by Ru Emerson
“I shall,” Ber'Sordes replied gravely. He smiled then. “One hopes you will not need to fight in it, however. It seems even less suited than your green was.” The other Narrans looked at each other, uncertain whether to smile at the Ambassador's joke; uncertain what the joke itself might be. Ylia laughed.
“It's safe, so is Galdan's. The Lady Ysian and Nisana will bridge the Elite Guard out if there is need.”
Dinner was a pleasant meal, if not so merry as in former years. Ber'Sordes followed the lead set by Ylia and Galdan and made no mention of the recent tragedies, concentrating instead on the expected trade at Fest, the sword crossings which he dearly loved to watch, matters Oversea and in Nar. Even then he spoke of lighter matters, and avoided the Lord Mayor's failing health, the latest attacks on Narran ships by Sea-Raiders and the loss of the Narran Hippocamp. Though unlike the Merman, most of that ship's crew had been pulled to safety by the warship Gar, and the Sea-Raiders’ Viper had cautiously withdrawn.
The food had improved since his first Fest, the Ambassador thought, though the Nedaoans had done well with what they'd had that year. The meal went quickly.
His new household was eager to explore the market again, marking which stalls they would visit as soon as Fest opened the next morning, talking to any merchants they might find out at this hour, finishing up work on their craft or the housing for it.
They passed Alxeidis and his companions on the outer steps.
“Curious, m'Lord,” Tre'Dorret ventured as they stopped in the main square to watch workmen unroll the canvas shade over the pavilion.
“What's that, man?” The Ambassador's attention was fixed on two men teetering on rough ladders, tacking cloth in place.
“Those Ylsans. Had anyone asked me whether Yls grew men like that, I'd have said no.”
“It doesn't have many.” Ber'Sordes turned to walk back to the Embassy house. “Unfortunately for Yls. May come a day not too far hence, they'll need them.”
There was no answer to that; each of the men with him had sailed the increasingly perilous route between Nalda and Yslar, and Tre'Dorret had been second mate on the Shark until this last month. They knew.
“By the Blessed One himself,” Tevvro hissed, “what have you done with him?” His voice was pitched so only Vess and the two guards at his back, the two Chosen at Tevvro's, could hear him. His eyes lit with fresh shock on the half-mad rag of the man behind Vess.
Jers ignored them all. He sat on the block near the left tiller, picking at loose threads on his sleeve and whispering to himself. Vess smiled reassuringly. “It's nothing, really.”
Nothing, really? Nothing?" Tevvro's voice echoed across the water, and several of the rowers started; Jers might have been deaf for all the attention he paid.
“It's a passing thing; I had not realized his state until we left the Isles. I knew he was unwell, but he is truly better than he was. A passing thing. I doubt he was deliberately poisoned, I think it more likely to have been fish. Or eels; he's fond of them, you know, and they can be a danger this time of year. He was quite ill, and raving until a few days ago. Bringing him away from that island hold has already worked wonders with him; now that I have time and energy to spare, I shall see to it that his recovery is complete.” Tevvro gazed at him, transferred the look to Jers. “It is too bad he would not accept healing. I—ah—I could do that now. My father's gift, you know. He has taught me that much of it. But of course I must respect Jers’ beliefs.”
Lie. Tevvro knew it was a lie. Vess was making no attempt whatever to even make it appear truth. And the Power—by the One, the rumors were a joke!
“You dare not let him die, Lord Vess. We need him. I have Osnera's papers and guard with me so I may take control of the Nedaoan house. I am ordered to send Grewl back to the Heirocrat for correction.”
“And my cousin. Of course, she will sit calmly by and allow that?”
“I said I had orders. I did not say how I intended to carry them out.”
Vess laughed. “You have papers that are utterly worthless until Nedao is mine. But that will be before snow comes,” he added, forestalling the Chosen's next question. “We have already discussed this, there is no need to do so again. I know you do not wish to remain in Nedao. Jers will be ready to take command of that House and I will gladly have him. The people have strayed from the truth since my cousin took the ruling and forced this Grewl upon the Chosen.”
Another lie, at least in part. Vess cared little or nothing about the Chosen way. He would use it as he used everything else, as means to his desired end. Jers—well, perhaps Jers could be useful to Vess. The proof of that was that Jers still lived.
“Your ambition goes beyond that valley, Lord Vess,” he said finally. “I know it. My own does, also. But—we have discussed this before.” Tevvro smiled coolly. “Certain men in Osnera think me buried in the Foessa, and that pleases them, because I am thereby out of contention for higher position.”
“I know your ambition. You will be Heirocrat one day,” Vess said. “Jers will manage the Nedaoan House. He is only temporarily unbalanced, though I think he was never truly a balanced man. But that is not important. He is strong in his belief and a fanatic will be useful to us once the House is mine.” Silence, save for the lapping of the river against the side of the ship and the ever present wind whispering through tall shore-grass. “There is more you do not know yet: More than Nedao will be mine. Yls will be my father's. Nar, mine. But a thing occurs to me. Once Yls is reft of Power, might the people not be turned to a new religion—to the tree Way?” He paused. Tevvro caught at his beard, tugged a hair or two loose unnoticing as he concentrated on this new idea.
Yls! The priest who brought that proud nation of sorcerers to the Chosen fold would be strong indeed! It would take time—it might take years. But Tevvro was still young and the new Heirocrat a vigorous man of fifty-five years. Yls. The timing could be right; his successor could well be Tevvro.
Vess watched him closely. I knew that would be the play to capture this ambitious noble's son. It will not hurt me if he fails—as I know he will.
Tevvro gave his beard one last tug, cast Jers a businesslike glance. “You'll care for him?”
“I will. You want him in Nedao; he'll be there for you.”
“He had better be.”
“Trust me.” Tevvro looked at Vess sharply; Vess made him a deep bow and Tevvro laughed.
“Certainly! As well as you trust me.” He glanced at the sky. “I must leave; I want my ship anchored before dark. I'll sail to Nar and see what can be learned there. I'll send messages to Osnera that all is proceeding according to order. Thereafter, my ship will be anchored in that cove south of Nalda. You know the one.”
Vess walked him back toward the railing. “Keep that red flag on your foremast at all times, it's your safety against attack. We attack Yls very soon. You and I will talk again after that.” He watched the Osneran boat cast off, watched until it was well on its way, then climbed the ladder to the redder benches. “My poor, abandoned friend Jers.” Jers started, looked up in mild confusion. “Tevvro didn't even bother to speak to you, did he?”
“Tevvro? My friend Tevvro—here? Where?”
Vess caught at his arm, pulled him to his feet, pointed down-river. Jers stared slack-jawed after the tubby Osneran ship “I asked him but he refused, Jers. He said he could not thick of a reason why he should speak to you. Poor friend.” Silence. Jers continued to stare down-stream. A tear ran down his cheek. “I warned you, do you remember? He has ambitions and has cast us both aside to pursue them since we cannot elect him Heirocrat. But I am your friend, Jers, your good friend.” Jers turned to stare at him; Vess smiled and the Chosen shuddered. Vess caught him by the arm as he flailed for balance, but Jers tore free and staggered into the bench. He sat, hard. “I am your friend, Jers. Remember that.” Vess turned and clattered back down the ladder. Jers stuffed grubby fingers in his mouth, stared after him. Another tear made a black streak down the side of his no
se.
Another Fest and another five days of contesting, trade, show and pomp dedicated to the high days of summer. This year, no one but the Ylsans had much heart for it, though we all tried to put as good a face on the Fest as we could.
14
Ylia spent most of first Fest day in the pavilion, watching the crossings with only Ber'Sordes for company: Galdan was off most of the morning judging bow with Golsat, and the Ambassador's household were out bargaining. Ber'Sordes left such trading to them: He enjoyed everything from the novice crossings to the exhibition fighting, and the first day was a full one. Galdan and Brelian had followed Ylia and the Swordmaster for the past two years and this year Lennet and Eveya were showing rapier.
The Narran sword competitors had come a distance since their first Fest. One of the household had made third in his sword class the previous year, while two others had come second in novice, and that against determined and strong Nedaoan competition. This year—well. Ber'Sordes had actually wagered a full purse this morning on Dri'Hamad's son. The lad was good enough to draw praise from the Queen's Swordmaster.
One of the novice crossings was over, and the competitors for the next not yet ready. Ber'Sordes glanced across the square to see five of the Ylsans near the southern corner of the square, watching in astonishment as two of the Queen's Elite Women walked by. The Ambassador smiled, It had been long since he had found the sight of a woman's breeches unnerving, so long he'd forgotten how it might affect others. And these were Ylsan and young: The young were often the most hidebound in their clinging to convention.
Ber'Sordes wondered how much troth there was to what he had heard: that these young men would welcome women to their company. Of course, he had never seen an Ylsan woman save Lady Ysian in breeches and with bared forearms. He doubted very much that Alxy had intended his ranks to include swordswomen. I do wonder, the old ambassador thought, what they'll make of the Bowmaster's lass. He'd seen Lennet earlier, coaching two novice girls, and even he had been surprised:
That's Tr'Kedias’ old doublet and hose the lass is wearing! There she was, bold as a jay, the only female in Narran masculine garb in sight. Lads were staring openly, many older women glaring at her, some of the girls giggling nervously. Lennet pretended not to notice any of them but Ber'Sordes knew full well she was aware of the fuss; she was a little too outwardly unnoticing. Ah, yes, the old Narron thought as he leaned back against his cushions, this will be a most interesting Fest, and not merely for the competitions.
One of the watching Ylsans gazed absently across the still empty square, then froze. “Ssst! Alxy!”
“Not so close my ear, Geit, what?” Alxy sighted along his friend's hand. “Narran hose, too dark and years out of fashion; a dated doublet. So?”
“Look again,” Geit urged, and smothered a grin as his friend did and this time saw the long plait, the slender hand, and then Lennet's fine-boned dark face as she turned to speak to someone behind her. Alxy actually blushed as he turned away. “It's a girl.” Geit said, rather unnecessarily.
“I can see that!” Alxy retorted in an annoyed whisper. “By the Guardians and the One, what kind of folk are these Nedaoans, to let their daughters expose themselves so?” Vysat leaned casually around Alxy's other shoulder to see and rocked back on his heels.
“She's pretty, he said finally. Geit cast him a repressive look, and Vysat blushed. As the only one of the twenty with no Great House blood, Vysat never knew when he might say something wrong, though Alxy tried to teach him the niceties. They all did. Alxy shrugged.
“I suppose she is rather pretty,” he said finally. “Not a lady, though. She'd be the mark for rude comment at the very least, back in Yls. And just look how her own people are staring at her!”
“Well, I'd wager,” Geit said thoughtfully, “the way she wears those blades, she doesn't get much insult to her face. Did you see the Lady Ysian this morning? She's in breeches!" He laughed with good-natured malice. “Her father would die of shame. And her poor stupid brother! I know, let's persuade her to come visit, clad like that. It would be the end of Ardyel, the Council could only benefit.”
“Well, but breeches are practical, and even the Queen wears them here;” Alxy said dubiously. He stepped back into the street, drawing his friends with him. “But hose on a girl!”
“I can think of several girls who should wear—” Geit began in his high, carrying voice. His friends shushed him vigorously.
“Jadyan has bow within the hour,” Vardyel said. “We had better be there to cheer him on, or we'll never hear the end of it if he loses.”
"When he loses, you mean,” Alxy laughed. He glanced over his shoulder as the foot traffic caught them; Lennet was standing on the opposite side of the field, staring after them. Her gaze met his; her chin went up defiantly.
That first night, most folk ate at the banquet held in the main square and the surrounding streets. Ylia and Galdan hosted a dinner in the large dining chamber for the Ylsans, Ysian and Bendesevorian.
“I agree with Bendesevorian,” Ylia said. Therea was lacing her into pale green brocade in the new fashion and she was fussing with the bodice. Galdan nodded.
“There's no reason he should follow stupid protocol that insists he receive the Sirdar's permission before he talks to any other AEldra. This is the real world and we haven't time for such foolishness.”
Ylia tugged at the bodice. “Therea, I feel half-dressed, I don't think I can walk around like this tonight.”
“The gown reveals less of you than the breeches show leg, and a more proper portion, of you,” her chief serving woman retorted. “The color's a good one, and as for the style—well, my Lord, you tell her.”
“It's wonderful,” Galdan said. One of his two lads was pulling yellow brocade undersleeve through slashes in the green velvet sleeves of his short doublet. “I like it.”
“You would,” Ylia said darkly. “It's too snug, I can't breathe properly and my breasts are squashed.”
“If it were looser you'd fall out of it and into your soup.” Ylia turned to glare at him and Galdan leered. She shook her head and laughed. Therea adjusted the flowers plaited through Shelagn's pearls, turned the whole so the teardrop emerald was between her brows and stood back to admire the effect. “You can wear the short cloak, if you feel unclad.”
Ylia was still giggling. “There's a kerchief I can tuck into the throat; I'm just fussing. I'm just not used to the fit, but I'll adjust. Therea's right. And it's no worse than your legs, Galdan, when you began wearing hose instead of loose breeches.” She shook out the skirt. There were lengths of it and it trailed behind her. “It's time they met, Bendesevorian and Alxy,” she went back to the original subject of discussion. “And if it's not the War Council we need, it's something. A start. I'll feel better for it.”
“You're not alone,” Galdan said. He donned the informal gold circlet, smoothed the hair under it and dismissed his dressers.
Ylia eyed herself critically in the mirror Therea held up, adjusted the pearls: “I think indecision is going to tear poor Bendesevorian apart. I hope he has a better idea of what to do after tonight.”
“Maybe we all will.” Galdan held out an arm; she took it. Merreven, now Master of the Household, waited at the foot of the stairs to escort them into the main dining hall.
The Ylsans were waiting at the chalcedonwood table. Ysian came behind Ylia and Galdan, glorious in deep red silk. But for once she went unnoticed: Alxy and his friends saw no one but the tall figure at her side. Bendesevorian wore plain dark blue hose and an unpatterned doublet—Erken's, all that would fit and all he would take—but there was no doubting who he was.
Alxy could never remember how he got from his chair to kneel before the Nasath. “By the One, he whispered, and his voice shook, “by the sacred memory of my ancestors, by holy Shelagn herself, you've come back.”
This meal had been the hardest part of it all, Bendesevorian thought. It was difficult, being deep in the dealings of humans after so many
years. Though he had dealt with many of them before, save Shelagn. He was still not certain he'd convinced the Ylsans he was mortal. To be thought a god—had the Elders realized that would follow when the Nasath gave such a gift and then went away? That was not a pleasant thing to think upon.
Fortunately, several of those present were intelligent and resourceful enough to accept his presence after the initial surprise, and to treat him as an ally. Between them, he learned very dismaying things about current affairs in Yslar. As the meal was cleared away and more wine poured, he decided: He would go with them when they returned home.
“I am glad, for my sake and for our league. But my grandfer Asselman won't listen to you, sir,” Alxy said. “After all, you know, that's his daughter that's one of the Three.”
“I understand. But I feel I must try.”
“I appreciate that, sir. As for us, we intend to work harder than ever to increase our ranks when we return. Of course, there are those like my brother who have held out to see what we might learn. There isn't much outside news in Yls, only rumor, and to get that a man often has to talk to the Narrans, down at the docks. That is how we know the Sea-Raiders have increased their attacks, and that it may be the work of the Three.”
It is, Galdan said. That much we know.”
Alxy shook his head. “That's not a pretty thought, Sea-Raiders allied with them. But I would rather know than try to sift rumor back home. So we have justified coming for your Fest. Beyond—” He met Bendesevorian's eyes and managed a true smile. He turned back to Galdan. “The Fest itself would have been sufficient reason, of course, if times were not so difficult. I trust it will not be our last, and that the next we attend will be held in more pleasant and peaceful circumstances.”
“We can only hope,” Ylia said with a smile, but she felt no hope: How many years would pass before such a Fest?
The final evening of Fest, Ber'Sordes, his household and the Ylsans all made a snug fit in the Royal Pavilion, but a merry one. The last prizes were given out: Sword firsts mostly to Erken's lads; Marhan's lads would have a hard practice the next day. Women's sword firsts had gone to Eveya—her last contest, she announced as she took the coin and ribbon. No one looked more pleased at that than Lennet, who had once again come second behind her. The Ylsans had placed often enough to make them happy. Lossana had taken the coin and ribbon for older women—a field much larger than it had been the first year in the valley, thanks largely to her skill and effort. Ber'Sordes’ man had justified the Narrans’ faith in him, and the Ambassador was in an expansive mood as the prize-giving ended and the musicians came forward to begin the dance.