Moth and Spark (4 page)

Someone approached him. He looked up. The serving girl with a pitcher of beer. He accepted a drink, more to have something to keep his hands busy than because he was thirsty. She had a charm on a cord around her neck, and her hand was going to it frequently. She knew or felt something. He watched her, because it was easier and more pleasant than thinking about war, but he no longer had even the smallest flicker of desire.

His mug was still nearly full when Bron came and sat down. “Only one thing besides money,” the captain said. He put a small leather pouch on the table.

Corin opened it. The leather was rich, soft and finely grained, not something a bandit was likely to possess. Inside were a few coins, an extremely battered map, and a green stone carved in the shape of an animal fang. The Sarian gods were animals, wolves and bears and sharp-beaked birds. He touched the stone. A luck piece or ritual item of some sort, no doubt. It had failed the man this time. “Have you got someone ready?” he asked Bron.

“Yes. Rine.”

He laid out his paper and scrawled a brief message.
Twelve Sarians west of Lyde with war-lights. Soldiers not outlaws. I am making all haste.
He blew the ink dry and folded the paper. The only thing to seal it with was cheap wax from a candle in a wall-sconce. He doubted it would hold, but it was better than nothing. Rine could be trusted not to read it.

“I’d prefer he go the whole way,” Corin said, sliding it to Bron. “He can answer questions. But it has to get there whatever way is fastest, he
can give it to a courier. And interrupt my father no matter what he’s doing.”

Bron took the letter and left. A group of men burst into a drinking song on the other side of the room. One grabbed the table-maid by the shirt and pulled her to him. She emptied the beer pitcher on him. Despite himself, Corin grinned. That was spunk. He hoped she made him pay for the beer too. He watched a moment longer to be sure no harm came to her.

Then he went silently back to his room and stretched out fully clothed on the bed, sword at hand. The peace was well and truly broken.

W
hen they reached the capital the next day, it was drizzling and getting dark, and they were all splattered with mud, wet, cold, and uncomfortable. It had been a slow and miserable ride, forty miles on rutted muddy roads before they reached a paved surface. Rain had fallen sporadically all day.

Six hundred years ago Caithenor had been a walled city. But wars and time and profit and lovemaking had done their work, and now it sprawled for several miles in every direction beyond the newest of the walls, which was four hundred years old. Tyrekh would have no need to use cannons to take the city.

The gates had long since been torn down, but the entrance arches still stood, narrowing points that were always packed and crowded with people moving in each direction. The men on duty at the old guardhouses were there only to watch for disturbances, not to keep people in or out. On a sunny day or a moonlit night, the city was brilliant with reflected light from glass windows and towers and gilt domes, from sparkling mica in the stone of the buildings and streets, from the fountains bubbling and leaping everywhere and the wide band of the slow river that curved through the low hills. At sunset or sunrise on such days the city burned red and gold. Now there was no dazzle or shine, only the looming bulk of greyish buildings. Crystal edifices were sullen and dirty in the wet. The lit streetlamps made glowing circles of silver in the mist but gave very little illumination beyond the circles’ edges.

There was little point in shouting
Make Way
at the entrance arch, because there was no room for anyone to go. They had hooded cloaks; in the darkening evening they rode in without anyone taking notice. The streets were full of damp people in festive garb, all of it looking a little wilted and sad, and after a while Corin realized the Summer Fair must have started. It was wretched weather for it. As though to taunt them with the nearness of home, rain began to fall extremely hard almost as soon as they passed through the east arch, and the last few miles were among the worst of their journey. He was gladder than usual
that they did not have to go through the poor parts of the city, with unpaved streets and ramshackle buildings. In this kind of weather it would be like riding through a foul swamp. The hills washed their filth down onto the Flats, and the river cast its up.

Slender white-barked trees grew at even intervals on either side of the street. Sprays of yellow blossoms, heavy and sagging with wet, hung profusely from the branches, and petals covered the sidewalks. They rode past shops and inns, theaters, galleries, public houses. Eventually the shops gave way to mansions surrounded by wide lawns and brick walls, the homes of wealthy commoners and lords. To Corin they seemed dead and unreal compared with the clutter and bustle of the villages he had spent the last week riding past. If they were empty who would know? For a disconcerting instant he had an image of himself riding through a silent town with brambles overgrowing the cobbles and birds nesting on the windowsills. He was relieved when the palace gates rose up before him, when through the slash of rain he saw lantern light and the familiar angles of the guardhouse.

Lights streamed out of the windows and glimmered in the puddles on the flagstones, but with his head down and his hood up all Corin could see of the buildings was a shadowy mass of stone. His horse, realizing it was home, put on an unexpected burst of energy, and he had to rein it in.

He stopped at the ordinary entrance to the main building—the formal entrance was hardly ever used—and dismounted. The horse blew but stood still. Three stable-boys hurried down the granite steps to take the horses. Corin took the saddlebags off, then handed the reins to one of the boys. The soldiers dismounted, leaving their horses likewise, and the men went up the steps in a cluster. There was a roofed area at the top where they shook some of the water from their cloaks and boots. The guards held the doors wide-open so they could crowd through quickly.

The vestibule was puddled with water. One of the guards took Corin’s cloak and offered him a towel from a large stack on the chair beside him. He dried his face and hair and neck gratefully, discovered that his shoulders and chest were still dry. His pants clung to him. He looked resentfully at the mud on his boots and made a mostly futile effort to scrape it off. A cat darted out from under a bench and dashed away.

As often was the case, the large entrance hall was clustered with people. He had hoped to sneak in unnoticed, obviously an impossibility. He made himself look cheerful and walked in. The tiled rust-red and black stone floor was muddy. The glowlamps on the walls only made the darkness outside the tall arched windows more noticeable. Light reflected on the polished wooden window frames in soft blurs of gold.

There were an inordinate number of young women in the hall, and he resigned himself to being on display. This was the last year he could reasonably expect to make it through the summer without ending up betrothed to someone; at twenty-five he was getting too old to stay unmarried. He suspected his mother was beginning to despair of ever making a good match. Various shades of rose seemed to be the fashion this season. It was not a color he found particularly attractive on most women. He thought absently of the girl at the inn; she had been prettier in her ordinary clothes than half these women with their silks and flounces and elaborate hair. They were all alike, flittering and fluttering, smiling brightly, pushing and shoving one another with elbows out to throw themselves in his path. He was the grand prize, and everyone knew it.

He caught the eye of one woman, whose bold, provocative smile was at odds with the round youthfulness of her face. It was impossible for his eye not to follow the line of her dark ringlets over her white skin to the tightness of her low-necked gown. That was one who would end up in trouble if she weren’t more careful. His glance slid to the face of the woman next to her, and he nearly stopped in his tracks; she was stunning, black-haired and slender with the most astonishingly beautiful face he had ever seen. She had not been at court before; he would have remembered her. Their eyes met. She blushed and looked down. He felt hot. He kept walking and hoped no one had noticed.

When he passed into the corridors, he let himself relax again. He would be expected immediately, but he was entitled to change his clothes and make himself presentable before going to see the king. He left the war-lights in his room. He would have them destroyed later.

The guards outside his father’s study looked more tense than usual, high-strung with alertness. He hoped it was not a sign of trouble. Like the city gate guards, they were a formality; no one in the palace was going to try to harm the king. They should not have had to act as though they really were on guard. Perhaps his news had not been the first.

In the antechamber the clerk’s desk was empty, though his lamp was still on. Two pages were playing a lopsided game of chess at a small table. They jumped up hastily when they saw him, jostling the table. He noticed with amusement that it was the boy who was losing who steadied the board to keep it from sliding. A few captured pieces rolled on the floor.

The other boy said smoothly, “The clerk just went in, my lord.” He was well on his way to being an accomplished courtier and sycophant.

“Thank you,” Corin said. He heard voices through the door, which was slightly ajar, but could not make out the words. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should go in or wait, then heard footsteps. Quickly he stepped back and waited for the clerk to come out.

Bryden, who was normally unflappable, looked far more relieved to see him than he had any right to. That was hardly good. He said, “He’ll be glad you’re back, sir. Go on in.”

Corin looked back at the boys and said to the losing one, “Bring your knight out,” then went in. Aram was standing. His desk was much more cluttered than usual.

The king started to say something but was interrupted by the low bark and long growl of his black dog, Sika, beside him. Her hackles were up as she stared at Corin as though he were a stranger, instead of someone she had known all her life. He was so startled that he froze.

“Lie down,” Aram said.

The dog did not move. Corin took a step forward and she growled again, teeth bared. “Come here, girl,” he said, holding out a hand. He had had long absences before and she had always greeted him eagerly on return. He looked at his father. “Has she been like this?”

“No,” Aram said. “Has something—”

Sika charged, knocking Corin to the floor. Her teeth were almost at his throat. He felt the hot breath, the saliva falling on his face. He was jolted by the fall, but not enough for the reflexes and training of years to be dulled. With his arms crossed over his neck and face he kicked at the dog. There was shouting going on, hard to hear over the barks. He rolled over and up, lunged forward and caught the collar. Aram’s hand came down next to his. One of the guards was right beside him, sword drawn.

The dog went silent, then relaxed into a lying position, whined softly. The men stared at each other. Corin carefully held one hand up to Sika’s face. She licked it. Her tail whisked against the floor.

Corin stood up. His heart was pounding, and his hands trembled from the release of urgency. His voice was steady though when he said, “What the hell was that?”

“I have no idea,” Aram said. He released the dog’s collar. “Do you want me to put her out?”

He considered it. There was a reason she had done that, but the thought kept sliding away from him.

“No,” he said. He looked at the guard. “You can leave, thank you.” He wiped his forehead. “Have you got anything to drink?”

“Sit down, I’ll get it.”

The chair was very soft, the most comfortable one he had sat on in weeks. The room was dim, only a few of the lamps lit. Corin closed his eyes. The fire roared pleasantly, like the sea. He looked up long enough to take a cup of wine from his father, who said, “Take your time about it. Have you eaten?”

“No. The Sarians—” he began.

“I had your message this morning,” Aram said sharply. This from the man who was nearly always even-tempered and patient. “There’s no rush, and I want you clear-headed.”

Corin knew better than to protest. He had learned a long time ago to pick his battles. He sipped. Good wine, how could he have thought the inn’s wine decent? Aram spoke to someone at the door in soft words Corin did not try to hear. He stayed quiet, the only sounds the rain and the fire and the occasional rustle of papers on his father’s desk.

It was not long before a servant came with a meal for him, steam still rising from the soup. The man put the tray on a square side table and left as quietly as he had come. The king kept working while Corin ate. The meat was tender, the sauce flavorful, the bread light and free of grit from the mill. By the time he finished he felt more alert; he must have needed the rest and food more than he thought.

He pushed the dishes to the side. Usually when he got back from a journey he would ask after his mother if she was not present, find out what work he needed to take up, listen to the king’s summary of events. He refilled his cup and said, “What are we going to do?”

Aram looked hard at him, then moved from behind the desk to a chair opposite Corin’s. He was dressed formally but had loosened the buttons at his collar. He was not much of one for pomp. His hair was
the same dark brown as his son’s, well flecked now with grey, but his eyes were almost black. He said, “You don’t know everything yet. I got word three days ago that Tyrekh has begun moving his soldiers across the Illyrian border with Argondy. I’d have sent for you if I hadn’t known you were nearly back.”

That was what Corin had feared. He was already resigned to it. “What about Mari?” he asked urgently. His older sister was married to an Argondian duke. Tyrekh’s soldiers had no compunction about killing anyone; if she had been married to a cobbler it would have been as necessary to get her out. Argondy was a soft country of rolling hills and wide plains, crowded with small villages and towns, crisscrossed with roads. It was an easy land to traverse and would be an easy land to conquer. The eastern border with Illyria followed a line of hills but was no obstacle; it had been drawn in a treaty several hundred years ago and reflected no significant natural boundaries. Tyrekh had brought his men out of the harsh steppe lands of Sarium, across the high and deadly Black Peaks, then through the increasingly gentler countries to the west. Argondy would present no challenge to him.

“She is safe enough, she was on her way here for the summer and across the border when it happened. She has the children with her. I sent troops to meet them as a precaution. I don’t know about Ves, though. I doubt he will flee until there is no other choice.”

Corin nodded. Mari’s husband was no more a coward than she was. “I hope you sent enough. The men I fought were probably not the only forerunners.” It was all too easy to imagine other such bands of soldiers making their way at night along untraveled country lanes, drawing closer and closer to the capital.

“What exactly happened? I heard most of it from your man, but I want to hear from you.”