by Vale Aida
But it was not over. Ismil stepped over his adversary’s body, climbed onto the throne, and held up his sword to the audience. “By the sun and moon and stars,” he declared, “by my mother and father and all the gods, I call down unending wrath on the line of Ederen Andalle and my treacherous sister Cleole. May they be dispossessed, driven as leaves before the wind; may swords hunt them from every point of the compass; may Casteia attend them, and Aebria hound them all their lives. May they be fugitives, homeless and hungry, destitute and desperate, from this day till the sun goes out.”
The curtain descended. Stagehands ran to uncover the stage lamps. And in the ensuing applause, Emaris saw, it was the Marshal Isemain and his friends who clapped the hardest.
One by one, the actors came out to take their bows. Vayan and Ederen had been played by older, good-looking gentlemen, who seemed to be quite well-known among the Astorrians. The people screamed and stamped for them. The lead actress curtseyed, pelted by bouquets of flowers, and flung Cleole’s crown into the audience. She was extraordinarily pretty. Then the last actor came up to join them, pulled off Ismil’s golden wig, and swept them a deep bow.
His hair flamed red in the lamplight. Even without that, the set of his shoulders would have been undeniable, and the genuine soldier’s strength in his muscled frame. Emaris flew to his feet. “How can he—?”
Fortunately, the entire theatre was standing by then, and his shout was lost in the general applause. Hiraen, too, was rising amid an impressive stream of profanity that culminated in, “—for each other, these bastards, I swear to all the nineteen hells—”
The Saraians were looking at them. Smiling, the Marshal caught Hiraen’s eye and gestured behind him. He and Emaris turned. Savonn had returned unnoticed, and was perched on the bench between them, the better to see over everyone’s heads. “Did you know it was him?” Hiraen demanded.
Savonn did not answer at once. He was almost incandescent: his cheeks glowed, and his eyes had taken on the lucent sheen of a lantern set ablaze at nightfall. In the harsh light of the theatre, every plane and contour of his profile looked harder and clearer than usual, a jewel scintillating under glass. “Traditionally,” he said, without looking away from the stage, “this play is performed by three actors, one of them playing both Vayan and Ismil. I asked around backstage. The man playing Vayan is getting too old for swordfighting, so they hired a fourth to take Ismil’s parts.” Then he added, “I would have known him from his voice, in any case.”
The actors had disappeared backstage. Behind Savonn a young man was calling his name, trying to get his attention. No one looked at him. “Can they do that?” Emaris asked. The question strained towards a shout. “Don’t they know who he is?”
“He threatened you in front of everyone,” said Hiraen. “Celisse could have him thrown out.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Savonn. He hopped down from the bench, nearly crushing the man behind him. “He was just reading his lines. How perplexing. Yes, Gelmir? It doesn’t look like it, but I am paying you the fullest attention.”
Belatedly, Emaris recognised the man as the guard from the gate. “Look, I’m sorry,” said Gelmir. “It’s terribly awkward, but Celisse wants you to call on her at the Dome at once. It’s just—there’s been some kind of altercation, a small street scuffle involving some of your men and the Marshal’s—”
They all turned. “Nothing serious,” Gelmir assured them. “No one was hurt. But a couple of punches were thrown, and some bystanders joined in, and it might’ve gotten ugly if my guards hadn’t stopped it. Those involved are in my custody. If you will come with me…”
Savonn glanced back to the stage, now empty. The crowd was beginning to file towards the doors. Another guard had approached the Marshal and his companions, and was whispering urgently to him. “How perplexing,” said Savonn again, to no one in particular. “How ingenious. Yes, we’re coming. Lead the way.”
* * *
This time they were taken not to the cosy solar, but to a long hall that served as an audience chamber, with a carved ivory chair on a dais at one end. Celisse was not there yet, but the brawlers were. There were a couple of Saraians Emaris did not recognise; and, separated from them by a scrupulous line of spearmen, were Nikas, Vion and Lomas.
Emaris stopped in the doorway. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
It came out in the same hoarse half-yell he had been using in the theatre. Nikas, who was sitting on the marble floor, glanced at him and then away. Emaris rounded on Vion. “I thought you knew better. What have you done?”
Vion looked utterly unrepentant. “Oh,” he said. “We ran into them”—he gestured to the Saraians, who glared back—“outside a tavern. One of them recognised Nikas and called his mother a—a rude name. So he threatened to kill them, and that one—”
“You never even knew your mother!” Emaris exploded.
“—the big ugly one, he threatened him back, and I told him to go away, and he called me a girl and said I should take my dick out to prove I wasn’t. So,” said Vion gaily, “I punched him. And he tried to hit me back, but Lomas did that thing he does—you know the one—where he just falls on someone like a boulder—”
Emaris groaned. “I fell on him like a boulder,” Lomas added, “and Nikas did something to the other one that made him fly six feet in the air. I asked him to teach me but he wouldn’t.”
“Only,” Vion went on, “there was some kind of scaffolding on poles in front of the tavern, because they were repairing the roof, and the flying one hit the poles and brought it down on everyone’s heads. Then the guards came and arrested us all.” He gazed up at Savonn. “I threw the first punch, sir. You can tell them to let the others go.”
If Savonn was listening, he gave no sign of it. “Flawless,” he said, mostly to Hiraen. “Don’t you see? He devises a way to threaten and insult me without breaking the truce. Then his men orchestrate a fight in which one of us lands the first blow, so that Celisse throws us out. And once we’re beyond the city limits, they can kill us with impunity.”
“It’s hard to miss the kinship between his mind and yours,” said Hiraen, with no trace of amusement. “Why do you look so happy?”
“Do I?” asked Savonn. “I admire artistry. I thought you did too. Any moment now, he or the Marshal will come in all smiles and apologies, and they’ll be in Celisse’s good books all over again.”
But Celisse arrived before anyone else did. Today she was wearing a plain white dress with rectangular sleeves that covered her to the wrist, belted at the waist with a black sash. Her hair was covered under a brown cap, and behind her, a page carried her sceptre of office on a cushion. One had to remember she was not only the snow leopard of the revelries; she was the richest woman in the world, the protector of the Farfallens, and she had not come to power only through masquerades and dances. Seating herself on the ivory chair, she said, “I thought I made clear the terms of your stay. What happened?”
Swiftly, Savonn came forward. He retold Vion’s story, using so few verbs that it sounded as if the scaffolding had collapsed all by itself, and the whole incident like some unavoidable misfortune, a rotten tooth or a hole in one’s pocket. Once or twice the Saraians tried to interrupt, only to be silenced by a look from Celisse. “We believe that these men started the fight on purpose,” he finished. “But we would be glad to make you any form of recompense you desire. We have, for instance, a good deal of gold.”
“Gold?” said a voice from the door. “We can do better.”
In an instant, the Saraians prostrated themselves on the floor as if in the presence of an emperor. The Empath had arrived. He must have come straight from the dressing room: he was clad only in shirt and hose, and his wavy hair was dark with moisture from a wash, falling unbound over his shoulders. In shoes of soft black kidskin, his tread was silent, the prowl of a hunting cat. “Did these gorillas of mine breach your truce, ladyship?” he asked. His voice was the voice of Ismil, rich, mellow, tuneful. “If
Lord Silvertongue will lend me a knife, I shall relieve you of their presence.”
Celisse looked from him to Savonn, eyebrows raised as if in curiosity. Then she gave a minute nod.
They had last met as actor and spectator. Now they stood side by side, a matched set: thunder and lightning, wildfire and mercury, twin kings across a chessboard. And the Empath was still performing, though in a play of another sort. With deliberate care, Savonn drew from his sleeve two of the silver knives he had not surrendered to Gelmir and held them out hilt first. The Empath stepped forward to take them. Their fingers did not touch, but their eyes held. Then, with a knife in each hand, he turned to the two men at his feet.
It was fast, brutal, and elegant. “Noiseless and painless,” said the Empath. His hands were clean, as was the floor. He stepped over the bodies, stopped before the dais, and sank into an exquisite bow, the obeisance of a skilled courtier used to royalty. “An upward thrust between—”
“—the fourth and fifth ribs, straight into the heart,” said Savonn. “And not a drop of blood spilled. Astounding knifework.”
The Empath’s bowlike lips curved into a smile as they brushed the back of Celisse’s hand. “Rise,” said the Lady. “And what of you, Silvertongue? What recompense can you offer me that compares with this?”
Savonn’s gaze travelled over his men, less blithe than usual. Vion and Lomas had their mouths hanging open. Nikas had gotten back to his feet. He would not, Emaris thought. He would never. All the same, some visceral instinct drove him forward, pushing past Hiraen, to plant himself in front of his boys. He can try, and I shall fight him.
He held Savonn’s trenchant stare for the span of a prolonged breath, though it felt longer. Savonn looked away first. “None,” he said to Celisse, “save the loan of my unlawful knives. And the gift of this man’s name, if you would ask it.”
“But she has it already,” said the Empath. “My true name, and not the one you know. After you, I stopped giving out false ones.” He rose in a single fluid movement. “Your ladyship, I plead for leniency for the Falwynians. We can expect no better from men who are led by a charlatan. Tolerance is for their betters, and clemency.”
Next to Emaris, Hiraen sucked in a loud breath and clamped his jaw shut. Celisse looked tickled. “How can I say no to such gallantry? I am terribly fond of you both. See how he intercedes for you, Savonn.”
Savonn did not reply. He was looking not at her, but the Empath.
“Here is what we shall do,” said Celisse presently. “I cannot afford to house trucebreakers in my city. You, Silvertongue, must be gone with all your men by daybreak. As for the Saraians, they have been punished enough. I shall host the Marshal Isemain and his troop for a fortnight longer, to ensure you do not encounter each other and come to blows at my gates. Thereafter,” she said, turning to the Empath, “you, too, must depart.”
“We shall do so with sorrow,” he said. “Milady is wise.”
“Then, my lord Empath,” said Celisse, “will you be so good as to summon my chamberlain and have these men removed? I tend not to enjoy corpses as a decoration in my home, however skillfully slain. Savonn, stay a moment. The rest of you may go.”
The Empath made the obeisance again, a showman’s curtain bow, and turned to leave. He glanced briefly at Nikas on his way out, and Nikas returned the look with an equally indecipherable one. Then the door shut between them. Hiraen put a hand on Emaris’s arm and murmured, “Come on.”
* * *
After they were gone, Savonn remembered his manners, and detached his gaze from the place where the Empath had been standing. He inclined his head to Celisse. “My lady?”
Celisse was smiling. Savonn had had enough dealings with her to know that she enjoyed a spectacle. He was not in the mood to produce any. His head felt light and rarefied, as it did after a couple of absinthe shots. The Lady said, “Gelmir tells me you and the Empath met at a tavern brawl back in the day.”
Memory did not bear remembering. During the long years apart he had often fantasized about encountering the Empath again, but he had not imagined it would be like this. He said, “We did.”
Celisse’s eyes were piercing. “There is nothing sadder than friends becoming enemies,” she said. “And I need not tell you that you have been matched above your weight class. You are out of your tessitura, so to speak.”
He said, “I know.”
She looked disappointed when he failed to elaborate. Like Iyone, she had an affinity for puzzles; unlike Iyone, she was not averse to scandal and furor. “We were not friends,” he added, for her sake. “The fault, then as now, was mine. Either he will kill me or I will kill him. There is nothing new in such an arrangement.”
“You were not friends,” she agreed. “You were much more. If you survive it…” She leaned forward. “Listen, Savonn. You are not banished. If you decide you are tired of masquerading as a soldier, there will always be a place in Astorre for you. The trouble is that you are too convincing an actor.”
He said again, “I know.”
In the wake of the elation that had come over him at the theatre, he was supremely tired. He wanted to be dismissed. He longed to be alone, to curl around the memory of the evening’s events like a dragon on its hoard and study them at length. But he had not been truly alone for a long time. He was beleaguered by little boys who thought the world of him; and one who was not so little, whose good opinion was beginning to carry a frightening importance. He should never have let Emaris come along.
Celisse was frowning. “I am going to ask you a question,” she said. “I hope that, inasmuch as you are capable of such a thing, you will answer honestly.”
The prospect brought a bubble of joyless laughter to his lips. “Can a peacock fly? I may produce a few compelling flutters, for a price.”
Her business was trade. She was used to barter. “What do you ask?”
“His true name.”
“All right,” said Celisse, looking unsurprised. “Then tell me: why are you doing this? You are not godly enough to concern yourself with a blood feud, nor will I believe that you are afflicted by filial grief in any shape or form. You did not love your father.”
He dredged up the most hideous smile from his repertoire, and displayed it, hyena-like, for her benefit. “Well, I did give up the theatre and become a good little soldier boy at his behest.”
She was too shrewd to be thwarted by chicanery. “Did you really?”
“No,” said Savonn after a brief lapse. If he did not answer, she would never let him go. “No, that wasn’t for him. It was to protect Hiraen, if you must know. My brother in all but blood. Otherwise Kedris would have…”
He abandoned that thread of thought. “That isn’t the question you asked. This answer is less sentimental. I believe in cleaning up after myself, is all.”
“Oh?” said Celisse, not troubling to disguise her scepticism. “You blame yourself? Why, for not getting to Medrai in time?”
“The rot runs deeper than that,” said Savonn. “But this peacock, as always, fails to take flight. Will that be all, my lady?”
Celisse raised her brows. “I thought you might like to know why I asked. Shortly before he died, your father wrote to me asking for the names of all the foreigners you had had dealings with here. I had only just composed a reply, saying he should ask your old patrol leader Rendell, when I heard he had been killed.”
One could only breathe, and hope one’s stagecraft masked what one felt. “So has Rendell.”
“Is that so?” asked Celisse. The merriment had returned to her eyes. “Step carefully, old friend. There are those who will notice how very convenient that must have been for you.”
His training nearly failed him. If not for the other half of the bargain, he would have turned around and walked straight out. “And the name, ladyship?”
She told him. The unfamiliar syllables settled into his consciousness with dreadful finality, like the toll of a death knell. What was learned could not agai
n be unlearned. The game had changed. They were dealing no longer with falsehoods, but in truth.
And there, he knew, he was standing on slippery ground.
* * *
Hiraen escorted them only partway back to the lodging, and then returned to the Dome to wait for Savonn. The unpleasant duty of rounding up the Betronett company and breaking the news of their imminent exile thus fell to Emaris, who did so perhaps less gently than he could have. By the time all the men had gone to bed grumbling, it was past midnight, just a few hours before they would be ejected into the freezing wilds again.
Emaris’s own eyelids were drooping, but he lingered in the common room long after the others had turned in, determined to stay up till Savonn and Hiraen got back. Nikas was there, too. He pottered around the shelves and side-tables, picking up ornaments and putting them down again, seemingly unaware of what his hands were doing. Emaris watched him, hesitant. Now that he had had space to think, he was beginning to remember his outburst in Celisse’s audience chamber with something like shame, and it seemed imperative to apologise.
He was alone with Nikas in the eerie, sullen silence that had fallen over the house. If he was going to say something, it might as well be now. “Nikas,” he began. “What I said just now, about your mother—”
It was uncalled for, he could say; or, I barely remember my mother, and wouldn’t lift more than an eyebrow if anyone insulted her, but of course, one ought never assume… But Nikas cut him off before he could choose the right words. “Forget it.” In the glow of the sole lamp burning on the mantel, his expression had lost some of its customary nonchalance. “You were quite right. It was foolish to start a fight.”
Emaris fidgeted in his overstuffed armchair. He could not help but feel he was being let off too easy; that if it was Savonn he had offended, he would have been reduced to a pile of bones and sinew by now. “You said she—she was a slave in Terinea?”