by Greg Keyes
“Suppose,” the prince said, “I tell you what happened?”
“Your Highness?”
The regent took a sip of the wine and made a face. “You were taken prisoner,” he said, “by the queen’s Lierish guard, and kept in a dank cell for five days, until report reached me that you were there. I then had you freed.”
Leoff frowned. “My Prince—”
“Because if that isn’t what happened,” the prince went on, examining the fingernails of his right hand, “I might have to accept the report from a nearby village of a man who looked like you and a girl who looked like Mery traveling together. I would then have to conclude that you had lied to me, which would be a capital offense, even if you did it to protect a little girl you rightly thought was in danger from the queen mother.” He looked back up at Leoff. “I should think you would like my story better.”
“I—yes, Your Highness,” Leoff replied, feeling thoroughly miserable.
Robert smiled and clapped his hands together. “We have an understanding then,” he said. “And if you happen to hear from Mery, or learn her whereabouts, her mother misses her, and she is no longer in danger from the queen mother, so let someone know, would you, please?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Very good. Now, I am given to understand that you were commissioned by the queen mother to produce a musical performance of some sort?”
“Yes, Your Highness. For the Yule celebration, in the Candle Grove. There was to be a feast and general invitation to the people of the city and countryside.”
“A wonderful idea,” the prince said. “Please submit the work to His Grace the praifec for review.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Leoff said.
“Fine. I’m done with you now.” He dismissed Leoff with a wave of his hand.
As soon as Leoff was alone, he leaned against a wall, his limbs feeling like water. What was he to do? If he told them where Mery was, what would happen to her? To him? Did they know or suspect that he and the girl had heard their plot? Were they still looking for her?
But he had to do something, and in this he could have only one ally.
He squared his shoulders and continued walking.
“Yes?” the footman said. “How can I help you, Fralet?”
“I must speak to Her Ladyship,” Leoff said. “It is a matter of utmost importance.”
The footman looked irritated, but he nodded and left. He returned a few moments later. “Follow me, please.”
He led Leoff to a sitting room with an immense pastoral tapestry covering one wall. Shepherds and rustically dressed women picnicked beside a pool, entertained by a goat-legged man with a harp and three nymphs playing flute, lute, and sackbut.
Gramme looked drawn and disheveled, but rather than diminishing her beauty, disorder somehow augmented it.
She didn’t waste any time on her usual pleasantries.
“Do you have news of my daughter, Fralet Ackenzal?” she barked.
“She is alive and well, my lady,” Leoff assured her.
“Are you quite out of your mind?” she snapped. “Do you know the penalty for kidnapping?”
“Please, my lady,” Leoff said. “I did not kidnap her—I was only trying to keep her safe. I was afraid for her life.”
“Well,” Gramme said, looking down and ticking her finger on her armchair. She took a deep breath and let it go before meeting his gaze again.
“You are not a father, are you, Fralet Ackenzal?” she asked.
“No, lady, I am not.”
“Do not become one,” she advised. “It is tremendously annoying. I never wished for a daughter, never once, you know. She has been nothing but a liability to me, and yet, despite all reason and very much against my will, I find I have feelings for her. I thought she was dead, Fralet Ackenzal, and you are to blame for that.”
“Lady, forgive me for the worry I’ve caused, but I think if I had not acted as I did, she would be dead now.”
Gramme sighed. “I am distraught, and you have a point. An attempt was made to poison my son and me when we were in the queen mother’s ‘protection.’ No doubt she intended to kill Mery, as well.” She took a deep breath. “Very well, let this be forgotten. The prince wants to tell a different story of you anyway, and I think it unwise to stand in his way on that matter. Just tell me where I can find my daughter.”
“I would prefer to fetch her myself, Your Ladyship,” Leoff said. “If you could provide me with a horse or carriage—”
Her brow furrowed again. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because I left her in the care of someone, someone I would not want to see implicated in my actions. I hope you can understand that.”
After a moment, she nodded brusquely. “That will do. I will arrange for my carriage to take you.”
“Milady? I wonder if I might inquire as to—ah—what has happened in my absence. Things seem to have—changed.”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No, madam, I have not.”
She smiled faintly and leaned back. “Prince Robert returned from the dead, as it were, and yesterday proclaimed himself regent.”
“But what of His Majesty, Charles?”
“Muriele managed to spirit him away, somehow, along with her Lierish guard. The Craftsmen have also left the city.”
“But the queen?”
“The queen mother remains in Eslen,” Gramme said. “She has been placed under arrest.” She pursed her lips. “Why do you think my daughter is still in danger?”
The sudden return to their earlier conversation left Leoff a bit breathless. “I don’t think I made it clear that I thought she was still in danger,” he said.
She nodded. “No, but you think it so.”
“I—” He searched for some explanation that would not reveal what he had heard. If Mery somehow died before returning to Eslen, it would be just one more weapon to use against the queen. He had already allowed himself to become such a tool—he would not let Mery die to become one, as well.
“It’s just a feeling I have,” he murmured. “But I think once I have returned her to you, she will be safe.”
“And she is safe where she is?”
He thought about that—the prince had received reports of the two of them together, but he didn’t have Mery, which suggested he hadn’t been able to follow their trail all the way to Gilmer’s.
“I believe she is, milady.”
“Then let her remain where she is for a time. I will contact you when I’m ready for you to fetch her.
“Thank you, Lady Gramme.”
She looked at him frankly. “No—thank you, Fralet Ackenzal.”
He returned to his quarters, hoping for rest and peace, and found the praifec instead, glancing through the sheets of music on his desk. He felt a surge of unaccustomed and blistering anger.
“Your Grace,” he said, trying to keep any venom from showing in his voice.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the praifec said, “I let myself in.”
“Your Grace is always welcome,” Leoff lied.
“This is the piece the queen commissioned?”
“Most of it, Your Grace.”
“I flatter myself that I know something of music,” the praifec said. “Before I entered the clergy I studied in the Academy of Saint Omé. My course was Letters, but music was a requirement, of course.”
“What instrument did you choose?” Leoff asked.
“The lute, primarily, and harp of course. I was born in Tero Gallé, where the harp is revered.” He frowned slightly at the sheet music. “But I do not fully understand this. What are these words written below the staff?”
“They are meant to be sung, Your Grace.”
“Along with the instruments?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then how can this be considered a serious composition?” the praifec wondered aloud. “It seems very common, like something that might be performed in a tavern or in the street. T
he music that comes from this court should elevate the soul, even if it is to be performed for less-than-noble ears.”
“I promise you, Praifec, it will elevate. This is something very new.”
“The world is suddenly full of new things,” the praifec reflected. “Few of them good. But go on, Fralet—explain this ‘new thing’ to me.”
“It is a marriage, Your Grace, of drama and music.”
“Like the lustspell one hears in the streets?” Hespero asked disdainfully.
“No, Your Grace—and yes. The lustspell are narrated by song, and the actors mime the parts. I propose to have the actors themselves sing, accompanied by the orchestra.”
“That doesn’t sound substantially different to me.”
“But it is, Your Grace. Her M—the queen mother asked me to write something not for the nobility, not for the court, but for the people, to give them hope in these dark times. They are—as you say—familiar with the lustspell. But while the street performances I have seen are vulgar in content and poorly drawn, I intend to give them something that will stir their souls—as you say, uplift them.”
“As you uplifted them in Glastir, by starting a riot?”
“That was an unfortunate event,” Leoff said, “but it was not the fault of my music.”
Hespero didn’t say anything, but continued leafing through the pages.
“This triad is in the seventh mode,” he noticed.
“Indeed, Your Grace has an excellent eye.”
“Triads in the seventh mode are not to be used,” the praifec said firmly. “They have a disharmonious influence on the humors.”
“Yes, yes,” Leoff said. “Precisely, Your Grace. This is a point in the piece where all seems lost, when it appears that evil will triumph. But if you turn the page here, you see—”
“The third mode,” Hespero interrupted. “But these aren’t mere triads, these— How many instruments is this written for?”
“Thirty, Your Grace.”
“Thirty? Preposterous. Why do you need three bass Vithuls?”
“The Candle Grove is quite large. To project over the voices—but you see, also, here, where they each depart to different themes.”
“I do. This is extraordinarily busy. In any event, to shift from seventh to third mode—”
“From despair to hope,” Leoff murmured.
The praifec frowned and continued, “Is to excite first one passion and then another.”
“But Your Grace, that is what music is meant to do.”
“No, music is meant to edify the saints. It is meant to please. It is not meant to stimulate emotion.”
“I think if you just heard it, Your Grace, you would find it—”
The praifec waved him to silence with his own sheet music. “What language is this?”
“Why, Your Grace, it is Almannish.”
“Why Almannish, when Old Vitellian is perfectly suited to the human voice?”
“But, Your Grace, most of the people attending the concert do not understand Old Vitellian, and it is rather the point that they should understand what is being sung.”
“What is the story, in brief?”
Leoff related the story Gilmer had told him, including the embellishments he had added.
“I see why you choose that tale, I suppose,” the praifec said. “It has a sort of common appeal that will be popular with those for whom it is intended, and it promotes the idea of fealty to one’s sovereign, even unto death. But where is the king in all of this? Where is he in his people’s hour of need?” He paused, crooking a finger between his lips.
“How is this?” he suggested. “You’ll add something. The king has died, poisoned by his wife. She rules through her daughter, who has—against all that is right and holy—been named his successor. The town is invaded, and the people send for help from her, but it is denied. After the girl sacrifices herself, the invaders, overcome with fury, swear to slaughter the entire populace, and it is then we learn that the king’s son—whom all thought dead—is indeed alive. He saves the village and returns to take his rightful place as king.”
“But, Your Grace, that isn’t what—”
“And change the names of the countries,” the praifec went on. “It would be too incendiary to name a Hansan as the villain, given the current climate. Let the countries be, let me see—ah, I have it. Tero Sacaro and Tero Ansacaro. You can guess which is which.”
“Is there anything else, Your Grace?” Leoff asked, feeling himself wilt.
“Indeed. I will give you a list of triads you may not include in your piece, and you will not have chords larger than a triad. You may retain your thirty pieces, but only for the sake of volume—you will simplify the passages I mark. And this most of all—voice and instruments shall not be joined together.”
“But Your Grace, that’s the whole point.”
“That is your whole point, but it is not one you will make. The instruments will play their passages, and then the players may recite their lines. They may even sing them, I suppose, but without accompaniment.”
He rolled the papers up. “I’ll borrow these. Write the new text, with my inclusions. Do it in Almannish if you must, but I will have a complete translation, and likely some amendments, so do not become too attached to it. I will return this to you in two days’ time. You will have two days to alter it to my satisfaction, and you will begin rehearsals immediately after that. Is this all clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Cheer up, Fralet Ackenzal. Think of it this way—the patron who originally commissioned this piece is no longer in a position to reward you for it. You are fortunate you still have a position here at all. The regent is your new patron—mind you do not forget that.”
He smiled thinly and turned to leave.
“Your Grace?” Leoff said.
“Yes?”
“If I am to start rehearsals so soon, I must retain the musicians. I have a few in mind.”
“Make a list of them,” the praifec said. “They will be sent for.”
When the praifec was gone, Leoff closed the door and leaned against the hammarharp on balled fists.
And then, very slowly, he grinned. Not because he was happy, or because anything was funny, but because he wasn’t worried or afraid anymore. That had been swept away by a clean, cold fury the like of which he had never felt before. This man, this fool who styled himself a praifec had just sowed a very large field, and soon enough he would reap it. If Leoff was a fighting man, he would take his sword and cut down the praifec, and Prince Robert, and whomever else he could reach.
He wasn’t a fighting man. But when he was done, the praifec would wish Leoff’s weapon was the sword. That he promised himself and every saint he knew.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NICWER
STEPHEN FIRST THOUGHT THE water itself had drawn up in a fist to smite at Aspar, but then the fist resolved itself into a wide, flat head with yellow-green eyes that glared like huge round lanterns, all arranged on a thick, long neck. It was a shade between olive and black, and looked weirdly horselike, somehow.
Horselike. That struck a bell instantly in his saint-blessed memory. He jammed his palms up to his ears.
“Winna, cover—,” he began, but it was too late, as the beast started to sing.
The note cut through his hands like a hot knife through lard; sliced straight into his skull and began slashing about. It was beautiful, just as the old legends told, but to his oversensitive awareness it was a terrible beauty that stung like hornets and wouldn’t let him think. Through a red shroud, he saw Aspar calmly put down his bow and begin walking toward the creature. Winna was starting toward it, too, tears streaming down her face.
He dropped his useless hands and picked up Ehawk’s bow. It was only seconds before Aspar walked into the creature’s gaping jaws.
He screamed as his shaking hands raised the weapon, trying to cancel the noise in his head, trying to remember the clean motion Aspar used when
firing. He drew and released. The arrow skittered harmlessly off the monster’s skull.
The note it sang changed in tenor, and he felt his taut muscles loosen and a strange joy surge through him, like being drunk, happy and warm. He dropped the bow and felt a silly grin spread across his face, then laughed as the nicwer—that’s what it was, a nicwer—curved its muzzle down toward Aspar.
The neck suddenly snapped back like a whip, the wonderful song cut off by an anguished bellow. Something whispered by his ear, and his eyes caught the blur of an arrow in motion. It struck the nicwer beneath the jaw, and he saw there was already an arrow there, buried in a sort of sack or wattle he hadn’t noticed before.
He turned in the direction the arrow had come from and saw Leshya running down the street toward them, still fifty yards away.
She was supposed to still be up on the hill, but he was glad she wasn’t. He picked up the bow and ran toward Winna.
Aspar felt as if everything good in him had been ripped out—mornings waking in the ironoaks, the quiet of the deep forest, the feel of Winna’s skin—everything wonderful was gone. All that was left was the ugliest beast he had ever seen about to take a bite out of him with sharp, gleaming, serrated black teeth. With a hoarse cry, he threw himself aside, suddenly noticing a stench like the bloated belly of a long-dead horse or the breath of a vulture.
He came back up with his dirk and ax out, feeling silly. He saw it better now, as it heaved itself up on the dock. Its head was otterlike, as wedge-shaped as a viper, and twice the size of the biggest horse skull he had ever seen. Like the greffyn and the utin, it was covered in scales, but also with oily green-black fur. At first he thought its body was that of a huge snake, but even as he reckoned that, it suddenly heaved up onto the dock with short thick forepaws. The feet were webbed and had talons the length of his arm. Silent now save for a sort of gurgling whistle, it lurched toward him, dragging the rest of its mass up from the river. He backed away, unsure what to do. If he let it sing again, then he would surely walk stupidly back into its jaws, as he had almost just done.
At least he knew what had happened to the people of Whitraff. They had walked smiling down to the river and been eaten. He remembered an Ingorn story about something like this, but he couldn’t remember what it was called. He’d never much cared for stories about nonexistent creatures.
