The Sea of Time Page 5

  Dear Harn, it had read. Here is my sister. You know her propensities. Try to save as much of the Host as possible.

  “You know he isn’t going to be comfortable having her there as a subordinate when she should be in command,” said Grimly.

  “Not Jame.” Torisen was emphatic. “She doesn’t know enough.”

  “Neither did you at first, but people reacted to you nonetheless, even Harn, for all his scorn. The Knorth blood is old and strong.”

  Burr returned with an armload of the morning post before Torisen could answer. He regarded his servant’s burden with dismay; was he never to get to the bottom of these piles? Kirien had promised him a scrollsman scribe, an idea which he regarded with mixed feelings. Delegation of duty had never come easily to him, especially as Highlord when he no longer knew whom to trust. He drew out a parchment at random.

  “Huh. Dari is still petitioning to be made lordan regent of the Ardeth.”

  “Is the old lord in such bad shape?” asked Grimly.

  “I hope not.”

  But Adric was on the edge of going soft. If he died . . . no, when he died. The event was unthinkable, but inevitable.

  “You confirmed young Timmon as his heir.”

  “So I did and so I hold, although the boy is Pereden’s son. Jame sees something in him, though.”

  “Then you trust the lass’s judgment.”

  “To a point. She knew him at Tentir, but what does she know about politics?”

  He pulled out another message and scanned it, frowning. “Here’s one from Adric himself. Huh. Still matchmaking.”

  I would be less than a friend if I did not warn you, the note went on to say, and this part Tori did not read aloud to his friends. Your sister is a powerful Shanir. Others will be drawn to her, especially those Kendar whom you choose to bind so lightly, as though they would thank you for it. She may seduce them away despite themselves unless someone takes her firmly in hand. Now, my son Dari . . .

  Torisen put the rest of the letter aside.

  “The Knorth blood is old and strong,” Grimly had just said.

  Did that apply to Jame too? But she was just a girl, and Adric was an old man, starting at shadows.

  Still, the hair at the nape of his neck stirred.

  “Father says it’s dangerous to teach you anything,” he had once told her. “Will the things you learn always hurt people?”

  She had considered this. “As long as I learn, does it matter?”

  “It does to me. I’m always the one who gets hurt. Father says you’re dangerous. He says you’ll destroy me.”

  “That’s silly. I love you.”

  “Father says destruction begins with love.”

  Enough of that.

  He drew out another note, broke the seal, and opened it.

  “The Coman complain about the Edirr poaching on their side of the river. Sweet Trinity, can’t they manage their own territory?”

  Marc cleared his throat. “It’s a bit more serious than that. I hear that sometimes one of the Lords Edirr leads a raid himself, for the sheer devilment of it.”

  Torisen looked up sharply. “That’s dangerous. If Essien or Essiar should meet with an accident on Coman land, there’ll be Perimal to pay.”

  Burr fumbled with the scrolls, then held out one. “This has the Danior seal.”

  Torisen took it and read. “Cousin Holly reports sighting a yackcarn. Odd, that, so out of season. Also he killed a large, white wolf.”

  “With blue eyes?” Grimly asked sharply.

  “He doesn’t say. Surely he would if that were the case. Anyway, why to the north of us rather than to the south? It’s probably just a dire wolf from the hills.”

  “Or it could be the Gnasher.”

  They both looked at Yce, who was energetically scratching an ear. Grimly had come north to warn Torisen that the pup’s father—the King of the Deep Weald, formerly known in Kothifir as the Gnasher—had sworn that no heir of his would live and had been hunting Yce since the previous year.

  “Be careful,” said Grimly. “That brute is a soul-stalker as well as hellishly strong and vicious.”

  “Believe me, I remember.”

  He took another scroll with a Jaran seal and raised an eyebrow. Usually he heard from that house through its lordan, Kirien, who in turn tended to communicate by far-writing with the Jaran Matriarch Trishien currently in residence in Gothregor’s Women’s Halls. He broke the seal, unrolled it, read, and laughed. “Listen to this:

  “‘From Jedrak, temporary lord of the Jaran, to Torisen, Lord Knorth and Highlord of the Kencyrath, greetings.

  “‘An event occurred recently that may amuse you. Or not. Word reached us that a certain golden willow had been sighted on the border between Falkirr and Restormir. Why it should still be rampant in midsummer, long after the season for arboreal drift, I cannot say, unless said tree has developed a taste for rambling. Willows are sometimes like that.

  “‘At any rate, we tracked it down and were securing it—with much risk to life and limb, I might add—when up rode a party of Caineron, also on its trail. They protested that we were on Caineron land.’”

  “Another poaching story,” said Grimly, “one way or the other.”

  “Hush. ‘Luckily we had a singer with us who remembered an old song. Your revered great-grandfather once hunted this land while a guest of the Jaran. He had just killed a fat buck when up rode Caldane’s grandfather to claim that his arrow had struck it first. That may well have been, but the beast died on Jaran land, or so your great-grandfather decreed, conveniently close to a certain riverside cliff that serves as a notable landmark to this day. We were currently on top of it. “The Hunting of the Many-Tined Stag” is a lengthy song, full of witty flourishes poking fun at the Caineron, and the singer insisted that everyone listen to the end, even to join in on the choruses. Meanwhile, the willow snapped our bonds, churned its way across the Silver, and disappeared into the no-man’s-land on the other side between Wilden and Tentir. No one has seen it since.’”

  “Good,” said the wolver as Torisen let the scroll roll up. “I’ve gotten rather fond of that tree galumphing around the landscape.”

  “Not so good for the Caineron, though. Caldane is going to be furious. He already has a grudge against ‘singers’ fancies.’”

  Grimly scratched his shaggy head. “I’m confused. For one thing, since when have Highlords been able to determine boundaries? You couldn’t between the Randir and the Danior.”

  “I haven’t the authority that my great-grandfather had. Besides, east and west, domains are established by the Silver. North and south, however, boundaries depend more on the strength of the nearest houses. As you can imagine, the Caineron tend to push.”

  “I think you could match any of your forebearers if you put it to the test. Anyway, how could a song stop anyone, much less a Caineron?”

  “That,” said Torisen, “is part of the Kencyrath’s tangled legacy. I’ve told you how much knowledge we lost when we fled to this world. What we had left was largely oral, preserved by singers, with a few rare exceptions such as Anthrobar’s Scroll and Priam’s Codex, both since lost. Some of that has since been written down from memory, but much still exists only in songs and stories. You see the possibility for confusion. Once, we knew what was law and what was merely custom. Now that’s become muddled.”

  “So the Jaran used a song as a legal precedent, and made the Caineron sit through the singing of it.”

  “Exactly. They properly rubbed Caldane’s nose in his ignorance. Things get even more confusing when you consider the singer’s prerogative of the Lawful Lie. Take Ashe for example. I believe that she is true to the truth as she sees it, but how much of it is to be taken literally?”

  “I see what you mean. We wolvers are singers too, and true to our songs, but one betrayed lover can speak for many, or many for one.”

  “Just as Ashe makes one corpse speak for a company of the slain.”

  “Aye, th
at’s certain,” said Marc. “That song of hers about the battle at the Cataracts . . . I never liked killing. Now I like it considerably less. Then too, she’s a haunt, neither quite alive nor quite dead. Her point of view is probably unique in our entire history. What are the odds, though, that several generations hence what she says now will be believed implicitly, especially if someone writes it down?”

  “For people compelled to tell the truth,” said the wolver, “you’re in a fair mess, aren’t you?”

  Burr gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “Tell us about it. M’lord, I haven’t mentioned it yet, but you have a visitor waiting below.”

  “Only now you tell me?”

  The Kendar shrugged. “I hoped that the Jaran scroll would explain him, but maybe there’s no need. He’s your new scribe, fresh from Mount Alban.”

  Torisen sighed. “Then I had better greet him.”

  He went down the northwest spiral stair, past the low-ceilinged hall that Marc now used to store coal to feed the fires of his two tower kilns. His steps slowed as he approached the ground-level death banner hall. Beyond a doubt, he needed help with his correspondences. As commander of the Southern Host he had trusted Harn Grip-hard—no, face it: hardly anyone could make out Harn’s writing but him. But Harn was Harn. This would be a stranger. A possible spy. He could now see the legs of someone wearing a blue robe, narrow back turned. The scribe was examining the death banners, specifically that of Kinzi, the last Knorth matriarch. Another step down, and Torisen saw that his hair was a wild shock of white.

  The voice of his father woke in his soul-image with an outraged snarl: Of all insults . . . that Jaran bitch has sent you a filthy Shanir! Retreat now. Tell Burr to send him away.

  Too late. The other had heard his foot on the stair and turned around with a tentative smile.

  It was his cousin Kindrie.

  CHAPTER III

  Summer Solstice

  Summer 66

  I

  THE SUMMER SOLSTICE arrived eleven days later.

  In the north among the Merikit, the Earth Wife’s chosen one, Hatch, would fight to keep her favor. Jame wondered, though, if he would try very hard, given how he had avoided the role during her year at the college when she herself had held that position. She also wondered about the Merikit girl Prid, Hatch’s beloved, and about the new crop of babies credited to her, Jame, from her stint as the Favorite. It was odd to think about her growing family in the hills when among the Knorth she only had her brother and cousin Kindrie as blood-kin. Here in this distant land, she missed them all.

  The question remained, though: should she visit Kothifir on this of all days? Did she want to risk getting mixed up with the elemental Four again, assuming they had any role in this city at all? So far, she had only met the Old Pantheon goddess Mother Vedia and such New Pantheon deities as Krothen and Ruso. The suspicion nagged, though, that if the Kencyrath was to make a real home anywhere on Rathillien, it had to come to terms with that world’s native powers, and no one but Jame seemed to be making that effort.

  Anyway, she was curious.

  And by good fortune, the sixty-sixth of Summer happened to fall on one of the cadets’ free days.

  Hence by midmorning Jame again found herself Overcliff, at the foot of the avenue that curved inward away from the Rim. The street swarmed with people, mostly apprentices gay in their holiday attire, bedecked with ribbons denoting their guild alliances. The shop shutters were closed against their boisterous nature, although many had set up small stands out front to sell the holiday makers refreshments and trinkets in honor of the day. There were also many spectators, mostly pushed to the side or leaning over balconies above. From the excited overall roil, it appeared that the crowd was waiting for something.

  “Come to join the run?” asked a voice in Jame’s ear.

  She turned to find Kroaky loitering at her elbow, festooned, it seemed, with the ribbons of every guild in the city. He grinned down at her from his lanky height.

  “What run?”

  “Look. Tell me what you see.”

  Jame scanned the mob. It was made up of young men and women but also of child apprentices in their own huddles. Now she saw that similar ribbons clustered together and that one in each group carried something golden—a glove, a carved piece of wood, a fire-iron, each apparently the emblem of their guild.

  “Look,” said Kroaky again, and pointed at a walkway over the street. Three figures stood there. Ruso, Lord Artifice, blazed in his red armor. Beside him stood a plump youngster in a white tunic whom Jame recognized as Lady Professionate. The tall, elderly man stooping next to her must therefore be Lord Merchandy.

  The latter spoke to the crowd, but his thin voice was inaudible this far back. Kroaky grabbed Jame’s wrist and tugged her toward the front of the crowd of spectators. Lord Merchandy gestured, and the child ’prentices pushed forward chattering like so many sparrows. Then a silence fell on them and they tensed. A white handkerchief fluttered down. When it hit the ground, they rushed forward, many of them carried off their feet in the crush. The crowd roared. The hurtling youngsters took a sharp left into the next side avenue, trailed by someone’s crying toddler. Birds fluttered up as the runners pursued their torturous course through the canyons of the city and distant onlookers cheered their progress.

  Lady Professionate spoke next. Stray words reached Jame as she neared: “. . . city . . . guild . . . honor . . .”

  The young women among the runners pushed to the front. Down flitted another white cloth and off they went, this time turning right onto the next side street.

  Kroaky put his hands on Jame’s shoulders. “Now comes the main event, a straight dash to the central plaza.”

  The young men jostled forward. As with the previous groups, each centered protectively about someone carrying something golden, but at the edges fights had already begun with the neighboring clusters of apprentices. This race was shaping up to be a running battle before it even started.

  Ruso addressed the boys in his booming voice: “For the honor of your city, your guild, and the Great Mother whose day this is . . . here now, wait for it!”

  One group, jumping the signal, had surged forward. It checked and drew back to jeers from the others. Ruso waited a beat longer until it was in position, and then down came his handkerchief.

  Simultaneously, Jame felt Kroaky’s hands tighten on her shoulders and thrust her forward into the surge.

  It knocked her off her feet. Bodies tumbled over her, cursing, kicking, until she fought free and managed to scramble up. Even then, the run carried her along with it. She had surfaced between two battling guild groups. Boys on either side pummeled each other between strides, then sprinted to catch up with their standard bearers. Jame wove between their fists. Never before had she used water-flowing and wind-blowing on the run. Her main goal was to avoid being trampled, but in doing so she found herself slipping through the crowd toward the lead runners. They were nearing the plaza. Suddenly a boy in front of her tripped and his precious cargo flew out of his hands. Coming up behind, Jame caught the golden boot. Its protectors re-formed around her.

  “Run, run, RUN!” they panted.

  The plaza lay just ahead. In another moment she would burst into it.

  “. . . the Great Mother,” Ruso had said, “whose day this is . . .”

  Oh no. Not again.

  Jame thrust the gilded boot into the arms of the red-haired boy who ran next to her and tried to brake. Those following carried her forward, a pace behind the redhead. Thus they rushed into the plaza, just before the girls erupted from a street to the right and the children from one to the left.

  Everyone was shouting. His friends seized the redhead and hoisted him, dazed, still clutching the golden boot, onto their shoulders. They started a boisterous procession around the Rose Tower, followed by the other apprentices wildly waving their ribbons. The noise was an assault in itself.

  Jame eased out of the crush. On its edge, a lean hand with gri
my nails reached out to pull her clear. She found herself looking into Graykin’s wrathful eyes.

  “Just what were you trying to do?” he demanded, all but shaking her.

  “Not get killed, primarily.”

  Kroaky shouldered his way through the crowd of cheering onlookers.

  “There you are,” he said with a wide grin, “and you too, Master Intelligencer.”

  Jame took in Graykin’s dusty robe and the dirty white sash bound around his waist, this time understanding the latter’s significance.

  “You’re the master of the Spies’ Guild? How did that happen?”

  Graykin fussed with the sash, half proud, half defiant. “I’d just arrived here and joined the guild when the last Change came. Believe me, I was more surprised than anyone to be chosen.”

  “It’s been known to happen,” said Kroaky cheerfully. “Look at Lady Professionate. Just be careful which of his questions you answer, Talisman.”

  “You can compel the truth now?” Jame asked.

  Her servant squirmed. “As Master Intelligencer, from the unwary, yes. I swore that I would never use tricks with you and I won’t. However . . .”

  “You would really, really like to try.”

  “You never tell me anything!” he burst out. “For example, why did this boy just call you ‘Talisman’?”

  Jame almost told him, but stopped herself.

  “I’ll answer as I see fit, thank you. As for you,” she turned on Kroaky, “why did you shove me into that maelstrom?”

  The ginger-haired boy shrugged. “For fun. Why else does anyone do anything? Besides, I hear that you Knorth are remarkably hard to kill. Consider it a test.” He took her arm. “Now come along if you want to see how these festivities end. But not you,” he added to Graykin. “You aren’t welcome where we’re going.”

  II

  LEAVING GRAYKIN BEHIND to melt resentfully back into the shadows, Jame let Kroaky tow her through the crowd, then shook off his hand. “Where are we going, and why do you keep touching me?”

  “Don’t you like it? Fang does.”