“Tell me what this is about, then,” he said.
He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. “I’m ordered to report for command at Souvin in a fortnight at the latest,” he said.
“Souvin?”
He took the papyrus leaf from the wallet at his belt and unfolded it and held it out. Torien reached to take it, slowly. There was silence while he read the words to himself. When he was done he folded the papyrus up very precisely and handed it back.
“Is this someone’s fool idea of a joke?”
“No, sir. That’s the commission I received.”
“They wouldn’t dare send you to Souvin—to send a Risto to a place like Souvin.”
“Those are my orders,” said Tyren.
“Then what aren’t you telling me?”
That was the question he’d feared. When he said nothing Torien swore aloud. “Son of a bitch. What have you done?”
He said, “There was—a matter involving Luchian Marro.”
“Marro,” said Torien, savagely as if it were an oath itself.
“I—confronted him over his behavior. Had him punished for conducting himself in a manner unbefitting an officer.”
“Was he behaving in such a manner?”
“Yes, sir. But he told me I’d pay for it, pay for disgracing him. I—didn’t think much of it. He makes these empty threats all the time. This time he must have meant it.”
“You’re telling me Marro arranged this?”
“It’s the only explanation I can think of.”
“I will write to Vione,” Torien said, “and I will have this rescinded. That sniveling brat can’t possibly have thought he’d succeed with this.”
“Sir,” said Tyren, slowly, “I don’t think you should do that.”
“What in Hell do you mean?”
“I don’t think you should have the commission rescinded. Those are my orders, and I’ve no real proof Luchian had a hand in the thing.” He hesitated. “I don’t want it said I used my father’s name to escape my duty. It would reflect as badly on you as on me.”
Torien said nothing.
“I’m willing to go to Souvin,” Tyren said. “I know it’s not what you wanted for me—”
“You’re a fool,” said Torien.
He opened the door and went out without another word.
Tyren went out after him, slowly. There was a tightness inside him. Anger, more at himself than at his father—anger at his own mulishness, his own stupid, stubborn pride. The stall row was empty now except for the Cesino slave, who was hunkered down on his heels at the door of the colt’s stall, waiting. Tyren ignored him and went out into the yard. Only when he’d reached the steps of the house did he realize the Cesino was coming along behind him. He pretended he hadn’t noticed. He went up the steps and into the house and round the atrium to his chambers. The Cesino followed him into the anteroom and waited inside the curtained doorway a little while, stiffly, uncertainly. Then he sat down, bracing his back against the wall, staring straight ahead, blank-faced, hollow-eyed, saying nothing. Easy to pretend he wasn’t even there. Tyren sat at the desk with his back to him and passed the time marking distances on a map of the Souvino region.
He still had his mother to deal with. For now the only thing to upset her was that he hadn’t given her ample time to prepare some elaborate celebration for his homecoming. He didn’t tell her it was because he’d considered not coming home at all, and he hadn’t yet found the heart to tell her how soon he’d be leaving again.
They ate the evening meal in the great hall. The heavy dining table was an ancient Cesino thing, hewn of black walnut wood and ornately carved, but the chairs were tall and straight-backed in Vareno fashion and the meal itself was Vareno fare: fish in a wine sauce, bread dipped in oil, green herbs dressed with vinegar. His father sat at the head of the table with Chæla at his right hand and Tore and Tore’s wife Juile at his left. Tyren didn’t know Juile well, knew only that she came of good stock back in Varen and that her family, the Ordani, were favorites of the Emperor. She greeted him with a light kiss on his cheek, murmured with a smile she was glad to meet him finally, but she was quiet, pale, seemed unhappy, and Tyren saw, with a coldness inside him, Tore didn’t pay her much regard.
The girl, Challe, Tyren’s sister, sat next to her mother. She’d grown since Tyren had seen her last. She was a young woman now, and pretty. She’d be beautiful in a few years more. She smiled at him across the table, shyly, her eyes darting down when he looked at her, and for once, suddenly, he wished he’d been home more, that he knew her better. They hadn’t had enough time before, and it was too late now. In all likelihood she’d be full-grown and married off before he saw her again.
The Cesino slave stood with the other servants in the shadows along the wall, coming to refill his wine bowl when it was empty and then resuming his position, never speaking a word.
His mother was speaking of Choiro.
“Such a lovely city in winter,” she said. “Not like this place. The roads go all to mud here, mud and dirty snow. I’ll be glad to go to Choiro in the wintertime.”
Tyren looked over to where his father sat, met his eyes and looked away.
Torien said, “Our son has told you about his commission?”
He said it casually, carelessly. Tyren tensed. Dangerous when Torien spoke like that. The carelessness was a lie, a mask. There was anger underneath.
“Heaven, no, he hasn’t told me himself,” said Chæla. “No one tells me anything. I’m still waiting.”
“I think the reason he’s hesitant to tell you,” said Torien, “is that he won’t be going to Choiro at all.”
Silence settled over the table all at once.
“You were going to tell your mother about your commission?” Torien said to Tyren.
He couldn’t mask it as Torien could. He was so angry that his right hand, resting on the table, shook a little. He dropped it to his lap and looked across the table at nothing.
“I’ve been posted to Souvin,” he said.
The Cesino slave, standing at his elbow to fill his wine bowl again, froze suddenly, startled, the empty bowl clenched in one hand, the wine skin in the other. He recovered himself quickly. He filled the bowl and set it down again and backed away.
Tore was laughing. It was loud in the silence and Chæla was confused by it.
“Souvin?” she said. “Where’s Souvin?”
“Souvin is nowhere,” said Tore. “The edge of the Outland. That’s the point. They send the dregs to places like Souvin—the ones they want to be rid of.”
“I don’t understand,” Chæla said.
“Our son is going to Souvin to bring honor to the Risto name, of course,” said Torien.
“Or there’s the real reason,” Tore said. He was still laughing. “Did you tell him the truth, Tyren? That you crossed Luchian Marro for the sake of a Cesino foot-soldier?”
He was too startled to pretend, to act like that was nonsense and laugh it off. Of course he should have known Tore might hear something. There’d have been rumors. Even though Mureno had taken care to shut the whole thing up there’d have been rumors, and Tore had friends enough in Choiro for the rumors to reach him.
“So this is about a Cesino,” said Torien. The mockery had vanished. His voice was suddenly cold and hard and sharp as a steel blade. “You didn’t tell me that part.”
Tyren pushed back his chair and stood.
“You don’t know the circumstances,” he said to Tore. And then, to his father: “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
He went out into the corridor, the Cesino coming quickly behind him. When he’d gotten back to his rooms he laid out his bags again and made sure they were in order, letting the anger go out of him while he worked. The Cesino stood back a little and watched him in silence.
“You know the mountains?” Tyren said to him, over his shoulder. “Souvin?”
The Cesino made him no answer. Tyren waited a while, wondered if possibly the Cesin
o didn’t understand Vareno that well; there were few enough Vareni in the border mountains. But he’d obeyed Torien’s order in the stable earlier and he’d reacted to the words at the meal. Tyren turned to look at him. He repeated the question, a little stumblingly, in Cesino. Still no answer, though the Cesino looked up to him briefly, his gray eyes very cold.
The thing that had happened in Choiro came into his mind unbidden. He turned away again. “See that you’re ready to leave in the morning,” he said.
He went into the bedchamber and lay on his back on the bed without undressing, his fingers laced behind his head. How much easier if he hadn’t come back. Well, it was done with now and there was no point in staying past tonight. He’d broken the news, borne the consequences. There was nothing for him here now. He could leave before first light and be all the way back to Chælor before most of the household had even realized he’d gone.
He slept as he was, sore from the road, exhausted from confronting his father.
* * *
The sky was still the deep bluish-black of early morning when he got up, the room cool and damp because he’d forgotten to close the shutters. He splashed cold water from the wash basin onto his face, strapped on his gold-bossed leather cuirass over the indigo-dyed woolen uniform tunic, buckled his sword-belt on his hip, and went into the anteroom. The Cesino slave had been sitting cross-legged by the doorway again, his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed, but he came awake immediately and got to his feet. Tyren picked up his bags and went out into the dark corridor, out to the atrium portico. The Cesino followed him without a word. The echoes of their footfalls went racing round the marble as they walked, and the great door creaked when Tyren eased it open, but no one came after them. It was too early even for the house slaves to be stirring. They went down the steps and crossed the yard to the stable.
Inside the stable Tyren set down his bags in the corner by the doorway and went along the row until he found Risun’s stall. He saddled Risun himself, while the Cesino saddled the black colt, and led him out into the row so he could feel out the hooves. He straightened in time to see his father come in. He held Risun’s reins in one hand and waited, lifting his chin a little.
“Your mother was in tears last night,” Torien said. He leaned against the post of the stall door and looked at Tyren with his arms folded across his ribs.
“Maybe Tore should learn to hold his tongue,” Tyren said. “There was no need to upset her with the idea of where I’m going.”
“He told me what happened—why Marro’s determined to have his revenge on you.”
“I’m surprised to learn Tore was there when it happened. I didn’t see him.”
“Watch your own tongue,” said Torien. “This isn’t about some quarrel with that Marro whelp. This is about the Risto name.”
“I’ve done nothing to shame the Risto name.”
“Do you think the Rani will see it that way?”
He said, “The Rani?”
“You really think Chæso Rano will see his daughter wed to you when you’re commanding a handful of undisciplined commoners in a muddy farm village in the Outland? And there are other considerations. You made it clear you had more regard for this Cesino than you had for a Vareno noble. Did you give any thought to how that might appear to the Senate? To the Emperor?”
He’d given thought to it, of course—afterward, when there’d been time and space to give thought to it. He’d given little thought to it at the time it was happening. There’d been nothing but hot, senseless anger in him then. There’d been no time to worry about the consequences. The Cesino would have been dead if he’d taken the time to worry about the consequences.
He spoke through shut teeth. “It makes no difference he was Cesino. If he’d been Vareno I’d have acted just the same as I did. It was injustice either way.”
“It makes a difference for you,” said Torien. “They’ll say your loyalty is conflicted, use this as proof we can’t be trusted with the governorship.”
Tyren said nothing.
Torien turned his face away and let out his breath heavily in exasperation. After a moment he looked back.
“I’ll write to Choiro,” he said. “I’ll write Rano, try to convince him this marriage is still worthwhile for him. That means I must convince him you still have a future. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you,” Tyren said.
That was goodbye. Torien went back up to the house, not saying another word, not looking back once. Tyren watched him go. There was a kind of bitterness knotted up inside him again but it wasn’t anger this time. No—regret, maybe. He wouldn’t see his father for a long time and there was the very real possibility he wouldn’t see him again—the Outland was dangerous—and this wasn’t how he wanted to leave it between them. There’d always been a kind of gulf between them, but why did it have to widen now? He wished it hadn’t widened now. He wished there were no gulf at all, that for once they might be father and son without tradition or expectation or pride to come between them.
Better, he thought, if he hadn’t come back.
The Cesino slave had stood there all that time, holding the black colt’s head and saying nothing. He’d put Tyren’s bags across the saddle and when Torien had gone he brought the colt slowly over and the colt threw out his legs in excitement as he walked, as if he were dancing. It was a fine animal, Tyren couldn’t deny that. But Risun was his horse. Risun had been with him for three years now—an old soldier’s horse. Reluctantly he gave Risun’s reins to the Cesino and took the black colt’s reins in his left hand and wound a thick lock of the black mane round his fingers and pulled himself up into the saddle. The black colt was powerful beneath him, all fluid muscle, so finely thin-skinned Tyren could feel the fire in his blood when he put a hand on the colt’s shoulder. The Cesino mounted Risun and sat waiting, expressionless. Tyren heeled the black colt and rode him down the row and out into the yard at a smooth canter. He understood now why Tore had been angry the colt wouldn’t be raced. The gaits were perfect. The colt could have beaten anything. This wasn’t the sort of horse you gave a soldier.
A yawning guard ordered the opening of the gate for them and they rode the gravel path down through the city to the causeway. Vessy was still asleep, though down on the lake-shore a few fishermen were uncovering their boats and shaking out their nets by torch-light. Tyren and the Cesino went west on the causeway, round the lake towards Chælor. They’d reach the crossroads by dawn, maybe earlier—could be better than halfway to Rien by sundown, if there weren’t any trouble on the road, and Rien was the last big city before the mountains.
II
It was an hour yet until daybreak, two hours at least until Chæla would rise, but Torien didn’t return to the bedchamber. He went instead to his study, took off his cape and draped it over the back of the desk chair. Then he sat down in the chair and lit a lamp against the early-morning darkness and pretended to give his attention to some ledger-work while his thoughts wandered.
He’d hoped to convince Tyren to stay, of course—to shame him into staying until this thing could be investigated further, if the fool wouldn’t be dissuaded from it merely by the prospect of Souvin itself. Foolish, maybe, but Tyren had never been a coward. But he’d known the manner of determination in Tyren’s face, had known his words were little use against it. Well, let him go, then. The matter would be settled quickly enough.
Sere Moien, captain of the household guard, found him there in the study later. By then the pink light of dawn had started in through the east-facing window and Torien could hear the house slaves moving along the corridor beyond the study doorway, making their preparations for the morning meal and the day ahead.
He spoke to Moien without looking up from the ledger. “I’d hoped to talk some sense into him.”
“He’s gone, then?”
“An hour ago or more. I couldn’t threaten him out of it.”
Moien sat down in the cross-legged chair before the des
k, adjusting his sword round the chair as he sat, stretching out his long legs.
“No, he’s too much like you for that,” he said. There was a touch of amusement in his voice. “You know that, Torien. You know you weren’t going to stop him.”
A sharp reply started on Torien’s tongue. He swallowed it before it could come out and spoke instead in grudging acknowledgment. “He’s no coward. I suppose that’s one consolation.”
“There was a time when you might have done the same as he’s doing now. In fact—I remember clearly you doing much the same as he’s doing now, against all better judgment.”
There was a sudden pain in his heart, keen as a dagger stroke. There always was when the memories woke. He looked up.
“Once,” he said. “Before all this. It was simpler then, Sere. Everything was simpler then.”
Moien dipped his chin in a brief nod. He didn’t say anything to that. He knew better than to press it further.
There was silence between them a while. He’d kept writing this whole time: figures from the steward Rovero’s ledger, and from the report the stable-master had given him yesterday, and from Moien’s own reports of the guard-house and armory—rows and rows of figures copied down neatly, precisely, mindlessly, out of habit. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“I’ll write Mureno,” he said, at length. “There has to be one man left at Vione who isn’t licking the sandal-straps of the Marri. I want the truth of the matter. I want Marro to answer for it.”
Moien said, “Have you thought that perhaps this is more than the Marro boy’s petty vengeance plot?”
“Of course I’ve thought of that.”
“You should be on your guard. You and Tore both. I’ll spread the word among the men, if you’ll permit it.”
“Do it quietly,” said Torien.
“Yes, sir.”
He worked on the letter to Mureno when Moien had gone. The words he’d spoken floated through his head while he wrote: simpler, once. Yes, how much simpler it had been at Tasso, all those years ago, with no other concerns than the straightforward, practical business of commanding a garrison. How much simpler to be a soldier, to be away from politics, away from Choiro. And how quickly it had all been complicated—the word coming to him in the headquarters of the fortress at Tasso that his father and brother were dead in the same day. Killed by Cesino rebels in the mountain pass between Varen and Cesin—or that was the story spread round the Empire, at least. He’d learned the truth later, in Vessy for his own installation as governor, from careless words dropped by a drunk Marro guardsman. He’d learned the truth and could do nothing, for he never saw the guardsman again, the Marri had made sure of that, and there was no other evidence for it. He carried the black, bitter anger still, had carried it bound up inside him twenty years now, and all the while the Marri had been building up their power here in Cesin and their standing in the capital.
His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) Page 2