The Book of Athyra (12 page)

“I’m not an expert on the subject. Perhaps dear Lord Smallcliff will let me use his library to look it up.”

“But then you could just ask him.”

“I wasn’t serious,” said Vlad.

“Oh. I can’t believe His Lordship is undead.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because, uh, I just can’t.”

“I understand,” said Vlad. “All your life there are people you just assume you can trust, yet you don’t really know them. Then, out of nowhere, someone walks up to you and asks you to believe that one of them is some kind of monster. I wouldn’t believe it either. At least, not without a lot more proof than you’ve seen.”

Savn stared at him, not certain what to say. He seemed to be talking to himself, and, once more, Savn felt the undercurrent of hatred in the Easterner’s voice.

“That’s how they do it, that’s how they get away with everything, because it’s so much easier just to go along with what you’re told than to look at—” He caught himself, as if aware that he had left his listener far behind.

For a moment he seemed to be thinking about trying to explain; then he shrugged. “Believe it or not, as you will. What I want to know is what the son of—uh, what the fellow has planned. The coincidence, as I said, is too great. He can’t just kill me the way he killed Reins, so—”

“Huh? He wants to kill you?”

“He does indeed. But I’m protected rather better than Reins was.”

“Oh. But why would he want to kill you at all?”

“He has reasons.”

Savn thought about this. “So, what is he going to do?” he asked.

“I wish,” said Vlad, “that I had some means of figuring that out.
There’s probably no point in running once things have gone this far. Besides, I owe him, for Reins.”

“You owe him? You said something about that before. What do you mean?”

Vlad shrugged. “I was mostly talking to myself. But I just wish I knew what he was planning.”

“Can’t witchcraft tell you?”

“It’s not very useful for seeing the future.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Maybe.”

“So what
are
you going to do?”

“Try to find out,” said Vlad. “I have other ways. Sometimes they even work.”

He stared off into the distance, as if he were communing with things unseen.

V
LAD TOYED WITH HIS
salad but ate little, either because he didn’t like the taste or because he was thinking of other things. Savn ate his own salad with, if no great delight, at least considerable appetite.

Savn felt Vlad watching him, which made him slightly nervous as he squeezed an expensive piece of lemon over the cheese and vegetables, put another handful of salad into his mouth, and wiped his hand on his shirt. The Easterner sighed. “I know a place,” he said, “where one could eat every day for half a year and never taste the same dish twice. Where the servers are discreet and efficient; you never noticed them, but there is always a full plate in front of you and wine in your glass. Where the room is quiet and serene and tasteful, calling the diner’s attention to the delight of the tongue. Where the appetizer is fresh, enticing and excites the senses like the first touches of love. Where the fruit is sweet and plump, or tart and crisp, and complements the cheese as the salad complements the bread—with reverence and solemn joy. Where there is a choice of wine to suit the most diverse taste, yet each has been selected with care, and tenderness. Where each meat is treated with the honor it deserves, and is allowed to unfold its own flavor in the natural juices the gods gave it, with touches of savory, ginger, or tarragon added to direct the attention of the palate to the hidden joys which are unique to that particular cut. Do you know what I am saying? A place where the mushroom and the
onion dance with the wine and the peppers in sauces that fire the palate, and the sweet at the end of the meal is the encore to a symphony of the heart. Where—”

“You don’t much like the food here, do you?” said Savn.

“—there is quiet and ease, with only that conversation that flows like the wine from the bottle, easy and natural, and all else, save the sounds of dining, is the silence that food requires for—”

“There isn’t any music? I thought the best taverns had music.”

Vlad sighed and returned from his reverie. “No, there is no music. I don’t like music when I eat. Although,” he added, “I must admit that, here, music would be a welcome distraction.”

“Well, you are likely to get your wish. There will probably be someone arriving today or tomorrow. There hasn’t been a minstrel in several days, and there are usually one or two a week. Besides, harvest is almost over, and they always show up around the end of harvest.”

“Indeed?” said Vlad, sounding suddenly interested. “A minstrel? Good.”

“Why?”

“I like minstrels,” said Vlad.

“You mean you like to listen to them, or they are the sort of people you like?”

“Both, actually.”

“You’ve known minstrels, then?”

“Several.”

“I didn’t know they had them in the big cities.”

“Just about anything you can find outside the city you can find in it as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Vlad looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, “Although there are exceptions.”

Savn returned to his salad, while waiting for Vlad to continue. When the Easterner did not do so, Savn swallowed and said, “What are the exceptions?”

“What? Oh. Peace and quiet, for example,” said Vlad. “You don’t know how pleasant these things are unless you’ve gone most of your life without them. Do you know, when I left the city I had trouble sleeping for quite a while, just because I wasn’t used to the silence.”

“That seems odd.”

“Yes, it seems odd to me, too.”

“When did you leave?”

“Shortly after the Uprising.”

“What uprising?”

Vlad granted him another indecipherable look, this one a quick frown. He said, “There was some trouble in the city with the Easterners and the Teckla.”

“Oh,” said Savn. “Yes. I heard something about that. Didn’t some traitors kill Her Majesty’s personal guards and try to kidnap her?”

“Not exactly,” said Vlad.

“Wait a minute,” said Savn. “Were
you
involved in that? Is that why you had to—”

“No,” said Vlad. “I was involved, I suppose, but only in trying to stay out of the way.”

“Well, what did happen?”

Vlad shook his head. “For the most part, I don’t know. There was almost a war, and there was conscription, and there was blood, and then it was over.”

“What’s conscription?”

“When they put you in the army or the navy and send you off to fight.”

“Oh. I should like that, I think.”

Vlad gave him another quick glance, then almost smiled, and said, “I wouldn’t know, myself. I’ve never been in the army.”

“Well, but you’ve killed people. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Vlad laughed briefly. “Good question. There are soldiers who would disagree with you. I tend to think you’re right, though. Who’s to say?”

“I used to dream about being a soldier,” said Savn.

“Did you? That seems odd. On the one hand a soldier, on the other a physicker.”

“Well, but . . . I see what you mean. But when I wanted to be a soldier it was, I don’t know, different.”

“I know,” said Vlad. “When one dreams of being a soldier, one imagines killing the enemy but not seeing the enemy bleed. Or seeing friends bleed, for that matter.”

Savn nodded slowly. “I was young and—” He shrugged and smiled a little. “I thought the uniforms looked so nice.”

“And the idea,” said Vlad, “of getting away from here?”

“Maybe, though I never thought about it that way. Have you ever known a soldier?”

“I’ve known warriors,” said Vlad.

“What’s the difference?”

“Another good question. I’m not sure, but that’s how they described themselves.”

“What were they like?”

“Arrogant, but not unpleasantly so.”

“Did they frighten you?”

Vlad laughed. “At one time or another, nearly everyone I’ve ever known has frightened me.”

“Even your friends?”

“Especially my friends. But then, I’ve had some unusual friends.”

“Yes, and one of them is a vampire.”

“Indeed.”

“That would frighten me,” said Savn thoughtfully. “There’s something about the idea of someone who should be dead that—You still say His Lordship is undead?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“Yes.”

Savn shook his head. “I still don’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“How do you talk to someone who’s undead? I mean, isn’t it creepy?”

Vlad shrugged. “You get used to—” He stopped, his eyes straying toward the door. “Ah. You must be prescient. The minstrel, I suppose.”

Savn turned, and, indeed, a lady was just coming in the door to the smiles of Tem and the few patrons of his house. She wore a travel-worn white blouse and pants, with a green vest and a light green cloak. She carried a pack slung at her hip, and hanging at her back were a long-necked kordu and a shiny black horn- or pipe-like instrument that Savn didn’t recognize. Savn thought she was very pretty.

“An Issola,” remarked Vlad.

“Green and white,” agreed Savn. He was always excited when a minstrel arrived, but especially so when it was a noble, because they always had a wider variety of instruments and songs, and could tell stories of what happened in the courts of the highborn.

By whatever magic caused news to spread, people were beginning to drift into Tem’s house already, before the minstrel had finished speaking with Tem, presumably making arrangements for a room and meals in exchange for songs and stories, news and gossip.

Vlad said, “I’m going to have to speak with her, but that can wait.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Minstrels know things.”

“But will she speak to you?”

“Why not? Oh. Because I’m an Easterner? I suspect that won’t be a problem.”

Savn started to ask why, but changed his mind. He was, he decided, beginning to be able to anticipate when he was reaching a subject the Easterner wouldn’t want to discuss. The minstrel finished her discussion with Tem, and, with a surprisingly shy-looking smile directed at everyone present, she went back toward the chambers that Tem let out to travelers.

Tem cleared his throat and said, “She’ll be back and play for us in a few minutes, after she’s refreshed herself.” This seemed to be a pleasing prospect to everyone. More and more people drifted into the house.

As they did, Savn couldn’t help but notice that many, perhaps most of them, looked at him sitting with the Easterner, then quickly looked away. He caught a glimpse of what might have been disgust in Firi’s expression, and dark-haired Lova, who was sitting next to Firi, seemed faintly puzzled. Lan and Tuk were sitting together with some of their friends, and, though Tuk only looked at the table in front of him, Lan seemed, for a moment, to be looking at Savn unpleasantly.

For the first time, he began to seriously question whether he ought to be seen with Vlad so much. Vlad looked at him with a slightly amused expression, and Savn wondered if his thoughts were being read. But Vlad said nothing, and presently the minstrel returned.

She had changed to a loose, clean, white blouse with green embroidery, and her leggings were a light, fresh green. Her hair was brown, with a subdued but unmistakable noble’s point, and her eyes, very dark, stood out sharply in contrast to her complexion and clothing. She carried both of her instruments, and set them at a table in the corner that was hastily cleared for her. Her teeth were white when she smiled.

“Greetings, my friends,” she said in a melodic, carrying voice. “My name is Sara. I play the reed-pipe and the kordu, and I sing, and I even know a few stories. If there were a drink in front of me, I might play something.”

The drink was provided quickly. She smiled her thanks and sipped from whatever she’d been given, nodded approval, and poured some of the liquid over the mouthpiece of the long black flute.

“What’s she doing?” whispered Savn.

Vlad shrugged. “It must be good for it. She wouldn’t wreck her own reed.”

“I’ve never seen one of those before.”

“Neither have I.”

“I wonder what it sounds like.”

This question was answered almost at once, when a low, rich dark sound emerged and at once spread as if to fill every corner of the room. She went up and down the scale once or twice and the instrument went both higher and lower than Savn would have guessed. Then she began to play an eerie, arhythmic tune that Savn had never heard; he settled back to enjoy the music. Vlad’s face was expressionless as he studied the minstrel

She sat on a table, one foot resting on a chair, tapping slowly and steadily, though Savn could not find a rhythm that she might be tapping to. When the tune ended, she played another, this one more normal, and, while Savn couldn’t remember its name, it was very familiar and seemed to please Tem’s guests.

After playing the pipe for a while, she picked up the other instrument, quickly tuned it, and with an expression of sweet innocence, began singing a scandalously bawdy song called “I’ll Never Trust a Shepherd, I’ll Never Trust a Thief,” that, without ever saying anything directly, implied things about her character and pleasures that Savn found unlikely. Everyone pounded on the tables, laughed, and bought Sara more drinks.

After that, she could do no wrong, and when she began singing an old, sweet ballad about Chalara and Auiri, everyone sighed and settled back to become lost in music and sentimentality. In all, she performed for about two hours. Savn liked her singing voice; she chose good songs; and there were stories he had never heard before, as well as some that were as familiar to him as his sister’s face.

Eventually Sara stood and bowed to the room at large, making it seem as if she were bowing to every man or woman present. Savn found himself whistling and slapping the table with everyone else. She said, “You are all charming and very kind. With your permission, I will have something to eat, and then, if you wish, I will play again in the evening and tell you what news I have.”