by Dave Duncan
Marno thanked the elders and dismissed them. He ordered the palace officials to go away and plan a service of thanksgiving for the city’s deliverance, a state funeral for the doge, a state wedding, and a coronation. He gently assured Orlad that Werist Waels would rank as the first of the heroes of the liberation, but that his corpse must now be removed from Doge Piero’s lying in state.
Then he excused himself to go and sleep.
In all the years of struggle he had never felt wearier than he did now, balanced precariously on the brink of victory. He had the city under control and could trust Butcher and Nuzio to pursue the war until morning. Stralg’s corpse was to be delivered to the ice devils as proof of his death. Runners were on the way to Melchitte with orders to burn Veritano and abandon it. No doubt the headless Vigaelian horde would shatter and spread like a plague all over the Face, but many would head for the Edge and might be pinned in the Altiplano to starve. The rest would have to be hunted down and slaughtered, every last brute of them, but that would not be a job for him. Hordes of Florengian Heroes were going to need employment for the rest of their lives.
From guerrilla to hordeleader to ruler—the ducal sleeping chamber was a jarring surprise, an unwelcome warning of the new state he had just accepted. It was larger than most temples, with two rows of columns supporting the ceiling. He could have bivouacked a host in there. The sleeping platform in the center would have held thirty men. Why did he need a score of tree-sized candelabra with two dozen candles apiece when he just wanted to sleep? Why five flunkies to escort him to his quarters? This was not where the late doge had died, they assured him, and certainly he could detect no odors of death or sickness. A bit musty, was all. They had not expected a new doge so soon. He was too tired to bother asking for a smaller room.
“It will suffice,” he said. “Leave me.”
Did my lord want the candles snuffed?
How ever long would that take? “No, no!” he said. “And no. I wish to study the ceiling frescoes. Go. Go away! Go now.”
They closed the door—one of the doors. There were three doors and sixteen high windows, draped in silk brocade. If he were in his right mind he would have had Butcher or some other trusty search this entire wing for lurking ice devils, but he was too tired to care.
He sat on the edge of the platform to remove his boots—and stopped with one off and one on, distracted by what he was seeing. This was a treasure house. He had known from childhood visits that the ducal palace was luxurious, but he had never been in this hall. There was enough lapis lazuli and gold leaf in the wall frescoes alone to finance a major war. The candelabra were studded with jewels. At first glance the chamber had seemed vast and empty, but he started to count the chairs, tables, and chests, and gave up after a score. No doubt every one was a masterpiece. The floor was covered with rugs of the finest alpaca wool, woven in brilliant colors, and the platform was heaped with them. Then there were the ceramics and statuary and tapestries. How had Stralg been kept from looting this hoard? Marno’s brothers would be coming around with wagons to collect compensation for the hardship his revolution had caused them.
Brothers? He had not seen them in sixteen years. They were just one of sixty-sixty headaches that would afflict him in the near future. He sighed, knowing that he was not going to sleep. Too many problems were building nests in his brain. He had met this condition before, when exhaustion passed beyond sleep, and knew of only one cure for it, short of waiting for physical collapse. What he needed, ironically, was a woman. Giunietta, especially, would know exactly what he needed and wanted.
“Holy Ucr!”
He jumped and twisted around. His wife was there, closing a door he had overlooked. Problem Number One, she stared around with disbelief, then mockingly raised a hand to shade her eyes, as if peering across a landscape.
“Is that you over there, husband?”
He forced himself to seem pleased. “It is. Shall I send a chariot for you?”
She headed in his direction. “Orlad accused me of being a slut. For selling my body for the crown, I suppose. I had no idea I had made such a good bargain.”
“You should see the silver pots in the servants’ latrines.”
She wore a white wrap, filmy and clinging. Her hair hung loose in black ringlets that fell to a handbreadth below the nipples that so clearly raised the fine cloth. He watched her stroll across the rugs toward him, fascinated in spite of his exhaustion. He had wanted a woman and yet he must not accept what the gods sent.
Her grin seemed both childlike and genuine. “I am informed that a wife is expected to sleep in the same room as her husband. This is big enough for both of us, is it not?”
“I am afraid my snores will echo and waken me,” he said, “but it will do until we find a better. But, Fabia, we agreed that ours would be only a political match.”
She sat on the edge of the platform, not close, but within reach if he changed his mind. “A pretend marriage, you mean?”
“You know what I mean. We discussed it. If I get a woman with child I am as good as murdering her. I sought out a Healer I know and trust, and she confirmed that it is a Werist problem, so holy Sinura will not help. To the world I am your husband, and I expect you to keep up the pretense. In practice, you will have to find a discreet young man to father Piero’s grandchildren. I won’t care or ask who he is.” He smiled as well as he could without uncovering his fangs. “Preferably one man at a time, but even that is your business as long as you create no scandal.”
Her face gave away nothing. “While you install Witness Giunietta as palace seer?”
He laughed trying to imagine what Giunietta would say to the invitation. “Now, there would be scandal! I like and admire Giunietta very much, but she is blatantly promiscuous. She would be marching the palace guard through her chamber in no time. A Witness is a possible playmate for me, because she knows when it is safe, or a Nymph, because they do not conceive. But at the moment, wife, I have far more urgent problems, of which the most urgent is sleep. If you will forgive me?”
She nodded. “It has been quite a day. Whatever your wishes, my lord, your handmaiden will most humbly agree.” She fingered the rugs as if marveling at their softness. “There is certainly enough space for us to sleep here without disturbing each other, isn’t there? Perhaps in the morning—” She looked around, frowning. “I asked Dantio to scan these chambers to make sure no one was hiding anywhere, and he said they were safe. I also asked a steward for some wine. I think that must be it over there, beside that door. Marno, my lord, it has been a heavy day for both of us, but I have two brief requests. I want to drink a pledge to our lifelong partnership, and I want one real kiss from you.”
“Real kiss?”
“I told you two days ago that I was a virgin and nothing has changed since then, but I have spied on enough hanky-panky on riverbanks to be certain that you can manage a better kiss than the one you gave me tonight in the hall. As soon as you have attended to that, sleep by all means. If you need me I will be here. If you don’t, I shall not sulk, I promise.” She rose and held out a hand. “Come and drink a pledge.”
He replaced the boot he had shed and waded across the rugs with her. Any woman who was prepared to consider intimacy with an animal like him was either incredibly brave or insanely greedy for power.
She said, “Giunietta is an unusual woman.”
“She is a free thinker.”
“Is that a polite version of what my brother called me?”
Obviously that remark had hurt her. “In Celebre many marriages are arranged just to seal commercial or political unions.”
“And in Skjar also.”
“So? If you are a trollop for marrying a title, then what am I for marrying all this loot? As I see our arrangement, your family needed a man to run the family business, Celebre. Dantio refused and Orlad lacks experience. I saw myself being out of work very shortly. We are an excellent match.”
She laughed and slid an arm around him.
“I never doubted the quantity of husband I am acquiring. I am just beginning to appreciate the quality as well.”
“The ugliest bridegroom in the history of the city.”
“I was put off when I first saw you,” she admitted. “But looks matter less than honor and courage and kindness. Muscles are cute, and you qualify in that department. Also, in Vigaelia, the word ‘horny’ means, er—”
“It means the same here, too. And it is irrelevant. Please do not keep mentioning the matter.”
“I am sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. Consideration is the most important thing in a marriage, isn’t it?”
He had never had time to learn to understand women. She was barely more than a child and yet she baffled him.
“Respect first, I think,” he said. “Consideration certainly second. Understanding that nobody is perfect and everyone has faults. Patience. Compromise. If we can bring all those to our marriage, it should prosper.”
“That’s lovely! Let that be our pledge.”
They had reached the table where six wine jugs stood, swathed in damp cloths. He unwrapped a couple and chose one.
“A star and two swords, see?” he said. “Means this is from the hills above Quiloni, a fine wine, not tart, but not too sweet.” He broke the seal.
“These goblets!” Fabia said, using both hands to lift one. “These are … incredible!”
He lifted the other to inspect it. Each stood half a yard high, depicting a youth and a maiden supporting the cup itself in their raised arms. “They are called lover cups, made of rock crystal from the mines of Ritorni. This set was undoubtedly carved by Pecculli of Samercci, the greatest master of this form. My parents had half of a pair, much smaller, which they treasured as one of the finest pieces in their collection. Yours is the man’s, though. This is the woman’s.”
She set hers down and took the other from him to inspect. “I was told you once had ambitions to be an artist.”
“Only a connoisseur. I have no talent of my own.”
“How can you tell which cup is which?”
He chuckled as he poured the wine. “The boy and girl touch in only one place, always. In the woman’s the two are kissing, see? In the man’s their contact is lower and more intimate, although the portrayal is discreet. It is almost impossible to place two bodies in such postures and still make them seem graceful, as these are. This pair would buy twice sixty acres of prime farmland, perhaps more. And you haven’t even mentioned the mosaic table. That is a genuine Ragottilo, worth much more than the goblets.” He laid down the flagon. “Now, will you offer first?”
She was reaching both hands for the cup when the door beside them opened and Chies walked in, wearing an ominous smirk.
CHIES STRALGSON
could not only see in the dark better than a cat, he could even drive a team in the dark. It had been a very instructive day! He could Control even a Werist. Saltaja said he might risk as many as three people at a time once he’d had some practice, but he should never try more than that; mobs were deadly. If Sesto’s men had had their wits about them, they would have struck her down. From now on he could enjoy any woman he wanted with as much or little cooperation as he fancied, and then make her forget all about it. He could steal anything he coveted. And his aunt had not finished her instruction yet! None of Master Preceptor Dicerno’s lectures on etiquette and court protocol could compare with this.
He drove into the city through Cypress Gate without challenge, mingling with country folk rushing to join in the mourning. Blazing buildings threw flames high in the night, filling the rainy streets with golden reflections. The trumpets had stopped, but the city was still a madhouse, with riots and looting mixed in with wild celebration, and even some local panics as bands of ice devils were hunted down and destroyed. He had never seen Florengian Werists in Celebre before, and they were everywhere, even some in battleform. The guanacos hummed with fear, but he kept them under control—using mostly real skill and only a dash of chthonic power.
“Aunt,” he said. “There’s something wrong here! They should be mourning Pap—I mean the doge. They’re not! They’re celebrating!”
She did not answer. All the way from Montegola she had been mumbling and maundering about revenge and curses and finding Stralg. She seemed crazier some times than others, and this was one of those times.
He tried to turn into Wheelwrights’ Alley, but it was plugged full of people singing at the top of their lungs, and the Werist barracks was ablaze. He went on to Fishhook Lane, still skirting the palace walls. Getting inside those was going to be tricky. By this time of night the palace was usually sealed as tight as a virgin priestess. He turned to consult his passenger.
“Aunt? Aunt!” Gone! He was alone.
“I’m here.”
He felt her claws grip his arm. “Invisible?”
“Veiled. I’ll show you how to do that. How do we get in?”
He had lost his key to the private door. “Can you open a lock?”
“What’s a lock?”
He explained. No such things as locks in Vigaelia, she said. He could not advise, not knowing how their insides worked. As he pondered, the problem solved itself. The Fishhook gate had been torn down and people were scurrying in and out of the grounds, mostly in. He halted and put down the brake with a sigh of relief. No need to worry about the rig. It wouldn’t stay there long.
He found his invisible aunt by squinting against the light of the fires. He could detect her as a faint shadow, but only because he knew she was there. He lifted her down.
“Now I show you how to veil yourself,” she said, and took his head between her claw hands. “Think!”
Images swirled. Ropes of darkness? “Oh! I understand.”
“Ask Her for that. Just a little! All you need do is blur yourself a bit so people won’t recognize you. If you disappear like me, they’ll walk into you. That’s plenty!”
He had barely started, but he would have to trust her judgment. He strolled toward the gate, knowing she was there by the feel of her talons on his arm. As they turned into the palace grounds, the chariot and team went rattling by them, being driven by a stout, white-haired woman. Lucky lady.
“Too slow!” she muttered. “Men your age walk faster. Here!”
He stumbled as pain shot through his right knee. “Ow!”
“Now you limp. That looks better.”
Depending on one’s point of view! He failed to see the merit in a red hot knife under his kneecap. What he would really like, now that he was safely home, was just to go upstairs to his chamber and lie down and sleep. It had been a very hard day.
Saltaja muttered angrily under her breath all the way through the sculpture garden, across the court of palms, along the river terrace. Once or twice a passerby would look twice to see who was talking, but nobody roused any hue or cry. A major crowd was gathered in front of the Hall of Pillars. That would be where Papa was lying in state, but the crowd was buzzing with good cheer, even breaking out into snatches of drunken song. This was not funeral behavior! Some of the snatches he was hearing suggested that ice dev … that Vigaelians had attacked the city and been beaten off.
The crowd had concentrated at the far end of the hall. He could see candlelight within, and guards between the pillars, men with swords. He headed that way and soon recognized fat Luenzi, deputy head of the palace guard, known to his men as the Stomach of Splendor. He was standing between two pillars with his arms crossed, but Luenzi was no threat to anyone unless he fell on them. Chies noted the man’s affable drunken smile and the untidiness of his white hair. Luenzi had served in the doge’s guard for a lifetime; he ought to be prostrate with grief, not celebrating. Chies shed his veiling.
It took a moment. Then—“Lord Chies! You’re back! You’re safe!”
“I escaped. Killed a couple of my kidnappers and climbed out a window.” Four stories up? Sprained my knee? No, better leave it at that.
“But this is wonderful news! What a marvel
ous night!” Luenzi looked around to see who might want to share.
“Is it? Tell me what else is going on.” Chies applied just a trace of power.
Possibly too much. Luenzi started to gabble. “Well your dear father, of course … the Evil One got … I mean he passed through the veil at last, poor man. But the other news … The children are back! Lord Dantio, lord Orlando, lady Fabia! All safe and grown-up. Then the Fist himself invaded with a horde. Stralg in the flesh! And he’s dead! Lord Orlando killed him right here in the hall! Ripped his collar off.”
Saltaja uttered a shriek that should have turned every head in the palace grounds. Luenzi paused, looked around him with a puzzled expression, then continued.
“But the Mutineer, I mean lord Marno, was here with his men, and they tore up all those ice devils in short order. So the elders assembled right here in the hall and elected him doge!”
“Marno Cavotti?”
Luenzi bared all fifteen teeth in a wide grimace of delight. “Yes, and he married the lady Fabia, so she’s the new dogaressa! Oh, what a wonderful night!”
The night was not over yet. Saltaja would not stand for that.
“Fascinating!” Chies said. “Forget that you have seen me or spoken with me. You will not notice me leave.”
The animation in the fat man’s face faded to boredom. He scratched his belly and turned his head to watch what was going on farther along the hall.
Rounding the great pillar, Chies noted two things of interest. A bier stood in the center under a dozen candelabra. That was Papa, no doubt, but he was almost being ignored. Everyone else was at the far end, where a score of men were gathered around a two-wheeled cart, arguing noisily. Even from here he could see reflections off collars, so at least some of them were Werists. He could not imagine what a cart was doing in the Hall of Pillars, but he intended to find out. Someone started hammering.
He replaced his veiling as he walked. Squinting down at his gimpy knee, he made out a shadowy thing like a purple crab on it. He flicked it away with a mental twitch and the pain stopped. Pleased, he speeded up to his normal long-legged stride. He paused at the bier and pushed through the mourners to gaze at the corpse. Life had been hard on the old man. He had been sick so long that Chies had grown accustomed to not having him around, but he had mostly happy memories of his foster father. None of the usual prayers seemed appropriate for a Chosen to utter. Holy mistress, treat him well! Please.