Canticle poi-2

by Ken Scholes

  “Perhaps I will join them,” Vlad Li Tam said.

  Rae Li Tam smiled. “You may be too busy honoring kin-clave.” She patted her satchel. “Meanwhile, I’ve pharmaceuticals that are running low and a list of flora samples to collect.”

  He nodded. “Keep an eye out for kalla plants,” he said.

  “Of course I will, Father.” She inclined her head and, once he returned the gesture, set off down the beach slowly, passing the trailhead and moving west along the coast.

  Vlad Li Tam sighed and stretched, then turned to the next long-boat that approached, also full of children. Behind it, others came bearing the Tam contribution to the feast. It would take most of the morning to disembark the first shift of his family. They would go slowly, letting the Dayfather’s tribe have time to accustom themselves to the pale-skinned travelers from the northeast. By tomorrow, the Tams would outnumber the tribe on the island, but all knew to underemphasize this fact, staying aloof and keeping their large numbers spread out over the island. They would also make many gifts over the next fortnight, and there would be other pairings among his sons and daughters and the Dayfather’s people. These were not required for kin-clave but would certainly strengthen the bonds. And at no time would the Tam presence here give way to violence or compulsion.

  While intimidation had its place, it was not always conducive to gathering intelligence.

  A flash of light caught his eye, and he looked to the bow of their flagship, The Serendipitous Wind. He read the second half of the coded message and waited for it to repeat. He followed the code, deciphering the words and numbers quickly.

  His First Son’s vessel, Spirit of the Storm, had found something four days to the south. Something, it seemed, that required his attention.

  He drew his mirror and replied. Even before he’d finished, he saw a boat lowered and watched his First Grandson take the oars. He came alone, his long red hair flowing behind him on the wind.

  He will be a worthy successor. At some point, the mantle would pass to his First Son and, when his First Son was ready to lay it down, Mal Li Tam would take it up. He’d had the best education the world could offer, spending his early years in the Orphan School of Windwir. Introspect had arranged it for him during the first year of his papacy, not long after helping Petronus escape the city and the Order under a shroud of deception. At the time, Vlad Li Tam had had no idea that his own father had set those wheels into motion before turning House Li Tam over to Vlad nearly two decades earlier.

  Armed with wits and cunning that perhaps only matched Vlad’s own father, Mal Li Tam had made his mark in the Named Lands quietly. He’d brought about a dozen unlikely alliances and broken half as many-some stretching back to the Days of Settlement-as he served his grandfather and father in the House business. Named for a pirate that had saved his father’s life, Mal Li Tam was the sharpest in House Li Tam’s quiver of arrows.

  What will you inherit when my work is done? It was hard to say. Time was a cipher that Vlad Li Tam understood well. The precepts of T’Erys Whym, upon which his House had been built, were that with enough time and pressure even a river could be moved in such a way as to appear without design. But time was an enemy as well as an ally. He was seventy-two now and knew that he was measuring the depth-line in spans now, not leagues. He had closed down House Li Tam, donating the majority of his vast holdings and wealth over to the Order, knowing full well that Petronus would pass the Order’s holdings and wealth, in turn, over to Rudolfo.

  And my forty-second daughter. She should be delivering soon, he realized. He’d counted the days and had started a dozen poems to honor the little Lord Jakob’s arrival into a troubled world.

  He watched Mal Li Tam hop easily over the bow of the skiff and drag the boat up onto the beach behind him. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting silk pants. He smiled as he approached.

  “Grandfather,” he said, inclining his head.

  Vlad returned the bow. “And how is my First Grandson this morning?”

  Mal looked at the empty hammock and the hastily constructed lean-to, his smile widening. “More rested than you, I’d wager, Grandfather.”

  Vlad chuckled. “Perhaps I’ll nap today.” He glanced back to the ship. “So what have they found?” he asked.

  “Father didn’t say.” He reached into a hidden pocket on his pants and drew a stained and crumpled scroll.

  Vlad took it and opened it, reading the coded message twice before handing it back. The handwriting was true, though the note had been written hastily with a shaking hand. And the note itself had little to say. The dots and smudges of the Tam cipher script pointed to a set of coordinates beyond their current maps, and there was a buried urgency that whatever they had found bore Vlad’s personal inspection. But the urgency didn’t speak of danger.

  He looked up, meeting his grandson’s eyes. “We’ll leave when the feast is over tonight-just one ship. But send a bird to the other two southern patrols and retask them to meet us there. You will be joining me.”

  A look on Mal’s face betrayed something that the old man could not place. “Do you think three vessels are enough?”

  Vlad Li Tam smiled and patted Mal’s shoulder. “If there had been any significant threat your father would have said so. Still, see to the armory and pick a crew that can hold their own by sea and by land. I intend you to captain this voyage.”

  Mal Li Tam bowed more deeply. “Thank you, Grandfather. You honor me.”

  Vlad Li Tam returned the bow. “And make an appearance at the feast,” he said with a wink. “You never know when you’ll be called upon to do your part for kin-clave.”

  Smiling, the young man nodded and turned back to his boat. Vlad watched him as he pushed the skiff off the sand and hopped lightly inside. Pulling at the oars, he rowed against the tide and Vlad Li Tam watched, taking pleasure in the sight of his grandson rowing in the morning sun. He would have watched him longer, but more longboats were landing around him now-more grandchildren, more sons and daughters. The heat rose, shimmering over the sand and hazing the jungle.

  Soon, he would nap in his hammock and gather strength for the coming feast. And maybe, in his dreams, he would see his newest grandson, Jakob. The first of his grandchildren who would not take the name of House Li Tam, and the only of them to remain in the Named Lands.

  Another arrow launched at the world.

  He felt a stab of remorse and suddenly hoped desperately that his sixth daughter would find the elusive kallaberry on this island. He missed the comfort those berries gave him when the past lurked at his door. He craved the forgetfulness and focus that his pipe brought him when he thought of all the arrows he’d lost or seen broken against the world along the way.

  Vlad Li Tam forced his attention back to the beach. A handful of great-grandchildren and grandchildren played in the surf while their parents unloaded the boats.

  Laughing, he chased after them.

  Winters

  Winters sat on the floor of the Great Hall and held Hanric’s cold hand while she wept and wondered what to do.

  My own people have done this.

  Stunned by Aedric’s words, she’d been unable to keep her focus as the conversation turned to speculation. Hanric was dead now. So was Ansylus. And she’d seen for herself. She’d left Rudolfo when the River Woman poked her head in to tell him that Jin Li Tam’s labor had begun.

  She’d held the Firstfall axe and looked at the dull reflection of a dead Marsher scout, still under magicks that her people had not used or seen for two thousand years. Certainly, they used blood magicks for other rituals, but the scout potions had been lost-or kept hidden by the Androfrancines-after the Old World fell.

  And now, she sat by Hanric, holding the axe of her office in one hand while she held his lifeless hand in the other.

  The half-squad of Gypsy Scouts had removed the others from the room and guarded the doors now so that she could be alone. Already, birds raced westward to her people.
Soon, she would will herself to stand, to leave his side and go with her people into Rudolfo’s gardens to find Hanric’s rest.

  They had left him where he lay, though someone had closed his eyes, and she could feel the coldness of his congealed blood seeping through the rough fabric of her dress.

  She would wear his blood even as she wore the ash and mud of the earth that he would be given back to.

  He’d been fearsome, they told her, taking at least two of his attackers before they overpowered him. And these attackers were faster, stronger than the traditional earth magicks employed by most. They’d stormed a room of armed men, killed their targets, and withdrawn.

  Yet Rudolfo had been spared. She wondered at this and a sudden dread gripped her, then evaporated into gratitude. Neb had been here, too. His uniform was torn and bloodstained. The realization set her lip to quivering, and the water filled her eyes again.

  The Francines had taught that all losses were connected to one another, and she saw that now. There in the shadows cast by the fireplace of Rudolfo’s Great Hall, amid the scattered remains of an interrupted feast, Winters found herself feeling as small and alone as she’d been eleven years ago when she sat with her father’s body.

  Of course, she’d never truly been alone in those times. Hanric had kept that vigil with her. Hanric had closed her father’s eyes and had held her on his lap as he leaned against the wall and wept loudly for his fallen friend. With his own hands, Hanric had dug out King Mardic’s rest in the Caverns of the Sleeping Kings. And he’d followed his friend’s instructions to the letter, climbing the Spine and declaring himself her shadow in the dark tongue of House Y’Zir, commanding the loyalty and love of the Marshfolk and pledging himself to the Homeward Path on her behalf until she reached the age of her majority. Until she was old enough to rule in a way that would strike fear in the heart of the Named Lands and, in that fear, hold their respect and keep the Marshlands apart from the interlopers and home-thieves.

  Now, once Hanric was in the ground, she would return home to her people, climb the Spine and drink from the horn. For the first time in her life, she would feel the burn of the blood magick as it shored up her voice and gave it the span of a hundred leagues. Then, she would announce herself as Winteria bat Mardic, ward of Hanric ben Tornus, Queen of the Marsh. After that, she would give her first War Sermon and set herself to make this right.

  She sniffed, wiping her nose with a sleeve.

  Beyond the room, she heard the clatter of activity. Despite the approaching dawn, the Seventh Forest Manor had not quieted. Jin Li Tam, Rudolfo’s betrothed, was hard at her labor, and the halls were alive with the hustle of servants bearing fresh linens and whatever other supplies the River Woman and Rudolfo’s medicos required. The scouts, magicked and unmagicked, were stationed throughout the massive pine-and-stone house. Winters’s own people were waiting outside the Great Hall.

  Waiting for their queen to lead them down this Fivefold Path of Grief. An involuntary shudder washed over her and she stifled another sob. She wanted to contain this grief, to set it aside so that she could think outside of the fog it wrapped her in. There were questions that needed answering.

  In all their years of sojourn in the New World, certainly factions had arisen and insurrections had emerged. But never anything like this. Why would Marsher Scouts, under blood magick, attack and kill the man the rest of the Named Lands believed was their king? To what end? Could they have been acting alone? The assassination of the Crown Prince led Winters to believe not. This had been planned, and whoever was behind it commanded Marsher Scouts and had need of the Named Lands to believe the Marshers were without their king. An ache at the pit of her stomach told her that these would not be the only deaths this night.

  A wind of blood to cleanse. She remembered Aedric’s reply to Rudolfo’s question.

  “What kind of blades were used?”

  She’d known before the First Captain could answer. “Iron.”

  A pruning, then, she thought.

  But Rudolfo had not been scratched. That meant something at the heart of this, she wagered.

  The Marsh Queen sighed and squeezed Hanric’s hand. “I will miss you,” she said. Then, she dropped his hand and stood. She hefted the Firstfall axe, feeling the solid ash handle thrumming in her hands, and turned toward the doors. “It’s time,” she called out in a louder voice.

  The doors opened, and her people came through. The women bore shovels and the men bore a stretcher. A half-squad of Gypsy Scouts accompanied them. Winters stepped aside as they all approached. The men gentled Hanric onto the stretcher and grunted beneath the weight of him when they finally lifted him from the floor. The lieutenant of the scouts stood before her and bowed. “Lady Winters, Lord Rudolfo sends condolences and apologies that he is unable to join you at this time. He bid me relay that he vows upon his father’s sword that each year on this night, he will tell his son Jakob of Hanric the Marsh Queen’s shadow.”

  She blinked. “Tell the Gypsy King that his hospitality and his vow honor me and my people in this darker moment of our sojourn.” She turned to the door and stopped.

  Neb stood there, dressed now in a fresh uniform. He shuffled from one foot to the other, awkward now before her. But he’d come. At the sight of him, Winters felt the hot tears pushing at her. She held them back and walked to him. Behind her, the scouts fanned out, whistling low and long to magicked counterparts she was certain watched. Her people walked slow behind, the women beginning the death psalms. When she stood before the young man, she reached over and took his hand, pulling him alongside. “I’m glad you came,” she said.

  Walking beside her, he glanced down at her. “Have you decided on his rest?”

  She nodded. “I have.” They were leaving the Great Hall now, standing before the massive doors that would take them out into the winter night. As the door creaked open, she saw that it had started snowing. The flakes were small and dry, and the wind spirited them along the ground. She looked up at him, watched the wind drift his hair. She squeezed his hand, then spoke. “He will rest at the heart of Rudolfo’s Whymer Maze, in the shadow of Library Hill.”

  T’Erys Whym had made the labyrinth popular during his brief papacy in the New World, but Winters knew its darker heritage. A circular maze that could only be solved by returning the way you came or enduring the pain of climbing its thorns to find its hidden secrets. High sport of the Cutters of Old. Rituals of the Wizard Kings, their Surgeons working the knives for pleasure and blood magick bargaining, bent by time into Physicians of Penitent Torture, who worked the knives for redemption.

  At the heart of that Whymer Maze, Hanric would rest.

  For Winters, it was a reminder of the thorny walls that she knew waited ahead of her. Perhaps after Hanric’s spirit found its way to their new home he would send her some of his strength and courage for her bloody climb.

  In her heart, Winters knew that her own would not suffice. Biting her lip, she walked out into the snow and tried not to cry.

  Chapter 5

  Petronus

  The sun had not yet risen when Petronus left his cabin and freed his birds. They scattered, a rainbow of threads decorating their feet and carrying word of the attack and the change in protocol to the network he’d created in the last seven months. Now, this station would simply forward its messages, recoded, to whatever relay points Grymlis had arranged. Petronus watched as the dark winter sky swallowed them and the multicolored messages they carried. Black threads of danger on some, the blue thread of inquiry on others, red for war on yet others. The only absent color was the green of peace.

  The sky was shifting from black to gray when he gathered up his kit and satchel to meet the others by the boathouse near the water.

  Grymlis and one of the others had allowed their magicks to fade. The remaining two had reapplied the powders. The old captain looked angry and argued in low tones. “What do you mean he’s dead?” He glanced up, noting Petronus’s approach. “How did it happen?�
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  “I don’t know, Captain,” the Gray Guard answered. “I went in to prep him for movement and he was dead. Cold as snow.”

  Grymlis sighed. “Put him in the boat, then. We’ll ship him as well. We need to get a look at him once his magicks have played out.”

  Petronus joined them and did not protest when one of the soldiers took his travel kit. He resisted when the other reached for the satchel. “I’ll keep this,” he said. He looked to Grymlis. “Our prisoner is dead?”

  Grymlis nodded. “Yes.” The old Gray Guard looked tired, his eyes red and glassy from the magicks. His beard and hair were longer than the last time they’d seen each other. And now, instead of the gray uniform of the Androfrancine Army, he wore the nondescript trousers and shirt of a common laborer. Of course, the scout knives on his belt and the longsword slung over his shoulder said he was anything but common. “Poison perhaps,” he added as an afterthought. “Though we found nothing when we searched him.”

  The sleeping village stirred around them. Petronus’s dock, boathouse and cabin were on the edge of town, but already scattered lights announced the new day and a few quiet boats moved into the bay to get a head start on the work. He’d thought of leaving a note but wasn’t sure what he would say in it. In the end, he’d opted to say nothing. If the events of last night were but a beginning, the less his neighbors knew, the better he imagined it would go for them.

  And for me.

  Grymlis took his arm. “Are you ready, Father?”

  Petronus snorted. “I’m too old for all of this. Where exactly are we going?”

  “Someplace safer than here.” They moved off together toward the waiting boat. “Balthus and I will be joining you. These two will stay back and reroute the messages.”

  Petronus nodded at the strategy. He’d worked hard to build his little network, bringing in what scraps of knowledge he could to puzzle out the truth behind Windwir’s fall.

  They climbed into the boat, mindful of the tarp-wrapped bodies at their feet. Another tarp-wrapped body was lowered in after them; then the magicked soldiers cast them off. The slightest whisper of shifting snow betrayed their quick retreat. Petronus looked to his house and dock and imagined he was seeing them now for the last time.