PART ONE - A BLADE IN THE SOUL Chapter 1
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IUMN SEASON OF THE WINE, WORD WENT FORTH from among the cypresses and olives and the laden vines of his try estate that Sandre, Duke of Astibar, once ruler of that city and its province, had drawn the last bitter breath of his exile and age and died.No servants of the Triad were by his side to speak their rituals at his end. Not the white-robed priests of Eanna, nor those of dark Morian of Portals, nor the priestesses of Adaon, the god.
There was no particular surprise in Astibar towhese tidings came with the word of the Dukes passing. Exiled Sandres rage at the Triad and its clergy through the last eighteen years of his life was far from being a secret. And impiety had never been a thing from which Sandre dAstibar, even in the days of his power, had shied away.
The city was overflowing with people from the outlying distrada and far beyond on the eve of the Festival of Vines. In the crowded taverns and khav rooms truths and lies about the Duke were traded bad forth like wool and spice by folk who had never seen his fad who would have once paled with justifiable terror at a summons to the Ducal court in Astibar.
All his days Duke Sandre had occasioalk and speculation through the whole of the peninsula men called the Palm—and there was nothing to alter that fact at the time of his dying, for all that Alberico of Barbadior had e with an army from that Empire overseas and exiled Sao the distrada eighteen years before. When power is gohe memory of power lingers.
Perhaps because of this, aainly because he teo be cautious and circumspe all his ways, Alberico, who held four of the nine provinces in an iron grip and was vying with Brandin of Ygrath for the ninth, acted with a precise regard for protocol.
By noon of the day the Duke died, a messenger from Alberico was seen to have ridden out by the eastern gate of the city. A messenger bearing the blue-silver banner of m and carrying, no one doubted, carefully chosen words of doleo Sandres children and grandchildren now gathered at their broad estate seven miles beyond the walls.
In The Paelion, the khav room where the wittier sort were gathering that season, it was ically observed that the Tyrant would have been more likely to send a pany of his own Barbadian meraries—not just a single message-bearer—were the living Sandreni not such a feckless lot. Before the appreciative, eye-to-who-might-be-lis-tening, ripple of amusement at that had quite died away, oi musi—there were scores of them in Astibar that week—had offered to wager all he might earn ihree days to e, that from the Island of Chiara would arrive dolences in verse before the Festival was over.
"Too ri opportunity," the rash newer explained, cradling a steaming mug of khav laced with one of the dozen or so liqueurs that lihe shelves behind the bar of The Paelion. "Brandin will be incapable of letting slip a ce like this to remind Alberico— and the rest of us—that though the two of them have divided our peninsula the share of art and learning is quite tilted west towards Chiara. Mark my words—and wager who will—well have a knottily rhymed verse from stout Doarde or some silly acrostic thing of as to puzzle out, with Sandre spelled six ways and backwards, before the music stops in Astibar three days from now.”
There was laughter, though again it was guarded, even on the eve of the Festival, when a long tradition that Alberico of Barbadior had circumspectly indulged allowed more lise than elsewhere in the year. A few men with heads fures did some rapid calculations of sailing-time and the ces of the autumn seas north of Senzio provind down through the Archipelago, and the musi found his wager quickly covered and recorded on the slate on the wall of The Paelion that existed for just such a purpose in a city proo gambling.
But shortly after that all wagers and mog chatter were fotten. Someone in a steep cap with a
curled feather flung open the doors of the khav room, shouted for attention, and when he had it reported that the Tyrants messenger had just been seeurning through the same eastern gate from which he had so lately sallied forth. That the messenger was riding at an appreciably greater speed than hitherto, and that, not three miles to his rear was the funerary process<var></var>ion of Duke Sandre dAstibar being brought by his last request to lie a night and a day in state iy he once had ruled.
In The Paelion the rea was immediate and predictable: men began shouting fiercely to be heard over the dihemselves were causing. Noise and politid the anticipated pleasures of the Festival made for a thirsty afternoon. So brisk was his trade that the excitable proprietor of The Paelion began iently serving full measures of liqueur in the laced khavs being ordered in profusion. His wife, of more phlegmatic disposition, tio short-measure all her patrons with benevolent lack of favoritism.
"Theyll be turned back!" young Adreano the poet cried, decisively banging down his mug and sloshing hot khav over the dark oak table of The Paelions largest booth. "Alberico will never allow it!”
There were growls of assent from his friends and the hangers-on who always clustered about this particular table.
Adreano stole a gla the traveling musi whod made the brash wager on Brandin of Ygrath and his court poets on Chiara. The fellow, looking highly amused, his eyebrows quizzically arched, leaned bafortably in the chair he had brazenly pulled up to the booth some time ago. Adrea seriously offended by the man, and didnt know whether his umbrage had been more aroused by the musis so-casual assertion of Chiaras preeminen culture, or by his flippant dismissal of the great a di Chiara whom Adreano had been assiduously imitating for the past half-year: both in the fashion of his verses and the wearing of a three-layered cloak by day and night.
Adreano was intelligent enough to be aware that there might be a tradi i iwinned sources of ire, but he was also young enough and had drunk a more than suffit quantity of khav laced with Senzian brandy, for that awareo remain well below the level of his scious thoughts.
Which remained focused on this presumptuous rustic. The man had evidently journeyed into the city to saw or pluck for three days at some try instrument or other in exge for a handful of astins to squa the Festival. How did such a fellow dare sail into the most fashionable khav room in the Eastern Palm and thump his rural behind down onto a chair at the most coveted table in that room?
Adreano still carried painfully vivid memories of the long month it had taken him—even after his first verses had appeared in print—to circle warily closer, fling inwardly at apprehended rebuffs, before he became a member of the seled well-known circle that had a claim upon this booth.
He found himself actually hoping that the musi would presume to tradict his opinion: he had a choice couplet already prepared, about rabble of the road spewing views on their betters in the pany of their betters.
As if oo that thought, the fellow slumped even more fortably ba his chair, stroked a prematurely silvered temple with a long finger and said, directly to Adreano, "This seems to be my afternoon fers. Ill risk everything Im about to win oher matter that Alberico is too cautious to ruffle the mood of the Festival over this. There are too many people in Astibar right now and spirits are running too high even with the half-measured drinks they serve io people who should know better.”
He grio take some of the sting from the last words. "Far better for the Tyrant to be gracious,”
he went on. "To lay his old enemy ceremoniously to rest ond for all, and then offer thanks to whatever gods his Emperor overseas is the Barbadians to worship these days. Thanks and s, for he be certain that the geldings Sandres left behind will be pleasingly swift to abandon the unfashionable pursuit of freedom that Saood for in un-gelded Astibar.”
By the end of his speech he was not smiling, nor did the wide-set grey eyes look away from
Adreanos own.
And here, for the first time, were truly dangerous words. Softly spoken, but they had been heard by everyone in the booth, and suddenly their er of The Paelion became an unnaturally quiet space amid the unchecked din everywhere else in the room. Adreanos derisive couplet, so swiftly posed, now seemed trivial and inappropriate in his own ears. He said nothing, his heart beating curiously fast. With some effort he kept his gaze on the musis.
Who added, the crooked smile returning, "Do we have a wager, friend?”
Parrying for time while he rapidly began calculating how many astins he could lay palms on by eriain friends, Adreano said, "Would you care to enlighten us as to why a farmer from the distrada is so free with his moo e and with his views on matters such as this?”
The others smile widened, showing even white teeth. "Im no farmer," he protested genially, "nor from your distrada either. Im a shepherd from up in the south Tregea mountains and Ill tell you a thing.”
The grey eyes swung round, amused, to include the entire booth. "A flock of sheep will teaore about men than some of us would like to think, and goats . . . well, goats will do better than the priests of Morian to make you a philosopher, especially if youre out on a mountain in rain chasing after them with thunder and night ing on together.”
There was genuine laughter around the booth, abetted somewhat by the release of tension. Adreano tried unsuccessfully to keep his own expression sternly repressive.
"Have we a wager?" the shepherd asked one more time, his manner friendly and relaxed.
Adreano was saved the o reply, and several of his friends were spared an amount of grief and lost astins by the arrival, even more precipitous than that of the feather-hatted tale-bearer, of Nerohe painter.
"Albericos given permission!" he trumpeted over the roar in The Paelion. "Hes just decreed that Sandres exile ended when he died. The Dukes to lie in state tomorrow m at the old Sandreni Palad have a full-honors funeral with all nine of the rites! Provided"—he paused dramatically— "provided the clergy of the Triad are allowed in to do their part of it.”
The implications of all this were simply toe for Adreano to brood much upon his own loss of face—young, overly impetuous poets had that happen to them every sed hour or so. But these— these were great events! His gaze, for some reasouro the shepherd. The mans expression was mild and ied, but certainly not triumphant.
"Ah well," the fellow said with a rueful shake of his head, "I suppose being right will have to pensate me for being poor—the story of my life, I fear.”
Adreano laughed. He clapped the portly, breathless Nerone on the bad shifted over to make room for the painter. "Eanna bless us both," he said to him. "You just saved yourself more astins than you have. I would have touched you to make a wager I would have just lost with your tidings.”
By way of reply Nerone picked up Adreanos half-full khav mug and drai at a pull. He looked around optimistically, but the others in the booth were guarding their drinks, knowing the painters habits very well. With a chuckle the dark-haired shepherd frea proffered his own mug. Self-taught o query largesse, Nerone quaffed it down. He did murmur a thank-you when the khav was drained.
Adreano he exge, but his mind was rag down unfamiliar els to an ued clusion.
"You have also," he said abruptly, addressing Nero speaking to the booth at large, "just reaffirmed how shrewd the Barbadian sorcerer ruling us is. Alberico has now succeeded, with one decree, in tightening his bonds with the clergy of the Triad. Hes placed a perfect dition upon the granting of the Dukes last wish. Sandres heirs will have to agree—not that theyd ever not agree to something—and I t even begin to guess how many astins its going>９9ｌｉb?</a> to cost them to assuage the priests and priestesses enough to get them into the San-dreni Palaorrow m. Alberico will now be known as the man
whht the renegade Duke of Astibar back to the grace of the Triad at his death.”
He looked around the booth, excited by the force of his own reasoning. "By the blood of Adaon, it reminds me of the intrigues of the old days whehing was doh this much subtlety! Wheels within the wheels that guided the fate line of the whole peninsula.”
"Well, now," said the Tregean, his expression turning grave, "that may be the cleverest insight weve had this noisy day. But tell me," he went on, as Adreano flushed with pleasure, "if what Albericos done has just reminded you—and others, Ive no doubt, though not likely as swiftly—of the way of things in the days before he sailed here to quer, and before Brandin took Chiara and the western provihen is it not possible"—his voice was low, for Adreanos ears alone in the riot of the room—"that he has been outplayed at this game after all? Outplayed by a dead man?”
Around them men were <bdo>.９9lｉｂ?</bdo>rising aling their ats in loud haste to be outside, where events of magnitude seemed to be unfolding so swiftly. The eastern gate was where everyone was going, to see the Sandreni bring their dead lord home after eighteen years. A quarter of an hour earlier, Adreano would have been on his feet with the others, sweeping on his triple cloak, rag to reach the gate in time food viewing post. Not now. His brai to follow the Tregeans voice down this new pathway, and uanding flashed in him like a rushlight in darkness.
“You see, don’t you?" his new acquaintance said flatly. They were alo the booth. Nerone had lio precipitously drain whatever khav had bee unfinished in the rush for the doors and had then followed the others out into the autumn sunshine and the breeze.
“I think I do,” Adreano said, w it out. “Sandre wins by losing.
“By losing a battle he never really cared about,” the other amended, a keenness in his grey eyes. “I doubt the clergy ever mattered to him at all. They weren’t his enemy. However subtle Alberiay be, the fact is that he won this provind Tregea and Ferraut aando because of his army and his sorcery, and he holds the Eastern Palm only through those things. Sandre d’Astibar ruled this city and its province for twenty-five years through half a dozen rebellions and assassination attempts that I’ve heard of. He did it with only a handful of sometimes loyal troops, with his family, and with a guile that was legendary even then. What would you say to the suggestion that he refused to let the priests and priestesses into his death-room last night simply to induce Alberico to seize that as a face-saving dition today?
Adreano didn’t know what he would say. What he did know was that he was feeling a zest, aement, that left him left him unsure whether what he wanted just then was a sword in his hand or a quill and ink to write down the words that were starting to tumble about inside him.
"What do you think will happen,"<dfn>99lｉｂ?</dfn> he asked, with a deferehat would have astonished his friends.
"Im not sure," the other said frankly. "But I have a growing suspi that the Festival of Vihis year may see the beginning of something none of us could have expected.”
He looked for a moment as if he would say more than that, but did not.
Instead he rose, king a jumble of s onto the table to pay for his khav. "I must go. Rehearsal-time: Im with a pany Ive never played with before. Last years plague caused havoc among the traveling musis— thats how I got my reprieve from the goats.”
He grihen glanced up at the wager board on the wall. "Tell your friends Ill be here before suhree days from now to settle the matter of Chiaras poetidolences. Farewell for now.”
"Farewell," Adreano said automatically, and watched as the other walked from the almost empty room.
The owner and his wife were moving about colleg mugs and glasses and wiping dowables and benches. Adreano signaled for a last drink. A moment later, sipping his khav—uhis time to clear his head—he realized that hed fotten to ask the musi his name.
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