"Then start by getting out of my way," the woodcutter said. Dante pulled back his cloak to expose the silver and sapphire brooch of the White Tree. The woodcutter lowered his hands, expression turning pensive. "We didn't come for trouble, sir. But I just saw my friend get punched by this whining mosquito here."
"Then maybe you should see if he's all right." Dante tipped his head at Blays. "That one happens to be my friend. We'll see he gets safely home."
"I'm not going anywhere." Blays pointed at the man he'd punched, who had lowered himself to the floor, head held between his hands. "He bumped into me."
Dante bulged his eyes. "There's plenty to drink at the Citadel."
Blays rolled his eyes. "Fine. I think I'll go vomit on your bed."
"I'll go with him," Mourn said.
"I don't need a nursemaid," Blays said. "Unless she's a damn sight less hairy than you."
"And I don't like the way I'm being stared at." Mourn rested his hand on Blays' shoulder. "Come on."
They left, followed by the steady gaze of the crowd. The woodcutters helped their friend to his feet. Dante returned to their table and pulled out a chair for Lira. She swept off her cloak, face flushed with battle-spirit, and let out a long breath. A hunched and wizened beerboy had followed them to the table, rightly guessing they'd be in the mood for a drink. Lira ordered two more palebrowns.
"I hope he's all right," she said after the drinks had arrived.
"He put that man down without getting touched," Dante said. "That woodcutter will be wearing Blays' knuckle-prints for a beard for the next week."
She glanced at the door as if Blays might have snuck back in, then leaned across the table, breasts pressing against her doublet. Involuntarily, Dante remembered how she'd fallen beneath the servants' towel as they dried themselves at Gallador, those flashes of pink and white.
"I mean what he was talking about before. He sounded defeated."
"It gets to him sometimes." Dante shifted in his chair. "This isn't baking pies. Our business requires making people unhappy. Sometimes we have to make them dead."
She held there, half-stretched across the table, eyes steady. "It doesn't get to you?"
"Only when I can afford to let it."
"And what do you do then?"
"Read. Research. Learn the nether."
Lira leaned back and sipped her drink. "Just like I stretch or run or practice my forms. I suppose that's best. The only person you can always count on is yourself."
He drank, too, buying himself a moment. The room felt suddenly warm. Thick, too. Lira's words felt like a letter written long ago, thick with references long lost to time, impenetrable. He took another drink.
"I've found a few people I can count on," he said. "But you have to hold them close. It's so easy to get lost in the wind."
She met his eyes and nodded. They finished their mugs and another round after that. The crowd thinned.
"There's something I don't understand," Dante said.
Lira glanced away from the window. "Just the one thing?"
"Among the universe of things I don't understand, there is one thing I would like you to help me understand right now," he amended. "How can you be so...inflexible?"
"I'm guessing you're not talking about my joint-locks."
Dante shook his head. "Not unless your ethics have joints. And if they do, they're bad ones, because I'm pretty sure there's a lot of stuff you'd never bend on."
"Like what?"
"Like, if it came down to you or me, your silly vow would convince you to sacrifice yourself."
She raised a brow. "You wouldn't do the same for these norren of yours?"
He sloshed his mug. "Not a chance."
"What are you talking about? I've seen you put your life at risk for them a dozen times."
"That's different. I don't know I'm going to die. In general, I'm foolishly certain I won't. But if I were ever in a situation where I knew with perfect certainty it would be my life or their freedom?" He shrugged. "You would be left staring at the cloud of dust in the spot I had just vacated with all haste."
Lira smiled at the corner of the ceiling. "I suppose you think you're being a clear-eyed, pragmatic realist."
"Are you scoffing at me? You're scoffing. Well, if the king and all his men strolled up to you with their swords and said, 'Listen, declare the norren should be slaves or I'll run you through,' I don't see what's so noble about telling the truth and being skewered like a truth-telling pig. What good does that do anyone?"
"Because—" She leaned back, waving her hand over the table. "No. I've had too much rum. I'll say no more."
"What?"
"It's stupid."
Dante waggled his empty mug. "Well, I've had too much, too, and will surely forget whatever is stupid by morning. So out with it."
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "If the king were in front of me, I'd tell him the truth: the norren should be freed."
"But you'd be stabbed. To death."
"It doesn't matter." Lira laughed at herself and shot him a quick glance before looking back to the cup in her hand. "I believe that if I impose my will on the world, the world will bend."
Dante blinked. "Wait, like sorcery? Why didn't you tell me?"
"No, not like that at all. I believe that when you stand up for what's right despite the consequences—because of the consequences—people take notice. Your will changes their minds. And maybe there is a mystical component, too. Like if the gods see right action, it reminds them to change the world for the better." She glanced up. "Is that stupid?"
"No." He set his mug on the table so gently it made no sound. "No. It's beautiful."
For a fleeting instant, her smile was happy, light. Then it became ironic once more. "But you disagree."
"I don't know. I don't think you can count on men or gods to remember what's right. To pick up the torch of your cause after kings and demons have struck it from your hands. If you want to change the world for the good, you have to be willing to put on the mask of the villain."
"Even if it means lying. Killing. Betraying all other values you hold dear."
"If that's what it takes."
"If it takes wrong to do good, then how do you know you're doing good at all?" She drained her cup and clunked it down. "Well, I've embarrassed myself enough. Shall we leave?"
They rose together, smiling and unsteady. In the streets, rain misted from black skies, hissing on the corner torches that burned with the smell of whale fat. Lira said something about the rain and sins; he laughed, his own voice racketing down the empty street. As they approached the Ingate, the clouds tore wide open, battering them with sheets of icy water. Dante grabbed her hand and ran for the gate. Beneath its stone cover, they laughed again, breath curling from their mouths.
Lira flung her hand at the pounding rain. "What d'you say happens first? That stops, or Moddegan sticks our heads on pikes?"
"Who cares?" Dante said. He grabbed her belt and pulled her to him. Her lips were rain-cooled. Her mouth tasted like hops and sliced orange. For a moment as sharp as shattered glass, she was there with him, alive and bright beneath the gates, together in a pocket of safety from the rain and the cold and the darkness. She drew back, stiff. He cocked his head. She shook hers briskly.
He stepped away. She turned to the rain still tumbling from the sky. "It's just rain, isn't it? What are we afraid of?"
She walked into the night. Rain beat Dante's hood. In the Citadel courtyard, he said goodnight. He took a fat bottle of beer with him to bed. Candles blown out, he listened to the rain against the window.
* * *
"On the whole, we've failed," Cally said. "We've failed so thoroughly you'd think it was our express mission." Several members of the Council voiced objections. Cally just laughed from behind his chair at the table, hands clasped at his back. "Don't cry out against me. Look at the facts. Moddegan came down with demands that couldn't possibly be met. The norren have been pushed from sullen
discontent into outright rebellion. The western counties have already sent their first musters to Setteven, whose standing troops have already been dispatched to the borders. All the while, we've stood back, hands washed, faces innocent."
"Not that innocent," Kav said.
"Yes, well, shit happens. At the very least, we didn't push as hard as we could. We made no counter-threats against Moddegan. No alternate treaties suggesting that Narashtovik be made steward of the Territories, for instance, or that the capital abolish slavery in exchange for the official registration and restriction of the clans. Instead, we operated through half-measures—and now we're left with a complete disaster."
Wint wrinkled his sharp nose. "Is this going where I think it's going?"
"I would hope so," Cally said. "Unless you're not half as clever as you or I believe."
"Can we move ahead already?" Tarkon said, hunching his bony shoulders. "At this rate, Dante's going to miss the birth of his own grandchildren."
A few of the Council laughed. A few more frowned or glanced away as if they'd just caught a whiff of an unexpected latrine.
"Then I'll cave to public opinion and keep this brief." Cally placed his palms on the table, long white hair spilling past his ears. "It's time we go to war, too."
"I knew it," Wint said, head wagging.
"Cally," Kav said in his modulate tones. "With all due honor to yourself and your office, I wonder if your motives aren't unfortunately confused."
Cally laughed, high and reedy. "Is that a very roundabout way to ask about Gabe?"
"If you'd rather put it that way."
"For those of you who haven't pried into my personal history, here's the short of it. When I was exiled by Samarand, I left for Mallon; in Mallon, I befriended a monk named Gabe. A norren. Thoughtful fellow, even by the standards of monks. We kept in contact through letters and the like. It was through his help that I was eventually able to reclaim my place here. In exchange, I promised I'd see what I could do for his people."
"That's what this is about?" Wint said. "Paying off your old debts to one forgotten friend?"
Cally impaled Wint on his green-eyed gaze. "My conscience isn't deep nor demanding. I could have bought it off with a sack of silver to a needy clan. But I looked, and I thought, and I tested. It turned out I liked the norren. I like the value they place on thought and craftsmanship and craftsmanship of thought. They are worth preserving. They are worth fighting for. There is no reason—no matter what the king has to say about debts of bondage and that the norren's ability to carry so much weight is proof of their place as our two-legged donkeys—for them to be enslaved and subjugated by the whim of the king."
"Except that he can make them," Somburr said, eyes darting around the table.
"There's no good reason. None that fits Arawn's scheme of justice."
"Now that's a curious evocation," Wint said. "I think one could rightly argue Arawn is all but unconcerned with Earthly justice."
"What are you talking about?" Dante said. "The parable of Arawn's mill isn't just the story of how a disturbance in the heavens made him grind nether instead of ether. It's an express metaphor for justice. Just as the heavens are flawed, so too is the earth. But while the nether may be flawed and unstable compared to the purity of ether, it's ours to shape—and so is our fate."
"And 'fate' will be the operative word," Kav said. "If we actively resist, Moddegan's second tour will take him to Narashtovik. The norren won't provide enough resistance to do more than slow him down. It's just a short march from their hills to our coast. We'd be lucky to make it through the winter."
Cally laughed humorlessly. "I see."
"Is this a joke to you?"
"Oh, I'm laughing at myself. It seems I've failed again." Cally replaced his hands on the table and leaned forward, spine crackling. "This time, I've failed to make myself clear. We're not here for a discussion and this isn't a vote."
Kav's brow crinkled. "Then just what is this about?"
"To tell you where we're going next: to war."
17
The ensuing discussion followed a predictable cycle of outraged revolt, exasperated skepticism, and bitter resignation. Dante sat back, allowing the combatants to exhaust themselves. Cally didn't need his support. Cally was the high priest of Arawn, the ultimate authority of both the Sealed Citadel and all Narashtovik. Barring violent revolt then and there in the Council's chambers, his word was law: Narashtovik would fight alongside the norren.
Not just yet, of course. Neither group had a proper fighting force, for one. For another, there remained the chance, however vanishing, that nothing would come of this at all, and that Moddegan and some norren high chieftain would glare at each other from across the field, fling down their swords, and rush to embrace each other, all misdeeds forgotten. Better to delay the formal announcement that Narashtovik was ready to make hate until after the other participants had committed themselves.
In the meantime, they would set the stage. Olivander would return east to muster the townships, then head to the mountains beyond to see if any of the free peoples cared to war against Gask in return for ongoing recognition of their independence from Narashtovik (which, if the norren prevailed, would declare independence of its own, creating a buffer state between Gask and the free tribes). Kav could harness his deep reservations toward their involvement by traveling to Setteven to petition the king and any other nobles who'd listen to cool down and seek a peaceful solution. Several council men and women would tour cathedrals and temples on both sides of the border, pressuring local priests to petition their own mayors and baronets to provide political opposition. Somburr still had links to a de facto spy network he'd belonged to earlier in life, and would leverage those for whatever they were worth. Most of the elderly members would remain in Narashtovik with Cally to maintain home rule.
And Dante, naturally enough, would travel to the Territories to conduct forward operations.
"Specifically, you're going to organize the tribes," Cally told him once the Council had hammered the major details flat (a process that wound up spilling over into the next day) and the last of the other members finally vacated the chambers. "Inasmuch as such a thing is possible, anyway. I recognize that bringing those squabbling bands together is like trying to fill a bucket with water scooped by hand when the bucket is also made out of water. But whatever hope we have at this point rests on uniting them, however temporarily."
Dante smiled. "Why do I always get the jobs that can't be done?"
"Because it's funny to watch you try. Furthermore, you not only have extensive experience with the clans, but with the method I plan to help unite them with."
"Loons?"
Cally looked up. "Precisely. I put together several more while you were gallivanting around the country. Not enough for all the clans, but it should be enough to spark a confederation."
"You're just going to hand them out."
"No," Cally said. "You are."
Dante twisted his sideburn between his fingers. "How are we going to keep them from falling into enemy hands? Right now they're about the only advantage we've got."
"Since I am so very clever, I have already solved that plan. For one thing, I have made them to resemble norren earrings. The sort of thing any Gaskan blueblood will dismiss as tribal bric-a-brac. Secondly, I'm only sending you with one of each pair. The others will stay with me. Even if one of the loons winds up in the hands of a sorcerer who recognizes artificery when he sees it, and even if he is then able to threaten, trick, or torture a norren chief into confessing what the loon is used for, he'll be navigating with half a map."
"I see."
"You're not convinced?"
"We figured out how to make them easily enough, didn't we? The court has nethermancers of its own."
"Only the ones who couldn't hack it on the Council," Cally scoffed. "Anyway, if this is our lone advantage, logic demands we leverage it to the hilt. Start in the borderlands. Once the clans there are working
in tandem, then you can see about hitching the inland clans to the team."
It was already mid-afternoon, but there was no time left to waste. Dante dispatched servants to ready horses and provisions. Blays received the news of their latest trip with a broad grin.
"Another ride into the wild, huh? Can't wait."
"What are you so happy about?" Dante said.
"We'll be out of the rain and killing Settevite bastards. What's not to be happy for?"
Dante alerted Lira and Mourn, then returned to Cally's to update his maps with the latest news of riots, raids, and skirmishes. There had been more fighting on the outskirts of Dollendun. He planned to head there, rendezvous with the clans who'd been making forays into the burning city, hand out some loons and offer whatever personal aid they could provide, and then continue south all the way to the fringes of Tantonnen, where they could enlist Waill and the Clan of the Golden Field to act as the centerpiece of the region.
That was the plan, anyway. If Moddegan gathered his troops slowly enough, they might even see it through.
Cally brought out a sack filled with carved bone earrings. Groomsmen brought around the horses. Mourn considered his thick-legged mount with his usual pensiveness. "I think I've traveled more in the last two months than I did in any year with the Nine Pines."
They rode out an hour before sunset. The city soon faded into the haze of rain. The rain took two more days to disappear, chased away by a blustery wind that blew itself out overnight, leading to a clear morning just this side of warm. They each had a spare horse and switched them out every few hours. At their pace, they would reach Dollendun in a couple more days.
They never made it.
That afternoon, smoke bloomed to the southwest. By the time they reached the town, the fires had burnt themselves out, but the film of smoke remained, seething up from the scorched shells of houses. Dante checked his map, but it made no mention of the town; by his reckoning, they were some ten or twenty miles from the border into human lands. Towering figures flung buckets of water on the smoldering coals. Cave-homes stared down from the hills. Dante and the other two humans drew dark looks on their way to the relatively untouched north end of town, but they were saved, perhaps, by the presence of Mourn—unbranded, unshackled, even armed with a sword and bow of his own.
The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 83