Children of Earth and Sky

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  You could not put all your faith in the god. Jad needed you to act for yourself. So it was taught. Good men had to do what they could, year after year. Savko considered himself a good man, if cruelly limited in his resources.

  The winter loan from Seressa would carry—as it always did—strings attached. Money would be needed from them again next year. It might be withheld for evidence of imperial ingratitude. They couldn’t let that happen.

  Savko needed—he always needed—a weapon, levers, any tool to use against the Seressinis. He had agents there, as they had them here, and he was spying on their ambassador, of course. The woman, Veith, was singularly adept; they had employed her before. The current envoy, the merchant Faleri, was not the incompetent figure they had initially thought he might be, but he didn’t appear to be experienced in these matters.

  Faleri had been careful, for example, to keep the girl out of his working room. She had been careful, in turn, to intimate she enjoyed nothing more than being in his bedchamber all night. The ambassador kept her by him in the dark and, lest he sleep and she drift downstairs in a silent house, had servants guarding his papers.

  And, of course, one of those servants was their man. It hadn’t been particularly difficult for someone trained to enter the writing room three nights ago, unlock a chest, and swiftly copy the encoded letters Faleri was writing to his council.

  Their man had sent copies to the castle that same day.

  And they had not helped. At all. They offered no weapon, no tool. No meaning to be found. They couldn’t read them.

  The emperor had the best scientific minds in the Jaddite world gathered at this castle. Savko had immediately put a number of these alchemists and mathematicians to work on the documents. And the finest thinkers in their world had been able to make nothing, nothing of the newest Seressini code.

  It was maddening. One might have thought—might have naively hoped!—that the expense of housing and extravagantly paying the wretched figures who trundled to Rodolfo’s court and explained to him how they, and only they, could achieve his long desire of alchemical transmutation—well, one might have thought they could break a diplomatic code.

  Not so. They were, Savko thought—though he shared this only with his young lover and his most trusted adviser—useless. They were buffoons, parasites. He needed, desperately, a defence against the Seressini demands that were certain to arrive—and he didn’t have one.

  And then, early this morning, grim tidings had come up to the castle, to the chancellor’s suite of rooms. The body of a man named Fritzhof, one of the servants employed at the Seressini residence, had been found by the river and recognized. He had washed up on a sandbar downstream from the Great Bridge.

  It would not, in the normal course of events, have been a matter for the imperial chancellor. The death of a man in the serving class? They killed each other too often, for too many reasons. But this Fritzhof had been their man in that house, in the chancellery’s pay for years (Savko couldn’t recall exactly how many years, he had a note of it somewhere).

  Fritzhof was the one who had sent the copied-out sheets of the ambassador’s letters. And he was dead two nights later. Savko had no idea how Orso Faleri had discovered the man was a spy but . . . he had done so, and acted upon it. No public accusation, no diplomatic protest, no dance of complaint and denial. A body in the river.

  A long knife or short sword, Hanns reported. That was the word of the guardsman who had attended when children reported a dead man on the sandbar. It was a common place for bodies to be found. It had to do with the way the river curved, approaching Empress Bridge.

  Savko ground his teeth. He cursed, which he rarely did. There was nothing he could do, of course. The Seressinis had avoided a public squabble about spying, and he would have no way—he knew they’d have been careful—of laying this death at their door. And even if he could, it would be an error. This wasn’t worth a diplomatic war—and it would cause one if he spoke recklessly. He had been caught placing a spy, and the man had died for it.

  Something occurred to him. He called Vitruvius into his offices. His young Karchite lover had a number of skills. This time Savko didn’t need him for killing but to forestall the possibility of another death. The woman, Veith, might be in danger now. If not, well, it could serve as an unspoken punishment for Orso Faleri to be deprived of his nighttime pleasures. He sent Vitruvius to collect the woman and remove her from Obravic.

  But then, abruptly, he had another, happier idea. That could happen. You could be clever, shrewd, inspired. The chancellor smiled for the first time that day.

  He summoned an aide and requested that one of the court artists be brought to him. He stipulated that it had to be a man who’d seen the current Seressini envoy to the emperor.

  —

  FALERI HAD BEEN CERTAIN the woman was also a spy from the first night she’d come to him. It didn’t mean she had to be killed or anything so vulgar. They were civilized men in what one hoped was a civilized world of courts.

  No, having the servant knifed while sent out on a fabricated night errand was surely sufficient.

  He knew the document chest in his workroom had been unlocked, and knew who had done it. He trusted Gaurio, and Gaurio had reported who’d succeeded him outside the room that night.

  It was a little surprising that an imperial spy did not know the very simple trick of leaving a thread on a strongbox to be snapped or shifted if the box was opened. There had also been a disturbance of the dust on the writing desk, where a candle had been set down.

  The papers had been put back in the strongbox. Which meant that the chancellor’s people would be able to detect nothing at all. Copied-out coded papers would tell you no truths or lies if the code itself was a deception and the real technique involved hidden writing between lines.

  Seressa was, Orso Faleri thought, far ahead of everywhere else in these matters. It brought a certain pleasure. Killing the servant didn’t, but nor did it trouble him. Messages needed to be sent between powers.

  He was fairly certain Chancellor Savko (not a fool, one had to note) would have the woman taken away for a time. Regrettable, but one did suffer sometimes in one’s duties. That was what service was all about, wasn’t it?

  He hoped she’d be allowed back before long. He had petitioned to be brought home when his first year was complete. With Jad’s favour—and Duke Ricci’s—that might be allowed. Other good things might occur once he was back alongside the canals.

  He was standing in the writing room at the window, looking out over Obravic’s river on a mild afternoon, when Gaurio entered with a letter from the palace. Faleri opened it with interest. Then he sat down, heavily, on the nearest chest. He looked again at the document that had come with the chancellor’s letter.

  It was a drawing, a sketch. It showed him lying on a large bed. He was unclothed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the bedposts. His mouth was open in what one might take to be a scream of pleasure, or of pain. He was shown twisting to one side. His member could be seen to be erect. Standing by the bed, also unclothed, was a woman—and anyone who knew Veith would recognize her. She held a short, three-tailed whip. There was an embarrassing accessory—a vegetable, in fact—inserted into Faleri’s backside. He remembered that night.

  He took a deep breath. A few moments to calm himself and think. Then he sent Gaurio upstairs to lay out his court attire. He was going up to the castle, he said. Yes, immediately. He had just been invited for an evening drink with Chancellor Savko.

  As he went, walking with an escort up and away from the river (it cleared his head to walk, and he needed that), Orso Faleri realized something. He wasn’t embarrassed or afraid. He was angry. On behalf of the Serene Republic of Seressa, someone was about to pay a price.

  —

  IT TOOK VERY LITTLE TIME for the chancellor of the Holy Jaddite Empire to realize he had misjudged this matter
badly.

  He’d been too frustrated by their failure to break the code. And he had, even after half a year, continued to see this merchant-envoy as an out-of-his-depth figure.

  Both were errors.

  They were in his own inner chamber. All others had been dismissed, even Hanns, and Vitruvius was elsewhere, dealing with the girl.

  “I am,” Orso Faleri was saying briskly, “an ambassador to this court for only one year, perhaps two. Whatever embarrassment I suffer from this gross vulgarity will affect only me.”

  “Yes?” said Savko. He was delaying, watching closely, but already uneasy. The other man was calm, precise, not shaken at all. This wasn’t proceeding as he had thought it might. Faleri had come in showing controlled anger, not rage. He had refused wine with an impatient headshake, then declined to sit. He was holding the envelope in which they had sent the drawing. He had waited until Hanns bowed himself out. Just looking at the other man now, Savko had a prickling awareness, an anticipation that this was not likely to be an encounter that brought him joy.

  “You, on the other hand, are the chancellor of Jad’s Holy Emperor. Entrusted with great duties before the world.”

  “By Jad’s grace and the emperor’s, I am.”

  “Your conduct reflects upon this court and Emperor Rodolfo.”

  “I have always tried to act as if this is so.”

  “Do you say? Would that include when you are penetrating or being penetrated by a Karchite boy? And in which position would you prefer to be sketched, chancellor? It can be either, of course. Or both! No need for just one drawing. And we have extremely talented artists in Seressa, as you know.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. I find it offensive, ambassador, that—”

  The other man arched his eyebrows. “Offensive? I am certain you do. You will find it more so when you see the artwork, I assure you.”

  “You would poison diplomatic relations for such . . .”

  Faleri shook his head. “I doubt that would happen. I am certain it would poison your career and cause great amusement elsewhere. Seressa also has the best printers in the world, of course. And our ships go all over the world, as you also know. Chancellor, any humiliation I suffer from this”—he lifted the envelope he held—“will be a soon-forgotten moment. Yours, I fear, will be a thunderous fall.”

  Savko swallowed. He had made a mistake. Proceeded too recklessly. Had assumed his tastes and habits had remained more private than—obviously—they were. Yes, a few at court knew he had his inclinations in bed, notwithstanding a wife and son at his largest property in the north. He was far from the only one. But it seemed Seressa knew, as well, in detail.

  And this wasn’t a matter the emperor could ignore if it reached the world, including—oh, Jad!—the High Patriarch, who had . . . views on this matter.

  Cursing himself, working to keep his consternation hidden (that, at least, he had trained himself to do), Savko murmured, “But, my dear man, you misunderstand! No, no, no. The sketch you were sent was found in the studio of a scurrilous artist from . . . Ferrieres, a drunken fool with some family hatred of Seressa! You do understand we have a few of those here? The emperor, he invites people to court and . . .”

  Faleri said nothing.

  Savko cursed inwardly again. He went on, “The man has already been ordered to leave Obravic on pain of whipping!” That, he grimly thought, was an unfortunate phrasing. “This was the only such drawing we found. I had it sent to you to ensure no one else would ever see his scandalous slander!”

  “It could have been burned.”

  “Yes, yes. But I judged it best you . . . that you know of this.”

  “Why?”

  Curse the man! “Well . . . these girls, the women one might encounter. They cannot always be expected to say nothing about their encounters, or to tell . . . er, truth if they speak.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is! It is, Signore Faleri! Alas for us all.”

  “Alas for some of us. This girl, she will be killed, I trust.”

  This was ghastly, terrible! Savko had a desire to be drinking. He said, “Either that, or such fear as she has never imagined will be visited upon her. As it was upon the, er, artist.”

  “Dead is better. Seressa will be pleased to attend to both these matters.”

  “No, no!” Savko said, gesturing a little too widely. “You are our guest here. This is an offence done to an ambassador. It is our duty to address such matters.”

  “And you will do so?”

  “I have just assured you of such,” Savko said, with what dignity he was able to summon.

  A long pause, then Orso Faleri shrugged. “It is possible, then,” he said, “that no Seressini artists need ever be given ideas as to how sketches of important figures in Obravic should be rendered.”

  Savko put his hands on his desk. He was pleased to see they were steady. He was the chancellor of the Holy Jaddite Empire. He said, quietly, “That would, in truth, be for the best, ambassador. Because you are wrong. It would become a matter of great diplomatic offence for the emperor. Insulting his chancellor of so many years? You must never, ever imagine otherwise, signore.”

  And for the first time, with relief, Savko saw a faltering in the other man’s eyes.

  “Is it possible,” said Orso Faleri, “for two men experienced in the nature of the world to achieve an understanding in a matter such as this without involving others?”

  “I believe it is,” said Chancellor Savko gravely. “Artists are chancy at the best of times.”

  “Too much imagination, I have found.”

  “Far too much.”

  “Undisciplined?”

  “A good word, signore. Also, insufficiently aware,” Savko said, “of how actions can ripple and stir in a greater world.”

  “An elegant phrase, chancellor. If I may say so.”

  Savko inclined his head.

  The ambassador from Seressa walked over to the fire, which was going strongly. He laid upon it the envelope and sketch that had been sent to him. The two men watched them burn.

  “Exactly the right thing to do,” Savko said, encouragingly, when it was done.

  Faleri looked at him from the fireplace. “With your permission, I will take my leave. I prefer not to be abroad after darkfall.” He crossed the room.

  “Wait, signore.”

  Faleri paused by the door.

  Savko said, still behind his desk, “This is not how Jaddite states and empires should deal with each other, is it?” He was now taking a risk.

  The other man said, “I agree. And I speak for Seressa saying so. It is a regret that any of this became necessary. It was not caused by us.” He glanced at the fire. “Have we burned this now? Put it behind us?”

  Savko took a breath. “Other things burn, signore, when the Osmanlis come into our lands.” Here it was.

  Faleri nodded judiciously. “The infidels are violent and degenerate. Seressa hopes our generous loan will assist Emperor Rodolfo in defending his lands.”

  His lands. Of course.

  Savko kept his face expressionless. “Seressa has already been of great assistance through its bankers. You will extend our renewed appreciation to the Council of Twelve?”

  “Of course. And Seressa will hope to have the emperor’s support for a matter pertaining to our own needs and purposes. One that I will raise, if permitted, during my next appearance at court.”

  Savko knew those needs and purposes. There was a walled town on the eastern coast of the Seressini Sea, offering loyalty to this court. They did more than that. They defended imperial lands and people without being paid at all. They raided inland against Asharites, and in their small boats on the sea. Also, sometimes not against Asharites.

  “The needs of his Seressini cousins and dear companions in Jad are always close
to the emperor’s heart.”

  “And we are grateful for it.” Faleri turned again to go.

  “You won’t stay for a cup of wine?”

  “The wine,” said Orso Faleri, “is better at the Seressini residence.”

  He opened the door and went out, closing it behind him.

  “Fuck them all!” said Savko, distinguished chancellor to his excellency the Emperor Rodolfo. “Fuck them and drown them in the piss of their canals.”

  It wasn’t his most elegant phrasing but it was as passionate as he ever became.

  He sat down at his desk. He put his head in his hands. He stayed that way for a time, calming himself as best he could. You needed to be calm to think. Much depended on his thinking now, and he’d already made a mistake today.

  He realized one thing he needed to do. It might not help, but there was a chance it could, and he would freeze among demons in darkness before he let Seressa dictate what Obravic did concerning a town that paid it fealty.

  He took up a pen and wrote the necessary orders.

  That done, he thought again, this time on matters closer to his own affairs. By the time the expected knock came and Hanns entered, the chancellor was ready.

  “Secretary, a word about Vitruvius.”

  “My lord?”

  “Is he discreet? Vitruvius?”

  “Discreet, my lord?”

  “Would private matters that take place concerning him be kept from others? Others who might . . . who might not be understanding of all our doings here?”

  Hanns was an exceptionally intelligent man. Very much ready to be elevated beyond a secretarial post, even one as lofty as this (there were none loftier). He coloured slightly, the chancellor noted. Understanding and reaction preceded speech in most men. If you were observant you could see that happening.

  His secretary said, choosing his words (which was telling in itself), “He is very young, of course, my lord. He . . . he takes great pride in his . . . his roles in the chancellery. His being intimately aware of . . . of much.”