Танит Ли - Anackire

There had been none of the mind-visions, either, during these eight years. One blessing.

Sometimes he wondered about Lyki, and if she lived on with the rope merchant, or had taken up with some other. Even Doriyos sometimes moved across Rem’s thoughts like a blown leaf.

He did not let himself think very often of Kesarh.

“Rem, this pig has gold buckles. Do you want them?”

“No. Split anything like that between yourselves.”

They did so, rifling the cadavers before heaping them at the roadside. You left such markers in Lan. Someone went and got the haul the running bandit had taken, or tried to take, up the hill.

Then they rattled off along the road again, adhering to discipline and saving their boasting and drinking until they reached the city.

The King and Queen lived in Amlan, in a painted palace of five tiered towers. Every few months they would come out on the steps, each carried in an ivory chair as if incapable of walking, and under parasols, in a welter of guards and nobles, to dispense justice to any who asked for it. This custom, which was also prevalent it seemed in Vathcri, Vardath and Tarabann, amused Rem. While liking it, his soldier’s intellect saw all the dangers inherent. One could foresee a murder on that stair, below those red and blue pillars. And it would be a pity for them to be cut down. Brother and sister, in the tradition of Lan, they were young and handsome, both of them, to a fault.

The inn was a good one, just two streets away from the Palace Square. When he walked in there were yellow lights whirling through the air, a troupe of jugglers spinning flames and bells, and somersaulting between.

Rem settled in the dark corner the inn had left for him, drinking Lannic wine, and waiting for his meal to come. The merchant’s agent was to meet him here. The wagons had been sent to the warehouses, and already the tale would be abroad in the dusk, the ambush and the wily bravery of Rem of Karmiss. There should be a bonus in all that. He was glad enough for the men to share it. For himself—he looked into the somber wine and pondered, as he only occasionally allowed himself to ponder, why he built as he did, why he wasted as he did, the worthlessness, and the lack of roads to any other thing. But there was nothing in him, he knew, to merit special attention either from the nonexistent gods, or from himself.

When he looked up, two men were coming in at the door. They paused to admire the jugglers, and suddenly a kind of rippling went over the inn’s inhabitants, the sort that denoted someone of importance.

Mildly curious. Rem looked more intently. He did not know the older man. He was Lannic Vis, and well into his middle years, but strong, a fighter at one time it would appear, and exceptionally well-coordinated, something that could show even standing still. He was, too, smartly if not at all extravagantly dressed, yet, unlike most of Amlan’s male population, he wore his hair very long, in the old way. Rem had been in and out of Amlan many times, and had come to recognize most of the court by sight. They were frequently about, and the city was not over-large. This man, however, struck no memory, filled no niche.

One of the jugglers at that moment cartwheeled out of the melee and landed in a sweeping bow before the newcomer. Who laughed, and brushed him aside with a generous coin. The man began to walk into the room, glancing round. Here and there a cup was raised, and he acknowledged it quietly. The other walked with him, grinning, proud and poised and self-conscious.

This one was only a boy, not yet nineteen, if so close. Rem started to look at him and did not look away. He was mixed-blood, his skin tanned but not Vis, his hair crow-black. The eyes were light, bronze going toward topaz. Beautiful, like the rest.

All at once the two of them were at Rem’s table. The older man spoke.

“Good evening. Should we disturb your dinner if we sat down?”

Rem in the shadow, the light behind him beyond his pillar, stared hard. He was about to say some noncommittal thing when the inn tore down the middle like a fruit peel.

There was the man, still, but almost thirty years younger. The boy was gone. All around was dust and broiling daylight.

“I beg your pardon,” Rem said stiffly, “you seem to know me, but I—”

“Yannul the Lan. We served together, you and I.”

The inn was there again. Rem swallowed. It had been fast.

“What’s the matter?” the man said to him. He looked slightly concerned, as with a stranger.

“Your name is—” Rem cleared his throat, “Yannul.”

“I’d like to deny it, but I see you know me.”

“Yannul of Lan, one of the hero Raldnor’s captains.”

Yannul, taking this as an invitation, sat. The boy sat, too.

“Once,” said Yannul.

“You’re said to be in Dorthar.”

“Also, once. Now I’m here. This is my son, born here. And you’re Rem Am Karmiss, escort maker for caravans, and yourself once a soldier in the employ of King Kesarh.”

“And how did you hear that?”

“I asked someone. The way you fight your bandits is evidence enough of the skills of an academy of arms somewhere. And this afternoon you left a few more, I gather, for the goddesses to make bone hairpins.”

The server came.

“A jug of your best. I’m paying,” said Yannul the Lan.

“Sir—the inn will pay, if you’ll do us the honor—”

“If I’d done you the honor every time you offered it, you’d be on the street by now. Take this. For the gentleman’s meal as well.”

The server went off.

“What do you want?” said Rem.

“My son,” said Yannul.

Rem looked at Yannul’s son, who smiled. Rem looked back at Yannul.

“Well?”

“You know the way it is with Free Zakoris,” said Yannul. “In a year or so there’ll be bloody war. There has to be.”

“If you say so. You should know.”

“Yes. I should. Lur Raldnor here has a wish to go to the High King’s court at Anackyra, and take arms with him at the proper time against his enemies.”

“The Storm Lord will doubtless be happy to have his support.”

It was Yannul now who looked narrowly. His eyes scanned over Rem, as if searching something out, and suddenly the boy said, in a golden voice, “My father thinks I should arrive with at least a modicum of martial training. It’s sensible. He’s taught me a lot, but I need more. We were about to ask if you—”

“Would leave a profitable business to tutor you in the latest techniques for slaughtering men.”

The boy—called for the hero-comrade, of course—Lur Raldnor, met Rem’s eyes.

“I’m aware killing isn’t a game. My father taught me that, as well. But Yl Am Zakoris has his new kingdom in Thaddra as a base, and the world knows—”

“No,” said Rem. “I’m sorry. No.”

The wine came then. When the server left, Yannul lifted the jug and Rem put his hand over his cup.

“Drink it,” said Yannul. “We’re still talking.”

Rem let the wine pour in his cup.

“I thought we’d finished. You can soon buy another arms-master for your son.”

“Here? There isn’t even an army here.”

“Shansarians.”

“They’re berserkers in battle. That kind of fighting—unless you’re born to the way of it, you get killed.”

“He doesn’t want me to go,” said Lur Raldnor. “I’ve only just persuaded him. If you refuse, I’m done for.”

“Lan’s a pleasant enough place,” said Rem.

“Not if Free Zakoris comes and takes it in the night.”

Yannul swore.

Rem perceived the father saw himself in the son, the same spirit which had followed Raldnor Am Anackire against all the hating might of Vis. Something strange stirred in Rem. He would never have a son, he would never know this feeling, for good or ill. And for the first time in fifteen years, he wished he had known his father, or at least his father’s name.