Now the vehicle swayed even more violently, so that Jesa slid from her seat and into the duchess. It was only luck that little Serasina was not crushed between them.
“Get out, get out!” Jesa shouted, but she could barely hear herself above the shouts from the surrounding crowd. She reached for the door beside the duchess but the press of people outside was too thick and the door would not open. Suddenly the whole carriage tipped sideways. Jesa turned to her own side and saw the man with the odd smile again, but now he was climbing in through the window.
“She is calling me,” the man said. His grin was fixed like a stone carving, and he spoke as calmly as if he continued a conversation he and Jesa had begun earlier. He first worked his shoulders through the carriage window, then his arms. Duchess Canthia had fallen forward as the carriage tipped, and could not get up from where she was wedged between the seat and the floor. The intruder reached toward the baby in Jesa’s arms, and she saw that he had a sharpened wooden stake in one hand. “I am summoned by the Whisperer—I must go to her,” the smiling man said, so offhandedly he might have been talking to himself. “But it is such a long way! So I will bring her a gift—something warm . . .”
Jesa managed to get her foot up and kick the intruder full in the face, but he only fell back a short way, and managed to gouge her leg with his stake, drawing blood, before she could pull it back. He began to climb again until he had forced his entire upper body into the carriage. Jesa gave the baby to Duchess Canthia and did her best to shield the tiny body with her own, kicking and hitting out at the intruder, but this time he blocked the blows with his free arm and continued to clamber in, still grinning.
The last thing I will ever see . . . that terrible face . . . Jesa thought, then suddenly the man’s demented grin contracted in puzzlement; a moment later he was jerked backward out of the carriage. Jesa did not see what happened, but heard a whistling cry that began as rage and ended as nothing. A lacy spray of blood splashed the carriage window frame.
The noise outside abruptly changed. The cacophony of voices grew louder and more shrill, but now Jesa also heard the thunder of shod hooves on cobblestone, then screams and other dreadful noises that, if less human, might have come from a butcher’s yard. The carriage stopped swaying.
Another face appeared in the window. To Jesa’s surprise, the newcomer’s skin was as dark as her own, but he wore shiny armor. He had taken off his helmet, and his broad, handsome face was full of worry.
“Your Grace, do you live?” he asked, trying to sort out who was who in the muddle into which Jesa, the duchess, and the baby had fallen.
“Yes, I live,” the duchess said from beneath Jesa. “And thanks to our beloved Ransomer, the Aedon, my baby also lives. Who are you?”
“Viscount Matreu of Spenit, Your Grace. We have met before, but it was long ago. Thanks be to God that my men and I were riding this way! We have put the rabble to flight. Are you injured?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Canthia said. “Will you get off me now, Jesa, so I can speak to our rescuer? Thank you.” The duchess worriedly examined little Serasina, but the baby seemed to be no worse than startled by the events. “What do we do now? Can we drive on?”
“I fear your driver is dead, and so are several of your guards,” said Matreu. “And both of the wide roads out of this square are blocked. We will have to take you and your child and your servant onto our horses.”
Jesa thought she had never seen a man so admirable, in part because she felt sure that without his intervention, she and her mistress and innocent little Serasina would all be dead. In that moment, if someone had told her the dark-skinned count was one of the Aedonite God’s angels, she would have seriously considered turning her back on He Who Always Steps On Sand to embrace a new faith. But her joy and wonder were short-lived: as she was helped out of the carriage and saw the way it had been defaced and damaged, and then caught sight of all the bodies lying on the ground, she swooned and stumbled and would have fallen had not one of Count Matreu’s soldiers leaned down from his saddle and caught her arm.
Jesa felt as though she dreamed: things that had happened and things that were happening were now swirled together, with little to tell them apart. She would remember little of the ride to the Sancellan Mahistrevis except the smoke in the air and the puzzled, sometimes hostile looks of the citizens they passed. As they made their slow way up the hill Duchess Canthia rode in front of the count, carrying her baby, while Jesa clung to the back of one of the other knights. She had never been on a horse before, and the experience was only slightly less frightening than what had happened in the carriage.
The one thing she definitely saw, and would wish ever afterward that she hadn’t, was beside the carriage when she first stepped down. The smiling man’s head was no longer attached to his body. Both parts of him lay on the cobbles just a short distance away, each surrounded by a pool of shiny blood, and the severed head still wore the same strange grin.
• • •
“It is an outrage!” said Duke Saluceris. “God preserve us, they tried to murder my wife and child! I will have my brother’s head for this—and Dallo the Ingadarine’s as well!”
“We should move on him now, before he can leave the city.” This was Idexes Claves, Lord Chancellor and one of the duke’s closest allies.
“But what of your brother?” demanded Rillian Albias, the Solicitor General. Like the other nobles crowded into the parlor, the leader of the Albian house was armed for war. “We cannot take up Dallo and leave Drusis loose. The Stormbirds all but count your brother as their leader already—they know who holds the power.”
The Duchess, who had been stroking Serasina’s face as she fell asleep in her basket, now stood. “Stay with her,” she told Jesa before going to join the men. She left the door open, doubtless to listen in case little Serasina should cry, but it allowed Jesa to hear and see what was going on. She was still fascinated by the viscount. Since she had come to Nabban she had seen almost no one who looked like herself who was not a servant or something lower.
“Gentlemen,” the duchess said, “I am as disturbed by this as any of you, but we cannot allow ourselves to be driven to illegal action.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Idexes said, “but legalities will do us no good when our enemies murder us in our beds.” His tone was respectful, but his thin face looked as though he had bitten a lemon by accident.
“I doubt my husband feels the same—do you, Saluceris?”
Jesa winced, and was glad no one could see her in the darkened room where the baby was sleeping. The duchess was generally sweet-tempered, but Canthia did not like Idexes at all: if the duke did not take her side, there would be trouble later.
“It is more complicated than that, my dear wife,” said Saluceris; Jesa could almost feel the look she felt sure the duchess must be giving him.
“Of course it is, my dear husband. That is the point I am making. Do you think that if you round up the leaders of the mob they will admit that Drusis and the Ingadarines urged them to riot?”
“They will tell the truth under torture,” insisted Rillian Albias.
“They will say anything their torturers suggest,” said the duchess. “And their families will hate us forever, and other houses will take their sides who are now neutral, and Lector Vidian himself will denounce us—do not forget that he became lector largely because of Dallo Ingadaris’ father. And I have not even pointed out that the High Queen in Erkynland is Ingadarine by blood. How much sympathy will we have from the High Throne if we execute the queen’s cousin on the evidence of a few tortured peasants?”
Jesa could hear Idexes struggling to remain courteous. “And what does Her Grace suggest? That we allow this attack to go unpunished? That we pretend it never happened? Do you know, they burned three of my warehouses? Nine hundred gold imperators worth of goods lost!”
“For all yo
ur talk of murder,” the duchess said, “your concern seems to be more with your money.”
“That is unfair. Your Grace, must I have my motives impugned?” Idexes was clearly talking to the duke now—Jesa saw him clink past the opening of the door, his armor jingling. “We are your staunchest allies, Duke Saluceris. Must we suffer for it?”
“Enough, enough.” Saluceris sounded tired and frustrated, his anger now turned on something more inward. “Yes, Idexes, you are my ally. I do not forget that. And I’m sure the duchess does not forget it, either. Do you, my lady?”
“Of course not, my lord.” But Canthia did not sound very contrite.
“May I say something, Your Grace?”
Jesa straightened a little, recognizing the voice of Viscount Matreu, her rescuer.
“Why is this man here?” Rillian Albias asked suddenly. “Those of us gathered here have been with you all along, Your Grace. Who is this man and how does he gain a place among us?”
“You know me perfectly well, Count Rillian,” said Matreu.
“This man saved my life, and the life of the Duke’s child,” said the duchess. “Have you something to say against him? Because I will be interested to hear what that might be, that would keep the one man who actually did something useful out of this discussion.”
“Please, my dear. Rillian did not know all that happened, as he has just arrived.” But the duke’s voice was indeed a little sharper as he addressed the count of Albias. “Matreu has done a heroic thing, for which you should all thank him a thousand times. Of course he may speak.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I only wished to point out that the riot did not begin this evening. It began last night, when three men wearing the Ingadarine albatross were found dead on the steps of Sacred Redeemer’s Church in Tellis Narassi. The rumor is that it was another brawl between Kingfishers and Stormbirds, as they more and more call themselves. But this one went further than most and ended in murder. To put things plainly, it was not difficult for your enemies to find angry folk in that neighborhood this morning. If my counsel means anything, I suggest that an even-handed approach might be more useful. Find all who engaged in the brawl, no matter which side they were on, and punish the survivors.”
“Are you mad?” said Idexes shrilly. “Punish our own men for defending themselves? Your Grace, the Ingadarines swagger all over the north side of the city as though one of their own sits here in the Sancellan Mahistrevis. They pick fights with our armed soldiers when they can find them, and when they cannot, they find innocents who happen to be wearing some token of support for your throne and then beat them half to death. Apparently a few of these villains ran into someone who fought back against their mischief. You cannot make an example of your own supporters!”
“I disagree,” said Matreu. “That is exactly what you must do if you wish to keep the peace, Duke Saluceris. Punish all who engage in illegal brawling, regardless of what badge they wear or to what house they bear allegiance. Only that way will you convince the rest of Nabban that you want peace and justice.”
“Peace and justice,” snorted Rillian. “It sounds to me as though you wish to take the sword from the duke’s hand and replace it with a justice’s staff. Do you confront your own enemies with a book of laws?”
“Sometimes it is not so easy to know who your enemies are, Count Rillian. And sometimes those who act with foolish swiftness make more enemies than they dispatch.”
Jesa had to restrain the urge to cry out in pleasure at this sally, as if she were watching a game of feather-float between her brothers back home in Red Pig Lagoon. She knew that if she made a noise she would certainly be sent away, so she moved a little farther back into the shadows and sat with her hand over her mouth. Still, she was delighted to know that someone who looked so much like herself could stand and trade words with some of the mightiest men in Nabban.
“Your Grace,” said a new voice with the gravelly scrape of age. “I think we waste our time in argument between ourselves that makes more smoke than heat. This is your decision and yours alone.”
“That I know, Uncle,” the duke said. “And as always, I value your calm words. But I would still know your mind.”
Now Jesa knew it was old Envalles who had spoken, the brother of Duke Saluceris’ late mother. Jesa had not heard him come in, but it made sense he would be present, since he was one of the duke’s chief counselors. She liked Envalles, who was one of the few members of the household beside the duchess herself who ever spoke to Jesa. Sometimes he even brought her apples from his estate outside the city.
“As it happens, Your Grace, I agree with Count Idexes and Count Rillian that this assault on your wife and child cannot be ignored. But I also think there is merit in what Viscount Matreu says. Surely the people of Nabban will be as angered at this dreadful affront as we all are. Never forget, the real danger here is your brother. Without Drusis, Dallo Ingadaris is only a fat nobleman with money.”
“A fat nobleman with more money than God himself and five hundred armed men inside the city walls!” protested Idexes.
“Nevertheless, it is not solely Ingadarine gold that creates this rebellion,” Envalles said. “Some of the concerns they speak for are genuine, even if their motives are not.”
“Such as?” asked Saluceris.
“We have talked of it several times in the past sennight already,” said his uncle. “The Thrithings-folk continue to raid the easternmost counties, burning settlements, stealing cattle and sheep, killing those who oppose them. Much of Count Dallo’s influence comes from the border nobles. They are frightened, and they are right to be so. The men of the grasslands are numerous. If they ever cease fighting among themselves—if anyone ever unites them—Nabban itself will be in danger. All the civilized lands will be.”
“I respect your uncle’s wisdom,” said Rialles in a way that made it sound to Jesa as if he spoke through clenched teeth, “but I think in this case he is being foolish.”
“Dangerous words,” said the duchess, but she was not as loud as she could have been.
“Why foolish?” asked Saluceris.
“Because any movement against the grasslanders will rebound against us,” Rillian said. “Shall we send Drusis to fight them? Or Dallo, or Tiyanis Sulis? Because the Sulian lands are threatened as well. Should one of them defeat the grassmen but die in battle, then yes, all would be well. But if he pacifies the Thrithings and brings prisoners and booty back to Nabban like one of the old Imperators? What then? And if that victorious general is your brother Drusis, the very people who support you most would step aside to let him be put on the ducal throne.”
“What you say makes sense, but does that mean we cannot strike the grasslanders at all?” demanded the duke. “I have no heir to send. My son Blasis is scarcely three years old—a bit too young to carry my standard into battle.”
“Do not jest, husband, please.” Canthia sounded genuinely pained at the thought.
“Send me, Your Grace,” said Idexes suddenly. “Let me lead a force against the Thrithings-men. I will make those mud-men fear the Kingfisher again!”
“But it must not be only your allies who do this,” said old Envalles. “Nobles of the houses whose lands have been raided must also be allowed to satisfy their honor—and their greed for glory and plunder.”
“What plunder could the grasslanders have?” Rillian snorted. “Wagons? Sheep?”
“Horses,” came Matreu’s prompt reply. “The finest horses in all the world. Several thousand Thrithings steeds would be prize enough for any campaign, and their bloodlines would enrich our stables for centuries. More importantly, though, it would draw the attention of the common folk, who already talk about the grass-men as though they were unstoppable demons. But do not forget justice for this riot, too, Your Grace. An even-handed punishment, not unduly severe except for those who actually incited or committed murder, will also help to pou
r water on Dallo Ingadarine and your brother, where they would rather set a fire.”
Either the room fell silent then or the voices of those discussing these high, frightening matters fell too low for Jesa to hear. She did not know what to think, although she was prejudiced toward all Viscount Matreu had said. She wished she knew more about him, this unlikely man who had suddenly thrust his way into the very innermost circles of the duke’s household.
She curled up beside Serasina’s cradle, but still felt unsettled. Such terrible things! War, murder, torture, all discussed in a single room in a great stone house.
How can men rule other men? she wondered. How do they know they are right and not wrong? How can you know enough to take someone’s life? Is that the difference between the drylanders’ God and He Who Always Steps On Sand? Did their God, the one they worshipped in their high stone churches, direct the hands of men, so that no man was killed who did not deserve it? She wished she could believe that.
After a while she took little Serasina out of her cradle and hugged her to her breast for comfort. The baby wiggled a bit, gurgled, and then was silent. Together she and Jesa fell asleep in the dark.
36
A Foolish Dream
After riding for several days and nights across the Osterdyr plain, across thawing mud, newborn streams, and swelling rivers that had been covered in ice only a short time ago, Makho’s Talons now crossed back into the lands the snow seldom left, league upon league of empty tundra. Nezeru had never seen such a desolate, empty place. But for a few marks of wagon or sledge preserved in frozen mud, or the occasional view of a distant village (never more than a few high-peaked roofs, chimneys leaking smoke into the cold, gray air) this might have been some country that neither mortal nor immortal had ever discovered. But Osterdyr was not as empty as it appeared.