by Steven Brust
Here he stopped, amazed.
Before him, growing out of the very timbers of the floor, was what appeared to be a plant, higher than his ankle. Somehow the idea of this shocked him more than the other signs of decay and disrepair he had seen in the Palace. Yet there was something else about it. Something strange. He wished he had the time to decide what it was.
The footsteps were coming closer. He stepped up to the window from whose broken shutter he could see the River below.
He turned back and found László standing in the doorway. Next to him were Andor and Sándor.
To Miklós, the run had been small exertion compared to his labors in Faerie, but he saw that Andor was breathing hard. Sándor, too, seemed a bit breathless. László, like Miklós, didn't seem to have noticed the run.
Moreover, László was still holding his blade. "The power of Faerie doesn't seem to affect you, brother," said Miklós.
László shrugged. "I felt it. I just didn't let it bother me."
"I see. Good morning, Sándor. You are awake early, are you not?"
"I greet you, Prince Miklós," said the old wizard.
Without turning to him, László said, "Whatever he tries to do, Sándor, stop him."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Miklós nodded to himself, realizing that Sándor could do as he'd been told. The young prince had had enough experience with the Power of Faerie to know that he had only touched on what could be done with it, and it was clear to him now that Sándor had had his own Pathway to the Source for many years.
László advanced on him. Miklós retreated to the very edge of the window. Then, with thought for nothing but escape, turned to jump—
—and found that he couldn't move. Iron bands seemed to hold his limbs and body motionless. He struggled with all the strength in his body, with no thought for matching his control of the power against Sándor's. For a moment it seemed to be working, but then the grip tightened.
"I can't hold him this way long, Your Majesty," said Sándor.
"You needn't," said the King.
Then the floor trembled, and the walls shook. Miklós knew exactly what this meant: Vilmos was coming. Too late? Probably.
More shaking, and he was suddenly free. He heard Sándor curse, as he stepped to the side and ducked. He felt a blow to his side; more as if he'd been hit with a stick than a sword, and was surprised to hear his own voice crying out. He turned around and saw László drawing back for another strike, as Vilmos stepped into the room.
For a moment it seemed that Vilmos would wrestle László's sword away from him. But the King said, "Don't move, Vilmos," and the giant didn't.
Once again, Miklós said, "Help me, Vili." And he added, "Save my life."
And, once again, Vilmos seemed gripped by indecision. Andor hadn't moved the entire time. Sándor watched the King, waiting for new orders. Miklós felt himself growing weak and knew what the sticky wet feeling in his side meant.
In the moment he had to do so, he turned and launched himself out the window. He felt a burning pain in his calf as László's sword made one last try for him, then, almost at once, he struck the water as if it were solid ground. He wasn't aware of the waves closing over his head.
INTERLUDE
Consider a tiny crack in wood that had once been bright and polished, but was now dull and neglected. Something appeared through the crack. What was it? Maybe a leaf. Maybe the first shootings of a new seed, straining for the light in a lightless room, from the dark of a soil that wasn't fertile before it became dull and neglected. Perhaps a weed that will exist for a time, then sink to death and decay, as the Palace itself does.
A lightless room?
The foundations of the Palace shifted. Just the least bit, by such a small amount that no one felt it. But it was enough to make the slats in this room tremble. The trembling put the final touch on the job of loosening a wooden pin that had been working its way out of the wall for years.
The pin went, with a clunk that no one heard. The shutter went, with a dull crash that blended into the sounds of the Palace that everyone had grown accustomed to.
For the first time, daylight struck the small growing thing in the floor. The thing drank it, ate it, and almost waved to it.
The Palace?
The Palace strained in the wind, as if it would pull itself apart. Rotted beams and cracked timbers creaked and grumbled beneath the weight of stone that defined it and furnishings that made it seem more than it was: a shelter from the rain and the snow and the storm.
The Palace was more than four hundred years old and had served its purpose; it would be unbecoming to despise it for showing its age. But there was now one spot within it of something new. Turn your thought to it for a moment. One incongruous new idea amid a marsh of stagnant facts.
SIX
The Giant
Vilmos, crouching in the alcove beneath the cellar stairs, sighed. It was certainly Bátya again. Csecsemő was too little to upset an earthenware bowl, and Húga was too passive to want to. Vilmos replaced the water in it and reached into the hutch. He grasped both of the norska's ears with his left hand and slipped his right under its hindquarters. It struggled a little, then settled into his hands. He held it up so its nose was directly in front of his, while he stayed carefully out of range of its incisors.
"What's wrong with you, Bátya? Why do you always go throwing the water around, eh?" He looked between its legs, spreading the fur apart. "Are you getting too old to live with your sisters anymore? Is that it? You want a room of your own, eh? My brother wanted one too. It got him into trouble."
He held its nose to his once more. "You behave yourself. Any more trouble from you and I'll give you to Cook. So."
Bátya quivered his nostrils at Vilmos and didn't seem to take the threat too seriously. The norska was put into a temporary hutch along with his two sisters while Vilmos cleaned their home, very slowly and carefully, running an abrasive cloth dipped in lye over every inch of wire, then rinsing it off several times. He replaced them, then swept the manure out from under the cage and collected it into a bag to give to Viktor, who raised his own worms for fishing.
He repeated the process for the other hutch, which at this time held only Atya and Anya—the buck and doe who had produced the other three. Only when both hutches were cleaned, as well as the third, temporary hutch, did Vilmos pour feed into two bowls and place them in the hutches.
The feed was his own mixture: some grain, a few roots and leaves, a little grass, and a small measure of meat, carefully ground. Norska required small amounts of meat for good health, but would refuse to eat any they had not killed. Vilmos had found, through years of experimenting, that if the meat were hidden well the norska would not notice it. Or, as he often speculated, they would pretend not to notice it. The superstitious part of him was afraid to discuss the meat aloud, for fear they would understand, become indignant, and refuse the feed altogether. The nonsuperstitious part of his mind, rebelling at the other, insisted on discussing it all times.
"I know what's bothering you," he told Bátya, who was slowly becoming his favorite in spite of his belief in neutrality. "You're upset that I didn't bring home any dragon meat for you. That's what you want, isn't it? But if I gave it to you, Bátyini my friend, you'd turn up your little black nose at it. You'd say, 'It's been dead too long,' and refuse to touch it. So. Well, the River carried me away too fast to take any home with me, and by now I fear the jhereg have it all."
Bátya stared back at him between mouthfuls. (Norska ate by filling their cheeks almost to bursting, then slowly chewing each morsel, sometimes for minutes, while periodically swallowing minute fractions.) His eyes were blue-gray, his face rather long, and he had the pure white coloring of his mother, without his father's black ears. Shortly after being weaned, he had somehow picked up the habit (who knew where norska got their habits?) of alternating small sips of water with his food, giving Vilmos the impression that he was carefully keeping himself clean. The tra
it was endearing as well as amusing, and reminded Vilmos of László. Sometimes when the brothers were sharing their evening meal, László would notice Vilmos watching him with a grin, but László would never condescend to ask what Vilmos was smiling about, and the giant would certainly never tell him.
He moved over to the other hutch, so the older norska wouldn't feel neglected. It was part of the cleaning day ritual that he watch them eat part of their meal, and Anya, at least, would sulk if he ignored her.
"Well, dear heart, how are you? Enjoying your food, are you? So."
Atya chittered at him as he swallowed.
"Fine, fine," said Vilmos. "Thank you so much for asking."
Atya chittered again, then took another mouthful.
"My brothers? Well, not so good, Atya. Not so good. Sometimes they seem to want to kill each other. Sometimes they cry because they aren't together. Who knows? Sometimes they want me to help them kill each other or cry with them. Silly, aren't they?"
Atya didn't answer, but stared somberly back. Anya didn't seem interested at all, but Vilmos was convinced she enjoyed the conversation anyway.
The discussion, one-sided as it was, was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down from the main floor above. Vilmos crept out of the alcove beneath the stairway and carefully straightened his back, which had become stiff from being bent over for so long. By the time he had done so, László was before him, dressed in robes of dark blue, with his sabre at his side.
"Good afternoon, Laci," said the giant, smiling.
"Good afternoon, Vili. How are your friends?"
"Fine, thank you." Vilmos reflected that, of his brothers, László was the only who asked about the norska, and Miklós the only one who cared about them.
"Good," said László. "And yourself?"
"I'm feeling well," said Vilmos.
"Do your wounds still bother you?"
"No, thank you."
"Not at all?"
"No."
The King's face changed. "Then why," he said, "were you unable to help me with Miklós this morning?"
"Help you?" repeated Vilmos.
"Yes, help me. Is the idea so foreign to you?"
"But, Laci, you were trying to kill him."
"Oh, come, Vili. You know I wouldn't have actually killed him. What do you think I am?"
Vilmos shook his head, feeling suddenly very puzzled. "But, well, you seemed so angry."
"If you thought I was going to kill him, why didn't you help him, instead?"
"Because I—" Vilmos stopped. He thought back to the morning, trying to puzzle it out. Had he really believed László would kill their brother? "I don't know," he said at last. "I just didn't do anything."
"I know you didn't do anything, Vili. That's why I'm upset with you, because you didn't do anything. If you'd—"
"I'm sorry you're upset with me, Laci."
László sighed. "I just want you to understand, Vili. I love Miklós, too, just as you do. But I'm suspicious of him. He was away for two years, and now—I've been warned about him by the Goddess, and I hear him up to his old tricks again, and—do you know where he was when he was gone?"
"No. We didn't talk about it."
"I'm not surprised. But Sándor—"
"Sándor!"
"Please, Vili. Sándor says that he must have gone to Faerie."
"Pah! How can he know that?"
"Because of this," he said, holding out his right hand, palm forward. The fingers were red and swollen, and the palm itself was thick with blisters.
Vilmos gasped. "Laci! What happened?"
"Miklós did it. He made Viktor and Károly drop their swords, because they became so hot."
"How could Miklós do that?"
"The power of Faerie. The same power Sándor has."
"But how could Miklós have such power?"
"That's what I was saying. It comes from Faerie, and Sándor says that he had to go to Faerie to find it and to learn how to use it. But think, Vili: why would Miklós want such power? What will he do with it?"
Vilmos considered as carefully as he could. "I don't know," he said at last.
"Neither do I," said László. "But it worries me, so it should worry you. And the next time I ask you to help me with him, you should. For your good as well as my own, and maybe even for Miklós's. Do you understand?"
"I think so, Laci. I'm sorry about your hand."
"Never mind my hand. Do you promise to help me, next time this happens?"
Vilmos considered carefully. "Laci," he said slowly, "were you trying to kill him?"
László met his eyes, but he seemed to be looking some distance away. "I don't know," he said softly. "I hope not."
Vilmos nodded. "I'll think about what you have told me, brother."
"All right," said László. He went back up the stairs. Vilmos crept back under the stairway and found that Anya and Atya had finished their meals.
"Pay no attention," he told them. "It's just silly things we talk about, and not worth worrying yourselves for. Have you finished your meal? Well, that is good. I'll be back in a while. I have to give Viktor your droppings so he can grow worms in them. Funny, isn't it? What Cook won't use, I give to you; what you won't use, we give to the worms. What the worms don't use, grows vegetables so we can give them to Cook along with the fish that Viktor catches with the worms. Funny, isn't it? Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Laughing the while, Vilmos climbed back up the stairs, which bent and complained, but still bore his weight.
* * * *
It was somewhat later in the day that a messenger from László found Vilmos, who was resting near the Riverbank. Vilmos followed the messenger down the stairs into the cellar. Vilmos wondered if there were some problem with the norska, but the messenger continued to lead him straight into the wine cellars, until coming to the area that was nearly under the main doors themselves. There he found the King waiting, along with Sándor. He scowled. Then he noticed several tendrils like thin tree roots that seemed to come from the ceiling and embed themselves in the floor.
He came closer and studied them curiously. There were four or five of them, all coming from almost the same spot above. This spot seemed to be a crack in the wooden planks, but whether the roots had made the crack or had used the crack, he couldn't tell. They were well buried in the dirt floor of the cellar.
László and Sándor nodded to him.
"What do you think?" asked the King.
Vilmos blinked. "Why ask me? Ask him."
"I have. He doesn't know whether it is the Power of Faerie or not. But as for why I am asking you—do you know what is above us?"
Vilmos considered. He looked back toward the stairway, now hidden by wine racks, and tried to estimate distances.
"I am not sure," he said.
"We stand below Miklós's room."
"Oh."
"And this has appeared the day after he returned. Doesn't that suggest something to you?"
"You think Miklós did it? I don't know, Laci. It seems to be something that has been growing for a while now. No one visits this place often. How did you find it?"
"One of the cooks found it, bringing up wine for my dinner with the Countess this evening."
"Oh. How are things with her?"
"Never mind that. I wanted to show this to you. Whatever it is, Sándor will destroy it; but remember that we were lucky to find it, and it comes from Miklós's room. Who knows what it would have done in a month? Or a year?"
"Yes," said Vilmos. "Who knows?"
* * * *
That afternoon, Vilmos made a discovery. He had never realized before that he could identify his brothers, and many of the others around the Palace, by their footfalls on the stairs down to the cellar. He discovered this when he heard someone descending and became aware that he didn't know who it was.
He clucked to Bátya and returned him to his cage, then backed out of the nook under the stairway and looked up. A gown of some light color, perhaps a pale blue
, was descending into the gloom of the cellar, accompanied by careful, hesitant steps.
Eventually gown and footfalls were revealed as belonging to the Countess of Mordfal. At the bottom, she turned and looked around, until she spotted Vilmos. He bowed to her. She curtsied.
"I would like to see your norska," she said.
"Oh," he said after a brief pause. He felt strangely reluctant, but motioned her over. He held a lantern under the nook. She came over and knelt down. He stepped in next to her.
"This," he said, "is Atya. This is Anya. These are their children; Bátya is the oldest, then Húga and Csecsemő." He stopped, feeling as if he should say more but not knowing what else to say. How could he speak of them to someone who didn't understand norska, and didn't know him?
"May I hold one?" she said.
"All right." He opened the cage, hesitated, then took hold of Húga by the base of the ears, quickly putting his other hand under her hindquarters, shifting the first hand to support her head.
"This is how you hold her," he said. "Go on. She's the gentlest of them. She won't try to nip you." This wasn't quite true. Csecsemő was gentler, but more delicate.
He waited until she, apparently with some hesitation, set her fan on the floor next to her. Then he transferred the norska to her arms, carefully positioning her. He felt Húga tense to jump, but the Countess evidently didn't. He kept one hand on top of Húga's hindquarters and stroked her with the other. His fingers brushed the top of the Countess's breast over her low-cut gown and she looked up sharply, but he noticed neither the contact nor the look. After a moment, Húga relaxed into her arms and Vilmos removed his hands.
"She's so soft," said the Countess, almost whispering.
Vilmos nodded, not knowing what to say. Soft? Well, certainly she was. All norska were soft. What could this Countess from the East Grimwall Mountains know of the special way Húga would lick Csecsemő's fur, or bound toward her protectively when a stranger (that is, anyone but Vilmos) came near? She couldn't. All she could know was that she was soft.
