Petrodor atobas-2

by Joel Shepherd

  There was a hole in the back brim of Rhillian's hat. Sasha recalled the crossbow bolt at the Garelo Temple. Rhillian had nearly died saving Yulia. Mercy was the serrin's instinct. Now, she spoke of slaughter.

  “Rhillian,” Sasha ventured after a moment, “does it occur to you that perhaps the great powers have been reluctant to push too hard in Petrodor for a reason? I mean…the great houses are split roughly north and south, and that is a logical division, yes? A balance. A symmetry, even.”

  “To human eyes, perhaps,” Rhillian said doubtfully. “Myself, I would hesitate to call the balance of terror and ignorance symmetry…but I quibble.”

  “The provincial dukes have been reluctant to choose sides until now,” Sasha continued. “The balance in Petrodor serves them well. No one patachi has too much power, and the priesthood is neutral between them. Arguments over wealth and power hold no monopoly on one or another man's support. But now, the argument is religion. Faith. And faith can only ever have one side.”

  Rhillian stared at her.

  “Faith can have many sides,” she said eventually. She looked…disturbed. As though Sasha's words had shaken her. “Many of these people below, they are both Verenthane and Nasi-Keth. In the Saalshen Bacosh, interpretations of the scrolls are very liberal. Belief is not such a simple thing as you describe.”

  “To serrin, no.” Sasha matched Rhillian's gaze as best she could. “You're not in Saalshen, Rhillian.”

  Rhillian's eyes narrowed and she made an expression as close to a dismissive snort as Sasha had ever seen a serrin make. “You sound like Errollyn.”

  “Serrin seek many truths,” Sasha insisted. “Humans seek one. It is our weakness, and our strength. Our diversity ensures that one truth shall never entirely triumph. Serrin have little diversity, yet your very nature ensures you do not need to.”

  “We are diverse enough,” Rhillian said quietly.

  “Errollyn insists not.”

  “The very fact of which surely supports my assertion,” said Rhillian, a little testily.

  “And that he's the only one who disagrees with you supports Errollyn's,” Sasha said firmly. “Rhillian, from the human perspective, that's just…odd. A little scary, even. I don't understand the vel'ennar, Rhillian. Neither what it is, nor how it works. But look at the Nasi-Keth. Or my native Lenays. They split in so many directions over the simplest of things, they are almost too numerous to count. Serrin all move together like a tide. I find that a little frightening, Rhillian. In truth.”

  “We find your need to massacre each other in order to express a diversity of opinion somewhat frightening,” Rhillian said coolly.

  Sasha nodded vigorously. “Indeed. Me too. But here, in this city, you've picked the one issue that might unite the people. Faith. North or south, rich or poor, Dockside or Backside or Riverside, they're all Verenthane. Not as many distrust the archbishop as ought to, for he's been held in check for so long by the stalemate of priesthood neutrality. The issue of the day is Saalshen and its occupation of holy sites. The Enoran High Temple, no less. You intervene and support Maerler to maintain a balance. But your very engagement in such a debate only works to the archbishop's advantage. You are serrin. You are pagan. With your presence, your interference, however well-intended, you only prove him right.”

  “And your alternative is that we retreat, cease our influence and allow Steiner to win anyway?” Rhillian's stare was disbelieving.

  “Rhillian…” Sasha leaned forward, elbows on knees, her soup bowl suspended in one hand. “If Maerler concedes to Steiner's power and gives Steiner command of the Army of Torovan, as the archbishop surely wishes, it would be a negotiated settlement. These are merchants. They would make a deal. Such is the way of power here-threat, violence and bluff, followed by a negotiated deal. But all such deals are temporary, and difficult. Maerler would remain a power and a threat, if Steiner should falter. Patachi Steiner knows this all too well, I think. It would be a nightmare for him. There are worse situations for you, Rhillian. For Saalshen.”

  “You have no idea of my nightmares,” Rhillian said quietly. “I see the war reaching Saalshen. I see a slaughter for which none of my tongues have yet devised words to describe.”

  “Perhaps you try for too much,” Sasha pleaded. “If you support Maerler now, Steiner may feel he has no choice but to attack. Perhaps some of the dukes will follow him. By forcing the battle, you could destroy one or the other and force a final solution. The balance of power would end, and that would be a tragedy for Saalshen.”

  “And if I do nothing, Maerler may back down and Steiner may win, and the Army of Torovan marches to slaughter my people. Are you saying that is now unavoidable?”

  Sasha hung her head. “I don't know. Maybe. We tried, Rhillian. But already the balance has shifted too far with the archbishop choosing his side.”

  “Perhaps he has not.” Rhillian's voice was calm now. Distant as she contemplated the horizon and the rigging of moored ships. “The priesthood has just now seen one rebellion. Perhaps there will be others.”

  Sasha gazed at her with dawning dread. “Rhillian,” she said softly. “Please don't do anything you might regret.”

  “There is nothing in this life,” said Rhillian, “that I may choose to do that I might not possibly regret.” She sipped at her soup and glanced sideways at Sasha, the slant of a lovely eyebrow beneath her hat. “Have you bedded with Errollyn yet?”

  Sasha blinked at her, caught completely off guard. “Bedded?”

  “A strange concept, I know. It happens sometimes between men and women. Surely it never crossed your mind.”

  Sasha took a deep breath and straightened, seeking dignity. “I've been rather busy.”

  “I wouldn't have thought it would take a whole afternoon.” Rhillian's humour, like her stare, and her swordwork, was utterly merciless. “He insists it was his conscience that led him in this direction. I think perhaps it was his groin.”

  Sasha snorted, trying hard not to blush. She was not often prone to embarrassment. “Like I'm such a catch,” she murmured. Rhillian grinned, then nearly laughed outright. Sasha scowled at her. “What?”

  “You think yourself unattractive?” Rhillian's entire manner had changed. Now, her eyes shone with fascination. Spirits she was beautiful. Beside her, Sasha felt like a mule beside a purebred desai mare.

  “No,” Sasha retorted defensively. “I'm just…different. Like always.”

  “To a serrin, there are few combinations more intriguing than dark hair and dark eyes. There is subtlety, you see.” She peered at Sasha's face, searchingly. “You see, the shading, so faint, so varied.” She made a form with one hand, fingers shifting. “Serrin colours are so obvious, so bright…the shades of human form are such res'ahl en, the mystery of the than'ath rheel darkness, that shapes the ash'laan of…”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Sasha said in Lenay. “I'm lost. Stop. I make it policy never to talk arts with serrin, especially not in Saalsi. My head will burst.”

  “Really?” said Rhillian, now back in Torovan, all bemused innocence. “I wasn't even speaking dialect.”

  “And of course you're terrible with languages,” Sasha added, exasperated.

  “Absolutely awful.” It was an old joke. And by serrin standards, not so untrue. “Sasha, every serrin man I've heard remark on the issue thinks you're gorgeous. I'd be absolutely astonished if Errollyn felt differently.”

  “And you serrin spend lots of time sitting around talking about whom you'd like to bed?” Sasha asked incredulously.

  “Every spare moment. Sasha.” Rhillian straightened and looked her very firmly in the eye. “As your friend. You live a very dangerous life. I'm delighted that you've survived this far. Time may be short for all of us. Take the man to bed. I assure you, it's worth the effort.”

  Sasha stared a moment longer. And her mouth dropped open as she realised the implication. “You…you mean…you and Errollyn have…?”

  Rhillian outright laughed, a pleasant,
warm sound. “Oh, and that surprises you? We're serrin! We have no morals, Sasha, and when we die, we're all going straight to the hells!” Sasha wanted to reprimand her that she really shouldn't joke about such things, but her mouth would not cooperate. “I have thirty-eight summers, Sasha, I've bedded rather a lot of men. I recommend it. Errollyn in particular.”

  “But you hate each other!” Sasha burst out.

  Rhillian laughed again…and nearly lost control of her bowl of soup. She saved it just in time. “Oh no,” she sighed. “Not at all. I…look,” and she held up her free hand helplessly, “I can't explain it, it's just a serrin thing. I don't hate Errollyn. I'll never hate Errollyn.”

  “Because he's serrin?”

  “No, that would be prejudice, you shan't trap me that easily.” Very amused. “Are you really sure you want to go down this path with me? We could be here until sundown.”

  “No, right, forget it,” Sasha said sarcastically. “Sanity before curiosity.”

  “Just trust me. On serrin matters at least, I'm quite sure I know what I'm talking about. I hope I haven't made you jealous. I'm quite certain I don't intend to marry him.”

  Sasha saw the amusement on Rhillian's face at that prospect. She had to laugh. “No. Bloody hells. It just seems that everyone's having sex except me.”

  “And who's fault is that?” Rhillian retorted expansively. “Take the man to bed, Sasha!”

  Sasha sighed in disbelief and shook her head. She didn't know what she felt, or whether she'd take the advice. Everything was so complicated. She envied the serrin. In some things, they were endlessly complicated. But in others, the simple pleasures, they were so attractively simple.

  “You know,” she said, “I once thought Errollyn was the strangest serrin I'd ever met. But now I think it's probably you.”

  Rhillian smiled, not at all offended. “Well, you're easily the strangest human I've ever met,” she returned playfully. “I suppose we're even.”

  The fields beside the road into Algery were barren after the harvest, and men pulled ploughs behind teams of oxen to loosen the soil. The cart rattled over pavings, here on the gentle downslope into town.

  Jaryd sat behind the driver's board in the covered cart, and peered past Teriyan and Sofy's shoulders. The road was so familiar. Ahead, past rows of fruit trees, the winding Hathys River ran between walled banks before the city. A stone bridge crossed where the river met the road.

  Along the riverbank, Algery rose in a swarm of stone buildings, haphazard tiled roofs and narrow alleys. A great arch at the end of the bridge marked the entrance to the city, whereafter the road vanished beneath the roofs. He knew, however, that it headed toward the grand temple spires that soared from the city's heart. Beyond and to either side of the city rose the enclosing hills of the Algery Valley. Downstream, another quarter-day's ride, lay Pyrlata, and the Nyvar residence…now the property of Family Arastyn.

  “Oh, it's so pretty!” Sofy opined, predictably. Tyree's capital did look pretty, Jaryd had to concede, however poor his mood for noticing such things. It helped that the sun was shining, the sky blue streaked with white, and the green orchards made lovely patterns in the midafternoon light against the rowed poplars and pines. “Here, what's this building?”

  Jaryd saw where she was pointing, to a small domed roof on the riverbank, upstream of the bridge. “That's the skywatcher. Dastry Urelvyn built it. He was the father of Lord Urelvyn. He was Verenthane, but followed the old astrology; he built the dome to watch the skies at night. He had the star charts painted all across the ceiling and watched through his windows as they moved.”

  As the road wound down to the bridge, traffic passed them on the way up. Sofy made no effort to conceal herself as carts passed, or farmers walked the roadside tending to orchards. A Goeren-yai farm driver, his daughter and a nephew on their way into town two days before a big wedding attracted little attention, and very few people this far from Baen-Tar had any idea what the Lenay royal family actually looked like. Sofy had seen some of the likenesses which sold in town squares on market day and laughed. Dressed in plain travelling clothes with a cloth tied over her hair she was in little danger of being taken for a princess.

  “Oh I wish I'd found more time to travel,” Sofy said wistfully as they approached the bridge. “Only now that I'm about to leave Lenayin forever do I have a chance to see what my land actually looks like.”

  “This is just a city,” said Teriyan, unimpressed. He did not look particularly comfortable on the driving board, his long knees sticking out, his hands grasping the unfamiliar reins. “Your actual land looks somewhat different.”

  “Oh tosh,” Sofy snorted. “I've seen plenty of beautiful land lately, now it's time to see a city. You know what I mean.”

  Teriyan had tied his hair back in a knot in the style of the eastern Goeren-yai of Tyree. Long red hair was common enough, but there was still a chance of recognition-many men of Tyree had ridden to the Udalyn Valley, although fewer from the cities and towns. There was always a chance of coming across a recent comrade-in-arms, particularly amidst the crowds that promised in Algery.

  Encounters with travellers on the road had informed them of the wedding in Algery, on exactly the day that Aeryl Daery had said. Galandry No-Name, once Nyvar, was to be wed to Family Iryani, close allies of Family Arastyn. It was the last, loose end of the Nyvar Family, the elder sister Dalya already wed, and the brother Wyndal adopted into Family Arastyn itself. And it was the best chance for access to Wyndal, in a big crowd for a big occasion, away from the private defences of the Arastyn Residence, aware of threats upon their house. Whether Wyndal would cooperate or not was another question entirely.

  They rattled across the bridge, beneath the arch and into Algery with a loud clatter of hooves and rattling wheels. The road was busy with people, and colourful flags hung from windows above the way. People were carrying baskets of vegetables, rolling barrels of ale, or hauling legs of lamb or pork.

  After slow going on the crowded road, they emerged into the square opposite the temple. Jaryd stared, suppressing a shiver. He recalled the services, walking at his father's side up the broad steps behind the priests. He'd liked the dressing up and the showing off. The services had been a bore, but he'd liked feeling important. Like a fool, he'd believed it his gods-given entitlement.

  Now, the top step about the temple door was decorated with a small pavilion, garnished with blue ralama flowers and green poplar boughs. Flags and colours hung about the square-the colours of Arastyn House, red and blue, in four opposing squares…and the other, green and white, he supposed must be Iryani. Truthfully, he'd never cared enough to recall.

  He gave Teriyan directions around the square's central fountain, into a narrower street. Near the opposite side of the city (for Algery was not large like Baen-Tar) they found the inn they were looking for and pulled the horses up outside.

  “Wait here,” said Teriyan, leaping from the cart. Sofy got down to see to the horses, something she fancied she knew a little about now. It seemed to Jaryd that she found delight in being useful. It was a quality much unlooked for in a princess. Jaryd stayed where he was and watched the inn across the road. In the narrow gap between buildings, he could glimpse open fields beyond and a lane that would lead to the stables. This was the quarter for inns, all on the city perimeter, where stables had lots of space and carts laden with fodder, and lords coming from the western valley would not have to pass through town before finding their destination.

  The innkeep came out, talking loudly with Teriyan, and Teriyan unstopped a barrel for the man to have a taste. Satisfied that the horses were well, Sofy climbed back up to the driver's board.

  “Over there,” Jaryd murmured, nodding toward the opposing inn's verandah. “That's Dysmon Frayne. Younger brother of Lord Frayne. They have a property not far from Nyvar Holding. I've played lagand against him. His son was good in the youngsters’ contests.”

  Sofy saw a tall, thin man with close-cropped hair. He was sp
eaking with a Torovan merchant, colourful and long-haired, his broad hat in one hand. A young lady appeared from the inn's interior. Sofy seemed to stiffen.

  “What?” Jaryd asked.

  “Nothing,” said Sofy after a moment, relaxing a little. “I thought for a moment it was someone I knew.”

  “Who would you know out here?”

  “Um…” Sofy thought for a moment, “Maryel Tasys, Elynda Iryani, Pyta Paramys, Rosarya Pelyn and Alonya Redyk. Oh, and Emylie Arastyn, of course. All were in Baen-Tar. Maryel I know returned to Algery three months ago. She's certainly here. Elynda I'm not sure about, though I'd guess she's returned just for this wedding, since it's her brother. And of course Emylie will be here.”

  “Ladies-in-waiting,” said Jaryd, understanding. This was Sofy's life in Baen-Tar. Many of the lords sent daughters to Baen-Tar in search of education, sophistication and, of course, husbands. While Jaryd knew many of Tyree and Lenayin's future rulers through play on the lagand field, Sofy knew many of their prospective wives through embroidery, scripture, dance and language classes. “You might have said so before we set out.”

  “I've far less chance of being recognised than you have,” Sofy snorted, adjusting the cloth tied beneath her chin.

  “Which is why you were holding your breath just now.”

  Sofy gave him an annoyed look. “I was not. Or maybe just a little. You can never be entirely sure.” She looked up and down the street at passers-by and flags hanging from windows. A cart squeezed past their own, hooves clattering. “All this fuss for a wedding,” she mused.

  It seemed an odd thing for Sofy to say-she'd seen far grander weddings than this one. Then Jaryd realised. “Your own will be a lot fussier,” he said.

  “I know.” Sofy seemed to gaze at nothing for a moment. Jaryd had never really thought about it before. Men got married, and unmarried girls became wives. Wives obeyed their husbands, and the natural order continued. He'd never…well, he'd never even considered looking at it from a woman's perspective. Especially not from the perspective of a woman who disliked her prospective husband, even though she'd never actually met him. She hated what he stood for, and what her marriage would be in aid of. War against the Saalshen Bacosh. It reduced her to a tool in other people's plans. A pawn.