David Drake - Godess of the Ice Realm

"Now these…," said Chalcus, moving to wicker baskets of conical seashells packed in straw mats to keep them from chipping one another. "Are new to me. You fish them from these waters?"

"We do now," said Sidras, pulling out one of the shells. It was slender and only a little longer than the merchant's middle finger. When he held it to catch the light, it shimmered with the colors of a brilliant sunset: purples and magentas and reds that shaded suddenly into indigo. "Lusius does, at any rate. Three years back the sea bottom rose west of the Calves-"

He glanced at Sharina and raised an eyebrow.

"Those are the three islands north of Haft," Chalcus explained. "Commander Lusius has his base on the easternmost, Corse."

"Aye," agreed Sidras. "And if Idid refuse to deal with folk because of the way they live, it wouldn't be the Serians and their idols I'd start with. But Lusius controls the belemite shell, and there's no lack of buyers for it."

He handed the shell to Chalcus, then drew out another one and offered it to Sharina. It was as delicate as eggshell, with a faint spiral pattern. She could see the shadow of her finger through the side.

Chalcus held the shell up and turned it. He said, "So the bottom rose and these-the belemites?"

"Aye," said Sidras, nodding. "They're little squids with shells, and that's what Lusius says they're called. He's got a wizard with him who learns things, I don't know how."

Sharina heard the strong implication that Sidras didn't want to know what wizards did. Sharina knew more about wizards than most people did-and based on her experience, Tenoctris was the only one who didn't deserve Sidras' prejudice.

"And the winged demons came at the same time?" Chalcus said.

"The Rua, right," said Sidras, scowling thoughtfully. "I don't know about them being demons, but they fly. They're sure not men like live around here."

He barked a laugh. "They fish for the shell too," he added, rummaging between baskets and coming up with a swatch of coarse fabric.

A net, Sharina thought, but Sidras shook it out and she saw it was a bag. The meshes were open enough hold objects the size of belemite shells but nothing smaller.

"Lusius fights the Rua for the shell," Sidras explained. "From what I hear he doesn't do a lot better than he does keeping them from raiding ships, but one of them dropped this bag when an archer pinked him."

"May I look at that?" Ilna said. Everybody turned, startled to be reminded that she was still present. Grinning wryly she went on, "I'm not interested in snakes or seashells, but cloth is another matter."

"Of course," said Sidras. Chalcus had already swept the bag from him and offered it to Ilna. She held it in one hand and ran the tips of the other fingers along the loose meshes.

Chalcus and the factor began talking about the Commander of the Strait and his troops. Sidras seemed to have lost his wariness of Chalcus, and their mutual dislike of Lusius added to their warmth.

Sharina examined the shell again. Then, turning her head, she glanced toward Ilna. Her friend was motionless; her eyes were open, but they weren't looking into anything in this world.

Sharina looked away, licking her lips. Ilna had a talent for fabric; it told her things that no one else could hear.

But Sharina herself had learned that not all secrets are good to know.

"Your highness…," said the servant, his face lowered so that he wasn't actually looking at Garric. He was one of the staff Lord Tadai had summoned from Valles, not a member of Count Lascarg's establishment. "The delegation from the Temple of the Lady of the Sunset has arrived under Senior Priest Moisin bor-Sacchiman."

The room Liane and Reise had chosen for Prince Garric's public business was on the ground floor of Lascarg's palace; Garric supposed it was meant for small entertainments or the overflow from large ones. The high ceiling had scenes painted in each coffered cell, though even now in daytime there wasn't enough light to be sure of the subjects. They weren't terribly well drawn, either: the Counts of Haft didn't attract artists as able as those who decorated the palaces of nobles on the more powerful islands.

From above shoulder height the sidewalls were frescoed with a design of birds on a seashore, but the lower walls were wainscoted in age-darkened oak. During a party there'd be crowding and drunken spills; rough usage wouldn't harm the wood, but plaster would flake off with the expense of repairs.

"His highness will see them now, Master Bessin," Liane said coolly, then returned her attention to the three stacks of documents laid out on the long table before her.

During the intervals between petitioners, she and Garric were going over proposed lists of officials for the new royal government on Haft. All of Garric's senior staff had clients and relatives to place, so the decisions had to be made as much on politics as merit.

Garric would've been happier to answer the servant himself-by Duzi, he'd rather have opened thedoor himself!- but everybody else seemed to want things complicated. Part of the point of his travels through the capitals of the western islands was to convince people that Garric was a prince, not some mumbling shepherd from the boondocks as they might have heard. That meant he had to act like a prince, however silly and uncomfortable he felt doing it.

"A lot of life is play-acting, lad," remarked the grinning image of Carus. "The silver plate on your armor won't turn a blade one whit better than plain bronze, but you have to wear it so that all your men can see you there leading them."

Behind Garric trilled birds in a silver cage, a gift from the Shepherd's priesthood earlier this morning. The birds were literally gold: four creations of metal which fluttered on their perches and sang with undiminished musicality so long as anyone was present in the room. A system of weights powered the device; the priestess who delivered the automaton said that it should be wound every the morning, but that the task could be performed by any scullion capable of turning a spit. The birds' song was oddly soothing, more so than the music alone should have been.

The servant made a signal to the ushers on the other side of the door; they drew back the double panels and bowed. Moisin, a tall man in silken robes, entered. He was flanked by a pair of Blood Eagles. The priest was bald to mid-skull and had an ascetic expression, belied perhaps by the fact his garb must have cost as much as a good horse. Behind him, four underlings carried a large object draped in brocade on a hand barrow.

Moisin bowed deeply. "Your highness," he said, "the congregation of the Lady asked me to bring this token of our joy at your visit to us here in Carcosa."

He turned and nodded an order to his juniors; they set the barrow on the parquet floor and stepped aside. With a conjuror's flourish, Moisin whipped off the cover. Beneath was a wide-mouthed urn more than four feet high. It was made of translucent, gray-green stone polished to a mirror sheen.

"It's lovely," murmured Liane under her breath. She got up from the table where she'd been working on accounts and walked toward the urn as if entranced. Moisin smirked minusculely. "The pattern is… lovely!"

Garric rose also, even more impressed than he'd been by the mechanical birds. Neither gift would change his behavior toward the priesthoods of Carcosa, but they were marvelous things beyond question.

Light from the room's north windows behind him struck a pattern through the walls of the urn. The gray to gray-green to green shadings were as faint as the mergings of color within a rainbow, but they made Garric feel happier andsafe; as safe as when he was an infant wrapped in his featherbed, knowing his parents would protect him.