The Long Look, page 7
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
"And the bloodline of a king, albeit very dilute. Worse, he's in the direct line of the current ruling House. Not even the most powerful nobles of the kingdom can make the same claim. That makes him dangerous."
"Not to us," Seb said pointedly.
Tymon said nothing. Seb didn’t expect anything else. He finally sighed. "How are we going to stop him?"
"I haven’t a clue."
For a moment Seb just stared at the magician.
"Excuse me..."
They both turned. Koric was sitting up on his blankets, listening. He had apparently been doing so for some time.
"I realize that I’m just a small bit of nothing in all this, but I’ve just come very close to dying for no good reason that I can see. If there is one, I’d like to know what it is."
Seb grunted. "To tell the truth, so would I."
Tymon wasn’t very helpful. "My boy, I’m not really sure how you fit into this, except as a nuisance. That concerns me. I wonder still if it might not have been better to let Aktos work his will on you."
Koric looked a little pale. Seb glared at his friend. "Tymon, you’re scaring the lad."
"Good. If he’s not afraid of the mess he's in, then he’s a damn fool, and that’s the last thing we need now." Tymon turned back to the boy. "You were to deliver a message to me from Takren, who happens to be an old acquaintance of mine. That should have been the end of it, Koric, and I don’t think Takren would have sent you if he’d thought otherwise. He was wrong, and I apologize on his behalf. So there you are."
Koric was still pale. Now he looked confused, too. Seb smiled at him. "You should feel honored, lad. He’s seldom so straightforward."
Tymon frowned. "I don’t know how to put it plainer than that."
Seb nodded. "More’s the pity there. Let me try: Koric, on Molic’s farm you might not have noticed, but out in the wider world great matters are afoot. They always are. It is your misfortune that this one seems to be occurring on your doorstep. Do you know what is contained in Molic’s letter?"
"Only as much as I heard you speak a moment ago. I didn’t open it."
"Can you read?" Tymon asked.
Koric hung his head. "I have my letters, but little practice."
"Then I will read for you." Tymon unfolded the parchment. "’To Tymon of Nols from the Servant of the House of Molic, Greetings.’" Tymon waved his hand slightly, saying, "The rest of that concerns matters of our earlier association; I won’t weary you with the details. This is the important part. ‘I fear there is a threat to usurp the throne of Borasur. My master is innocent in this but not uninvolved. I do not know if there is anything you would or can do, but I thought you should be aware if you are not already. I do not know the person responsible. I think I should, but I do not, and they carry no badges or devices that I’ve seen. Please answer if an answer there may be— Takren.’"
Tymon refolded the parchment. "Most of the rest you know as well as we. Have there been visitors to Molic’s farm?"
Koric looked from one to the other for several long moments. Seb noted his hesitation. "I can understand that you’ve little cause to trust us," he said. "but you know Tymon is your master’s friend and looked to him for aid. Trust that, if not us. We are trying to help."
Koric nodded, looking doubtful but resigned. "There have been a few. They were strange men. I-I did not care for them."
"Oh? Why not?" Seb asked. "Did they mistreat you?"
"They barely spoke to me except to ask for water and a bite of fodder for their mounts."
Now Tymon looked interested. "’Asked’? Not ‘demanded’?"
Koric shook his head. "They were very polite, which was a surprise. It was their eyes that worried me." The boy hesitated again, then continued. "I’ve seen that same look in my older brothers’ faces when I was younger. Like when they were about to play a nasty joke, it’s going to be on me, and they can’t wait to see my pain. These men were full of secrets, and they were not pleasant secrets."
"Hmmm." Tymon looked thoughtful. "Takren said there were no heraldic devices or badges. Did you see anything of the sort?"
"They wore nothing in plain sight that would indicate their allegiance, but when I watered their horses I noticed an emblem stitched into one of the saddle blankets—a swan spreading its wings to fly. Takren wouldn’t have seen it."
Seb and Tymon exchanged glances.
Tymon looked thoughtful again. "House Dyrlos. Not in the direct line. But the next best thing."
Seb sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"
Tymon came to a decision. "I must speak to Takren."
"What of your bargain with the assassin?"
"I intend to keep it," Tymon said.
Koric went pale again, and even Seb drew back a bit. "Tymon, what do you mean?"
Tymon ignored them both. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a slim case. He opened it to reveal pen and ink. "There’s some blank parchment in my saddle bag, Seb. Would you bring it to me?"
Seb obeyed, but he kept his eyes on Tymon all the while. Koric looked as if he wanted mainly to run, if he could have picked a good direction. Seb brought the parchment and Tymon selected one of the smaller pieces. He wrote quickly, then sealed it with a bit of wax softened in Seb’s campfire. "Koric, come here."
Koric came forward, warily, and Tymon placed the parchment in his hand. "My lad, you’re going to deliver another message, this time to the Abbot of the monastery at Kuldun. And if you must talk to strangers on the road, at least this time pick your company more carefully."
§
"Were you...singing?" Tymon asked.
A few hours later, with Koric well on the road to Kuldun and themselves the same on the southern road, Tymon waited for Seb to say what was on his mind. Seb seemed unusually hesitant; so much so that Tymon felt compelled to start the avalanche himself. Not that Seb’s tune was just an excuse at conversation; Tymon couldn’t remember the last time he had heard his friend sing.
Seb shrugged. "Sorry. It’s an old song. I was afraid I’d forgotten the words."
"I was distracted, I’m afraid. I didn’t hear the words. What is the song about?"
The dwarf shrugged again. "Love. Hate. Loyalty. Betrayal. Death. The grand themes."
As explanations went it wasn’t much, but it was more than Tymon needed.
"You really thought I was going to kill him, didn’t you?" he said, bending down to avoid a low branch.
"The thought did cross my mind," Seb said drily.
"Mine too. There. Are you satisfied?"
"No. I’m not disappointed, mind you. I’m rather relieved, and I did feel sorry for the lad, away from home for the first time and already up past his neck in a hornet’s nest. So. Just what have you done to the poor boy?"
Tymon smiled. "I sent him to the Abbot, with a request that he help our young friend make productive use of his stay. I think teaching him to read better is a fine place to start."
Seb rolled his eyes toward heaven. "They’ll educate the lad, see if they don’t. He’ll discover the musty secrets of book and scroll and never be content with field and sky again. They’ll turn him into Brother Col! Maybe death would have been kinder."
"I think not," Tymon said.
The dwarf sighed. "It was a joke."
"Of sorts," Tymon grudgingly admitted. "If it had been necessary, I would have done it, Seb. If I had been sure. Removing Aktos and Koric would have simplified matters but I don’t know if simplicity is what we want or need. I took a chance making that bargain with Aktos. I did the same again by sending Koric off for tutoring on faith that he won’t break and run the first chance he gets, which could be disastrous for everyone. My reasoning said to kill them both."
"Then why didn’t you?"
"Because my instincts disagreed, and right now they’re all I have to go on."
Seb blinked. "All?"
"Yes," Tymon said, "The Long Look has deserted me. We may have to solve this dilemma with only our own devices."
Seb just stared, and after a moment Tymon nodded. "You once said I was cursed, Seb. I’m beginning to think you are right."
Seb sighed deeply. "Perhaps we’ll know more after we talk to Takren," he said.
"Perhaps," Tymon said. "If only I could be sure that would help."
§
Duke Laras stood on the parapet looking down at the docks beyond the outer walls. His father, the previous Duke, liked to pretend that the docks weren’t there. That the family’s livelihood was something that appeared magically as their right and due as Children of the House of Dyrlos. Laras, as tall and fair as his father, was far different in that regard and many others. Laras paid attention to the docks, and the charter of perpetual trade they represented. He noticed when ships were sailing undermanned, or cargos did not match their tallies. Laras prided himself on paying attention, as the strengthening family fortunes could well attest. That was why the scrap of parchment in his hand now was so puzzling.
"I don’t understand it, Vor," he said.
Vor leaned against a stone crenelation some few feet away, his thick arms folded across his chest.
"Is the old man’s script that abominable?" he asked. "I’m surprised he can write at all."
Laras doubted that his vassal was really surprised. For one thing, it was not so uncommon for men at the level of overseer or dockmaster to have their letters; often that was how they achieved their positions in the first place. And for another, Laras well knew that Vor did not like surprises. They worried and upset him, and Vor was currently in neither state.
"It’s not that. It’s the subject. Takren talks of harvest and hopes for a visit. Ramblings of his declining years. It’s just not that important. Why send one of the few farmhands, and this close to harvest?"
"Old men ramble," Vor said. "It’s their nature. Especially when they scent mortality coming closer, I hear. Such maudlin sentiments might have overrode his judgment."
"Still, it is curious."
"Do you think that hired blade of yours might have misled you?"
Laras shook his head. "I don’t know. I don’t think so. This could be a code of some sort. After all, Takren never names the person to which this was intended. Don’t you find that the least bit odd?"
Vor shrugged. "In this one matter you are too subtle, Your Grace. Takren is a foolish old man and no more. You were wise to be cautious, but this is doubtless nothing."
"Doubtless," Laras said, but he did not look so certain of it. "Still, one lashes a cargo to the deck before a storm, not after. We will keep watch. I want you to see to it personally."
Laras tore the parchment into small pieces and watched them flutter off on the breeze like brown butterflies over the water of the bay. Laras watched them go.
"Your moment is close at hand, now, Duke. Your father would be proud."
"My father was a fool," Laras said.
Vor looked away. "I would not say so."
Laras smiled. "Certainly not. But he was my father and I stood in his corpulent shadow long enough. It’s my prerogative to tell the truth about him when it suits me. He would have delayed the moment forever, searching for the right time to take the revenge that his father charged him to gain. That’s the difference, Vor. I don’t care about revenge for a slight two hundred years old, and at that more imagined than real. Molic will take Galan’s place on the throne of Borasur because I believe this is for the greater good of my House."
"Molic will be removed when necessary."
Laras frowned. "Why should it be necessary? I don’t care who wears the crown, so long as House Dyrlos has the power to control its own destiny. That is what this is about, Vor. Nothing more."
"It is enough," Vor said.
Laras watched the last piece of fluttering parchment fade out of sight. "More than enough. Everything."
§
Tymon and Seb reached Borasur afer two days of unhurried travel. Tymon was under the opinion that hurrying would serve no purpose, that events were unfolding at a pace that would allow some time for reflection. Seb was aware this was only Tymon’s opinion, and the fact was weighing very heavily on his mind.
One thing to do monstrous acts for a good cause when you know you’re right. What if you only believe you’re right?
Seb knew that far too many people in the world had absolutely no trouble with that subtle but important difference. Seb wasn’t one of them, try as he might to ignore it. There was a line he had never crossed before, and Seb wondered what Tymon would ask him to do now, and whether it would be in him to obey. It was a new worry, and Seb didn’t like it one bit.
Their meeting with Takren—conducted in secret on a hillside in the dead of night with no fires lit—failed at both drama and in setting Seb’s mind at ease. Takren had not written more in the letter out of fear of discovery; he simply didn’t know much more than he had already told them. In fact he was chagrined to hear what Tymon had to tell him about House Dyrlos.
"I’m a fool," Takren said. "But it never occurred to me to ask Koric if he had noticed anything. Speaking of which, why isn’t he with you?"
"He is safe, Takren," Tymon said, "but I deemed it wise that he not return here for a while. I’ve seen to his lodging in the meantime."
Takren nodded. "I thank you for that. I should have known there would be danger. I should have suspected House Dyrlos. I’m too old for intrigue, old friend, though I suspect this is something I would never have been young enough for."
"Why should you suspect House Dyrlos?" Seb asked.
"Because there has always been bad blood between them and the royal house of Borasur," Tymon said softly.
Takren nodded. "Quite right. Ever since the Succession of Nyldur ... or usurpation, depending on who you ask."
Seb looked from one to the other. "I’m not well versed in Borasuran history and I gather you both know this story. Would one of you please tell it to me? And quickly, mind—the night won’t last forever."
"As dynastic struggles go, this is a short one," Tymon said. "About two centuries ago, the last king of the Molkoran royal line of Borasur died without heir. There were two Great Families with close ties of kinship to the Crown—Dyrlos and Kotara. The origin of each was just obscure enough that it was very difficult to settle the matter of precedence between then. So the lords of both Houses agreed to put the matter to the Priests of Amatok, and each gave their most sacred oath to abide by their decision, for the good of the kingdom. The priests chose Kotara, whose lord, Nyldur, became the first monarch in the Kotaran line. This is the one which Molic claims kinship."
Seb shrugged. "I can understand House Dyrlos’s disappointment, but—"
"But that wasn’t the end of it," Takren said. "There was a rumor, widely believed, that the Priests of Amatok had been bribed and the outcome foreordained."
"Ah ... Civil war? Burning and pillage?"
Tymon shook his head. "Oddly enough: no. The rumor alone would have been enough for most, but the lord of House Dyrlos had given his word and he was, for those times, a very honorable man. He wanted proof of any bad faith and there was none. So he abided by the decision with as much grace as he could muster. Later he challenged the Kotaran Royal House on some other pretext and took to the judiciary field himself. He was slain in combat by the king’s champion."
Seb nodded. "Now I understand their annoyance. Still, people will talk. You’d think after two centuries the matter would be forgotten."
"Some people cannot release a grudge, Seb, as we well know. They cherish a hurt as others cherish a lover. Especially a wrong as delicious as this."
Seb frowned. "Wrong? You mean...?"
"Oh yes. The rumor was accurate in at least one regard—Galan’s ancestor was not closest in kinship to the royal house of Borasur. The crown should have gone to House Dyarlos."
Ω
6 Thwarted justice
Tymon sat by the dark stream, on the stone bench. The stone was cool. The dark waters, when Tymon dipped his bare toes into silent stream experimentally, were cool as well. Tymon wished some of that cool could reach his mind, now fevered as it was every day and night. He came to the Meeting Place, as always, without prior intent and again, as always, he did not know if Amaet would be there. He didn’t really know if he wanted her to be there, since her arrival in his life had always tended to complicate matters.
Tymon finally decided that what he wanted was not coolness, but clarity. His own supply was shockingly low. "I don’t know what to do," he said.
NO. YOU DON’T.
Amaet was there. Tymon had not called her—if Tymon making his own presence known and hers desired could be referred to as a summons in any case—but she came. And so far she had not been very helpful.
“Amaet, what are you?"
She sat beside him on the bench. Tymon couldn’t suppress a shiver, though of excitement or fear he didn’t examine too closely. “You never asked me that question before.”
"I thought I knew. I thought there was no need to question. Now there is. Will you answer me?"
“Perhaps. If you will answer me. What is a Power?”
Tymon blinked. "A Power is one of the Seven. Their names are known, but little else of them. Most consider them deities and worship them as best they can."
“If you know nothing of them, how do you know what is acceptable worship?”
Tymon sighed. "The question keeps the priests and priestesses in happy argument for much of their careers. More than that I do not know."
“You ask if I am a Power. If I am, what does that mean? Do you worship me? What does that change?”
"Are you a Power, Amaet?" he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard.
“Perhaps.”
"That’s not an answer."
Her face could have been marble, for all the expression there. “It is a very fine answer, Magician. Is it my fault you ask the wrong question?”
§
"It could be my imagination," Seb said, "but you seem especially surly this morning."
Seb had made tea, and thanks to Takren there was fresh bread and butter, but Tymon wasn’t especially interested in any of it. He sipped tea and nibbled at the bread, his face set in a deep scowl.
