The Mirror of Worlds coti-2 Page 3

  The Dukes of Ornifal had become Kings of the Isles almost by default.

  "The Change has caused great disruption," she said, "but for the most part what you and I think of as the kingdom is as united now as it ever was. We've exchanged couriers with Sandrakkan and Blaise, whose rulers are fully committed to restoring order." "Which I frankly don't understand," said Masmon, kneading her forehead with both hands. "I'd have expected Sandrakkan at least to claim independence. The Lady knows the Earls have done that twice in two generations, and this'd seem a perfect opportunity." "The Change was too overwhelming for that," Sharina said crisply. The aide, a fifty-year-old spinster, was letting fatigue loosen her tongue. While Sharina couldn't exactly blame her, neither could she permit Masmon's despair to infect this community. "The Earl-and all the citizens of Sandrakkan and the other former islands-are clinging to the best hope they have in such uncertainty." She smiled. "We're that hope," she said. "We're the only hope mankind has." The band nearest Sharina's entourage was comprised of three slim, mustached men with recorders of different lengths and an ancient woman who played the marimba with demonic enthusiasm. The age-darkened bamboo wands with which she struck the tubes were no harder or more knotted than the fingers which held them. Two women danced to the penetrating music, striking stylized poses with their arms raised high. One carried a buckler whose convex surface was highly polished, throwing back the lantern gleams and the distorted features of those watching; the other swung a wooden sword. Though the sword wasn't a real weapon, Sharina's bodyguards-a squad of black-armored Blood Eagles-kept an eye on the dancer. They were men whose philosophy had no room for any gods save Duty and Suspicion.

  "It's just that things are so different," said Kane. He nodded to the south. "Even the stars." "Yes," said Sharina, "but men of good will can thrive despite the changes. We just have to stick together. Men and women and Coerli." She grinned. The constellations were generally the same as what she was used to, but a bright white star stayed just above the southern horizon. It was disconcerting, particularly because it blazed in an otherwise family sky. "We hear things," Kane said apologetically. "From travelers, you know. They say, well, that there's a lot of trouble. That it isn't safe. And there're monsters all about, catmen who're cannibals." "There're catmen, Coerli,"

  Sharina agreed. "We've brought a number of their keeps, their communities, into the kingdom already. It wasn't hard after they heard how easily we'd wiped out any band which tried to resist." She didn't bother explaining to the burgess that a cannibal was an animal that ate its own kind. The Coerli were merely meat-eaters, much like men themselves; and since the Coerliweren't men, they made no distinction between men and mutton. "And King Garric's reducing the catmen's only large city even as we speak," she added with another broad smile.

  "That's why he's not here." Sharina knew she was shading the truth considerably; she'd have been here in place of her brother regardless.

  Princess Sharina's high rank impressed the citizens of West Sesile-or the Grain-Millers Guild, or the Respectful Delegation of the Parishioners of Lanzedac on Cordin. Princess Sharina met and listened to them, then handed them over to the regular officials who'd get to the meat of their business. In this case and many others, therewas no meat. People wanted to be told that they were important and that their sacrifices were appreciated by those who demanded those sacrifices.

  Sharina could do that very well while Garric directed the government.

  Both jobs were absolutely necessary if the kingdom was to survive.

  There were rulers who treated citizens as machines which paid taxes, but they did so only at their peril. "Praise the Lady to have brought us such a great king as your brother, Princess!" said the man with the staff of office. Even when he spoke with obvious enthusiasm, he managed to make the statement sound like a dirge. "Praise the Lady,"

  Sharina repeated, dipping slightly in a curtsey to honor the Queen of Heaven. She wasn't just mouthing the form of the words. Sharina hadn't been especially religious as a child, but when fate had catapulted her to her present eminence she'd immediately realized that the task was beyond human capabilities, hers or anybody else's. She could only hope-only pray-that the Great Gods did exist and that They were willing to help the kingdom and its defenders. The dancer in the bear costume in the center of the square began to rotate slowly as he high-stepped through a figure-8; the crowd gave him room. How long had it been since there were bears on Ornifal? Much longer than the thousand years in Sharina's past when West Sesile had flourished, certainly. "Your highness?" said one of the women who'd been standing behind the burgesses. She stepped forward, offering a pottery mug with hinged metal lid. "Won't you have some of our ale? I brewed it myself, this." Kane turned with a look of anguished horror and cried, "Deza, you stupid cow! They drink wine in Valles, don't you know? Now the princess'll think we're rubes with no culture!" "Idrink beer, Master Kane," said Sharina, taking the mug from the stricken woman. It wasn't her place to interfere with the way couples behaved between themselves, but her tone was significantly cooler than it might've been if the Chief Burgess hadn't called his wife a cow. "I hope that doesn't make me an uncultured rube in your eyes?" Sharina sipped as Kane's face slipped into a duplicate of what his wife's had been a moment before. Sharina'd been harsher than she'd intended; but she was tired too, and cowwasn't a word the burgess should've used. "Very good, Mistress Deza," she said, though in truth the ale wasn't greatly to her taste. They didn't grow hops on Haft; Reise'd brewed bitters for his tap room with germander his wife Lora raised in her kitchen garden. Sharina glanced at the sky again; the half moon was well risen, so she'd spent sufficient time here. She made a tiny gesture to Masmon. As arranged, the aide took out a notebook with four leaves of thin-sliced elm wood. She tilted it to catch the light of the nearest lantern and said, "Your highness? I fear that we'll be late for your meeting with Chancellor Royhas if we don't start back shortly." "Oh, goodness, your highness!" said Mistress Deza. "You mean you have work yet to do tonight?" "I'm afraid I do, yes," Sharina said. She smiled, but the sudden rush of fatigue turned the expression into something unexpectedly sad. "Since my brother's with the army, things are… busy for those of us who're dealing with the civil side of government." A third costumed figure had danced far enough into the square for Sharina to get a clear view of it. It was a long-faced, green-skinned giant whose arms would've dragged on the cobblestones if the stilt-walking man inside had let them hang. Instead he was moving the clawed hands with rods so that the creature seemed to snatch at revelers. Even presuming an element of caricature in the costume, Sharina wasn't sure what it was intended to be. "Master Kane?" she said, gesturing. "Is that dancer a demon?" "Not exactly, your highness," Kane said, clearly glad to answer a question that didn't involve ale. "It's an ogre, though some say ogres are the spawn of women who've lain with demons. The hero Sesir slew an ogre and a bear and a sea wolf to save the colony he led from Kanbesa. According to theEpic of the Foundings, that is. Have you read the epic, your highness?" "Parts of it," Sharina said truthfully. But very small parts, because in her day theEpic of the Foundings was known only from fragments. None of the surviving portions had mentioned Sesir-or the island of Kanbesa, for that matter. She handed the mug back to Deza; she'd emptied it. She'd been thirsty, and after the initial unfamiliarity the ale had gone down very smoothly. "We really have to drive back to the palace now," Sharina said. She smiled at the Chief Burgess, then swept her gaze left and right to include all the officials and their wives. "It's been a pleasure to meet you and to convey the kingdom's appreciation." As Sharina turned away to walk back to her coach, flanked by the Blood Eagles, a dancer raised her shield again in a wild sweep. For an instant Sharina thought she glimpsed a pale, languid man in its polished surface. It must be a distorted reflection, of course. *** Cashel stood on the edge of the mere, listening to the fishermen croon in the near distance as they slid their tiny canoes through the reeds. The unfamiliar bright star was coming up in the southeast; it'd risen
earlier each night since the Change. A shepherd like Cashel got to know the heavens very well. When he'd first seen this star it'd been part of the Water Pitcher, the constellation that signalled the start of the rainy season, but after a month it was nearing the tail of the Panther. One man sat in the back of each canoe, poling it forward; his partner stood in the front with a long spear. Instead of a single point, the spears had outward-curving springs of bamboo with bone teeth on the inner sides. When fish rose to stare at the lantern hanging from the canoe's extended bow, the spearman struck and caught the flopping victim like a gar's jaws.

  Cashel wasn't a fisherman, and the fishermen he knew in Barca's Hamlet went out onto the Inner Sea with hooks and long lines. He could appreciate skill even in people doing something unfamiliar, however, and these fellows fishing the reed-choked mere south of Valles obviously knew what they were doing. Besides, he liked the way they sang while they worked. Cashel couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but it'd always pleased him to hear his friend Garric playing his shepherd's pipe the times they watched the sheep together. "There!" said Tenoctris firmly, straightening from the squat in which she'd been marking the dirt with a silver stylus. They were as close to the bank as they could get and still find the ground firm enough to take her impressions. Tenoctris took a bamboo wand from her bag, then added apologetically, "This may be a complete waste of time, Cashel. I shouldn't have taken you away from Sharina." Cashel shrugged and smiled. "I don't mind," he said. "And anyway, you don't waste time that I've seen, Tenoctris." He cleared his throat and glanced away, a little embarrassed. What he was about to say might sound like bragging, which Cashel didn't like. "I'd sooner be here in case, you know, something happens," he said. "I figure you're better off with me if something does than if you were with somebody else." Tenoctris smiled warmly. He didn't know how old she was-really old, surely-but she hopped around chirping like a sparrow most of the time. Wizardry wore her down, but wizardry wore down everybody who used it. It wore down even Cashel, though he wasn't a wizard the way most people meant.

  He justdid things when he had to. Tenoctris was the only wizard Cashel'd met who seemed to him to know what she was doing. And by now, Cashel'd met more wizards than he'd have dreamed in the years he was growing up. "So," said one of the old men who'd been watching Cashel and Tenoctris, the strangers who'd come from Valles in a gig. There were eight of them; a hand and three fingers by Cashel's calculation.

  "You folk be wizards, then?" "She's a wizard," said Cashel, smiling and nodding toward Tenoctris. She was taking books out of her case, both rolls and those cut in pages and bound, codices she called them.

  "I'm a shepherd most times, but I'm helping her now. She's my friend.

  She's everybody's friend, everybody who wants the good people to win."

  There wasn't enough light to read by. No matter how smart you were-and there weren't many smarter than Tenoctris-you couldn't see the letters without a lamp. She liked to have the words of her spells before her even though she was going to call them out from memory, though. It was a trick, the way Cashel always flexed his shoulders three times before he picked up a really heavy weight. "We don't hold much with wizards here in Watertown," the local man who'd been speaking said; the others nodded soberly. "Not saying anything against your friend, mind."

  Cashel looked at the group again, wondering for a moment if they were all men. He decided they were, though they were so old and bent down that it didn't matter. "From what I've seen of most wizards," he said agreeably, "you're right to feel that way. I've watched sheep as had more common sense than most wizards. Tenoctris is good, though." He paused and added, still calmly, "I'm glad you weren't speaking against her. I wouldn't like that." Cashel supposed these folk were the elders of the village too far down the bank to see even if it'd been daylight. The younger men were in the canoes, the women were back in the huts cooking the meal that the fishermen would eat on their return. The old men had nothing better to do than be busybodies, which- Cashel grinned broadly. -they were doing just fine. Tenoctris had finished her preparations; she came to join them. Cashel was wondering if he ought to send the locals away, but Tenoctris pointed to the marble pool behind them. To the man who'd been speaking she said, "Can you tell me if there's writing on that fountain, my good man?" The pool must be spring-fed, because a trickle of water dribbled from a pipe through the curb, then down the side. The flow used to feed into an open channel, also marble, and then down into the mere.

  Years had eaten the trough away, so only the little difference lime from the stone made in the vegetation showed it'd ever been there. The pool curb had the crumbly decay-black below but a leprous white above-that marble got in wet ground, but it still seemed solid. There was a raised part on the back like it was meant to hold a plaque or carved words, but Cashel doubted you'd be able to tell if anything was written there even in sunlight. "Mistress, I can't write," said the old man nervously. He backed a step; Cashel's size hadn't scared him, but Tenoctris did-either because she was a wizard or just from the way she spoke that showed she was a lady. "Nobody in Watertown can write, mistress!" "I think this was built as a monument to a battle, you see," Tenoctris said. "According to Stayton'sLibrary, twin brothers named Pard and Pardil fought over the succession to the Kingdom of Ornifal. They and everyone in their armies were killed. A fountain sprang from the rock to wash the stain of blood from the land, and their uncle built a curb and stele-" She gestured toward the vertical slab at the back of the curb. "-around it." She stepped through the group and knelt to peer closely at pool. Cashel moved with her, not because there was a threat-certainly not from these men-but just on general principles. Sometimes things happened very fast. Although Cashel was quick, he still didn't plan to give trouble a head start.

  "So this is the spring, mistress?" Cashel said, squinting to see if that helped him make out any carving on the decayed slab. It didn't.

  "There are problems with the story, I'm afraid," Tenoctris said, giving him one of her quick, cheerful smiles. The local men were listening intently; two of them even leaned close to see what they could make from the white-blistered stone. "Pard and Pardil mean Horse and Mare in the language of the day, and the island wasn't called Ornifal until the hero Val arrived from Tegma a thousand years later and founded the city of Valles." She looked at the pool again, pursing her lips, and added, "But still, thiscould be the battle monument Stayton describes." An old man who'd been silent till then said,

  "Mistress, there was swords and a helmet carved on the stone, my gramps told me. And he said more squiggles too. That coulda been writing, couldna it?" "Your gramps, your gramps!" sneered the original speaker. "Dotty he were, Rebben, and you're dotty too if you think this fine lady's going to take the least note of what you say or your gramps ever said!" "Dotty am I, Hareth?" said Rebben, his voice rising immediately into something as shrill and harsh as a hawk's scream.