“Despite all my protestations to the contrary,” he said, sucking in a breath heavy with husk, musk and perfume, “I think at least half my heart belongs to Styria.”
“Reckon I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Tunny, grinning hugely, “as the Gurkish might say.”
“To hell,” squeaked Gorst, heavy jaw firmly clenched beneath his mask of a crescent moon.
Orso had attended quite a few masked balls and learned how to handle them through pleasurable trial and error. The main rule was not to get carried away and make an utter arse of yourself. A good rule under all circumstances, in truth, but one that not everyone followed.
Four men were gathered at the dice table. One in a unicorn mask slouched against it, shirt open to show a patch of sweaty chest, waving one floppy hand in time to the band. Or, in fact, entirely out of time. “Lovely music,” he droned, “wonderful music.”
“I told you not to smoke that pipe,” snapped a broad-shouldered one in a lion mask as he flung the dice down the table. They were from the Union, clearly. Angland accents, maybe? Four friends, but the lion appeared to be the leader. Not unlike Orso’s own party, except that Gorst never drank, while Tunny always drank but never seemed to get drunk.
The whale-masked one, who was indeed whale-sized, laughed uproariously at something the bird-masked one said, then lifted his glass but managed to spill most of its contents before he got it to his mouth.
“You’re drunk,” growled the lion.
“It’s a House of Leisure,” said the whale, spreading his hands in good-natured apology. “Shouldn’t we all be drunk?”
“We should all be as drunk as possible whenever possible.” Tunny whisked a glass from a passing tray. “In from the Union, my lords?”
“From Angland,” said the bird. “You?”
“From Adua,” said Orso. “Business?”
“Of a sort,” grunted the lion as the dealer handed him the dice with a slightly pained look, as though it hurt to let go of them. “You?”
“Business. And my sister lives in the city.” Orso lowered his voice. “Took the opportunity to palm my mother off on her. I love the old bird but she won’t stop going on at me to marry.”
“You should.” The lion tossed the dice and brought up four and six, to false delight from the girls about the table. “Married myself not long ago. Had my doubts but it’s been the best decision of my life.” The bird winced and turned away. “Haven’t looked back.”
“She’s licked you into shape!” The unicorn blew a little bubble of snot as he laughed.
“I suppose it all depends on finding the right woman.” Orso gave a long sigh. “Thought I had her. But she slipped through my fingers somehow.”
“You should work on your grip.” The lion tossed the dice one more time.
“Pair of sixes,” droned the dealer, and swept an armload of chips over while the girls cooed as though throwing one number rather than another was quite the achievement.
Now the greeter whispered something in the lion’s ear and he stepped away from the table, straightening his jacket. “Best of luck with your business. And with your mother.” He frowned over at his friends. “I’m sure you three will keep busy while I’m gone.”
The whale grinned over at the bird. “I daresay we can think of something.”
“Lovely,” muttered Tunny, out of the corner of his mouth, as he watched the man stride away with the slightest limp.
“Real charmer.” Orso scooped up the dice and tossed them bouncing across the table.
“One and three,” said the old dealer. “Player loses.” In much the same emotionless tone as he might have announced a win.
Orso sighed as he watched the chips gathered up. “Why is it always the bastards who get all the luck?”
“Winning teaches you nothing,” said Tunny. “You see what a man really is when he loses.”
Jappo mon Rogont Murcatto—Grand Duke of Ospria and Visserine, Protector of Puranti, Nicante, Borletta and Affoia, not to mention King of Styria—sprawled on a velvet chaise in front of a mural of winged women floating naked from a sunset sky and looked very pleased about it. His Suljuk silk gown trailed open to show his muscular stomach, complete with a streak of thick black hair.
A young man dressed in the style of a Gurkish slave-boy had been leaning close to light the king’s pipe. Now he swaggered over to Leo, sinewy body dusted with glitter. “Can I get you anything? Anything at all?”
“No!” snapped Leo. King Jappo’s preferences were well known, but he’d never dreamed they’d be so proudly displayed. Leo had always preferred the company of men, but not in this way. Not at all in this way. He certainly wouldn’t have boasted about it, if he’d been a pervert. Which he wasn’t, of course. He just… found it hard to get excited unless his wife slapped him.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he managed to grate out.
“I was here anyway.” Jappo sprawled back and puffed brown smoke rings. “You’re the one who’s crossed a sea.”
Not the best start. “It was my wife’s idea. Like most of my good ones.” Yes, keep it light. Charm the bastard, like Jurand had said.
“Alas, I have not met your wife, but by all accounts she’s a very shrewd woman.” Jappo shook his fist. “Very tough.” He stroked his shining gown. “Very beautiful. I love to surround myself with beautiful things. But women?” He held up a wobbling hand and made a sound like nyeh. “Mixed feelings. Hope you’re enjoying Cardotti’s.”
“Well—”
“No doubt you prefer the battlefield!” Jappo swung his bare feet down and sat eagerly forward, hacking at the air with his still-smoking pipe. “You want to mount a horse rather than a lover, grip an axe instead of a bottle and have the screams of the dying for music! Am I right, Young Lion? Eh? Eh?”
“Well—”
“Chagga?”
“I like to keep a clear head.”
“I like mine stuffed with delicious dreams.” And Jappo stuck the pipe back between his teeth and puffed away. “Come sit.” And he patted the chaise beside him.
Leo pointedly took a chair opposite. By the dead, he wished he hadn’t turned down those drinks now. He couldn’t have been less comfortable. But a man shows his quality when circumstances are against him, his father always used to say. Where was the glory in easy victories?
“So tell me, Young Lion, why did your wife send you here?”
“She didn’t send me…” Had she, though? “I mean—”
“Your wife told her friends who told my friends who told me that you’re building a grand alliance! That if I were to hop aboard we could drag relations between Styria and the Union out of the bog. That after so many unprofitable wars we could forge a peace that would be the envy of the world.” Jappo grinned over. “Anything to it?”
“Well…” Leo struggled to force his mind back onto the script. “The only real dispute we have is King Orso’s claim on Talins. His false claim, that is—”
“I think it’s quite a solid claim.”
“What?”
“His grandfather was Grand Duke of Talins, then my mother murdered him and his sons and stole the city. My lawyers would no doubt differ, but if you’re asking me, Orso has a much better claim to the city than I do. But then I have it, and I’m not handing it over, and every time the Union tries to take it from me, my mother gives you quite the spanking. So when it comes to claims…” And he twisted his face and made that nyeh sound again.
“Well… yes. I’m saying we wouldn’t try again. We’d give up the claim. I’m not interested in Talins. Only the Union.”
“Indeed.” Jappo’s expression was hard to gauge because of the mask. “The Union interests you so much, you want to steal it.”
Leo worked his mouth. “I want to free it.”
“I once heard a pickpocket use that defence about some purses he’d liberated. They still cut his hands off.”
“Our quarrel’s not with King Orso, but with his Closed Council. Their arrogan
ce. Their corruption. They’re dragging the nation into the sewer!”
“And who is involved in this noble scheme to free the Union from its king’s chosen councillors?”
Leo paused a moment, mouth half-open.
“Come, come, Young Lion. You can’t expect me to join a club without knowing the quality of the other members.”
Probably Leo should have kept his cards close, but the man’s constant look of slight scorn was beginning to grate on him.
“Myself and all the Lords of Angland. Lord Isher, Lord Heugen, Lord Barezin and fifteen other chairs of the Open Council, though I’m sure more will join us, they’re all chafing under the Closed Council’s yoke—”
“A little olive oil can help.”
“What?”
“With chafing.”
Leo soldiered on. “Then we have friends among the commoners, and the sworn oath of the King of the Northmen himself, Stour Nightfall.”
“A far-reaching brotherhood! Can King Orso really know nothing about it?”
There was no point holding back now. It was all or nothing. And boldness had always been Leo’s way.
“He doesn’t suspect a thing.” Leo was trying so hard not to look at Jappo’s bare stomach, he ended up constantly glancing at it. “A member of his Closed Council is in our pocket, warning us of every move he makes.”
“And expecting a reward, I’m sure. No doubt every one of your allies has something to gain?” If he could’ve seen Jappo’s eyebrows, Leo expected they would’ve been raised expectantly.
“I can offer you Sipani.” Dismal negotiating. He was tossing away cities without even a hint of barter. Savine would’ve been disgusted.
“That’s generous.”
“I’m a soldier, not a salesman.”
“I meant I was unaware it was yours to give. Here I am, after all, in Sipani, enjoying the best the city has to offer without your permission. Doing what I want. Smoking what I want. Fucking who I want.”
“Your bed, your business,” snapped Leo, but the Styrian proverb came out strangled.
“If it helps, I don’t only fuck men.” As far as could be told through his mask, King Jappo looked faintly amused. “Sometimes I’m fucked by them. Look at it this way—if you needed advice on horses, you wouldn’t go to someone who never rode a horse.”
“What?”
“How could someone who never had a cock really know what’s best to do with a cock? I’ve debated scholars the world over and no one’s been able to give me a satisfactory answer on that point.”
“Some might say there’s a natural order to things,” Leo forced through gritted teeth.
“If we were constrained by the natural order we would still be wriggling naked in the filth.”
“Some of us still are,” said Leo, before he could stop himself.
Jappo only gave a little snort of laughter. “So Sipani is your final offer?”
Leo paused. They’d all agreed to offer Westport, if they had to. A superstitious slum, Savine had said. A paltry price to pay for Angland, Starikland and Midderland. He’d reluctantly agreed at the time, but now his leg was aching, and perhaps it was the chagga smoke, but he was feeling out of sorts, hot in the face and slightly dizzy. He hated Styria, hated Sipani, hated Cardotti’s, hated this degenerate excuse for a king most of all. He raised his chin, trying to look haughtily down his nose, but his eyes kept being drawn to that trail of dark hair from Jappo’s navel into the not entirely concealing shadows of his gown…
“My last offer!” he snapped, angrily.
Jappo gave a wounded pout. “Your shrewd, tough, beautiful wife gave you nothing else to bargain with?”
“You’re dealing with me!” growled Leo, further nettled. He wasn’t giving up Union territory to one of the Union’s enemies, especially not this one. Savine might be upset but he was the husband, the leader, the lord and master. He was the Young Lion. He’d beaten Stour Nightfall. He’d beaten Black Calder. He could beat the likes of bloody Orso without the help of some grinning Styrian pervert.
“Shame,” murmured Jappo, though whether he was talking about the offer, or who was making it, was hard to tell. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.” He lay back, one arm behind his head, forcing Leo to scrupulously keep his eyes away as that bloody gown fell even further open. “Less than I was hoping, but even so. I’ll let you know my answer in due course.”
“Sooner rather than later,” said Leo stiffly. “We move on the last day of summer.”
“Stay a while, Young Lion. Enjoy the hospitality. You seem tense. And do pass my regards to your wife!”
Leo ground his teeth as he pulled the door shut. He would’ve liked to fling the bastard thing closed and snarl some ugly curses after it, but the greeter was in the hallway, guiding someone else towards Jappo’s door. It was that smug idiot from downstairs with a gilded sun for a mask.
“Mind out,” he snarled, barging past.
“By all means,” said Orso as the man in the lion mask shoved between him and the greeter and stomped away. “Rather rude.”
“It was,” said the greeter.
“But being an arsehole is crime and punishment both.”
“It is.” And she eased the door open and offered him the way.
“King Orso!” Jappo Murcatto reclined on a velvet daybed in a mask sculpted like spread eagle’s wings and a Gurkish robe that left nothing to the imagination. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance!”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Orso, in Styrian, giving the kind of sweeping bow his mother had always told him was popular in Talins. “How often, after all, do two kings get to chat? It’s rather refreshing, being able to speak to someone on an equal footing.” And he took his mask off and tossed it on a side table, then dropped down in a chair and poured himself a glass of wine.
Jappo frowned at the mask. “That’s really not the done thing in Cardotti’s.”
“We’re kings. The done thing is whatever we do. I came here for a frank discussion. By all means leave yours on, if you prefer.”
“You speak excellent Styrian.”
“I have my mother to thank. She won’t bully me in any other tongue.”
“We both owe our mothers a debt, then. Mine gave me a whole kingdom.” And Jappo plucked his mask off and dropped it beside Orso’s. His face was not at all what Orso had imagined. Handsome, but in a strong-boned, broad-jawed sort of way. Surprisingly pale, too, in spite of his dark curls. He looked more like a Northman than a Styrian.
“Chagga?” he asked, holding up a pipe.
“Whyever not?”
While the King of Styria charged the pipe, the King of the Union frowned up at the towering mural behind him. “A copy of Aropella’s Fates?”
“Well recognised!” Jappo turned to look it over. “Worse brushwork than the great man’s version but far more bare flesh, so I consider it a draw. The original’s in my mother’s palace at Fontezarmo.”
“I am aware. My mother would say it’s her palace, though.”
“Really?”
“And that Aropella’s Fates is one of the few treasures your mother didn’t destroy when she stole the place. Mostly because, as it’s on the ceiling, it was out of easy reach of the criminal scum she’d employed to help her.”
“And do you share your mother’s opinion?”
“Very rarely,” said Orso. “She tends towards the vengeful. I sometimes think she named me purely with the intention of annoying your mother. My namesake Grand Duke Orso did kill your uncle, after all, and very nearly killed your mother. Before your mother killed him. And my uncles. And half the nobility of Styria. Is that how it went?”
“Roughly.”
“So many familial murders I trip up on the details. We do have a rather… complicated family situation.”
“Most kings do, I suppose.”
“Honestly, I’d rather put it all behind me. What’s the point in having new generations if all we do is pick up the feuds of the
old one?”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that.” Jappo discerningly pursed his lips as he plucked the hood off a lamp and held it to his pipe, puffing up a smog of brown smoke. “Enemies are like furniture, aren’t they? Better chosen for oneself than inherited.”
“And made to be sat on.”
“My mother would agree with you there. She is a soldier.” Jappo tossed his head with a kind of fierce pride when he said it. Perhaps the first truly honest-seeming thing he’d done since Orso arrived. He handed the pipe over. “A most formidable one.”
“Perhaps the most formidable alive,” said Orso, puffing some smoke of his own. “Only an idiot would deny it.”
“But great soldiers become prisoners of their own success. All she thinks of is her next victory. Beating her enemies. Winning the war. She pays no mind to making friends. She has no time to win the peace.”
“And is that what you want? To win the peace?”
Jappo shrugged. “Here in Styria we had the Years of Blood, then the Years of Fire. There in the Union you had two wars with the Gurkish and two wars against the North. Then, to cap it off, we fought three wars against each other. Half a century of destruction. No one is asking me, but if they were, I would say that we could probably take a breath. Build something! Make the world better!” He seemed to remember himself and sat back. “And, you know, fuck. Make music.”
“Mmmm.” Orso blew a couple of ragged smoke rings. “This dissolute hedonist business suits you, but I’ve played the role myself.”
“Really?”
“My own preference tilts towards women—”
“As does your mother’s, I understand?”
“As does my mother’s—she has sublime taste in that as in so much else—but otherwise all this is rather like looking in the mirror. I think I even had that same gown.” He pointed at it with the stem of the pipe. “Though sadly not that stomach. So I am well aware—fun though it is—this performance is just another kind of mask.”
The Trouble with Peace Page 37