stay almost entirely in the areas that were clearly meant as markets, The seamier outlanders, many with the scarred look of fighters, were concentrated at the eastern end of the lake, beneath the very hills Porto and his companion had just descended.
“Had we known that when we started, we would not be walking all the way around this cursed lake,” Levias said, wiping sweat from his eyes. Porto ignored him, looking toward the lake’s western end—the clansmen’s end—and nearby hills the sergeant had told him of that morning, crowned with an old stone the grasslanders called the Silent One, and it was their holiest place.
On the lake shore beneath the western hills stood the biggest compound of all, full of wagons, people, and more animals than Porto could count. A pair of Nabbanai traders walking nearby were discussing it, and Porto heard enough to learn that this was the camp of Rudur Redbeard, thane of the Black Bear Clan and much of the Middle Thrithings, the closest thing the Thrithings had to a ruler.
Perhaps Eolair is in there, Porto thought, just a short distance from where we stand. Binabik said he was likely taken by bandits coming to the Thanemoot separately from the clansmen, but who could know that from a few tracks? And even if the troll was right, might his captors not take the count to this Rudur to buy favor with him?
But another look at the two dozen large men guarding the camp, all armed, suggested that if Eolair was held there they had little chance of freeing him.
And that is if he is still alive. Porto felt overwhelmed by their mission. It hadn’t occurred to him how many grasslanders would be at the gathering, how dangerous a place it was for two soldiers of Erkynland.
As they passed the front of the Black Bear Clan’s sprawling camp, Porto saw that people were gathering along its lakeside fences like spectators waiting for a parade. “Look at all these folk,” he told Levias. “Do you think they might be gathered to see Count Eolair brought to this Thane Redbeard? Not that we could do anything if that’s the case.”
“Perhaps,” said Levias. “Let’s find a safer place and see what happens. At least we’ll know where he is.”
To Porto’s eye the swelling crowd did not have the look of people expecting violence so much as excitement of some less deadly kind, although it was hard to tell for certain with Thrithings clansmen, who were even more fond of rough sport and rough punishment than were city folk. Neither Porto nor Levias spoke the grassland tongue, although Porto retained a few words from his days fighting along the borders of the Lake Thrithings. However, there were enough outlanders in the crowd who spoke Nabbanai and Westerling: soon Porto understood that a meeting or parley was happening—that Rudur had summoned one of the other clan chieftains, perhaps to reward him, perhaps to chastise him.
The sun disappeared in a red blaze behind the hills, and a shudder of excitement ran through the crowd.
“You are tall, but not so big!” someone shouted in Nabbanai. Jeers began, but Porto could not make out their target at first. Then he saw, approaching the Black Bear compound, the dark-haired head bobbing along the track above the watching crowd. The man was pale for a grasslander, but he dressed like a headman in furs and bone necklaces, and his posture suggested that he cared not at all what the crowd might be shouting. A dozen other riders followed behind him, most wearing the insignia of the Stallion Clan, the High Thrithings’ most powerful, with a few others from clans Porto did not recognize. All of them had weapons, but kept them in sheath or belt as they approached the gate.
A young man riding beside the leader stood up in his stirrups and called something to the guards on the other side of the heavy wooden gate. After a moment the gate opened, then the Black Bear clansmen on the far side parted to let in the tall, dark-haired man and his company. The newcomers made their way across the grass toward where the largest wagon and the colorful tents that surrounded it stood at the back of the compound.
“He’ll be put in his place, you wait and see,” someone said in Nabbanai. “Rudur lets no one get too high-flown but himself.”
Porto turned to look at the men behind him, a threesome dressed in dirty robes that had probably been spotless before the marketing trip began.
“Who was that who passed?” he asked the bearded man who had spoken. “The Stallion Clan leader.”
The merchant gave him a quiet, suspicious look, but said, “He is named Unver—a thane of the northern clans who has ambition to be more than that. Apparently he has made a name for himself, and Rudur wants to meet him face to face.” The man squinted in the near-darkness. “And who are you, friend? I don’t recognize you.”
“Sell-swords,” Porto told him. “Looking for work.”
“We might have need of such ourselves.” The merchant looked them over. “Though I must say you are not the most impressive mercenaries I’ve encountered. You, sir, are very old, and your companion is a bit fat. You cannot expect full wage, either of you.”
Levias stirred. “What are they saying?”
“They want to hire us,” Porto reported, half-amused.
“Tell them we don’t need their stinking work.” Levias apparently spoke enough Nabbanai to recognize the word ‘fat.’
“My companion thanks you for the offer, but we have already been hired,” Porto said. “But one more question, please. Why would so many people gather to see one thane come to meet Rudur? It must happen often at such a gathering as this.”
“Not really,” said the merchant, and he looked around in a way that was almost furtive. “This one, this Unver—there are people who say he is the Shan returned.”
Porto had heard the title before—it meant a great king, a thane over all thanes. “And is he?”
“Aedon preserve us.” The bearded merchant made the Sign of the Tree on his breast, very broadly and emphatically, and his round face looked genuinely troubled. “We had better pray he isn’t or all our cities will burn.”
* * *
Frustrated and in increasingly sour temper, Eolair pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and leaned toward the fire. He was grateful it was summer, but he was no longer used to sleeping on the ground and his craven old flesh and brittle bones were letting him know it. Also, the stinging creatures that lived around the lake seemed to carry a personal grudge against him. Worst of all, with his wrists tied it was difficult to scratch the bites. A little conversation seemed the only thing that might distract him from all these woes, but deep-bearded Hotmer was not much of a talker.
“So why is it so interesting that Rudur Redbeard is meeting someone?” Eolair asked again, since he hadn’t received a reply the first time.
A large number of Agvalt’s bandit company were away from the camp that evening, pursuing whatever pleasures the Thanemoot and their purses could provide. Several had gone off toward Rudur’s Bear Clan camp at the base of the sacred hills because of rumors about Redbeard and the new thane of the Stallion Clan.
Hotmer took a long drink from his skin bag before offering it to Eolair, who managed to suck down a draught despite the clumsiness of his bound wrists. “Not interesting,” the outlaw said, then considered for a long, silent time before adding, “I hate those people.”
It took Eolair a moment to understand. “The Thrithings-folk? But are you not one of them?”
Hotmer made an angry sound. “Not of the clans, me. Not of the Gadrinsett city-folk either.”
Eolair put that aside for a moment. “But who is this Enver and why is everyone talking about him?�
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His companion spat into the fire and watched it sizzle. “Unver, not Enver. Because some say he is the Shan.”
Eolair had heard that word, but not for a long time, not since his youth. “Some kind of war leader?”
“God-chosen. Meant to bring all the tribes together. They say the signs follow him like birds behind a farmer sowing corn.” He took a breath, then tilted the skin back and had another swig. “But it’s all shit.”
It was more than what he could usually wring out of Hotmer. “It sometimes seems to me that the gods cannot be as busy in our lives as we would like to think them,” Eolair offered. “Do they really listen to every prayer? Do they grant one man’s requests but deny another’s? My people say the gods argue and even fight among themselves sometimes, just as men do. Do you think that is so?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Hotmer fell silent, brooding on thoughts of his own, and would not speak any more. Eolair was just about to drag himself to his sleeping spot in the center of the camp when the chieftain Agvalt wandered up, clearly just returned from somewhere in which liquor was in ample supply. The fair-haired young bandit stopped, grinning, and looked down on the two men.
“Did you keep the fire warm for me, Mother?” he asked Hotmer. “Did you cook me some cakes on the hot stones?”
Hotmer said nothing. The chieftain turned to Eolair. “Here. Give me your hands.”
The count didn’t trust the man’s drunken mood, and was anyway slow to rise these days, which angered Agvalt. “By the burnt fingers of Tasdar, be swift about it, man! You make me regret doing you a kindness.”
When he at last presented his hands, Agvalt worked the knot loose and let the rope fall from Eolair’s wrists. “There. We don’t want your hands to turn black and fall off, do we? Not if we want to get the most gold for you we can. Go on, rub the blood back into them. This freedom won’t last long.”
“Nevertheless, I thank you.” His hands felt as if they were being poked by invisible needles.
“If you want to show gratitude, do nothing to make me regret it. I would prefer to ransom you whole, but that’s not the only way it could happen. Do we understand each other?”
“We do.”
But Agvalt remained, swaying a little. “I have just seen the so-called Shan,” he announced. “He marched into Rudur’s camp with a dozen Stallions, arrogant as you please. He is a fool. Rudur will eat him like a spring lamb and throw away the bones.”
“You don’t believe he’s the Shan?”
Agvalt turned his slightly unfocused attention back to Eolair. “When has anyone calling themselves the Shan ever been one?”
“I have heard tales of a man who once united the clans.”
“You mean Edizel. Yes, he was called Shan.” Agvalt belched, then wiped his mouth with his fist. “He died back in my great-great-great grandfather’s day—killed by his own son and guards after another lost war against the stone-dwellers. What kind of Shan is that?” Agvalt belched again. “Now give me your hands, Count of Nad Wherever, and I will tie you again so you won’t get up to any mischief.” He turned his slightly bleary gaze toward Hotmer. “He is your responsibility, Stallion-man.”
Hotmer made a noise of distaste. “They are not my clan.”
“Then, man, you are lucky to have found such fine companions as us. It is dangerous on the grasslands without someone to guard your back.” Agvalt slapped Hotmer on the shoulder, hard enough to make him grunt again, grinned unpleasantly at Eolair, then made his unsteady way across the camp.
16
The Two Sancellans
His Sacredness Vidian II, Lector of the Aedonite Church, was a small man a decade older than Miriamele. He had a cheerful smile, but he seemed to use it as a porpentine used its quills, to keep others at a safe distance. Vidian might have been mistaken for a moderately successful shopkeeper if not for his expensive robes, intricately embroidered in silver and gold. Here in his own apartments deep in the Sancellan Aedonitis, the lector also wore a black skullcap instead of one of his tall hats, to add to the pretence, Miri supposed, that this was merely a meeting of old friends who just happened to be two of the most powerful people in Osten Ard.
“I’m so pleased we are having this chance to talk, Your Majesty,” Vidian said, petting the creature on his lap, which was largely hidden in the folds of his heavy robes. “It is good to see you again in happier circumstances.”
Miriamele tried to smile but could not quite manage it. Seven years ago, Lector Vidian had come to Erkynland for John Josua’s funeral, and although she had been grateful for his presence then, it was not a good memory. “It pleases me too, Sacred Father,” she managed at last. “I only wish we had a longer time to spend together today.”
“Ah, yes, of course, the wedding.” Vidian rearranged the lump of fur and fat on his lap, now revealed to be some sort of very small bulldog with protuberant eyes and a jutting lower jaw. “We wish we could be there, don’t we, Fraxi?” He looked up and saw Miri staring at the dog. “His formal name is Ferax because he is so fierce.” He smiled and scratched the dog’s underslung chin. “In any case, I am very sad I cannot attend today’s festivities, but my infirmity prevents it.” He gestured to his swollen left foot, propped on a cushion. “Podegris, the learned men call it, but everyone else knows it as ‘gout.’ Please do not think it is from excessive drink, Majesty. You may ask Escritor Auxis if you doubt me—I am abstemious, like a flower that drinks only water.”
Miri knew that his infirmity was not Vidian’s true reason for avoiding the wedding of Earl Drusis and Turia Ingadaris. The lector’s connections to the bride’s uncle Dallo were well known, so the lector wanted to keep at least a nominal distance between himself and a ceremony that benefited the Ingadarines far more than the Benidrivines. She said, “I do not doubt you are disappointed, Sacredness.”
“But surely, Your Majesty, you do not have to leave yet? You have a coach, do you not? Dallo’s estate is but a short ride. Let me have Father Fino bring up more wine—at least for you. It pleases me to see someone else, at least, enjoy the things that I am denied.”
Like burying a child? Miri wondered, shocking herself with her own sudden anger. Where had that blaze of fury come from? Vidian was no saint, but he was no monster either, and he had seemed genuinely sad at John Josua’s death. She covered her discomposure by patting her lips with a napkin. “I would like to, Your Sacredness, but I am afraid I cannot stay. The hour tolled some time ago, and I must leave soon.”
“Of course, as you wish.” He seemed disappointed. He lifted his own cup, sipped, and made a rueful face. “Sage water is not really a man’s beverage, I have to say. But I suspect God means to keep me humble, using my illness to remind me nothing stands firm on His Earth without Him holding it up.” As if to make up for his own deprivation, the lector offered a crust of bread to Fraxi. The bulldog’s eyes bulged so grotesquely as he swallowed that Miri actually feared they might pop loose.
“I truly must leave soon,” she said again. Vidian nodded and smiled, but began a story about how Fraxi had wickedly barked at the lector’s secretary, startling the man so badly that he knocked over an inkwell.
Miriamele had grown up the daughter of a prince, and now she was queen. She did not often worry about making others wait for her, but the wedding of Drusis and Turia Ingadaris was not only important, it was fraught with dangerous ill-feelings as well. Miriamele was beginning to wonder if Vidian might be making her late on purpose.
Another strange idea, she told herself. Only back in Nabban a short while, and I am seeing plots everywhere.
Somewhere high above them, the bell in St. Tunato’s tower tolled the half hour, but Lector Vidian chattered on like a jay on a branch.
* * *
Jesa had not felt so excited and terrified at the same time since she held Blasis after Canthia had given birth to him. She was full of anticipation for the we
dding, thrilled to be part of it and pleased to know that after the main feast she and the other servants would be given a fine meal of their own. But she was frightened to be in Count Dallo’s great house, a walled stronghold full of soldiers clad in the Ingadaris Stormbird livery. Still, though she might be surrounded by the duke’s enemies, Jesa told herself that nothing bad would be allowed to happen to the duchess or any of her company while they were guests in the count’s own home.
The retiring room was crowded with the flower of the Benidrivine nobility, all but Duke Saluceris himself, who had gone north to visit the family estates in Ardivalis. It seemed strange to Jesa that the duke would not attend his own brother’s wedding, no matter what differences they might have, but she knew Saluceris to be a wise, fair-minded man, so she assumed it must be for the best. Certainly the duke was not frightened of anything that might happen here, or he would not have allowed his own wife and their two children to attend.
Silly girl, she told herself. Remember, Queen Miriamele will be here too—the queen of all the lands! Nothing bad will happen. But the queen had not yet arrived after her visit to the lector at the Sancellan Aedonitis, and Duchess Canthia was becoming fretful.
“I promised I would wait for her,” the duchess said. “Where can she be? Why would His Sacredness even invite her on a day when so much else is happening?” She waved away one of her ladies who was trying to reattach the veil of her hat, which had fallen across the right side of Canthia’s face in a very odd and distracting way. “Not now, Mindia!” she said. “Blasis, you stay here with your sister and Jesa. I do not want to see your clothes spoiled before the wedding even begins.”
