by Dave Duncan
A faint flush crept out of the top of True-valor's beard. "I told you—a noble lord."
"And who told him to?"
Bullyboy laid his arms on the table again and leaned forward threateningly. Obviously he had felt insulted even to be sent on this errand, and to have the object of it talk back to him was close to intolerable. He addressed me as if my wits had worn thin. "My lord takes orders from no one but the king himself. Nor does he answer questions from the likes of you."
"Did he himself instruct you?"
"I will not be interrogated, either! Do you spurn my offer?"
I was tempted to, just to see what would happen. I decided it would hurt.
"Meaning you don't know the answer," I said cheerfully. "I will get it before I sing." I rose and bellowed across to the innkeeper to tell him I was leaving. "What are we waiting for?"
Erect on his hind paws, True-valor of Galmish stood a good head taller than I. The sash binding his outfit together was sea-blue, with an intricate pattern of white gulls and gold dolphins. The jeweled dagger tucked in it must be some sort of insignia. He regarded me with disgust.
"No baggage?"
"Nothing worth going upstairs for," I said. "Pray lead the way, Your Honor."
I could not wait to see him from the rear.
So began a hectic journey across country, through lush green valleys, over rocky upland pastures. Verlia prospered under the rule of its kings, but I hardly had time to notice. I was rushed past vineyards, orchards, olive groves, sunlit hamlets of white and red, all in a blur, mostly at full gallop.
True-valor traveled in style, with four subordinates and two pack horses. His men were all just as dandily dressed as he was, but they set a bone-breaking pace. We thundered over the land like a summer storm, raising dust, scattering peasants and livestock, raining money. At every post my guides demanded the best mounts, regardless of cost, scorning to bargain. By night we dwelt in the best inns, dining like kings, wenching, sleeping on silk sheets. Peacocks my companions might be, but they were a hard-riding, hard-mouthed band. I was pushed to my limits to keep up with them.
Although I had little time or breath for conversation, I soon established what manner of men they were. Despite all the royal edicts forbidding private armies, any landowner of stature kept a few score of tough youngsters on hand and a cache of weapons in the cellar, just in case. Officially I was in the company of a secretary, a flutist, a veneerer, an archivist, and a painter of watercolors. In reality—a captain, a corporal, and three lancers. After the second evening, I would have backed them against a team of Jurgolbian bear wrestlers. The flutist took offense in a bar. The group of them then proceeded to demolish both it and a dozen of its inhabitants. I have rarely witnessed such a detailed annihilation.
Men who ride together can rarely resist the camaraderie of the road for long. I began by regarding my guards as thugs or popinjays, demon-ridden butterflies. They took me for a beggar and resented being required to escort me. A grudging friendship began to arise out of mutual respect. They appreciated my horsemanship and I was impressed by their skills at mayhem. We shared a common interest in wenching.
I learned that their employer was a high lord indeed, Fire-hawk of Kraw, a direct descendant of my old … I mean the legendary Sure-justice of Kraw. Juss. Moreover, Fire-hawk claimed descent from his eldest son and was thus titular head of the clan and lord of Still Waters.
Ven's family still held the throne, as Hool had decreed it would, but it had not been especially fruitful. Possibly Verl had restricted the number of progeny to avoid disputes over the succession. The present monarch was King High-honor of Verl—even now, the kings did not name their lineage after Hool except when visiting the northern provinces. High-honor had a reputation as a philanderer, but he acknowledged only two children, both in their teens and both legitimate.
Juss's line, on the other hand, had been prolific beyond reason, scattering sons everywhere. Verlia was widely blessed with his descendants—Lord This of Kraw and Lord That of Kraw, all over the place. I wondered whether they all still worshipped the same dragon's tooth, or if the god had somehow divided himself. How many teeth could a dragon spare? But I was confident then that I knew who had summoned me, and therefore the urgency. Dragons are not known for their patience.
I was wrong. It does happen.
My first inkling that I had jumped to an unwarranted conclusion came on the final day. It was late afternoon, we had been riding hard since dawn, and the sunlight felt like a whip. I was hardly in a mood to appreciate the scenery anymore, although I had registered that we skirted the edge of a large lake, and the shores ahead were heavily wooded.
Suddenly True-valor bellowed a question back to Stern-purpose of Foon, the young artist. I turned in time to see him shield his eyes against the sun. He called out an affirmative.
To my surprise, True-valor at once slackened the pace, announcing that we need not tire the horses. We dropped to a trot. I detected relief all around me.
I edged my mount close to our leader's. "Why this sudden consideration for livestock, Captain?"
"Still Waters." He pointed.
A few spires showed above the trees at the end of the lake. "So it's Still there? Is that surprising?"
True-valor sneered with a trooper's traditional arrogance. "All will be made plain in good time, Master Homer."
So much for our budding friendship! But none of us knew the real reason behind his mission to fetch me, and that was vexing him again, now our destination was in sight.
I turned back to studying the view ahead, to see if I could discover what had prompted the sudden relaxation. I failed. I was no wiser when we trotted across the bridge into Fire-hawk's palace. Being a foreigner, I did not recognize the royal standard flying from the highest tower.
I have seen my share of palaces, have even owned one or two. I have known some richer than Still Waters—larger, older, more intimidating or impressive—but none more beautiful. It sprawls over a cluster of wooded islands, connected by many bridges. Little of it can ever be seen at one time, but whatever is in sight is invariably eye-catching: trellises of marble against greenery, white arches reflected in jade pools, towers against the sky, balconies floating among branches. For a life amid flowers, birdsong, and fair vistas, Still Waters is unmatched anywhere.
Only a small part of it dates back to the founding of the kingdom, of course, but Juss himself chose the site and began the building. The former errand boy for Gozspin, Purveyor of Fresh and Nutritious Vegetable Materials, had ended his days in splendor. That would have pleased him greatly.
With the sun already sidling down to the hills, I was escorted to somewhat unimpressive quarters and assigned an equally unimpressive flunky as my escort and valet. His name was Towering-oak of Letus. He had as many airs as pimples, a large nose, and an even larger sense of his own importance. He was all arms and legs, bundled in enough spectacular fabric to make birds of paradise look like crows. He did not seem overwhelmed by the honor of serving me.
I washed away the dust of my journey. Towering-oak threw open a chest filled with motley for me to choose from. He offered to assist me in wrapping, if I felt unable to handle the contortions required. I made myself presentable without his help.
Meanwhile, though, I was learning from him that the royal family was visiting Still Waters: King High-honor, Queen Sea-jewel, Prince Just-blade, and Princess Nightingale. Lord Fire-hawk and Lady Rose-dawn were understandably honored, my valet confided with a sigh.
And which of these exalted personages had sent for me? I inquired.
He really did not know, he said. He really did not care, he implied. Her ladyship, most likely, he supposed. The king had unexpectedly decided to extend his visit for a second week. Her ladyship had been hard-pressed to find suitable entertainment for the additional evenings, having run out of jugglers, mummers, musicians, and masques. The royal visitors would be departing on the morrow, and then everything could return to normal.
> And the trader of tales might be thrown out with the slops, perhaps?
Now I understood the sudden change of heart on the road. All along, True-valor and his band had been worried that they might not deliver me before the king departed.
Even for a man who has seen monarchs without number, there is something special about performing before a court, and I was eager to meet descendants of the legendary sons of White-thorn. My harrowing journey from Myto seemed likely to prove worthwhile.
Yet by now I had realized that the situation was not as simple as it had seemed. Someone must have mentioned my name to Lady Rose-dawn, either her god or a mortal prompted by a god, for no mortal could have known of my presence in the time available. But which mortal, which god? It might not be Kraw, after all.
I was ready. Towering-oak of Letus inquired if I wished to eat, which I did. He led me off across bridges and lawns, from island to island. Dusk was falling, lanterns glowed on the trails. To explore all of Still Waters would take weeks. Even by daylight it is a maze. I was physically battered from my journey and strung fight as a lute at the thought of performing for a god. I did not realize where we were headed until we walked into the heat and din.
"Help yourself," my companion said with a languid wave of overpowering generosity. "Wait here and I'll fetch you if you're wanted."
He turned away as if his work were done. I grabbed his motley and spun him around with a yank that almost unraveled him before the entire kitchen staff of the palace.
"Not so fast, sonny!" I said. "I do not eat in kitchens when I am to speak with kings. Tonight I dine with royalty!"
He squealed. "That is totally impossible!"
"Then I tell no tales."
Seeing that I meant what I said, Towering-oak of Letus did exactly what I expected him to do—flew into a panic. He yelled for the guard. With the palace already in turmoil because of the king's visit, the guards had no interest in one obstinate entertainer, and everyone in authority was engaged elsewhere. They disposed of the problem by throwing me in a cell.
Well, I have seen almost as many jails as palaces, and that one was better than most—four walls of stout timber with a bed, but no chains or bloodstains. Although the window was barred, a nightingale sang outside it. I sat down and prepared to wait on developments, regretting only that I had not filched more than two honey tarts from the kitchen while I had the chance. I had barely finished the second when the lock rattled and the door creaked open.
The man who entered was instantly identifiable, although I had never seen him before. He was of middle years and middle size. He smiled with irresistible politeness. His motley was neither especially gaudy nor especially drab; jade and cobalt, without a fold misplaced, hanging to his ankles and draping his arms to the elbows. He was unremarkable, to a remarkable degree—one of those faceless officials who breed in the crevices of governments everywhere, oiling wheels, greasing palms, making things happen.
"Master Homer? I deeply regret this misunderstanding.'' The intense sincerity he projected made my skin crawl.
I sat up. "The situation can be corrected, Master … ?"
"My name is of no consequence. I am merely a messenger.'' He glanced out into the corridor and then closed the door and leaned against it. He smiled smoothly, rubbing his hands. "Whatever arrangements you require to aid you in your presentation this evening will be made available. It is our intention to provide the finest entertainment possible for the royal party, and your reputation is our assurance that this final night will be the consummate climax of their stay here."
I felt as if I were being smothered in hot wool. "You serve Lord Fire-hawk?"
"I am of no importance. I am here only to further your art. Your reputation has preceded you, Master Homer. We have all heard wonders of the trader of tales. Just make your wishes known to me, master. Indoors, or outside on the lawns? A large audience, or a small one?"
"Whatever suits." His eagerness to oblige was infectious. "I can perform under almost any conditions."
"And almost any performance by you, Master Homer, would be a triumph for any other storyteller. But we do not seek an average performance, or even an outstanding one. We want Homer's ultimate masterpiece, a telling that will itself be the subject of tellings for generations.''
He paused for a moment, appraising me, and I had a sense of something about to pounce.
"Subject to your approval," he continued smoothly, "I have arranged for your narration to take place in the West Portico. It is a sort of veranda, half indoors and half outdoors. We shall hang a single light over you, and leave the rest of the place dark. That will be dramatic, yes? We shall seat the audience among the potted plants and statues and so on, to make the atmosphere as intimate as possible."
Shivers of alarm ran down my backbone.
"I should prefer a small, well-lighted room with the seats close together and as hard as possible, to keep my audience awake!"
His eyes seemed to hood themselves. "Ah? I have been told that the trader of tales can weave a net of words to ensnare the very souls of his listeners. It is said that he will oftentimes entrance his audience, spellbind them so that they become unaware of the passage of time or the worries of the world. Is this indeed possible, master? Can mere words do this?"
If anyone should know the answer, it was he. I felt half mesmerized already, the rabbit before the snake. My wits raced around madly, seeking escape.
"Trancelike states in some listeners have been reported from time to time. Some people are more susceptible than others."
"For how long? An hour? Two?"
I shrugged, my mouth almost too dry to answer. "Not likely two. Not after a heavy meal."
"One, though? You could guarantee one hour?"
He endured my stare with bland confidence. His accent was not True-valor's or Towering-oak's. He came from Uthom. He was one of the court party, a glove over royal fingers. Whose game was he playing? Was the queen trying to cuckold the king, or the prince hastening his own succession? The game was boundless and the opportunity for foul play unquestioned. I suspected, though, that my visitor would not dirty his hands over a mere theft, nor a dalliance. That left assassination.
"Who sent you?"
A smile of deep regret. "That information I cannot give you."
"At least name the one I am supposed to distract! A man? A woman? This will influence my choice of material.''
He sighed. "You misunderstand. I seek only to further your art." He slid a hand inside the folds of his motley. "But if you achieve the effect I described … one hour … Of course at the completion of your tale we expect our host to toss you a purse of gold. That goes without saying. He will be generous. But if you can contrive the sort of spellbinding that I mentioned, then …"
He held out a hand. On his palm shone one of the largest jewels I have ever been allowed close to, about the size of a strawberry. Even in the dim little cell, it glowed with a thousand summer rainbows. He moved his hand and myriads of fireflies danced over the walls.
"You are joking!" I gasped. "It is a king's ransom."
He shrugged faintly, as if he agreed with me. "I was instructed to promise you this reward. I admit it seems extravagant, but you have my word on it, by the god of my fathers."
"Riches have little attraction for me," I protested, although I could not tear my eyes from the diamond. "I usually give them away to beggars or pretty wenches."
"One hour," he whispered, tucking the jewel away. He knew he had me hooked.
Conscience told me I should have no truck with this suave scoundrel. Experience told me that he would never deliver the bribe, and it was not the sort of fee that could be obtained by legal action.
Alas! I confess! I found the challenge itself irresistible.
And I was flattered. I am only human, after all.
The best way to deal with temptation, the Blessed Osmosis taught, is to rationalize it into a duty, for there can be no evil in performing a duty. Fire-hawk was head of t
he senior branch of Sure-justice's clan. This was his home and therefore Kraw's. The dragon was around here somewhere, and nothing was going to happen in Still Waters that he did not want to happen. Anything he did want to happen would. Eventually. No matter what I did or said. Right? Right. So I should perform as requested and do the best I was capable of. That was my obligation to those who had hired me. My duty!
I sighed. "I shall try to earn your bauble, my lord." I hoped that I would not learn of my success from a dying man's scream. I was a lunatic if I thought I would ever see that gem again …
The courtier was happy, smiling his sincere smile. "And the staging I mentioned will be satisfactory?"
"It sounds effective." I stood up shakily. "I landed myself in here by demanding that I dine with the king. It helps if I can assess my audience beforehand."
"Alas, the royal party is already at table, Master Omar, and protocol forbids anyone else to be seated now. I can let you view them from a distance, if you wish. I can have you proclaimed by a fanfare of trumpets when you make your entrance later, if it will help."
"Not very much. Show me the victim … I mean audience."
I peered out through a marble screen at the royal banquet, the snowy cloths, gold plate, glittering chandeliers. There must have been a hundred people dining in that hall, but only the high table interested me. My mysterious courtier had vanished, doubtless into whatever invisible political crypt he normally inhabited. At my side, a subdued Towering-oak whispered names and titles for me.
The king was obvious. High-honor was then in his early fifties and the sixteenth year of his reign. He was a large man, tending to obesity but still striking. He wore his honey-colored hair long and his slightly reddish beard forked. He was not unlike his ancestor Ven, but the resemblance stemmed mostly from fair Horsefolk coloring. High-honor's mother had been a northerner; his appearance must owe a lot more to her than to his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Perhaps to accentuate his fairness, the king favored motley of dark hues, and that alone made him stand out amid all the butterflies. He had a loud voice, a boisterous laugh, a jovial manner. I admired the way he kept conversation flitting around the table, never monopolizing attention as monarchs can so easily, keeping everyone involved. I watched him tease to provoke merriment, and flirt to flatter the ladies, but the victims did not seem to suffer hurt. Once or twice someone would aim a barb at the king himself, and his laugh would boom out as loud as any. Seeing him in the flesh, I understood his popularity. Whatever his policies might be, High-honor had a great personality, and I did not doubt that it was genuine. Likable is a word rarely applied to kings, but it suited him.
