The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III

by Mercedes Lackey

  She knew what she was doing—

  Oh, do I!

  Well, she knew what she was doing, but the consequences? Did she know that as well? Could she even guess at the consequences?

  They passed through the statue-lined hallways in silence and met no one. It was the dinner hour; most of those who lived on this floor were in the Great Hall, dining in the presence of the High King and his Advisors. Perhaps by now the word that Harperus had identified another of his attackers had made its way to the Hall. Perhaps it had not. No one would know until tomorrow that she had stayed in T’fyrr’s suite.

  But once again, she blushed. She did not want his name and hers in the mouths of these idle courtiers, who would speculate and gossip maliciously just out of sheer boredom. Some would use the gossip to further damage their cause with the High King. Others would use it to create whatever damage they could elsewhere.

  There were Church laws about the congress of humans and those who were not—based on Holy Writ forbidding the congress of humans and demons.

  Only now was she recalling those strictures; only now that there was a moment of leisure was she able to think of them. Her earlier embarrassment had probably been because, in the back of her mind, she knew that there could be trouble over this.

  Oh, it was just because I knew there would be gossip, hurtful gossip. And that someone in this vast hulk would use that gossip to cause trouble for us.

  “I doubt that anyone will believe that you and I are partnering,” he murmured quietly, for her ears alone. Once again, he had guessed what she was thinking from the emotions her thoughts engendered. “Most of these folk hawk for game in the game preserve, you know. Most have falcons and other raptors, and know something about them. How do you tell a male raptor from a female?”

  “By the size, usually,” she replied vaguely, unable to guess what his meaning was. Then it occurred to her, and she bit her lips to cover a giggle. “Oh—oh, of course! You can’t tell a male from a female by sight, unless they have different feather-colorations. They don’t have—what you have!”

  “Precisely,” T’fyrr said, dryly humorous. “Only Nob knows that I am not like a hawk in that respect, and he will take that secret to his grave if I ask it of him. The rest assume I am as externally sexless as a saint’s statue. I have heard as much, through Nob. He is very good at listening and reporting what he has heard, and no one pays any attention to the pages.”

  So, he had discovered that for himself, had he? It was an echo of her own observation, that no one ever paid any attention to the children. Once again, their minds ran on parallel tracks!

  She squeezed his hand by way of reply, and he squeezed hers in return, just as they reached the door of his suite—which now also had a pair of the Royal Bodyguards standing watch outside. T’fyrr bid them both a grave goodnight, and they returned his salutation.

  When they closed the door of the suite behind them and locked it, T’fyrr paused and looked around the room. Someone had already been here, leaving the lamps lit and food in covered dishes on the sideboard. That was probably standing orders, since he had mentioned more than once that he was not welcome to dine in the Great Hall. She wondered for a moment what he was frowning at, until she saw his eyes resting on each of the “sculptures” in turn.

  “Have you any idea how sensitive those are?” he asked her quietly. “Could they hear into the next room, do you think?”

  She had to shake her head. “I haven’t a clue,” she admitted.

  “Well, then since I do not believe that Tyladen is entitled to any vestige of my private life, and since I believe him to be as enthusiastic a voyeur as he is a coward, I think that for one night there will be no listening.” He took each of the “sculptures” in turn and buried it under a pile of pillows and cushions thieved from the furniture.

  “There,” he said with satisfaction. “That should take care of that!”

  He turned to her and held out his hand again. She took it, the dry, hard skin feeling warmer than usual beneath her hand. “I would like a bath,” he said. “Would you?”

  She nodded, unable to actually say anything.

  “I do warn you,” he continued, “I look altogether miserable when wet. If your romantic inclinations survive the sight of me with my feathers plastered to my skin, they will survive anything.”

  She smiled, suddenly shy. “I suspect they will survive,” she said in a low voice. “Yours may not survive seeing me without a beautiful costume to make up for my otherwise—”

  He put a talon across her lips and led her into the bathroom, where they discovered that romance survives a great many trials, and thrives on laughter.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Harperus was still bedridden, many days later; T’fyrr had come to make one of his morning visits.

  He had not been the only visitor, but Harperus’ second guest had come as the bearer of bad tidings.

  The Captain of the Bodyguards left them after delivering his unwelcome news, and if a man’s retreating back could signal chagrin, profound embarrassment, and disgust with a situation, his did.

  It well should have.

  “I cannot believe this!” T’fyrr exploded once the Captain was out of the suite and out of earshot. Harperus shrugged, philosophically, from the shelter of his huge bed. The bruise on his forehead had faded to an unpleasant pale green and brown, and on the whole he was doing well. But the effects of the self-healing trance—and the exhaustion of handling what had probably been a cracked skull as well as a concussion—were longer-lasting than either of them had anticipated.

  “I had actually expected something like this,” the Deliambren said with a sigh. “I didn’t want to say anything, lest I be seen to imply that Theovere’s people are less than competent, but I was holding my breath over it. If a man can be spirited away from a locked and guarded room in the Palace, surely the city gaols are no more secure.”

  T’fyrr only snarled, and his talons scraped across the floor as he flexed his feet angrily.

  No sooner had the man Harperus identified been arrested, taken into custody, and turned over to a city gaol, than he was free again. This time it was nothing so obvious as a guard being seduced. No, the man escaped from a locked and barred cell, and a lace handkerchief had been left in his place.

  It seemed that their mysterious female adversary was not above taunting them.

  Damn her, whoever she is. She had to be someone either in high Court circles herself, or with connections there. There was no other way that she could have known that the man had been arrested, much less that he had been taken to a particular city gaol. There were three main gaols, after all, and a dozen lesser ones, never mind the many Church gaols; he could have been in any of them.

  “And the King has not called for you once since my attack.” Harperus pursed his lips unhappily. “He was displeased by Nightingale? Or is he displeased with your performances?”

  “Not at all,” T’fyrr replied bitterly. “He made a point of thanking her for coming the day after you were attacked. No, the reason is that he has a new toy to intrigue him; I am no longer a novelty. I have been subverted, it seems, by my good friend Lord Atrovel.”

  Harperus raised an eyebrow. “I had heard nothing of this,” he said. “What new toy? And I thought Lord Atrovel liked you!”

  T’fyrr sighed and flexed his feet again. “He does—but he cannot resist a challenge, and the head of the Manufactory Guild set him one. Do you recall that box of yours that plays music? The one that Theovere has hinted he would like?”

  “The one that we will not give him because taking it apart would give these people too many secrets we do not want them to have?” Harperus responded. “Only too well. Why? What of it?”

  “That is what Lord Atrovel was challenged to reproduce,” T’fyrr told his friend sourly. “And he did it, too.”

  As Harperus’ eyebrows shot toward his hairline, T’fyrr amended the statement. “It is not a recording device, nor is it small enough to
sit on a table. It would fill—oh, a quarter of the room here. It is entirely mechanical, mostly of clockwork so far as I can tell, entirely human-made, and requires a page to push pedals with his feet, around and around, to power it.” He brooded on his mechanical rival. “I suppose it is a kind of superior music box. It has more than one instrument though, and three puppets to simulate playing them. There is an enameled bird—much prettier than I—that ‘sings’ the tunes, accompanied by a puppet harpist, flute player, and a puppet that plays an instrument made of tuned bells. It is all instrumental, of course—which means no awkward lyrics to remind Theovere of much of anything.”

  “You’ve seen it, then?” Harperus asked.

  “How not? It was presented in open Court two days after your injury, with more ceremony than you made with me.” T’fyrr stopped flexing his feet; he was cutting gouges in the floor. “It plays exactly one hundred of Theovere’s favorite songs, which he can select at will.”

  Harperus looked impressed in spite of himself. “I had not thought they had that much ability.”

  T’fyrr only ground his beak. “It was pointedly said during the presentation that the device will always play exactly whatever song is desired, and play it in precisely the same way, every single time. This, I suppose, to contrast it with me, who may not cooperate in the choice of music, who sometimes sings things that make Theovere uncomfortable, and who never sings the same song in the same way twice in a row.”

  Harperus pondered the implications of that. “Theovere may be tiring of the novelty of working against his Advisors; he may be recalling that responsibility is work.”

  “And he may be weary of hearing me sing about those who take their responsibilities seriously.” T’fyrr sighed. “I did not want to tell you about this, but since Theovere still seems enamored with his toy, I am afraid that I have been supplanted for the foreseeable future. I have not precisely been demoted from my rank, but I am no longer a novelty even with Nightingale to accompany me. I have not been called for in more than a week.”

  Harperus rubbed his temple for a moment, his face creased with worry. “I am not certain that I care for the timing of all this. Within a day of the attacks on both of us, the Manufactory Guild presents Theovere with a new toy? Does that indicate anything rather nasty to you?”

  “That they thought either one or both of us might be removed from play and had their own distraction ready?” T’fyrr countered. “Of course it occurred to me. It could simply be good timing on their part, however—or they could have been holding this toy back, waiting for the best opportunity to present it. There is no point in assuming a conspiracy—but there is no point in discounting one, either. I wish that you were in place to collect Court gossip. It would be nice to know one way or another.”

  Harperus picked fretfully at the comforter covering his body. “And here I am, incapacitated. Trust me, Tyladen is doing all he can; he has responsibilities you are not aware of. He is not a coward, he simply cannot do his job and mine as well.”

  “I will believe it if you say it,” T’fyrr told him finally. “Though I doubt you would get Nightingale to believe it; she is not terribly fond of Tyladen and has called him a spider sitting snug in a safe web more than once. I am not sure she cares for Deliambrens at all, right now; Tyladen hasn’t done much about the troubles in Lyonarie, either. I have more bad news from outside the Palace, I am afraid. There is more unrest in the city. The situation is deteriorating for nonhumans: more beatings, slogans written on the walls of nonhuman homes and businesses, vandalism, gang ambushes outside Freehold.”

  “More attacks?” Harperus started to get up, and fell back against his pillows again, turning a stark white. “Damn!” he swore, with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Why must I be confined to my bed at a time like this?”

  T’fyrr only shook his head. “I have been spending more and more time in Freehold with Nightingale. We have been trying to do what we can with the tools at our disposal. At least there we can do some good; our music is heard, and the message in it.”

  “You are preaching to the choir,” Harperus reminded him. “No one goes into Freehold that is not on the side of the nonhumans.”

  T’fyrr could not reply to that; he knew only too well that it was true. But the message he and Nightingale were placing in their music was a complicated one, and one he thought would have some effect on those who might otherwise not take a stand but would rather stand aside. He hoped, anyway. There were plenty of those, visitors to Freehold out of curiosity, or those who only came occasionally.

  It may be that what they need is a leader, and one has not stepped forward thus far. I had hoped Tyladen would be that leader, but I fear he is a weak branch to land that eyas on. Harperus would, but he is not physically able. Which leaves—us. I could do with a better prospect.

  “I must go,” he said finally. “I’ll probably be staying there tonight again. It’s safer than flying back, even after dark. I’ll tell Nob to come here and help you, as usual.”

  At least Nob would be safer with Harperus than alone in T’fyrr’s suite, especially now that Harperus had raided his traveling-wagon for more protective devices. Tyladen had actually ventured out of Freehold to fetch the mechanisms and to set them up in Harperus’ room—while Old Owl was well enough in mind and spirit after his ordeal, he needed someone to look after him. So Nob could be useful and protected by staying with the Deliambren. Right now, T’fyrr would be much happier if he were working alone—but since that was impossible, better to get those who were not flying the attack under cover of the trees.

  “Thank you,” Harperus said with real gratitude. “The boy is an endless help. I’m thinking of checking where he came from and offering to purchase his services if he hasn’t any parents about. We can use young humans like him in the Fortress-City.”

  “What, in your—ah, what did you call it? The ‘exchange program’?” T’fyrr asked, getting up from his stool. “He’d be good there; he has an open mind, and a clever one, and I have to keep restraining him from taking apart your devices to see how they work.”

  Harperus held up a hand just as T’fyrr began to walk toward the door. “Wait a moment, please. You and Nightingale—” he began.

  What? Is he going to try to interfere there now? I think not!

  T’fyrr shook his head and began an annoyed retort, but Harperus waved his hand before he could begin to form it.

  “No, no, I don’t mean to tell you to leave her alone—dear Stars, that’s the last thing I’d want for either of you!” T’fyrr relaxed a little at that, and Harperus continued, with an expression of concern on his face. “I just want to know if—if you are weathering these stresses as a couple. I want to know that the two of you are still together and not being torn apart by the situation.”

  “Better than we would alone,” T’fyrr said softly. “Much, much better than we would alone. She is the one unreservedly good thing that has happened to me since I came here. I tell her so, at least twice a day.”

  Harperus smiled, his odd eyes warming with the smile. “Good. Good. I feel rather paternal about both of you, you know. I have known her for most of her life—and if it were not for me, you would not be in the Twenty Kingdoms at all.” He hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say something, then continued. “I want you to know that whatever I can do for both of you, I will. You have both been involved in situations you would never have had to deal with if it were not for me. I am very, very pleased that the two of you have found happiness in each other.”

  T’fyrr looked down on the Deliambren, sensing nothing there but sincerity. “I think I knew that,” he said finally. “But thank you anyway.” He shook himself, rousing all his feathers, and bits of fluff and feather sheath flew through the air. “Now I must go. Nightingale is waiting, and we have work in the city, even if I have none here.”

  Harperus nodded, and T’fyrr took himself out, via Harperus’ balcony. It was safer that way; he no longer trusted even the corrid
ors and hallways of the Palace.

  He no longer made a target of himself by flying low over the city; he gained altitude while he was still over the Palace grounds, taking himself quickly out of the range of conventional weaponry. He would drop down out of the sky in a stoop, once he was directly over Freehold, landing on the roof, though never twice in exactly the same place. He hoped that this made him less of a target for projectiles from the other roofs, although a skilled hunter could probably track him in and hit him—

  He tried not to think about that. He was no longer the only target in this city. He had not wanted to worry Harperus further by giving him details of the troubles in Lyonarie, but it was no longer safe for most nonhumans to walk alone in certain districts even by day—and by night, they must not only go in large groups, but they must go armed with such weapons as the laws permitted them. Some of them had gotten immensely clever with weighted clubs, tough leather jackets, and things that could legitimately be considered their “tools.”

  They were harassed and attacked by pairs and large gangs of bravos armed with clubs. There had been no deaths—yet—but at least a hundred males, two dozen females, and a handful of children of various nonhuman races had wound up with broken bones or concussions. That was not even detailing the beatings that left only bruises, or simple harassment or vandalism.

  Nor was Harperus’ attacker the only escapee from justice in the King’s gaols; even when attackers and vandals were identified and brought to justice, the very next day they would no longer be in the gaol. Some were released “by accident,” some released when other parties posted bonds, and some simply slipped away.

  There were ugly rumors in the streets, making even ordinary folk look angry whenever nonhumans were mentioned. One of those rumors claimed that the Manufactory Guild planned to release all of the human workers and import nonhumans, since they were not subject to the laws of the Church. As miserable as working conditions were inside those buildings, apparently having any job was better than being out of work, and the folk who filled those mills and tended the machinery were looking blackly at any nonhuman who crossed their paths.