The Well-Favored Man

by Elizabeth Willey

  I put the note on my desk and sat down on the bed. The City’s mellow lights studded the darkness beyond the broad river Wye which flows around the island on which the Citadel is built. The hour was now very late; there were only a few isolated windows lit, and no coachlights moved along the roads. The moon was bright, a white oval above the countryside, but I lit a candle anyway for the friendly flame. Then I pulled off my boots and socks. Taking the candle, I went into my workroom to do a little sorcery.

  Lenticular glass, firepan, sand, water, flower-shaped crystal bell, Keys, and the antithetical forces: put them together in the right way, with all due respect, and watch.

  It was doubly difficult because Avril was in Pheyarcet, beyond Argylle’s border. I had to call upon the Well of Landuc in my spell, but at this distance the power to be gotten was immeasurably small—the invocation served to expedite the process of getting across the Border and to ease my workings through Landuc’s demesnes. One balances the three Forces when casting spells which reach past the Border or the Limen. People who have not assimilated another force cannot cast such spells into that force’s domain.

  My vision blurred slightly, as if a patch of mist had drifted into the room, and the mistiness clotted above the flame and thickened on the glass. Folding inward, but not moving at all, it began to make the image, full of color and brightness stolen from the fire. A soft bell sounded, sustaining itself, and took on other notes as the image formed, to become words, my words.…

  “… Summoning seeming and speech reciprocally.”

  Avril, the Emperor, looked back at me, settling down in a high-backed chair even as our eyes met.

  “Ah, Gwydion.” He nodded to me, smiling. He was at a table with his implements around him in artistically calculated disarray. Also a tall, deep-blue vase of dusty-gold roses. His robes were gold-bordered scarlet, a bit ostentatious—but that’s Avril.

  “Uncle Avril,” I greeted him, also smiling.

  “How are things in Argylle lately?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since last we spoke,” I said. “And in Landuc?”

  “Smooth sailing, as far as I can see. Yet you may guess that I didn’t merely wish to trade pleasantries.”

  I nodded. “Not such smooth sailing, then.”

  “It is about your father. We have not heard from him in years. I am a little concerned.” He sounded testy. “I suppose I do not need to know where he is; he’s a private man, he keeps to himself, that is all very well. But I would just like to know he is alive. If you are in touch with him …?”

  I had guessed Avril’s intention aright: he wanted Gaston. I said, “I understand. I have not spoken to him in a long time. He has been incommunicado.”

  “I know. How long a time has it been since you last saw or heard from him?”

  “Years, I guess. At least …” I thought carefully. “Between twelve and thirteen years. I could make it more exact if it mattered … Yes, he came early in springtime thirteen years ago.”

  “You are not worried.”

  “Gaston has dropped out of sight for extended periods in the past, as I understand it. And he was … you know he was not happy. He said little before he left last time. He had not been here often anyway, just dropping in and out once or twice a year or sending a message.”

  Avril nodded, then sighed and ruffled his hair, not disarranging it in the slightest. “I see. I hope he is all right.”

  I debated within myself for a moment. Generosity won. “If you really need him, Avril, there are ways of finding him. But if it is not an emergency …”

  “I know. Let us let the man grieve in peace. But his absence is felt here and, I am sure, there too.”

  “He has been gone longer,” I repeated. “I am not concerned. The Wheel always turns, and it is best to let it turn in its own time.”

  “All right. People talk of searching for him.”

  That would probably be Uncle Herne and Prince Josquin, and perhaps Aunt Evote. “Tell them to hold off,” I said. “He would not be particularly grateful to be found, I am certain of it.”

  “I suppose so. Very well, Gwydion. I shall bid you good night. And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, and snuffed the fire with sand, which broke the spell’s current and darkened the glass. I began putting things away.

  Indeed it was as I had thought: Avril would not pry at Walter for news of Gaston, because Walter could not help him get it, but he would indirectly suggest to me that I set myself to discovering what he could not.

  I wondered if Avril’s nudging inquiries about Gaston and the trade agreements could be related. There was no obvious connection. Gaston had never been involved with our government. Probably Avril would like it very much if I did take the hint and look Gaston up, but if there were no pressing need to do so, I wanted to leave him alone. Also, though I was my Emperor-uncle’s junior, I was not his lackey, and carrying out a request like this might make him think I was easily manipulated or dominated and inspire him to use me other ways. If I had believed him fonder of Gaston and sincerely concerned for his well-being, I might have heard his implicit request more sympathetically.

  The Dominion of Argylle and the Empire of Landuc have stiffly polite relations. That two such different places, antithetical as the Fire and Spring that perpetuate them, have relations at all is a wonder, and it is unsurprising that we find it difficult to maintain them. There are historical reasons for the stiffness and also personal ones, and the politeness is mainly because we need each other and can’t really afford to be at odds—again for historical and personal reasons. My late mother, however, always maintained that they needed us more than we needed them and had made her point in blood by winning the Independence War—one of the historical reasons for the cool relations between the realms now. Prospero considers the Empire an evil we could probably do without but are better off doing with. In Landuc they think that we need them more than they need us, but the trade between us is largely one-way. Partly that’s intentional, because my mother didn’t want the Dominion becoming dependent on foreign goods, and partly it is just that Landuc has little to offer that we cannot get locally more quickly and cheaply. Trade is controlled by strictly-enforced (on our end, anyway) treaties, and Walter had brought our cousin Ottaviano here as the Empire’s representative to negotiate a new one, since the latest was due to expire.

  My stomach growled, interrupting my meditation, and a sudden hollow feeling in my middle reminded me I hadn’t eaten since my late afternoon snack while riding. I left the workroom and found my slippers by the window.

  The night was lovely. I opened the casement and leaned out, elbows on the sill, looking around, down at the autumnal gardens. The near-full moon, the lively air, the liquid restless feeling of the Spring pouring over everything revitalized me. I began to think of staying up all night, though I was tired, and going for a walk in the City or outside. I hadn’t done that in a long time: not going to bed because the world was too awake and exciting to leave … A shadow passed my head. I ducked, and something whumped onto my left shoulder.

  “Ouch!”

  “Prrrrt,” said my familiar owl, Virgil.

  “That hurt,” I said coldly.

  He bit my ear gently.

  “Yes, it is a fine night. Why are you loitering here?”

  Virgil fluffed and settled his feathers. He was feeling sociable, I supposed, and I pulled my head back in and straightened (the owl compensating for the change). My stomach growled again. It was time to raid the kitchen. Accompanied by Virgil, I went and did that, and then I went out and walked in the gardens for an hour or two, and then, as the night dew became cold and not just freshly chilling to my feet, I went in and climbed up to my bedchamber.

  I turned in and dreamt of happier days, though I woke with tears in my eyes.

  2

  MY BROTHER WALTER HAS PICKED UP a bit of the routine drudgery of running Argylle. He really enjoys wandering around, talking to peopl
e, staying in touch with what they think. My forte is more in long-range planning, watching for changes, for potential trouble, for new opportunities. Accordingly, the next day I walked over to his tall stone-and-brick house, which is in the most densely populated part of town. There are always people around there, musicians, itinerant and settled peddlers, storytellers, carpenters (Walter is forever renovating or repairing), artists, all kinds of people, emphasis on creativity and good humor. It’s a happy place, noisy and lively day and night.

  Walter was pleased to see me, as usual, and we sat on a balcony in the warm autumn sun to watch the world flow by below, drinking a light Northern wine. Above us, an open window poured the sounds of a jazzy trio over the street. “I’m glad I returned yesterday. It’s a song of a day,” he declared, beaming.

  “It is gorgeous. Not many more of these this year.”

  “Fine weather for hunting,” he said. “But there’s no one who knows that better than you.”

  “Yes. You heard about my manticore?” Phoebe must have told him, I thought.

  Walter tipped his head to one side. “Rumor has it there is a great dragon come to the wood.”

  “It was just a manticore, but it was a big one. Seven and a half ells.”

  Walter whistled. “The damned beasts breed ever larger,” he said.

  “Yes. Walter, I came to ask you to start racking your brains. I am looking back to see if I can pick up any pattern in these monsters occurring. So if you could be combing your memory for talk about them—when did people start really noticing them?—and keeping your ear tuned for current news, I would be grateful.”

  “Gladly, brother. And anything else curious, I’ll pass on as well. There is a certain—I don’t know, a tension—in the air. People laugh too quickly.” Narrowing his eyes, he stared into the bright sky, following a cloud’s shape changes.

  “Hmph.” I tipped back my chair and watched an old woman making lace on the balcony across the way. Tension. People around the Citadel had been edgy lately. Utrachet, the Seneschal, had actually snapped at my secretary Anselm this very morning. Most uncharacteristic. “Yes. That is true. —Avril’s note was to ask that I Summon him for personal speech.”

  “Speaking of tension …?”

  “No, no. Nothing is wrong. He was wondering if we had heard from Gaston.”

  Walter sighed and shook his dark head. “He has probably found an impossible but just war somewhere in a hellish stagnant backwater of the Well’s or the Spring’s Roads and is fighting nineteen hours a day to keep himself from getting insomnia. Burning himself out.” He became sad, wistful. “We were too happy too soon, Gwydion.”

  “Not Gaston.”

  “No. But the rest of us. Spoiled. Now the real work of life has begun and we must bend our backs and labor for our joys.”

  I thought about this. “You think happiness has to be earned?”

  “Not like that, no. Not as the payment due for suffering. But it does seem that every life has sorrow and joy, some more of one or another, and we had much joy first. Mother’s goal was joy for everyone all the time. I don’t know how possible it is. Fortuna’s Wheel does turn, as they say.”

  “It may not be possible, but it is a good goal. And I work for it joyously.”

  He smiled again. “As long as it is joyous work to you.… Are you going to look for Gaston?”

  “No. I do not wish to intrude on him.”

  “Of course not.” He looked down into the street, leaning on the balcony railing. “And our uncle?”

  “What of him?”

  Walter gestured loosely. “To find him …”

  “Absolutely not,” I said firmly.

  Walter squinted back at me for a moment and then nodded. “Sorry, Gwydion. I do not mean to goad you.”

  “I know.” To prove it, I sat with him a while longer and we talked about the City and countryside. Walter is a gossip sponge, a travelling newspaper, collecting and reporting rumors and news faithfully. Tactfully, he circled back indirectly to the subject of our missing relatives.

  “I was talking to the Empress in Landuc,” he said, watching me carefully, “and she said that she thought Gaston had perhaps gone off, as Prospero did, and found something … new.”

  “No,” I said flatly.

  “I do not know enough about it to say yea or nay,” Walter said diffidently.

  I regretted my somewhat abrupt answer. “It is possible, theoretically, but to liberate such a force as Prospero did here with the Spring, as Panurgus did with the Well of Fire, cannot be done without creating certain perturbations which are not undetectable. We know now what those are like, and I would recognize them, I am certain. Neither he nor our uncle has done anything like that. Besides,” I went on softly, “Gaston … for one thing, he has never concerned himself with more than the quotidian applications of the most basic sorcery, what we use every day.”

  “That’s so. He distrusts magic.”

  “And for another thing, Walter, I cannot see him … I suppose I could have gravely misjudged his character, all these years … I cannot see him doing that alone. It might be possible that he would have done it with Mother, something for the two of them, but not alone, not as a solitary endeavor. It is not like him.”

  “I suppose you’re right. People will do odd things when they are distressed, but they usually do them in keeping with their characters and past actions. Our uncle—”

  “Again, I … I just don’t think he would do it either, not in the state of mind he was in. More destructive than creative.”

  “You know him best. I yield to your superior knowledge. It was a pleasing notion.”

  I shook my head. “I am afraid it must remain only that. I do not think Gaston is enough of an adept for it, and I do not think our uncle is … in the mood. Besides the purely sorcerous evidence against it.”

  Walter changed the subject. “At Shaoll’s house the other day—did you meet her? Oh, yes, that party—I had a good Romorantin wine, from the estate bordering this one actually, but I cannot recall the name …” and he indicated the bottle of Fidan we had been drinking.

  I welcomed the change. Walter is a diplomatic man. “Those vines have flourished. Mother swore they would.”

  “And who would dare disagree? Yet they’ve been long in producing drinkable wine. I confess I had begun to think that perhaps for once she had erred, and it’s reassuring that she was right.” Walter emptied his glass and refilled it. He toasted me. “Your health, Gwydion!”

  “Your happiness, Walter. I have seen no good Romorantin wine on my table, although I am pleased to hear you are seeing it on Shaoll’s.”

  He chuckled. Shaoll was a weaver newly arrived in Argylle, and Walter was much seen with her. “I think they’re keeping it in reserve, and a polite note reminding them of their obligations might bring some your way.”

  After perhaps half an hour of wine chat, I turned the talk back to business, to our ambassador cousin Ottaviano.

  “How is the Baron of Ascolet these days?” I said. “Did he sizzle and steam as you brought him through the Border Range into Argylle?”

  Walter laughed, throwing back his head and roaring. “Ah me, I’d nearly forgotten that one.” When I was a very small boy and had just heard that the Well embodied as fire, I had gone to Walter and demanded to know if this were true. He assured me it was, and he went on to explain gravely that when people from Landuc or the greater Pheyarcet around it tried to come to Argylle, they would vanish in a puff of steam, quenched by our watery Spring. Since I was old enough to know that people from Landuc never did come to Argylle, though not the genuine reason for it, this sounded wholly plausible to me. Only when I learned in a chance overhearing that Gaston was sometimes called the Fireduke was the truth of the thing explained to me; I ran in terror of his imminent demise to Mother and she had great difficulty sorting it out—and then blamed her father Prospero for filling my ears with fancies.

  I laughed with Walter and then said, “But Walter
, how is Otto?”

  “Steamed. He sizzled indeed. He’s affronted at being put under house arrest while he’s here,” Walter replied.

  “He knew it would be so.”

  “Still, affronted. Not that he showed it, but I could see. He’s going to be here for months, and he’ll find it close confinement.”

  “He is only here until New Year. Mother would not have liked it,” I said, “and Prospero certainly is annoyed.”

  “Avril wouldn’t have dared send him to talk to her nor indeed to Prospero; he sent him because everyone there thought you would chaffer for Argylle,” Walter pointed out, which was true. “Now that he’s here, he’s a diplomatic guest. It is nearly an insult—”

  “I agree,” I said, “but on the other hand Prospero will not want him roaming around, and at any rate he is bound by the same laws that govern others from Landuc when they are here, seldom though it is.”

  “No, I agree wholly with you … so we agree that he can’t be kept prisoned in the guesthouse while he’s here, and he can’t be allowed free amble—”

  I felt put on the spot. “I suppose we can allow him to leave the premises with a family member. You, me, Prospero, or Phoebe if she were inclined.”

  “That’s still stringent—”

  “It is more than Mother would have done,” I said. “Tell him I said that, if he takes issue with the restraint. Don’t tell him this: if he behaves himself we might loosen up. Let him go out with guards or a diplomatic escort. It would be better courtesy. And what reason has he to misbehave? —I don’t know why Avril sent him and not Josquin. Josquin knows Argylle; people remember him kindly still from that visit years ago. I wish it had been Josquin.” Josquin and I were good friends, and I had not seen him in too long. He was, in my opinion, the best of our Landuc family, the most like an Argylline. Temperamentally ideal for diplomatic work, he was witty, intelligent but not condescending, and his conduct and discretion were inerrant.

  It could almost be construed as an insult, had I wished to be insulted—the Emperor sending to treat with his peer, not his Heir the Prince of Madana, but the Baron of Ascolet, his bastard son. Not that bastardy, as an idea, is current in Argylle—but Ottaviano had done things in the past which had given him a sulphurous aura, and though my uncle Dewar had a kind of rivalrous, hearty professional friendship with him, my mother and Prospero would not suffer his presence gladly.