A Sorcerer and a Gentleman

by Elizabeth Willey

  She glared at him. “Shsh,” she mouthed soundlessly.

  He lifted an eyebrow and looked at the other guard. “Pondy,” he acknowledged the Castellan of Lys.

  “Sir,” Pondy said blandly, saluting.

  Dewar looked again at Luneté, still glaring at him from under her earflapped, sheepskin-lined helm. “One cannot hide the moon in a rainbarrel, madame,” he murmured, amused. Otto couldn’t possibly know she was here. It was very funny and, Dewar thought, rather sweetly romantic. The sort of thing a girl brought up away from Court on too many troubadour’s ballads would do. He smiled more widely, puffing on the pipe.

  “Lovely evening,” he said to the icy stars overhead. “They’re off to a card game, but I care as little for it as they care to have me play; I’m too lucky, and honest too. A pleasant and quiet watch to you both.”

  “Sir,” Pondy said again. Luneté said nothing, but Dewar could feel her watching him walk away.

  When the guards changed at midnight, he put away his books and papers and sat at his narrow table with an elaborately etched five-lobed hourglass, watching the sands run slowly, measuring the long winter midnight. Before much of the hour had moved from the middle sphere to the lower, he heard a murmur of voices outside.

  The tent-flap moved.

  “Message from the King, sir,” said one of his own tent-guards.

  Dewar lifted his eyebrows, nodded once; the guard stood back and admitted Luneté.

  They looked at one another over the candle’s flame.

  Dewar beckoned her near with one finger and pointed to the other chair, across the table from him.

  “Sir,” she said in a low voice, still standing, “I—”

  “Come closer and sit down.”

  She hesitated, did so.

  “No one can hear us now,” Dewar said pleasantly. “Wine?”

  “Howso? No, thank you.”

  “A spell,” Dewar said.

  Luneté looked around, shivering visibly.

  Dewar studied her. “May one ask,” he said after a moment, “what you’re doing here? Or must one draw conclusions from one’s perhaps excessively creative and lively imagination?”

  Luneté’s cheeks reddened brighter than the winter cold had left them. She took off her gloves for something to do. “I have been worried,” she said. “He has not written.”

  “Otto is not a diligent letter-writer,” said Dewar.

  “Not when things aren’t going well,” she agreed, looking away, and then looked back. “So you are surrendering,” she said.

  He sighed. “He is.”

  “Why?” she whispered, a hot hard word.

  “Because it is the prudent thing to do,” Dewar said, leaning back in his chair. “Because Otto shall have what his father had, and that is enough for most men. Because Otto does not like seeing his friends bleed and die. Because Golias’s services are expensive and Otto cannot keep him on hire through the winter. Because Prince Gaston has taken Erispas back. Because it is better than losing everything.”

  “You couldn’t lose.”

  “Otto could lose,” Dewar said. “Madame, I am not in the business of giving advice, but I submit to you that Otto has a long life ahead of him in which to plot, scheme, and fight, never mind the portions of it which he would spend with yourself, and were he executed now it would put a serious blotch on that rosy future.”

  Luneté opened her mouth to speak.

  “Do not asperse him for it,” Dewar said. “He has won some of his battles and lost others. He is getting out of it very well, all things considered. Were Prince Prospero not in the West—”

  “What?”

  “—and Prince Gaston at full leisure to pursue this war and lesson Ascolet thereby in loyalty, I assure you you’d be a widow before ploughing season came. And that would be a great shame.” Dewar took out a pouch of sweet-smelling herbs and packed his long-stemmed pipe again slowly.

  “He—” Luneté began, and did not finish.

  “He has done all in his power. No one could do more. He is outclassed here. That is the simple truth. Were we facing, say, Prince Josquin—the odds would be different. But it is Prince Gaston, the Imperial Marshal, and Prince Gaston has trapped us, and he knows it, and he has other things to do, and Otto is a little more useful alive than dead. Are you familiar with the terms?”

  “I heard surrender.”

  “But it is a confectionery surrender, sugared with clemency. Otto and Golias abandon this war. Otto holds Ascolet, Baron as Sebastiano was. Golias is granted the title Prince. In payment, so to speak, or atonement, they both go west with their men to support Prince Gaston and Prince Herne and the Empire against Prince Prospero, who attacks there with great boldness and great success.”

  Luneté drew her breath in, the blood fleeting from her face, ivory in the darkness. “It will kill him,” she whispered.

  “His chances are better there than if he continued here,” Dewar said, lighting the pipe off the candle and puffing smoke around his words.

  “I mean the dishonor!” cried Luneté.

  Dewar gazed at her over the candle and smoke. “Otto’s honor seems rugged and durable enough to withstand a compromise,” he said. “He knew the odds when he started the game, Luneté.”

  “I want him to fight on,” she said. “I want him to have Ascolet, and not as another man’s lackey. I want him to be himself, independent and unchained, not bound to the Emperor.”

  Dewar shook his head slowly. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Perhaps it might be done were there no Prince Gaston to flank and counter and anticipate as he does, with the flood of men he commands. He will still be Otto if he is a baron and not a king, Countess. He will lose nothing of his essential self.”

  “You don’t know him—”

  “Perhaps not,” Dewar admitted, sucking the pipe thoughtfully.

  But they both knew he did, and that she did not, and that he had lived more closely now with Ottaviano than had Luneté his wife and for longer. Luneté bit her lip and looked away, at the little wood-burning stove which barely warmed the tent.

  “It is not for me to make his future, I know,” she said after a moment, “but—Dewar, I do not want him to be hurt.”

  “It will sting, but it will not kill him.”

  “I mean in the West.”

  “He probably doesn’t want to get hurt there either,” Dewar said, shrugging.

  “Will you do what you can to protect him?” Luneté asked, her eyes on his.

  Dewar sat very still.

  “I will pay you,” she said in the silence.

  “I have other concerns,” he said, sighing a long stream of pale smoke. “Moreover I am not ashamed to say I have no more desire to face Prince Prospero than Otto has to face Prince Gaston, and for very similar reasons.”

  “Oh,” she said, and with a flick of acid, “I was forgetting. You don’t sell your sorcery.”

  Dewar was master enough of himself not to answer the implied insult. “No, and the Emperor doesn’t buy,” he reminded her. “There would be no point in me going there; they would not have me, would not trust me. Otto does not quite believe that I stay here now, and for me to go west with him to face down the most powerful sorcerer of Pheyarcet—” He snorted. “They would chain me in a madhouse, rightly too. It is beyond all reason. I have important work to do, which goes undone while I play court-wizard with these petty wars and politics.”

  “You could go for the same reason you came here,” Luneté said.

  Dewar lowered his eyes from hers and watched the hourglass run.

  “Are you not his friend?” she whispered. “You said so.”

  “It is not so much a question of that, madame—”

  “You said you would help him because you liked him,” she reminded him, still whispering. “You are a gentleman as well as a sorcerer. Will you not follow this through to its conclusion? Assuredly he has needed you here. He will need you more there. Would you deny that?”

  D
ewar said nothing, studying the candle-flame now instead of the running sand in the hourglass.

  “There are things I must do,” he said to the flame, “but when I have done them, I will join him and Prince Gaston in the West again. They will not need me at once; it will take them some time to travel thither.”

  Luneté’s breath made the flame bow to Dewar, a cloudlet of black soot rising as it kissed its well of melted wax.

  “Anything in my power to give you—”

  “I do not sell my sorcery,” Dewar said in a voice without emotion, turning the words back on her as she had turned them on him.

  She stiffened, looked down. “I—”

  “Nay, Luneté,” he said, and rose, leaned over the table, took her hands. “Let us not quarrel for pride. Let us be friends, as we have been.”

  She stood too, clasping his warm hands with hers that were cold. “Thank you,” she said. “Let us be friends.” His eyes rested on hers, and she felt that disconcerting swimming warmth move through her body again. “Will you accept, not payment, but a token of my friendship?” Luneté asked softly.

  He began to say no, and she forestalled him.

  “Something of no value, save to a friend—”

  Dewar bowed his head gracefully. “Then I am honored.”

  Luneté let go of his hands and took off her helmet. Her hair was braided and pinned tight against her head beneath the metal and wool. She undid one of the plaits, drew her knife, and cut a long russet-glinting lock of it.

  Dewar watched, unspeaking.

  “This is a precious thing, and of great value; I thank you,” he said low, bowing deeply as he accepted the gift, coiling it round and round into a ring. Did she know that she had just handed him full power over herself? Was she so ignorant?

  Luneté, blushing, put her hair up again.

  “There is a favor I would ask of you, Luneté, in friendship’s name,” Dewar said.

  Her eyes glanced at him and away.

  “Do not tell Otto we have spoken thus,” he said.

  The winter sun was blazing hot. Indifferent to its rays, Prince Gaston stood on the Erispas road’s packhorse bridge, arms folded, waiting for Ottaviano’s party to dismount and join him.

  Behind him, waiting with the same patience displayed by their commander, were arrayed in a semicircle the Fireduke’s four principal captains and a standard-bearer who carried the Imperial standard and Gaston’s own on a single staff.

  First down at the canyon’s mouth was a blue-cloaked man, whom the Marshal recognized as the fellow who’d acted as messenger between his camp and Ottaviano’s while they negotiated, followed immediately by Ottaviano himself and Golias. Golias was dressed in the same leather and mail he wore to fight. Ottaviano had a new-looking surcoat. Three other men and a boy carrying their standard were with them, witnesses for their side.

  The lanky emissary walked beside Ottaviano, avoiding slush-puddles without looking down; they were talking about something, Ottaviano nodding. The standard-bearer was on the emissary’s other side, eyeing the bridge, which had been cleared of the previous day’s wet snow and ice. The river underneath was too fast-moving to freeze, and the ice that fringed it was wet and dripping today under the sun’s brief appearance.

  The emissary glanced up, caught Prince Gaston’s eye on them, and smiled slightly and nodded once, a greeting to a peer. He fell back half a step to join the others. Gaston realized he didn’t actually know the man’s name. He had always identified himself as the Representative of the King of Ascolet, Count of Lys.

  Ottaviano and Golias walked onto the bridge, and Gaston’s attention was drawn from their follower, who had his hands behind his back and was looking off to one side at the stream now.

  “Good day,” Gaston said.

  “We meet without steel, for a change.” Ottaviano smiled, suddenly nervous. The Fireduke looked no smaller now than he had on the battlefield, bloodspattered and on horseback. He was soft-spoken, but the power simmering under the quiet courtesy was tangible in his handclasp.

  “Thou art Ottaviano. I am pleased to know thee, nephew. I am Prince Gaston, Marshal of Landuc.”

  For a moment, Otto bristled: doddering, decrepit relics of the early days of Panurgus might call their servants thee, or their dogs or great-grandchildren—and then he realized that in truth, Prince Gaston was a relic, but a vital, living, dangerous one, who had survived and adapted to change after change in the world around him. Why should he not call Otto, thee? He was but a century or so younger than the Well, and he was Otto’s eldest uncle to boot. Ottaviano backed away from the dizzying prospect of Prince Gaston’s age and attended.

  Golias and Gaston were bowing to one another. Gaston smiled his ambiguous smile. “ ’Tis even greater pleasure to face thee so, Golias.”

  “I hope so,” Golias said curtly.

  “Let’s get to business,” said Ottaviano. “As soon as the sun goes behind that mountain everything’s going to be under a sheet of slick ice, and I’d rather not ride back that way.”

  “Well-put,” Prince Gaston said. “Here’s the accord, drafted by my clerks. Review it as ye would, and the copies, here. I have already done so.”

  There were twelve copies altogether; Ottaviano handed four to Golias, took four himself, and half-turned and nodded to his emissary. “Make yourself useful.”

  “You demand much of your allies,” said the man, smiling, and Ottaviano chuckled as he handed the sheaf of parchment to him. The emissary stood beside him at the table, reading.

  Golias read skeptically, murmured three times about a word or a clause to Ottaviano, and finally nodded grudgingly. Ottaviano read it all twice and went over Golias’s share as well. The emissary read quickly, nodding to himself as if making mental ticks, one eyebrow unconsciously lifted, a faint smile on his lips. Gaston thought for the dozenth time that he knew he had met the man, somewhere, and rummaged for the occasion, for a name. It was not like his memory to be so vague. He was a distinctive character, handsome, well-bred, and an excellent swordsman.

  Ottaviano did not review the documents his emissary had checked, but accepted them and the man’s nod with a private look of inquiry and then a nod of his own.

  They were intimate, thought Gaston. Friends at the least.

  “Very well,” said Otto, and his smile evaporated. He set the parchments down.

  “The witnesses for the Emperor of Landuc, who here is represented by myself today,” Gaston said, “are Sir Vittor Cadine, Sir Blanont of Montfrechet, Sir Michael Torcarry, and Sir Piscos the White.” The standard-bearer, Gaston’s esquire, did not count.

  “The witnesses for Ascolet, which is me, are Sir Halloy the Rider, Sir Barnet Fridolin, Sir Ustos of Champlys, and Lord Dewar.”

  Gaston didn’t quite catch the last name, but surmised that it applied to the emissary. Lord of what and where? he wondered in the back of his mind as he bent to the business of signing.

  Ottaviano’s signatures were tall-capitaled and firm; only the first held a quiver in the final o. Gaston’s was neat and compact, flourished distinctively though unfashionably; Golias’s name sprawled. The witnesses inscribed names and sealed seals against them in the space provided. Lord Dewar had no seal, and he signed his name only a precise, small “Dewar.”

  The standard-bearer of Ascolet watched with interest.

  “Now for the tough part,” muttered Ottaviano, straightening and looking up at Prince Gaston, all jesting gone.

  Gaston nodded once and took a single step to his left, so that there was no longer a table between them.

  Ottaviano looked around as if savoring this last moment, and then, very slowly, unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Gaston. He bent one knee and knelt before the Prince on the bridge. Gaston leaned forward slightly and enfolded his nephew’s hands between his own, holding the man’s eyes, knowing how vulnerable and humbled he felt.

  “I, Ottaviano, do solemnly swear by the Well of Fire that nourishes me.…”

  Low an
d clear, no tremor in his voice, spoken directly to Gaston or to something somewhere behind Gaston.

  Gaston moistened his lips and said, “I, Gaston, Prince of Landuc, on behalf of His Radiant Majesty Avril, Emperor of Landuc, who reigns with the force of the Well, do accept thy fealty and appoint thee Baron of Ascolet and grant thee all the rights, privileges, and honors pertaining to this rank, and in return for this boon do lay upon thee the duties of rendering to the Crown the Crown’s share of the revenues and of promptly and without delay providing men at the Crown’s request to carry out war …”

  The vow weighed heavily on Ottaviano, Gaston could see. But the boy had lost—lost and hardly lost at all, for he had now been granted his father’s position. Admittedly one could dispute that he need not have gone to war for it in the first place, but Gaston was no starry-eyed dreamer. Justice demanded to be served with steel. He released Ottaviano’s hands and the Baron of Ascolet rose.

  “Shall be repeated at Court when circumstances permit,” Gaston said.

  “I’m so looking forward to it,” Ottaviano said, and wryed his mouth, accepting the return of his sword.

  Gaston looked at Golias.

  There was a more bitter oath to give and one to take. They regarded one another tensely, Gaston standing over his opponent and waiting for him to make the vow which would surrender Golias to the Crown and to offer him, in return, a kind of legitimacy.

  Golias rose quickly, disdainfully, having taken the oath, and Gaston caught him by the shoulders.

  “Prince Golias,” he said quietly.

  Golias stared at him and then nodded, smiling with only one side of his mouth. “Yeah.”

  “Welcome,” said Gaston, and released him after another half-second’s clasp.

  “Thanks,” Golias said.

  Gaston’s eye fell, as he turned back to the table, on Lord Dewar, whose expression was grave and remote, sadly vacant or turned on some distant prospect.

  “We will begin moving to join you in Erispas tomorrow,” Ottaviano said, “weather permitting—”

  “It will,” said Lord Dewar absently.

  Ottaviano chuckled. “Then we will. And you, Marshal?”