One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

"Sword,” Dahven replied briefly; his fingers tightened on her shoulder when she shuddered and closed her eyes. “Don't. It hasn't been done since Shesseran VIII let Podhru's nobles run wild, and then tried to settle matters overnight with extreme measures. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

  "No, you shouldn't,” Jennifer replied. “Come over here where I can see you, sit down, talk to me.” She recaptured his hand briefly, released it as he sat back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “For a start: What would the difference be, legally, if your brothers swore a complaint for your father's death or if the Emperor stepped in and did it himself?” He shook his head, confused. “Would it require more proof in one case or the other? Or would the word of the swearer hold more weight in one way or the other? And in each case, what forms of defense are open to you?"

  "You don't want much, do you?” Dahven asked mildly, and he flashed her a smile.

  "Not much,” she said, so quietly he had to lean forward to catch the words. “You alive, and returned to Sikkre where you belong.” She levelved the pen at his nose. “If you dare laugh—!"

  "I wouldn't dream of it,” he assured her, but his eyes were alight as he leaned back. “After all, I can scarcely offer you half of Sikkre if I don't have it."

  "Mmmm. You'll have to come up with something else to cover my fee, you know. Something additional. You already proffered half of Sikkre—before witnesses, as I recall—and my legal rates are pretty high."

  * * * *

  Some distance away, the shops on the Street of the Blind Muse were dark and empty. Behind the storefront bearing a wooden cutout shape of a sheep clad in a bright red jacket, a number of young Bezanti merchants sat in the high-walled garden of Kamahl the weaver, eating fruit and cheese, drinking a sweet wine. The lighting was low, the voices quiet, but there was still an atmosphere of party. These, after all, were men and women whose parents held portions of the Bezjeriad market—and whose parents were still young and healthy enough not to wish to break up those shares of the market. It was unexpected and unforeseen fortune, to be twenty, or twenty-five, and have the opportunity to begin anew, to aid a man in search of his birthright—a man who had not only spoken freely of a good return on such aid but had signed papers at the house of Fedthyr promising various concessions in Sehfi's market.

  It was some time before any of those gathered around Kamahl's braziers and lamps noticed that Fedthyr's heir Enardi, Enardi's strong-minded sister Biyallan—and the two Bez strangers they'd gone to ferry into Podhru during the late afternoon, as well as the fresh-faced twins who'd joined them, somewhere between the city gates and Kamahl's sign—were all gone.

  * * * *

  In point of fact, the six had left only a very short time before.

  Biyallan led them back through Kamahl's house and spoke briefly with the householder, waited then with the rest of them for the man to unbolt his door. Robyn swallowed and tried not to think about anything in particular as she stepped into the dark street, the door closed and the metal bolt slid into place behind them. Aletto wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a brief squeeze. Biyallan touched his arm and then Robyn's on the way past them, and stepped into the empty street.

  Some distance away, a blue light illuminated a narrow patch of cobble—at one of those godawful star-shaped intersections, Chris thought. They were everywhere, especially in this end of town. Lialla shivered down into her borrowed cloak—one of Biyallan's, very bright blue. Chris gripped her shoulder, and when she looked up, he winked. Reassuringly, he hoped. Biyallan looked toward the blue light, turned to set out in the other direction; she carried a partly shielded lantern that cast just enough light to keep her and anyone right behind her from tripping on the uneven pavement.

  There was sound everywhere: voices raised behind walls or closed doors, a child crying. Dogs barking, and a distant noise of someone riding a shod horse at speed along one of the streets. Better him than me, Chris thought. After this day, he'd been truly relieved to leave the horses in Kamahl's stable, among his shearing materials, his milk goats and the motherless lambs he was hand-raising. Chris wasn't sure what the deal with this Evany was, but he was growing worried about the whole situation: Evany hadn't wanted them to bring the horses—well, maybe he didn't have room for eight horses; he and Robyn hadn't had a garage back in L.A., any of their apartments, and only once a carport that might have held a Volkswagen bug but nothing bigger.

  All the same. Bits of things he'd heard, or thought he might have heard were coming back: This Evany was supposed to be a close friend of Aletto's dad, one of his close advisors; but someone had said some really rude things about him, one of those afternoons back in Bez, when they were all sitting around eating and chewing things over. Someone else had laughed, said something else even ruder—what, though? I need multi-tracking, Chris thought. My brain's not up to all this kinda stuff.

  Didn't matter, if Evany was taking them in. Then again, there was that Casimaffi guy with the non-showing ship, wasn't there? Yeah, something about Lord Evany hating to stick his head up where anyone could see it and use it for a target? Something for sure about the guy not having the hair to say what he really thought, and living the last fifteen or so years scared someone was gonna do him just for having been Amarni's man? Jeez, Chris thought disgustedly, talk about chicken-shittedness, how can anyone live like that? Well, that wasn't his problem, so long as this guy wasn't actually living in Jadek's pocket, like old Chuffles supposedly was. All this gossip and stuff, I feel like I spent the last six months watching all those afternoon talk shows and reading the Enquirer, Chris thought in even deeper disgust.

  Lialla tugged at his arm, getting his attention. Biyallan and Enardi were crossing a bridge; somehow he'd lost a few minutes and had no idea where they were. The air was downright cold above the skinny little stream, and it didn't smell too good, either. I'll bet an ecologist would starve around here. On the far side, Biyallan turned and went between two buildings, past shuttered, lit windows. Chris's ears and nose were assaulted as he passed them: wine and a large number of men talking, laughing, shouting and trading insults. Common room of an inn, fairly popular one. He hadn't eaten much dinner, too nervous, and the smell of the narrow alley, stale wine and some kind of meat threatened to make him sick. Lialla just ahead of him made an unhappy, wordless little noise and hurried past the second window; he was right behind her.

  The alley opened into a courtyard; Biyallan gathered everyone around her and sent Enardi to the back door. He returned moments later with a skinny boy of perhaps ten, who glanced at them incuriously and led them back past stables, into another alley which emptied into a medium-sized, well-lit avenue. There were plenty of pedestrians here—mixed, laughing groups of young people in bright clothes, middle-aged men who moved from open shop to open shop with purpose; couples walking more slowly. It reminded Chris in an odd way of Westwood Village on a Friday night—Except no movies, no video arcades, he thought rather bleakly. Well, no one looked bored, anyway; they obviously didn't miss what they didn't have and didn't know about.

  The boy moved at an easy pace across the avenue, along a narrow, raised stone walkway, back across the street and into a narrow little shop with a battered copper pot hanging above its door. The interior smelled like hot metal and there were copper pots and implements everywhere inside: hanging like onions from the ceiling, piled against the walls and upon shelves, spoons and like items strung on wires and draped swaglike from corner to corner. Chris stared in fascination until Lialla touched his arm and got his attention. The rest of their party was disappearing through a narrow opening in the back of the shop. The boy left them there, after turning them over to a girl not much older than he. The girl took them back into the shop, outside and back along the direction they'd come, turned at the next intersection and led them into an even busier street—this one narrow and uncomfortably crowded. There were cafes here—covered patios where families sat, or only men, or tables surrounded by young people who drank and laughed as th
ough there were nothing serious anywhere in the world. Chris eyed them wistfully as they walked past, smiled at the girl who looked up from those she was talking with to meet his eyes.

  The change in traffic was swift: One moment people everywhere, the next a quiet, broad street, a raised parklike area running down its center, with shrubs and trees and, by the fragrance, flowers. By the chill, there must be pools or fountains also; it was so dark, Chris couldn't make out anything but the darker shadowed outline against only slightly paler walls in the remains of light from the area behind them.

  They stopped, so suddenly he ran into Robyn, who turned and gave him a little shove back. Their guide had stopped before a dark, shuttered shop. There was a sign above the door, a large dark square with a very pale sheep hanging by a strap from its middle. He couldn't make out anything else; it was too dark. The sign, though: That's a fleece, Chris realized. A genuine medieval heraldic symbol from his own world. These people are gonna drive me nuts, he thought in irritation. And then the rattle and scrape of a metal bolt brought his attention back to the moment and the darkened shop before them, their small and—he thought—nervous guide.

  He couldn't see the person standing in the opening very clearly; he and Lialla were bringing up the rear and so he couldn't hear any of the low-voiced conversation, either. Biyallan and Enardi vanished inside; the child ran back down the street toward lights and safety. Jeez, don't think that way, Chris told himself hastily. Robyn turned a pale face toward him, hesitated, and let Aletto lead her into the shop. Chris sighed very quietly and followed Lialla. The bolt sounded as final as the one at Kamahl's had, except that one had only shut them out.

  * * * *

  They stood for one brief moment in the dark before someone brought a light. This shop was as crowded as the copper seller's had been, but with fabric—thick bolts of it, just about any color he could imagine, stripes, fabric that sparkled in the lantern-light, everything else from a very matte black to an extremely bright red. A long bolt of various colored thin ribbon lay on a table, atop a thick piece of plush that felt like velvet.

  The light was moving, and Chris could see their new guide: a girl or young woman with very long, coppery red hair that must have gone to her knees, worn loose over a flowing blue thing that fluttered around her ankles; she wore a wrapped band around her forehead made out of a similar blue with silvery thread in it. He couldn't yet see her face, but he felt better already.

  In the room directly behind the main shop, the girl slowed to speak to two other women who were sitting amid a pile of cushions, one holding thick blue material while the other wound it onto a bolt. The two looked at their visitors with interest, and the woman holding the bolt—she looked like enough the girl in blue and old enough to Chris to be the girl's mother—set the fabric aside and got to her feet to push ahead of them all and vanish behind what appeared to be a blanket tacked to the wall. It covered a door opening; behind this, a dimly lit room redolent of lanolin and full of piled fleeces. There was a side door here and Chris could hear voices: a sleepy-sounding, rather cross child, a thin-voiced woman singing.

  The girl in blue led them straight across the storage room and through a deserted, open area—floored and carpeted, roofed but without walls—that held three large looms, spinning wheels and other apparatus Chris didn't recognize. Beyond the roofed area, there was a brick-lined pit, a pile of wood, several large, blackened kettles set over a low, hot fire, several grouped lanterns and lines holding wadded-looking bundles of apparently fresh-dyed stuff.

  There was a wall at the end of the loom area, a high, arched double door set in the wall. Beyond the door, a courtyard, with blue-lights surrounding a pool and set among an impressively landscaped garden. The girl paused by the doors, letting them precede her onto the graveled path. She held out the lantern to Chris as he slowed. “My father will come very shortly. There are other lanterns over there”—she pointed to the right of the pool—“if you desire more light. And there are rugs and pillows, for sitting.” She was gone before Chris could think of anything to say; fortunately, he decided after he found his breath. The face didn't let down that wonderful hair one bit, and he'd probably have said something incredibly dumb.

  * * * *

  Another girl came moments later, with a servant: a much younger girl, probably the age of Caro Ellaway's daughter, no more than thirteen, though. Chris bit back a sigh and wondered if he was fated to be saddled with the babies, while the babes stayed just out of hearing and sight. Biyallan was nice, but still a little too—brisk for his liking. And she had priorities, major ones; taking up with a guy was probably right at the bottom of her list.

  The girl shepherded them over to the seating area and down among cushions while she lit lanterns; the serving-woman followed with a tray holding what looked like a bowl of dried fruit, and a pitcher of wine, cups. Robyn sniffed and sighed very quietly when one was handed to her; Chris cleared his throat. “Um. Is it possible, could we get water also? I can't drink wine myself, instant headache, you know?” The older woman looked at him as though he'd lost his mind—or, Chris decided later, as though a dog or Enardi's mule or something had spoken. Probably just like that woman in Bez; expected everyone to drink fermented grapes and like it. The girl gave him a cheerful smile, lots of neat, white teeth, and nodded, then turned to take the tray from the servant.

  "Go on, get water,” she urged in a very high and thin voice, before turning back to Chris. “My father does not often permit me wine yet, and when he does it makes my head ache, too.” She settled the tray on the broad edge of the pool—a knee-high tiled ledge that ran around three sides of the shallow, rectangular water basin. The fourth sloped sharply uphill, vanishing into darkness. There was a tinkle of running water from up there somewhere, and Chris thought he could just make out a spill of water running into the far edge of the pool. Jeez, he thought rather sourly, nice to be rich, isn't it? The girl passed cups around, set the bowl in their midst and settled on the edge of the pool next to the empty tray, knees drawn up, eyes alight with interest and curiosity.

  "I am Evany's fourth daughter, Roisan. He asked that we see to your comfort a few moments; he was detained by business. If there is anything we can obtain for you, any question we can answer?” Yeah, Chris thought, who was that in blue and is she single? Not that he'd dare ask—But the serving woman was back already, with a large pitcher and more cups together with a cut loaf. And just behind her, piled high with more cushions and several folded wraps, the other young woman. She distributed these while Roisan kept up a constant chatter. “This is the woman who cooks for us, Ehmat; the bread is hers, quite good. And my eldest sister, Meriyas."

  "Hush, Roisan,” Meriyas said in a low, resonant voice. “These people have come a long way; they are surely too tired to listen to so much pointless talk.” She looked around the group, handed Robyn one of the wraps and Lialla another, cast Chris a glance from under long lashes and a warm smile that went right through him. He couldn't remember later if he smiled back. What he did remember was the sharp, warning look he intercepted from his mother. Right. Don't mess with the local girls, especially not when Aletto needs folding green from the old man. But I can look, can't I? She was sure looking, and he would've sworn she winked at him.

  Aletto gathered himself together with a visible effort and did a proper job of introductions. He looked fairly worried, though, and Chris thought the fact of Evany not being right at the door to greet them wasn't helping. Well, it was about time Aletto grew some sense about trusting people; Chris himself was a little worried about this “business” stuff. What kind of business could be that important? It had better not be going off and getting more of those city guards together, to haul them all away. He, Chris, was going to be fairly unhappy if that happened.

  Meriyas smiled again, rather generally, and went away with the cook. Roisan sat on the edge of the pool, watching them all, talking to Biyallan, who was apparently the only one of them able to put aside current worry enough
to carry on a normal-sounding conversation.

  God, Chris thought feelingly. How are we gonna get Jen and Dahven out of that—what a she call it?—civil service building? And Edrith? That was the Emperor's guard, after all, the Emperor's civil service—and as Jennifer kept reminding him, this place was a far cry from a democracy. The guy could pretty much do what he wanted with anyone, then.

  Except, maybe not. Historically, in his own world, major despots and dictators of the sort that did whatever they wanted, including wholesale murder, didn't usually have a contented middle class like this, there were a lot more armed guards everywhere—and they didn't ordinarily relinquish control of all but a postage-stamp corner of the whole country to others. Wrong scenario. Probably, like most monarchies, there were checks and balances on this Shesseran character. With such a huge civil service, and a reasonably small guard—there'd been a lot fewer uniformed men on the streets of Podhru today than cops in L.A.—that seemed likely.

  It almost made him feel better.

  * * * *

  Jennifer turned over another page of yellow pad, glanced over her shoulder as someone clomped down the hall beyond the locked door—the first sign she'd had in hours that there was anyone else in the building. Dahven was leaning forward on both elbows, one hand planted under his chin as though he needed the support, eyes half-closed. His other hand held the pencil she'd given him, and he was making marks—Rhadazi cursive handwriting, she supposed—on the two sheets she'd pulled free and given to him. She pushed hair from her forehead with the back of one hand and turned a page back, flipped forward to the blank sheet and began condensing what he'd been able to tell her—his testimony of events, what he knew of the law together with every possible witness and every single historical precedent she'd been able to get out of him.