Just as abruptly, the presence let him go.
The fogginess vanished, and the clear winter dawn returned. Gideon made the antler sign of the good god Erastil upon his chest. I will never eat Jalmeri dumplings before bedtime again.
As life would have it, there was no time for Gideon to investigate the bizarre event. Even having lost his favorite spell, the one that transfixed several observers at once, he couldn't spare time to recover it. Gideon wished the things that perplexed him would wait their turn instead of crowding for attention like unruly children.
Gideon heaved himself over the rooftop wall and descended a surface bricked with irregularly shaped stones, which he half-suspected was fashioned with climbing in mind. The Rhapsodic College had many such quirks, if you looked for them. But most students were too preoccupied with music or dance or theater to see.
When Gideon reached the ground he scrambled into a region of topiary and rose bushes. Concealed by fantastic green animals and prize-winning blooms, he scurried toward the meeting green. The garden provided more cover than any garden truly needed to—another quirk. If he dug around in particular spots he knew he'd find concealed weapons and message drops and a trapdoor to the underground complex known by its initiates as the Shadow School. No one could see him, for his stealth improved week by week.
If only Corvine could see me now ...
He stepped among the cushions of the college's meeting green, a well-tended lawn with a trio of columns set upon a slope at one end. Students were already arriving, and Gideon decided to test his stealth and eavesdrop on a couple of gossipy first-years.
"I hope Gull's sober for this one."
"You know, he acts drunk a lot, but have you ever actually seen him drink?"
"You think he's one of your spies?"
"I didn't say that."
"Ha! You see spies everywhere. Oppara's not the glamorous place you imagined out in the prefectures. The gold came off these rooftops long ago. Now, sure, probably there are spies in the city. But they'd be over in Westpark sniffing nobles in their silks. Not snooping on us poor performers in our motley."
There was no cover here, but people's expectations could be the best concealment of all. Gideon was bent over, eyes down, making a show of arranging the cushions, in all ways acting like a menial servant. The pair didn't even recognize him when he stood three feet away.
"I don't know...I'm telling you, he's odd."
"Well, sure, he's from Andoran, not Taldor. They have funny ideas there. People choose their own rulers. Crazy stuff."
"That's not it. He's more backwoodsman than bard. Kind of old for a student. Disappears at odd hours. Shadowboxes on the rooftops."
Gideon put his hands in his pockets. In his left he crunched two papers. The first was a summons from Professor Aurestia to appear at this debate, upon which a good chunk of his final grade would depend. The second was a tuition bill making it clear that Gideon could afford no second chance at the bardic college.
Meanwhile, in his right hand was the coded message that ordered him to thwart the assassination of Aurestia, at the same time, on the same spot.
"Gideon."
Gideon looked up. He noticed the gossipers doing double-takes as they realized he'd been standing there the whole time. He was professional enough not to wink.
"Sebastian," he said, offering his hand to the man who strode across the green. The new arrival reflexively studied it and Gideon's sleeve before giving his hand a surprisingly crushing shake.
Sebastian Tambour was an alumnus of the Rhapsodic College, and Gideon's sponsor at the college. A winsome man in black, he bore pointed ears and purple eyes that attested to some elven ancestry. At first glance, no one would imagine this delicate-looking fellow was anything but a rich dandy.
Many of Sebastian's foes never got a second glance.
"Surprised to find you here," Gideon said, feeling as usual that his mentor was three moves ahead. Beside Sebastian, Gideon felt gangly and clumsy, a hayseed with a haystack of yellow hair and a face rough from a life lived in farmlands and docklands. Early in Gideon's time at the college, Sebastian had often taken him out carousing—though with Corvine on his mind, Gideon's heart wasn't much in it—until one day Sebastian had confessed an ulterior motive: bringing along his rough-looking human friend enhanced the half-elf's appearance by contrast. The human mind is easily steered, Sebastian had confided. There's much your kind sees but doesn't apprehend .
"I've been back in Oppara for a little while, busy with this or that." Sebastian threw a smile at some arriving female students and got a few in return.
"Nothing too dangerous, I trust." Gideon felt a nick of envy, and he cast a look skyward for any winged messenger from Corvine.
"Nothing I couldn't handle. But I'm glad that matter's well settled so I can focus on business here."
"So I've you to thank for this debate?"
"Indeed. I'll be your opposite number."
Gideon's right hand clenched, compressing the black paper in his pocket. "Do I also have you to thank for the Shadow Taunt?"
"Ah. Well." Sebastian shrugged, and he lowered his voice. "As the one who recruited you for training in the first place, I'm curious how you're getting along. A mock assassination, like a good cup of Sargavan coffee, is always invigorating."
Gideon relaxed his hand. He owed Sebastian a great deal, not just for helping him get into the Rhapsodic College, but for placing him in the secret Shadow School beneath it—a school that trained Lion Blades, Taldor's elite espionage agents. Irritated though he was, Gideon played along. "What's the rationale?"
"Does it matter? Death is death."
"I know the Shadow School, Sebastian. These people tell themselves cover stories for bedtime. There's always a rationale, a scenario, a legend. Our enactor will pretend to be someone, and everyone has their signature. A Qadiran assassin, if rash enough to choose such a public setting, might whirl through the crowd with a scimitar. A Galtan revolutionary would favor a crossbow, and a perch on the conservatory roof. A Tian agent might conceal a dagger inside a wig."
"Tian Xia's on the other side of the world!"
"All the better to divert suspicion, if the hiring party's a fellow Taldan."
Sebastian chuckled. "Very well. You always amuse, Gideon. So I'll give you a word. Cheliax."
Cheliax. The name drew a line of fire through Gideon's memory, illuminating a land where power was defined by the patronage of devils. Cheliax had designs on the whole Inner Sea. It was by thwarting a Chelish agent in Cassomir that Gideon had come to Sebastian's attention, though sometimes Sebastian hinted that he'd known Gideon by reputation before then. It was always hard to know where one stood with the corsair. At least he wouldn't throw an actual devil at Gideon.
Probably.
Gideon sighed. "Does Aurestia know she's a target as well as a judge?"
"Of course not! The subject's cooperation is always a luxury."
"Am I allowed to inform her?"
"Under no circumstances."
"You know, I may only be a country bumpkin from Andoran, but it seems to me a sane spy agency would have that cooperation, and several agents in place, none of whom had a debate to perform."
"Who ever said the Lion Blades were sane? Or, for that matter, the world? Good luck."
Sebastian bowed, stepped away, and began stretching in easy view of the knot of female students he'd eyed earlier. Gideon rolled his own eyes and strolled upslope to the pillars. The knoll served as meeting place, sparring ground, and outdoor theater. But to Gideon, it was now an ambush site. And facing the audience, he'd lose half his view.
He shook his head and watched the gathering bards, most oblivious to the real contest they were about to witness.
Once upon a time, he wanted to tell them, there was a country that took its bards—those people who bask in the adulation of crowds—and made them into spies. You know, those people whose job it is to go unnoticed. I have yet to decide if this was brilliant or mad.
Quite possibly both. Sometimes they throw that paradox into a student's face, in the form of the Shadow Taunt, the dark thread of an espionage problem woven into the bright fabric of a bardic test. I know what you're thinking, folks—can such an arrangement end in anything but disaster? Ladies and gentlemen, hold on to your harps. We're about to find out!
He hit upon a stratagem as he strode toward Aurestia.
Professor Aurestia was a jewel in the Rhapsodic College's crown. A tall woman endowed with regal bearing, red hair, and striking amber eyes, she embodied the bardic ideal of Taldor, able to imitate the poise of nobility, vibrate an opera house's chandeliers with her voice, and smile at admirers of every class and mean it. She was no longer young, and increasingly eschewed the opera house for the classroom, honorably building her academic standing year after year, until she could teach not just opera but rowdy tavern songs and holy chants, and not merely music but theater and puppetry and pratfalls (she left acrobatics and juggling to others). Before long, it was said, she'd leave off performances altogether, and lead the Rhapsodic to new greatness.
Among Aurestia's ideas of greatness was hitting you where you were weakest. Therefore Gideon would be judged on debate. Not his strong suit. Improvisational trickery, on the other hand...
He'd woken today with a hint of a cold, so he rummaged through his mind for his best memories of sickness, polished them off, and welcomed them with a convincing sneeze.
"Are you ill, Mister Gull?"
"Just a little, ma'am. Something's going around. New bug from the jungles of Garund, I hear."
"Oh?"
"Spreads by touch, so you'll forgive me if I don't kiss your hand."
There was the barest hint of a smile. "I wasn't offering it." Aurestia scanned the crowd as if gauging the health of the milling bards. She folded her arms. Good. She'd be warier of anyone approaching her. "You're prepared?"
"Yes, ma'am. I may have to sneeze away from the crowd a bit, from time to time." And thereby study the whole area.
"I don't deduct for illness. Only for laziness, illogic, and feigning a Taldan accent."
"I never do that, ma'am."
She studied him evenly. "I could've sworn differently. In fact, I believe it was my own voice."
"It's well known that no one can imitate the diva Aurestia."
"There are those who find you amusing, Mister Gull. I'm occasionally one of them. But not today. We may have an observer from the court. Our old friend the Royal Adjunct Vice-Critic for Moral Suasion in the Fine Arts. He can't shut us down—probably. But he can make life difficult. I hope you won't embarrass us."
The green was now full, with a hundred bardic students eager to see the triumph or humbling of Gideon Gull. They'd dressed for the occasion. There were aspiring fools in motley; traditionalist harpists in drab traveling cloaks; stage magicians in starry robes most true wizards would find garish; and dancers in a plethora of costumes recalling various historical eras, from ancient green-and-crimson Azlanti togas to modern Taldan fur-wrapped doublets and petticoats. If you looked closely, of course, the finery was ragged, the fools' hats were missing some bells, and even the traveling cloaks were too lightweight for their purpose. It didn't matter. Illusion was all. It was as though the Night of the Pale, when some folk cavorted in costume, had come early this year.
His roommate Leothric, a noble scion, wasn't in costume. But he waved with a puppet on each hand. The puppeteer was unaware of the Shadow School, and Gideon knew he'd soured any friendship with Leothric by his constant unexplained disappearances underground. Thus Gideon wasn't sure if Leothric was here to support Gideon or enjoy his defeat. But the puppets were a clue. One was of the legendary knight Sir Gothmoor, renowned more for stubborn durability than intelligence. The other hand belonged to the blue dragon Yallazak, whose electrical breath, according to those same legends, had roasted Gothmoor within his plate armor as he valiantly defended the town of Maheto.
But whether Gideon was about to be roasted or not, he was cheered to see his friends Ozrif and Viridia at the back of the crowd, the son of Katapesh's deserts juggling knives and the daughter of Taldor's eastern plains weaving a rippling dance beside him. Most everyone at the college agreed that Ozrif and Viridia would make the perfect couple—except, of course, Ozrif and Viridia themselves. That refrain was repeated in the catacombs beneath their feet, for like Gideon they attended the hidden Shadow School. Together they formed a small unit the school termed a cell. They were aware of the Shadow Taunt, and while forbidden to interfere, they gave Gideon salutes of encouragement.
Now Ozrif's blades returned to their sheaths, and Viridia spiraled herself to a cross-legged repose, for Aurestia had raised her arm.
Silence fell upon the green.
The professor's voice filled the hollow. "Now we begin the Test of Disputation of Gideon Gull. The proposition is: Should art serve society? Mister Gull's randomly chosen stance is negative."
Good, Gideon thought. He'd prepared a positive argument, of course, and it was good exercise to challenge your own beliefs. But this time he needed all his wits.
"Our honored alumnus Sebastian Tambour," Aurestia continued, "has consented to act as Mister Gull's foil." Sebastian stepped up to the pillars, nodding to Gideon and bowing to Aurestia, who continued. "The debate shall have three rounds: argument, free-for-all, and character assassination."
Aurestia raised a coin and tossed it like a gambler. The golden disc, a Katapeshi scarab, flashed beneath cloud-streaked blue.
Gideon took that moment (even as Aurestia whispered "Call it" to him) to search the crowd for an assassin of more than character. It would have to be the only person studying Aurestia, instead of the flickering scarab.
But Gideon spotted no one. All eyes followed the coin.
"Scarab," he said, almost too late.
The coin landed on the grass. An elongated, eerily inhuman mask stared up from the gold.
"Heads," said Aurestia. "The positive stance begins."
Sebastian surveyed every face. Gideon took the opportunity to do the same.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Sebastian waved a hand to take in the whole area. "You and I, and everyone around us in this fine city...are animals. Savagery lurks in every skull. Only two powers can tame this savage. Armed force—and art."
Sebastian paused, throwing Gideon a look as if his protégé had opened his mouth to mock him.
"Yes, art! You're surprised? You've been trained by our modern, decadent society to believe that art's a frivolous pursuit. Art's for diversion, you say, for escape. Or art helps us look inward, to unlock the intricacies of the soul." Sebastian chuckled bitterly and shook his head. "These are lies. Mendacious forces in our faltering empire perpetuate this untruth, so that a divide may slice the ranks of artists. On one side are the majority, who devote their art to irrelevant frippery. On the other side are a small number of propagandists who serve the powerful. Imagine such a state of affairs applied to the use of force. Imagine if the majority of soldiers saw themselves fit only to entertain, hacking away at each other in the Oppara Arena, while a tiny handful controlled the state, laughing at their fellows. It would be madness."
Gideon sneezed, made apologetic noises, and looked toward the greenery behind the arches. Was there something moving?
Sebastian's voice rolled over him. "Yet we apply such a division to art. And do not imagine that art is force's inferior! How else do we teach the dreams of Taldor? Six thousand years of Taldan culture surrounds us, a legacy that encompasses the now-wayward lands of Galt and Andoran and Cheliax and beyond. It's the ground beneath our feet and the air we breathe. No dusty history tome can convey the true essence of being Taldan. But one performance of an opera like Ymbert's The Talisman of Truth can kindle a sense of duty. One rendition of ‘The War March of the First Expedition' can summon martial pride. One recitation of ‘The Lost Admiral's Homecoming' can evoke awe at our ancestors. Art is like a knife-thrust to the heart."
Gideon made a mental note to
review any Sebastian Tambour compositions for sharp edges. He made himself sneeze again, earning a hard look from his opponent, and scanned the bushes. Someone was coming around the bend...
"But gone are the days," Sebastian was saying, "when a work like The Talisman of Truth could embody virtue. Recent generations look instead to works like Blacwin's Wanderloss, salacious twaddle about doomed lovers aboard dueling ghost ships. It's aimed squarely at the baser passions, and has nothing to say about the ship of state. It's appropriate that both lovers, having been restored to life by their romance, should plunge to their deaths in icy waters. Would that the composer had met the same fate!"
Gideon covered his face with his arm and pretended to sneeze again. The maneuver covered his expression, for from childhood Wanderloss had been his favorite opera. It also let him keep an eye on the man coming around the hedge.
It was the groundskeeper, old Xeritian, a spry ancient sporting a goatee and a twinkle in his eye, his usual drab robe stained with mud and grass. He clipped serenely away at the bushes, yet Gideon didn't trust that serenity.
For Xeritian was also headmaster of the Shadow School.
In his above-ground guise as the groundskeeper, Xeritian could snip and clip his way all over the college without suspicion. He'd have no trouble trimming his way to Aurestia's side. Xeritian wasn't headed that way just yet, but the old man's presence was enough to make Gideon sweat. Here was his "assassin."
Sebastian ought to be making him sweat, too, Gideon realized. He'd lost the thread of Sebastian's argument, but he could tell the crowd was rapt, for all that arguing art's servitude to the nation was an uphill struggle at the Rhapsodic.
"There was a time," Sebastian was saying, "when old Taldor was ruled by a Grand Prince much less wise and resolute than our own Stavian—gods preserve him—who was taken on a tour of a northern prefecture recently conquered, in what's now Galt. The general who guided the Grand Prince wanted to impress his liege with the new lands—but the problem was, this region was then essentially wilderness. So the enterprising general Amalric built fake villages, realistic facades to be seen from a distance, to deceive the Grand Prince into perceiving a more prosperous region than was really there."
The Dagger of Trust Page 2