Guy Gavriel Kay - Tigana

To forestall Nievole’s predictable burst of anger Tomasso said quickly, ‘You will not deny us some information surely, even if you choose to shield your name. You said Alberico is a tool for you. A tool for what, Alessan notof-Tregea?’ He was pleased to find that he remembered the name Menico di Ferraut had mentioned yesterday. ‘What is your own purpose? What brings you to this lodge?’

The other’s face, lean and curiously hollowed with cheekbones in sharp relief, grew still, almost masklike. And into the waiting silence that ensued he said:

‘I want Brandin. I want Brandin of Ygrath dead more than I want my soul’s immortality beyond the last portal of Morian.’

There was a silence again, broken only by the crackle of the autumn fires on the two hearths. It seemed to Tomasso as if the chill of winter had come into the room with that speech.

Then: ‘Such terribly splendid words!’ murmured Scalvaia lazily, shattering the mood. He drew a shout of laughter from Nievole and Taeri, both. Scalvaia himself did not smile.

The man on the window-ledge acknowledged the thrust with the briefest nod of his head. He said, ‘This is not, my lord, a subject about which I permit frivolity. If we are to work together it will be necessary for you to remember that.’

‘You, I am forced to say, are an overly proud young man,’ replied Scalvaia sharply. ‘It might be appropriate for you to remember to whom you speak.’

The other visibly bit back his first retort. ‘Pride is a family failing,’ he said finally. ‘I have not escaped it, I’m afraid. But I am indeed mindful of who you are. And the Sandreni and my lord Nievole. It is why I am here. I have made it my business to be aware of dissidence throughout the Palm for many years. At times I have encouraged it, discreetly. This evening marks the first instance in which I have come myself to a gathering such as this.’

‘But you have already told us that Alberico is nothing to you.’ Tomasso inwardly cursed his father for not having better prepared him for this very peculiar sixth figure.

‘Nothing in himself,’ the other corrected. ‘Will you allow me?’ Without waiting for a reply he lifted himself down from the ledge and walked over to the wine.

‘Please,’ said Tomasso, belatedly.

The man poured himself a generous glass of the vintage red. He drained it, and poured another. Only then did he turn back to address the five of them. Herado’s eyes, watching him, were enormous.

‘Two facts,’ the man called Alessan said crisply. ‘Learn them if you are serious about freedom in the Palm. One: if you oust or slay Alberico you will have Brandin upon you within three months. Two: if Brandin is ousted or slain Alberico will rule this peninsula within that same period of time.’

He stopped. His eyes—grey, Tomasso noticed now—moved from one to the other of them, challenging. No one spoke. Scalvaia toyed with the handle of his cane.

‘These two things must be understood,’ the stranger went on in the same tone. ‘Neither I in my own pursuit, nor you in yours, can afford to lose sight of them. They are the core truths of the Palm in our time. The two sorcerers from overseas are their own balance of power and the only balance of power in the peninsula right now, however different things might have been eighteen years ago. Today only the power of one keeps the magic of the other from being wielded as it was when they conquered us. If we take them then we must take them both—or make them bring down each other.’

‘How?’ Taeri asked, too eagerly.

The lean face under the prematurely silvering dark hair turned to him and smiled briefly. ‘Patience, Taeri bar Sandre. I have a number of things yet to tell you about carelessness before deciding if our paths are to join. And I say this with infinite respect for the dead man who seems—remarkably enough—to have drawn us here. I’m afraid you are going to have to agree to submit yourselves to my guidance or we can do nothing together at all.’

‘The Scalvaiane have submitted themselves willingly to nothing and no one in living memory or recorded history,’ that vulpine lord said, the texture of velvet in his voice. ‘I am not readily of a mind to become the first to do so.’

‘Would you prefer,’ the other said, ‘to have your plans and your life and the long glory of your line snuffed out like candles on the Ember Days because of sheer sloppiness in your preparations?’

‘You had better explain yourself,’ Tomasso said icily.

‘I intend to. Who was it who chose a double-moon night at double moonrise to meet?’ Alessan retorted, his voice suddenly cutting like a blade. ‘Why are no rear guards posted along the forest path to warn you if someone approaches—as I just did? Why were no servants left here this afternoon to guard this cabin? Have you even the faintest awareness of how dead the five of you would be—severed hands stuffed into your throats—were I not who I am?’

‘My father . . . Sandre . . . said that Alberico would not have us followed,’ Tomasso stammered furiously. ‘He was absolutely certain of that.’

‘And he is likely to have been absolutely right. But you cannot let your focus be so narrow. Your father—I am sorry to have to say it—was alone with his obsession for too long. He was too intent upon Alberico. It shows in everything you have done these past two days. What of the idly curious or the greedy? The petty informer who might decide to follow you just to see what happened here? Just to have a story to tell in the tavern tomorrow? Did you— or your father—give even half a thought to such things? Or to those who might have learned where you planned to come and arranged to be here before you?’

There was a hostile silence. A log on the smaller fire settled with a crack and a shower of sparks. Herado jumped involuntarily at the sound.

‘Will it interest you to know,’ the man called Alessan went on, more gently, ‘that my people have been guarding the approaches to this cabin since you arrived? Or that I’ve had someone in here since mid-afternoon keeping an eye on the servants setting up, and who might follow them?’

‘What?’ Taeri exclaimed. ‘In here! In our hunting lodge!’

‘For your protection and my own,’ the other man said, finishing his second glass of wine. He glanced upwards to the shadows of the half-loft above, where the extra pallets were stored.

‘I think that should do it, my friend,’ he called, pitching his voice to carry. ‘You’ve earned a glass of wine after so long dry-throated among the dust. You may as well come down now, Devin.’

It had actually been very easy.

Menico, purse jingling with more money than he had ever earned from a single performance in his life, had graciously passed their concert at the wine-merchant’s house over to Burnet di Corte. Burnet, who needed the work, was pleased; the wine-merchant, angry at first, was quickly mollified upon learning what Menico’s hitherto unfinalized tariff would now have been in the aftermath of the sensation they’d caused that morning.

So, in the event, Devin and the rest of the company had been given the rest of the day and evening off. Menico counted out for everyone an immediate bonus of five astins and benevolently waved them away to the various delights of the Festival. He didn’t even offer his usual warning lecture.

Already, just past noon, there were wine-stands on every corner, more than one at the busier squares. Each vineyard in Astibar province, and even some from farther afield in Ferraut or Senzio, had its vintages from previous years available as harbingers of what this year’s grapes would offer. Merchants looking to buy in quantity were sampling judiciously, early revellers rather less so.