Delia of Vallia

by Alan Burt Akers

  Precisely. Thalmi spent her time organizing the ramifications of the spy net operating from Lancival and elsewhere.

  “You are well, Delia?”

  “More or less. And you?”

  “Too busy, as usual. The mistress — pray Opaz she quickly recovers — has told you, I’m sure, why you’re here. It’s this friend of yours, Jilian Sweet-Tooth — a remarkable product of the SoR and now about to desert us.”

  There seemed to be no accusations in Thalmi’s straight stare, as she felt for the armrest of her chair and sat, nodding for Delia to sit. But Delia decided to get the undercurrents out of the way first.

  “Before we talk of Jilian — have you any news of Dayra?”

  “None. The princess has not been brought to my attention of late. Not since she and her friends looted an abandoned temple — to a monastic local godling, to be sure.”

  “She has been swayed by bad companions. We know that. But I take the full blame—”

  “Oh, no, Delia! Oh, no. I know better than that. Your rascal of a husband who calls himself the emperor — he is far more to blame.”

  “I choose not to believe that.”

  “Believe what you like, sister. You will not alter the truth — or, at least—” And Thalmi smiled widely, delighted at her own idiotic words. She and Delia knew that the truth was what was believed, and what was believed could be manipulated. “At least, you believe in error.”

  “And yet,” said Delia, putting a barb of her own, “Dayra was educated and trained by the SoR.”

  “Yes. If she becomes embroiled with these fatuous Sisters of the Whip, we must expect even greater disasters.”

  “You’d better tell me about Jilian.”

  “She has sworn to have the manhood of that rast, Kov Colun Mogper. She will not talk of the indignities she suffered. I gather from my reports that the Sisters of the Whip can promise more than we can in the way of vengeance upon men.”

  “Vengeance upon men — all men?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, some of them deserve that, a lot of them. But all? This does not sound like Jilian to me.”

  “Nor me. But I am assured that she has gone sour.”

  That rebellious yellow hair of Thalmi’s, which she was at pains to cover with a brown wig from time to time, could not spoil the effect she had of being insignificant. Her tongue might destroy the effect. Delia sat up.

  “You sound bitter, Thalmi.”

  “I’ve every right to be. As Dee Sheon is my witness! When these Sisters of the Whip poach from other Orders, I feel sorrow; but it is no concern to me. When they take our girls it is my concern. And I’ll tell you why they want them — it is because of the Claw. Only we can manipulate the Claw.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if that is so marvelous a gift—”

  “Delia!”

  “Clawing a man’s eyes out tends to become fun to some girls—”

  “Never fun. But a redressing of the balance of nature — yes.” Thalmi sat back and waited a moment before saying, “Don’t worry too much about Dayra. I do not feel the apprehension for her, despite all, that I do in others. She has not gone sour in quite the same way.”

  “All the same,” said Delia, shaking her head and feeling stubborn. “I find this very hard to believe of Jilian.”

  “I must confess disappointment. I was hoping you had news of her. Something timely to give me a lever to win her back. There is still a chance. But every day that chance grows more slim.”

  Leaning forward and helping herself to a yellow paline from the wooden dish gave Delia time to gather thought and strength. She looked up, the paline poised — she was not in the habit of popping a paline here in Lancival. “You say the Whip women need our expertise with the Claw. That I can understand. But by their title—?”

  “Yes. They worship the Whip. To extremes.”

  “One then has to feel sorry for them.”

  “Oh, aye!”

  The pro-marshal spent a few moments expressing her feelings on the subject. Presently, Delia said, “This means you do not know where Jilian is, either? Or where the Sisters of the Whip may be found in conclave?”

  “We run across their handiwork from time to time. No, I don’t know where Jilian is.” Thalmi sounded personally offended, and Delia saw the spymistress was personally offended. She had a right to be, in nature. “We managed to trace a chapter in Vondium. But one would expect some to be found in the capital. Others exist in your own Blue Mountains—”

  “It grieves me to say that does not surprise me. The Blue Mountain Girls always have been an independent crowd.”

  “And in various other provinces — Vomansoir, Falinur, Quken, Vindelka, Ogier—”

  “Clearly, then, a locus of infection exists and is spreading.” All the provinces mentioned occupied a compact area in the center of Vallia. “What other objects, do you know, are the aims apart from humiliating and killing men?”

  “That, my dear Delia, is what I would dearly love to know.”

  The webwork of intelligence thrown over the country by the SoR was not infallible. And, in any case, the sisters were far more concerned about their rigorous pursuits of excellence in service to the generality of people to take kindly to rooting out a rival Order. Looking after a thousand orphans, rebuilding hospitals, tracking and dealing with men who thought they could kidnap girls — these were everyday pursuits, sadly enough, after the Times of Troubles.

  The pro-marshal pushed the dish of palines close toward Delia. “There is one other thing that, perhaps, might give us more concern than all the rest.” At Delia’s delicately raised eyebrow, she went on: “Sorcery. We believe witches and wizards play a prominent part with the Sisters of the Whip.”

  Slowly, Delia spoke some of her mind.

  “I believe I can grasp some of Jilian’s thinking in this. The SoR offered me the chance of taking Witch’s Vows, and as you know I declined. I am not sorry for that. We are not an Order biased heavily toward sorcery—”

  “We can produce competent thaumaturgists when there is the need, Delia.”

  “Oh, yes, we can, of course. It could be that Jilian believes she will receive more help from the Whip Women.”

  “If that is all it is...”

  Delia took another paline, looked at the clepsydra, and said, “But it is not, you think? Well, we will see. Now it is time for us to eat and then I must attend the Fifth Sheon Service of Praise.”

  “I attended the Third. Very well, Delia. I will see you at Songs later.”

  When she’d left the pro-marshal’s study, Delia realized this unwelcome news about Jilian had made her bad-tempered again. Despite her dislike of the Claw — although dislike was too strong a word: distaste, perhaps? — she was minded to fill in a private study period with a good rousing slashing session with her Claw. But she did not. Instead she read of the heroic deeds of Benga Kathyn of Tezpor, which had happened so long ago they were probably mythical.[3] After the Service of Praise and the study session, Delia was relaxed enough to attend Songs and join in with a will. This was one of the magics of Lancival, this capacity to soothe and calm the most unbridled passions.

  And, while that was undoubtedly true, and sweet to the mind and spirit, the truth also remained that she could not spend very much longer here. No message had been received from her half-brother Vomanus yet. This was not surprising, in view of the circuitous route communications would have to take to reach Lancival. No man in all Vallia, in all Kregen — as far as the sisters were aware — knew of the location of Lancival. It was under their noses, of course; but that made the secret that much sweeter.

  She determined to remain halfway cross with Vomanus.

  Quite apart from her position as empress — a position which always amazed her — which in the most general and particular terms gave her some privileges in the knowledge of just who people intended to marry, Vomanus was, after all, her brother! He’d gone off and married before, and young Valona was the result of that. Val
ona had gone through Lancival like a divine wind. Well, who was this new lady her brother was marrying? Had married now, by Vox.

  Many seasons ago, Delia could recall with the utmost clarity using all her influence — which even then was considerable as the Princess Majestrix of Vallia — to send out expeditions to search for the wild barbarian clansman who was to become her husband. It had fallen to the lot of Tharu of Vindelka and Vomanus to find the man so eagerly sought. Tharu had been slain in that service. Vomanus, in his open, reckless, careless way, had later on passed some casual remark about it being better had he, instead of Tharu, who had willed him his kovnate province, been the one to die. His wild and reckless ways distressed Delia. She saw Vomanus as a man as well as a half-brother. Some other, deeper, hurtful, more prodigious reason impelled Vomanus in his wild ways. He had gone through a string of women, friends, acquaintances, always laughing, always reckless, never caring — he seldom bothered to clean his weapons properly after a fracas and one day his sword would snap in the midst of combat because it had rusted away undetected. Delia suffered for Vomanus because he suffered and she could not understand why.

  She could not allow herself to believe the obvious answer — for in that she would sense in herself a rebellion against the mercy of the Invisible Twins made manifest in Opaz.

  Her thoughts jibed with the words of the hymn that moment being caroled out to the raftered ceiling of the Lesser Hall. “In the Light of Opaz we see our beacon guide through the darkness of the world.” Trite words, perhaps, but words always fervently sung and believed. Delia could not quite imagine breaking away from these beliefs, except and only in circumstances arising from her marriage.

  In the course of the evening as the songs and hymns were sung, she contrived a few quiet words with people she wished to gauge. Sounding out their minds, as her old tutor, Rose Mandeling, would have said. She said with a trifle impatience to Thalmi Crockhaden, the pro-marshal, “And that is all you can tell me of this Nyleen Gillois?”

  The pro-marshal did not tear that yellow hair; she looked as though she might have, had she been other than she was.

  “By the Rod of Halron and the Mount of Mampe!” She took a breath. “I had a first-class agent at Delka-Ob. She provided timely, informative, detailed reports. Nothing from her until this morning — and—”

  Delia turned her shoulder on the ranks of singing girls in the Lesser Hall and leaned one elbow on the balass-wood bar. Novices in pretty dresses decently covered by striped rose and yellow aprons served soft drinks like sazz and parclear, and also a wide selection of vintages. The bar area lay recessed from the main hall. The singing served as a pleasant background. Delia saw how upset the pro-marshal was, and half-guessed the cause.

  Thalmi nodded savagely. “A single last message, no doubt as a gesture of defiance, perhaps, I hope, as a sign of some remnants of conscience.”

  “She has joined the Sisters of the Whip?”

  “Aye! May Dee Sheon make her run forever!”

  “So we know the name of the lady that Vomanus of Vindelka has wed. Nyleen Gillois na Sagaie. Sagaie is in Evir, I think?”

  “Yes, right up in the far north, over the mountains, a land of furry savages. They no longer bend the knee to the emperor; they’ve got themselves a king up there, now, after the Time of the Troubles.”

  “It will probably be necessary to bring them back into the fold of Vallia, one day. There are other more pressing concerns at the moment.” Delia stopped herself. She did not wish to discuss strategy of empire here. She wanted to concentrate if she could on Vomanus, on Jilian, on Dayra. Velia might, with any luck, return from her trip for ladies before her mother left. If not, Delia would not wait...

  “Judging by the ‘na’ in her name, she must be of importance.”

  Cattily, Delia said, “And Sagaie could be a one-shanty village.”

  The pro-marshal showed her teeth.

  Yzobel could offer no further information. She knew only what she had been told, and had been sent to Delka-Ob to carry a message to Delia, who had been expected to be there for the wedding. As for Thalmi’s spy — or, rather, ex-spy, in Delka-Ob, Yzobel knew nothing. Not only did she not know her name, she did not know of her existence.

  The capital of the province of Vindelka, Delka-Ob, contained a strong group of the Sisters of the Rose. The pro-marshal was clearly worried about future defections.

  “The illness of the mistress could not have come at a worse time.”

  Familiar words — every time was the worst time in Delia’s experience — but they remained uncomfortably true in this situation. Knowledge that the mistress was stricken, rumors of strife over the election — yes, these ugly events could easily sway women who had personal grievances. And who, in this sinful world, did not have those?

  “The mistress,” said Delia, and she tried to speak with purposeful positiveness, struggling against the dreadful uncertainty, “she is going to be perfectly well again—”

  “Of course. But for how long? I do not usually speak frankly, my dear. But I really do think that you—”

  “Thalmi, as you bear me some affection—”

  “Delia! Really!”

  The singing reached those marvelous high notes in the Canticles of the Rose City, and for a space there was nothing any mortal with a melodious spirit could do but sink back into an inner reality and listen. Soaring and lofting, sung with all the purity of girls’ voices unbridled by limping fashion, the song told of great days and great deeds. Also, it spoke to those who would hear of famous men and noble women, and, equally, of famous women and noble men. Thalmi sipped her wine and waited until the long cadences sank and died. Silence hung drab and yet pulsing with inner echoes under the rafters of the Lesser Hall.

  “The Canticles of the Rose City,” said the pro-marshal. “Of course, they mean something extra special to you, Delia.”

  “And to us all, surely? They speak of the rose, do they not?”

  As though instructing a raw novice, the pro-marshal said, “The Canticles of the Rose City are a myth-cycle at least three thousand years old. They concern, chiefly, the doings of a half-legendary, half-historical man-god.” She spoke, Delia saw, with meaning. “That person’s name was Drak. A name, I believe, not unfamiliar to you—”

  “There is no need for this, Thalmi. I know what you imply. My family. Yes, well... My son Drak will be the emperor. That is arranged. And then, my dear, I shall be free to follow my own inclinations. I welcome the day.”

  “If I did not know you better, I would call this ingratitude and you an ingrate.”

  “If I am, then I am.”

  “Who else do you see — do you feel — to be right?”

  “That is not for me to say.”

  “Everyone else will have their say — and you will, too.”

  “Probably.” And Delia laughed.

  “But, sister, you are in error.” Thalmi waggled her forefinger — the forefinger of her right hand. The left hand clutched a goblet brimming with a first quality Gremivoh. “Just because you shuffle off the position of empress — no doubt your son Drak will marry Queen Lush in due time—”

  “I think not.” Delia spoke sharply, very stiff.

  “No? Well, no matter. The point is, whether you are empress or not has no bearing on your duty with the SoR. And, you know that well!”

  “That is what I have believed for a long time. Part of me still believes. But I have changed. When I was a girl the idea of being the empress escaped me, for everyone talked of the emperor my father, and of the emperor my grandfather. My mother — we used to call her Lela, out of love — was never, in my eyes at least, an empress. And I truly do not think she ever thought of herself as one. She married my father out of mutual love and was content to be with him. He did not really recover from her death.”

  Delia would not go on to say that she had felt the joy so strange to herself that her father had, at the last, found a new affection from Queen Lushfymi of Lome. It was because of
Queen Lush’s genuine love for the emperor that Delia did not think the ambitious queen could truly love Drak. Anyway, it was planned for Drak to marry Silda, Seg’s daughter. That would take careful thought and preparation, by Vox!

  Again, she did not care to mention that Vomanus, her half-brother, had been born of her mother’s first marriage. There were too many worries and too many tangles. If it boiled down to being mistress of the SoR and nothing else, then she would accept nomination leading to almost certain election. Otherwise, she wanted only to be with her husband, and let the SoR manage without her for a little time.

  She rubbed her right hand along her left arm, up from the wrist to the elbow, and back, in a smoothing and soothing rhythm of which she was barely conscious. Thalmi noticed, and smiled again, her teeth white.

  “You do not practice enough.”

  “I suppose you will cite that as another dereliction of my duty!”

  “I could.” Thalmi sipped her wine and — lo! — the glass was empty. She reached out her hand for another goblet. “It is all one. You keep your Claw here. Have you no others at home?”

  With a bitterness that shocked herself, Delia burst out: “Home? What I kept of my own possessions at my home — at my home! — is lost, gone, destroyed. I start again, and a revolution or a war or damned reiving flutsmen fly in and burn and steal! I had a Claw in its balass box in the palace at Vondium. Where it is now Opaz alone knows.”

  “Drink some wine.” The pro-marshal proffered a glass.

  “Very well.” Delia understood she had overreacted. But every time she thought of the way the homes over which she had slaved had been despoiled it made her blood rise up and demand a safety valve, as the headwaters of a dammed lake used the safety-valve overspill. “At least, my home in Djanguraj is still unspoiled.”