Part 21 (1/2)

”Don't wait too long, Mama,” the boy said.

”I won't, my heart.” But the look they exchanged showed that both knew the truth. There was not luck enough left in the air tonight to bring the husband and father home in time, and this was good-bye. The boy swallowed and blinked rapidly, as if he knew that tears would frighten the younger children. But his lips were trembling too much for him to say anything more.

Korwina Mender took her son's face once more between her hands and shut her own eyes. After a moment she opened them again, and her son's face was calm, peaceful. He pressed his lips together and nodded, touching his mother's face lightly. Hernyn looked from one to the other, knowing that something had happened, but unsure what it could be. The boy looked more solid somehow, more whole whole. She's Mended him, She's Mended him, Hernyn thought, licking suddenly dry lips. Hernyn thought, licking suddenly dry lips. By the Caids, she's By the Caids, she's Mended Mended him him.

”Hernyn Greystone,” the woman said, lifting her hands slightly as the boy led his sisters from the room. ”I should tell you, my boy shows signs of Mending, like me. We've told no one else.”

”I don't care if he shows signs of being a vulture plant,” Hernyn said. ”Good luck to you, Korwina.”

”And to you, Greystone.”

As soon as they were out on the street, Hernyn picked up the older girl and set off as quickly as the boy, carrying his younger sister, could manage.

”What's your name, boy?”

”Jerrick.”

”Come along, then, Jerrick.”

As he neared Tarkin's Square in front of the Carnelian Dome, the rumbling he'd heard in the distance grew louder, becoming murmuring, with individual voices raised in shouts Hernyn couldn't quite make out. It seemed like every corner he pa.s.sed had grown a knot of three or four men. This was no ordinary crowd, Hernyn thought, his stomach muscles tightening, but a mob in the making.

He slowed his pace still further and sheathed his sword, but kept his hand resting lightly on the grip. Trying to appear nothing more than curious, he sauntered up to the nearest group of men. ”Hey, friend,” he said. ”What's caused all this buzz? Are we invaded?”

”Have you not heard?” the man said, his smile wide, plainly pleased to be giving news to a Mercenary Brother. ”There'll be work for you boys, that's certain. Imrion's Fallen.”

Hernyn hoped his raised eyebrows disguised the shock he felt.

”The Tarkin's been poisoned,” the man continued. ”They say it's those cursed Marked.”

Hernyn walked away, his eyes fixed on the towers of the Carnelian Dome, still some blocks away. The distant shouting had become screaming, and he could hear the sounds of metal clas.h.i.+ng on metal.

Hernyn began to run.

She looked up from the vera tiles she was laying out on the table as Parno asked the same question for the third time.

”Alkoryn says he'll return for us,” she said, giving the same answer she'd given twice already. ”Compose yourself in patience, my soul.”

”Caids take it, of course he'll come,” Parno said. He turned back to the door and stroked the lock with the fingertips of his right hand. ”You're certain we shouldn't help him a bit ourselves? Meet him halfway, as it were?”

Dhulyn shot him the look she usually reserved for people cheating at tiles and put down the tile she was holding with an audible click. ”You're the expert on politics and n.o.ble Houses,” she said. ”You tell me. Tell me you think it's a good idea for us to wander about the Carnelian Dome hoping to meet our Brother in hallways crawling with servants, pages, and n.o.bility both high and low, to say nothing of the Tarkin's Personal Guard. Tell me this, and that lock's as good as picked.” Dhulyn went back to studying the hand she was laying out before Parno had even finished rolling his eyes. She moved a page of swords from its place in a sequence of sword tiles so that it stood next to the seven of staffs. The two tiles, though of different suits, had the same color pattern. Green. There was a hand. A winning hand called Tarkin's Jade. She looked at the tiles, frowning. She could have sworn that for a moment she'd seen something else, not a pattern exactly, but some total lack of . . .

”Parno-” she began.

”Shhh. Someone comes.” From habit, Parno moved away from the door to stand where he wouldn't be immediately visible when it was opened. He needn't have bothered. The Tarkin's Guard weren't Mercenary Brothers, but they weren't common idiots either; the one who opened the door checked both walls before he allowed the tall young man behind him to enter.

”I greet you,” the young man said. ”I am Far-eFar, Senior Page of the Old Tower. The Tarkin Tek-aKet thanks you for waiting so patiently and sends me to ask that you join him at your earliest convenience.”

Even Dhulyn could tell that this was mere politeness for ”now and be quick about it.”

”We're at his lords.h.i.+p's disposal,” Parno said, with a bow that Dhulyn was sure gave credit to his childhood tutors. He gave his arm to Dhulyn, and she put her fingertips on it, exactly as she'd seen n.o.ble ladies do. The Senior Page smiled and, nodding to the guards who remained at their stations, led the Mercenaries out of the room.

”You have no guards with you?” Parno said, as if he were remarking on the weather.

”No need,” Far-eFar said. ”I a.s.sure you I know the way.”

Dhulyn exchanged a look with Parno behind Far-eFar's back. This did not have the smell of a trick. So the Tarkin no longer felt the need to guard them? Was this the work of the Tarkina, or had something else happened? They knew there was no point in questioning Far-eFar; no one could be in the Tarkin's household for long and not have learned when to speak and when to hold his tongue.

Though this did not mean that the young man stayed silent, Dhulyn observed with a grin. He was a well brought up lad, Far-eFar, and he made a polite inquiry about archery that soon had Parno chatting with him as if they were on their way to the supper table at the young man's home. Dhulyn listened, half-entertained and half-annoyed. That n.o.bles, whether of Houses, Households, or Holdings, couldn't go ten breaths without speaking was something she already knew. Nor was Parno acting, aping the manners of the n.o.ble cla.s.s; this was the voice, the manner, even the way of walking that he'd practiced for years before he had come to the Brotherhood. Before she had met him on the field at Arcosa, before they had become Partnered.

Dhulyn pressed her lips together. No point in lying to herself; being so close to the lures of Parno's old life still worried her. Even if her Vision had been of his past and not his future-something she could not be sure of-that did not mean that all would be well for them now. Parno was so sure there was nothing here to entice him, he did not even have his guard up. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The sooner they were out of these these n.o.ble lives and back to their own, the better. n.o.ble lives and back to their own, the better.

The hallways through which they walked became narrower, dating from more austere times when ladies' skirts were not so wide as fas.h.i.+on had them now. The walls were dressed stone instead of paneling, the ceilings squared instead of arched, and made of inlaid woods instead of painted plaster. Dhulyn gave a silent whistle. Was it possible she'd recognize the room they were heading for?

Far-eFar stopped in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with bands of metal. There was an old lock, the kind that had a key as big as a man's hand, but one of the smaller, more difficult to pick modern locks had been added above it. Far-eFar rested his long-fingered hand on the heavy iron handle that lay between the two locks.

”I wait here,” he said, as he opened the door for them.

Dhulyn took a step forward and looked around her with interest. There was the table with its cloth, weights sewn into the corners so that breezes wouldn't disturb it. The fireplace, ready to be lit. The window with its etched pane.

The Tarkin on the floor with a dog's head in his lap.

”He wasn't in a lot of pain, not yet,” the Tarkin of Imrion said without looking up. ”But he was old, and soon the pain would have become much worse.” He looked up at Dhulyn. ”They brought me a dish of kidneys in jeresh sauce,” he said. ”I gave them to Berlan. He took my death.”

Dhulyn crouched down next to the Tarkin. She stroked the still-warm muzzle with the backs of her fingers.

”Do you think he would have preferred it otherwise?”

The Tarkin looked at her, frowning, before his countenance cleared. He almost smiled. ”No,” he said, his voice sounding much lighter. ”Not at all. Thank you.” He gently placed the old dog's head on the curly wool of the hearth rug and stood, shrugging the stiffness out of his shoulders as he returned to the chair behind his worktable. He stood for a moment, his eyes on his old dog, before waving at the chairs on the opposite side with an open hand.

Parno had long ago given up any expectation of ever again finding himself sitting down in the same room as his distant kin, the Tarkin of Imrion. In the back of his mind a much younger version of himself was making a very childish gesture at his father. Parno grinned, leaned back in his chair, and propped his right ankle on his left knee.

”And so I take it from this that neither you nor the Lady Mar-eMar, nor even the Scholar of Valdomar had anything to do with the Fall of Tenebro House? As the poet says, 'True in one thing, true in all things?' ”

”Take whatever you like,” Dhulyn said, shrugging. ”Proving it's a different breed of horse altogether.”

Parno was never sure why Dhulyn, who'd read far more than he and could speak in as cultured a manner as any Library Scholar, often took great care to sound as barbarous as possible. He'd have thought her nervous with the n.o.ble cla.s.ses-if he'd ever seen her nervous. He'd opened his mouth to speak, thinking in any case to take the pressure of conversation with the Tarkin from her, when an urgent tap sounded on the door. From the look of astonishment on the Tarkin's face, it was a sound he'd never heard in this place.

”My lord.” Far-eFar, pale as a piece of bleached parchment, entered without waiting for a summons. ”I beg your pardon, my lord. Alkoryn Pantherclaw the Charter is here saying there are rioters in the streets, proclaiming your death by poison. The Guard Captain's sent men out to find out what he can.”

”So quickly.” The Tarkin blinked slowly. ”My cousin has nerve, I'll give him that. I'd have waited until I saw the body.”

”It's possible they won't let him wait.”

”Ah, yes, the Jaldeans.” The Tarkin turned to the page. ”Does the Charter tell us anything about them?”

Far-eFar glanced behind him and bit his lip.