She knew the stories about those who were jaecai—the legendary masters of any discipline. It was said their lives were extended and their vitality increased as they perfected their skills. Looking at the Lady’s flawless beauty, the delicate serenity with which she stood against a wall sipping wine, Nirati wondered how old she truly was. Had she really been the concubine of the prince whose dynasty fell to the Komyr cohort? The woman barely looked older than she—save for her silvery eyes, which had an ancient, alluring quality.
“I would guess eleven enneads, would you not?”
Nirati’s head came around, a rebuke on her lips that remained unspoken as she recognized the voice. “Count Aerynnor, would you think me so common as to be speculating about a woman’s age?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady Anturasi.” The black-haired Desei bowed his head. “I betray my rustic nature with such thoughts, and my lack of manners by attributing the same to you.”
“If offering me one of those cups of wine would be an apology, sir, I should be happy to forgive you.” Nirati smiled and accepted the cup he passed to her. “Have you come alone? Is poor, dear, frail Majiata up from her sickbed yet?”
The man smiled easily. “Shall we drink to her health?”
“The Lady of Jet and Jade? Please.”
Junel Aerynnor’s smile broadened. “I can see that keeping up with you will not be a simple matter.”
“Oh, you meant Majiata?” Nirati raised the cup. “May she soon be feeling herself again.”
“Indeed.” He drank. “She was supposed to accompany me tonight, but she heard a rumor that the jaecaitsae who disciplined her would be here, demonstrating his skill. She thought that would be too much for her.”
Nirati smiled. “I doubt he would be asking for volunteers. Did you see her punishment?”
The Desei noble’s face closed. “I did; I felt it was my duty. Your brother took the stripes that should have been mine. I confess to quailing as the Viruk moved. So quick, so large.”
“You may have quailed, my lord, but I was there. I saw you act, and saw no hesitation. You spun Majiata around and shielded her with your body. Had my brother not acted, his stripes would indeed have been yours.”
“I shall be certain to thank him. He is recovering, I hear?”
“Yes, he is, thank you. He would enjoy it if you came to visit. I sit with him often to let my mother rest.”
“I shall pay my respects then.” Junel sipped at his wine. “The Prince would not allow another to accept Majiata’s punishment, but the jaecaitsae cut her only once, and her family has sought every manner of salve to see that it will not scar. She even went to be healed by the vanyesh.”
“It didn’t work?”
“I have not looked that closely, but I have seen no disfigurement. But Majiata and her family see through the lens of disgrace.” Junel grimaced. “I took no pleasure in watching her punishment, but there is yet a part of me which believes she had long been due such treatment.”
Nirati smiled. “Are you abnormally perceptive, or is this a trait shared by your countrymen?”
“I simply learn, my lady.” He smiled uneasily. “I would have been hard-pressed not to hear the tales told of Majiata since the party. What the rumors suggest, I have seen. On my last visit, she asked only if her scar had made her hideous. When I mentioned that I had heard your brother fared well, but would bear four scars, she said she was glad of it.”
“She wanted my brother in order to advance her family. It took him a long time to see it. You are lucky to have discovered it so quickly.”
“Her family has graciously provided me lodging, so I would have to be blind not to have discovered it.” Junel glanced around the room. “I am seeing many things that are new. Coming from Deseirion, there are things here I have not seen before—and am not certain I understand.”
“Such as?”
He inclined his head toward the Lady of Jet and Jade. “While we have such individuals in Deseirion, I do not think one would be welcomed at such a celebration. Not that she isn’t beautiful—and not that many present would not visit her domain and avail themselves of her skills—but they would not want it known.”
Nirati sipped her wine, savoring the sweet bite. “In Nalenyr we have a bit more freedom. It fuels us.”
The count frowned. “That could be taken many ways. Please, explain.”
“Carnal desire, my lord, can be approached in two ways. One is to deny its existence, to claim that fidelity is the highest standard possible and turn a blind eye to the covert assignations many enjoy. By making it forbidden, one increases its allure, and that is what makes it such a destabilizing influence. Most would not care if one enjoyed liaisons outside of marriage provided that the marriage was not put in jeopardy by it.”
“Since so many marriages are really dynastic alliances, they have little to do with those who are involved in them. This is certainly the attitude and reality in my nation.”
“Here it is viewed for what it is: a sensual experience. We all acknowledge that variety is to be desired. If one only eats one food, or drinks one wine, hears only one song, or smells only one flower, those things quickly become lifeless. No one limits themselves in that manner for anything save physical attraction and desire, clearly running counter to how we function as people. By having the Lady of Jet and Jade as an outlet for such desires, with all parties knowing what is expected, boredom is avoided, as is destabilizing influence.”
Nirati looked at him past the rim of her cup. “If you forge an alliance with Majiata’s family, I’m sure you’ll need the release.”
Junel raised an eyebrow. “You are even more perceptive than I thought, Mistress Anturasi. But, tell me, you are not suggesting that there is never a marriage destroyed because a client and a courtesan fall in love?”
“No, but that shift in affections could occur no matter who is involved, for whatever affection was present in the marriage would have long since died, else the desire and need for emotional fulfillment would not have been present.”
“I am very impressed with your argument.” He nodded respectfully. “You think deeply and express yourself very well.”
“It’s years of having debates with my brothers. We have discussed every issue from as many points of view as possible. It is great fun.” Nirati swirled the wine in her cup and looked down. “You’ve not been here long, but you already know of the Lady of Jet and Jade. Have you considered engaging her services?”
“I? Well, no, but . . .”
Nirati covered a smile as she saw the man blushing. “What is it?”
He snapped his mouth shut, then looked down. “I would lie if I did not say that I have not entertained the idea. You will think me provincial, I suspect, but it goes back to where our conversation started. I would be uneasy being with someone who could have known my great-grandfather.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I understand that, though some maintain the best wines are those that have aged to perfection.”
“Very true, but there are also those who enjoy younger vintages.”
Nirati sipped again and felt herself relaxing in the Desei count’s presence. He knew few people and seemed content to talk to her, yet his presence kept others away, and that was good, too. She didn’t mind that the people who saw them together would probably accuse her of stealing Majiata’s suitor. Half of them would think it served Majiata right, and the other half would speculate as to what this would mean concerning the Anturasi maps, the Desei, and the fortunes of House Phoesel.
But she found the count easy company. She slowly guided him around the room, filling him in on who was whom. She refrained from outright gossip, but indicated which people were feuding with others. The only time she relayed salacious information was when his eyes grew distant and she imagined all the facts becoming a jumble in his head.
Before she saw her brother again, a gong sounded and the room fell to silence. A half dozen Keru guards with long spears bearing pur
ple dragon pennants cut a path through the crowd. Prince Cyron walked in their midst and mounted a small dais at the far end of the room. The guards took up positions around it and the Prince bowed to those assembled.
The bow was returned by all present. Nirati held the bow for the polite count of fifteen, extended to twenty since this was the dynasty’s anniversary, and was willing go to thirty because of the Prince’s punishment of Majiata. But when she reached twenty-five, one of the Prince’s cousins rose and, with audible relief, the others in the room followed.
The Prince opened his hands in greeting. “Welcome to you all. This is the night of heroes, which is especially hallowed in a nation of heroes. All of you present are worthy of that title, or will earn your place in their ranks. Our nation and our course is one that will both demand and reward heroes. I know none of you will shrink from that calling.”
Two protocol functionaries produced a chair for the Prince and set it up in the center of the dais. A minister of protocol—a senior underminister by the cut of his robe—came forward and addressed the crowd. “Entertainments have been provided for this evening, spectacular entertainments.”
As he spoke, he moved into the crowd and shifted his ceremonial staff from vertical to horizontal. The crowd withdrew slowly as he grasped the staff in his right hand and began to turn, describing a circle. “If you please, respect the circle drawn, and you will see things of which most only dream.”
The count, through stern glances and an open-faced refusal to understand those with a Naleni accent, did not withdraw as others pulled back. Instead, he placed his hands on Nirati’s shoulders and brought her in front of him, placing her at the front rank of observers. She smiled, realized that the last time she’d had so clear a view was with her father’s hands on her shoulders.
The entertainments were more than fantastic. They started with four Keru who performed a ritual dance with spears. Pennants snapped, the spear butts cracked crisply on the stone, and the shafts whistled as they were spun about. The women moved so precisely, with strength and fluidity, they seemed more animal than human. When confederates lofted apples and other fruits into the air, the spear blades skewered or split them, filling the air with sweet fragrance.
Jugglers followed, then acrobats whose ability to pile themselves higher seemed limited only by the ceiling. Contortionists twisted their limbs into patterns that it seemed would never come undone, and dancers flowed into and through music until their bodies were little more than vibrant blurs.
Each entertainment surpassed the one that preceded it—as impossible as that seemed. The minister pointed out whoever had brought the entertainers, and applause rewarded them for their efforts. But the minister cut them off if they offered anything more than a few words of praise for the Prince, then announced the next act.
He kept his voice even as the last troupe of dancers melted away. “As our final entertainment, we present something as special as it is appropriate for the night of heroes. We have with us two dicaiserr. They will present for you a display of swords skill as has never been seen before. The Prince welcomes Moraven Tolo and the Turasynd, Chyrut Scok.”
Nirati smiled. From their encounter at the healing, she knew Moraven was a swordsman. She’d taken Dunos’ praise of him as childish hyperbole, but clearly the youth had been right. To be selected to entertain here means he is very good. Perhaps he’s even jaecaiserr.
A jolt ran through Junel’s hands. Nirati turned enough to look up into his face. “What is it?”
“Moraven Tolo I have never heard of, but the Turasynd I have. They may think he is here to demonstrate his skill, and he is—but not in the way one would expect.”
“What do you mean?”
He nodded as a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man moved into the circle. “When he removes his shirt, you’ll see the mark of the black eagle on him. He belongs to a barbarian cult. No matter what he is told, when he draws his blade, the fight is to the death.”
Chapter Nineteen
6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron sat forward in his chair as the two fighters came through the crowd. The Turasynd was easy to spot, for he stood head and shoulders above the others. His clothing bespoke origins in the Turca Wastes, though Chyrut himself had been born in Solaeth. Clean-limbed and very lean, he wore a half-sleeved leather shirt that showed off arms scarred from fighting. The white scars stood out starkly on his red skin. A strip of leather circled his brows, and his long, black hair had been braided with the ends of it.
The guests began buzzing when the Turasynd moved into the circle. For most of them, he was the embodiment of terror. His people had caused the Cataclysm, and many of those assembled had been raised with threats of Turasynd raiders coming to steal them away. Even the Prince had heard tales of Turasynd infamy that had him mindful of their threat—despite the fact that Deseirion and Helosunde insulated Nalenyr.
While Chyrut looked to be no more than fifty years old, which was young even for a Turasynd, the Prince wondered at his true age. That he was a master of the sword was well documented, and some reports even hinted that he might be jaecaiserr. If so, he could be considerably older than he appeared. The Prince doubted he could have been one of the barbarian survivors of the Cataclysm—rumors of them did exist, but it was said they had all returned horribly warped. He could, however, have been old enough to learn his art from such survivors.
A smaller percentage of the crowd hissed because they knew the Turasynd worked for Black Myrian, one of the shadowy figures who profited from criminal enterprises in Nalenyr. The underworld lord had occasionally done a favor for the Crown—like exposing or destroying Desei spies—so the Prince saw no value in eliminating him. In return, Black Myrian kept his activities largely benign—at least when it came to enforcement.
These are odd times when one must conspire with criminals to preserve society. There really was no other way, however, and Cyron had long since resigned himself to that. There would always be those who existed outside the law, and if one of their own could maintain order, they had a use. Myrian stabilized what could have otherwise been a very chaotic situation, and the Prince’s ministers valued stability above all.
The man who entered the circle to oppose the Turasynd moved with a fluid economy that seemed humble—especially on a night meant to honor heroes. He wore an overshirt of white trimmed in green, with green trousers over black boots. A black shirt and sash completed his outfit, and his black hair, which was not as long as the barbarian’s, hung loose. He bowed easily to his foe, then turned and bowed deeply to the Prince.
The Prince’s eyes narrowed, for the smaller man seemed overmatched, which meant he wasn’t at all. The black and green marked him as the entertainment provided by the Lady of Jet and Jade, which further indicated he was present for more than just his skill. His overshirt bore no sign of national allegiance, which impressed the Prince—for in Moriande during the Festival, one was either of Nalenyr or proudly displayed signs of one’s homeland. Tigers had been embroidered on the overshirt as a personal crest and Cyron recognized the crest—though the man’s name had meant nothing to him.
This is the xidantzu I remember. The Prince smiled as he bowed his head to the swordsman. The Free Company had no leadership nor allegiance. Its members might act as mercenaries or bounty hunters, and in any conflict one or more could be found on either side. More than heroes for hire, they traveled as they wished and, as long as they broke no laws, they did as they wished, too. And occasionally will serve the Crown, as long as it suits their purposes.
Cyron wondered why Moraven Tolo traveled under a new name and had been presented as a gift from the Lady of Jet and Jade. Had the Prince known of his presence in Moriande he would have long since summoned him, but one could never be
certain a xidantzu would obey. He glanced at the Lady of Jet and Jade, wondering if Moraven’s presence was her gift to him, with the coming display of skill an added benefit.
I will find him useful, if he survives this fight.
The Turasynd pulled his leather jerkin off, and even the Prince gasped. It appeared as if a black eagle had been tattooed on the man’s chest, shoulders, and back. The shape was correct, but light shimmered from the design. No ink in the world—even that applied by a Mystic tattooist—could have reflected that way.
A chill ran through Cyron’s guts as he realized the truth. The design had not been inked, it had been fletched. Feathers, hundreds of them, had been plucked from black eagles. Their tips had been sharpened, then plunged into Chyrut’s flesh. It had been part of some Turasynd ritual, and had been performed in a circle where—for days—Chyrut had dueled with other warriors. Their fights had released magical energy the ritual had trapped and channeled into a force that fused the feathers with his flesh.
Cyron had heard of such things, and had dismissed them as wild tales from the Wastes. But for someone to subject himself to such magic willingly . . . The Prince shook his head. He’d even found the risk of the healing ceremony unacceptable, but that tradition predated his dynasty and doubtless would continue well after it.
Two Keru moved to the edge of the circle. Each bore a sword and handed it to the closest combatant. The Turasynd used a slightly curved Turasyndi saber. It came to a sharp point that could be used for lunging, but had been primarily made for sweeping and crushing strokes best delivered from horseback. A pair of green cords ending in satin tassels dangled from the hilt, but the worn scabbard suggested the blade was old and had seen much use.
Moraven Tolo accepted his sword, which surrendered length and breadth to his opponent’s weapon. He slid the slender scabbard into his sash, so the hilt rose at his left hip. Nothing decorated its pommel. Just the way he put the blade away without looking marked how well he had grown accustomed to its presence.
A Secret Atlas Page 16