Corambis

  “I am no magician,” I said. “I did as he told me and did not wish to know more.”

  “But surely he gave you some idea,” Beckett began, and then there was a tremendous clattering ruckus at the door, and a voice I recognized said, “Wyatt, remind me never to be accused of a crime in Bernatha.”

  It was my brother-in-law, the Duke of Murtagh.

  His boot heels were sharp and annoyed across the marble floor. He said, “Sir, I don’t know who you are, and neither do I care. I need to speak to my brother-in-law, so you are simply going to have to leave.”

  He might not know who Beckett was, but Beckett, departing in a flurry of apologies, most clearly knew who he was. Ferrand Carey, the Duke of Murtagh, the Dragon of Desperen Field. His was a familiar and distinctive face in the newspapers of Corambis and Caloxa alike. And then Murtagh said in a soft voice, “I’m going to have Glimmering’s head on a stick.”

  “Is my penance,” said I.

  “Penance,” said Murtagh, and I knew the skeptical way his right eyebrow would arch. “I see. Voluntary or involuntary?”

  “Involuntary.” I could feel my face heating, although I knew not why I was embarrassed.

  “Quite,” said Murtagh. “And who were the intendeds who pronounced your penance?”

  “Albern, Marcham, and Gye.”

  “Albern. Of course.” He raised his voice: “Wyatt, fetch me Intended Albern, would you?”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “End this farce.”

  “You do me no favors if I end in Stonewater.”

  “You won’t. I bring the ruling of the Convocation.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re stripped of land, titles, and property, as I’m sure you expected.” His voice was matter-of-fact, and I was grateful to him for not making a fuss. “You are, in fact, a dependent of the Duchy of Murtagh. I am responsible both for your upkeep and your good behavior.”

  “I assure Your Grace, I have no intention of fomenting rebellion.”

  “I know you well enough to know that,” said he, which was a thought disturbing enough that I said hastily, “What becomes of Rothmarlin?”

  “In essence, we’re treating the case as if you had died.”

  “Cecil,” I said with loathing.

  “He is your heir.”

  “And notable for his lack of participation in the Insurgence.”

  “That, too,” said Murtagh, refusing to be goaded.

  “And what will you do with me?”

  “Well, I thought I’d find you a wife.”

  “A what?” said I.

  “A woman to marry. Surely you’ve heard the word before.”

  “I . . . I cry your mercy, Your Grace. I do not contemplate marriage.”

  “Which shows a becoming modesty in a gentleman of your . . . circumstances.” I sank my teeth into my lower lip and did not respond to his baiting as he had not responded to mine. “But there are other considerations.” A pause, and I could only imagine him contemplating me, as a tomcat contemplating a broken-winged bird. “You will be well dowered.”

  “Do not mock me, Murtagh. I may be your dependent at the Convocation’s pleasure, but I am not your dog.”

  “Do all the Brightmores have this monstrous chip on their shoulders, or is it just you and Isobel? I am not mocking you. I am making you a promise, assuring you that you can in fact support a wife and so need not hesitate to enter in upon that state of matrimonial bliss to which, I am informed, all men aspire.”

  “I assure you, Your Grace, I have no such aspirations.” I never had, although I had known I must at some point marry and beget at least one child. Now there was no such duty.

  “No? Well, it does not matter. I have them on your behalf.”

  “You wish me to marry?”

  “Very much. And I have a candidate in mind. Her name’s Vanessa Pallister; she’s the widow of the Warden of Grimglass. It isn’t exactly an exalted match, but it is not a mésalliance, even for a Brightmore.”

  “Grimglass?” said I. Now this conversation made a good deal more sense. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Well, it won’t hurt. Even the most panicky of my peers will be forced to admit there’s very little trouble you can cause out there.”

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  “I know. But, Kay, have you not realized? You are a hero of the Insurgence and the last of Gerrard’s inner circle. Were you to raise your banner, either for Prince Charles or for yourself, you would draw every malcontent, royalist, and troublemaker in Caloxa.”

  “Are you mad? I’m blind, destitute, a public spectacle, and the man who surrendered to the Corambins. Who’s going to follow that?”

  “The general consensus,” Murtagh said dryly, “seems to be that your surrender is an invention of Glimmering’s. And no one believes that any of the rest of it could stop you if you were truly determined.”

  “Then why am I not in Stonewater already? Why am I not hanged?”

  “Oh, for many reasons,” he said, his tone light and careless, “including the fact that your sister begged me to protect you.”

  I jerked as if he had slapped me. He must have seen it, for he said less viciously, “And because I believed—and believe—that your crusading passion died with Prince Gerrard.”

  I was frozen in that instant, wondering if he had used the word “passion” deliberately as a barb. But there was no way he could know the truth; no one knew the truth except Intended Gye, whom I did trust to honor my secret in the keeping of it. I let my breath out, feeling the weight of my grief settle again over me like a lead-lined mantle. “Yes,” I said. “I would not willingly cause more bloodshed.”

  “That’s good,” said Murtagh. “And that’s why I am getting this nonsensical penance revoked and taking you back to the Althammara, where you can bathe and shave and I’ll get a practitioner in to look at you as well.”

  “You needn’t—”

  “Oh, I think I do. Raise your head, please.”

  I did, though I was bewildered. “What?”

  “You’re staring straight into the sun,” Murtagh said, and there was something in his voice that almost sounded like pain.

  “Is nothing any practitioner can do,” I said, ducking my chin and turning away from his voice. “Blind as stone, is all.”

  “Yes. That’s one of Glimmering’s arguments for keeping you on a chain as a sort of object lesson to the people of Caloxa, so you’ll understand if I object on principle to taking his word for it.” Was always hard to assess Murtagh’s moods, for neither his voice nor his face reflected them reliably—and was even worse now, when I had only voice to judge by—but I realized, and was startled to realize, that he was furious, as seethingly, violently angry as I had ever known him. His expressed desire for Glimmering’s head on a stick had not been persiflage, but in fact sincere. I had never imagined Murtagh angry on my behalf; it seemed unnatural, unreal, and I was glad when there was another ruckus at the door, for I knew not what to say.

  This ruckus was Intended Albern, who was indignant, and also as unhappy as a turtle turned out of its shell at being dragged out from behind his brother. His protests were laced with references to His Grace the Duke of Glimmering and what he would say when he found out about Murtagh’s high-handedness, until finally Murtagh said, “If I were you, Intended Albern, I would not be quick to admit my spiritual judgment depends so heavily on the wishes of a carnal prince.”

  Intended Albern sputtered. “Do you deny that this man bears an intolerable weight of sin on his spirit?”

  “So do I,” said Murtagh, “but no one is driving me into involuntary penance. And in any event, I find insufficient difference, Intended Albern, between your definition of penance and my definition of torture. And I think the Prince Aethereal will agree with me.”

  “Murtagh,” I said. “Is not—”

  “You hold your tongue. Well, Intended Albern?”

  A pause, uncomfortab
ly long, and Intended Albern said, “Very well.” I heard him approach and was prepared for the weight of his hand on my head. He spoke the formulas quickly, pulling his hand away as soon as he could, and he left without responding to Murtagh’s pointed “Thank you, Intended.”

  Then Murtagh’s boot heels tocked away and returned in company with the duller tread of one of the guards and the rattle of keys. The cuffs around my wrists were unlocked, and then those around my ankles, and then the guard leaned over me in a wash of onions and old sweat and unlocked the end of the chain from the catafalque.

  There was a pause, and Murtagh said, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” the guard said, quite audibly nervous. “We don’t have the key to the collar.”

  “Then who does?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. His Grace of Glimmering, maybe?”

  “Of course,” said Murtagh, very quietly, and the guard took a jingling step back. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” The guard took that as his opportunity to flee—for which I could not blame him—and Murtagh shouted, “Wyatt!”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I need to talk to Glimmering, and sooner rather than later. Would you kindly induce him to stop by my suite in the Althammara?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Wyatt, who was evidently the latest successor to Roderick Lapwing as Murtagh’s secretary and was either stolid by nature or had been with Murtagh long enough to grow accustomed.

  He, too, left, and Murtagh said, “Kay, can you stand?”

  “Am blind, not crippled,” said I, and I hoped I sounded convincingly irritated rather than merely pathetically grateful. I stood up, feeling strange and unsteady without the weight of the chains.

  “I perceive,” said Murtagh, “that I must keep the other end of this chain so it won’t trip you. And then I think . . . will you take my arm?”

  “Have I a choice?”

  “Well, you can always stay here, though I wouldn’t recommend it. Here.” He took my hand and guided it to the crook of his elbow. “The Althammara isn’t far.”

  And if I did not accept his help, there was the third option he had politely failed to mention: he could drag me at the end of the chain like a dog. I gripped his arm, and when he moved, I moved with him.

  My feet had healed somewhat, but the cobbles of the Bernathan streets still made me limp. Murtagh said, “I could carry you.”

  “You could try,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I don’t need to see you to break your arm.”

  “Your temper has certainly survived intact. Isobel will be pleased.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no. I find it reassuring, actually. Just keep walking.”

  The Althammara was, as he had promised, only a very short distance from the Clock Palace. Its floors were wood, with lush Ygressine carpets. Murtagh had hired the entire top floor. He handed me over to his manservant Tinder, who was polite and impeccable and made no personal remarks of any kind while he helped me bathe and shave and dress in clothes that were too large but both warm and blessedly clean.

  “That’s a vast improvement,” Murtagh said when Tinder brought me back out into what I guessed to be the sitting room. “You look almost human again, instead of like a particularly ill-conceived waxwork. And—” He broke off. “Hark, I believe I hear the dulcet tones of His Grace of Glimmering in the offing. Tinder, I think Mr. Brightmore would prefer to wait for the physician-practitioner in his bedroom.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  But I stood my ground. “Am not a child, Murtagh. I do not need to be cosseted.”

  “Who’s cosseting? This is going to be a most unpleasant and squalid fight, and I’d rather not have witnesses. Go on, Tinder.”

  I could not in honesty have said I wanted to face Glimmering again. I let Tinder lead me back in the direction of the bathroom, let him put me in a small room probably meant for a paid companion or a nursery maid or some such, and let him leave me there with the assurance that he would bring the physician-practitioner when he arrived.

  I sat on the bed, smelling clean linen and lavender sachet, and willed myself to stop shaking. Was no need to unravel like an old blanket just because Murtagh had unexpectedly come to my rescue. Was all the more reason to be watchful, in fact, for no Corambin duke believed in philanthropy. Any favor Murtagh did, he would expect to be repaid, and I had very little currency left, even of the metaphorical kind.

  I heard muffled shouting: Murtagh and Glimmering. I wondered if I could find my way to the door for purposes of eavesdropping. Was a woman’s trick, my father had taught me, and I could imagine very clearly his contempt for me. Could imagine my own contempt, the Kay Brightmore of an indiction ago, or a wheel ago, looking at the craven, creeping, spying creature I had become. But it was either eavesdrop or sit in stupid, honorable ignorance, and ignorance seemed worse to me now than the petty dishonor of spying.

  I stood up before I could muster arguments against myself. The room was quite small; three steps directly forward brought me to the wall, and from there I moved sideways in an inelegant shuffle to where the texture changed from wallpaper to the wood of the door. It took me what seemed an unreasonable amount of time to find the doorknob, and when I did, I thought, Will serve thee right if Tinder hath locked the door against thee. But he had not; I supposed he had quite sufficient reason to assume that I would not try to escape. I opened the door the width of my hand, and Murtagh’s voice floated immediately to my ears, still somewhat muffled, but now intelligible: “I know you grieve for your brother, but revenge is not the answer.”

  “How dare you assume I would allow personal considerations to dictate my actions?” Glimmering’s voice, as strident as iron nails on slate. “Kay Brightmore is a traitor and a murderer and far too dangerous to be allowed to run free.”

  “Which is why you had him locked in Stonewater as soon as you reached Bernatha.”

  “I wanted him where I could keep an eye on him. I don’t trust the Bernathans.”

  “You wanted him where you could watch him suffer. Really, Thomas, chained to Hume’s bier like a dog?”

  “You can’t deny it was appropriate.”

  “No, what I can’t deny is that it was inhumane.”

  “Let the punishment suit to the crime.”

  “That’s Usaran law, not Corambin, and not a precedent I care to invoke. It gives the righteous too easy an excuse for behaving like criminals.”

  “Then you don’t deny—”

  “When Gerrard Hume raised his banner, Kay Brightmore answered, like six of the other sixteen margraves of Caloxa. His crime is no worse than theirs. And yet I don’t see you hunting them out of their castles and subjecting them to this treatment. And that’s because you can’t. Imagine the outcry. No one would stand for it. You took advantage of Kay’s peculiar vulnerability to make him your scapegoat, and that, Thomas, is despicable.”

  “You’re only protecting him because he’s your brother-in-law.”

  “Do you think so? I would like to think I’m a man of better principles than that, but perhaps I am indeed no different from you. No matter. I am protecting him, and I will continue to protect him, and if you don’t give me that key, I will start talking to the newspapers.”

  “You—”

  “He’s already an icon. It wouldn’t take much to make him a martyr, and you, my dear boy, would not enjoy that at all.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Bravo!” said Murtagh. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. And honestly, what good does it do you to be petty?”

  “He should suffer.”

  “I think he is, without any help from you.”

  I found that my hands were clenched so tightly my fingers were starting to ache. Should unclench them, I knew; should get away from the door. But I could not move. Could only stand there, straining to hear.

  “How can you pity him? You must know what he is.”

  “And what is th
at?”

  “A monster.”

  “Have you ever fought against the Usara?”

  “No, of course not. Neither have you.”

  “No, but I’ve heard the stories. One of Kay’s armsmen showed me his scars once. The Usara, you see, consider war a religious action, and the greater the suffering of their enemies, the greater the glory given to their gods.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “If you’d spent your entire adult life fighting the Usara without any assistance from your so-called government, you also might employ tactics that more civilized men condemn.”

  “Ferrand, he slaughtered them! Three hundred men, killed like cattle.”

  “And your brother Geoffrey among them.”

  “Yes, and my brother Geoffrey among them. But that isn’t my point. My point is that he’s a butcher.”

  “Have you read the reports of the siege of Memory-of-Death? Do you know how many Ygressine soldiers General Campton had put to the sword?”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it isn’t, and that is precisely what I am trying to tell you. Except of course that, unlike the Caloxans, we’re better equipped than our opponent, and better funded, and aren’t outnumbered by them at approximately three to one.”

  “You’re making excuses for him.”

  “No. I’m trying to make you understand him, and I suppose I should stop wasting my time. Just give me the damned key, Thomas, and we can fight about the rest of it later.”

  The sound of Glimmering slamming the key down on a table was nearly drowned out for me by the sound of a door opening much nearer at hand and Tinder’s soft, precise voice saying, “This way, Practitioner.”

  I jerked away from the door, took a half stumbling step backwards, and . . .

  Was as if the world had simply fallen away, leaving me standing over an abyss. I knew it was not true—knew I was still standing in the small room in the Althammara that I had walked across in three steps. I knew that nothing had changed, nothing could have changed, and yet I could not move, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. I wanted above all else to open my eyes and look. But my eyes were already open.

  “This would be my patient, then,” said a Bernathan voice directly in front of me.