Children of Earth and Sky

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  “Danica Gradek?”

  She nodded.

  “A good friend to have, I think.”

  “You don’t hate her? As a Seressini?”

  “She is your friend, signora. That is what matters now.”

  Again she said, exasperated, “Have you heard nothing I’ve said?”

  And he replied, again, “All of it.” Then added, “I am not an inconstant man, I should warn you.”

  Leonora’s thought, unexpectedly, was, He is telling me the truth.

  —

  “I AM NOT AN INCONSTANT MAN,” he heard himself say.

  And the realization came with the words, the speaking of them: This is true.

  He had never considered himself in such terms, but he thought of his mother and father, still loved, and of friends known—and kept—all his life, and Pero thought again, Yes, that is what I am.

  It happens this way sometimes, we can discover truths about ourselves in a moment, sometimes in the midst of drama, sometimes quietly. A sunset wind can be blowing off the sea, we might be alone in bed on a winter night, or grieving by a grave among leaves. We are drunk in a tavern, dealing with desperate pain, waiting to confront enemies on a battlefield. We are bearing a child, falling in love, reading by candlelight, watching the sun rise, a star set, we are dying . . .

  But there is something else to all of this, because of how the world is for us, how we are within it. Something can be true of our deepest nature and the running tide of days and years might let it reach the shore, be made real there—or not.

  “Will you take me home?” she asked.

  He did so. At the doorway of the Djivo city palace the guard outside—the one who had been with her before—looked relieved, Pero saw.

  He nodded to him, bowed to her. He watched her go in. He turned back west, then up the now familiar stone steps and along the higher street to the hostel.

  As he entered, Signore Frani approached at speed from the sitting room, beaming. He stopped, squeezed Pero’s arm, reported that a ship from home, just arrived, had brought Seressini merchants intending to travel overland to Asharias.

  Frani had taken the liberty of suggesting they might include an important artist in their party and they had happily acceded.

  When would they be leaving? A matter of days, it appeared.

  Signore Villani was a man greatly blessed by fortune, evidently.

  Frani smiled again. Pero managed a smile.

  CHAPTER XI

  Facing death in the morning can change one’s day.

  Marin Djivo has remained at home with wine (a second flask now), passing up the evening promenade. His father and mother have gone out and his brother is seldom far from their father, so Marin has the house to himself except for the servants, and their business employees closing up in the front rooms, and the guards. Danica Gradek is likely among that last group, in their quarters.

  She is under instructions to stay inside today, perhaps for longer than that. There is still a real potential for violence. She’d killed a Dubravae nobleman this morning. Yes, with cause, yes, doing her duty to the equally noble family that hired her. But even so . . .

  He had given thought to walking out, being seen in the Straden. He can hear the noise out there now, there will be intense conversations. But even though it might be important to present an illusion of normality, he’d decided his parents and brother could manage that for the family this evening, and his father had not disagreed.

  His father had looked at him oddly once or twice, but hadn’t said anything. It is possible to imagine him feeling emotional about what almost happened. His mother has been expressionless, but she always is, except when praying, eyes closed, hands wrapped tightly around her sun disk.

  Marin pours more wine. It is early to be having so much, but it is also . . . it has been a difficult day. He can’t stop thinking about Vudrag Orsat, who is dead, and about the Orsat sisters. Elena, the older one, had bedded him half a dozen times last winter in her bedchamber. It wasn’t, in fact, the mother’s serving girl he’d been climbing down the wall from visiting. He’d lied about that. Some lies are important, he thinks.

  Marin is remembering his own words in the Rector’s Palace about her sister, Iulia: Why did you not find the man and marry them to each other?

  It could have been him being married now, he thinks, had Elena Orsat decided he was the husband she wanted, and chosen a way of ensuring it. They wouldn’t have been the first well-born couple in Dubrava to be joined in such circumstances. Nor was she a bad choice, if he is to marry among the noble families—and of course he is. What else is there? Really?

  He could join the Sons of Jad in a holy retreat. He could do that.

  He drains the cup. His father will know he’s been drinking. Will say nothing. Not today. His father is a . . . he is a good man, with definite views on many things.

  He wonders who the father of Iulia’s child is. Why the Orsats haven’t done this the obvious way. Probably she had refused to tell.

  He hears the Miucci widow come in and go up to her room. The fourth and the ninth stairs creak. You learn these things in a lifetime of slipping out at night.

  That woman has also played a role in saving his life. Warning of the crossbow above. His father already admires her extravagantly. It is amusing in a way, but there is something about Leonora Miucci that nags at Marin. It has been there from the first time he and Drago saw the doctor and his wife approaching along the dock in Seressa. He feels sure she is not what she seems to be.

  Only with a great deal of wine, or fatigue, or sometimes lovemaking, can Marin Djivo suppress a questioning turn of mind. This woman, he thinks, is too sophisticated. She has to be more than a doctor’s wife . . . or widow, he corrects himself.

  It doesn’t matter. She is only about money now. Ledgers and transactions following violent death. It might take time, but these things unfold predictably, like the progression of mile markers on one of the old highways.

  She’ll be gone soon. She has told the Djivos she doesn’t want to go back to Seressa, but that will change, he imagines, and it isn’t really her choice. Women have, he thinks, a limited number of choices in their lives.

  One might be to get pregnant by a man they want.

  One might be to kill a fellow raider on a ship. Though that decision—which meant exile—might not have been carefully worked through.

  His family will be home soon. Then they will dine. His father is particular about meals and mealtimes. His mother will ask them not to talk about this morning, will say it distresses her. His father will raise the matter of the ship that has just arrived. His brother will know its cargo and the merchants’ names and intentions. His brother has little insight but is good at gathering information. Marin has never disliked Zarko at all. Finds him easily anticipated, pallid. His brother fears and mistrusts him—from childhood, and still. They are past an age where that will change, he thinks.

  He hears the ninth stair’s light creak, then the lower tone of the fourth. The door to the study is open. Leonora Miucci appears there. Her hat has been removed. Her bright hair is coiled and pinned. Marin stands and bows.

  “Gospodar,” she says.

  “Signora,” he says. “May I offer you wine?”

  She shakes her head. “Thank you, no. But I have a request, if I may.”

  “Ask,” he says. “You saved my life today.”

  She looks away. “I did not.”

  “The one who shouts the warning is blessed,” he quotes.

  She looks at him. She has dark eyes. “A folk saying here?”

  “It is. Not all are true, of course.”

  She smiles a little. “We say, A false warning can bring a true death.”

  Marin smiles. “There was nothing false in yours.”

  She looks around the room before answering. He kn
ows she is clever. He also knows she carries some sorrow within her. The complicating thing is, he had thought this before her husband died.

  She says, “I have been invited to Sinan Isle tomorrow. I am not certain why.”

  “To the Daughters of Jad?” He thinks about how much to say. “I’d imagine they’ll have heard of your husband’s death, and wish to offer comfort.”

  She shrugs. “I have seldom found comfort in such places.”

  “But you wish to go?”

  “It would be ungracious to refuse.”

  He considers it another moment, then does say, cautiously, “The Eldest Daughter is a woman named Filipa di Lucaro. From Rhodias. She is . . . a subtle woman.”

  “How can I matter to her?”

  “I have no idea,” he says frankly. “But I’d be careful nonetheless.”

  She nods. “Thank you. May I ask for a boat? I have been told that Signore Villani is also summoned. We can go together.”

  The artist being called to the isle seems odd for a moment, then Marin remembers something. “He won’t have been invited by the Daughters, I suspect.”

  “No?” She looks surprised. “He said someone there has asked to see him before he goes east.”

  “East” is Asharias, of course. Which unlocks one small puzzle. Marin always feels happier when mysteries are solved, even trivial ones. He doesn’t feel up to explaining it to her, who this other person is, how she came here. They will find out tomorrow, and it is the artist’s affair, not hers—or Marin’s. He realizes he is feeling the effects of the wine, after all.

  He says, “We will happily offer a boat to carry you over and bring you back. I’ll ask Drago to take you.”

  “Isn’t he . . . doesn’t he have much to do?”

  “In the city? He hates it on land, signora. He’ll be pleased to do this.”

  “May I also take Danica Gradek, please? For the day. I feel safer when she is with me.”

  “I can understand that,” Marin says, with some feeling. “Of course you may. It seems a good idea.”

  It isn’t, in fact, a good idea.

  They know some things here in Dubrava, in this household, but they don’t know enough. They aren’t the only clever people, and being decent by nature can be a disadvantage in some circumstances.

  The door to the street opens, there are voices.

  “We will dine now,” Marin says. “The table will be ready. The servants start moving as soon as they hear my father home from the promenade. Do you need to go upstairs first?”

  “Am I acceptable?” she asks. A faint smile. The words, that wry look, seem like a glimpse of someone from before. He doesn’t expect to ever know her story. Some stories, Marin Djivo thinks, we never learn, or tell.

  “Of course you are,” he says.

  At dinner he is careful with the wine. His father is watching (and his brother, of course) and he doesn’t want either of them to think he is drinking because he’s afraid.

  They discuss, as expected, the ship in the harbour. The Silver Moon of the Hrabak family (they live two houses east) has carried a number of Seressini merchants, Zarko reports, importantly. They intend to head overland immediately. Word is they carry gems and goldsmiths’ work, but he isn’t certain.

  “So, with those, all the way to Asharias?” Andrij Djivo says.

  “The court is always best for precious goods,” Marin says.

  He is utterly uninterested, but he also knows it is best not to reveal that, and he also knows his father relies on him, more and more. It occurs to him, mortality having impinged upon them this morning, that Andrij Djivo can’t be said to be in the prime of life any more.

  He looks at his father, but not too intently, or for long. Prime or otherwise, the older Djivo is still sharp as a tailor’s needle in most ways. He’d know if he was being scrutinized.

  Grey now, however, his younger son thinks. His father’s beard and hair are even white in places. Still a full head of hair, mind you. A firm voice and a strong laugh. And there are occasionally sounds from the parental bedchamber at night that can embarrass grown sons living in the same house.

  It is almost certainly time for those sons to be married, starting with the older one. He knows his mother thinks that way.

  He excuses himself as soon as it seems acceptable. He could plead fatigue, but he’s not in the habit of explaining himself. He rises and bows. He creaks at the fourth and ninth stairs, walks the high-ceilinged, lamplit corridor to his room, and enters.

  The servants know his habits and they like him, which always helps. There is a fire going, and a lantern by the bed with another by his reading chair. There is a wine flask on a table beside the chair. No glass or cup, however. An omission. He turns, feeling a breeze.

  Danica Gradek is sitting on the window ledge with the window and shutters open to the night. Stars can be seen behind her. She holds a glass of dark red wine.

  “It wasn’t the servant girl, was it?” she says. “In the Orsat house.”

  —

  DANICA COULDN’T HAVE SAID why she climbed the outer wall to his room, entering through the too easily opened window. She had gone properly up the main stairway (two of the steps creak) to Leonora twice since arriving. She was a family guard, not required to move in secrecy, even after dark.

  She was in a strange mood this evening, however.

  What are you doing? her grandfather asked, irritated, as she went out the back door to the quiet street behind the house. She looked around to be sure she was alone, and began to climb.

  Not sure, was all she said, at first. And then, I think I’d like to be by myself for a little, zadek.

  Be careful, child, and—

  She closed his presence down in her mind. He hated that, and she didn’t like it either, but there were times . . .

  She continued up the wall. She knew which room was Marin’s. She knew where everyone slept by now. She was a family guard and a Senjani.

  Well, she had been a Senjani for a few years. She wasn’t now. Did some time there, mostly as a child, make you one of the heroes of Senjan? And another fair question: why was she doing this now, climbing?

  Partly a mood? This morning had affected her. More than it should have? But how could you judge that, Danica thought.

  Last night she’d been lying on the pallet in the room they’d given her in the guards’ quarters, and had closed her eyes on the thought that she could be hanged as soon as tomorrow and so end a small life without meaning.

  The shutters outside his room were hooked back against the outside wall. She pulled open the window, slipped inside, seated herself on the ledge to wait. She reminded herself to talk to the house steward about proper latches and locks for all the windows and shutters.

  She saw the wine they’d brought in for Marin. It amused her to claim the glass, pour for herself. She thought of taking the chair by the fire, but went back to the window and sat there again.

  She didn’t have long to wait. She might not have stayed if she’d had too much time to think about this. The door opened, he came in, saw her. She made a comment about his visits to the Orsat house. She had heard him say the other sister’s name this morning. Elena. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what he’d been doing, what he’d initially thought was happening in the council chamber.

  She hadn’t meant to say that, though. She wasn’t thinking very clearly. She hoped he couldn’t see that, and then she realized another part of her hoped he might, and would make this easier. All of it. That someone could do that.

  —

  “SHALL I CALL for another glass?” Marin asks, sounding more calm than he feels, seeing her framed in the window with night behind her.

  “We can share,” she murmurs. “That happens on raids.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  She smiles briefly. “I don
’t think so.” A pause. “I’m not a Senjani any more.”

  He looks more closely at her. She has no weapons except, probably, for the concealed knives. Nor is she wearing her hat. Her hair is unpinned, past her shoulders. This is not a small, aristocratic lady from Batiara. This is the extremely capable person who saved his life today.

  “I know you aren’t,” he says. He crosses, takes the glass from her hand. “It must be difficult. I’m happy to share, but I do need a drink. I was restrained at dinner.”

  “So you wouldn’t be seen to be disturbed by what happened?”

  He looks at her again. “Yes,” he says.

  He fills the glass, drinks half, hands the wine back to her. She drains it. He takes it and goes to the flask again.

  “Were you?” she asks. “Disturbed?”

  He nods. There is no reason to deny it, he thinks. “Vudrag was a friend, among the other parts of this.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, unexpectedly.

  He looks at the wineglass and decides—also unexpectedly—to slow down. He says, “And you? How do you feel tonight?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Danica Gradek. “Not sure why I came here, either. And this way.”

  “Neither am I,” Marin says.

  She laughs, then stops. She says, “The window was too easy to open. They all need locks.”

  “We aren’t normally in much danger here.”

  She is silent a moment, then says, “I have killed nine men this spring.”

  Unexpected, again. He comes back to the window, hands her the wineglass. She drinks, just a little of it this time. He says, “You never did, before?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not. I was a child. And whatever you’ve heard about Senjan we don’t go around killing people. Nor do the women drink blood.”

  “I hadn’t heard they did. Or, not from anyone intelligent.” He is thinking hard. They are quite close now. There is a long-legged, fair-haired woman sitting in the window of his bedroom at night. He says, “They weigh on you? These deaths?”