“Probably when I was thirteen.”
“How do you get along?”
“We’ll find out,” Mirian said, and Ivrian must have heard something in her voice that made him decide not to press further.
It seemed a long, long time ago. Tradan had been in Eleder on business, and Charlyn had come to take Mirian shopping in Eleder’s central district. Charlyn was the daughter of Mirian’s father and his first wife, the Lady Tanara, who’d been scandalized that the man she’d divorced had married a native woman.
Charlyn had been stiff and uncomfortable, and had tried to mask her reaction, but throughout the day the shopkeepers had assumed Mirian was a servant being outfitted by her mistress, and Charlyn had grown increasingly embarrassed at having to explain at every place they stopped. Given Mirian’s lack of interest in dresses to start with and the uncomfortable atmosphere, she’d been only too glad when Charlyn had given up and taken her home.
She stared out at the darkness as their two-horse cart rolled on, wondering how Charlyn must have felt about that day. She would probably have been in her late twenties then, about Mirian’s age now. Had she honestly been trying to reach out to her little sister? To mend fences with her father?
Charlyn might surely have handled matters better, but she’d at least made an attempt at forging a connection, something Mirian had avoided over the course of three journeys through Port Freedom. Charlyn hadn’t tried since, though. The most she’d managed at Kellic’s funeral was a letter.
The sun was low by the time the little cart turned down a lane dense with trees and their thick shadows. They advanced only a few yards before stopping at a closed gate fashioned of vertical metal bars. Two men stepped into view. One opened the shutters of a lantern and demanded to know the driver’s business. Both were stern-looking Kalabuta tribesmen dressed in matched pants and white shirts, though they wore traditional sandals.
The cart driver pointed immediately toward his passengers and explained who they were.
“Mistress Raas,” the elder of the guardsmen said, relaxing the hold on his sheathed longsword. “You’ve been expected.” He turned to the other guard. “Ohano, you stay here. I’ll escort them to the house.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Captain? How large of a guard force did her brother-in-law have in place?
“I’m glad you made it safely, Mistress Raas,” the stout, powerfully built man told her soberly. “Things have been a little more lively around here lately.”
“Why?”
The captain glanced back at her.
“I’m really not sure,” he said.
Mirian gritted her teeth. She knew a lie when she heard one.
8
REUNION
IVRIAN
Ivrian had expected an aging manor with fading paint and vines worked into its greening stone, but what he found instead was a meticulously maintained home, the bright yellow siding of its second floor shining in the light of countless lanterns. He couldn’t spot a single line of creepers or mold among the mix of gray and red native stone of the ground floor.
He had ample time to study the building and its grounds as they moved down the long straight drive under hanging willows. There was even a working fountain in the turnaround, one with a statue of a Kalabuta warrior in its center, spear raised heavenward—treeward, actually, for the boughs of majestic live oaks shaded the entire courtyard.
The captain dropped down before the cart drew to a full stop. He jogged for the entrance, there met by another armed figure who quickly moved into the house.
The cart rolled to a halt and servants hurried forth—two Kalabuta, a graying one in starched colonial dress and white gloves, and a woman a little younger than Jeneta. They asked to help with any baggage and Mirian somewhat stiffly gave them permission. She seemed preoccupied and far more formal than usual, managing a great amount of dignity despite bloodstained travel pants and soiled shirt.
As Mirian and Ivrian stepped down, the captain cleared his throat.
“No weapons inside the house, I’m afraid, Mistress Raas.”
“I’d prefer to hold on to my sword,” Mirian said. “We were attacked on our way from the ship.”
Ivrian’s eyebrows rose. It wasn’t like Mirian to be so rude. They were in a guarded compound now, one hardly dangerous.
“Attacked by whom?” the captain asked.
“Agents of Mzali.”
The captain’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth as though to comment, then closed it at the creaking sound of sandaled footsteps.
Ivrian’s first thought upon looking at Tradan ven Goleman was that he was an old man, but he then realized the lord’s skin was deeply seamed from a thick tan. His hair was blond going to gray, cut short and feathered back. He wore loose white pants and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and as the lord descended the steps, Ivrian saw his narrow feet were tucked into the same sort of sandals the natives wore. When he smiled, flashing even teeth, Tradan proved good-looking in a lean, weathered way. He was devoid of ornament save for a signet ring on his left hand and the brown cord of a necklace just visible at his collar.
“Sister! I’m delighted to see you once more.” He took Mirian’s hand and bowed, pressing his lips to her fingers. “My, how you’ve grown! But of course it’s been years since I last saw you. And did I hear that you’d met with some manner of misfortune? Are you all right?”
“We’re fine.”
“I do believe you’re taller than I am! You must get that from your mother’s side, for Charlyn just comes to my nose.”
Mirian’s cool manner melted only a little before his genuine warmth. “I hope you’ll forgive the state of our dress,” Mirian told him. “We were assaulted on a riverboat by men who pretended to have been sent by you.”
“Gods! And your people are well?” He glanced at her entourage.
“We got through.”
To Ivrian’s mind they’d kicked ass, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Many traditional colonials frowned upon any suggestion of self-aggrandizement.
“Good to hear. Captain, you’d best put the men on alert.”
“Of course, m’lord. The guests bear weapons—”
“Oh, they can carry them.”
Ivrian thought Tradan’s laugh sounded nervous. It stopped abruptly as he faced Mirian once more.
“I don’t blame you at all for wanting to hold on to them, especially after that experience. I’ve held dinner for you. If you’re up to it, I’d hear the details. But please, introduce me to your colleagues. You must be Jekka.”
He offered his hand to the lizard man and Jekka considered it briefly before clasping his fingers and allowing his arm to be shaken.
“I’ve never met one of the lizardfolk before. I very much hope you’ll have time for a longer visit. I’ve found much of great interest. Great interest. You do read your language?”
“I do,” Jekka said.
“Good, good. And you’re well versed in the iconography of your people, I hope?”
“My brother was the true expert,” Jekka answered. “But he is dead.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. I read a somewhat fanciful account of your expedition and I wasn’t sure how many of the events were actually true.”
Again with the fanciful? Ivrian bristled a little, then decided that was probably fair.
“Most of it was true,” Jekka said.
“That’s terrible. Simply terrible.”
Ivrian offered his hand. “Lord ven Goleman, I’m Lord Galanor.” He tried his best to grin. “Author of said account.”
“Oh.” Tradan managed to recover his smile before his expression fell too far. “Yes, of course. An entertaining romp, but if I may be so bold, you may wish to tone things down. You’ll have everyone thinking that jungle digs and archaeological matters are routinely dangerous and that every find leads to hoards of gold. It’ll be the end of any real knowledge recovered from such places, for treasure hunters
and the romantic will dig things up to right and left and generally make a mess.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen it before. In any case, welcome to Stanton Manor! We have room for you all in the main house. Am I to understand you came with no servants?” He failed to conceal his astonishment. “Do you have any following?”
“None,” Mirian answered. “We’re used to fending for ourselves.”
“I see.” Tradan sounded a little bemused. “Well, come along. There’s plenty for all.”
Ivrian fell in step beside Jeneta, who rolled her eyes at him.
Ivrian couldn’t help fastening on Tradan’s words about his book. He debated telling the lord that he’d actually left a few of the most sensational moments out of the account—but it really didn’t seem the time.
Beyond the thick old doors they entered a high cool hall, paneled in dark wood and decorated with hunting trophies. A bright chandelier fashioned from curving horns and other large animal bones hung from the dark recesses of the ceiling. Beyond the wide entrance, an arching stair with a carven balustrade rose toward a dark second floor. Beside it, a long hallway plunged spear-straight through the mansion, with wide doorways to right and left. As Tradan spoke quietly to Mirian, gesturing to the surroundings, another serving girl came running to whisper at one side of the chief servant’s graying head. Bertram cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready, m’lord.”
That was odd. Where was Mirian’s sister? Mirian herself seemed to be looking for her, as if she expected her to pop up out of one of the shadows.
Tradan brought his hands together. “Ah. Excellent. Do send word for her ladyship. I’m sure the rest of you will want to have time to freshen up. Bertram, show them to their rooms.”
“Of course, m’lord.”
It was a pleasure to wash up and change into clean clothes, and Ivrian struggled not to ready himself too quickly, for it would be improper to demonstrate too much eagerness. Still, he was out in the hallway before the ladies and didn’t want to enter before them, so was pretending to study a landscape painting by lamplight for the servant Bertram’s benefit when Charlyn Raas emerged from the mansion’s depths.
She was not so tall as Mirian, nor as dark, but there were more family similarities than Ivrian would have expected. She was a mature but handsome woman, perhaps in her late thirties or even early forties. The long, straight nose he’d always assumed was part of Mirian’s Bas’o heritage was present upon Charlyn’s oval face. Her lips were thinner, and her hair straight and dark rather than curly. There were a few fine lines about her wide brown eyes and mouth, but her skin was as flawless as Mirian’s own, only a light olive complexion rather than umber.
Bertram cleared his throat. “The Lady ven Goleman.”
“Honored, your ladyship,” Ivrian said quickly. “I’m Lord Galanor.”
She extended one tanned hand, on which a small ruby ring glinted darkly. “Charlyn ven Goleman. But then, I think you know that.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Charmed,” she said as he kissed one perfumed hand and released it. “I enjoyed your adventure tale. I trust your journey here was less eventful than your expedition into the interior?”
Her voice was not at all like Mirian’s. It was higher pitched, with a different inflection pattern. She, like Ivrian, had been brought up trying to use the shorter vowel sounds of their colonial forbears.
“I’m afraid, m’lady, that it was rather brimming with events, not all of them savory.” His mouth twisted in memory of the look on his attacker’s face when he’d blasted his chest.
Hers was a lovely smile. “Perhaps you can regale me with the story over dinner.”
“I’m not sure the story would make for good dinner conversation.”
“Then I’ll trust you to edit it down.”
Ivrian thought for a moment, then bowed his head. “M’lady, we had a dangerous adventure, but arrived safely.”
She laughed becomingly. “Now you’ve gone and removed all the fun from it. Tell me, m’lord, did my half sister bring her lizard man?”
Did she think being a lizard was Jekka’s profession? “He’s in the dining room now with your husband.”
“Oh. Gods. I hope he’s patient.”
Ivrian blinked, wondering at the insult. Jekka was so quiet he could hardly be said to challenge anyone’s patience.
“The poor fellow won’t know what to do once Tradan starts gassing on,” Charlyn continued. “He’s just fascinated with these new ruins. But I’m afraid his interest has brought on some adventures of its own. I’m sure you’ve noticed our guard?”
Ah—so she was chattering because she was nervous. “It would have been hard to miss,” Ivrian said quickly.
“Good. I hope anyone who’s thinking about attacking will feel the same. We’ve always maintained a pool of guards, of course, but Tradan’s doubled their number.”
The others returned at last, Mirian in the lead. Jeneta trailed, still fussing with the hem of a blue dress.
It felt as though time had suspended its forward momentum, for Mirian and Charlyn stood staring at one another, Mirian in her plain white dress, belted with a scarlet sash that lent her a swashbuckling air—Charlyn in her evening gown. The elder sister seemed a smaller, paler, more stately reflection of the younger.
“Mirian,” Charlyn said formally. “How good to see you.”
“Charlyn. It is a pleasure.”
Ivrian couldn’t recall a time when he’d heard Mirian sound more stilted.
“How long has it been?” Ivrian prompted cheerfully.
“More than ten years.” Charlyn continued to face her sister even as she addressed Ivrian. “Ever since I tried to take little Mirian for a shopping trip in Eleder. I’m afraid it didn’t go very well. Everyone assumed she was my maid.”
“I didn’t help matters.” Mirian glanced at Ivrian. “I was sullen and resentful.”
“You just seemed very quiet.” Charlyn smiled gamely. “You’ve grown into a lovely woman.”
Mirian nodded politely. “You remain one.”
“Thank you, Mirian,” Charlyn answered gravely. “I was just saying to Lord Galanor that we should probably join my husband and your lizard man for dinner or he’s liable to talk the poor fellow’s ears off. Come to think of it, do lizard men have ears?”
“They do—they just don’t stick out like ours. His name’s Jekka,” Mirian continued, “and he’s … actually my blood brother.”
There was no disguising Charlyn’s surprise. “Your blood brother?”
“We swore an oath,” Mirian explained.
“I see.” Charlyn cleared her throat. “I was very sorry to learn of our brother’s death.” She put the tiniest amount of inflection on the word “our” although it was perfectly clear she referred to poor Kellic, killed during their last mission. “I hope you received my letter?”
“It was very thoughtful,” Mirian said, sounding strained. “Mother appreciated it very much.”
Had she, really? It was the first Mirian had mentioned the letter, even though Ivrian had attended the quiet little ceremony at the private cemetery. There’d been no body to inter, owing to the fact Kellic’s former lover had thrown it to the sharks after she’d killed him. Family and friends had gathered around the stone with his name while Mirian and her mother spoke a few words and Jeneta intoned formal prayers.
Charlyn motioned them forward and then walked slowly toward the closed doors. “I should have liked to have known Kellic,” she said. “I regret that I never did. What was he like?”
Ivrian tried to anticipate Mirian’s answer. Would she say that he was indecisive? Weak? That he’d made mistakes but tried to come through in the end? Ivrian had deliberately muddied the details about Kellic’s deficits in his published account, mostly for the benefit of Mirian’s mother.
“Complicated,” Mirian said finally.
There was a small downturn along Charlyn’s mouth. “We really shouldn’t keep Tradan waiting much longer. Oh, and who�
��s this?”
“Jeneta, a priestess of Iomedae.”
The priestess, holding back the left side of her dress with one hand, stepped forward and curtsied. “It is wonderful to be a guest within your home, Lady ven Goleman.”
“Thank you, Jeneta. It is our pleasure to have you here.” Charlyn offered her arm to Ivrian, who took it as Bertram opened the door for them. They walked together into the dining room.
9
FACES OF THE DEAD
JEKKA
Humans spent a great deal of their time communicating through vocalizations. They seemed unable to understand the nuance of stance and color. Even his beloved Mirian was slow to pick up on the latter unless the physical movement was overt, akin to shouting in a loud room.
Instead, humans talked, and talked, and talked. Sometimes they communicated pertinent information while doing so. More often they simply indicated their emotional state, which tired Jekka. He had no interest in a running commentary on the feelings of those around him. One of the things that differentiated Mirian was that she kept such things to herself unless it was a ritual time, such as during the death ceremony for her brother.
Mirian’s brother-in-law subscribed to a different philosophy. His talking was a continual stream, and it took concentration on Jekka’s part before he finally divined the meaning behind all of the words. While Tradan chattered and showed him various tomes, books, and carved hunks of stone displayed along one wall of the room for eating, he communicated excitement. Also, he was alert, and nervous, but possibly happy as well. At least that’s what he kept saying—how happy he was to have a true lizardfolk scholar beside him, for he himself was just a dabbler. It didn’t matter that Jekka had already communicated he wasn’t a scholar. Humans, Mirian had told him once, affected a practice called modesty wherein they pretended lesser competency than they actually possessed.
Jekka found modesty pointless, but Mirian explained other humans practiced its opposite, exaggeration, wherein they boasted of prowess they did not possess.
Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea Page 10