Hour of the Octopus

by Joel Rosenberg

  By not being idiot enough to kill Minch, I interjected mentally.

  “—in the search for game for the table, and I expect that you will prove yourself worthy should you be required to defend her person or honor. I put it to this company that should anyone know of a blemish or blur on your honor, I put it to him to step forward now.” He raised one hand to his forehead and turned from side to side, ritualistically searching for some fool who would open his mouth at the wrong time.

  This one was easy. I could remain silent in good faith instead of remaining silent in bad faith.

  “And I put it to this company that should anyone challenge my warrant of my daughter’s purity, let him step forward now.” He repeated the searching gestures.

  Line forms at the left, I didn’t say.

  I glanced over at Dun Lidjun, who was standing next to Lord Esterling, quite probably through no accident. Accidents don’t tend to happen around Lord Toshtai, and particularly not around Dun Lidjun, whose impassive face and stone-motionless stance would have told a half-blind man that he had raised kazuh. Kazuh Warriors don’t need to wave their swords in the air to become what they always are.

  Esterling held silent, which didn’t surprise me. I mean, no matter how badly he wanted ViKay, the matter of her marriage was settled, and nothing he could say or do now would prevent it. All an outburst would buy him would be a quick challenge and a quicker death.

  At Lord Orazhi’s gesture, Arefai and ViKay rose, and joined left hands—the hand nearer the heart, the seat of the soul—while maids wrapped their hands with garlands of grape leaves, symbolizing the joining of the two souls, perhaps, or perhaps just symbolizing that members of our beloved ruling class like to be wrapped in grape leaves.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my borrowed finery, not liking the way the robes were drawn tightly around my neck, and particularly not cherishing the weight of the borrowed sword that was stuck crosswise through my borrowed sash. Swords are a badge of nobility, not of the bourgeoisie, but all of us who stood with Arefai were, in theory, here to help him carry away his bride by force should somebody interfere, as indeed they would.

  “The essence, if you please, Kami, Historical Master Dan’Shir,” Lord Orazhi said, beckoning.

  I uncorked the sealed flask, although there was nothing particularly dramatic in that. The flask had been sealed moments before the ceremony, after the Tree’s Breath inside had been tested by Narantir and Tebol to be sure that it was unpoisoned, and then again by the three of us to be sure that it was suitable for the wedding ceremony, and once again to be sure that there was no poison.

  Just as well it was a large flask, I thought, as I tilted it up to my lips, letting the icy heat of the dark green essence bathe my palate. Beyond the warmth and the chill were notes of raspberry and licorice under a layer of mint, with perhaps a touch of orange and a surprisingly pleasant quiet note of burned wood.

  The taste persisted as I handed the flask to Arefai. Which is the way of a fine essence. Even hours later, my tongue would find itself remembering the fire and the cold, the purity and complexity of the flavors.

  Still, I might as well have substituted Weasel Piss for all the attention Arefai paid as he drank, then brought the flask up to his bride’s parted lips for a quick taste. He wasted the rest of it by pouring it over their joined hands.

  “It is done,” Lord Orazhi intoned. “One life, one heart, one soul.” One to prong away at peasant and middle-class girls as much as he wanted, so long as he didn’t do it in the middle of the courtyard; one to slip into whatever rooms she pleased, as long as she didn’t get caught. Although I didn’t really believe that. ViKay would be careful in Den Oroshtai, which would be just as well. Fun is fun, I decided, but it would be one thing to risk being caught here, where her father’s servitors would very much not want to catch her, and another entirely in Den Oroshtai, where it would take her years to find her proper place in the keep’s intrigues.

  The marriage having taken place according to the modern ritual, it was now time to forget what we had just done and proceed to steal the bride away. The crowd broke up quickly, servitors swiftly scurrying out of the way, noble women moving to one side, while the warriors split into two parties, those of Glen Derenai forming a half circle between the wedding party and the front gate, those of Den Oroshtai encircling Arefai and his new wife.

  The tradition, so I understand it, is that visiting warriors without an allegiance to either house may choose to temporarily join either for the battle, but must join one.

  I found myself standing beside Edelfaule, facing Demick, Verden Verdunt and Deren der Drumud, while off to my left, Toshtai squared his bulk off against Orazhi.

  All drew their scabbarded swords with exquisite languor (except for me; I just drew mine slowly) then ostentatiously checked the knots of the ropes that bound the swords into their scabbards. Accidents can happen, and everyone remembers not only the story of how ancient Lord Vilnek the Half-Wise let one overeager retainer turn the marriage of his daughter into the slaughter of the men of Ambell, but also the story of how Kemezhi of Ambell got the scrotal skin for his drumhead.

  Moving slowly, carefully, we went through the ritual of battling our way to the front gate, scabbard tapped gently against scabbard.

  Click. Clickclick. Clicketyclickclick. Click. It all sounded like fidgetbugs on a hot night.

  At one point, I found myself facing Lord Demick, who had been invited to join Arefai’s party, and thought for a moment that he would find a way to slip his scabbard aside and slice me, but before I could work up a good fear, I saw Dun Lidjun smiling genially at the two of us, and relaxed.

  Demick tapped his scabbard gently against mine, smiled genially, and raised a finger to his brow in a friendly salute. He had tried, via Minch, to stop this, and would accept a temporary defeat with the same quiet grace with which he accepted every defeat or victory. I didn’t like him, I would never like him, but he did have a certain elegance that I couldn’t help but admire, although I couldn’t help but hope to admire it close at hand, were Toshtai ever to conquer Patrice.

  We falsely battled our way to the gate, and through it, the Glen Derenai warriors behind us already replacing their swords and heading for the waiting banquet.

  Two placid horses—the listless sort of mount I usually ended up getting—waited, each held in place largely by its own lassitude, although two rather superfluous liveried attendants held each set of reins.

  Arefai slid his own scabbard back into his belt. With both hands he gripped ViKay about the waist and easily lifted his bride up to the back of the waiting mare, which was caparisoned in wedding green and brown and orange.

  She smiled down at him. “We seem to have fled,” she said, which was slightly off form, but then turned to the rest of us. “My thanks, companions of my husband.”

  “I thank you all, all of stout hearts and strong arms, who have helped in our escape,” Arefai said, as he climbed to the back of his own horse. He kicked the horse into a leisurely couple of steps, thereby ritually having completed his escape.

  Scabbarded swords, raised to defend the fleeing couple against a horde that had already departed for the banquet, dropped slowly.

  “It’s done,” Arefai said, then dropped back to the ground quickly enough to help ViKay down.

  With the way clear, there was nothing left for the combatting forces to do but to put their weapons away and walk back into the keep and join their erstwhile ceremonial enemies in the Great Hall for the reception that would take up the rest of the day.

  The cooks of Glen Derenai had been hard at work. One table held platters of seaweed on which rested hundreds of fist-sized lobsters that had been boiled, then split and carefully cleaned, leaving behind lobster meat that shone bright with a fine butter glaze and a lemony spinach compote where the unappetizing roe and tomalley had been. Another table was devoted to a demonstration of the varieties of ways a whole chicken could be prepared: I tasted a stewed older bird, surround
ed by barely softened carrots and turnips, sprinkled with biting black pepper and spicy red; then another chicken that had been rubbed with honey, then carefully roasted over a slow fire until the skin turned all black and crispy, but sweet, like candy; then another that had been rolled in thyme and cardamom, then wrapped in layers of parchment before being buried deeply in coals—it was served on the parchment, which itself smelled good enough to eat; and from another platter, one of a dozen tiny birds, rolled in something magical and deep fried.

  Onyx tubs filled with ices supported tiny bowls of too-sweet fundleberry sherbet and little vials of icy essence; huge tureens held sorrel soups, cleverly crafted little rice boats filled with sauteed shrimp and steamed sweetfish somehow managing to float on the roiling, oily surface; and glasses glowed with a strange seven-layered drink that I’d never seen before, each layer one of the seven flavors, carefully arranged so that hot came first, letting the cold and sweet come as counterpoint and relief.

  Warriors who but a short while before had pretended to war with each other now picked up plates and pretended to enjoy each other’s company.

  As I said, hypocrisy is the way of our ruling class, but they do eat well.

  At one point, I caught Edelfaule smiling at me. I would have taken it for a genuine smile if he didn’t seem to have so many teeth, and them so white, and if, after a quick look to either side to make sure nobody else was watching, his lips hadn’t moved with the words next time. Toshtai just watched. I went back for another plate of an amazing lamb dish. I wasn’t sure just what the cook had marinated it in, but whatever it was had removed all traces of the over-gamy taste I’ve never liked in lamb, while leaving every bit of meatiness, and I decided that the best way to deal with the problem was a fourth helping.

  Chapter 18

  A frank discussion, a sword, and other promotions and punishments.

  When you don’t know what else to do, juggle, neh?

  We were to leave in the morning, and I could pay my final courtesy calls on Penkil Ner Condigan and Tebol either this night or in the morning.

  Perhaps there was somebody else I should see, and one more question I could ask, but I knew the answer to it, or enough of the answer to it. I could do it, or I could guess. Some decisions are easy enough: I had had enough of all of them for one day. Enough food, enough drink, enough company, and more than enough of our beloved ruling class. Enough of death and murder. Enough of uncomfortable noble clothing; I had changed back into a simple tunic and drawstring pantaloons.

  What I needed was some time with something simple, basic.

  From the small hidden rise in the gardens, the late afternoon air was filled with the sounds of birds in the trees and groundsmen cutting and trimming below, and the tur tree still had it screened off well enough for some privacy. Timing is everything; in a few more days, the flowers would fall, and the only privacy available would be below the level of the stone fence.

  Which is fine for lovers, but not for jugglers.

  The setting sun shone directly on the wall. At noon, the shadows would have revealed the shallow sculptures of the men holding back the soil, but it was all washed away in the direct light, leaving behind just a stone fence.

  I took out my juggling bags.

  Catch right and throw left, throw right and catch left. If it’s not the secret of the universe, it will do, for the time being.

  I started with three juggling bags, then added a fourth, and fifth, and a sixth. Catch right and throw left, throw right and catch left became catch right, throw left, throw right, catch left, and then catch right throw left throw right catch left, and finally a stream of catchthrow-catchthrowcatchthrowcatchthrowcatchthrowcatchthrow that was seamless and timeless, until I heard the footsteps on the gravel path behind me. Two people; one heavy, one able to walk so lightly on gravel that I couldn’t have heard him unless he permitted it.

  I let one bag fall and caught it on the instep of my right foot, then foot-tossed it over to my juggling sack, and then another, and another, before I turned slowly, conscious of the audience.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Toshtai,” I said, catching the remaining three bags in my hands, then tossing the whole mass of them toward the other equipment. “And to you, Lord Dun Lidjun.”

  The fat man’s face was as expressionless as usual, no hint of a smile at the corners of his leathery lips or sunken eyes.

  Dun Lidjun’s eyes twinkled as he nodded to me. “And a good afternoon to you, Kami Dan’Shir,” he said. He had a scabbarded sword in his hands, and another slid sideways through his sash, which puzzled me, as I’d never thought Dun Lidjun would need more than one to dice any number of enemies into assorted pieces.

  “I wished to speak with you,” Toshtai said, looking around for a place to sit down, then frowning in irritation when it was clear that there was nothing other than the ground itself, or perhaps the stone wall that rimmed the rise. One would be undignified, and the stone wall was too narrow for Toshtai’s broad buttocks.

  “I am, of course, at your service, Lord,” I said. “You could have sent for me.”

  “Difficult,” he said. “Difficult to get enough privacy, Kami Dan’Shir.” A flipper of a hand barely moved: for him, a broad wave. “Just as it’s sometimes difficult to extract frank speech from you, particularly when other ears listen.”

  I smiled as genially as I could manage. “Frank speech and long life are not often paired, Lord.”

  “Here and now they are,” he said.

  I was going to ask if he really meant it, but I stopped myself. What was he going to say? No?

  Dun Lidjun bowed stiffly at the fat man. “I shall keep watch at the foot of the path, Lord,” he said, then walked off.

  Toshtai watched him go. “I sometimes wonder how much longer I shall have Dun Lidjun in my service,” he said, then sighed. “Kazuh is pure, but the flesh dies, bit by bit.”

  “Or sometimes all at once, Lord.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up almost measureably. “Sometimes.” He straightened. “I was… disturbed by an undertone in your demonstration. Demonstrations,” he said, correcting himself. ‘There seemed to be something of hysteria in them, perhaps around the edges.“

  I nodded. “Of course, what Lord Toshtai says is true. I shall try harder in the future to give no such false impression.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Ah. So now I can either take your arch shtoi sarcasm as literal, or I can threaten you into a false confession of irritation over something minor.” He shook his head. “You play me far too dexterously, Kami Dan’Shir.”

  He stood silently for a moment, which seemed to call for a comment, but I couldn’t think of one that was both appropriate and safe.

  “Were I to swear on the lives of my sons that you will be held harmless for anything you say to me here and now—would that satisfy you, Kami Dan’Shir?” he asked, almost flatly, no trace of fire and anger in his voice. “Were I to swear on the good of Den Oroshtai, or on my loyalty to the Scion? Would that be enough, to loosen your tongue?” His lips pursed. “Or ought I to threaten you? Need I say, ‘speak frankly with me or I’ll have you killed’? No.” He dug into his pouch and produced a bone chit. “Present this to… the father of my son’s wife, and he will exchange it for ten oblongs of gold, ten years of what I pay you. You may have this, and a dismissal from my service, or you may speak honestly with me, here and now, as you may always speak with me in private,” he said. “And this I do swear on the lives of my children, on the future of my domain, and on the soul of the Scion. Choose.”

  Ten years salary, or a chance to berate a member of our beloved ruling class? Perhaps if I was hungry, it would have been different, but with my belly too full, and my pouch heavy with Minch’s gold, it wasn’t even close.

  I nodded. “Put your chit away, Lord. Let me give you something to accompany it,” I said, digging into my own pouch. I handed him a small round stone.

  “A stone,” he said, nodding gravely. “I
thank you.” He waited for a moment. “I trust it has some meaning.”

  “It’s a freden, Lord, a throw-weight, carried by travelers for when the road gets too long, for when the pack gets too heavy. Next time you have a problem that’s too heavy, why not just throw it away along with this? Instead of treating me like a freden.”

  He held it in the center of his open palm and looked at it for a moment, and then closed chubby fingers over it.

  “Next time you need to find a sacrifice, perhaps you should sacrifice this, instead of me,” I said. “You saw it coming, Lord. You knew that Minch and Demick were going to do something to stop the wedding, and that’s why you brought me, rather than finessing them out of appearing and interfering. Much better to show yourself as someone powerful enough to keep his enemies close to him, to escape safely, like a bullfighter waiting until the horns almost graze his naked chest before he dives and rolls to safety.

  “But things went too far, and you had only one way out. Invest this new dan’shir with all the authority he would need, broadcast far and wide how great his skills and talents were, and if it was impossible for him to solve the murder, why then he could be blamed for it all, attention could be distracted. Throw him away like a freden and let him take the burden of it all into the grave, eh? Brilliant.” I bowed. “I congratulate you, Lord, but I do not thank you.”

  “Ah.” Toshtai’s lips pursed for a moment. “I forget that you are still young, are new to associating with nobility, and despite your special skill, you still are a fool and a witling who is barely capable of managing to avoid drooling all over himself.” A thick sausage of a finger pointed at me. “Do you think that I and my fathers have ruled Den Oroshtai since the Oroshtai Regency simply because we live in the keep at the top of the hill? Don’t you understand that we don’t merely demand the loyalty of the lower classes and of lesser nobles, but that we offer our own? Don’t you see that we could not have survived this long were it otherwise?” He shook his head. “No, that’s too much to expect of you. Let me make it simple for you: do you think I command the likes of Dun Lidjun without giving something in return?