“Nonsense. I will take care of you. To my understanding, it is merely a matter of having you give your attention to something else, correct?”
Ah, not entirely. It depended on the Shield, and how badly music affected him or her. Music affected me very badly.
But I couldn’t move on my own, and for a moment the music welled up, sweeping through my mind.
Perhaps Fines continued to speak. I didn’t hear him. I found myself pressed into his chair, my hands transferred from the poor servant to the arms of the chair. And once I was seated, I felt frozen in place. This had become my new anchor.
I was able to notice that Fines had ousted the person from the chair next to mine and seated himself.
A few—or a great many, I couldn’t be sure—moments later, the music changed to something a little softer. Still a little rambunctious for my taste, but it was easier to keep still, and I could actually listen to what this Fines person was telling me.
“Your father outbid me on the shipment of buttersilk,” said Fines, and it sounded like he was at the end of a story.
“Oh.” What did one say in response to that? Good for him? I’m sorry? I wasn’t really listening?
Fines appeared pleased by my response. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting one, which wouldn’t be surprising, considering my behavior. “What with the frost destroying so many trees in the Beatrum Triangle the year before last, buttersilk is scarce.”
I didn’t know the location of the Beatrum Triangle, I didn’t know there had been frost there, and I didn’t know what buttersilk was. Should I tell him that?
“Your mother will make an absolute fortune.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Because I had to say something. And I was always happy to know my family was doing well.
“Your family has quite able traders and holders. It’s rare to see so much talent in one family. Usually that sort of ambition skips a few.”
“Does it?” The servant offered me a goblet of something. I shook my head.
“Do you have any skill with trade?”
“None at all.”
“Well, it would be wasted in a Shield, wouldn’t it?”
It would. Completely. And yet I found his comment insulting nonetheless. As if a Shield could do nothing but Shield. It was true that I could do nothing but Shield, but that didn’t mean no Shields had any other skills. I was offended on their behalf.
Zaire, I wasn’t even making sense to myself. It had to be the music.
“And I understand that you are an exceptionally skilled Shield.”
I wouldn’t have said “exceptionally.” I was good, I knew that, but there were a whole lot of Shields out there that I had never met. “That sort of thing is really very difficult to quantify. It’s more a matter of the talent of the Source than that of the Shield.” After all, if the Source couldn’t channel well, the skill of the Shield didn’t really matter much.
“And Source Karish is a highly skilled Source.”
“Yes.” I felt I should do more in this conversation than answer questions, even though I hadn’t asked to be part of it. “I gather from your place on the platform that you have a part in the appointment ceremony?”
“Actually, Mayor Izen has already been appointed. There was a ceremony held at city hall last week. I am merely introducing him to the people. He is a good friend of mine, and he is well suited to his new role. I am honored and pleased to be part of his introduction.”
I wanted to ask why he was given what I assumed was a significant honor, introducing the mayor to High Scape, but I had a feeling I should already know. The thing was, he was just a merchant. With all the aristocrats who lived in High Scape, I was surprised to find a merchant so singled out. “Have you done this before?”
“Oh, no,” he chuckled. “I think I was chosen because I have a seat on the Imperial Council. I just received it, because of the bill. You know the one, introducing a quota for merchant seats on the council?”
Ah, yes. I’d even met one of the people who wrote it.
Fines must, I thought, have an awful lot of money.
I was getting cynical in my old age.
“As well, I was part of the campaign for Mayor Izen to get this post.”
“Really?” I said. “What does such a campaign involve?” I had no idea how a monarch chose a mayor.
He winked. “Now, that would be telling.”
That would be telling me what? What couldn’t he tell me? Had there been something nefarious about the campaign?
I was being completely ridiculous. Of course there had been nothing nefarious going on. Fines was just amusing himself by playing with me.
It was so hard to think.
The Square was becoming uncomfortably packed as more and more jugglers, dignitaries, acrobats and musicians decided to wait around for the introduction of the mayor. At least the musicians stopped playing once they entered the Square. The cacophony of competing musicians would have driven me insane.
Fines talked on. About local politics, of which I knew little, about trade, of which I knew nothing, and about scandal, of which I knew more than I liked. And time passed. The rest of the chairs on the platform filled. More and more people crammed into Confusion Square.
And then, finally, a carriage was drawing up before the platform, a heavyset man with a chain draped over his shoulders and chest stepping down from the carriage and lumbering up to the platform. The new mayor, I assumed. The music, thank Zaire, finally stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief, unclenched my fingernails and worried at the sliver that had worked itself into my left index finger.
And I realized, really realized, that I was on the platform upon which the mayor would be introduced to everyone. The platform everyone was watching. What the hell was I doing on the platform?
My hair clashed horribly with my dress.
Fines rose to his feet and assisted the man I presumed to be the new mayor up the last few stairs. The two men walked to the center of the platform, near the front, and waited for the crowd to quiet down. It took a while, but the silence, when it finally came, was soothing to my abused ears.
Everyone heard the single person who, hidden by the crowd, booed.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.
Ignoring the malcontent, Fines called out, “Good citizens of High Scape! Welcome to this glorious day of renewal.” He paused, and a lot of people obligingly applauded. “Although it is a time when many of us carry sorrow in our hearts—” Did we really? How could people mourn the death of someone they had never met? “We must always seek solace in new triumphs, and recognize that change brings with it opportunity as well as loss.”
I hated change. Change brought anxiety and uncertainty. I didn’t think I knew anyone who actually liked change. At best, they accepted it with a sort of grim resolution. At worst, they denied the reality of that change to the detriment of themselves and everyone around them.
Did Fines like change?
“Today is our opportunity to welcome to the helm of our great city an able man of discipline, compassion and wisdom.”
I could swear I heard someone snicker.
“There were many who could have done the job of acting as mayor of High Scape. There were even more who wanted the position.”
Really? I wondered why. There was a goodly amount of money to it, I supposed, and prestige. But the mayor probably learned a whole lot more about the inner workings of the city than I would ever want to know. I imagined there were a lot of long meetings while people debated endlessly about building bridges or water ducts. It certainly wasn’t how I’d want to spend my time.
“But few would be able to bring to the role the dedication and honor of the man it is my privilege to introduce to you.” Fines put a hand on Izen’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “I give you Yuri Izen, mayor of High Scape.”
The applause was thunderous. I was made aware once more that I had no idea who Izen was and whether anyone in High Scape, aside fr
om the person who had booed, really knew anything about him. Maybe the only thing they liked about him was that his introduction provided an excuse to take a day off and drink beer.
My studies at the Shield Academy had never given much attention to local politics. We had been encouraged to meet regulars, of course, and to understand that it was important to protect them, but not to get too attached, and certainly not to get involved in anything that could make the blood boil as politics could. It was not our place to interfere. We would always be moving on soon.
“Dear people of High Scape!” Mayor Izen shouted. He didn’t have a voice for public speaking. It cracked on every word. “I stand before you fully aware of my responsibilities as the mayor of the greatest city in the world.” There was more loud applause at that, and I wondered if Izen had visited every city in the world, that he could make that claim. “We have been put through some difficult times in the past, but we made it through. We are facing some challenges now, and we’ll face and defeat those, too. Because we are the strongest, smartest, bravest people in the world.” More applause, and I wondered if the spectators believed what they were hearing. How could they think they were better than other people in other cities? It was silly. “I was born in this city. I grew up here. My parents were both on the city council and they instilled in me the knowledge that service to others is the greatest employment a person can have. I bring to my role as mayor this knowledge, as well as great pride in this city, and the willingness to do whatever it takes to assist in the prosperity of High Scape.”
The new mayor droned on with more rhetoric about what a wonderful leader he was going to be. The audience applauded dutifully where the mayor paused. I wondered how much longer he would be.
With the music silenced, my mind cleared. I looked at Fines, who was standing behind Izen. I couldn’t see his face, but he was standing very straight. I imagined he looked proud. I wondered why he had wanted Izen to be the mayor. How did he benefit from it? While I didn’t know much about such things, I did know that little was done in political circles without favors changing hands.
Ah, it had nothing to do with me. None of my business.
Izen finally stopped talking. I noticed wagons with barrels of what I assumed was beer being pulled into the Square. So did a great many of the spectators, it looked like, for many didn’t bother applauding Izen’s last words as they headed for the beer.
Despite the defection, Fines spoke again. “Please remain with us,” he called, “as we celebrate this great man’s rise to our highest office.”
Really, people didn’t need the encouragement.
I rose from my seat. I wanted to get out of there in case any of the music started up again.
Fines was suddenly by my side. “Shield Mallorough, will you not remain with us for the afternoon? There are people I would like you to meet.”
Why would he want me to meet anyone? “I apologize, but being exposed to such rousing music for as long as I was can be very draining. It would be irresponsible for me to remain here without my Source. Truly, I shouldn’t have come at all.”
“I am glad you did come, though I am, of course, regretful that you experienced such difficulty. It gave us a chance to meet.”
I didn’t know how to address that. “Thank you for your kindness.” And I made my escape.
I was tired from my interaction with the music, I had been telling the truth about that. All the muscles of my body felt loose and watery from being held so tensely for so long. There were still no carriages available for rent. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time I dragged myself over the threshold of the Triple S entrance. I went straight to bed.
The next day, I learned that Izen had been murdered in his sleep.
Chapter Seven
A bench-dancing competition that didn’t conflict with one of my lengthened watches at the Stall, one that I was free to enter. For the first time since we’d gotten back. Finally.
And it was a proper bench-dancing competition. Never mind that it was one of the smaller ones, one that no one of exceptional skill would enter. It was enough for me that it would be a regulation match, with two benches and four bars, and the only musical accompaniment would be the drums. The kind of match I’d been trained to expect when I was in the Academy, the kind I hadn’t been able to enjoy since before Taro and I were sent to Flatwell.
There were no costumes, because no one cared what anyone looked like. My hair was tightly bound, though much of it was likely to escape at some point. My trousers and shirt were loose and comfortable and covered me from throat to wrist to ankle. I wore no cosmetics, no flashy baubles. I’d used nothing more than my plain name, no adjectives included, when I’d signed up.
There was a Runner among the gathering spectators, his solid-black uniform standing out against the varying clothing of the others. I thought it odd that one would waste time watching a bench-dancing competition while he was on duty. But perhaps he was looking for suspicious behavior. Since the mayor had been killed, Runners seemed to have multiplied, and they interfered with the most innocuous of activities.
I wouldn’t let his presence distract me. Finally, my muscles would be used as they were meant to be used. A good, proper working out. I was going to enjoy it.
And no one would be tossing coins on the ground for me to scoop up after my performance. That had been so demeaning.
I was excited, to my disgust. I tried to calm down. Not just look calm, but be calm. Deep breaths, sedate thoughts. It didn’t help. I was excited. I stretched a little harder than was good for me, ground my bare feet into the chalk box a little too enthusiastically, and I found it difficult to stay still once I was standing on the bench. I practically shivered once the drums started rolling.
But the drums weren’t the only instrument that sounded through the air. I heard the winding tones of a double-reed recorder, felt it low in the pit of my stomach. That wasn’t traditional. Why were they playing that? I shook my head in an attempt to shake off its influence.
And then the bars started moving. I nearly lost right then as a strange battle developed between my mind and my body. My mind expected me to dance the proper way, the way I had always been trained. My body, however, remembered a different way of dancing, the way that had been drilled into me over endless practices and performances on Flatwell. A way with a slower pace and lower bars, where legs and arms curled and coiled unnecessarily, for the show of it rather than the need of it.
The first couple of steps were taken in such confusion that I almost slipped from the benches for no reason at all.
I was not going to do that again. I struggled to get myself under control.
Remember what you were taught.
Get your arms back where they belong.
There were two benches. Two dancers stood facing each other, one on either end of the benches, with a foot on each bench. Four bars were held and moved by people called stalkers, two at each end of the benches. They brought the bars up and over the benches, banging them together, and it was the task of the dancers to leap over the bars without getting their feet or ankles caught, or resting two feet on a bench at the same time, or falling off. It was dangerous, with a real possibility of permanent injury.
Ignore the flashes of gold, the memory of the slithering tones of the sandpipe, the dark, hot, tropical air. This was not a performance before the ignorant; I was not striving for the coins needed to keep Taro and me in clothing and food. This was a competition—that was all—and what was at stake was my pride.
Listen to the drums. The drums that are actually present, not the ones you remember. Let the solid beats mingle with that of the heart, warming it and the blood it sent racing. Let it fill your chest and mind and drive your thighs and feet.
Ignore the recorder. The recorder shouldn’t be there. It was fighting the drums. The drums were a steady beat. The recorder was sinuous and entrancing. Why did they have a recorder? Did they know what that could do to a Shield? Were they trying to drive
Shields out of the competitions?
It was insidious. It coiled around my spin and slid into my mind, clouding my eyes. And suddenly, I was transported. The hot, moist air, the flickering torches, the desperation of knowing my survival relied on how well I danced.
I was there. My arms curling. My hips swaying. My heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I lost sight of my opponent. I forgot he was even there.
I didn’t know I had missed this.
The recorder sounded so good with the drums. Why had no one thought to mix those two before? Why hadn’t bench dancing changed at all during my life? It was glorious to add the recorder, to add the hips and the arms, to add color. Why had it taken people so long to realize that?
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. My brain full of the echoes of the music, I half stumbled to the ground, panting. As my eyes cleared, I realized people were staring at me. My opponent, the stalkers handling the bars, the other competitors, the adjudicators, all of them looking at me like I’d lost my mind. As I clearly had.
Oh my gods. What the hell had I been doing?
One of the adjudicators cleared her throat. “Shield Mallorough is disqualified for . . .” There was a pause as she clearly strove for appropriate words. “. . . unsanctioned maneuvers.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t anywhere in the rules, but I was too humiliated to object.
I slunk to the competitors’ bench to wipe my feet and strap on my boots.
“You’re in fine form,” a voice said from behind me, “but I’m still happy I didn’t wager on you.”
Of course I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. “You’re making a habit of this, Doran.” And wasn’t that annoying? I’d told him I would contact him when I had time, I didn’t contact him at all, and he caught me at a bench-dancing competition. He could be forgiven for wondering why I had time to dance but no time to send him a note.
Plus he’d seen me act like an idiot.
Moira J. Moore - Heroes at Risk Page 8
