Four and Twenty Blackbirds

by Mercedes Lackey

  "But if someone entered the Church, intending from the very beginning to conceal his real motives—" Tal shook his head. "You wouldn't be able to catch him until he did something. It's as if someone planned to have a double identity of criminal and constable from the beginning, and kept the false face intact. Until he was actually caught in the act, we'd never know, never guess, and even after being caught, perhaps still never believe."

  She glanced at him sharply, then looked away. "This isn't what I anticipated when I joined the Church," was her only answer.

  "Why did you join the Church?" he asked, feeling that an insolent question might take her mind off her troubled conscience. "And what did you expect when you got here?"

  The fire flared up for a moment, briefly doubling the light in the room and casting moving shadows where no shadows had been a heartbeat before.

  She cast him another sharp glance, but an ironic smile softened her expression as the fire died down again. And although she had no reason to answer him, she chose to indulge his curiosity. "Well, I actually joined because I convinced my father that it was more—economical—to send me here. I was sixteen and betrothed to a man who was forty, and not at all looking forward to my coming marriage."

  Tal winced. "Not exactly a pleasant prospect for a young woman," he ventured.

  "Oh, it could have been; there were people in my father's circle—older men—who were quite attractive and clever. I was a precocious child, audacious enough to be amusing, intelligent enough to be worth educating; many of father's friends found me charming and several said outright that if they were not already married, they'd have snatched me up as soon as I was of legal age. Marriage to one of them would have been no hardship—but not the man my father had chosen." She made a little face of distaste. "He wasn't one of my father's intimate circle, rather, he was someone my father had wanted to cultivate. Boring, interested only in his business, and convinced that women were good only for bearing and caring for children and being ornamental at the occasional dinner. He'd already buried two wives, wearing them out with multiple sets of triplets and twins, and I was to be the third. He wouldn't hire a proper overseer for the little ones, and not one of his children was older than twelve."

  "You were supposed to shuttle from his bedroom to the nursery and back, I take it?" Tal asked. "Sounds as if he expected you to be a nursemaid as well as an ornamental bed-piece."

  "Well, what he expected and what he would have gotten were two different things," she replied tartly. "I already had plans—but as it turned out, around the time when the wedding would have been scheduled, the old goat lost his political influence through a series of bad choices. Since political influence was the reason father had arranged the marriage in the first place, it was fairly easy to convince him that he would gain more by sending me to the Church instead. He was skeptical, until I proved to him I had what it took to become a mage. Priest-Mages are never without influence in the Church, and it didn't take him a heartbeat to realize how much good it would do him to have one of his own blood saying what he would say in closed Church conclaves." She grinned. "So, he told the old goat I'd discovered a genuine vocation; the old goat didn't have so much influence now that he was willing to fight the Church for a promised bride. My father told the Justiciars that I had mage-talent, and the Justiciars didn't give a hang if I had a vocation or not, so long as they could make a Justiciar-Mage out of me."

  "And you?" Tal asked.

  "In the Church I would get things I wanted: education, primarily, and eventual independence. Bless his heart, Father never intended for me to act against my conscience or against the Church itself—what he wanted is essentially what I have been doing, especially with regard to softening the Church's hardening attitude towards nonhumans. It was a good enough bargain to me." She shrugged. "If I didn't have a vocation when I entered, I discovered that there was pleasure in using my abilities to the utmost, pleasure in being of service, and yes, a certain pleasure in piety. Not the kind of piety-for-show that makes up most Church ceremonies, but—well—belief. Belief, and living what you believe."

  "I see," Tal said, though he didn't really understand that last. Perhaps he just didn't believe enough in anything to know how it felt. "Then what?"

  She chuckled. "Then, after several years of fairly pure service, I discovered that my father's talent for politics hadn't skipped my generation. I found myself in the thick of politics, lured in by my own sense of justice—or injustice, perhaps. Eventually that led to a rift in the Kingsford Brotherhood, which led to one faction allying itself with enemies of the Grand Duke, which led in turn to the Great Fire. That essentially hastened a purge that would have been inevitable, though less immediate, costly and dramatic than it was after the Fire." Her smile turned a trifle bitter, a trifle feral. "To be plain-spoken, it was a little war, a war of magic and of physical force. It was a war I didn't intend to lose, not after seeing the Fire raging across the Kanar. In a way, the worst mistake they ever made was in helping to set the Fire. Everyone here knew it had to have been set by magic, and that brought many of the Brotherhood over to my side who might otherwise have remained neutral or helped the opposition. So I won the war, and won it in hours, and I will never permit its like here again."

  He took in her expression, and decided that he didn't want to be involved with any faction opposing this woman. If she was opposed, and was certain to the depths of her soul that she was right, she would never relent, never admit defeat. "And what happened to the old goat?" he asked, changing the subject—or rather, returning the conversation to the original subject.

  "He found another bride within a month; he still had money, even if he didn't have the influence he'd once possessed. His political star had set, and he knew it, so he found a pretty little kitten with no more brains than a duck. Two more sets of twins, then he died, somewhat to everyone's surprise." She shook her head. "The girl managed to hold her looks, so now she had beauty and money, and needed to answer to no man for what she chose to do. She hired an army of tutors and nursemaids to care for the children, and has been working her way through a series of lovers unencumbered by offspring, scruples, or husband. And there are plenty of my former set who envy her."

  Her gaze wandered off elsewhere, and he thought that perhaps she was wondering what she would have been like, had she tamely allowed the wedding to take place.

  She might have been able to prevent having children entirely until he died. She would have had the old man's money, and as a widow, she'd have been able to do whatever she chose. She could have bought that education she craved, helped her father politically, traveled, had freedom she doesn't have now. He wondered if she had thought of that at all.

  "Was there anyone you would have rather married?" he asked curiously. "Your own age, I mean. You were sixteen, that's a pretty romantic age, after all. At sixteen, every pretty girl had me ready to pledge my all."

  "But I was never more romantic than I was practical," she pointed out to him. "Unfeminine of me, but there it is. In some ways, Tal, you and your peers have far more freedom than me and mine. I knew that the boys my age were all under the same constraints that I was; we had to marry or take positions to suit our families. If we didn't, we'd be cut off, the way my cousin Gwydain was when he passed the Trials and joined the Bardic Guild against his father's wishes. Even when he became a Master Bard and was feted by everyone, his father refused to acknowledge him. Of course," she smiled crookedly, "being in the Guild was no great hardship, and being a Master Bard meant he had any luxury he wanted, so he didn't lose anything by his choice. And neither did I, if it came to that, and once I knew I could be a mage I'd have gone into the Church whether or not my father consented. He knew it, I think, so—" She chuckled. "It's a good thing we're a great deal alike. He knew not to push me too far, and I knew not to push him, either."

  "But running off with an inappropriate boy—"

  "Would have gotten both of us cut off from family and support, with neither of us s
uited to or trained for a trade, and I didn't care to live in poverty," she said crisply. "Love in a hovel quickly turns sour for those who aren't mentally and emotionally inclined to sacrifice. Great sacrifice, anyway, all for love and all of that—there was some sacrifice involved in going into the Novitiate, but those who are granted exceptional gifts get exceptional treatment, inside the Church as well as outside of it."

  But there was a tinge of regret in her voice, and Tal was suddenly taken with a devilish wish to pursue the subject, but she might have sensed that, and she turned the tables on him.

  "And you—there's nothing wrong with your looks, and the constabulary doesn't require celibacy, so why aren't you married?" she asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. "What happened to all those pretty girls you yearned after?"

  He flushed in confusion. "I don't know—" he confessed. "For a while, none of those girls was interested in anyone who was earning barely enough in the constabulary to support himself—they'd flirt with me, but they married tradesmen. Then later, when I was a full constable, I didn't ever see anyone I wanted to pursue. I suppose it was because I was always in districts that didn't have any decent women. I mean, they had decent women, but the ones who weren't married were brainless. Even most of the ones who were married were brainless. And when I saw ones who had a few brains, they spoiled it all by falling in love with some muscle-bound idiot who'd get them with child then leave them with the baby and spend most of every night with a pretty barmaid." He shook his head. "I never understood it."

  "Well, maybe they fell in love with muscle-bound idiots because that's what they thought they were supposed to do," Ardis commented sardonically. "It's amazing what sheep women are, sometimes. But it's equally amazing how happy men are to have them that way, so there's plenty of blame on both sides."

  "I suppose so," Tal began, and she fixed him with that penetrating stare again.

  "You suppose so? Did you ever go to one of those women who attracted you and encourage her to think for herself? Did you ever compliment her on making a clever decision? Did you ever show her that you valued brains over looks?" At his shamefaced flush, she nodded. "I thought so. Well, what's a girl to do, when her parents are telling her she has to be a pretty little fluff-head, her peers are rewarding the behavior of a pretty little fluff-head, and the handsome fellows only seem impressed by big, empty eyes and a slender waist? If her parents can't afford to apprentice her, and they don't have a business she can learn or they won't let her learn it, what is she to think and do?"

  He felt obscurely ashamed. "I suppose—they do what they feel they're supposed to do."

  Ardis was clearly relishing her low-key but heartfelt tirade. "If someone ever gave them encouragement to think for themselves, you might get a few girls outside of the Novitiate who find pleasure in spending as much time cultivating and nurturing their intelligence as they do their hair," she said crisply. "You know, I tried starting a school down in Kingsford for girls with brains and ambition, and it got nowhere, because there weren't any men saying that girls with brains and ambition were attractive. The ones that stuck ended up in the Novitiate, where they'd have gone anyway."

  "That was then," he pointed out, rather desperate to get his gender out of trouble. "Maybe now you would be able to make it work. You're a High Bishop, you're a woman, young girls have your example. Things have changed in Kingsford, and there are a lot of women who've had to make their own way—"

  "Yes, well, maybe now it would work," she admitted, grumbling a little. "Especially now that I could get a Free Bard tutor or three from my cousin, some help and encouragement from Duke Arden and Lady Asher, and I could requisition quite a few folk from this Abbey as teachers. I know Kayne would be perfectly happy to provide her services as example and teacher."

  "You see?" he said eagerly. "You just took on too much by yourself. All you needed to do was to wait until you had the authority to get more help, and the power yourself to be an example."

  She gave him an odd, sideways look. "You can be very persuasive yourself, Tal Rufen," she said. "I shall have to requisition your skills for this school; then we'll see what you have to say about it."

  "So long as all you ask me to teach is history, I have no particular objection," he said, surprised by the sudden longing that came over him when she made the suggestion. "I am not suited to teaching much of anything else."

  Again, she gave him one of those sidelong glances. "Perhaps I shall do just that. But in the meanwhile, we have another sort of work ahead of us." She brooded for a moment. "I want you on the street, Tal. Go make those inquiries we spoke about; get some coin for bribery, and see if anyone knows anything. And warn the women."

  "That could let him know we're looking for him," Tal pointed out, "if he's watching for such things."

  "We'll have to take that chance." Her face had taken on the look it had when she spoke of the "little war" she'd fought within the Church. "You can defend yourself, Tal; what defenses have those women got?"

  He sighed. "None. I'll do everything I can, Ardis—and there is this. We may not be able to catch him—but perhaps we can make it so difficult for him that he becomes desperate. Desperate men make mistakes."

  Her face sobered. "We will have to hope for those mistakes. At the moment, that is the only hope we have."

  Chapter Eight

  Orm Kalend settled into the corner formed by the intersection of the booth-bench he sat on and the wall of this tavern, his eyes discreetly hooded as he toyed with his mug of dark ale. Around him, the muted sounds of conversation and eating provided a soporific background for his thoughts. This was precisely the sort of tavern he most favored, one with such good food that the meals themselves were the attraction for customers, not the liquor nor any form of entertainment. The drink available here was only average in taste, and below average in strength; that fact when combined with the excellent provender assured that there were never any fights in this inn.

  This was precisely as the proprietor, a famous cook himself, preferred it; in fact, Orm suspected that if he could have managed it, he would have omitted serving wine, beer, and ale altogether and relied entirely on kaffa and teas. He was of the pious, Church-going sort that frowned on strong drink and prohibited intoxication. But he probably knew only too well that, if he were to do that, not even the finest food in the world would keep his customers returning. Most self-styled gourmets demanded light wines and passable beer at the least to accompany their meals.

  This was a good place for Orm to do business, especially business with some of his more—sensitive—customers. The lighting was low, the clientele incurious, and the atmosphere very soothing to the nerves of gentlemen who might otherwise have second thoughts about working with Orm. Not that Orm appeared to be anything other than a gentleman himself—but if he had insisted on meeting his customers in a place only scoundrels frequented, those customers would naturally assume that Orm belonged among them.

  So long as we appear respectable in all ways, the polite fiction of appearance is maintained.

  As if that thought had been a magic spell to summon him, one of those gentlemen entered the door of the tavern along with a few flurries from the light snowstorm outside. As the flakes settled to the wooden floor and melted, the gentleman peered around the tavern until he spotted Orm at his usual seat and in his usual posture. He made no sign of recognition, but he did move straight to that corner booth, intercepting a serving wench on the way to place his order. Orm noted with satisfaction that the young man bore a roll of paper in his hand.

  Good! One more section of the Duke's maps! Rand will be pleased.

  "Greetings, friend," Orm said lazily, paying no outward attention to the rolled-up document. "You're just in time to join me for luncheon."

  "Always a pleasure, since you pay," replied the fellow as he slid into place opposite Orm and placed the map on the table against the wall. Ridiculously thin, the young man resembled nothing so much as a normal man who had somehow been stretched an ext
ra few inches lengthwise; even his face had the oddly disconcerting proportions of a normal face that had been elongated. He clearly had difficulty in finding clothing that fit; his sleeves ended above his bony wrists, and his breeches exposed the ankles of his boots. His fingers were stained with ink in the manner of all clerks, and he squinted as if he was a little short-sighted.

  Orm chuckled. "The pleasure is mine, both for the sake of your company and the opportunity to reward one of good Duke Arden's hardworking clerks. You gentlemen earn little enough for your efforts that a good citizen should feel obligated to treat you now and again."

  The scrawny young man grinned as the wench brought his meal and Orm's. "I wish more of the good citizens of Kingsford felt the way you do," he said, then wasted no more words as he dug into a portion of exquisitely seasoned oysters. Orm never stinted his gentlemen, especially clerks, who were usually perpetually hungry. Every meal was a full one, beginning with appetizers and ending with a fine dessert. Orm knew that men with a good meal in their stomachs were ready to please the person who arranged for that meal to be there.

  A full stomach makes for poor bargaining.

  The young clerk and Orm continued to exchange pleasantries as their meal progressed, just as the others in this room were doing. At some point during the progress of the meal, several silver coins made up in a paper packet found their way beneath the basket of delectable yeast rolls. At another point, they vanished again—and an intelligent deduction could be made that they vanished into the clerk's capacious pockets, since Orm didn't reclaim them, but no one could actually claim to have seen the coins change hands.

  At no time during the meal did either of them refer to the coins, or to the rolled-up map. Nor did Orm ever refer again to the fact that his companion was in the Duke's service. But when the young man stood up after finishing the last morsel of a bowl of bilberry trifle smothered in brandy and whipped cream, and took his leave, he left behind the map, and his belt-pouch bulged a little more than it had when he arrived.