“Apparently,” Terian said, sitting up in bed, feeling the squeak of the frame under the feathered down, “for a free man, it is.”
“There are no free men in Saekaj or Sovar,” Dahveed said seriously. “An important lesson to remember if you’d like to avoid having that terror of a woman separate your head from your shoulders in the future.”
Terian’s hand fell to his throat. “She didn’t …?
“By the Sovereign’s grace, no, she did not,” Dahveed said. “That would have taken me a bit more time to repair. I believe she smashed the bones in the back of your neck to a fine powder, though, and the bones in the back of your skull for good measure.” The healer’s nostrils flared and he leaned forward. “You should remember where you are if you wish to avoid invoking your father’s displeasure in the future.”
Terian let himself stare at the far wall, the sick feeling not even beginning to subside. “I haven’t given a vek’tag’s anus about my father’s displeasure in years. Why start worrying about it now?”
“Because you’re under his roof again now, I would think.” Dahveed settled back once more, and there was a soft whooshing of the fabric of his robe against the wooden chair. “Different country, different house, different rules. Surely you’re a bright enough lad to realize that.”
“I question how bright I truly am at this point, Dahveed.” Terian leaned back and felt the soft pillows awaiting him against his neck. He turned his head just a little, to look at the healer, and lowered his voice. “Was it always like this?”
Dahveed raised an eyebrow. “In your father’s house? Yes—”
“No,” Terian said and looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through the boards above into the third floor and through the ones above that to the study at the crest of the house. “I know it’s always the same here in the House of Lepos. I meant Saekaj. Sovar. The invoking of the name of the Sovereign seems to be at a fever pitch, and I don’t remember it being this way when last I left—”
“This is treason,” Dahveed said warningly and twisted the little flame at the base of the lamp. After a moment, the flame grew brighter and the shadows around them grew longer.
“Sorry,” Terian said.
“It’s quite all right,” Dahveed said. “I just wanted to be sure you remembered it before we went further. The flames of the Sovereignty’s nationalism are growing by the day, stoked by the Sovereign’s own return. Before, in his absence, the words were said but the meaning was not there. ‘In the name of the Sovereign!’” Dahveed said it loudly and without irony and his words echoed off the walls of the room. “After he left, after Shrawn and the tribunal took their place—his place—the flames died for a piece.” Dahveed mimed the action of turning down the lamp’s wick. “Only the dedicated preferred the Sovereign to the weaker grip of the tribunal. Only a true fool like Verret would be mad enough to give voice to those thoughts, especially given all that the last hundred years have brought us.” He began to lift his fingers, one by one, to illustrate his points. “The lifting of the laws set at the end of the last war that confined our entire race to these underground pits, the relaxation of the death penalties for those who dared to speak a single word that could be interpreted as disloyal—”
“That’s enough for me,” Terian said. “I can feel it in the air down here, in the chill. There’s an atmosphere of suffused … I don’t know, goose-stepping. Like everyone’s in a hurry to do their assigned tasks. It’s always been bad, but not like this.”
“Pride and fear,” Dahveed said. “Pride in the thought of our nation ascendant once more, fear from the thought of the punishments that might come each of our ways for any perceived disloyalty.” He held his hands a short distance apart from each other. “The twin motivators, working hand in glove with each other to assure that the dark elven people all march to the same song.” He gave a long sigh. “And that tune is whatever one that the Sovereign finds to be prettiest. As it has always been.”
Terian looked at Dahveed, measuring a response. “Where does that leave us?”
Dahveed smiled bitterly. “The same place as ever. Marching to the music. Because the alternative is too unpalatable to bear.”
Terian stared into the distance to the darkest corner of the room, as though he could see into the shadows there, see something watching or waiting for him within them. “Maybe I don’t want to march to the tune.”
“Because you’d prefer to dance?”
Terian let out a disgusted noise. “I never prefer to dance. I’d rather just ignore the music and hope it goes away.”
Dahveed turned down the wick and the flames that lit the room grew fainter. “I’m afraid that the music that drives us forward doesn’t abate simply because we wish it to, any more than the Sovereign will simply …” he smiled faintly, “… disappear into the darkness because we wish it. No, these changes, this difference … it is here to stay.” His face grew placid, calm, with just a hint of unease. “After all … what can two men do against the entire Sovereignty?”
Chapter 20
“You will read all of these missives,” Amenon said as Terian seated himself at the small table in the corner of his father’s office. It was piled high with parchment; at the top, he could see a report on the amount of fish sold in market the day before. “You will look for threads of interest that call out to you, keep watch for ongoing concerns, anything that may be of interest to the Sovereign, and generally try to make yourself useful.” He glared down at Terian. “A sarcastic response to that last point would be unwise.”
“What am I looking for?” Terian asked, lifting the first parchment and finding a prisoner report from some guard in the Depths that talked about the number who died from labor-related injuries and fatigue in the last day.
“Interesting points,” Amenon said.
Terian stared down at the fish sales report. “I may have to look deep for anything interesting.”
Amenon waved a hand at him. “Now you see why I have assigned it to you.”
Terian squinted, the dark elven text much more complicated and looping than normal elven or human letters. It was more intricate script, with more characters that one had to memorize and understand, a separate one for every elementary concept. After an hour, he was rubbing his eyes. After two, he wanted to burn all the remaining parchment. After three, he was still only halfway through and wondering how his father had sorted through a similar stack in minutes the day before.
“Anything yet?” Amenon said from behind his desk, a book in his lap and cracked open to the middle. Terian could not tell whether it was a spellbook, some practical guide to unknown skills, or perhaps a fictional account of some soaring love story between a paladin and a warrior of the sort he’d seen others read before. Doubtful on the last; fiction of that sort doesn’t tend to make it onto parchment even here in Saekaj.
“Fishing production seems to be down again,” Terian said.
“Ah, yes,” Amenon said. “They’ve been griping about that for some time, but it’s hard to maintain output when the boats keep disappearing.”
Terian looked up from his reading and met his father’s gaze. “The Great Sea is an enclosed cavern.”
Amenon raised a white eyebrow. “And?”
Terian pondered it for only a moment. “So where do they go? It’s not as though the Great Sea has some plethora of exits. It’s buried deep in the earth, it’s a cave room with one entry and one exit—”
“Above water, yes,” Amenon replied. “There are more beneath the surface, I am told.”
Terian thought about that for a beat. “So you’re suggesting that these fishermen decided to abandon their jobs and swim into unknown cave exits?”
Amenon took a breath to say something but stopped, watching Terian shrewdly. “No. I wouldn’t suppose they would do that, especially given that work on a fishing boat in the Great Sea is one of the most sought-after jobs in Sovar.”
“So then they�
�re sinking, right?” Terian said, leaning his head back against the wall. “If they’re not finding any sign of the boat.”
“A fair assumption,” Amenon said.
“Have you not sent anyone to look into this?” Terian asked.
Amenon turned back to his book. “Why should this matter?”
Terian thought about it. “It just should.” Because the poor will starve, you ass, but if I tell you that, you’ll either laugh me out of the office or kill me. Possibly both.
Amenon sighed. “Pray tell, why should it? Explain it to me.” There was a shrewdness about him, about the look he gave Terian, something that prickled the dark knight’s senses.
Terian held up the parchment in his hand, gathering his thoughts as he read it again. “This is not the first report of this sort you’ve had?”
“Not the first, no,” his father said, still watching him carefully. “But you have yet to answer my question. Why is it important?”
Terian thought about it, reasoning it out. “Our bean crops, mushroom crops and wildroot are not up to the task of feeding the entirety of Sovar without some sort of fish or bones to help fortify the pottage.”
“Go on,” Amenon said.
“It creates a slow, desperate trickling down of starvation as the fish supply decreases,” Terian said. “Not everyone in Sovar can afford the fish, but—” He blinked. “It’s like a chain—”
“Yes,” Amenon said. “Go on.”
“Food riots in Sovar would be an unpleasant prospect at best, would they not?” Terian asked.
“Any act of insurrection is beyond unpleasant.” Amenon’s countenance darkened, a thundercloud of anger settled in over his features. “I doubt anyone has forgotten what happened the last time such a thing occurred. It did not go so well for either side, and it would be best to avoid such unpleasantness in the future. Desperate, starving people do desperate things.”
“So we should look into these disappearances, right?” Terian waited, but Amenon had looked down into his book as though the lesson was over and nothing of interest was left to be said.
After a moment Amenon looked up again, his face drawn. “You should indeed. Even so small a thing—” Probably not small to the people who have lost families, Terian thought, “bears a closer look when the stakes are so high. Assemble the team and investigate these losses.” Terian started to stand, but Amenon stopped him with a sour smile. “After you’ve finished your reading for the day.”
“I will,” Terian said then paused. “Wait … you said for me to do it? On my own?”
“Indeed,” Amenon said, not looking up from his book. “This is a test of your leadership ability. I put this matter in your hands to determine your capability.” He looked up one last time and favored Terian with a look that was deep, burning, and filled with unyielding suggestion. “Do not fail me.”
Chapter 21
Terian walked down the steps one at a time, the weight of his armor especially heavy. I have to lead the team on this one. Lead. A team. Urk. The clomping of his feet against the steps made a maddening noise.
He reached the landing; the smell of the mushroom gruel was heavy in the air. He wrinkled his nose. Never will get used to that. He turned at the landing and looked down to the floor below, where a straight-backed Guturan Enlas waited for him.
“Guturan,” Terian said in faint acknowledgment.
“I would have your attention for a moment, Lord heir,” Guturan said stiffly, his scratchy voice nearly cracking.
“Oh, you would, would you?” Terian could feel his frown deepen, unrelated to the smell. “Go on, then.” He stared down at Guturan, folding his arms and listening to the metal clink at the joints as the pieces of his armor rubbed together.
“We have received an invitation for a ball to be held at the House of Shrawn on this very eve.” Guturan’s face was as stiff as his posture, his mien as neutral as if he were delivering an order for a meal to the cooks in the kitchen. “You are expected to attend.”
“I’m busy,” Terian said and resumed his downward journey. The thump of his boots rang out and echoed. “Send Dagonath Shrawn my insincere regrets that I’ll be unable to attend his self-congratulatory, highbrow veredajh.” Terian smiled.
Guturan hissed. “Society events are hardly a—” Guturan made a guttural, throat-clearing noise. “To say such a crude thing is a very great insult to the House of Shrawn, and an ill reflection on your own house.”
“As though he’ll even hear about it,” Terian said.
Guturan stuck an arm out, iron hand landing hard on Terian’s breastplate and halting his descent. “There are spies in the House of Lepos that report directly to Dagonath Shrawn,” Guturan said nearly silently, “and you are a fool if you do not assume every conversation in this place reaches both his ears and the Sovereign’s.”
“Oh, come on,” Terian said with a shake of his head.
“He will hear of this,” Guturan said quietly with a deep seriousness. “Know it to be true and curb your tongue accordingly.”
Terian looked down the stairs into the main room; a few servants milled idly about. Truly? He shook his head. “Either way, I’m not going to Shrawn’s ball. I have not the time; there are things I need to attend to on the order of my father.”
“Master Amenon!” Guturan called out, his gaze still fixed upon Terian, his arm still in place to halt his movement.
There was a rustle above and Terian heard his father’s voice call down. “Yes?”
Only Guturan could get my father to step out of his study to speak with a mere servant. “Master Terian wishes to decline Dagonath Shrawn’s gracious invitation to his ball. Do you want me to send notice to Lord Shrawn to that effect?”
There was a pause and Terian looked up. “Sovereign’s grace, no,” Amenon said, and there was irritation in his voice. “Terian, you will attend. Your investigation of that other matter will have to wait. Send word to Shrawn that he’ll be there, Guturan—and thank you for bringing this to my attention.” His father’s head disappeared over the railing and back into his study.
Terian looked back to Guturan, who wore a smile of deep satisfaction. “You’re a boil on my arse, Guturan.”
“I am tasked with keeping this house running smoothly,” Guturan said, “and that means ensuring that the heir of Lepos is esteemed in the proper social circles. I will not have the House of Lepos lose face in the Shuffle because of elementary mistakes made by a spoiled brat who keeps trying to throw himself into the gutter.”
“But it’s so much fun in the gutter,” Terian said. “You meet a great class of people there; better than the ones at Dagonath Shrawn’s veredajh, anyway.” Terian watched Guturan’s face twitch with outrage, and he pushed past the steward’s arm to continue downward to his room, where he shut the door so he could stew quietly while he awaited his fate.
Chapter 22
Terian waited in his room, staring at the dark walls and pacing to and fro as the hour drew nearer. He suspected a servant or two would be along shortly to groom him in preparation for the ball, and he felt his stomach turn over at the thought of his evening ahead.
When Guturan showed up, he had given over to pacing the room. His boots tread lightly on the woven rug that sat in the center of his room, the smoke of the candle carrying a strange vanilla scent that seemed more appropriate to the outside world than the darkness of Saekaj. “What is that?” he asked Guturan, pointing to the candle.
“Imported from Aloakna,” Guturan said without missing a beat. He stared at Terian, assessing him. “Yes, this will do nicely.”
“An imported candle from Aloakna will do nicely?” Terian asked. “For what? Covering the moldering scent of fear in the basement torture chamber?”
“Your armor,” Guturan said, unamused. “It will do nicely for the ball.”
“I get to go to Dagonath Shrawn’s ball in my armor?” Terian ran a finger over his smooth chin. He’d run the razor over
his stubble in anticipation of what he suspected was coming. “Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.”
“Soldiers of the Sovereign are expected to attend formal events in their battle garb,” Guturan said with an appraising eye. “But your helm must remain off your head at all times indoors.”
“I remember the particulars of etiquette from my schooling, Guturan,” Terian said icily.
“Do you?” Guturan asked with a faint trace of a smile. “I can never tell.” His expression straightened. “Your hair will have to be dealt with, of course.”
“Dealt with how?” Terian asked as Guturan snapped his fingers so loudly it echoed in the chamber. A retinue of servant girls opened the door, and he could hear the giggles cease as they did so. Their faces were dipped low, bowed heads on the lot of them, but the smirks remained. “Oh.”
“Also …” Guturan said. “I think a bath is in order.”
“What?”
Terian was scrubbed quite against his will, though he did not fight it too hard. A tub of heated water was brought in, and in that moment he knew Guturan’s careful survey of him was all a sham. Guturan stepped in here already knowing what was to be done with me—to me, Terian thought as a serving girl ran a scrubbing brush with bristly needles down his back. “What the hells is that made of, exactly?” He glared at the serving girl, who barely stifled a giggle. “Discarded sword blades?”
“I think the hilt might be,” Guturan said lightly, moving around the room while the serving girls did their worst to him. At least it feels like their worst. “There are expectations of an heir of your station at this event, and we should cover them swiftly.”
“Is there still dueling?” Terian asked. “I seem to remember some dueling taking place at balls I went to when I was younger. I was always so crestfallen that there was an age requirement for that sort of thing …”
“You will not duel,” Guturan said sharply. “It is beneath your station. Only lesser nobles squabble like children among themselves. Higher houses already have all they need; there is nothing to be gained from dueling with your lessers.”
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