Mistress of Ambiguities

by J F Rivkin

  Not that the episode was very likely to damage his standing with the Rhaicime, even if it did get about. It was not as if he’d trifled with a palace scullion, or bedded a stableboy. After all, it was the Rhaicime herself who had brought Corson and her base-born friends to court, and allowed them the freedom of the palace. Still, one could not be too careful. The Lady Nyctasia-not even in his thoughts did he call her “Nyc,” as his ill-bred bedmate did-the Lady Nyctasia might take a broad view of these matters, but it was one thing for her to be on familiar terms with such people herself, and quite another thing for her followers to carry on with them. Different behavior was expected, ’Malkin knew, from those of different stations. The Rhaicime was above the rules. She could afford to flout convention. A mere court clerk and scholar could not. It had probably been unwise to permit himself to be seduced in this way. Enjoyable though it had been, he must keep his wits about him and not let it happen again.

  Well, it was not yet dawn, he’d plenty of time to be on his way before he could be discovered here. But he made no move to bestir himself yet. If only he weren’t so comfortable… He looked around Corson’s lavish bedchamber with resentment. It was exasperating to think of a coarse ruffian like Corson enjoying this great feather bed, these spacious quarters, while he shared a narrow room with half a dozen other students and scribes. He could probably get himself better accommodations if he complained to the Rhaicime, but it was not yet time to ask favors of Her Ladyship. First, he intended to make himself indispensable to her, and then the shows of favoritism would come without the asking. This, however, was hardly the way to go about it, he thought, glancing at his still slumbering companion.

  Or, was it…? he pondered. Galling as it was, this common, ignorant creature knew things about the Rhaicime that he didn’t-things that no one else at court seemed to know either, as far as he’d been able to determine. It should be possible to turn that fact to his advantage.

  And-plague take it!-there was no denying that the baggage was attractive.

  Against his better judgment, he reached over to stroke Trask’s tousled hair.

  ***

  Trask was well satisfied with his night’s work. He’d laid plans to ingratiate himself with ’Malkin as soon as Corson had told the tale of her revenge and its consequences. This was someone who knew the things he wanted to learn-the manners, the courtly customs-but who wasn’t a nobleman himself. If he was so well known to Corson, he wasn’t too grand for Trask to approach, surely. And Corson had said he was a handsome fellow, too, though she might have meant that just to bait Steifann.

  He’d lost no time in marking and stalking his quarry, once he had the chance, and had soon run him to ground in Nyctasia’s great library, where her chosen scholars and scribes spent their time recording, studying and copying the works assembled by the learned Cymvelans-and where Trask, unfortunately, could not pursue him. Many of these volumes were rare and valuable, and no one could gain access to the guarded library without Nyctasia’s sanction. But Trask was not one to let prohibitions stand in his way. Corson’s authority was recognized throughout the palace garrison, and he demanded a warrant from her to enter the library, in return for the information he’d so painstakingly gathered about the Shiastred at her behest.

  “What do you want in there?” Corson asked suspiciously. “You can’t even read.

  Nyc will have you flayed and gutted if you get into any mischief with her precious books, don’t think she won’t.”

  “It’s not the books that interest me,” Trask explained, “it’s one of the readers.”

  “Oho, that was quick work. Which one? It might be someone I know.”

  Trask could have lied, but he suspected that Corson might prove an ally in this matter, so he chanced the truth. “It is,” he said. “It’s your friend ’Malkin, if you must know.”

  Corson was delighted. She not only arranged an authorization for him to visit the library, but wished him luck, and even provided him with some useful hints, of an intimate nature, about ’Malkin’s tastes and predilections. The only condition she set was that he tell her all about it later.

  “A gentleman wouldn’t agree to that,” Trask pointed out.

  “A gentleman wouldn’t need my help to lay siege to the likes of ’Malkin. Look here, Trask, call him ‘sir.’ He’ll take to that like a hog to muck, you’ll see.”

  “Would you be Desmalkin brenn Cerrogh, sir? Lady Corson sent me. She wants to see you at once.”

  Corson hadn’t been lying about his looks, Trask noted. He wished he knew how to bow properly.

  “You may tell Lady Corson to go hang herself, with my compliments,” ’Malkin said, without raising his voice. It was very quiet in the library, apart from the constant scratching of quills. “Now get out of my sight.”

  Trask was taken aback. Though he knew ’Malkin had good grounds for a grudge against Corson, he hadn’t been expecting a flat refusal of the fictitious summons. Corson was a Desthene, after all. “She said it was important, sir,” he said earnestly. “I’m not to come back without you.”

  ’Malkin quietly cursed Corson, her messenger, and the misguided moment in which the Rhaicime had seen fit to confer a title on her. But, like Trask, he was mindful of that title. It was infuriating to be at Corson’s beck and call, but the bitch was a Desthene, and he was a commoner. And then, she just might have a legitimate reason for sending for him. He knew that Lady Nyctasia had forbidden her to play any more of her tricks at court, and he thought that even Corson would know better than to defy her orders outright. It might well be that this matter somehow concerned Her Ladyship, he reflected. The rumors in the palace said that Corson was the one person likely to know where the Rhaicime had disappeared to…

  “Very well,” he said to Trask, “but Hlann help Corson if this is just more of her foolery!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Trask meekly. He led ’Malkin directly to Corson’s quarters, where he had already lit the candles and set out the wine. Corson, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well, where is she?” ’Malkin demanded.

  “I’m sure she’ll be here straightway, sir. May I serve you some wine?”

  Trask knew very well that Corson had gone off to The Lame Fox to get drunk with some of her disreputable friends, and that she was not at all likely to be back before dawn. He also knew where Corson kept her wine. As ’Malkin paced impatiently about the chamber, Trask refilled his goblet several times. He didn’t mean to take any further steps until the good Edonaris wine had had time to mellow ’Malkin’s temper.

  But ’Malkin only grew more vexed as time passed and Corson failed to appear.

  “How dare she keep me waiting like this! Go find her at once, boy. Tell her, if she wants to see me-”

  “She doesn’t,” Trask said, looking down at the floor, as if afraid to meet

  ’Malkin’s eyes. “I do.”

  “You do? Who are you?”

  “Nobody much,” Trask admitted. “But, you see, I don’t find that satisfactory.”

  He spoke with the air of one appalled by his own presumption, but bravely determined to persevere. “I’m Trask brenn Chiastelm, I’m only potboy at the Hare. Corson brings me along sometimes to run her errands, that’s all. But I’ve dared hope that you might help me make something of myself, sir.”

  ’Malkin was at first more astonished than angry at Trask’s confession, and then more relieved than astonished, as he realized that this affair did not, after all, concern Corson, He was not at all confident that he knew how to deal with Corson, but this young lackey of hers-or whoever he was-was another matter. Raw, hungry ambition was something ’Malkin understood thoroughly. Feeling in control of the situation, now, he seated himself again and gestured imperiously for Trask to serve him more wine. “You have, have you?” he said. “Come, explain yourself! Why do you come to me, why not to Corson?”

  “Corson’s a lout, and content to remain so,” Trask said contemptuously, certain that this would please �
��Malkin. “And I’m a lout,” he added, with a convincing show of desperate humility, “but I know I could learn better ways, sir, if you’d teach me. I thought, since you taught Corson to read, you might be willing to give me some lessons too…” He faltered and let his voice trail off uncertainly. Now to resort to flattery. “Corson says there’s nothing you don’t know, and Nyc thinks so highly of you-”

  “How do you know that?” ’Malkin asked, before he could stop himself.

  I’ve got him, thought Trask, who of course had no idea what Nyctasia thought of

  ’Malkin. “Oh, she tells Corson everything, and Corson tells us,” he said, thinking fast. “But I usually know Nyc’s mind about most things. She hasn’t much time for the likes of me when she’s at court, of course, but I see a good deal of her at the Hare.” Straying even further from the truth, he said offhandedly,

  “And then, I have the run of the Smugglers’ House, whenever she’s in residence there.”

  ’Malkin naturally was not taken in by such a web of half-truth, imposture and fabrication. If this mongrel’s whelp was an intimate confidant of the Rhaicime, then he, Desmalkin brenn Cerrogh, was King of Tierelon. But clearly Trask enjoyed some familiarity with Lady Nyctasia, and that was enough to interest

  ’Malkin. What was the Hare, what the Smugglers’ House, and why should Her Ladyship frequent them? Trask knew these things, and he also seemed to know their value to someone in ’Malkin’s position. Really, the little guttersnipe showed some sense. He might prove useful if properly handled…

  Dismissing Trask’s pretensions with the scorn they deserved, ’Malkin said, “If you were at all in the Rhaicime’s confidence, my downy chick, you’d know better than to say so. The first thing you’d better learn is to master your own tongue.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Trask, in an abashed tone, hanging his head again. But his eyes shone in secret triumph. ’Malkin was going to be very useful to him…

  “Now what exactly is it you want from me?”

  “I want to learn how-how to conduct myself at court,” Trask said eagerly. “How to read, how to talk, how to dress-everything! Nyc said she’d find a place for me if I learned those things.” Well, she had said something of the sort, though in jest. “I know she’d be pleased if you took me in hand, sir,” he went on, half believing it himself. Why shouldn’t she be pleased? “She wants me to learn, and she wants you to teach, doesn’t she? Corson told us that,” he added hastily, and with perfect truth. “I learn quickly, sir, and I’ll do whatever you say,” Trask promised, availing himself of his most appealing manner.

  And Trask could be very appealing when he chose. He’d taken a great deal of trouble over his appearance before making his approach to ’Malkin. He’d ordered a hot bath for Corson, as soon as she was safely out of the way, and washed himself thoroughly, paying particular attention to his shaggy hair, and even remembering to clean his fingernails. He’d dressed in his best, the brown velvet doublet and the fine hose and shoes that he’d been given when he’d attended Corson’s investiture. They were the only clothes he’d ever had cut to his measure, and he’d taken very good care of them.

  Then, borrowing Corson’s good silver hairbrush, he’d brushed and brushed his golden-brown hair till it glowed like dark honey in the candlelight.

  “And I’d be so very grateful to you, sir…” he told ’Malkin warmly.

  ***

  ’Malkin was all Corson had said, and more, Trask thought with satisfaction. He was quite looking forward to his lessons. Nyctasia had warned him that the skills he desired would take a great deal of hard work, study, and practice to acquire, and since Trask was known for avoiding work as much as possible, she had confidently expected this to discourage his foolish aspirations. But she had underestimated the strength of his ambition. He’d been resigned to the necessity of a long, wearisome apprenticeship of sorts, and was prepared to endure any amount of drudgery to achieve his goal. But now he suspected that his tutelage at ’Malkin’s hands might prove to be anything but dull. One might even get to like ’Malkin, he thought, rather surprised at the idea.

  He stretched contentedly, without opening his eyes, and nestled closer to

  ’Malkin, rubbing his cheek affectionately against ’Malkin’s shoulder like a cat.

  When he felt ’Malkin caress his hair, he smiled sleepily and mumbled, “Will you teach me how to make a bow, sir, please, before Nyc gets back? I want to show her I can do it right.”

  ’Malkin took hold of his ear and tweaked it hard. “First of all, never refer to Her Ladyship as ‘Nyc’! It’s simply not done. Such a thing is in the worst possible taste for anyone except her close kin.”

  “But there’s no one here but us!” Trask protested, sitting up and rubbing his ear ruefully. “Where’s the harm?”

  “That’s of no consequence,” ’Malkin said sternly. “It’s a question of breaking yourself of bad habits. If you allow yourself to speak carelessly in private, you’ll make mistakes in public.” He crooked his elbow around Trask’s neck and pulled him down to lie with his head on ’Malkin’s chest. “And don’t argue with me, puppy,” he added. “Why should I take the trouble to instruct you, if you don’t listen?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll remember,” said Trask, with a chuckle. “It’s just that everybody calls Her Ladyship ‘Nyc’ at the Hare. If I used court manners there, they’d stick my head in a bucket of slops.”

  “Always remember where you are, and behave accordingly.”

  Trask nodded against ’Malkin’s chest. “That’s what Nyc-I mean Lady Nyctasia-says. When she’s at the Hare, you’d never guess for a moment that she’s a lady, much less a Rhaicime.” He yawned, then turned his head and nuzzled the inside of ’Malkin’s elbow.

  ’Malkin pensively ran his knuckle along Trask’s jaw, thinking, I’ll grow fond of this brat if I don’t take care. “Now tell me about this Hare of yours,” he ordered.

  14

  “that’s all i can tell you about it, ’Ben,” Nyctasia said wearily. “Kastenid may still be in possession, or some other mage may have wrested the land and its power away from him. Perhaps he can hold it without succumbing to the Yth’s Influence, but I believe that it will finally destroy all who try to make it their own. You were spellcast by the Yth, as I nearly was myself, and I thought that if I stayed I might be able to reclaim your spirit, but I see now that I was deceiving myself. If I’d stayed, we would both have been lost. Even as I determined to win you from the Yth, I was already in its power. I told myself that I didn’t want to leave without you, but the truth was that I didn’t want to leave… And I had been there for only a few days-you were subject to its Influence for so much longer,” She sighed. “That was the last I saw of you, till last night.”

  “You saw me vanish,” Erystalben brooded, “and I found myself alone on that same hillside, with no idea how I’d come to be there.” He gazed within, at what was now his earliest memory. “Perhaps no time had passed at all, and I was there all the while, hidden from your sight by the spell.”

  “And I from yours?” The idea was somehow more chilling than his disappearance had been. “Surely I’d have known, if you were so near to me.” Yet how could she have been aware of his presence, when the man she knew had ceased to exist at that moment?

  Echoing her thought, he said, “Not I but Veron was near to you.”

  “It may be so, who can say? I performed a spell of Reflection while I was yet there and might draw upon the Yth’s power, and it told me that you lived, but no more.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “What did you do then?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I was utterly at a loss. Corson took me south from Hlasven to Osela.” She smiled, glad enough to turn the talk. “And before I knew quite what was happening, I was thrown in prison.”

  “Prison! Why, in the vahn’s name? I’ve thought I might be a criminal, but hardly you.”

  Nyctasia laughed. “That’s a tale for another day. It’s growing late, I’m
tired, even if you aren’t.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “Though I’ve done nothing but rest the whole day.”

  “A night’s sleep will set you right.” She kissed him and said, “I’ll leave you to your repose, then. Good night, love.”

  “But aren’t you going to stay here? You slept by me last night.”

  She was surprised that he knew she’d been there. “Last night I was afraid to leave you alone, lest you take a turn for the worse before dawn. Tonight you don’t need watching.”

  “Stay anyway,” he urged, pulling her back to him. “Why not?”

  “Because I want you to sleep tonight.”

  “You know very well there’s nothing else I can do, with my arm too sore to be touched. And I’m half-asleep already from all the wine you’ve made me drink. Am I not to be trusted, even crippled and drunken?”

  “No,” said Nyctasia. “And perhaps I trust myself even less. But ’Ben, it’s your arm I’m thinking of. I might jar it. You’d be more comfortable with the bed to yourself, no?”

  “You don’t take up much room, little one. You didn’t disturb me last night.” He touched the tip of her nose lightly, “You don’t even snore.”

  Nyctasia suddenly giggled. “Greymantle does, though. But I’ll make him sleep on the hearth tonight, where he belongs.”

  “Greymantle? Do you mean-?”

  But before he could object, Nyctasia had already crossed the room and admitted the huge hound, who had been pacing the corridor for most of the day, gazing mournfully at the door. He bounded into the room and greeted Nyctasia as if she’d been missing for weeks, his wildly wagging tail and reproachful whines clearly expressing his delight at seeing her and his indignation at having been banished from his rightful place, on the night before.