The ride through the forested hills was actually pleasant, though Tremaine knew she at least would be paying for the unaccustomed activity with sore muscles tomorrow. Especially since the saddle, while made of beautifully dyed and detailed leatherwork, had no padding whatsoever.
It was lovely country, the rich green hills carpeted with pines and fern trees, mountain streams trickling down the rocks and turning into small waterfalls. Dyani and Ilias took turns pointing out the best views and Gyan swatted Arites whenever he tried to press for more details about the Isle of Storms for the epic he was writing.
It was almost too soon before gaps in the trees allowed them to glimpse the city ahead. Not terribly large by Ile-Rien standards, it sprawled across a series of low hills that overlooked the sea. The landward side was protected by a stone wall studded with square towers. As they followed the dirt path that wound down from the hill, Tremaine could see the houses were mostly white stone, with red clay tile roofs. Like the village, there were lots of trees, planted in the little yards or climbing the sides of the small hills that dotted the plain, most of which were surmounted by round stone buildings. Temples, she wondered, then remembered, No, they don’t have temples, do they? Maybe they were forts.
As the path flattened out to approach the city, Giliead reined in and turned toward them to say, “They’ll know about you by now, that you’re wizards.” He sounded fairly pessimistic about the prospect. “People from Agis’s village will have talked about what happened during the first attack.”
Ander’s horse tossed her head impatiently and he settled her, asking, “You think there could be trouble?”
“No more than usual when we’re there,” Ilias said, with a wry look at Giliead.
Giliead regarded him with a lifted brow for a moment, then smiled back and admitted, “That’s true.”
As Giliead turned his horse to continue down the path, Ander shook his head wearily and Gerard frowned.
“I’m too old for this,” Tremaine heard Gyan mutter behind her.
They rode through a gate in the white stone wall, past guards who leaned on long spears and watched them curiously. Then up a long straight street of hard-packed dirt, lined with white clay houses with fruit trees leaning over the walled yards.
There were people out, men and women, walking or riding along the street, hauling the little two-wheeled wagons, or talking in front of open gates. Children played in fountain courts, but Tremaine sensed some agitation in the air and in the wary glances that were thrown at them. Though if word had spread about the Gardier, that made sense.
The street opened up into a large common area with stands of trees shading little markets where awnings and small tents were pitched. Around the outskirts of it there were larger, more elegant buildings, with columns and brightly painted pediments that formed a ribbon of color just under their rooflines. None was taller than two stories but they were impressive enough for public buildings. The goat herd grazing on the grass just complemented the pastoral ambience and the simple elegance of the architecture. Tremaine wished again for the pocket folding camera that had gone down with the Pilot Boat.
While Ilias helped Florian down, Tremaine noticed the market wasn’t occupied with merchants and customers. No one seemed to have any wares out and while groups gathered under the tents here and there, they had the look of uneasy people who had come for gossip and news.
“They’ve spread the word admirably quick,” Gerard commented, reining in nearby. “That will help.”
“Nicanor probably called an assembly last night,” Giliead said, dismounting.
Tremaine, who felt she deserved a treat after not falling off the whole way, let Ilias help her off the horse. “That’s the Assembly, where the town meets,” he said, pointing to the long building with the pillared portico. “And that’s the mint.” A round building with a domed roof. “That’s the lawgiver’s house.” A two-story house more imposing than Andrien, with a forbidding square facade. “And that’s the Fountain House.” A low square structure with what looked like sea serpents carved into its pediment.
Arites and Dyani led the horses away to the shade of a stand of pines. Brushing off her pants and glancing around, Tremaine noticed more people were staring at them. A group of older men standing near the portico of the council building looked in their direction and frowned. At the nearest market tent, a couple of women and another man were all but doing the classic “talking behind their hands” pose. It gave her the exposed feeling of being out during an air raid. She noticed that while Ilias and Giliead weren’t acknowledging the stares, they both suddenly seemed to be taking up more room, as if daring anyone to come over to object to their presence.
“Well, they were right about people being unfriendly,” Florian said under her breath.
Tremaine was frankly glad to see Halian appear on the portico and come toward them, passing the disapproving group of elders without an acknowledgment. He greeted Giliead with a slap on the shoulder and nodded to the others. Turning to Gerard, he said, “You were right, they came ashore first to look the place over. A ship, moving fast with no sail or oars.”
She saw Gerard and Ander exchange a look. It was probably an ordinary skiff with an engine. At least Tremaine hoped it was.
Halian continued, “They landed small boats—they looked metal, but it was hard to tell with those wizard lights they use—and about twenty of them searched the place, tearing things up. Then they went back out to sea, and the flying whale appeared.”
Giliead folded his arms, his expression grim. “We saw the fire.”
Halian nodded, taking a deep breath, and Tremaine realized that for all his calm acceptance, the sight had affected him deeply. “Think of all the fireliquid we used on Ixion’s ships, all going up together.” He looked at Gerard again, his face grave. “That’s what they’re doing to your cities?”
Gerard was staring off toward the city wall, lost in thought. He said absently, “Yes. For three years.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t find any other targets,” Ander put in. “They can carry up to twelve canisters of explosive.”
There was a moment of silence as the Syprians digested that. Ilias swore softly under his breath and exchanged a worried look with Giliead. Gyan made a shocked noise and even Arites looked bleak at the thought. Halian shook his head. Then he glanced up, his expression clearing. “Here’s Nicanor.”
They looked around to see the lawgiver standing on the portico of the council building, speaking to a beautiful dark-haired woman dressed in a deep red gown. Arantha, Tremaine said to herself, thinking of the doomed heroine of the classic play. It had been her mother’s favorite. This woman certainly looked like someone who would burn down a Great House for love. Nicanor was holding her hand with casual affection but she glanced toward Halian and the others and spoke, her heart-shaped face turned up to his appealingly. Tremaine just caught the words “wish you wouldn’t speak to them in public.”
Tremaine glanced at Halian in time to see his eyes go hooded. Ilias sighed and looked down, scuffing his boot in the dirt. Giliead just rolled his eyes. Gerard was pretending he hadn’t heard, Ander’s deceptively innocuous expression meant he had seen it and filed it away for future consideration, and Florian kept nudging Tremaine with her elbow to make sure she was aware of it. Dyani, who had either missed the moment or was so accustomed to similar slights that she simply hadn’t remarked it, said innocently, “That’s Visolela, Nicanor’s wife.” Everyone stared at her and she blinked, startled at the sudden attention, and added defensively, “Well, it is.”
As Giliead dropped an arm around Dyani’s shoulders, Nicanor frowned down at Visolela and shook his head sharply. He left her, stepping out from under the portico and walking briskly toward them. There was something very decided about that walk to join his father and the others, as if he was making a statement by it. And after his wife’s admonishment not to speak to them in public, it might very well be. If that was true, it made Tremaine like h
im more. It was one thing to yell at Giliead and Ilias in front of family and friends and strangers who weren’t quite people yet, but it was another to show disrespect in the main plaza in front of everyone important in the city.
Nicanor nodded a greeting, which sort of almost managed to include the wizard strangers. Tremaine still gave him credit for doing it in front of everyone. He said to Giliead, “I need to talk to you in private.”
Giliead nodded. “One thing first.” He met Nicanor’s eyes, saying deliberately, “Last night, Gerard found Ixion’s curse.”
Nicanor frowned and Halian shook his head slightly, not understanding. He asked, “What do you mean, ‘found’?” He glanced at Tremaine and Florian, confused. “It didn’t hurt anyone . . . ?”
“No, no.” Giliead cleared his throat. Tremaine got the distinct impression it was hard for him to speak of this and he had been hoping to have to give as few details as possible. “He found what was causing it. It was in the new house, under the hearthstone. It’s gone now.”
“You mean . . .” Nicanor said slowly, “There’s no more curse?”
Giliead smiled suddenly. “No more curse.”
Halian stared at Gerard, hopeful and incredulous all at once. “You can do that? You did that?”
“It’s done fairly often in Ile-Rien,” Gerard said with a faint smile. He added hastily, “Of course, it’s illegal to put curses on people there and it really doesn’t happen very often. The consequences—”
“You saw this?” Nicanor demanded, speaking to Giliead.
“Ilias and I were both there.” Giliead took a sharp breath. “Ander has asked to take two of the maps we took from the island back to their people. I’ve told him yes—” Ilias cleared his throat and Giliead added belatedly, “with your permission.”
Nicanor still pressed his lips together, obviously well aware he was being pressured. He said nothing for a moment and Halian scratched the back of his head and offered carefully, “They’re no good to us—we can’t make anything out of them.”
Nicanor looked at Ander and unbent enough to ask, “You can read them?”
“I can’t.” Ander faced him, practically radiating “stalwart scion of nobility,” but Tremaine was willing to admit to being cynical. He said, “But there are others in Ile-Rien who might be able to in time.”
Nicanor eyed him a moment, then nodded sharply. “Very well.”
The others went to wait under the trees as Nicanor took Giliead aside. Giliead had signaled for Ilias to come with him and he had gone reluctantly, not sure it was a good idea to antagonize the lawgiver just now. But Nicanor didn’t give any indication that he was annoyed. He faced Giliead, saying without preamble, “There’s trouble with the council.”
Giliead’s expression remained noncommittal, but he flicked a glance at Ilias. Ilias’s mouth twisted ruefully. That explained why Nicanor had been hanging around out here on the porch; they couldn’t start the council until the lawgiver was seated in the chamber. Giliead asked, “What kind of trouble?”
Nicanor looked past them, where the others stood talking with Halian. “Your new friends. You gave them guest-right?”
“You know I did.”
Nicanor’s eyes came back to Giliead’s. “And it’s as Halian said, the god accepted them?”
Giliead folded his arms, his expression stony. “Do you think your father would lie to you?”
Nicanor just pressed his lips together and waited. He was speaking as the lawgiver now and wouldn’t argue.
“Gil,” Ilias said through gritted teeth. They didn’t have time for this.
Without looking at him, Giliead stopped, took a breath. “Yes, it’s as he said.”
Nicanor acknowledged that with a rifted brow. “And you set the law aside for some better reason than that they helped Ilias when he got himself captured by the new wizards.”
Ilias let his breath out and stared at the sky, squinting. It wasn’t as if that hadn’t been asked for. Giliead set his jaw, then said tightly, “Yes.”
Nicanor nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Then I’ll take care of it. I’ll need you to speak for the god.”
“Of course.”
As Nicanor walked back to the lawgiver’s house, Visolela gathered her skirts and disappeared inside.
“Do we trust him?” Ilias asked, suddenly feeling uncertain. He knew Giliead wasn’t good at taking the mood of the council and the god knew neither of them had too many friends in town. Especially among the heads of families. Ilias hadn’t spent much time in Cineth since getting the curse mark. He didn’t want to force the friends he had had there, especially the women, into repudiating him. And Giliead had always been set apart by his status as Chosen Vessel.
“Yes. No.” Giliead absently rested a hand on his shoulder, thinking. Then he looked down at him grimly. “Ask Halian to take them on down to the docks.”
Ilias gave him a sharp nod. Nobody would try to stop Halian; he had too much clout from his former tenure as warleader and too many family alliances. And if things went very wrong, it would be best for their friends to be close to the Swift and a quick departure.
Giliead started for the council house and Ilias turned back to the others. He drew Halian aside and explained briefly. Halian swore in annoyance, running a hand through his graying hair. “Idiots,” he added. It was probably a good thing that as warleader Halian hadn’t had to deal much with the council. “I knew I should have brought your mother.” He also couldn’t speak as head of the Andrien family without Karima present.
“Somebody had to run things at home,” Ilias pointed out. He had given up reminding Halian that Karima wasn’t his mother.
“That’s true enough. Still . . .” Halian eyed the lawgiver’s house regretfully, obviously wishing he could harangue the council himself. Sometimes it was easy to tell he was Nicanor’s father. Then Halian shook his head and went back to the others, saying, “We’re going on to the docks.”
“Is there anything wrong?” Gerard asked, concerned.
“No, just some things Giliead has to attend to,” Halian told him, managing to hide his irritation with the council and sound reassuring. He gestured for them to move off toward the harbor road.
Somehow Ilias wasn’t surprised that it was Tremaine who ducked the attempt to shepherd her away, detoured around Arites to avoid Halian, and asked Ilias, “What’s wrong?”
As the others moved away, Ilias looked at her and gave up on trying to invent a polite lie. In normal clothes she and Florian looked more like the pretty girls they were, but Tremaine’s gaze still had that hard edge. “We’ve got to talk to the council; they don’t like the idea of you all.”
Tremaine looked at the lawgiver’s house, at the group of townsmen that were still watching them narrowly. One of them tried to stare her down and she coldly met his gaze, holding it until he looked away. She turned back to Ilias almost absently, as if the moment had been of such little concern to her that she hadn’t really noticed the man’s hostility. “Are you in trouble?”
“We’re always in trouble.” He added with a shrug, “It’ll be all right. They’ll believe Gil.”
Tremaine gave him the penetrating stare. It was every bit as daunting as those Giliead was capable of; Ilias grinned at her. “Really.”
“What happens if they decide they don’t like their Chosen Vessel anymore?”
What if they kill him? she meant. Ilias planted his hands on his hips and looked at the market stalls under the trees. It was a serious question, so he answered it seriously. “That’s only happened once before, many years ago and not here.” It had been in the Vessels’ Histories; thinking about it brought back long-ago memories of those nights sitting by the fire, Ilias curiously looking over the faded scrolls while Giliead learned what his life was likely to hold. How to kill wizards, how the other Vessels had died. “They killed their Chosen Vessel and their god left.” He shook his head. “No one here is willing to risk that.”
Tremaine frowned. “
Where did it go?”
Ilias looked at her, his lips quirking. Only she would have asked that question. “Nobody knows. Back where gods come from, I guess.” He nodded toward the others, who were past the trees and had reached the beginning of the harbor road. “You’d better go too.”
She pressed her lips together, not happy, but she went.
Ilias watched until she caught up, then headed up the steps to the lawgiver’s house to walk along the portico to the council house entrance.
The round high-ceilinged room was crowded, all the tiers of benches up to the roof occupied with the male heads of household and the younger sons and daughters. The female heads of the household sat up on the top tier, where the best view was and the little square windows just under the roof let in air. Across the dome itself was Ilias’s favorite of all the murals in the lawgiver’s house, the one that told the story of Elea’s voyage to Thrice Cumae, with the Ocean of Snakes, the Walls of the World and all her other adventures picked out in delicate little tiles.
They were still talking among themselves in soft worried voices, shuffling for room, trying to get comfortable. The heads of household who meant to speak were standing and there was a depressingly large number of them. Giliead, his arms folded, was on his feet in a place on the lowest tier, wearing a stolid expression. Nicanor’s place on the opposite tier was still empty, but he was up at the top, helping Visolela settle herself in her own seat, both exchanging comments with the other women. Despite the breeze the room smelled of sun-warmed dust and too many people.
As Ilias started forward, an older man stepped down from his seat, a preoccupied expression on his face. It was Pella, the lawgiver’s deputy. He glanced up, saw Ilias, and his eyes narrowed. He would have liked to keep Ilias out, but he wouldn’t speak to anyone with a curse mark, even to order him away. Ilias deliberately met his gaze as he shouldered past him.