The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  “Tell me,” she invited.

  He shrugged. “You’d find out once you got in the middle of it. Personally, I’d put my money on you—any other day but this. Not against Council Guards interested in discovering if a Blood’s blood is the same color as theirs.”

  Sarra thought about this as they went through the garden gates to the nearly empty stable yard. “Are we under suspicion, then?”

  “Everyone is under suspicion these days.”

  “Damn it, Orlin!” she exclaimed. “I know about Taig and Lilen—”

  “I gathered that when you mentioned Tarise,” he said, still serene. He hooked a finger at the lone groom on duty, who sprinted the width of the yard at full speed. “Two horses, please—and none of this gorgeous saddlery the Wittes are known for, either,” he added with a grin. “I don’t want the local merchants to think I’m that rich!” When the boy ran to comply, Orlin went on, “Best forget what you know—or behave as if you’ve forgotten it.”

  “All I want is to help!”

  “I understand, Sarra. But this is neither the time nor the place. When we go back to Roseguard, Agatine and I will tell you what you need to know—”

  “According to whom? Gorynel Desse? Is he at the center of—”

  “Yes,” Orlin called to the groom as two horses were brought out to the yard. “Those will do us very well indeed. Thank you, lad.”

  Mounting the matched geldings—big, deep-chested Tillinshir grays—they rode out the main gates onto a cobbled road leading to the sprawl of Pinderon.

  “Now you listen to me,” Orlin said, and his voice had lost all its easy good humor. “You’re eighteen years old. You don’t even know how to use a knife to defend yourself, let alone a sword.”

  “Or magic,” she said, and he twisted in his saddle to stare at her. “I know it’s there. I’ve known since the week after my first Wise Blood. Coincidence, was it, that three weeks after, Gorynel Desse paid us a visit at Roseguard? Did he take my magic away as well as my memories of Ostinhold?”

  “Damn,” said Orlin Renne.

  “I did a lot of thinking last night,” Sarra went on. “Taig told me nothing, really—it was Lilen, and later on Tarise. Don’t blame them. Once Lilen knew I remembered, she had to tell some of it. And neither she nor Tarise said much.”

  “Just enough to make you want to know more.” He gave a long, heartfelt sigh. “Why weren’t you born stupid?”

  “If I had been, how could Desse use me as a symbol of all that was lost with Ambrai?”

  This time he gaped at her.

  “Not as who I really am, of course,” she went on. “Daughter of Mages killed at the Academy is the best way to present it. Any connection with the Feirans must be avoided.”

  “So you’ve got it all figured out, do you?”

  “No!” she cried fiercely. “And unless somebody tells me what I’m supposed to do, what part I’m supposed to play, how can I do what I must?”

  Orlin reined in atop a rise. From this vantage, they could have been admiring Pinderon’s sleek prosperity, its intricately woven thatched roofs, its soaring domed temple to its patron, St. Tamas.

  “You remind me of your mother—both your mothers, actually. Agatine and Maichen went to school together, did you know that? St. Delilah’s, on Brogdenguard.” He smiled into the distance. “Appropriate, though neither was ever any good with a sword. More like scalpels, the pair of them, slicing away what’s rotten but leaving it to others to heal up the wounds. That’s my job, where Agatine’s interests are concerned.”

  Sarra could understand that. Orlin could charm the scales off a snake.

  “But you’re different,” he went on. “You want to cure the whole world.”

  Slowly, almost without conscious volition, she said, “I remember once when I was very little, sitting on Mother’s lap, watching the stars. She asked which one I wanted for my own—and I told her I wanted all of them.”

  “I’m not surprised. And I have the feeling that in pursuit of them, you’re the one who’ll turn into a sword.” His smile turned sad. “Agatine and I wanted you to have a life of your own before the past caught up with you and claimed your future. We always knew it would happen one day. We’re selfish enough to want you to be just ours a little while longer.”

  “I love you, too,” Sarra said, her voice a little thick. “But the Rising won’t be taking anything from me that I won’t want to give.”

  “I’m very much afraid you’re right. You First Daughters, you grow up with obligations and duties and responsibilities . . . promise to remember one thing for me, Sasha,” he said, and use of the childhood name made her bite her lip. “Remember always that your life belongs to you. Not to your Blood, or the Mage Guardians or Ambrai or the Rising. However much you give of yourself, you have to take things back, too. Otherwise you’ll use yourself up, like Taig Ostin.”

  “Taig?” she echoed, bewildered.

  “He’ll burn himself to ashes. It’s in his eyes.” He shook himself and heeled his horse gently. “Come, we’re wasting a lovely day.”

  The city of Pinderon was surrounded by a low wall covered in flowering vines, a pretty boundary between it and the Witte lands. Broad avenues radiated in spokes from a central Circle, with narrower streets connecting at irregular intervals, angled so that a map of the place looked like the Witte chevrons. Pinderon boasted only one completely round building—the St. Tamas Temple in the middle of the Circle—but everywhere the angles of walls were gentled by curving turrets, arching walkways over wide streets, circular windows, and the intricate serpentine patterns of thatch for which the city was famous. Pinderon’s maze of interlocking streets provided fascinating opportunities to hide—if one knew where one was going.

  Possessed of a logical mind, Sarra had been scant minutes into Dalion Witte’s tour the other day before she figured out and stamped in her memory the layout of Pinderon. Whatever else might happen, she would not get lost.

  An itching at the base of her skull begged for something to happen. She shifted her shoulders against the impatience and placidly—for her—joined Orlin in touring the seaside walls, a shopping arcade, and a little gem of a Cloister textiles museum donated by the Wytte family. The Wittes cordially loathed and refused to acknowledge these distant cousins, who during the War of The Tiers defiantly split from the main family, changed a vowel, were classified as Fourths, and continued to use the Witte colors of yellow and red to irritate their Blood relations. During a tour given by the Wytte daughter in charge, Sarra praised the collection to the skies—both because she truly enjoyed it and because she knew it would get back to Mirya Witte. But lovely as the weavings, quilts, needlepoint, and wall hangings were, the itch to be doing something got worse.

  It almost vanished inside the cool serenity of the St. Tamas Temple. A gentle silence washed over her as she walked the sea-green tiled floor beneath a gigantic blue dome. A wide font of sea water stood to one side of the altar, above which hung a fine old iron anchor on a massive chain. Behind the gnarled wooden altar—said to be carved from the very shipwreck the Saint had miraculously survived during the Lost Age—was a modern fresco of sloops gliding to safe harbor. Rarely had Sarra seen such beautiful work, and she said as much to Orlin—right before she spotted a pair of tall, robed-and-coifed sailors kneeling on the other side of the font.

  She would never be able to say what warned her. She’d spent less than an hour in Taig Ostin’s company as an adult, and not a moment in the Minstrel’s. She didn’t even know the man’s name. But she knew who they were. She knew it.

  Orlin pointed out a charming little statue of a dolphin near the side door. Sarra admired it aloud, wondering feverishly how she would contrive to tell Taig what he needed to know. Although the Temple was empty but for the four of them, anyone might come in at any minute.

  She returned to the altar, telling Orlin she wished to pay her respects to the Saint bef
ore departing. She managed to trip over a seam in the tiles and stumble into one of the sailors. Sure enough, Taig Ostin’s handsome gray-eyed face looked up from the frame of a black coif.

  “Taig—”

  “Shh!”

  Footsteps—one set light and soft, the other wooden heels—sounded behind her. She cursed the untimely appearance of more suppliants and murmured, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your devotions.”

  He shook his head and placed a fist to his lips, signifying a vow of silence. The other man, coifed head and broad shoulders bent, didn’t move.

  “Come, Sarra,” said Orlin, just as Taig mouthed Horses. Sarra dipped her fingers into the font and touched the seawater to her brow, using her hand to hide the movement of her lips as she replied, Where should I meet you?

  Taig scowled. Sarra scowled right back. Turning, she joined Orlin and together they passed by a barefoot child and an old man, come with offerings of seashells to ask St. Tamas’ protection for a sailor.

  Once they were mounted, Orlin said, “How’s Taig?”

  Sarra nearly dropped the reins.

  “Give me some credit, girl,” he growled. “Those two were no more sailors than I am. Their hands gave them away, for one thing. The calluses of a musician or a horseman aren’t those of a sailor. And for another, it’s on the day of a voyage that a sailor goes to St. Tamas. No ship will sail until Taig and the Minstrel are found.”

  “Umm—I see. He said they need horses.”

  “Good thing I asked for plain saddles, isn’t it?”

  “You knew? You planned to meet them?”

  “Cailet’s missing,” he said unwillingly. “She shadows Taig like a galazhi fawn. He may know where she is. Now shush up, Sasha. Here they come.”

  Cailet? Oh, no—not when I’ve only just found her! Knowing she shouldn’t, unable to help herself, she glanced over her shoulder. Two men, all right—but neither was in black, one limped on a short crutch, and the other had an empty left sleeve. She saw at once how they did it: voluminous robes reversible into green cloaks, coifs the same, the arm bound behind, the crutch easy to hide. They merged into the casual flow of people and vanished.

  “We’ll lose them,” she said.

  “No we won’t.” Orlin seemed to be struggling against laughter—over what, Sarra could not imagine. He led the way down a tree-lined avenue in the opposite direction from Taig and the Minstrel, made several turns down increasingly disreputable side streets, and eventually reined in.

  “This is where you leave me,” he said.

  “Oh, no. Where you go, I go.”

  “Don’t argue!” Orlin dismounted and lifted her out of the saddle with no effort at all. “Risk enough taking you this far. This is no neighborhood for a lady. Take this street back the way we came, turn left at—”

  Beyond him, she saw two men. This time one leaned on the other as if too drunk to walk, both were in nondescript brown cloaks (how had they managed that switch?), and each was possessed of two good arms. “Look!”

  “Keep your voice down—do you want all Pinderon to hear you?”

  There was no more talk of sending her back. They walked their horses through several miserable alleys, finally tethering them in back of a tavern. Raucous music and a stink made equally of stale liquor and cheap incense wafted outside toward the trash bins where they belonged. Orlin collared a boy from the dozen playing in the alley and gave him two cutpieces.

  “Another two if our horses are still here when we come out,” he said.

  “Three,” the child demanded.

  “Two, or a broken finger,” Orlin replied, smiling gentle menace down from his great height. The boy shrugged, impressed but damned if he’d show it, and took up his post. Grasping Sarra’s arm, Orlin muttered, “You stay close to me, and not a word out of you—or I’ll break more than your finger. Understood?”

  She nodded, gulping. This was a side of the equable, urbane Orlin Renne she hadn’t dreamed existed.

  And the Feathered Fan was the kind of place she had never thought to set foot in in her life.

  A kitchen boy pointed them to the main hallway without surprise or comment. A door opened, and a stinking wave assaulted Sarra. She swayed against her foster-father’s strong arm. Arrayed about a dim taproom were a dozen men in various stages of undress. A tall, thin woman wearing magnificent green brocade and a headpiece like tattered butterfly wings approached, lips split wide to reveal yellowing teeth.

  “Ah, here’s one too shy to come in the front door! Is it for yourself you need companionship, good Domni, or for the little lady here?” She fluttered a fan the size of a serving platter. It was molting.

  Oh, Sweet Saints—Taig said the Feathered Fan—but it’s a bower!

  Orlin chuckled, his hand like steel around Sarra’s arm. “With regret, mistress, I’m kept too busy at home to spare anything for your charming boys.”

  Sarra realized abruptly that a . . . companion . . . was being solicited for her.

  “So it’s the little ladybird,” said the bower mistress. “Her first?”

  “Of course.” Orlin glanced around as if examining the masculine offerings, who preened and primped. “I need something tallish, darkish, and newish. A friend mentioned recent arrivals . . . ?”

  “Country boys fresh as new-mown grass,” she boasted, and when Orlin’s brows quivered added hastily, “But well-educated, talented, and fully capable, I assure you, Domni. Youth just means they haven’t had time to develop bad habits.” She bent a stern gaze on a redheaded young man with a sulky mouth, who shrugged indifference. “They’ve just come back from a stroll. Let me call them downstairs so you can select which the young domna fancies.”

  Should I choose Taig or the Minstrel? Sarra thought, dizzy. Orlin smiled reassurance and she rallied, only to flinch back a trifle as the redhead sauntered over. His unbuttoned longvest revealed a shirt open to the buckle of a perilously low belt.

  “Too bad you like ’em dark, little one. I’d be honored to be your first.”

  Sarra cringed in earnest, grateful that her role as nervous virgin gave her the luxury. Glancing wildly around, she noted for the first time that all the men were young, some no older than herself.

  Like most women, Sarra would remain a virgin until she was ready to marry. But her husband would not be the first man in her bed. The services of a professional would be purchased some weeks before the wedding. With all the expertise of his trade, he would explore her needs and responses thoroughly, and she would receive her husband knowing he had been instructed in exactly how to please her.

  The wealthy made their selections in elegant, Council-licensed bowers that kept at least twoscore young men of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It was a lucrative career for an attractive superfluous son; a few famous bower lads were even Bloods. Well-trained, well-kept, and well-paid, they were contracted at eighteen and spent the first year learning their craft from older women who made up a secondary clientele. If a man was accomplished, if his customers were generous, and if he managed to keep several married women and widows as continuing patrons, he could earn a lifetime’s keep before the stipulated retirement age of thirty.

  The Feathered Fan was not a bower where the wealthy arranged such services. It was, quite simply, a whorehouse.

  “I’m Steenan,” the man went on. “Sure you don’t like redheads?” He was fingering the buckle of his belt suggestively. Sarra flinched once more—and then came close to gasping aloud. The buckle was cheap brass, crudely made, and decorated with a multitude of leaves surrounding a single tiny flameflower.

  “Holy St. G-Geridon!” she stammered aloud, while inside the thought came wildly: He’s one of us!

  Orlin would have been appalled to know she had just made herself a member of the Rising. But it marked an important change in her thinking. She was one of them now, she belonged to them—no matter what Orlin or Agatine or Tarise or
Taig or anyone said. More importantly, they belonged to her. It had started with her impulse to help Taig any way she could. Now this instinct to aid and protect included the whole Rising.

  Take something back for herself for everything she gave? She had enough and more than enough to give without ever feeling any lack. The cause for which she was determined to fight would never, could never, burn her to ashes; she was an Ambrai, Mageborn, inheritor of magic that flamed forever.

  It would strike her as singularly amusing in later years that these noble sentiments had first swept over her in the middle of a whorehouse taproom.

  Steenan grinned even wider at Sarra’s exclamation—Geridon the Stallion was a compliment to what was below his buckle—and she blushed. Though Tarise’s phrase for exceptional masculine pulchritude had come to her lips quite involuntarily, it was exactly the right thing to say; instinct again.

  Having revealed that they were not without allies even in this incredible place, Steenan strolled back to a hearthside table laden with ale mugs. Nailed above the mantle was a sign:

  THE FEATHERED FAN

  Under New Management

  (formerly The Bower of the One-armed Lover)

  This was a reference to a ballad that gently-reared young females were not supposed to know, for it had nothing to do with a missing limb. She blushed again, even while realizing that Taig had impishly punned on his destination with his “amputation” outside the Temple. That was why Orlin knew where to find them—and why he’d laughed.

  And Steenan is why Taig came here—Saints, the things he must learn from clients—but what a bizarre way to serve the Rising!

  And there was a pun in that that she didn’t want to think about.

  Orlin was glancing around impatiently for the bower mistress. Sarra looked up at him, trying to tell him with her eyes that she wasn’t as scared as she was pretending. In fact, this had suddenly become very exciting. Taig or the Minstrel? Taig, so Orlin can help the idiot slip outside to the horses and get away. But then Taig will still be in danger—well, I’ll think of something.