by Dave Duncan
Celebre deserved its fame; it truly was the finest of them all, the Admirable City. Cavotti had been everywhere on the Florengian Face in the last ten years. He had been hunted twice around the Fertile Circle, had swum in the warm waves of Ocean, and nearly frozen to death in the airless wastes of the Altiplano. He had visited cities so ancient that they had sunk beneath the waves, and others left high and dry when the sea withdrew or rivers changed course, but most of those he had seen had recently been sacked—usually by Stralg and his horde, but every once in a while by his own side. Neither group left much more in their wake than bones and stinking ashes.
Celebre, however, was still unscathed. Celebre was still wide avenues and stately facades, shapely towers and temples, spacious colonnades, piazzas, and gardens. It had weaknesses, yes. Some of the grandiose mercantile palaces were known to be barns inside. Conversely, the central piazza was an ugly, ill-shaped hole, and the Ducal Palace looked like a gigantic outhouse because Celebrians had never approved of ostentatious rulers. Its interior, though, Cavotti remembered as a feast of beauty, a treasury of resplendent art spanning a dozen generations.
It would be a nice place to die in if things went wrong tonight.
Marno was not a sentimental man. Any romantic tendencies he might have once possessed had been beaten out of him eons ago, yet he felt pangs of nostalgia as he headed inward from Meadow Gate up Goldbeater Street. The last time he had run down this same avenue in the company of his childhood gang had been on the day the city fell.
One of his friends had owned an uncle whose house overlooked the walls, and from there the pack had planned to view the arrival of the Vigaelian monsters. Refused admission to the house, they climbed on the roof instead and from that sunbaked vantage point had watched as Doge Piero drove out with his family. They had booed when he knelt to kiss the blood-lord’s feet, but had been shocked into silence when he was sent home alone, in humiliation, while the dogaressa and her children had been taken away as hostages. Cavotti had known Dantio, the eldest, who was a couple of years younger than he was, but a bearable sort of brat in spite of being heir presumptive. The children had probably been sent over the Edge to Vigaelia, as had many other hostages. The dogaressa had later been returned to her husband, but not until long after Cavotti had gone from Celebre.
Bent into the storm, the Mutineer led Misery into Pantheon Way, which in turn reminded him of the day after the fall, the day his own fate had been sealed by a powerful hand grabbing his arm in this very street. He had struggled and screamed and been well thumped for it. Marched away to the Vigaelians’ camp and informed that he was to be trained to be a Hero of Weru like the ice devils, he had retorted that his father was a councillor and councillors’ sons could not be treated like this. For that insolence he had been beaten. Thereafter he had sulked in angry silence within the great weeping, suffering mass of boys who had been taken—a hundred and nineteen sons of artisans and weavers and shopkeepers. There he had waited for his father to discover where he had gone and come and claim him.
Two days later his father did appear, arriving with an imposing entourage while the young victims were being drilled in calisthenics. Young Marno was duly called forward and recognized. Instead of releasing him, the Vigaelian commander ordered him tied up and flogged until his father had run all the way back to the city gate. Councillor Cavotti had not been a fast runner. And so Marno Cavotti, who had dreamed of being a great patron of the arts, become a Werist probationer, then a cadet, and finally a sworn warrior in the cult.
He had seen his parents just once after that, when he was a new-collared Werist, posted to the garrison in Umsina. They had come to visit him, but his brothers had stayed away, shunning him as a monster. His mother had wept, his father had asked penetrating questions about loyalty.
Cavotti had dropped hints about his plans. His mother had screamed at him not to; his father had smiled proudly and told him to go ahead. For that encouragement—revealed to Stralg by his seers—the bloodlord had later put the councillor to death and fined House Cavotti an incredible weight of gold. Marno doubted that his brothers had forgiven him even yet. If they learned that he was in the city, they would likely betray him to the Fist.
Just for nostalgia’s sake, he led Misery along River Way and let the guanaco see the Cavotti Palace. It was not one of the really big ones, although it was not exactly small either. It probably did not impress the llamoid much, but it did remind Cavotti that life could be anything except fair.
Any city, no matter how grand its public face, must have squalid corners somewhere. The Mutineer’s destination was a small and stinking courtyard behind the abattoir, where rain hissed on an ankle-deep quag of blood and mire. Even in that downpour the stench was very bad, and no one ever lingered there after the morning slaughter. Anybody who now followed him in would not be an innocent passerby.
The partisans kept no regular agents in the city, because they could not be hidden from Stralg’s seers, but Cavotti had stayed in touch with a few old friends over the years, exchanging innocent messages by roundabout means, and yesterday he had sent an urgent appeal for help to a man he judged trustworthy. If his messenger did not appear at this rendezvous, both of them were as good as dead.
After a few suffocating moments, the rough plank door in the corner creaked open. The man who emerged was heavily muffled against the storm and held a cloth over his face to block the smell, but he was still recognizable as Siero of Syiso, whose name Cavotti had used at the gate. He trudged across to the wagon and Misery brightened enough to sneer at an old friend.
“Said yes, my lord. Didn’t hesitate. The brown door at the bottom of the steps behind the Linen Weavers’ Guildhall.”
The Mutineer nodded. “Well done.”
Siero led Misery back out to the street and Cavotti departed by an alley on the far side. So far so good. Another river crossed.
He found the brown door and stepped into a cavernous kitchen, shadowed and cool, tidy but dusty. Not recently used. Stale food odors, bronze tripods on bare hearths, massive chopping blocks, a pump and trough, and rows of clay pots on shelves defined its purpose, but obviously the homeowners were not presently in residence.
For a moment longer he just stood there, enjoying calm after the daylong buffeting. One small oil lamp glowed on a table in the far corner and the man who had chosen this meeting place was standing beside it, staring with understandable doubt at the bearded villain in squalid peasant garb. The Mutineer sank to his knees and touched his forehead on the flags.
“Oh, learned master, may holy Mayn bless the wisdom you impart today, may holy Hrada bless the skills you reveal, and may holy Demern guide me to be an obedient and conscientious pupil, oh most beloved master.” He made obeisance again—the morning ritual.
“He never did before,” the other man muttered dryly, starting forward.
“Times change. As you see, I have returned to complete my education. You still owe me a year.” Cavotti scrambled to his feet and they exchanged formal bows. Most old acquaintances would have embraced after so long, but he could not imagine anyone ever embracing Master Dicerno.
The old man cackled nervously. “I certainly did not expect you to show up in person, my lord. I greatly doubt your sanity in coming, but you are a most welcome sight. All Florengia is in your debt.” Last survivor of an ancient but impoverished house, Dicerno had spent a lifetime teaching sons of the rich all the things Celebrian nobles must know—respect for the gods, the laws of holy Demern, the customs of their city, its art and history, manners and deportment, dancing and music, etiquette and court protocol, agriculture, hunting, and finance, the driving and care of llamoids, and sixty-sixty other things. He had been Cavotti’s preceptor from the time he was removed from women’s care at the age of seven until the morning his arm was grabbed on Pantheon Way.
Dicerno scorned concessions to age. His hair was silver, his bony face crinkled like brown leather, but he was still erect and trim, soft-spoken, unfailingly c
ourteous. It was impossible to imagine him ever marrying or fathering sons of his own, but far more impossible that he should ever be tainted by the slightest hint of scandal in his dealings with his charges—or in any other matter, either. He had probably not spoken an ill-advised word or made a clumsy gesture in his life.
In the present unusual circumstances, he did allow a hint of worry to crease his forehead. “Of course you are aware that the enemy has a garrison in the city, my lord?”
“I saw two at the gate. How many, and who is in charge of them?”
“Usually just a dozen, except when a caravan comes through from Veritano. The current keeper is Flankleader Jorvark, who styles himself governor.” The old man pulled a face. “The sort of adolescent who gives youth a bad name. They seem worse even than they used to be, my lord—ill-trained, ill-bred brutes.”
Cavotti shed his sodden cloak. “They are having serious recruiting problems back home. What news of the councillor?”
The doge had appointed Berlice Spirno-Cavotti to replace her murdered husband. Other cities marveled at the Celebrian custom of admitting women to its council of elders.
“Your honored mother is well, my lord, although she must feel her years, as we all do. She is currently in the city, so far as I know.”
Dicerno returned to his corner and came back carrying a basket, from which he produced a towel. Cavotti accepted it gratefully, having by this time stripped down to his scars, brass collar, and two pelf strings laden with silver and copper twists. He dried his face.
“Will you take a message to her for me?”
“Um … of course, my lord.” The tactful pause said more than the words.
“Has Celebre sunk so far that mothers betray their sons?”
“The Fist’s methods are brutal beyond belief, my lord.” Remember, she was forced to watch your father die. “If any rumor of your visit reaches his ears, she and all your family will be in gravest peril. She cannot lie to a seer.”
Cavotti said, “And I am putting you at risk also. I will give you silver, master, and I want you to leave the city tomorrow to go and spend some time elsewhere. I know you have sixty-sixty friends you can call on. No, do not argue—it will not serve my cause to have you flayed in the piazza for aiding me. I need instruction in the present affairs of the city. What news of the doge? I must see him tonight and be gone by dawn.”
“I do not believe that will be possible, my lord.” The old man was emptying his basket of all the things Siero had asked for—more towels, scented oil, clothes, rope, food, a razor.
“Ah! Celebrian bread! I missed this more than anything.” Cavotti added with his mouth full, “Without the beard.”
“I am more relieved to hear that than you can imagine. My reputation would be ruined. But even without the beard, the noble lord will not receive you.”
“Why not? Is my mother out of favor?”
Dicerno shook his head. “It is his health. The Mercies are in constant attendance. The lady Oliva is acting as regent, unofficially.”
This news complicated matters. “Grievous tidings! I knew he was failing, of course, but not so far.” The Mutineer had not known how hungry he was, either. He tore off a chunk of cold meat and chewed vigorously.
“Few in the city do, my lord,” the old man said apologetically. “Even Bloodlord Stralg may not.”
Deceiving your enemies was a good idea; confusing your friends was not—but that assumed Cavotti and his army of liberation were to be regarded as friends of Celebre, which was to be the topic of tonight’s discussion.
“How often do the healers treat him?”
Dicerno frowned, reluctant to set aside his lifelong hatred of gossip. “The doge rallied markedly back in the spring. Thanks to holy Sinura, he even appeared in public a few times, but it is whispered that Her price for that remission was a healer’s life. No Sinurist has attended him since, although this is said to have been the doge’s decision, not theirs. As for your honored mother, if you have matters to discuss with her, then I shall advise her of your arrival. If you are merely seeking access to the lady Oliva, of course I can arrange that for you.”
“You have pupils within the Ducal Palace?”
“I do have that honor.” Even now he would tell Cavotti no more than he felt he must.
“Such as the boy, Chies?”
The silver head bowed in acquiescence.
“He must be … fourteen now?”
Again the preceptor nodded, but he was not smiling, and the lack of automatic praise was a crushing comment on the youth in question.
“And who will succeed Doge Piero when the Old One claims him?”
The old man said coldly, “You know that the council of elders makes that decision, lord. You should perhaps discuss it with your honored mother.”
It would certainly not be an easy topic to raise with the lady Oliva.
“This collar of mine …” The Mutineer reached into the pile of garments Dicerno had produced from his basket of wonders and extracted a Nulist cowl of brown linen. There was a matching gown, too, and when he held it against himself, it was revealed to be very large. “Where in the world did you manage to obtain these on such short notice? You said you did not expect the visitor to be me? Master, did you not teach us that excessive modesty is a form of arrogance?”
The dark eyes twinkled inside their nests of wrinkles. “I also taught you that the poet Gievo sang, ‘Those who hope greatly must love disappointment.’ I was not disappointed this time, is all.”
Cavotti assumed the singsong chant of a pupil repeating his lessons. “Master, holy Demern decrees: ‘He who makes false claim to belong to a guild commits a crime, and an extrinsic who masquerades as initiate of a cult is guilty of blasphemy, and both shall be sold into slavery.’”
The smile that teased the preceptor’s withered lips was an unusual outburst of emotion for him. “But this dogma is subordinate to the paramount duties, specifically the fourth. Would you not judge that if you visit the palace with your collar showing, then your life will be forfeit to the Evil One?”
“That and then some. I also consider that I visit the palace to serve my birth lord the doge—although he may not agree—and therefore the second duty also applies. See how well you taught me?”
“And the first duty?”
Cavotti laughed aloud. “Oh, the cunning of the man!” He reverted to singsong. “Master, it is decreed: ‘A mortal’s first duty is to honor and obey the gods.’” He grinned through his piratical beard. “First chapter, clause one. But when the mortal is a henotheist, then he must give precedence to the oaths and edicts of his chosen god. Also first chapter, I believe?”
“Clause five.” Dicerno beamed at this escape into the unreal world of the scholar. “Far be it from me to pry into the secrets of a holy mystery, but the vulgar believe that the god of battle gives only one directive to His Heroes, and that is to win at any cost and by any means.”
“So only a fool would trust a Werist,” the Mutineer agreed. “If you start hinting that you may betray me, old master, I will break your neck.”
“Being in my dotage, I am prepared to trust you.”
More fool him! The play was wearing thin, wandering dangerously close to reality, for Cavotti’s activities very well might kill the old man. He glanced across to the solitary lamp in the corner. “What were you doing that I interrupted?” He strolled over there, still eating and still unclothed, although he knew such boorish behavior must pain his old teacher like a robe of nettles. He had forgotten how much he had enjoyed provoking the old pedant. Evidently he still did.
As he had guessed, a branching trail of colored pentagons had been laid out on the planks. “Tégale, of course! And five-color tégale at that! What is the contention?”
“You still play?” Dicerno asked eagerly.
“I manage a game once in a while, but never more than three-color. Werists are not chosen for their brains, master. Tégale is a game for Demernists. What is the co
ntention?”
The preceptor had been the best player in Celebre when Cavotti had known him. He rubbed his hands in glee as he explained. “It is a very old puzzle, my lord, shown to me many years ago by the present doge’s father, when I was a mere lad. I don’t believe it really has a solution. He knew of none. The contention is to obtain closure in two moves, against any defense. As you can see, the logical move is to revert that blue to a green, but then your opponent merely plays a white here, and you are lost. I expect I have forgotten the correct layout, or perhaps he did. It is impossible.”
Cavotti said, “Perhaps. It will be something to keep me from worrying while you are gone—after I have removed the baneful beard, illicitly robed myself as a Nulist, scouted an emergency escape route out of this house, and generally made myself more worthy of your teaching. I will even clean up the mud I tracked in from the door.”
“I did not teach you how to do that, my lord!” Dicerno was shocked at the very idea of a noble performing such labor. He could not have the slightest idea of the systematic degradation involved in Werist training.
“You did, you know! Don’t you remember the time Pillono and I climbed out a window to visit the fair?”
“Ah, of course! It was climbing back in that gave you away.”
“And the next year you didn’t catch us.”
“So what is the solution to the doge’s problem?”
Cavotti frowned at the old man’s bland smile. “Master, you have had years to work on it and you expect me to solve it at a glance?”
“I had six years to learn you, Hordeleader, and you know the answer.”
Cavotti chuckled to hide annoyance. “True. Yes, I have been shown this problem before. In fact, it is known as Weru’s Device, which is why you are showing it to me now, correct?”
Thin lips smiled. “I may have heard that name applied, yes.”