by DAVID B. COE
Ioanna watched her husband leave before facing Javan. “My apologies, my lord,” she said. She looked tired and pale, though she managed a rueful smile. “It’s not easy for him seeing Brienne grown and ready for marriage, even with the wedding still a few years off. I believe he feels old.”
Javan offered a smile that seemed sincere. “There’s no need to apologize, my lady. Perhaps your husband is right. It may be more difficult with daughters than it is with sons. I won’t presume to judge him.”
“My lord is most kind,” the duchess said, inclining her head slightly. “He will make a gracious king.” Then she grinned. “Though only if he gets some sleep.”
The duke laughed. “Quite true.”
“This way, my lord,” Ioanna said, starting toward the small set of stairs that led off the dais. “I’ll have someone escort you and your company to your quarters.”
“My pardon, my lady.”
“Yes, Shurik,” Ioanna said, as the rest of them stopped to look at the first minister as well.
The Qirsi gestured toward Fotir. “I was going to ask my colleague to join me for a journey into the city, but I wouldn’t presume to do so without your leave and that of his duke.”
“I have no objection,” the duchess said. She looked at Javan. “My lord?”
The duke shook his head. “Nor do I.”
Shurik smiled at Fotir. “What do you say, cousin?”
Fotir hesitated. He was weary as well, and he had matters to which to attend before he could retire for the night. But he didn’t wish to be rude, nor did he feel that he could refuse an opportunity to speak with Kentigern’s first minister.
“Very well,” he said.
Shurik smiled. “Splendid.”
Ioanna, Javan and the others started to leave.
“Master MarCullet!” Fotir called. “A word please.”
This time, Ioanna did not stop, nor did Javan. Xaver did, however, and he regarded Fotir doubtfully as the minister approached him.
“Yes, First Minister?”
Fotir said nothing until he had stopped just in front of the boy. “I had hoped to speak with Lord Tavis before sleeping,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Now it seems I may be another hour or two with Aindreas’s Qirsi. Can I trust you to check on him for me?”
“I had planned to anyway,” Xaver admitted.
Fotir offered a small smile. “So I guessed.” Clearly the boy still didn’t trust him, despite the assurances he had offered earlier that day, as they entered the city.
For several moments Xaver said nothing, his eyes fixed on Fotir’s face, as if he could divine the Qirsi’s thoughts if he but looked hard enough.
“I’ve told you, Master MarCullet, you have nothing to fear from me. But that’s not to say you have nothing to fear. We’re close to Aneira and now that the duke and your friend are in line for the throne, we can’t be too careful. This is no time for you to be imagining enemies in your own court.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, First Minister, telling me in one breath to use caution and in the next to put my suspicions of you aside. Which would you have me do?”
The boy had a point, but Fotir didn’t have time just then to argue the matter. “Both,” the minister said, his voice hardening.
Xaver continued to stare at him for several moments more. Finally, he let out a sigh. “What do you want me to say to him?”
“Nothing at all. Just find out where he’s been and make certain that he’s safe.” Again he hesitated, but only briefly. “And that he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble.”
That, of all things, drew a wry smile from the boy. “All right,” he said. “Good night, First Minister.”
“Good night, Master MarCullet. Thank you.”
The boy hurried out of the hall, leaving Fotir alone with Kentigern’s minister, who still stood on the dais.
“Is everything all right?” the man asked.
“Yes, fine.”
Shurik came down the small steps and gestured for Fotir to follow him through another doorway leading out of the hall. “I’m glad you agreed to join me,” he said, as Fotir fell in stride beside him. “It seems our lords are determined to forge a stronger alliance between the two houses. We serve them best if we can work together as well.”
Fotir nodded. “I agree.”
Shurik glanced over at him. He was grinning again. “Good! I’d heard from some that you’re not an easy man, Fotir. Many of my Qirsi friends tell me that you prefer the company of Eandi men and women to that of your own kind.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. Some of my friends have yellow eyes; some don’t. I have nothing against other Qirsi. But I’ve noticed that many of our people are resentful of me, because I refuse to hate Ean’s children.”
The other man nodded. “I understand. You’ll find that here in Kentigern as well.”
They fell silent for a short time, as Shurik led them out of the inner ward of the castle and toward the gate closest to the city. Fotir glanced at the man briefly, wondering if Shurik was waiting for him to speak, but the minister seemed content simply to walk. He was slight and tall, much like Fotir himself. He wore his white hair loose and long, which at first glance gave him a youthful appearance. His face, however, was narrow and long, with high prominent cheekbones and deep-set, pale eyes. The combination gave the minister an aspect of youthful ill-health that seemed to Fotir to be all too common among his people.
“Where are we going?” Fotir asked at last, breaking a lengthy silence.
“To a tavern in the city, a place called the Silver Bear.” Shurik looked at Fotir once more and the two men shared a smile. “It seemed an appropriate place for the Qirsi minister of Curgh.”
The Silver Bear was no different from any other Qirsi establishment Fotir had visited. It was filled with the sweet, musty smells of ale and burning pipeweed. Late as it was, the tavern was still crowded and loud, much the way Curgh’s Silver Gull might be during the Revel. No doubt their visit had much to do with that. It wasn’t every day that travelers from another of the major houses came to Kentigern, much less one of Javan’s importance. Not surprisingly, most of the people in the tavern were Qirsi, although Fotir did see a few Eandi men and women scattered through the room.
The barkeep, a tall Qirsi man who was unusually brawny for one of Fotir’s people, waved to Shurik as they walked in. He eyed Fotir briefly before offering a simple nod, which the minister returned.
“I’ve a table in one of the back rooms,” Shurik said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “We should have some privacy back there.”
Fotir nodded and indicated with an open hand that Shurik should lead the way.
The two of them wove through the throng to a small chamber off the farthest corner of the main room. Closing the door against the noise, Shurik gestured to a chair at one of the room’s two round tables.
“Please sit,” he said. “Someone will be in shortly with ale and pipeweed.”
“I don’t smoke.”
The Kentigern minister frowned. “A pity. This is a special blend. It comes from Uulrann.”
Fotir raised an eyebrow. The growers of Uulrann were said to produce the finest smoking leaf in all the Forelands, but little of it ever found its way into any of the other kingdoms. Indeed, the same could be said of the blades forged by Uulrann’s smiths, the mead made by its brewmasters, and the spices grown by its farmers. All were coveted by the merchants of the other kingdoms. Sometimes inferior products from other lands were falsely sold as exports from Uulrann. But just as the suzerain kept his court and his armies from becoming entangled in the alliances and rivalries of the other kingdoms, so he kept his merchants from participating in the commerce of the Forelands. It had been this way for centuries, though Fotir had never heard a convincing explanation for why this was so. It was true that Uulrann was surrounded by mountains and the ocean, and bordered by its fiercest enemies, Braedon and Aneira. But among the other kingdoms, trade thr
ived even between the most bitter rivals. Eibithar traded with Aneira, as did Caerisse. All of them traded with Braedon. “Kings must have their wars,” an old saying went, “and merchants must have their gold.” But apparently, like everything else, this saying stopped at the foothills of the Basak Range.
“Uulranni leaf?” Fotir said. “How did they get it?”
Shurik smiled. “An enterprising merchant, no doubt. One who was willing to pay a great deal of gold in anticipation of being able to charge a good deal more. To be honest, I don’t ask.”
A moment later a serving girl walked in—Qirsi, of course—bearing two tankards of dark ale and two pouches of pipeweed.
As she laid the pouches on the table, Shurik pulled a pipe from a small pocket on the front of his doublet.
“You’re sure?” he asked, eyeing Fotir.
He hesitated and the smile returned to Shurik’s pale, narrow face.
“Can you bring a pipe for my friend?” the minister asked the girl. “Tell Tranda it’s for First Minister Shurik.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, bowing before she left.
“You won’t be sorry,” Shurik said. He filled his own pipe, lit a tinder with the candle sitting on the table, and drew the flame into the bowl. Smoke rose to the ceiling like steam from a kettle, the scent of the leaf drifting to Fotir. He had to admit that it smelled fabulous.
“I suppose I should apologize for Lord Kentigern’s behavior,” Shurik said abruptly.
“I believe the duchess saw to that quite gracefully. No further apology is needed.” Fotir thought the minister’s comment curious. Usually a minister wouldn’t say such a thing unless expressly told to do so. Aindreas had been in no condition to give such an order, but perhaps the duchess had.
The serving girl returned with a pipe for Fotir. He quickly filled it and lit the leaf, grateful for the distraction. It had been years since he had smoked a pipe and in that moment he realized how much he had missed it. The pipeweed was as flavorful as it was fragrant. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sweet taste of the smoke.
“You must think the duke ill-mannered,” Shurik went on, when they were alone again. “I would, were I in your position.”
He did, of course, but he was unwilling to give voice to his feelings. Shurik had put him in an awkward position, and Fotir could not tell if that had been his intention.
“I think your duke is a passionate leader and a devoted father and husband,” Fotir said, opening his eyes. “He’ll be a valuable ally for my duke, and a trusted advisor when the duke becomes king.”
Actually, from what Fotir had heard, the man was a fool and a drunkard. When he wasn’t trying to mount some serving girl from the castle’s kitchens, he was sending his soldiers on exercises that took them dangerously close to the Tarbin. There were those who said that he wanted to start a war with the Aneirans, to enhance his stature in the kingdom. Others said he took such risks out of sheer boredom.
Shurik grinned at Fotir’s kind assessment of his duke. “And I have no doubt that Javan will lead our kingdom well. From what I hear he can be both strong-willed and compassionate, courageous and reasonable. Who can ask for more in a king?”
Fotir could tell that the minister had not given his true opinion of Javan, but after being more polite than honest himself, he could hardly say anything.
Seeing his expression, Shurik laughed. “We’ve fulfilled our duties quite well, wouldn’t you say, cousin?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
The minister gave a small frown. “Of course you do. Our dukes expect us to be tactful, to lay the groundwork for their better relations.”
“Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“I suppose. I had hoped that we might move beyond that. Lord Tavis and Lady Brienne are to be married. The houses don’t need our help to forge closer ties.” He sipped his ale. “I saw this evening as an opportunity for us to start building a friendship of our own, Qirsi to Qirsi.”
Fotir nodded, though he wasn’t quite certain where all this was leading. “I’d like that as well, cousin. Such a friendship would further the interests of both our dukes.”
“I suppose it would,” Shurik said, a slight smile lingering on his lean face. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I was just looking for a friend. Do you have friends, Fotir?”
He laughed. “Of course I do.”
“Qirsi friends?”
Fotir hesitated. “Some,” he said. “There are other Qirsi ministers in Curgh Castle. I consider them my friends.”
“I’m glad to hear that. As I said before, I’d been told that you were a difficult man.” Shurik sat back, pulled the pipe from between his teeth, and drank some ale. “Tell me, Fotir, what powers do you possess?”
Once again, Fotir faltered. It was a question that Fotir would have asked only of a close friend.
“Forgive me,” Shurik said, as if reading his thoughts. “The question makes you uneasy. Perhaps it would be best if I told you that in addition to being a gleaner, I also have the power of fire and speak the language of beasts.”
It was useful information to have. While Kentigern’s minister had several abilities, as many as Fotir, only the language of beasts was considered by the Qirsi to be among the deeper magics. Most men and women of the sorcerer race possessed only one magic or perhaps two. Those few who possessed three, like Fotir and Shurik, were among the most fortunate of their people, and among the most sought after by Eandi nobles throughout the Forelands. For centuries, the Qirsi had served the courts of the various kingdoms as ministers, offering not only counsel, but also gleanings of the future, and powers such as fire, shaping, or mists and winds that could benefit their lords in battle. Lesser nobles tended to have but one or two ministers, dukes as many as a half dozen. Kings often had ten or more, and some said that the emperor of Braedon was served by twenty Qirsi.
“And you?” Shurik prompted.
“Like you I’m a gleaner,” Fotir said. “And a shaper, as well. And I have the power of mists and winds.”
Shurik’s eyebrows went up. “Very impressive. I can see why your duke values you so.”
“Does he?” Fotir asked, curious again as to where Shurik was going with all this.
“Of course. Surely you must see it.”
“I believe the duke respects me and is appreciative of my service.”
“And that’s important to you.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“I suppose,” Shurik said, giving a small shrug and sipping his ale. “I think it’s possible for the opinion of one’s duke to become too important.”
Fotir found himself thinking back to his unpleasant encounter with the Revel Qirsi in the Silver Gull. Trin had said something vaguely similar.
“Tell me, cousin,” Fotir said. “Are you one of those Qirsi who find the Eandi tiresome and dull-witted?”
“Not at all. Do I give that impression?”
Fotir shook his head. “No. Forgive the question. Something you said reminded me of a man I know.”
Shurik raised an eyebrow. “And he feels this way.”
“Yes.”
“A man in your position might think about taking more care in your choice of friends. Your duke would find it disturbing to know that you keep such company.”
Fotir grinned and inhaled the sweet smoke of the Uulranni pipeweed. “He’s hardly a friend. And I give my duke no reason to doubt my loyalty.”
“That’s very wise. I’m much the same way.” The minister took a long breath. “I will admit, though: there are times I wish I could live in a Qirsi kingdom, serving a Qirsi lord.” The minister smiled at Fotir’s expression. “You find my candor unsettling, cousin?”
“I guess I should find it refreshing,” Fotir said, smiling as well. “But after so many years in an Eibitharian court, I’m not certain how to respond to it.”
Shurik laughed, though he quickly grew serious again. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful to my duke,” he said.
“It’s true that he can be crude and foolish, sometimes even childish. But for all his faults, he can also be a wise and competent leader, particularly when he’s sober. He commands his armies boldly and with imagination. He has, over the years, learned when to be firm with his people and when to be kind. At times he even surprises me with his graciousness and his wit.” He made a sour face. “Obviously tonight was not one of those occasions. But still, as Eandi dukes go, he’s not a bad one to serve. In all, I count myself quite fortunate.”
Fotir nodded his head slowly. “I’m glad for you, cousin. And I appreciate your honesty.”
“And yet, you offer none in return.”
He felt his body stiffen. “What?”
“I’ve just been quite open with you about my feelings for the duke, but I’ve heard nothing from you beyond that drivel about the duke’s respect and his appreciation for your service.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
Shurik sat back and rolled his pale eyes. “So Javan of Curgh is without faults, and Fotir jal Salene serves him with blind devotion.”
“I never said the duke had no faults. He can be cold, at times humorless. He’s stubborn and often ruthless, even in circumstances that demand flexibility.”
The minister relit his pipe, sending swirling clouds of blue smoke up to the ceiling. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“There’s very little more, cousin,” Fotir said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I admire the duke. I believe he’ll be a fine king and I’m quite content serving him.”
Shurik looked disappointed, although he recovered quickly. “Well, I’m happy for you, cousin. Who wouldn’t be? Few of us are as lucky as you.”
“I have been very fortunate,” he agreed. Once again, though, he found himself thinking of his encounter with Trin in the Silver Gull. It disturbed him that Shurik had heard people speaking of how difficult he could be. The last thing a man in his position needed was a questionable reputation.
They sat without speaking for several minutes. At one point, the serving girl returned bearing two more tankards of ale. Fotir could still hear noise coming from the main chamber of the tavern when the door to their small room was open, but the crowd seemed to have grown smaller.
