“I hope you’re right. If not, we’ll soon be on our knees to their Kilmet. And lucky to be alive to do so.”
“I’m counting on Reisiltark’s reputation to keep them in line. Her powers may truly be erratic, but they don’t know that. And they will know what she did to the wizards in Patverseme. I’ll make sure of it. The Scallacians have never defeated the wizards themselves, so they’ll be sufficiently cowed into behaving themselves. She will need to be very visible. You will see to it?”
Sodur bit back the urge to spit. He looked up at the ceiling and then back, meeting Vare’s demanding gaze. “I’ll see to it. It’s time for her to come back down out of the lighthouse and show her face in Koduteel anyhow. I’ll put Juhrnus on them too. The more eyes watching them, the better.”
Vare paused as if about to say something and then gave a little shrug. “How is Geran today? Did you manage to see him?” he asked, changing the subject.
“You might say that.”
“Still not eating?” Vare nudged the basket of food with his foot.
“No, and you’d better have a bit of it. I’ve about had a stomach full.”
The Lord Marshall turned a narrowed gaze on Sodur, hearing the doubled meaning. “You’re
ahalad-kaaslane,
and I can’t require you to follow my orders, but I’ll do whatever it takes to bring Geran back and protect Kodu Riik. Don’t ever forget that.”
Sodur crossed his arms and watched as Vare retreated up the passage. “So will I,” he murmured. “So will I.”
After a moment he closed the outer door of the cell and refastened the three bars. As he gathered up the basket and the torch, he glanced down at Lume, the Lord Marshal’s none-too-subtle threat scraping on him like sandpaper on soft flesh.
~Do you feel it, my friend? Inside and out, there’s a storm brewing.
That alien prickling arced over his brain again, scurrying beneath his skull. Sodur gave his head a sharp shake, gritting his teeth together. Lume leaned against his knees and whined.
~You feel it too.
Agreement. Unease.
Sodur stroked a soothing hand over Lume’s head.
~Then it’s time to make our choice. If we don’t tell Reisil soon, we may lose the opportunity. Derros is right about one thing. He cannot order the
ahalad-kaaslane.
We must protect Kodu Riik the best way we know how. And Reisil is the only real solution. The Lady chose her. How can we not trust the Lady’s judgment?
Even as he settled on his decision, a chill of foreboding swept over him. He was running out of time. Would she listen to him?
Chapter 8
“
D
on’t toy with him, Metyein. It’s much too cold, and I’m hungry besides. I want hot wine, a groaning table, and a lapful of woman.”
Metyein flashed a thin-lipped smile at his second. There was no other man his father wanted less as a companion for his eldest son, and no other that Metyein trusted so well. His father’s disapprobation merely served to spice their friendship.
“You have no heart, Soka. How can I prick Kaselm’s pride that way? How will he consider himself a man if I merely swat him like a child?”
Soka eyed Metyein’s smiling countenance banefully. “He can plump up a woman or six like any other civilized man. I swear, Metyein, all winter long you’ve had us out here freezing our balls off. I tell you now, you’re going to have to find yourself a new second if you can’t wait for a more mild season for your little wrangles.”
At Soka’s first words, Metyein’s face shuttered, his fine-drawn features turning to chiseled marble. “Some of us don’t find studwork as manly an enterprise as others,” he said.
“Oh, for the love of the Demonlord’s warty, purple horn, Metyein, I didn’t mean your father,” Soka said impatiently. “You appreciate a warm, wet, willing woman as much as the next man, and none of us have wives—which, I might add, will salve your conscience when you poke a hole in Kaselm. So why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves? Having a noble’s byblow gets a doxy a bit of status, some extra money for her old age, and lets a man be certain she’s a good breeder before he makes her his wife. We’re doing a service.”
Metyein couldn’t help but chuckle as he unpinned his cloak, short brown curls tossing in the wind.
“All right,” he said, giving the promise to Soka that his Lord Marshal father had not managed to bribe, blackmail or reason from him. “This will be the last time—at least until the demon-blighted spring arrives. So long as no one gives me cause.”
“Kaselm
was
foolish to mention your mother so. It should be quite obvious to anyone that you have taken charge of your mother’s reputation, and that you are by far the most superior swordsman in Koduteel. The man has offal for brains. His father must despair for the future of his House.”
“His father may thank me, then.” Metyein said, rolling his shoulders and tugging his cuffs down over his wrists. His clothing fit impeccably as always, and yet, as always, he fussed with it restlessly before proceeding with the duel. Not that he expected to lose. Still his blood roared in his veins, and his muscles tensed with anticipation.
“Likely he wouldn’t mind a different choice of heir,” Soka agreed. “But I’m not sure there is a better choice available. He was so deep in his cups that he doubtless can’t even remember his offense.”
“Then before I stop his heart, I shall refresh his memory.”
“Don’t be such an ass. Killing Kaselm will do nothing to mend your father’s habits. Let Kaselm off with a scratch. His pride will suffer with the story that you defeated him almost before he drew his sword. That he won’t soon forget, thanks to Nedek’s flapping tongue. You can hardly inflict a worse punishment. And then you and I can find someplace to get warm.” He grinned lasciviously and waggled his brows.
Metyein chuckled and clapped Soka on the shoulder. “All right, all right. You win. A scratch. But on his cheek. Every time he looks in the mirror, he’ll have cause to remember.”
“It could be worse,” said Soka, pulling a flask from a cloak pocket and taking a quick swig. The folds of his hood fell away from his face. He had a straight nose with prominent cheekbones, his chestnut hair forming a dramatic widow’s peak on his high brow. But his strikingly handsome features were marred by the brilliant patch covering one eye, the other glittering like blue topaz.
“Better hurry before he piddles himself or the watch interrupts your fun. They patrol the gardens more avidly now that you’ve made it such a fashionable site for dueling.”
“Certainly the gangs of thieves and assorted vagabonds who have taken up residence here aren’t reason enough to step up patrols,” Metyein replied sardonically.
The two men paced up the Lovers’ Walk toward Kaselm and Nedek. The Jarrah Gardens formed the hub of the social season’s entertainment. They consisted mostly of shady woods spreading over low knolls and clustering in grassy hollows. Paved walks crosshatched the gardens at intervals, providing seclusion and privacy for amorous assignations and other, less savory activities. The Lovers’ Walk ran along the western edge, a cloistered tunnel beneath the trees. South and east lay the orchestra pavilion and the rotunda. Supperbox wings braced the orchestra pavilion on either side.
The Lovers’ Walk was often Metyein’s choice for duels, and not only because of the privacy it offered. It was also his way of rebuking his father for his ever-growing catalog of mistresses. The current favorite wore a scent of star flowers and sweet bren resin. The cloying fragrance had clung to his father’s skin and hair the last three days, staining the air around him and turning Metyein’s stomach with every tainted breath he took.
Metyein found his father’s romantic exploits intolerable. His mother, too shamed to sit passively by and watch her husband’s sexual sport, remained sequestered in Doneviik, the Vare ancestral home. A quiet, dignified woman, she rarely ever spoke of the man who had begun straying within months of their marriage. Though he’d warmed her bed sufficiently often to produce three sons and two daughters, theirs was a sterile relationship. To Metyein, he had been little more than a low voice, a scent of tobacco and a pair of polished boots. But on Metyein’s twentieth birthday, the Lord Marshal had sent for him in preparation to become the next Kijal Vare. That had been two years and more than twenty duels ago.
Metyein sucked his teeth and spat in an ungentlemanly fashion. He had had years of intensive tutelage in all those things necessary to prepare him to inherit the title—social graces, languages, mathematics, history, swordplay, and tactics. His mother had been scrupulous in making sure he learned his lessons. But he was like a child learning to read compared with his father’s brilliance. Over the last two years he’d learned more than he would have believed possible on every facet of the court, politics, the war, and even his father. It rankled almost beyond bearing that he was forced to respect this man who’d had so little care for his wife’s reputation. But if he’d come to respect the Lord Marshal’s mental agility, he continued to be infuriated by his father’s casual rutting. Those who admired his sire made Dajal Vare the brunt of their merrymaking, publicly speculating about the woman who would drive a man to such heights of excess.
Metyein ground his teeth. If winning duels against those bucks was proof of her virtue, then his mother was perfect indeed. He never lost. Even his father’s swordsmaster had been startled at his skill, and their training sessions soon became full-scale contests, driving both to new levels of ability. The lewd speculations about his mother had dwindled sharply as Metyein’s reputation had spread amongst the Lord Marshal’s toadies and they began to fear for their lives. More than a few of his father’s allies had complained about his transgressions. His father’s admonitions only spurred him on.
“You’re quiet. Not having second thoughts?” asked Soka.
“Not at all. I’m merely wondering which cheek Kaselm would prefer marked.”
“Either will make an improvement. But perhaps you should ask.”
The wind whined through the bare trees, and ice crunched beneath their boots. Kaselm and Nedek waited beside a small fountain, its marble basin cluttered with winter debris and snow. Kaselm was several years older than Metyein. He had narrow, piggy eyes and a bulking chest that appeared entirely out of proportion to his bandy legs. His doublet was stained with wine and vomit from the previous night, and his sleeves revealed all that he’d eaten since donning it. Nedek was equally broad shouldered, but his gut jutted above his waistband, and his fine features disappeared in the fleshy folds of his face.
“Gentlemen,” Metyein said with a nod. “Are you ready to begin? It seems my friend Kaj Soka longs for indoor amusements.”
Nedek scowled at Soka, stepping away with a sour expression. Metyein’s gaze sharpened, but Soka gave a faint shake of his head and rolled his good eye.
Metyein swallowed his resentment. Soka had resided in Koduteel as a hostage to the court for twelve years, more than half his life. In that time, he’d never once been allowed outside its walls. The price he paid for the crimes of his father. That and a constant barrage of insolence from the other nobility for which Soka had no recourse: he was forbidden to fight by the terms of the hostage compact. He’d been permitted to carry a weapon only after Patverseme had attacked Koduteel, and since then no one had thought to revoke the privilege. He would not soon forgive the humiliation of having Metyein defend his honor from the likes of Nedek. Still, if it was Nedek he was dueling and not Kaselm, Metyein wouldn’t hesitate to separate the man’s idiot soul from his body.
“Shall we?” Metyein asked, gesturing toward the walkway and pulling off his gloves. Kaselm and Nedek glanced at one another, and then Kaselm mumbled miserably as he removed his cloak. Metyein retreated along the walk, leaving Soka standing beside the fountain with Nedek. Kaselm shuffled out to a point opposite Metyein, fumbling at the hilt of his sword.
Both men drew, the metal of their swords chiming brightly in the frigid air. Kaselm’s sword was a court-sword. Metyein eyed it with derision. Kaselm’s limp, awkward grip indicated it was more decorative than functional.
As both men settled into guard positions, Metyein paused. “It should comfort you to learn, Kaselm, that I’ve decided to take my satisfaction in first blood rather than heart’s blood. But that leaves me with something of a dilemma. Would you prefer to wear my mark on your right or left cheek?”
Kaselm’s jaw dropped and then closed, then opened and closed again. Metyein remained poised and ready. Kaselm bellowed and galloped forward. Metyein ducked under his wild slashing blow, and Kaselm stumbled past, unable to stop. If this had been battle and Metyein had been using a sword with a cutting edge, he might have ended things right there with a quick slash at Kaselm’s exposed hamstrings. But instead he spun around, weight forward on the balls of his feet, waiting for Kaselm to charge again.
Kaselm lumbered about, looking faintly baffled. He clutched his hilt with white-knuckled fingers. Already he was panting, his breaths bursting forth in feathery plumes. His stance was too wide, Metyein noted, and he held his sword too high. His dagger drooped uselessly in his other hand.
Even without Soka’s admonition to hurry, Metyein doubted he could have toyed long with this buffoon. He slid his tongue around his teeth. He could not allow Kaselm’s comments to pass unchallenged, and yet how could he consider this a fair duel? How could any idiot be allowed to strap on a sword if he was this incompetent?
Disgusted with them both, Metyein didn’t wait for Kaselm to formulate another attack. Shifting his feet quickly, he brought himself in under Kaselm’s guard, caught the other man’s bobbling sword with his dagger and flipped it easily out of his hand. A moment later, he flicked the point of his rapier across Kaselm’s florid right cheek. Blood welled along the line of the cut and trickled down his flummoxed face.
“I declare myself satisfied,” Metyein said with a cold salute of his sword. “I would caution you against further insults to my mother, however.” With that, Metyein gave a stiff bow and backed out of reach.