by Holly Lisle
Greyvmian the Ponderer sat on his shoulders like an evil giant, weighing him to the ground and sucking the joy out of him. He liked his ideas for the play. He even felt a current of excitement about the way he was going to sneak his subversive messages about the dangers of magic and the truths of government abuses of regular citizens and men’s right to control their own lives into this seemingly funny bit of fluff.
But he wrote to a hellish deadline, and he wrote to the specifications of the Dragon Council, and he wrote under the shadow of Velyn’s betrayal. And he kept seeing Nalritha as Velyn, who loved a poor map-maker but chose a rich and cruel pirate. It would take everything he had in him to keep Greyvmian the Ponderer from becoming a tragedy.
At his door, tapping.
He pushed his pens and sheets away and rose, suddenly conscious as he did of the dull ache between his shoulders and the throbbing at his temples, and the fact that two of his three lanterns had run out of oil and guttered into darkness. He remembered at the same time that he had forgotten to eat, and realized that his bladder had filled to the point of pain.
He shouted at the door, “Just come in—I’ll be with you in a moment,” and ran to the back, to the mechanical toilet that did not magically purify waste but merely moved it to a leach pit on the downhill side of the village. He considered, as he did every time he used the odd toilet, what effect such toilets would have on the Empire if everyone were forced to use them—plentiful clean water would become scarce, while leach pits sufficient to cleanse waste for the hundreds of millions of people living under the rule of the Hars would take valuable land away from agriculture and at the same time would foul the air. He tried not to think about that too much—about the Hars without magic. He kept telling himself that if everyone lived without magic, they would still find ways to keep the air and water clean; they would still find ways to grow crops in the desert instead of using prime land for farming; they would still find ways to transport the uncounted millions where they needed to be. They would have enough food, enough space, enough of everything.
He didn’t believe himself when he thought it, though, and so his second fantasy was that people would find ways to use magic responsibly, without human sacrifice or the destruction of men’s eternal souls.
He heard his guest moving around the little room that acted as living room and bedroom for him. He wondered which of the Kaan had come to visit—one or another of his actresses and dancers would appear from time to time to see if he could be enticed into bed for a bit of fun. He couldn’t. He knew he should go ahead and take one or two up on their offers, if nothing more than to start the process of changing Velyn from ever-present agony to distant memory, but he didn’t care for the idea of using any of the young women who came to him, and in his current state of mind, that was all he would be doing.
So he had a polite no already framed when he came out the door and found, not one of the Kaan women, but Velyn, standing nervously in the center of his little room, carefully not touching anything.
“I had a hard time finding you,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have looked.”
“Solander gave me a general idea of where you might be. Beyond that …” She shrugged. She was studying him, as if trying to read his thoughts from his face. He saw dark circles under her eyes, and noticed that her eyelids and nose were red and swollen, as if she had been crying. He saw lines of little round bruises on her upper arms, too, as if she had been roughly grabbed—more than once—by someone with strong hands. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come at all, but … but I thought you ought to know.”
Wraith could not see her standing in his room without also seeing her by the fountain on the night she took vows, with someone who was not him and who wasn’t even the man to whom she’d sworn faithfulness, however temporary the term of that faithfulness was supposed to be. He turned so that he wasn’t looking at her, but instead at his desk, and said, “What should I know, Velyn? That I never really mattered to you? That you always had other men—that the whole time we were together, you had other lovers? I know all of that now. After your nutevaz, I spent a little time looking. Stupid of me, I know, but I think it’s helped me to come to terms with losing you.”
He glanced at her and found irritation rather than remorse in her expression. “Be quiet a minute,” she said. “I haven’t much time, and if I’m found here—well, that would be disastrous. Both Luercas and Dafril are working to discredit you. Luercas hates you—I suppose partly because I was with you before I was with him. But there’s more to it than that. He’s hired men to check into your background, to see if you’ve been involved with any illegal activities.”
“I haven’t.”
“You’re here, in this proscribed village. You’ve hired these villagers to work for you. You could be banned from Oel Artis for that—possibly from the whole of the Hars.” She sighed. “But that isn’t the thing that worries me most.”
“No?”
“Your papers are good, but if the men investigating you decide to write to your family in Ynjarval, they’re going to discover that the people you and Jess are pretending to be both died in a tragic airible accident at about the same time that you appeared here and moved into Artis House. And if they discover that, they’ll find a way to track you back to the Warrens.”
Wraith didn’t want to listen to her. He needed to be a playwright to free the Warreners. He needed to be able to go to and from the Warrens to gather images to feed to his allies who had access to the nightlies. He needed to have access to the equipment that produced the anti-magic flyers he wrote. And if he were being watched, investigated—hunted— he wouldn’t be able to do any of those things.
Solander would soon be in a position to help him—as soon as he got his position in Research, he would be able to create diversions. Another year, Wraith thought. Another year, and Solander would have finished his exit project and would be declared a Dragon.
Another year. Would Wraith be able to hold out for a year?
He had the patronage of the Dragon Council—but would that be of any value? Not if anyone in power discovered that he only pretended to be stolti. The Silent Inquest would turn on him between two beats of a heart.
He didn’t want to listen to Velyn—but he didn’t dare ignore her. If people were checking into his background, he needed to have a background that would withstand deep checking.
Which probably meant that, as soon as he had Greyvmian the Ponderer on the stage and running smoothly, he needed to take some of the large amount of money he’d accumulated recently and spend it on a trip “home” to Ynjarval to buy himself an alibi. The dead parents would never betray him; he just had to be sure that the rest of the “relatives” would come through for him in his moment of need.
And while he was at it, he thought he ought to make sure he covered Jess’s background, too. No sense making his own alibi perfect and leaving a hole in hers that would destroy them both.
He took a deep breath, and turned and actually looked at Velyn. “Thank you for coming to tell me this. I’m sorry for the … the rudeness of my reception. I appreciate your concern for my well-being—” A smile flickered at the left corner of Velyn’s mouth; Wraith recognized that smile as one of superior amusement. He stopped his placating apology in mid-sentence. “What’s so funny?”
“I didn’t risk my neck for your sake, Wraith. You—a Warrener— treated me, a stolta, as if you had both the right and the justification to question my actions. If Luercas and Dafril could find out the truth about you without that truth also implicating me in the keeping of your secret all these years, I wouldn’t whisper a single word of protest. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve whatever is coming your way, and I’m quite sure sooner or later something will get you.” She laughed softly. “Just know that I’ll be smiling when I get the news.” She turned toward the door. “My sole interest in this is in keeping myself out of the little circle of people whose lives you destr
oy when you and your schemes are discovered.”
“Ah.” Wraith nodded and let himself look at her and really see her— not as he had wanted her to be, but as she was—a high-born woman who had been slumming with him for the secret thrill of it, who may or may not have cared a little about him but who had never cared enough to make a commitment to him, who felt certain that she was a better person than he was simply because of an accident of birth; and, he had to admit, an unpleasant, vindictive bitch. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Nice bruises, by the way. Luercas give those to you?”
She flushed and opened the door.
“Don’t come back,” he said. “I’d hate to have anyone I know see you here. You might give me a bad reputation.”
She stared at him and her mouth dropped open—and then, with an inarticulate growl of rage, she slammed the door behind her.
Wraith sagged against the wall and closed his eyes against the welling tears. Gods, he wished he could hate her.
Three years. Three sweet springs, oppressive summers, glorious autumns, bitter winters that rolled across Oel Artis, changing lives, ending lives, and adding new ones, as seasons do. As time does.
In three years, Wraith made Greyvmian the Ponderer the cornerstone of a growing repertoire of plays that touched peoples’ hearts and made them think long after they finished laughing. Or crying. He eluded any connection between him and Vincalis, other than the obvious one of the plays that showed up at his doorstep at regular intervals, neatly bound in silk. In three years, he created an unassailable alibi—a carefully tended and bought stolti family in Ynjarval who had managed its finances poorly and was more than willing, for regular infusions of cash, to provide proof and testament that they had known the boy Gellas as a child and had sent him off after his parents died so tragically. In three years he wrote more than twenty plays, built two new playhouses to add to his first one, hired managers and actors, accountants and lawyers, and made the names Vincalis—and, to a lesser extent, Gellas Tomersin—as well known as any Dragon’s, and better loved. In three years, he owned a fine house in a fine neighborhood in the Belows, and entertained in it often.
In three years, he never replaced Velyn, nor did he try. His heart remained broken and his soul scarred, and he kept chaste as any fanatical follower of Toth.
He and Solander grew further apart with the passing of each day. Solander buried himself in magic studies, got his position in Research, got his own workroom, won grants and accolades for his early work in rewhah-less magic, and began to be suggested as a candidate for the Council.
Jess took her musicians around Oel Artis, and then around the Empire. She and Jyn parlayed their initial investment into a massive entertainment concern, and created an interest in the live arts that spread not just through the stolti class, but through all the classes. Both women became very rich. Jyn claimed her share of profits, sold her portion of the business to Jess, and took vows with a charming man she’d met while booking tours in Arim. Jess took lovers, but did not keep them long. She kept looking for something, but not finding it. In all the world, her only constant companion was her assistant. She found this a sad statement on the emptiness of her life, but accepted it nonetheless.
And Velyn. Ah, Velyn. Her mistakes compounded, but Luercas was her first and greatest mistake. She was his revenge against Wraith—and with every new success that Wraith had, Velyn got another opportunity to suffer.
Luercas in his stolen body rose in influence among the Dragons, and his vowmate lived in fear and misery. They had no children, not because she never became pregnant, but because each time she did he claimed the child was not his—even on those occasions when he knew it was. Each time she came to him with her news, he cast a spell to determine the legitimacy of the child, and each time worked the spell so that it would “prove” her unfaithfulness. Each time he demanded, by the articles of the contract, that she terminate the pregnancy. When finally she knew that the baby could be none but his, and his test still lied to her, she realized that he had found a way to keep her forever in breach of her contract, and forever unable to dissolve their vows without ruining her family financially. As long as he could manipulate the paternity tests, she could not hope to leave him on favorable terms.
Velyn was trapped. And when she realized it, Luercas’s treatment of her grew just that much worse.
Three short years, and the seasons passed oblivious to the lives of those who lived through them. For every change that happened in view of everyone, another change occurred beneath the surface, hidden in the darkness. These were the dangerous changes, changes that crept toward chaos and evil and pain and grief. They began to surface with a single crack in the veneer of one lovely day.
Book Three
Vincalis the Agitator
All men die, Antram. All men age and wither and creep at last into their dark graves, and from thence into the flames of Hell or cold oblivion, as their theology dictates. But to only a few men do the gods give a task, a burden, a road to greatness that can, if they take it, raise them above the thick clouds of complacency that blind most eyes and plug most ears. To only a few men do the gods give true pain, which removes the bloated cushion of softness and brings sharp awareness of the preciousness of life; which raises up heroes and strips cowards naked before the world. You, Antram, will do great things. You will see, you will feel, you will breathe and touch and revel in each moment you are given. And you will suffer great pain. And someday, whether soon or late, you will die.
But all men die, Antram. Few ever live.
FROM ON A FAR HILL
VINCALIS THE AGITATOR
Chapter 13
Dark, and silence, and city guards moved through another out-lander district of Oel Artis. But no one answered the doors upon which they knocked, and when those guards kicked in doors and searched houses, they found no one at home—though signs in the homes showed that people had been there, sometimes so recently that food sat hot on tables—so recently that chairs or beds were still warm to the touch. The guards should have come away with a full complement of fodder for the Warrens from the district they had been sent to harvest—but they left empty-handed.
Lights flashed from rooftops when they passed, and aircars dropped out of the sky and silently deposited people back in their homes—to pack, for they could not hope to survive in their old homes in their old districts once the guards had come hunting them. They had friends now, though, and they would find other places to live—would move through a chain of hands, get new names and new papers, find new homes and new jobs. Many of them, knowing that they and their children owed their lives to the nameless people who dropped out of the sky to pull them away from disaster, joined the underground. These rebels knew only one name for certain among those with whom they fought, but that one name gave them hope.
Vincalis.
On such a morning, with the breeze fresh and sharp and scented by the sea, with the sunlight warm on his uplifted face in wondrous contrast to the frost-brushed wind, with the sounds of the city all around him shaped and transformed by a bell-like resonance of the air, Wraith wanted nothing more than to walk away from Oel Artis to his home in the countryside, to revel in the day. Perhaps he could do that tomorrow. Today—today he would have a full schedule.
He smiled slightly at the facade of the West Beach Experimental Playhouse, the newest of his creations. This building he’d designed from the ground up; no more refurbished factories, no more cutting corners. He had three major plays going on in the city at any time, and fifteen troupes of traveling players on extended tours throughout the rest of the Empire. Managers took care of most of the day-to-day work, so that he was free to write in secret the plays that kept the machine in motion. But some things only he could handle.
His assistant greeted him as he stepped through the private side door, her usual smile oddly missing.
“You’ve received invitations to several First Hallows parties, and the Benedictan envoy from Kirth has asked
to meet with you to discuss the touring of one troupe of players; the Kirthans are most especially interested in the comedies, but understand that the tragedies usually come as part of the repertoire; they have made quite a substantial offer. Your bookkeepers have finished the reports for Pombolen, Falzan, and Sheffen, and request some of your time to go over the profits and losses— they seemed quite pleased, so I’m assuming the news is good. You have a meeting with potential investors in the Round Hall at naught-and-half by Work. And last but certainly not least, a woman is sitting behind your desk crying. She says she knows you and is quite sure you’ll remember her. I suggest you do not go into the room alone—you’ll want at least one reliable witness present, and perhaps several.”
Wraith, who had been walking up the stairs to his top-floor office, stopped at that last comment and said, “A witness? Why? Has she accused me of something?”
“No. But you’ll want people who are able and willing to testify that she was in that condition when you walked into the room, and not just when she walked out of it.”
“Condition?” Wraith had hired Loour because she was dependable, ungodly efficient, and trustworthy. He wouldn’t second-guess something she told him in seriousness. He said, “You’ll come in with me. Also Dan and Murin. They’re both in the finance room. Go get them.”
Loour said, “You need to do that. I’ll stay here and make sure she doesn’t leave—but I don’t want you to be alone with her for a minute. There is something … something terribly wrong about her.”
