Last King of Osten Ard 02 - Empire of Grass

by Tad Williams

  “In this what?”

  Matreu made a vague gesture with his hands. “I do not have the wisdom to say, Majesty. Whatever ploy they have concocted to increase their power in the Dominiate and under the High Ward.”

  “And why do you say that, Viscount?”

  “Things have happened too quickly of late. People know things more swiftly than they should. It is hard to explain.” He wrinkled his smooth brow in frustration. “Forgive me for telling you about the land of your own mother’s birth, but those of us who live here are used to the struggle for power between Honsae—the noble houses—which is constant. And we all have spies in each other’s strongholds, of course, but generally they are only servants and such. Most of the more skilled players know better than to speak loosely in front of anyone outside their trusted circle.”

  “None of this comes as a surprise, Viscount Matreu,” she said. “The perilous nature of keeping a secret in Nabban is well known.”

  “Yes, but times are worse here now—as bad as they have been since before the Storm King’s War, I think—worse than any time before you and your husband ascended the High Throne.”

  “To the point, please, Viscount,” said Froye. “Much as we value your counsel, the queen has several more people to see after you, and the day is wearing away.”

  “My apologies, Majesty.” Matreu bowed again. “Here is my concern, wrapped in a tidy bundle. I fear that someone among the duke’s closest allies is not simply untrustworthy, but is carrying tales of everything that goes on in the Sancellan Mahistrevis straight to Honsa Ingadaris. If it was only a servant spying, I would not worry—no servant can make himself privy to every important detail. But someone who is a member of the inner circle—Matra sa Duos! That is a real danger.”

  Miriamele could not help a quick look around the chamber, as though someone might be lurking behind one of the arrases, but only the three of them were present and her own Erkynguards were stationed outside the door. “Do you have a particular suspicion, my lord, or is this only a general fear?”

  “I would not denounce a fellow noble to the High Throne on such thin wisps of suspicion as I have at this moment. But I beg you to remember my warning and be cautious of who is listening to you if you speak any secrets.”

  “In other words, trust no one?”

  “Excepting your countryman Count Froye, yes,” he said, and bowed to the envoy. “And of course the duke himself.”

  “I take the point.” Miri felt a prickling of uneasiness. Already she was wishing she had not come back to Nabban. Bucket of eels? Bucket of venomous serpents, more like. She pulled together a smile. “Thank you for your warning, my lord.”

  “I am ever your servant, Majesty.” Matreu bowed, then gave her a bold look. “And of course your husband’s as well. We are all sorry King Simon could not come with you.”

  “Not half so sorry as I am,” she said, and in that instant it was so true that it almost made her dizzy.

  * * *

  • • •

  After Froye and the viscount had gone she sat for a time reading the Promissi in her Book of the Aedon, troubled for reasons she could not completely understand. A few of her ladies came in and strongly suggested she should eat something, but she sent them away again. Her stomach roiled and she did not feel she could eat or listen to their talk just now.

  Shortly afterward, one of the heralds came in from the antechamber and announced the duke’s uncle, Marquis Envalles. Miriamele had known Envalles since before Saluceris had inherited the throne, and though she was not much in the mood for another audience, he was usually full of amusing gossip. He was also a man whose wisdom she respected; she had thought on more than one occasion that he would have made a better duke than either Saluceris or the duke’s late father, Varellan. But capability always bowed to blood, especially male blood, and Envalles had not been in the direct line.

  “Send him in,” she said.

  One of the marquis’s little tricks was always to dress like a harmless old man, affecting slippers and a warm shawl even on a day as hot as this one. He shuffled in, made a slow, creaky bow, and then came forward to kiss Miriamele’s extended hand. “Your Majesty,” he said, “you have not aged at all.”

  “What, since you saw me across the great hall two days ago?” She laughed. “Until they finally start hanging people for excessive flattery, you will remain the wickedest man in the south, my lord. Please, seat yourself and talk to me.”

  Envalles laughed. “Sadly, Majesty, I cannot now, although I pray we will find a good long time to converse before too much longer. I miss your company—and your husband’s, too. He always makes me laugh.”

  She could feel her smile was a little crooked. “We all miss Simon—the king, I mean. But why can’t you stay?”

  He shrugged. “Busy times, my queen, and many responsibilities—though none as onerous as yours, God give you grace. And this audience, instead of being for my own pleasure, is so I may dispatch my duty as an envoy.”

  “An envoy? For whom?”

  “All will become clear very soon, Majesty.” He slid something out of his jacket. It was a Book of the Aedon, and not a particularly new one by the look of it, its pages foxed and the leather cover scratched.

  Miriamele could not prevent a surprised laugh. “That is very kind, Envalles. Do you worry for my soul? As you see, I have my own copy right here in my lap.”

  “Ah, but this is a special copy, Majesty—my own. And you will see why it is special when you read it. But please make certain you’re alone when you do so, or at least as alone as a queen is allowed to be.” He gave her a look that she could not quite fathom. “Now, I beg you to excuse me. I will apply in the usual way for an audience, and then you and I will have a proper talk and make fun of all those around us who so dearly, dearly deserve it.”

  When Envalles had gone Miriamele sat for a moment wondering at the strangeness of his visit. She lifted the book and opened it, but could see nothing that made his copy exceptional. Then, as she riffled through the pages, she encountered a folded piece of parchment, stiff and new.

  The message was not signed, and it was not long. It read, “You are invited to the Sea Watchers’ Guild Hall.” The date of the invitation was for noon on the next day. “Bring as many guards and courtiers as you wish for your comfort and safety. Arrangements will be made.”

  For a moment she only stared at it without understanding. Then she remembered that the Sea Watchers’ Guild was another name for the Niskies.

  * * *

  Jesa had just finished putting little Serasina down in the corner for her nap. The great bedchamber was full of women, all surrounding one small boy, son of the duke and duchess, who was outraged at being dressed in velvet on such a warm day.

  “I don’t like it,” Blasis said, trying to shrug his way out of his doublet even as one of the ladies-in-waiting tried to button it. “Take it off.”

  “Just be still, my little frog,” said his mother, laughing. “You look so handsome!”

  “Want to play with my soldiers,” Blasis replied, frowning dreadfully. “Don’t want to see the queen. I saw the queen! She said I was a fine young man.” He pronounced the words as though they had been a cruel epithet.

  “And you are,” the duchess told him. “Even if you do squirm and wiggle.”

  “And how will you wear armor someday if you can’t even wear a nice jacket without fidgeting?” asked Lady Mindia. “Armor is much heavier.”

  “Yes,” Blasis explained patiently, as to an idiot. “But then I’ll have a real sword.”

  Jesa had edged near to Duchess Canthia. “My lady? May I go out to the market?”

  “Whatever for? There’s so much to do and dinner is in only a few hours. What about Serasina?”

  Jesa gestured to the cradle. “She sleeps, my lady. I will come back before she is awake.”

 
Canthia did not look pleased, but at last she nodded. “If you must. But do not linger. And be careful! There are all kinds of ruffians out these days. Serasina would be heartbroken if she lost you!”

  What about you, my lady? Jesa wondered. Would you miss me too? But it was a mean, selfish thought and she secretly pinched herself. All she had in the world was because of the duchess—her clothes, her meals, this astounding, rich palace in which to live. Not to mention Serasina, the beautiful little baby girl who sometimes felt like Jesa’s own child. It was wrong to be ungrateful.

  She took her purse from its hiding-place before making her way down into the great entrance hall, which was full of scurrying activity, servants and courtiers all looking busy and worried, as though the Sancellan Mahistrevis were threatened by invisible flames. Jesa patted her purse and felt the reassuring chink of her money. When she ran errands for the duchess she was sometimes given a small coin by the recipients of Canthia’s letters, and she saved them all carefully for just such moments of freedom.

  Outside it was a lovely day, the heat of the late Tiyagar sun soothed by the wind off the ocean. The road at the base of the hill was a great river of humanity, surging with folk of many colors. The two things Jesa could never get used to were the sheer amount of people that lived in Nabban and the stink they made around themselves. Between the animal and human waste dumped directly into the street, the complicated smells of the markets and shops, and the strong perfumes most of the nobles drenched themselves with to ward off the other stinks, Jesa sometimes wished her nose was as blind as the eyes of Old Gorahok from back home.

  She could not stay out long—there was too much noise in the duchess’s chambers today for Serasina to sleep more than an hour—so she made her way swiftly across the Mahistrevis Market directly to the stalls on the less popular, unshaded southwestern end where the Wran folk set up their blankets. Back home it was almost time for the Wind Festival, and although the celebrations among the Wrannafolk in Nabban were much smaller, those of her people who could afford it would buy new clothes for the festival days, so the blankets would be piled high with rainbow-colored garments.

  Jesa was not going to a Wind Festival feast. She doubted Canthia would let her even if she were invited to one, but she enjoyed thinking about going back to Red Pig Lagoon some day to show her family and neighbors what had happened to the little girl they had sent away. How could she do that without a fine dress to show them how she had prospered in the household of the duke of all Nabban?

  She walked slowly past a dozen places selling brightly dyed cloth, most of them overseen by a single Wrannawoman or Wrannaman. Some had surrendered to the powerful summer sun and slept sitting up, legs crossed, a leaf or a piece of cloth draped over their heads to keep off the sun and the flies. At the last such stand at the end of a row, a roll of brilliant fabric caught her eye, reddish-yellow as a flame, with vigorous designs in dark red and brown along its edge. The color was so magnificent that Jesa almost laughed out loud. Could she imagine herself wearing something so beautiful, so fierce? What would the people of her village think? That she looked like a queen, or like the mistress of a rich drylander? No, it would never do. But it was lovely to think about. What if the duchess lent her one of her beautiful necklaces to wear with it—the one with the crimson stones that glowed like coals from a fire? Jesa would be the finest thing the Red Pig Lagoon had ever seen! Let the old ladies cluck. Let the men talk behind their hands. They would never forget her, that was certain.

  The owner of the stall was an old woman as thin and brown as rawhide cord, who watched Jesa with a sharp eye, as if she expected the young woman to snatch up the cloth and run away.

  Doesn’t she see my clothes—palace clothes? This is a dress that the duchess herself once wore!

  But she smiled and said, “Good day, Mother,” in Wran speech.

  The old woman’s expression did not become more welcoming, but she nodded her head, then replied in Nabbanai, “And to you, daughter.”

  “You have some very beautiful things here.”

  The woman nodded again, as though it were only the obvious truth. “My son owns a fine shop in Kwanitupul. He sends these to me. The drylander women love them.”

  Jesa wondered if those drylander women actually bought anything. She could not imagine one of Duchess Canthia’s ladies wearing anything so vivid. “I’m sure.” She bent down and gently touched the flame-colored cloth. “I have never seen anything like this since I’ve been in Nabban.”

  The woman did not reply, and when Jesa stood she saw that the stall owner was staring at her even more openly than before, her mouth a little open. “I know you,” the woman said.

  Jesa was surprised. “I beg your pardon, Mother?”

  “I know you, girl. You live in the Great Lodge.” That was how the Sancellan Mahistrevis was called by the Wran folk. They called the other palace, the Sancellan Aedonitis, “the God Lodge.”

  “I do.” She could not keep the pride from her voice. “I am nurse to Duchess Canthia’s daughter.”

  But the old woman shook her head. “Bad. That is bad.”

  Jesa gaped. “What do you say?”

  “It is a bad place. A bad time. You listen to old Laliba, girl. Ask anyone here, they know me.” She spread her scrawny arms to either side. “They know Laliba only tells the truth.”

  “What truth? What do you mean?”

  Laliba glanced around again before leaning forward. She looked like a snake preparing to strike, and Jesa backed away. The woman was still staring fixedly at her, but now her reddened eyes terrified Jesa.

  “If you do not listen, it will take you too!” she declared. “The Great Lodge will burn from the inside. I can see it! Many will die.”

  All thoughts of cloth and jewels gone, Jesa turned and began to run back toward the Sancellan Mahistrevis. She realized that the people she passed, many of them her own folk, were staring at her in curiosity, so she forced herself to slow down and walk, but she badly wanted the safety of the palace’s walls around her once more.

  * * *

  Duke Saluceris did not like the idea of the Niskies’ invitation at all. “The Sea Watchers? That guild hall is in the worst part of the Porta Antiga.”

  “I have guards, Your Grace—quite a few,” Miriamele pointed out. “And we have a harbor in Erchester as well, not to mention in Meremund, where I spent my childhood. I am not naive about the sort of folk one is likely to find there.”

  He frowned. “That is not what I mean, Majesty. It is not just the danger of being attacked but of disease. The place is filthy, and the Niskies—well, the plague has started there several times in the past.”

  Plague had appeared in many harborside communities over the centuries, both in the south where Niskies lived and in the north where they did not, so she thought it unlikely sea watchers were the cause. “I owe them my respect, Your Grace. One of them saved my life when I was younger.”

  The duke swallowed another argument. “I cannot gainsay you, Majesty, of course. But if you must go, take a carriage—take mine if you wish. I would not want you and your men on foot in that low place. It is treacherous and full of danger—a nest of eels.”

  Miri was greatly amused to hear him use almost the same phrase about Porta Antiga that Froye had used to describe the two Sancellans. “Thank you, sir, but I will use my own, just to make sure my coachmen are not enjoying themselves too much and entirely forgetting their work. I will be careful. And I will keep my eyes wide open—that I promise.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Despite the duke’s worries, Miri found the old harbor district quite lively, at least on its outskirts. People of all types thronged the streets, merchants, traders, sailors, prostitutes, as well as all those who worked for them or dealt with them. The crowds had a rough-and-tumble look that reminded Miri of brawling Meremund, a place she still dreamed of, though she
had not lived there for any long stretch since her childhood. But as the coach rolled down the hilly streets toward the docks the streets became emptier and quieter. Most of the largest ships, the great merchant caravels and cargo barges, now docked at the Porta Nova, a league away on the other side of the city.

  The old harbor at Porta Antiga dated back to the time of the imperators, and perhaps even earlier. During the days of the Second Imperium the nobles of Nabban, always frustrated by the Niskies and their unwillingness to bargain—which meant unwillingness to be bullied into accepting what the nobles offered, Miri felt sure—had convinced the imperator to build a new harbor. Now the only ships that regularly called at Porta Antiga were those of fishermen and the poorer merchants.

  The Niskies, however, had refused to move out of their immemorial home to be closer to the new harbor. And when the nobles and traders found they still desperately needed the Sea Watchers’ Guild to keep the predatory kilpa off their ships, they had been forced to begin a ferry service between Porta Nova and the old harbor just so that the Niskies could reach the ships they protected in a timely manner.

  There was a lesson there, Miri thought, but she was not quite sure what it was. Stubbornness and consistency was part of it—even wealth and the rights of high birth had to bow to necessity in the end.

  The clacking of hooves on cobblestones lost its steady rhythm as the coach slowed to a halt. The guildhall was not particularly impressive, a ramshackle, two-story edifice, made mostly of wood, stretching along the main roadway between two piers, though the roofline was covered in carved sea beasts and fanciful fish. Miri thought it felt different here than in the outer part of the neighborhood. Many Niskies were in the street, though almost every one of them seemed to be on the way to somewhere else. She found it hard to tell which were male and which female, since they all wore the same heavy, hooded sea-cloaks, even in this warm weather.