Three Brothers
Listen, my children! Argal and his brothers now had the excuse they needed
and their wickedness flowered. They went among the gods claiming that
Nushash had stolen Suya against her will, and many of the gods became
angry and said they would throw down Nushash, their rightful ruler.
— from The Revelations of Nushash, Book One
"THIS DOES NOT SEEM A GOOD IDEA to me," Utta whispered. "What does he want from us? He is dangerous!"
Merolanna shook her head. "You must trust me. I may not
know much, but I know my way around these things."
"But…!"
She fell silent as the new castellan, Tirnan Havemore, walked into the chamber. He held a book in his hands and was followed by a page carry¬ing more books with-rather dangerously-a writing-tray balanced atop them. Havemore wore his hair in the Syannese style that had swept the cas¬tle, cut high above the ears, and because he was balding he looked more like a priest than anything else-a resemblance, Utta thought, that Have-more was only too eager to encourage. Even when he had been merely Avin Brone's factor he had seen himself as a philosopher, a wise man amid lesser minds. She had never liked him, and knew no one outside of the Tollys' circle who did.
Havemore stopped as though he had only just realized the women were in the room. "Why, Duchess," he said, peering at them over the spectacles
perched on his narrow nose,"you honor me. And Sister Utta, a pleasure to
ve you, too. I am afraid my now duties as castellan have kept me fearfully
busy of late-too busy to visit with old friends. Perhaps we can remedy that
now. Would you like some wine? Tea?"
Utta could feel Merolanna bristling at the mere suggestion that she and this upstart were old friends. She laid her hand on the older woman's arm. "Not for me, thank you, Lord Havemore."
"1 will not take anything, either, sir," the duchess said with better grace than Utta would have expected. "And although we would love to have a proper conversation with you, we know you are a busy man. I'm certain we won't take much of your time."
"Oh, but it would be a true joy to have a visit." Havemore snapped his lingers and waved. "Wine." The page put down the books and the teeter¬ing tray on the castellan's tall, narrow desk, a desk which had been Nynor Steffen's for years and which had seemed as much a part of him as his skin and his knobby hands. Unburdened, the page left the room. "A true joy," I lavemore repeated as though he liked the sound of it. "In any case, I will have a cup of something myself, since I have been working very hard this morning, preparing for Duke Caradon's visit. I'm sure you must have heard about it-very exciting, eh?"
It was news to Utta. Hendon's older brother, the new Duke of Summerfield, coming here? Doubtless he would bring his entire retinue-hundreds more Tolly supporters in the household, and during the ominous days of the Kerneia festival as well. Her heart sank to think of what the place would be like, full of drunken soldiers.
"So, my gracious ladies," said Havemore, "what can I do for you today?"
Utta could not imagine anything that Tirnan Havemore could do for them that would not immediately be reported to Hendon Tolly, so she kept her mouth closed. This was Merolanna's idea; Utta would let the dowager duchess take the lead. Zoria, watch over us, here in the stronghold of our enemies, she prayed. Even if they knew nothing of the astonishing business she and Merolanna had embarked upon, the ruling faction held little but contempt for either of them, for one key reason: neither one of them had anything to bargain with, no strength, no land, no money. Well, except Merolanna is part of the royal family and a link to Olin. I suppose the Tollys want to keep her sweet at least until they've got their claws well into Southmarch.
"But Lord Havemore, you must know what you can do for us," Merolanna said. "Since you called us here. As I said, I don't want to intrude
on your time, which is valuable to all of Southmarch, and especially to Earl Hendon, our selfless guardian."
Careful, Utta could not help thinking. Merolanna had moved and was out of range of an admonitory squeeze of the arm. Don't be too obvious, He doesn't expect you to like him, but don't let your dislike show too openly.
"Hendon Tolly is a great man." Havemore's grin looked even more wolfish than before-he was enjoying this. "And we are all grateful that he is helping to guard King Olin's throne for its legitimate heir."
The page returned with wine and several cups. Utta and Merolanna shook their heads. The page poured only one and handed it to the castel¬lan, then stepped back to the wall and did his best to look like a piece of furniture. Havemore seated himself in his narrow chair, pointedly leaving the dowager duchess standing.
"You mean for King Olin, of course," Merolanna said cheerfully, ignor¬ing the calculated slight. "Guarding the throne for King Olin. The heir is all well and good, but my brother-in-law Olin is still king, even in his absence."
"Of course, Your Grace, of course. I misspoke. However, the king is a prisoner and his heirs are gone-perhaps dead. We would be foolish to pre¬tend that the infant heir is not of the greatest importance."
"Yes, of course." Merolanna nodded. "In any case, leaving aside all this quibbling about succession, which I'm sure is of scarcely any real interest to a scholar like yourself, you did call us here. What have we done to de¬serve your kind invitation?"
"Ah, now it is you who feigns innocence, Your Grace. You asked to speak to Avin Brone, but you must know that he has… retired. That his duties have all been taken up by me and Lord Hood, the new lord consta¬ble. Our dear Brone has worked so hard for Southmarch-he deserves his rest. Thus, I thought I might save him the unnecessary work of trying to solve whatever problem you ladies might have by volunteering my own at¬tention to it, instead." His smile looked like it had been drawn with a sin¬gle stroke of a very sharp pen.
"That is truly kind, Lord Havemore," said Merolanna, "but in truth we wanted-/wanted-to see Lord Brone only out of friendship. For the sake of old times. Why, I daresay Avin Brone and I have known each other longer than you've been alive!"
"Ah." Havemore, like many ambitious young men, did not like being re¬minded of allegiances that predated his own arrival. "I see. So there is noth¬ing I can do for you?"
"You can remember your kind offer to share yourself more with the rest of us castle folk, Lord Havemore." The duchess smiled winningly. "A man of your learning, a well-spoken man like you, should put himself about a bit more."
He narrowed his eyes, not entirely sure how to take her remark. "Very kind. But there is still a question, Your Grace. I can understand your desire to reminisce with your old friend Lord Brone, but what brings Sister Utta along on such a mission? Surely she and Brone are not also old friends? I had never heard that old Count Avin was much on religion, beyond what is necessary for appearances." Havemore smiled at this little joke shared among friends and for the first time Sister Utta felt herself chilled. This man was more than ambitious, he was dangerous.
"I do consider Brone a friend," Utta said suddenly, ignoring Merolanna's flinch. "He has been kind to me in the past. And he is a man of good heart, whether he spends much time in the temple or not."
"I am glad to hear you say that." Tirnan Havemore now looked at Utta closely. "I worked for him for many years and always felt his best qualities were ignored, or at least underappreciated."
Merolanna actually took a step forward, as if to stop the conversation from straying into dangerous areas. "I asked her to come with me, Lord Havemore. I am… I am not so well these days. It makes me easier to have a sensible woman like Utta with me instead of one of my scatterbrained young maids."
"Of course." His smile widened. "Of course, Your Grace. So great is your spirit, so charming your manners, that I fear I'd forgotten your age. Of course, you must have your companion." It was almost a leer now.
What is he thinking? Utta did not want to contemplate it for long.
"By all means, go and see your old friend, Count Avin. I'm afraid he has changed his chambers-I needed more space, of course, so I took these old ones of his over. When Brone is not at home in Landsend you will find him in the old countinghouse next to the Chamber of the Royal Guard. He still comes in, although he has little to do these days." The smile had changed into something else now as Havemore rose, something that celebrated an enemy well and truly dispatched. "You will come see me again? This has been such a delight."
"For us all," Merolanna assured him. "We are honored by your interest in two old women like ourselves, Lord Havemore, now that you've become such an important man in Southmarch."
"Were you not perhaps spreading the fat a little thick?" Utta asked as they made their way across the residence garden, hoods pulled low against the chilly rain. "You do not need to make an enemy of him."
Merolanna snorted. "He is already an enemy, Utta, never doubt that for a moment. If I weren't one of the only people left related to Olin, I'd lie gone already. The Tollys and their toadies have no love for me, but they can't afford to see me off-not yet. Perhaps if they get through the winter they'll start thinking about how I might be encouraged to die. I'm very old, after all."
Startled, Sister Utta made the sign of the Three. "Gods protect us, then why did you suggest to him that you were in ill health? Give them no ex-cuse!
"They will kill me when they want to. I'm convinced now that they had something to do with Kendrick's murder, too. By reminding Havemore, I was just reassuring him that whatever I got up to, I wouldn't be around to make trouble much longer." She stumbled and caught at Utta's arm. "And I'm not all that well these days, in truth. I find myself feeble, and sometimes my mind wanders…"
"Hush. Enough of that." Utta took the older woman's elbow and held it tightly. "You have frightened me with all this… intrigue, Your Grace, all this talk of threats and plots and counterplots. I am only a Zorian sister and I'm out of my depth. Besides, I need you, so you may be neither ill nor fee¬ble, and you certainly may not die!"
Merolanna laughed. "Talk to your immortal mistress, not to me. If the gods choose to take me, or simply to make me a doddering old witling, that's their affair." She slowed as they entered the narrow passage between Wolfstooth Spire and the armory. The paint had faded, and tufts of green¬ery grew in the cracks in the walls. "By the grace of the Brothers, I have not been to this part of the castle in years. It's falling apart!"
"A suitable place, then, for those who are no longer necessary-Brone, and you, and me too."
"Well said, my dear." Merolanna squeezed her arm approvingly. "The more worthless we are, the less anyone will suspect what devilry we're up to."
"Your Grace, this is… this is quite a surprise." Brone's voice was a bit thick. Other than a pair of young, wary-looking guardsmen who acted
more like they were watching a prisoner than protecting an important lord, the countinghouse was empty. "And Sister Utta. Bless me, Sister, I haven't seen you for a long time. How are you?"
"Fine, Lord Brone."
"You'll forgive me if I don't get up." He gestured at his bare left leg, propped on a hassock, the ankle swollen like a ham. "This cursed gout."
"It's not the gout, it's the drinking that's keeping you in that chair," Merolanna said. "It is scarcely noon. How much wine have you had today, Brone?"
"What?" He goggled at her. "Scarcely any. A glass or two, to ease the pain."
"A glass or two, is it?" Merolanna made a face.
In truth, he looked much the worse for wear. Utta had not seen him for some time, so it was possible the new lines on his face were nothing odd, but his eyes seemed sunken and dark and the color of his skin was bad, like a man who has been weeks in a sickbed. It was hard to reconcile this bloated, pasty creature slumped like a sack of laundry with the big man who only a short time ago had moved through the castle like a war galleon under full sail.
Merolanna rapped on the table and pointed at one of the guards. "Lord Brone needs some bread and cheese for the sake of his stomach. Go fetch some."
The guard gaped at her. "Y-Your Grace…?"
"And you," she said to the other. "I am old and I chill easily. Go and bring a brazier of coals. Go on, both of you!"
"But… but we are not supposed to leave Lord Brone!" said the second guard.
"Are you afraid the Zorian sister and I will assassinate him while you're gone?" Utta stared at him, then turned to the count. "Do you think we're likely to attack you, Brone?" She didn't give him time to reply, but took a step toward the guards, waggling her fingers like she was shooing chickens out of a garden. "Go on, then. Hurry up, both of you."
When the baffled guards were gone, the count cleared his throat. "What was that about, may I ask?"
"I need your help, Brone," she said. "Something is gravely amiss, and we will not solve it without you-nor in front of Havemore's spies, which is why I sent those two apes away."
He stared at her for a moment, but his eyes failed to catch light. "I can
be no help to you, Duchess. You know that. I have lost my place. I have been… retired." His laugh was a rheumy bark. "1 have retreated."
"And so you sit and drink and feel sorry for yourself." Utta cringed.at Merolanna's words, wondering how even a woman like the duchess could talk to Avin Brone that way, with such contemptuous familiarity. "1 did not come here to help you with that, Brone, and I will thank you to sit up and pay attention. You know me. You know I would not come to you for help if I did not need it-I am not one of those women who runs weeping to a man at the first sign of trouble."
The specter of a smile flitted across Brone's face. "True enough."
"Things may have seemed bad enough already," Merolanna said, "with Briony and Barrick gone and the Tollys riding herd over us all-but I have news that is stranger than any of that. What do you know about the Rooftoppers?"
For a moment Brone only stared at her as though she had suddenly started to sing and dance and strew flowers around the room. "Rooftop¬pers? The little people in the old stories?"
"Yes, those Rooftoppers." Merolanna watched him keenly. "You really do not know?"
"On my honor, Merolanna, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Look at this, then, and tell me what you think." She pulled a sheet of parchment from out of the bodice of her dress and handed it to him. He stared at it blankly for a moment, then reached up-not without some dis¬comfort-to take down a candle from the shelf on the wall behind him so he could read:
"It's… a letter from Olin," he said at last.
"It was the last letter from Olin, as you should know-the one that Kendrick received just before he was murdered. This is a page from it."
"The missing page? Truly? Where did you find it?"
"So you know about it. Tell us." Merolanna seemed a different woman now, more like the spymaster Brone used to be than the doddering old woman she called herself.
"The entire letter was missing after Kendrick s murder," he said. "Some¬one put it among my papers some days later, but a page was missing." He scanned the parchment with growing excitement. "I think this is the page. Where did you find it?"
"Ah, now that is a story indeed. Perhaps you had better have another drink, Brone," Merolanna said. "Or maybe some water to clear your head
would be better Understanding this is not going to be easy,and this is only the beginning."
"So the Rooftoppers… are real?"
"We saw them with our own eyes. If it had been only me you might be able to blame it on my age, but Utta was there."
"Everything she says is true, Lord Brone."
"But this is fantastic. How could they be here in the castle all these years and we never knew…?"
"Because they didn't want us to know. And it is a big castle, after all, Brone. But here is the question. How am I going to find that piece of the moon, or whatever it is? Sister Utta thinks it is Chaven the little woman was talking about, but where is he? Do you know?"
Brone looked around the small, cluttered room. There was no sign of the guards returning, but he lowered his voice anyway. "I do not. But I suspect he is alive. It would be easy enough for the Tollys to trump up some charge against him if all they wanted was an execution. I still have a few… sources around the castle, and I hear Hendon's men are still searching for him."
"Well, tell your sources to find him. As swiftly as possible. And it would not hurt to inquire into this moon-stone or whatever it is, either."
"But I don't understand-why did these little people ask you? And you said they wanted to bargain with you. How? What did they offer?"
"Ah." Merolanna smiled, and it was almost fond this time. "Once a courtier, always a courtier, I see. Do you not believe they might have come to me because they recognized me as a person of kindness and good will?"
Brone raised an eyebrow.
"You're right. They told me they would give me news of my child."
Avin Brone's eyes went wide as cartwheels. "Your… your…?"
"Child. Yes, that's right. Don't worry about Utta-she's been told the whole dreadful story."
He looked at her with a face gone pale. "You told her…?"
"You're not speaking very well, today, Brone. I fear the drink is doing you damage. Yes, I told her of my adultery with my long-dead lover." She turned to Utta. "Brone already knows, you see. I have few confidantes in the castle, but he has long been one of them. He was the one who arranged for the child to be fostered." She turned back to Brone. "I told Barrick and Briony, also."
"You what?"
"Told them, the poor dears. They had a right to know. "You see, on the day of Kendrick's funeral, I saw the child. My child."
Brone could only shake his head again. "Surely, Merolanna, one of us is going mad."
"It isn't me. I thought for a time it must be, but I think I know better now. Tell me, then-what are you going to do?"
"Do? About what?"
"All of this. About finding Chaven and discovering why the fairies took my little boy." She saw the look on Avin Brone s face. "Oh, I didn't tell you about that, did I?" She quickly related the words of Queen Upsteeplebat and the oracular Ears. "Now, what are you going to do?"
Brone seemed dazed. "I… I can inquire quietly again after Chaven's whereabouts, I suppose, but the trail has probably long gone cold."
"You can do more than that. You can help Utta and myself make our way to the camp of those fairy-people, those… what are they called? Qar? We've always called them the Twilight Folk, I don't know why everyone has to change. In any case, I want to go to them. After all, they are only on the other side of the bay."
Now it was Utta's turn to be astonished. "Your Grace, what are you say¬ing? Go out to the Qar? They are murderous creatures-they have killed hundreds of your people."
The duchess flapped her hands in dismissal of Utta's concern. "Yes, I'm sure they are terrible, but if they won't tell me where my son is then I don't much care what they do with me. I want answers. Why steal my child? Why put me through year upon year of torture, only to send him back as young as the day he was taken? I saw him, you know, at Kendrick's funeral. I thought I'd truly gone mad. And why should this happen now? It has some¬thing to do with all this other nonsense, mark my words."
"You're… you're really certain you saw him?" Utta asked.
"He was my child." Merolanna's face had gone chilly, hard. "Would you fail to recognize your revered Zoria if she appeared in your chapel? I saw him-my poor, dear little boy." She turned back to Brone. "Well?"
He took a deep, ragged breath, then let it out. "Merolanna… Duchess… you mistake me for someone who still wields some power, in¬stead of a broken old warhorse who has been beaten out to pasture."
"Ah. So that is how it is?" She turned to Sister Utta. "You may go, dear. If you will do me the kindness of coming to my chambers this afternoon perhaps we may talk more then. We have much to decide. In the meantime,
I have a little- persuasion to do here." She tinned a sharp eye toward Brone. "And tell that page waiting in the hall outside that when I'm done, his mas¬ter will need a bath and something to eat. The count has work to do."
Utta went out, awed and a little frightened by Merolanna's strength and determination. She was going to bend Brone to her will somehow, there seemed little doubt, but would that force of character be enough when it came time to deal with all their enemies-with cruel Hendon Tolly, or the immortal and alien Twilight People?
Suddenly the castle seemed no longer any kind of refuge to Utta, but only a cold box of stone sitting in the middle of a cold, cold world.
"Don't I know you?" the guard asked Tinwright. He took a step closer and pushed his round, stubbled face close to the poet's own."Wasn't I going to smash your skull in?"
Matt Tinwright's knees were feeling a bit wobbly. As if things weren't bad enough already, this was indeed the same guard who had objected to Tinwright having a little adventure with his lady friend some months back in an alley behind The Badger's Boots. "No, no, you must be thinking of someone else," he said, trying to smile reassuringly. "But if there's anything else I can do for you, other than having my skull smashed…"
"Leave him be," said the other guard with more amusement than sym¬pathy. "If Lord Tolly's got it in for him, they'll do worse to him soon than you could ever imagine. Besides, he might want this fellow unmarked."
The fat-faced guard peered at the trembling poet like a shortsighted bull trying to decide whether to charge toward something. "Right. Well, if His Lordship doesn't flog you raw or something like, then you and I still have a treat to look forward to."
"By the gods, how sensible!" Tinwright stepped away, putting his back against the wall. "Wouldn't want to interfere with His Lordship's plans, of course. Well considered."
And it would have been a narrow escape, except that Tinwright did not for a moment believe he 'would be alive to avoid future meetings with the vengeful guard. Surely it could not be a coincidence that Hendon Tolly had summoned him so soon after his moment of madness in the garden with Elan M'Cory, kissing her hands, protesting his love. Before this, Tolly had paid Matt Tinwright no more attention than one of the dogs under the table.
He's going to kill me. The thought of it made his knees go wobbly again and he had to dig his fingers into the cracks of the wall behind him to re-main upright. He barely resisted the impulse to run. But, oh, gods, maybe it is something harmless. To run would be to declare guilt…!
Matty Tinwright had received the summons in the morning from one of the castellan Havemore's pages. Tinwright had thought the boy was looking at him strangely as he handed over the message; when he read it, he knew why.
Matthias Tinwright will come to the throne room today after morning prayers.
It was signed with a «T» for «Tolly» and sealed with the Summerfield boar-and-spears crest. The moment the page had left the room Tinwright had been helplessly, noisily sick into the chamber pot.
Now he clung to the wall and watched the fat guard and his friend talk aimlessly of this and that. Would they or anyone else remember him when he was dead? The fat one would celebrate! And no one else in the castle would care, either, except poor, haunted Elan and perhaps old Puzzle. Such a fate for someone who hoped to do great things…!
But I have done no great things. Nor, to be honest (and I might as well try to get in practice if I'm going to be standing before the gods soon) have I really tried. I thought becoming a court poet would bring greatness with it, but I have done no work of note. A few lines about Zoria for the princess, but nothing since Dekamene-a poem I thought might be my making, but with Briony gone it has ground to a halt. Not my best work, anyway, if I'm telling the truth. And what else? A few scribbles for Puzzle, songs, amusements. A commission or two for young nobles wanting some words to put their sweethearts in a bedable mood. In all-nothing. I've wasted my life and talent, if I ever truly had any.
He was still cold as ice behind his ribs, but the numbness above the waist was coupled with a sudden, fierce need to piss.
That's a man in his last hour, Tinwright thought miserably. Thinking about poetry, looking for the privy.
The door to the throne room crashed open. "Where's the poet?" said a brawny guardsman. "There you are. Come on, don't pull away-it'll all be over soon enough."
The throne room was crowded, as usual. A pentecount of royal guards dressed in full armor and the wolf-and-stars livery of the Eddons stood by the walls, along with nearly that many of Hendon Tolly's own armed
bravos, distinguishable from the nobles and rich merchants by the coldness of their stares and the way that even as they talked, they never looked at the person with whom they were speaking, but let their eyes rove around the room. The other courtiers were more conventionally occupied, quietly ar-P,mng or gossiping. Almost none of them looked up as Tinwright was led through the room, too deeply occupied in the business of the moment. In the current court of Southmarch, with much property newly masterless and hundreds of nobles vanished in the war against the fairies, the pickings were rich. A man of dubious breeding could quickly become a man of fortune.
Still, the court had always been a bustling place, a hive of ambition and vanity, but one thing was certainly different from the way things had been here only a few months ago: during the short regency of Barrick and Briony the throne room had been raucous, less quiet and orderly than in C)lin's day (or so Tinwright had been told, since he had never been in the throne room, or even the Inner Keep, in Olin's day) but even at its most re¬spectful and ritualistic, the missing king's throne room had been a place of clamorous conversation. Now it was nearly silent. As Tinwright was led across the room by the guard, the knots of people unraveling before them so they could pass, the noise never rose above a loud whisper. It was like being in a dovecote at night-nothing but quiet rustling.
Like a cold wind through dry leaves, he thought, and felt his stomach lurch again. Gods of hill and valley, they're going to kill me! The oath, one of his mother's that he hadn't thought of, much less used, for years, brought him no solace. Zosim, cleverest of gods, are you listening? Save me from this monstrous fate and I… I'll build you a temple. When I have the money. Even to himself, this sounded like a hollow promise. What else would the patron of poets and drunkards desire? I'll put a bottle of the finest Xandian red wine on your altar. Don't let Hendon Tolly kill me! But Zosim was famous for his fickleness. The sickening weight pressed down on Tinwright and he struggled not to weep. Zoria, blessed virgin, if you ever loved mankind, if you ever pitied fools who meant no harm, help me now! I will be a better man. I promise I will be a better man.
Hendon Tolly was not in the chair where he ordinarily held court. Tir-nan Havemore stood beside the empty seat instead, peering at a sheaf of pa¬pers in his hand, his spectacles halfway down his nose.
"Who is this wretch?" Havemore asked, looking at the poet over the rim of his lenses. "Tinwright, isn't that it?" He turned and held out his hand. The page standing behind him put a piece of thick, official-looking parchment in his hand. Havemore squinted at it. "Ah, yes. He's to be executed, it says here."
Matty Tinwright screeched. The world spun wildly, it seemed, then he realized it was himself-or rather it wasn't him, it was the world: he was flat on his back and the world wasn't simply spinning, it was whirling like A child's top, and he was about to be sick. He only just swallowed the bile back down.
As he lay with his cheek against the stones and the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he heard Havemore speak again, in irritation. "Look at what you've done, lackwit! It's not Tinwright at all to be executed, this says someone named Wainwright-fellow who strangled a reeve." The poet heard a grunt and a squeak of pain as the castellan struck his page. "Can't you read, idiot child? I wanted the order for 'Tinwright, not 'Wain¬wright'!" Matt Tinwright could hear more rustling of parchment and the whispering of the surrounding courtiers rose again like a flock of bats tak¬ing flight. "Here it is. He's to wait for His Lordship."
"No need-I am here," said a new voice. A pair of black boots trimmed with silver chains stopped beside Tinwright's face where it rested against the floor. "And here is the poet. Still, it seems a strange place to wait."
Tinwright had just enough sense to scramble to his feet. Hendon Tolly watched him rise, the corner of his mouth cocked in a charmless grin, then turned away and moved to his regent's chair, which he dropped himself into with the practiced ease of a cat jumping down off a low wall. "Tinwright, isn't it?"
"Yes, Lord. I was… I was told you wanted to see me."
"I did, yes, but not necessarily in that strange position. What were you doing on the floor?"
"I… I was told I was to be executed."
Hendon Tolly laughed. "Really? And so you fainted, did you? I suppose it would be the kind thing, then, for me to tell you that nothing like that is planned." He was grinning, but his eyes were absolutely cold. "Unless I decide to execute you anyway. The day has been short on amusements."
Oh, merciful gods, Tinwright thought. He plays with me as if I were a mouse. He swallowed, tried to take a breath without bursting into helpless sobs. "Do… do you plan to kill me, then, Lord Guardian?"
Tolly cocked his head. He was dressed in the finery of a Syannese court dandy, with pleated scarlet tunic and black sleeves immensely puffed above the elbow, and his hair was dressed in foppish strands that hung down into his eyes, but Tinwright knew beyond doubt that if the mood took him this
overdressed dandy could murder the poet or anyone else as quickly and eas¬ily as an ordinary man could kick over a chair.
The guardian of Southmarch narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed, but his stare still glinted. "I am told you are… ambitious."
Elan. He does know. "I–I'm not sure… what you mean, Lord."
lolly flicked his fingers as if they were wet. "Don't parse words with me. You know what the word 'ambitious' means. Are you? Do you have eyes above your station, poet?"
"I… I wish to better myself, sir. As do most men."
Tolly leaned forward, smiling as though he had finally found something worth hunting, or trapping, or killing. "Ah, but is that so? I think most men are cattle, poet. I think they hope to be ignored by the wolves, and when one of their fellows is taken they all move closer together and start hoping again. Men of ambition are the wolves-we must feed on the cattle in order to survive, and it makes us cleverer than they. What do you think, Tin¬wright? Is that a, what do you call it, a metaphor? Is it a good metaphor?"
Puzzled, Tinwright almost shook his head in confusion, but realized it might be mistaken as a denial of Hendon Tolly's words. Did the guardian fancy himself a poet? What would that mean for Tinwright? "Yes, Lord, of course, it is a metaphor. A very good one, I daresay."
"Hah." Tolly toyed with the grip of his sword. Other than the royal guardsmen, he was the only one in the room with a visible weapon. Tin¬wright had heard enough stories about his facility with it that he had to struggle not to stare as Tolly caressed the hilt. "I have a commission for you," the guardian of Southmarch said at last. "I heard your song about Caylor and thought it quite good work, so I have decided to put you to honest labor."
"I beg your pardon?" Matt Tinwright could not have listed a group of words he had less expected to hear.
"A commission, fool-unless you think you are too good to take such work. But I hear otherwise." Tolly gave him that blank, contemplative stare again. "In fact, I hear much of your time is spent making up to your betters."
This made Tinwright think uncomfortably about Elan M'Cory again. Was the talk of commission just a ruse? Was Tolly just playing some ab¬stract, cruel game with him before having him killed? Still, he did not dare to behave as anything other than an innocent man. "I would be delighted, Lord. I have never received a greater honor."
His new patron smiled. "Not true. In fact, I hear you were given an im-portant task by a highborn lady. Isn't that true?"
Tinwright knew he must look like a rabbit staring at a swaying serpent. "I don't catch your meaning, my lord."
Tolly settled back in the chair, grinning. "Surely you have not forgotten your poem in praise of our beloved Princess Briony?"
"Oh! Oh, no, sir. No, but… but I confess my heart has not been in it of late…"
"Since her disappearance. Yes, a feeling we all share. Poor Briony. Brave girl!" Tolly did not even bother to feign sorrow. "We all wait for news of her." He leaned forward. Havemore had reappeared beside his chair and was rattling his papers officiously. "Now, listen closely, Tinwright. I find it a good idea to keep a man of your talents occupied, so I wish you to prepare an epic for me, for a special occasion. My brother Caradon is coming and will be here the first day of the Kerneia-Caradon, Duke of Summer-field? You do know the name?"
Tinwright realized he had been staring openmouthed, still not certain he would survive this interview. "Yes, of course, sir. Your older brother. A splendid man…!"
Hendon cut off the paean with a wave of his hand. "I want something special in honor of his visit, and the Tolly family's… stewardship of South-march. You will provide a poem, something in a fitting style. You are to make your verses on the fall of Sveros."
"Sveros, the god of the evening sky?" said Tinwright, amazed. He could not imagine either of the Tolly brothers as lovers of religious poetry.
"What other? I would like the story of his tyrannical rule-and of how he was deposed by three brothers."
It was the myth of the Trigon, of course, Perin and his brothers Erivor and Kernios destroying their cruel father. "If that is what you want, Lord… of course!"
"I find it highly appropriate, you see." Tolly grinned again, showing his teeth and reminding the poet that this man was a wolf even among other wolves. "Three brothers, one of them dead-because Kernios was killed, of course, before he came back to life-who must overthrow an old, useless king." He flicked a finger. "Get to work, then. Keep yourself busy. We would not want such a gifted fellow as you to fall into idleness. That breeds danger for young men."
Three brothers, one dead, overthrow the king, Tinwright thought as he bowed
to his new patron. Surely that's the Tollys taking Olin's throne, He wants me to write a celebration of himself stealing the throne of Southmarch!
But even as this idea roiled in his guts, another one crept in. He's as much its said he'll kill me if I cause him any trouble-if I go near Elan. Clever Zosim, protector of fools like me, what can I do?
"You will perform it at the feast on the first night of Kerneia," Tolly said. "Now you may go."
Before going back to his rooms Tinwright stumbled into the garden so he could be alone as he threw up into a box hedge.
"What are you doing, woman?" Brone tried to get up, grimaced in pain, and slumped back down into his chair.
"Don't speak to me that way. You will refer to me as 'Your Grace. »
"We're alone now. Isn't that why you sent the priestess away?"
"Not so you could insult me or treat me like a chambermaid. We have a problem, Brone, and by that I mean you and I."
"But what were you thinking? You have kept the secret for years, and now it seems that everyone in the castle must know."
"Don't exaggerate." Merolanna looked around the small room. "It's bad enough you stay seated when a lady is in the room, but have you not even a chair to offer me? You are nearly as rude as Havemore."
"That miserable, treacherous whoreson…" He growled in frustration. "There is a stool on the other side of the desk. Forgive me, Merolanna. It really is agony to stand. My gout…"
"Yes, your gout. Always it has been something-your age, your duties. Always something." She found the stool and pulled it out, settling herself gingerly on its small seat, her dress spreading around her like the tail of a bedraggled pheasant. "Well. Now is the time when you can make no more excuses, Brone. The fairies are across the bay. Olin and the twins are gone and their throne is in terrible danger-the Eddons are your own kin, re¬member, however distant."
"You don't need to tell me that I have failed my family and my king, woman," Brone growled. "That is the song I sing myself to sleep with every night." He didn't seem anywhere near as bleary as he had only a short time ago.
"Then listen now. The Tollys have their hands around the throat of the
kingdom. And somehow-somehow, though I don't pretend to understand it-my child is involved. Our child."
"I cannot believe you told Barrick and Briony."
She scowled. "I am not a fool. I said the father was dead."
He looked at her and his face softened. "Merolanna, I did my best. 1 never turned my back on you."
"Too little and too late, always."
"I offered to marry you. I begged you…!"
"After your own wife was dead. By then I had grown quite used to wid¬owhood, thank you. Twenty years after I was foolish enough to fall in love with you. Too late, Avin, too late."
"You were the wife of the king's brother. What was I to do, demand he give you a bill of divorce?"
"And I was older than you, too. But I recall that neither of those things stopped you when you wanted my favors." She paused, took a ragged breath. "Enough of this. It is also too late for fighting this way. We are old, Brone, and we have made terrible mistakes. Let us do what we can now to repair some of them, because the stakes are bigger than our own happiness."
"What do you want me to do, Merolanna? You see me-old, sick, cut off from power. What do you want me to do?"
"Find Chaven. Find this moon-stone. And help me to cross the bay so I can meet these fairy folk and ask them what they did with my son."
"Do you mean it? You are mad. But mad or not, I can't help you."
She dragged herself to her feet. "You coward! Everything you worked for your entire life is being stolen by the ToUys, and you sit there, doing nothing… /" She leaned across the table and raised her hand as though she would strike him. Brone reached up and caught at it, folding his immense paw around hers.
"Calm yourself, Merolanna," he said. "You do not know as much as you think you do. Do you know what happened to Nynor?"
"Yes, of course! They pushed him out so they could give his honors and duties to your lickspittle factor, Havemore! Nynor's gone back to his house in the country."
"No, curse it, he's dead. Hendon's men killed him and threw his body in the ocean."
For a moment the duchess faltered and if Brone had not been holding her hand, she might have fallen. She pulled away and sat down. "Nynor is dead?" she said at last. "Steffens Nynor?"
"Murdered, yes. He was talking against the Tollys and he spoke to sonic one he shouldn't have. Word got back to Hendon. Berkan Hood dragged Nynor out of his bed in the middle of the night and murdered him."Brone clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. "I heard it myself from someone who was there. They cut that good old man into pieces and smuggled his body out of the castle in a grain barrel. They can't quite get away yet with slaughtering their enemies without even a mock trial. Not quite."
"Oh, by all the gods, is that true? Killed him?" Merolanna abruptly began to cry. "Poor Steffens! The Tollys are demons-we are surrounded by demons!" She made the sign of the Three, then wiped at her face with her sleeve and tried to compose herself. "But that is all the more reason you must help me, Avin! There are things going on that…"
"No." He shook his head again. "There are certainly things going on, and you don't know all of them, Merolanna." He looked around again. The guards were still not back, but he dropped his voice even lower. "Please, un¬derstand me, Your Grace-I have worked hard to convince Hendon and his party that I am no threat so I could put plans of my own into motion. I cannot afford for them to suspect otherwise. I will do what I can to find Chaven, because that would not seem unusual-the physician and I knew each other well. But I can do nothing else. I will not risk the small chance we have of saving Olin's throne. Everything is balanced on a knife-edge."
The duchess stared at him for a long time. "So that is your defense, is it?" She smiled a little, but her words had a bitter edge. "That you are already hard at work on other, more important things? Well and good. But I will discover this moon-piece myself if I must, and find out what happened to my child-our child-even if I have to pull this castle down stone by stone to do it."
"You are no spy, Merolanna," Brone told her gently.
"No. But I am a mother." She reached a trembling hand up to touch her face. "Sweet Zoria, I must be a terrible mess. You've made me cry, Brone. I'll have to repair myself before I go talk to Utta." She gazed around the cluttered room, slowly and wearily now, energy mostly spent. "Look at this. We sit at the center of the capital of all the March Kingdoms but you do not even have a glass for an old woman to fix her face. How can it be s‹› hard to find a simple mirror?"