Moth and Spark (6 page)

Corin felt as though he had received a blow to the stomach, but an anticipated one. “Who might know?” he whispered.

“I don’t know, sir. I’ll think about it.” He had regained his composure. “Shall I ask the others?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You’ll need them later.”

“Why?”

“Power.”

“Whose?”

Joce looked at the burns on his arm. “Yours,” he said softly.

Their eyes met and held for a long moment. Then Joce broke the contact with a bent head. Corin stepped back into his father’s room and shut the door again.

Aram did not ask why he had gone. Who else had he touched? His father. No, Aram had touched him. Not the boy taking his horse, or the guards at the entrance. The dog had attacked him, he had burned a wizard’s skin. Something was happening to him. The answer lay in the north, among the things he had forgotten.

“Corin?”

He came back. “I’m sorry, I was drifting. What was he watching in Dele?”

“Ordinary corruption. You know the sort.”

Corin did. Where there was trade there was evasion of law. It mattered for the revenues but it was unlikely to matter in the face of war. “Will it interfere with securing the port?”

“Anything could, but I don’t think so.”

Corin nodded, then, to his embarrassment, yawned.

“You must be exhausted,” Aram said. “Other things can wait. I’m sure your mother would like to see you.”

“She doesn’t have any unpleasant surprises for me, does she?”

“Such as a bride? You’re still safe there.”

“Good.”

Aram laughed. “Get on with you,” he said.

Talk to Bron, Corin thought. Ask him what I did. He might remember things. He said, “Good night.”

It was not as late as it felt, and after he had seen his mother—Talia greeted him with a brief embrace and the unwelcome news that an imminent war was not an excuse for avoiding the courtiers—he bathed, then read quietly in his sitting room. It was cowardly of him, but he did not want to think about the war any longer. Not tonight. A window was open enough to let in the sound and smell of the rain, and the fire was bright and smokeless. The glowlamps were brighter than he wanted, so he kept them off.

Someone knocked. It irritated him. He had not told the guards to keep people away. A mistake, that was, especially when it was their only useful function. He had already locked the door, so he had to go open it himself.

When he saw Seana he felt only weariness. He let her in but did not latch or bolt the door. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her lips were soft and smooth, the tip of her tongue warm. It did not arouse him. She was wearing a dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a rounded neckline. He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped gently out of her embrace. Part of him noticed coldly that he did not burn her.

Her earrings were tear-shaped blue opals set in gold, and she wore a matching ring on her right hand. An opal pendant rested at the top of the cleft between her breasts. Her wedding ring, ornate gold edged with diamonds, glittered in the firelight. Her perfume was spicy with a hint of bitterness. Her red-brown hair tumbled down her back.

She took his hands in hers and moved forward, so that they were only a few fingers apart. It was quite clear what she wanted, and usually he would have been undressing her by now. Especially after six weeks surrounded by only men. Corin did not love her and she knew it, but they had a comradely sort of friendship. They had been occasional lovers for several years, when it suited them both and her husband, the Duke of Osstig, was away. The duke, who was more than thirty years
older than she was, had to be aware that she was unfaithful to him—and it had not only been with Corin, nor had he been the first. It was widely known to be an unhappy marriage. In the unlikely occurrence of a divorce, the lawyers would be kept busy for years. Corin did not let her share his bed when her husband was at court. Adultery was bad enough, he would not compound it with indiscretion.

As attractive as she was, he did not want her tonight. The face of the woman in the entrance hall, the beautiful woman who had blushed, intruded into his thoughts. That was not what held him back from her, though. Perhaps he was just tired. Tiredness had never stopped him before.

He sat down in one of the formal brocaded chairs and looked at her. She took the hint and sat in another, said, “Was it a hard journey, Cor?”

“No, just dull and wet,” he answered. And I’ve come home to a war. But he wouldn’t say that to her, she would think he was brooding. She was intelligent but had little patience for long consideration and by far preferred acting to thinking. “Are you chilled?” he asked, looking at her bare shoulders.

“Not especially,” she said. She tugged almost nervously at the pendant. The motion of her hand emphasized her breasts. He wanted to cover them instead of touch them. “How was the north? Cold?”

“At times,” he said, remembering the thick frost that had furred the buildings some mornings before the sun was on them. “It made one work, instead of sitting lazily.” He could not believe how banal this talk was already, they might as well have been at a state dinner. Did he really have nothing to say to her if they were not in bed?

He tried. “I’m not used to being back yet. My head is still full of military lists and assessments. What have I missed?”

She tossed her hair. “Nothing really,” she said. “Oh, there’s plenty of gossip now that the summer court has begun, but you aren’t ever interested in that. You’re about as stiff as a stone wall, Corin, whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said. He stood up. “It’s not a good idea tonight, Seana. I think you’d better leave.” He took her hand and raised her from the chair.

“Simoun will be here tomorrow,” she said, touching his chin. “Are you sure?”

There had been other times when he had declined her, and she was
never upset or spiteful. He had no worries that she would make trouble. But there had always been a sense of
not this time, later though
. That was not how he felt now.

“I’m sure,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

She trailed her hand down to his waist, then turned without hesitation and left. For a moment he stared out the open door into the wainscoted hallway, watching the flicker of light on the wood. The guards had moved discreetly away; he told them he was not to be disturbed.

His book no longer interested him. He went to bed, and dreamed of violent things.

T
am roused with a start. The rain was very loud against the window; that must have been what awakened her. The room was stuffy. She lay in bed for a while, but sleep did not return. She found the firestarter and lit a candle. It was a red taper that burned clearly, the holder beautifully glazed. It was the small items like this that made her aware of the wealth of the palace.

She could turn on a lamp if she wished, but that felt too much like getting up. There was a window seat piled with cushions, and she took the candle over, placed it on the floor so it would not reflect in the glass. After a moment’s thought she opened the window about an inch, letting in the noise and the cool air. The scent of the wet stone reminded her briefly of forest; it made her feel wilder than the palace was. She got a blanket, light and soft, from the closet and wrapped herself in it while she looked out at the darkness.

Even four stories up she heard the rain drumming on the stone below. Her rooms overlooked a courtyard with a plain grassy area and a few modest flower beds in the center. An arcade surrounded the courtyard, the pillars functional and unadorned. She could not see any of it now, but in half a week it had already become quite familiar to her. When she walked through it she had hardly been able to tell which of the many windows was her own. It was uninteresting but adequate; she had been afraid she might overlook the furnace sheds or the washyard. In the palace, windows went with rank, and she had none.

That had mattered much less than she expected. Her brother’s wife, who was a baron’s daughter, had received permission from Queen Talia to bring Tam to summer court. Kinship to Cina seemed to be all Tam needed to be accepted among the minor nobility who were the core of the courtiers. The unmarried women whose rooms were in the same wing were the daughters of counts, barons, baronets, and knights, some of them rich in land but poorer in gold than herself. Wealth earned in commerce was no longer vulgar in Caithen—she supposed it might be elsewhere in the Empire—and her brother, who was both clever and
lucky, had plenty. Her father was a doctor, respected both for his profession and his skill in it, who also had a widespread reputation as a scholar among physicians and natural philosophers. He was not poor either; he was the man the rich and the nearby country lords called on at every sneeze. Tam could reasonably expect to leave at the end of summer with an engagement to a minor lord.

She had not come husband-hunting, though, which set her apart from the rest of the women; she had come because she was curious. It was not something she dared admit to anyone. The honor was a real one, and she could not diminish it by comparing her position to that of a spectator at the circus, entertaining as it was to watch the games of courtship that the others played. She liked Cina—everybody did, she was very popular—and did not want to embarrass her. So she smiled and flirted and charmed and talked like all the others. To her relief she had not yet caught any man she would have to let down, though she had had to work consciously at not favoring any man twice. Fortunately no one suitable had caught her eye either.

She was a well-bred and well-educated young woman, even an accomplished one. She spoke three languages besides her own and could draw, sing, play the piano, and do embroidery, all of it inoffensively. She could converse on poetry and morals with equal grace. She had improved her mind by extensive reading. But her education did not end there.

For the last five years she had gone with her father when he went, once every week or two, into the dark places of the poor to treat them without fee. She dressed wounds, mixed medicines, sat by the dying. She helped her father with his experiments and his writings. When he saw something interesting under the glass, it was she who drew the picture for him. She had done other work too, assisting her brother with his accounts, shipping lists, and other such things. He had clerks, but there was always more work to do, and he trusted her to ensure he wasn’t being cheated. The young men she had met here would have only scorn or, worse, pity, for her for doing such things, and therefore she would not marry any of them. She was not averse to men or marriage, but she was averse to idleness and indulgence.

Her father had not wanted her to come to Caithenor. Partly it was because he thought it was too frivolous, but his greater fear was that this might be the summer the Sarians moved west. He knew what it meant if
they did. He had been to Sarium twice, once before Tam was born, and the second time eight years ago, when Tyrekh was building his army and looking hungrily westward. Sarium was a harsh land of arid steppes and icy mountains, which were rich in iron and tin and other metals, silver and traces of gold. There were also fields of coal, in which the Sarians delved pits and widened them until the land for miles was nothing but craters and dust. They were clever with machines, with forges, with mixes of salts and metals, with distillations of drugs from many different plants. The coal and the metals and the other things the Sarians had, fine goat wool and medicinal plants, beautiful rugs, they traded in the powerful kingdoms to the east for goods they needed. In the steep and narrow but very long river valleys—slashes in the land, her father said—they grew grain and raised goats and small cattle and built their cities. Her father had learned a great deal there, which was why he had made the dangerous journey twice.

But Tyrekh thought there was no reason to trade for what he could take, so he came west across the Black Peaks instead, and took. And took and took. Tam’s father had told her some of the things the Sarians did to their own people, horrible things that she did not want to think about. He had told her three years ago, when they thought Tyrekh might come to Argondy and Caithen, because she had asked him. She hated what she heard but could not tell him to stop. The Sarians made use of the land to punish, and they made use of their metals and machines and chemistries to frighten and control. To kill.

It had been peaceful in Caithen, but her father was not reassured. He thought Tyrekh had already waited too long. Occasionally men he knew from Illyria or Liddea, ground down with fear and suffering, came to their home. They told grim stories of slavery and death. Tam’s father listened, and waited, and thought she should stay at home in her shabby and insignificant city.

She and her mother persuaded him that all of Argondy and half of Caithen lay between the Sarians and Caithenor. Her brother was in Dele as he was every summer, making bargains with traders from across the Empire, shipmasters, and bankers. If war came he was in much more danger than she was. Hyrne grudgingly gave in, yielding his daughter to the fripperies of court.

The candle flickered and went out in a sudden strong draft. Tam
stayed where she was, letting the darkness fold itself around her. It made her aware of the age of the palace, built a thousand years ago and added on to piece by piece as the world changed and different things were needed. Without light the room was stripped of all its modern touches and had only the walls it had had when it was built centuries ago. Who knew how many other people had sat here and looked out on rainy nights?

Age itself did not impress Tam; her own city of Dalrinia was dotted with buildings that were hundreds of years old, and some of the roads were even older. Caithenor too, she was told, had its share of ruins and overgrown lich-fields. Civilizations had risen and fallen for millennia. Remnants of walls and foundations were scattered across the landscape, buried, built upon. She had been to the City of Silence in the west, where no grass grew and the only things that moved were the tiny dust-devils in the streets, and every stone house was full of stone people. There was no record, no memory, of what had happened there, only stone and dust. Coins, knives, shards of pottery, the rubbish of the past, were constantly being unearthed as fields were tilled or foundations were dug. A gift from the Old Ones, people said, flinging them aside. The past was everywhere in Caithen, and therefore unremarkable. But here there was a continuity to it; the building continued through time, but the roots were ancient and undisturbed. If she could strip off the graceful layers she would find something unmovable and strong. For a thousand years, long before warring lords had been united under a single king, this place had been a center of power. She could not help feeling humbled.

In the next room, the clock struck softly. Three. She should really go back to bed. But there was something very pleasant about sitting here, safe, alone, watching rain. It was quiet and still as the palace never was between dawn and midnight. She pulled the blanket more snugly around herself.

A steady light appeared in the courtyard, coming from the walkway opposite her. It moved but did not flicker—someone was carrying a lantern. He put it down and leaned against the nearest pillar. The yellow light reflected on the wet stone. Not dazzling, but bright compared with the darkness. She frowned in perplexity. Even if it was a guard doing rounds, he could have seen immediately that the courtyard was empty.
There were no high bushes or walls anyone might lurk behind. Who would stay and wait on a night like this? On any night, for that matter. But the man continued to wait.

A few minutes later, a second man joined him. All Tam could see of either one was dark hair and men’s clothing. The dark hair could have been blond in the wet night. They were talking, she could tell that from the gestures, but the rain drowned out their voices. The lantern was so steady that it had to be of excellent make and use expensive oil; these were not a couple of servants gossiping. The palace was huge; there must be dozens of places where two men could talk in private. It was not just privacy they wanted, then. They could not be seen to have any connection to each other.

The hair on the back of her neck and arms rose. It amazed her; she had not thought that happened anywhere except in three-volume novels with dashing men and swooning ladies. She realized the men were looking up toward her window. Her body had known. They could not see anything, she was sure of that, not with the candle out and the rain rippling on the glass. Maybe they had noticed the window was open a bit. Or they were looking at all the rooms. She stayed entirely still. They turned away.

She remained motionless. It was not the freeze of a frightened rabbit. But if they looked again the patterns of darkness might have changed. She had no idea if they could tell whose room it was, or if they would even care, but she did not want to leave a trace of her accidental spying. The men wanted secrecy and she was breaking that, even if they did not know, even if she did not intend it. Whatever required this sort of meeting was either criminal or illicit.

They talked longer. One was taller and thinner, and his cloak was so well cut he had to be a lord. There was a hint of deference in the second man’s posture that made her guess he was a commoner, perhaps even a servant. That was not much to go on. Even if she had been able to see their features through the rain and the shadow, she would not have known who they were. And if she did, what would she do with that knowledge? Nothing. If she told a guard, she would only be laughed at. There were probably dozens of other intrigues. Wherever there was power to be gained, there was plotting. Following them to find out more was out of the question. It would be the end of her reputation to be out
of her room at this time of the night. Three years ago she might have anyway, but maturity had calmed some of her impulses.

A light came on in a room on her floor on the western side of the courtyard. The light was shockingly bright by comparison to the lantern. It was a glowlamp, and the curtains must be drawn aside. She counted windows and decided it was Alina’s room. A few seconds later Alina herself came to the window, a robe wrapped around her. She opened the window casement.

The men walked around the courtyard until they were under her window. The taller man stepped out into the open where Alina could see him. She leaned out. If either spoke, Tam could not hear.

Alina looked around, then, apparently satisfied, dropped something. The man caught it deftly. He inspected it, then went back to the walkway and handed it to the other man. Alina’s light went out, followed by the lantern.

Tam waited for a while, then got slowly up. Her body was stiff, she must have sat longer than she thought. The assignation had all the hallmarks of a romantic tryst between secret lovers, yet Tam thought that unlikely. For one thing, there had been two men, and for another Alina had no reasons for secrecy. She was too interested in getting married to waste her time on someone ineligible. Infatuation made for odd behavior, though. And love and marriage did not often coincide where wealth and power were.

She sighed. Something about a secret romance made even those who did not want one feel left out. Well, she would be sensible again come daylight.