House of Shadows (30 page)

With the fading of the piping came, perhaps, other possibilities. The time for timidity was surely past. Taudde went to his writing desk. There he took out the note Miennes had so recently written to invite him to that fraught dinner. He studied the graceful, slanting letters. Then he sat down and penned a letter of his own in that same graceful hand, with ink the azure of the sunlit sea, on the finest pale-cream parchment.
If I am dead, know that it was sorcery struck the blow
, he wrote.
But it was not a Kalchesene made this spell: There is treachery ’twixt mountain and sea. Look to the mages of Lonne for this crafting; one of them has betrayed the Dragon and made it seem as though I were false myself
. Would Miennes have used that phrase? Taudde decided that he would, and continued.
Look to the prince; if I am dead, he must be the next target of Lirionne’s enemy. If you read this, let my death prove my faithfulness and warn of betrayal from one who has been trusted.
When Taudde wrote the name
Ankennes
, he wrote it in blood-red ink. And when he signed Miennes’s name, he signed it in gold ink and with a practiced flourish so like the original that he hoped Miennes himself would have been unable to tell it from his own true signature.

Then he stood waiting for the last words to dry so that he could roll up the parchment and bind it with a black ribbon. And at last he took out his flute once more, and the ring he had stolen from little Moonflower. He let his awareness sink into this ring and found himself playing a low circular melody that wound around and around, smooth and hard and filled with the name of a cautious, dour man, but not, Taudde found to his surprise, a man entirely without humor… He spun out a line between himself and this man, and dropped the letter, he hoped, straight into the private room of the prince’s bodyguard, Jeres Geliadde. In the early predawn hours, he had every hope no one would see it fall out of the
air into that chamber. Though if someone did… that would certainly guarantee the letter would be read immediately.

This was an attack he hoped Mage Ankennes had not anticipated: an attack that hardly used sorcery at all. Taudde did not necessarily expect it to be decisive, but he hoped it would at least prove distracting. Thus he might find his next opportunity—to strike a sharper blow against the mage, or if he could not find a way to do that, at least to get out of Lonne. As soon as the prince’s people found him dead, Taudde’s letter would be taken very seriously, and once suspicion fell on Mage Ankennes, the mage would undoubtedly find himself answering close questions in the Laodd. Taudde meant to act the moment word of the prince’s death made its way down from the Laodd into the city.

After a moment of hesitation, he walked again to the window of his chamber. It was just past dawn, now: the hour of pearl and mist in which the city was most hushed. When
would
the death of the Dragon’s heir be discovered? Not long, probably. News of it should rush down from the heights as fast as the Nijiadde Falls and smash into the city as forcefully as the falls smashed into the lake below the mountains. But until the Seriantes Dragon moved against Ankennes, Taudde must expect his own peril to be considerably heightened.

Despite his own danger, Taudde had expected to feel triumph at this moment. Not joy, no, but at least satisfaction at vengeance achieved. He did not know how long he stood by his window, waiting for the rush of triumph through his blood. But he felt only a cold, creeping dread. Not at his own danger. He thought not. He had claimed a victory, but it unexpectedly felt to him like a defeat and he could take no pleasure in it.

The sky in the east brightened, and the wisps of cloud around the jagged peaks turned to rose and gold in the light of the hidden sun. The light poured past the mountains, illuminating their high traceries of ice to jewels and flame. Then the sun rose over the mountain peaks, and the magecrafted lights that lined the streets of Lonne flickered and went out. The sea and sky turned from gray
to blue, and the roofs of the city reflected that color back again so strongly that the tiles almost seemed to be made of lapis rather than slate.

Shortly after dawn came the first of the street vendors, calling out their wares: fruit and pastries, bread and fresh-laid eggs. There was nothing in those mingled voices to suggest any unsettling news from the Laodd. Yet.

The morning went forward. No word of death and disaster came down from the Laodd. The palace-fortress of Lonne only loomed as quietly as always above the city, which went on with its customary business. At first Taudde wondered whether the news was simply not being made public. But he realized gradually that this public calm could not possibly mask private disaster: If the Dragon’s heir had died in the night, word of it could not possibly have been so completely withheld from the city. Whispers of the loss would have come down on the wind. No matter how quiet or distorted, the unease would be felt in the streets.

The only possible conclusion was that the heir had not died. It was simply not possible that he had died. This knowledge should have carried with it disappointment, rage, a grim sense of failure. But instead, Taudde felt a shocking, unexpected relief: He had failed to do murder. He was not a murderer.

As a boy, staggered by grief after the death of his father at Brenedde, Taudde had longed for vengeance against Geriodde Nerenne ken Seriantes. As a youth, he had dreamed of facing the King of Lirionne across a sharp-edged blade; later, he had dreamed he might someday make a harp of bone, string it with sorrow and rage, and play vengeance for Kalches and for his own father out of its music. But it seemed now that leading the king’s son out of life with pipes tuned to the paths of death had never been part of that dream.

On the other hand… on the other hand, whatever had happened, or failed to happen, to the prince… well, if the prince had not died, was it possible Miennes also still lived? Taudde dispatched Benne to Miennes’s house, requesting the favor of an appointment. He
was surprised, relieved, and grimly pleased when the big man arrived back with the news that the household of Lord Miennes was in great disarray following the sudden death of the lord in the night, presumably of an unsuspected weakness of the heart. So Taudde’s spell had gone only half astray. This was all very well and good, but what then of the other half of the spell?

Taudde dismissed Benne, who went stolidly away. He himself went up to his room to think. If Lord Miennes was dead, that was very well. Taudde did not regret
that
death in the least. But now?

If Ankennes had not already moved against Taudde… what did that mean? Taudde took a deliberate breath, trying to calm himself and think. Had the Laodd not taken his sorcerously delivered warning seriously? Or had the prince’s bodyguard not discovered it yet? Or was Mage Ankennes even now answering close questions, and Taudde merely did not know it? Or was the mage merely, like Taudde, considering what he might do next? The urge to do something was very powerful, and yet Taudde feared to act before he knew more clearly what had happened.

Another question occurred to Taudde and at once assumed considerable urgency: If Miennes had indeed played the pipes—as it now seemed he must have—then who else had been caught in the music besides the scheming Lonne lord? Because it was very clear that the second set of pipes had gone astray.

Taudde found that creeping sense of dread again slipping through his veins, as though the chill of it moved right along with his blood. He had tried to be glad, and then had been at least
willing
, to murder the heir of Lirionne. That this murder would also rid him of Miennes had in a way become a mere advantage and not the object of the exercise. After giving the ensorcelled pipes to the prince, he had found himself increasingly horrified by what he had done, but then it had been too late to reconsider his act.

But Prince Tepres had not died. So someone else had possessed the ivory pipes when Lord Miennes had lifted his set of horn and silver to his lips. Someone to whom the young prince would have given them freely. Some young friend of the heir… not a noble, or
word of that death would surely have come down from the Laodd. Perhaps the cheerful young Koriadde? Taudde liked Koriadde. He did not want to wonder whether the prince had perhaps given the ivory twin pipes to that young man. But the prince must have passed them on to someone. Koriadde was as likely as anyone else, surely.

The sensation of creeping cold grew worse. Why—
why?
—had Taudde not warned Miennes that he should play the pipes at once, the very night Taudde gave them to him, to ensure the heir would not have time to give the ivory set away? Taudde had not guessed he might do so; in Kalches, such a gift would never be re-gifted within the same year it had been given. But in Lonne, clearly this was not the custom. What would his grandfather say if he knew how extraordinarily careless his grandson had been? Actually—Taudde winced—it was altogether too possible to imagine precisely what that stern old man would say, and every word would be justified.

To whom had the pipes gone? Who had died because of Taudde’s carelessness? Koriadde? Another of the young men? Possibly worse, if there was such a thing as
better
or
worse
in this situation: could the prince have given his pipes to a true innocent—a favored servant? A woman?

Taudde had a sudden, horrible sense that he knew exactly to whom the prince had gifted those pipes. On that thought, and as he must wait on events in any case, he went to have his carriage made ready.

Though this interminable day had crept by on slow, clawed feet, it was well past noon. Yet the hour was still early for the candlelight district of the city. But Taudde could not bear to wait for the sun to sink low above the sea—and dared not wait, anyway, lest he find Ankennes taking some unanticipated action against him. He thought perhaps he should try to leave Lonne immediately. Yet… it was always better to act knowledgeably rather than blindly. And he thought he knew where he might get news about Miennes and Ankennes, about Prince Tepres and unusual activity
in the Laodd, and most particularly about the little keiso to whom, he now suspected, the prince might have given those pipes.

Benne had the carriage waiting almost before Taudde could make ready for his visit to the keiso district. It was a silent drive: The thronging streets seemed, today, only to point up the depth of the silence that underlay their clamor.

Cloisonné House was indeed quiet at this hour of the afternoon. But, though the House might be quiet, it was not actually asleep. Voices were audible through open windows. Music drifted down from those windows as well: Most clear was a kinsana accompanied by girls’ voices chanting gaodd poems. Thankfully farther removed, an inexpertly played ekonne horn was also audible. Voices, blurred by distance and walls, mingled in conversation, and somewhere close at hand a rich alto voice laughed.

It all sounded very peaceful. Taudde, though he was listening carefully, heard no underlying dissonance of grief or distress beneath the cheerful sounds of the keiso House.

He was as much surprised by this as relieved. He had been so sure… but perhaps Prince Tepres had gifted his ivory pipes elsewhere, to someone Taudde had never met. This did not, of course, lessen his culpability in that person’s death, whoever it might have been. But Taudde found that he was nevertheless relieved that his unintended victim had evidently not after all been that lovely keiso child.

The peace emanating from Cloisonné House was immeasurably reassuring. Taudde descended from his carriage and went toward the house. As he passed into its shadow, Taudde thought that the edges of that shadow seemed a little less distinct than they should, and that the ivy that climbed the walls seemed to tremble very slightly in a breeze that did not blow from quite the same direction as the breeze that whisked through the street itself. He had nearly forgotten the strange echo that clung to this house, and now he paused, distracted anew, before he collected himself and touched the bellpull.

For all the relatively early hour, servants came quickly to
welcome Taudde and show him to a small parlor. The Mother of the House herself came to greet him there and inquire with grave courtesy what small service Cloisonné House might have the pleasure of offering him.

Taudde said diffidently, “Indeed, I may hope for a kindness to a foreigner, perhaps.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose.

“If I may ask: That young keiso, I believe she is called Moonflower? A most charming girl. I wish to impress a business associate of my uncle’s and I had wondered whether she might be available for engagements?”

“Alas, Cloisonné is as yet strictly limiting Moonflower’s engagements. However, if you wish to engage another of our keiso, I believe several might be available…”

Taudde was so relieved that little Moonflower was evidently perfectly well that he nearly forgot to seem disappointed. “Of course I understand, a girl so young,” he said quickly, with a downcast look. “Naturally you would wish to guard her well-being. And her future, to be sure. She will be a lovely addition to the, ah, flowers in Cloisonné’s garden. I should not imagine there are two such girls even in Lonne. If you see fit, you might pass on to her my admiration.”

“Indeed,” agreed the Mother of the House warmly, clearly pleased by Taudde’s praise. “I will indeed, as you request it. Too much praise can spoil a young keiso’s good nature, but I doubt that is a concern in this case. Moonflower is a modest child. No doubt she will only assure me that there are at least seven girls in Lonne who surpass her, as she has so many sisters.”

“Seven sisters!” Taudde murmured, raising his eyebrows, as the woman evidently expected some such exclamation.