I looked at her in surprise—I hadn't known that she
wrote music.
"Your songs are beautiful," Elenet said.
"But sad," Nee said, wrinkling her nose. "I promised myself
no more sad songs, and so I stopped. Now I think I can make
happy ones. You?" Nee asked.
"Every day," Elenet said. "Acquit me of heroic efforts,
though! It has been my solace to sit at my harp each morning,
just before first-gold."
"If I painted like you do, I'd have solace enough," Nee
said, sighing.
Elenet's smile was slight, and her eyelids lowered as she
stared down at her hands. "It seems that my... sad songs ...
took a different form."
"No more sad songs for you, either," Nee said, touching her
friend's wrist. "You've earned happiness. I command you to have
it!"
All three of us laughed, and the remaining conversation was
about inconsequentials, such as gowns and materials, and then
music again, before Nee realized it was late and we all had
things to do. We parted with mutual compliments and expressions
of esteem.
Azmus leaned forward and said, "I have only one fact to give
you: The Duke of Grumareth met with the Marquise and her
daughter on their way to Merindar."
"On their way?" I repeated. "Merindar is north, and
Grumareth west."
Azmus's round, pleasant face hardened into a kind of
sardonic amusement. "For a half day's journeying, their path
could lie together."
"Which could be innocuous," I said. "Anything else?"
"Only that the rain forced them to stop at an inn for a full
time-change. Admittedly the rain was heavy that day, but it was
also intermittent; yet only after second-green did both parties
deem it possible to ride on."
"I take it you got this from inn servants, or
Grumareth's?"
"One of the duke's people." Azmus nodded. "They are loyal
enough to their land, but some loathe the Merindars with deadly
passion."
"Ah-hah!" I exclaimed. "So, what now?"
Azmus's gaze was serious. "It is time for the truth, my
lady, if you will honor me with the privilege of speaking
frankly."
"Do," I said, hiding the wail of dismay that shivered
through my head. Everyone seemed to want to tell me the truth,
when I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it.
Except Flauvic, who
says there is no truth.
"I can pursue this," he said, "but it will take a great deal
of work, and it will also be costly."
"How so?" I asked uneasily. "Bribery?"
He shook his head. "Not at all. The person who gives
information for bribes is usually worthless; someone else could
be paving a higher price either for the information you
want—or for you to get the wrong information. I told you
before that the Merindars' servants are mum. What I must do is
reassemble many of my old contacts and gather the information
we need by finding patterns. This is exhaustive and complicated
if it is to be done well—and without causing
comment."
"Patterns?"
He nodded, smiling. "The very first lesson I learned when I
first began spying for my lord your father was that information
that cannot be gathered on where someone is can usually be
inferred by where the individual isn't. This is particularly
true for runners." He looked at me expectantly.
I drew a deep breath. "So. What you're saying is that
you—and whomever else you need—must visit all the
likely inns along likely paths and find out if Merindar runners
have been there, and when, and how long?"
"That's close enough," he said. "Bear in mind that the best
of them take different routes quite often, but humans are
creatures of habit, and they are also creatures of comfort. At
some point they will go where they know there are clean beds or
a particularly good table set, or where they can do their own
listening. And of course, there are their horses."
"But wealthy people like the Merindars and the Renselaeuses
have horses stabled all over the kingdom," I protested. "I
noticed that last year."
"Yes, but good stablehands know those horses, and thus know
when they're taken out, and for how long, and where they went.
For one stablehand to talk about the fine roan Windrunner and
how he did in the bad weather last week is merely horse talk
and seldom raises comment. But Windrunner's movements put
together with Jerrec of Ilvan-town's movements make a
pattern."
"I see. So you want to know if I'll pay for it?"
He shook his head. "I want to know, my lady, what you will
do with the information."
My first thought was that the Marquise would probably make
any servant disappear who spoke thus with her. But I had given
Azmus the right. He loved a challenge, this I knew, but he also
loved the kingdom. When I first took charge of Tlanth's
accounting books, I had discovered that Azmus had been paid
only sporadically over the years. He had used his ostensible
trade as goldsmith in order to pursue his clandestine vocation
on our behalf. My father, and then my brother and I, had helped
little, beyond sending him back to Remalna-city with a basket
of fresh food and one of our good mounts after he'd made one of
his reports.
So he was not in any sense a mere lackey to go silently and
carry out my whims. He was a co-conspirator, and he wanted to
discuss the goal.
So what was my goal?
Images fled through my mind, chased by phantom emotions: my
descending on Shevraeth to inform him of whatever it was the
Marquise was planning; my sending him an anonymous letter with
the same information. Fine, triumphant gestures, but to what
end? And why?
I shook my head, as if that would dispel the images. If I
was going to dip my hand into public affairs, then I had to
dismiss personal considerations.
"To help the new king," I said. "To make certain that no
Merindar sits again on that throne, because none of them are
worthy."
Azmus smiled, clapped his hands to his knees and bowed with
slow deliberation. "I shall communicate with you as soon as I
know something, my lady," he said, and slipped out.
EIGHTEEN
THE DAYS IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING PASSED VERY swiftly.
Now that summer had begun, the spring rains, which had held
off for weeks, inundated us steadily. I noticed worried
conversations once in a while, among people whose lands lay
along the coast, and runners dashed and splashed back and forth
to report on crops and roads and floods.
Meanwhile, the peculiar life of Athanarel continued. We did
not have a king, yet the government was somehow carried
forward, and foreign diplomats attended the constant round of
social events, and they all seemed content with things as they
were. Not so the more serious of the courtiers, but as yet the
questions everyone most wanted to ask—"When will we have
a king? Why does he wait?"—were as yet discussed only in
quiet corners of informal parties and never by those most
closely concerned.
The weather curtailed outside activities. For now the races
and picnics were set aside for inside diversions: readings,
music, dancing, parties, chocolate, and talk. I think four new
dances were introduced during that time, but what I really
enjoyed was the resumption of sword work. Parties to pursue the
martial arts were organized, and fencing tourneys replaced
racing for those who liked competition.
I competed only for fun, and no one bet on me, not even
Savona, because, despite my enthusiasm, I wasn't very good.
Neither was Bran, though he shared my enthusiasm. The others
who favored the blade had been well-trained from childhood, and
our lack showed. But this did not stop either of us from
trying.
One of the topics of conversation was my party, which was
perhaps the more anticipated because people kept inside
perforce had more time to spend on their costumes. My own
involvement with the preparations had escalated accordingly,
about which I'll have something to say anon.
From Flauvic, of course, nothing was seen, nor did he
entertain—but after enough days had passed that I had
quite given up on him, I received a witty note, gracefully
written by his own hand, stating that he would attend my
party.
And so, on the surface, all was serene enough. Tamara
remained cool but friendly, and Nee told me over chocolate one
morning when Elenet was not there that Tamara never mentioned
me but in praise.
Trishe held her weekly breakfast parties in her rooms at
Khialem House; Derec and Geral continued to flirt with me;
Savona continued his extravagant compliments; I was often in
company with Shevraeth now, and we both smiled and conversed,
but always, it seemed, with other people.
And on most mornings, Elenet joined Nee and me for
breakfast. Sometimes Bran was there, and sometimes not. I
cannot say that I came to know Elenet any better as the days
wore on. She was reserved and never made any reference to
anything personal. Still, when she was there, we had some of
our best discussions of reading, music—always
music—art, and history.
One morning when we three were alone, Nee leaned forward and
said, "Elen, you've been closeted with Vidanric a lot, I've
noticed. Has he said aught about a coronation? I confess it
makes me nervous to have it not decided—as if they are
waiting for something terrible to happen."
Elenet's expression did not change, but high on her thin
cheeks appeared a faint flush. "I trust we will hear something
soon," she murmured. And she turned the conversation to
something general.
Were
they in love? I knew that she was. Elenet
would make a splendid queen, I told myself, and they both
certainly deserved happiness. I found myself watching them
closely whenever we were all at an event, which occurred more
and more often. There were no touches, no special smiles, none
of the overt signs that other courting couples gave—but
she was often by his side. I'd inevitably turn away, thinking
to myself that it was none of my business. It wasn't as if I
didn't have admirers, both the social kind and one real
one—though I didn't know his name. Still, the subject
made me restless, which I attributed to my knowledge of how
badly I had behaved to Shevraeth. I knew I owed him an apology,
or an explanation, two things I could not bring myself to offer
lest—someone—misconstrue my motives. And think me
angling for a crown.
So I hugged to myself the knowledge of my Unknown. No matter
how my emotions veered during those social occasions, it was
comforting to realize that I would return to my room and find a
letter from the person whose opinions and thoughts I had come
to value most.
I
preferred
courtship by paper, I told myself. No
one feels a fool, no one gets hurt. And yet—and
yet—though I loved getting those letters, as the days
went by I realized I was becoming slightly impatient of certain
restraints that I felt were imposed on us.
Like discussing current events and people. I kept running up
against this constraint and finding it more irksome as each day
passed. We continued to range over historical events, or the
current entertainments such as the Ortali ribbon dancers or the
piper-poets from faraway Tartee—all subjects that I could
have just as well discussed with an erudite lady.
The morning of Nee's question to Elenet about coronations, I
found the usual letter waiting when I returned to my room. I
decided to change everything. Having scanned somewhat
impatiently down the well-written comparison of two books about
the Empire of Sveran Djur, I wrote:
I can find it in myself to agree with the main points,
that kings ought not to be sorcerers, and that the two kinds of
power are better left in the charge of different persons. But I
must confess that trouble in Sveran Djur and Senna Lirwan seems
a minor issue right now. The problems of wicked mage-kings are
as distant as those two kingdoms, and what occupy my attention
now are problems closer to home. Everyone seems to whisper
about the strange delay concerning our own empty throne, but as
yet no one seems willing to speak aloud. Have you any insights
on why the Renselaeus family has not made any definite
plans?
That sent, I changed into my riding clothes, summoned a rain
canopy, and set out for sword practice, wondering about the
silence from Azmus.
The long room now used as a gymnasium had formerly been some
kind of drill hall for Galdran's private army, and before that
it had obviously served mostly military purposes, for flags,
ancient and modern, hung high on the walls, celebrating past
ridings and regiments that had been deemed worthy of fame.
These were not as spectacular as the House banners that were
displayed on angled poles in the Throne Room, testament to
Remalna's unity, but they carried their own prestige; now that
I was better read about our past I recognized some of them, and
there was a kind of thrill in seeing the physical evidence of
past glory.
At one end of the room was a group of young teens busy with
swordplay, and at the other a swarm of children circled round
on ancient carved horses mounted on cart wheels or played at
stick-and-ball.
I wandered toward my friends and was soon hailed by Renna,
who offered me a bout. Time passed swiftly and agreeably. I
finished my last engagement with one of Nee's cousins and was
just beginning to feel the result of sustained effort in my arm
and back when a practice blade thwacked my shoulder. I spun
around, and gaped.
Shevraeth stood there smiling. At his elbow my brother
grinned, and next to him, Savona watched with appreciation
apparent in his dark eyes.
"Come, Lady Meliara," the Marquis said. "Let's see how much
you've learned since you took on Galdran."
"I
didn't
take on Galdran," I protested, feeling
hot and cold at once.
"I don't know what you'd call it, then, Mel." Bran leaned on
his sword, still grinning. "Looked like you went have-at-'im to
me."