Mapping Winter

by Marta Randall

  He scowled and said, “He likes you.”

  Kieve shrugged. “I fetch him delicacies from the province sometimes. It does not mean he likes me. He yells at everyone.” She brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth, which softened a little. “Follow me,” she said. “If I bow, you bow lower. If I go to one knee, you go to both. Save your questions for later.” He nodded and followed a pace behind her.

  The mutter of voices rose as they neared the Great Hall, and the thin music of an unfamiliar instrument. She hesitated at the entrance. To the right, Balor’s assistants had pulled out the boards and heaped them with breads and meats and ale in tall stone jugs. People jostled around them, reaching over each other’s shoulders and spilling their drinks. Most were too busy to notice Kieve’s entrance. To the left, the Lady Drysi sat before the most distant fireplace, in front of the curtains screening her Circles of Infinity. Her minstrel accompanied herself on a long-necked, three-stringed instrument that made a peculiar twanging sound. Kieve couldn’t hear the words, but the music sounded liquid, everything running into everything else. Behind them hung a faded tapestry showing Marub’s sack of Dalmorat the City. Warriors in the Marubin colors did furious battle with warriors in grey and green, bodies lay in pieces on the ground, horses reared, behind them Old City stood in smoking ruins and to the right the castle rose from the darkness of Sterk. It was all splendid and splendidly inaccurate, and Kieve wondered if anyone noticed it anymore.

  Cadoc’s empty seat occupied a dais in front of the central fireplace. His minstrel Fercos heaved about on the platform, tossing rags and sacks, and as Kieve passed nearby he shouted with triumph and rolled to sit wide-legged on the dais edge, a set of small drums fitted over his thighs. He beat out a rapid tattoo and a few of the land-barons laughed.

  I sing Dalmorat, fruitful province

  Keeper of the northern borders

  His bellow drowned out Drysi’s minstrel.

  Mountain-crowned, great river holding

  Cherek’s valiant northern warrior.

  He who traces Morat’s water

  Finds the heartland of the mountains

  Breeding fighters, tough and mighty,

  Glorious as suns descending,

  Strong and stern, their shields flaming

  With the sunlight of the snowfields.

  Gadyn sat with a group of land-barons and two men from the Merchants Guild. They leaned toward each other and shouted over Fercos’ song. Gadyn’s manicured hands gestured as he talked. He glanced at Kieve. Her back prickled and she turned her head. Drysi frowned and signaled to her minstrel. The woman put her instrument aside as the Lady, with practiced grace, turned the signal into a beckoning toward the Rider. The noise level in the hall rose.

  Kieve walked to Drysi and dropped to one knee. Like a puppet, Pyrs copied her. Drysi put her jeweled hands on the arms of her chair and looked at Kieve with benign confusion. Kieve bowed her head, remembering what Taryn had said about the old woman. She was the only surviving child of Cadoc’s older sister and not much younger than Cadoc himself, and spent much of her time in pious astrological study. Fascinated by the tiny mechanical oddities of the Artisans Guild, she had her jewelers enhance them until it became impossible to guess their original function. Kieve remembered Bredda’s comment, that Drysi and Cairun had been ordered to Sterk only to give Gadyn’s election the appearance of a free choice. Drysi’s minstrel looked at the Rider. She had a false eye made of emerald, rumored to be a replacement for an earlier clockwork eye that, Taryn had said, spun its iris every quarter hour and made everyone save Drysi herself ill. At the lady’s gesture Kieve stood and clasped her hands behind her back. Fercos, having won his competition, had moderated his volume.

  “Lady. May I serve you?”

  “Why, no, no, thank you. I am adequately served already.” Her laugh sounded like a series of little coughs. Her attendants tittered with her. Behind her, a tall, thin man turned his smile on and off again. “The lord my uncle, Rider. Is he keeping?”

  “I do not know, Lady. I’ve yet to check for my master’s orders.”

  “Of course! Naturally!”

  “I can inquire, Lady, and send word if you wish.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I can send myself. I mean, I can send someone myself.” Drysi smiled. Her teeth were small and neat and looked as though she never used them. Kieve was surprised that she could see them so clearly. “And who is the charming little boy? A servant, perhaps?”

  “He is a bondslave, lady.”

  “My!” Drysi’s hands fluttered about her mouth. “Is he for sale? Let me look at him.”

  At Kieve’s gesture, the boy stepped around her and knelt again.

  “A handsome child,” the lady said. “A very handsome child. Where are you from, boy?”

  “Minst, Lady.” The boy’s voice was clear and respectful. When Drysi didn’t reply, he said, “It’s in the Morat range, Lady.”

  “Why, my own barony is at the foot of that range. Did you know that, boy? Do you know your geography?”

  “A little, Lady,” he said.

  “And your numbers and your letters?”

  The boy said “Yes, Lady. A little.”

  “A little is all you need,” the old woman announced, staring at him. “You may stand up.”

  He did so. She adopted a playful expression. “Now tell me the truth, boy. Why were you sold? Were you very naughty?”

  Pyrs glanced obliquely at Kieve. “No, Lady. I am clumsy, Lady. I break things. But I do not mean to.”

  Drysi’s eyebrows rose. “You break things?”

  “Yes, Lady,” the boy said, hanging his head a little. “My old master beat me for it when I smashed the seminarian’s box in a door but it was truly an accident, Lady. He beat me worst of all when I stepped on the cat, Lady, and all the crockery fell and broke. But I didn’t know the cat was there, Lady.”

  Drysi, eyes wide, looked at Kieve. “He breaks things, Rider?”

  Kieve was silent for a moment, remembering the boy’s careful grace around the scattered tables in her rooms, his competent fingers cleaning frozen tears from her face. She said, “As he says, Lady.”

  “I see.” Drysi drew her skirts back. “Yes, I see. Well. Yes.” She flicked her fingers and Pyrs scooted back behind Kieve.

  Fercos had finished his song, to laughter and stamping feet, and the Hall quieted a little.

  “Rider, tell me,” Drysi said. “Have you and your...associates...any plans? For the future, I mean? Afterwards...after all of this...” She waved her hand and let her voice trail gently into silence. Her retinue, around her, seemed almost to hold their breaths.

  “Associates, Lady?” Kieve said. “I’m not sure—”

  “But of course!” the Lady said. “Of course, I understand, Rider, it is far too early yet, is it not? Tell me, Rider,” she continued, almost rushing. “Tell me, have you had your stars read?”

  “No, Lady.”

  “Ah! We should do that for you! Yes, that would be quite fine. We could do it now and use the Circles of...” Her gaze lit on Pyrs and she faltered. “Perhaps later. Yes, definitely, later. My seminarian will call.” She turned to look over her shoulder at the thin man. The bells of the Circles of Infinity tinkled behind him. “Humka, you’ll be delighted to read the Rider’s stars, won’t you? Humka!” The seminarian looked at Kieve, as though appraising her worth, and bowed. “Oh, you must certainly be read, Rider. You might be destined for great glory.”

  She smiled. Her attendants tittered again. Humka turned his smile on and off. Kieve and the boy bowed, backed away, turned, and walked toward the corridor. A land-baron, someone she didn’t know, stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Is it Drysi, then?” he whispered. “Do you support—”

  She looked at him without expression. He pulled his hand away and retreated, muttering apologies.

  In the corridor Pyrs looked at her, eyes flat.

  “Clumsy,” Kieve said. “You break things.
”

  After a moment he said, “She was going to buy me. You must have seen that. She was going to buy me and if she said she wanted to, you would have to sell me to her. Even if you haven’t paid for me. Because she’s a Lady and you’re only a Rider. Just as Unig had to sell me to you, because you’re a Rider and he’s an Innkeeper.”

  Kieve had stopped and now turned to look down at him. “At least she’s not a cook,” she said. “She may even be the next Lord. She would treat you well.”

  He pressed his lips together. After a moment she turned away and he followed her up the broad stone stairs and into Adwyr’s chamber. The steam heater hissed and spat and muttered to itself. Adwyr’s supplicants stood away from it while an attendant hit at it with a number of grimy tools. The boy stared at its gaudy tentacles. Adwyr looked neat and cool. When he saw her, his lips pinched down hard and the skin on his cheeks went pale with fury. He gestured sharply and people fell back to let her through. She dipped her head to him but did not bow. His scowl deepened.

  “I sent my accounts yesterday, Master Adwyr,” she said. “I trust they were in order?”

  Adwyr scowled and stared. After an interval of silence he gestured at Anfri.

  “My lord Cadoc has told me that he will send his own page for you, should he need you,” Adwyr said. Anfri gave her a leather bag. “You may leave,” the Chancellor said through tight lips.

  The bag was unexpectedly heavy. She opened it and put her fingers inside to feel a second bag. She drew it out. It was sealed with Gadyn’s crest and twice as heavy as the larger bag.

  “Master Adwyr,” she said. “This is not mine.”

  The bag clanked when she dropped it on the table. The boy followed her from the room, still looking over his shoulder at the steam heater. She went down the stairs, letting her boots bang against the stones, and pushed open a door at the base of the tower staircase. She and the boy stepped into the cold of Hueil’s Garden. The shadows of naked trees etched stark black lines across the snow, over the single cleared path. Kieve started along it, breath puffing in the cold, furious at the naked attempt at bribery and slamming doors in her mind until the muscles in her shoulders relaxed. Another door slammed, this one in the tower wall.

  “Rider!” A man came toward her, pulling up the hood of his cloak. “Rider, hold.”

  He stopped in front of her and waited. She narrowed her eyes but did not recognize his face, the broad strong cheekbones or straight nose. “Sir?”

  “I am Cairun,” he said, and she went to one knee. “No, no, stand,” he said, putting out his hand. “You must not kneel.”

  She straightened. They looked at each other, then he said “I don’t know why I came.” He pursed his lips and blew out a thin stream of fog. “Not to second my cousin’s—he did try to bribe you, didn’t he? With a sack of money?”

  She nodded and Cairun said, “Balls of the Father, but he is a fool. Come, if we stand here talking we’ll freeze. Are you bound anywhere, in particular I mean?”

  “No, my lord,” she said. “I came seeking fresh air.”

  “A scarce commodity on Sterk, I think. May I walk with you?”

  “As you wish.”

  He was as tall as she. The dark fur of his hood framed his face. His lips looked as if they had been defined by calipers, the upper lip curved like an outlands bow, the lower full. Kieve looked away and gestured and Pyrs fell into step behind them.

  “My cousin Gadyn did give me an errand on his behalf,” Cairun said. “I am to tell you that he can arrange much more money for you than can be held in a sack.”

  She said, “I did not accept the sack.”

  “I know but he doesn’t, not yet. I spoke Gadyn’s words, Rider. Expenses, a stipend, and knowledge for the guild—everyone knows that Riders are the least greedy guild in Cherek. Even Gadyn. But his father’s expense allowance to you is small and Master Adwyr keeps it smaller yet. That, he says, can be remedied. And he believes you deserve better quarters, something far grander than two rooms beside the stables.”

  After a moment Kieve said, “They are close to my horse.”

  Cairun smiled. It transformed his face. “I told him he was an ass.”

  “Indeed.” She looked sideways at him. “I thought, Lord Cairun, that you sought Dalmorat for yourself. So why are you running errands for an ass?”

  He caught his breath. “Ah! Well, in the great contest for the sword of Dalmorat, my cousins Gadyn and Isbael are far, far more likely to succeed than am I. I am here as—as a place marker, perhaps. Just as Lady Drysi is here for the comedy of the thing.”

  She stopped and faced him. “You have no ambition for yourself?”

  He caught her gaze and held it with such intensity that she forgot, for a moment, to breathe. His eyes were a deep, rich brown.

  “Not the ambition to rule Dalmorat,” he said. “Even if you can find something here of worth or light or grace, which is unlikely, you must admire it in solitude for you won’t find anyone to admire it with you.” His gaze broke away from her and she took a breath. “No, I have little ambition to take Dalmorat’s sword.”

  Into the tiny silence that followed, Kieve said, “And so?”

  “Ah. And so.” He gestured and she was able to look away from him, then back. “And so, if cousin Gadyn takes the sword, I become his steward in Koerstadt. A nice exchange. I will live in the warm lands, in a cultured and lively place, and am to be given money to enjoy myself and decent work to do. It seems a small enough ambition.”

  “In return for being Gadyn’s dog?”

  The silence this time was not as tiny. Cairun searched her face, a frown pulling at his broad forehead.

  “Master Adwyr told me you were difficult,” he said. “My Lord Cadoc told us you were a smart bitch. I think Gadyn doesn’t understand how smart a bitch you are. Or how fearless.”

  “Fearless? When Cadoc dies, I turn my back on this province and never return.” She raised her chin.

  “And you never have need of friends,” he said. “Even if they run errands for asses, or are Gadyn’s dog.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Very well, Rider. Just so, in return for being Gadyn’s dog.” To her surprise, his lips tilted upward again. “As Gadyn’s dog, I am commanded to tell you that he will reward your loyalty. That the continuity you can bring to his cause is of considerable value to him, and that he will not forget it.”

  “And all that I must do is bend the knee and promise to make the oath to him when his father dies.”

  Cairun nodded. “Unless you are promised to the Lady Drysi. Are you?”

  Kieve frowned. “Why should I be?”

  “You spoke with her in the Great Hall, but not with Gadyn, who was there.”

  She snorted. “The lady called me over. And in any event, what difference can it make?”

  The frown tugged at his forehead again. “Surely you must know, Rider. Your support means a great deal, for who you are, and what you represent.”

  “My support means nothing,” she retorted. “I am Cadoc’s Herald Rider and nothing more, and represent only my guild and myself. Only my guild and myself. When Cadoc dies I leave this province and it may fall into the Mountain. I wish it would.”

  The frown disappeared. “You have not promised your oath to Drysi, then. Will you promise it to Gadyn?”

  His eyes gleamed. There were amber flecks in their depths. She shook her head.

  “I suspect, Lord Cairun, that you are a smart bitch yourself. My guild requires that I not swear falsely,” she said to him, as she had said to Cadoc the day before. “You know what my answer has been, and will be.”

  The smile took his mouth and shaped it with delight. “Yes, Rider, and yes again. I told him so. And I thank you for the compliment. I will convey the rest of it to cousin Gadyn but the compliment, I think, I will keep for myself.”

  He walked back toward the door. Kieve stood for a moment, watching him go.

  “Mistress?” Pyrs said.

&n
bsp; She shook her head and pushed open a gate leading into the Snake. The boy trailed her. His boot heels made sharp, syncopated sounds on the cobbles. Like its namesake, the Snake twisted sinuously, bordered by the garden wall on one side and the nobles’ apartments on the other. She turned toward the face of the great stone that cupped the castle, then up an exterior stairway between castle buildings and onto the broad expanse of the Crescent Bathhouse promenade and down steps on the other side, to the Garden of the Lady. Pyrs skipped to keep up with her.

  The snow here was untouched save for a line of footsteps where Shadeen, the night before, had crossed in search of tokens to steal. Kieve stopped in a puddle of sunlight by the wall. Nearby she saw the hunched shapes of benches under the snow, and the ridges which defined the fence around the apothecary’s garden. Within the garden strange shapes rose where the apothecary had covered some of her larger plants to shelter them from the cold. Seeing them, Kieve wondered of the woman had renewed her supply of emmenagogic herbs; she herself had enough left for perhaps another few weeks, but no more than that.

  The bare branches of trees were starkly black against the white of snow. Crystal chimes hung from them like slender icicles, moving in the light breeze, making quiet music.

  “What is it?” Pyrs said, whispering.

  “The apothecary’s garden and the castle graveyard,” she said, and came back into the moment. “The chimes are memorials.”

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled. “They put dead people here?”

  “No. Not exactly.” She rested her palm against a nearby tree trunk. “There is little earth on Sterk and what there is, is used by the farmers in the village. So when people die here they are put in the catacombs under this garden and crystal is hung in the trees, as a memorial.”

  “Catacombs?” the boy said.

  “Um. Long tunnels in the rock, and sometimes rooms, and niches where the bodies are put. Then later, when only bones remain, they are taken up and fitted into the walls of the tunnels and rooms. Below us are stairs and seats and walls and roofs of arm bones, or skulls, or finger bones.” A small breeze moved through the Garden, which sang and fell into silence again. “There’s a separate set of chambers for the Lords of Dalmorat,” Kieve said. “Their families are kept nearby, then land-barons, and all the way down to scullions and stablehands. Shelves built of scullion skulls, and a room of Lords’ jawbones, and arches made of clavicles and ceilings paved in ribs.” She looked down at him. “Do you think that repulsive?”