Midnight Tides

  Tehol sighed. ‘I had a feeling you were sceptical of my story.’

  ‘The woollen leggings,’ she replied. ‘I hear virtually everyone’s put in orders for them.’

  Tehol shot Bugg a look, but the servant’s brows rose and he said, ‘Not with me, master. That would be disloyal. Rest assured that everyone else’s version will prove but pathetic imitations.’

  ‘Perhaps, Matron Delisp,’ Tehol said, ‘I am merely disguised as Tehol Beddict. That would be clever, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Too clever for you.’

  ‘Well, you have a point there.’

  ‘Anyway, do you want me in your debt or not?’

  Shurq Elalle pushed past Bugg. ‘I don’t like being ignored. You’re all ignoring me as if I was—’

  ‘Dead?’ Delisp asked.

  ‘I just wanted to point out my reason for vacating this house, which is that I, too, owe Tehol Beddict. I may be dead, but I am not without honour. In any case, Delisp, I believe you owe me a rather substantial payment right now. Sixty per cent, I seem to recall—’

  ‘What do you need all that money for?’ the Matron demanded. ‘How many variations of sex-assassin attire exist out there? How many bundles of raw spices do you need to keep fresh? No, wait, I don’t want to know the answer. Sixty per cent. Fine, but it’ll take me a day or two – I don’t keep that kind of coin around here. Where should I have it delivered?’

  ‘Tehol Beddict’s residence will suffice.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Tehol objected. ‘I can’t secure—’

  ‘I intend,’ Shurq cut in, ‘to spend it quickly.’

  ‘Oh. All right, but I’m not happy. Too many comings and goings there. Suspicions will be insatiably aroused—’

  ‘Stop staring at the railing, master.’

  ‘Errant’s dreams! Let’s get out of here.’

  ****

  The storm had passed. Rainwater still flowed down the streets, but people were venturing out once more. It was late afternoon. Shurq Elalle halted at the foot of the Temple’s steps. ‘I will rejoin you tonight, on your roof, Tehol Beddict. Midnight.’

  ‘What about Ublala Pung?’

  ‘I admit to having second thoughts.’

  ‘Shurq Elalle. Ublala Pung survived a Drowning. He walked across the bottom of the canal. You two have a lot in common, if you think about it.’

  ‘He’s also massively endowed,’ Bugg added.

  Tehol made a face at him. ‘You are being crude—’

  ‘Bring him to the roof tonight,’ Shurq said.

  ‘This is a conspiracy to make me miserable, isn’t it? Both of you, leave me. I’m going for a walk. Bugg, when you get back home, give it a tidy. No doubt Shand will be storming in before too long. Tell her I’ll drop by tomorrow on some important business—’

  ‘What important business?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll invent something. You have other things to worry about – how’s the foundation work coming along, anyway?’

  ‘It’s piling up.’

  ‘Then sort it out.’

  ‘You misunderstand, master. We’re on schedule.’

  ‘I didn’t misunderstand. I was being obdurate. Now, I’m off to find a more reasonable conversation, somewhere.’ He swung round for a final word with Shurq, but she was gone. ‘Damned thief. Go on, Bugg. Wait, what’s for supper?’

  ‘Banana leaves.’

  ‘Not fishy ones, I trust.’

  ‘Of course not, master.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The material they were wrapped around was unidentifiable, which, if you think about it, is probably a good thing.’

  ‘How do we live on this stuff?’

  ‘A good question, master. It is indeed baffling.’

  Tehol studied his servant for a long moment, then he gestured the man away.

  Bugg turned right, so Tehol went left. The air was warming, yet still fresh after the rain. Wet dogs nosed the rubbish in the settling puddles. Cats chased the cockroaches that had swarmed up from the drains. A beggar had found a sliver of soap and stood naked beneath a stream of water coming from a cracked eaves trough, working up a murky lather while he sang a lament that had been popular a hundred years ago. Residents had taken advantage of the unexpected downpour, emptying chamber pots from their windows rather than carrying them a few dozen paces to the nearest communal dump-hole. As a result, some of the pools held floating things and the streams in the gutters carried small flyblown islands that collected here and there in buzzing rafts that bled yellowy brown slime.

  It was a fine evening in the city of Letheras, Tehol reflected, testing the air a moment before taking a deep breath and releasing it in a contented sigh. He went on down the street until he reached Quillas Canal, then walked along it towards the river. To his right rose a forest of masts from fisherboats moored to wait out the storm. Tarps were being pulled aside, water splashing as the crews bailed feverishly so they could make for open water before the day’s light failed. Near one jetty a half-dozen city guardsmen were fishing a corpse from the murky water, a crowd of onlookers shouting advice as the squad struggled with hook-poles. Above them flapped seagulls.

  Tehol came within sight of the old palace, then took a side street away from the canal, proceeding on a winding, confused route until he came to the grounds of the towers. Gathering dusk made the air grainy as Tehol reached the low crumbling wall and stared across the short expanse of broken, uneven yard to the one, battered tower that was clearly different in construction from all the others, being square instead of round.

  The strange triangular windows were dark, crowded with dead vines. The inset, black-stained wooden door was shrouded in shadow. Tehol wondered how such a door could have survived – normal wood would have rotted to dust centuries ago.

  He could see no-one in the yard. ‘Kettle! Child, are you in there?’

  A small bedraggled figure stepped out from behind a tree.

  Startled, Tehol said, ‘That was a good trick, lass.’

  She approached. ‘There’s an artist. A painter. He comes to paint the tower. He wants to paint me too, but I stay behind trees. It makes him very angry. You are the man who sleeps on the roof of your house. Lots of people try spying on you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Shurq tells me you, uh, take care of them.’

  ‘She said maybe you could help find out who I was.’

  He studied her. ‘Have you seen Shurq lately?’

  ‘Only once. She was all fixed. I barely recognized her.’

  ‘Well, lass, we could see the same done for you, if you like.’

  The grubby, mould-patched face wrinkled into a frown. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? To make you less noticeable, I suppose. Wouldn’t you enjoy looking the way Shurq does now?’

  ‘Enjoy?’

  ‘Think about it at least?’

  ‘All right. You look friendly. You look like I could like you. I don’t like many people, but I could like you. Can I call you Father? Shurq is my mother. She isn’t, really, but that’s what I call her. I’m looking for brothers and sisters, too.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘I’ll try, Kettle. Shurq tells me the tower talks to you.’

  ‘Not words. Just thoughts. Feelings. It’s afraid. There’s someone in the ground who is going to help. Once he gets free, he’ll help us. He’s my uncle. But the bad ones scare me.’

  ‘The bad ones? Who are they? Are they in the ground, too?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is there a chance they will get out of the ground before your uncle does?’

  ‘If they do, they’ll destroy us all. Me, Uncle and the tower. They’ve said so. And that will free all the others.’

  ‘And are the others bad, too?’

  She shrugged. ‘They don’t talk much. Except one. She says she’ll make me an empress. I’d like to be an empress.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t trust that one. Just my opinion, Kettle, but promises like that are suspect.’

/>   ‘That’s what Shurq says, too. But she sounds very nice. She wants to give me lots of treats and stuff.’

  ‘Be careful, lass.’

  ‘Do you ever dream of dragons, Father?’

  ‘Dragons?’

  Shrugging again, she turned away. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I need to kill someone… maybe that artist…’

  ****

  Turudal Brizad, the consort to Queen Janall, stood leaning against the wall whilst Brys Beddict led his students through the last of the counterattack exercises.

  Audiences were not uncommon during his training regime with the king’s own guard, although Brys had been mildly surprised that Turudal was among the various onlookers, most of whom were practitioners with the weapons he used in his instruction. The consort was well known for his indolent ways, a privilege that, in the days of Brys’s grandfather, would not have been tolerated in a young, fit Letherii. Four years of military service beginning in the seventeenth year had been mandatory. In those days there had been external threats aplenty. Bluerose to the north, the independent, unruly city-states of the archipelago in Dracons Sea, and the various tribes on the eastern plain had been pressuring Lether, driven against the outposts by one of the cyclical expansionist regimes of far Kolanse.

  Bluerose now paid tribute to King Ezgara Diskanar, the city-states had been crushed, leaving little more than a handful of goat-herders and fisherfolk on the islands, and Kolanse had subsided into isolation following some sort of civil war a few decades past.

  It was difficult for Brys to imagine a life possessing virtually no ability to defend itself, at least upon the attainment of adulthood, but Turudal Brizad was such a creature. Indeed, the consort had expressed the opinion that he was but a forerunner, a pioneer of a state of human life wherein soldiering was left to the Indebted and the mentally inadequate. Although Brys had initially scoffed at hearing a recounting of Brizad’s words, his disbelief had begun to waver. The Letherii military was still strong, yet increasingly it was bound to economics. Every campaign was an opportunity for wealth. And, among the civilian population of traders, merchants and all those who served the innumerable needs of civilization, few were bothering with martial training any more. An undercurrent of contempt now coloured their regard of soldiers.

  Until they need us, of course. Or they discover a means to profit by our actions.

  He completed the exercise, then lingered to see who left the chamber and who remained to practise on their own. Most remained, and Brys was pleased. The two who had left were, he knew, the queen’s spies in the bodyguard. Ironically, everyone else knew that detail as well.

  Brys sheathed his sword and strode over to Turudal Brizad. ‘Consort?’

  A casual tilt of the head, ‘Finadd.’

  ‘Have you found yourself at a loose end? I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.’

  ‘The palace seems strangely empty, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well,’ Brys ventured, ‘there’s certainly less shouting.’

  Turudal Brizad smiled. ‘The prince is young, Finadd. Some exuberance is to be expected. The Chancellor would have a word with you, at your convenience. I understand you are fully recovered from your mysterious ordeal?’

  ‘The King’s healers were their usual proficient selves, Consort. Thank you for asking. Why does the Chancellor wish to speak with me?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I am not the one to ask. I am but a messenger in this, Finadd.’

  Brys studied him for a moment, then simply nodded. ‘I accept Triban Gnol’s invitation. A bell from now?’

  ‘That should suffice. Let us hope for all our sakes that this will not mark an expansion of the present feud between the Chancellor and the Ceda.’

  Brys was surprised. ‘There is a feud? I hadn’t heard. I mean, apart from the, well, the usual clash of opinions.’ He considered, then said, ‘I share your concern, Consort.’

  ‘Does it ever strike you, Finadd, that peace leads to an indulgence in strife?’

  ‘No, since your statement is nonsensical. The opposite of peace is war, while war is an extreme expression of strife. By your argument, life is characterized as an oscillation between strife during peace and strife during war.’

  ‘Not entirely nonsensical, then,’ Turudal Brizad said. ‘We exist in a state of perpetual stress. Both within ourselves and in the world beyond.’ He shrugged. ‘We may speak of a longing for balance, but in our soul burns a lust for discord.’

  ‘If your soul is troubled, Consort,’ Brys said, ‘you hide it well.’

  ‘None of us here lack that skill, Finadd.’

  Brys cocked his head. ‘I have no inclination to indulge in strife. I find I still disagree with your premise. In any case, I must take my leave of you now, Consort.’

  On his way back to his chambers, Brys reflected on Turudal Brizad’s words. There might well have been a warning hidden in there, but apart from the obvious suggestion that all was not as it seemed – and in the palace this was taken as given – he could not pierce the subtlety of the consort’s intentions.

  Stress lay in the cast of the mind, as far as Brys was concerned. Born of perspective and the hue through which one saw the world, and such things were shaped by both nature and nurture. Perhaps on some most basic level the struggle to live yielded a certain stress, but that was not the same as the strife conjured by an active mind, its myriad storms of desires, emotions, worries and terrors, its relentless dialogue with death.

  Brys had realized long ago what had drawn him into the arts of fighting. The martial world, from duelling to warfare, was inherently reductionist, the dialogue made simple and straightforward. Threats, bargains and compromises were proscribed by the length of Letherii steel. Self-discipline imposed a measure of control over one’s own fate, which in turn served to diminish the damaging effects of stress, more so when it became clear to the practitioner that death fought using blind chance when all else failed, and so one had no choice but to accept the consequences, however brutal they may be. Simple notions that one could reflect upon at leisure, should one choose – but never when face to face with an enemy with blades unsheathed and dancing.

  Physical laws imposed specific limitations, and Brys was satisfied with that clear imposition of predictability – sufficient to provide the structure around which he built his life.

  Turudal Brizad’s life was far less certain. His physicality and its attractiveness to others was his singular quality, and no amount of diligence could hold back the years that threatened it. Granted, there were alchemies and sorceries that could be mustered to stand in the breach, but the dark tide was reluctant to bargain, for it abided by its own laws and those laws were immutable. Worse yet, Brizad’s efficacy was defined by the whims of others. As professional as he might be, his every partner was, potentially, a fathomless well of raw emotions, yearning to grasp hold of Brizad and ensnare him. Outwardly, of course, there were rules in place. He was a consort, after all. The queen already had a husband. The Chancellor was bound to ancient laws denying him formal relationships with man or woman. Turudal Brizad possessed virtually no rights; the children he might sire would be without name or political power – indeed, the queen was required to ensure such pregnancies did not occur, and thus far she had held to that prohibition.

  But it was rumoured that Janall had given her heart to Brizad. And that Triban Gnol might well have done the very same, with the potential consequence of tearing apart the old alliance between queen and Chancellor. If so, then Turudal Brizad had become the unhappy fulcrum. No wonder the man was plagued with stress.

  Yet what were the consort’s own ambitions? Had he too surrendered his heart, and if so, to which lover?

  Brys entered his room. He divested himself of his belt and armour, then drew off his sweat-damp undergarments. He layered himself in scented oil which he then scraped off with a wooden comb. Dressing in clean clothes, he set to donning his formal armour. He replaced the heavier practic
e sword with his regular longsword in the scabbard at his waist. A final moment scanning the contents of his modest residence, noticing the misplaced brace of knives on the shelf above his bed, indicating that yet another spy had gone through his room. Not one careless enough to leave the knives in the wrong position – that had been done by whoever had been spying on the spy, to let Brys know that yet another search for who knew what had taken place, a weekly occurrence of late.

  He moved the knives back into their usual position, then left.

  ****

  ‘Enter.’

  Brys stepped inside, then paused to search through the crowded, cluttered chamber.

  ‘Over here, King’s Champion.’

  He followed the sound of the voice and finally caught sight of the Ceda, who was suspended in a leather-strap harness depending from the ceiling. Face-down and close to a man’s height above the floor, Kuru Qan was wearing a strange metal helmet with multiple lenses fixed in a slotted frame in front of his eyes. On the floor was an archaic, yellowed map.

  ‘I have little time, Ceda,’ Brys said. ‘The Chancellor has requested that I attend him in a short while. What are you doing?’

  ‘Is it important, lad?’

  ‘That I know? I suppose not. I was just curious.’

  ‘No, the Chancellor’s summons.’

  ‘I’m not sure. It seems I am to be increasingly viewed as some kind of pivotal player in a game of which I have no comprehension. After all, the king rarely asks for my advice on matters of state, for which I am eternally grateful, since I make it a point not to involve myself with such considerations. Thus, I have no opportunity to influence our Sire’s opinion, nor would I wish to.’

  ‘By this means,’ Kuru Qan said, ‘I am proving that the world is round.’

  ‘Indeed? Did not the early colonizers from the First Empire make that evident? They circumnavigated the globe, after all.’

  ‘Ah, but that was physical proof rather than theoretical. I wished to determine the same truth via hypothesis and theory.’

  ‘In order to test the veracity of the methods?’

  ‘Oh, no. Said veracity is already a given. No, lad, I seek to prove the veracity of physical evidence. Who can trust what the eyes witness, after all? Now, if mathematical evidence supports such practical observation, then we’re getting somewhere.’