by Greg Keyes
“Yes?”
“If it please you, I’ve been sent to conduct you to the lady Gramme’s affair.”
“I . . . I’m quite busy,” Leoff said, tapping the music notation on his desk. “I’ve a commission . . .”
The man frowned. “You did accept the lady’s invitation.”
“Well, yes, actually, but—”
The fellow wagged his finger as if Leoff were a naughty child. “Milady made it quite clear that she would be most insulted if you did not attend. She’s had a new hammarharp brought in just for you.”
“I see.” Leoff cast his gaze desperately around the room in the vague hope that he would see something that would get him out of this predicament.
“I’ve not much to wear,” he attempted.
The man smiled and beckoned to someone unseen. A round-faced girl dressed in servant’s garb appeared, bearing a bundle of neatly folded clothes.
“I think these will fit you,” the man said. “My name is Alvreic. I’m your footman for the night.”
Seeing no escape, Leoff took the clothes and went to his bedchamber.
Leoff watched the slowly turning saglwics of a malend on the side of the canal and shivered, both from the cold and the memory of that night near Broogh. A full moon, pale in the daylight, rose just behind it, and in the clear air he heard the distant barking of dogs. The autumn smell of hay was gone, replaced by the scent of ash.
“I had rather thought the ball was to be held in the castle,” Leoff ventured.
“Is the coat not warm enough?”
“It’s a beautiful coat,” Leoff said. It was, for it was quilted and embroidered with leaves on the high collar and wide cuffs. He just wished it were as warm as it was pretty.
“The lady has excellent taste.”
“Where are we going, may I ask?”
“Why, Grammeshugh, of course,” Alvreic replied. “Milady’s estate.”
“I thought the lady Gramme lived in the castle.”
“She does, most of the time, but she does have the estate, of course.”
“Of course,” Leoff repeated, feeling stupid.
He felt as if he were in one of those dreams where one kept getting farther and farther from one’s goal, gradually forgetting altogether what that goal was.
He still remembered his intention had been to avoid the party. After Artwair’s warning and the strange night with the queen, any connection to the lady Gramme seemed foolish.
So he’d decided to pretend he’d forgotten her invitation. That had clearly failed, so his next-best hope had been to make a brief appearance and then quietly excuse himself. Now somehow he’d left the castle, passed down through the gates of the city, and onto a narrowboat headed back out across Newland. It would be night soon, and the city gates would close—it would be tomorrow before he could get back to his rooms.
He should simply have refused to go, but it was too late for that. Now he could only hope the queen didn’t find out.
The world darkened, and Leoff huddled against it. For him, there was no longer anything innocent about the night. It hid things, but unfairly it did not hide him. On the contrary, it seemed as if he were prey for everything out there, and he felt hunted. He even slept with a lamp lit, these nights.
Presently he noticed a line of cheerful lights ahead, and as they drew nearer saw lanterns strung along the side of the canal. They led up to a quayside pavilion, where twice a score or more canal boats were docked.
Music was in the air. He first heard the high, sweet voice that sounded like a flageolet, but with a more haunting timber and odd glissando passages between certain notes. The rhythm was odd, too, first in two, then in three, to two, broadening to four. The unpredictability of it made him grin.
So did the underlying play of the croth and the bright comments of a push-pull. The tune seemed light and cheerful, but overall it felt melancholy, because the foundation was a slow, deep movement of a bass vithul, played with a bow.
It wasn’t exactly like any music he had ever heard, which was both exciting and strange.
They were near enough to dock before the lantern light showed him the faces of the players—four Sefry men, their broad hats set aside for night, faces like silver sculptures in the moonlight.
Two normal men came to take the bowline and tie the boat up. Ignoring his guide, Leoff stepped off onto the quay and approached the Sefry, hoping to speak with one of them. The flageolet, he saw, had no windcap; the musician was blowing directly onto the diagonal cut made into the bone—ivory?—instrument. The other instruments were standard, so far as he could see.
“Come, come,” Alvreic said. “Make haste. You’re late already.”
The musicians showed no sign that they noticed his attentions, and the song did not seem near its end.
The lanterns continued up a low hill, limning a road that led to the looming shadow of a manse. As Leoff and Alvreic made their way silently up to the estate, a voice joined the music, and everything about the piece snapped into place in a way that brought a sigh to his lips. He strained to hear the words, but they weren’t in the king’s tongue. He had a sudden, vivid image of the cottage by the sea where he had grown up. He saw his sister Glinna playing in his mother’s garden, her blond hair muddy, her face huge with smile, his father on a stool, playing a little croth.
A pile of stones, that house now. Ghosts, his father and sister.
And it suddenly seemed he did understand the words, if only for an instant.
Then the din from the manse trod over the Sefry melody. There was music in that, too, a familiar country dance that seemed heavy and vulgar after what he’d just heard. But by the laughter and shouts he made out along with it, he guessed it was pleasing to most of its audience.
Presently they reached a pair of immense iron-bound doors, which—at a sign from Alvreic to someone unseen—slowly creaked open. A doorman in bright green hose and brown tunic greeted them.
“Leovigild Ackenzal,” Alvreic said. “He’s to be announced.”
Leoff held back a sigh. So much for avoiding notice.
They followed the doorman down a long, candlelit hall to another pair of doors, which also swung open, this time to reveal a hall ablaze with lamp- and candlelight. Sounds came pouring out, music mixed with the chatter of the crowd. The musicians were at the far end, a quartet, now playing a pavane. Perhaps twenty couples were dancing to it, and easily twice as many standing about in conversation.
But as he entered the room, all that stopped, and more than a hundred people turned to regard him. The music fell silent.
“I present Leovigild Ackenzal,” the doorman announced in a clear, carrying voice. “Composer to the court and hero of Broogh.”
Leoff wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the sudden roar of applause took him utterly by surprise. He’d performed before the public before, of course, and had received praise for his compositions. But this—this was something different. He felt his face reddening.
The lady Gramme appeared suddenly on his arm, coming from nowhere. She leaned in to peck his cheek, then turned back to the crowd. Leoff noticed someone else stepping up on his other side, a young man. He put a hand on Leoff’s shoulder. Leoff could only stand there, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
When the crowd finally quieted, Lady Gramme curtsied to them. Then she smiled at Leoff.
“I suppose I might have told you that you were the guest of honor,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” Leoff blurted.
But Gramme already had turned back to the crowd. “Fralet Ackenzal is nothing if not modest, my friends, and it won’t do to embarrass him too much, nor would it do for me to keep him to myself, when so many of you wish to visit with him. But this is my house, after all, and I’m allowed a few liberties.”
She smiled through the chorus of laughter that followed her statement. Then, when she spoke again, her voice was suddenly serious.
“This hall is full of light,” she sai
d. “But do not be fooled. Outside there is darkness, whether the sun is shining or no. These are hard days, terrible days, and what makes it worse is that our own courage seems to have deserted us. Adversity crowns heroes, isn’t that the old saying? And yet who has been crowned here? Who has stepped forth from the shadows of our tragedies and taken a strong hand against the rising evil? I—like you—have despaired that such men no longer seem to be born in this world. And yet this man, a stranger to our country, not even trained as a warrior, has been our savior, and I hereby crown him our hero! From hence, let him carry the title of Cavaor!”
Something settled on Leoff’s head as the crowd began cheering again. He felt it and realized it was a metal circlet.
The crowd suddenly stilled again, and Leoff waited nervously to see what would happen next.
“I think they’d like a word from you,” the lady said.
Leoff blinked, surveying the waiting faces.
He cleared his throat.
“Ah, thank you,” he said. “It is most unexpected. Most. I, umm—but you haven’t got it quite right.”
He glanced at Gramme nervously, and his tension increased when he saw the small wrinkle that appeared between her eyes.
“You were at Broogh, weren’t you?” someone shouted.
“I was there,” Leoff said. “I was, but I wasn’t alone. That is, no credit goes to me. Duke Artwair and Gilmer Oercsun, they deserve the credit. But lady, I have to disagree with you. I haven’t been here long, but this country has many heroes. A townful of them. They died for you at Broogh.”
“Hear, hear,” a few shouted.
“There is no doubt of that,” Gramme said. “And we thank you for helping us to honor them.” She shook her finger at him as if scolding a child. “But I was present when Duke Artwair gave his report, and if there is one man in this kingdom who does have the courage and sense of his ancestors, it is the duke. Indeed, I wished to have the duke here tonight, but it seems he has been ordered to the eastern marches, far from the court and Eslen. Still, in his absence, I will not dispute his word, Cavaor Ackenzal, and should hope you would not either.”
“I would never do that,” Leoff said.
“I did not think so. Well, enough of my talking. Be at home here, Leoff Ackenzal—you are among friends. And should the mood strike you, I hope you will try my new hammarharp, and tell me if it is as well-tuned as I am assured it is.”
“Thank you, milady,” Leoff said. “I’m really quite overwhelmed. I’ll examine it right away.”
“I don’t imagine you will,” she said, “but you are welcome to try.”
She was right. He’s gone only a few steps before a young woman of perhaps sixteen had taken his arm.
“Won’t you dance with me, cavaor?”
“Ah . . .” He blinked stupidly at her. She was pretty, with a friendly, oval face, dark brown eyes, and red-gold hair hanging in ringlets.
The music had started again, a whervel in triple meter.
He glanced around. “I don’t know this dance,” he said. “It seems a bit lively.”
“You’ll pick it up,” she assured him, taking his hands. “My name is Areana.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet you,” Leoff said, fumbling at the steps. As she said, it wasn’t difficult—very much like the country rounds of his youth—soon he had it.
“I’m fortunate to be the first to dance with you,” Areana said. “It’s good luck.”
“Really,” Leoff said, feeling his neck burn. “Too much has been made of this. Tell me of yourself, rather. What family are you?”
“I’m a Wistbirm,” she replied.
“Wistbirm?” He shook his head. “I’m new to this country.”
“There’s no reason you should have heard of us,” she said.
“Well, it must be a good family to have produced such a charming daughter,” he said, feeling suddenly bold.
She smiled at that. It felt good, dancing with her. His leg was still stiff, and occasionally moved awkwardly, so their bodies bumped. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and he found himself enjoying it.
“What’s the court like?” she asked.
“Haven’t you been there?”
She stared at him and then giggled. “You think I’m nobility?”
Leoff blinked. “I suppose I did.”
“No, we’re just lowly landwaerds, my family—though my father is the Aethil of Wistbirm. Do you find me less charming now?”
“No less,” he replied, though now he realized that she had the accent he’d heard in the countryside—not as thick as Gilmer’s but still marked—and very different from the lilt of the court speech he’d come to know. “It’s not as if I have noble blood myself.”
“And yet there is such nobility in you.”
“Nonsense. I was terrified. I barely remember what happened, and it’s a miracle I wasn’t killed.”
“I think it was a miracle that brought you to us,” Areana said.
The song ended with a sort of bumping bang, and Areana stepped back from him.
“I shan’t hog you,” she said. “The other ladies will never forgive me.”
“Thank you very much for the dance,” he replied.
“Next time you will have to ask me,” she said. “A girl in my position can only be so bold.”
There was no shortage of bold girls, however, all of whom, as it turned out, were from the landwaerd families. After the fourth dance, he begged a break, and made toward where the servers were dispensing wine.
“Eh, cavaor,” a rough voice said. “How about a dance for me?”
Leoff spun on the voice, delighted. “Gilmer!” He shouted, and caught the little man up in a hug.
“Hey, now,” the man grumbled. “I was just joking. I’m not hopping about with you.”
“But where were you earlier, when Her Ladyship was giving the honors? This ball should be for you, not me.”
Gilmer laughed and clapped his shoulder, then whispered, “I snuck in with a crowd. But never fear—this party aens’t for neither of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you listening to the lady’s pretty speech? Haven’t you noticed the quality of the guests?”
“Well, they seem to be mostly landwaerden.”
“Auy. Oh, there’s nobility about—there’s Her Ladyship, of course, and the Greft of Nithergaerd over there in the blue, the Duke of Shale, Lord Fallow, Lord Fram Dagen, and their ladies, but most here are landwaerden or fraleten. Country- and townfolk.”
“It seems an odd sort of party for a lady of the court to throw,” Leoff admitted.
Gilmer reached for a passing tray and snagged them two cups of wine.
“Let’s walk a bit,” he said. “Have a look at your hammarharp.”
They moved toward the instrument, which was still across the room.
“These families here are the backbone of Newland,” Gilmer said. “They may not have noble blood, but they have money, and they have militias, and they have the loyalty of those who work the land. They haven’t been happy with the noble families for a generation, but things are worse now, especially since what happened at Broogh. There’s a deep canal between the royals and the people out here, and it’s getting deeper and wider every day.”
“But Duke Artwair—”
“He’s a different sort, and as the lady Gramme said, he’s been sent away, hasn’t he? And the emperor don’t turn his eye here. He don’t hear us or see us, and he don’t help us.”
“The emperor—,” Leoff began.
“I know about the emperor,” he said. “But his mother, the queen—where is she? We’ve heard nothing from her.”
“But she—” He stopped, unsure if he was allowed to mention his commission.
He sipped his wine. “What is this, then?” he asked. “Why am I here?”
“I don’t know,” Gilmer replied. “But it’s something dangerous. I only slipped in to warn you. I’ll be
leaving as soon as I see my chance.”
“Wait. What do you mean, something dangerous?”
“When the nobles court the landwaerds like this, it’s not usually just to be friendly. Especially when no one seems to know who is really in control of this country. The lady Gramme has a son, you know—he was standing just next to you. I suppose you know who his father was.”
“Oh,” Leoff said.
“Auy. Take my advice—play something on that hammarharp and then get out of here.”
Leoff nodded, wondering if Alvreic would take him back if he asked.
They had reached the instrument. It was beautiful, maple lacquered a deep red with black-and-yellow keys.
“What are you doing, now that your malend is burned?”
“Duke Artwair arranged a new position,” Gilmer said. “One of the malends on Saint Thon’s Graf, near Meolwis. Not too far from here.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He settled on the stool and glanced back up. Gilmer was gone. With a sigh he touched the keyboard and started playing.
It was an old composition of his, one that had pleased the Duke of Glastir very well. He’d once been pleased with it, too, but now it felt clumsy and childish. He pushed on to the end, adding variations in hopes of making it more interesting, but when he was done, it felt hollow.
To his surprise, the final notes were greeted by applause, and he realized a small crowd had gathered, Lady Gramme among them.
“Enchanting,” she said. “Please play something else.”
“Whatever you would like, milady.”
“I wonder if I could commission a piece from you.”
“I would be pleased to do so, though I’ve already agreed to one commission I must complete first.”
“I was rather thinking you could invent something for this occasion,” she said. “I’m told you can do such things, and I’ve made a wager with the Duke of Shale that you can make an impromptu that pleases.”
“I could try,” he agreed reluctantly.
“But see here,” said the duke, a puffy man in a jacket that looked too tight, “how shall we know if he is inventing and not playing some obscure older piece?”
