by John March
Plyntoure moved around the interior of the Genestuer building like a straw-coloured ghost, seemingly forgotten, and abandoned when Tenlier left. Orim had heard Tenlier's people were researching elsewhere, but had not expected to find the building all but vacated.
Plyntoure returned, leading Aara. She wore a full-length dress in pale blue, with headscarf and veil. She carefully avoided looking him in the eye as she entered the room, glancing briefly at the head on the table before looking at the floor.
“Here is Aara Sur,” Plyntoure said, his ears folding backwards.
“Do you know who I am?” Orim asked.
“I explained,” Plyntoure said.
“Yes? Good,” Orim said, moving to where he'd placed the head. “I seek a man with this likeness. Have you the skill to find a likeness?”
“Are you able to do this for the Ronyon?” Plyntoure asked. “We are obliged to help him if we are asked.”
Aara looked at the model head.
“I do not know,” she said, speaking quietly.
Orim had visited many worlds, and found a number where women, and sometimes men, wore veils or masks. In some places jewellery could be so elaborate it concealed much of the face. The strangeness of this had never left him.
In his homeland, women wore heavy furs, and sometimes wraps to protect the face during the harshest part of the winter. But men and women would go naked when they shared the steam lodge, or swam together in the icy water of the nearby lake. Even disfigurements, and marks which portended bad luck — white eyes or red birthmarks — were openly displayed by his people. A hidden face was an untrustworthy thing, and without truth, there could be no honour.
Aara stepped forward and touched the face, her fingers brushing the skin gently, cautiously, running over the temple, and pushing away a few stray hairs.
“It feels like real skin … is it real?” she asked.
“It is something devised to produce the exact likeness of another. What it is, how it was fashioned, I cannot say.”
“Why do you want this man — what did he do?” Aara asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Orim smiled into his beard. The hint of defiance was unexpected — a little like grabbing the tail of a tiny long-haired snow maesa, and finding himself holding onto the end of a vyseloryn.
“Sent to protect him, I am. I cannot swear he will go unharmed, if I find where he is hidden, yet I know, should another discover him before me, he will die. And so, will you do this?”
Aara nodded, but still wouldn't meet his eyes. She placed both hands on the head and spoke a pattern of words, a kind of rhyme in her own language that seemed to cycle back and forth, repeating first one part, then another.
Orim stood patiently, feeling the flow of her casting, while Plyntoure watched, eyes moving from one to the other, ears twitching.
Eventually, Aara looked up. “He's in the city, some distance from here.”
A short while later, Orim and Aara sat in a symor, travelling towards the centre of Vergence.
“Find him, could you, if he were dead?” Orim asked.
Aara paused. “Perhaps, if his face remained the same.”
She cradled the head in her lap, concentrating hard and murmuring a repeating phrase. This form of far-sensing was unknown to Orim, and he tried to feel his way into it, to discover Aara's method, but her casting felt as diffused and elusive as the mist on the surface of a morning lake. No sooner did he think he'd grasped a part, than it slipped away from his him, as insubstantial as breath between his fingers.
He sat back in his seat, and watched Aara work. Tenlier's subtlety in seeing her value was impressive. He remembered the general apathy at her test, recalling her later only because Tenlier had taken the odd decision to accept her alongside Ebryn.
By the light of the street lamps he could make out the features of her face under her veil, careworn creases around the sides of her eyes, clearer under the stark blue-green light, a fine etching of emptiness, sorrow, loss.
Orim had seen the same haunting expression in the face of Fein, not the fresh lacerations of grief for a man lost beyond the storm-blown seas, but lines left afterwards like scars, a cold void bearing down on her spirit.
Aara frowned, and broke off from her recitation.
“Moved again, has he?” Orim asked.
“He's been moving for a little while, now I cannot find him.”
“He may be near sevyric iron. Try once again, when we are closer.”
He watched her curiously, from the corner of his eye. She sat calmly, cradling in her lap, what might easily be a severed head, all the while with the strength of mind to track a man half-way across the city.
“Where are you from?” Orim asked.
“Lalaerin.”
“Do you mean Deldeon?”
“It is Lalaerin to my people,” Aara said. “It is Deldeon to the Alamas.”
“Others are here, from Deldeon. Do you know of them?”
Aara gave the smallest of nods, and turned her head in the other direction.
“They are Alamas?” Orim asked, reading what he could of her expression. “Not friends? Yet you know them?”
She nodded again, keeping her eyes down.
“You came to Vergence, why?”
“There was a woman from here called Saray. The Alamas discovered my power — she warned me. I had to leave.”
“Saray?”
Aara glanced quickly at Orim. “Do you know her?”
“She is Hemetuen. It is Vittore she works for.”
“Like you—”
“Know you Saray's purpose with your people?”
“She tried to stop the war between us and the Alamas. The elders feared Saray, even the young men, but they wouldn't listen to her.”
Orim leant back into the seat, wondering why Saray had sent Aara to Vergence. It seemed unlikely she'd have the insight to see the value of Aara's narrow skill. Yet people could change, and grow, he reminded himself.
He remembered her as a newly arrived apprentice — troublesome, fearless, and talented. Seldom patient. Instinctively, he felt something more lay behind the choice. Orim decided he would ask Vittore about it later.
They travelled on in silence until they'd passed over the circle road into the heart of the city.
Aara tried again, inclining her head, indicating they should head in the direction of the temple district. Orim wondered if Yale had hidden away, disguised as a priest or monk. If so, a temple would be a cunning choice for a fugitive. Many would have inner sanctums, difficult to enter unnoticed, and bound to cause outrage amongst the followers of all but the meekest gods if he tried without permission.
Just before the temple district Aara indicated another left turn. “We are near. We must go slowly.”
Not the temple district, Orim thought, as they edged through an area of expensive looking houses and large buildings — nearing the administrative centre, where the Margave held their courts, and foreign embassies were located.
“In there,” Aara said, pointing as they passed by a very tall building.
Surrounded on all sides by a substantial wall and a garden, it had two guards stationed outside the front gate, each with a spear and large shield. Orim recognised the uniform and style of their shields — Ulpitorian soldiers. Combat veterans too, Orim judged, by the way they stood.
He breathed out heavily, indicating to the driver they should stop at the side of the building. A better place to hunt Yale than inside one of the temples, but perhaps still difficult.
The symor came to a stop out of sight of the guards, and a few yards from a small side gate. Orim dropped silently to the cobbled street, holding a finger to his lips, hoping Aara would look at him long enough to see, or at least have the good sense to make no noise. He accepted the head from her, feeling her flinch as his hand brushed her arm.
“Return her safely home,” he said quietly to the driver.
Orim thought he fe
lt Aara's eyes on him as he walked towards the gate, but by the time he looked back the symor had pulled away, and she was hidden from sight.
Orim waved his hand at the lock, using a casting to force it open. The power of his casting twisted and slid away from him, appearing along the edge of the entrance as the briefest shower of sparkling light. Protected by a small lode of sevyric iron — not enough to block his casting, but sufficient to disrupt the subtleties of the kind used for opening. The door lock remained closed.
Orim clenched his jaw and extended his hand again. Sixty slow heartbeats later the entire housing for the lock melted, glowing bright red, and dribbled down the reinforced wood with a faint hiss.
Orim pushed the gate open, and stepped through.
Conspirators
PALONA WATCHED with amusement as her dancing teacher, Master Rassine, shrieked with rage at the three blank-faced stable boys. His face turned an ugly shade of red, and spittle flew from his mouth as he tried to adjust their foot positions in the midst of a formal set with three of her housemaids.
The day after her dance humiliation she'd hired Master Rassine, the most prestigious dancing instructor to be found in the city, and set herself a daily training routine. Hapless servants were dragged into the lessons from whatever task they might be doing, to act as extras, models and, on a few occasions, dance partners. She spared only those on immediate business for her uncle, although nothing she did would persuade Jaquit to join in, nor would Dr Elali, and she didn't even bother asking any of the household guards.
The only space large enough for dance training had been the entrance hall at the front of their residence and, as always, her uncle had indulged her, agreeing to let her use the space every morning for as long as she needed it.
On the second day following the ball she'd received a message that Lord Muro had died. She thought it a rather fortunate turn of events as she knew nobody would even remember the dancing after hearing news like that, although it also made her a little sad as he'd been rather handsome. She persuaded herself she would have forgiven him, and invited him again if he'd promised to behave better next time.
After that, she lost interest in the lessons, but continued them anyway for the pleasure of watching Master Rassine struggling to teach. Most of the sessions were a complete disaster, with bewildered servants staggering in random directions as Master Rassine screamed incomprehensible instructions to unwilling students and musicians by turn. Jaquit didn't like dancing, and couldn't hear the music, so she exhibited her feelings by sitting in full view of Rassine, alternately pouting and scowling at him.
Palona held a pose at the end of the double lines of dancers, with the three boys on one side, and the girls on the other. She watched them critically as Rassine moved a foot, adjusted an arm position, tilted a head. Anybody would think they'd be more grateful for the opportunity to train with such a great master rather than spend the morning cleaning or mucking out stables, or whatever it was they might have been doing.
The main doors opened just as Rassine clapped his hands for the dance to continue, and a guard stepped into the room, closely followed by Lord Bae. Dressed in full armour, he carried his helmet under his arm, his lips drawn into a tight line. He stalked around the outside of the room, ignoring everybody, including Palona.
“Did you see that?” Palona signed at Jaquit. “He didn't greet me, he didn't even look at me. How rude.”
“Didn't you say he looked fine in his uniform?” Jaquit signed.
“Better with the helmet on I said,” Palona signed back, pulling a face at Jaquit.
The lesson seemed to be dissolving into chaos around her as confused stable boys collided and stumbled into the line of girls. Rassine's mouth opened and shut like a landed fish, his eyes bulging. He looked like a man on the verge of tears.
“Are any of you really trying?” Palona said. “Master Rassine, see if you can teach them to do this properly. It can't be that hard to get it right. I'll join in again, when you're doing this bit properly.”
The dance had just resumed when main doors opened again, wider this time, and the merchant Phar Salsa swayed into the room. Palona sighed, wondering if she would be interrupted by every one of her uncle's friends.
His eyes swept the room, taking in every detail as he approached. As usual, he smelt of sweat, grease, and spices.
“Dear Lady Palona, how ill considered of me to intrude when you're taking such trouble to educate your people. Your generosity is boundless. You leave me breathless at my own inadequacy, at the paucity of my charity.”
“My uncle's in his library. I wouldn't want to keep you from your business,” Palona said shortly, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose.
“Ah, but it isn't your uncle I am here to see lady Palona. A little leatherwing tells me my good friend Lord Bae has stopped here. Poor fellow, I hear he's inconsolable with grief over the murder of his brother. It pains me, but I have business with him which I cannot delay.”
This was news to her. It hadn't occurred to her to find out how Muro died.
“Murdered?” Palona asked.
“Terrible business … terrible,” Salsa said, looking like he was enjoying himself. “His vitals were eaten up from the inside. No doubt Vittore's party put it out he died pleasuring himself on one of his bawds, to avoid trouble and protect their allies, but there is no doubt he was murdered.”
Palona could feel herself colouring at Salsa's vulgarity. “What in this city could do that?”
“Ask not what, ask who, my lady.”
“Was it that woman he was with? I said she looked like trouble, didn't I, Jaquit?”
“I couldn't say, Lady Palona. She was arrested, but Vittore himself has declared her innocence.”
“Vittore said she was innocent?” Palona asked.
“There is no need to concern yourself with such ugly things,” Salsa said, waving a chubby hand in the direction of the stable boys. “I have imposed on your generosity long enough. You have your beautiful art to make, and unless I am mistaken I hear Lord Bae now.”
A door banged open and they heard Bae's voice raised, shouting. “— my city. My ancestors built this city with their own hands. Their sweat, their very blood, is in the mortar that binds the stones—”
Salsa trudged past Palona, following the sound of Bae's voice.
Palona moved closer to the door, placing herself where she could see Bae standing in the entrance of her uncle's library room. Salsa shuffled towards him, nearly blocking the passageway.
“You bring your fine soldiers here, and then what?” Bae said. “They spend their days guarding old men who do nothing but sit around all day, drinking and scratching, waiting for some nonsense dream plan to be completed. And when will that be? My brother is dead, and everywhere we have ungodly criminals flouting the law.”
Bae pulled the library door shut with a bang and turned to find himself face to face with Salsa. “He's in there, and good luck to you.”
“But my dear Lord Bae, it was you I sought to speak with.”
“Me? What about?”
“You may not have known it, but for my part I was a friend to your dear brother, when he would allow it. My pain at his loss cannot compare with yours, I know, but I, too, would like to see some justice for his life, cut short in such a foul manner.”
Palona could hear the lie in Salsa's words, but she was as certain Bae wouldn't have the wits. If Salsa had slapped him, he couldn't have looked more surprised.
“Things have changed,” Bae said. “Our caster friend came to see me—”
“How do you know it was him?” Salsa said.
“He knew everything, and more,” Bae said. “It was him. He told me he'd changed his mind about the threat and said we need to act — as much as said it was a Volanian matter,” Bae said.
Bae glanced past Salsa and noticed Palona watching, dropped his voice and leant in close to Salsa, speaking too quietly for her to hear.
Salsa drew a small phial from a pou
ch hidden in his robes and handed it to Bae. Palona leant closer, straining to hear, as Salsa rumbled a response.
“— just take care not to cut yourself—” Salsa said, then held up a warning hand as Elali appeared in the passage behind Bae.
Elali led Bae away, and Phar Salsa entered her uncle's study. When they were gone Palona turned back to the room to find Rassine and the dancers standing in a disorderly group, staring at her. The musicians were paying close attention to their instruments, wearing careful expressions of concentration. She looked from the musicians to Rassine, and decided she didn't want to practice dancing anymore.
Yale
THE BITTER STENCH of ash lingered in De'Argent's nostrils. He'd scrubbed his skin raw, and scraped off every last scrap of hair from his body, but nothing could rid him of it.
He'd returned to his keep to find half a lifetime's work gone, with nothing but a burnt shell left behind where his creations had lived. The fire had been hot enough to crack stone, melting glass and metal into unrecognisable lumps, and reducing everything capable of burning to a fine grey powder.
Remnants of two bodies lay in the midst of the destruction. The one recognisable thing he'd found was a single dart, lying scorched but intact on the floor near the end of the last corridor — the kind of dart he'd used to kill Spetimane in H'nChae.
In a cold rage he'd killed every other acolyte on duty that day. Workmen had been drafted in to clear the debris, and start with restoration of the displays. For days he'd wandered through his halls, unable to fully comprehend his loss, unable to admit much of his work was gone forever. The beauty lay in the precise detail — fine nuances impossible to recall or recreate decades after the events, and without these minutia the rest of the work meant less than nothing.
Word came from his contractor: the man once called Yale had been discovered. As before, a fragment of material accompanied the letter, and a caution. His target was somewhere in the great city of Vergence, and once more the Ronyon was close by.
