Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (38 page)

She frowned at him. “What did I say to you about drawing power, man? You have not taken nearly enough. I need you fitter than this. Taran, Robin, meld with me, please.”

They did so and Sullyan again laid her hand on Bull’s shoulder. A deep amber glow suffused the air around him and he sighed with relief. She withdrew from the power source and removed her hand.

“Better,” she said. “It will not be fully fit for a few days, but at least it will not incapacitate you.” She replaced the bandage and sling.

A tentative knock sounded at the door and Robin went to answer it. Their visitor was a stooped and wrinkled woman, so shrunken that her head barely reached the tall Captain’s chest. As she peered around Robin into the room, Taran saw she was holding a tray of steaming cups.

“Harva,” exclaimed Sullyan, as she waved the woman inside. “I had not thought to see you here. Do you still serve the Count? I thought you would be peacefully tending your garden by now.”

The elderly servant crossed the room carefully and deposited her tray on the low table. She embraced Sullyan with genuine affection.

“Bless you, Lady,” she said. “I’ve served here since I was a little girl. I wouldn’t know how to do anything else. Now, I know you prefer fellan but we’re running low so I’ve brought you spice tea. The maids will be here soon with hot water for washing.”

A change came over her; she seemed afraid. Sullyan raised her brows.

“Lady,” said Harva, lowering her voice and glancing at the door. “Beware while you’re here. These are troubled times and not safe for you. Don’t stay longer than you need.”

She gave Sullyan a quick smile before scuttling from the room.

Robin frowned as he closed the door. “What on Earth was that about, Major? Does she have her wits?”

Sullyan flashed him a look. “Just because she has reached a venerable age, Captain, does not mean her senses are failing. Harva was nurse to Marik’s father, and also to Marik when he was young. She has served this family faithfully and knows more than her appearance suggests. You would do well not to underestimate her. I will heed her warning but I wish she had told me more.”

Taran passed out the mugs of spice tea and before they were finished, the maids arrived with hot water. Four perspiring girls staggered in, carrying a huge steaming copper pot that they emptied into a chipped stone bath in the washing room. Sullyan retired happily to bathe. Taran could hear her splashing and humming to herself.

While they waited for her, Bull, revived by the hot drink and Sullyan’s ministrations, regaled Robin and Taran with tales of the banquets he had attended in the past. They were humorous accounts but they made both men more nervous than they had been before.

The Major eventually emerged from the washroom, toweling her mass of wet hair. She was wearing one of the robes provided, but it was so short that it left very little to Taran’s imagination. Robin saw his embarrassed flush and said, “Sullyan,” in a reproving tone.

Clearly startled, she stared at them until she realized what the problem was. Then she laughed at Taran’s discomfort.

“I beg your pardon, Taran. I am so used to the company of these two that I forget others are not used to me. I will try to behave more decorously.”

Taran reddened more. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“Gallantly said, Journeyman.” She laughed again. “We will make a courtier of you yet.”

Crossing the room, she sat before the fire to dry her hair.

Taran joined Bull and Robin in using the hot water to freshen up. When he returned to the main room and saw Sullyan standing by the window, he simply couldn’t suppress a gasp of admiration.

The full-length, green satin gown she was wearing flowed over her slim figure like liquid beryl. She had braided part of her hair into a coronet around her head; the rest rippled down her back like tawny fire. Her fire opals spat sparks from her throat and ears, and her golden eyes were huge and lustrous. She was wearing a subtle perfume that just caught at the senses, and Taran knew he had never seen anyone so poised and beautiful in his entire life. His heart pounded at the sight of her.

She caught him staring and smiled. He blushed furiously.

“Why, thank you, Taran,” she said softly. “You look very handsome.”

That brought the color even higher in his face. To his relief, Bull saved him from replying by giving a loud snort.

“Enough, Major. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say the atmosphere was getting to you already. These two lads are going to have enough to cope with tonight without you making matters worse.”

Taran frowned and Robin, who had also been staring at the Major, turned on him. “What do you mean?”

Sullyan shifted, clearly about to speak, but Bull waved her to silence. “Let me, Sully, you’ll only confuse them.”

Taran raised his brows, expecting the Major to take offense at his tone. Surprisingly, she only smiled and turned away.

Bull sighed. “Andaryans are a very sensual people,” he said, “the nobility more than the rest. The stronger Artesans among them often use their talents to flood the atmosphere with … er, shall we say ‘erotic thoughts’ … on occasions like this, to make the game more enjoyable. Their object is to find a partner for the night, regardless of whether they’re wed or not.

“Young and handsome specimens such as you two are going to be the target of every lady’s desire tonight. They have little else to do with their time other than indulge their petty pleasures and they will be falling over themselves to see who can provoke the greatest … er, reaction … in you. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s tiresome but it’s almost impossible to resist them, so don’t be too embarrassed if you find yourselves responding to them.

“But whatever you do, don’t make any promises to them. Especially don’t, under any circumstances, leave the hall with anyone. Sully and I will try and keep an eye on you but we’ll both be affected too—especially with her looking like that—so you’ll need your wits about you.”

Taran stared at him, apprehension flooding his heart.

“One other thing, gentlemen,” said Sullyan. “Do not touch or eat with any of the silverware. Some of it is likely to be spellsilver and if it touches your skin, it will cut you off from your power.”

“Spellsilver?” asked Taran nervously. “What’s that?”

“Spellsilver is an ore that occurs naturally in Andaryon. It looks the same as ordinary silver and can be worked in the same fashion. However, it has strange properties where metaforce is concerned, properties that make you feel nauseous, drain your strength and prevent you from using your powers. It works through contact with skin or blood and shuts down all metaphysical processes. Touching it is very unpleasant, although the effects only last as long as the contact continues. Being forced into contact with it—or worse, having it enter your bloodstream by, let’s say being stabbed with a spellsilver knife—is a dreadful and terrifying experience. I would not recommend it.”

Taran’s heart fell even farther. The feast sounded like an ordeal.

“Fortunately,” she continued, “it has never, to my knowledge, been discovered in Albia, so we have little cause to fear it. Here, however, where the acquisition of power is paramount and all means used to obtain it are considered justified, it is widely employed. Including it among the silverware of a feast is just another part of the power game.

“So, gentlemen, keep yourselves tightly shielded and do not attempt to contact one another through the substrate. It is too dangerous.”

Taran returned to his dressing, feeling more nervous than ever and reflecting that his father had left much that was important out of his son’s education. The only comfort the Journeyman could draw came from the equally uneasy look on Robin’s face. The Captain’s lack of experience in such matters made Taran feel marginally better.

They had just finished their preparations when they heard the second hour strike.

“Ready, gentlemen?” asked Sullyan. “Remember, shields up, be unfailingly polite even to the most persistent and obnoxious admirers, make no promises, and do not touch the silver.”

She took a deep breath, the first sign of nervousness Taran had seen. “Shall we go?”

They left the suite and descended the long, twisting stairs. Sullyan led the way, her long gown flowing around her legs as she walked, surrounding her with an air of grace and stature. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to let the others flank her. Taran could hear music coming from the main hall along with the muted murmur of many voices. He walked beside Robin toward the brightly lit hall which, when he reached it, was packed with more people than he had expected to see.

The hall was decorated with colorful tapestries and banners, and was bright with the warm glow of countless lamps and candles. Here, Taran saw nothing of the shabby air pervading the rest of the mansion; the hall was a study in wealth and opulence. The mellow sound of minstrels blended with the noise of servants bustling among the tables.

Sullyan stopped at the doors and Taran saw her searching the throng, presumably looking for the Count. However, the Master of Ceremonies spotted them before she saw their host and struck the huge brass gong for silence. Every eye in the room turned toward them. Taran felt apprehensive as he suddenly became the object of many ladies’ scrutiny. Robin shifted beside him, clearly sharing his unease.

Sullyan appeared serene, outwardly unruffled by the attention her appearance was earning. When he risked a quick glance, though, Taran noticed the gem at her throat pulsing with the rapid beat of her heart.

The Master of Ceremonies announced them, giving their rank and Sullyan’s title, and as they followed her into the room, they were approached by a tall, thin man whom Taran thought was in his early thirties. He was dressed in maroon velvet trimmed with black and silver fur and he had very pale gray eyes with the characteristic slit pupils. Pupils that were, Taran saw, rather dilated, giving the man a febrile look. His face was pleasant in a lean, melancholy kind of way, and he was richly adorned with gold. It glinted from his ears, throat, wrists and fingers. On the middle finger of his right hand gleamed a huge ruby cabochon.

The man stepped up to Sullyan, smiling nervously.

“Lady Sullyan, my dear,” he said, as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips. “How good to see you again. Your companions are welcome in my hall.” He swept a dismissive look over the men and Taran felt Robin tense. Bull touched the Captain’s arm and the younger man relaxed.

Sullyan frowned at the Andaryan but made a small and graceful curtsey as she replied to his greeting.

“Count Marik. I am pleased to be here, my friend, despite the circumstances behind our visit. I look forward to discussing matters with you in tomorrow’s council.”

The Count appeared none too pleased to be reminded of the council meeting. Ignoring Taran, Bull and Robin, he took Sullyan by the arm and ushered her through the throng of people. “There will be time for business tomorrow. Come, my dear, there is someone who desires to meet you tonight.”

Sullyan suffered herself to be led, although she glanced in puzzlement at the Count’s eager face.

Taran, watching the noble’s back as he escorted Sullyan, could sense the air of nervous apprehension swathing the man. It was, he thought, totally out of place for a noble in his own mansion surrounded by his own people. His preoccupation with the Count’s strange demeanor consumed him and he hardly registered the faces of the other guests.

The Count led Sullyan to the far end of the hall, where a tight knot of people surrounded a tall, regal-looking man dressed in black trimmed with red and silver. A fluttering group of young ladies appeared to be hanging on his every word and they parted reluctantly as Count Marik led Sullyan through.

The man in black turned to see who was approaching.