Everran's Bane (14 page)

She gave me a brazen smile, and blew a kiss back up the marble stairs. He looked positively sheepish. Then with a sudden, gleeful, small-boy's chuckle remarked, “You can do some things one-handed, after all.”

I opened my mouth to invoke conjugal faith and a scale of other such pomposities. Recalled who I had last shared a bed with, and thought again. Essaying levity, I began, “If you end in a Clan paternity suit...”

His face shut like a door. He answered bleakly, “No chance of that.”

But he had chosen the Clan palace for more than amorous intrigues. “If you want to plant in the Tingrith,” he said, “you have to plough plenty of dirt.” Three weeks we kicked our heels awaiting an audience, and in those three weeks he juggled the Clans more cunningly than ever I did the truth and Hawge. I could not follow half the scandal levers, the power and blood knots, and was reduced to seeking a notable weapon, which in Heshruan is as witty as hunting a sea in Hethria. The city is not even walled.

On audience morning, Beryx appeared on crimson cloak and coronal, saying, “Bring your robe.” We walked silently to the Tingrith meeting house, past the resplendent guards and up the marble steps.

The Eight sat round a circular table in a rank of tremendous white turbans and shrewd leathery faces. None were below middle-age, and the Ruand's beard was white as the mushroom on his head, but all bore the mark of sheep lords, who work for their wealth with their own hands, and know it from the ground to the mighty pair of ram-horns behind them on the wall. Everyone bowed solemnly. We were ushered to chairs, and Beryx gave me a nod.

Quarreders understand fighting, especially with fire: dry storms scourge them every year. Their eyes flashed at the battle-song. I knew they felt for the warriors of Saeverran, and would honor Astarien's fellow conquerors. I could not resist an extempore coda for Inyx in the Raskelf, for it was their sheep he saved, and I felt they would favor a fighter more than one who merely begged.

Beryx told them the rest, this time including my interview, which won my first glances of respect, and adding Hawge's words, along with the weapon search. “We do not ask help forever,” he concluded. “What we are buying is time. For the Confederacy as well as ourselves.”

The Ruand's eye sharpened. He said formally, “Quarred hears you.” Then the debate began.

Quarred's finances. Confederate claims and worths. Hawge's faith or probable lack of it. Within five speeches I knew there was a power-struggle in progress, for which we were just the rope in a tug-of-war. The northern Clans favored us, since they use the Raskelf, unlike the Southerners, who stretch down into the grain and fruit and horselands of Culphan Skos. But they were fighting for mastery of the Tingrith, not for our cause.

Beryx sat quiet, barely moving his eyes. The Ruand, also impassive, watched the battle sway to and fro.

Presently it resolved into a struggle for the two Heshruan lords, who have a foot in both camps. The Northerners quoted Hawge's taste for horses, Quarred's proximity to its lair, the Raskelf's importance, the threat to the wine trade, Hawge's invulnerability to all but this frail chance. All Beryx's arguments. The Southerners were against extortion, risk, and getting involved. The debate grew warm. Veiled thrusts about “biggest export,” “biggest spenders,” “unfair representation,” “tax evaders,” were exchanged, cryptic comments about the Army—northern soldiers, southern generals—and less cryptic comments about “favor from the Chair.”

At last a Heshruan lord crumbled before the threat of Hawge near his march-line, and a long-faced Northerner with a beaky nose and bright blue eyes veiled in folds of leathery skin sat back and demanded, “Vote.”

The Ruand straightened. “Those in favor,” he asked slowly, “of sending Everran ten ingots a month?” Four hands went up. “Against?” Three. “As Vethyr clansman, I have one vote. I cast it against.” The Northerner's blue eyes flashed. “As Ruand, I have the casting vote. I cast that... also against.”

Into the silence he spoke in his slow, deliberate voice. “I will move that Quarred send three ingots a month for the present year. We have lost the Raskelf for this summer. It will be a future risk. A debit of a hundred and twenty gold ingots for an unknown number of years is too great a risk. Those in favor?”

I did not see the Northerner's look, but Beryx gave a tiny nod. Seven hands went up. “Carried,” said the Ruand. “Three ingots a month.”

“Three!” I burst out in the street. “When they sell their wool to Estar weight for weight in gold! And he's a Northener! He uses the Raskelf! The old—old—”

“And he's a Quarreder,” Beryx said composedly. “He remembers my Raskelf note. They like their dignity. And he knows quite well that if Everran's ruined, Quarred will lead the Confederacy. They've hankered after that for years.”

“If Hawge crosses the range, he won't be leading anything!”

There was irony in his smile. “He'll knows I'll talk my tongue out now to move Estar. And I just might succeed. I do the work, Estar bears the cost. Quarred's no worse off with Hawge, and ahead in the Confederacy.” He glanced down the clean, handsome street, and grimaced. “Let's saddle up and go.”

* * * * *

The quickest way from Heshruan to Estar is straight east to the bridge where Khallien and Mellennor join. We approached it in ceremonial garb instead of our usual farmers' shirts and Holmyx boots, which I understood when we passed border guards on both sides, Quarred's with wearisome formality and Estar's with blunt demands for “identification” from the gray-clad soldiery. Beryx touched his coronal, gestured at my robe, and said with unbelievable hauteur, “Everran. And suite. Have your communications broken down?”

We sat an hour in the guard hut while it was proved they had not. Then with “cordial apologies” an unsmiling commander ushered us into Estar and a rabble fell on us waving wax tablets and shouting at the top of their lungs.

Estar is infatuated with “news.” They use mirror-signals on clear days, smoke on dull ones, fires at night, town-crier is the land's most coveted post, and lords grow rich solely by maintaining news-takers in every Resh. These had left the nearest town after eavesdropping on the border signals, and meant to extract value for their sweat.

As the swarm landed, Beryx swept both hands before him in the scout's signal for “Halt. No road,” and yelled, “Harran! This is yours!”

Later, when I read the signals and heard the criers, I could hardly credit it. Harpers have good memories, naturally. These could write as well, yet they put Saphar in Stiriand with Beryx challenging the dragon to single combat at its gates, had me leading the phalanx while Inyx ran away, gave Hawge four wings and horns, claimed it had incinerated the Saeverran fire-fighters, that it demanded maidens for food, and was now poised to descend on Estar. But when I exploded, Beryx said, “Don't disturb yourself. All that matters is ‘poised to descend.'”

Not content with songs, they rushed us afterwards, all yelling at once. “What happened to your face, sir?” “Will your government fall because of the dragon?” “Is Everran bankrupt?” “What did you think of Quarred's help?” “How do you feel about the dragon in Everran, sir?”

Beryx had been forging steadily ahead, uttering inanities: at that last question, he spun on the fresh-faced youth, who recoiled. “How would you feel,” he said harshly, “if it were in Estar?” And strode away.

We slept in Cushoth, a city bigger than Holymlase and still not the Resh-capital, lodging under siege from news-takers in the governor's house. I now saw fresh reason for Beryx's beginning in Holym. All Cushoth knew of us and wanted to see for themselves.

So we climbed on the dais in the town square, and I sang to immense crowds who stared, pointed, chattered, laughed, squabbled, and ate nuts throughout. Then the news-takers attacked again, this time catching me as well. “Why do you wear that robe?” “Who wrote the songs?” “Are you married?” “Is the royal marriage withstanding the dragon?” “Is that your own harp?” Beryx mouthed, “Steady,” just before I burst, so since he judged them important, I strove to stay in earshot of courtesy.

This farce went on clear to Rustarra, amid town-criers competing for sensational catch-lines. “Confederacy crumbles.” “Everran King appeals to Estar.” “Everran bankrupt: Estar next?” “Harper says, Dragon is a hypnotist.” “Death by sting and claw.” “Nervous collapse of Everran queen.” By the time we reached Rustarra, I would have paid Hawge to eat the lot.

Estar itself is stupefying: mostly dead-flat plains, every inch of them cultivated, mined, covered in towns or factories, which suck in the Confederacy's sheep, cattle, wool, meat, hides, fish, coal, iron, tin, copper, gold, oil, silk, linen, timber, and spew out artifacts. Grain it grows itself. Resh-size fields stretch from one to the other horizon, with tillers thick as ants. And everywhere else are innumerable people, all in a frenzy of activity for the Four know what.

Rustarra, the essence of Estar, spreads for miles round the Tarrilien estuary, which has been dredged, extended with moles, and lined with endless quays. Behind them lies the town center: grimy, ornately carved official buildings, then fortified tower-like lords' houses, then the city wall, in good repair and thick with military machinery. Outside are mile upon mile of dirty little houses, factory chimneys in place of trees, army barracks, City-Resh council houses, depots, stores, granaries, stables, slaughterhouses, reservoirs, and slums full of outcasts, all sunk in a dirty brown sludge that blots the sky, and making a noise to burden the earth.

At first I thought government was the two annually elected shophets who lead the Resh Assembly's six-monthly sessions: finding the shophets only execute its commands, I supposed rule was the assembly's. Then, seeing swarms of the loudest folk in Estar deafening assemblymen over causes from higher jugglers' wages to government-issued yeldtar juice for slaughterhouse fowls, I thought this to be the government, until I realized these wind-horns never mentioned anything like trade or wages. And then I found there are men who never stand for election, never enter the assembly, never become shophet, but quietly command all those who do.

The most obvious are the lords of trade, carriage, news, and manufacture, who live wealthily but vulgarly in mansions within Rustarra's walls and point Estar where their money wishes. Less obvious are the guilds. Estar's number millions, for every trade from doctor to horse-boy permits only dues-paying guildsmen to follow their work, and when they strike for higher wages or cold water on tap for street-sweepers, the lords, shophets, and assembly are obliged to bow. Yet it is not these millions who actually hold the power.

Guild leaders mostly live in the poorest house available, dress meanly, keep no horses, and strive to resemble their poorest subjects. But since I never saw one without white hands, frog's jowls, and a globular belly, I conclude that telling others to strike is a richer trade than doing it yourself.

All these people were agog to see us in the flesh. We housed with the shophets, banqueted with the lords, addressed the assembly, lectured the guilds, and were beset by news-takers, the whole of it only adding to Rustarra's noise. “This is Estar,” said Beryx. “Think later, talk first.”

We soon attracted some wind-horns who deafened assemblymen on behalf of, “Everran's starving children,” and were out-yelled by a group defending poor, innocent, mistreated Hawge: “An evolutionary treasure that must be preserved.” We ourselves were objects of intense interest, for Estar thinks monarchy “so quaint,” and royal retainers quainter still. I was asked how much the king paid me, if he beat me, if I could leave him or was a palace thrall, if my wages were “tied to inflation,” if I had a guild to protect me, and if he censored my songs.

After that one flare at the border, Beryx had Estar's key, and would now, unblinking, tell the most stupendous lies. Asked if I really “bit the dragon to make it talk,” I nearly choked with rage before catching a bland green eye.

So in self-defense I spread my own slanders, that Beryx used a whip on his chamberlain, dined off gold and threw the plates away, beheaded generals who disputed his orders—that one almost cracked Beryx's public face—and locked up his council for three days on bread and water before he consulted them. But next time a squat factory-lord's wife dripping fur and thillians asked if he “really had first choice of all Everran's virgins,” he waved at me and answered demurely, “Ask my scribe: he knows court etiquette back to front.”

Among the mountebanks a group of scholars, who are lorebards without music, invited me to a conference. These were called Draconists, their lore being dragons, so I went with alacrity, hoping to learn something of use.

First they asked if I were a master or a doctor, taking my robe for an Everran scholar's gown. Then they said songs were not “scientific data” and wanted to know if Hawge laid eggs or was marsupial, how many teeth it had, if it hibernated, and how much it weighed, before forgetting me in a furious combat over Hawge's classification as a “worm” or a “firedrake,” and its descent from insects, on account of its eyes, or reptiles, on account of its legs. Later, some actually extracted money from the government and went off to study it, armed with theories of dragon-language and something called a “submission crouch.” They lived three days round Kerymgjer before Hawge came out feeling peckish and ate the lot.