House of Shadows (16 page)

“Save that, I assure you, young man,
we
have no interest in furious acquisitions to the north!” Lord Miennes added. “A waste of gold and blood and time, all far better invested elsewhere! Indeed, the attitudes of Miskiannes have much to recommend them!”

Taudde inclined his head as though reassured. In fact, though he thought Lord Miennes meant what he said, he was almost certain that Mage Ankennes… Well, he did not precisely suspect Ankennes of outright lying. But an underlying hard resolve beneath the mage’s words made him wonder whether, when Ankennes said
end the dominance of the Seriantes line
, he really meant
destroy every root and branch of the Seriantes line
. And that implied a hatred that went beyond what even
Taudde
felt for the Seriantes Dragons. Except he could hear no such depths of hatred in the mage’s voice. But what save deep loathing could lead to such a broad and brutal goal?

But he did not have time or leisure to consider that question
now. He said, in a neutral tone, addressing both men, “If I do this for you, I will be free to go about my own business? You understand, I will not under any compulsion stay in Lonne beyond the solstice.”

“Of course. I—we—should never expect that of you,” Miennes assured him, deceit so clear in his voice that he might have simply said out loud,
No, you are mine, I will never release you from my hand
. “You are perfectly correct. You did very well, setting up that engagement of yours to follow this one,” the lord concluded. “Very clever.” He patted Taudde on the arm, a possessive gesture that made Taudde set his teeth. If he noticed Taudde’s distaste, it didn’t trouble him. He went on smoothly, “I presumed even the heir himself might find himself vulnerable to a man of your… heritage and training. I surmise I was correct.”

Taudde nodded. The Dragon’s heir indeed seemed vulnerable to a creative sorcerer, a vulnerability that was one reason for the Seriantes ban against bardic sorcerers. However—“The ban,” he began.

“You need not concern yourself with the ban,” Ankennes murmured in his deep voice. “I will craft a protection about you and above you. Other mages of Lonne will find it far more difficult to perceive your workings than would ordinarily be the case. You understand?”

“Certainly that will make this task far more straightforward,” Taudde murmured. “I thank you for your shield. Ah—difficult, you say. But, I surmise, not—”

The mage smiled, an expression both amused and cold. “Not wholly impossible, no. I recommend a continuing discretion.”

Taudde inclined his head. So Mage Ankennes would set protections round about to ensure that he’d be able to do the sorcery they required. No doubt the mage would take other precautions to see to it, and to prevent his escape afterward. But the conspirators were sure he would do their murder, first. A Kalchesene bardic sorcerer? Of course they were sure. The heir’s death would leave the Dragon himself without legitimate sons… grieving, if Geriodde Nerenne
ken Seriantes was actually capable of grief, which Taudde personally doubted, given what he had done to his own elder sons. But even so, the death of his last remaining heir would unquestionably deliver a devastating blow to the King of Lirionne. Taudde could hardly accustom himself to the idea that he himself could be the one to deliver such a blow to the Seriantes Dragon. It was a vengeance he had never looked to gain, and it had not merely fallen into his path but had been forced into his hands.

He said slowly, “I will do this.” He said it with conviction, though he had not yet actually decided whether he would do it or not. But already he had an idea of how he
could
do it. And he truly thought he might, the treaty and his vow to his grandfather notwithstanding. Could he truly claim these conspirators had forced him to break the treaty and that vow? Or would he act, if he did, simply because he chose to, for himself and for Kalches? He felt a little ill with the uncertainty.

Satisfied, unaware either of the deceit or of the confusion, Miennes gave Mage Ankennes a sideways glance and then nodded to Taudde. “I am confident we all understand one another.” He lifted a hand, adding, “Allow me to escort you to your conveyance, my young friend.”

Taudde’s carriage waited merely a dozen steps down the drive. The wind came gently from the sea and over the city, carrying the scents of salt and sand and the myriad close smells of the city. It ruffled the horse’s white mane. The moon shone palely overhead, muted by the greenish magelight that illuminated the city.

Taudde stepped into the carriage, settled into its well-cushioned seat, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. He longed for the midnight skies of Kalches, where in the winter the brilliant darkness of the sky came so close to the endless snow that each star sounded a clear and separate note on the theme of the night. He almost told Benne to drive on, along the Kemsennes River and up into the mountains that framed the city. There in the heights, the stars would at last become visible.

But he knew very well that the chance of such an easy escape
was purely illusory. If the conspirators were not confident they had a leash on him, they would not have let him go.

Besides, if he fled Lonne tonight, he would never know whether he might, after all, have struck a sharp blow against the Dragon of Lirionne. Though in some ways… in some ways, in fact, never having to know the answer to that question was a greater temptation to flight than getting away from Miennes. Or even from Ankennes.

But regardless of the pull of the sea, how could he leave Lonne without at least
considering
whether he might rather comply with rather than avoid the demand Miennes had set on him?

Taudde allowed Benne to drive him back to his rented house, but he found he could not bear its close confines. Not tonight, of all nights he had spent in Lonne. He opened the shutters of his window and stood gazing out into the night. It seemed to him he could hear the ceaseless murmur of the sea, though this far from the shore no sound of the waves should have been audible.

Though he was bone weary, Taudde found himself unable to be still. His flute was in his hand, though he had no memory of reaching for it. He hesitated a moment to recover prudence, and another moment to try at least for good sense. But then, he had a murder to arrange… at least to consider arranging. He had every reason, indeed nearly a requirement, to dispense with good sense.

So he allowed himself to lift the flute to his lips. He played himself into the shadows and the night breeze and the mist. He did not trouble overmuch with subtlety. If he would test Ankennes’s protection, why not at once? So when he clambered out the window, he did not fall, and when he reached the cobbles of the street at last, his boots on the stone made no sound. Turning away from the house, back into the dimly lit streets, he strode toward the sea.

As Taudde walked west toward the sea, the streets became gradually narrower and rougher, and the residences that lined them smaller and more crowded. Wealth ran like water down from the mountains toward the sea, so the people of Lonne said, growing
shallow as it neared the docks. Taudde bent his steps north of west, not quite toward the sea but toward the Niarre River.

By this time of evening, the candlelight district had come to graceful life. Aika establishments had hung out blue paper lanterns shaped like flowers and silver ones shaped like crescent moons, and theaters were lighting the elaborate candelabra fixtures that arched over their doors. One restaurant after another was putting back its shutters and setting out lanterns—plain ones—to illuminate its sign, and the keiso Houses were alight with round, white porcelain lamps.

In contrast to the flower world, the Paliante was somnolent. Nearly all the traffic across the bridge was moving toward the candlelight district and the residential areas of the city farther south. But Taudde thought there were as yet enough late travelers through the streets of the Paliante that his presence there should go unremarked.

Taudde found the shop of oddments and instruments with less trouble than he’d expected, for all he’d been there only once. It was closed and locked. More than locked: shut fast with some magecrafted spell that wove back and forth across its entire façade. For a moment, Taudde considered trying to unweave the guarding spell. But it was complex and powerful. He suspected that any attempt he made in that direction would fail of Ankennes’s injunction in favor of “continuing discretion.”

Instead, Taudde coaxed open the simpler lock of the neighboring tailor’s establishment with the merest whisper of melody and stepped in among racks of finished clothing and bolts of cloth. The shutters at the front of the shop were closed fast, so he felt it should be safe to play a soft fall of moonlight through the tailor’s shop—enough to find his way among the racks to the back of the shop. Here, he paused and studied the wall that separated the tailor’s shop from the neighboring shop of oddments and instruments.

The wall was plaster, painted a pale bird’s egg blue. Laying a hand upon it, Taudde let his awareness settle into and past the paint and the plaster. He found no web of magery within the wall, only timbers and stonework, and then on the far side more plaster.
Taudde withdrew his awareness and paused again, considering. He might yet leave the Paliante—return to his rented house, even make a real attempt to slip the conspirators’ chain and get out of Lonne entirely.

Instead, he took out his flute once more. From it, he drew a music that melted through the plaster and wove among the interstices between the stones of the wall, that made at last a way through the solid wall that he might follow. Then he stood for a time on the other side while the sorcery faded, until he could remember how to move muscle and bone.

He waited another long moment, listening. He heard nothing. He perceived no sign that any Lonne mage had noticed the whisper of bardic sorcery through their city. Would he, if any did? And was there any point to asking himself such questions after he’d already chosen to risk this trespass? That last question, at least, answered itself.

Taudde made his way carefully to the rear of the cluttered shop. Yes, there was the table he recalled, with all manner of tools and fittings ready to hand for a craftsman. He got out his candlelighter, lit the waiting lamp to illuminate the table, absently pulled the nearest chair over to the table, and sat down to look over the materials available. He could already hear, in his mind, the instruments he wanted to make. Pipes—two sets, of course: one set pitched to open the way and the other to follow. He already knew their tones and voices, pure as the crystalline air in the high mountains… He reached, not even consciously looking, after a suitable blank for the first pipe, and then for a blade that would let him turn the ivory blank he’d selected into the pipe he already held, whole and perfect, in his mind.

Lost in his craftworking, Taudde found himself surprised by the dawn. He glanced up at last, surprised by the dazzle as the rising sun found its way through chinks in the shutters of the high windows and fell across the table. Reaching up, he pushed the shutters back. Then he looked down at the work of his hands, revealed by the vivid light of the sun.

He had worked through the night with intense concentration abetted by the occasional lift of sorcery. This was not the first time he’d lost himself in craftwork, but the resulting instruments nevertheless astonished him. He thought he had never made finer instruments. Ironic, that
these
should be a masterwork. What would his grandfather say to the use of uncommon skill toward such an end? Though… given the approaching solstice, he might actually say something on the order of
Good work, boy.
Probably
Good work, boy, considering you’re a fool.

Taudde let his breath out and steadfastly turned his attention toward more immediate matters. Two completed sets of twin pipes lay before him. Each set was composed of six pipes, three matched pairs per set. The smallest were the length of a man’s forefinger, the longest perhaps twice so long. Taudde examined his work by the morning’s clear light. The craftsmanship, he judged, evaluating the instruments with an objective eye, was indeed very fine. And the sorcery threaded through the instruments… He let it resonate through his hands and his heart and thought that the sorcery, too, should prove adequate.

The table was littered with bits of cut wire, shavings of ivory and horn, discarded fittings, and the odd blank that had not proven amenable to the crafting. Taudde tucked the finished pipes into a belt pouch and began to clean up all this random debris. The shop’s proprietor had seemed shrewd. Probably he knew his shop as he knew the fit of his own boots. Even so… the supply of craft materials in this shop was so generous that possibly the proprietor would not realize some of his blanks were missing. Or at least not at once. Even a little delay would be sufficient. Or at least helpful.

Taudde swept the last of the shavings into a different pouch for later disposal and tried to remember precisely where the chair had been resting before he’d pulled it over to the table. And had the table lamp always been at this exact angle?

He had no time to decide, because at that moment—defying the general rule that late nights in the candlelight district should be
followed by late mornings in wealthy districts such as the Paliante—the mage spell that guarded the door and front wall of the shop suddenly dissolved, and Taudde heard the simultaneous metallic
clink
of a key being inserted into the door’s lock.

Taudde didn’t panic. Not exactly. But for one shocked instant, he froze. For that instant, he was certain that the shop’s proprietor was going to step into the shop and find Taudde still standing there like a fool, speechless and motionless.