In a short while they grew loud, almost bellicose, repeating their arguments for killing the king in fierce voices. Taja thought that the wine had freed their tongue, or perhaps this clan was more garrulous than the others they had traveled with. They seemed different in other ways, too; the men had colorful scarves wound around their hair, and the women wore thick gold chains, and earrings so weighted with gold and jewels, they pulled at their earlobes.
“And what do you think, strangers?” one of the men said, turning to Val. “Is it right to kill the god-king?”
He didn’t expect her to answer, Taja saw with relief; she had noticed before that the women never spoke in public. “If the days will grow longer—” Val said carefully.
“If!” the man said scornfully. “You speak like one of the womanish priests, arguing a thing over and over until no one can say what he believes. Let’s kill him now. If the days grow longer then we were right, and if they don’t—well, they’ll chose a new king at Scathiel’s feast.”
“But if you were wrong it would be sacrilege.”
“Sacrilege? Why?”
“To—to kill a king—” Val said.
Taja looked from one man to the other, worried. Val knew nothing but the elaborate debates of the court, the deft wordplay passed from one person to another. But somehow she understood that these people were unused to arguments, that they followed the orders they received from their priests without questions.
“Sacrilege to kill a king?” the Shai said. “Why, when we do it every half-year?”
All around the fire men and women put down their cups and their meat and looked at Val. Their eyes and jewels glittered in the firelight. Taja held her breath.
“I meant that it would be sacrilege to kill a king out of season,” Val said. He raised his hand as if to touch his amulet, then quickly lowered it to his side. “Of course this king must be killed at Scathiel’s feast.”
“This king? What is this king’s name, stranger?”
Val laughed. “Well, of course everyone knows—”
“His name,” the Shai said.
Val glanced at Taja. Without speaking they got quickly to their feet and began to run. Several of the Shai called out, and Taja heard footsteps behind them. A man grabbed her and she cried out. He put his hand, still greasy with meat, over her mouth.
She kicked and lashed out with her arms as the man dragged her back to the camp. “Who are you, then?” the man who had questioned Val asked. She saw with despair that another of the Shai had captured Val as well; as she watched he took Val’s sword and scabbard and studied them by firelight.
“We’re from the north,” Val said. “Merchants. We came to see the ceremony, and we won’t be treated—”
“From the north,” the man repeated flatly. “North Etrara, I guess.”
“No! No, we—we’re merchants—”
“Bind their arms and legs. The priests will pay us well for spies and witches from Etrara, I think.”
“Priests?” another man asked. “But Rugath, we can’t go to the priests—”
“Quiet!” Rugath said. “I said they’ll pay us well, and they will. Not in coins, but in pardons. For all of us.”
They had fallen among outlaws, Taja realized, feeling hopeless. Now she remembered that the men and women had been heavily cloaked and covered with scarves at the beginning of their journey. She had thought the cold bothered them, nothing more. Religious outlaws, she thought, men and women who had disguised themselves to see their god-king. Would Shai never stop surprising them?
One or two of the men began to nod; the shadows cast by the fire glided smoothly over their faces. “Aye, they’ll pardon us indeed,” someone said.
Wordlessly, the women began to take out coils of rope from their packs and hand them to the men. Two men bound the prisoners. Taja struggled as they tightened the knots. “Quiet,” one of them said. “We’ll kill you here if you fight us.”
“How do you know these folks are from Etrara?” the man who had argued with Rugath asked. “Could it be that they’re telling the truth—that they’re truly merchants?”
“Merchants!” Rugath said scornfully. “Why would they run if they were merchants?”
“They might have feared we would rob them.”
“Look in their purses,” Rugath said.
The Shai who guarded Taja and Val fumbled for the prisoners’ purses. “Two sovereigns,” one of them said, sounding disgusted. “Stamped with a king of Etrara—that fat one who looks like a toad.”
“As I thought,” Rugath said. “They’re witches, witches from Etrara. Come, Cor—when have you known a merchant not to carry dozens of coins and jewels? They take their wealth with them, just as we do.”
The company laughed; apparently they found it amusing to compare lawful merchants with a company of outlaws. Cor looked dissatisfied but said nothing.
“I think this man from Etrara is right,” Rugath said. “It would be sacrilege to kill the god-king. But what if we substitute another man for the king, as the king himself is the substitute for Callabrion? What if we kill this man instead?”
The men and women laughed again.
“See how well I argue theology?” Rugath said proudly, grinning at the other outlaws. “Would I not make a good priest?”
Eleven
NARRION AND TAMRA TOOK LODGINGS at the Dolphin, a small rough-timbered inn by the Darra River. “It’s a strange time to come to Etrara,” the innkeeper said as they climbed the stairs. “What did you say your business was?”
“The fish trade,” Narrion said. “From Tobol An.”
“Fish, well, we could use fish,” the innkeeper said. He opened the door to their room. “The crops aren’t growing, they say. They say we’ll all starve this year.”
Narrion said nothing. He had not wanted to speak to anyone except the Society of Fools while he was in Etrara. The innkeeper said, “Tobol An, now—I’ve never heard of that. Where is it exactly?”
“South,” Narrion said.
“Ah,” the innkeeper said, nodding as if he had been enlightened. “South.”
Days passed with no word from Noddo. Tamra and Narrion could not leave the room; both of them were too well known to risk being seen on the streets. Narrion grew impatient, pacing the floor, practicing swordplay in the small confined space. They were forced to see the innkeeper, who brought them their meals, and his daughter, who cleaned the room, but otherwise they spoke to no one.
After several days the innkeeper grew suspicious. “The fish trade, was it?” he said as he brought them their supper. “I don’t see fish merchants thronging to your door.”
“Is it your business to question your lodgers?” Narrion asked. The innkeeper had interrupted his sword practice; his hand still gripped the hilt of his sword. The innkeeper backed away and Narrion closed the door behind him.
The next day the innkeeper grew bolder. “Sometimes I’m forced to question my lodgers,” he said. He had clearly been thinking about Narrion’s question all day. “When I suspect them of doing something unlawful.”
“By Scathiel’s big toe,” Narrion said, exasperated. “We’re expecting a message, nothing more.”
By good fortune the message arrived the next day. The innkeeper brought it to their room. “I apologize for doubting you,” he said, smiling broadly.
Narrion waited until he had gone before breaking Noddo’s seal. “I’ve found Andosto,” the note said.
Narrion took the stairs of the inn two at a time and hurried out onto the streets of Etrara. Behind him he could hear Tamra following him.
“Narrion!” Tamra said. He continued on, too impatient to stop. “Narrion!” Tamra called again. “Narrion, wait!”
He turned. He should not have brought her, he thought; she was unused to hardship, to the world outside the court. “What is it?” he asked.
“You walked under a ladder,” she said.
“Did I?” He looked around him, saw that she had been correct. He h
ad passed through the connection between the earth and heaven, and in doing so had briefly severed it. Ill fortune, he thought. He had offended the gods at the very beginning of his attempt to raise Callabrion; it seemed the worst possible omen.
He shook his head, trying to banish his evil thoughts. He could not afford to become distracted, not now when he was so close. He turned down the street near the theater and came to Noddo’s house.
He knocked. The door opened almost immediately, as if Noddo had been waiting for them. “Come in, come in,” Noddo said cheerfully, motioning them into the room.
Andosto sat in one of the high-backed chairs. Narrion, who had known him at court, was unprepared for the sight of him now; he had lost a great deal of weight, and an unhealed scar festered on one hand. “Good fortune, Narrion, Tamra,” Andosto said.
Narrion grinned; he liked the fact that Andosto continued to hope for good fortune after he had fallen so low on the ladder. “Good fortune,” he said. “Has Noddo explained what I want you to do?”
“You need to get into the palace,” Andosto said.
“Can you do it?”
“I think so,” Andosto said slowly. “We may have to kill a few of the guards, though, and there will be reprisals if we do. Ten citizens of Etrara killed for every guard.”
Narrion shrugged. “We’ll have to do the best we can.”
“I’ve made a study of the guards,” Andosto said. “I know when their watches change. And I can help you with other things as well.”
“Good.”
The two men talked a little longer, working out strategy, and then Narrion and Tamra walked back to the inn. He felt confident, his earlier offense against the gods nearly forgotten. The meeting had gone as he’d hoped it would.
Narrion and Andosto had decided to attempt the palace during the dark of the moon, which took place two days after Narrion had met with Andosto. On that dark night Narrion waited three hours after the bells of Etrara tolled midnight, and then walked quietly down the stairs of the inn, hoping to avoid the innkeeper. His caution was rewarded; as he passed the innkeeper’s room he heard him snoring loudly within.
He met Andosto at the agreed-upon place on Palace Hill. Without speaking the two men slipped through the dark to the palace courtyard and came to the slight rise at the fountain of Sbona. They crouched behind the fountain and watched the guards.
“There he is,” Andosto said, whispering. He pointed to a guard who was fond of taking a nap as soon as he had finished his first circuit around the palace. This guard and another one beat their swords together and then separated on their rounds.
Narrion and Andosto waited. Stars lit the sky, Sbona’s lamps created to help her search for her lost children. They shone brighter than usual in the absence of the moon. The light needs the dark, Narrion thought, just as summer needs winter. He felt more certain than ever that he had chosen the right path.
The two guards returned to the front of the palace and clashed swords again. One of them took up his station before the main door, and the other, the man Andosto had pointed out, moved to the back. They followed him, and were in time to see him stretch out on the lawn in the formal gardens and fold his cloak around him.
They waited until they were certain he had fallen asleep, then walked through the garden to the rear door. The door had been barred from the inside, of course; Narrion smashed a window nearby with the hilt of his sword. The guard stirred at the jangle of glass but did not wake.
They climbed through the window. As Narrion had feared, the Shai had stationed another guard just inside the rear door. The man slashed at Narrion as he came through the window. Narrion twisted nimbly to avoid his sword and then cut him down as he turned.
Ten citizens of Etrara, he thought as they ran down the corridor. Was the death of ten people worth the return of the god to the heavens? He hoped that it was. He hurried on.
They ran to the main staircase, then upstairs to the royal apartments. Another guard stood at the entrance to the rooms. He lunged forward to attack Andosto, and as he did so Narrion stabbed him in the back. He turned to face Narrion, not yet dead, a look of cold horror on his face. Andosto thrust his sword to the man’s heart.
They stood still, waiting to see if anyone had been roused by the noise. When no one came Narrion bent and took the ring of keys at the guard’s belt. He opened the door and they stepped inside.
The iron lamps hanging from the ceiling had nearly burned down. In the dim light they saw something wink in the shadows. Someone moved. Andosto turned suddenly, his sword ready. A man stepped from the gloom, his irises glinting silver.
Andosto went forward. “Wait,” Narrion said, putting his hand on Andosto’s arm.
“Do you know where Riel is?” the man said plaintively.
Gobro’s ghost. Narrion began to laugh, not caring that the guards might hear. “I can’t find her anywhere,” the ghost said.
“Quiet,” Andosto said, sounding annoyed. The door to one of the rooms opened and a pale young man stepped out. “Narrion!” the man said.
Sbarra’s poet. “Good fortune, Sorth,” Narrion said, continuing on toward Talenor’s apartment.
“What are you doing in the palace?” Sorth said, hurrying after him. “Did the Shai let you in? Were you captured?”
“No,” Narrion said. He went past Gobro’s empty rooms, past Arion’s and Callia’s. One is for Gobro, he thought.
Duchess Sbarra came out of the suite of rooms she had once shared with Talenor. “What is it?” she said. “Narrion?”
“I need to see your husband’s library,” Narrion said.
“His library? Why?”
“Now, Sbarra. There’s no time for questions.”
The poet gasped; Narrion guessed that no one had ever treated his patron so rudely. “Follow me,” Sbarra said evenly.
She led him and Andosto through her door and down a long corridor. The poet followed after them. Only a few oil lamps burned here. They passed the room that had held so many of Sbarra’s nightly gatherings; the duchess pointed to the door beyond that. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll get a candle.”
Sbarra returned and lit the oil lamps. Narrion followed her inside and nodded in satisfaction. He had never seen Talenor’s library. Noddo had been right: books of all colors lined all the walls and reached to the ceiling, many of them treatises on magic. Soft light moved against the polished bindings. The room smelled strongly of leather.
He went to the nearest wall and studied the shelves. There were hundreds of books here, maybe thousands. How in Scathiel’s name would he be able to find the one he wanted?
“What are you looking for?” Sbarra asked. “Maybe I can help.”
“I need a book of invocations to Callabrion,” Narrion said. “The god has not ascended this year, and I hope to persuade him to return to the heavens.”
“So it’s true,” Sbarra said. She was smiling slightly. “You’re a religious man, a member of the Society of Fools. Is that why you were always so silent at my gatherings, because you were collecting information for the Society? But you took part in other plots as well, didn’t you? Didn’t you help Mariel and Callia kill King Gobro?”
“I don’t have time for this, Sbarra,” Narrion said evenly. “If I’m successful here I’ll sit with you over a pot of ale and tell you everything you want to know.”
“Why don’t you ask Mariel for help? Wasn’t she the one who raised you high on the ladder?”
“Mariel and I have had our differences. Can you help me?”
“I suppose so.” She went to the shelves and started to look through them.
Narrion watched her, a little surprised. She seemed to know as much about the library as her husband had; she was not Talenor’s ornament, his wife and hostess, but a scholar in her own right. He had never known that about her, just as she had not known he belonged to the Society of Fools. All the masks were coming off now, all disguises laid aside as winter and hardship gripped the city.
&n
bsp; “Here,” Duchess Sbarra said. She took down a small faded book bound in black leather. “I think there’s an invocation in this book that might help you.”
Narrion took the book. Taja probably has this in her library, he thought. Ironic that we had to travel so many miles to find a copy here. But he knew that Taja would not help him, not after what had happened at the arch of Sleeping Koregath. And even if she would he could not ask her; she had left Tobol An with Val weeks ago.
He leafed through the book. Keystones and Invocations, the title said. “It was once in the library of a wizard of Tariel’s,” Sbarra said.
The poet Sorth looked at the book over Narrion’s shoulder. A combination of excitement and awe shone from his face; he had probably never been this close to true wizardry in his life.
“Sorth,” Narrion said, the idea coming to him at that moment. He put the book in the purse at his belt. “I’ll need you to leave with me. I need someone to recite the invocation.”
“I—No,” Sorth said. “I’m a poet, not a mage. I can’t speak magic.”
“Come—don’t be afraid,” Narrion said.
“I’m not afraid—”
“Good. You’ll leave with me then.”
“No, I—”
“I think you will. Your patron commands you. Don’t you, Lady Sbarra?”
Narrion saw that the duchess was about to refuse; perhaps he should not have been so insulting earlier. But the poet said quickly, with relief, “She’s not my patron. I serve Duchess Mariel now.”
“Mariel?” Narrion said. He raised an eyebrow.
“We left Etrara without him,” Sbarra said. “He was masterless, and Mariel offered to take him into her service.”
The poets at court played at being poet-mages, Narrion knew, and liked to emphasize the similarities between their lives and that of the wizards. Sorth had probably complained that without a master he would be a target for all the other court poets. Narrion thought it nothing but affectation; he had never heard of a poet killed by another’s verses.
“You sought a master, is that right?” Narrion asked the poet softly.
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