The Seer - eARC (34 page)

“Truly, we need you. Will you stand with us?”

“Innel is clever. His people are everywhere.”

“That could be a different name on your tongue soon, if you’re with us. Maybe even yours.”

“Don’t flatter me, boy. I know who could take over from Innel, and it isn’t me.”

The man’s whisper held sudden passion. “Then you could be the one to choose. We’ve waited long enough. This is the time, Oleane.”

“I’m not convinced. You can’t just—”

“We are ready. Are you with us or not?”

A pause. “Do you know what you’re suggesting, boy? How dangerous this is? Do you see who squirms in Execution Square this week?”

“I am not afraid. It is time to act. Yes or no.”

A longer pause. At last: “Yes.”

Maris chuckled at the drama, withdrew, wondering if she should relay this to Innel or not. As she walked the hallways, a window afforded her a view of the aforementioned square where two men hung by their feet, heads a hand’s width above the ground, coated with some sticky substance that Maris guessed was honey. They had lasted two days thus far, despite the rats, but she did not give them much longer.

Yes, she decided, she must tell Innel. While her contract did not require it, it seemed to her that to take his money meant to tell him when his life was in danger.

The woman named Oleane and the young man with her were spiders. They had made their choices.

She went to find the Lord Commander.

The winter passed more comfortably than Maris would have thought possible so far north. Stoves and fireplaces were always warm.

And the library. She could live in it for a hundred years and still not exhaust her interest.

As for the search, as long as she continued to report various corruptions and treasonous plots to Innel, he seemed happy for her to put off leaving the palace grounds. When the ice began to melt and spring came, though, he reminded her, ever so gently, that he still needed the girl.

So Maris took the search out of the palace with its warm halls onto the palace grounds, searching laundry and garrison, pig and goat pens. At the kennels and stables, she took her time with the dichu, the large Arunkel dogs, their black and tan brindled faces looking up at her eagerly, tails wagging, ears forward. Then the horses, strong and happy and eager to run. It was a pleasure to her.

The girl was not there, though.

When she could put it off no longer, she left the palace grounds. Above, a clear night sky showed the constellation of archer chasing the world-snake, a battle that surely would satisfy no one. She brushed herself with a touch of shadow and illusion, enough that anyone who looked at her would see someone paler, in poorer clothes, less interesting than a Perripin woman wandering alone at night in Yarpin.

As she walked past the Great Houses, she trailed her fingers across walls and iron gates, her attention raking through those within to see if they were the owner of the small seashell. When she had passed across every resident of the Eight Great Houses, she moved downhill and to the Lesser Houses.

None of this took as long as Maris had hoped. There were simply not that many girls, and none of them the one the Lord Commander sought. Reluctantly she expanded her search outward, lane by lane. Merchant houses. Inns. Public houses. Storefronts. Apartments.

And who
was
this girl on whom Innel was sufficiently intent to hire a mage at exorbitant cost to execute a fruitless search? She felt a twinge of sympathy for her, not wishing Innel’s attention on anyone but spiders.

It seemed too much coincidence, the many rumors on the streets about fortune-tellers. Not only rumors, either—as the weather turned mild, girl children and young women flocked to street corners, shouting and calling, promising to reveal the future for a pittance and indeed a much lower price than the charlatan girl down the lane.

Some used stones or ointments or bits of metal to aid with the prophecy. One even insisted on first obtaining a drop of blood from the inquirer; a clever trick to get the quarry invested, to stretch credibility before a word of supposed prophecy had even been spoken.

Even so, Innel was too smart to believe such foolishness, and she could not imagine these tales at the heart of his motivation. More likely he had created the rumors himself to serve some intrigue or another. Perhaps the girl was some runaway aristo child, or the daughter of an enemy who could provide him some leverage once he had her in hand.

As she walked the streets and watched the displays, Maris found herself saddened at how credulous people could be. Accounts of prophecy swept villages and cities as would a catchy tune, belief cresting and crashing with rumor, only to rise again years later when people forgot. They were good at forgetting, Iliban were.

Or perhaps they remembered perfectly well, and these girls with their small pigs and dogs and buckets of bloody entrails were merely entertainment now that the coronation was over and life had returned to a bleak misery.

In any case, if the new queen’s Royal Consort and Lord Commander wanted the girl, one way or another, with or without Maris’s help, he would have her.

At last the search took her into the poorest sections, down-city. Now when she slipped her awareness into the inhabitants of the apartment buildings, she found sluggish blood, chronic illness, searing pain. When she found such need, she might sometimes take a moment. Open a slow channel here, shift the balance of blood there. Smooth the working of an organ, remove a pinpoint tumor. Small things, things that surely she had the time to do as she went by.

Her search slowed. She tired more quickly. It left her aching, body and spirit, sparking images she thought buried, memories of those who had trusted her when they had nothing left. For them, she decided, she could give a little more, especially when so little was desperately needed.

One night she sat, her back to a dilapidated wall, working on twins, a boy and a girl, who had eaten some corrupted food. She eased the tightening of their throats, shifted the fire in their veins, and watched as they slept to be sure they kept breathing. Hours later, when she was confident they would live, she stood slowly, stretching her stiffness, walking back to the palace where she lay on top of her soft palace bed.

When at last she drifted off, the faces of the dead accompanied her into dream.

Chapter Eighteen

“Where is she now?” Innel asked Srel.

“In the library, ser.”

Innel had given Marisel dua Mage some time to enjoy herself while his people kept watch and learned about her.

“Food and drink at regular intervals. Start with a large variety, then improve on the ones she chooses. I want to know every book she opens or touches.”

“Yes, ser.”

Innel took a sip of his heavily smoked, fermented tea. That it had also been the old king’s favorite, and consequently everyone’s for decades, had made Innel consider changing it when Cern was crowned. Even now, with fashion changing furiously, people copying—or those few refusing to copy—Cern’s hairstyle, her three-quarter-length sleeves gathered with gold buttons—he could stand to have his tea in common with the old king. Still, he ordered it brewed stronger.

While Innel was finding ways to keep the mage happy and engaged, he sought a different sort of entertainment for the queen.

“Tonight’s dinner?” he asked Srel.

“In your name I have invited House Elupene’s Minister of Bird and Nital’s Minister of Decoration.”

“Make sure they know their job is to intrigue her, not lecture her.”

Cern was still withdrawn, visibly tensing when called on to make decisions. Not acting much like the monarch she had been crowned to be.

Insecure she might be, but she was no fool and would easily see through a ruse. A fine line, Innel bringing aristos to dinner, hoping that they would make her feel competent without merely flattering her. It might be beyond most of them to walk that fine line, but it was worth a try.

“Yes, ser. The ministers of Coin, Mint, and Account have agreed to meet with you at the third bell.” Srel took a tray of envelopes from a servant outside the door.

Agreed
, Innel thought, knowing that Srel would have relayed that word accurately.

A balance; the queen could command them, but would not, at least not yet. Innel could only ask. The ministers would agree, not comply.

So be it. One rung at a time.

“Invitations to congratulatory dinners at the Houses, Lord Commander,” Srel said, fanning out the stack of pale red envelopes.

“They can come to me,” he muttered, his attention back on the treasury ledgers.

“Shall I say so, ser?” Srel asked, with a small indication of humor.

Innel sighed. It was hard to put aside a lifetime of hearing about extravagant dinners at the Houses, dinners to which he and his brother were not considered important enough to invite. Now that he was that important, he found himself wanting to make sure they knew it.

But no; past grudges might be indulged in thought, but not in action. Not unless they served the present.

“Schedule them, but later.”

“Even Etallan, ser?” Srel asked.

Etallan had backed him when no one else would. They would understandably expect something in return.

Besides, it was Etallan.

“No. Etallan soon.”

Nalas knocked and entered. Innel glanced up, saw on his second’s face an expression he knew: He had news he didn’t want to deliver.

“What is it?”

“Your sister, ser.”

“Yes?”

“Ah—” He exchanged looks with Srel, who shrugged with a look that Innel took to mean the smaller man was declining Nalas’s request to rescue him.

“There’s a corporal,” Nalas said. “Been spending nights in her room.”

“Doing what?”

At this Nala’s and Srel exchanged another, very different look.

“No,” Innel said in response to the unspoken, drawing out the word. “Not Cahlen.” Then, at the continued silence, he frowned, musing on the implication. “Do you know him?”

“We do not, ser.”

This was an oddity he didn’t have time for. “Find out what you can.”

“Shall we tell him to stop?”

Tempting as it was, Cahlen was, by the count of years at least, well above the age of consent. He could easily imagine her resenting his intrusion. A familial battle was not something he had time for, either. “No. I’ll have a talk with him later. For now, find out everything about him. Watch him closely.”

“Yes, ser. Also, a number of the generals want to talk with you.”

“Is Lismar among them?” The king’s younger sister was first among the generals. If he had her support, the rest might follow.

“She is, ser.”

At last.

“I’ll see her as soon as she’s free.”

For Lismar, he would interrupt whatever he was doing.

“The general, ser,” Nalas said, standing smartly aside.

Lismar stepped inside, flanked by two guards standing at what was clearly a very precise distance behind her. Innel made a mental note to point this out to Nalas when he had a chance.

Her choice of seconds was a clear statement. Large men, both of them, tall and broad—Innel himself would not have cared to tangle with them. A demonstration of raw physical power, trailing her, this most senior of generals.

Lismar herself was average height or a bit less, with graying mahogany hair. But compact, as if she held within her the same power as these large men, concentrated to fit in her smaller body. An aged wine.

Without quite thinking, Innel stood at her entrance. Ten years ago he had been so far below her in the military hierarchy she would have known him only as one of the Cohort brats. Decades his senior, seasoned by countless battles and campaigns, she must surely wonder at the sense of reporting to him now.

It was not entirely uncommon for those of the Cohort to be promoted over others, just as the tower piece in some board games could jump other pieces. Given the animosity between Cern and her father, surely Lismar could not be surprised to have the new queen select a new Lord Commander.

Though he was still the mutt, and she was still the king’s sister. She might have wanted a more worthy tower piece.

He wondered if succession was always this complicated. The written histories were not forthcoming. The results of battles, who wore the crown—all duly noted. But there were holes in times like these. Much left unrecorded.

“Welcome back, General,” he said.

Her eyes flickered around the room, possibly comparing it to how it had been when her brother Lason commanded. She took in the maps, weapons, stopping a moment at the tan and striped shaota horse figurine in the corner. Her eyes narrowed slightly, briefly, followed by a small twitch of a smile.

Lason’s forcible eviction from this office and position had potential costs. The good will of the generals, Lismar in particular, could be one of them.

Her look settled on him. “Congratulations to you, Lord Commander.”

On his marriage? On his promotion?

On his survival?

“It seemed time to stop in,” she added, “before I leave again tomorrow.”

Telling him her plans, he noted, not asking him. Well, one step at a time. He decided to first address the obvious.

“I have every intention of bringing your royal brother back to the capital, General, as soon as we can find him.”

“May he stay good and lost then,” she said with a short laugh. At his look she continued. “You think I care about that waste of manflesh? The longer he’s gone, the better.” At this she made a sharp gesture with thumbs out to the sides. Her guards left the room.

Innel had not expected this dismissal of Lason. He reassessed what he thought he knew about Lismar.

Or perhaps he was too credulous; given how well-known Lason’s dislike of the mutt brothers had been, this might be simple prudence, to take the side of the current winner.

She selected a chair and sat. No permission given, and none sought. Feeling a bit uncertain and hoping it didn’t show, he sat as well. “If it’s not your brother returned home that you want, General, what can I do for you?”

She studied him a long moment and it occurred to Innel that maybe she was being careful. A power in the palace since he was first brought into the Cohort, now weighing her words to him.

He should, perhaps, try to put her at ease. His brother knew how to unlock people’s tongues. What would he have said?

Innel leaned forward in his chair. “How can I hope to succeed without your counsel, Lismar? You have decades and experience beyond my own. What can I do to gain your good will?”

She gave a short laugh at this, as if amused by the show, but he held her gaze, willing her to believe his sincerity. At last she seemed persuaded. Or persuaded to seem so. “My siblings can see to themselves, Lord Commander. My children and their children, perhaps less so.”

As he recalled, her children were scattered across the bureaucracy of the palace, the military, others married into the Houses, some with children of their own. A few had been on the old king’s staff, and were now—where? He wasn’t sure. “And?” he prompted.

“I want them protected.”

“Protected from . . . ?”

“From the coming changes.” She pursed her lips and drew in a breath through her nose. “From you, Innel.”

From him?

It hit him then: it was one thing to be given the title and responsibility to take charge of the empire’s armies, and another altogether to be treated as though he truly had. A feeling much like elation threatened to cut through his focus. He pushed it aside; there would be time for that later.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, considered his possible responses to her. “As long as your bloodkin support the queen, I see no cause for you to be concerned.”

She smirked. “Come now, Innel. I was educated as thoroughly as my brothers were, under the thoughtful eye and harsh hand of our esteemed grandmother. I know that when the crown moves to another head, even loyal subjects can find themselves . . . reexamined.”

Innel recalled how some names seemed to disappear out of the histories during the successions he’d studied. Lismar probably knew more about it than he did. “What do you want, exactly?”

“My progeny safe from the splashes of your impressive rise to command, ser.”

“And in return . . . ?”

A small shrug. “My counsel. The loyalty of my command.”

“Which should be mine anyway,” he said, suppressing a sudden annoyance.

“Of course, ser, of course. Forgive my intrusion into your busy schedule.” She gave him an overly warm smile and stood.

A misstep; he could not afford to alienate Lismar. He held his hands up, a gesture of conciliation. “Many call you grandmother, General. Surely you understand that I can’t offer immunity to all your descendants.”

“I expect no promises. You know what I want, and I know what you need. Do what you can for them, today and tomorrow. Beyond that?” She shrugged. “No one knows what will come.”

Innel would not argue, though he was spending a good deal of money to find the someone who did.

Lismar was still standing. Feeling oddly like he was following her commands, and not the other way around, he stood with her. “I appreciate your candor, General.”

She saluted. Precise, with a hint of a smile.

Was she mocking him? Surely not.

“I have every confidence we will do good work together, Lord Commander.”

Having been raised in the palace, Innel thought himself immune to the extravagances of wealth, but this, Etallan’s Great Room, where he sat at a table with Tok, Tok’s mother the eparch, and various others of the House, strained his indifference.

From high ceiling to floor to table, nothing was fashioned of wood or stone or cloth or leather, but only those substances that the Etallan charters oversaw directly: metal, ceramic, and glass. The chairs were heavy, some mix of metals; the floor a black tile edged with bronze. The ceiling was a stained glass map of Arunkel, bright with glinting dots showing Etallan’s mines. A starlike constellation.

The House’s devotion to its charter produce was obsessive. And, should Etallan lose the charters of the Lesser Houses of Glass and Keramos at the next Charter Court, a rather expensive bit of remodeling.

Around the table sat Tok, his mother, her husband, and a number of Tok’s siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Thus far the dinner had been full of flattering comments about the queen. Hot wine and succulent foods were offered first to him, so that he might have his choice of plates and glasses. He didn’t expect anyone to actually attempt to poison him, certainly not in the open like this, but this tradition of caution had been established some centuries ago. Now it was simply polite.

The eparch was a small woman with loose, shoulder-length, graying hair and a plump face with an easy smile. At her nod, Tok continued his introductions.

“And this is my second cousin, Eoinae, who, with the crown’s permission, would like to marry Nital’s Thvarn. And here, this—”

Tok continued around the room, highlighting various hoped-for couplings. Innel had reviewed familial names and relationships before he’d come, so he knew who each of these were, but it had not occurred to him that he would be lobbied to approve matches. He must stop this before it went further.

“You must know that only the queen can approve marriages.”

“Of course, of course,” the eparch said brightly. “We only want you to meet them, to see how happy they are—smile, Eoinae!”—The young woman obediently gave Innel a beaming, if somewhat forced, smile. “And thus, what fine children she would bear to better serve the crown.”

“Fine children,” Tok said, nodding firmly. “Well-suited for the Cohort.”

Innel looked his confusion at Tok. “The Cohort has been closed for years, Tokerae. What do you mean—” He fell suddenly silent, feeling foolish.

He meant the next Cohort, of course. The one that would be formed for the next heir. The heir Cern had yet to conceive.

With the myriad of issues he had been juggling, this had not even come into his mind. It would be poor form to say so, though. He could see why it would be on the minds of the Houses, who were used to thinking ahead. Having come into the Cohort from the outside, at the king’s command, it had not occurred to him that there must be maneuvering ahead of time. Far ahead of time.

“Ah,” Innel said, feeling oddly self-conscious at finding the outcome of his bedroom activities so openly discussed in this room of near-strangers. “It has been a busy time.”