"I will not compromise my sources."
Sandicrest slammed down his tankard so hard the red wine sloshed onto his chest and stained his gold shirt like blood. "By Shador, get your mind out of your breeches, man!" he roared, as beside him, Azinhill settled primly into his seat. "What could you know about Buktoz?"
"I lived there; no other member of this council may make that claim."
"And you picked up a fancy sword trick," he sneered. "That was more than twenty years ago."
"Gorbagg still rules, as he did then. He has not changed."
"You were a boy. I doubt you had more on your mind than your wet nurse's tit."
"I was hardly that young," said the highlander mildly. "And I remind the council that since my father served as ambassador there, I had the opportunity to study very closely the dealings of the Alabaster Throne."
"Then no wonder you see treachery and deception all around, with your father for an example. It's said he became an expert at both."
"Careful, Sandicrest," Azinhill hissed as he tugged at the Sandicrest's sleeve.
"Never fear," Caldan said. "Dueling has long been outlawed. I will trust in our First Chair to prevent this meeting from degenerating into a circus of lies and slander."
"Why you gilt-tongued, barbarous--"
"Lord Councilor Sandicrest," interjected Oakfellow, "I have permitted both you and your representative to make your points. Please yield the floor; I'm sure others have valid concerns to express as well."
"Fine, then," growled Sandicrest. "Get on with it."
Oh, I will, thought Oakfellow. This baseless charge, along with the recent scandals, would put an end to any chance Val Torska had of becoming an influential member of the Council of Lords. He tapped the bell. "The First Chair recognizes Lord Councilor Gold."
"Thank you, as always, honored First Chair Oakfellow." The First Chair winced; a phlegmy rumble had been added to the already irritating high-pitched whine of the pudgy councilor's voice. Gold paused to wipe his nose with a wadded silk kerchief before continuing. "First of all, allow me begin with a pledge of eternal fealty to our revered young monarch, King Heratinn. I hope that he will feel free to take full advantage of my private counsel, as did his most venerated mother, may her soul ever be at peace. I cannot tell you, Your Majesty, how pleased I am that you have come to --"
"-- The First Chair reminds Lord Councilor Gold that the new king's time is valuable and that he has already heard your pledges and condolences -- at length -- earlier in the meeting," said Oakfellow.
Lord Gold nodded agreeably toward the First Chair and then the king. "As that is indeed the case, I will make my point. This man," he said, jabbing an accusatory finger toward Val Torska as if the highlander had committed some indiscretion on the expensive Egian carpet, "is a Tarskan. A Tarskan. Let us think on that. Could it be that these new contracts mean no gold in Tarskan pockets? We all know the highlands produce nothing of any value to legally export to foreign countries. Perhaps one day a few Tarskans sat loafing in the trees and thought of this war idea as a pleasant diversion, a way to make fools of their more industrious betters to the south."
Oakfellow hid a smile behind the gesture meant to appear as if he straightened his mustache. Things were never as simple as Gold made out, but today, at least, he was entertaining.
Lord Gold sneezed and bugled into his handkerchief. "This ploy of Lord Councilor Val Torska's is more natural than this head cold, a mere feeling of resentment of the rich by the poor. In fact, Count Val Torska, I find it rather common and I'd expected better of you. But perhaps," he smirked knowingly and gestured to the larger group, "our Tarskan colleague's brain is simply addled with the attentions of a very powerful young lady and the apparent desire of our late, beloved queen. Nonetheless, we cannot rush about and raise an army, with goodness knows what sort of trouble and expense, without more proof than he has offered." Triumphantly, Gold took his seat and discharged his raw nose into a fresh square of bright silk.
One by one, at each toll of Duke Oakfellow's bell, another attack on the Tarskan's plan and his character ensued. Like a pack of half-wild curs, the councilors grew more ferocious--and more personal--as each onslaught met with no resistance. Yet through it all Val Torska sat, refuting nothing, speaking only when spoken to, steadfastly refusing to divulge his sources, claiming only that he trusted them implicitly. Oakfellow scowled while smiling inwardly, remembering with ease a half-dozen times that the highlander had embarrassed him in council by correcting him on faulty research or points of law. It was time for the highlander to be reminded of his place, and he would be pleased to let the thing last all night if the tongues and the wine held out.
"Enough!" came the cry. Oakfellow started at the unexpected quarter; the young king had risen to his feet. "It is obvious you do not mean to act upon the advice of Lord Councilor Val Torska. I find your references to the circumstances surrounding the death of my mother to be distasteful and offensive, and your insults to the Great Lady have been ungentlemanly at best. Anyone here who repeats them will answer to me personally."
There was an awkward silence as the new king seemed to weigh his words. His voice, when he continued, vibrated like a string drawn suddenly taut. "I doubt further progress can be expected on this issue and all of your declarations of fealty have been adequate. Therefore, since this special session of council has been called by the crown, I invoke the crown's power of adjournment. In the future I expect to hear no more of the malicious gossip I suffered today. Might I suggest that you retire to your respective apartments? At the moment, the sight of this council sickens me."
The First Chair rang the ship's bell. "By order of His Majesty, King Heratinn, this meeting of the council adjourns. Your Majesty, noble colleagues--until tomorrow morning." Bowing stiffly to the regent, he initiated the council's exodus from the chamber.
In the corridor and outer chamber, the councilors milled aimlessly in brittle, uneasy silence, and then, one by one, began to slip away. The highlander and the king had not emerged, and Oakfellow's spirits rose with each resentful parting glare that speared the council doors. Take your time, he thought, as he turned his own footsteps away. The Tarskan had ruined himself; if the king followed suit… why, what then?
What then, indeed?
o0o
Three arms-lengths away, the highlander stared past the chamber walls, as if deep in the grip of a vision.
Three arms-lengths and an infinity. Suddenly weary, the king pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The throb in his head continued unrelieved. He slid his elbows off the table and sat up once more in his seat.
"Caldan." Heratinn's heart sank as the councilor met his eye. This was not the face of a fanatic; neither rage nor madness nor envy marred those calm, thoughtful features. If only they did, how much simpler… "You knew," he said. "You knew they would do this."
"I knew," came the admission.
The throb worsened. "I don't understand."
They fell again into silence, until, this time, the councilor spoke.
"I make your burden more difficult--"
"You make it impossible!" the regent snapped, slamming his hand against the table and then staring at it as if it had become glued there. "Why do you behave this way? You know that I would do all in my power to help your cause if you could offer me, even in secrecy, some proof that what you say is true."
"I have revealed to you all that I may."
"You will lose everything in your stubbornness."
"Your Majesty," the highlander said grimly, "we may all lose everything."
Heratinn sighed. "Caldan, I know you speak what you believe to be the truth. But is the truth what you believe? How can I tell?"
"You have long studied the council, Your Majesty; you know its members better than they know themselves. Would I stake everything I am, and have, and might ever achieve, on anything short of a certainty?"
"Gods, no!" Beleaguered as he was, his own avowal made him want to sm
ile. "You last of all. I wouldn't hesitate to name you the sanest among us. But in the end, Caldan, what I think doesn't matter. By law, only the council has the power to conscript soldiers from the fiefs; it is the council that must be convinced. You know as well as I that without proof, even I would not be able to sway them."
"I think you could."
"I'm not an orator--"
"I do not speak of orations."
The king fingered the ermine trim of his robe of state. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother had her own ways of influencing the council; she long ago eliminated any members with power or nerve enough to oppose the crown. Because of her, your methods need not be so extreme: a royal command, a show of arms--"
"--and the law will be ravaged and worthless once more, just as it was when she ruled! By Shador, I swear upon my soul that I will never be a party to such an undertaking."
"Then by the time the snow next flies in Sheldwinn, Lhant will have no law. We will have only what the Buktoz care to give us--the point of a sword for many, and chains for the remainder. I will never persuade the council on my own, but neither will I let the matter rest until council is convinced and Lhant mobilized, or until the gates of Castle Sheldwinn fall before Gorbagg's forces. To do any less would be to forsake my sworn duty."
Heratinn stood. "We all have our sworn duty, Lord Councilor Val Torska, and mine is to uphold the law of Lhant. What manner of man did you think I was that I might do otherwise?"
The highlander appraised him with curious mixture of affection and disappointment, and, despite himself, the king felt his own indignation ebb.
"Obviously, Your Majesty, less--and more--than what you are. Still… I am not the only one who will lose everything in his stubbornness."
Heratinn's temper flared anew. "You overstep your bounds, Councilor. I've had enough of riddles and mysteries; give me proof or trouble me no further."
"Send one swift vessel toward Buktoz," said Caldan. "If I am right, the proof you desire sails toward Lhant. Then you will know for certain Gorbagg's intentions, though far too late to prepare Lhant against them. Still, any defense, even one inadequate and doomed, is better than none at all."
The king turned his back. "One light ship, then. It will sail as quickly as it may be manned and provisioned."
o0o
The king gone, Caldan allowed his hounds to rest their heads upon his knees. "And here are the two upon who I may always depend." A pair of tails hoisted like black banners, slowly waving. He smoothed the soft silk behind the dogs' ears. "If only Lhant's rulers were so obliging as you."
But no; blinded by greed, the council would never be persuaded by mere words, and Heratinn, too proud to put off the shackles of honor, would never interfere. And where does that leave me, council laughingstock and dishonorable ex-friend of the king?
If only he were wrong! But beyond the circumstantial evidence, and that other, supernatural and fell, was his own intuition. I know now the Dreamers' certainty, when eyes and lips are opened and the promise falls heavy as stone.
These are the things that may not be changed. They come. And when they come the lowlands will not slake their hunger. They will come up, and we will die in blood and horror to the last to keep the law.
Perhaps they will make drums . . .
He was all that stood between the promise and the unaltered result of its keeping. But he was not enough. Others must be moved--many others--perhaps, too many.
I will die trying.
And that promise, too, fell heavy as stone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dreams of farmer,
Dreams of maid,
Dreams of king and
Guardsmen brave,
Pale beside
Dreams of the sea.
A sailor's dreams:
The dreams for me!
-- nursery rhyme
Elzin fiddled with the circlet atop her head and squinted at the drum behind her in the mirror.
"Is that thing really human?" Were there any dark hairs on the ancient hide, she wondered. Her stomach clenched a protest at her curiosity.
Mother Neshvann ignored her question and frowned critically at the obvious swelling beneath the pale violet folds of Elzin's gown. As the Saire turned around, the dress's spall-shell hem clinked delicately against the tiled floor. "Thousands! There are thousands here, Great Lady, just to see you play! Yet you turned away the priestess Mother Kanzal and I sent to advise you of the proper garb."
"Well, what's wrong with this? Pretty, isn't it? I'll bet even you couldn't have done better." Elzin wondered what part of a person's body could have yielded that much unmarked skin. Impulsively, she turned and felt the cool, smooth drumhead, searching for a navel.
"Chosen!"
The Saire withdrew her hand. "Who do you suppose he was?"
"Great Lady, that is not the point. The point is that you have avoided all attempts to discuss this festival. Listen carefully now to my instructions. This is how you will--"
The hollow voice of her own drum shocked the priestess into silence. Elzin, her hand a fist now above the throbbing drumhead, shouted. "Where were you with your instructions before my first ceremony?" She pounded her fist on the drum. "Where were you with your advice when I had to leave Castle Sheldwinn to save my life?" The fist fell again. "You," she pointed an accusing finger at the priestess, "you were holed up in the Keep, squatting on your prayer mats, hoping I would fail, that's where you were -- every sour-faced, black-robed one of you. Now that you can see I'm here to stay, you come and tell me to hide my belly until my baby's born and then act like it's some kind of miracle! What a stupid idea! I'd be laughed off the island!"
The priestess bowed her head contritely. "We seek only to honor the goddess in a fitting manner."
"You know what I think, Mother Neshvann? I think that you and Mother Kanzal and all those other high-up priestesses can't be so certain of what's fitting anymore. I was pregnant when the Flute chose me, and you can bet I didn't get that way by keeping my knees together all the time. Telriss isn't just a goddess for chaste maidens and the ones with husbands, is she? She's a goddess for all women. Even the ones who have fu --"
"Telriss preserve me!" The Drumbearer clapped her palms to her ears and fled, her awkward charge banging against her hip.
"Fun. That's all I was saying." She turned to her reflection. "Well--what kind of language do you suppose they use in that white-washed maiden's temple anyway?"
Her image winked slyly in reply.
o0o
Flashing her most enticing smile, Zermiann spun to a stop and shimmied her shoulders before a gangling youth. This close, she could see the chin so near to her upthrust breasts still grew nothing more than down. A smattering of freckles ran across the boy's nose; her own wrinkled at the tell-tale odor of his trade. She lifted the youngster's dropped jaw closed with a single finger and asked, "Does my handsome young tanner have a name?"
"A-Adnir," he answered.
"A-Adnir," her shoulders flexed against the drawstring of her blouse, "what big eyes you have." The loosely tied string parted; the blouse fluttered to her hips. "See something you like, A-Adnir?"
The boy's reply was inarticulate--not surprising since his jaw had once again unhinged. Though small, her breasts had been brightly tattooed. "Pretty, yes?" she asked, withdrawing a step. Mesmerized, Adnir followed her lead. "Come," she said, chucking his chin and laughing gaily. "To look is not half so pleasant as to touch." She backed toward her tent, undulating her supple body in a bold parody of the act she could see at least one part of the adolescent understood. "Come with me. I will show you many things." Adnir glanced guiltily over his shoulder, checking, no doubt, for his mother or a virtuous sweetheart. But luck was with her--and him, too. His eyes returned, roved. "Many, many things," she reminded him huskily. Groping for his money pouch, Adnir stepped toward her tent.
"Hold, lest ye sin!"
Zermiann's hand darted for the boy's, but the owner of
the shrill voice had already interposed herself between the youth and pleasure. Adnir backed up a step, eyes darting as he licked his lips and searched amongst the amused passers-by as if for familiar faces. The black-robed woman poked a bony finger into his narrow chest. "Think, young son. The Saire will soon play here, upon these very grounds. Would you so casually couple--like an animal--on such a holy day? Should you not turn your thoughts toward some chaste maiden, who no doubt waits for you? This," she said, stepping aside to gesture toward the harlot, "this is a mockery of womanhood, a vile painted pretender to the glory of Telriss. Turn now and be blessed."
Zermiann watched as fear and shame consumed the young one's lust; he slunk away amid the chuckles of the crowd.
"Shriveled old crow!" she growled. "You take the food from my mouth and the roof from my head!"
Avoiding the prostitute's eyes, Mother Neshvann folded her hands and stared piously toward the gleaming white columns of the Temple of the Summer Moon. "Then shiver and starve in the name of Telriss, whose honor you profane."
Jostled and pushed, her ears ringing with the cries of the vendors, the discord of the musicians, and the curses of the also-trampled, the priestess felt herself a child's toy boat tossed by the sea's too-real waves. But instead of water, the waves here were waves of humanity--a veritable ocean, in fact, of the sinful and depraved. Saire Elzin's popularity had drawn thousands eager to catch a glimpse and hear the Flute's music, but the crowds, in turn, had attracted every thief, beggar, and whore in all of Lhant. A well-dressed drunk staggered from a wine-seller's stand to urinate in the dust near Mother Neshvann's feet. She tripped around the growing puddle and clutched one of the seven silver moons of her prayer necklace. The jarring of the crowd had knocked her necklace askew; by mistake she gripped the crescent phase. The charm pricked two tiny, round holes, like fang marks, into the palm of her hand.
Telriss, Goddess, lend me your serenity. She had been mad to go afoot through the shoving, sweating press alone. The mob was bad enough, but the last harlot had looked enraged enough to strike. Too late, the Drumbearer regretted her refusal of the cycle of priestess-guards Mother Kanzal had offered. Even a single, lowly acolyte would have saved her some of the buffeting by the throng. She struggled to maintain some semblance of dignity as she elbowed her way toward the sanctuary of the cool, white marble of the Temple of the Summer Moon.
The Night Holds the Moon Page 34