Children of Earth and Sky

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  There was discussion of going back north towards the main roads across Sauradia, but they didn’t know where the army was, and it was decided they’d stay and raid here.

  They were still south, accordingly, when word did filter down that the spring rains had stopped the Osmanli advance short of Woberg and the other fortresses.

  Skandir ordered them into their saddles the next morning—there were forty of them again by then—and they did start back north. A tired and dispirited army could be harassed. You were at war, resisting and denying, always denying. Refusing, until you died, to accept the change wrought in the world when Sarantium fell.

  The customs officials never ask for gifts but they expect them. There is a fairly precise scale of how much to give at different levels. If you are too generous with someone lower down the ranks of bureaucrats it will often become known, and those higher up will be unhappy. Not only will they expect more themselves, they will be legitimately disturbed that someone is interfering with norms and protocols. It is not for reckless Jaddites to disturb an orderly system.

  Marin Djivo understands this, has been amused by it in the past. He is not amused by anything this spring, however, and he cannot adequately explain to himself why he is still in Asharias.

  He’s had his goods cleared, has sold them to buyers they’ve dealt with before. He has bought raw silk and gems, and spices from farther east (easy to carry) to take back. He could buy more, hire extra men and mules, but there is a point at which this becomes imprudent, an overreach, requiring the Djivos to borrow funds, and he has reached that point. Yet he lingers.

  He has put out word that he will purchase a modest amount of Ispahani pepper, the rarest kind; expensive here, fiendishly so in the west. No one has been able to locate this for him yet. It is early in the year. He has given himself a few more days, after which—he vows—he will join or assemble a travelling party and start home.

  It is partly because of the artist. He knows that much. Pero Villani has much to do with why he should be leaving—and why he’s still here. What he doesn’t understand is why the Seressini should matter to him.

  They’d spoken a second time just days ago. Villani had sent a message to the Dubravae residence and they’d met mid-afternoon at the food stall near the Hippodrome ruins where they’d earlier enjoyed grilled lamb.

  The artist had looked tired, pale, thin. Not a man in the midst of work that could guide his life to glory. There was an inwardness. Not a quality Marin had seen in him before. Perhaps this was how he was when working? Villani was alone, no servant. He said, quietly, “I am likely being followed. Walk with me to the market, I do need to buy some things.”

  Marin went with him. He asked the obvious question. “Is there a problem? You weren’t followed before, that we know.”

  “I am painting the khalif now.”

  “That is what it is?”

  Villani shook his head. “It is better that you not know more. But I did want to say something. I’ll do it as we go, the market is crowded, people get too close.”

  Djivo registered the tone, the seriousness.

  “I’m listening. I’ll help if I can,” he said.

  “You can’t. But yes, listen. So. It would be wise to conclude whatever business you have and leave Asharias. As soon as you can. Tomorrow, even, gospodar. There may be turmoil coming and it won’t be safe for Jaddites if there is.”

  “What do you know?” Marin asked, chilled. How could one not be chilled?

  “I can’t tell you what I know.”

  They walked a short distance.

  “Will you also be leaving?”

  “I have work to finish.”

  “But if there is danger, what about you?”

  Another shake of the head. The artist took a folded letter from his sleeve and slipped it to Marin. “This is for the Eldest Daughter on Sinan. If you would be so kind. There is nothing that will endanger you in it if they search. I swear to this.”

  He was eerily intense.

  “Why do I need to take a letter for you?” Marin asked. But he knew. The other man only looked at him.

  “You might warn the Seressinis we came with, as a kindness,” was what he said. “And perhaps also Tomo, if you know where he is. It really would be wise to leave, gospodar.”

  They reached a market then and Villani abruptly changed the subject, asking assistance in finding a place to buy new brushes and a grinding slab. Porphyry stone was best for a slab, he said.

  There was no further discussion of any importance at all. They parted at the market, with the supplies obtained. Marin had the letter in his sleeve, and questions unasked.

  “Thank you,” Pero Villani said. If pressed, Marin would have said he looked resolute—and older.

  And despite this encounter Marin is still in the city, and it is surely foolish, after such a warning from a man who means him well and clearly knows something from inside the palace complex.

  Perhaps, he thinks, this has to do with the war. Everyone is awaiting news. It is unlikely to be that, however. Tidings from the army would be running through the city, however confidential they were meant to be. No, this will be about something Villani has encountered within the palace walls.

  Marin has gone so far as to tell his guards to obtain mules and ready the goods they have for travel. He is still waiting on a possibility for the pepper—which is folly, and he knows it.

  But there had been something in the other man’s look, and Marin realizes that he does like Villani, very much, and is reluctant to leave him here, even if there is nothing he can do—and there almost certainly is nothing he can do. Not every action in a life, he thinks, is entirely sensible.

  He sends across the strait for Tomo Agosta. When Agosta comes the next morning, Marin simply says he has reason to believe it might be wise to start back west, and their travel companions ought to be advised.

  Agosta seems unsurprised. He is not just a servant, of course.

  “Signore Villani told you something?”

  “I have learned something, yes.”

  “From him?”

  Marin hesitates. “Yes,” he says. “A few days ago.”

  “But you are still here.”

  Marin shrugs, irritated now. Sometimes people are more clever than you require them to be. “I will be leaving after a last attempt at buying pepper.”

  “Ispahani?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can arrange that for you. It might take until tomorrow. But if your counsel is from Signore Villani it is wise to listen.”

  “Do you know anything?”

  “Only about a man who might have Ispahani pepper.”

  “Is the Duke of Seressa more feared or loved?”

  Morning in the Palace of Silence. Some clouds today, a change in the light when they cross the sun, but he had the lighting and colour he wanted by now, for the garden and trees seen through the window and for the khalif’s face. He was nearly done, in fact.

  Pero was astonished at his ability to concentrate and work (and answer hard questions). He’d had days and nights of doing two different portraits, one at night in another palace underground, followed by encounters in a pitch-dark room.

  There were many things remarkable about desire, he thought. That he should be so aroused, so consumed by need each night. Even knowing—perhaps because knowing?—that the prince who was sending him there almost certainly required him dead.

  It was a long, often empty road west. And there would surely be great violence throughout Osmanli lands if what seemed likely to happen did happen here: when a vain, reckless younger prince was found to have had himself painted in secret, wearing a porphyry robe.

  The artist who painted that portrait was unlikely to survive long enough to be on the road west.

  So that artist had decided he would do the best work he c
ould in this morning room. Such that, perhaps, this would remain, endure—causing men and women to say, maybe even long after: This is very good. This one was on his way to becoming a master. And they might shake their heads and add that it was terribly sad, how the younger Villani’s career was cut off so soon.

  It happens too often, they might say.

  There was a woman in the black room who had been there every night. He had no idea who she was, who any of them were. The others changed, but he had come to know the scent of this one (her own scent, not a perfume), the taste of her mouth. And even as what happened could become fierce with the others on the bed, this one would find and hold his hand—and Pero had begun doing the same with hers in the dark.

  He had no notion what she looked like, they could not understand each other’s words (there were different understandings in that room). Even so, while others were seeking to excite him, or pleasure themselves, she’d slip her fingers through his, and something else happened, unexpectedly.

  There was, it seemed, tenderness to be found in the world, even here. Which meant, really, almost anywhere, didn’t it?

  He had not been in that room last night. That part of the deception is over. The painting in the other palace had been finished two nights ago. Prince Cemal knows, it seems, exactly what he wants, how this is to play out.

  Pero had slept deeply, despite being aware that his life might be tumbling like a chip of wood in rapids towards an ending. The body and mind were strange things. Some thinkers, he knew, had views on that strangeness. He was a painter, though, not a student of philosophy.

  He had done strong work here. He knew it. He had shared an unexpected gentleness in the dark. He had slept through last night as if untroubled by anything in the world. He had crossed the garden amid morning sunlight and high white clouds.

  The khalif, asking about Duke Ricci and fear or love, held to his pose. He had been an excellent subject. As if, Pero thought, he’d chosen to excel in this as in all else.

  Brush in hand, Pero answered him. “More feared, I would say, my lord. The Council of Twelve certainly is.” He was working on last details, the left hand, the dark-red ring on the index finger. “But this duke is also trusted, I believe, to guide us wisely.”

  “And the dukes before him?”

  “Duke Ricci is the only one I have known, my lord.”

  Gurçu thought about it. An unhurried man. “Fear is better,” he said. “It follows power and stays with it. Love or trust can change too easily.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  These were words you might hear in Seressa, as well, Pero thought. He didn’t say that.

  The khalif said, “There was a conqueror in the east, before Ashar’s grace came to mankind, who said the greatest joy in life was to slay one’s enemy in war, then pillow one’s head on the breasts of his wives and daughters.”

  That, at least, would not have been heard in Seressa. Pero didn’t say that, either. “Yes, my lord,” was what he said again.

  “I used to believe that,” said Gurçu the Destroyer.

  Silence. Pero Villani was not about to speak to this. He wielded his brushes, his paint. He had come here to do a portrait. It was nearly done. No one had seen it yet. It was covered every time they finished, carefully. He had invited the khalif to look, explained that some subjects wished to do so, others preferred to wait. Gurçu was in no hurry in this, either, it seemed.

  The khalif said, “And who follows your duke? He isn’t young.”

  “No, my lord, he isn’t.”

  It was possible to take the view that he should be dissembling with his answers. He had told himself, however, from the first morning in this room, that he would speak truth here and hope it helped him survive.

  He said, “There is talk about that. Always.”

  “That is permitted? Openly?”

  “In Seressa? Yes, excellency. But no one knows anything. People make guesses. Start rumours.”

  “A bad habit in cities.”

  “Yes, my lord. And others are . . . seeking favour? Attempting to align themselves. It is never easy when change happens.”

  “Nor here,” said the khalif of the Osmanlis, and Pero Villani wondered if he had made a mistake, after all.

  He concentrated on the red rings—the real one on the khalif’s hand, the one he was painting. Red lake paint, the limited glazing allowed with his material and surface, and—just now—the smallest dab of white with the smallest brush, to show that sunlight sliding into the room through the window had touched the gemstone Gurçu wore.

  Pero said, “I have only met the duke once, my lord. When he offered me this commission. But . . . I admired him. I think . . . you might have liked each other, my lord.”

  Not a thought he’d ever had, or expected to have.

  Gurçu broke his pose, turning to look at Pero. Pero was afraid, then saw (he knew it by now) amusement in the dark eyes.

  “Is this so? Does this mean you admire me, Signore Villani?”

  “That would be too much presumption, my lord! I could never—”

  “Do you? Admire me?”

  The desire to go to one’s knees. This was so appallingly difficult. Speak truth, he told himself.

  “I do, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  A breath. “The questions you ask me. Your curiosity about my world. All the world.”

  “That? I am just learning about my enemies.”

  You didn’t contradict this man. You told truth, but you might also be wise enough to keep quiet sometimes.

  Amusement, still, in those eyes above the beaked nose he had rendered—Pero thought—quite well. He hoped not too well, sometimes that could happen.

  “You were about to say something?” Gurçu said softly. He always spoke softly. “Say it.”

  Orders, you obeyed here. Pero cleared his throat, that mannerism he had almost nowhere but this room. He said, “I have persuaded myself it is more than learning about enemies, my lord.”

  A sound, and Pero realized it was laughter.

  It ceased. Birds in the garden. The mute by the door seemed to grow more alert, as if he had a sense of the khalif’s mood. He surely did by now, Pero thought. Then:

  “Might another curiosity of mine be assuaged, in that case? As to what you have been doing at night?”

  As if a pit had opened. Vipers and scorpions below, in the event your neck wasn’t broken in the terrible fall. Pero felt like that.

  It was always going to end, he thought. This commission, the secret work at night, the deceptions, his encounters in the dark, hands touching. His life. Everyone’s life ended, he thought.

  He stepped back from the easel, he put his brush down. The mute was intent now.

  Pero made to kneel.

  “Do not!” snapped the khalif. “Remain on your feet and look at me, Jaddite. I would see your eyes.”

  And the voice, still quiet, was a whiplash now. It could flay open a man’s skin, Pero felt. It could stop a beating heart. His hands were trembling. He clasped them together.

  Courage takes many forms. A truth not always understood. Sometimes it is a man managing to hold his head up, control his shaking hands, remain on his feet, when the desire to drop to the ground, head to a tiled floor, is so strong. But the artist Pero Villani, at the edge of the chasm that was his death, changed the world in his time (and for a long time after) by telling truth on a morning of sun and cloud in Asharias.

  The khalif was not in his pose now. He had risen from the chair, was gazing at Pero from his great height. He said, “Beyet is reckless and dangerous and will have threatened you. I do know it. But even so—”

  Pero interrupted the grand khalif of the Osmanli people. He did that.

  He said, “It was not Prince Beyet.”

  And in that moment, with those words, the course o
f large events began to change from where they would have otherwise have gone. It can be as simple (and as difficult) as that.

  He kept his head up. The khalif had just said I would see your eyes. The mute had a hand on his sword, Pero saw. Of course he did.

  Gurçu said, “No. I was shown the portrait this morning, infidel. I saw Beyet’s face. The vizier wanted you killed immediately. I allowed you to come here to finish this work. Why even try to lie?”

  “I am not lying to the exalted khalif. I never have. It was not Beyet.”

  Rage, barely controlled. It was said that this man had beheaded his commanders himself in his fury when the siege of Sarantium appeared likely to fail. Gurçu said, more softly than ever, “Say what you will now say, infidel.”

  And so Pero Villani did. “It was Prince Cemal I painted. In that robe. In Beyet’s palace underground at night in order to be unseen. So that the portrait would be discovered there. I was presented to Prince Beyet at the archery display and commanded to place his features on the portrait or I would die on the road home. I was taken to Cemal’s palace after, each night, to lie in the dark with his women, that this might be an explanation if I was seen abroad before the painting was done. My escort at night were men from Beyet’s guard. They were suborned by Prince Cemal. You may have me killed, my lord, but I will not speak falsely as I prepare to meet my god.”

  And having brought these words into being, into the world, Pero did kneel, after all. Not prostrate, but on his knees. He kept his head high, because the khalif wanted to see his eyes.

  And because of that, he also saw the eyes of the other man, the lord of the Osmanlis, and so he knew the moment when Gurçu decided that what he’d just heard was true. When the khalif’s understanding, his will and desire for what should be, were changed.

  A portrait at night. A man wearing a porphyry robe. Another man telling truth. We do have courage within ourselves. And sometimes it is honoured and sometimes it is not.