This was too much for Saddith – as the man in the jet cloak knew it would be. Of course, he was as surprised as anyone by Castellan Lebbick’s appearance in the hall; and more vexed than most, although he didn’t show it. From the beginning, however, he had been prepared for the possibility that she might fail – that the crowd might refuse to gather, that it might not become a mob, that the mob might not rise to bloodshed. And then she would break. The hate inside her would refuse to be contained.
That was why he had given her a knife.
She had it in her hand now, and she wailed in a high, shrill voice as she flung herself at Lebbick.
Maybe he wasn’t as ready as he pretended to be. Or maybe something had distracted him. Or maybe this was what he had had in mind all along. Whatever the reason, he was slow turning, slow with his hands; too slow to prevent Saddith from driving her blade through his throat.
Nevertheless she didn’t so much as scratch him.
While she swung, Ribuld came up onto the dais in a headlong charge and spitted her on his longsword, ran her through so hard that they both crashed into the throng on the far side and fell to the floor.
Just for a second, the Castellan’s features seemed to crumple as if he were disappointed. Almost immediately, however, he swept out his own sword and went to stand over Ribuld so that no one would try to strike at the guard who had saved his life.
The man in the jet cloak was mildly entertained to hear Castellan Lebbick rasp at Ribuld, “Next time don’t be in such a hurry.”
The time had come to go with the crowd. If the man in the jet cloak lingered, he might get pulled along when the crowd’s departure became flight, people hurrying and then running to get away from the Castellan and trouble. With a shrug, he eased out of the hall.
The next morning, however, he was gratified to hear that some of Saddith’s supporters had been sincere enough in their outrage to burn everything flammable they could find before guards arrived to drive them out of the laborium. She deserved at least that much recognition. She had become too ugly to go on living, of course; but while she lasted she had been worth the risk of knowing her. Although he wasn’t exactly grieved by her loss, he admired the aesthetic judgment of the man or men who had tried to commemorate her death by doing a little trivial damage to the laborium.
On the other hand, he was both surprised and rather amused that the better part of the day passed before anyone discovered that during the riot someone had broken into the warren of rooms where the Congery’s mirrors were kept and had shattered several of them.
Treachery was everywhere, it seemed. What a shame.
Chew on that, Joyse, you old goat. I hope it chokes you.
The next morning, with Orison full of news which he might be presumed to have come by honestly, Master Eremis went to visit the mediator of the Congery.
He had a number of matters that he wanted to pursue with Master Barsonage. He had been putting them off for days, partly because he hadn’t wished to call attention to himself, partly because he’d been busy elsewhere. But the time was ripe for a little probing. Perhaps he would be able to learn something useful – and sow a hint or two of uncertainty in the process.
Twirling the ends of his chasuble, he walked through the tower which held King Joyse’s private quarters. In fact, he made a point of passing that way often, whatever his destination might be. If anyone had asked him why he occasionally walked a considerable unnecessary distance in order to cross the waiting room in front of the stairs up to the King’s rooms, he would have replied that he always hoped to overhear something – any gossip or rumor which might reveal where he stood with his sovereign.
After all, King Joyse had said exactly nothing to him, either in person or by message, after his solution to the problem of Orison’s water supply. Since what he had done was so obviously the kind of thing which King Joyse had always demanded from his Imagers, he, Master Eremis, might be forgiven for drawing worrisome inferences from the King’s silence. Was Eremis not trusted? Were his enemies speaking against him? Had he offended against King Joyse’s apparent desire to bring about the collapse of the realm? Or was it true that the King’s insistence upon an ethical use of Imagery had never been sincere?
Surely Master Eremis’ interest in any news which might somehow emanate from the King was understandable? Under the circumstances, how could he be confident that his life wasn’t in danger, even though he had saved Orison from terrible suffering and inevitable defeat?
This explanation – although Master Eremis would have supplied it with perfect assurance – was no more than a by-blow of the truth.
The truth was that he had come this way by accident several days ago, and had chanced to find the Tor in the waiting room.
The old lord was alone, of course. The waiting room was almost always empty, now that King Joyse had made plain his disinclination to respond intelligently – if at all – to the petitions of his subjects. It was possible that the Tor had been alone there for hours – and would be alone for hours more.
He was asleep on the floor, with his face pressed into the corner between the floor and wall; his fat made a quivering mountain, and he snored like a sawmill; he was so drunk that Master Eremis might have been unable to awaken him with a trumpet. The stink exhaling from him was so strong that simply breathing it made Master Eremis feel tipsy and arrogant.
While the old lord’s thick flesh shook from his raucous snoring, Master Eremis paused to think. He considered taking this opportunity to slip an unobtrusive knife between the Tor’s ribs. That might be helpful – not at the moment, naturally, but later on. Vagel would do it without hesitation; Gilbur, with glee. On the other hand, it would be almost no fun at all. Eremis wanted to humiliate the Tor before killing him.
In addition, there was only one lord whom Master Eremis feared less, and that was the Armigite, who had already sold his Care to Prince Kragen to purchase a temporary safety for himself and his women and his fresh boys. Upon reflection, Eremis let the chance for murder pass.
But he didn’t forget it.
If the Tor were occasionally to be found in the waiting room alone and drunk and asleep, then it was possible that he might also occasionally be found there alone and drunk and awake. Awake enough to talk – and too drunk to be cautious.
Master Eremis believed that opportunities were like women: they came to men who knew how to court them.
As a rule, he was given more to flashes of inspiration than to steady labor. That was why he – and Vagel as well – needed Master Gilbur. Nevertheless he began courting this opportunity assiduously. He made sure that he passed through the waiting room more often than any other man in Orison.
Today, on his way to talk with Master Barsonage, his diligence reaped its just reward. The Tor was sitting on one of the deserted benches, so drunk that he could hardly find his head with both hands. His eyes were red and miserable, self-abused, and he exuded a sour smell of old sweat and acid vomit. What was left of his hair straggled into his face.
Clearly, the long, strange wait while Prince Kragen sat outside Orison and did nothing had begun to bear fruit. A riot against Castellan Lebbick, what a shame. Mirrors broken in the laborium. And the King’s oldest friend reduced to this, drinking himself to death in full view of anyone who bothered to notice.
It was odd and wonderful that the man who bothered to notice wasn’t the King at all, wasn’t the one at whom this display was directed. Instead he was Master Eremis.
“My lord Tor,” the Master said amiably, “this is fortuitous.”
Slowly, as if he were bringing long forgotten muscles into service, the Tor raised his head; he peered at Eremis through a haze of drink. With no discernible self-awareness, he belched.
Then he said in a surprisingly clear voice, “Got any wine?”
Master Eremis smiled across his teeth. “I have wished to speak with you, my lord. Great events transpire in Orison.”
The old lord considered this assertion sodde
nly. After a moment, he dropped his head; it lolled on his neck. Nevertheless when he spoke every word was as distinct as a piece of glass: broken and precise, like augury.
“Too far to get. Too many stairs.”
He belched again, aimlessly.
“We have had a riot against the good Castellan,” explained Master Eremis. “And it may have been premeditated. While the guards were distracted by the riot, several of the Congery’s mirrors were destroyed.”
The Tor’s head continued rolling back and forth, back and forth, as if he were rocking himself to sleep.
“And now, like a man who knows what happens within our walls, Prince Kragen attacks at last – although I must confess that I am less impressed by the audacity of his assault than by its circumspection.”
And may the attacks continue, the Master wished, daring fate to deny him. They are an admirable distraction.
Simply because he was so willing to pursue his aims even if everything went against him, he felt confident that fate would in fact heed his desires.
The Tor met Master Eremis’ remarks with a snort; he might have been starting into a snore. A quiver ran through him then, however, and he blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Wine,” he pronounced, as if he expected a cask to appear magically before him.
Master Eremis had difficulty restraining a laugh. True, some of King Joyse’s supporters were proving to be more resourceful than Eremis could have predicted. Others, however, only saved themselves from appearing pathetic by being ridiculous.
“What do you make of it all, my lord Tor?” he asked in kind good humor. “Where are the forces of Cadwal? Where is the Perdon? How has Prince Kragen dared to let us endure against him so long?”
Without looking up, the Tor countered absentmindedly, “Did I tell you my son was killed?”
“It seems clear, does it not” – at the moment, Eremis was delighted that he hadn’t knifed the old lord – “that the Prince and his illustrious father know something we do not.” This conversation was too much fun to be missed. “They would not have wasted so much as a day in hesitation, unless they had reason to believe that High King Festten would not arrive against them. What conclusions do you draw, my lord?”
The Tor appeared to suffer from the delusion that he was actually participating in the discussion. “Did I tell you,” he replied, “that he gave Lebbick permission to torture her?”
That was an interesting revelation; but Master Eremis could guess its import too easily to pursue it. Instead, he inquired, “What conclusions can you draw? There are only two. The first is that Festten and Margonal are in alliance – and Festten trusts Margonal enough to give him time to capture the Congery for himself. And if you are able to believe that, I fear we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“Torture her,” repeated the Tor, “despite her obvious decency – and her proven desire to help him.”
“The second,” continued Master Eremis, grinning, “is that the Prince has cut us off from information which he himself possesses – from the knowledge that we are not indeed threatened by Cadwal at all. High King Festten has other intentions. He has mustered his army, not against us and Alend, but to wage another war entirely. And if you are able to believe that, I fear you have nothing left to say to anyone.”
“I begged her.” Fat tears rolled down the old lord’s aggrieved cheeks. “I should have begged him, of course, but he was past hearing me. I begged her. Betray Geraden. So that he would not be responsible for what Lebbick would do. So that he would not have her on his conscience.” He seemed unaware that he was weeping. His ability to speak so exactly when he was barely sober enough to keep his eyes from crossing was delightful, even entertaining, like a trick done by a mountebank. “But she has the only loyal heart left in Mordant. She would not betray Geraden, even to save herself from Lebbick.”
Master Eremis was so pleased that he could hardly contain his relish. Because his exuberance absolutely had to have some outlet, he spun the ends of his chasuble like pinwheels.
“My lord Tor,” he asked nonchalantly, coming at last to the point, “what has he been doing all this time, while his people riot, and mirrors are shattered, and women are maimed and murdered? What has good King Joyse been doing?”
As if the word had been surprised out of him, the Tor replied, “Practicing.”
“Practicing?” A brief giggle burst from the Master: he couldn’t hold it down. “What, hop-board? Still? Has he not given up that folly yet?”
The old lord shook his head, as morose as cold potatoes and congealed gravy.
“Swordsmanship.”
That stopped Master Eremis’ mirth: it made him stare involuntarily, as if the Tor had somehow, miraculously, opened a pit of vipers at his feet – or had told him a joke so funny that he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t laugh at it until he had thought about it for a while. Swordsmanship? At his age? Was he strong enough to do as much as lift a longsword?
“My lord Tor,” Eremis said casually to conceal the intensity of his attention, “you jest with me. Our brave King cannot swing a sword. He can barely stand without assistance.”
Abruptly, with an effort that seemed to make his whole body gurgle, the Tor heaved himself to his feet. He hadn’t looked at Master Eremis since the start of the conversation. Dully, as if he were losing his gift for enunciation, he announced, “Got to have wine.”
With his hams rolling unsteadily under him, he lurched away.
Master Eremis was about to spring after him, pull him back, wrench an explanation out of him, when the true point of the joke struck home. King Joyse intended to fight – and he was years or even decades past the time when he was strong enough to do so. That shed a new light on everything – on every sign that the King knew what he was doing, that he did what he did out of deliberate policy rather than petulant foolishness. He intended to fight because he didn’t know or couldn’t admit he no longer had the strength. He wasn’t self-destructive or apathetic: he was just blind to age and time. He risked his kingdom in an effort to prove himself still capable of saving it.
That was a rich jest, too rich for any coarse display of mirth. Instead of laughing aloud, Eremis whistled cheerfully through his teeth as he continued on his way to see Master Barsonage.
The mediator answered his door wearing only a towel knotted around his middle – a style of dress which emphasized his girth at the expense of his dignity. Water glistened on his pine-colored skin, his bald pate: apparently, Master Eremis had caught him bathing, and his servants were out. His flesh didn’t sag on him as the Tor’s did, however; his bulk was solid, tightly packed over muscle and bone. He didn’t seem especially embarrassed to receive Master Eremis in this damp, disrobed condition.
In fact, he sounded almost friendly as he said, “Master Eremis, good day to you. Come in, come in.” He stood back from the door, waved a dripping arm. “It is an honor to be visited by the man who saved Orison. Let us hope that you have saved us permanently. Have you recovered from your ordeal? You look well.”
Master Eremis laughed lightly at Barsonage’s uncharacteristic gush. “And a good day to you, Master Barsonage. I have clearly come at an inopportune moment. I can return later.”
“Nonsense.” The mediator touched the sleeve of Eremis’ cloak, urged him into the room. “Orison is under siege. In one sense, all times are inopportune. In another, the present moment is always better than any other. Some wine?”
Thinking of the Tor, Master Eremis said deliberately, “With pleasure.”
He accepted a goblet of a very mediocre Armigite vintage, then seated himself in the chair Master Barsonage indicated. He had visited the mediator’s rooms on any number of occasions – disputes privately arbitrated at one extreme, formal feasts welcoming new Masters at the other – but whenever he came here he always took a moment to admire the furniture.
It had all been made by Master Barsonage himself.
Eremis did him the justice of admitting that the mediator was a compe
tent Imager. In particular, the preparation for and execution of the Congery’s most important augury had been deftly done. On the other hand, he was much more than competent with wood: he was an artist. It was universally acknowledged around the Congery that his frames were better than anyone else’s: better made, better fitted; altogether finer. And his furniture could have graced the finest salon in Orison – or in Carmag, for that matter. The expanse of his table had been so well shaped and polished that it seemed to glow from within; the arms of his chairs flowed so naturally with the grain of the wood that it was surprising to find them comfortable.
Secretly, Eremis laughed at Master Barsonage for dedicating himself to his lesser talents – for wasting his time with Imagery when he could have contributed some real beauty to the world in another way.
And he wanted to laugh more now. Instead of leaving the room to put on at least a robe, Barsonage sat down as he was, drank off his wine in a gulp, wiped the water out of his stiff eyebrows, and began to prattle.
“You are much admired now, Master Eremis. Of course, you have always been admired. But it will not surprise you to hear that you have not always been liked. You are too able, too quick. And you mock people. You have not made yourself easy to like.
“Ah, but now—The refilling of the reservoir was a clever action as well as a courageous one. No, do not deny it,” he said although Eremis hadn’t moved a muscle. “The exhaustion of so much prolonged translation. If I had made that attempt, my heart would have failed me. Yet you did not hesitate to risk complete prostration. And, as I say, it was clever. Your reputation has not been the only beneficiary of your action. Your heroism and Master Quillon’s foul murder have combined to raise the esteem in which all the Congery is held.
“Shall I give you an example? My servants no longer sneer at me when I put them to work.”