by Dave Duncan
“See?” said Joraskinta. “So stop being modest! That’s another order.”
Ozimshello laughed. “Something more is bothering you, adept?”
“Just…” Vixini said gratefully. The reeve was a perceptive leader. “Just that I owe my life to the mercy and courage of Master Malaharo. I have been looking for him to give my sincere…” No?
“I regret to tell you that he is among the fallen,” Joraskinta said. The two Sevenths concentrated on eating.
After a moment Vixini worked out what was not being said—that in a sense Malaharo might be considered fortunate. Had he survived, he would certainly have had to face trial as a traitor for disobeying a direct order from his liege. Scores or even hundreds of swordsmen must have switched allegiance in the battle, but few could had turned their coats quite so blatantly as Malaharo had in throwing that fight with Vixini. The rest might escape judgment for lack of clear evidence against them. Likely it would be up to Dad to decide whether to admit such renegades into the Tryst and what must be done with them if he did not. But at least now he would be spared the ordeal of passing a death sentence on the man who had saved the life of his son.
The only orange kilts available were those that had been taken off corpses that the priests were preparing for burial, and the only one not fouled by the blood of its former owner was absurdly tight around Vixini’s hips and at least a handbreadth too short. He felt like an exotic dancer.
The first part of the ferry trip across the River was torment. He could have endured the minstrels by themselves, although there were a dozen of them, all talking at once, but the two Sevenths were there also, dragging all the details out of him, and he couldn’t refuse to answer their questions. Yes, he had strangled one of the sorcerers with his bare hand. Which hand? No, only one horse had died under him.
“I am not a light load,” he explained.
“The giant youth,” they muttered. “Vixini’s mighty thews… Godlike stature…”
When they had sucked all they could out of him—and he suspected it was going to be at least eight men he had slaughtered singlehanded at Soo—they started in on Joraskinta. He did not seem to mind. No, dear Goddess, the man reveled in their attention! He lapped up their flattery.
Background? Well, he had once ruled his own realm… Lord Shonsu had sent him forward as an advance party…
Listening between the lines, Vixini gathered that all the swordsmen Nnanji had shed as he withdrew from Arbo to Rea—and indeed, every garrison along that reach—had been frantically waiting for him to return with an army. In the meantime, they had been passing information along the cities of the River, in a way only sorcerers and traders normally did. So Joraskinta had not long passed Rea when he learned that Shonsu’s plan was known and Pollex was fortifying the bank at Cross Plo. Some high-numbered sutra or other allowed a swordsman to depart from his orders when conditions changed, and this Joraskinta had proceeded to do. When he received word that the counter-tryst was assembling, he prepared to attack it in the rear, hoping that Lord Shonsu would arrive on its other side as planned. Without the rebellion Vixini had inspired, his force would almost certainly have been slaughtered to a man. What right had he to preen in front of the minstrels?
In truth, it had been Ozimshello who had saved the day, but he refused to discuss his part, and the minstrels seemed to find Joraskinta not quite up to their heroic requirements. Vixini had a sickening premonition that they were going to declare him the singlehanded winner of the whole shameful mess.
Chapter 4
The wind was fitful, and it was an hour after noon before the ship drew near to Plo. Plo was the biggest city Vixini had ever seen, and the most beautiful, gleaming with many-colored marble walls and shining metal roofs. The commercial docks were busy, and the captain headed for the less-used temple area. The temple, also, was the largest and finest Vixini had ever seen. He said so to Lord Ozimshello.
The reeve of Fex nodded proudly. “Second only to holy Hann. But they seem to have heard the news already. Hear the bells? See the flags? They are celebrating.”
Joraskinta bristled. “How could they have heard? I gave strict orders that no ships were to leave before this one. And why would they celebrate? Hundreds of their menfolk have died. The city should be in deepest mourning.”
The city obviously wasn’t.
The Sevenths had agreed that the king should hear the news first. A nimble Second was sent off to the city barracks to fetch horses, and no one else was allowed to disembark. The shore was low near the temple, giving the puzzled passengers a good view across the plaza as crowds came pouring out and lined up there, waiting for something.
Soon the action was explained as Priest-king Arganari XIV the Merciful emerged, leaning heavily on two companions. He was assisted into an open carriage and the other two climbed in beside him. Then it was drawn away by eight snow-white horses, following an escort of swordsmen on black horses, while the crowds applauded louder than ever.
“The king?” Ozimshello exclaimed. “I do not understand. The last I heard, they jeered the old coot every time he left the palace. Now he has lost a war, sacrificing hundreds of lives just to save his own scrawny neck—and he is being cheered?”
The road from the temple ran straight to the River, for the River was the Goddess, before veering sharply away along the shore. The swordsmen’s ferry was not moored as close as it could have been, but Vixini had borrowed the captain’s telescope. He could guess that the jewel-encrusted woman beside the king must be his daughter or granddaughter, and he thought he knew the boy with them.
He just couldn’t believe his eyes.
Once the horses arrived, the two Sevenths set off for the palace to report, and they took Vixini with them, because Joraskinta, too, had recognized Addis. As he acidly remarked, Vixini might have hunted through the city a long time for his lost protégé had the Goddess not arranged that “fortunate” glimpse of him. Ozimshello was looking happier, for the gossip brought back from the barracks was that yesterday he had been appointed acting reeve, replacing the dismissed Pollex. Pollex’s departure explained at least some of the cheering.
Joraskinta might have forbidden anyone to tell anyone anything, but that wouldn’t stop the men of the city garrison reporting everything to their chief, the acting reeve, so Master Alacrimo was at the palace gate to greet the visiting Sevenths as they dismounted. He happily confirmed that Lord Ozimshello was to replace Lord Pollex, although of course the actual transfer of power must wait until the king accepted his oath.
The palace flunkies were flustered and hence obstructive. After letting the noble lords cool their heels to the boiling point, they returned to say that his Majesty was fatigued by the service of thanksgiving, and they would be received by Prince Arganari. At that news both Sevenths turned very icy towards Adept Vixini, as if this were all his fault.
Wasn’t it possible that they were being deceived by an incredible likeness? No it wasn’t, because Acting Reeve Ozimshello insisted that his Majesty had only ever had one son, who had died years ago. Now he was apparently alive again. Master Alacrimo refused to discuss the royal family, but he seemed suspiciously amused about something.
After a full day as heir-elect, Addis was starting to enjoy himself. Being prayed for personally by several thousand worshipers was terrifying, but being cheered by hysterical crowds could easily become addictive. Swaggering around with a treasure like Chioxin’s fourth on his back definitely was. When the king tottered off to lie down, telling him to take charge for a while, he asked the lord chamberlain what he would have to do and was told nothing.
So he settled down for a quiet luncheon with Princess Argair and told her everything that had happened at the temple. She was undoubtedly a cute child, but she seemed to have no friends of her own age, and Addis thought he would have to do something about that. She was also a little scatterbrained and more than a little greedy. She dearly wanted—‘needed’ was the word she used—a snow-white pony, a bodygua
rd of at least four handsome swordsmen, and rubies like mama’s.
“You don’t need rubies to make you beautiful,” Addis said truthfully—at her age she would look absurd. “I certainly will not let you have any swordsmen as handsome as me, because they would all fall in love with you and I would have to fly into a jealous rage and put them to death. But your mother wants us to have a betrothal ceremony soon, so why don’t I give you a white pony as an engagement present, and you can give me—” He was about to suggest a coal-black stallion and decided that would be more romantic than safe, given his modest equestrian skills. “A white horse? Then we could ride back from the temple together while the crowds cheer us.”
Argair grew very excited at that and announced that he could kiss her.
Fortunately, the lord chamberlain intervened then. The lord chamberlain was a dignified, historical personage, draped in a silver chain of office and robes of a shiny blue so pale as to be almost white. With an angular face, floury complexion, and silver hair, he resembled a human icicle.
“Your Highness, the new reeve has arrived and ought to be sworn in right away.”
“Can’t it wait until his—I mean my royal father, feels up to it?”
“That would not be advisable, your Highness,” the icicle said frostily. “Also, he is accompanied by a certain Lord Joraskinta, swordsman of the seventh rank and councilor of the Tryst of Casr, who is anxious to speak with his Majesty, but might be persuaded to report to your noble self in his stead.”
That certainly spoiled the mood. Addis had a horrible premonition that Joraskinta might spoil his party completely, but it had been a wonderful dream while it lasted.
“My beloved princess,” he said, “state business requires me to fly, but I look forward eagerly to our next few precious moments together.”
Argair blushed furiously and simpered at the same time. Addis let the lord chamberlain escort him back to the throne room, where the sun dimmed, the temperature dropped, and grim-faced palace officials gathered around like storm clouds.
On no account must he do anything they had not advised him to do, they said. He must not vary one word from the script they were about to give him. Results could be catastrophic. His Majesty would be enraged. Addis knew roughly what his real father would retort at that point, but he wasn’t Dad, so he didn’t dare. He was escorted to the throne itself by a dozen grandees in shimmering robes and chains of office, sporting facemarks whose like he had never seen before. He would sit there. The reeve-elect would approach and give him the salute to a superior and he would—
“Never!” Addis said. “That is absolutely absurd. He is a Seventh and I am a First. I am not the king yet.” He hoped that his apprenticeship would last many years, so he could learn how the job properly. “I am only his representative. But I am the son of Liege Nnanji and I have watched him and Lord Shonsu perform in public thousands of times. I will not sit on the throne. I will stand right here, beside it. Now don’t keep the noble lord waiting any longer. Go!”
They all started to argue at once.
“Stop! If you don’t, then I shall walk along to the door and greet him there.”
Teeth bared and tails down, they stepped back and signaled to the waiting heralds.
Two blue kilts appeared at the far end of the hall. As they marched closer, Addis confirmed that the second was indeed Joraskinta, which was a surprise and not a very welcome one. They halted.
Before there could be any mix-ups over precedence, Addis whipped out his glorious sword, and gave the new reeve the salute to a superior: “I am Arganari, swordsman of the first rank, heir to the king of Plo and Fex, and it is my deepest and most humble wish that the Goddess Herself will see fit to grant you long life and happiness and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes.”
Puzzled, the reeve-elect hesitated, then gave him the response to an equal: “I am Ozimshello, swordsman of the seventh rank, reeve of Fex; I am honored by your courtesy and do most humbly extend the same felicitations to your noble self.”
Addis smiled his thanks then turned his attention to Joraskinta. “I am Arganari, swordsman of the first rank, heir to— Vixi! You’re alive!”
He had registered that the tall swordsman who had followed them in was a Fourth, and only now had noticed his face looming over them. He barely restrained himself from throwing himself at Vixi and embracing him. Might give people the wrong idea…
All four swordsman exploded in laughter. The palace flunkies shuddered.
“I’m alive, protégé,” Vixi said in his giant-sized voice. “And so are you, I see.”
“And you’ve been promoted!”
“So have you!”
“Slightly,” Addis admitted, sheathing his sword. He tried what he hoped was a winning smile. “My lords, forgive me for bungling the formalities. I am new to this job. His Majesty is very fatigued, and told me to receive you, Lord Ozimshello, and to accept your oath in your new post as acting reeve of Plo.”
Looking decidedly bleak, the Seventh drew his sword again and swore obedience and fidelity to the First. Addis accepted on behalf of the king.
“Lord Joraskinta,” he said. “I am happy to see you arrive safely. Have you news of Lord Shonsu?”
“Lord Shonsu is well, so far as we know, but delayed at Soo. We do bring news, both good and bad. There was a great battle yesterday at Cross Plo. Lord Ozimshello declared that he could no longer honorably support the sorcerers and Lord Pollex, who thereupon denounced him as a traitor. For a while it seemed like the Fex contingent would be defeated, but I led in Tryst forces and we carried the day. Pollex was among the slain, as were about eight hundred others, many of them from this city. Forty-nine sorcerers were identified this morning masquerading as other crafts, and were taken prisoner. Lord Ozimshello has formally sworn loyalty to the Tryst of Casr on behalf of the swordsmen of Plo and Fex. The war is over.”
Addis gulped. Great Goddess! The realm had just been turned upside down and Boy Wonder was supposed to know how to deal with this? The flunkies were aghast and probably about to explode with advice. He made a couple of fast decisions.
“Lord Reeve, your appointment as acting reeve of Plo is effective immediately. Please see that the heralds proclaim the news around the city. We’ll leave the details up to you. Keep the people calm. His Majesty will announce, um, the proper religious observances shortly. You must have many duties. We… I, I mean… I will excuse you if you wish to go and attend to them.
“Lord Joraskinta, his Majesty must be informed of the details. He will be both happy and deeply saddened. Let me take you to the queen, who can then break the news to him in private. Adept Vixini, you may accompany us. Lord Chaplain, please prepare a schedule of prayer and observances for the high priest’s approval. Lord Chancellor, I will be in my quarters if you need me for anything.”
The human icicle managed to bow without cracking. “I will keep your Highness informed.” That probably meant that he would not disturb the king without Addis’s permission. The fact that he was not raising a hundred objections might mean that he quite approved of the way the upstart was performing.
It was the work of a few minutes to turn Joraskinta over to Queen Daimea, so that she could be brought up to date and then advise her husband. Pray to the Goddess that the shock didn’t kill him on the spot.
Then Addis threw open a door, ushered his mentor inside, and shut it firmly against the world.
“I thought you must be dead, you great ox!”
“I thought you might need help, you sleazy imposter!”
Then they did embrace, roaring with joy, pummeling each other, and dancing around the hall.
“For gods’ sakes, what happened, Vixi? I know we went to buy boots for me and the next thing I remember, I was upchucking in a fishing boat. Let’s go upstairs and have some wine. I’ve got some of the best swill here you ever tasted.” He led the way to a grand staircase, leading up to a b
alcony. The roof was several times as high.
Vixi was gaping open-mouthed, all around and also up. “Nice billet you’ve got. You could keep eagles in here, or giraffes.”
“Oh, it’s not all real. The gold pillars aren’t solid, just gilt, peeling a bit at the edges. There’s moths in the tapestries. It’s all been shut up for fifteen years, see. I slept on a couch last night, my bed chamber’s through here.”
“You mean these are all just your quarters?”
“The heir’s quarters. They’re working on cleaning it up for me. This is my reception hall. I can either receive the unwashed down here, or make a pompous entrance down these stairs, or I can run down with hands out to greet friends informally, or I can sit on a throne up here and make them crawl up to me on their hands and knees. There’s also a ballroom, a private skittles alley, and a few other things. Look here.” He opened one of several doors and led the way into a room furnished with a rack of foils, a full-length mirror, and several exercise contraptions. It was obviously a gym.
“This is sad. The dead prince was a novice swordsman, like me, and this was to be his fencing room, but he never saw it completed.”
Vixi demanded to inspect the topaz sword. He marveled at its beauty, its balance, the fineness of the engraving.
“I think I like it better than the sapphire,” Addis said offhandedly. “I expect old Chioxin was getting past it by the time he got around to making Dad’s.”
“My dad’s!” Vixi said, reopening a childhood argument. “The demigod gave it to my dad, and he just loaned it to yours.”
“Through here is my private withdrawing room. I use it for heavy drinking and indecent parties…”
Next on the tour was the prince’s bathroom, including a marble tub big enough to float a horse. “Nice, huh? Seats six.”