Metyein’s lips pinched together. He gazed at his father belligerantly. “Even if it is true, that does not excuse you.”
“Boy, I require no excuses. But I am tired of your carping. If I must order your good behavior, I will do so.”
Metyein came to his feet in a fluid movement. He bent in a flourishing bow. “I am at your command, Lord Marshal.”
“Would that it were so,” his father muttered.
Metyein straightened. “What would you have of me?”
“Your mind. Your heart. Your loyalty.”
Metyein turned his head away, bitterness burning in his throat. “You don’t ask much.”
“I ask my due as your Lord Marshal.”
“Tell me, father, what will you do when our Regent is made Iisand? Will you give him your mind, your heart, your loyalty? Knowing how much you oppose him, knowing he’s in bed with the Scallacians who want nothing more than to suck our marrow dry? Or will you return to Doneviik and mother and allow him to grind Kodu Riik into dust, destroying the
ahalad-kaaslane
and abandoning the Blessed Lady?”
His father reached for his wineglass, drinking it down in one gulp, his knuckles white. “Careful how you go, son. You border on treason. The Regent would have you in chains for less.”
“That is as may be, but it does not answer my question.”
“I serve the crown. I have taken oaths. Now you answer my question. Will you give your due to me as Lord Marshal, if not your father?”
“Mother raised me well, father. I love this land, and I love the Blessed Amiya. In all things I serve both. So long as you do the same, I expect you may have what you wish of me.”
It wasn’t the answer his father wanted. “You’ve learned better than I thought, Metyein. You speak as obliquely as any seasoned Kijal. But you are a subject of the crown, and you do not get to choose whom or how you will serve. Agree with him or not, when Aare cas Varakamber is named Iisand, then he becomes the Lady’s annointed and he speaks in Her voice. You are in no position to judge his decisions. Only the Lady may. You must obey.”
“I speak as plainly as I can, father,” Metyein said seriously. “I will continue to answer for my mother’s honor as is necessary to oafs whose mouths are larger than their brains. But I will dun you no more. I have always respected you otherwise. Henceforth you will find me as deferential, respectful and courteous a son as a father has a right to expect.” He paused, searching for words. “I dearly hope we don’t end up on opposite sides of what is to come. That would be painful to me. But in plain terms, I have grave doubts that our Regent still serves the Blessed Amiya, and I believe we shall soon see proof enough of this. And then our paths will likely diverge. There is no choice. I am my father’s son. I must do as honor and duty require.”
His father closed his eyes, a pained look on his face. And for the first time since he could remember, Metyein saw in his father the man, torn between loyalties and uncertainties. A man who stood alone, his family far away and estranged, his son and heir little more than a viper in the nest. He had no friends anymore, not since the Iisand’s transformation. No wonder he sought solace in the arms of women. But never just one, and never for very long. He couldn’t afford that kind of trust. A rush of feeling swept Metyein.
Impulsively Metyein reached out and grasped his father’s shoulder. “You are a great man indeed, and I shall ever hold you in high esteem. I hope that I will earn your regard in the days to come. But no matter what, father, I will always be proud to be your son.”
His father stood a moment, walnut eyes boring into Metyein. Then he pulled him close, hugging him tightly.
Kebonsat gazed out the window at nothing. He still could hardly credit what he’d seen. The Iisand had become a demonspawned beast. He shuddered and dragged his fingers through his hair. Patverseme had sent men to Mysane Kosk, spies to discern the situation. Whether they’d been tainted, he didn’t know. And worse, he had no way to warn anyone!
His fist thumped the desk, and he shoved away, striding to the window. It was a bleak view. The Verit—the Regent, Kebonsat corrected himself sardonically—had taken a firm grip on the city. A pall of smoke hung over everything from the new plague pyres outside the walls. Soldiers patrolled the city in innumerable squads. The city itself had been broken into manageable sections called bureaus, and within those, smaller precincts. Business still limped on as workers were shuffled into housing within their employer’s precinct. Every morning and every night they were examined for symptoms of the plague, then they were checked off on lists and escorted to and from work.
Thus far the system was working. At least there had not yet been riots beyond those initial hours when the Regent had sealed the city. The Jarrah Gardens had been converted into a prison camp and a garrison. Many of the new Regent’s conscripts were thieves and thugs and had little compunction in using force to keep the peace.
Kebonsat tapped his finger against the windowpane. He couldn’t disagree with any of the Regent’s decisions, though his methods were a bit too bloody for Kebonsat’s tastes. The speed and efficiency of implementation were breathtaking and ruthless. If he hadn’t already known how dangerous an enemy the Verit was, Kebonsat certainly knew it now.
So what does he have in store for me?
The Regent certainly didn’t intend for Emelovi to marry a Patverseme
ganyik
. And Kebonsat wasn’t worth much as a hostage. But then the Regent was the kind to hedge his bets and plan for contingencies. Maybe he thought the son of the Dure Vadonis would be useful down the line.
Kebonsat swung around, pacing across the room and back. He worried about Emelovi. She was terrified of her brother. But despite her fear, she’d resisted his machinations, particularly against the
ahalad-kaaslane
. What would she do if she knew the truth about her father? A pang of guilt thrust through his chest. Everything she did was against the assumption that sooner or later her father would wake from his grief and resume the throne. She loved him dearly and hated her brother’s plots to usurp the crown. If she knew what had really happened to her father, would she cede those loyalties to her brother? Did he dare tell her the truth about her father?
But no. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her grief. The Regent would insist on knowing, and even if she resisted, he’d get it out of her. One way or another. And once he discovered her secret, he’d want to know how she knew. Her spying, her confidences to Kebonsat, everything would come out. What Aare would do to her then, Kebonsat feared to guess. But it would release a dam. He and all his people would be taken in for questioning. Given the young Regent’s hatred of anything Patversemese, Kebonsat doubted any would come out whole, if they survived at all. And Juhrnus, Metyein, Sodur, even the Lord Marshal—none would be safe. Worse, Aare would have the excuse he needed to assume the throne and destroy the
ahalad-kaaslane
once and for all.
Kebonsat sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t tell Emelovi. It was too dangerous. And when she did finally find out, she’d never forgive him for his silence.
“Better than dying,” he muttered. But in the short time he’d been allowed to court her, he’d discovered a woman he could love. A woman he’d begun to love. And she had just as quickly sped as far out of his reach as Reisil.
“AmIamasochist? To fall in love with women I can never have?”
At first he’d thought Emelovi fragile and weak, a tool for her brother’s hand. But she soon disabused him of such notions. During that first morning’s breakfast, she’d baldly confided her brother’s scheme to kidnap Ceriba. He’d sent Rocis after her as soon as Emelovi had revealed her brother’s plan. He prayed Rocis had made it in time, but even if he had, there was no way for Rocis to inform him of that.
How was it that he could do so little to protect the women he held most dear? Aare could be doing anything to Emelovi, Ceriba might already be captured, and Reisil—There was no knowing if she’d escaped Koduteel or not, or if she’d been killed in one of the gate riots. Juhrnus didn’t know, though it had been four days since the city had been sealed and he’d been to consult with Kebonsat. He might know something more now.
Helplessness ate at Kebonsat’s gut, and he continued pacing, formulating plans and discarding them. He had to get Emelovi away; he had to get them both away. And then he had to find Ceriba—
He started at the knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Sir, will you be wishing your supper now?” It was Quillers. Imprisonment seemed to have steadied the steward. He had kept his composure, reassuring the other servants and allowing Kebonsat his privacy, only occasionally intruding, mostly to subtly remind Kebonsat to maintain appearances for the other members of his party. Both Dumen and Ledus had lost their titles and holdings as soon as Patverseme had severed diplomatic ties. Though both men remained stoic, imprisonment grated on their nerves. Both had wives and families. Or at least, they had. Their children would have swiftly been adopted by the heirs of their titles, their wives encouraged to remarry within days. If they thought Kebonsat had fallen apart, holing up in his study and bewailing fate, they would soon follow suit.
“I’ll be there shortly,” he replied, glancing toward the paneling behind his desk. The entrance to the passageway was hidden behind a narrow wall cabinet and a painting of some ancient Iisand in battle. It remained steadfastly closed. He scowled. If Juhrnus did not come by the end of supper, Kebonsat would go in search of him.
Soka crouched between a newly leafed hedge and a wall. Beyond it soldiers paraded by, dragging the struggling body of a middle-aged man. They’d tied ropes around his ankles and were hauling him across the cobbles. The man held his arms around his head, begging and crying, but to no avail. The soldiers marched on without taking the slightest notice of him.
Soka pressed himself deeper into the hedge. Four days. Aare had to have known how hard it would be to get to Metyein. Without money, without food, without a weapon. Soka’s hand dropped to the scarred sword he wore belted on his hip. Illegal. And not only for a hostage to the court, but for any citizen. No one save soldiers and
ahalad-kaaslane
were permitted to go armed in the city anymore. But after the weapon’s former owner had thought to rob him, Soka had simply taken it.
Not far now. He’d been forced in the wrong direction, carried by the riots. It had taken him four days to work his way back. He’d crossed six bureaus, and the Vare manor lay only two streets away in yet another precinct. The soldiers passed and Soka scurried across the boulevard. The sun had fallen past the walls, and he was nothing more than shadow inside shadow. He easily avoided the patrols. Harder were the barriers with soldiers checking licenses for each person crossing precinct lines. Still these were not impossible. But on the doorstep of the palace and noble district, the soldiers were no longer slovenly, and there were more of them. Soka ducked into an alley.
There was one way through, and that was possible only with the proper documentation. He now had to wait for his opportunity and take it. It came more quickly than he hoped, shortly after moonrise. The courier trotted quickly along, a satchel over his chest. Soka slid his sword free. He waited until the courier was opposite the alley opening and then leaped out. The flat of his sword crashed into the back of the man’s head, dropping him like a stone. Soka sheathed his sword and grabbed the limp man’s legs, dragging him into the alley. It was a matter of moments to switch clothing.
He approached the checkpoint at a trot, pulling up the hood of the cloak to hide his telltale ruined eye. “Message for the Lord Marshal,” he announced, opening his cloak to show his satchel and uniform. The guards gave him a cursory glance and waved him through. No one impeded couriers. Interfering guards paid the price for late messages. Soka sped up, forcing himself to run, though his legs screamed and his lungs spasmed. Turning onto the avenue containing the Lord Marshal’s residence, he saw the Lord Marshal’s gilded coach rattling away. He smiled and flung himself toward the gates, pounding against the wood with his fist. The spy panel snapped back.
“Message for Basham Arceres,” he declared breathlessly. The panel slid shut, and he heard the bars on the pedestrian door slide back. The guard motioned him inside, pointing up the drive toward the house.
“Can’t leave m’post,” he mumbled. “Go to the front. Butler will let you in.”
Soka almost groaned, but he knew that a courier would be expected to run the remaining distance, and so he did, up the long driveway and scrolling steps to the portico. He hammered the knocker, panting heavily and pulling his hood closely around his face. The butler guided him to a salon and left him, pointedly staring at his dirt-stained clothing and then at the furniture. Metyein smiled sourly. He was in no mood to sit anyhow. He poured himself a glass of red wine sitting on the sideboard. He gulped it down and poured another, just as the door opened.
“Basham Arceres,” the butler announced. Soka didn’t turn, hearing the doors close behind him.
“Making a bit free, aren’t you?” came Metyein’s sardonic drawl. Soka closed his eyes. The moment had come at last. He drank the rest of the wine and turned around.
“You’ve never complained before.”
The two men stared at one another.
“By the Lady . . .” Metyein leaped across the room, grasping Soka by the shoulders. “What in the three hells happened to you? Where have you been? Demonballs, I thought you were dead!” And then he pulled Soka against him, hugging him tightly and pounding his back. Soka closed his eyes. Until this moment he hadn’t been quite sure that Metyein
had
survived, that it hadn’t all been one of Aare’s cruel jokes.
At last he pushed away. “Peace, Metyein. I cannot take too much manhandling.”
Instantly Metyein let him go, remorse darkening his expression. “I have looked for you, my friend. Every day. But there was never even a clue. Pelodra vanished, the horses gone, everything.”