by Larry Niven
Yet Thyssa knew also that Minister Dirrach, the shaman standing alert at the young king’s right elbow, would interpret a commoner’s grin as dumb insolence. “The shaman minds,” she hissed. “Do you want to lose favor at the castle?”
Grumbling, six-year-old Oroles did as he was told. Thus the boy missed the glance of feral hunger that Dirrach flicked toward the nubile Thyssa before attending to his perquisites as minister to King Bardel of Lyris.
Dirrach seemed barely to sway nearer as he spoke behind young Bardel’s ear: “The outlander must not hear you chuckling at his clumsiness, Sire.” he suggested in a well-oiled baritone.
Bardel, without moving: “But when I can’t laugh, it seems funnier.”
“Averae of Moess is devious,” the shaman replied easily, while others rushed to help the outlander. “If you think him clumsy, you may falsely think yourself secure.”
Bardel gave a grunt of irritation, a sound more mature than his speaking voice. “Dirrach, don’t you trust anybody?”
“I have seen duplicity in that one before,” Dirrach murmured, and swayed back to prevent further interchange. Truly enough, he had known Averae before, and had been uneasy when he recognized the Moessian. Dirrach breathed more easily now that he had slandered the man in advance. Who knew what crimes the outlander might recall? Then Averae stood on the wharf, and Bardel stepped forward.
Thyssa had not noted the shaman’s glance because her attention was on the king. In the two years since his accession to the Lyrian throne, Bardel had grown into his royal role—indeed, into his father’s broad leather breastplate—without entirely losing the panache of spirited youth. Tanned by summer hunts, forearms scarred by combat training with the veteran Boerab, the young Lyrian king fluttered girlish hearts like a warm breeze among beech leaves. And while Bardel watched the Moessian’s unsteady advance with calm peregrine eyes, Thyssa saw a twinkle in them. Flanked by Boerab and Dirrach, arms and enchantment, Bardel of Lyris was a beloved figure. It did not matter to most Lyrians that his two ministers loathed each other, and that Bardel was just not awfully bright.
Thyssa, fingers flying among the tattered nets, seemed not to hear the royal amenities. Yet she heard a query from Averae: “…Shandorian minister?” And heard Boerab’s rumbled, “…Escorted from the Northern heights…tomorrow.” Then Thyssa knew why the castle staff and the fat merchants in Tihan had been atwitter for the past day or so. It could mean nothing less than protracted feasting in Bardel’s castle!
To an Achaean of the distant past, or even to Phoenicians who plied the Adriatic coast to the far Southwest, this prospect would have inspired little awe. No Lyrian commoner could afford woven garments for everyday use; only the king and Boerab carried iron blades at their sides, each weapon purchased from Ostran ironmongers with packtrains of excellent Lyrian wine.
Nor would the royal castle in Tihan have excited much admiration from those legendary outlanders. Some hundreds of families lived in Tihan, thatched walls and roofs protected by stout oak palisades surrounding town and castle on the lake’s one peninsula. Bardel’s castle was the only two-story structure capacious enough to house king, staff, and a small garrison mostly employed for day-labor.
The pomp that accompanied Bardel’s retinue back to nearby Tihan would have brought smiles to Phoenician lips but as Thyssa viewed the procession, her eyes were bright with pride. “Remind me to brush your leather apron, Oroles,” she smiled; “if you are chosen to serve during feast-time, there may be red meat for our stew.” Unsaid was her corollary: and since I must play both father and mother to you, perhaps I too will make an impression on someone.
* * * *
Old Panon was less than ecstatic over the job on his nets. “Your repairs are adequate, Thyssa,” he admitted, then held an offending tangle between thumb and forefinger; “but Oroles must learn that a knot needn’t be the size and shape of a clenched fist. Teach him as I taught you, girl; nothing magic about it”
“Nothing?” Oroles frowned at this heresy. “But Shaman Dirrach enchants the nets every year.”
“Pah,” said the old man. “Dirrach! The man couldn’t—ah, there are those who say the man couldn’t enchant a bee with honey. Some say it’s all folderol to keep us in line. Some say,” he qualified it.
“Please, Panon,” said Thyssa, voice cloudy with concern. “Big-eared little pitchers,” she ruffled the ragged hair of Oroles, “spill on everyone. Besides, if it’s folderol, how do you explain my father’s slingstone?”
“Well—” The old man smiled, “maybe some small magics. It doesn’t take much enchantment to fool a fish, or a rabbit. And Urkut was an uncanny marksman with a sling.”
At this, Oroles beamed. The boy had no memory of the mother who had died bearing him, and chiefly second-hand knowledge of his emigrant father, Urkut. But the lad had spent many an evening scrunched next to the fireplace, hugging his knees and wheedling stories from Thyssa as she stirred chestnuts from the coals. To the girl, a father who had seen the Atlantic and Crete had traveled all the world. One raised across the mountains beyond Lyris was an emigrant. And one whose slingstone was so unerring that the missile was kept separate in Urkut’s waistpouch, was definitely magical. Indeed, the day before his death Urkut had bested Dirrach by twice proving the incredible efficacy of his sling. It had come about during an aurochs hunt in which Bardel, still an impressionable youth, and Boerab, an admirer of Urkut, had been spectators.
As Thyssa heard it from the laconic Boerab, her father’s tracking skill had prompted young Bardel to proclaim him “almost magical.” Dirrach, affronted, had caused a grass fire to appear behind them; though Boerab left little doubt that he suspected nothing more miraculous in the shaman’s ploy than a wisp of firewick from Dirrach’s pack. Challenged to match the grass fire, Urkut had demurred until goaded by Bardel’s amusement.
Slowly (as Thyssa would embroider it, matching her account with remembered pantomime while gooseflesh crawled on Oroles’s body), the hunter Urkut had withdrawn a rough stone pellet from his wallet. Carefully, standing in wooden stirrups while his pony danced in uncertainly, Urkut had placed pellet in slingpouch. Deliberately, staring into Dirrach’s face as he whirled the sling, Urkut had made an odd gesture with his free hand. And then the stone had soared off, not in a flat arrowcourse but in a high trajectory to thud far off behind a shrub.
Dirrach’s booming laughter had stopped abruptly when, dismounting at the shrub, Urkut groped and then held his arms aloft. In one hand he’d held his slingstone. In the other had been a rabbit.
Outraged by Dirrach’s claims of charlatanry, Urkut had done it again; this time eyes closed, suggesting that Boerab retrieve stone and quarry.
And this time Boerab had found a magnificent cock pheasant quivering beside the slingstone, and Urkut had sagaciously denied any miraculous powers while putting his slingstone away. It was merely a trick, he’d averred; the magic of hand and eye (this with a meaningful gaze toward Dirrach). And young Bardel had bidden Urkut sup at the castle that night. And Urkut had complied.
And Urkut had died in his cottage during the night, in agony, clutching his belly as Thyssa wept over him. To this day, even Dirrach would admit that the emigrant Urkut had been in some small way a shaman. Especially Dirrach; for he could also point out that mana was lethal to those who could not control it properly.
Now, with a sigh for memories of a time when she was not an orphan, Thyssa said to the aged Panon: “Father always said the mana was in the slingstone, not in him. And it must have been true, for the pellet vanished like smoke after his death.”
“Or so the shaman says,” Panon growled. “He who took charge of Urkut’s body and waistpouch as well. I heard Thyssa. And I watch Dirrach—almost as carefully as he watches you.” The fisherman chose two specimens from his catch; one suitable for a stew, the other large enough to fillet. “Here: an Oroles’-worth, and a Thyssa-worth.”
The girl thanked him with a hug, gathered the fish in her leather shift, leapt
from raft to shore with a flash of lithe limbs. “May you one day catch a Panon-worth,” she called gaily, and took the hand of Oroles.
“He watches you, girl,” old Panon’s voice followed her toward the palisades of Tihan. “Take care.” She waved and continued. Dirrach watched everybody, she told herself. What special interest could the shaman possibly have in an orphaned peasant girl?
* * * *
There were some who could have answered Thyssa’s riddle. One such was the gaunt emissary Averae whose dignity had been in such peril as he stood up in his Moessian canoe. Not until evening, after an aurochs haunch had been devoured and a third flagon of Lyrian wine was in his vitals, did Averae unburden himself to Boerab. “You could’ve knocked me into the lake when I spied your friend, the shaman,” Averae muttered.
“Or a falling leaf could’ve,” Boerab replied with a wink. “You’re a landlubber like me. But be cautious in naming my friends,” he added with a sideways look across the table where Dirrach was tongue-lashing a servant.
“You’ve no liking for him either?”
“I respect his shrewdness. We serve the same king,” Boerab said with a lift of the heavy shoulders. “You know Dirrach, then?”
“When your king was only a pup—I mean no disrespect for him, Boerab, but this marvelous wine conjures truth as it will—his father sent Dirrach to us in Moess to discuss fishing rights near our shore.”
“I was building an outpost and only heard rumors.”
“Here are facts. Dirrach had full immunity, royal pardons, the usual,” Averae went on softly, pausing to drain his flagon. “And he abused them terribly among our servant girls.”
“You mean the kind of abuse he’s giving now?” An ashen-faced winebearer was backing away from Dirrach.
A weighed pause: “I mean the kind that leaves bite scars, and causes young women to despise all men.”
Boerab, a heavy womanizer in his time, saw no harm in a tussle with a willing wench. But bite scars? The old warrior recalled the disappearance of several girls from farms near Tihan over the past years, and hoped he could thrust a new suspicion from his mind. “Well, that explains why we never arranged that fishing treaty,” he said, trying to smile. “Perhaps this time Lyris and Moess can do better.”
“Trade from Obuda to the Phoenician coast is more important than punishment for a deviate,” Averae agreed. “Do you suppose we’ll find Shandor’s folk amenable?”
“Likely; they have little to lose and much to gain.”
“Even as you and I,” Averae purred the implication.
“Even as your king and mine,” Boerab corrected. “Just so we’ll understand one another, Averae: I’m happy as I am. Wouldn’t know what to do with presents from Moess or Shandor, even without strings attached. If Lyris and the lad—ah, King Bardel—prosper, I’m content.”
“Fair enough,” Averae laughed. “I’m beginning to be glad your mana was strong during our border clash.”
Boerab, startled, spilled his brimming flagon. “My what? Save that for commoners, Averae.”
“If you insist. But it’s common knowledge in Moess that our shaman spent the better part of his mana trying to sap your strength in that last battle. Practically ruined the poor fellow.”
Boerab studied the lees in his wine. “If anybody put a wardspell on me, he’s kept it secret.” The barrel chest shook with mirth. “Fact is, I had high-ground advantage and grew too tired to move. If you want to believe, then believe in a safespot. For myself, I believe in my shield.”
Boerab could hardly be blamed for denying the old legends. The entire region was rich in relics of forgotten battles where mighty shamans had pitted spell against spell, mana against mana, irresistible ax versus immovable shield. The mound that Boerab had chosen for his stand was a natural choice for a combat veteran; other warriors had chosen that spot before him. On that spot, magical murder had been accomplished. On that spot no magic would work again, ever. Boerab had indeed defended a safespot upon which all but the most stupendous mana was wasted.
All Boerab’s life had been spent in regions nearly exhausted of mana. Of course there had been little things like Urkut’s tricks, but—. Boerab did not commit the usual mistake of allowing magic to explain the commonplace. Instead he erred in using the commonplace to explain magic. Thus far, Boerab was immeasurably far ahead.
“I’d drink to your shield, then,” Averae mumbled, “if that confounded winebearer were in sight.”
Boerab’s eyes roamed through the smog of the lignite fire as he roared for more wine. By now the king and Dirrach were too far in their flagons to notice the poor service. Boerab promised himself that for the main feast, he’d insist on a winebearer too young to crave the stuff he toted. Ah; Urkut’s boy, he thought. Too innocent to cause aggravation.
As to the innocence of Oroles, the grizzled warrior was right. As to the consequences of innocence he could scarcely have gone farther wrong.
* * * *
Thyssa, late to rise, was coaxing a glow from hardwood embers when she heard a rap on her door. “Welcome,” she called, drawing her shift about her as the runner, Dasio, entered.
“In the royal service,” said Dasio formally. The youth was lightly built but tall, extraordinary in musculature of calf and thigh; and Thyssa noted the heaving breast of her childhood friend with frank concern.
“Are you ill, Dasio? You cannot be winded by a mere sprint across Tihan.”
“Nor am I. I’m lathered from a two-hour run. Spent the night with the Shandorians; they’ll be here soon—with a surprise, I’ll warrant,” Dasio said cryptically, taking his eyes from Thyssa with reluctance. Seeing Oroles curled in a tangle of furs: “Ah, there’s the cub I’m to fetch; and then I can rest!”
Choosing a motherly view, Thyssa set a stoneware pot near the coals. “Tell them Oroles was breaking his fast,” she said. “You don’t have to tell them you shared his gruel. Meanwhile, Dasio, take your ease.” She shook her small brother with rough affection. “Rise, little man-of-the-house,” she smiled. “You’re wanted—” and glanced at Dasio as she ended, “—at the castle?”
The runner nodded, stirred the gruel as it began to heat, tasted and grimaced. “Wugh; it could use salt.”
“Could it indeed,” Thyssa retorted. “Then you might have brought some. Our palates aren’t so jaded with rich palace food as some I might name.”
A flush crept up the neck of the diffident youth. Silently he chided himself; though Thyssa and Oroles still lived in Urkut’s cottage, they did so with few amenities. Without even the slenderest dowry, Dasio knew, the girl was overlooked by the sons of most Tihaners.
Presently, Oroles found his sandals and apron, then joined Dasio over the gruel. “What have I done now,” he yawned.
It was as Thyssa hoped. After one dutiful mouthful that courtesy required, Dasio set her at ease. “The palace cook will brief you, runt. Big doings tonight; bigger than last night. If you can keep your feet untangled, maybe you can ask for a slab of salt—to jade your palates,” he added with a sidelong grin at Thyssa.
Moments later, the girl ushered them outside. “Watch over him, Dasio,” she pleaded. “And thanks for his employ.”
“Thank old Boerab for that,” said the youth. “But I’ll try to keep the cub out of the wine he’ll pour tonight.” Then, while Oroles tried to match his stride, Dasio trotted slowly up the dirt road toward high ground and the castle.
* * * *
The Shandorians arrived in midafternoon, and all Tihan buzzed with the surprise Dasio had promised. Everybody knew Shandor had funny ideas about women, but conservative Tihaners grumbled to see that the emissary from Shandor was a handsome female wearing crimson garments of the almost mythical fabric, silk; and her eyes were insolent with assurance. Thyssa, contracting a day’s labor for a parcel of a merchant’s grain, knew it first as rumor.
Dirrach learned of it while powdering a lump of lightest-tinted lignite coal in his private chamber. It was the shaman’s good f
ortune that such stuff was available, since when powdered it was unlikely to be as visible when sprinkled from shadow into fire as was charcoal or the sulphur which he used for other effects. It was the region’s good fortune that Dirrach’s “magics” had never yet tapped genuine mana.
Dirrach heard his door creak open; turned to hide his work even as he opened his mouth to blast the intruder. Only one man in all Lyris had the right to burst in thus. “Who dares to—oh. Ah, welcome, Bardel,” he ended lamely; for it was that one man.
“Can you believe, Dirrach?” The king’s face was awash with something between delight and consternation as he toed the door shut. “Boerab and I just did the welcomes—and where were you anyhow—oh, here I guess; and the Shandorian has a girl for a servant. Which is fine I suppose, because she’s a woman. The emissary, I mean. Is a woman!”
Dirrach drew a long breath, moving away from his work to draw Bardel’s attention. Too long had he suffered the prattle, the presumption, the caprice of this royal oaf. Perhaps tonight, all that could be remedied. “Shandor puts undue value on its females, as I have told you.” He hadn’t, but Bardel’s shortsword outspanned his memory.
“The Shandorian’s a bit long in the tooth for me,” Bardel went on, “but firm-fleshed and—uh—manly, sort of. But where do we seat a woman at a state feast? You take care of it, Dirrach; Boerab’s rounded up the kitchen staff. I’m off to the practice range; that crazy Gethae—the Shandorian—would pit her skill with a bow against mine. A woman, Dirrach,” he laughed, shaking his head as he ducked out the door. His parting question was his favorite phrase: “Can you believe?”
Dirrach sighed and returned to his work. No believer in the arts he surrogated, the shaman warmed to his own beliefs. He could believe in careful preparation in the feast hall, and in mistrust for outlanders who could be blamed for any tragedy. Most of all, Dirrach could believe in poison. The stuff had served him well in the past.