One wall of the lounge was made of glass, looking out on a field of wheat sloping toward the river. A caravel sailed past, skipping on the breeze, no doubt carrying cargo from the towns upriver down to the city.
Terence stretched in the chair and wriggled his toes, enjoying the sight and happy to be alive.
Isobel and Peter sat at the table, their heads together, glancing now and then at Terence and whispering. Terence’s father came in and sat down.
“Wine?” Terence said.
His father filled his own glass, closed his eyes for an instant, then sighed and shook his head. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked.
“Certainly. I’ve embarrassed Thierry Jorge Garcia.” Terence smiled. “Again.”
His father stared at him. “You’ve always been stubborn. Your lack of ambition usually masks it.”
“Hey,” Terence said.
“I knew you were head-strong. I didn’t know you were pathological.”
Terence chuckled and sipped his wine. His parents, Terence knew, truly loved their children. Terence also knew that his own attitude toward life bewildered them. Terence had always displayed a façade of easy-going compliance but it was an illusion. Terence was stubborn, and his stubborn refusal to display his abilities, to strive for a success that seemed pointless to him, to play the game, exasperated his parents.
“This changes things,” his father said, “and not in a good way. You’ve revealed yourself to be dangerous.” Lord Marcus peered down into his glass. “When you want to be.”
Terence shrugged. Yes, yes…he lacked ambition. What was there to be ambitious about? He had everything a man could need (except, he reminded himself with sudden frustration, Irina Archer). His chair was soft. His wine was sweet. He had servants to turn down his sheets at night, to prepare his meals and groom his horses. What else was there? Power? Terence Allen had no desire to tell others what to do. Power was far more trouble than it was worth.
“And,” Terence’s father said, “you have indeed embarrassed Thierry Garcia, and through him, you’ve embarrassed his family. Alejandro Garcia is a very rich, very influential man in Fomaut. It is rumored that he has designs on the Primacy.”
Terence shrugged. “Not my business. Couldn’t care less.”
“Unfortunately, you’re going to be made to care.”
Through the alcohol haze, Terence noticed that his father’s face was grim. “I don’t see how, and I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Terence said.
Lord Marcus shook his head. “We have received this.” He held up a sheet of paper.
Terence raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“The language is simple and to the point. What it boils down to, is a declaration of a blood feud.” Terence’s father bared his teeth. “Against you.”
“Oh,” Terence said. He had never heard of a ‘blood feud.’ He frowned. “That sounds serious.”
“In the old days, in Fomaut,” Terence’s father said, “such feuds sometimes dragged on for years, even generations. They consumed entire families. The deaths numbered in the dozens.”
Terence stared at him.
“Finally, a century or so ago, the Primate declared that a blood feud could only involve the principals. No bystanders could be harmed. Friends and family were off-limits.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“To your sister and your brothers, yes. Not to you.”
“Let me see that,” Terence said, and held out his hand. His father handed him the sheet of paper and he read it slowly. Simple and to the point, indeed. A feud was declared, between Thierry Jorge Garcia and Terence Sergei Allen, said feud to end when one of them was dead or until one party sued for peace and paid recompense. The amount specified was rather larger than the Allen family’s entire holdings. Terence winced. “The Viceroy will not approve.”
“You are not the Viceroy’s favorite person at the moment. I doubt your demise will greatly concern him. Nevertheless, the peace and stability of the city is his concern. I have already spoken to him. Any attempt to carry out this so-called feud in the territory of Varanisi will be regarded as a crime against the State and will be punished appropriately. On the other hand, the Garcia family is wealthy. They can afford to hire intermediaries.”
“Assassins, you mean.”
Lord Marcus inclined his head.
“And if these assassins strike, it will be obvious who paid them and is therefore responsible for their actions.”
Terence’s father shrugged. “The Garcia family will be leaving the city before the end of the day. The only evidence linking any future assassins to the Garcia family will be circumstantial. Everybody will know, but nobody will know.”
Terence swallowed. “I see.”
“I’m sure you do,” Terence’s father said, and sighed. “You should have been gracious.” He rose to his feet and walked away, his shoulders slumped.
Terence grimaced, then finished his wine. Absently, he noted that the wine did not taste nearly as sweet as it had, only a few moments before.
The Fair ended. The merchants, the performers, the visitors all packed their provisions and left. The city, as it always did after such an event, seemed to slumber for a day or two, before normal life slowly resumed.
The Garcia family left Varanisi with all the rest. Irina Archer did not. Terence was tempted to approach her but decided, for once, to act like the adult his father expected him to be.
Fuck the bitch.
Still…
“So…” Terence smiled down at Jergan Archer. “Jergan, what’s happening?”
Jergan Archer stared up at him. Terence, trailed by two of his father’s men, had seen Jergan walking into the tavern and decided to follow. Jergan frowned. Terence slid into the booth, facing him.
The tavern was over five hundred years old and proudly called itself the Viceroy’s Crown. The Viceroy himself was known to visit and hoist a pint or two.
“How is your sister?” Terence asked, and immediately felt annoyed at himself. He had not intended to ask that.
“Very well, thank you.”
“When will she be following her brand new fiancé?”
Jergan shook his head. “I’m not sure I should tell you.” Then he gave a minute shrug. “It seems that the customs of Fomaut call for a period of contemplation, so that a newly betrothed couple can allow their initial ardor to subside.”
“In order to give them a chance to change their minds?”
“That is the custom.” Just then, a waitress arrived with a tray holding a stein of beer and a plate of food, which she placed in front of Jergan. She turned to Terence. “Can I get you anything?”
“Beer, thank you.”
“You’re not a bad sort, Terence,” Jergan said. “Irina liked you. Frankly, we were surprised at her decision.” He frowned. “Irina has always been…unpredictable.”
“A good way of putting it.” Terence leaned back in his seat. “Tell me, do you know about this feud that Thierry Garcia has declared?”
“Yes. Everybody knows. I should probably keep my distance. You are mad, bad and dangerous to know.”
Terence found himself with nothing to say to this. Privately, he agreed with Jergan’s assessment.
“What,” Jergan asked, “do you plan on doing about it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I think you should make up your mind, and quickly. This is not likely to go away.”
“Blood feuds are a custom of Fomaut, not Varanisi.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that this fact will protect you.”
Terence’s beer arrived. He drank half of it in one gulp and wiped his lip. “We’ll see.”
“You wish to do what?” Terence’s father looked haggard. He had lost weight in the two weeks since the end of the Fair. Terence felt guilty about that.
“See the Viceroy,” he repeated.
Lord Marcus stared at him. “He’ll tell you the same thing that he told me.” Finally, Lord Marcus shook h
is head. “Why not? I’ll see what I can do.”
Two days later, Terence arrived at the Viceroy’s palace. He was greeted by a force of polite but very large guardsmen and thoroughly searched. His dagger was confiscated. “You’ll get it back when you leave.” The guardsman smiled at him. “If you’re allowed to leave.”
He found himself a few minutes later in a small parlor, with elegant, solid wooden furniture, bookcases filled with ancient volumes and large windows looking down the slope of the mountain, toward the river. The Viceroy sat in a chair beneath the window. He was a handsome man, large and thickly muscled. His eyes shone with wisdom gleaned from two thousand years of experience. His smile was cold. “You may sit.”
Gingerly, Terence did so.
“Tea?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Help yourself.”
A pot of tea, along with lemon, cream, sugar and honey sat on a low table between their chairs. Tea was not Terence’s favorite drink but one did not refuse hospitality from the Viceroy. The Viceroy waited until Terence had fixed a cup to his liking and taken his first sip. “So,” the Viceroy said, “why are you here?”
“I seem to be under a death sentence.” Terence frowned. “This disturbs me.”
The Viceroy nodded. “As well it should.” He smiled, raised an eyebrow and sipped his own tea.
Since the Viceroy seemed disinclined to speak further, it was evidently Terence’s turn to say something. “I was hoping that you would be willing to do something about my situation.”
“Order Thierry Garcia to end his feud, you mean?”
“In a nutshell—yes,” Terence said.
The Viceroy stared off into space, considering, then he sighed. “I’m afraid that I can’t do that.”
“Can’t?” Terence asked. “Or won’t?”
“My, you are a cheeky one, aren’t you?” The Viceroy gave Terence a brooding look. “The younger generation—none of them have seen me as I used to be.”
Terence had nothing to say to that.
The Viceroy smiled. In the corner of the room, sitting on the floor, lay an iron bar. The bar trembled. It rose into the air and floated toward Terence.
The Viceroy sipped his tea. His eyes never left Terence’s face. Slowly, the bar moved toward Terence. It touched his neck and pressed. It was cold, and very hard. Terence’s eyes flicked toward the Viceroy. He gulped.
“Push back,” the Viceroy said. “Not with your hands; with your mind.”
The bar must have weighed fifty kilos. Terence pushed. The bar stayed firm against Terence’s neck, pressing him into the soft cushion of the chair. Just a bit more and Terence would find himself unable to breathe.
“Try harder,” the Viceroy said.
Terence tried. Once, he thought the bar might have moved, very slightly, or perhaps not. He felt a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His vision swam. The Viceroy raised an eyebrow. The bar stayed immobile.
“That’s enough,” the Viceroy said. The bar moved back to its place in the corner of the room and settled to the floor.
The Viceroy frowned at Terence, who lifted a hand and rubbed at his neck. The Viceroy’s eyes flicked to the metal disk, with its glowing blue stone, that Terence had pinned upon his chest. “Where did you get that?” the Viceroy asked.
“At the Fair. An antiquarian had a booth.”
“Really? And he has a license to sell such things?”
“He does.”
“It is possible that the Inquisitoria is going slack.” One corner of the Viceroy’s mouth twitched upward. He shrugged. “Let me give you a word of advice: soul-stuff is the manipulation of energy. I know that you know this, but you should also know that energy may be accessed from many places. Such energy is not necessarily inherent to oneself, though the ability to manipulate it, is. Frankly, young man, you have been, for much of your life, a disappointment. You have talents and abilities but you have deliberately chosen not to use them. I suggest that you overcome your complacency. If you don’t, you will undoubtedly soon be dead. Your friends and family may mourn you. Nobody else will.”
Terence grimaced.
The Viceroy sighed. “You have proven to be both thoughtless and annoying, but in deference to your father, whom I respect, I’m going to give you an explanation for my own position regarding your unfortunate problem.” The Viceroy paused and sipped his tea. “I am the absolute ruler of Varanisi and its immediate environs. In addition, the seven nations all acknowledge me as their titular head of state, but outside the city, I have little real power. If I were to issue such an order, they would politely acknowledge it, swear to obey my every whim and ignore me. Do you understand?”
Terence stared at him. “I didn’t know this,” he said. “I had no idea.”
“Few do. It is not information that I wish to advertise. I have agents—some acknowledged and some unknown—in every nation. My intelligence network is unsurpassed. Of course, all seven nations have spies in Varanisi, as well.
“The old days, the centuries of the Imperial hegemony are long gone. Humankind, so far as we are aware, no longer travels between the stars. There are seven nations on this continent, all jockeying for position, all seeking to dominate the others, and they would dominate Varanisi as well, if they could. Believe me, they are trying. There is very little I can do about that, except offer a bribe or a payment here and there. Occasionally, I make a public statement, expressing approval or disapproval, which may or may not have an effect. More to the point, I support the people whose goals I approve of, but my resources are limited and my influence mostly covert.”
“I see,” Terence said. “This is disappointing.” Truthfully, he had had hopes but not high expectations from this meeting. It had been worth a try, though. He sighed, despair suddenly washing over him.
The Viceroy stretched in his seat and gave Terence a thin smile. “Tell me, have you considered going on the offensive?”
Terence blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Thierry Garcia has declared a feud. By the rules of such a feud, you can kill him as readily as he can kill you.”
Terence stared at the Viceroy. “I thought you had forbidden this.”
“I have forbidden it in Varanisi. Thierry Jorge Garcia is in Fomaut, no doubt hiring assassins as we speak.”
“Are you suggesting that I hire assassins of my own? I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Terence said. “Where does one find a competent assassin?”
“As I see it, the Viceroy said, “you have only three choices: you can wait to be slaughtered, you can disappear, or you can fight back. Which is it going to be?”
Disappearing had occurred to Terence. Change his name, take his paltry patrimony and leave. The idea did not appeal, but he had considered it. Fighting back? He frowned.
The Viceroy glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. “And on that note, I have another appointment.” He grinned. Something about that grin made Terence shudder. “Good luck to you, young man. As I said, you have some talent. It would be a shame to see you murdered before you have a chance to use it. I will be interested in seeing how this all turns out.”
“Thank you, sir. So will I.”
Chapter 8
The tall ronin who had challenged Terence and his friends in the Black Bull called himself Liam, though that was not his name. A few days after Terence and Thierry’s fight in the Colliseo, Liam took a commission from a retainer of the Garcia family to kill Terence Sergei Allen.
“I might have thought that Lord Garcia would wish to do this himself,” Liam said.
“Lord Garcia has wasted more than enough time and effort on this very annoying—and very unimportant—young man.”
Liam shrugged. Money was money. He might have found it in himself to resent doing a job that someone else found beneath him, but then, Liam was well acquainted with his own place in the world. A task that was beneath Lord Garcia was by no means beneath Liam…so long as he was paid. He hefted the pouch he had just been given,
not bothering to count the coins. It would certainly have been beneath Lord Garcia to shortchange a hireling.
“Consider it done,” Liam said.
Knives, Liam thought, and arrows.
In one incarnation or another, the Viceroy possessed more than two thousand years of experience. The Viceroy, Terence was certain, would not have bothered to waste his words. He had spoken casually, or so it had seemed. His advice had been off-hand, delivered in a carefree, almost negligent tone. Nevertheless, the Viceroy had deigned to give Terence Sergei Allen his advice.
Terence knew better than to ignore it.
As a child, and then as an adolescent, Terence had been given training in the weaving of soul-stuff, phrygium, as had all his contemporaries. Sit in a comfortable position. Let your mind grow still. Reach out with all your senses. Let time slow. Allow your awareness to fill the time and the space.
He hadn’t exactly ignored these lessons, but he hadn’t seen much point to them, either. A horse could pull more weight than any man could, even with the aid of phrygium. A simple pulley, or a lever and fulcrum could exert far greater effect on the material world than any application of soul-stuff. So why bother? Soul-stuff was good for little more than parlor games, or so Terence had always thought.
Terence knew better than to express these sentiments. No, he kept his rebellious (blasphemous, rather) opinions to himself. He went through the motions. He pretended to make an effort but learned no more than the required minimum. Not that he was fooling his elders, not more than a little. They had seen many, many other students just like him. Talented but lazy. Intelligent but unmotivated, that was the word on Terence Sergei Allen. His teachers marked him down with an oh, well and a shrug. You could lead a horse to water...
And after all, why not? What was there to strive for? He was Terence Sergei Allen, third son of a rich father, destined to a life of genteel, routine luxury, an ant laboring (well, not quite laboring) in the dung-heaps of the Allen family corporation.
And admit it—he had been perfectly happy with this prospect.
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