‘She said maybe you could help find out who I was.’
He studied her. ‘Have you seen Shurq lately?’
‘Only once. She was all fixed. I barely recognized her.’
‘Well, lass, we could see the same done for you, if you like.’
The grubby, mould-patched face wrinkled into a frown. ‘Why?’
‘Why? To make you less noticeable, I suppose. Wouldn’t you enjoy looking the way Shurq does now?’
‘Enjoy?’
‘Think about it at least?’
‘All right. You look friendly. You look like I could like you. I don’t like many people, but I could like you. Can I call you Father? Shurq is my mother. She isn’t, really, but that’s what I call her. I’m looking for brothers and sisters, too.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Can you help me?’
‘I’ll try, Kettle. Shurq tells me the tower talks to you.’
‘Not words. Just thoughts. Feelings. It’s afraid. There’s someone in the ground who is going to help. Once he gets free, he’ll help us. He’s my uncle. But the bad ones scare me.’
‘The bad ones? Who are they? Are they in the ground, too?’
She nodded.
‘Is there a chance they will get out of the ground before your uncle does?’
‘If they do, they’ll destroy us all. Me, Uncle and the tower. They’ve said so. And that will free all the others.’
‘And are the others bad, too?’
She shrugged. ‘They don’t talk much. Except one. She says she’ll make me an empress. I’d like to be an empress.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t trust that one. Just my opinion, Kettle, but promises like that are suspect.’
‘That’s what Shurq says, too. But she sounds very nice. She wants to give me lots of treats and stuff.’
‘Be careful, lass.’
‘Do you ever dream of dragons, Father?’
‘Dragons?’
Shrugging again, she turned away. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I need to kill someone… maybe that artist…’
Turudal Brizad, the consort to Queen Janall, stood leaning against the wall whilst Brys Beddict led his students through the last of the counterattack exercises.
Audiences were not uncommon during his training regime with the king’s own guard, although Brys had been mildly surprised that Turudal was among the various onlookers, most of whom were practitioners with the weapons he used in his instruction. The consort was well known for his indolent ways, a privilege that, in the days of Brys’s grandfather, would not have been tolerated in a young, fit Letherii. Four years of military service beginning in the seventeenth year had been mandatory. In those days there had been external threats aplenty. Bluerose to the north, the independent, unruly city-states of the archipelago in Dracons Sea, and the various tribes on the eastern plain had been pressuring Lether, driven against the outposts by one of the cyclical expansionist regimes of far Kolanse.
Bluerose now paid tribute to King Ezgara Diskanar, the city-states had been crushed, leaving little more than a handful of goat-herders and fisherfolk on the islands, and Kolanse had subsided into isolation following some sort of civil war a few decades past.
It was difficult for Brys to imagine a life possessing virtually no ability to defend itself, at least upon the attainment of adulthood, but Turudal Brizad was such a creature. Indeed, the consort had expressed the opinion that he was but a forerunner, a pioneer of a state of human life wherein soldiering was left to the Indebted and the mentally inadequate. Although Brys had initially scoffed at hearing a recounting of Brizad’s words, his disbelief had begun to waver. The Letherii military was still strong, yet increasingly it was bound to economics. Every campaign was an opportunity for wealth. And, among the civilian population of traders, merchants and all those who served the innumerable needs of civilization, few were bothering with martial training any more. An undercurrent of contempt now coloured their regard of soldiers.
He completed the exercise, then lingered to see who left the chamber and who remained to practise on their own. Most remained, and Brys was pleased. The two who had left were, he knew, the queen’s spies in the bodyguard. Ironically, everyone else knew that detail as well.
Brys sheathed his sword and strode over to Turudal Brizad. ‘Consort?’
A casual tilt of the head, ‘Finadd.’
‘Have you found yourself at a loose end? I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.’
‘The palace seems strangely empty, don’t you think?’
‘Well,’ Brys ventured, ‘there’s certainly less shouting.’
Turudal Brizad smiled. ‘The prince is young, Finadd. Some exuberance is to be expected. The Chancellor would have a word with you, at your convenience. I understand you are fully recovered from your mysterious ordeal?’
‘The King’s healers were their usual proficient selves, Consort. Thank you for asking. Why does the Chancellor wish to speak with me?’
The man shrugged. ‘I am not the one to ask. I am but a messenger in this, Finadd.’
Brys studied him for a moment, then simply nodded. ‘I accept Triban Gnol’s invitation. A bell from now?’
‘That should suffice. Let us hope for all our sakes that this will not mark an expansion of the present feud between the Chancellor and the Ceda.’
Brys was surprised. ‘There is a feud? I hadn’t heard. I mean, apart from the, well, the usual clash of opinions.’ He considered, then said, ‘I share your concern, Consort.’
‘Does it ever strike you, Finadd, that peace leads to an indulgence in strife?’
‘No, since your statement is nonsensical. The opposite of peace is war, while war is an extreme expression of strife. By your argument, life is characterized as an oscillation between strife during peace and strife during war.’
‘Not entirely nonsensical, then,’ Turudal Brizad said. ‘We exist in a state of perpetual stress. Both within ourselves and in the world beyond.’ He shrugged. ‘We may speak of a longing for balance, but in our soul burns a lust for discord.’
‘If your soul is troubled, Consort,’ Brys said, ‘you hide it well.’
‘None of us here lack that skill, Finadd.’
Brys cocked his head. ‘I have no inclination to indulge in strife. I find I still disagree with your premise. In any case, I must take my leave of you now, Consort.’
On his way back to his chambers, Brys reflected on Turudal Brizad’s words. There might well have been a warning hidden in there, but apart from the obvious suggestion that all was not as it seemed – and in the palace this was taken as given – he could not pierce the subtlety of the consort’s intentions.
Stress lay in the cast of the mind, as far as Brys was concerned. Born of perspective and the hue through which one saw the world, and such things were shaped by both nature and nurture. Perhaps on some most basic level the struggle to live yielded a certain stress, but that was not the same as the strife conjured by an active mind, its myriad storms of desires, emotions, worries and terrors, its relentless dialogue with death.
Brys had realized long ago what had drawn him into the arts of fighting. The martial world, from duelling to warfare, was inherently reductionist, the dialogue made simple and straightforward. Threats, bargains and compromises were proscribed by the length of Letherii steel. Self-discipline imposed a measure of control over one’s own fate, which in turn served to diminish the damaging effects of stress, more so when it became clear to the practitioner that death fought using blind chance when all else failed, and so one had no choice but to accept the consequences, however brutal they may be. Simple notions that one could reflect upon at leisure, should one choose – but never when face to face with an enemy with blades unsheathed and dancing.
Physical laws imposed specific limitations, and Brys was satisfied with that clear imposition of predictability – sufficient to provide the structure around which he built his life.
Turudal Brizad’s life was far less certain. His physicality and its attractiveness to others was his singular
