by Angus Wells
It was a short wait.
“You,” Bylath said, spitting the words, each one a whiplash, “are the son of the Domm of Secca. You have a position; you are expected to set an example. You have duties. Chief among those duties is obedience. Without obedience there is nothing, only chaos. The observance of protocol is a part of that obedience. But a part, it seems, that you choose to ignore. You were summoned to attend a banquet of double importance. It was to celebrate our agreements with Aldarin, and to honor your brother’s betrothal. You chose to insult both our guests and your own family!”
He broke off, snorting as though outrage stilled his tongue. Beside him, Tobias stood smugly, enjoying his brother’s discomfort. Calandryll stood in silence, trepidation and resentment mingled.
“You insulted Nadama, who shall one day be Domme,” Bylath continued. “You insulted her family. Are you without any loyalty? Do you have no respect?”
He paused, but when Calandryll offered no reply he went on, “You disappoint me, boy. I’ve long given up any great expectations of you; Dera knows, you’re useless enough. You’re no warrior and you show no interest in the affairs of state, but—thank the Goddess!—I can rely on your brother in those matters. But I do not expect insults from you! When you’re ordered to attend a banquet I expect you to remain. I do not expect you to disappear. Nor to return looking like … like …”
“Some common brawler?” Tobias suggested, then sniggered as he added, “Though Calandryll is hardly the type to seek a fight.”
“What happened? Where were you?” Bylath roared. “Who was that mercenary? Do you prefer the company of freeswords?”
Calandryll saw that an answer was expected. He licked his lips.
“I went to the Sailors Gate,” he said. “I went to a tavern, and when they found out I had no money they set upon me. Bracht stopped them. He …”
“What in Dera’s name did you think, going to the Sailors Gate?” Bylath interrupted, the notion of his son mingling with commoners fueling his rage.
“I was …” Calandryll faltered, reluctant to admit his reasons, reluctant to give Tobias that further satisfaction, unwilling to admit his visit to Reba. “I was … upset.”
“By all the gods!” fumed Bylath. “You were upset?. My son insulted me because he was upset?” He stepped a pace closer and for a moment Calandryll thought he would lash out. Instead, his voice dropped ominously. “What upset you, boy?”
The diminutive was offensive. Tobias’s smile was offensive. Calandryll shrugged. Bylath raised a hand. Dropped it as Calandryll took an instinctive step backward.
“What upset you, boy?”
“I love Nadama,” he blurted.
His father stared at him, dumbstruck, face purpling. Tobias laughed out loud.
“What?” asked Bylath, as though the idea was ungraspable.
“I love Nadama. I thought …”
“She’s to marry your brother.” Bylath shook his head.
“Still, I love her.”
“What have your feelings to do with this?” Bylath asked, and somehow that unfeeling question cut deeper than his anger: Calandryll stared at him in silence.
“You’re to enter the priesthood.”
“No.”
He was surprised to hear himself say it; almost as surprised as his father.
“No? What do you say, no?”
“I do not wish to become a priest.” Now the words came in a flood, fear banished by resentment, by the unfairness of it all, by his father’s lack of feeling, by Tobias’s mocking grin. “I feel no calling. Why must I be a priest? I want to study. Why can’t I study? Why should I be celibate? I want …”
Bylath’s hand punctuated the sentence, cutting it short, sending Calandryll staggering sideways, crying out as the force of it drove his damaged lips hard against his teeth. Something broke then, not physical, and at first he did not realize what the blow had shattered or what it strengthened by its breaking. He felt involuntary tears moisten his eyes, heard, dimly through the ringing in his ears, Tobias say casually, “He weeps. Poor little brother.”
Bylath said, “What you want has nothing to do with this. You will obey me. Do you understand that, boy? You will obey me!”
He shook his head, less in negation of his father’s demand than in dismissal of his tears, in chagrin. Then he gasped as Bylath clutched his dirtied shirt, snatching him upright, drawing him close enough that spittle landed on his face.
“You will obey me,” the Domm repeated. “And I say you shall be a priest.”
He released his hold and Calandryll tottered back.
“There will be no more discussion. No more argument. You will obey. Now go to your quarters and remain there until I send for you.”
Calandryll stared at him for a moment, then turned and stumbled to the door, shoulders slumping, tasting blood salty on his tongue. As he left he heard Bylath say, “Thank Dera you were the first born,” and Tobias’s answering chuckle.
HE found his way to his chambers with downcast eyes, ignoring the curious stares of servants and soldiers, wanting then only solitude. Inside, he tugged the bell cord and collapsed onto his bed. When a servant appeared he asked that a bath be drawn and a healer attend him, and began to pull off his soiled clothing. Outside, the day waned toward evening, cloud blowing up from the Eastern Sea, grey as his mood.
He was in the tub when the healer came, rising stiffly to present himself to the woman’s ministrations, wincing as she probed his ribs and examined his damaged mouth, her expression carefully indifferent. It occurred to him that all the palace must know by now of his humiliation. She laid her hands on the bruises, her brown eyes assuming the blank stare of total concentration, becoming unfocused as she murmured softly, drawing out the pain until all he felt was a dull aching, forgettable. She applied unguents and wound a bandage soaked in some aromatic preparation about his torso, advising him to avoid rigorous exercise for the next few days. When she was gone he dressed in shirt and breeks and lowered himself into a chair with Medith’s History of Lysse and the World open on his knees.
He turned the pages idly, his interest dimmed by the confusion of his thoughts. Did he obey his father, then he was condemned to the cloistered life of the priesthood, his studies limited to the religious texts permitted the order, to a life of celibacy and ritual. Should he disobey, what? If Reba had spoken true then a quest lay before him. But a quest to where? With whom? The spaewife had spoken of comrades and for a little while he had thought Bracht was the one foretold, but the Kern had shown no interest, save in the promised reward. Varent, then? Was the ambassador of Aldarin the one? He might—perhaps—be safe there, but as Reba herself had said, Aldarin was not far distant; and would Varent risk jeopardizing the alliance, chance Bylath’s wrath, by helping him? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps Bracht’s skepticism had been well-founded.
No! He would not accept that: he had a choice between acquiescence and freedom. The problem was to find the path the spaewife had foretold; take the first steps along that road.
But how?
That he could not say, and he closed the book, setting it aside as he rose and limped to the window.
Dusk was falling and bats darted about the palace walls, flittering shapes in the growing darkness. The cloud had increased, the undersides silvered by the waxing moon, blown up in great billows by the wind that rustled the foliage below. He shivered, thinking that if he was to find the path he must openly disobey his father, that such disobedience must outlaw him from Secca, from everything he knew, all that was familiar and safe. It was a large step to take and it frightened him. He moved back from the window as a knocking announced the servant come to light the lamps in his chambers, and called for the man to enter. Another, he felt certain, who knew of Bylath’s wrath and all that had transpired that day. He watched the man as the lamps were lit, wondering if he laughed, or if his bland expression hid sympathy. The servant offered no comment and Calandryll watched him depart, wondering now if his fath
er intended the further humiliation of denying him food. Like a willful child: the thought fueled his resentment. He would not accept the role forced on him! He would take the path Reba had offered.
He filled a cup with water, sipping slowly as he paced the confines of his chambers, determined now, but no wiser as to how to go about his rebellion.
He was still pacing when servants arrived with food and wine, their eyes failing to meet his as they set out the repast, filing out with no word spoken. As they went through the door, he saw that two guardsmen stood in the corridor outside: he moved toward the portal.
The guardsmen shifted, blocking his exit. They were burly men, shoulders wide beneath their breastplates, and they filled the doorway. Calandryll halted, staring at them.
“I would leave.”
“Forgive me, Lord Calandryll, but you are to remain here. The Domm has ordered it.”
The larger of the two spoke, his voice carefully neutral. Calandryll’s hands bunched into frustrated fists.
“What?”
“The Domm has ordered that you remain in your chambers. We are instructed to guard your door.”
Humiliation blanched his cheeks and he ground his teeth, wincing as pain lanced his jaw. “I am not allowed to leave?” he demanded, his voice husky.
“The Domm has ordered that you remain in your chambers,” the guard repeated doggedly; at least he had the grace to look shamefaced as he said it. “We are ordered to see that you do.”
Calandryll slammed the door: it was all that he could think of doing.
Like a child, he thought. My father confines me to my quarters like a child. He was close to tears, might well have cried had anger not proven the stronger emotion, strengthening his determination to rebel. He crossed to the windows and threw them open, going out onto the balcony. It was a short enough drop to the garden, and from there he could find a way out of the palace. Where he would go, he had no idea: he was too angry, too humiliated, to think beyond that single act of rebellion. He set his hands on the cool stone of the balustrade, preparing to straddle the low wall, then halted as low-voiced conversation drifted on the night air and moonlight glinted on metal, seeing two more guards lounging in the shadows. He peered at them, scarcely able to believe that he was imprisoned, though that was what it amounted to, the realization bringing a curse to his lips, the expletive attracting the attention of the men below. They looked up, faces pale beneath the shadowing beaks of their helms. Did one smile? Calandryll could not tell: he spun round, going back into his chamber, the window crashing shut behind him with sufficient force the thick glass rattled in its frame.
Helplessly, he slumped in a chair, picking at the food. He must be the laughingstock of the palace. Of all Secca when servants and guardsmen spread the word of his confinement. He pushed the plates away, the wine ignored, and sought solace in his books. There he might find some information that would help him in his plight.
He was determined, more than ever now, to evade the destiny his father set for him, but if he fled Secca he would likely, as he had told Bracht, find himself hunted by the Chaipaku: he turned to Medith’s dissertation on the brotherhood.
Of the Chaipaku, or the Brotherhood of Assassins, the historian had written, ’few facts are surely known, the sect guarding jealously its rituals and privacy, while about its activities there grows a plethora of legend. That they are assassins of awful repute is common knowledge, though their crimes are seldom prosecuted and their ways mysterious.
The sect originates in Kandahar, that land itself a haunt of corsairs and brigands with little in common with the civilized domain of Lysse, though even the folk of Kandahar go in fear of the order. They were initially priests dedicated to the worship of the Ocean God, Burash, whose bloody rituals earned the displeasure of their fellow Kands, persuading the tyrant Desmus to proclaim such practices beyond the pale of law. In consequence the sect, or brotherhood (no female may become Chaipaku), became outlaw, continuing its practices in secret.
What, however, is certain is that the Chaipaku became assassins of dreadful repute. Their services are available to any able to meet their price and able to gain audience with one of the sect. This, so some claim, may be accomplished through the offices of the priests of Burash, though such relationship is denied.
They are versed in all known forms of combat and the poisoner’s art, and believed equipped of superhuman abilities. Certainly, it seems that they are able to conceal themselves with remarkable talent, to come and go undetected, and largely able to escape the consequences of their abominable deeds. Their awesome reputation rests to large extent on the grim fact that not one has ever been taken alive, death being the preferred option to capture.
Calandryll paused, wondering if Tobias knew how to contact the Brotherhood. Then started as fingers scraped against the glass at his back.
He dropped the book, its antique pages crumpling as he rose from the chair with hair prickling on his neck, turning with widened eyes to the window.
A man stood there, dressed in black, a shadow against the darkness of the sky. Thoughts of the Chaipaku dried Calandryll’s throat as he opened his mouth to shout for the guards, and the figure raised both hands, palms toward its face. Light glowed briefly, emanating, it seemed, from the flesh itself, and the gaping youth saw Varent den Tarl’s features illuminated.
His shout died stillborn as he recognized the ambassador of Aldarin and Varent smiled, gesturing for him to open the tall window. For long moments he stood in shocked silence, unable to do more than stare. Varent gestured again and the light died; Calandryll moved, almost unwilling, to the window, his hand rising seemingly of its own accord to the latch. The smell of almonds hung briefly on the night air as he swung the frame open.
“Thank you.” Varent stepped into the room, affable as though he paid no more than a courteous visit to an acquaintance, as though his appearance, impossible as it was, was perfectly normal. “I do not think it a good idea to attract the attention of your … guardians.”
He beamed, going to the table, where he lifted the decanter and savored the bouquet.
“Excellent,” he murmured, filling a goblet, “your father at least maintains a fine cellar.”
Calandryll gaped, struggling to speak. Varent sipped wine, nodding appreciatively, his handsome features radiating amusement.
“Are you,” Calandryll swallowed hard, “Chaipaku? Have you come to kill me?”
Varent laughed softly and shook his head. “Chaipaku? No, my friend, rest easy on that score. And as for killing you—quite the opposite: I come to aid you.”
“Aid me?” Calandryll took a step backward, glancing nervously at the door.
“There’s no need to summon the guardsmen,” Varent said amiably. “I intend you no harm.”
“How …” Calandryll shook his head in amazement. “… how did you reach the balcony unseen?”
Varent shrugged, dropping the black cloak he wore to a chair. Beneath, his clothes, too, were black, a dull shade that blended well with the night.
“Magic,” he said negligently. “Simple magic.”
“Magic?” Calandryll felt foolish: he could do no more than echo the ambassador’s words. “Simple magic?”
“Insofar as any magic is simple,” Varent nodded. “My powers are no great thing.”
“But,” Calandryll gasped, “… the guards … the balcony.”
“I would have come directly into your chambers, but I really need to see a place before I can materialize there,” Varent returned. “Luckily, I was able to catch sight of your balcony from my own chambers. So there I came, and here I am. The guards heard nothing, and these clothes … well.” He indicated his subfusc garments with a careless hand. “Hardly fashionable, but most effective when concealment is required. Why don’t you sit down? You look as though you might faint.”
Calandryll sat, more a collapse than a deliberate movement, and Varent drew a chair up, facing him.
“Some wine? It really is a de
licious vintage.”
Calandryll shook his head helplessly ana the ambassador smiled, helping himself to a second glass.
“I imagine you have little taste after last night, eh? Your father waxed most wrathful on the subject, and your face tells me you suffered for your escapade.”
“Escapade,” echoed Calandryll.
“I gathered from your father’s … forgive me, but ranting seems the only appropriate word … that the announcement of your brother’s betrothal to the lovely Nadama prompted you to seek solace in the poorer quarters of Secca.” Varent sipped more wine, smacked his lips. “I understand you were set upon by some band of irate tavern hounds and rescued by a mercenary. Really, Calandryll, you should choose your company more carefully. Though you certainly enliven an otherwise dull visit.”
“Dull visit,” he heard himself say.
“Oh, I have made the necessary treaties, and that was one reason for my presence. I really am Aldarin’s ambassador, by the way. In case you doubt my credentials.” Varent waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. “But there was another reason, and in that you may help me. In return I think I can help you.”
“Help me,” Calandryll mumbled.
“Indeed.” Varent reached out to pat his knee. “Are you sure you will not venture a glass? You appear most disconcerted.”
“Magic,” he mouthed.
“Ah!” Varent tapped his aquiline nose. “Am I to understand you are not particularly familiar with the wizardly arts?”
Calandryll shook his head.
“I am hardly a wizard,” murmured Varent modestly, “what small talent I have was largely learned from another but, though I say it myself, I do have a certain skill.”
Calandryll nodded mute agreement.
“It serves a purpose,” Varent beamed. “This clandestine visit, for example. No doubt you already know your father confines you to your chambers. Did you know you are forbidden visitors? Or that the servants are forbidden to speak to you? Bylath really is a somewhat disagreeable man. Forgive such criticism, but I feel his reaction overstated, and I really did want to speak with you.”