Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

Was he doing something wrong? Parrail wondered. But he’d worked this Artifice with Mentor Tonin even before he had helped the scholar rouse the sleepers of Kellarin. He had worked it so much more effectively after Demoiselle Guinalle had explained the apparent contradictions in their lore, untangling the contrary incantations that had been hampering their attempts at enchantments. Hopeless longing seized Parrail. He’d been so eager to share the winter’s discoveries with Guinalle, not least those woven into love songs that he’d be able to sing to her.

Perhaps he should try that older, simpler form of Artifice. Parrail closed his eyes, the better to hear the silent melody playing in his head. What was the song Trimon had used to call to Halcarion, lost as he wandered in the depths of the Forest, calling on the Moon Maiden to light the stars to guide him home? Would it work, sung unheard in the elemental silence all around him? Could he keep the pitch and beat? He’d never been a good singer. Determination gripped Parrail as he concentrated every fibre of his being on the mythic ballad.

The malice of elder dark move shadows to snare and

bind him.

Trimon took up his harp and sang that his love might

find him.

Driath al’ ar toral, fria men del ard endal

Cariol vas arjerd, ni mel as mistar fal

It was the jalquezan that held the enchantment, wasn’t it? The incomprehensible refrains of Forest Folk songs worked their long-forgotten Artifice. Parrail sang in mute resolve, weaving his cherished memories of Guinalle through every nuance of the travelling god’s desperation and desire for the remote goddess of maidenhood and mystery. The rhythm of the song pulsed in his blood, warming him from head to toes in an exultation that bordered on ecstasy. He gasped and the rapture was gone.

“Well?” Naldeth released his spell, looking at Parrail with the intensity of a desperate man.

A shiver seized Parrail and it was a moment before he could speak. “I don’t know,” he admitted lamely.

A shadow fell across the pair of them and they looked up guiltily. Relieved, they recognised the yeoman absently twisting his ringless fingers.

“So what are you two going to say when they come for us in the morning?”

Messire D’Olbriot doesn’t favour these open meetings, does he?” I looked around the rapidly filling hall. The door barely got a chance to close before some curious face opened it again. I had to admit Temar’s new reception room looked impressive. Ryshad had spent the last few days cajoling people into lending a hand and they’d set to with a will. The wooden panelling I was leaning against still wanted paint or varnish but it was a considerable improvement on cramming everyone between the trestles and boards of the trading hall.

“No Sieur does these days.” Ryshad was counting heads. “This is the old style; the way Temar remembers his grand-sire doing things. It has its points; the Caladhrian Parliament’s open to all and half the Lescari dukes hold their assemblies in the open air.” Sworn to D’Olbriot, Ryshad had ridden the length and breadth of Tormalin and half the countries beyond. “Deals behind closed doors send rumours of bad faith hopping around like frogs in springtime.” He scratched a scar on his arm, token of such rumours that had nearly been the death of him and Temar the summer before in Toremal.

“Can he stop it turning into a shouting match? What if everyone tries to have his say at once?” I looked up to the dais where Temar sat on a high-backed chair; arms ornamented with saw-edged holm oak leaves. He was wearing a sleeved jerkin in the Kellarin style rather than the gaudy fashions of Toremal that I knew he had crushed in a trunk somewhere. It was still a superior garment; Bridele must have been squinting by a candle half the night to finish the green leaves embroidered on the grey silk.

Guinalle sat beside him on a plainer chair upholstered with rich russet leather. The colour complemented her smoky blue gown, cut neither ancient nor modern but calculated to flatter her figure at the same time as using the minimum of precious damask. A modest swathe of lace obscured the low sweep of the neckline and discreet diamonds glinted beneath the glossy fall of her unbound hair. The two were deep in the first conversation I could recall them sharing since Equinox. “What if Guinalle takes a contrary view to him?” I asked Ryshad.

“They’ll save any arguments for later. They both grew up in courtly Houses; they know the importance of appearances.” We claimed two of the stools arrayed around the edge of the room and Ryshad stretched long legs out in front of him. “They know Kellarin runs on goodwill. Neither will risk undermining that with a public squabble.”

I wondered if Temar appreciated how much that goodwill depended on Ryshad’s talents. As D’Olbriot’s man, he’d often had to unite some disparate band of men, getting a task done with a joke and a laugh, asserting his authority with steel in his voice and, if need be, in his hand. He’d been doing the same for D’Alsennin since we got here.

My beloved was watching Guinalle with a slight smile. “Did she tell you Artifice was used to curb anyone letting their mouth run away with them in the Old Empire courts?”

She had and I wasn’t entirely happy with the notion. I surveyed the crowd, some intent faces among the merely inquisitive. “Who steps up first?”

“For the moment, first come, first heard.” Ryshad looked at D’Alsennin with faint impatience. “I told Temar he’d do better to have people bring their business to his proxy before an assembly meets and to let them know he’ll hear them in order of importance.”

“You’re not taking that on?” I hoped it was plain I expected a denial.

“I’m no clerk.” Ryshad said emphatically. “It’s time young Albarn took on a few responsibilities of the rank he’s so eager to claim.”

As Ryshad spoke, Albarn Den Domesin appeared on the dais from a door in the back wall. This sprig of ancient Tormalin nobility had certainly welcomed the Emperor’s edict that the few remaining noble lineages of Kellarin should henceforth be considered cadet branches grafted on to the D’Alsennin tree. Perhaps someone should tell him that Tadriol had simply been circumventing the snarl of legalities threatening to entangle Temar as aggrieved and opportunistic Sieurs had laid ancient claims and spurious grievances before Toremal’s law courts.

Albarn settled himself at a table to one side of the dais where an unsullied ledger lay open beside an assortment of pens and ink. He didn’t look too enthusiastic for someone eager to be acknowledged as Temar’s designated successor.

“Poor lad, taking notes himself rather than lording it over copyists,” I said with light mockery. “Still, if you want to reap, you’ve got to sow.”

“I haven’t seen you doing much sowing.” Ryshad shot me a quizzical look. “But I tripped over Fras making a mess in our garden this morning. Why is that?”

“He’s as handy with a spread of runes as he is with that hoe.” I spread my hands, unconcerned. “He’ll get the job done.” And I’d washed the bed linen, so felt entitled to some entertainment today.

Halice strode through the crowd and pulled up a stool. “How long are we going to be sitting on our hands?”

“We’re waiting for their nod.” Up on the dais Guinalle was emphasising her point to Temar with sharp gestures. “What does she reckon to this notion?”

“A sensible custom long overdue some use.” Halice grinned. “If we can convince her to turn away anyone plaguing her outside of these sessions, she might learn to relax a little.”