It was only talk, Devin had long since concluded. The two ruling sorcerers from east and west across the seas had sliced the Palm neatly in half between them, with only hapless, decadent Senzio not formally occupied by either, looking nervously across the water both ways. Its Governor remained paralytically unable to decide which wolf to be devoured by, while the two wolves still warily circled each other after almost twenty years, each unwilling to expose itself by moving first.
The balance of power in the peninsula seemed to Devin to have been etched in stone from the time of his first awareness. Until one of the sorcerers died—and sorcerers were rumoured to live a very long time—nothing much would or could come of khav room or great hall chatter.
Quileia, though, was another matter. One far beyond Devin’s limited experience to sort out or define. He couldn’t even guess what might be the implications of what Marius had now done in that strange country south of the mountains. What might flow from Quileia’s having a more than transitory King, one who did not have to go into the Oak Grove every two years and there, naked, ritually maimed, and unarmed, meet the sword-wielding foe who had been chosen to slay him and take his place. Marius had not been slain, though. Seven times he had not been slain.
And now the High Priestess was dead. Nor was it possible to miss the meaning in the way Rovigo had said that. A little overawed, Devin shook his head.
He glanced up and saw that his new acquaintance was staring at him with an odd expression.
‘You’re a thoughtful young man, aren’t you?’ the merchant said.
Devin shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Not unduly. I don’t know. Certainly not with any insight. I don’t hear news like yours every afternoon. What do you think it will mean?’
One answer he was not to receive.
The tavern-keeper, who had quite efficiently succeeded in ignoring Rovigo’s intermittent signalling for another bottle of wine, now strode to their end of the bar, black anger visible on his features even in the darkened room.
‘You!’ he hissed. ‘Your name Devin?’
Taken aback, Devin nodded reflexive agreement. The tavern-keeper’s expression grew even more malevolent.
‘Get out of here!’ he rasped. ‘Your Triad-cursed sister’s outside. Says your father’s ordered you home and—Morian blast you both!—that he’s minded to turn me in for serving an underage. You gutter-spawned maggot, I’ll teach you to put me at risk of being shut down on the eve of the Festival!’
Before Devin could move, a full pitcher of soured black wine was flung into his face, stinging like fire. He scrambled back, wiping at his streaming eyes, swearing furiously.
When he could see again it was to observe an extraordinary sight.
Rovigo—not a big man—had moved along the bar and had grabbed the ’keeper by the collar of his greasy tunic. Without apparent effort he had the man pulled halfway over the bar top, feet kicking ineffectually in mid-air. The collar was twisted to a degree sufficient to cause the helpless tavern-owner’s face to begin turning a mottled shade of crimson.
‘Goro, I do not like my friends being abused,’ Rovigo said calmly. ‘The lad has no father here and I doubt he has a sister.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Devin who shook his dripping head vehemently.
‘As I say,’ Rovigo continued, not even breathing hard, ‘he has no sister here. He is also patently not underage— as should be obvious to any tavern-owner not blinded by swilling buckets of his own slop after hours. Now, Goro, will you placate me a little by apologizing to Devin d’Asoli, my new friend, and offering him two bottles of corked vintage Certando red, by way of showing your sincere contrition? In return I may be persuaded to let you have a cask of the Quileian buinath that’s sitting on the Sea Maid even now. At an appropriate price of course, given what you can extort for that stuff at Festival-time.’
Goro’s face had accomplished a truly dangerous hue. Just as Devin felt obliged to caution Rovigo, the tavern-owner gave a jerky, convulsive nod and the merchant untwisted the collar a little. Goro dragged foetid tavern air into his lungs as if it were scented with Chiaran mountain tainflowers and spluttered a three-word apology to Devin.
‘And the wine?’ Rovigo reminded him kindly.
He lowered the other man—still without any evident exertion—enough for Goro to fumble below the bar and resurface with two bottles of what certainly appeared to be Certandan red.
Rovigo let slip another notch of the tightened collar.
‘Vintage?’ he inquired patiently.
Goro twitched his head up and down.
‘Well then,’ Rovigo declared, releasing Goro completely, ‘it appears we are quits. I suppose,’ he said, turning to Devin, ‘that you should go see who is pretending to be your sister outside.’
‘I know who it is,’ Devin said grimly. ‘Thank you, by the way. I’m used to fighting my own battles, but it’s pleasant to have an ally now and again.’
‘It is always pleasant to have an ally,’ Rovigo amended. ‘But it seems obvious to me that you aren’t keen on dealing with this “sister”, so I’ll leave you to do it in private. Do let me once more commend my own daughters to your kind remembrance. They’ve been quite well brought up, all things considered.’
‘I have no doubt of that at all,’ Devin said. ‘If I can do you a service in return I will. I’m with the company of Menico di Ferraut and we’re here through the Festival. Your wife might enjoy hearing us perform. If you let me know you’ve come I’ll make sure you have good places at either of our public performances, free of charge.’
‘I thank you. And if your path or your curiosity leads you south-east of town, now or later in the year, our land is about five miles along the road on the right-hand side. There’s a small temple of Adaon just
