Trial of Intentions (47 page)

“I'll do that,” Tahn said, imagining that he might, in fact, need Martin at some point—the man considered the discourse theaters where arguments were made as just another stage to play. He then caught a look of Rithy's face. Mention of Succession had stolen the smile she'd been wearing.

A new voice startled them all. “I could use a bit of fun in the theaters, myself.”

Tahn turned to see a stranger standing less than two strides away, a pleasant smile on his face. He gave them all a look like he belonged to their conversation.

“Darius Franck,” Rithy said, announcing the man. “Philosopher. Leagueman. Jackass.”

Tahn kept himself from laughing.

“Ah, Gwen Alanes.” Darius stepped forward, pulling gloves from his hands one finger at a time. “It's very interesting to hear you're going to be party to a Succession. Given your unfortunate history with the process.”

Martin raised one of his beefy limbs. “You can close your gob, if you're going to use it that way. These here are friends of mine, and I don't give a piss for anyone in my place who won't respect that.”

Darius held up his arms as one being robbed. “Peace. Peace. I was entitled to one barb for the jackass comment, wouldn't you say?”

Martin held his tongue on that, but had a cudgel-like hold on his skyglass.

Darius looked Tahn up and down once. “So this is Tahn SeFerry? Refiner of skyglass parabolas. Finder of planets who lose their way. Kissing boy for savants in their glass towers. Skittish mule who runs when things get tragic.”

Martin lifted the skyglass threateningly.

Tahn put a hand on the glass, gently pushing it down. “You have me at a disadvantage. All I know about you is you're a jackass.”

“I believe Gwen said philosopher and leagueman,” Darius corrected.

“That's what I said.” Tahn smiled and drew the moment out for effect. “… jackass.”

“I see.” Darius cleared his throat and set his feet like an orator—probably the only offensive stance he knew. “Then, you'd know nothing about another young man by the name of Tahn Junell who goes about shooting children and dismissing it as an unfortunate circumstance of battle.”

The Quiet don't always fight in open battle,
Vendanj had said.
They will use our own kind against us, spread rumors.

Tahn marveled that the rumors had spread this far in just a few handfuls of days. But he didn't marvel long. The effect of the verbal barb was like a coward's punch—made while one's opponent isn't looking—and left Tahn a bit dumbstruck.

“What do you want, Darius?” Rithy made his name sound like a blight on all of philosophy.

“Answers,” he said glibly. “There are stories on the road. And then our long-lost astronomer shows up seeking a Succession of Arguments. I'm just trying to reconcile these rather disparate happenings.”

Tahn finally found his voice. “Makes sense to me.”

“Ah, a reasonable fellow,” Darius said, his tone thick with condescension.

“Of course, that's the work of philosophy.” Tahn gestured comically. “Since you don't actually do any real science, you feel it's your place to reconcile the work of those who do. Perfectly understandable.”

Darius's smile never faltered. “And yet we occupy and manage twenty percent of Grove assets—”

“Sounds like you ought to be a moneylender,” Tahn said, smiling back.

Darius was nodding the way a man does when he's enjoying a good debate. “What will be your topic for Succession, then, if I may ask?”

“Well, see, I'd explain it to you, but it involves theoretical math. And it sounds to me like you're best with share numbers and profit margins. How's the Grove export business these days on philosophy tracts. Brisk? Or does the Grove make her money on actual scientific knowledge … as. It always. Has.”

Martin spewed laughter, sending a sizeable bit of spittle onto Darius's forehead. The philosopher removed a kerchief as decorously as possible and wiped the spit away, making a gift of the kerchief to Martin.

Amazingly, he'd never lost his smile. It grew more tense, appearing harder to keep on—Tahn figured it was because of the spittle—but if he were any judge, the prospect of a worthy rival actually thrilled Darius.

“I love a good mystery to solve as much as anyone,” said Darius, “even a murdering astronomer. I'll wait for the formal announcement, then. And I have to tell you”—he leaned in toward Tahn—“I hope you get past the Colleges of Physics and Mathematics.”

“Because you think I'll lose to the College of Philosophy in turn?” Tahn surmised, shaking his head at the obviousness.

“No,” Darius said, clapping him on the back. “Because you'll lose to
me.
I'm the lead panelist for Succession in our college.”

“Is that all, then?” Tahn asked, clapping Darius on the back in return.

Darius trimmed his smile to something more officious. “Well, not really; you see, I'm here in a somewhat formal capacity.”

“Oh?” Rithy rounded on Darius.

“Yes, and not as a philosopher, which should please you, but as a member of the League.” Darius stepped closer to Tahn, his expression becoming serious. He looked at Rithy and Martin. “Did you know Tahn here is a friend to known outlaws and exiles? He, himself, has recently been held in the pits of Solath Mahnus. I'm the ranking leagueman in the Grove, and my charge is to help keep her safe, administer her laws.” He gave a thin smile. “And I will do just that … with every means at my disposal.”

“Threats? In an astronomy shop?” Tahn laughed. “How long have you been waiting to catch me out in public?”

Darius's face brightened to its former jovial look. “Just so we're clear, my friend. The politics of the Grove are unique. A complex mix of science and law. Let's keep you on the right side of things, shall we? You wouldn't want to jeopardize whatever Succession you plan to bring.”

The threat in Darius's last words hit Tahn hard.

Darius then bowed to Rithy, saluted Martin, and tapped his temple in farewell to Tahn.
Keep your wits,
he seemed to be saying.

Darius positively strolled from Perades, whistling as he went. When he was gone, the astronomy shop seemed rather too quiet.

“Well, you
were
the best, my young friend,” Martin observed, jokingly.

“He's that good?” Tahn asked.

Rithy answered for them both, “I hate to say it, but yes.” She then turned to him. “When were you planning to tell us about these fascinating friends of yours—outlaws, exiles?”

Tahn pointed after Darius. “He makes it sound quite different from the reality.”

“As he will to Grove savants, if we give him an excuse,” Rithy countered.

“Okay, peace. I'll give you the lowdown on all my friends, since it's of such great interest.” He smiled. “But I wouldn't worry about it.”

Martin put a hand on Tahn's shoulder. “Just mind that bit about jeopardizing Succession. Darius might be able to do it. Walk on your toes.”

“Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. We haven't even asked for Succession yet.” Tahn was feeling rather in good spirits.

“Right. And we need to catch you up if you're going to get back in the game.” Martin showed a competitive grin and ushered Tahn to the chalkboard behind him. “Let's get right to it, shall we?”

Martin stroked his thin grey beard, a glint of glee and caution in his eyes as he looked around his shop, making sure they were alone. Afterward, he raised a hand and fingered a simple hook latch on one side of the chalkboard. With a slight push, the chalkboard rolled up, revealing a second slate behind it. Another wave of remembrance hit Tahn, who'd seen this hidden board before, long ago.

Martin said nothing, allowing Tahn to read what had been written there in yellow chalk. The observations were coupled with several mathematical equations. Beside him, Tahn heard Rithy make a sound in her throat. Surprise? Concern?

They were computations that might explain the stray course of Pliny Soray—the cause of her departure from her orbit.

He turned to Martin. “Are you the only one who knows this? Why do you keep it hidden?”

His old friend laid a finger aside his nose. “That, my young friend, is a very good question. And one I'll happily answer. But not here. Not now. You go about your way, and keep remembering what is left unremembered, and if you still want to know, find me after any sundown in any of the usual places.”

Tahn studied the numbers a while more. His math wasn't as strong as Martin's, and certainly not as strong as Rithy's, but what he thought he saw there might tie to the reason the Quiet were able to cross the Pall and attack Naltus. Might tie to Pliny Soray's stray course.

Martin then held out a small ring dial—a kind of portable version of an armillary sundial. “You'll let me give you this much, eh?”

Tahn smiled and took the dial, a simple tool to mark the time. The rings folded flat so that it could be carried in the pocket, but that was not why Martin had given it to him. He could see it in the man's eyes as Tahn stowed the ring inside his shirt. This dial had a movable gnomon to cast its shadow. The advantage of such a tool is that the gnomon didn't have to be aligned with the celestial poles. The meaning of the gift was clear, and a bit like Martin himself—since he hated to be forced to align with anything.

Tahn's smile widened. “Itinerant gnomon for an itinerant Gnomon. Clever.”

Rather unceremoniously, Martin pulled down the outer chalkboard, latched it, and returned to his desk, where he placed spectacles on this nose and bent forward to stare into a quadrant map.

Tahn smiled at this, too. Rithy, though … she still had a look of concern, staring at the chalkboard as if she still saw the math on the hidden slate.

Looking with her, Tahn suddenly noticed the scrawl on the top piece of slate. “Martin, is this right?”

His old friend looked up from his map as Tahn pointed. “Ayeah. Somewhat rare, but not nearly as interesting as what I showed you on the inner slate.” His nose returned to his map.

“What?” Rithy said, obviously hearing the concern in his voice. “It shows the date and time of the lunar eclipse.”

“But of the second moon,” Tahn said. “I saw the eclipse of the first moon not long ago. They don't usually follow one another like this.”

“No,” she agreed. “But like Martin said, it's not
unheard of,
either.”

Tahn stared at the slate, probing for connections. The first lunar eclipse had occurred when the Quiet came to Naltus. If these two things were related, then that eclipse had brought thousands of Quiet through the Veil. And the second moon, Ardua, while smaller in the night sky, was denser. Tides flowed farther in and out at her phases. If his budding supposition held any merit, they needed to get to work. And fast. In part because of Ardua, but more so because of the observations scrawled on the secret slate. And they were on a fixed clock until the next eclipse. Until another Quiet army …

“Let's go,” he said, and got moving. His muscles protested his vigor, but he struggled through the pain. There were inquiries to make, and it felt damn good to be about it.

He'd forgotten the man standing across the street before they'd even left Perades.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Everything's a Fight

The dysphonic vocal approach is often considered only a battle technique. Not so. Think of it more as “unyielding.” In that light, it has every use you can imagine.

—Advanced Vocal Theory, Descant Cathedral, a rare course of instruction, premised off of Mor stylings

W
endra entered the music room to find Belamae sitting in a lone chair amidst the clutter and wreckage of yesterday's vocal lesson. Most regrettably, the beautiful old instruments had been destroyed. He waited with a sullen look as though he'd been there a long time, thinking. To one side, Telaya knelt, gathering pieces of a shattered lute—something she did with care.

“That will do, Telaya.” Belamae was nodding. “Leave it be.”

“But Maesteri, the instruments need to be gathered—”

“I'll see to it,” he told her. “But thank you.”

Telaya nodded deferentially, stood, and started across the room. When she came abreast of Belamae she stopped. “Will you be coming?”

“Soon,” he said. “Have Luela look after Dalyn and make him comfortable until we arrive.” He then wiped his forehead with a kerchief.

Telaya leaned in. “Maesteri, are you all right?”

After a moment he smiled and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I'll be fine.”

Telaya nodded, and before leaving the music room, shot Wendra a look of contempt.

Once the door shut behind her, Wendra sighed with relief. “I'm not making a lot of friends.”

Belamae smiled as he said, “Telaya's been assigned as your personal music mentor.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

His smile widened some. “Telaya's only real affection is music. And she works harder than most—maybe harder than anyone—at perfecting the techniques we teach her.” He cocked his head a moment. “Hard to fault her for that, I guess. But she's Lyren—doesn't have the Leiholan gift—which is something she simmers about.”

“Seemed more than that,” Wendra observed.

“It's been a rough morning already.” Belamae shuffled into a new position behind a harpsichord. “One of the Leiholan, Dalyn, fell during Suffering. The Song got the better of him. He had to be replaced.”

Belamae seemed done with the topic, as he poised to run a scale on the harpsichord. She interrupted before he could begin.

“Maesteri, I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't—”

“Never mind about it,” Belamae returned dismissively. “I told you, training Leiholan has its risks.”