Adrian Tchaikovsky - Heirs of the Blade

‘But he was a hero,’ Tynisa protested weakly.

Fordwright made a disrespectful sound that demonstrated precisely what she thought of war heroes. What she said made sense, Tynisa considered. Collegium’s great figures were noted for their intellect, their diplomacy, their discoveries and inventions, and they left the glorifying of war to other kinden. In Tynisa, though, the fighting urge was strong: that need to test herself and her blade. She found in herself an unchallengeable insistence that all true heroes were warriors living and dying by the sword.

Like Salma. Like my father. Thus conjured, they both hovered just out of sight.

The young man who had fetched her from Gaved’s home came to find her once again shortly afterwards. She had never even learned his name, about which he seemed to be unusually discreet. Her eventual conclusion was that the youth was some bastard by-blow of the old prince’s, and that the Commonwealers had quaint ideas about fidelity and paternity.

‘His Highness has ordered there to be a formal dinner tonight,’ the youth informed her. ‘Your presence would be welcomed.’

This would be the third such formal occasion since she had become Lowre Cean’s guest. The old man usually ate by himself, at odd times and wherever he happened to be pursuing his own interests, but sometimes the prince-major would surface in him, and suddenly all his servants and followers would be galvanized into a culinary orgy of preparation, whilst those wayfarers lucky enough to be passing through would find themselves made guests of honour. Tynisa assumed that this time it was Hardy Fordwright and Tse Mae who had prompted the festivities.

During warmer months, the nameless young man explained, such feasts were held outside, under the stars, with places set so that everyone, from the prince’s household down to the lowliest fieldhand, would take some part in the meal. During the winter, however, Lowre would ensure that some gift of food or drink reached each family that owed its livelihood to his presence, but he himself would feast within the doubled walls of his hall.

After sunset she made her way to the long hall, knowing that the meal would not commence for some time. She found Fordwright and her companion there already, plainly looking forward to the hospitality, among a handful of others who were guesting there too: a Dragonfly noblewoman, a Mercer out on business for the throne, and a Grasshopper woman in piecemeal armour who looked to Tynisa like a mercenary captain.

However, when Lowre Cean himself made his appearance, just as the servants were bringing through bowls of hot kadith, there was someone walking beside him that had Tynisa leaping up from her place.

‘Alain!’ she cried out, heedless of propriety. She had nearly cried ‘Salma!’ instead, just like before, which would have made her seem a complete fool.

Salme Alain grinned broadly at her. ‘And here she is,’ he declared. ‘You have taken some finding, Maker Tynise, though I place the blame for that at my mother’s door. Forgive me my absence, but I have been ensuring that our southern border is safe. The Turncoat tells me that he showed you exactly what we have to deal with there.’

It took her a moment before she remembered that ‘the Turncoat’ was Gaved, but then she nodded, recalling the wretched ruin that had been Siriell’s Town.

Lowre Cean lowered himself into his appointed seat. A formal Dragonfly meal was set out much like a Fly-kinden feast: long, low tables, and everyone sitting on cushions on the floor, with the prince’s place in the middle of one of the long sides. A moment later, servants began showing other people to their seats. Tynisa found herself at Lowre’s left-hand side, balancing the nameless messenger seated on his right. Alain, who had presumably displaced some previously planned guest, was at one end of the table, seemingly as far from Tynisa as he could get. That seemed odd to her, and she turned to Lowre to ask about it. She caught the old man gazing at Salme Alain with a strange expression. If the two of them had not been Dragonfly nobles, and if Lowre was not so beholden to the Salmae, Tynisa might have read hostility there.

Alain was already talking animatedly with the people on either side of him, clearly making some new friends. He glanced at Tynisa once or twice, but without raising his voice more than would have been polite, there was no way he could speak to her. For her part, Tynisa picked at her meal in silence. She was aware that she must be missing something important, some unspoken axiom of Dragonfly society. She was used to reading people at a glance, sketching an instant picture of their motives and intentions, and it was not that the Commonwealers were too subtle for her, who had dealt with Imperial bureaucrats and Spider-kinden Aristoi in her time. It was simply that their language of face and gesture was different, following a code that she was still learning. While she tried to accustom herself to their ways, there were realms of suggestion and implication that were nevertheless passing her by.

She could catch not a word of Alain’s conversation, either, for Hardy Fordwright was stridently holding forth about some matter of her own. In a bid to derail the woman’s braying monopoly of the conversation, Tynisa leant over to her and, just as the Beetle paused for a draught, asked her, ‘When did you last see our ambassador, Mistress Fordwright?’

‘Our what?’ the Beetle demanded, baffled.

‘Gramo Galltree, at Suon Ren,’ Tynisa explained. ‘I was staying with him not so long ago. He did not mention any other Collegiates in the Commonweal.’

‘I’ve never heard of the fellow,’ Fordwright stated flatly. ‘An ambassador? ’

‘Well, yes,’ Tynisa said, now somewhat thrown. ‘He said he was, anyway. He’s a College man.’

Hardy frowned, quietened beyond Tynisa’s wildest hopes. At last she said, ‘Well, then, I suppose I should take a trip to Suon Ren. That’s… Prince Vas Nares?’

‘Felipe Shah.’

‘Oh, the Prince- Major ’s stamping ground. Well, perhaps Sammi and I will go south from here. Be good to hear another Collegiate voice.’ Her tone so clearly equated ‘Collegiate’ with ‘civilized’.

For a moment Tynisa felt guilty about dumping this brash, loud woman on poor old Gramo, but then she recalled the ambassador’s lament on how he missed the familiar talk of his former home. Well, then, Hardy Fordwright would sate that need of his – or cure him of it for ever.

The meal was lengthy, the flavours of the food subtle and elusive, the wine tart and dry where a Collegium vintage would have been sweet. Tynisa, who had been happy, for months now, to drift along at Lowre Cean’s aimless pace, was suddenly impatient with it all. Alain’s arrival was like a stone cast into the clear waters of a pond.

Something is about to change. The world has been sleeping until now.

And, once the meal was done, he approached her with that smile which he shared with his dead brother.

‘We are to celebrate, at Leose,’ he announced. ‘We have scored a great victory over the bandits and the dissenters.’ He spoke loudly, deliberately including Lowre Cean, who was nearby. ‘My mother wished you to know that she has not been idle, Your Highness.’

Again, Cean’s look was coolly distant. ‘I thank your mother for her kindness. I am too old, alas, to enjoy such festivities. I trust you will bear my apologies.’

‘I will bear more than that, if I may.’ Alain grinned at him. ‘I would bear one of your guests away.’ His glance at Tynisa was clear.

‘But… when is this celebration?’ she asked him.

‘Oh, over several nights, but the greatest share of it will be as soon as I return,’ Alain said carelessly. ‘And it would be impolite to keep them waiting.’