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And so they were left alone, finally. Tomasso and the lords Nievole and Scalvaia, so carefully chosen two years before.
‘Wine, my lords?’ Tomasso asked. ‘We will have three others joining us very shortly.’
He said it, deliberately, in his natural voice, dropping the artificial, fluting tone that was his trademark in Astibar. He was pleased to see both of them note the fact immediately, their glances sharpening as they turned to him.
‘Who else?’ growled bearded Nievole who had hated Sandre all his life. He made no comment on Tomasso’s voice, nor did Scalvaia. Such questions gave too much away, and these were men long skilled in giving away very little indeed.
‘My brother Taeri and nephew Herado—one of Gianno’s by-blows, and much the cleverest.’ He spoke casually, uncorking two bottles of Sandreni red reserve as he spoke. He poured and handed them each a glass, waiting to see who would break the small silence his father had said would follow. Scalvaia would ask, Sandre had said.
‘Who is the third?’ Lord Scalvaia asked softly.
Inwardly Tomasso saluted his dead father. Then, twirling his own glass gently by the stem to release the wine’s bouquet, he said, ‘I don’t know. My father did not name him. He named the two of you to come here, and the three of us and said there would be a sixth at our council tonight.’
That word too had been carefully chosen.
‘Council?’ elegant Scalvaia echoed. ‘It appears that I have been misinformed. I was naively of the impression that this was a vigil.’ Nievole’s dark eyes glowered above his beard. Both men stared at Tomasso.
‘A little more than that,’ said Taeri as he entered the room, Herado behind him.
Tomasso was pleased to see them both dressed with appropriate sobriety, and to note that, for all the suavely flippant timing of Taeri’s entrance, his expression was profoundly serious.
‘You will know my brother,’ Tomasso murmured, moving to pour two more glasses for the new arrivals. ‘You may not have met Herado, Gianno’s son.’
The boy bowed and kept silent, as was proper. Tomasso carried the drinks over to his brother and nephew.
The stillness lasted a moment longer, then Scalvaia sank down into a chair, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. He lifted his cane and pointed it at Tomasso. The tip did not waver.
‘I asked you a question,’ he said coldly, in the famous, beautiful voice. ‘Why do you call this a council, Tomasso bar Sandre? Why have we been brought here under false pretences?’
Tomasso stopped playing with his wine. They had come to the moment at last. He looked from Scalvaia over to burly Nievole.
‘The two of you,’ he said soberly, ‘were considered by my father to be the last lords of any real power left in Astibar. Two winters past he decided—and informed me—that he intended to die on the eve of this Festival. At a time when Alberico would not be able to refuse him full rites of burial—which rites include a vigil such as this. At a time when you would both be in Astibar, which would allow me to name you his vigil-keepers.’
He paused in the measured, deliberate recitation and let his glance linger on each of them. ‘My father did this so that we might come together without suspicion, or interruption, or risk of being detected, to set in motion certain plans for the overthrow of Alberico who rules in Astibar.’
He was watching closely, but Sandre had chosen well. Neither of the two men to whom he spoke betrayed surprise or dismay by so much as a flicker of a muscle.
Slowly Scalvaia lowered his cane and laid it down on the table by his chair. The stick was of onyx and machial, Tomasso found himself noticing. Strange how the mind worked at moments such as this.
‘Do you know,’ said bluff Nievole from by the larger fire, ‘do you know that this thought had actually crossed my mind when I tried to hazard why your Triad-cursed father—ah, forgive me, old habits die hard—’ His smile was wolfish, rather than apologetic, and it did not reach his narrowed eyes. ‘—why Duke Sandre would name me to hold vigil for him. He must have known how many times I tried to hasten these mourning rites along in the days when he ruled.’
Tomasso smiled in return, just as thinly. ‘He was certain you would wonder,’ he said politely to the man he was almost sure had paid for the cup of wine that had killed his mother. ‘He was also quite certain you would agree to come, being one of the last of a dying breed in Astibar. Indeed, in the whole of the Palm.’
Bearded Nievole raised his glass. ‘You flatter well, bar Sandre. And I must say I do prefer your voice as it is now, without all the dips and flutters and wristy things that normally go with it.’
Scalvaia looked amused. Taeri laughed aloud. Herado was carefully watchful. Tomasso liked him very much: though not, as he’d had to assure his father in one diverting conversation, in his own particular fashion.
‘I prefer this voice as well,’ he said to the two lords. ‘You will both have been deducing in the last few minutes, being who and what you are, why I have conducted certain aspects of my life in certain well-known ways. There are advantages to being seen as aimlessly degenerate.’
‘There are,’ Scalvaia agreed blandly, ‘if you have a purpose that is served by such a misconception. You named a name a moment ago, and intimated we might all be rendered happier in our hearts were the bearer of that name dead or gone. We will leave aside for the moment what possibilities might follow such a dramatic eventuality.’
His gaze was quite unreadable; Tomasso had been warned it would be. He said nothing. Taeri shifted uneasily but blessedly kept quiet, as instructed. He walked over and took one of the other chairs on the far side of the bier.
Scalvaia went on, ‘We cannot be unaware that by saying what you have said you have put yourselves completely in our hands, or so it might initially appear. At the same time, I do surmise that were we, in fact, to rise and begin to ride back towards Astibar carrying word of treachery we would join your father among the dead before we left these woods.’
It was casually stated—a minor fact to be confirmed before moving on to more important issues.
Tomasso shook his head. ‘Hardly,’ he lied. ‘You do us honour by your presence and are entirely free to leave. Indeed, we will escort you if you wish, for the path is deceptive in darkness. My father did suggest that I might wish to point out that although you could readily have us wristed and death-wheeled after torture, it is exceedingly likely, approaching a certainty, that Alberico would then see compelling cause to do the same to both of you, for having been considered likely accomplices of ours. You will remember what happened to the Canziano after that misfortunate incident in Ferraut some years ago?’
There was a smoothly graceful silence acknowledging all of this.
It was broken by Nievole. ‘That was Sandre’s doing, wasn’t it?’ he growled from by his fire. ‘Not the Canziano at all!’
‘It was our doing,’ Tomasso agreed calmly. ‘We learned a great deal, I must say.’
‘So,’ Scalvaia murmured drily, ‘did the Canziano. Your father always hated Fabro bar Canzian.’
‘They could not have been said to be on the best of terms,’ Tomasso said blandly. ‘Though I must say that if you focus on that aspect of things I fear you might miss the point.’
‘The point you prefer us to take,’ Nievole amended pointedly.
Unexpectedly, Scalvaia came to Tomasso’s aid. ‘Not fair, my lord,’ he said to Nievole. ‘If we can accept anything as true in this room and these times it is that Sandre’s hatred and his desire had moved beyond old wars and rivalries. His target was Alberico.’
His icy blue eyes held Nievole’s for a long moment, and finally the bigger man nodded. Scalvaia shifted in his chair, wincing at a pain in his afflicted leg.
‘Very well,’ he said to Tomasso. ‘You have now told us why we are here and have made clear your father’s purpose and your own. For my own part I will make a confession. I will confess, in the spirit of truth that a death vigil should inspire, that being ruled by a coarse, vicious, overbearing minor lord from Barbadior brings little joy to my aged heart. I am with you. If you have a plan I would like to hear it. On my oath and honour I will keep faith with the Sandreni in this.’
Tomasso shivered at the invocation of the ancient words. ‘Your oath and honour are sureties beyond measure,’ he said, and meant it.
‘They are indeed, bar Sandre,’ said Nievole, taking a heavy step forward from the fire. ‘And I will dare to say that the word of the Nievolene has never been valued at lesser coin. The dearest wish of my heart is for the Barbadian to lie dead and cut to pieces—Triad willing, by my own blade. I too am with you—by my oath and honour.’
‘Such terribly splendid words!’ said an amused voice from the window opposite the door.
Five faces, four white with shock and the bearded one flushing red, whipped around. The speaker stood outside the open window, elbows resting on the ledge, chin in his hands. He eyed them with a mild scrutiny, his face shadowed by the wood of the window-frame.
‘I have never yet,’ he said, ‘known gallant phrases from however august a lineage to succeed in ousting a tyrant. In the Palm or anywhere else.’ With an economical motion he hoisted himself upwards, swung his feet into the room and sat comfortably perched on the ledge. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘agreeing on a cause does make a starting-point, I will concede that much.’
‘You are the sixth of whom my father spoke?’ Tomasso asked warily.
The man did look familiar now that he was in the light. He was dressed for the forest not the city, in two shades of grey with a black sheepskin vest over his shirt, and breeches tucked into worn black riding boots. There was a knife at his belt, without ornament.
‘I heard you mention that,’ the fellow said. ‘I actually hope I’m not, because if I am the implications are unsettling, to say the least. The fact is, I never spoke to your father in my life. If he knew of my activities and somehow expected me to find out about this meeting and be here . . . well, I would be somewhat flattered by his confidence but rather more disturbed that he would have known so much about me. On the other hand,’ he said for a second time, ‘it is Sandre d’Astibar we’re talking about, and I do seem to make six here, don’t I?’ He bowed, without any visible irony, towards the bier on its trestles.
‘You are, then, also in league against Alberico?’ Nievole’s eyes were watchful.
‘I am not,’ said the man in the window quite bluntly. ‘Alberico means nothing to me. Except as a tool. A wedge to open a door of my own.’
‘And what is it lies behind that door?’ Scalvaia asked from deep in his armchair.
But in that moment Tomasso remembered.
‘I know you!’ he said abruptly. ‘I saw you this morning. You are the Tregean shepherd who played the pipes in the mourning rites!’ Taeri snapped his fingers as the recognition came home to him as well.
‘I played the pipes, yes,’ the man on the window-ledge said, quite unruffled. ‘But I am not a shepherd nor from Tregea. It has suited my purposes to play a role, many different roles, in fact, for a great many years. Tomasso bar Sandre ought to appreciate that.’ He grinned.
Tomasso did not return the smile. ‘Perhaps then, under the circumstances, you might favour us by saying who you really are.’ He said it as politely as the situation seemed to warrant. ‘My father might have known but we do not.’
‘Nor, I’m afraid, shall you learn just yet,’ the other said. He paused. ‘Though I will say that were I to swear a vow of my own on the honour of my family it would carry a weight that would eclipse both such oaths sworn here tonight.’
It was matter-of-factly said, which made the arrogance greater, not less.
To forestall Nievole’s predictable burst of anger Tomasso said quickly, ‘You will not deny us some information surely, even if you choose to shield your name. You said Alberico is a tool for you. A tool for what, Alessan notof-Tregea?’ He was pleased to find that he remembered the name Menico di Ferraut had mentioned yesterday. ‘What is your own purpose? What brings you to this lodge?’
The other’s face, lean and curiously hollowed with cheekbones in sharp relief, grew still, almost masklike. And into the waiting silence that ensued he said:
‘I want Brandin. I want Brandin of Ygrath dead more than I want my soul’s immortality beyond the last portal of Morian.’
There was a silence again, broken only by the crackle of the autumn fires on the two hearths. It seemed to Tomasso as if the chill of winter had come into the room with that speech.
Then: ‘Such terribly splendid words!’ murmured Scalvaia lazily, shattering the mood. He drew a shout of laughter from Nievole and Taeri, both. Scalvaia himself did not smile.
The man on the window-ledge acknowledged the thrust with the briefest nod of his head. He said, ‘This is not, my lord, a subject about which I permit frivolity. If we are to work together it will be necessary for you to remember that.’
‘You, I am forced to say, are an overly proud young man,’ replied Scalvaia sharply. ‘It might be appropriate for you to remember to whom you speak.’
The other visibly bit back his first retort. ‘Pride is a family failing,’ he said finally. ‘I have not escaped it, I’m afraid. But I am indeed mindful of who you are. And the Sandreni and my lord Nievole. It is why I am here. I have made it my business to be aware of dissidence throughout the Palm for many years. At times I have encouraged it, discreetly. This evening marks the first instance in which I have come myself to a gathering such as this.’
‘But you have already told us that Alberico is nothing to you.’ Tomasso inwardly cursed his father for not having better prepared him for this very peculiar sixth figure.
‘Nothing in himself,’ the other corrected. ‘Will you allow me?’ Without waiting for a reply he lifted himself down from the ledge and walked over to the wine.
‘Please,’ said Tomasso, belatedly.
The man poured himself a generous glass of the vintage red. He drained it, and poured another. Only then did he turn back to address the five of them. Herado’s eyes, watching him, were enormous.
‘Two facts,’ the man called Alessan said crisply. ‘Learn them if you are serious about freedom in the Palm. One: if you oust or slay Alberico you will have Brandin upon you within three months. Two: if Brandin is ousted or slain Alberico will rule this peninsula within that same period of time.’
He stopped. His eyes—grey, Tomasso noticed now—moved from one to the other of them, challenging. No one spoke. Scalvaia toyed with the handle of his cane.
‘These two things must be understood,’ the stranger went on in the same tone. ‘Neither I in my own pursuit, nor you in yours, can afford to lose sight of them. They are the core truths of the Palm in our time. The two sorcerers from overseas are their own balance of power and the only balance of power in the peninsula right now, however different things might have been eighteen years ago. Today only the power of one keeps the magic of the other from being wielded as it was when they conquered us. If we take them then we must take them both—or make them bring down each other.’
‘How?’ Taeri asked, too eagerly.
The lean face under the prematurely silvering dark hair turned to him and smiled briefly. ‘Patience, Taeri bar Sandre. I have a number of things yet to tell you about carelessness before deciding if our paths are to join. And I say this with infinite respect for the dead man who seems—remarkably enough—to have drawn us here. I’m afraid you are going to have to agree to submit yourselves to my guidance or we can do nothing together at all.’
‘The Scalvaiane have submitted themselves willingly to nothing and no one in living memory or recorded history,’ that vulpine lord said, the texture of velvet in his voice. ‘I am not readily of a mind to become the first to do so.’
‘Would you prefer,’ the other said, ‘to have your plans and your life and the long glory of your line snuffed out like candles on the Ember Days because of sheer sloppiness in your preparations?’
‘You had better explain yourself,’ Tomasso said icily.
‘I intend to. Who was it who chose a double-moon night at double moonrise to meet?’ Alessan retorted, his voice suddenly cutting like a blade. ‘Why are no rear guards posted along the forest path to warn you if someone approaches—as I just did? Why were no servants left here this afternoon to guard this cabin? Have you even the faintest awareness of how dead the five of you would be—severed hands stuffed into your throats—were I not who I am?’
‘My father . . . Sandre . . . said that Alberico would not have us followed,’ Tomasso stammered furiously. ‘He was absolutely certain of that.’
‘And he is likely to have been absolutely right. But you cannot let your focus be so narrow. Your father—I am sorry to have to say it—was alone with his obsession for too long. He was too intent upon Alberico. It shows in everything you have done these past two days. What of the idly curious or the greedy? The petty informer who might decide to follow you just to see what happened here? Just to have a story to tell in the tavern tomorrow? Did you— or your father—give even half a thought to such things? Or to those who might have learned where you planned to come and arranged to be here before you?’
There was a hostile silence. A log on the smaller fire settled with a crack and a shower of sparks. Herado jumped involuntarily at the sound.
‘Will it interest you to know,’ the man called Alessan went on, more gently, ‘that my people have been guarding the approaches to this cabin since you arrived? Or that I’ve had someone in here since mid-afternoon keeping an eye on the servants setting up, and who might follow them?’
‘What?’ Taeri exclaimed. ‘In here! In our hunting lodge!’
‘For your protection and my own,’ the other man said, finishing his second glass of wine. He glanced upwards to the shadows of the half-loft above, where the extra pallets were stored.
‘I think that should do it, my friend,’ he called, pitching his voice to carry. ‘You’ve earned a glass of wine after so long dry-throated among the dust. You may as well come down now, Devin.’
It had actually been very easy.
Menico, purse jingling with more money than he had ever earned from a single performance in his life, had graciously passed their concert at the wine-merchant’s house over to Burnet di Corte. Burnet, who needed the work, was pleased; the wine-merchant, angry at first, was quickly mollified upon learning what Menico’s hitherto unfinalized tariff would now have been in the aftermath of the sensation they’d caused that morning.
So, in the event, Devin and the rest of the company had been given the rest of the day and evening off. Menico counted out for everyone an immediate bonus of five astins and benevolently waved them away to the various delights of the Festival. He didn’t even offer his usual warning lecture.
Already, just past noon, there were wine-stands on every corner, more than one at the busier squares. Each vineyard in Astibar province, and even some from farther afield in Ferraut or Senzio, had its vintages from previous years available as harbingers of what this year’s grapes would offer. Merchants looking to buy in quantity were sampling judiciously, early revellers rather less so.
Fruit-vendors were also in abundance, with figs and melons and the enormous grapes of the season displayed beside vast wheels of white cheeses from Tregea or bricks of red ones from northern Certando. Over by the market the din was deafening as the people of the city and its distrada canvassed the offerings of this year’s itinerant tradesmen. Overhead the banners of the noble houses and of the larger wine estates flapped brightly in the autumn breeze as Devin strode purposefully towards what he’d just been told was the most fashionable khav room in Astibar.
There were benefits to fame. He was recognized at the doorway, his arrival excitedly announced, and in a matter of moments he found himself at the dark wooden bar of The Paelion nursing a mug of hot khav laced with flambardion—no awkward questions asked about anyone’s age, thank you very much.
It was the work of half an hour to find out what he needed to know about Sandre d’Astibar. His questions seemed entirely natural, coming from the tenor who had just sung the Duke’s funeral lament. Devin learned about Sandre’s long rule, his feuds, his bitter exile, and his sad decline in the last few years into a blustering, drunken hunter of small game, a wraith compared to what he once had been.
In that last context, rather more specifically, Devin asked about where the Duke had liked to hunt. They told him. They told him where his favourite hunting lodge had been. He changed the subject to wine.
It was easy. He was a hero of the hour and The Paelion liked heroes, for an hour. They let him go eventually: he pleaded an artist’s strained sensitivity after the morning’s endeavours. With the benefit of hindsight he now attached a deal more importance than he had at the time to glimpsing Alessan di Tregea at a booth full of painters and poets. They were laughing about some wager concerning certain verses of condolence that had not yet arrived from Chiara. He and Alessan had saluted each other in an elaborately showy, performers’ fashion that delighted the packed room.
Back at the inn, Devin had fended off the most ardent of the group who had walked him home and went upstairs alone. He had waited in his room, chafing, for an hour to be sure the last of them had gone. Having changed into a dark-brown tunic and breeches, he put on a cap to hide his hair and a woollen overshirt against the coming chill of evening. Then he made his way unnoticed through the now teeming crowds in the streets over to the eastern gate of the city.
And out, among several empty wagons, goods all sold, being ridden back to the distrada by sober, prudent farmers who preferred to reload and return in the morning instead of celebrating all night in town spending what they’d just earned.
Devin hitched a ride on a cart part of the way, commiserating with the driver on the taxes and the poor rates being paid that year for lamb’s wool. Eventually he jumped off, feigning youthful exuberance, and ran a mile or so along the road to the east.
At one point he saw, with a grin of recognition, a temple of Adaon on the right. Just past it, as promised, was the delicately rendered image of a ship on the roadside gate of a modest country house. Rovigo’s home— what Devin could see of it, set well back from the road among cypress and olive trees—looked comfortable and cared-for.
A day ago, a different person, he would have stopped. But something had happened to him that morning within the dusty spaces of the Sandreni Palace. He kept going.
A half mile further on he found what he was looking for. He made sure he was alone and then quickly cut to his right, south into the woods, away from the main road that led to the east coast and Ardin town on the sea.
It was quiet in the forest and cooler where the branches and the many-coloured leaves dappled the sunlight. There was a path winding through the trees and Devin began to follow it, towards the hunting lodge of the Sandreni. From here on he redoubled his caution. On the road he was simply a walker in the autumn countryside; here he was a trespasser with no excuse at all for being where he was.
