Shadowplay s-2

by Tad Williams

  “He will know you are waking and will be expecting you,” the older woman said, smiling again. Briony could count half a dozen other women in the large room, and she seemed to recall there had been even more the previous night. “Let us help you dress.”

  It all went swiftly and even enjoyably, the women’s talk mostly incomprehensible, a continuous dove-soft murmur that even in the waxing morning light made Briony feel sleepy again. It was so odd, these women and their foreign rooms and ways, their foreign tongue, as if the entire house had been lifted out of the sandy streets of some distant southern city by a mischievous god or goddess and spun through the air to land here in the middle of cold, muddy, winter’s-end Eion. Somebody was definitely on the wrong continent.

  The older woman, guessing correctly that Briony had forgotten her name, politely reintroduced herself as Idite.

  She didn’t put Briony back into the Skimmer girl’s tattered dress, but clothed her in a beautiful billowing robe of some pale pink fabric so thin she could easily see the light through it, so thin that she had to wear an underdress of a thicker, more clinging white cloth, with sleeves long enough to reach her fingertips. The Tuani women lifted her hair up and pinned it, cooing and giggling at its yellowness, then set a circlet of pearls on her head. Idite brought Briony a mirror, a small, precious thing in the shape of a lotus leaf, so she could see the result of all their work. She found it both charming and disturbing to discover herself so transfigured by a few articles of clothing and jewelry, turned so easily into a soft, pretty creature (yes, she actually looked pretty, even she had to admit it) of the kind she suspected all the men of South-march had always hoped she would become. It was hard not to bristle a bit. But the transformation was an act of kindness, not domination, so she smiled and thanked Idite and the others, then smiled some more as they complimented her at length, haltingly in her own tongue and fluently in their own.

  “Come,” the mistress of the house said at last. “Now you shall go to see the Dan-Heza and my good husband.”

  Idite and one of the younger women, a shy, slender creature not much older than Briony herself, with a nervous smile so fixed that it was painful to see, led her out of the women’s quarters. The passageway turned so many times that it made the house seem even larger, but they emerged at last into what had to be the front room, although instead of looking out toward the front of the house all the furniture faced doors opening onto the rainy courtyard. Shaso stood there waiting beside three chairs, two empty, one occupied by a small, bald man in a simple white robe who looked to be a little more than Briony’s father’s age, with skin a halfshade lighter than Shaso’s. The man’s short fingers were covered with splendid, glittering rings.

  “Thank you, Idite, my flower,” he said; unlike his wife’s, his words were scarcely accented. “You may go now.”

  Idite and the girl made courtesies and withdrew, even as the small man lifted himself from his chair and bowed in turn to Briony. “I am Effir dan-Mozan,” he said. “Welcome to my house, Princess. You do us honor.”

  Briony nodded and seated herself in the chair he indicated. “Thank you. Everyone has been very kind to me.”

  Shaso cleared his throat. “I am sorry I left you so suddenly, Highness, but I had much to talk about with Effir.”

  “I had no idea there were such places in Marrinswalk!” Briony could not help laughing a little at her own surprise.

  “If by ‘such places’ you mean Tuani hadami—houses of our people—you will find them in quite a few places, even here in the north. Even, I think, in your own city.”

  “In Southmarch? Truly?”

  “Oh, yes—but this is rude, expecting a guest to make conversation when she has not even been fed. Forgive me.” He raised a little bell from the arm of his chair and rang it. The bearded man who had opened the gate the night before suddenly appeared from behind a curtained doorway. He was even younger than she had thought then, perhaps only a year or two older than Briony herself. “Tal, would you please bring food and gawa for our guests—and for me, too. I was up early this morning and I am beginning to feel the need for a little something.”

  The young man bowed and went out, but not before giving Briony a long, unreadable look.

  “My nephew Talibo,” explained Dan-Mozan. “A good lad, although a little too enamored of these northern towns and northern ways. Still, he is a fast learner and perhaps these new ideas he so values will bring something useful to the House of Mozan. Now, let me ask, my child, was everything to your satisfaction? Did the women verily treat you well? Lord Shaso asked that you be given every kindness—not that you would have been less than an honored guest in any case.”

  “Yes, thank you, Lord Dan-Mozan. They all were very kind.”

  He chuckled with pleasure. “Oh, no, Princess, I am no lord. Only a merchant. Please call me Effir, and it will be to my ears as sweet honey on the tongue. I am glad you were treated well. A guest is a holy thing.” He looked up as Talibo came back through the door leading an older man who seemed to be a servant, both of them bearing large trays. The food had obviously been prepared earlier and only waited her arrival. The youth and the older servant arranged the bowls and platters carefully on the wide, low table, putting out unleavened bread, fruit, bits of cold spicy fish, vinegar-soaked mushrooms, and other savories Briony did not recognize. Tal then poured a dark, steaming liquid from a pot into three cups. When Briony had finished filling a shallow bowl with things to eat, she followed the lead of Shaso and Effir dan-Mozan, curling her legs under her and placing the bowl on her lap. She took a careful sip of the hot liquid, expecting it to be tea, which she had learned to drink from her great-aunt Merolanna, but it was something much stranger, bitter as death, and it was all she could do not to spit it out.

  “You do not like the gawa, eh?” Dan-Mozan smiled, not hiding his amusement very well. “Too hot?”

  “Too...too bitter.”

  “Ah, then you must add cream and honey. I often do myself, especially in the evening, after a meal.” He gestured to a smaller tray with two small pitchers on it. “May I do it for you?”

  Briony wasn’t sure she wanted it any way at all, but she nodded, just to be polite.

  “Having you in my house is a privilege even greater than it is a surprise,” Dan-Mozan said as he directed young Tal, with grimaces and flapping hands, through the delicate task of putting things in Briony’s gawa cup. “Lord Shaso has told me something of what happened. Please be certain that you are welcome here as long as you need to stay, and that nothing of...” He paused, then looked at his nephew, who had finished with Briony’s gawa and was waiting expectantly. “You may go now, Tal,” he said, a little coolly. “We have things to talk about.”

  “She is staying?” Tal remembered himself and shut his mouth in a tight line, but the question clearly annoyed his uncle.

  “Yes. She is a companion of Lord Shaso’s, and more important, she is our guest—my guest. Now go. You and I will speak later.”

  “Yes, Uncle.” Tal bowed, stole another quick look at Briony, then went out.

  Dan-Mozan sighed, spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “As I said, a good lad, but he has swallowed too many new ideas too quickly, like a naughty child given a whole bowl of sweetmeats. It has disturbed his constitution and he has forgotten how to behave.”

  “These northern lands can poison a young man,” said Shaso, managing to look grim even as he piled mushrooms in his bowl.

  “Of course, of course,” Dan-Mozan said with a smile. “But young men are particularly susceptible wherever they find themselves. He will go back to Tuan after his year here, marry a good girl, and find himself again. Now, let us bless our food.” He said a few words under his breath.

  “Back to Tuan,” Shaso said darkly. He looked drawn and tired despite the early hour. “There have been times when I wished I could do that, too, but it is not my Tuan, not anymore. How can it be, when it belongs to Xis?” He pursed his lips as though he might spit on
the floor, but then seemed to think better of it. Effir dan-Mozan, who for a moment had looked concerned for his beautiful carpets, smiled again, but more sadly this time.

  “You are right, my lord. Even though some of us unworthy ones must still keep ties there because of our trade, it is not the place we loved, not as long as those Xixian sons of whores—ah, your pardon, my lady, I forgot you were here— hold the keys to our gates. But that will change. All things change if the Great Mother wills it.” He briefly assumed a pious face as he brought his hands together, then turned brightly to Briony. “Your food, Highness—is it to your liking?”

  “Yes...yes, it’s very nice.” She had been eating slowly, wary of appearing too much of a pig in front of this small, neat man, but she was very hungry indeed and the food was excellent, full of tangy, unfamiliar flavors.

  “Good. Well, my Lord Shaso, you wished to speak with me and here I sit, at your command. I am very pleased, of course, simply to see you free, and amazed by your story.” The merchant turned to smile at Briony. “Your bravery was, it need not be said, a large and impressive part of Lord Shaso’s tale.”

  Her mouth was full; she nodded her head carefully. She was also the person who had locked Shaso up in the first place and she was not entirely certain whether this small, amiable man might not be mocking her.

  “I need information,” Shaso said, “and I wished the princess to be here since it saves me the work of repeating it.” He saw her irritated look. “And of course it is her right to be here, since she is heir to her father’s throne.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Dan-Mozan gravely. “We all pray for King Olin’s safe and speedy return, may the gods give him health.”

  “Information,” repeated Shaso, a bit of impatience coloring his voice. “Your ships go everywhere up and down the coasts, Dan-Mozan, and you have many eyes and ears on the inland waterways as well. What have you heard of the fairy-invasion, of the autarch, of anything I should know? Assume I know nothing.”

  “I would never be foolish enough to assume that, Lord Shaso,” said Dan-Mozan. “But I take your meaning. Well, I will make as much sense of it as the Mother grants me to make. The north is all confusion, of course, because of the strange d’shinna army that has come from behind the Line of Shadows.” He nodded, as though this was something he had long predicted. “The great army of Southmarch has been broken—I crave your pardon for saying it, estimable princess, but it is true. Those that have survived but could not reach the castle have scattered, some fleeing south toward Kertewall or into Silverside—they say that the streets of Onsilpia’s Veil are crowded with weeping soldiers. Many others are heading on toward Settland or down into Brenland, convinced that the north will fall, hoping to find shelter in those places or take ship for the south. But the southern lands, they may find, will soon offer no safe harbor, either...”

  Barrick, Barrick...! She tried to imagine him free and alive, perhaps leading a group of survivors toward Settesyard. Her beloved other half—surely she would know if someone she had known and loved like a part of herself were dead! “What of the city and SouthmarchCastle itself?” she asked. “Does it still stand? And how did you discover all this so quickly?”

  “From the boats that fish in Brenn’s Bay and supply the castle goods from the south, many of which belong to me,” said Dan-Mozan, smiling. “And of course, my captains also hear much in port from the river-men coming down from the other parts of the March Kingdoms. Even in time of war, people must send their wool and beer to market. Yes, SouthmarchCastle still stands, but the city on its shore has fallen. The countryside is emptied all around. The place is full of demons.”

  It all suddenly seemed so bleak, so hopeless. Briony clenched her jaw. She would not cry in front of these older men, would not be reassured or coddled. It was her kingdom—her father’s, yes, but Olin was a prisoner in Hierosol. Southmarch needed her, and it especially needed her to be strong. “My father, the king—have you heard anything of him?”

  The merchant nodded soberly. “Nothing that suggests he is not safe, Highness, or that anything has changed, but I hear rumors that Drakava’s grip on Hierosol is not as strong as it might be. And there are other tales, mere whispers, that the autarch is readying a great fleet—that he might wish Hierosol for himself.”

  “What?” Shaso sat up, almost spilling his cup of gawa. Clearly this was new to him. “The autarch surely cannot be ready for that—he has only just pacified his own vassals in Xand—surely half his army must be garrisoned in Mihan, Marash, and our own miserable country. How could he move so soon against Hierosol and its mighty walls?”

  Dan-Mozan shook his head. “I cannot answer you, my lord. All I can tell you is what I hear, and the whisper is that Sulepis has been assembling a fleet with great speed, as though something has happened which has pushed forward his plans.” He turned to Briony, almost apologetically. “We all know that the Xixians have desired greater conquest on Eion, and that taking Hierosol would let them control all the OsteianSea and the southern oceans on either side.”

  Briony waved away all this detail, angry and intent. “The autarch plans to attack Hierosol? Where my father is?”

  “Rumors, only,” said Dan-Mozan. “Do not let yourself be too alarmed, Princess. It is probably only these uncertain times, which tend to set tongues wagging even when there is nothing useful to say.”

  “We must go and get my father,” she told Shaso. “If we take ship now we could be there before spring!”

  He scowled and shook his head. “You will forgive me for being blunt, Highness, but that is foolishness. What could we do there? Join him in captivity, that is all. No, in fact you would be married by force to Drakava and I would go to the gibbet. There are many in Hierosol who wish me dead, not least of which is my onetime pupil, Dawet.”

  “But if the autarch is coming...!”

  “If the autarch is coming to Eion, then we have many problems, and your father is only one of them.”

  “Please, please, honored guests!” Effir dan-Mozan lifted his hands and clapped. “Have more gawa, and we have some very nice almond pastries as well. Do not let yourself be frightened, Princess. These are the merest whispers, as I said, and likely not true.”

  “I’m not frightened. I’m angry.” But she fell into an unhappy silence as Dan-Mozan’s nephew Talibo returned and served more food and hot drinks. Briony looked at her hands, which she was having trouble keeping decorously still: if the youth was staring at her again, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of noticing.

  Shaso, though, watched with a calculating eye as the young man went out again. “Do you think your nephew might have some spare garments he could lend us?” Shaso asked suddenly.

  “Garments?” Dan-Mozan raised an eyebrow. “Rough ones, not fine cloth. Suitable for some hard labor.” “I do not understand.”

  “He looks as though clothing of his might fit the princess. We can roll up the cuffs and sleeves.” He turned to Briony. “We will put that anger of yours to some good work this afternoon.”

  “But surely you will come,” Puzzle said. “I asked for you, Matty—I told them you were a poet, a very gifted poet.”

  Ordinarily, the chance to perform at table for the masters of Southmarch would have been the first and last thing solicited in Matt Tinwright’s nightly prayers (if he had been the sort of person to pray) but for some reason, he was not so certain he wanted to be known by the Tollys and their friends at court, both old and new. The past tennight things had seemed to change, as though the dark clouds that these days always clung to the city across the bay had drifted over the castle as well.

  Perhaps I am too sensitive, he told himself. My poet’s nature. The Tollys have done nothing but good in an ill time, surely. Still, he had begun to hear tales from the kitchen workers and some of the other servitors with whom he shared quarters in the back of the residence that made him uneasy—tales of people disappearing and others being badly beaten or even executed for minor mistakes. One
of the kitchen potboys had seen a young page’s fingers cut off at the table by Tolly’s lieutenant Berkan Hood for spilling a cup of wine, and Tinwright knew it was true because he had seen the poor lad being tended in a bed with a bandage over his bloody stumps.

  “I...I am not certain I am ready to perform for them myself,” he told Puzzle. “But I will help you. A new song, perhaps?”

  “Aye, truly? Something I could dedicate to Lord Tolly...?” As Puzzle paused to consider this and its possible results, Tinwright noticed movement on the wall of the Inner Keep where it passed around Wolfstooth Spire, a short arrow’s flight from the residence garden where he and Puzzle had met to share some cooking wine that Puzzle had filched from the lesser buttery. For a moment he thought it was a phantom, a transparent thing of dark mists, but then he realized that the woman walking atop the wall was wearing veils and a net shawl over her black dress and he knew at once who it was.

  “We will talk later, yes?” he said to Puzzle, giving the jester a clap on the back that almost knocked the old man over. “There is something I need to do.”

  Tinwright ran across the garden, dodging wandering sheep and goats as though in some village festival game. He knew Puzzle must be staring at his sudden retreat as though he were mad, but if this was madness it was the sweetest kind, the sort that a man could catch and never wish to lose.

  He slowed near the armory and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a sleeve, then straightened his breeches and hose. It was strange: he felt almost a little shamefaced, as though he were betraying his patroness Briony Eddon, but he shrugged the feeling away. Just because he did not wish to recite his poems before the whole of the Tolly contingent did not mean that he had no ambitions whatsoever.