“What’s so funny, cosmographer, is that you have absolutely no idea what is about to happen.”
Two surprises jerked her upright. The first was the identity of the speaker.
“I thought you died in the tower,” she said.
The Lord of Bhrudwo bowed to her, looking incongruous in servant’s garb. “I did, in a manner of speaking. But now is not the
time for my tale. We are gathered here for yours.”
The second surprise was that she could not read his numbers. Or any of the numbers of those sitting at the table, her friends.
“What has happened?” she asked.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Noetos said from across the wide, food-laden table. “We are assured your—ahm, how did he put it?—your
diminution of faculties, yes, that was it, is only temporary.”
The others laughed and smiled at her. But it wasn’t the horrible laughing-at-her kind. It was something else. Lenares began
to realise that love was a far broader word than she had ever considered.
“We know a secret,” Cylene said.
“Don’t tease the girl,” Noetos said in a gruff voice, placing a hand on Cylene’s arm. But he wasn’t really angry at her, only
playing.
How did she know this, if her numbers were gone?
She wasn’t an animal after all. She lacked nothing. She just had different abilities. Lenares had known this in her mind,
but now, for the first time, she felt it in her heart. She began to cry.
“Not yet, Lenares,” Cylene said. “But soon.”
The cosmographer turned to Torve. “Do you know what is going on?”
“I got here just before you,” he said, “and they clapped me like they clapped you. I know nothing more than you do. Less,
probably.”
The Undying Man stood behind Noetos and waited for silence.
“My story is brief, Lenares and Torve, and as everyone else here has heard it at least once, I will make the barest mention
of it. As you know, I remained in the tower, heartsick over the death of Stella. I ought not to have been so troubled, I told
myself, but she had become a nexus for me—for us all. I saw in her death my own failure, my overweening pride having led me
to believe she had been called to be by my side. I never envisioned for a moment I might have been called to be by hers. Had
I accepted the role the Most High had planned for me, Stella would be alive today.
“This I learned through the long night as I kept watch beside her body. I knew the Most High had not finished with me as her
body did not begin to decay, and I could sense at least a part of them lingering nearby. So I waited. As much to protect her
body from whatever spark of life remained in Husk.
“I received my message. It will remain forever secret between myself and the two messengers. I had a decision to make, and
I made it at the last possible moment. I removed myself from the tower as it fell, and returned to the fortress.
“But I was given a message for two other people, and a choice for them to make, a choice much different from my own. Lenares
and Torve, the Most High has something he wants to ask you.”
The words stilled her. She felt Torve’s hand, grasping hers under the table, stiffen.
“Lenares of Sayonae and Torve of Queda, the Most High wishes to announce his retirement. His time, he says, is over: he has
a surfeit of knowledge and wishes to find somewhere peaceful to think about what he has learned.”
“But I already feel that way!” Lenares blurted.
Those around the table laughed. Even this laughter, aimed at her, did not have a hard edge. They did not think her full of
herself or conceited. She could feel her heart beginning to tear in two with joy.
“Further, the Most High wishes you to know that there are three empty thrones in the House of the Gods. He is confident that
the world will make progress without him, but invites you both to fill two of the thrones, knowing that you will fulfil the
potential he put within you when first he selected your ancestors.”
Her heart seemed to stop.
“Take a breath, sister,” Cylene said, her eyes dancing.
Three empty thrones. One for her, one for Torve. A chance to go to all the places on the bronze map, to learn all the secrets
of the world, to bridge the void and maybe see Mahudia again. Even speak to her.
But…
“Will I be cut off from my friends?”
The Undying Man paused for a moment, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. “No,” he said eventually. “The Most
High has made that mistake once already. He says to tell you that the secret of the thrones is that they will make you into
your true self. Keppia and Umu, he says, wished to play the lord over the rest of the world and so separated themselves, only
realising too late what they had done. Neither you nor Torve has any such desire. You know only too well what it is like to
be lorded over.”
“The power is in the thrones then?” Torve said.
“It is,” said the Undying Man. “Those who sit in those seats are forever changed: the longer the sojourn, the greater the
change.”
Cylene gave a little squeak. “I don’t want to be a god!”
Lenares thought a moment. “You won’t be,” she said, certain of her words even though she could see no numerical evidence to
support her claim. “Mahudia, the woman who guarded your connection to the void, has gone to be part of the weaving keeping
the hole in the world closed. I suspect she was able to leave because once you sat on the throne, you no longer needed a magical
conduit to keep you alive.”
“Oh,” Cylene said. “Will I be immortal?”
“No,” said the Undying Man. “That curse is for others to bear.”
Others? Plural?
Lenares stored the question away in her head.
“That’s a relief,” Cylene said, and smiled at the big man sitting next to her.
“All the Most High has done, Lenares and Torve, is shape the circumstances to bring you to this choice. What you do next is
up to you.”
She turned and looked into Torve’s eyes, to find a question there and, behind the question, desire. A vision of the open desert,
of a people lost and abandoned, bred like cattle, a people who could benefit from having a god on their side.
Cylene broke into their shared thoughts. “I was thinking,” she said, her face a prim mask. “You might want to consider some
of the… er… advantages of godhood. In the area of equipment, that is.”
It took a moment for Lenares to solve this puzzle; then she felt her neck redden. Torve’s grip on her hand strengthened, telling
its own story.
“Who will occupy the third throne?” she asked, staring at the Undying Man.
“Ah, well, the Most High wonders if you would, ah, consider taking on an apprentice. Someone who has much to unlearn, but
who has promised to do his best to—eventually—fulfil his calling.”
“But, but you are evil,” Lenares cried. “The Most High can’t let you on one of the thrones!”
The Undying Man pulled at his collar. “The Most High anticipated this objection,” he said. “He wishes to remind you that the
people he is inviting to occupy the other two thrones are good. And he will, he says, give all three keys to the House of
the Gods into your hands, Lenares. His offer of the thrones is not conditional on you taking the apprentice. And even if you
accept him, you may end his apprenticeship at any time.
“I ought to add that I am by no means a reformed character,” the Undying Man said. “I do not go back on anything I have said
or done. Or perhaps only a very little. This offer is the Most High’s way of neutralising me. He thinks I don’t know this,
but he is wrong. But he believes that between the three of us we will provide exactly the balance that the House of the Gods
requires.”
“How can we take on an apprentice?” Torve said. “Especially one such as you? We need to serve an apprenticeship ourselves.”
“Ah. As to that, he has organised a tutor for you. Her identity is a secret, but he assures me she is someone with great experience
in the art of leadership. She knows all about self-sacrifice in the service of others. There is no one more qualified, he
says.”
Lenares had run out of questions.
“Can you make up your mind, please?” Sauxa drawled. “The food’s getting cold.”
General laughter followed.
Torve nodded to her, his eyes alight.
Your decision
, he seemed to be saying.
She smiled. “Tell the Most High that Torve and I will make a home together in the House of the Gods,” she said.
THE BANNERS HAVE BEEN
raised, the flags ripple and crack in the breeze and the Summer Flame has been lit. Revellers from the Fisher Coast and all
of Old Roudhos pour out of the taverns and down the wide streets towards the Summer Palace, where the (hopefully brief) ceremony
is to take place. Adults and children alike know that this is an event like no other in their city’s proud history: the elevation
of a new Duke of Roudhos is momentous enough on its own, but to coincide with the announcement of Raceme as the capital of
the restored dukedom is unprecedented.
The largesse distributed far and wide from the cellars of the Summer Palace has helped considerably in ensuring the festive
atmosphere. There are unfortunate incidents, to be sure: petty thieves are caught and spend the day locked up in temporary
cells built for the expected extra numbers; others make away with their booty and the injured parties lose the will to celebrate.
Arguments and fights do not cease just because of a public holiday. And there are those who must work irrespective of the
day—some, indeed, for whom a holiday provides extra employment opportunities. Some of these latter people line the streets,
calling their entreaties to the young lads making their way down towards the harbour, and the wares they display are in some
cases very tempting indeed. But few are buying this afternoon.
Sautea of Fossa makes his way slowly through the Oligarchs District, so called because it was once the preserve of the city’s
elite. Not now though; at the height of the Neherian War it was razed to the ground, the old timber buildings housing their
expensive imported furniture and artwork ending up as ash in the wind, along with their owners. The district now houses the
poorer citizens of Raceme, many of whom once lived in the Shambles.
“Must you grumble every time you stretch your legs?” Sautea’s wife asks him.
The words are gruff but the mischievous gleam in her eye belies her voice. Sautea knows this, having been married to her for
nearly twenty years.
“Legs like mine, who wouldn’t grumble?” he says. “At least I don’t grumble in my sleep, Nellas.”
The old woman smiles at her husband. “You think the youngster will make a good fist of things?”
“Aye, well,” Sautea says, scratching his whiskers. “He’s not been seen much around here. Can’t do a worse job than his father.”
The two old people wait at Broad Way for a parade to pass by. Floats feature such exotic stories as the Sword of Cyclamere—someone
has fashioned a passable likeness out of one of the local softwood trees—and the Tower of Farsight.
“Now that,” Sautea says to his wife, “is nothing like the real thing.”
A few of those following the parade stare at the bent old man for a moment, then speak to each other behind their hands.
“D’you think many of your friends will show up?” Nellas asks Sautea.
“Some,” comes the reply after due consideration. “The obvious ones, definitely. Mebbe one or two of the out-of-towners.”
“Would be nice to meet some of these people at last.”
“Aye, though there’s a couple I’ll make sure I keep away from you. I know what you’re like when you see a pretty face. Won’t
have you wandering after some young thing.”
She laughs, and they stroll across the road, their boots clacking pleasantly on the cobbles. Summer Way leads directly to
the palace, and they find themselves arriving too late for any of the prime viewing positions.
“Wish I was taller,” the old man sighs.
“So do I,” Nellas says. “You, I mean.”
“Ah, you old hag, I’m tall enough to climb your steps whenever the door’s open.”
They both laugh, and resign themselves to staring at the backs of the crowd in front.
“He wasn’t that bad,” she says, after a companionable silence. In front of them the crowd is becoming restless.
“Some hold-up in the proceedings,” Sautea comments. “Who wasn’t that bad?”
“Duke Noetos. He wasn’t that bad.”
“He did some foolish things. What about the extra tax on fishermen?”
“How can you complain at that? He handed over the best boats in the Neherian fleet for you to manage, and gave you your own
ship outright. You can hardly protest if he raised taxes a little.”
“Aye, I can,” Sautea says, “especially when that young brat gets away with breaking every dockside and customs rule in the
book.”
Nellas has no need to ask who that young brat is. He comes to tea at Sautea’s modest home in the Artisans District at least
once a week. Charming, devastatingly handsome and irrevocably single, Mustar is the very definition of a lovable rogue.
Her husband hasn’t finished on the subject. Won’t finish for some time, most likely.
“Did you hear the latest? Noetos gave Mustar exclusive rights to rock lobster from Fossa north to Makyra Bay!”
Nellas turns to Sautea. “Didn’t you bid for that?”
“Young brat outbid me,” he says, then his craggy face splits in a grin. “What he doesn’t know is that stocks are well down.
He’s overbid, in my opinion.”
The crowd has quietened somewhat. “Something’s happening,” some of them say. Children are lifted on their fathers’ shoulders.
“Guards in full livery, coming this way. Looking for someone.”
In front of the couple, the crowd suddenly melts away and they are confronted by six guards in ceremonial getup, spears held
to attention.
Wouldn’t be no good in a real fight
, Sautea observes to himself, but thinks it prudent not to mention this.
“Sautea of Raceme?” one of the guards says, peering at him as though he’s just crawled out from behind a barnacle.
“Paid my taxes,” Sautea replies, frowning.