The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (10 page)

“I have a presentation to make to Theovere,” he concluded.
Not
“His Majesty High King Theovere,” but the simple surname, as if he and the High King were of equal stature. T’fyrr was impressed, by Harperus’ audacity if nothing else.

The title Harperus claimed was not precisely a fiction, although very little of what the Deliambren actually did on his extensive trips ever had anything to do with conventional diplomacy. And it was entirely possible he had presented his credentials to every one of the dignitaries he named—they were all wealthy enough to afford Deliambren goods, and Harperus often acted as a courier for such things. The official favored Harperus with a long moment of silence, during which the “Laurel Herald” scrutinized the Deliambren as carefully as an oldster examining her daughter-in-law’s aerie for dirt in the corners, unpolished furniture, or a fraction less
klrrthn
than was proper.

Harperus simply stood there, radiating a cool aplomb. T’fyrr was grateful that no human here could possibly have enough experience with Haspur to read their expressions and body language, or he would have given it all away with his rigid nervousness. He stood as straight and as stiffly as a perching-pole, his wings clamped against his back. Probably the official didn’t notice, or if he did, thought it was stiff formality and not nerves.

He didn’t seem to notice the Haspur at all; in the simple silk body-wrap, T’fyrr probably looked like a slave.

Finally the “Laurel Herald” elected to take them at face value; he signaled to a boy he referred to as “Page,” one of the dozen waiting quietly on the bench behind his desk, and gave them over into the boy’s keeping.

“Take them to the Afternoon Court,” the Herald said, shortly, and turned his attention to other business on his empty desk.

After an interminable walk down glass-walled corridors that passed through the middle of mathematically precise gardens, the boy led them toward—a structure. If the scale of the Palace had been anything T’fyrr considered normal, it would have been another wing of a central building. But since everything was on such a massive scale, this “wing” was the size of entire palaces. It was certainly the size of the huge Cathedral in Gradford, which was one of the largest human buildings T’fyrr had ever seen.

“That’s Court, my lords,” the boy explained, enunciating carefully. “That’s all that goes on in that Palace building, just Court. Morning and Afternoon Court, informal Court, formal Court, Judiciary, Allocation, City—”

The boy rattled on until T’fyrr shook his head in disbelief. How many ways could one entitle the simple function of hearing problems and meeting people? Evidently quite a few . . .

The bureaucracy here must be enough to stun a thinking being. I feel dizzy.

The doors at the end of the corridor swung open without a hand to open them as they approached; T’fyrr glanced sideways at Harperus, who smirked in smug recognition.

A Deliambren device, of course. Why am I not surprised?

The doors closed behind them, silently, and the Haspur noted larger versions of the Deliambren lighting that Harperus employed in his coach hanging from the ceiling, encased in ornate structures of glass and gold. There were probably hundreds more examples of Deliambren wonders here, but none of them would be of the type that could be taken apart without destroying them.

Well, no matter what the Church says about the “evil magic” of those who are not human, past High Kings have not scrupled to buy and use our devices.
T’fyrr grimaced.
No matter what happens, I would place a high wager that they would
continue
to use such things, even in the face of a Church declaration of Anathema. The Church would either look the other way, or the High King would pay the fine and continue to have his lighting and his self-opening doors.

The High King would be able to
afford
whatever fine the Church levied without even thinking about it; T’fyrr knew, after traveling so long with Harperus, just how much that lighting, those doors, probably cost. Nor was the display of wealth limited to the nonhuman devices so prominently displayed and used. Of course, the money came from somewhere, and T’fyrr’s mind played out an image of the human hive they had come through.

They followed down a hallway paved in polished marble with matching marble paneling. Graceful designs had been incised into the marble of the walls and gold wire inlaid in the grooves. At intervals, along the wall and beneath the lighting, where they were displayed at their best advantage, were graceful sculptures of humans and animals, also of marble with details of gold inlay. Between the sculptures stood small marble tables, topped with vases made of semiprecious jade, malachite and carnelian. The vases were filled with bouquets, not of fresh flowers, but of flowers made of precious stones and gold and silver wire.

T’fyrr could not even begin to calculate the cost of all of this. Surely just one of those flowers would keep a commoner out in Lyonarie fed and clothed for a year!

The page led them to a pair of gold-inlaid, bronze doors, each a work of art in itself, depicting more humans—though for once, these were not in conflict, but gathered for some purpose. The doors swung open, and the boy waved them in.

“They’ll have brought your name to the Presiding Herald,” the boy whispered as T’fyrr caught sight of a jewel-bedecked throng just inside the door. “He’ll add you to the list; just listen for him to announce you, and then present yourself to His Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Harperus said gravely. The boy bobbed an abrupt little bow, and hurried off; Harperus strode between those open doors as if he had every right to be there, and T’fyrr moved in his wake, like a silent, winged shadow.

He had not donned all of the finery that Harperus had wanted him to put on—a huge, gemmed pectoral collar, ankle-bracelets, armbands and wristbands, a dusting of gold powder for his wings. Now he was glad that he had not. Not only had the wrist and armbands and bracelets felt
far
too much like fetters, but T’fyrr was certain that he would only have looked ridiculous in the borrowed gear, as if he was trying to ape these jeweled and painted humans, who were oh-so-carefully
not
staring at the nonhumans in their midst. There did not appear to be any other nonhuman creatures in this room, although it was difficult to be certain of that. They could have been crammed up against the white marble walls—that, evidently, was the place where those of little importance were relegated. The magic circle of ultimate status was just before the throne, within earshot of everything that went on upon the dais. Harperus strolled toward that hallowed ground quite as if he had a place reserved for him there, and to T’fyrr’s amazement, the haughty courtiers gave way before him.

Perhaps they are frightened by his costume!

The nearer they got to the throne, the more annoyed and resentful the glances of those giving way for them became. Just at the point where T’fyrr was quite certain Harperus was about to be challenged, the Deliambren stopped, folded his arms, and stood his ground, his whole attitude one of genial
listening.
T’fyrr did his best to copy his friend.

Harperus was
truly
paying attention to what was going on around the throne, unlike many of the humans here. As T’fyrr watched and listened, following the Deliambren’s example, he became aware that there was something very wrong . . .

The High King—who did not look particularly old, though his short hair was an iron grey, and his face sported a few prominent lines and wrinkles—sat upon a huge, gilded and jeweled throne that was as dreadful an example of bad taste as anything Harperus had ever inflicted on an unsuspecting T’fyrr. The King’s entire attitude, however, was not at all businesslike, but rather one of absolute boredom.

On both sides of the throne were richly dressed humans in floor-length ornate robes embroidered with large emblems, with enormous chains of office about their necks, like so many dressed up dogs with golden collars. But these dogs were not the ones obeying the command of their master—rather, the prey was in the other claw entirely.

Harperus had been right. Harperus had actually been right. The High King virtually parroted everything these so-called advisors of his told him to say.

Now, T’fyrr was mortally certain that very few of the courtiers were aware of this, for the Advisors bent over their monarch in a most respectful and unctuous manner, and whispered in carefully modulated tones what it was they thought he should say. They were taking great care that it appear they were only advising, not giving him orders. But a Haspur’s hearing was as sharp as that of any owl, and T’fyrr was positive from the bland expression on Harperus’ face that the
Deliambren had some device rigged up inside that bizarre head- and neck-piece he sported that gave him the same aural advantage.

During the brief time that they stood there, waiting their turn, King Theovere paid little or no attention to matters that T’fyrr thought important—given as little acquaintance as he had with governing. There were several petitions from Guildmasters, three or four ambassadors presenting formal communications from their Kings, a report on the progress of the rebuilding at Kingsford—

Well, those might easily be dismissed, as Theovere was doing, by handing them over to his Seneschal. There was nothing there that he really needed to act upon, although his barely hidden yawn was rather rude by T’fyrr’s standards. But what of the rest?

There was an alarming number of requests from dukes, barons, and even a mere sire or two from many of the Twenty Kingdoms, asking the High King’s intervention with injustices perpetrated by
their
lords and rulers. Wasn’t that precisely the kind of thing that the High King was
supposed
to handle? Wasn’t he supposed to be the impartial authority to keep the abuse of power to a minimum? That was how T’fyrr understood the structure of things. The High King was the ultimate ruler, and his duty was not only to his own land but to see that all the others were well-governed—enforcing that, even to the point of placing a new King on a throne if need be.

But most of these petitions, like the rest of the work, he delegated to his poor, overburdened Seneschal—everything that he did not dismiss out of hand with a curt “take your petty grievances back to your homeland and address them properly to your own King.”

The Seneschal, however overworked he already was, always looked pained when the King used
that
particular little speech, but he said nothing.

Perhaps there isn’t a great deal that he can do,
T’fyrr thought. The Seneschal’s chain was the least gaudy of all of the chains of office—perhaps that meant that, among the Advisors, he had the least power.

The rest of the Advisors however were not so reluctant to voice their opinions—which were universally positive. They actually congratulated the High King every time he dismissed a petition or passed it on to the Seneschal.

They were particularly effusive when he trotted out that little speech.

“A fine decision, Your Majesty,” someone would say. Another would add, as predictably as rhyming “death” with “breath”, “It is in the interest of your land and people that they see you delegate your authority, so that when you are truly needed, you will be free to grant a problem your full attention.” And a third would pipe up with, “You must be firm with these people, otherwise every dirt-farming peasant who resents paying tax and tithe to his overlord and the Church will come whining to you for redress of his so-called wrongs.”

And the High King smiled, and nodded, and suppressed another yawn.

T’fyrr flexed his talons silently, easing the tension in his feet by clamping them into fists until they trembled. How in the world did Harperus think he could help with
this
situation? The King was getting all of this bad advice from high-ranking humans who were probably very dangerous and hazardous to cross!

Memories of fetters weighing him down made him shiver with chill in that overly warm room. Hazardous to cross . . .

But before he could say anything to Harperus, the Presiding Herald announced their names, and it was too late to stop the Deliambren from carrying out his plan.

“My Lord Harperus jin Lothir, Ambassador-at-large from the Deliambrens, and T’fyrr Redwing, envoy of the Haspur—”

A tiny portion of T’fyrr’s mind noted the rich tones of the human’s voice with admiration; the rest of him was engaged in trying to watch the reactions of anyone of any importance to the announcement.

The King’s face lit up the moment Harperus stepped forward; as the Deliambren launched into a flowery speech lauding the greatness of King Theovere, and the vast impact of the High King’s reputation across the face of Alanda, the Advisors waited and watched like an unkindness of ravens waiting for something to die. They didn’t know what Harperus was up to—if, indeed, he was up to anything. That bothered them, but what clearly bothered them more was the fact that for the first time Theovere was showing some interest and no boredom.

Theovere might not be the man he once was, but he still knows where the “marvels” come from.

Now T’fyrr wondered if the trouble
was
with the King’s age; there was a certain illness of the aged where one regressed into childhood. Theovere certainly betrayed some symptoms of childishness . . .

T’fyrr followed the speech; he knew it by heart, and his cue was just coming up. Without pausing or skipping a beat, Harperus went from the speech to T’fyrr’s introduction.

“—and I bring before you one who has heard of your generous patronage of the art of music, the envoy of goodwill from the Haspur of the Skytouching Mountains where no human of the Twenty Kingdoms has ever ventured, here to entertain you and your Court.”

Harperus stepped back, and T’fyrr quickly stepped forward. One of the Advisors opened his mouth as if to protest; T’fyrr didn’t give him a chance to actually say something.

He had already filled his lungs while he waited for his cue, and now he burst into full-chested song.