“Yes.”
“Sir Knight, that is not enough answer!”
Falc nodded. “He appears to all of us, but nearly always at night and only when we are alone. We often are.”
Jinnery sat back, releasing a sigh of revelation. Now she understood a thing or three!
“He ... He sees,” Faradox prompted. “He knows when you are alone.”
“Yes.”
“He knew what we’d said!”
Falc nodded.
“Well. His final promise is manifestly impossible. Thus it will be proof of the identity of this... apparition, if an omo — that is, when an omo arrives.” Faradox glanced down then, and noticed that he was still making fists, and that each still sprouted a long dagger. He laid them on the table before him, careful of its finish and polish. “I can... I — with this appearance and your news, I can no longer be sure of anything I know to be — anything I have always assumed to be true.”
Falc saw no reason to say anything to that. He was at thought, marveling that he had never previously noticed: Ashah or no, the Messenger lent the same peculiar pronunciation to the word “hot” — so that it rhymed with “bought” — as did the Firedrake.
Faradox, Daviloran and Jinnery looked at Falc and at each other in silence. Perhaps their thoughts were similar to those of Faradox:
What meaning had all this?
Why did this fellow Falc of Risskor to whom he had tried to send word never come — oh.
Sir Falc had never received the word.
Why had Chasmal been so inimical these past few months — oh.
But... Chasmal!
And how had this ghostly Appearance taken place? A god?
The false Sench put up a fight. They took him alive, but perforated.
A real knight of the Order Most Old arrived before dawn. Sent, he said, by Ashah Himself.
ELEVEN
Death exists that life may not become boring.
— the fourth Master
We must then seek the development of our potential not as makers of things, but as discoverers of self...
Men breed conflict and conflict breeds wars.
The thing called nationalism makes for larger wars, and the evil called technology makes that untenable. The social system we have is best, because it is safe. We do more than survive; we abide. It is Change that must be feared.
— the second Master
*
At last, on the sixth day of the eighth month, called Belief, Falc and Jinnery reached that place which Falc had for so long called home: Lock.
Jinnery saw nothing magical about it. On the other hand, Falc had never indicated that he thought of it so. Still, she had expected more than walls of cut pinkstone and buildings mostly of wood rather than stone. She made no comment. Riding through the sovereign city that was as dirty and crowded and noisy as them all, she did notice how well-known he was, and how liked. Respected, at least. It occurred to her that she had long been in the company of a man who was genuinely renowned. That led her to the realisation that she was among the few ever to have insulted him and lived. Probably she was the only one living who had insulted him several times!
Jinnery swallowed, and none who watched them pass could guess why she was smiling.
He was hailed from within the roundhouse rising above and behind the glaring whitewashed walls as if he were Sath Firedrake himself. His responses were... Falcian.
“Welcome home, Sir Falc!” a rather aged stable “boy” said, with a big smile showing a tooth containing metal, and he took their dargs. He led them away talking fondly to Harr, Jinnery noted.
Then they were mounting three steps to a big thick front door. Suddenly it was opened from within and a smiling man came hurrying out to them. He was fully as tall as Falc, and a good-looking man of about fifty. His big smile looked genuine, and became him. Falc had told her his age, for this was his lord by Contract. Good-looking legs, too, Jinnery naturally noticed, for the broad-shouldered man wore no leggings under his ultramarine, gold-bordered tunic. Sandals on his feet, too, rather than boots.
“Falc!” his big voice boomed, and he shocked Jinnery then: he embraced his omo, whose arms went round him as well, perhaps with less enthusiasm of clasp. “Long and long you’ve been gone this time, old smiley one! And who’s this you’ve brought?”
“My lord Holder Kinneven of Lock, this is Jinnery of Morazain Road, whom I call cousin and is the first woman ever to have been to the High Temple. Also,” Falc bravely added, “the only woman ever to have saved my life.”
“Indeed? Lady, I am honoured. The first person to ’ve saved your life, I’d say, Falc. Come in, come in both. Ashah and Vier, obviously you have tales to tell!”
As they entered Falc said, “Well my lord knows that he once saved my life.”
“And he mine, more’n once I’d say! But let us stop confessing past sins! Lady Jinnery, that is a most beautiful tunic and cloak. If Falc has taught me well over the years, I’d hazard that it is of Langoman making.”
“Thank you, lord Holder; and I am no lady.”
“Hmp! I’d never’ve known that! Sometimes it’s in the person rather than in the birth or station — or marriage, isn’t it!”
She smiled and looked down. She was self-conscious in the short tunic of tricolor paisley Faradox had presented her. She felt hardly worthy of the long, billowy cloak of scarlet silk. An hour ago Falc had caused her to take off her leggings — soft leather beauties, forced upon her by Millel of Lango — and exchange boots for sandals. The women of Lock, he told her, wore no leggings and no boots and she would not care to be stared at. It had not occurred to her that she would be stared at anyhow, because she was with Falc of Risskor whom they considered their own.
And this man and Falc had embraced, she marveled. Falc! And he’d called him what? — old smiley? Ashah, what a relationship!
“Calling her ‘cousin,’ is it? And what d’you call him, Jinnery?”
“Cousin.”
“Hmp! Probably beat you if you dared use his name, and remove this or that portion of your anatomy if you tried ‘old smiley one,’ is it? Your quarters here going to be big enough for two, Falc?”
“Yes. My lord has been most kind, despite my protests, as to the size of my accommodations.”
Kinneven laughed. “Going to keep on My Lording me so long as Jinnery’s about, Falc, or is this another new development?”
Falc sighed, looking around at cool halls whose walls were painted cerulean. “It has been long, Kinneven. And I had better return to the old habit. I had best tell you at once of the imminent arrival of visitors: Holder Daviloran and his nephew. They wish to discuss your daughter, and alliance...”
“Oh really. Old Cragview himself! How imminent, Falc?”
“I’d say tomorrow. Perhap, late. Perhap the next day. Soon.”
“Um. We must prepare. How’s this nephew look, Falc?” “Like the heir to Cragview’s many hectares, my lord.” Kinneven laughed and stretched an arm across his omo’s back, to clap the far shoulder. “Damned good answer! Damned good answer! Have you seen him, Jinnery? How’s he look to a woman?”
“Young, sturdy, nicely built. To most women, my lord, he looks like the heir to Cragview.”
Kinneven of Lock laughed the more.
They walked, Kinneven talked and laughed, Falc replied. Jinnery met Kinneven’s Housechief and immediately forgot his name; the Holder told the little fellow they were about to have guests, and to lay on a banquet or two and see that the guesting chambers were well-aired and the ajmini instructed. She met Jorgen, an inordinately chesty man who was Prefect of Kinneven’s household peacekeepers, and saw what friends the truly burly man and Falc were, and how glad to see each other.
“Ah, from Glabbleglabblenongo, I see; one can always recognise a woman from there by her left little fingernail,” he said, and went off practically bellowing with laughter at his joke on Falc.
Falc looked almost ready to smile.
Ki
nneven mentioned wine and laughed when his omo said no. He thought to ask Jinnery, who accepted the offer.
This was difficult for her. It was difficult for all of them: Falc, Daviloran and the nephew named for him, and the Master and the Order, and of course now Faradox and the man she had not met: Kaladen. How messages had flown back and forth, omos contacted by the Messenger and reporting to this Holder and that; Holders sending communiques by Holders through the Messenger. And now, here, meeting this fine and nice and nice-looking man... it was harder still.
Wine would be nice. Even from him.
As she and Falc had ridden here, he and the Messenger had not bothered to hide the Manifestation from her. All gods smile, but she had actually met the Master of the Order Most Old, and accepted his thanks for saving “our best, dear Jinnery my daughter, our very’ best!” The false Sench had known more than “Mandehal,” and had been persuaded to share his knowledge. They had learned that the employers of the murderers in the biggest plot in the history of Sij were Holders Barakor of Missentia, Chasmal of Lango, and... this nice and nice-looking man, Kinneven of Lock. Only days ago they had become sure that this jovial man who had embraced his own Falc had plotted against the Order itself; and had plotted against Falc. He had sent his long-Contracted omo and friend to his fellow conspirator Chasmal, with a message whose meaning Falc would surely never have fathomed but for what they had learned.
Now he had interpreted the message, and even the Master agreed with him:
In a few words about the purple shume, Falc had unknowingly apprised Chasmal that the conspiracy was growing by the day and “aerially rooting” — that is, picking up peripheral aid or hired help; that the killing of omos had begun; and further that they durst not ask Faradox to join, and must consider him Enemy.
The long road leading to discovery of the plot had begun with Chasmal’s Housechief: the fellow had slipped badly. Falc was supposed to die after he had reported to Chasmal. Poor Alazhar had been less than a tool. He really did believe that he had been employed by Faradox! As to the guards, Chasmal’s peacemen were ancillary tools. It was Alazhar who had subverted them with coin and promises.
Now Falc understood why Chasmal had ruined the poor fool’s mouth. Plotter Chasmal had wanted no more talking that might prove embarrassing and worse!
Now they were sure of Chasmal’s cleverness and treachery. He had covered fast, and gone along. After thanking and congratulating and practically fawning over Falc, and presenting him with gifts, Chasmal had sent after the “estimable Falc” the four assassins in Faradox’s colours. If they had succeeded, he who was probably the most dangerous omo would be gone forever. If they failed, Falc would believe as he had: that the attempt came from Faradox! Chasmal never knew what happened to the four, or whether Falc of Risskor was alive or dead. In a roundabout conference over distance three nights ago, via the Messenger, Falc had avowed that Chasmal’s son Chazar knew nothing of any of this. Faradox, who knew Chazar, agreed; the Master and Daviloran and Kaladen of Missentia reserved judgment, saying that they would not trust Chazar until they were surer than sure.
Last night, for the first time and in Jinnery’s presence as well, Falc had addressed the Messenger as “Master.” That was one more ripple added to the tide roiling in the mind of a woman of twenty who had never known her father and had taken to the streets, an orphan, at twelve, and lived the almost newsless life of a farmer for the past four years.
Now she accepted wine from the hand of a smiling, nice and nice-looking deadly enemy, and was even able to look him in the face and smile as she thanked him.
Ah, damn you, Falc! It was easier on the farm, being a bitter nagging drudge!
2
That first night of his arrival back in Lock and his Contract lord’s household, Falc waited behind a locked door with his “cousin.” They had decided that they could stand the intimacy in a single room as they had on the road, with more care for each other’s sensitivity. It was wiser to let Kinneven make the natural assumption that they were bed companions. For Jinnery was Falc’s friend and his confidante if not his cousin or his sister, and a member of the plot against the plotters, and privy too to the appearances of the Messenger. They had their answer now. The Messenger (the Master? But how?) had reported last night, appearing to them among trees in a canyon well off the road to Lock, It was all part of the purple shume business, and the poem.
Who was the “main stem?”
Who, indeed, would profit by the end of the Order and lack of trust and communication among the Holders and thus of the citystates?
Emperor Shalderanis.
“Chasmal, Barakor — and yes, Falc — Kinneven are the promised high barons of the new empire,” the Messenger had reported, in a voice more sibilantly whispery than hollow. “Satrap rulers without rival, of territories each to contain more than one citystate; all under their ‘employer’: Shalderanis, Emperor.”
Boy or no, the plot was all his. He could even be said to be acting rightly, or rightfully. All the too-clever youth wanted to do was make his old title reality again. To return Sij to the days before Sath Firedrake. To rule the continent as he had never ceased feeling he was meant to do, as descendant of Sari Sarlis. Oh, some of it was doubtless the result of the old tutor and advisor of his earliest years. But all persons were partly the result of their early mentors, and the plot was Shalderanis’s.
And now Jinnery and Falc waited in his long-time quarters, a large chamber in the keep of the enemy. They awaited the growing illumination that would herald the Messenger, and more knowledge from several Holders and many omos in many places: their fellow plotters against the plotters.
In the small room adjoining, Falc had ritually divested himself of his garments and weapons. He returned to her in his clothes of ease: a long mossweave tunic of glittery black, snug black woolen leggings, and short boots of maroon felt. The chest of the high-collared tunic bore the Order’s blazon in deep scarlet: a closed fist and enough forearm to show the scar of Ashah.
They waited.
“The Messenger is very, very busy these past days,” Jinnery said, because the silence wanted filling. “He contacts us, reports and listens, contacts Holder Faradox and company, reports and listens, contacts Sir Somebody, and so on. Then he starts again, reporting to each the information the others gave him. But then other things have happened, and he gains new information...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It is magic and wonderful, but what a terrible strain on the Mas... the Messenger.”
“Jinn... do not get the idea because I called him ‘Master’ that I believe the Messenger is the Firedrake. Obviously that is impossible. Whether he is Ashah or the spirit of Sath Firedrake, though, he is my master.”
“Oh, Falc! I thought you’d given up lying to me, Old Stoneface.”
“Just don’t think too much for your small brain, Young Stoneface.”
She smiled. “Falc... how old are you?”
“Years older than you, but not old enough to be called ‘Old’ Stoneface!” After a moment he came very close to making a joke: “It makes me think of the lovely name ‘Esphodine’...”
“You’ll never hear Old Stoneface from me, Cousin Falc!” She glanced around. “This is a lovely chamber, Falc. And with that little room adjoining, too! After seeing the Temple and its quarters, this is exceptional luxury for an omo!”
“Too luxurious for an omo. Kinneven insisted. I think now that he was trying to subvert me.”
“Hmm!” she said, and the Manifestation stopped their converse by beginning to illumine the room.
“Harr,” Falc said, and “Tay,” Jinnery said, for time was important and the recognition codes had been shortened and stripped of the trappings of the Order. In two words they had identified themselves to the Messenger’s satisfaction.
“The Sons of Ashah are ascramble all over the continent. In Lango, unknown assailants have slain Holder Chasmal, but there is evidence that they were working for Barakor of Missentia. It has been es
tablished that Chazar knew absolutely nothing of his father’s plans. However Holder Chazar will not have opportunity to take vengeance. By the morrow he will have been advised by Sir Ashox of news in Missentia: Holder Kaladen of that city has seized the Holding of Barakor, and is daring anyone to do anything about it.”
“Two down,” Jinnery murmured, knowing that Faradox and his new omo had planted the evidence against Barakor when they slew the plotter Chasmal. She marveled at the swiftness and efficacy of the Order and its allies. All because the Messenger kept them in contact. How wonderful knowledge and communication were!
“By sunrise the Temple of Missentia will have endorsed Holder Kaladen, and citizens will see four Sons of Ashah ride from the Temple to stand by Kaladen in Barakor’s former Holding. Word of further support of Multiholder Kaladen will arrive with astonishing swiftness from Holders Daviloran of Cragview and Stavishen of Lock, since it was on its way minutes after Kaladen succeeded. So will word of what that wicked Barakor caused to be done in Lango: murder of a fellow Holder! Stavishen is awaiting the visit of Jinnery to advise him when Kinneven’s guests have arrived and are in his House.
“They should arrive late on the morrow, with things to tell you. You will have things to tell them?”
“Yes.”
“May the morrow be better for you and for Sij than this day has been!”
Light and the manifestation of the Messenger left the room more suddenly than they had come, as usual.
Falc sat staring at the place where the silvery image had been. It had begun, and more than begun. Two of the three main plotters were dead. Assassins would be scuttling for their holes and hoping no one ever traced them to the men whose money they had taken. It was the nature of citystates to remain aloofly apart and autonomous, and so did most of the Holders within them. They did not realise how entirely dependent they had become on the Order and its omos. Holders sent messages by the knight-Sons of Ashah; Holders learned and knew what omos told them. Kinneven’s prime coconspirators were dead and he knew nothing of it. Yet those they had made their enemies were in constant communication, receiving and exchanging each new piece of information daily and even oftener. As for the too-clever young man called Emperor: Shalderanis would learn of all this only by the normal means: the length of time it took his spies in Missentia and Lango to learn and confirm the news, and then ride to destroy the hopes of their young and ambitious lord. He might learn what had happened in those places within two days, Falc supposed.
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