Hardly an easy life to choose.
"Lib'ry, Sir," grunted the driver, as the carriage halted.
Nazvasta climbed out of the carriage. "Thank you, Tylan. Park round the side somewhere and wait, would you?"
Tylan inclined his head and cracked the reins.
Nazvasta glanced up the steps to the library before bounding up them. Pushing through the doors, the Head Librarian stood beyond to greet him.
"Good morning, Your Majesty." The old man bowed low, wisps of white hair contrasting with his brown robe. "We are honored to receive you."
"Not Majesty yet," replied Nazvasta, removing his gloves to shake hands. "Still just the Steward. How are you, Orard? I trust your various ailments do not trouble you too closely."
"As well as might be expected, Sire, given I live in my twilight years."
Nazvasta laughed and tapped the Head Librarian's arm with his gloves. "Spare me the sob stories," he said, "else we might find another to take over your duties and push you into a dusty corner somewhere."
The man's faded blue eyes lit with eagerness. "Provided you push me there with several nubile lasses, I'll be happy," he replied.
"Get away with you, old lecher," laughed Nazvasta. "Men like you die virgins."
"It has been so long, Majesty, that I may as well be one." Orard's eyes glinted again.
"That happens when you spend your life surrounded by books."
"Quite so, Sire, quite so."
"You have something new for me?" pressed Nazvasta. "There is a reason for your invite other than the pleasure of my company?"
Orard nodded. "Indeed there is; Hillon has returned with something he believes is very interesting for you."
"Not recovered from our archives?"
"Ah, no. Hillon is on the lowest level, sorry to say."
"Lead on." Nazvasta knew the way, but humored the old man. Orard still possessed a certain amount of sprightliness, if the man had slowed considerably over the past couple of years.
"Hillon has spent some time rummaging through Marka's archives," Orard threw over his shoulder.
"Do I know him?" replied Nazvasta.
They passed shelves of books, some with people browsing. Few came to the library, other than whose wishing to hunt for some obscure law, or point of law.
Or, like himself, to check genealogical tables.
"You might remember him, Sire. Gray hair, piercing blue eyes."
"That hasn't narrowed it down very much," chided Nazvasta.
"Well, he has been in Marka so long that I suspect the librarians there believe he is one of theirs. I'm sure he might have been involved in some of your lessons when you were a child."
"Hillon," mused Nazvasta, wondering who in Ranva's name he might be. Certainly not someone he recalled.
Orard paused at a door heavily disguised as oak paneling, swung it open, and headed down a spiral of stone steps. Nazvasta followed, grateful for light crystals set into the wall at regular intervals to show the way ahead.
The lowest level had fewer crystals but, perhaps surprisingly, no damp. A cat's eyes glowed at the intruders from one corner and a table piled with manuscripts sat in the center of the vault. Strangely, a candle lantern burned here.
"How does that cat survive down here?" Nazasta wondered aloud.
"He dines on mice and rats," replied Orard. "He finds his way upstairs now and then though."
"You still have mice and rats down here?"
"Of course, Sire. There are always mice and rats wherever there are people. Now, um, ah, I think Hillon is down here somewhere."
"Yes, I am here."
Both men turned together.
Nazvasta stared at Hillon and failed to recognize him. Perhaps no surprise; he hadn't remembered the name and could recall taking no lessons with him as tutor. The man's voice almost hissed as he spoke, voice sibilant. His eyes looked like deep black pools in the poor light and iron-gray hair topped his head.
For some reason, Nazvasta felt uneasy in this man's presence.
Orard grunted. "Have you been rolling on the floor in your robe?" he demanded. "Or not bothered to change it recently?"
Hillon half lifted the manuscripts he had in his hands. "I have been researching," he replied. "Down here, it is sometimes difficult to tell whether it is light or dark without. The time passes."
"Well," said Orard, grunting. "I'll leave you two alone."
Hillon stared at Nazvasta until Orard's footsteps had faded to nothing.
"You do not remember me," said the librarian, eventually.
"No," replied Nazvasta.
"I have spent most of my life chasing ancient documents and manuscripts," said Hillon. "I buy them, acquire them, copy them."
"Yes, that is part of your job here, as I understand it."
The dark pools of the man's eyes held Nazvasta transfixed. "Yes," he replied.
"And you have found something new?" Nazvasta allowed a hint of hope enter his voice.
"No Sire, I have found something old," corrected Hillon. "And important."
"How important?"
Hillon's voice rose. "Emperor Evlander."
"What about him?" Why must studious types always play games?
"When did he die?"
"Two and a half centuries ago," replied Nazvasta, beginning to think this man had spent too long alone in semidarkness.
"Fourteen fifty-six to be precise," snapped Hillon. "And who followed?"
Nazvasta sighed. "Rono. The Second."
Hillon wagged a finger, eyes alight with... zealousness? "The second one, yes. And who did he marry?"
"Maudla, I think."
"Maudla, yes! She became his queen."
"I think it's time you came to the point," said Nazvasta, tiring of the game.
Hillon dumped the manuscripts on the table and opened the candle lantern door. He rummaged through.
"Maudla had two sons," he said. "Ah!" He flourished a manuscript. "Rono and Kylist. Rono and Kylist!" He hooted. "Think on that. Rono Rono Vintner. What imagination!"
Nazvasta gestured with a hand. "Almost as bad as Marcus Marcus Vintner," he said. "But the bloody man is in Marka. Now come to the point."
"Rono. The second one. Murdered in his bed, fourteen sixty-three. Followed by the third one. Rono son of Rono Unimaginative."
"Yes. Ranva's balls, man, will you get on with it?"
Hillon's dark eyes glittered. "He ran away. Still a boy and he fled. Got some peasant girl with child. Hingast is descended from that one."
"You're sure?" A warning note crept into Nazvasta's voice.
"Course I'm sure! Wouldn't tell you that if I wasn't sure, would I?"
"Maybe you would."
"Younger brother, Kylist. Never crowned. Barely potty trained. Uncle Elwan became Protector and Preceptor as the Empire fell to pieces around him, though he had the good sense to send his infant son here. They called Elwan Rono too, you know. Some called him Rono the Fourth. Others called him Rono the Third. But his name was Elwan."
"It was," agreed Nazvasta, resisting the urge to grind his teeth.
"The Senate tried to call him Rono because they couldn't believe the other one had run away. But Elwan held onto Marka for thirty years before Kylist inherited." Hillon grimaced and nodded. "You lot are Elwan's get; Marcus Marcus Vintner claims a line running all the way up to Kylist."
"I know." Nazvasta restrained a sigh. "I've not come here to listen to your ramblings about history I already know."
Hillon flourished the selected manuscript again. "Tell Hillon what this is then," he demanded. Nazasta opened his mouth, but got no chance to speak. "That's right, this is the record of the marriage between Maudla and Rono. The Second."
Nazvasta shrugged. A collapsing empire's politics were usually messy.
Somehow, Hillon managed to get one corner of the manuscript into the candle lantern. It caught.
"Oh no!" wailed Hillon in mock horror. "That document cost your treasury many, many gold coins!"
/>
Nazvasta stared as the manuscript curled and burned to ash.
"You know what this means now?"
Nazvasta shook his head. He was stuck on the lowest level of Sandester's library with a madman.
Hillon's voice rose. "It means the third Rono and his younger brother Kylist were bastards!" he shouted.
"You are insane," Nazvasta told the librarian. He kept one hand on his swordhilt, just in case. "That changes nothing, it –"
"Changes everything!" Hillon almost screamed. "How can they prove Rono and Kylist were legitimate? The record is gone. It never happened! It means you are the only true claimant to the Markan Throne!"
Nazvasta blinked.
Hillon stood, arms upraised, head thrown back and staring at the brick ceiling. Slowly, his arms returned to a more normal position and he eyed Nazvasta neutrally.
"I think it changes nothing," replied Nazvasta. "Birth out of wedlock does not in itself bar anyone from the throne."
Hillon sniffed. "Hingast's argument. And if allowed, it means he has the best claim to that throne. But a bastard has never sat on that throne. Never."
"There is nothing in Markan law to prevent one from inheriting," countered Nazvasta, voice carefully neutral.
"Yes there is," snapped Hillon. "The secret concord of 705."
"What about it? That dealt with the Preceptors, after the First Empire collapsed a thousand years ago."
"And two men wanted the title. Wurlan Vintner, descended from a son of Mark the Sixth, but otherwise unrelated to the Blood Royal, and Hinista, who claimed the family name Goldeagle through illegitimate descent from Branad the Third."
Nazvasta shook his head. "That concord still only dealt with the Preceptors."
"They blocked Hinista Goldeagle from his birthright because his descent was illegitimate!" howled Hillon. "And it has been the case ever since, that an illegitimate line cannot claim the throne. Just because a law is old, it does not mean that law is no longer current. It has never been repealed, so it is still in force."
Slowly, Hillon lowered his arms again and his voice returned to normality.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"
Nazvasta blinked again. The man even looked normal now.
"I'll think on it," he replied. "Don't work too hard."
Hillon shrugged. "Orard is a slave driver," he muttered.
Nazvasta left the lowest level and, while not exactly hurrying, wasted no time climbing the steps back into the real world.
"Did Your Majesty find what he sought?" Orard bustled up to him.
"More than I'd bargained for," replied Nazvasta, walking quickly towards the door. "And don't talk to me in the third person when I'm in front of your eyes."
Orard shrugged, but offered no apology.
Nazvasta pulled on his gloves as he walked. "Oh, Orard?"
"Yes, Sire?"
"Either have Hillon thrown off the library roof, or commit him to an asylum. The man is totally insane."
Orard laughed. "He always was," he replied. "Good librarian though."
As Nazvasta ran down the steps, Tylan pushed a half smoked pipe into his pocket and readied the carriage, bringing it to the front of the building. As he waited, Nazvasta smiled to himself.
Hillon had a point; Marcus now had no way of proving his legitimacy.
***
Done playing games, no longer masquerading as Hillon, and now alone in the library's crypt, Dervra threw back his head and laughed.
"Thank you for the hint, Grayar!" he called aloud and laughed again.
The burned document had been genuine enough, stolen even as the real Hillon had inspected it.
Time to disappear. Dervra knew the chances of the real Hillon showing up were zero. Heavy bookends applied with force to heads tended to ensure people never moved again. Even though clearing away the body and cleaning up the blood had proved more tedious than expected. He had used sorcery to destroy every trace of the body. After all, Marka had many experienced and successful bounty hunters who enjoyed practicing their arts hunting for missing people.
Dervra had finished his task here and the time had come for Hillon to die again. Still smiling, he closed his eyes and projected himself back to his more comfortable study in Turivkan.
After he had gone, the candle burned down in its lantern while a solitary cat licked his paws and washed his face.
***
Millan was grateful the laundry basket had wheels. They made it a lot easier to move the basket around the palace, until it came to stairs, when she must drag the basket as best she could. Not very easy when she still had growing to do and happened to be rather small for her race anyway.
Earlier, she had turned the basket upside down to inspect the axles and thought of asking someone to make an axle with three wheels at each end. Then, the triple wheel arrangement could turn as she pulled the basket and should make it easier to move up steps. After all, she felt the basket's full weight when dragging it up flights of stairs.
As she walked with the basket, she pictured in her mind's eye how that axle might be made and how it would work. The three wheels together might resemble a triangle, with two always in contact with the surface the basket moved across and –
"Hello, little sister."
Millan squeaked and looked over her shoulder.
Fareen leaned nonchalantly against the far wall and smiled at the infertile. "I forgot to thank you properly for answering my questions," she said. She held out a hand, palm up.
Millan's earpoints strained forwards. "Choca?"
Fareen smiled. "Your choca," she replied.
Millan looked at the gwerin, eyes wary. "Anya might not approve."
Fareen laughed. "What kind of sylph are you? Nobody else ever turns away choca. Oh well." She began to wrap paper around the dark treat.
"No!" Millan stepped forward and almost snatched the choca from the gwerin's hand. "Thank you."
Fareen's smile grew indulgent. "Gone all too quickly," she said.
"Why not eat it yourself?" asked Millan. "I did not expect a reward from you." She did not know, but perhaps gwerins were almost as bad as sylphs when it came to choca.
Fareen laid a finger along her nose. "Because I know the secret," she whispered.
"The secret?" asked Millan.
The gwerin nodded. "The very one. But you know I cannot tell you because it is against the law to tell sylphs."
Millan doubted that, and thought Fareen teased her, but neither would she learn the secret today.
Fareen continued. "And I have plenty of choca."
The infertile hoped her eyes held no greedy gleam.
"Which I'm willing to share."
Millan blinked. Nothing ever came without a price. Reward followed effort, through work or supplying a service. She said nothing.
Fareen nodded. The sylph might be young, but she was not stupid. "All I want is you to answer my questions when I see you."
"What questions?" Reward for information, then.
"About anything and everything," replied the gwerin.
Millan blinked. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, savoring the fading taste of choca.
"You ask me questions?"
Fareen nodded. "But I want full answers. Or no choca."
Millan's earpoints twitched before slanting ahead. The sylph shrugged. "All right," she said, eventually.
Fareen smiled and briefly tickled the sylph's earpoints. "Good girl," she said. "You had better take that laundry before I get you into trouble."
Millan gave a small grunt of delight under the physical attention. She picked up the tow strap of the laundry basket again, nodded to Fareen and moved on.
She had solved the problem of the wheels, but how best to make the axle? As Millan continued her way to the laundry room, she never saw Fareen's pleased, self-satisfied expression.
***
Egran had to admit that the landscape, if very different from his native Re Taura, certainly held
a savage beauty.
Sandester lay in the very north of its lands, and the air here felt a lot chillier than the maritime climate in which Egran had spent most of his life. Not many trees survived on the high plain; the few dotted about were bent, twisted things, their agonized growth shaped by winds that so often screamed across the heights.
Snow-capped mountains surrounded the plain and Egran began to hope the pass would not be too high. Almost summer and he sometimes wondered if he might not freeze to death.
Even plants found life difficult up here, though plenty of pink and blue flowers dotted the plain right now. Plants with yellow and white flowers apparently made the best eating, but Egran could only see pink and blue.
Typical, he might end up starving from hunger and cold.
Kullin rode alongside Egran, but had offered little in the way of conversation so far today. Sometimes the man could talk the leg off of a sheep, and other times fell into long silences.
"Who'd bring an army through here?" Egran wondered aloud.
"Us," grunted Kullin, rousing himself at what he regarded as a foolish question.
"Thinking more about enemies," retorted Egran. "Like Marka. Why would they come this way?"
"Indelgar reckons it's a short cut between Marka and Sandester," replied Kullin. "He told me people used it as a summer trade route a thousand years ago."
"Trade route? You must be joking."
Kullin shrugged. "That's what he said."
Egran looked both ways along the snaking column. The newly promoted General Indelgar rode ahead of the supply carts, while infantry formed a sinuous line stretching behind. Camp followers were all bunched in the middle, immediately behind Egran.
"Two days to cross," mused Egran. "And nothing to see."
"Not even those sylphs," said Kullin.
Egran nodded in agreement. There were still human scouts, the nearest easy to spot against the sere land, but also fifteen sylphs. Ten stayed within the column, but the others scouted around the army. Of those, they saw nothing. How could even a sylph hide here?
"Indelgar reckons the road might be blocked through the pass," continued Kullin. "If we're the first ones, we might have to dig our way through old snow and ice."
"Bloody wonderful," retorted Egran. "At least digging should help keep us warm. I hope the weather on the other side is more like spring than the winter up here. Why didn't they send us to the Horn?"
"We'd be sick for home then," pointed out Kullin. "Anyway, they've sent some of the lads down there and some across to Vertia."
"To keep us apart," said Egran. "They don't fully trust us Re Taurans."
Kullin, a lot less suspicious than Egran, shook his head. "Just fairness," he countered. "They've got a lot to learn from us."