The Summer's King (8 page)

At some point in his brief “return season” Hazard has a package sent off in the care of Starling Brothers, a firm of cloth merchants and tailors who regularly send fine stuffs, patterns and made-up garments into Achamar, for the use of Sharn Am Zor and his court.

As he grows stronger, life on shipboard chafes Hazard a little. He steals into the city by day and by night roams the streets. For the first time he notices the presence of the brown brothers, going about collecting alms and preaching in the open spaces of Balufir. He disputes a little with a scrawny fellow who stands before the Tumblers' Yard urging the passersby to forgo worldly pleasures and turn to the light of the spirit.

One day Hazard and Taranelda picnic in the Wilderness, and there, among the bright maples, beside the artificial ruins, they are passed by another pair of lovers. It is one of the memories of this “false summer” that the poet will always cherish. They come softly through the golden haze of late afternoon like an elf king and his queen, a tall man dressed all in amber, darkly bearded, with a lovely woman leaning upon his arm, her brown head drooping upon his shoulder, her silken gown, the color of a yellow rose, trailing over the grass. Kelen and Zaramund pass by, nodding at Hazard and his fair Taranelda. Only a page and a single waiting woman bear them company.

Captain Mazura makes ready for the journey downriver to the western sea and the passage to Westport in Athron. Hazard is persuaded to attend the new play at the Tumblers' Yard, his own work
The Masque of the Three Queens
, old Eildon stuff that he reworked. Taranelda would gladly have taken the role of Negartha, the Warrior Queen of the Southland but she has let it go to another. She sits with the poet in the curtained stage box where nobles and sometimes royal personages sit. The company plays up well and send many speeches and warm glances towards the box. Hazard, breathing in the warmth, the reek of paint, oranges, candles, is moved to tears in the half darkness. Afterwards there is a long revel at the Tumblers' Arms, adjoining the yard, and Hazard is king of the revel. Buckrill appears, other poets, scribblers, pretty women, friends and fellow mountebanks whom Hazard has not seen for years. He is presented with a fools' baton, a metal sphere filled with bells upon a painted stick.

So in the light of early morning they trail down to the wharves, a little knot of strayed revelers, not so much the worse for wear as they might have been thanks to a property, soon discovered, of the new drink, kaffee. It sobers one up. Buckrill clutches the poet's arm; he has seen that which is sobering indeed.

A litter curtained in midnight blue is drawn up, waiting. There are four bearers in the livery of the Markgraf, with the emblem of the silver swan. Taranelda cannot hold back a faint cry of fear. The players who have accompanied Hazard to the dock shrink and fade away like dewdrops. The curtains of the litter are parted, and out into the light of the risen sun there steps a gentleman in a black scholar's robe. He is of middle height, balding, with a longish fall of greying auburn hair about his high forehead and his pate. His dark gaze is striking because it is slightly off-center, he squints; one is never sure where Rosmer is looking.

“I have been waiting for you, Master Hazard,” he says mildly.

Hazard is a brave man. With the lap of river water in his ears, plagued by memories of a thousand days in the Wells, he steps forward boldly, shielding Taranelda and Buckrill.

“I cannot say that I am at your service, Master Rosmer,” he says, smiling, “but I bid you good morning.”

“You have served me nevertheless,” says Rosmer, smiling in his turn. “I have come to tell you how you may serve me in the future.”

“Sir, I must disappoint you,” says Hazard. “I am about to go on my travels. The caravel waits.”

“What, will you leave Balufir? When this next year, fast approaching, is our jubilee, our Year of Changes. Stay, Master Hazard! There will be rich commissions.”

“You must pardon, me,” says Hazard, “my health is not good.”

“Stay!”

“No!” cries Hazard. “I can never serve you!”

“Go then,” says Rosmer flatly. “I have asked not for myself but for the Markgrafin Zaramund. I will tell her of your ill health, that you have looked your last upon our fair city.”

It is a sentence of banishment, and Hazard accepts it, smiling. He bows ironically to the vizier, casts a wistful glance at the proud houses, the towers and gables touched by the sun, the noble trees in the west, about the domes of the palace. He hands Taranelda down into their waiting boat. They exchange a whispered farewell with Buckrill, who looks sick and frightened. The sailors from the
Caria Rose
lean to their oars, and the boat moves swiftly towards the caravel.

Buckrill stands reluctantly side by side with the Old Scorpion himself, watching the boat haul away.

“A discontented fellow!” says Rosmer, mild as ever. “Thank you, Master Buckrill, for concluding our business so successfully.”

Buckrill nods, shamefaced, making some gruff sound. Hazard is out of prison at least and that must be good. What does it matter if the King of the Chameln is persuaded to court a certain Princess of Eildon? Can it be certain that Sharn Am Zor will rise to the bait offered in good faith by Hazard? He takes his leave now as hastily as the players, swathes his cloak about him and hurries off into the chill morning.

Rosmer remains in the sunlight, gazing after the boat that bears Hazard to the caravel. He leans upon a silver-bond staff and gives a sigh, a sigh of contentment or longing or of weariness. He is an aging man with an office that becomes more and more burdensome. He turns his head, and for an instant surveys the beautiful city of Balufir, his chosen city, rising up among its hills. He performs one of the cruelest acts of a life riddled with cruelty. He lifts a hand and extends it towards the river, moving his fingers in a certain manner and uttering a few words under his breath. In a breath, in the blink of an eye, there comes a low cry ringing across the water. Rosmer smiles and turns aside, back to his litter. The boat, which has checked briefly, goes on its way, and presently the caravel spreads its sails for the journey downriver.

CHAPTER III

EARLY SNOW

A cold morning in the second quarter of the Maplemoon. The “false summer” has faded, and it is not the time of year to be hanging about in the vast, unheated entrance hall of the palace of the Zor at Achamar. Yet the court is all here, following an early breakfast, and now the king himself appears, unaffected by the cold in a satin doublet. There is a flurry of hoofbeats in the forecourt: the escort. A single trumpet call sounds, and boots ring out on the tiled floor of the hall. Tazlo Am Ahrosh strides ahead and flings himself at the king's feet.

“My king,” he cries, “I have done as you asked. Here is your noble sister, the Heir of the Zor, Princess Merilla, and your noble brother, Prince Carel Am Zor!”

“My thanks, Count Ahrosh,” says the king. He is in a good humor, and the dashing young courier, his face alight with devotion, cuts a pleasing figure. All eyes turn to the newcomers. How will they be received? Will they have to be taken into account, in the future, in the continual striving for the favor and recognition of the king? The courtiers from Lien, the inner circle of the court, might suppose that Sharn will have as little time for his brother and sister as he has had in the past. But times change. The exiled prince, fretting in a schoolroom at Alldene, has become a man and become a king. The princess, though this was hardly believed in Lien, is his heir; her estate, the honors paid to her, reflect the honors paid to the king and the house of the Zor.

Merilla Am Zor, whose mother, aunts and grandmother in Lien were renowned beauties, has the reputation of being plain. In a way this works to her good. When it is seen that, far from being ugly, she is well grown and pleasant-looking, those who meet her are relieved and pleased. At eighteen she is above average height, slender and shapely, with a straight fall of golden-brown hair, rounded features, in which some of the court see a likeness to the late King Esher Am Zor, a clear brow and grey-blue eyes. She wears Chameln dress, and it becomes her very well. The fourteen-year-old Prince Carel bears a striking family likeness to his brother. If Sharn, perfectly handsome, did not shine forth so brightly, the boy would be called a comely prince. He is a plump, full-faced lad with a mop of curly brown hair; he wears Lienish hunting dress.

The princess, smiling, advances with her brother, and the two young people kneel before the king, who quickly raises them up.

“Accept our duty, Dan Sharn, dearest brother!” says Merilla.

The king smiles. He gives Merilla a kiss on the cheek and claps the prince on the shoulder.

“Look at Carel!” he says. “How he has grown. Did you have a good journey?”

“We had the finest journey,” bursts out the prince. “It felt a little like campaigning. Tazlo, Count Ahrosh, was a splendid guide. We rode out to hunt—had campfires—”

“My King,” says Merilla, “I will ask leave to present two loyal servants. Master Aram Nerriot, who came with us out of Lien, and Captain Draker, who led the kedran escort.”

At some distance a dark man of about thirty with a lute case slung across his shoulders bows to the king, and the captain, a tall kedran, gives a salute.

“Well then,” says the king impatiently, “we must get on. Your household will be arranged in the west wing. Here is your chief attendant, the Countess Caddah . . .”

The Countess, a small, straight-backed woman in Chameln dress comes forward; and a sigh, soft as autumn mist, can be heard. The die is cast. The princess is unfashionable, is not an intimate of her brother. Merilla raises up her new lady in waiting, who bids her welcome to Achamar.

“The city is so beautiful,” says Merilla, “and the palace is just as I remember it!”

“Remember it?” Sharn laughs. “You can't remember it. You left the place when you were six years old.”

“I have a long memory,” says Merilla simply.

Then she speaks to the king again, more earnestly.

“My King, we have been so happy during our journey through these Chameln lands. Pray you, let Count Ahrosh continue to ride with the prince.. . .”

Sharn Am Zor laughs aloud.

“I have chosen a fine courier,” he says. “Everyone clamors for your services, Ahrosh!”

Tazlo Am Ahrosh bows again and smiles, his eyes never leaving the king. Merilla Am Zor moves in and speaks privately with her elder brother for the first time. The king laughs again.

“Behave yourself, Rilla,” he says. “Carel will do very well with the people Seyl has chosen. Count Ahrosh must ride with me!”

Perhaps no one but the princess sees the light go out of Prince Carel's face, leaving it sad and petulant, more than ever like his brother in certain moods.

“So!” says the king. “The west wing. Get along, there's a good girl. I must hunt. The days are drawing in . . .”

The princess, perfectly good-humored, speaks up to all the company.

“My dear friends and fellow countrymen, I am pleased to have come home. Let me bid you all good morning!”

There is a murmur of greeting, and Merilla, drawing Carel after her, moves towards the grand staircase. She receives the carefully judged curtsey of Iliane Seyl and the Lienish waiting women and the duty of Seyl himself. She embraces the Countess Barr, who served her mother, Queen Aravel. She speaks briefly with Denzil of Denwick, offering her sympathy for the loss of his father, a year past, and making some polite reference to his brother, the present duke. She turns aside to a tall and burly old man and embraces him.

“My dear Lord Zabrandor.”

The good old lord returns the greeting heartily, and Merilla laughing and crying, takes the trembling arm of a bedizened old woman.

“Surely . . . surely it is the Countess Am Panget!”

The terrible old creature, an embarrassment to everyone, begins to weep and presses a welcome gift into Merilla's hand. She makes one of her pronouncements in the Old Speech as Merilla moves on greeting other older retainers. At the foot of the stairs there lurks a tall young man in riding dress. The princess gives him a nod, rises up two steps and turns back.

“Esher?”
she asks. “Cousin Esher Am Chiel?”

“At your service, Princess!” he says, smiling. “I am surprised that you remember me.”

“Of course I remember,” says Merilla Am Zor. “How could I forget the day we pushed my brother Sharn into the garden lake!”

And with this artless piece of lèse-majesté the princess goes up the stairs followed by a small group of most unfashionable people. The king has gone, accompanied by his favorites. Among the departing courtiers there are those amused and disaffected enough to laugh at this last remark and to ask what it was that old Lady Panget had said. “
A true princess of the Chameln, although she has come out of Lien!
”

Above stairs, pacing the wide, rush-paneled corridors and airy chambers of the west wing, Merilla Am Zor comes upon a round window set in an alcove. She bids Carel and the rest go on, all but the Countess Caddah.

“You are weary, Dan Merilla,” says the countess. “Let me have a cordial fetched . . .”

“No, thank you,” says Merilla. “Sit here with me, Lady Caddah. I am sure I sat here as a child. There is the garden: the trees have all grown taller, even the black tree, the Skelow, has grown a little. Countess, we must trust each other . . .”

“I can be trusted, Princess,” says the countess. “You may put all your trust in me.”

Merilla studies the firm chin and steady black eyes of this Firnish noblewoman.

“I see that it will be nearly impossible for me to speak privately with the king,” she says, “although I am his sister and his heir. He has hedged himself about with his old friends from Lien. I knew them in the schoolroom; they were never
my
friends.”