Petrodor atobas-2

by Joel Shepherd

  Until recently, the great houses of Petrodor had needed the Torovan dukes for one thing only-trade. Now, with war afoot in the Bacosh, the houses discovered that the dukes had one other thing that Petrodor could use. Soldiers. At the bidding of the holy brotherhood in the Porsada Temple, House Steiner and its allies were trying to raise an army to reclaim the “holy lands”-the Bacosh provinces of Rhodaan, Enora and Ilduur, which had fallen under the sway of Saalshen two centuries before. When the then-king of all the Bacosh, Leyvaan, had failed in the invasion of Saalshen, Saalshen's counter-invasion had taken the three nearest Bacosh provinces for a buffer, and changed them beyond recognition. That change had profoundly disturbed Rhodia's holy brotherhood, leading finally to the Archbishop of Petrodor's most recent declarations of Holy Crusade. And the Petrodor talmaad, under the archbishop's very nose, now attempted to disrupt those preparations for war by any means possible.

  Rhillian drew a deep breath, a hand on her stomach. She belched, softly. “Too many prawns?” Sasha suggested.

  Rhillian smiled. “Humans can claim most follies as their own, except excess. We serrin invented that.”

  “And arrogance,” Errollyn added. Rhillian shrugged. “Indecisiveness,” Errollyn continued. “Self-importance. Complacency. Lust.”

  “Oh no,” said Aisha, shaking her head, “I like lust.”

  “Ambiguity,” said Errollyn. “Moral equivalence. Laziness.”

  “Never knowing when to shut up,” Rhillian added, with a sharp glance. Errollyn met her gaze with a half-smile. For a brief instant, the air between them seemed to crackle.

  A loud crash from upslope interrupted. Music and shouting on the road below paused. Then came distant yells from around the uphill corner. The crowd began to surge in that direction.

  “There was bound to be at least one,” said Errollyn, sliding to his feet, bow in hand. “Come on.”

  They abandoned their rooftop and made their way along the dark back alleys parallel to the road. When the shouting grew louder, Rhillian led them up another winding stairway. The alley mouth opened onto the road. Rhillian took the left corner, Errollyn the right, with Sasha in the middle. Aisha remained behind, to cover their backs.

  To the left, now downslope after their climb, a confused crowd pressed about an overturned cart. The Sadis statue had clearly fallen, injured men were carried from the press, some clutching broken limbs. Others yelled and gave directions, frantically, searching for family or friends.

  “House Ragini,” said Rhillian. “Another of House Steiner's lackeys.”

  Errollyn, Sasha noted, was once again searching the surrounding buildings, with barely a glance at the chaos. He held his enormous bow like a staff, one hand lingering by the quiver of arrows at his hip.

  Now from the crowd, a man was being carried, arms limp, head lolling. His hair was wet with blood. “Looks like he broke more than just his arm,” Sasha observed.

  “That's Randel Ragini.” Rhillian's voice was hard, with suspicious certainty. “Patachi Ragini's heir. How convenient.”

  Sasha frowned. “Convenient?”

  “In Torovan it's maradis nal-maradis,” Rhillian explained. Fortuitous ill-fortune, Sasha translated. She almost hadn't noticed they were still speaking Saalsi. “The convenient accident. Like when the Endurance statue topples over, and it just happens to be the family heir who's killed.”

  “How do you know it's no accident?” Sasha replied. “This whole crazy festival's just an accident waiting to happen!”

  “Those are the best kinds,” said Errollyn, his eyes not leaving the surrounding buildings. “Welcome to Petrodor.”

  “Come,” said Rhillian, watching as the men laid the body by the side of the road. Some were weeping, gesticulating with both hands to the night sky. “We'd best go. This one will have repercussions.”

  “Why?” asked Sasha. “What was House Ragini involved with?”

  Duke Alexanda Rochel watched the stone walls pass his carriage window, as the wheels clattered over cobblestones. It had been a long bumpy ride on bad roads, climbing switchbacks through some truly bad neighbourhoods of crumbling hutments and outright slums. Now, the cobbles jarred his teeth and bounced the wide-brimmed hat upon his head.

  On the seat opposite, his daughter Bryanne peered wide-eyed through the window, trying to see above the high walls that lined the ridgetop road. Bryanne had never seen Petrodor. Like all Torovan noble children, she had been raised on stories of its wealth and grandeur. Alexanda saw the faint bewilderment on her face, the surprised dismay. So far, she'd seen slums and walls topped with sharpened spikes. Not to worry, child, Alexanda thought grimly, it only gets worse from here. Gods how he hated Petrodor. He was so pleased to be invited to Patachi Steiner's Sadisi party, he could just hit something. Preferably Patachi Steiner.

  “Don't look so grim, dearest,” said his wife, the Duchess Varona, from his side. She was dressed in her finest gown, a tight-waisted, shoulderless, velvety black and sequinned silver piece that displayed a figure well preserved for her thirty-eight summers. The curls in her black hair, and the pale powder and red paint of the makeup, had taken her and her maids since lunchtime to arrange. “I'm sure it shall be a lovely evening. Bryanne, I'm so looking forward to introducing you around. You look truly lovely.”

  Bryanne, a pale, slightly pudgy girl who at fifteen had yet to grow properly into her womanhood, bit her lip. Her hair, dress and makeup only added to her father's sour mood. This was not the little girl he knew. All dressed up to impress some boot-licking little Petrodor mummy's boy. Bryanne was a quiet, obedient girl who liked to paint flowers in the garden on a warm summer's day. He'd have more gladly thrown her into a den of hungry wolves than the pack of insolent, insufferable masculinity he was sure to find at Patachi Steiner's but Varona had insisted. She meets so few eligible boys in Pazira, she'd complained. She needs to broaden her horizons, instead of sitting around all day painting and daydreaming.

  Alexanda recognised the walls of several great mansions from the crests beside their huge, metal-barred gates. Here was House Halmady, headed by the particularly vile Patachi Elmar Halmady. His heir Gregan had recently married a Lenay princess. Lenay princesses were apparently all the style these days, in Petrodor. Royalty-the latest accessory for the fashionable elite. Alexanda snorted to himself. Lenay royalty only, however. It had the sad desperation of the nouveau riche, buying gaudy jewels from the worst dockside merchants without questioning their true origin or quality. Still, any royalty was impressive enough for Torovan, whose last true king had been some seven hundred years ago. Or rather, it was impressive enough for families whose wealth and power barely dated one and a half centuries. Family Rochel, on the other hand, was old money. Alexanda Rochel traced his noble claim to the Dukedom of Pazira back through twenty-three generations of forefathers. Petrodor wealth and promises might have impressed others of the Torovan dukehood, but it certainly did not impress him.

  The carriage clattered to a halt. Ahead, there came shouts from the leading guard cart to Steiner soldiers manning the gate. Immediately there were Pazira soldiers to the left and right of the carriage, maroon and gold colours over armour, eyes watchful beneath crested helms. These days more than others, a heavy guard was required to travel through the City of the Night.

  A loud squealing from ahead, and the forward carts resumed their clatter. The carriage followed, and then the walls of Steiner Mansion were passing, manned by watchful Steiner guards. The cobblestone path descended, turned, and then there were great, stone columns on the right. Soldiers opened the carriage doors, and Duke Alexanda Rochel of Pazira took a deep breath and stepped into the warm Petrodor night.

  He turned to help his wife and daughter from the carriage, and was then greeted by a handsome, thin-bearded man with a pointy chin and dagger-sharp eyes, splendidly dressed in a tight, embroidered jacket and colourful shirt with a wide, angular collar.

  “Duke Alexanda,” said Symon Steiner, heir of Family Steiner. He bowed, as did Al
exanda, then clasped hands. The man wore enough rings to make a woman blush, the duke noted acidly. “A great pleasure to greet you once more. My father shall be so pleased that the duke of Torovan's most beautiful province has managed to attend our little function.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Alexanda said gruffly, but Symon had already moved to kiss his wife's hand. Varona loved it, of course.

  “My beautiful Duchess, you look ravishing this fine evening.”

  “Oh Master Steiner, you flatter me.” Alexanda made a low growl in his throat, but no one noticed.

  “But not at all, my Lady. Your beauty defies even Master Time, you grow only more radiant each time we meet. And this lovely creature must be Bryanne.” He kissed the girl's hand as well. Varona shot her husband a stern glance, silencing his impatience. Alexanda grunted. “Dear girl, I can vouch that there will be many, many young men desperate for your hand in a dance tonight. Please do not disappoint too many of them, we have not the medicines in our house for so many broken hearts.”

  Bryanne blushed bright red and mumbled a reply. Symon looked about in further surprise. “Duke Rochel, you have only brought your lovely daughter? But where are your handsome sons?”

  “My husband felt that the household should not be left unattended,” said Varona, smoothly intervening. “The rains shall be on us soon, and the planting, and Carlito can use the experience of managing affairs on his own.”

  “Oh, a great pity,” Symon said sadly. “I had looked forward to seeing them both again.”

  Do you think I'd bring my heirs to this treacherous snakepit? Alexanda fumed silently. With whatever devious poison you and the priests are no doubt conniving? If disaster befalls on this journey, you'll only get me, not my sons.

  The entrance hall of Steiner Mansion was imposing. A huge, wide floor of polished marble so smooth it gleamed like ice. Overhead, five great chandeliers blazed the incandescent light of a hundred candles each, refracting from many thousands of crystal beads.

  Some Steiner cousins attended them across the floor, Duchess Varona leading the way, Bryanne staring about in awe. This was the Petrodor of her bedtime stories. Everywhere were bustling servants and watching guards. Ill-gotten gains, all of it, Alexanda thought darkly, surveying the surroundings as he walked. Serrin wealth. In his great-grandfather's day, merchants had held a station little above that of prostitutes. Now, they built preposterous monstrosities like this to intimidate the true nobility, and make stars in their wives’ and daughters’ eyes.

  They were led along the main hall through the mansion's centre, one magnificent, gleaming room after another. Finally they emerged onto broad steps opening onto a vast patio and expansive gardens beyond, crowded with people. Jewellery flashed, and embroidery glimmered under the light of ornamental torches. A small orchestra played and perhaps a hundred elegant ladies and gentlemen made slow, spinning circles on the pavings. There were long tables, piled with luscious food, and servants darting amidst the guests to replace all that was consumed with new dishes from the kitchens. Draping the tables, the columns above the stairs, and even some trees, were colourful festival decorations. Beyond, and about, lay the vast, glittering expanse of Petrodor Harbour.

  “Excuse me, Duke Rochel?” Alexanda turned to find a woman approaching up the stairs, a little girl in her arms. The woman had long, dark hair, tastefully arranged to a knot at the back, and wore a rich, green gown. She seemed perhaps thirty-five, with a round face, a pleasant smile, and a weight to her hips and bust that was typical of a wealthy Torovan woman. “Oh how lovely to see you once more. My husband is performing his duties well at the door, I trust?”

  “Lady Marya Steiner,” said the duke, gravely, and kissed her offered hand. “Your husband was most eloquent, as always. I believe you have not made the acquaintance of my wife, the Duchess Varona?”

  “A true pleasure.” Unlike most wealthy Torovan women, with Marya Steiner, one could almost believe she meant it. Though married to a Torovan for fourteen years, she still spoke the tongue with a thick, musical highlands brogue. As Duke of Pazira, the western half of which was one long, uphill climb into Lenayin, Alexanda had had plenty of experience with highlanders. There were those who said that the accent was so strong it was infectious and could be caught when the wind changed from the west, like a cold. Once caught, it stayed for life.

  “And you must be Bryanne!” Marya exclaimed. “Aren't you pretty!”

  “Thank you, Princess Marya,” Bryanne said shyly. “Is that Shyana you're carrying? She's very pretty.”

  “Yes, this is Shyana.” Marya said, kissing the sleeping girl on the hair. “She's only two, she's very tired. I was just about to take her upstairs to sleep. Would you like to come?”

  “Oh could I?”

  “Lady Marya, you're too kind,” Varona interrupted, “but I had really thought to introduce Bryanne to the dance at the earliest-”

  “Oh, dear Duchess,” Marya laughed, “I'll make certain she's introduced to all the most handsome boys personally. But first, she can help me put my little girl to bed, yes?”

  “Oh…well, of course.” Varona smiled, thinly.

  Marya appeared not to notice the discomfort, took Bryanne's hand, and swept toward the big, guarded rear door. “Do you know any lullabies, Bryanne? Tell me which are your favourites?”

  “All these servants and nannies to take care of the children, but she takes her girl to bed herself,” Alexanda said approvingly, watching them leave. “That's a true Torovan woman for you. Pity we have to go to Lenayin these days to find one.”

  “Oh, Alexanda, really,” Varona huffed. “It's all very well for her, all the most eligible men will be falling over themselves trying to marry her daughters.”

  “My vast apologies for only being the Duke of Pazira,” Alexanda growled.

  Before long, the senior men were invited to gather in Patachi Steiner's study, on the third floor overlooking the celebrations. The room was grand, its walls lined with books in polished bookcases, a large writing desk in a corner, with a view of the harbour. Alexanda stood before the open balcony doors, a glass of wine in hand, and gazed out at the view until Patachi Steiner himself had arrived. The pompous git had to be the last one in, of course.

  Reluctantly turning, Alexanda considered the gathering. Patachi Marlen Steiner was looking old, his broad shoulders now stooped, his white shoulder-length hair thinning on top. Where once his beard had accentuated a fine jaw, it now hung sagging upon loose folds of neck. But his eyes were watchful, and full of knowledge.

  Symon Steiner stood talking to Duke Tarabai of Danor, a tall man with a square face and big ears. As far away as possible, examining books on an ornate shelf, was Duke Tosci, a man as solid and squat as a statue. Tosci and Tarabai continued the tradition of hatred between Coroman and Danor provinces. Surely even a man as dull as Duke Tosci knew that the families liked to play Coroman and Danor against each other? Or then again, Alexanda pondered, perhaps he was the only thinking duke in Torovan.

  Also present were four other patachis. Alexanda recognised only one-Patachi Elmar Halmady, Marlen Steiner's right-hand man. He had far better things to do than memorise the faces of this quibbling crowd. Duke Belary of Vedichi, fat, bearded and stupid, sidling now to Steiner's side, Alexanda knew only too well and he loathed him most of all.

  “My friends,” said Patachi Steiner, “a toast to Saint Sadis.” He took a cup from a nephew, there were no servants in the room tonight, and held it aloft. All drank.

  “A toast to the archbishop!” said Patachi Halmady, and all drank to that as well.

  “A toast to our gathering of families,” Patachi Steiner finished. A nephew made the rounds with a wine decanter, refilling the men's cups. Even the boys had swords at their hips. “I shall begin proceedings by relating the latest news from my good friend King Torvaal Lenayin. The rebellion in their north has truly ended. Lenayin stands ready to serve the Verenthane cause, and preparations are being made even now to muster a great army.�
��

  “That is good news,” said one of the patachis. “Our forces grow strong. Even the Saalshen Bacosh cannot stand against us.”

  “Good news?” exclaimed Duke Tarabai of Danor. “It's phenomenal! The only thing in all the world those barbarians are good for is fighting! Usually they just fight each other or the Cherrovan, but now! An entire, united army of Lenayin! Good gods, should they march with us on our crusade they'll wipe the Bacosh clean of serrin single-handedly. The rest of us will just need to watch and applaud.”

  “And what of the girl?” asked Duke Tosci of Coroman. “Is it true that she's come to Petrodor?”

  “Assuredly,” said Patachi Halmady, gravely. “And her uman.”

  “Then Kessligh Cronenverdt truly led the Lenay rebellion?” asked another patachi.

  “No,” said Symon Steiner. “It seems that the great Nasi-Keth left Lenayin for Petrodor well before the rebellion. Sashandra Lenayin led the rebellion on her own, and survived.”

  “And fled in terror for her life!” Duke Tarabai added.

  “She was expelled from Lenayin by her father,” Symon Steiner corrected, elegantly fingering his wine cup. “After producing from him some very reasonable terms, sparing the lives and fortunes of those who followed her.”

  Some of the men appeared disquieted at that. No one questioned the heir of Steiner's information. Family Steiner, it was well known, had a great many sources, in all the most unlikely places.

  “Well, better her leading the rebellion than Cronenverdt,” said another of the patachis. “That man has too much standing already, Lenay Commander of Armies and hero in a land that loves war and heroes more than most. If the Nasi-Keth unites beneath his leadership, we shall have trouble.”