Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady

by Rebecca Bradley

  Around me, the Miishelu were being caught up in the visceral throbbing of the drums, eyes glassing over, bodies twitching in time to the music, a chorus of wild cries ringing out whenever the giant scored a coup. I'd swear one of the Fraths Minor was having a brain seizure, but his companions simply shovelled him under the bench and carried on watching. I found the audience almost as fascinating as the dancers, and somehow more disturbing: the vignettes of mayhem on the masterdrum were play-acting, the frenzy building up around the horseshoe was real. But the room froze into breathless silence when smoke began to rise from the hem of the giant's cape.

  I have always wondered how they did that. The Bequiin's monograph made a vague reference to secret magical arts, but I suspect the cloak was treated with some substance that made it burn vividly enough for a good dramatic effect without actually roasting the actors inside it. However they worked it, the cloak seemed to flare up in a blinding flash of red fire as all the drums crashed in concert; the giant fell apart—rather, he was revealed as one man on the shoulders of two others. The top man, he who was wearing the mask of Fathan, was seized and carried offstage by the lesser nations. That left only two: Grisot and Miishel.

  Miishel and Grisot, the sibling states, for ever at each other's throats. In ancient times they had been two of the three heartland provinces of the Fathidiic Empire, bowing only to the hegemony of Fathan; after the earthquake, or volcano, or great fire sent by vengeful gods—or whatever it was that left Fathan a wilderness of blackened ruins, charcoal forests, smoking mountains, contorted corpses—Grisot and Miishel began their long and bloody debate as to which of them, exactly, was the heir to the vanished Fathidiic glories. Fortunately this kept them busy with each other for nearly a millennium, sopping up all the resources and belligerence that might otherwise have been turned against the rest of us.

  Thus, the second movement of the dance was a coded history of that fraternal struggle, and I would really have needed the Bequiin's monograph in order to follow the action in detail. The two dancers grappled and posed and bashed and generally threw each other around, sometimes Grisot triumphing, sometimes Miishel, but it was clear throughout who had justice on his side. That is, Grisot (in the ugly mask) would win by fighting dirty, Miishel (in the noble mask) would win by fighting better. It was brilliant but predictable, and after a while it became repetitive. I leaned over out of sheer mischief and tapped the Frath Major on the knee.

  "I'm sure you know," I whispered, "that Grisot has a ritual dance called the Binn-Al which is very similar to this, except that Grisot gets to wear the nice mask."

  He looked at me without expression. "Just watch."

  I shrugged and looked back at the masterdrum. Suddenly I sat up straight. Something was happening that did not feature in the Bequiin's monograph. Two additional figures had joined Grisot and Miishel; the drummers, already gleaming with sweat, doubled their efforts until they seemed to be trying to batter their drums to tinderwood. I glanced at the Frath—he was watching me—and then back at the dancers, just in time to see Miishel leap on to the shoulders of the newcomers and throw his arms wide. A long glittering cloak rolled magically down from his shoulders as far as the floor, and the audience gasped: the giant had been reborn.

  At its feet, Grisot writhed in spectacular death-throes, but I was more interested in the nature of the giant's cloak. The Miisheli spectators went wild, bellowing and frothing at the mouth and stamping their iron-heeled boots on the floor, and I turned again to the Frath Major under cover of the noise.

  "That was a statement of intent, wasn't it? I must say, it's a bit premature to dress the giant in the Fathidiic Cloak of Empire."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, cousin, it's clear that the two dancers on the bottom are meant to be Sathelforn and Gil, and that you're intending not only to stomp all over Grisot and its allies, but also to recreate the Fathidiic Empire, with Miishel at the top this time. Right?"

  "So?"

  "So nobody wants the Fathids back. They were worse than the Sherank. Anyway, large oppressive empires have gone out of fashion."

  He did not answer. He sipped from his beaker and rose to signal the end of the Kaana and to permit the performers to withdraw. Then, while Arkolef rose to thank the Miishelu for showing us their very interesting folkdance, the Frath Major smiled at me tightly and took another sip of his wine. We exchanged no more words that evening.

  * * *

  11

  IT HAD BEEN six years since I last awakened beside a woman. I lay open-eyed on the edge of the pallet, stiff and cold in the gloom of the nuptial chamber, remembering how Calla's body and mine had fit together like the halves of a broken coin. Rinn was sprawled beside me, having commandeered about five-sixths of the pallet and most of the bedcovers. Now and then she whipped an arm across my face or kicked out with one sharp little heel, and I had to keep brushing her damned hair out of my face. When I could bear it no longer, I quietly disentangled a blanket to wrap myself in and curled up in a chair to watch her sleep. Every morning so far had started out this way.

  By a terrible effort of will, I had managed to consummate our marriage on the night of the Kaana. Rinn had fought like a rippercat, laughing, when I tied her up to cut her nails, and then seemed strangely disappointed when I untied her and tried to fight me again, but I was too worn out to oblige. She had just begun to be scornful about that when, unaccountably, she stopped and became thoughtful for a few seconds, then just as inexplicably melted into tender acquiescence. It rang false, just as false as the sweetness of her face in the portrait, but it was blessedly convenient at that moment; ten minutes later, having sealed our union and ensured the future of the archives, I was permitted to fall asleep.

  I wondered as I watched her. Not about Rinn herself: all through the five action-filled days and nights of our marriage she had swung like a pendulum between those two extremes of behaviour, but I was in no doubt as to which was the real Rinn. I was only wondering what they could have promised her that made her keep reining herself in. Gold? Jewels? She routinely wore enough for ten women, and rarely repeated her ensemble. Sexual favours? I wasn't deaf and blind. It had taken me about two days to discover that she numbered half the Miisheli court among her ex-lovers, and the other half among her current ones. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly, but there was no word for chastity in the Miisheli lexicon, and no expectation of fidelity in the Miisheli concept of marriage, and somehow I didn't think she would need to be sexually bribed. Power? Now, that seemed like a good enough incentive. I could imagine my bride enjoying the feel of whip and rein in her pretty hand.

  And how did I feel about her? That was also something to wonder about. I would never love her, nor even like her much, but I was surprised to find a tolerant, head-shaking kind of half-fondness growing up for her, if only because she was so thoroughly, transparently and unaffectedly a monster, despite her rather touching efforts at disguise. In her own way, and without meaning to be, she was quite entertaining. Hell knows, I was otherwise short on entertainment. The five days had been taken up mostly by ritual felicitations, ritual leave-takings, ritual this and ritual that, and over it all had hung the terrible prospect that I was only now permitting myself to think about, since it was just about to happen. This awakening was fated to be my last in Gil.

  The black arch of the window began to lighten; I pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and went to stand looking over the still-sleeping city, watching a few lights glide along the dim streets as the wains began to come in from the countryside. Outside the harbour, a small fleet rode at anchor. Miisheli ships, mostly, along with three grand Satheli wind-galleys and one rather tawdry Gillish longship, which was all Arkolef could spare from his so-called navy. In the dusky-dawn they all looked the same, a winter forest of masts, black on the grey water. Only the Tasiil, the great Miisheli wind-catcher, bulked larger than the rest. That was the ship that Rinn and I would sail on.

  "Tigrallef? My love?"

  Rinn's voic
e from the pallet. I turned from the window to find her stretching sinuously on top of the bedcovers, naked and golden, quite delectable if you happen to fancy the type. She covered a yawn with one hand, and beckoned to me with the other.

  "Come here, my love, I feel cold."

  "You could get back under the blankets," I said reasonably.

  "Do not tease me, my love, I want you to warm me up."

  "Not now, Rinn." I turned back to the window. The dawn was progressing too fast—already I could make out the gay flags and bunting strung from the rigging of the ships. That was bad. I did not want this day to begin.

  A touch on my back. Rinn had padded up behind me, and was pouting prettily over my shoulder. She's smaller than Calla, I thought; Calla was just about my height. I forced a smile. "Not now, Rinn," I repeated gently.

  The genuine hellfire-and-thunderclap personality took over her face for a moment, then vanished behind a mask of honeyed complaint. She slid her arms around me and tried to look hurt. "But Tigrallef, beloved—why did you leave me alone?"

  "Because you stole all the blankets. Please, Rinn. We're sailing today. I may never see Gil again. All I want is to watch one last sunrise from the Gilgard."

  She humphed, suddenly and completely herself. "Have it your way, then. But you should be happy to leave Gil. Dirty little hole! I shall be happy to get out of here." When the real Rinn surfaced, the accent thickened. She stood beside me and gazed down with contempt at the distant streets. "Ugly, dirty, stupid little hole," she repeated.

  "They used to call Gil the pearl of the world," I said softly. "It was more beautiful than you could imagine—but it couldn't last. It was built on the wrong foundations."

  "Ugly, dirty, stupid hole," she said again, all spite and vinegar, but then she caught herself. She frowned, perhaps searching for something positive to say; finding nothing, she kissed me rather wetly in the hollow of my throat and tried to change the subject by dragging me towards the pallet.

  "Not now, Rinn." I patted her lightly on that delectable bottom and turned back to the window. After a moment, I heard her stomp to the pallet and slide under the blankets. Then I put her out of my mind. The sunlight was just beginning to strike the ridges of the Lower Palace and the old grey stonework was gleaming like gold.

  Sunset of the same day. Rinn was down in our wildly opulent suite of cabins, bathing the dust of Gil off her perfect body. Chasco the Clanseri had disappeared below deck soon after we sailed and I had not seen him since. Shree and I stood alone on the afterdeck of the Tasiil, gazing back in the direction of Gil. All that we could see now was the Gilgard, a blunt, lonely finger of rock on the western horizon, silhouetted against a sun as red as fresh blood, as red as Rinn's lips.

  "I hate the sea," I said.

  "I know. You told me."

  "Did I tell you how seasick I got, sailing from Exile to Gil? Half the time I was afraid I'd die, the other half I was afraid I'd live."

  "You seem fine right now."

  "Give me time," I said darkly. "It wasn't just that journey, either. Even short hops from one island to another in the Archipelago, even stepping into a rowboat sometimes, and I'd start puking before we even left the beach."

  "You don't look sick."

  "I will be, later. Right now I'm distracted by my emotions." Sourly, I turned my back on Gil and leaned against the rail. It wasn't true, if anything I was numb, feeling nothing, not even at the memory of Angel's stricken face as he fought to follow me on to the tender, nor of my mother's parting smile—I know you're going to be happy. I know I'll see you again. Happy! She might as well have predicted I'd be handsome. I shifted my weight as the Tasiil rolled to one side.

  "Tigrallef?"

  "Yes, Shree?"

  He gulped. "How do you feel now?"

  "Still healthy." I swung back to the rail, struck by a sudden realization. "We're about two hours out from Gil, aren't we?"

  "About that."

  "Then we must be about where Calla was when—" I stopped, unwilling to say it out loud. In my mind, I was standing again on the barren summit of the Gilgard, the Lady coruscating in my hands, the terrible deed not yet done, Calla still alive, her ship a far-off silver gleam on an ocean as smooth as a silken counterpane. She would have been somewhere around here when the sea started to boil around her; if I looked down, I thought, deep into the water, I might find the very spot where her bones were busy bringing forth flowers—or crabs, or jelly-devils, or whatever bones bring forth on the seabed. I peered down into the turbid water, knowing how absurd the idea was. The ship yawed again and I had to catch the taffrail to keep my balance.

  "Merciless Raksh," mumbled Shree, and vomited over the side.

  I looked at him incredulously. "You're green, Shree. Are you sick?"

  "What does it look like?" He sank down on the deck and hung his head between his knees.

  I looked back at the water. The wind had freshened and the sea, calm before, was building up into a series of low, rolling dunes that were moving towards us at just the wrong angle. All around us, the other ships were pitching and tilting on their sides and performing slow rolls that should have been nauseating just to watch, but my stomach remained the most cheerful part of me. The wind-galleys were pulling in their oars, sails were being shortened, the Gillish longship was wallowing far behind in the hazardous swell. Shree vomited again, this time on the deck.

  "Are you all right, Shree?"

  "No, I am not."

  "I'm fine."

  "Tup you, Tig."

  "No, listen. The point is—"

  "Go away."

  One of the minor Miisheli nobles came towards us at that point, gazed thoughtfully at the puddle of puke on the deck-boards, added to it, and wandered off. Sighing, I helped Shree to his feet and got him down the companionway and into his tiny cabin, the ship's powerful rolling motion tossing us from side to side all the way. I had never seen Shree so helpless. I took off his sandals and cleaned him up a bit, then tucked him into his pallet with the pisspot handy by his side. All the while, I was waiting almost impatiently to get sick myself; there was something unnatural about not throwing up when other people were, especially with my terrible history on the water. I wanted to discuss this with Shree, but he didn't seem to be in the mood. When I left him, he was vomiting again into the pisspot.

  His cabin was one of a maze of cubicles given to lesser members of the court; a young Frath Minor whom I knew to be one of my wife's recent lovers was next to Shree, and I'd earlier seen the Han-Frath in charge of the Miisheli troopers on board the Tasiil going into the cabin on the other side. The corridor was empty now, but I could hear retching noises behind the Frath Minor's door. Shaking my head sympathetically (Rinn's lover or not, he seemed a pleasant and earnest young man), I climbed back up the companionway leading to the afterdeck.

  The rollers were high and wild; spray and rain spattered across the deck in a wet grey curtain. Above me I could hear sailors calling back and forth in the rigging, and realized we were tacking to take the waves at a better angle. Already, the Tasiil seemed steadier in the water. I waited for a rainsquall to pass over, then headed for the taffrail to see what was happening to the Gillish longship. I heard a step behind me.

  "My lord Scion!"

  "Yes?" I started to turn. A heavy weight hit my legs below the knees, knocking me against the taffrail—my feet slipped from under me on the slick deckboards and shot straight over the low lip of the deck, but I caught at the taffrail and clung to it, praying it would hold, feeling empty space under my dangling feet, then water to the knees as the ship canted and the swell rose to meet me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something long and white wash past me under the taffrail and teeter on the edge of the deck for a second before plunging overboard. I hung on grimly until the deck tilted back the other way, then let go of the rail and scrambled downslope towards the elegant portal that sheltered the companionway. Chasco the Clanseri met me halfway.

  He grabbed my arm and dragged me t
hrough the door, slamming it shut behind him. His face was white and he was panting. He took hold of me again and pulled me down the companionway and through the labyrinth of little doors to one with his name marked on it in Miisheli script and pitched me inside. He shut that door more softly and leaned against it, still panting, still looking like someone had put a nail into him.

  His cubicle was identical to Shree's. I sat down on the pallet and gazed at him. He was too breathless to speak.

  "I'm dripping all over your floor," I said.

  He waved his fingers—don't mention it.

  "I should thank you for helping me, Clanseri. Did you see what happened? I nearly got much wetter than this."

  He sat down beside me on the pallet. "It's not safe up there, my lord Scion," he said. His face and breathing were returning to normal. "I thought we'd lost you."

  "Well, the sea is rough," I admitted, "but there was no danger until something knocked me over from behind. What was that, anyway? I think I saw it go overboard."

  "I didn't get a good look at him—"

  "Him?" I sat up straight.

  "Yes, my lord Scion; that is, I'm not altogether sure, but it didn't look like a woman."

  My jaw dropped with horror. "But it was someone rather than something?"

  "Yes, my lord, in a sailor's white cape. That's why I couldn't tell for sure—"

  "Chasco!" I shot to my feet. "Why didn't you tell me? We might have been able to rescue him! By the Lady! We'll have to tell someone, find the captain, find a rope, maybe the poor bastard can still be saved—"

  Chasco, sitting quietly on the pallet throughout this outburst, put his hand on my shoulder and shook me—respectfully—until I shut up. Then he said, "Quietly, my lord Scion. And don't worry about the poor bastard in the water, he won't drown."

  "What do you mean, he won't drown? He's a fish, is he? You saw those waves, trooper, he won't last ten minutes—"