by Tom Deitz
He had already opened his mouth, when a second set of scrabblings issued from the crawl. He sighed relief and looked away—which implied that whoever he awaited ranked him, which meant he could abdicate responsibility.
More feet appeared, these clad in dirty boots and small enough to belong to a woman. Legs followed, cased in the leather breeches worn by both sexes when working the narrower crawls. Someone fairly young and supple, to judge by the way those hips were twisting.
Liallyn herself, as it turned out. The woman—she was roughly Crim's age, and they shared some history, years ago— brushed dirt off her tunic and was already inhaling the shaft's relatively fresher air, when the combined noise of the guardsman clearing his throat and Crim's pointed sigh made her start and spin around—but not before Crim noted that she held two small leather bags of the sort used to store mined gems. Both were bulging.
Liallyn followed Crim's stare. “Dirt,” she said flatly. “Not that you have any right to know, here in Argen's sovereignty.”
“Dirt,” Crim echoed neutrally. “How interesting.”
“I can show you, if you like,” Liallyn replied, thrusting one of the bags at the startled guard, while reaching for the ties on the other.
Crim shook her head. “No need, though I suppose dirt is technically part of Stone—or Clay.”
“Both of which are Smith's allies,” Liallyn replied. “Still, honesty being better than subterfuge, I'll go ahead and tell you that we're curious as to whether there's anything special about the matrix in that vein. There's no reason to hide that fact from you, given that it's ours, anyway.”
“Actually,” Crim shot back, “I'm looking into that.”
Liallyn's brows lifted in annoyed surprise before she could hide it. The guard's eyes darted back and forth between them as his hand found the hilt of his dagger.
To Crim's chagrin, Liallyn took the initiative. “That old business about the original vein grants? Let me remind you that it was a Smith who first found this place and dug the initial tunnel.”
“Looking for ores, not gems,” Crim countered, though she shouldn't have. It was an old, old argument, but one that wouldn't die. Priest and Lore had been assigned to work out a settlement two centuries back and still hadn't. In essence, the argument went, Smith had made the excavation—with Stone's help—and established a small hold here. But when nothing useful to Smith had been forthcoming, they'd ceded the hold to Stone, of which Gem had then been a sept. Gemstones had promptly been discovered, which had given their miners sufficient clout to form a clan and craft of their own, but only with Smith's support, which they'd granted on the condition they be ceded a vein of their own to mine in perpetuity. Gem had reluctantly agreed, but the ensuing furor had resulted in all the other clans likewise demanding private veins in exchange for supposedly equal considerations. The clincher had come when someone pointed out that, beautiful as they were, gems were essentially a luxury, the withholding of which troubled no one but their own.
All of which took Crim half a breath to recall. Which was still long enough for Liallyn to ready another volly. “You can bring it up at Sundeath,” she said. “For now, this is Smith territory. There's one of me, and I'm probably your equal in a fight. I have a guard. You can leave, or he can escort you. I'm sorry to be rude, but present right and ancient precedent both support me. You can challenge, but until then, I still have to report whatever I find and tithe the same—to your Mine-Master. If you want to confront someone, let it be him, who let first Avall, then Strynn slip at least two of these gems you're so obsessed with past his nose.”
“Rann also found some,” Crim snapped. “And he could only have come down here with Smith's grace.”
“He didn't,” Liallyn replied coldly. “If you want to pursue that, I suggest you address your complaint to Lord Eemon. For myself, I need to clean up, then take this sample to our suite— where I doubt it will tell me any more than it would have told you.”
And with that, she snatched the remaining bag from the guard and pushed past him, to stride back down the shaft, leaving Crim gaping in her wake.
“Lady—” the guard ventured, when they had returned to the entrance chamber. “Hold-Warden. I have to remind you that, as my Chief says, you are on Argen's earth. It would indeed be wise if you … departed.”
And somehow, without her being aware of it, he had set himself between her and the entrance to the vein, with his dagger now fisted ominously. Crim glared at him, but managed a marginally courteous nod as she started for the exit. The boy was only doing his duty. As was his Chief. As was she. But Eight, why did doing one's duty have to be so troublesome?
She had a headache, she realized, as she reached the cooler air in the larger shaft beyond. Maybe from anger, perhaps from fatigue, possibly from the closeness of the mines or the pounding of the trods she had to pass again to make her exit. Whatever the cause, tending to it was suddenly uppermost in her mind.
When had she become so impatient? she wondered, as she strode past the assay station, passing an alarmed subchief in the process. And how would she deal with it?
Well, with wine, to start with, to calm her nerves a little. And a hot bath, and then … What? Music?
Kylin was back, she recalled, as she neared her apartments. Kylin, who was the best harper she'd ever heard. Kylin, who was also allied, very firmly, with that preposterous young power structure in Tir-Eron, by virtue, some said, of his being the Consort's lover. He'd arrived three days ago, with an escort of Royal Guard, ostensibly to retrieve his chief-harp. He'd also be leaving “soon”—but that was all he would say. But until “soon” arrived, Kylin was hers again. Her harper, as he had been before …
Before what?
Before last autumn's trek had brought Avall, Strynn, and Eddyn, and with them that which had changed the world.
But for a while, she could forget all that and listen to Kylin playing.
CHAPTER III:
COURTING DISASTER
(ERON: TIR-ERON—HIGH SUMMER: DAY XLI—JUST BEFORE NOON)
Strynn san Ferr-a-Argen settled the Cloak of Colors more firmly about her husband's shoulders and stepped back to let Rann syn Eemon-arr set the Crown of Oak upon his head, while Lykkon syn Argen-a passed him the Sword of State. Not the Lightning Sword, though it had originally been commissioned for exactly such occasions as they were about to undertake. Stepping back, she regarded him critically, there in the vesting chamber behind the Hall of Clans. Traditionally, squires did these things, but Avall eschewed squires in favor of his friends.
A glance around the room showed Strynn few enough of those, most in Warcraft crimson beneath the Argen maroon-with-crown of the Royal Guard: young Myx, with his bondbrother, Riff; Lady Veen; and Strynn's senior brother, Vorinn, newly returned from Brewing up past North Gorge, where he'd sat out the war nursing—and cursing—two broken arms. Only one of his younger allies was missing: Merryn, Avall's twin sister and Strynn's bond-mate. But Merryn was exactly where she wanted to be: guarding the Door of Chiefs. A position that actually required she do more than stand around looking ritually pretty.
Strynn dusted imaginary lint from Avall's arm and grinned at him. “Well,” she announced, “you look magnificent.”
Avall grinned back, part excited boy, part bemused adult being forced to play a game that was still unreal to him, part frightened youth caught somewhere between. “There's still time to join me,” he murmured.
Strynn shook her head. “If you change your mind in the autumn—if you allow yourself to be confirmed as King at Sundeath, then I might consent to be Consort-in-fact. For now, I want this to be your decision alone. I don't want to get a taste for power and find myself urging you toward something for which you have no heart. And you've already said you've no desire to be my Consort, should they offer the Throne to me— nor will I sit it alone. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “it'll be more fun to watch.”
Avall tried to shrug, but the cloak was too heavy for that. Which might be an om
en, Strynn decided. No one would argue that Kingship did not weigh heavily on her husband.
A rap sounded on the door behind them, and Riff, who'd recognized the distinctive cadence, opened it with a mixture of apprehension and relief, standing back to admit eight Priests in various robes and masks, who entered in solemn file to claim places on the inlaid sigils of the principal avatars of The Eight: Man, Fate, Craft, Law, World, Life, Strength, and Weather.
“The sun rises,” the senior Priest, Grivvon of Law, intoned. And moved toward the door to the Council chamber.
It wouldn't open for Avall, Strynn knew. Only for the Priest of Law. She wondered how Law felt returning to this role after Eellon had taken him and his clan-kin captive. Certainly there was no love lost between Crown and Clan now. But that didn't negate the force of tradition.
Law inclined his head toward her, extending the gesture to include Rann and Lykkon. “Lady, if you are not to accompany His Majesty, Law says you must retire to the Consort's chair in the hall. If you hurry, you can still get there before court commences.”
She almost protested; almost joined her husband anyway. Sense got the better of her in the end. Besides, as she'd already said, it was more fun to watch.
Sparing Avall a final kiss and a whispered “luck,” Strynn whisked through another door, which in turn led her, via the corridor that encircled the hall, to the entry vestibule. As a member of the Council in her own right, she paused long enough to raise her ceremonial hood of Ferr crimson and to announce herself to the door warden. She needn't have bothered. It was Merryn, looking smug and happy in full armor, but with an Argen-a clan robe, hood, and tabard stored nearby, should she deign to avail herself of her option to sit with her kin. Merryn was taking to the power game a little too well, Strynn suspected.
Still, they exchanged knowing grins, and then Strynn composed herself and walked unaccompanied into the tall, if illproportioned, splendor of the Hall of Clans. She did not seek the wedge assigned to her husband's sept, however, or the Consort's chair, for that matter. Rather, she turned left and followed the spoke that ran beside her own clan and craft. Argen she might be, by marriage; and Consort-apparent by Luck; but she was Ferr by birth and blood, and that took precedence here. That she was probably the youngest woman in the room and was claiming a place with her kinsmen without leave didn't concern her. It was more than time that some of Eron's ironclad rules were tested.
Silently, she joined her father and her other brother, who themselves sat beside Craft-Chief Tryffon, called Kingmaker, and Preedor, the Clan-Chief himself, who was here in spite of his vow never to share the floor with Tyrill unless the King command it—which Avall had. Tryffon nodded acknowledgment; her father winked; Preedor scowled.
Others were scowling as well—but not at her. Rather, their brows were lowering at the sight of the new Ixtian Ambassador, Tozri min Aroni mar Sheer, occupying a seat in the observers' gallery. In Healing's section, in fact, in token of the fact that his Eronese mother had been from that much-ravaged clan. Which might be wise or might not, depending on how fractious a mood the Council was in today.
And then the light of the rising sun struck the octagon of windows below the dome at a carefully contrived angle, and the Hall of Clans filled with the first strong rays of midsummer's light.
At that precise moment, a gong sounded, the Priest's Door opened behind the dais, and Grivvon of Law strode in. Seven more Priests followed, then Avall himself, then eight members of the Royal Guard—including, by courtesy, Myx, Riff, Lykkon, Rann, and Vorinn. Murmurs promptly filled the hall, for the King usually presided unguarded, though Avall had very publicly stressed to the Priests that he was honoring these people, nothing more. Did he feel threatened by Priest-Clan? Of course not! Did not they both serve The Eight?
Perhaps, Strynn concluded wryly, the same way one cup could serve either fine wine or scorpion poison.
Per ancient precedent, Avall paused briefly before the Stone, which was set in the center of the dais, then settled his cloak about him, laid the Sword of State across his knees, and sat motionless while his guard arranged themselves behind.
Law promptly stepped forward to roll the ritual die that would determine which Priest would officiate. It came up Craft, and that young woman took Law's place in presiding at High King Avall syn Argen-a's first Midsummer court.
Craft's mask was the most complex of all the Priests of The Eight, constructed, as it was, from a vast array of materials, notably inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl. But Avall, behind and to her left, could see little more than the fringe of feathers that surrounded it. What he saw clearly was the long, pure sweep of her robe, cloak, and hood, which put his own Cloak of Colors to shame, with their intricate embroidery, complex weaving, and the jeweled ornaments carefully placed to accent every fold, shape, and design. It was controlled chaos. It was also the perfect embodiment of the twenty-four crafts that, with the chiefs who ruled those crafts' ruling clans, constituted the elite of scholar-artisans that ruled Eron.
Avall listened attentively through Craft's formal opening speech, noting that her voice was softer than expected, and that it wavered more than it ought. Then again, Craft was young— as was he. But she was also Priest-Clan, and they were never to be underestimated.
With that in mind, Avall tried to appear suitably regal, in spite of being the youngest Sovereign in ten generations. While he had the support of all but one of the most powerful clans, he had few illusions of how tenuous that support might be, resting as it did mostly on marriage alliances and the goodwill of a few old men and women, any of whom could follow Eellon down the road to illness and death before the year was out.
Craft was finishing now, and he steeled himself for what was to come.
“… Know, then,” Craft intoned, “that by ancient right and privilege, the first order of business before the High Sovereign of Eron in this, the first court of Midsummer, is the petitioning of His Majesty by anyone of Common Clan who would claim hearing.”
Avall barely heard the rest. He was more than a little trepidatious, and justifiably so. Common Clan were the great unpredictable factor of Eronese politics. Comprised mostly of lesser artisans, merchants, and landowners, they also comprised over half of Eron's population. Any Sovereign who wanted to keep his crown was therefore wise to keep them happy. Most had. It wasn't as though one were doomed to remain in that clan, anyway. Anyone with scholarly or artistic inclination could petition the relevant Craft-Chief for a hearing, and if accepted, join the ranks of those High Clan youths studying at the various holds. Conferral of a mastership upon adulthood also conferred legal High Clan status, assuming an appropriate sponsor could be found; and any children born or sired thereafter were deemed High Clan by birth. This had the double effect of placating Common Clan and assuring a steady infusion of new blood into the High Clans, thereby diminishing the dangers of inbreeding.
Still, not all Common Clan were driven or accomplished. Most were merely content—or not. Many were ignorant as well, in spite of easily available education. And the ignorant often took solace in overreaction.
An example of which he'd witnessed yesterday. And which he feared he would face in truth as soon as the Common Door was opened.
“… by His Majesty's command,” he heard Craft announce— and started, jogged from his reverie just in time to see her turn toward him expectantly.
He cleared his throat and spoke, though it almost seemed that another mouth and lips shaped the ritual words. “Let Common Clan come forward, in what guise, number, and order they would, so long as they not equal the number already present in this chamber.”
A door opened at the end of the centermost of the radiating aisles that met around the dais. A man entered, then a woman, then two more men, at which time Avall stopped counting, as they advanced with stiff dignity toward him. All wore hooded tabards of Common Clan beige, signifying, as such things did, that they acted in official capacity. Beyond that, there was little to unite them. Unlike High Clan,
the bulk of whom tended to look much alike, those Commoners already ranged before him included everything from women considerably taller than Avall, to men over a head shorter, showing hair of every shade and hue, and a variety of builds, save the very stout. Their leader was a blunt-faced, middle-aged man with a shock of hair almost the same brown as his eyes. The edging on his tunic indicated that his clan came from near South Gorge and that he was a merchant by trade, with a connection to Weaver-Hold. He looked confident but tense; concerned— almost angry—but polite. Clearly he was used to a leadership position, though probably not to appearing in such before the Council of Chiefs.
In any case, the man had an impressive entourage, and as they gathered around, Avall noticed that most wore pendants bearing the eight-sided die that signified particular devotion to The Eight. He also had a good idea what subject was about to be addressed.
Tradition said the man would not speak until the Sovereign told him to, and Avall was confident the man had been reminded of this at least thrice before being allowed to enter. He did not kneel, however; abasement was only required of unclanned or clanless, besides which, Avall's position on the dais required the man look up to meet his gaze.
“State your name, man of Common Clan,” Avall intoned formally. “Then state what it is that brings you before me.”
“Haggyn syn Masall,” the man replied. “And with me the chiefs of Common Clan from a dozen towns between here and South Gorge, and the Common-Chief of Eron Gorge itself.” He nodded toward a thin old woman who'd come up beside him. Avall recognized her as Kayvvin. She'd have had a seat on the Council in any case, and would have joined this group from among the ranks of those already seated.