Hour of the Octopus

by Joel Rosenberg

  I started to tilt it back.

  “I’ve also asked my daughter to make sure your needs are taken care of,” he said.

  I couldn’t help it. I choked, but managed to suppress enough of the choking reflex to avoid splattering the two lords with the orange essence, and, immediately thereafter, my own guts.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Orazhi,” I said. “I’m not used to such fine essence,” I managed to croak out. “When I see an orange essence, it’s not a fine Sun Tears that comes to mind, but more likely some Hare Sweat.”

  “Understood, forgiven, and forgotten.” He dismissed it. “As I was saying, my daughter is a fine hostess, and I hope she’ll keep up the traditions in Den Oroshtai.”

  Well, so do I, sort of. And I do thank you for your daughter having taken care of my needs, dangerous as that was.

  Not that I thought for a moment that that’s what had gone on. ViKay’s motives could have been anything, and it was as likely to do me little good to speculate on their nature as it was unlikely that I could prevent myself from speculating.

  Unlikely that I could prevent myself from speculating? I mulled that thought over several times and decided that I had been spending decidedly too much time around our beloved ruling class. Regular people don’t think that way.

  Lord Orazhi nodded in friendly dismissal, as did Lord Toshtai.

  Old Dun Lidjun was at my elbow as I moved across the room.

  “I take it you haven’t paid courtesy to Lords Minch and Demick this eve,” he said, gently steering me in their direction. Old Dun Lidjun would gently lead a lamb to its butcher, I suspect. To make matters worse, Edelfaule had joined Minch and Demick, his cruel eyes not, for the moment, on me. I would have rather tickled a bear’s tonsils.

  There had to be another alternative. Over by the south wall, under a tapestry of a herd of deer caught in midfrolic, ViKay and Arefai were surrounded by a cluster of nobles and ladies, an island of relative safety in a sea of touchy nobility. Old Lady Estrer was ensconced on a padded chair high on a platform—more of a podium, really—far enough away to stay out of the conversation, but close enough to keep a cynical eye on her nephew and his future wife.

  What I needed was, say, TaNai spotting the panic in my eyes and rushing up to improvise a previous commitment, but I wasn’t going to get that. I tried to think of something.

  “I haven’t presented myself to Lord Arefai either,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to insult him and his wife-to-be.”

  I knew I’d won a respite when Dun Lidjun scowled. “Oh, very well, let’s go over and talk to the boy.”

  Arefai grabbed my hands before I could bow properly. “Kami Dan’Shir!” he said. “It’s good of you to join us this evening.” The tone was of equal-to-equal, which I could see out of the corner of my eye wasn’t lost on the rest of the crowd. Save a lord’s honor, and he might even be grateful. More surprising things had happened.

  ViKay’s smile was a duplicate of Arefai’s. “I’ll even forgive you for beating me so badly at placques this morning.”

  “I am touched, Lady,” I said, without a hint of suicidal sarcasm. I began to relax. Arefai was still oozing gratitude, and he would keep me involved in conversation long enough for Dun Lidjun to become tired of hanging about at my elbow. I could then make my apologies and slip off to my room to wait until either sleep or ViKay joined me.

  Arefai beckoned over to where Minch, Demick, and Edelfaule were ignoring us. “Here, Edelfaule, if you please, Kami Dan’Shir has arrived.”

  The thin lord made his way through the crowd, Deren der Drumud at his side. Deren der Drumud’s eyes never left old Dun Lidjun, although the old warrior neither seemed to watch him nor ignore him. I’d like to know how he did that.

  “Ah,” Edelfaule said, “the clever Kami Dan’Shir.” The flask of green essence didn’t tremble in his hand, but perhaps his speech had just a trace of slur. Or perhaps not. “Enjoying rubbing up against your betters this evening?”

  Arefai rolled his eyes. “Brother, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that an insult against not only Kami Dan’Shir, but those who invited him here this evening.” He licked his lips, once. “I wouldn’t want anyone here to think a member of Lord Toshtai’s family would insult not only his host but Lord Toshtai himself, and I know that my elder brother would not dishonor the family so,” he said, an edge in his voice.

  The idiot. I had gotten the message, honestly: Arefai was going out of his way to befriend me, for whatever reason. There was no reason to rub his brother’s nose against, well, me.

  Minch chuckled. “I can’t imagine that that would be so. How could anyone think that any noble from Den Oroshtai would insult a bourgeois? Were that to happen—and I assure you I think it impossible—the next thing you would find Den Oroshtai nobility out affronting the middle class and committing indignities on the peasantry.”

  Behind his shoulder, Deren der Drumud grinned too broadly, then laughed too loudly, defying anybody to take offense at that.

  I wasn’t going to, honestly.

  Off in the distance, the bassskin rumbled something insistent that could have been a contradiction, I suppose.

  “Lord Minch is quite right,” Penkil Ner Condigan’s own bass rumble came from behind me.

  I half-turned.

  Penkil Ner Condigan wore a bone-white shirt over earthy brown trousers today. Long and lean, he loomed half a head taller than anybody around him. His puffy cheeks and several chins were fresh from a careful shaving, but the fat man’s face and head on that gaunt body still bothered me.

  “I doubt that any noble from either Den Oroshtai or Glen Derenai would invite bourgeois, middle class, or peasant only to insult them,” he said. “It’s one thing for a lord to ride down a few middle-class girls or to trifle at a game of slap-the-peasant. It would be quite another thing entirely to invite a member of a lower class into one’s home only to insult him or to invite one’s noble guests to insult them. I’m sure that it would not be done by any noble of Glen Derenai, or of Den Oroshtai, or of Patrice,” Penkil Ner Condigan continued, bowing low toward ViKay, Arefai, and Demick in turn.

  Minch’s lips were white. “I didn’t hear you mention Merth’s Bridge in that recitation,” he said.

  “Ah.” Penkil Ner Condigan nodded. “My apologies for the error. Of course, I could not imagine a noble of Merth’s Bridge acting so boorishly,” he said, no trace of sarcasm in his voice or expression.

  I had never heard a shtoi insult phrased better, and I couldn’t imagine a weaker reason for insulting Minch than the huntsman had. After all, I wasn’t really of his profession; the only reason that I had paid a courtesy call on him—or the wizards—was that the nobles hadn’t had anybody more appropriate to choose.

  Dun Lidjun threw back his head and laughed, almost offensively loud. “No,” the old man said, “I am sure no noble of any sort would behave so boorishly. And certainly not one from Merth’s Bridge.”

  I barely caught Lady Estrer’s slightest movement of her head, and if I hadn’t been watching for it, I wouldn’t have thought that Arefai had either, but he broke into chuckles as well.

  “Penkil Ner Condigan,” he said, in between chortles, “you are a funny fellow.”

  As if to confirm, the silverhorns and zivver split off into an arpeggio that reminded me of a young girl’s laughter. If old Lady Estrer hadn’t been looking so pleased with herself, I would have thought it arranged, not coincidental, but the withered old woman would surely have managed to keep the satisfaction off her face if she had arranged for the music to supplement Arefai’s chuckling.

  Edelfaule wasn’t going to be the only lord from Den Oroshtai not so amused, and his own somewhat forced chuckles were picked up by the surrounding nobility in general, those of us of lower class carefully keeping our faces blank, and—presumably; I know I was—wishing for the cloak of invisibility that Spennymore supposedly wraps himself in before his nighttime prowling.

  Minch got control of himself only
with visible difficulty. I was beginning to think that Lord Demick had chosen the wrong device for creating trouble here. Minch’s temper ran just too high, and while he no doubt was able to compensate for that on the dueling field, he would have to be far more clever than he was if he wanted to find himself facing Arefai instead of Dun Lidjun.

  Dun Lidjun was still standing next to me.

  “Lord Dun Lidjun,” I murmured, “pardon the frankness, but do you think you would have any problem beating Minch?”

  Dun Lidjun didn’t appear to hear. He just laughed some more.

  “A funnier suggestion I have never heard,” he said, raising his glass.

  I found myself in the garden at midnight, just after the hour of the bear gave way to the hour of the lion.

  The musicians were still playing in the Great Hall, but all I could hear was the occasional tinkle of the chimer, or a glissade of notes from the silverhorns; the rest was drowned out by the distance, and the whisper of the wind, and the rustling of the leaves in the trees.

  The small rise where I had lunched with the wizards was empty, and liable to remain empty, so long as I made enough quiet noise to keep lovers from trysting there. The only light was from the uncaring stars above, and below, where through the trees I could see the occasional flicker of the torches lining the courtyard, snapping and popping in the wind.

  The wind picked up, carrying with it a cold smell hinting of a storm to come.

  When you don’t know what to do, juggle. I don’t swear that it’s the solution for every problem, mind, but it doesn’t hurt anything, and it can let your head clear. I hadn’t gone up to my rooms for my bag, but that didn’t matter: a half dozen walnuts from the grass would do.

  Catch-throw, catch-throw, catch-throw, catch-throw, and invisible blades were still approaching my exposed neck from any direction. Juggle, juggle, juggle, and the politics of our beloved ruling class were beyond my experience and ability to deal with, and…

  Voices came from below. I juggled softly, catching each walnut shell gently before sending the next one looping on its way.

  “No, no, no, Esterling,” ViKay said, “I have met you this last time, but that is all.” Her voice was light but low, pitched to carry only a little way. If the wind had not been blowing it toward me, or if I hadn’t stopped in my juggling to go to the retaining wall and listen more closely, I could barely have heard it.

  I couldn’t hear the other voice rumble, but the only reason I had no doubt that it was Lord Esterling was because ViKay had identified him as such.

  The conversation went on, his low rumble insisting, her voice resisting. I thought about making noise, or about interfering, and decided against it. I know it doesn’t sound gallant or heroic, but I was more concerned about my being caught listening than I was with ViKay’s safety. Then again, her safety wasn’t really at issue. Given that they were in the courtyard of her father’s keep, all she would have to do would be to raise her voice, and a score of armsmen would be all over Esterling.

  Besides, I’m neither a gallant nor a hero; that’s for our beloved ruling class, not us bourgeois types. Let Toshtai make me a noble, and then he can expect me to rescue his son’s wife-to-be, I thought, keeping my snort silent.

  Then again… what if she wouldn’t raise her voice? What if she couldn’t, or…

  It was easy to confront them without confronting them: I tossed a walnut in a high loop that ended with a sharp crack on the path below.

  The voices cut off immediately, and I could hear a set of heavy footsteps departing quickly, but not running, and then another, lighter set going off in a different direction.

  Well, I had learned something. Either ViKay had been involved with Esterling, or he wanted her to be, or ViKay wanted somebody, perhaps me, to think either of the former.

  No, that was too complicated, even for our beloved ruling class. I was making it complicated where it was simpie: ViKay and Esterling had been lovers, and she was unwilling to continue that any longer, with her marriage upcoming and, just perhaps, her needs being met elsewhere. Esterling had protested, and would now leave her be. Or, even if not, we’d still be done with the wedding and be back in Den Oroshtai in just a matter of days.

  The wind died down, but not before bringing me a heavy scent of cold roses.

  Enough for one night. Enough juggling, enough wondering, and most particularly enough of our beloved ruling class.

  I went searching for my bed and found it.

  My dreams were of drowning, of trying to bring my head above the surface of the water by gripping my feet in my hands and pulling up on my toes. It always seemed to be about to work, but then it wouldn’t. It was enough to make me scream.

  And, in fact I was screaming, in pain and in terror.

  I was awake and there was a scream, but it wasn’t mine. It was coming from across the courtyard somewhere. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to sleep and not have heard it. That which is not heard is not, after all.

  I threw on my clothes and was out in the hallway before I even thought about it.

  Old Dun Lidjun was already out in the hall, belting his robes awkwardly with one hand, the other occupied with his naked blade. Two younger warriors, struggling into their belts, tried to keep up with the old man.

  “Where?” he said, beckoning at me to follow as he ran down the hall toward the wing where Lord Toshtai slept. His gray hair, usually bound back in a warrior’s queue, hung loose about his shoulders; he tossed his head to clear it from his eyes.

  I didn’t know who he was asking, but all I could say was “I don’t know.”

  The guards at the entrance to Lord Toshtai’s suite were on their feet and alert as we arrived at the same time that the huge oak doors swung open to reveal Lord Toshtai and his two sons, each of them clearly just arisen from sleep, Toshtai still in his huge yellow silk sleeping caftan.

  “Sheath your blade, Dun Lidjun,” Lord Toshtai said. “We are all safe; and more trouble can come from a naked blade in a strange keep than I’d care to think of.” Seeing that Dun Lidjun didn’t have a scabbard with him, he beckoned for the old man to hand him the sword, then snapped his hands for his own, scabbarded sword—the big one, not the miniature he normally tucked in his sash. “Here. You help Kami Dan’Shir see what has happened, but don’t draw the blade unless necessary, and don’t annoy Lord Orazhi’s people.”

  Arefai, dressed only in belted pantaloons and boots, slipped his own scabbard into his belt.

  “May I go too, Father?” he asked, running his hands through sleep-mussed hair.

  Lord Toshtai nodded.

  “Be still,” Dun Lidjun hissed to all of us. “And keep your hands empty, and in plain view.” We crossed the courtyard quickly; Arefai had thought the scream came from across, in the other wing.

  Dun Lidjun nodded tightly at the Glen Derenai warriors at the entrance to the other wing.

  “Lord Toshtai has sent us to investigate,” Arefai said, then silenced himself at a glance from old Dun Lidjun.

  “We come with good intentions to offer our help, superfluous though it is, well though we know that the safety of the keep will always be well trusted in the strong hands of the warriors of Glen Derenai and of Lord Orazhi,” Dun Lidjun said. I wasn’t really surprised that the old man could slip into formal speech without exaggerating it into an insult.

  The guard captain, his mouth tensed into two parallel lines, nodded tightly. “The third floor,” he said.

  Nopad Postet, a hairy bear of a man, was the senior of the Glen Derenai warriors gathered on the third floor. He beckoned us through the crowd of warriors and concubines and servitors gathered in the hall. One of the servitors, a slim woman balancing a domed tray on her shoulder, staggered for a moment, then righted herself and got out of the way.

  “Lord Minch’s room,” Nopad Postet said. “He doesn’t answer, and…”

  And it would be a great discourtesy to enter the rooms of a guest lord uninvited.

  Dere
n der Drumud shrugged. “I’m not at all sure that it came from here, and I know better than to interfere with my lord Minch’s play.”

  “Play?” Arefai’s exclamation sprayed the back of my neck with spittle. “If that’s the way he plays, with screams that disturb the spirits of the keep, then to the dungpile with this play of his.”

  Without looking in Arefai’s direction, Dun Lidjun gripped the sleeve of Arefai’s robe, once, tightly, then released it. He turned to me. “Lord Toshtai instructed me to help you investigate.” He looked levelly at Nopad Postet. “The warriors of Lord Orazhi have no objection?”

  Nopad Postet clearly didn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to argue with the marshall of Den Oroshtai, not without specific orders from his own lord.

  “Has anyone a key?” I asked.

  There was no answer. I strongly suspected that one of the servitors milling about behind the warriors did, but I didn’t blame them for not getting involved.

  Well, there’s no point in craving the feeling of the bar in your hands when you’re tumbling end over end through the air. It will come or not.

  “Get me in there, Lord Dun Lidjun,” I said.

  The old man handed his scabbarded sword to one of the Glen Derenai warriors, then ran the tips of his withered fingers down the side of the door. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then moved so quickly I couldn’t even follow the motion. One moment he was just standing there, considering, his hands held loosely in front of him; the next, the door was exploding out of the way, the one remaining hinge screaming the way metal does when it’s stretched too hard, too fast.

  I stepped into the room.

  The scream had been Lord Minch, and I couldn’t blame him. He was standing up against the near wall, pinned to it by an arrow through his chest. His hands, now limp by his side, were darkened with blood to the elbows, and a dark stain ran down his white sleeping robes to the floor, where a shimmering black pool shone too glossy in the dark of the room.