Michael A. Stackpole (9 page)

I drifted toward the wall with swords and daggers. Two of the knives had wickedly barbed blades and the ghostly image of a man on them.
“Vindictxvara.
It is true, then, what Roarke told me about Chaos—that Chademons make weapons with the image of their enemies on them. Were these made to kill my father?”

“Master Cardew said the artisans should have been better, and their chosen medium larger, had they truly wanted to get him.”

1 reached out to touch one of them, then shivered and let my hand drop away. Roarke had said Kothvir had forged a sword with father’s image on it.
Did the
t
h
e demon
n hear
of
my
fa
ther’s boast and accommodate him, or did he /iisl consider my father that much greater a threat?

lames led the way to the bedroom. “This is where you will be sleeping, Master Lachlan.”

The bedroom had also been painted in the goldenrod hue, but here it was far more visible and made the room seem larger than it really was. The large bed, set with headboard against the house’s front wall, took up most of the space. To the right of the doorway stood a chest of drawers and beyond it a small table with pitcher and bowl on it. To the left, built into the wall facing the bed, I saw shelves lined with books. I turned to face them and slowly started reading the titles to myself.

The servant squinted at me, then walked over to a drape-shrouded window beyond the table and pitcher. “You are more slender than your father was at your age. I believe we have some of his clothing still here that will fit you, at least until we can have proper clothing made for you.” His nostrils flared slightly. “I took the liberty of sorting out your clothing from your saddlebags and had most of it burned.”

“It wasn’t
that
dirty.” I had, after all, washed most things two weeks earlier in the City of Sorcerers. I
guess they are very particular here in the capital.
“I told my grandmother that I needed to bathe.”

“Nob has drawn water for a bath down in the kitchen and, by now, should even have the water heated enough so you will not freeze to death. While you are down there I will select proper attire for you.” He looked at my scuffed riding boots. “Leave those here with me, and I will have Nob polish them. We cannot have you going about in them this evening.”

1 frowned. “I can appreciate my clothing being road-worn and perhaps not as stylish as might be found in the Empire, but I hardly think it improper. Is there something going on that I do not know about?”

lames smiled broadly. “My dear boy, this is the first day of the final week of the year. Tonight begins a series of parties and celebrations that will culminate in the Emperor’s Bear’s Eve Ball.”

“I know. That is why I am here.”

“Yes, well, what you do not know is that tonight your grandmother is hosting a party for many important people, including the Emperor’s Warlord.” He opened his hands as if to say everything else was obvious.

“And you cannot have me looking the country bumpkin.”

“You understand me perfectly, Master Lachlan.”

“Then 1 put myself in your hands.”

The old servant smiled. “Good. Leave your boots and go boil yourself. After that we will make a gentleman out of you.”

_S

tanding there in front of the mirror hung on the back of the door, wearing clothes made for my father, 1 finally began to see what others had told me for as long as I could remember. In a way, when I held my head high and turned it to the right a bit, 1 did look like him, but only just barely. James stood behind me and 1 smiled when 1 saw his reflection nod solemnly. If it were a jury trial, I would have been convicted.

In reality, my confusion was not that odd. My father had been lost in Chaos when I was still just a wee babe. I never saw him, so my impressions of what he looked like came from a legion of diverse sources. Some, like the stone statue that was part of the monument for my mother, were made by people who had actually known Cardew. Others, from anonymous wood carvings to a bronze statue in miniature, were made by artisans who were working from stories and their own imaginations.

Forever and ever my image of Cardew had come from the statue of him that watched over my mother’s grave. Literally larger than life, his eyes had the steady gaze of a hawk, and the beard tracing his jawline did not soften the angularity of his face at all. Heavy of chest and thighs, he stood poised, watching and waiting for my mother to join him, though I had always imagined him waiting for his sons to ride into battle at his side.

Unlike my brothers, 1 often found myself thinking of our father as Cardew the hero, not my father. For a while I felt like an outsider because of that, then 1 told Geoff about how I felt. As per usual he laughed away my concerns and explained it to me very succinctly. Because I did not remember our father, my total experience of him had come in the stories told by villagers and Aunt Ethelin. No one, in telling stories of Cardew, stressed his family life—other than to say he loved his wife. The stories in which he lived were grand tales of magick and battles and Chaos.

“You have to remember, Locke,” Geoff told me, “any hero would pale in comparison to the stories told about him. All you have to remember about our father is that he was real and he loved us. If he lived in our memory in that way, I think he would be happy.”

I had no doubt my brother was right in his assessment—and he’d been eight at the time of our father’s disappearance, so he did have strong memories of him. Even so, Geoff’s assurances did little to lighten the burden we inherited from Cardew. We were the sons of a
hero,
and from the first my grandfather seemed intent on training us to accept that mantle.

But
am
1
a suitable candidate to do that?

James coughed lightly. “The tunic and trousers are suitable, if a touch large. Here, try on this jacket.”

James might have felt the clothes were appropriate, but I found them somewhat annoying. The black trousers came all the way up to cover me nearly to my breastbone and were held up by suspenders. Of course, to be stylish, a slender leather belt with a silver clasp held them tight around my waist. The tunic had been made of a nearly iridescent green silk that I liked very much, but James had forced me to button it tightly to my throat—which was the only point at which the clothes were actually not too large. A piece of starched stiff black fabric slid beneath the collar and crossed in front, to be pinned in place with a silver stickpin. Its only virtue, as nearly as I could see, was that the stickpin had been fitted with a piece of triangular malachite that matched my tunic.

The black jacket lames held out for me fitted, more or less. The sleeves ended at my elbows and had three raven’s feathers dangling down along my forearms. The jacket itself stopped at my waist and was held loosely closed in the front by a silver chain looped between two buttons. As I tugged the sleeves of my tunic down to a comfortable length, lames fastened the front, then backed away and smiled. “Yes, excellent.”

“The canvas thanks the artist.” I gave him a grin, then worked my arms forward and back to test the range of motion the jacket gave me. It tightened across the shoulders when I crossed my forearms, and I could have split it down the back, but I refrained from over-stressing it. I did not exactly feel comfortable in the clothes I had been given, but I knew there were other, far more torturous garments hidden in the closet, so I saw no reason in taking chances.

As I worked my arms around I balled my fists. I felt an odd sensation in my right ring finger. For a second or two I experienced a strange sense of loss or incompleteness. It was as if a weight I expected to feel on that hand had gone missing.

“A ring, James.” I frowned as the sensation drained out of my hand. “Dressed up like this, I feel as though I should have a ring or something.”

lames looked at me with a blank stare. “Master Cardew was not much given to wearing jewelry, Master Lachlan.”

“But I thought my grandfather, mother, and aunt all traveled here to Herakopolis for a ceremony in which Emperor Daclones made him a Knight of the Empire. Someone, Aunt Ethelin most likely, told me that Cardew wore a ring to mark that occasion.”

The elderly servant shrugged his shoulders. “I recall the ring, but I am unaware of what became of it. I could try to find you something suitable, though I’m not certain where at this hour.”

I shook my head. “No matter. My father’s ring would be Geoff’s by birthright anyway, and I’ve never worn rings either, so I’m not sure why I even thought of it.” The image staring back at me from the mirror melded with that of my father’s statue, and I saw the ring the sculptor had added to his hand.
That must be it.

“As you will, sir.” lames looked me up and down. “Will there be anything else?”

Backing away from the mirror, I swung the door open and looked out into the weapons chamber. “Are you certain this belt will support one of these daggers?”

“Why would it be necessary for it to do that, Master Lachlan?” lames shook his head. “Unlike your month on the trail, you are not required to provide your own tableware for this evening’s festivities. And, despite what you might have heard about the politics here in the capital, it is quite unlikely a fight will break out this evening.”

I laughed lightly at the image of some of the caravaners being invited to the sort of party that required my attire. “It is not that, lames. It is just that I do not have a sash with my rank badges sewn on it, so I thought wearing a dagger would be sufficient to let people know 1 am ranked in that discipline.”

lames rolled his eyes skyward. “What must they teach you in the provinces?”

“Huh?”

“Master Lachlan, as the party is being held in the home of your grandmother, you are one of the hosts. As such, your rank badges have been sewn on to a banner that will hang in the entryway. For the parties you will attend later in the week we will see to it that you have been provided with suitable rank insignia to satisfy social convention.”

1 bowed my head to him. “I see my social success is well warded in your hands. To you I commend it, then.”

“It will be my pleasure to serve you in that capacity as long as I am able, sir.” James waved me toward the door. “Your guests await.”

Out in the provinces we handled the Bear’s Eve celebration a bit differently than they did in the capital— and probably any other real city—of the Empire. In Stone Rapids everyone brought food according to a list created by a cabal of elderly widows. No one was ever asked to bring more than they could afford, and whatever someone was selected to bring was something of which they could be proud. Being as how Bear’s Eve falls in the middle of the winter, many items were put up after the harvest and served to make folks mindful of the past year.

Our celebration lasts only one night, the actual eve of the month of the Bear. We build a big old roaring fire in the town hall and everyone comes in their best clothing. People have generally exchanged gifts within their families before coming to the celebration, but presents are given to neighbors at the big town gathering, and a special show is made of things exchanged between people who have grown distant or hostile during the preceding year.

After all, as everyone knows, it is an ill omen to go into a new year bearing anyone malice. The giving of gifts makes it easier to dismiss past wrongs, and it also adds a bit of brightness to the long, dark nights of winter. The food and drink and singing and dancing all bring to mind the warmer, happier times of the year, again making winter much more bearable.

In the capital the parties start up to a week before the actual holiday. Whereas Stone Rapids held the party in the town hall, my grandmother just used the ballroom in her house—which looked to me to be much larger than Stone Rapids’s town hall anyway. A row of tables formed an island laden with victuals while smaller, round tables near the corners of the room bore polished goblets of silver and pitchers full of wine.

The guests, who began arriving an hour or two after sundown, all seemed in a festive mood and genuinely happy to be attending. They were met at the door by one of Nob’s four grandsons. He relieved them of their cloaks and coats and also accepted from them whatever gift they had brought for my grandmother. Usually the gifts were small and offered out of social convention, but those brought by close friends instead of social acquaintances were more substantial and handled with extreme care.

James then led the guests to the receiving line and introduced them to my grandmother. He kept his voice just loud enough so that I could hear the name, for which I was very grateful. I found myself able to remember names for as long as it took the guests to work their way down from where my grandmother was seated in a big chair, past Marija, to me. Once they had passed beyond me to other family friends and, finally, the Imperial Warlord, I forgot them entirely and prepared myself for the next person.

In the background, however, Nob’s other three grandsons were very busy. When lames would announce a guest, they would sort through a whole roomful of small wooden boxes wrapped with bright ribbons. Finding the box that matched the person, they would put the box on the table at the end of the line. As a result, when the guests finished their introductions, they would find a Bears Eve gift waiting for them.

Many of the men I met that evening told me they had known my father or had ridden with him. They grasped my forearm with a strong grip, just as my grandfather had taught all of us, and I returned the gesture solemnly. Most of the women allowed me to kiss their hands, with the notable exceptions of those who were the closest to my grandmother in age and acquaintance. They hugged me and gave me light kisses on my cheeks. They often whispered to me that it had been a long time since they had seen my grandmother as happy as she seemed with me in the capital.

This 1 took to be very polite lying on their parts. Then, attempting to justify whatever my grandmother felt for me, I made the social error of introducing Marija to people. It seemed only right to me, as there she was standing behind and beside my grandmother’s chair, but apparently such things are not done. She was, after all, a servant in the household, but most people were polite and wished her the joy of the season. Finally lames corrected me, and I blushed, but Marija’s warm smile took the sting out of my embarrassment.

Of all the guests, I knew only one and was quite surprised to see her. The evergreen gown Xoayya wore set off her red hair. The tight bodice and low cut of the neckline emphasized her breasts. She clearly was not a child, but she still lacked the full self-assurance of some of the other girls her age whom I had already met. The conservative application of cosmetics brought a bit more color to her face and flesh, as well as more emphasis to her large blue eyes.

I kissed her hand. “I had not expected to see you here, Mistress Xoayya.”

Something halfway between surprise and distraction flickered through her eyes to greet my use of her name. “My grandmother is good friends with your grandmother, Master Lachlan. We have met before?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “On the trail, coming into Herakopolis from the City of Sorcerers.”

“I do recall that, I think.” She graced me with a smile. “Perhaps you will dance with me later?”

“I hadn’t thought… .”

“Oh, you will.” Her voice carried with it an assurance I’d not heard from her before.

“But…” I started to offer a protest, but she freed her hand from mine and moved further along the line. I glanced over at Marija and saw her hiding a giggle behind her hand, but she didn’t share her amusement before another guest demanded my attention.

About halfway through the guest arrivals a most extraordinary thing happened. The door opened and a tall young man whipped his cape at Nob’s grandson Carl. Beneath it he wore a military uniform, but hardly the sort of dressy version 1 had seen parade past me so far in the evening. Despite the Warlord himself being dressed in clothing that looked more utilitarian than formal, the brash young man’s arrival started an alarm bell tolling in my head.

At least a head taller than me, his brown hair, eyes, and something else intangible reminded me of my brother Dalt. Still the look of intensity on his face and his long, stringy moustache made him far more alive and animated than I’d ever seen Dalt even at the best of times. Whereas my brother seemed to revel in brooding, this man clearly approached life with a fire that would take lots and lots of dousing before it would go out.

As he cut around the line of people waiting for James to announce them, I thought him a local soldier who had decided to attend uninvited. I started to move and intercept him, but the odd grin on Carl’s face and the way lames held the other guests back kept me from doing anything rash. I was glad I had not acted when 1 saw the happiness in my grandmother’s eyes when the soldier dropped to one knee in front of her.

“Forgive me for coming without warning.”

She held his face in her two hands. “There are no unwelcome guests on Bear’s Eve, not that you would ever be unwelcome here.” She stroked his hair and tugged at it playfully where it extended over his collar in the back. “I was hoping you would be here.”

Grandmother looked over at me and beckoned me forward. “Lachlan, meet your cousin, Christoforos.”

The man stood again and towered over me. “Kit. Welcome, Lachlan.”

“Locke.” I took his arm and grasped it firmly just below the elbow. “Best of the season to you.”

“And you.”

As we broke our grip, James directed Kit to take up a place next to me in the receiving line. Kit nodded his acquiescence, then shivered. “I should have waited for another hour and escaped this duty.”