Nightlord: Orb (94 page)

“Yes, my lady.”

“Yet, there you sit, blabbing about how you suspect your lord of rebellious, even treasonous plans—I’m not sure of the difference between rebellious and treasonous, but they amount to the same thing in that the baron’s going to get himself killed.  Right?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Why are you telling us this?  I mean, you’re in service to the local lord.  He didn’t send you up here to negotiate, did he?”

“No, my lady.  My mission was to persuade the King to come down by whatever means I might.”

“Why did he send you?” I asked.

“I am a plainsman.  It is said our faces cannot be read by any but our wives.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Back to my point,” Mary insisted.  “Shouldn’t you be busy lying like a tired dog to get him down the mountain?”

“My baron did command this, yes,” Dantos agreed, “but, while my duty is to my baron, his authority comes from the King.  Ultimately, my loyalty, like all knights in service to any lord, is to my King, and the Lord of Night.  If the Lord of Night wishes to send me back to the baron in chains for my treachery, then shall I stand the Last Watch, hanging in a cage of iron from the Baron’s walls.  I will not lie to the King, nor sit silent when he commands me to speak.”

Mary turned to me.

“I like him.  Can we keep him?”

“I’m not sure I can send him back, actually,” I mused.  “If you go back empty-handed, what’s going to happen?”

“Am I commanded to conceal my disobedience to my baron?”

“Let’s say you are.”

“Then I will be silent and report only that I failed.”

“And what will the baron do to you?”

“He will be disappointed and frustrated.  I do not think he will take any action against me.  He knows, or thinks he knows, the magnitude of the task.”

“What would you rather do?  Stay here, or go back?”

“I have a wife and child, my King.  Where I go, they must go also.”

“Fine by me.  They’re welcome to come up, too.  Or I could ship the three of you off to Carrillon with a note to the Queen about finding you a position.  Whatever you like.”

“If I have the choice, my King, I will choose to stay with you.”

“Okay.  Come with me.  I’ll introduce you to the lower door.  If your wife is okay with it, you can bring your family up whenever.”

Once I showed Sir Dantos out the entryway, Mary took my hand and firmly escorted me to our private chambers.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

I took it as a good sign.

Mary opened the makeup kit and started to work on my face.

“I was trying to call Seldar when Dantos showed up,” I told her.  She didn’t stop.  “I really do need to talk to him.”

“Which is more important?  Your phone call or our date?”

Okay, I’m sometimes stupid.  Sometimes I’m a complete idiot.  On the other hand, I’m not sure if there’s anyone in two universes who’s
that
dumb.

“I have spells for my face,” I pointed out.

“It’s a city full of wizardry,” she countered.

“Yes, but it’s rude to poke someone else’s spells.”

“And anyone who is rude enough to do so may be powerful enough to not care what most people think.”

I changed the subject.

“Mind if I ask why you don’t like the idea of me being a dad?”

“Yes.”

Okay, I failed to change the subject.  I shut up and let her work her makeup magic.  It wasn’t really much of a disguise, all things considered.  She lightened my hair and beard, had me wear the green contact lenses, darkened my skin several shades, and did something subtle with my cheekbones and eyebrows.  My face was more rounded, less angular, but I couldn’t tell exactly how she did it.  I thought I looked like Santa Claus after the Grecian Formula commercial.

“Very nice,” I observed, regarding myself in a mirror.  “Ever consider a career in the theater?”

“Yes.  I worked as a cosmetologist for a while, too, way back in the ancient days of my youth.”

“You may have missed your calling.”

“I was always told to do what you love,” she retorted.  “Hypocrisy.  They tell you that, then they tell you to stop stealing stuff, even make you give it back.  Most unfair.”

I chuckled and opened a wardrobe.

“What do we wear?”

She picked out my clothes for me so I would blend in better.  Since I wanted to wear the rings, she included gloves with the cold-weather gear.  I cut my fingertalons and filed them blunt so they didn’t rip through the fingertips of the gloves.

“Where, exactly, are we going?” I wanted to know.

“If we don’t dawdle, we may manage to take in lunch, a couple of shows, dinner, and still make it back before sunset,” she replied.  “You may be perfectly happy living in a mountaintop cave with your spells and mirrors and whatever, but
I
need to go out and do things. 
You
are coming along.”

“Yes, dear.”

We left the palace through Mary’s secret door.  I stayed wrapped in a dust-colored cloak over plain breeches, leggings, and three layers of tunic.  Firebrand had something to say about being left behind, but it’s a big piece of steel and more than a little distinctive.  Instead, I brought along a
sharmi
—a broad-bladed shortsword—concealed under my cloak.

Mary was dressed more fancifully, but not greatly so.  Her cloak was dark blue, trimmed with a little fur, and her clothes were both of nicer material and more flattering cut. It was appropriate for members of the middle class on their day off, according to her.  I didn’t much care for the
wriage
containing her hair; I like her hair.

Neither of us wore an over-the-shoulder ribbon.  Being an agent of the Crown might be asking for trouble if the local baron was considering secession from the kingdom.

The undermountain, as always, was nicely warm.  The public hallways were well-lit; I recognized the spells.  At least I knew where those went; sunlight and artificial light combined to keep the place comfortably bright.  Not having sunlight in the halls of the upper palace area was actually a good idea, come to think of it.

The halls were like streets—smaller in some districts, feeding into larger thoroughfares, and those connected to huge, arching halls fit for giants.  There was a stronger impression of natural, almost organic architecture involved; everything seemed more rounded, less carved.  None of the halls—streets?—were crowded, but they were usually busy and surprisingly clean.  Much of the city lived and worked inside the mountain.  I wondered if it was possible to never go out at all.

I talked with Mary about it as we walked; she’d found most goods and services available—tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, butcher, baker, even candle and candle-stick makers.  I’d have to say it wasn’t merely possible to live entirely under the mountain, but easy and even convenient.

Everyone wore some magic.  Most of it was on clothing—minor glamours to enhance the color or add highlights.  Other spells kept clothes clean or dry, hair in place, monitored access to purses to prevent pickpocketing, acted as timers, and so on.  We passed hundreds of people and at least twice as many spells.  No enchantments, though; those are much more difficult and expensive.  But since almost everyone could cast at least minor spells, they did.

We left the undercity through the twin pivots of the western doors.  During the day, they open both the inner and the outer door to facilitate traffic.  At night, or in times of trouble, the two doors would act like an airlock to control access.  With both of them open—rotated parallel to the hallway—they formed a center wall to divide the hallway into one-way streets.  Three other sets of doors do the same thing, each set in a cardinal direction.

In the overcity, Mary knew exactly where she wanted to go.  We walked down through the grand curves of the main streets, switched back and forth at intersections.  We even took a walk through a park on our way to lunch.  I liked the park.  It didn’t have roads or paved walkways, but there were well-trodden footpaths.  The trees weren’t impressive; the park was only about nine years old.  Still, it had real dirt underfoot and a combination of grass, flowers, and small trees.  Everything was still growing wild and could use a gardener.

Or, on the other hand, maybe it didn’t need one.  Aboveground, the city was stone and rather barren.  Maybe a little bit of the wild and natural isn’t such a bad idea.

We had lunch at an actual restaurant, The Golden Cockerel—a place for eating, not an inn or a tavern that also provided meals.  We didn’t have those nine years ago.  It was also quite good.

I never tried
kathtali
fruit before.  It’s similar to an orange in texture, but the flavor—too strong for my preference, but most everything is—reminded me of sweet apples and cinnamon.  They served it in small slices, icy cold.  Proper technique involved taking a bite, sucking out as much of the juice as possible, then eating the rest of the slice.  It’s messy if you do it wrong, but Mary didn’t laugh at me, possibly because the beard was her idea.  She did order more, though.  Judging by her smile, I think she wanted to see if I would ever get it right.  I did.

I noticed something peculiar.  While pivot-doors were in evidence, the majority of doors were wooden things, with hinges.  What most people think of as regular doors.  Going through one, I paused to examine the hinges.  They seemed embedded in the stone of the doorframe.  Did the mountain obligingly engulf things people wanted to mount somewhere?  Did they drill holes, put in bolts, and the mountain healed over the holes and bolts, together?  How helpful is my pet rock to the average citizen?  Helpful enough to hang a door, at least.

While we ate in the restaurant and later, on our walk, I listened to the people around us.  Most of their conversations were of no real interest to me.  What few references I heard regarding the king seemed positively slanted, though.  He’s in the palace, he’s free of the demon, and so on.  No singing in the streets, but I didn’t expect any.

After lunch, it was off to the theater.  We saw a play.  The language was formal, with almost everything spoken in rhymed couplets or some sort of rapid-fire rhyme scheme.  Maybe it’s the fashion of formal theater; I wouldn’t know.  The stylized acting reminded me of some Oriental style—kabuki, maybe?  Is that what I’m thinking of?  The special effects were excellent, though.  Somewhere offstage, wizards used illusions to enhance the performance.  It was like watching Romeo and Juliet, directed by Izumo no Okuni, with special effects by Industrial Light and Magic.

Ha.  Industrial Light and Actual Magic.  I’m amused.

The only thing I didn’t enjoy about it was the subject matter. 

Let me state, for the record, I did
not
raise my hands and call up a city of stone overnight.  It did not rumble upward out of the dirt in a matter of minutes.  Nor did I suck the life out of half a mountain range of monsters to empower the stone with life.  And if I ever wrestled a dragon into submission, I don’t remember it.  That sort of thing would stick in my memory, I’m sure.  As I recall, I only fought one dragon, and wrestling it was a Very Bad Idea.  Oh, I could easily put my arms around its neck, but strangling it was out of the question!

Someone should get their poetic license revoked.

At the time, however, I kept my mouth shut, ignored the discrepancies, and tried to enjoy the performance.  People seemed delighted by the play, but only people who wanted to see the play would go to it.  Not really a random sample, but the house was packed.  Evidently, it was popular.  Hopefully, so was I.

After that, it was off to bar-hop.  Mary is delighted at the “primitive” music styles they have here, and most of the taverns have live music.  She seems to be especially amused at the present fondness for embarrassing songs.  Embarrassing to me, anyway.

As a side note, recorded music is definitely possible, but expensive.  It involves a gem or crystal for each song, of course, but the big expense is hiring a wizard to capture the sound and put it in the crystal for later playback.  It’s not an easy spell, and it only works on one crystal at a time.  You can make multiple copies from one performance if you have multiple wizards, but the performers are usually the cheapest part of the process.  Hence the live music.

One of the problems with magic is it doesn’t lend itself well to industrial-scale production.  Everything has to be hand-crafted.

We visited a number of places of varying quality.  For some of them, the only reason we went in was the music, which may have been the point of having it.  Attracting customers.

The one I’m thinking of was on the lower end of mediocre, but the music was surprisingly light and lively.  There were quite a number of rowdy men in the place, most of whom were armed in one fashion or another—not a serious issue, I felt, since most of them seemed to be either off-duty city guards or knights of the baron.  The ladies present, to judge from their behavior, were either brusquely serving food and drink while ignoring various forms of lechery, or actively encouraging lechery while negotiating the fee before going upstairs.  Of the two, the second was much more prevalent.  They were, I felt, the main reason so many large, martial men frequented the place.