The Long Look, page 8
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
"Umm," he said.
"Tymon, I’d like an explanation. Your last utterance is the most you’ve said all morning, and if that frown of yours goes any deeper your skin is going to crack."
"I feel small and simple," Tymon said. "It is an extremely annoying feeling, and one that, concentrate as I might, there’s no way to banish. I hate it."
Seb sat cross-legged before the fire and poured a mug of the strong greenbush tea for himself. "Now you know how the rest of us feel, making our way from day to day. It’s no feast of pleasure, is it?"
Tymon poured the dregs of his cup into the fire. "No. How do you manage?"
Seb sighed. "We don’t, a great deal of the time. It’s amazing we’ve done as well as we have. So. What happened last night? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ You’re no liar and I’m no fool."
Tymon shrugged and told Seb about the Waiting Place, and Amaet, and a few other things that he had never mentioned before in their time together. Seb listened, though from the expression on his face Tymon could not decide if his friend was surprised, angered, hurt, or astonished, or a bit of all at once. He did keep quiet as Tymon spoke, letting the magician speak until he clearly didn’t know what else to say.
"My," was all said at first. Then, "That’s all she said?"
"Almost. Before she departed, Amaet looked at me very intently, and she said ‘Consider a pebble. It is a small thing, unimportant as anything can be. Yet if the wrong one shifts under the wrong boulder at the wrong time, an entire mountain might fall. And who knows what the mountain was a prop to?"
"Another way of saying that everything is important. Or not."
Tymon sighed. "That’s not very helpful."
"Your...well, what shall we call her? Goddess? Power? Guardian spirit?"
"Call her Amaet," Tymon said. "She may be one or all of those things, but her name is the only one I’m reasonably sure of."
"Amaet, then . Her homilies seem rather simple and useless, and yet ...."
Tymon finished it. "And yet I can’t escape the feeling that I’ve just had something very important explained to me as simply as a creature such as Amaet can, and my feeble mind simply cannot get the measure of it. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, Seb. I repeat—I don’t like it."
"I think I’d enjoy your confusion more," Seb said, "if I didn’t realize how dangerous it is. So, I ask today as I’ve asked before: "What now?"
Tymon considered. "And I say again: I don’t know. Worse, I can’t escape the feeling that the time when knowing would make a difference is fast drawing to a close."
§
The Lord of House Dyrlos bowed to very few people, but one of those very few not only had him bowing, but currently on all fours on the nursery floor.
"G’up, horsey!"
Laras obligingly shuffled forward a few paces. He tore a hole in his woolen hose, but he barely noticed. He was using all his concentration to make sure his small rider kept her seat; a neat enough trick for all her squirming and bouncing.
"G’up!" repeated the tiny voice, imperious.
"The horse rears!" Laras announced, then rose up slightly even as he reached behind him and plucked the young rider from his back and swung her around into his arms while she giggled and squirmed.
"Horses are tricky things, Lytea."
The voice came from the doorway. Laras smiling, cradled his laughing daughter in his arms as he rose. "Listen to your mother, sweetling. And some horses are trickier than other." Laras kissed his daughter’s gold ringlets and, since there was no one around to comment on the lack of decorum, he bussed his wife as well. It was an arranged marriage, as all such were. Mero was the child of a prince of Nols and Laras saw no more than her portrait before she had been brought to live at Balanar. Yet from that day forward Laras had counted himself a very lucky man. He cradled his daughter with his left hand and used the other to rub his back.
"She is growing well, Mero; a few more months and she’ll be too heavy for her father."
"Get a real pony then," Lytea announced. "I keep it in my bed and feed it summerleef!"
"That’s just because you don’t want to eat your summerleaf like a good girl," Mero said. "You need to learn to eat good food and become a big strong girl before you take care of a pony."
"Then fwat pony eat?" Lytea asked with flawless logic.
"Apples and hay," Laras said, swinging her about, "or seaweed and fish, if it’s a seahorse. I thought I saw one yesterday, playing beyond the breakers. Do you want to go look?"
"Yes!!" Lytea shouted.
Mero smiled at her husband. "Why don’t we all go?"
"Lovely idea ...." Laras started to shift Lytea to his should to ride when he saw Vor approaching down the hallway. His eyes were down; he moved quietly. Laras didn’t even need to ask. He handed the child to her mother. "Will you take her on ahead? I’ll just be a minute."
Mero glanced down the hall, and when she saw Vor her mouth set in a hard line, but she said nothing. She took the child and set out for the staircase without looking back. Laras sighed, and waited.
"Your Grace—" Vor started, but Laras cut him off.
"What happened?"
"I don’t know, and there’s the problem. Takren left the farmstead last night, and I don’t know where he went."
"What do you mean you don’t know? He probably just slipped off to the privy."
Vor shook his head. "I mean he eluded me, Your Grace. I failed you."
Laras looked thoughtful. "Walk with me a moment." He followed his wife and child, but at a very sedate pace. Vor fell into step behind him. "This is disturbing," Laras said.
"I’m a fool. I actually thought he was going to the privy, and kept more distance than I should. But then he slipped away so quickly. Much more quickly than I thought he could move."
Laras nodded. "Exactly. He either knew he was being followed, or was taking care not to be followed. Either case it raises disturbing questions."
"Do you think he’s working against you?"
"I don’t know. I do know that we can’t afford the luxury of time and effort to find out. That doesn’t leave us much choice. When it’s done, put one of our people in Takren’s place so there are no more surprises. See to it, Vor. I know you won’t fail me again."
Vor nodded. "I am yours to command as always, Your Grace, but are you certain about this matter?"
Laras came out onto the parapet where his wife and child were waiting for him in the sunlight. Lytea was pointing and laughing in delight at a pod of dolphins beyond the breakers while Mero held her up so she could see. Laras looked at them both, and his smile was pure contentment. "Very certain," he said.
§
Seb expected nothing new from his meeting with Takren, but then a chance for any news at all seemed worth the effort. Tymon’s inaction worried Seb more than any one of a number of monstrous or merely odd acts that the magician had been known to commit.
More than that, it was a lovely morning. Seb moved through concealing hedgerows with his normal caution, but he still managed to step through a patch of sunlight now and then, and feel the warmth of it on his skin. It was still summer but there was a cool edge to the breeze that knew autumn was coming soon. Out in the fields Seb could see the hayers at work with their scythes, getting the winter’s fodder in. He was close now; the scent of apples was on the breeze. Takren’s morning inspection of the ripening apples in the orchard was a good time to meet; the orchards were Takren’s special province and he usually walked them alone. Besides the discretion of it, Seb felt sure he might at least get an early apple out of their meeting.
Seb reached the edge of the closest hedgerow and looked out into the orchard.
Damn!
For a moment Seb was certain he had shouted aloud, but all was quiet. A man had just pulled a dagger out Takren’s back; Seb saw the streak of red that marked it and did not need to see what had just happened to know, know without any doubt at all. The man had taken Takren unawares as he reached up to grasp one of the lowest-hanging apples, fat and golden on its branch. The fruit only now fell from Takren’s nerveless fingers as the old man started to slump.
In an instant Seb’s own dagger was in his hand; he measured the distance in his mind’s eye and prepared to throw at the murderer’s broad back. It would be a long throw but nothing Seb hadn’t done before, and well.
Die, you murdering bastard!
The man did not die. Seb’s dagger remained in his hand; he had not even shifted to grip the point, his preferred throwing style. Seb wanted to kill the man, wanted as much as he could remember wanting anything. Takren was a smug old sod but Seb liked him immensely. He deserved better than this. He deserved revenge. Yet revenge was a luxury Seb had not been able to afford for a very long time. No matter how angry he was now, Seb had to consider the larger picture: he was too late to help Takren. From the position of the blow and depth of the bloody streak Seb had no doubt that the old man was dead before he fell. The murderer was no common thief; he examined the old man to be sure of him but no more. Why? Why kill Takren? Who would want or need to, and in a way that clearly spoke of necessity, not anger?
I kill this man and I’ve just slain a messenger. Who wrote the warrant is what we need to know.
Seb crouched down behind a mulberry bush as the assassin cleaned his knife on the hem of the old man’s robes. The man looked carefully about to make sure he hadn’t been seen. Then he quickly slipped into the hedgerow not six yards from where Seb was hidden. Seb glanced at Takren’s fallen body, then the retreating back of the assassin. After a silent prayer for Takren’s forgiveness, he followed the old man’s killer.
Later Seb’s report was pithy and short. "Straight to Duke Laras’ holdings in Balanar. He didn’t so much as stop for an ale."
"Such misplaced dedication," Tymon said, softly.
They sat together on a small grassy hillock, while some distance away, on a larger, flatter hill, Takren’s body was being buried according to the Rites of Martok. Or rather, Tymon sat. Seb paced back and forth like a caged wolf.
Tymon and Seb were in plain sight, but no one seemed to notice them. Seb knew Tymon had done something to make them escape the notice of the mourners, but he didn’t much care. He saw the bundle—small, smaller than he had expected—being lowered into the ground and he did not care if Molic’s household saw them or not.
"I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance," Seb said.
Tymon shook his head. "You did the right thing. It was safe to assume that House Dyrlos was behind Takren’s murder. If you had killed the assassin there’s a good chance everyone else would know, too."
Seb finally sat down, hard, on the grass beside Tymon. "Why would revealing the criminal be a bad thing?"
"His name is Vor," Tymon said softly.
Seb blinked. "Vor? Who are you talking about?"
"The bastard you were referring to. And he is—literally. A child born on the wrong side of the blanket, rejected by an uncaring father whose wife, understandably, did not want the reminder of her husband’s dalliances. House Dyrlos took him in; the old duke raised him almost like a second son."
Seb looked at him. "That sounds almost like the Tymon I remember: long statements of absolute fact at almost no provocation. Has the Long Look returned?"
"No. But once I knew of House Dyrlos’s involvement it made sense to learn as much about its folk as possible. Or did you think I did nothing but contemplate smoke?"
"Frankly, I didn’t know what you were doing while I was out and about on your errands. Fine—now I know his name. So?"
"You know more than that. Think of your own past, Seb. Think what might have happened if House Dyrlos had taken you in when you needed it, given you the comfort and belonging you never found. Now tell me, in that case, it would not have been your dagger in Takren’s back if you thought your House was threatened?"
Seb didn’t strike Tymon. It took an effort, but he did not. "That may be as you say. If there’s a point to this I’d love to hear it."
Tymon sighed. "How do we judge, Seb? How do we find the authority within ourselves to say yes to this, no to that? In our view Vor killed a harmless old man. What right have we for revenge? How shall we answer that, Seb? We’ve done far worse."
"And prevented even greater tragedies. Whatever we did, we did for good reason. You know that."
Tymon nodded. "I know. Yet without the tyranny of the Long Look I am free to wonder: Is any reason really good enough? If you had slain Vor perhaps you would have also slain any chance we’d find out what Laras’ reasons are, assuming he is responsible."
"If we had the tyranny of the Long Look, it’s possible you could have foreseen this and prevented it."
Tymon sighed. "The Long Look was never so unambiguous as you seem to think, Seb. There was always the chance of error; we were cautions and, dare I say, fortunate. More, the revelations seldom had much to say about individuals as such. More likely it would have shown me some terrible kingdom-wide tragedy that only Takren’s death would prevent, and I’d have been compelled to slay the old man myself. As hells go, I think I prefer this one."
Seb didn’t have an answer for that. They watched the rest of Takren’s funeral together in silence. When the rites were done and the mourners finally departed, Tymon rose. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I need to speak with Takren."
Seb blinked. "Takren is dead, Tymon."
"Seb, I do know that. I’m not quite mad ... yet. Sometimes I feel myself dancing perilously close to it, but not quite over the edge."
"Necromancy?" It wasn’t something Seb really associated with Tymon, but he had long since learned not to put much beyond the pale where Tymon was concerned.
"Something close enough," Tymon said, "that the difference probably isn’t worth mentioning."
They walked past Takren’s grave. Tymon bent down and picked up a small clot of dark earth, but he did not stop. The mourners had only recently traveled the same path. Seb worried for a bit that someone might see them, but then he detected a faint shimmering at the edge of his sight, and realized that, whatever working of air, haze, and distance that Tymon had applied to them on the hill, the concealment was still working.
"Where are we going?" Seb asked, keeping his voice low.
"To the orchard. What I have in mind will work best there, if it works at all."
Soon they had reached the place. Normally, Seb did not look when Tymon worked magic directly. Not that it happened very often, but Seb did not like it when the world as he knew it was forced to change part of itself. That someone could remake the world even a little bit was unsettling, and hinted of things best left to the Powers. This usually wasn’t a problem, because most of the time Seb couldn’t even tell when Tymon had either changed something of the world or delved a better understanding. He neither declaimed long passages from moldy books nor sliced the air and smoke with a staff or made gestures mystical or grotesque. Tymon just read for a while from one book or another, very intently, then looked thoughtful for a moment or two. Then the thing—whatever it was—was done.
Not this time.
Tymon stood before the very apple tree that was Takren’s final contact with the living world, and he spoke to it. Seb wanted to point out that Tymon was talking to a tree, but he could no more bring himself to say it than he could walk away.
He says he’s not mad. I wonder if he is truly the best judge of that?
"Here, Seb?"
"Huh?" Seb realized dully that Tymon was pointing to a spot on the ground just near the tree-trunk. "Where it happened? Yes ... right about there."
Tymon nodded and moved to the spot, then raised his hand. There was an apple hanging just a few inches from his fingertips; Tymon reached for it but stopped just short of touching it. He looked puzzled for just a moment, and Seb felt a chill. It was Takren’s last pose, as he reached for the apple and was slain, just as Seb remembered it. Tymon stood that way for several long moments, then he sighed, shuddered, and lowered his hand again.
"Done," said Tymon.
Seb blinked. "What’s done?"
"Takren’s life. I’d suspected as much. I wanted to be sure."
"Takren is dead, Tymon." Seb felt almost foolish repeating this one more time, but there were instances dealing with Tymon when holding onto the facts as Seb understood them was the only defense he had.
Tymon shrugged. "Yes, his life is over. I knew that. But was his life finished? That’s a separate matter."
"I’ve seen bottoms of wells more clearly than that, Tymon. When you’re dead your life is finished."
"When you’re dead your life is over, true. Yet had you done what you expected to do? Were you happy with yourself as best you could be? Was it time for your soul or spirit or potential of transcendence to move on? What it finished, Seb?"
Seb blinked. "Oh. I do see. Was Takren finished with this life?"
Tymon looked thoughtful again. He could have been working magic or he could have been remembering. In either case, after a moment he smiled. "Takren was a complex mind but a simple man. He died in the place he loved most in the world, doing what he loved to do. The last thing he reached for was an apple, and his life ended so quickly that he never knew that he didn’t grasp that apple. That one perfect moment is frozen for him forever, Seb. That much I know, from what you told me and from what I’ve learned here and now. Yes, Seb. As far as such a thing was possible, Takren was finished. Not everyone dies so well."
"Why did you need to know?"
"Because he was my friend. Right or no, that would have been reason enough to take revenge, if revenge was needed. It isn't needed, so now we're free to leave."
"What has that to do—" Seb began, then stopped. "We’re leaving?"
"I have to regain the Long Look, Seb. Curse or not, there’s too much potential on the move now. Too much chance that all we’ve worked for over the years will be destroyed. As much as I owe Takren, I owe the ghosts of those who have died to prevent the horrors shown by the Long Look more. I think I know where the Long Look can be found, and I have to go there. But first I had to decide between doing what I think I have to do and avenging Takren, because the two goals are not compatible."
