But not toward us, Tig and me and the rest, huddled awestruck in the mud. Toward Julian and Istvan, waiting as the river came inching higher, over their boot tops, over their knees. Or else they were moving out, into the current, and the water climbed as they went deeper.
No one visible at the helm, but the little ship came about, a hesitation against the current, no more. With a commonplace sound, the crumple of stiff fabric, the sail dropped, and in that strange starlight we could see a woman aboard.
She was an old woman, but she held herself straight. She wore a crown set with gems, no faceted sparklers, but large deep jewels, flattened and polished like enamels, burning with color. She handled the lines and cables with ease, and her hands were very white as she held them out to welcome Julian and Istvan.
“Andred,” said Julian, and he let Istvan lift him a little so that she could reach down and help him clamber aboard.
It was most unkingly, that clambering, but Julian came aboard, and together he and Andred reached down for Istvan.
Istvan hesitated, then unbuckled the sheath of Ludovic’s two-handed sword. Sword and scabbard in hand, he turned back to shore, looking for someone to take it from him.
I rose and came forward, in reverent silence. The water came halfway up my thighs as I waded out to him. It was only water, pure common river, despite the stars. Istvan gave Ludovic’s sword to me, and I held it to my breast. It was heavy, but it was not dead weight. Such was the balance of the weapon, it seemed to have its own kind of life, and it seemed to welcome my arms around it as I waded back to shore.
No word of thanks from Istvan, no farewell. He turned from me without a word, all his attention on Andred and Julian. Istvan put his hands up, one to each, and when they drew him in, he came as a bird comes to the branch it has chosen. With ease, he folded himself aboard, and I saw his arms go round them both.
The river was still rising and the leaves were still rustling as the pale sail ran up the mast again. They jibbed, not gracefully, and caught the wind. They sailed away and left us there with only the wind and the water and the light of the stars to comfort us where we huddled on the shore.
In the morning there was nothing to see, only the bridge and above the waterline a wide margin of pungent mud that hadn’t been there the day before.
There was little to say. No amount of arguing would change the river. Only time would dry the mud. And the stars, I felt sure, would never bum that way again.
Dalet had summoned three people back to life. The third had been late arriving and had borne the others back with her. That was all.
TWENTY
(In which I conclude my travels.)
Ludovic and his men, Rigo with them, joined us at the river as the sun was rising. Our fire had burned low and our spirits with it. Only Tig was awake to welcome them as they surrounded our makeshift camp.
At Tig’s prodding, I rose and limped forward to meet Ludo. I held the two-handed sword high in my arms, as carefully as I would hold a baby. I did not wish to let the sword belt slip and trail in the mud. Tig stayed close behind me, one pace to the left and one behind.
In silence, Ludovic dismounted and took the sword and scabbard from me. He held it lovingly, drew the sword to check its condition, then ran it safely into its sheath again. With ease, he put the belt and harness on and shrugged the sword into its familiar position, hilt over his shoulder. “I thank you. And now, I’m almost afraid to ask. Where’s Julian? Where’s Istvan?”
“The old queen came and took them away,” said Tig, before I could find an answer. “She sailed away with them.”
“What old queen?” demanded Ludo.
I put my hand on his sleeve. “Queen Andred. Dalet had called her back, but Tig killed Dalet before Andred arrived. She took the long way, I expect.”
“She came because she wanted to,” said Tig. “They were glad to go with her.”
“Where did they go?”
“Downriver and away in the darkness. There’s no following the way they went,” I told Ludo.
“You’ve gone mad. Someone dropped a net and came away with Istvan and the king in their catch, while you stood there and let them Red Ned is on his way to Aravis, and there’s no one left to stop him.”
“There’s everyone in Aravis.” I ticked off fingers. “There’s whoever is going to succeed the old king. There’s whoever is going to succeed the prince-bishop. There’s the troops still stationed in the city. There’s you and all these people you seem to have with you. When did you get the guns back?”
“Artillery, Hail. That’s artillery. They’ve been on the high road trying not to mire themselves any more than necessary. We picked them up yesterday. That’s what slowed us down so you could get away All these mythical people of yours seem very comforting in the abstract but in truth, I don’t think anyone left in the city is going to do anything without orders. And whoever is succeeding whom, they don’t know who they are yet. So they can’t issue orders. Am I making myself clear? No one in Aravis can be depended upon for anything.”
“Well then, they won’t be opening the gates just because Red Ned tells them to, will they?”
“You can’t count on that. Who’s left to hold the city, after all?” demanded Ludo.
“Everyone but us, really. All the guilds. No merchant worth his salt is going to give Red Ned a chance to do the year’s inventory.”
“All he has to do is wait them out.”
“How, Ludo? They don’t have this year’s harvest in Ardres. He can raid for supplies, I suppose, but the city is sure to be able to hold out longer than he can.”
Ludovic sighed. “If he takes the city, we still have Rigo. He might be able to help, I suppose.”
“No,” said Rigo. “I won’t. I did what I had to on the prince-bishop’s orders. I won’t risk angering the wardens again. What’s left is for you and your men to do. If Edward of Ardres has any of Dalet’s work left to use, I will do my best to help. But the rest is mere use of force. won’t help you with that.”
Ludovic looked harried. “Oh, hell. We’ll bring the artillery on as fast as we can, but the city may have fallen by the time we get there. If it rains again, we’ll be later still.”
It didn’t rain. The guns kept up with us perfectly well, and by the time we reached the city, the gates were still firmly closed against the raiders who were besieging Aravis.
On our way to Aravis, we met other remnants of the prince-bishop’s army. The military hierarchy reasserted itself. Ludovic became a mere captain again, one officer of many.
Red Ned turned to meet our forces with relief. He couldn’t have held his troops for long. They were too hungry to resist foraging for supplies.
I didn’t see anything of the battle that broke the siege, for I was left back with the luggage again, without even Tig to keep an eye on me. It didn’t matter. I’d seen too much fighting. It was bad enough having to listen to the roar of the guns, knowing the damage the fight inflicted.
Waiting with the baggage train suited me. I was tired. I’d been caught between the mud and the stars for too long. I didn’t even want my notebook. I was tired of storing up the details of the world. It was time to sit in one place and let those details form a whole. I wanted to be clean in a clean place, where I could be left alone to work on my painting: Istvan and Andred and Julian, by firelight, by candlelight, and by starlight.
I was alone in the throng of camp followers, and that was fine with me. The way I felt, I’d be alone forever, even if I spent the rest of my life in a crowd.
By sundown, the day was won. Red Ned died under his battle standard, just after the best of his men died there too. The artillery ceased. In the silence afterward, there was a distant roaring, like the tide coming in, and all along the walls of the city we could see people shouting their approval. We were welcomed as heroes.
That didn’t mean they opened the gates, however. The good folk of Aravis were much too sensible to welcome in an armed throng, however heroical
ly we’d defended the city from Red Ned. After all, Aravis hadn’t needed much defending. The siege had lasted scarcely two days.
After a long night of sending messages back and forth, the city and the army came to terms. In the morning they opened one gate for us, and we were welcomed home, quite harmlessly, to the city. It was a little like Twelfth Night revels, marching back in through the Shene gate. By the time I came through, most of the crowd had dispersed. There was still a holiday air about the streets and a festive degree of litter strewn about.
It was odd, walking in Giltspur Street with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I was on my own at last, not even Tig to shadow me. Alone, with no one and nothing to stop me doing whatever I pleased.
I knocked at the door of Madame Carriera’s house. The persuasion of the mind has very little influence on the heart, and none at all on the pit of the stomach. As I knocked, my heart ached as if I had run five miles. My stomach twisted. My spirits rose and fell like waves on the river.
Saskia let me in. Her welcome was friendly, but I was distracted by my dread of the interview to come. “I must see Madame Carriera. If she will permit it.”
Saskia was bewildered. “What about your father? What about Amyas? They’ll be so happy you’re back safe.”
“I must speak to Madame Carriera first.”
“Very well. Wait here.”
After what seemed like a long time, Saskia brought me to Madame Carriera’s salon. After another wait, Madame Carriera came down in a sweep of stiff black skirts. “Have you come to apologize? Or to beg me to take you back?”
My heart dived deeper than I had ever known it to go. I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped for a welcome, even as I’d braced myself for rejection. Dismay took all my stratagems away, and only honesty remained. “Madame Carriera,” I said, as I sank down before her on the well-scrubbed floor, “I am here, if you permit, to resume my studies. Will you teach me to be an artist?”
Madame Carriera stopped frowning, seated herself, and waved me to a chair opposite her. “Oh, get up, girl. This isn’t a masque, so stop playacting. Why should I take you back? You’ve done nothing but inconvenience me.”
I sat carefully on the edge of the chair. It was highly polished lacquer, spindly and old, and felt as if it would fold under me like a trap. “I don’t know why you should. But I’ll work hard. I won’t run away again.”
“It’s easy to promise now. What will you say when some new distraction catches your fancy? You gave up your career for the last one. And you must know, you had some promise.”
Had. I felt my heart freeze at the word. Past tense. Was it all gone for ever? Half tasted, never enjoyed? I told myself sternly that nothing had changed. I had nothing to lose by persisting. “At Twelfth Night, when the mummers come masquing house to house, do you answer the door? Or do you let the laughter go past? Do you let the music fade away down the street and never think of following it?”
I had to blink then, but it was already too late. Fat tears splashed down and stained my bodice. I cleared my throat and pretended I didn’t notice. I knew if I said one more word, my voice would start to shake. And I couldn’t think of one more word to say. So I closed my lips tight and tried to steady my breathing. A particularly large teardrop slid off the tip of my nose and made a mark on the arm of my chair. I rubbed at the lacquer with my sleeve and only succeeded in smudging the finish.
Madame Carriera sighed deeply. “This was the sort of thing I dreaded when I took you on. I thought there would be household breakage and stubbed toes. I was right. You are an annoying creature. But you are not wholly without merit. Do you think I’d let someone else have the credit if you prove successful? Not likely.” She rose, smoothed her skirts, and studied me gravely for a long minute. “Blow your nose, child. I think we understand each other better than I thought. After all, I always let the mummers in.”
I finished my studies four years later. My masterpiece, When the King Comes Home, was accepted by the guild, and I was welcomed to their ranks. In the fifty years since, I have quarreled with them many times, I but it was good to be welcomed properly to the fellowship first. I remember with pride and pleasure my first dinner at the guild hall, where I fell out with Gabriel over the proper way to bind a hog bristle brush.
Gabriel died a rich man ten years later, knocked down a flight of stairs in a drunken argument over the terms of a commission.
Saskia entered the guild soon after my return to Madame Carriera’s workshop. Her career flourished, and she trained her apprentices wisely and well.
Piers not only made a success of himself in Aravis, he traveled to Vienna and Rome and eventually settled in Venice, where his artistic gifts and hard work earned all the accolades due him.
Tig never spoke of that night we spent by the Folliard Bridge, the night Andred came for Julian and Istvan. I have spoken of it with Ludo. He had spent more time than I with Istvan. He listened harder and had the wit to ask more questions. Together we puzzled over the events surrounding Julian’s return.
If Maspero’s alchemy worked upon his art to put his theories into practice, perhaps that is why the ring recovered from Andred’s grave could summon Istvan back. Certainly that is why the siege medal cast with his blood could summon Julian back. But why did Andred’s wedding ring, which Maspero had no hand in making, serve to summon Andred back?
More than that, Andred was buried with all the proper rites. She should have been safe from any necromancy. Yet she returned at Dalet’s command. Unless Dalet did not command. Perhaps Andred’s return was spurred by Julian’s plight. Perhaps she came to rescue Julian and Istvan as Julian once came to rescue Istvan and Andred.
With Madame Carriera’s permission, I offered my help to Daniel in the hunt for Maspero’s missing works. The archivists made inquiries in Ardres, but what little might have been left behind by Dalet was lost in the ruin of Red Ned’s defeat. Whatever wisdom Maspero might have recorded has been lost for good.
My brother Amyas settled in Aravis. It was easier for my father to have someone in the city to manage our wool transactions. Amyas soon established that the demand for earth of cullen warranted a steady trade, which we were well able to supply from Neven. Saskia married him, which was another source of pride and pleasure to me, and of course to Amyas as well.
I have an atelier of my own, students even, though it drives me mad when a student ignores my advice. This should not be, as I hardly ever took any advice myself, but I can’t help it.
I have been happy to work as much as I can and to stay out of trouble, but it grows harder by the year. The church never did name a successor to the prince-bishop, and there was no clear heir to the throne of Lidia. Aravis remained strong, but the outlying regions fell away. Haydock, Cenedwine, and Galazon broke away. Soon there was nothing to show there had ever been an empire except the size of the taxes we pay.
Aravis itself is strong, but the cost of its strength has been some of its beauty. No longer do we have a rivalry of patrons who vie to commission new art and sponsor fresh entertainments. Now we have mend and make do, somber clothes, and long faces. The world’s all ocher and no orpiment.
Sometimes I think I should travel, see what’s beyond Aravis. Go to Vienna, perhaps. Then I think, no. I have traveled quite enough, walked plenty of miles, ridden too hard, and been rained on far too often. What I am, I carry with me. Things would look no different in Vienna if I went there with a discontented heart.
Let the young take a turn, not that they seem inclined to do much but complain and put their noses in other people’s business. No life in them, I sometimes think. They seem to have no ideas. We had more ideas than we knew what to do with.
I intend to live in Aravis and will probably die here too. My brothers invite me home to Neven, but they seem glad when I decline. My nephews or nieces come, singly and in bunches, to stay with me. Now they have grown children of their own to make the journey. I always make sure they see a bit of the world while they visit, but Amyas
has views of his own on that subject.
Ludovic’s son came to see me once, a charming lad with a great look of the old boy about him. Once a month or so, someone from Tig’s family pays a call, as if I’ll wither away to nothing without their regular disapproval.
Life is short, as the wisdom of the ages has it, but fortunately art is long. I don’t expect to understand much more of either than I already do. I was born with what wisdom I have, and the many years that I have lived served only to make the scantiness of that wisdom more evident. Though I do seem to do better than most people.
When my life is at an end and I am at heaven’s gate, I hope to. represent myself fairly. I don’t expect a swarm of bees to lead me there. I have tried to do right as I’ve seen it, but in truth there are few of my sins I’d have done without. If honest repentance is required, St. Peter will turn me away. Fair enough.
If heaven is too much to ask, I will wander downward to the circle of hell appointed me. I hope the journey will be comfortable. No need for haste, as I have eternity to make my way. I intend to go slowly. As I make that last venture, I will keep watch. The way will be crowded with people, but I have a good eye for faces. I will look for Istvan, for Andred, and for Julian. They may be safely in heaven. I hope they are. All the same, I will watch for them, on the chance they’ve gone not to Paradise, but to a well-deserved Elysium.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHEN THE KING COMES HOME
Copyright © 2000 by Carolyn Stevermer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Delia Sherman
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue
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