David Coe: Weavers of War

The following morning was no better, and as the days went by, Dusaan’s mood grew ever darker, until Stavel began to wonder if he might harm himself or someone else.

Only on this very morning, however, the sixth of the new waxing, did he understand just how gravely matters stood, and just how badly he had miscalculated.

He was on his way to Dusaan’s chambers when a guard stopped him. It was one of the men who, on several occasions, had given him information about other Qirsi. A young man, no more than a year or two past his Fating, he was, nevertheless, uncommonly tall and broad in the shoulders. When he was fully grown, he would be massive. All of which made the wide-eyed, somewhat frightened expression on his face that much more comical.

“Pardon me, Chancellor,” the man said, seeming unsure of himself, “but I know tha’ ye’ve been askin’ ’bout th’ high chanc’lor.”

Stavel looked back over his shoulder, as if expecting to see Dusaan himself enter the corridor at any moment. Suddenly his hands were sweating.

“Yes,” he said in a hushed voice, wishing he were elsewhere. “What about him?”

“Well, ’e left th’ palace las’ night. First time any o’ us ca’ remember. ’E weren’t gone long. Less than ’n hour, I’d say. Bu’ when ’e come back, ’e had a large bundle under ’is arm.”

“How large?”

“Long like, no’ too fat mind ye. Put me ’n mind o’ a sword, wrapped in cloth.”

Stavel could think of no explanation for this. He couldn’t imagine that a man in Dusaan’s position would need to purchase a weapon in the city marketplace. Most Qirsi serving in the court of a noble, particularly that of a sovereign, already had a sword. Stavel did. It was old, and for all he knew rusted at this point. He hadn’t so much as looked at in several years. But it was there in the back of his wardrobe, sheathed and ready should ever he need it. No doubt Dusaan had one as well. So what could he have been carrying?

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

The man shook his head. “No, Chanc’lor. I think ’e wen’ right t’ ’is chamber. None o’ us saw ’im th’ res’ o’ th’ night.”

Stavel fumbled in the pocket of his robe, pulling free a five-qinde piece and offering it to the man.

“No, Chanc’lor,” he said, shaking his head a second time. “I’s jes’ doin’ my job.”

“Well, thank you,” Stavel said. “I’m grateful.”

The man nodded and left him, the click of his boots echoing loudly off the vaulted ceiling of the corridor. The chancellor stood there for several moments considering why Dusaan might need a sword. Could it be that he’d never had one? He came to the court of the emperor as a young man, and he’d never actually needed one during his tenure as high chancellor. It was possible, no matter how unlikely. At last, Stavel shook his head, as if rousing himself from a dream, and hurried on to Dusaan’s chamber.

He was the last to arrive, which was unusual, and his tardiness did not go unnoticed. Dusaan arched an eyebrow at him, and several of the older chancellors regarded him with open curiosity as he took a seat near the window.

The discussion began unremarkably and soon the older chancellors were immersed in yet another argument over how best to keep the pestilence from spreading beyond Pinthrel. Stavel, who usually would have been debating the matter with the rest of them, found it difficult to keep his mind fixed on what they were saying. Instead, his gaze wandered the chamber, and within moments he had spotted a sword-the sword? — sheathed on a belt that hung over a chair in the far corner. The hilt was gold, but rather plain, as was the leather scabbard. Still, once Stavel saw the weapon, his eyes kept returning to it, as if of their own volition. It might very well have been a new blade, though the sheath seemed worn and scuffed along its edges. But if it wasn’t a new sword, why would the high chancellor have gone to the city to get it?

“Chancellor?”

Dusaan’s voice cut through his thoughts, forcing him to look away from the weapon. The high chancellor was staring at him, frowning slightly, though there was amusement in his golden eyes, and something else as well, though Stavel couldn’t say for certain what it was. He seemed in a lighter mood this day, but that only served to give Stavel a somewhat queasy feeling.

“Yes, High Chancellor?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“It seems your mind is elsewhere.” Dusaan turned, glancing in the direction of the sword before looking Stavel in the eye once more. “Is something troubling you?”

“No, High Chancellor. Forgive me. I was … merely thinking of something else. I’ll do my best to keep my mind on the matters at hand.”

“Of course, Chancellor. We were just saying that with Braedon at war, and so many of the emperor’s men committed elsewhere, we would be better off leaving it to the army of Pinthrel to cope with the situation there. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed, I would.”

“Good.” Dusaan turned his attention back to the others, a brittle smile on his lips. “The emperor has also asked me to discuss with the rest of you his plans for the Emperor’s Day celebration, which, as you all know, comes at the beginning of the next turn.” Stavel and the others knew that Dusaan was putting a good face on bad circumstance. He hadn’t spoken with the emperor since their last confrontation. Harel sent messages to the high chancellor instructing him to raise certain matters with the other Qirsi, and Dusaan sent back reports of their discussions in written form. No one dared correct Dusaan on this point.

The Emperor’s Day festivities tended to be much the same from year to year. Planning for the affair usually fell to Harel’s wives and their courtiers, but the emperor always made a show of involving his Qirsi and Eandi advisors in the preparations. Clearly Dusaan had little patience for the task this year, but he dutifully led the discussion. For his part, Stavel forced himself to attend to the conversation, though he continually fought an urge to gaze once more at the sword.

When at last Dusaan ended their discussion, the midday bells were tolling in the city. The ministers and chancellors began to leave, Stavel with them.

“Wait a moment, won’t you, Chancellor?” Dusaan called.

Stavel turned, hoping that he would find the high chancellor looking at one of the others. Would that it had been so.

“Of course, High Chancellor,” he said, his hands starting to shake.

When the other Qirsi had all gone, Dusaan gestured at the chair next to his. “Please sit.”

Stavel lowered himself into the chair, feeling as though the tip of that damned sword were pressed against his back.

“I wanted to make certain that you were all right, Stavel. I’ve never seen you so distracted.”

“I assure you, High Chancellor, I’m fine.”

“So you said before. Yet I find myself wondering what it is about my sword that would interest you so.”

Stavel felt as though there were a hand at his throat. The high chancellor hadn’t moved.

“Your sword, High Chancellor?” he asked, trying with little success to sound puzzled, or unconcerned, or anything else other than panicked.

“You’ve spent the better part of the morning staring at it.”

“Have I?”

Dusaan eyed him briefly, then rose, crossed the chamber, and retrieved the weapon from the chair on which it sat. Walking back toward Stavel, he pulled it from its sheath, appearing to examine the blade. The chancellor half expected Dusaan to run him through right there, but the man merely held out the sword to him, hilt first.

“There’s really nothing extraordinary about it,” the high chancellor said, as Stavel took it from him. “It’s a simple weapon. I’ve had it for years.”