Authors: Angus Wells
“I’d not,” I said carefully, “argue the wisdom of my College. So be it, then.”
“I’m glad,” he returned me, “that we reach agreement.”
I nodded again. I wondered fleetingly if he saw through me; if his talent allowed him to perceive what I hid. I decided not—I thought that were it so, he should have ordered me seized and imprisoned. I thought that this was such a man as would order a pogrom did he learn what I had seen. I stood in stolid silence.
Chrystof stirred himself then, as if he noticed for the first time that I stood dripping on his carpet. “You’re wet,” he said.
“The fog,” I replied.
He turned slowly to the window, the lines creasing his
face etched deeper as he frowned. “Ah, yes. It’s foggy. Nevyn, do you see him given a room?”
The sorcerer nodded and reached to a plaited cord hanging by the hearth. He tugged it. I suppose that somewhere a bell rang. I thought that Nevyn was the power in this keep. Chrystof said, “A room, and a hot tub. Tonight you’ll entertain us, eh, Storyman?”
“As is my calling,” I agreed.
There came a soft tapping on the door then, and when Nevyn bade the caller enter, a Changed servant came in. He was of canine stock, blunt featured, with a pug nose and loose jowls. He bowed, his eyes downcast as he murmured, “Masters?”
Nevyn issued curt instructions, and the Changed nodded deferentially, not raising his eyes as he stood back to let me pass. I gathered up my saddlebags and my staff and quit the chamber. In the corridor outside, the Changed asked if he might carry my bags. I thanked him and told him no, at which he seemed disconcerted.
“I’m well used to fending for myself,” I told him, “and not much to having folk fetch and carry for me.”
At that he gave me a swift sidelong glance, and I saw his eyes for the first time. They were mournful as a hound’s, and in them I thought I discerned both surprise and curiosity. He said, “As you will, master.”
“I’m Daviot, a Storyman,” I said. “How are you called?”
“Thom, master,” he returned me.
His voice was soft and had in it the same quality of submission as his eyes. I wondered how his kind fared in this keep. I said, “Well met, Thom. Shall you listen to me tonight?”
He looked at me again, and this time I was sure I saw surprise. “Listen to you, master?” He seemed not to understand.
“Yes,” I said. “When I tell my tales in the hall.”
“I’m a body-servant, master.”
He touched the tunic he wore, which was of some coarse green cloth, edged with red. I had sometimes seen servants decked in such manner, but not often; it seemed to me an affectation. I assumed Chrystof—or perhaps Nevyn—elected to dress the servants thus. I asked him: “Do all the Changed of Trevyn wear such uniforms?”
He said, “Yes, master.”
“To mark your duties?” I asked, and he gave me back another “Yes, master.”
I smiled, seeking to put him at his ease; and failed. He was, I thought, taciturn as Bors, though whether that was a natural trait or an imposition of this keep, I could not tell. I was, however, aware that my questions made him uneasy, and so I curbed them, contenting myself with following him to the chamber assigned me.
That was small and devoid of decoration. A single window showed the fog gray outside, filling the room with wan and miserable light. There was a narrow bed and a chest, a washstand and a lantern suspended from the ceiling, nothing more. It was chill and slightly damp: I wondered if this was the usual hospitality of Trevyn Keep, or some insulting punishment dreamed up by Nevyn. I thought I should not remain here long.
“Do you wait awhile, master, and I’ll fetch a brazier,” Thom said. “Or shall I bring you to the baths?”
I was quite rank and so opted for the latter. I was surprised when I climbed into the tub to see Thom strip off his tunic. “What are you doing?” I asked him.
He said, “Master?” as if quite taken aback by my question.
I said, “Why are you undressing?” “To bathe you, master.”
This I had never encountered. Even in the most sybaritic of keeps, men bathed themselves. I waved him back, succeeding in splashing hot water over the floor. “That,” I declared, “is not my custom.”
“Master?” He seemed utterly confused.
I said, “Thom, I’ve not been bathed since I was a child. I’m grown now and quite capable of tending myself.”
He pursed his lips, his hands fidgeting awkwardly with his tunic. His chest was broad and very hairy. It seemed to me both amusing and obscene that so muscular a fellow should bathe another, but he was clearly accustomed to such service and seemed not to know how he should react to my refusal. I had no wish to upset him nor to lead him into trouble, but neither was I prepared to let him bathe me.
I tried to ease his quandary. I said, “Thom, do you find a brazier to warm my room, and see a change of clothes set
out, that shall be ample service. This”—I gestured with the soap I held—“I’d sooner manage by myself.”
He said, “Yes, master; as you command. I’ll return immediately I’m done.”
I said, “I’m a Rememberer, Thom—I can find my own way back.”
Even so, for a moment or two he stood with tunic in hand, staring at me. It was the first time he had looked me directly in the eyes. I smiled and nodded, and watched as he dressed, then quit the chamber. I sat a moment, frowning as I pondered the oddities of this strange keep. Then I succumbed to the luxury of hot water and sank into the tub until only my face remained above the surface.
My room was warmer when I returned. Thom had set a brazier below the window and lit the lantern. Clean clothes were laid neatly on the bed, and the Changed sat on the chest, industriously polishing the metal trappings of my staff. It had not shone so since first I got it, and when I tugged off my boots—Thom insisting on helping me—he set to imparting the same luster to the worn leather. He had brought in a small table, on it a pewter jug that gave off an enticing odor of spiced wine and a single cup. He filled it, and I drank as he polished.
“Do you find another cup and join me?” I asked.
“Master?”
He looked up from his work, meeting my gaze for the second time. I gestured with the cup. “Take wine with me.”
“Master!” This time it was not a question but a startled refusal. His mournful eyes were shocked.
My own widened. I asked him, “Is it forbidden, then? May I not invite you to join me?”
He said, “I’m Changed, master.”
I said, “I know that, Thom,” and he nodded as if a point were made, and returned to his polishing. Then halted again as I said, “But still I ask you.”
He licked his lips, eyes flickering a moment from side to side, as if he thought we might be observed or overheard. He reminded me more than ever of a dog—such as has the misfortune to find an unkind master and spend its life in anticipation of beatings. Very softly, he said, “Truemen and Changed do not drink together in Trevyn Keep, master.”
He was clearly so nervous now that I did not repeat my invitation. Instead, I told him, “It is not so in Durbrecht, Thom,” which was not entirely true, but his ministrations reminded me of Urt, and I sought to establish some rapport between us.
He made a small gesture and said, “We are not in Durbrecht, master, but in Trevyn Keep.”
“Alone in this room,” I said. “Who should know?”
I saw his lips shape the name
Nevyn,
but he made no sound, only bent more industriously to his task. I thought the sorcerer a malign influence, that he instilled such fear in the Changed, but I sought to hide the anger I felt. I waited awhile, then asked him, “Is there so little commerce betwixt Truemen and Changed here?”
“We are servants, master,” he replied. “It is not our place to drink with Truemen.”
So meek was his tone, so redolent of submission, I found my ire stoked. I thought of the rude welcome I had received, and the orders so casually issued, the insult Nevyn had delivered me. I set my cup aside and bent closer to the kneeling Changed.
“Your place?” I demanded, mild as I was able. “This keep should fall were it not supported by your kind. Who’d polish their boots, eh? Who’d cook their food, or tend their horses? I say you’re good enough to drink with me, and does Nevyn gainsay me, he’s a fool. I’ve known Changed I’d far sooner share a cup with than many a Trueman. Have you no feelings, man?”
Almost, I said
pride.
In my sudden anger I was not aware I named Thom a man. I was, however, aware that my vehemence frightened him, for he lurched back, sprawling on the floor, from where he stared at me, much as a Trueman might stare at a rabid beast. I made a placatory gesture and beckoned him closer. He ignored it, easing away from me, as if afraid I should impart some contagion.
I sighed and said more gently, “Thom, in Durbrecht I named a Changed my friend; and he, me. I was proud he did. I think there is little difference between us, save what’s imposed by such as Nevyn, and I see no reason why you should not take a cup of wine with me, save you
choose
not.”
His eyes were very wide and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in atavistic memory of his ancestry. As suddenly
as my anger had arisen, so did the realization that if he reported this outburst to Nevyn, I must be surely marked a dissident, again branded a rebel. Was I watched now, his report would damn me. I feared I had gone too far, revealed my feelings too openly. I shook my head and fell silent.
I saw Thom’s lips close slowly over his yellow teeth, then move. I thought it some expression of fear or outrage, but then a sound emerged, faint: a name.
He whispered, “Urt.”
I was amazed. I said, “You know Urt?”
Thom shook his head. I thought to press him; thought better of it. I waited as he gathered himself, no longer crouching defensively but squatting as he had done before. Absently, he reached out to find the boot he had dropped. No less absently, he began to polish again. I suspected he took refuge in familiar action. I waited: there was a mystery here I thought should be lost did I pursue it too eagerly.
Finally, his eyes intent on the boot, he murmured, “Urt’s Friend. We speak of you, master.”
“Urt called me Daviot,” I said. And for Thom’s sake added, “When we were alone.”
The Changed nodded, and I saw his lips shape my name. Gently, I asked him, “How have you heard of me, Thom?”
He hesitated, glancing up, then down again. I thought he debated the wisdom of confiding in me. I curbed my impatience. It seemed a long time before he said, “We … speak, Master …
Daviot.”
“How?” I asked.
I wondered if I stumbled on a thing unknown to other Truemen. That the Changed of Durbrecht communicated with one another, that I had long known. But that this servant of a keep on Kellambek’s west coast should know of Urt, know of me—that was a startling revelation. I did not believe the College of the Mnemonikos was aware of this. If so, it was a well-kept secret. Were the sorcerers? Were they aware, then perhaps my feeling of being watched was explained. I had inquired openly of the wild Changed, of Ur-Dharbek, and my sympathies were known in Durbrecht. Perhaps that was the reason I was commanded to proceed directly from keep to keep, that the sorcerers might observe me, eavesdroppers to my possible sedition.
Thom shrugged and polished, and when he spoke again,
it was with lowered eyes and a voice so soft I must bend close to hear him. “Oarsmen come down the coast, Master … Daviot…. There are servants in the taverns, porters…. Merchants employ us. They speak … we hear … sometimes.”
He shrugged again and fell silent. I saw that he was very frightened. I prompted him gently: “I’ll not betray you, Thom. What you tell me shall be our secret—you’ve my word on that.”
He looked at me again. It was the look a whipped dog gives when offered some kindness: gratitude and fear mingled. He said, “Word came of Urt and you.” Then he smiled, a wary, tentative expression. “Urt’s Friend, you are named.”
I returned his smile. I felt proud of that appellation. “We
were
friends,” I said. And then, “What word of Urt?”
“None … Daviot.” I thought he savored the saying of my name; nervously, like indulgence in forbidden fruit. “Not since he was sent to the Slammerkin.”
A hope faded at that, though its flame was not entirely dimmed. I recognized it was wildest optimism to think I’d find news of Urt so far south, but what I had found opened wide vistas of possibility. It seemed that that hidden society I had perceived in Durbrecht must extend throughout Dharbek. Stretched thin by distance, yes, but nonetheless there—a network of the Changed, unseen, passing word of their kind wherever Changed met Changed, their presence, their unquestioning servitude, so familiar to most Truemen it was taken for granted. I was disappointed that Thom could tell me no more of Urt; I was wildly excited by what I learned.
“Daviot?” I heard him ask. “You’ll say nothing of this?” “You’ve my word,” I promised. “Should it earn you punishment?”
“Likely.” He ducked his head. “The commur-magus has little liking for us.”
“And Nevyn’s the power here?” I asked.
“Yes,” he told me. “Lord Chrystof’s no blood-heir; the commur-mage is named his successor.”
I grunted. It explained Nevyn’s presumption. I thought he should make an unkind master. “He shall have nothing from me,” I said.
Thom said, “Thank you.”
He set my boots aside—they gleamed bright as my staff—and rose to his feet. For an instant I debated the wisdom of questioning him about the Changed I had seen aiding the Sky Lords. I decided against such risk: did he know aught of that, it was unlikely he would reveal it to me, for all I was named a friend. Did he not, then I should put my freedom in jeopardy, perhaps my life. I saw then what subterfuge and deceit bring—inevitable mistrust. It crossed my mind (a fleeting, guilty thought) that Thom might be some spy of Nevyn’s, sent to lure me into confession. I held my secret to myself. Still, he had revealed things I had not known: I took a small chance, hoping to enlarge my gains.
“Might word be gotten to Urt?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” Thom allowed. “It would be difficult.”
“Were it possible,” I said, “I’d have him know I wander Kellambek. I’d have him know he’s still my friend; that I hope we shall meet again, someday.”