Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “Ah.” She sighed. “Did you hear what I told her? There is no reason to fear. Yes, some of Dallo’s Stormbirds might make trouble in the streets. They will use the excuse of public celebration to pick fights and perhaps even riot in the poorer quarters. Drink makes the peasants loud and full of themselves. But nothing worse will happen, I promise.”

  Jesa fought against a moment of resentment at the word “peasants.” What was she herself but a different sort of peasant, a child of the savage Wran and thus little more than a trained animal in the eyes of most at the court? But she knew Canthia’s heart was good, and that the duchess would never understand how her words could sometimes hurt her friend. “Then why is Lady Mindia’s uncle so worried? Why should his men have weapons put aside?”

  Canthia made a noise of exasperation. “Because her uncle, Baron Sessian, has ambitions of his own. He would love to turn some disagreement into an attack that he alone was prepared to defend. He wants to become my husband’s indispensable man. I think he sees himself taking Envalles’s place as the duke’s principal counselor.”

  “But Envalles is the duke’s uncle!”

  “Exactly. So Sessian looks for anything that will make him seem more important, and prepares to fight against phantoms of his own ambition, like little Blasis shooting his bow and saying, ‘Take that, dragon!’” Canthia laughed. “You know so little of these men, Jesa. They are full of wind and fire, but only when they can be so without risk.”

  Jesa felt a bit better. “You are certain, my lady?”

  “Mark me—the wedding, though ridiculous in itself, will go smoothly. The Ingadarines are so happy to bind Drusis to them that they would ignore the Sancellan Mahistrevis itself catching fire and burning to the ground as long as the vows were completed.”

  * * *

  The news about Princess Idela’s death had swept through Duke Saluceris’s palace ahead of Miriamele’s arrival. As she made her way along the apparently endless lines of nobles waiting to meet her on the courtyard steps and in the Sancellan’s great outer hall she was given almost as many words of condolence as of greeting.

  She had spent much of the last day overwhelmed with sorrow for her grandchildren and anger with herself about having thought (and said, at least to Simon) so many unkind things about the dead woman. She was also troubled by the idea that her husband would have to bear the burden of Idela’s death alone. Miri knew such things were painful for him, that Simon could not put on and off the mask of his position as easily as she could, who had been raised to it in a royal childhood.

  Oh, my dear man, what I would not give for us to be together now. She was more than a bit shamed that she had pushed so hard for him to stay home while she came to Nabban. Yes, there were important things here to be done, but it seemed as if God wished to remind her that few obligations were more sacred than family and marriage.

  In a moment when nobody stood directly before her, she discreetly made the sign of the Tree and offered a silent a prayer to the Mother of God.

  Elysia, raised above all other mortals, Queen of the Sky and Sea, intercede for your supplicant so that mercy may fall upon this sinner.

  * * *

  • • •

  The great bell in the Sancellan Aedonitis, the nearby palace of the lector, had tolled the hour two times before Miriamele finished making her way through the crush of well-wishers, attention-curriers, and the merely curious, and could finally retreat with her company of supporters to an inner hall of the Sancellan Mahistrevis to take refreshment. She had been pleased to see Duchess Canthia again, who had kissed her heartily on both cheeks. Duke Saluceris, though more reserved in his greeting, had said all the right things with admirable sincerity, and Miri, gratified, had made a dignified fuss over both the children. The duke’s handsome, arrogant brother Drusis had kissed her hand and welcomed her too, although she could sense by the stiffness of his smile that he was not entirely pleased by her presence.

  Feeling more secure, surrounded now by both her own soldiers and the duke’s Kingfisher Guard, Miri realized how tired she was. Her dress seemed made of wood and her feet were aching, but there was no opportunity or place in the chamber to sit down. As her ladies talked excitedly among themselves, pointing out this or that well-known Nabbanai earl or baron or the best-known ladies of the court, measuring their flaws and favors, Miri moved a little apart to study the large paintings that dominated the high back wall of the chamber.

  Three huge pictures were arranged in a triangle with the center image higher than the others. The outer paintings were of Nabban’s two greatest leaders, Tiyagaris, who had founded the Imperium, and Anitulles, who had converted to the Church of Aedon and forced his subjects to do the same. Tiyagaris was shown in full martial regalia, helmet beneath his arm and a dim scene of armies on the move behind him. Anitulles wore clothes that looked more scholarly than warlike, though he had been willing enough to chastise unbelievers with imprisonment and death. He held in his hand the Edict of Gemmia, the declaration that all under Nabbanai sway would now observe the True Faith.

  At the center, lifted above the others, either because he stood figuratively on their shoulders, or—more likely, she thought—because he was the progenitor of the current ruling house, hung a picture of Benidrivis the Great, who had captured the throne and begun the Third Imperium. The artist had given the bearded patriarch both a scroll and a sword. She wondered which one was supposed to be used first.

  As she studied the huge portrait she sensed a presence behind her. Assuming it was one of her ladies, she said, “Just give me a moment more.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  A little startled by the male voice, she turned and found herself face to face with Count Dallo Ingadaris. She had not seen him in many years, but she could not help thinking that time had been unkind to him. The master of House Ingadaris had grown plump, but though he wore a narrow beard on his chin like a young buck, his exquisite green doublet and ceremonial sash could not hide his protruding stomach. He looked, she could not help thinking, like a dandified toad.

  “Your Majesty!” he said, then made a deep bow, not without a small grunt of effort that Miri scented rather than heard in the noisy chamber. He had been chewing mint, which was some relief. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, Cousin—if I may be so bold as to call you so.”

  At once, all her dislike of him came flooding back. “Of course you may, Count Dallo. I have many cousins here in Nabban, but few as distinguished as you.”

  His eyes were small and shrewd in his wide face. “You flatter me, Majesty. I am most grateful you should come so far to honor a humble family wedding—especially at a time of such tragedy.”

  She sensed something else in his smile, a glint of a private jest. Did he know something about Idela’s death? Could he in some way have been involved?

  That makes no sense, she chided herself. None at all. Do not let fear and the whispers of anxious courtiers drive you to hasty conclusions. “My daughter-in-law died when I was on the way—I only heard after we had left Meremund. I would not have been able to return in time for her funeral in any case.”

  “Still, I know that family is important to you—as it is to all of us.” He bowed again. “And I can guess how much you must wish you could be there. We shall do our best to make certain your visit is pleasurable. I know that your mere presence will do much to calm our agitated subjects.”

  She gave him a look, uncertain whether this was mere flattery or had some other purpose. “And why is it that your subjects—the duke’s subjects, to be more precise—are agitated?”

  Dallo put on a look of regret. “I’m certain you have heard many tales, and it is true that some foolish, hot-headed folk have clashed with the duke’s men. But I assure you, they do not act in my name.”

  Only with the Ingadarine albatross crest for their banner, she thought. For a moment all her other thoughts were
pushed aside by an unexpected wash of pure relief. If she had been raised a Nabbanai instead of half-Erkynlander and a queen in her own right, as the head of her mother’s family this puffed-up fellow a decade or more younger than herself would have decided all matters of her life. It almost made her shudder, but she covered the moment with a sip from her cup of wine. But things did not come to pass that way. And this man is only a greedy troublemaker, while I am queen and the mistress of the High Ward that rules Nabban and the other nations.

  “I am glad to hear you object to such behavior, my lord,” she said. “I hope that while I am here we can work together to make the streets safe and the duke’s subjects happy again.”

  “I will certainly drink to that,” said Dallo, lifting and draining his own cup with almost indecent haste. Something was odd about his speech and posture, but she could not put her finger on it. “I know you have much else to do, Majesty, and many other people wish to give you their greetings and good wishes,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, “but may I beg one last favor of you?”

  Was it really so obvious I was about to make an excuse? she wondered. Miriamele, your statecraft has become rusted in Erkynland’s more placid court. “And what might that be, Count Dallo?”

  “Please, let me just bring someone I wish you to meet. It will take scarcely a moment, Majesty. May I have your grace to do so?”

  “Of course.”

  She fortified herself with another sip from the wine, over-watered but still of fine vintage. She would send one of her women later to find her a jug of the stuff, so she might at least have a few more cups and sleep tonight without troubling dreams or nagging regrets. Perhaps she had better send Shulamit, she decided. It would do her good to move about after she spent most of the voyage in bed, complaining of her stomach.

  Dallo Ingadaris returned through the crowding courtiers, who quickly moved to let him pass. With him was a pretty, very young, dark-haired girl. For a moment Miriamele could only stare, wondering whether Dallo had taken a new wife, but by the time they reached her she had realized who this must be.

  “Your Majesty, may I please introduce to you my niece, Lady Turia Ingadaris. She is to marry Drusis, the duke’s brother—the reason for your kind visit.”

  The girl, who had eyes as wide and dark as a fawn’s, made a low courtesy and remained there until Miri gently told her to rise. Turia took the queen’s proffered hand and placed a careful, dry kiss on it, then stood up and regarded her with open interest. She did not seem much awed to be in the High Queen’s presence, Miri could not help noting.

  That thought tugged at another, but she did not wish to be distracted and pushed it away. “Much joy to you, Lady Turia,” she said. “I wish you and Drusis many happy years and a large, healthy family.”

  “Thank you, Majesty.” The girl was quite lovely, especially when standing beside her toadlike uncle, but Miri knew her to be just twelve years of age and thought she seemed far too delicate for marriage or much of anything more serious than playing at dolls in the garden. Still, for all her frail, elfin appearance, the bride-to-be carried herself with the calm possession of a much older woman. Miri wondered if that might have something to do with having been raised as part of Dallo’s ambitious and often cruel family.

  “You may go now, Turia,” Dallo said, “—if the queen permits it, I mean. Of course.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Miri told her. “We will talk again, I hope, when I am not so pressed with other duties.”

  “I would like that,” the girl replied, but despite her charming smile, Miri could not help sensing something else, a sort of masked indifference.

  Well, only God and our Ransomer know what nonsense Dallo and Drusis have filled her head with, Miri told herself. I will sound her thoughts if I get the chance, and perhaps teach her that there are other ways than Dallo’s. So young as she is, she may wield some power here in Nabban through our Morgan’s reign and even beyond. It would be good to have an ally among the Ingadarines.

  When Dallo and Turia had retreated again, she finally understood what had troubled her about the count’s manner. Dallo was a powerful man, yes, but only a noble. He had made a noteworthy alliance with Drusis, the duke’s brother and rival. And as the leader of House Ingadaris, Dallo certainly knew that Miri was here in large part because of the troubles in Nabban.

  But it was Miri herself, along with Simon, who had put the crown on Duke Saluceris. Although she would never have done so, as the queen Miri could make an excuse any time and have Dallo locked away. He had long ago made himself an enemy to the High Throne and everyone knew it.

  Why, then, had he shown not the slightest fear of her? Instead, he had been confidence itself, as though he had the power and not she. And his granddaughter had been no different—a mere child, she had looked over the queen of the High Ward as though sizing up a rival.

  This thought disturbed Miri the rest of the day, but in the press of courtiers and official duties she was given little time to think too deeply. When she escaped to the great suite prepared for her at last, it was with immense relief and a strong thirst.

  7

  Dust

  Tiamak locked the door to the chambers he shared with his wife before sitting down at his table. Thelía was down in the garden and would probably be happily at work among her plants for some time, but he did not want to be surprised by her or one of the castle servants.

  He carefully took the box from the hidden drawer and set it on the table, but did not immediately open it. Instead, he examined its outside more carefully than he had the first time. The pearwood coffer was a little longer than a man’s foot and almost as wide and carved with scenes from old stories—musicians, dancers, and lovers disporting in sylvan settings. It was the kind of thing a highborn woman might keep her jewelry in, but the fact that it was locked and had been hidden behind a wall panel in Prince John Josua’s library suggested it probably held something other than necklaces and brooches. Why would a prince hide jewelry in his own chambers in his family’s castle?

  It did not look as though it had been touched in the seven years since John Josua’s death. Tiamak took a settling breath, then picked up a hammer and chisel and, with several increasingly heavy blows, managed to break the lock. He then slipped on a pair of leather gloves he used to handle the hot crucible when he was making medicines, before opening the lid. Tiamek held his breath, beset with a sudden vision of an evil cloud rising from it, as in his people’s story of Dika’s Jar, but no cloud of angry spirits appeared, only a drift of dust.

  A workman had found the box in the days after Idela’s death as they were clearing the apartments that had once belonged to her and John Josua, and Tiamak was grateful it had been brought to him instead of to the king. The apothecary Brother Etan’s discovery of Fortis’s horrid, forbidden book among the prince’s other effects had been preying on Tiamak’s thoughts since the spring. He already felt like a traitor for not having told Simon and Miriamele about their son John Josua’s possession of Treatise on the Aetheric Whispers, but every instinct told him he should examine what was in this locked casket himself before letting anyone else know.

  On a day more than a score of years gone now, the people of the castle had sealed up Pryrates’s tower and burned every article of his that had been found, including several of the priest’s infamous, costly red robes. Not a person in the castle was free of the superstitious fear of anything belonging to Pryrates—not even Tiamak himself—but for some reason the young Prince John Josua had found and kept the book. Tiamak could only pray that the prince had not found any other of the red priest’s possessions.

  As he examined the box’s contents, turning things over delicately with a gloved finger, Tiamak’s first sensation was one of relief. Although the box was full of small articles, none of them were books, and none of them had obviously belonged to Pryrates. Instead, he found a collection of
odds and ends that seemed almost like a child’s treasures—broken bits of jewelry, odd-colored stones, and other objects he did not immediately recognize but which seemed harmless. But then he found a circle of carved wood at the bottom. After he had lifted it out and stared at it in puzzlement for little while, he finally recognized it, or thought he did. A chill scuttled up Tiamak’s back, and for a moment he found it difficult to breathe.

  * * *

  The work of the day was only just begun and already Simon was weary of statecraft, especially statecraft of this niggling variety. The mayor and aldermen of Erchester had much to say and seemed determined to say all of it at the same time. The king’s head was ringing.

  “Can you put your objections into a few words,” he said at last, “and perhaps choose just one of you to speak them?”

  Thomas Oystercatcher cleared his throat. He was a round, self-important man who had made a frightening amount of money in the beer trade. He was mayor of Erchester by election of his peers, “Lord Mayor” only because he styled himself that way and had applied to purchase the vacated title of Ealmer the Large, Baron of Grafton, who had died without heirs after strangling on a chicken bone.

  “Your Majesty must know that the city fathers find this new tax outrageous,” said Oystercatcher.

  “It’s not a new tax,” Simon told him. “Pasevalles assures me this is the law, that it has been the law since old King John’s day but has not been enforced. Well, now it will be. You wish the protection of the High Throne so that Erchester and its port remain free? Then someone must pay for the privilege.”

  “You steal from us to give to the peasantry!” cried one of the aldermen, but Thomas Oystercatcher gave him a hard look before turning back to the king.

  “Forgive my colleague, but it is hard, Majesty, that you lower the taxes on the peasantry then expect our merchants to make up the shortfall, all to keep a standing army against years of tradition. Do you not see that this appears to us like the actions of the tyrant Elias all over again?”