by Helen Lowe
“Only,” she said slowly, “because their leader, the one called Tirorn, chose to have them drawn.”
“I think you’re right,” the Patrol captain agreed. “But I am still grateful.” He took one long, last look at the Derai band, small now with distance, before turning back to the heralds. “But what of you? What brings you out of Terebanth to Ij so early in the spring, when you haven’t been this way for several years?”
“We’ve been kept busy on the Ephors’ business,” Jehane Mor agreed, “shuttling between Terebanth, Enkot, and Ar, with the occasional journey up the Wildenrush to keep in touch with the new settlements there.” She shook her head, thinking of the miles they had covered. “We’ve been over into Emer and Aralorn as well. Trade with those lands is growing, particularly in Emer now that the Duke’s peace is taking hold. But who would turn down a trip to Ij in time for the Festival of Masks?”
“Who indeed?” Aravenor replied, with a faint smile. “They say it’s to be a fine festival this year, the best ever.”
“Don’t they say that every year?” Tarathan inquired, and the Patrol captain’s smile became a grin.
“Look at the crowds—they seem to believe the boasts. We’re told the city is overflowing already, so you’re lucky you have your Guild House to go to.”
Jehane Mor’s answering smile was rueful. “Even that may be full, given that the Conclave and festival have fallen together this year. But no doubt we’ll find a spare corner. The Guild may not be one of the Three, but we can generally house our own.”
“The Three of Ij,” Aravenor said, his tone thoughtful. “One should never meddle in their affairs, they say. Then again, the merchant princes, in my experience, are not to be taken lightly either.” He raised one gauntleted hand and began to turn his horse. “Safe journeying. I will look for you on the road when the festival is done.”
The heralds raised their hands in reply and rode on, weaving their way through the press of travelers that had still not thinned out again after the delay at the bridge. They remained alert for any sign of the Derai, but the Sword warriors were nowhere to be seen. “They move fast.” Tarathan used mindspeech as he turned in the saddle, his eyes searching the country to either side. “Or they’ve left the road, although I see no sign of that.”
Jehane Mor spoke softly to her horse, letting it thread between foot travelers and a well-laden mule train. “The whole world comes to Ij, indeed.” Her gray extended its stride, clearing the line of mules and overtaking a cart piled high with bales beneath a stained tarpaulin. The carter flicked her a glance from beneath his hat, and the horse pulling the cart shifted slowly to the side of the road. The next cart was some distance ahead, but already the gray horses had begun to narrow the gap. Tarathan caught her eye as his mount drew level with hers.
“Do you think Aravenor was trying to tell us something at the last?” he asked. “Or was he just being cryptic?”
Jehane Mor grimaced. “A typical Patroler, do you mean? It would be unusual for the Patrol to comment on the affairs of a city—and who would dare interfere with the business of the Three of Ij?”
“Other than at least a half-dozen merchant princes and several Ephors, no one that I can think of.” Tarathan’s mindtone was dry. “It’s not unusual for friction to flare up at festival time, and only a fool would ever ride into Ij unwarily.”
“And we, of course, are not fools.” Jehane Mor’s swift, sidelong glance caught the answering gleam of his rare smile.
They let the gray horses increase their pace as the road cleared further—and crested a last, low hill in the early afternoon to see Ij spread out below them, glittering beneath the rainbow arch of a sun shower. Both heralds had seen the jewel of the Ijir before, but they still paused to take in its vastness, which spanned a series of islands between the river and the sea. Three great bridges led into the city on its western, landward side, with a river port to the south that was still clogged with the galleys and barges that plied the Ijir and its navigable tributaries. There was a Patrol fort close by the port, one of the major bases for their fleet of black galleys that patroled the river from Ij up to Enkot in the far west. On the city’s seaward side, the islands were hemmed in by the masts of oceangoing ships, the great merchant vessels that traded from Ishnapur to Grayharbor.
The city itself was a sprawling jumble of roofs dominated by three soaring landmarks: the slender spires that marked the Academy of Sages, the great dome of the College of Minstrels, and the single, sheer tower of the Assassins’ School. Each dominated one of the city’s central islands, with the marble cupolas and copper domes of the old nobility and merchant princes clustered around them. The far greater expanse of tiled roofs that sheltered the lesser citizens of Ij spread away on every side, interspersed by markets and warehouse areas. The heralds’ Guild House was located on a large island known as Westgate, where the Main Road officially entered the city.
For the first time since Terebanth, the main road branched at the foot of the hill where the heralds had drawn rein. One branch ran south to the river port and the Great Southern Gate, while the other led north, toward a smaller gate where red-roofed merchant houses sprawled along the city side of the river. The main, western gate was simply known as the Road Gate, and the closer the heralds came to it the busier the road became. Merchants and other long distance travelers were joined by farmers and carters coming and going from the city markets, as well as country families eager for the sights and entertainment of the festival. First hawkers’ booths, and then inns and stables, began to crowd along either side of the road—and the clatter of hooves and jingle of harness, the creak of carts and the cries of the hawkers, filled the afternoon air.
The intermittent rain had begun again by the time the heralds arrived at the long bridge into the city, a fine drizzle with the sun shining through it and rainbows dancing in every puddle. A guard post barred the western entrance to the bridge, but Tarathan and Jehane Mor were waved through as soon as they held up their passes. An Emalni merchant was less fortunate and glared at the heralds as the guards threw back the tarpaulins over his wagons.
“Their feud with Sirith must have flared up again,” Jehane Mor said.
“And you know what they say about the spring festival, that the murders and the masks come out together.” The hooves of their horses reverberated on the wide flagstones of the bridge. “I hope they have some spare masks at the Guild House,” Tarathan added out loud. “I’d hate to have to try and buy one at this late stage.”
“The price would be golden,” Jehane Mor said, “if not the mask.” She glanced up at the walls and roofs looming ahead. “At least the city sounds quiet.”
“For now.” Tarathan moved his horse farther to one side as a wagon approached from the opposite direction. “It’s the middle of the afternoon and the festival has only just begun.”
Bunting fluttered from the city walls, dominated by the heraldic colors of the Three: gold for the sages, the crimson of the minstrels, and assassins’ white. The three colors were repeated in the great standard of Ij, quartered by the city’s shield-of-arms—the river galley and the scales, the mace and the galleon—which floated above the Road Gate. Both the heralds raised a hand in formal salute as they clattered beneath the gate arch, and the guards on duty there saluted in reply. They seemed more relaxed than their comrades on the far side of the bridge, and the sergeant inquired about the condition of road and river as he stamped their passes.
“Peaceful, eh?” he said, when they had assured him this was the case. “I wish I could say the same, but we’ve had three assassinations already since the festival began, even though the Conclave won’t begin for another three days. It gets worse every year,” he added in weary resignation. “It’s not just the representatives of the Three jockeying for position, or the vendettas between the great families anymore. Other folk are bringing their quarrels and feuding here as well.”
“What other folk?” Tarathan asked.
The ser
geant shrugged. “The quarrels between Emaln and Sirith seem to escalate every year, as well as trade disputes between any number of other cities. But these new folk from the north are the worst.”
“Do you mean the Derai?” Jehane Mor asked.
“That’s it, your honor.” The sergeant nodded, handing back her pass. “They don’t seem to like anyone very much, let alone us. Then there’s the other northern lot we had for the first time last festival and who’re back again this year—the Derai seem to really hate them. Although I must admit, that latest lot give me the creeps.” He scratched at his neck. “More than a little bit.”
“Who are these other northerners?” Tarathan inquired, his tone carefully casual. “Are they an opposing Derai sect?”
“No,” the sergeant replied. “They seem to be a completely different outfit. Envoys, they called the lot that came here last festival—and they certainly spent a lot of time talking with the Masters, although no one seems to know what all their gabbing was about.” He spat into the gutter. “Personally, I’d rather not have anything to do with any of that northern lot. Let ’em kill each other off, I say.”
“Good riddance, too,” agreed another guard, “but just not in our city or on our watch. We’ve enough going on with the festival and Conclave, without that.”
The arrival of the Emalni wagons, rumbling in under the arch, drowned out the muttered agreement from the other guards. Tarathan rode close to Jehane Mor as they emerged into the square beyond the gate, his dark eyes fierce as a hawk’s. “That was interesting news.”
Jehane Mor looked around at the cheerful, festival bustle. “These new envoys have to be from the Swarm. Very interesting indeed, with Derai here as well.”
Tarathan nodded, but his expression gave nothing away as they navigated the wide cobbled streets that led to the market quarter where the Guild House stood. Ijiri trading houses and embassies from the other River cities adjoined each other, most with trees grown in tubs set to either side of ornate entrances. Tarathan nodded up at the banner above the door to one of the larger trading houses. The blue cloth was so dark and wet with rain that it was almost black, its lone device that of a golden leopard, rampant, with extended claws. “Unusual for the Ilvaine kin to fly their banner,” he said
Jehane Mor contemplated the leopard. “A scion of the house must have come home, but which one?”
“ ’Ware my claws, lest you wear a glove.’ ” Tarathan quoted the Ilvaine motto, then added: “Perhaps they intend becoming active in the Conclave again? The Ilvaine kin have strong links to both Academy and College—and probably to the School as well.”
“Yet follow their own road, always.” Jehane Mor’s mindspeech was soft.
“But why get involved again now, after so many years?” Tarathan’s expression was still thoughtful when they clattered into the Guild House yard and found that it was as full as every inn they had passed along the way. The only space left for their accommodation was a landing where some camp beds and screens could be squeezed in.
“And no complaining,” the caretaker said, as she brought them towels and soap and blankets. “I’ve heard there’s not a spare corner to be had in the whole city and I hardly expected a contingent from Ishnapur, let alone half the Guild members from Emaln and Sirith.”
“Trying to keep the peace, I suppose,” said Tarathan. He was already lying on one of the camp beds, his hands clasped behind his head. “Without much success, I gather?”
The caretaker shook her head. She was a slight woman with short, grizzled hair and the trace of an Enkot burr in her voice. “Not noticeably,” she said, “although everyone’s trying. But an Emalni warehouse burned down the night before last, so of course the stables used by the Sirith consulate went up last night. The fire was put out before it spread, praise be! But with three assassinations already and word on the street that the School is inundated with contracts, it doesn’t bode well.”
“It doesn’t,” Jehane Mor agreed. “But what are our Ishnapuri kindred doing here, Naia? We heard no word of their coming.”
“They came by sea, with messages from the Shah for the Masters.” Naia shrugged. “That’s all I know, except that they’ve been going from Academy to College to School for most of this week. They aren’t saying much but I suspect that the desert tribes are growing restless again.”
“Even so, it’s still a very long way from Ishnapur to Ij.” Jehane Mor shook her head, dismissing the matter. “I don’t suppose you have any spare masks for us?”
“If you don’t mind them old and tatty. Our store has been well picked over with so many in before you—but you won’t get anything better for love or money in the city. You appear to have been expected, though,” Naia added, pulling some gilt-edged cards out of her pocket and handing them over. “I’ve already received the usual invitations for you: a banquet at the Conservatory tomorrow night and a debate at the Academy the following noon, with cards for Prince Ath’s masque and fireworks that same evening. Heralds are always good for making up numbers,” she said slyly, “and for some reason the prince thinks you two have the ear of the Ephors, in Terebanth.”
Jehane Mor sat down on her own cot, reading the cards in turn. “ ‘My vewy dear fwend the Ephor Vhiwinal,’ ” she murmured, imitating the lisp for which the princely sage was famous. “Will old and tatty masks do for His Illustriousness’s masque? I suppose they’ll have to. And no one will notice if we stand in a dark enough corner.”
“Now that,” said Naia firmly, “would not do at all. You know you’ll be expected to mingle.” She paused. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“We’re always careful,” said Tarathan. After a moment he raised his head. “Is something in particular bothering you, Naia?”
The caretaker grimaced, her shoulders rising in a half shrug. “I don’t know. The streets are wild this year and there are all sorts of strange folk about. And you two never stay close. You’re always off and about, all over the city.”
Tarathan smiled at her. “Dear Naia. But we are a little older than the wild youngsters you first knew—and have survived this long, to plague you again now.”
“You don’t plague me!” Naia protested. “And you were never wild . . .” Her eyes met his and she half smiled before her expression clouded again. “Well, maybe you were, just a little. But all these strangers—what if they don’t know that the law forbids violence against heralds? And it’s the Festival of Masks, in Ij. Anything could happen.”
Anything could happen. The words hung, cool as a shiver in the afternoon air, and the heralds exchanged a glance.
“We have to go about the city,” Jehane Mor said gently. “We have commissions to discharge. But we promise to be careful, Naia.”
Chapter 2
A Libation for Seruth
Dusk was the festival hour, when everyone who ventured onto the streets went masked. The city was already humming when the heralds left the Guild house, with dancing in the market squares and every street corner boasting a juggler or puppeteer. Lanterns had been strung amongst the trees that lined the wider streets, and flambeaux blazed outside every inn and public house. The festivalgoers laughed as they came and went, yet the heralds detected a nervous edge to the gaiety—as though the Ijiri were tensed for the next fire or random act of violence.
“But are they random?” Jehane Mor studied the crowded street from behind her mask.
“Perhaps we should take a look at the School’s register, since it’s so full this year?” Tarathan’s mindvoice was dry.
“The register is not the business of heralds.” Jehane Mor paused, applauding a juggler as he completed a particularly spectacular cascade.
“Naia was right though,” Tarathan replied as they strolled on. “Something’s bubbling beneath the surface here. Can’t you feel it?”
Jehane Mor nodded as another performer breathed out fire into the violet dusk. “Heralds must still stick to their own business and let the Ijiri manage theirs—which they appea
r to be doing,” she added as a stronger than usual contingent of the city guard tramped past.
Naia’s summary of the overnight news, given at breakfast the next morning, seemed to support Jehane Mor’s observation. “No further fires,” the caretaker said, “and only one attempted riot, which the guard suppressed before it got under way. Oh, and an assassination attempt on Academy Island, a Conclave representative, but it was thwarted.” She placed a square of folded paper on the table. “And here is another invitation, addressed to you both.”
Jehane Mor turned the paper over, tapping one finger against the leopard rampant insignia pressed deeply into indigo wax, before passing it to Tarathan. “Ilvaine,” she said, as he broke the seal.
“Our attendance is requested at the Inn of the Golden Lute, on the Minstrels’ Island,” he read out, as Naia brought in more bread with a rounded, yellow cheese.
“Why would an Ilvaine stay there?” Jehane Mor wondered, “rather than in the palace on Academy Island, or the town house by the river port?”
Tarathan folded the invitation again. “Why not? Don’t the Ilvaine kin have fingers in every Ijiri pie?”
Naia sniffed, placing a knife by the bread. “So they say, as well as estates in the countryside and ships that trade in every port between Grayharbor and Ishnapur. But not many of the kin actually live here in the city anymore.”
“I wonder what this one wants?” murmured Jehane Mor, then looked around as the hall door opened and two heralds in the flowing grays of the Ishnapuri branch of the Guild walked in. They looked alike enough to be brother and sister, and their accents, when they spoke their good mornings, bore the lilt of the far-off southern empire.
