Beyond

by Mercedes Lackey

  “This sounds promising. Go on,” murmured Koto.

  “Oh, but it gets so, so much better.” Ivar grinned, as if he had a huge secret he was just about to reveal. “You know this thing you gave me?” He opened his hand, which had been held in a fist around something, showing that he was holding a sort of black stone disk. “This thing you said would show me where that magic you thought you sensed was? Well, it led me down to that lake. And—”

  He snatched up a piece of chalk from where Ponu had discarded it and sketched a crescent shape.

  Then he stabbed the chalk right in the middle of the crescent, on the very shore of what presumably was the lake. “It led me right there. There were stonework ruins, some a couple of stories tall. Hundreds of years old, looked like, and no people had been anywhere around for just as long, too, I’d wager. There were the remains of a tower, overgrown by generations of trees. Hardwoods. The brush we hacked through was probably streets, once, and when we got waterside, there was a jetty. Birds and bugs were everywhere, there were watergrasses and algae, and it looked like fish were striking.” He laughed again. “We ventured onto the jetty, mindful of snakes, and when we looked back the way we’d come, there were more ruins, and what looked like a charcoal dome. A little north of there, we could see another jetty, more intact than what we stood on. It was a dock. Straight as a bolt. Overgrown like everything else, and there was a line of pilings on either side of it. I think they were moorings or slips, once. The dock ended in a tee, probably ten horselengths long.” Ivar marked it on his crude map. “You can clear it, clean it up, and build your Gate right there. It’ll dump barges right into the water. And there was more. There were sunken boats by the shore, prows sticking up above the waterline. Looked like they’d rotted out from below, but what was above water still had flecks of paint. Still had their ribs, too. Must have been made from that local hardwood.”

  They all sat there staring at him, dumbfounded, then looked from Ivar to each other, and back again.

  “What star were you born under?” Ponu managed. “Because you must be the luckiest son of a bitch in the Empire.”

  “I’ve been told that before,” said Ivar modestly.

  Jonaton had been quiet but suddenly asked, “What kinds of boats?”

  “Pointy,” Ivar snickered. “Now. As I recall, we were promised a baron of beef, a barrel of beer, and one of Sai’s cakes that is so special he only bakes it once every three years. So.”

  He grinned up at all of them.

  “That’ll be Bay fed. What will I eat?”

  9

  “Will this do, milord Duke?” whispered Star, gesturing at the shockingly extensive wardrobe laid out on the bed.

  Kordas ignored that question for the moment. “How in the name of gods great and small did you do all this so quickly?” he asked. This was literally twice as much clothing as he had brought with him. It was not a “rainbow” of clothing, either; it was, as he had asked for, conservative. The linen shirts were all white. The breeches were all shades of gray. The waistcoats were all shades of matching grays. The coats were all shades of blue-gray. “Do you do this for every visitor?”

  “There are many of us, and we do not tire,” Star replied. “And . . . no. No, we do not. We create individual garments, not entire wardrobes, and only when requested. But you are different.”

  He licked his lips, and rubbed the back of his neck under his hair. He didn’t have to ask how he was different, not after that answer he’d gotten from Star about how he was permitted to treat the Dolls who had been assigned to him. Of course he was different. He might be the only person in the Palace who didn’t either abuse them or treat them as moving furniture.

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely, “and I am very much in your debt. This is all wonderful, and exactly what I described.”

  It was. The clothing was better by far than what he’d brought from home, but in a subtle fashion. There were no signs of wear, and it was obviously new. His own clothing, if you looked at it closely enough and knew what you were looking for, showed that it had been taken apart and “turned”—the inside turned to become the outside—so that the original wear and tear was disguised. The fabrics these pieces were made from were much finer. He didn’t know enough about fabric to understand how, but the difference was definitely there; the coats and waistcoats were slightly heavier and softer; the shirts were of a whiteness he’d never seen in linen before and of so fine a weave he could scarcely make out the threads, and the lace on the sleeves and ruffs was less coarse than the lace on the shirts he’d brought from Valdemar, which was made by a lovely lady in the manor-village. The gray-colored knee-breeches (not trews, he noted with regret) were exceptionally close-fitting and had a velvety texture like glove leather. They might have been glove leather. The colors were muted and harmonious. The two pairs of knee-length boots, one black, one blue-gray, fit his calves like a second skin without being uncomfortable, and were so polished he fancied he could see his own reflection.

  He still couldn’t imagine how the Dolls had managed to produce three coats, six waistcoats, a dozen shirts and as many sets of underclothing, and two pairs of boots in less than an afternoon.

  Unless—maybe—they had things like this cut out to a general size and pattern, and could tailor them up quickly.

  Still.

  That means these Dolls have creative intelligence. They can judge styles, sizes, and who knows what else?

  “Are you truly pleased?” Star whispered. He thought he caught an edge of anxiety in her tone.

  Her? Am I thinking of this Doll as a female because it is being subservient? Is the Empire’s poison in me again so quickly? Or is it that—yes, the Dolls all move like little girls are trained to move. That must be why I thought “her.”

  “I am more than pleased. I am completely astonished. Now that I see this work, I realize I would have looked like—” He fumbled for a comparison the Doll might understand. He rather doubted Star would know what a “scarecrow” was. “—like I’d been dressed in cast-offs. And that would not do, would it? Not even for a country bumpkin from the furthest reaches of the Empire.”

  Star bowed its head slightly. “No, milord Duke. Not if you wished to have any amount of respect.” It paused. “This one is aware that milord Duke wishes to appear unsophisticated and free to be dismissed in the Great Game, but this is a fine line to walk. Milord Duke must have some respect.”

  Kordas felt his jaw sagging, as he heard what were almost his own thoughts being echoed back at him from the Doll’s—well, it didn’t have a mouth, but it did have a voice.

  “The ones below who know the language of clothing have chosen a path for you that this one hopes will serve. Your clothing is fitted exactly, and designed to display the physique of a very physical man. One who is not lightly trifled with, lest he lash out physically in anger.” The Doll gestured at the garments on the bed. “Slightly out of fashion. No ornamentation of the outer garments. Lace is linen thread, not gold or silver. You do not display wealth upon your person. But this only signifies that you feel no need to. This should, if the ones below are correct, engender conflicting feelings. The first, that you are, as you say, a bumpkin to not understand that clothing makes the man. But the second, an uneasy feeling that perhaps the Duke is so confident he feels no need for display. And if you are that confident . . . what is your reason for feeling such confidence? Is it misplaced confidence? Or do you have power that is not apparent?”

  He forced his mouth to close. “I think you might be the very first being I have ever met that understands the—the Fourth Game,” he said.

  He used that term to see if Star really did understand it. And Star did not disappoint.

  “We call it the Great Game. The Game of Power,” Star agreed. “We who are unregarded and unobserved have been observing this Game since we were bound to serve.”

  Well, that particular
turn of phrase caught his attention. But he wasn’t given the chance to ask about it, because at just that moment, all the mage-lights in the bedroom dimmed and turned to a soft blue, and a three-note chime rang across the room.

  “Milord Duke, that is the signal that it is time to dress for dinner. This one fears that, although you are accustomed to dress and undress yourself, the close fit of these new garments will require that this one assist you.”

  “Botheration,” he muttered, and sighed. “Will the Emperor be at this dinner?” If his memories were correct, the answer should be no. When he’d last been here, the Emperor only attended Court meals that were “occasions,” preferring to keep his physical presence as a sort of reward—and an opportunity for his courtiers to display their loyalty. He rather doubted that his presence tonight was an “occasion.” The arrival of the tribute-horses had never been any sort of event before, and it didn’t make sense that it suddenly would be now.

  Star shook its head. “No,” it said. “Not this evening. Tonight you play the Great Game with your peers. One of us three will attend you as your servant. Your companion will dine here, unless you wish him to attend as well.”

  That set him back a moment. “What are the advantages to him attending?” he asked.

  “A set of eyes and ears that will be virtually invisible. He is merely your Herald and Secretary. No one will address him or take notice of him.”

  “And disadvantages?” he persisted.

  “That you might be weak enough to believe you need him with you. That you have some bonds of affection to him.”

  Hmm. The second is an acute disadvantage for a first impression. Maybe later. “I’ll leave him here, then.”

  “Good. This will give the ones below the time to make new garments for him as well.” The Doll gestured at the bed. “Please select garments, my lord Duke, and this one will assist you.”

  He hadn’t actually believed that he was going to need assistance merely to get dressed, but the Doll had not exaggerated. The breeches, boots, and coat in particular were so closely fitted to his body that if they had not been cut in some fashion that allowed for a great deal of “give,” it would have been like being strapped up in tight bandages. And he’d have had to dislocate a shoulder to get into the coat.

  He had to admit to preening a bit in front of the mirror, though, when he was dressed. He looked positively splendid.

  And . . . yes, in the clothing he’d brought with him, he’d have looked . . . sloppy. The difference between these garments and the ones he’d brought was like the difference between the ones he’d brought and the ones he’d helped birth the foal wearing.

  He paused when the Doll held up the baldric, sword, and Spitter, though, with its beautifully made Valdemar badge.

  “Are those necessary?” he asked.

  “They are symbols of rank, my Lord,” Star said patiently.

  He sighed.

  * * *

  —

  Somewhat to his surprise, the courtiers were not organized at dinner by rank. Instead, the places at the two long tables below the empty High Table were filled by no system he could determine at first glance. Across from him was a very young Prince, an unsmiling, slick-haired, saturnine lad no more than eighteen, dressed in cloth-of-gold, who simply introduced himself, nodded at Kordas’s introduction, and remained silent and observant for the rest of the meal, speaking only to the Doll standing behind him to accept or reject the dishes being offered to him. On his right was a smirking fop of a skinny Count, whose clothing was the very opposite of Kordas’s—gold braid ornamented every possible surface of his scarlet coat, with gold lace on his ruff and sleeves. He very clearly considered himself to be Kordas’s superior in every way, even before the first words were spoken. To his left was a wheezing, elderly Duke, whose silver-embroidered, green waistcoat strained to contain his belly, and whose matching coat could not possibly have been buttoned over it.

  Kordas turned to the Duke first, as the initial dish of the first course, a clear broth, was served. After the Duke had nodded to his Doll to ladle the broth into the silver bowl before him, Kordas introduced himself.

  “Eh? Valdemar, is it?” Duke Elnore took a moment to spoon up some of the broth, tasting it with delicate manners. Kordas was not surprised at the manners. These were drummed into every hostage’s head until they were second nature. “Horses, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, my lord Duke,” Kordas replied, as Count Declaine on his other side rolled his eyes at the Prince across from them. “The Sweetfoot line of palfreys, the Fleetfoot line of race horses, the Imperial Chargers for the Imperial knights, and the Valdemar Golds.” He didn’t mention the Tow-Beasts. That would be pushing things a little too far.

  “Hrm! Hrm! Hrm!” replied the Duke. Was that a laugh? It might have been. “Lost a wager a time or two to those Fleetfoot nags of yours. Breed ’em to run slower, why don’t you?” And then he uttered an actual laugh at his own wit.

  “You don’t mean to say you breed them yourself, do you, Valdemar?” The Count’s eyes glittered with some unreadable emotion, as the second dish of the course was served, and Kordas declined it. This dinner would probably have twelve courses of no less than three dishes each, and you had to pace yourself if you didn’t want to be sick.

  Time to play the bumpkin. “Well, I don’t bone up and mount them, if that’s what you’re implying. But for placing which is bred with which, why yes, I do, Declaine,” Kordas said lazily. “I know the full pedigree of every horse that comes from my stables. I make all the matches myself. It doesn’t do to leave something that important to menials.” He accepted the next dish, which looked like something pickled. It was. “Of course, once they leave my stables, they are out of my hands, and I’ve got no control over what they get bred to, if they get bred at all.” He shrugged. “I do keep track of it, though. Wouldn’t do to have someone claim a nag with a muddled pedigree is something I’m responsible for.”

  Now the sly glances around the table suggested he’d presented just the right level of agrarian simplicity. He decided not to elaborate on it and see what his neighbors said.

  “I heard,” continued Declaine silkily, “that not more than a week ago, you were actually attending the birth of a horse yourself!”

  Well, that got around fast. He was unsurprised. If Merrin, the Emperor, or both wanted the story spread around, it could have come into the Palace in the morning and been known to the entire Court by afternoon.

  “Some things are best left to experts, and I am an expert,” he drawled. “Especially when it’s a Valdemar Gold.”

  The mention of the Golds awoke something else in the eyes of everyone around him: glints of avarice. Everyone wanted a Gold, apparently. He was just glad that the only ones he’d brought were in the Emperor’s hands. Even if they were fake.

  But besides the avarice, there were snickers hidden behind hands. He held his peace, sampled courses, and listened rather than talked. Best not to speak until spoken to, he reckoned.

  The Prince across from him ate very little, and listened intently, his expression so closed Kordas could make out nothing of what he was thinking. The Duke, as his girth suggested, ate practically everything. The Count ate about as much as Kordas did. There was music. The air was gently perfumed; the jewels, gold, and silver glittered; the mage-lights were just bright enough and a pleasing color of pink. The conversation was muted in a way that suggested there was some sort of dampening effect in this room, so that the sound didn’t become overwhelming. Kordas took note that virtually every Doll attending the humans had some sort of identifying feature about it. Some were subtle; small marks on the forehead, such has he had made on Star, Rose, and Clover, or actual faces drawn or painted on the heads. The faces . . . well, they were done well. He suspected there might be some subtle competition going on, with the masters of the Dolls hiring artists to do the work. Some of those faces wer
e just a little too realistic for comfort. Some of the Dolls were ostentatious, displaying gold or silver jewelry as if the Doll was a merchant’s display model. Some were ridiculous: wigs on their heads, and dresses, or coats and breeches, which made them look like gigantic versions of a child’s toy. So he wasn’t the only one who wanted to tell the Dolls apart.

  All of them, however, sported the Imperial tabard. Evidently the Emperor wanted to make sure that people were aware at all times that the Dolls that served them belonged to the Emperor, not to them.

  From time to time someone around him would address Kordas with some quip that was meant to highlight or confirm that he was, essentially, a bumped-up country Squire. Mostly he answered these in a way that confirmed that impression.

  But when the Count, over the dessert course, asked sneeringly, “Just who was your father, Valdemar?” he decided it was time to break that impression a little.

  “My father was Erik, Duke of Valdemar,” he said evenly. “His father was Werther, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Ugo, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Hrothgar, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Polmar, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Lokan, Duke of Valdemar.” He continued on for more generations of Dukes of Valdemar, until the Count’s eyes had glazed over, everyone within hearing range had been made aware that his lineage and title went back a very long time indeed, and he had cemented that his pedigree was every bit as good as any of theirs—and probably better than most, and certainly dated back to when the Emperor had merely been a High King. He finished with, “And Lerren, Duke of Valdemar, was made Duke by High King Sonat the First—for establishing the line of Chargers and horsing every one of the Conquering Knights of the Realm, I’m told, although that could just be family myth.” And he laughed. “I did say it pays to know your pedigrees.”