“Two summer casts and two winter ones could mean balance,” the old man said. “Stability.”
“Or stagnation,” Lord Varra, the King’s Pen, said. “No one falls from the ladder, but no one rises either.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Duke Talenor asked. The candle flames glinted on his newfangled spectacles as he looked up.
Everyone stared at him in surprise. Like Narrion he almost never spoke at Sbarra’s gatherings, but unlike Narrion he was not resented for it. Everyone knew that he spent his days studying old strange books, musty volumes of philosophy, and that he barely seemed to notice anything that happened outside his library. It had taken a philosophical question to rouse him from his musings.
“Of course,” Duchess Callia said. Her golden hair—unusual among the darker folk of Etrara—caught the light as she spoke. “The world exists only because of change. Without it summer would never succeed winter—the crops would die.”
“But if stagnation meant that Gobro’s reign was long and filled with peace?” the old man asked.
“And cold,” Sbarra’s poet said, shivering. “It does sometimes seem as if this winter will never end.”
“Gobro’s reign is peaceful only by accident,” Callia said. “He has no idea what he’s doing.”
“But we need wars,” Arion said suddenly, ignoring the last few speakers. “How else would we prove our bravery, our skill at arms? How else can we gain honor?”
“Is honor so important, then?”
The talk turned to the Virtues. The old man interrupted Arion’s defense of honor and valor to champion love as the chief Virtue. Duchess Sbarra spoke up for loyalty. “Loyalty!” Mariel said, laughing.
Val yawned. It seemed to him that he had heard this discussion hundreds of times before. “Listen,” Narrion whispered to him. “This is tedious. Let’s go—you can help me with the business I spoke of.”
Val nodded. What could Narrion’s business be? He had heard rumors that his cousin belonged to the Society of Fools, a group of men and women who used the early winter months to spread misrule as a reminder of the cold about to come. But winter had nearly ended; in a month the summer god Callabrion would ascend to the heavens and wed the goddess Sbona, and the days would begin to lengthen. Val had heard nothing about the Society of Fools for months.
They murmured excuses and moved toward the door. Val heard laughter behind them; probably someone had speculated that they were going to look for Tamra. “Love!” the old man shouted as they stepped into the corridor. “Love is the only Virtue!”
Val felt his interest grow as he walked through the palace with his cousin. He had desired excitement, adventure; it was almost as if the gods had heard him and granted his wish. They stopped at the porter’s room and retrieved their cloaks and torches, lit the torches from the fire in the entrance room and went outside.
The wind had died down during their stay in the palace. The air was cold and sharp as crystal. Val stretched his arms and felt its clearness suffuse him; he knew at once that he belonged here, hurrying down Palace Hill toward the city, and not in the stuffy rooms of the palace, discussing Virtues long dead.
The full moon was up and gazing benevolently over the glittering gold and white city, its light picking out arches and turrets, towers and gateways. From the hill Val could see past the city to Darra River, its changing surface reflecting back the unchanging light from the moon. Beyond the river the lower city lay shrouded in darkness.
Bells pealed out from the tall clock tower at the university. He and Narrion made their way down the hill, passing the great manors of the nobility. Three or four ladders leaned against each of the houses, their rungs plaited with ribbons and bells and ivy. Narrion turned at the theater and again at the university, and finally came out on the Street of Stones.
“Dotards!” Narrion said. “When will they do something useful?”
“As well expect fish to fly,” Val said. “They’re ornaments, jewels on the fingers of the king. Does Gobro ask his rings for advice?”
“He might do better if he did. We’re headed for ruin as long as that man leads us.”
“Ruin? We’ve lived in peace for five long years. And which of that pack of his brothers or sisters would you raise if you could? No, it’s far better to let Gobro remain king. The chaos of King Galin’s time could come again if he fell from the ladder.”
“King’s Man,” Narrion said. It was an old insult.
Val shrugged. “It suits me to live under Gobro’s rule.”
“Suits you! It suits you to write poems to every beauty at court, never lifting your nose from the paper you write on. Great things are about to happen, and you—you’ll never notice them unless they interfere with your pleasures.”
“What great things?”
Narrion paused, seemed to weigh what he was about to say. “What if you could rise by Gobro’s fall?” he asked.
“I won’t speak treason, Narrion,” Val said quietly.
They were coming to the river, and the Darra Bridge. What did Narrion have planned for this night? “Where are we going?” Val asked.
“The lower city,” Narrion said.
They crossed the bridge into the lower city. The air changed as they went; it smelled of rot here, of too many people living in too small a space.
Almost immediately they passed a criminal in a hanging iron cage. The man’s hair and beard had grown to nearly cover his face, and there was a pile of excrement beneath his cage. “Some food, please, my fine lords?” he said. “Some food, good sirs?”
Val and Narrion went past him. The caged criminals relied on the kindness of their neighbors to stay alive: if they had been unpopular, or if they had committed a particularly horrible crime, they could not hope to get fed. They would die, and their bodies could remain caged for weeks as a warning, until the watch decided to take them down.
“I stole a crust of bread for my child,” the man in the cage called after them. “That was my only crime, to keep my child from hunger. Please, my kind lords!”
Val knew that couldn’t be true. Still, he cursed himself for not remembering to bring food for the criminals. He wondered what the man had done.
Darkened taverns and gaming houses edged the street. The wooden ladders of the Ascending God were here too, sometimes dozens of them, leaning against the sides of the buildings. After the Feast of the Ascending God, when Callabrion had arrived safely in heaven, the ladders would come down; the children of the city would add them to the bonfires lit on every street.
Val started to whistle. Narrion turned, frowning. “You’ll rouse all the dogs within miles,” he said.
In answer Val began to sing. “She told me she would love me, forever and a day,” he sang. “But then one day in winter, she said she could not stay.” It was a cheery tune, despite the subject.
Narrion moved on ahead. A man stepped from the gloom between two buildings and came toward them. Val stopped his singing. Narrion put his hand on his sword and edged past the man. Val walked closer to his cousin, his hand to his own sword, then turned to watch as the man made his way unsteadily down the street.
At last Narrion stopped at a tavern and then, seeming to come to a decision, opened the door. Val saw a wedge of light, heard laughter and a quoted line of poetry. Narrion shouldered his way into the room.
Val followed, standing by the door and studying the crowd. He could see none of the noblemen and women who usually frequented the taverns, and he wondered again what business Narrion had among these people of the lower rungs.
His cousin was studying the people too. He called to a man across the room and the man broke off his conversation and hurried over. Then he bent his head toward Narrion’s and said something Val couldn’t hear.
Narrion returned. “He’s not here,” he said.
“Who?” Val asked.
Narrion seemed not to hear him. They went outside and into another tavern, and then left that one too. The wind had returned; rag
s and bits of paper gusted down the street. Val was growing weary. Why had he agreed to come?
A well-dressed young man appeared out of the darkness. “Good fortune to you, my lord,” the man said. “I wonder if you could direct me to the Street of Roses.”
“The Street of Roses?” Val said. “Go back across the bridge and turn right at the university—”
“I met a young woman there once. She had been jostled by the crowd—she dropped her purse, and I helped her pick it up. She looked at me in gratitude. Her eyes were light brown, like leaves in the fall—Do you know the way to the Street of Roses?”
Val turned away abruptly. He had met several of the ghosts that walked the streets of Etrara; he should have been prepared, should have looked to see if the man’s irises shone silver in the darkness.
He looked back to see the young man accost someone else. The ghost’s memories were still hound up with the sight of the woman on the Street of Roses, Val knew, and he was condemned to repeat his question until he finally forgot her. And what would my memories be? Val thought. Court banquets and sonnets? Have I ever loved anyone as that ghost loves a woman he barely knew?
Narrion had gone on ahead while he had stood there like a fool, having a witless discussion with a phantom. He could barely see his cousin’s torch. He hurried up to him, intending to tell the other man what had happened. They should rid the city of its plague of ghosts, he thought, irritated. That’s something for Arion to do during Gobro’s peace. There’s honor enough.
Someone called from a window overhanging the street; Val stepped aside quickly as a woman emptied a chamber pot. Somewhere a dog barked. Narrion went into one of the gaming houses down the street and Val followed.
Narrion was already deep in conversation when Val entered. He yawned. This business of Narrion’s was as tedious as court philosophy. He longed to be home, out of the cold.
He stepped toward the gaming tables. The sight of the flat conjuring sticks being used as counters made him uneasy for a moment, but then he spied an actor friend of Tamra’s and went over to talk to her. The men and women turned toward him for his wager. “A gold sovereign on a summer cast,” he said, taking the coin from his purse.
Loud voices came from the other side of the room. Val turned quickly. Lord Carrow, the King’s Coin, stood up from one of the gaming boards, his hands brushing his fur-lined cloak. “Look what you’ve done, you stupid oaf!” he said to Narrion.
“Play the sovereign for me,” Val said to Tamra’s friend, dropping his counters: “If it wins give the money to Tamra.” He moved to join his cousin, his hand ready at the hilt of his sword. “Good fortune!” the woman called.
The King’s Coin was surrounded by a group of finely dressed men and women, all of them standing in his defense. He was a fat, dignified-looking man, his fingers nearly covered by heavy golden rings signifying his holdings. His hand dropped to his sword, then moved upward to stroke the chain of office at his throat. His rings glittered in the candlelight.
“Are you picking a quarrel with me?” Narrion said, his dark eyes shining. He sounded amused.
“I?” Lord Carrow said. “It was you who spilled your ale over me, and deliberately too. I’ll teach you to respect those who stand higher than you on the ladder.”
“Will you?” Narrion said. “What makes you think you stand high on the ladder? The king showed his displeasure with you at the banquet tonight, and that was only the beginning. I’m surprised you think you can walk freely in the king’s city.”
One of the men around Carrow was looking at Narrion curiously. After a moment Val recognized him; he was Lord Damath, the treasurer’s friend. There had been some court gossip about Damath, but Val could not remember what it was. “I saw you the other day,” Damath said to Narrion. “At the apothecary’s, I think—”
“Where I go is my own business,” the King’s Coin said, interrupting him.
“Is it?” Narrion said softly. “Your behavior has gone beyond mere insolence, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the king had you executed for treason.”
Carrow’s hand fell to his sword again. His wife grasped his arm, restraining him, then bent close to whisper in his ear. Val could hear the words “Maegrim” and “fortune.”
“No,” Carrow said angrily, shaking off her hand. “I won’t leave this—this puppy unchallenged. Do you call me a traitor?”
“Yes.”
It was Carrow Narrion had been searching for, Val realized. What could his cousin want? Narrion was one of the best men with a sword in all of Etrara; if he fought with Carrow, a much older man, he would almost certainly win. Did he think the king wanted his treasurer dead? Or had Gobro himself given orders for the execution of the King’s Coin? But surely Narrion would not cast his lot with Gobro; his cousin had never spoken well of the king.
The owner of the gaming house hurried over to them and elbowed his way through the crowd. “If you’re going to duel, then do it outside,” he said.
“Ah,” Narrion said, looking at the King’s Coin. His expression was unreadable. “And are we going to duel?”
“Of course,” Carrow said.
Somehow news of the fight spread through the gaming house; folks were already jostling each other to make a path for Narrion and Carrow as they moved toward the door. Others left the boards and tables, their wagers uncompleted, to follow the men outside. By the time Val made it to the street the crowd had cleared a space for the two men.
Carrow attacked first. Several people cried out, and someone near Val offered a wager of ten to one for Narrion. Narrion stood his ground and parried the other man’s thrust easily. Carrow lunged forward again. Val realized that Narrion planned to tire the man out before he went on the offensive, that he was playing with him.
Carrow raised his sword awkwardly, his breath coming in short gasps. Narrion had barely moved except to raise his sword and brush his long black hair out of his eyes. There was a cruel smile on his lips that Val had never seen before.
Suddenly Lord Damath, the treasurer’s friend, drew his sword. Val touched the charm at his throat and drew his own sword. Narrion motioned him back. At the same time Damath took the offensive, forcing Narrion down the street with driving blows. The treasurer dropped back to catch his breath.
Narrion returned blow for blow. His sword rang like a bell in the cold air. For a long moment Damath did nothing but defend himself, and Val wondered if he was like so many gallants in the city who depended on one or two tricks to frighten their opponents away. Sweat coursed down Damath’s cheeks. He began to counter Narrion’s thrusts, but his moves seemed sluggish, uninspired, as if he had lost heart.
His expression changed suddenly; he looked withdrawn, almost unearthly. Narrion’s sword protruded from his chest. The final stroke had been so fast that Val hadn’t even seen it. Someone screamed; a few people backed away.
Narrion held on to the sword as Damath fell to the street, then pulled it from the other man’s chest. He wiped it on the man’s clothing and grinned up at the circle of people surrounding him.
Before any of them could react he sheathed the sword and grabbed Val by his arm. “Quickly!” he said. For a horrible moment Val thought he could smell the blood on his cousin’s sword.
They ran south down the Street of Stones, farther into the lower city. Two or three of Lord Carrow’s friends called after them, perhaps only now beginning to understand what had happened. Val heard footsteps behind them and put on speed.
Past more taverns, more hanging cages. The footsteps dropped back. The moon had gone behind a cloud and the city ahead of them looked deserted; for a moment it seemed a ruin long dead. Then the face of the moon reappeared and by its light Val could see the city wall ahead of him. A gate in the wall stood open.
Two
NARRION HURRIED THROUGH THE GATE and Val followed. He had rarely been out of the city, and had never left by this way, through the Gate of Stones. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“South,�
�� Narrion said. He had slowed but was still moving quickly; in a few minutes they had put the seven-gated city behind them.
“Why?”
Narrion turned impatiently. “Do you know who it was we just killed?”
“Lord Damath. Carrow’s friend.” It was only after he had given his answer that Val realized Narrion had said “we.”
“King Gobro once took Damath’s wife as his mistress,” Narrion said. Val nodded; that had been the court gossip he had forgotten. “What do you think the king’s thoughts will be when he finds Damath dead? People will start whispering that Gobro hired us to do it. No husband would willingly let his wife sleep with the king again.”
“The king will look for someone to blame,” Val said.
Narrion nodded. “He can’t let it be said that he kills husbands—he’s noted for rewarding them with money and land. We’re the ones who killed him. We’re the ones who should be punished.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Do you think that matters? You drew your sword in front of witnesses. You’ll be charged along with me.”
The path before them narrowed. Something bulked in front of them; as they came closer Val saw a forest, a great dense stand of trees. “We’re leaving Etrara,” he said. “We’re going into exile.”
Narrion nodded again.
Val stopped. “This was the business you had tonight,” he said bitterly.
“No. No—my errand had nothing to do with Damath. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“Should I believe that? Very well, I’ll believe you. But I’m certain you planned something as dangerous, as deceitful. You spoke treason earlier—”
“I said nothing—”
“You said I could rise by Gobro’s Fall. I don’t know what game it is you’re playing—”
“I spoke of possibilities, nothing else. Grant me the sense not to speak treason to a King’s Man, at least.”
“I’ll grant you nothing. I’m in no mood to be reasonable. With one stroke of your sword you killed all my future in Etrara. How long will I have to wait before my exile is ended?”
Summer King, Winter Fool Page 2