In the stables, carpenters were working through the night to finish renovating one of the old pre-invasion carriages, to convey the princess from the harbour to the castle in a suitably imperial style. In the kitchens, the final touches were being put to a dazzling feast, more intricate and sumptuous and indigestible than any feast Gil had seen since before the Sherkin invasion. Miishel, of course, was paying for it. Three dozen deer and half a hundred lambs were already turning on iron spits borrowed from Sathelforn; three stuffed whales had been roasting for days in a firepit outside the North Gate. Over the previous week, two bakers had died of heat exhaustion and an underchef had drowned horribly in a vat of lentil hotty; the fate of one sausage mincer was unknown.
In the city, the warning had been issued—rather, the happy tidings had been published. The streets were to be lined with smiling, cheering, dancing crowds—or else. There was to be no trouble. There was to be lots of enthusiasm. To encourage the populace in the correct attitude, Arkolef had caused barrels of beer and provender to be stationed close to every crossroads on the entourage's route from the harbour, along with hordes of troopers "to keep order" and a large complement of paid cheermongers. By dawn, the crowds were already gathering. Free food was a powerful incentive.
Meanwhile, up in the Temple Palace, all unaware, I continued to drink beaker after beaker of wine on the reasonable assumption that I could sleep through the day. So what if two men had been wrung out on top of me like bundles of wet laundry? So what if the Fraths of Miishel couldn't decide whether to buy me or slit my throat? This was just what a man in my position should expect. It was even reassuring to be caught in a vortex of treachery, machination, thuggery and deceit; it showed things were normal. All that bothered me was how the Frath Minor had died, and I was getting drunk in order to forget about that. Nobody thought to mention that it was my wedding day.
The first sign that the great millwheel of events was starting to grind was a trolley trundling through my door, bearing three covered platters. I sat up unsteadily on my cushion and nudged Shree, who had long since gone back to sleep. The taster, a round and red-nosed little Satheli, set to work with his spoon while Chasco the Clanseri watched impassively from the doorway. All the other troopers had gone. I didn't want any breakfast and the noise of the taster doing his duty made me feel, deep down, that most of the wine had been a terrible mistake.
"My lord Scion?" the taster said at last. He belched.
"Mm?"
"Some unusual dishes this morning."
"Oh?"
He belched again, inscrutably, on the way out. Shree roused himself, moved to the table and lifted the lid off one of the platters. From my vantage point, the dish looked like cubes of goat's cheese floating in a thick green sauce. Shree bent down and sniffed it, and recognition dawned on his face. He beckoned me over.
"I know what this is," he said. "Diced whales' balls cooked in kelp. I've eaten it at Lissula's." He lifted the second lid with more confidence, revealing long, narrow slices of pinkish meat arranged artistically on a bed of parsley. Nodding, he picked up one of the slices and dangled it in front of my eyes. "Braised bull pizzle."
"Oh lord," I said, instantly sober.
"They're aphrodisiacs, aren't they?"
"They are."
He lifted the last lid.
"This doesn't look so exciting. Little white cakes." He picked one up and bit into it. "Almond."
I said dully, "They're called love-cakes. Powdered mazsel-horn with almond flour and honey. A very potent aphrodisiac."
"Oh." Thoughtfully, Shree swallowed his mouthful and put the rest of the cake back on the platter. "You eat them, Tig. You need to keep up your strength."
"Indeed." The Primate's voice. Shree whirled to face the door. So did I, but a few degrees at a time, with little rests in between.
The Primate was not alone. My uncle was beside him, the High Prince of Sathelforn. Just stepping into the room was a barrel-chested roughneck in light armour whose waist-length grizzled hair was held in place by a fine Miisheli courtcap. From the medallion clanking against his chest, I knew him to be the Frath Major. Close on his heels was a sober old nonentity in a grey tunic, hooded and unadorned; his face was hidden partly by the hood and partly by a wispy growth of white beard that straggled as far down as his plain rope belt. I greeted the Primate formally, my Satheli uncle fondly, and the Miishelu not at all. The first courtesies were theirs to make.
The Frath Major stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Scion of Oballef," he recited woodenly, "it is my great joy to welcome you this day into the Royal House of Miishel."
He did not look joyous. There were lines of strain around his hard blue eyes and he held his impressive military frame as tensely as if we were embarking on a duel instead of a cousinly relationship. His club-sized hand kept straying to the pommel of his sword. He was wary of me. I could not understand this at all. Feeling an absurd compulsion to put him at ease, I saluted him respectfully in the Gillish manner. He inclined his head in response and stood there for a moment, watchful and uneasy, then turned on his heel and withdrew from the room. The old shadow-man in grey followed him.
I looked at my uncle the High Prince, bemused. "What's wrong with him? I thought I was the one entitled to be nervous."
My uncle laughed and came forward with his arms wide to embrace me. "Never mind. The Miishelu are not like us—I doubt if we'll ever understand them."
"Who was the other man, the one who looked like a grey mouse?"
"He's no mouse, Tig. That's Ardin, the Bequiin, the Miisheli counterpart of the First Memorian. You've probably heard of him."
"More than that," I said, brightening, "I even corresponded with him a few years ago, on a point of Fathidiic history. He was very helpful then—but why didn't he introduce himself? Why hasn't he come to see me? There are things I'd like to discuss with him."
"Perhaps later," my uncle said vaguely, "when his official duties have been discharged. He's here as an adviser to the Frath Major."
"But—"
"Not now, Tig." Keeping his arm around my shoulders, my uncle turned to the Primate and said, "A few words alone with the Scion, if you don't mind."
The Primate frowned. "It is the Priest-King's wish that Lord Tigrallef—"
"Oh, I'll make the peace with Arko," interrupted the High Prince lightly. "You run along, Mycri, and make yourself magnificent. Remember you have a part to play this afternoon."
I chortled quietly to myself. Mycri! I'd forgotten the Primate had a name, and that anyone remained in this world who could call him by it and live. He stood his ground, stiffening like a slowly inflating bladder, his face blanching with indignation except for red blotches near the cheekbones. My uncle brightened his smile and raised one eyebrow. The Primate glared back. My uncle lifted his chin a fraction and drew a long breath in through his nostrils, still smiling. It was a subtle battle, and I cursed myself for not learning my uncle's technique ages ago, particularly because he won. The Primate chuffed a bit, but he retreated. My uncle then turned his smile on Chasco, who followed the Primate through the door—his face was flushed too, but I could swear it was with enjoyment. That left only Shree, who also started to follow, but the High Prince put out a hand to stop him.
"Shut the door—from this side," my uncle said.
"You honour me."
The High Prince, making no answer, waved us over to the table and set himself down. He smiled at both of us. "Who would have thought, even eighty years ago," he reflected, "that a Sherkin warlord would be sitting at the same board as a Scion of Oballef and a High Prince of Sathelforn, with a Frath Major of Miishel just outside the door?"
"Forget the historical ironies, Uncle," I said. "What's going on?"
"Well, for one thing, your bride arrived this morning. She'll be brought ashore at midday."
"I guessed she was here, from the interesting breakfast. What else?"
He looked me in the eye. "You'll be married today."
&n
bsp; "Today." My stomach did a slow roll, but I struggled to put a look of polite anticipation on my face. Casually, I dipped a finger in the kelp sauce and poked at a cube of whale's ball. "Why so soon?"
My uncle smiled. "Officially, the young couple, by which I mean you and the princess, are panting to be in each other's arms."
"Quite right," I said drily. I picked up a morsel of whale's ball and began to chew it. With my mouth full, I said, "What about unofficially?"
His smile faded. "Unofficially? Ah, well. No doubt Miishel has its reasons. I suspect the Frath Major is worried about intrigues at home while he's away from court, and we've also picked up rumours that Tata and Grisot are arming for war and could start making trouble for the alliance some time soon. You were scheduled to make a state visit to Sathelforn on the way back, but the Frath insisted you should sail directly to Cansh Miishel."
"What's the hurry? Why would a week make such a difference?"
"Who knows? Listen, Tig. When a treaty as favourable as this comes up, we don't ask too many questions. We don't even know why Miishel insisted on having you in the first place."
He sat back with the air of not having thrown a firebomb into a hayrick. I went on masticating slowly, staring at him, and swallowed with difficulty.
"Wait a moment, Uncle. Did you say Miishel insisted? I thought that tying me into the package was Sathelforn's bright idea."
"That's what you're meant to think." He tented his hands on the table. "But the truth is that when Miishel first approached us about the treaty, Gil was already a condition. To be more specific, your marriage with Rinn was already a condition. They were not to be shaken on it. No Tig, no treaty."
Shree said quietly, "Why didn't you tell him this before?" His face was white and watchful.
"No one in Gil is meant to know. Even the Primate believes the initiative came from Sathelforn."
"So why are you telling Tigrallef?"
"Because, Warlord, he's my sister's son, and I'm really quite fond of him. Also because I don't entirely trust our new partners, and I think the knowledge may be useful to him someday, which can only be in Sathelforn's best interests. And Gil's, of course," he added, a little too obviously as an afterthought.
I prodded at another morsel of whale's ball, and put it in my mouth. "What about my best interests, Uncle?"
"You're a Prince Royal, Tig, and a Scion. You have no best interests that are separate from the nation's."
Gloomily, I picked at the love-cakes, which were cloying and textured like wall-plaster and were having no perceptible effect on my loins. I had no answer for my uncle; a resignation from the post of Scion was not likely to impress him, and there were also the best interests of the archives to consider. When the silence had gone on long enough to become awkward, my uncle put his hand on my arm. It weighed on me like a hand made of stone.
"Listen, Tig."
I looked at him politely.
"I'm sorry, Tig, but Miishel's offer was too good to turn down. We needed this alliance, and you were the price."
"A price you were willing to pay."
"Yes."
"Even though you don't trust them."
"Exactly."
"And without consulting me."
"You're a Prince Royal," he repeated.
I let it pass. "And you don't know why they want me?"
"I honestly can't imagine. No insult intended, of course."
"And you never tried to find out?"
"We wondered—but too many questions might have endangered the treaty."
His face was too composed, his answers too ready. It was hard to believe he was the same man who, twenty-five years before, had sneaked illicit honey-cakes to me and taught me the Satheli names for the constellations. I could think of nothing further to say to this man who used to be my uncle.
It was Shree who broke the silence. "What about me?" he asked, leaning forward. "Did they agree to let me go with Tig?"
"Yes, Warlord, they did. A little too easily, I'm afraid."
"What does that mean?"
"It means, Lord Shree, that if I were you, I'd try to grow eyes between my shoulderblades."
Shree grinned slowly. "They think I'll be easy to remove if I get in their way."
"I get that feeling, yes. It was one of the few points they didn't haggle over. A bad sign. But I've been watching you for some time, Warlord, and I think we can trust you to surprise them."
"You want me to watch over Tigrallef?"
"I think it would be a good idea, yes. And there's one more thing." He reached under his cloak and pulled out a heavy leather bag about the size of my two fists together, which clinked as he set it down on the table. "This is for you, Tig. Two hundred gold palots. Officially some of the marriage portion is for your personal use, but of course I doubt you'll see any of it."
I looked at the bag without touching it. "Is this a bribe, Uncle? Something to salve your conscience?"
"Not a bribe, and my conscience is fine, thank you. Call it emergency funds—just in case."
"In case of what?"
"In case someday you need cash, and it is—inconvenient—to ask the Miishelu for it. You understand me."
"I understand, Uncle," I said softly, while Shree picked up the bag and hefted it in his hand and then hid it in the one box of books I'd be taking with me to Miishel. "It seems that you're not very hopeful about my chances of a long and happy marriage."
He laughed, a great booming laugh. "I hope you have a long and fruitful life, and as many children as the waves on the ocean—but for your sake and ours, keep Lord Shree close to you, and watch your back."
"Certainly, Uncle," I said. I even managed to smile at him. But when he rose to leave, parting from me with an affectionate embrace and a large dose of avuncular wisdom, I was not overly sorry to see him go.
Of course, if I'd known he'd be dead within the fortnight, I'd have been much sorrier.
* * *
9
FORTUNATELY FOR ME, Omelian silk was the lightest material in the known world. Cut from any ordinary cloth, the nuptial robes would have outweighed me; in Omelian silk, they only smothered and stewed me. There were three layers of ceremonial undergarments and three of outer robes, their gold embroideries wasted under a cape with a nine-foot train. I looked like a tent.
"It would be nice to sit down," I said hopefully.
Chasco the Clanseri signed no with his fingers, which surprised me. I wasn't aware until then that he knew the finger-speech. "The tailors are very insistent on that, my lord Scion," he added out loud.
"The tailors aren't here to see, are they?" I grumbled. "Anyway, what's the delay? We've been here for hours."
"As I understand, lord Scion, you're not to appear before the people until the bride's carriage has arrived at the gate."
I swayed on my aching feet. We'd been put into one of the small state receiving parlours off the great entrance hall, Chasco and I, and then left alone except for the occasional tailor looking in to check I wasn't rumpling the silks. I hadn't bothered to ask Chasco why he was so honoured. He was resplendent in dress uniform, his weapons polished until they gleamed in the chinks of light from the curtained window, his leather breastplate laid aside for a gold-chased confection that looked like a genuine Gillish antique.
The door opened. It was not a tailor this time, but the Primate, magnificent and heavily perfumed, robed in state like one of Tallislef Second's own lieutenants in the heyday of Gil's glorious Bright Ages. I bet myself that Miishel had paid for that, too.
"Mycri," I said brightly, "how very nice you look."
He gave me a murderous glance, turned his back on me and swept out through the door again. Chasco prodded me gently and said, "You're supposed to follow him."
Knowing what was ahead, it was only the thought of the archives that could make me leave the relative haven of the receiving parlour. Reluctantly, I followed the Primate out on to the sparkling flagstones of the great entrance hall, where a long and c
olourful procession was forming up: dancers, harpists, hornists, drummers, scatterers of rose petals, sprinklers of lily water, bearers of smoking braziers and unmanageable banners, and the inevitable herd of green-gowned Flamens with their retinue of acolytes and pages. Chasco and the Primate and I stood in a strained little group off to one side while the massive doors swung open and the procession began, not without chaos, to move out. A mighty cheer greeted them from the forecourt.
"Quite a spectacle, Mycri," I commented. "It's a good thing Gil is rich now."
He turned his imposing head in my direction. It had never struck me before, but he looked like a fish from the eyes up, and a goat from the nose down. I chuckled.
"This is a solemn moment, Tigrallef, not a time for levity."
"This is a farce, Mycri. Why shouldn't I laugh?"
"Laugh, then. We'll be rid of you soon enough, thank the Lady. You always were trouble, Scion, trouble as a child, trouble as a youth, trouble as a man. We'll see how the Miishelu deal with you."
"You're hoping I'll be killed in one of their famous court intrigues, aren't you?"
"I'm hoping never to see you again, Scion," he snapped, "and I don't care how it happens." Then he seemed to recollect that Chasco was there, for he turned his back on us both until the call came for us to join the procession.
Our turn came at last. Per Satheli custom, the Primate tied a silken blindfold over my eyes, not very tenderly, and led me by the hand through the great doors. The contact was not welcome to either of us, but those were the parts we had to play. I felt the heat strike my face as we stepped into the sunlight and heard the roar of a vast crowd. Behind me, I could hear Chasco's iron-heeled boots clicking on the pavement. A few faltering steps, towed behind the Primate like a barge in a heavy sea, then I stubbed my foot on the bottom of a flight of stairs. When I had stumbled my way to the top, there was a tremendous blast of noise from the herd of musicians and the Primate whipped my blindfold off. The crowd roared again. All eyes, mine included, turned towards the gate.
Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady Page 6
