Alicia grimaced. “In theory, the rights and opportunities available to women are the same as those for men. In reality?” Alicia shrugged. “Most of us have always preferred to take a more passive role. Less testosterone, you know?”
“Of course. Men are such obvious creatures,” Terence said, “simple beings, really, easily influenced by our hormones. Not at all like women.”
Alicia nodded primly. “True. Is it nature or nurture? I wouldn’t know. I do know that women, for whatever reason, tend to gravitate toward less aggressive pursuits.”
Irina Archer spent considerable time on her appearance. She liked the fact that she was beautiful. She could spend an hour choosing among a variety of hats, and three on buying a new dress. Irina Archer’s tomboy days were long behind her. She had no desire to wield a sword or dig a trench or get her hands dirty in any way. She did like telling people what to do, however. Terence was quite aware of this.
“Why are you here, Alicia?” Terence asked.
She peered at his face, ignoring the question. “I always knew that you were wrong for her, Terence, or she was wrong for you. You’re a nice, pleasant young man. You’ll make some nice, pleasant young woman very happy, someday, but I don’t think that woman could ever have been Irina. She’s done you a favor.” Alicia grinned. “Irina was always more than you would have been able to handle. You should realize that.”
Alicia did not have a very high opinion of him…but then, was she so wrong? Placid, unambitious, content with his life and happy to drift comfortably through his days, Terence was…nice, such a nice, neutral, trivial thing to be. And pleasant. Let us never forget pleasant. Nice and pleasant, an easy young man for an ambitious young woman to quickly evaluate and just as quickly dismiss. The thought was suddenly bitter.
“Thank you, Alicia,” Terence said carefully. “I think that I finally do.”
Fifteen days after Gareth Hale left, five of the Viceroy’s guard arrived at Briony. One of them, the Captain, announced that Terence’s presence was requested at the Palace.
“Now?” Terence said.
“Please,” the Captain said. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
Terence’s parents stared. Peter and Isobel, thankfully, were at scholium. The servants exchanged grim looks as Terence mounted his horse.
“He will be back by dinnertime,” the Captain said to Lord Marcus.
Lord Marcus inclined his head. “Thank you.”
The Captain’s name was Gregor Cerf. He gave Terence a bemused look as they set off at an easy walk. “I was on duty the night of the farewell dinner. Quite a display you put on.”
Terence grinned weakly. “I might have been a bit rash. My parents and acquaintances seem to think so.”
“Rash,” the Captain said, testing the word. “Yes, I think that you were rash. Lucky for you, the Viceroy is the mild-mannered sort. His predecessor would not have been amused.”
Terence shrugged. His recent interactions with the Viceroy had changed his view of things. Unlike his trusting schoolboy self, Terence no longer considered the Viceroy ‘mild-mannered,’ but then, these things were a matter of perspective. “What is this all about?” he asked.
The smile vanished from the Captain’s face. “You’ll see.”
Briony, LeClair and the other estates of the affluent families officially lay within the boundaries of Varanisi, but this part of the city consisted of rolling hills and green fields punctuated by acre upon acre of forest. Beyond the woods and the estates lay numerous small towns and villages, all a part of the Viceroy’s domain, all a part of the ‘city.’ The ride to the Viceroy’s palace took nearly two hours, and if it was not for his worry about what might be waiting for him, Terence would have enjoyed the journey.
Finally, they arrived. Terence was escorted through a side door and down a flight of steps. Ancient panels set into the walls cast a steady light. The air inside was cool. They walked down a corridor and opened the door to a windowless room, filled with metal cabinets that rose all the way to the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a narrow metal table and in the center of the table, was a wooden box. Two of the Viceroy’s men stood guard on either side of the table.
The Captain gave each of these a nod. They stood aside. “Take a look,” the Captain said.
Terence walked over to the table and gingerly opened the box. He reared back. Inside the wooden box, staring up at him, a fixed smile on its face, lay the head of Gareth Hale.
Three hours later, Terence was sitting back home in the library. He reached out and poured a glass half-full, thought about it for a second and then filled the glass to the top. The brandy he had chosen was not the best. This was deliberate. Terence had enough presence of mind to realize that, in his present mood, good brandy would be wasted on him. He didn’t want to savor the taste. He wanted to get drunk.
Lord Marcus opened the door, glanced at Terence and sat down. He reached out and poured a glass of his own, tasted it, wrinkled his nose, and then drained the glass. “Tell me,” he said.
“Not much to tell. A box with a head, inside—our assassin, who was not as good as he thought he was. There was also a note. It was bloody but the words were legible. It said, ‘My move.’ It was signed by Thierry Jorge Garcia.”
Terence’s father winced.
“This whole situation is really beginning to annoy me,” Terence said.
“Lucky we only paid him a quarter,” Lord Marcus said.
Terence looked at his father over his glass. “While I appreciate your attempt to lighten my mood, that is not a very funny joke.”
“No.” Terence’s father sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I suppose not. And what’s done is done. What are you going to do next?”
Terence drank until his glass was empty and re-filled it. “I don’t know.”
“Make up your mind,” Terence’s father said. “Fast.”
Chapter 10
A Child’s Second Lesson Upon Entering Scholium:
Life is short, but art is long.
Truth is beauty, beauty truth.
That which does not destroy me, makes me stronger.
Three wise and ancient sayings, only three among thousands. For the purposes of this lesson, these sayings are merely examples, but many others could illustrate this point equally well. In the long history of Empire and the much longer history of mankind many such bits of wisdom have been handed down to us, their origins obscured by the vastness of time. On careful consideration, the vanity of each statement reveals itself. Life is indeed short, but art, even the art carved out of rock and stone, vanishes as well, worn away by the ravages of wind and rain and sunshine. Considered against the many ages of the World, the difference becomes less than negligible.
Is beauty truth? Ugliness is truth as well. And does that which does not destroy me, always make me stronger? At least as often, the struggle against adversity leaves us weaker than before, our body broken, our resolve left in tatters.
And so, the wisdom of mankind is reduced to uncertainties contained within endless contradictions, all remnants of larger aphorisms and stories and tales and events, hints of what once might have been.
We have no idea how many civilizations have come and gone, stretching back into time. Most have left no hint that they ever existed. As for most of the rest, whatever fragments they have passed on to us are far away and long ago. Their works have vanished, their glory forgotten.
There are mysteries known only to the priests of the Inquisitoria, others known only to the Magisterium and still others kept by the anointed Regent on this earth: the Viceroy. Let us acknowledge that beyond what we will learn and remember, there is much that we do not know, and much that we have forgotten, and much that we are not meant to know, lest chaos be unleashed upon us, as it has been so many times before.
Humility is the proper aspect of mankind.
All of the Great Houses kept retainers. In prior centuries, the majority of these had been soldiers, since, in those mor
e tumultuous times, each House needed to guard itself from all the others. Those days, thankfully, were long past. The walled and fortified castles, once designed primarily for defense, had given way to open, stately manors. Today, most of the Houses kept more gardeners than guards, but all of them had at least a few rough men in their employ. One never knew.
Terence was angry, angry at Thierry Jorge Garcia, angry at Irina Archer, perhaps even more angry at himself. He had meant to play a prank. Rash, certainly, but a prank. Childish, he was willing to admit it, but in the end, a prank of little consequence. Unfortunate, that Thierry Jorge Garcia lacked a sense of humor. This whole thing had mushroomed beyond his comprehension.
Terence had not been in the guard quarters in at least two years. When he entered the gymnasium, the six men engaged in sabre drills all stopped. Brian O’Hair walked over to him. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I was wondering if any of your men would care to spar.”
The Captain’s mouth twitched upward. “We spar constantly, as you can see.”
“I meant with me.”
The Captain took a step back and looked Terence up and down. “Sparring is one thing,” Brian said. “Using one’s mind to influence the outcome would be considered cheating.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Terence said, “and do my best not to cheat.”
Brian O’Hair gave a minute shrug. “Gerald,” he said. “Would you care to spar with the young Master?”
Gerald was the newest of the guards, though he was no longer young. He had served the Doge of Cathay in the last campaign against the Wolves, before deciding to pursue a more sedate position. He had recently married a young widow, a weaver in the small, nearby village of Tours. Gerald smiled. He seemed quite confident. “Rapiers?” he asked.
“Fine with me,” Terence said.
Brian O’Hair walked over to the rack hanging on the wall and selected two blades with dulled edges and blunt tips, inspected them briefly and handed them to Gerald and Terence. Both men took their place in the circle inscribed on the wooden floor.
“Begin,” Brian said.
Gerald was a soldier. Soldiers, the ones who see combat and live through the experience, quickly come to realize that the goal of war is to defeat your enemy with the minimum of time, blood and treasure. He didn’t wait. Terence found himself instantly on the defensive, but somewhat to his own surprise, he managed to parry Gerald’s first two strikes before the point of Gerald’s sword touched him on the chest.
“Point,” Brian said.
Gerald stepped back. Terence nodded, and again took his stance.
“Begin,” Brian said.
Terence attacked, extending into a low lunge, which Gerald parried. Terence disengaged and feinted toward Gerald’s side. Gerald countered, his sword slipping past Terence’s blade and touching him again on the upper chest.
“Point,” Brian said.
Terence and Gerald both stepped back.
“Again,” Brian said.
Terence thrust, found himself over-extended but managed to regain his balance before Gerald’s sword could score another point. He circled, his sword flicking out in a series of feints. Gerald moved with spare economy, his face intent. Terence thrust. Gerald parried, then stepped inside Terence’s guard. Terence felt something hard. He looked down. The tip of Gerald’s knife was pressing against his abdomen. Gerald grinned.
“Bout,” Brian said.
Terence saluted Gerald with his sword. Gerald saluted back. Terence noted that Gerald kept his eyes on him after the bout was done. Wise, Terence thought. Insulting, but wise. Only when he had handed his rapier to Brian did Gerald seem to relax.
“Come with me,” Brian said. “Let’s talk.”
Terence followed Brian into a small office next to the gymnasium. The office contained a desk facing into the room, with a window behind the desk, a small table, a couple of comfortable chairs and a low couch.
“Something to drink?” Brian said.
“No, thanks.”
Brian poured himself a glass of some pinkish looking stuff that appeared to be fruit juice and sat on one of the chairs. Terence followed suit.
“What are you trying to do?” Brian said.
Terence blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve never come here before. You’ve never displayed the slightest interest in the guards’ responsibilities or in seriously learning how to fight. I know what happened with you and Thierry Garcia. Everyone does. Garcia underestimated you and he lost. You’ve developed some new abilities,”—Brian shrugged—“or you’ve revealed them, but you’re not the only one who can work with phrygium and your new-found talents are not likely to keep you safe. So why are you here?”
A good question, but Terence didn’t have a good answer. “Killing time, I guess.” He sighed. “Curiosity.”
“Wasting mine, is more like it, and that of my men.” Brian regarded him over the top of his glass. “You’re strong and you’re fast,” Brian said. “You have some potential. If you wanted to get better, we could help you, but it’s going to take work on your part. Wandering in here and engaging in a random bout now and then isn’t going to do it.”
“No,” Terence said. “I suppose not.”
Chapter 11
That night, Terence was surprised to see Hans, his oldest brother, along with his wife and two children, at dinner. Hans, long ago, had spent ten years in the Viceroy’s diplomatic corps, serving in several foreign capitals. Now, he raised walking horses, some of the finest on the continent, and rarely left his own ranch forty kilometers away.
Lord Marcus and Lady Emily had spaced their children out, preferring to raise them one at a time. Hans, Benedict, Terence and Peter were all born ten years apart. Isobel, however, was only three years younger than Peter. Terence had never enquired why this was so, though it might account for his mother’s occasional bouts of ill temper.
Hans’ wife was named Eva. She was tall and curvy, with red hair and a scattering of freckles. She was a native of Cathay. Terence had always considered her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Hans, not surprisingly, doted on her.
John, Hans son, poked Evelyn, his little sister, under the table.
“Mom!” Evelyn complained.
Eva stared at John, who looked away. Evelyn giggled.
“So, little brother,” Hans said, “I hear you’ve gotten into a spot of trouble.”
Terence paused, a piece of chicken held suspended on a fork, then carefully brought it to his mouth and chewed. “You might say that,” he said.
Hans glanced at their father, who was morosely sipping his wine. “I’ve had occasion to deal with Fomaut,” Hans said. “They’re prickly.”
“Do tell,” Terence muttered.
“Yes…” Hans seemed momentarily embarrassed.
Lord Marcus swallowed his remaining wine and wordlessly held out the glass. The servant, Terence could not remember his name, re-filled it. The bottle, Terence noted, was empty. The servant…Ranald, yes, that was his name, Ranald, he had only recently been hired, stepped out of the dining room and re-appeared with a second bottle…or was it the third? Ranald popped the cork and placed the bottle on a sideboard.
“So,” Hans said, “any ideas?”
Wait to be slaughtered? “I’m considering my options.”
Hans nodded, as if Terence had said something profound.
Terence drained his own glass, caught Ranald’s eye and held out the glass. Ranald picked up the wine bottle and poured. The wine, an old vintage from the Archer estates, shone purple-red in the light. Terence swirled it around, then sipped. Perfect. He swallowed, then drank half of it in one long gulp.
Hans once again looked over at Lord Marcus, who was staring down at his own, barely touched plate.
“I think,” Hans said, “that you should make up your mind. Your situation is not going to resolve itself.”
Terence felt a surge of frustration. The Viceroy, and of course, Lor
d Marcus, and even Damien Hurst had all said the same thing. It was an easy thing to say but not so easy to do. Do what, after all? Disappear? Become a wandering ronin?
Terence blinked. He drew a deep breath, feeling suddenly as if the world was tilting on its axis, as if the conversation had slowed. The voices, he barely noted, seemed to be coming from very far away. He felt his fingers grow numb. Strong wine, he thought. His mouth fell open. His head swirled. Abruptly, he felt himself try to rise and then, bonelessly, he fell across the table. The world faded…
“Open your eyes, dear boy.”
Opening his eyes, Terence thought, might be beyond his current capabilities. Nevertheless, he tried, and he must have succeeded. At first, all he could see was a light, shining down at him from the ceiling.
“Excellent!”
A fuzzy figure leaned over him. Terence blinked and the figure came into focus. It was male, short and thin, with pale pink skin, a white beard and light blue eyes that glinted merrily. He smiled down at Terence. “So happy to see you alive and well. We had our doubts, at first. Luckily, the poison was a common one. I recognized it immediately. How’s your throat?”
“My throat?” His throat, now that he thought about it, felt scratchy and irritated. “It’s sore.”
“Your vital functions have been supported for the past three days. A tube was inserted into your throat and connected to a machine capable of pumping air into your lungs. We had to breathe for you until the poison wore off. It was a mixture of two drugs, actually: a synthetic opioid mixed with a substance exuded from the skin of some tropical toad. Nasty stuff. Can’t imagine why the ancestors would place such a creature here, or anywhere, for that matter, but apparently, they were trying to faithfully replicate a rain forest environment, with all its good and bad points. They tended to do that. Fanatics, if you ask me.”
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