The crowd has gathered closer, trying to make sense of the sudden entertainment.
“Nevertheless, you must come with us, order of the Duke himself. And you,” he adds, dipping his spear in Nellas’s direction.
“If you’re his wife, that is.”
“Who do you think I am, his paramour?” she retorts, raising a small cheer from the crowd.
“This had better be about getting us good seats,” Sautea grumbles. “I’ll not be best pleased if we have to spend a day in
the cells.”
The ceremonial guards slice a very effective path through the crowd. Past the Summer Flame they march, Nellas and Sautea in
their midst. “Slow down!” Nellas begs them. “We’re your combined ages together!”
The guards moderate their speed, but only a little. Sautea is exhausted when they arrive at an open space, in the middle of
which is set a low platform. He rubs his chest worriedly: it has been giving him a few twinges lately.
“Ah, no,” Nellas says. “We told him we didn’t want none of this!”
They are marched across the open space and, in front of the whole city, forced to climb the platform. There they are shown
to velvet-clad chairs and asked to be seated. The guardsmen melt into the shadows.
“I tol’ you, I wanted no fuss,” Sautea says to the man who comes over to greet him.
“Don’t tell me your troubles,” the man replies. “My neck’s killing me. Do you know how many times they starch the collars
of these uniforms?”
“Not enough, fisherman,” Sautea says, eyeing Noetos dubiously. “This was you, wasn’t it? You got us brung up here.”
“Anomer, actually. If it had been up to me, you old fool, you could have spent the day in the shadows while others received
their due recognition. What’s so wrong with a little ceremony? The people enjoy it, and your friends wish to show you their
appreciation.”
“What for? I did nothing, apart from traipse up and down endless roads and try to save us from the worst of your temper.”
Noetos laughs. “Aye, by Alkuon, that you did. That you did.” He turns and brings his head closer to the old fisherman’s face.
“You saved Arathé’s life, Sautea, and I will never forget it. We’re all in your debt.”
“Enough of a debt to lighten the taxes on his take?” Nellas asks.
“We shall talk of this later—ah, the music’s about to start.” Noetos nips adroitly back to his seat.
The band plays a series of military numbers, all stirring if you like the thought of blood and death. Sautea saw enough of
it in this city twenty years ago, and in parts further north during their adventure. Many of the memories have dimmed, but
he isn’t going to forget the charred bodies of soldiers in Andratan, or villages north of Patina Padouk ruined by wind and
quake. A darkness falls over his eyes as he remembers, veiling the crowd that is spread over every vantage point along the
waterfront.
The music continues and Sautea takes the opportunity to look around him. His friends are there, more of them than he expected.
Bregor and Consina, of course, sitting on the other side of Noetos, right and fitting for the Factors of Raceme. It is largely
to their credit that the city has recovered from the terrible devastation wrought by the Fingers of God and the subsequent
Neherian retaliation, but recover it has. Thrice the population than at the height of its former glory, the propagandists
claim, but they’d say anything to attract new immigrants. Certainly the place is far busier than Sautea finds comfortable
these days.
Consina bore Bregor two boys, now sent to Makyra Bay where they work the boats in the traditional manner.
Must ask him how they’re getting on
, Sautea thinks, then promptly forgets.
On Nellas’s far side, sitting like a king on his throne, is that young brat himself. To think Sautea taught him everything
he knows about fishing. Mustar grins at Nellas, and she smiles back, unable to help herself. Oh yes, this boy charms the girls
into his hands all right. Not a mark on him and nearly forty years of age. He pursued Moralye at the end of their adventure,
pressing his suit on her all the long way south, and for a while she’d shown interest; but eventually she’d spurned him, to
everyone’s surprise. There were so many relationships in the aftermath of the events of twenty years ago, it is a puzzle that
Mustar was left out.
Isn’t left out much these days though
, Sautea reflects ruefully.
Never a cold bed, that lad; a different girl every week.
The lad seems to enjoy it tolerably well, though there’s nothing like a familiar face in Sautea’s experience. He pats Nellas’s
hand fondly.
Moralye made her choice a few years later, after a visit to Dhauria by one of her former companions. Anomer had decided on
a life of scholarship and made the long journey across the wilds of western Bhrudwo to seek out the greatest minds in three
continents. Chief among them, he discovered, was Moralye, revered even by the eldest and wisest in Dhauria. They had elected
her
dominie
, the first woman in five hundred years to be so raised. Anomer had fallen for her. He’d spent years in Dhauria wooing Moralye,
seemingly without success; the dominie was, after all, almost twice his age, though to the long-lived Dhaurians she was a
woman in full bloom. He had devoted himself to book-learning, but at the end of five lovelorn years had readied himself to
return home. As Noetos told it—often and loud—she came to him the night before he was to leave and begged him to stay. The
coin she used was left unmentioned.
They lived together in Dhauria another twelve years, raising a family of three girls and enduring the endless gossip of the
narrow-minded and insular Dhaurians. The relationship was never officially sanctioned by marriage, apparently. Such liaisons
were forbidden, but it seemed that a
dominie
was allowed a certain latitude.
And here she comes, as though Sautea’s thoughts have called her into being, on the arm of her husband, walking down the steps
from their residence in the Summer Palace, making a handsome couple, she in a white dress and he in a crimson coat and dark
green leggings. They mount the platform to cheers from the crowd and seat themselves on the far side.
Following them is the Duchess of Roudhos. Cylene of Sayonae was pretty when she was younger, but has developed into a celebrated
beauty. Her face is solemn, seldom laughing; it is said among the populace that she suffered some great sorrow during the
northern affair all those years ago. Sautea knows different, of course; but the loss of her newly discovered sister indeed
robbed her of much of her joy. For a time, anyway. She is not tall, but her carriage suggests so. Her face is not perfect,
sun-kissed as it is, but such imperfections merely serve to emphasise her beauty. And she is utterly devoted to her great
bear of a husband, more fool her. Sautea loves her for it.
Noetos rises from his seat and goes to her. Taking her hand, he leads her to the far side of the platform, among the many
dignitaries events like this attract.
All is in readiness for the ceremony. The chief alderman stands and clears his throat.
Away to the right of the crowd a disturbance is taking place. A fight of some kind perhaps. The guards will deal severely
with the perpetrators, Sautea knows. Raceme is a good place to live, her laws are in the main sensible and their application
is relaxed, but this is an important occasion.
The disturbance intensifies. The crowd parts and a massive coach, drawn by four horses much larger than any horse has a right
to be, comes into view. It is made of polished blackwood and edged in gold.
Gold paint, probably
, Sautea thinks as he squints.
No, that is real gold.
The coach pulls up in front of the dais and the driver steps down from his seat. Sautea recoils in shock: he knows this man.
He is very tall, though not as tall as he once was, and his hair is white now when once it had been jet black. He wears a
nondescript outfit: boiled-leather jerkin and trousers. A flute hangs from one shoulder. He has not aged, of course. Apprentice
gods do not age.
Lord of Bhrudwo no longer, the man has not been reduced by his new role. There is a grace to his carriage that he did not
have before, a stillness that has replaced the restlessness that once characterised him. He is more, somehow, than he once
was.
His empire has dissolved into large kingdoms and petty fiefdoms. By and large there have been few wars, but the peace enjoyed
by Bhrudwo no longer exists, as people struggle to adapt to the change. The great fortress of Andratan lies empty now, apparently,
abandoned shortly after the Tower of Farsight was declared a sacred place. When the last servant left, the gate was locked,
the key thrown into the ocean and the whole island declared off limits. Stories are told now of Ghost Island and the fiery
glow that occasionally lights up the sky, supposedly on the anniversary of the fall of the Tower of Farsight.
Noetos has often said how the ending of Kannwar’s rule is a blessing, even though it does not appear that way. Roudhos, he
says, will be smaller but better than Bhrudwo was. There is no need for the calculating decisions the Undying Man once made.
No need for an immortal ruler. The fisherman has no regrets, he says, at passing on his own rulership to his son.
Kannwar bows to the stage, then opens the door of the coach. No one emerges. With a sigh he produces a wooden step and places
it in front of the door, then steps back.
“Aren’t you going to announce me, ulcers to your soul?” comes a querulous voice from within. A few members of the crowd laugh.
“My apologies, old friend. Sauxa of—where are you from these days?”
A wizened old man makes his way out of the coach, taking the step with care. “I’ll do it myself,” he snaps. “Sauxa of anywhere
in Faltha a woman will have me!” he cries, then blinks in the sun. “Sauxa of Chardzou, actually,” he amends.
By this time Noetos has left his seat and is already off the platform. “Sauxa!” he cries. “A cheer, everyone, for one of the
heroes of the War Against the Gods!”
The crowd cheers dutifully, by no means convinced that such an old man could be the hero of anything.
By the gods
, Sautea thinks,
he’s not weathered well. Probably holed up in that tent in the middle of the plains, beating off the storms every winter and
gales every summer.
Last Sautea heard, the old man had retired from his role as Arkhos of Straux, left the Council of Faltha and Instruere, and
taken himself back to the Central Plains in high dudgeon, complaining about the younger generation, by which he meant anyone
who hadn’t seen seventy summers.
It is wonderful to see the irascible old man. As Sauxa is led up the steps of the platform, Sautea nods to him and receives
a cheerful wink in return.
The plainsman has never been told the full story of his countryman Robal’s fate. That tale, perhaps the darkest of a dark
time, emerged a decade or so after the events. Noetos has never explained where he heard the story, but there is seemingly
no doubt it is true. Sautea sincerely hopes it never comes to the ears of the old man. It would break his heart anew.
He notices the driver of the coach has not moved. “Merla Umerta of Sayonae and consort,” he announces, his deep voice carrying
to every ear on the waterfront.
“I told you not to call me that,” says a sweet voice from the darkness inside.
Kannwar inclines his head and a small smile plays on his lips.
From the coach descends a stunning couple. The man is dark-skinned, his broad, shining face surmounted by curly black hair.
He wears the most outrageous pink jacket and pantaloons, clothes that ought to be appalling. But they look magisterial on
him. The woman at his side is simply the most glorious creature Sautea has ever seen. More beautiful by far than her celebrated
sister, her face lit by an inner glow that begins to bewitch the whole crowd. She smiles, and it is a shy smile.
“Travelled with her the whole way,” Sauxa says, his reedy voice clearly audible in the sudden silence. “For a god, she’s got
a god-awful voice. Never shuts up.”
He looks around, realises everyone is listening and snaps his mouth closed.
Sautea has seen neither of the two gods for twenty years, and his heart aches at the memory of their courage. As he begins
to weep, Nellas takes his hand and squeezes it.
“The Son and the Daughter,” she says, her voice a whisper. “Old man, you weren’t exaggeratin’ after all.”
“They are holding in the best part of their glamour,” he says. “If you had been there, old girl, when they climbed up them
stone thrones, you would have had your eyes near burned out, like mine were.”
The Son and the Daughter, trailed by their apprentice, walk up to the platform.
“We have come to honour the Dukes of Roudhos, both new and old,” she says.
“And to spend time with old friends,” he adds, and smiles.
“Please… please be welcome,” stammers the chief alderman.
Nobody needs to be told who these presences are. Though everyone here has heard the tale of the War Against the Gods, told
by raconteurs in taverns or sung by bards in those interminable verses, most consider the gods a myth. But here they are,
almost too bright to look upon, standing amongst the citizens of Raceme.
They nod to the alderman and accept seats hurriedly drawn up for them at the end of the row in which Noetos sits. Sautea is
some distance from the present Duke of Roudhos but he hears the man’s question. “Any news of my daughter?”
Lenares nods to Noetos, an answer of sorts. It is a question Sautea wants answered too, though not as urgently as Arathé’s
father. She married Duon of Elamaq in a simple ceremony immediately on their return to Raceme after the northern events, and
the explorer promptly took her south to his homeland. Eight years later they reappeared for one golden summer, accompanied
by a tousle-headed boy of about six years of age. Arathé had recovered much, though not all, of her beauty; and the boy was
the image of Anomer, who had been in Dhauria at the time and so had not met his nephew. At summer’s end, the family had left
again, in pursuit of further adventures.