“Now, if you could just arrange not to send us any more tidal waves for a while,” said the duchess, “we should be fine.”
The Lion of Senet turned to the Duchess of Elcast. “I’m sorry about the wave, Morna, but I’m not in a position to predict the moods of the Goddess.”
“Really? I thought your High Priestess spoke to her directly.”
Belagren dismounted and walked up the steps to stand beside Antonov. She was quite small, barely reaching Antonov’s shoulder, but she radiated supreme self-confidence.
“Perhaps the Goddess had a reason for destroying your crops, my lady,” the High Priestess suggested.
“I imagine she did,” the duchess agreed. “Spite, perhaps, or vindictiveness—”
“I’m sure we can count on Senet to aid her allies, my dear,” Duke Wallin cut in, before the duchess could say anything more.
“Of course we will aid Elcast!” Antonov declared loudly. He sounded cheerful enough, but he was glaring at the Duchess of Elcast with extreme displeasure.
A cheer greeted the Lion of Senet’s announcement. Since the tidal wave, there had been grave concerns on the island about how they would survive the coming months.
Not the least interested in whether or not Elcast would starve, Marqel turned her attention back to Prince Antonov. All she cared about was that she had finally seen the legendary Lion of Senet.
And with luck, by the end of the Landfall Festival, they would have their permit to perform in Avacas and she could put the clammy hands of panting, hairy old men like Hauritz the Butcher behind her.
Once the Lion of Senet’s entourage disappeared inside the Keep, the excitement was over and the spectators quickly dispersed.
Lanatyne looked around at the thinning crowd. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Marqel asked, falling in beside the older girl as she headed down the cobbled road away from the Keep.
“The docks.”
“Why?”
“Are you kidding? There’s a new ship in port, full of lonely sailors with unspent wages. Why d’you think we’re going down to the docks?”
“I can’t work the docks. I’m supposed to be a virgin, remember?”
“Not if the butcher’s been bragging,” Lanatyne chuckled.
“He won’t brag,” Marqel told her confidently.
Hauritz wouldn’t say a thing, she was certain of that. His reputation wouldn’t allow it, not to mention the fact that his meticulous wife would probably take to him with one of his butcher’s knives if she ever learned what her husband got up to while she was off visiting her sister in Yerl on the other side of the island.
They made their way down the steep curved road toward the town. The bay stretched out before them, almost perfectly circular, with only a narrow passage leading out to the open sea. On the right of the channel stood the looming bulk of Elcast Keep. On the left were tall, weathered cliffs that looked as if they’d been created at the beginning of time, sheared away in the massive quake that the Goddess had worked when she shaped the world.
Everyone referred to the wharf as “the docks,” but it was a grandiose name for a long, single wooden jetty protruding into the muddy waters of Elcast Bay. Most of the ships wanting to unload their cargoes anchored in the deeper waters of the bay, their wares brought ashore by longboat. The Lion of Senet’s ship was a three-masted barquentine tied up at the end of the wharf. The keel was painted red, and above the waterline the wood was stained black, with a gold trim that circled the hull at the bottom of the gunwale. She was quite the most beautiful ship Marqel had ever seen.
A lot of the townsfolk had the same idea as Lanatyne, although perhaps not with the same purpose in mind, and had come down to the docks to stare at the Calliope. The crew was still unloading the passengers’ baggage, but they took time out to joke with the children gathered to watch, and curse the slow-witted stevedores who were assisting them.
“It might not have been such a bad idea to come to Elcast, after all,” Lanatyne remarked, casting her professional eye over the numerous sailors. A ship as large as the Calliope carried a crew of nearly fifty men.
“You’re going to be busy,” Marqel agreed, with a slight frown. Elcast was a relatively small island, and there weren’t too many whores to be had in a town this size. Certainly there were not enough to satisfy a crew carried by a vessel the size of the Senetian ship. Kalleen would be rubbing her hands with glee when she worked that out.
About a heartbeat after she worked it out, Marqel knew, Kalleen would realize that she could double her profits by putting Marqel to work alongside Lanatyne.
“Look, there’s a Sundancer!”
Lanatyne glanced in the direction of Marqel’s pointing finger, took note of the yellow-robed man limping along the wharf, then turned to the younger girl. “Shadowdancers. Sundancers. What is your fascination with them, Marqel?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, a little defensively.
“Goddess, every time we get within a mile of one, you get this glazed look in your eye, as if you’re having some sort of religious experience.”
“I do not!”
“You do so. What is it? Do you think just because you’re a Landfall bastard, they’ll take you in? Do you think some Shadowdancer is going to appear one day and spirit you away to a better life?” Lanatyne laughed scornfully.
“They might,” she retorted. “I’ve seen plenty of Shadowdancers with the rope tattoo.”
“And did you notice every one of them was Senetian?”
When Marqel didn’t answer, Lanatyne smiled. “Marqel, stop dreaming. You come from Dhevyn, girl. Even if you were the most pious soul that ever walked Ranadon, you’ll never be a Shadowdancer. They don’t take your kind.”
“Well, I’m not going to finish up like you. I don’t want to be a whore.”
Lanatyne chuckled softly. “From what I hear, Marqel, there isn’t a whole lot of difference.”
Chapter 12
Kirshov Latanya looked around Elcast Keep with interest as he entered the cool dimness through the massive bronze-sheathed doors. It was much larger than he’d expected, and looked as if it had been built to withstand the fury of the Goddess herself.
The main hall was circular, and was girded by a massive staircase that wound upward to the domed roof, some eight stories above the ground. He had always imagined Elcast as being something of a backwater, and while the town was pretty much what he had envisaged, the Keep was something else again. Between his father, the High Priestess, the governor, the duke and all their assorted families, servants and aides, it was quite an assembly milling about inside the Hall after their welcome in the courtyard, but the crowd did little to dwarf the impressive solidity of the ancient granite Keep.
“Misha!”
Kirsh turned as Ella cried out in alarm, just in time to see his older brother collapse into the arms of one of the guards who had carried him in.
Kirsh frowned. Misha should never have ridden from the ship, but he didn’t want to shame their father by asking for a carriage. He had ridden up the steep road from the harbor, keeping his seat by sheer force of will.
Ella and the other Shadowdancer, Olena, fussed over Misha, muttering with concern as the guard lowered him to the flagstones. His father pushed his way through to them and stared down at Misha’s pallid face.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The sea voyage and the ride from town have exhausted him, that’s all,” Ella informed him. “He just needs his tonic and some rest.” She turned to the duchess. “My lady?”
The Duchess of Elcast stepped forward. Kirsh studied her with interest. She was nearing forty, he guessed. A striking woman, with gray eyes, dark hair and an air about her of unspeakable sadness. She didn’t look nearly as ominous or evil as Kirsh was expecting. In her youth she must have been quite stunning though, he thought. Certainly pretty enough to catch the eye of the King of Dhevyn.
And ruthless enough to plot my father’s m
urder.
According to the gossip he’d heard, Morna Provin had deserted her husband and baby son Rees to run off with Johan Thorn during the Age of Shadows. She had spent months at his side trying to destroy Senet, and then, when she realized she had no chance of winning, had abandoned Thorn to return to her husband. She had arrived back in Elcast as if nothing had happened and begged Wallin to take her back. That was the part Kirsh didn’t understand. If Morna Provin had done all those terrible things, why was she here, free and unpunished? She should have been burned years ago.
“Misha must have his own room, my lady, if you would be so kind as to arrange it.” Ella didn’t even look up, assuming her orders would be accepted without question.
The duchess looked down at Misha and frowned. “Your large entourage has already put a strain on us, my lady. We don’t have the room . . .”
“Make room, Morna,” Antonov ordered abruptly.
Kirsh was a little surprised when the duchess turned to his father with no sign of submission. “Anton, you’ve arrived with half your damn court, knowing full well the inconvenience it would cause us. Don’t complain to me now if the arrangements are not to your liking.”
“Perhaps one of your sons could give up his room?”
“I’ve a better idea,” she retorted. “One of your sons can give up his room.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to her Seneschal, Balonan. “Please see that Prince Kirshov’s trunks are sent to Dirk’s room.”
Kirsh looked for the younger son of Elcast in the crowd. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed next to Lanon Rill. A young dark-haired servant wearing a stupid grin stood beside him. Dirk was watching the disagreement between Antonov and Morna with metal-gray eyes—the same color as Morna’s. The boy was younger than he, Kirsh knew, and he looked anything but pleased that he had just acquired a roommate.
Lady Morna turned to Alenor. “Your highness, you’ll be sharing a room with Varian, our nurse, I’m afraid.”
“That’s perfectly all right, my lady,” Alenor hurried to assure her. The little princess would probably have said the same thing if Morna had told her she’d be bunking down in the stables. Six years living in Avacas had done nothing but strengthen Alenor’s determination to be as ingratiating as possible. That’s probably unfair, he told himself. It’s how she protects herself—by being as little trouble as possible.
Kirsh had tried to understand how hard it must be for the Dhevynian Princess. Alenor hadn’t been allowed to see her mother since the Lion of Senet had removed her from the Queen of Dhevyn’s court on Kalarada when she was eight years old. He also knew that she was quietly terrified of Prince Antonov. That was something Kirsh couldn’t understand either. He was not frightened of his father and could not comprehend why so many others feared him.
“There’d be another room available if a certain person was in a cell where he belonged,” Tovin Rill remarked pointedly, “instead of his current luxurious accommodation.”
“He can’t be moved,” Morna announced flatly.
“How convenient,” Antonov muttered, then he turned to Duke Wallin. “Speaking of which, we have much to discuss. I assume your wife is capable of coping with your domestic arrangements while we talk?”
The duke was standing just behind Lady Morna. He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder before he answered. The duchess looked ready to explode.
“I’ve put the Library at your disposal, your highness. We can go there now, if you wish.”
“I wish,” Antonov agreed.
The Lion of Senet, Tovin Rill, the High Priestess Belagren and the Duke of Elcast left Lady Morna and her harassed-looking Seneschal to sort out the rest of the accommodation arrangements. A wrinkled old woman who looked about one hundred and ten years old—presumably the nurse Varian— took Alenor in hand and led her away. Morna continued to issue orders, stopping only long enough to glance over her shoulder at her youngest son.
“Dirk, could you show Prince Kirshov where he’ll be sleeping?”
She didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to Balonan. Someone had brought a stretcher for Misha so everybody’s attention was centered on his brother.
A little reluctantly, Dirk pushed himself off the wall and crossed the Hall, Lanon and the servant boy trailing in his wake. Kirshov knew Lanon Rill. He was something of a practical joker, he recalled, and so unlike his father and older siblings in both temperament and looks that he’d heard people at court wonder aloud how he could possibly be Tovin Rill’s son.
“Prince Kirshov,” Dirk said with a short bow when he stopped before him. It was impossible to tell what the young man thought about all of this. His voice betrayed no emotion at all.
“Kirsh.”
“Pardon?”
“Call me Kirsh. All my friends do.”
“But he’s not your friend,” the servant boy pointed out rudely.
“Eryk!” Dirk scolded, then he turned to Kirsh and shrugged apologetically. “He doesn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken,” Kirsh assured him. “But perhaps we can become friends?”
“Perhaps,” Dirk agreed cautiously.
His reply took Kirsh by surprise. Most people tripped over themselves to claim his friendship.
“If we’re going to be sharing a room, we’d best learn to get along, or it’s going to be a very long visit for both of us.” He smiled winningly, hoping to evoke some sort of reaction in the other boy.
Dirk was silent for a moment, and then nodded. “I suppose. You already know Lanon, don’t you?”
“Of course. How are you, Lanon? Being in Elcast must agree with you. You’ve grown about a foot since I saw you last in Avacas.”
“Good Elcast air and food is what makes me grow, your highness,” Lanon mimicked, in a fair imitation of Duke Wallin’s gruff voice.
Kirsh laughed, and even Dirk smiled at Lanon’s impersonation.
“Still planning a career as a jester, I see. Come, Dirk, show me where I’ll be sleeping, and then you can show me Elcast. I want to see this spectacular levee wall I’ve heard so much about. Father will be busy for days and I intend to make the most of it.”
Dirk nodded noncommittally. Kirshov had never met anybody so hard to impress. “Eryk, go ask Balonan about his highness’s trunks. This way ... Kirsh.”
The servant scampered off and Lanon fell in beside them as they headed for the staircase.
“Did you hear, Kirsh?” Lanon asked. “Dirk scaled the levee wall to rescue Johan Thorn.”
“Did you really? I wonder if Thorn will thank you or curse you for it. Father’s going to hang him, you know.” He glanced up the seemingly endless staircase that wound its way around the interior of the Keep.
“So Governor Rill reminds us on a daily basis,” Dirk observed.
Kirsh looked at him curiously. “You don’t approve?”
“I have no opinion on the matter at all,” the boy said.
His attitude was hardly surprising, Kirsh supposed. These Dhevynians were all very touchy on the subject of Johan Thorn.
They reached the first-floor landing and kept on climbing. “I find that hard to believe, given your mother’s—”
“My mother’s what?” Dirk asked.
Kirsh stared at the younger boy for a moment. It suddenly occurred to him that Dirk might not even know what had gone on between his mother and Johan Thorn during the Age of Shadows. After all, it happened before he was born, and Duke Wallin was not the sort to dredge up the past without good reason. Perhaps they had just put it all behind them and tried to pretend it never happened.
With a rare show of tact, the young prince shrugged. “Nothing ... I just heard she used to be friends with Thorn, that’s all.”
“So I gather,” Dirk replied.
The second-story landing came and went, and Dirk showed no sign of stopping or engaging in any further conversation. He really was the most enigmatic person Kirsh had ever met.
“So,” Kirsh said, looki
ng for a safe subject. “What do you do for entertainment around here?”
“I don’t get much time for entertainment,” Dirk told him as they crossed the third landing and kept on climbing. “I’m apprenticed to Master Helgin, the physician. Perhaps Lanon can entertain you.”
The Senetian prince glanced at Lanon who grinned back. “You’re asking the wrong person about how to have fun, Kirsh. Dirk’s idea of a good time is solving obscure equations that nobody but he and Master Helgin understand.”
Kirsh frowned. He was well educated, but only because his father had threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t make an effort. As far as Kirshov was concerned, once he knew enough letters to read fluently and enough figuring to make sure he wasn’t being cheated in the markets, he had all the formal education he needed. As for the rest of it, well, that was what scribes were for. Kirshov was going to be a soldier and had little interest in anything not military.
They crossed the fourth-floor landing without stopping. “Are you really like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like Lanon says.”
“No.”
Lanon laughed. “He is so! Master Helgin says he’s a genius.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lanon. I am not!”
“Ask him something, Kirsh. Give him a problem to solve. Make one up.”
Kirsh shrugged, then grinned at Dirk. “Very well, what’s three hundred and ... fourteen thousand, four hundred and two, divided by ... I don’t know ... four hundred and sixty-one.”
“Five hundred and twelve,” Dirk answered promptly.
Kirsh was astonished. “Is that right?”
“Of course it’s not right,” Dirk told him, a little impatiently. “I made it up. But that’s my point. You’ve no idea whether I’m right or not, so it doesn’t prove anything.”
“You could be right,” Lanon suggested.
“I’m not. The correct answer is six hundred and eighty-two.”
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