"Indeed, Gilman, I do not know who built them. I can tell you only that they are very old. As far as we know, they have been here from the foundation of the world." Coll was puzzled by the question, as if Shree had asked who built the volcano, or put the salt into seawater.
Empires always fall.
Startled, I looked around to see who had spoken. Nobody was there except we four and about one hundred rapt children.
Did you hear me, Scion? Empires always fall.
I sighed and leaned my forehead against the smooth stone wall.
Yes, Lady, I heard you. You're being just as informative as ever.
There are things you must find out for yourself, seed of the Excommunicant. Go to Valsoria.
Go where?
Not where, who. Go to Valsoria. There are matters that will be lightened for you in Valsoria's house.
What matters?
No reply; but the wall against my forehead grew very hot, and the air also, hotter and drier and stinking of sulphur, and the sun felt like a steady flow of molten metal on my face. I cried out and whirled around; Shree was gone, likewise Coll and Chasco and the children. The wall was still beside me, but it was surrounded by wooden scaffolding, and it ended only a few courses above my head.
There were no trees and nothing was growing on the ground, not so much as a blade of grass—only a bleak black landscape of hardened lava flows and smoking fissures, bubbling mud pools, drifts of ash that hissed quietly in the wind and crept over the barren ground at my feet. The volcano was not there either, although I should have been able to see it from that point; instead, a squat black cone no higher than a hill rose at the far edge of this island, with a thin dark column of smoke issuing from its summit. Another beehive structure, also shrouded with scaffolding but nearly complete, reared out of the ground a few hundred feet to my left. There were workmen around me, but they did not look like the Vassashin. Their skins were smooth and black, darker even than the Storicans', and they wore long kilts and headcloths secured with ornate copper clasps. I could hear them talking, dim lost voices like the whispers of a distant sea, but I could not catch the words.
Watch, Scion.
A man was walking alone across the scorching plain. He was too far away to see clearly, but he wore a kilt and a long white cloak hung off his shoulders. There was a blinding light in his hands, or perhaps a mirror that flashed in the sun. Where he walked, the hard lava surface seemed to shift and shimmer behind him. He raised the light above his head—
"Lord Tigrallef?"
That was a corporeal voice, coming from outside my head. I blinked open my eyes and stared into Chasco's concerned face. It blurred around the edges and then snapped back into focus.
"Lord Tigrallef? What's wrong with you?"
There were no bones in my legs and the stems of flesh I was balanced on were bending under the weight of my body. I put my back against the masonry and slid gently into the long grasses at the foot of the wall. Three faces wavered in front of mine: Shree, Chasco, Coll. I flung out one boneless, apparently water-filled arm and managed to snare Coll by the shells around his neck.
"Who is Valsoria?"
"What's he saying?"
"What is it, Tig?"
The golden mist was coming down in front of my eyes. I dug my teeth into my lip for a moment to help myself cling to consciousness. "Who is Valsoria?"
"Did he say Valsoria? She's the Divinatrix, of course. You saw her at the ritual of welcoming."
The Divinatrix. The mist faded. So did everything else.
"It is very serious, Princess. I think he is dying. You must send for the Frath Major at once."
A hand lifted my head; something was held to my lips. A large quantity of bittersweet liquid was poured down my throat before I sputtered and opened my eyes. The Bequiin Ardin dropped my head and sprang back with a shocked cry, clutching his chest.
I sat up on the pallet, feeling fine. "Bequiin Ardin!" I cried, delighted to see him at last. I was back in our quarters in Lillifer's house, and the room had been dimmed by a tapestry hung over the window. Rinn pouted across my pallet at the Bequiin.
"You are well now, husband?" she said. "Boring old Bequiin! He always exaggerates." She kissed the air beside my cheek and crossed the room to the table where her flagons of scent and pots of unguents and powders were laid out. Lids clattered.
That left only me and the Bequiin, whose face was very grey, even to the lips. After a moment he quavered, "How—how are you, Lord Tigrallef?"
"Much better," I said heartily. "I'm sorry I startled you."
He sniffed the open vial in his hand, looked at me oddly, stoppered it and tucked it away. Then he started to back towards the door, murmuring excuses, but I shot my hand out to catch the edge of his mouse-grey cloak. This was the first time he had been allowed near me, a rare opportunity. If any man other than the Frath Major knew about the Lady, it had to be the Bequiin, which put him high on the list of people I wanted to talk to.
"Please don't go, Honoured Bequiin," I said. "Why have you never visited me before? Don't you remember that we corresponded a few years ago?"
He examined my face warily and moved a step nearer. A little colour was returning to his cheeks above the wisps of white beard. "I remember," he said. Another tentative step. "I remember very well." And in a slightly peculiar voice, "How are you now?"
"Much better," I repeated. "It must be that draught you gave me."
"Yes," he said flatly. He still looked like he was poised to jump for the door, but after he had studied me for a few moments longer and I had grinned at him and invitingly patted the edge of the pallet, he relaxed and smiled a little ruefully and sat himself down. "I can stay only a short while, Lord Tigrallef. Yes, I remember your letters. You wrote to ask me about Lakshi Cor Cahn's treatise on the last days of the Fathidiic Empire."
"That's right. I found his account unconvincing and wanted to know if such an eminent scholar as yourself, Honoured Bequiin, thought the same. You didn't, though."
"I approved of your arguments, but I could not agree with you." The Bequiin, relaxing further, settled himself more comfortably.
I said, "You agreed that Cor Cahn was too glib, his story was too pat. To me, it seemed like he was trying to conceal something about the end of the Fathids—as if it mattered. Fathan was already in ashes by then, the dynasts couldn't touch him because they were all dead. I thought he was writing lies, but I wanted to know why he would bother."
"Really, Lord Tigrallef. Your arguments were intriguing—you're a clever young man—but Cor Cahn was writing not long after the fall of Fathan, and we have no choice but to accept his account."
The very opening I wanted. "I wonder if that will be said a thousand years hence regarding the Lucian Clerisy's account of the wrack of Sher. Which you and I both know is nonsense," I added casually.
His eyes became wary again. "Is it?"
"Of course it is. A weaving of diplomatic lies, carefully designed to spread the credit around. The truth serves nobody in particular—but it remains the truth. Isn't it the task of a memorian to serve the truth?"
"High-minded words, Lord Tigrallef. But then, you're still a young man." His face had gone almost as grey as before. His eyes flicked across the room to Rinn, who was not listening, and her inattention seemed to help him towards a decision. He leaned forwards and murmured, "What is the truth. Lord Tigrallef? How would you say the ruin of Sher was accomplished?"
I lowered my voice to match his. "You know very well, Bequiin. And you know that I destroyed the object after. I suspect you also know what happened after that."
The Bequiin asked so quietly that I could barely hear him, "What did happen, Scion?"
Just as quietly: "I caught fire and didn't burn. But I think you already know something about that, you and the Frath Major."
He jumped to his feet. "I must go now," he said loudly.
"No, don't go. Talk to me, Bequiin Ardin."
He wavered and then slowl
y sat down again with a cautious eye on Rinn. I glanced at her myself. She was humming to herself among her little golden pots.
"How did you know, Honoured Bequiin?" I whispered. "What is the Frath hoping for? What other secrets have you found?"
Again, he seemed to be waging an internal struggle; he leaned forwards, leaned back, glanced fearfully at Rinn, drew closer to me. His breathing was unsteady. "Lord Tigrallef," he murmured at last, bending so close that his lips were almost at my ear, "the Frath Major—"
—was suddenly audible just outside the door, in conversation with Shree. The Bequiin gasped.
"Quickly, Ardin. What about the Frath Major?"
But he was already backing away. "I can tell you nothing, Scion, nothing," he said, fast and low; and then even lower, "nothing except this: I like you, and I dearly wish I did not. Whatever happens, remember that we should have been friends." Then he moved away from me and I had to admire how rapidly he composed himself in the seconds before the door swung open and the Frath Major marched in. I could see Shree and Chasco were on guard in the hallway.
"Welcome, cousin," I said brightly. "Don't worry; it was just a touch of sunstroke. The Bequiin has been kind enough to minister to me. We must talk again, Bequiin Ardin," I said, turning to him. "I'm eager to hear your views on the great bard Karforth of Miishel. Is it true he was born a troglodyte?"
A smile, apparently genuine, spread over the Bequiin's face. "There are three schools of thought on that, Lord Tigrallef. I have some notes on Karforth somewhere—I shall bring them with me next time, and we shall decide the matter between us."
The Frath looked keenly from Ardin to me to Rinn and back again. He was not pleased, but he did not seem overly suspicious. After wishing me good health and speedy recovery, he bore the Bequiin away, leaving me to my thoughts.
So the Bequiin liked me, and wished he didn't. His words had been far from what I expected to hear. Trivial they sounded, too, but the desperate sincerity in his voice had given them the weight of an omen. They had also given me a strong sense that Ardin was not a willing player in the Frath's game.
* * *
23
"YOU WERE TAKING a terrible chance, talking to the Bequiin like that," Shree said. He was angry, pacing back and forth across the little chamber he shared with Chasco. I had been booted out of my own quarters, sunstroke and all, while Rinn prepared herself for a great feast in our honour that evening.
"What chance?" I said. "I'm sure the Bequiin already knew that I knew; I was just letting him know that I knew that, and it's immaterial whether or not he lets the Frath know that I know. Anyway, I suspect the Frath knows already."
Shree and Chasco frowned at each other. They looked confused. "Knows what?" said Shree.
I sighed. "Let's go through it again, nice and slow—"
"Let's not," said Shree. "I get the general idea. You and the Frath are circling around each other like a pair of dogs or diplomats, and he knows about the Lady, probably from the Bequiin, although Raksh knows how the Bequiin knew, but the Frath doesn't know how much you know, so you're gradually letting him know that you already know everything—"
"Don't you start, Lord Shree," Chasco broke in.
"I'm glad you understand now," I said. "The point is not what the Frath knows but what he doesn't know: he doesn't know that I am not besotted with Rinn, that he therefore has no hold over me, that I have no intention of helping him win the Fathidiic Cloak of Empire, and that I have no control over the Lady's powers. As long as he's ignorant of those inconvenient facts, we're safe."
"From the Frath, perhaps," said Chasco.
"True enough," I said cheerfully, "but nobody's tried to kill me for some time, and perhaps we can assume that the Frath's critics have all been silenced by now. And if Rinn starts to intrigue on her own behalf, it's not in her interest to have me assassinated, quite the reverse. No, my friends, I think we're safe. For the moment."
Chasco paced to the window, frowned down at the square and turned to face me again. "Lord Tigrallef—" he began, and paused, looking significantly at Shree.
"Yes, Chasco?"
"Lord Shree and I have been thinking."
"And?"
"Lord Shree will tell you."
Shree spoke reluctantly. "You're right, Chasco, I'm the one who should say it. Tig, this is too risky a game you're playing with the Frath—it's also complicated and inefficient, and that makes me uneasy. We didn't like inefficiency in the Sherkin army."
"This isn't the Sherkin army. Have you got any better ideas?"
He hesitated. "You have the Lady. You don't need to play games with the Frath Major."
Softly: "What are you suggesting?"
He was worried by my tone, but he ploughed on anyway, more firmly. "That you come to terms with the power, perhaps even use it—you've got to parley with the Lady, Tig, discover how to control her, and if you can't control her, come to some arrangement with her—"
The golden mist tempted me with its shimmer. A whisper: the two are one. I pushed both aside and bit fiercely on the heel of my own hand; I was finding that a little pain helped to drown her voice. "I don't think so, Shree."
"But, Tig—"
"Not a good idea. In fact, even if I could use the Lady, I wouldn't."
"Tig—"
"No. We've been through this before. To put it bluntly, I would rather play games with the Frath Major from now until the sun burns out than to make terms with the Lady. Better that we die by our own efforts."
"But—"
"Look at what's already happened, Shree. She's a knife with two edges—evil follows from any good that she does. How many continents do I have to sink into the ocean to show you that? One was enough to convince me."
You cannot deny me for ever, twig of the Great Naar. Go to Valsoria.
I gritted my teeth. I will—but for my sake, not yours.
The two are one, Scion.
The two are two, Lady.
She faded into the back of my skull. I found I was breathing heavily, there was sweat rolling down my face and my fists as well as my teeth were clenched. Shree and Chasco were watching me with grave concern. I wiped my sleeve across my soaking forehead.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Was the Lady—with you just now?"
"How could you tell?" Bitterly.
"What did she say to you?"
"She's on your side. The three of you should get together."
"Tup that, Tig!" Shree bashed his fist on the table so hard that the wine flagon danced. "There's no question of siding against you. I'm afraid for you! And not only because of the Miishelu—I'm afraid the Lady will destroy you in the end if you won't make terms with her!"
"She couldn't do that," I murmured. "She can't harm a Scion of Oballef, it's one of the rules that bind her. I don't know why it should be so, but I'll probably regret it in the end."
There was a long silence. Then Shree said, so off-handedly that I could tell how anxious he was, "Is there any rule to stop her from driving you mad?"
"I wouldn't know. Anyway, it's a little late for that."
"No," said Shree darkly. "You're unusually sane. I'd say that's always been your problem."
I laughed alone. At that moment, down in the square below the window, the inevitable drums and whistles sounded to call the invited guests to the feast. I rose to go.
"I suppose Rinn will be dazzling enough by now. I'll see you at the feast, my friends."
Chasco caught my arm. "At least think about what Lord Shree has said."
"I'll think about it—and you two think about the sinking of the Gillish longship—think about the wrack of Sher. Think about how Calla died."
I turned and left them and trudged down the torch-lit corridor. The end where Rinn and I had our quarters was already marked out like a he-dog's territory by Rinn's distinctive mixture of smells: best-quality incense, flowery perfumes, musky powders. I tapped at the door of our bedchamber and went in.
&nbs
p; Only three dressing-maids were with her—Rinn was roughing it. They had just finished threading her hair through the holes of a Miisheli court-fashion skullcap, so that it swept in a great high-standing crest from forehead to nape and thence halfway down her back. The close-fitting sides of the cap were jewelled in an intricate pattern that close inspection revealed to be dozens of tiny interlocking vipers on a background of blue brilliants.
"That skullcap is not subtle, my darling Rinn," I said, poking around in my one box of clothing for a fresh tunic.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Vipers and blue brilliants? You might as well tell the Frath straight out that you're after the Crown of Miishel. Perhaps he'd lend you his Fathidiic Cloak of Empire."
Her lips tightened and she shot me a venomous look via the polished bronze mirror; she waited while one of the dressing-maids added a few strings of faceted gemstones to those already clinking against the massive golden bosomspreader, and another bent to fasten golden sandals on to her small golden feet. Then she dismissed them all with an abrupt gesture and turned to me. This time there was no mirror to reveal her true face; she was smiling sweetly.
"Tigrallef, darling, it is my best courtcap and I want to do honour to the Vassashin by wearing it. That is the only reason."
"Of course it is, my dearest love. Just my little joke. Anyway," and here I bent close enough to whisper into her ear, "I think the Crown of Miishel would suit you very well; we'll have to see what we can do."
Rinn was pleased by this, but she put her hand playfully over my mouth. "Hush, my darling—you know it is the gods who must choose the brow the crown rests upon."
"Yes, my petal—but the gods can take a hint. Or give one. Don't forget my dream."
Rinn pushed past me to survey herself in the mirror. Her face was radiantly self-satisfied. I think she was already seeing herself reflected, not in the courtcap, but in the viper crown. "We shall talk of this again, husband," she said. "Surely we must try to discover what the gods will for me—for us."
Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady Page 17
