The Bronze of Eddarta Read online

  “Ah-huh. And how much do I pay you?” I asked.

  “Not a zak,” he said. I must have let my skepticism show, because he got defensive. “Oh, I get paid, all right—a portion of what they get. And before you ask, you don’t pay them, either. The Guard has a friend who really appreciates the work we do.”

  Suddenly, it all made sense. “Would this friend’s name be Gharlas?”

  The old man peered at me suspiciously. “How’d you know that?”

  I shrugged. “I may have just come into town, Willon, but I know how to keep my ears open. And, before you ask, my mouth is shut.”

  “Good,” he said, with an emphatic nod, and the matter was closed. “You’ll be on the supper shift this evening, so you best take a short rest.”

  I did, in fact, lie down on the fluffy pallet for a few minutes. But I was too restless to sleep.

  So far, I had been able to control the execution of our plan, at least to some extent. I had been very lucky, too—I was well aware of that. But I had been the one taking action, and I had felt a sense of confidence, knowing that success or failure were, for the moment, entirely my responsibility.

  Now it was different. The next step was Tarani’s play. I felt a different kind of confidence in her, a sureness that she would do whatever was necessary. But not being able to see what she did was like an unreachable itch.

  Finally, I went into the common room. I watched the mondea game for a little while, sat in for a few rounds. But I kept feeling more and more restless, and finally had to excuse myself and walk around. I found myself in the court between the barracks and the “back door” of Pylomel’s home.

  Tarani/Rassa was coming through the entryway, followed by two slaves who were loaded down with bolts of cloth.

  She gave me a strained smile, and I grinned back in relief. She was totally unsurprised to find me waiting for her.

  So that’s what a mild compulsion feels like! I thought. That paralysis Gharlas laid on us in Dyskornis must have been something different—a blocking, rather than a forcing. But he was able to compel Thymas, I remembered, and shivered in sympathy for what the boy must have suffered. I’m glad that kind of power scares Tarani.

  I felt another mental nudge, and moved out into the courtyard so that my path intersected Tarani’s. Her hand caught my arm, and I fell into step beside her while I watched a shadowy, semitransparent version of myself move past and out of the way. I pulled my arm through her fingers until I could hold her hand, and I squeezed it, hoping the pressure would give her some reassurance.

  She was trembling, but I was at a loss to guess whether it was the strain of the illusion—two illusions, now that I was “invisible”—apprehension about the situation, or anticipation of meeting her mother. I kept close to her, exactly beside her, hoping that I was minimizing the effort she needed to keep the illusions intact.

  Instead of following the well-marked pathway which led to the front door of the huge house, Tarani and I followed an extension of the courtyard to a small door in the back of the building—the servant or merchant entrance. As we approached the doorway, the guard stepped aside to let a small man come out into the court. I had no difficulty recognizing Obilin. He grinned widely when he saw Rassa, and deliberately took a stance which blocked the entry.

  “So you’ve made the wise choice, after all, Rassa?”

  Tarani stopped, and her hand tightened in mine.

  “The only choice I have made is to obey the summons of Zefra, who has asked me to design a gown for her for the Celebration Dance. Please, let me pass by.”

  “Why, of course, dear dressmaker,” he said, stepping to our right and waving the entourage through with an elaborate bow. But his grin never faded, and as Tarani passed him, one lightning-quick hand closed on her arm. He leaned close to her and whispered: “But you don’t think, for a minute, that you will leave here again before the High Lord gets what he wants, do you?”

  “My concern now is what the lady Zefra wants. Release me.”

  He did, and it was a good thing. There have been few times in my life when I wanted so badly to hit somebody. But I realized, as Tarani and I walked carefully through the doorway into the High Lord’s home, that it wasn’t Obilin I wanted to hit.

  I finally pinned down the source of the uneasiness that had plagued me since Tarani and I had assumed the identities of Rassa and Yoman. I had had the feeling that both of them had been running away from something specific. Now it seemed so simple that I wondered why I hadn’t figured it out before now.

  The talk I had heard last night had been full of complaints against the High Lord’s habit of appropriating any woman among his landservants who caught his fancy. It was only a now-and-then sort of thing, apparently, or resistance to it would have been more cohesive. But the women never returned to their homes.

  Rassa had met with Zefra frequently, so that Pylomel would have had many opportunities to see her and be attracted by her unusual beauty. There had been some warning of his interest, and Yoman had made the choice to leave his entire life behind, in order to save his daughter from that fate. Yoman didn’t tell us that Pylomel was his landpatron—perhaps he feared we would guess the situation and back out on the plan which promised him and his daughter a better chance of escape.

  So Yoman had sacrificed two strangers for his daughter’s safety. Try as I might, though, I couldn’t blame him. The face I really wanted to smash was Pylomel’s.

  Inside the entryway, Tarani pulled me aside and gestured to the two slaves to go ahead of us. They went, walking with a quiet acceptance of their burdens which seemed less stoic than merely resigned. Tarani sighed softly as we started to follow them. I looked at her, and I put my arm around her for support while we walked through a labyrinth of hallways.

  I feel like a white rat, I thought, hopelessly trying to keep track of the twists and turns in the route we covered. It seemed as though every High Lord since Harthim had added his own shape and taste to the building. I had a vague sense of remaining near the garden side of the house, and I was sure that we were on the second floor, but I also knew it would be hopeless to find our way out again without help.

  I hope Zefra is on our side, I thought.

  Finally, the slaves slowed and stopped. Tarani straightened up, and only our hands touched as we passed the slaves to stand in front of a large double door. There was a guard on either side of the door; I felt naked and exposed, and I thought: If Tarant’s illusions can hide me when I’m face-to-face with these guys, they can do anything.

  A young girl answered Tarani’s knock.

  “I am Rassa,” Tarani told her. “I am to create a gown for the lady Zefra.”

  “She awaits you,” the girl said in a shy but formal voice, and opened both doors to admit “Rassa” and the goods-bearing slaves. I entered beside her; Tarani’s hand was clutching mine so hard that I worried about something breaking.

  We were in a small, rectangular sitting room that had doors in both narrow halls. A stone ledge ran along the bottom of one long wall, and was padded with embroidered cushions that matched those in the three free-standing chairs. A ledge along the other doorless wall was left bare, and it was there that the slaves placed the bolts of cloth under Tarani’s direction. When the cloth was properly displayed, and the slaves had left, the girl spoke again.

  “The lady Zefra asked me to bring you her greetings, Rassa. She will be with you shortly. In the meantime, I have another errand to perform. With your permission …”

  The girl bowed and left through the entry door. Tarani sighed and relaxed as the illusions vanished; I caught her and lowered her into one of the chairs. No sooner was she seated, however, than the inner door opened and Zefra came in. Clearly, she had been waiting for the slave-girl to leave us alone.

  Tarani looked around toward the door as she heard it open, and she stared for a long time while Zefra stood, as if turned to stone, and stared back. I was kneeling beside Tarani, but I might as well have been still invisibl
e. I must have responded subconsciously to their exclusion of me, for by the time Zefra moved, I was on the other side of the room, pressing my back against the double door.

  Tarani was still shaky from the strain of holding the illusions so long, but she stood up as Zefra approached her. The older woman’s hands reached out to frame the girl’s face for another long, searching look, and then Zefra moved closer and placed her cheek against Tarani’s. Suddenly they were holding one another, gasping softly and rocking back and forth.

  Right smack in the middle of it, someone knocked on the door behind me, so heavily that the vibrations sent me staggering toward the women. A voice boomed through the closed doors: “OPEN FOR THE HIGH LORD.”

  I ran for the inner doors, grabbing Tarani’s hand as I passed. “He wants Rassa,” I whispered, dragging Tarani toward the door.

  Zefra caught the girl’s hand and hauled the other way, stopping me. “Then he must find her here,” she said. “I know you’re weary, daughter,” she whispered, touching Tarani’s face again, “but you must keep Rassa’s illusion a bit longer.”

  “Rikardon—” Tarani started to say.

  “He can hide in my apartment,” Zefra said. “You need only keep Rassa’s illusion. Can you do it?”

  Tarani nodded.

  “You—” she said to me. “Go through the door. Tarani will be safe—you must trust me.”

  “OPEN FOR THE HIGH LORD!” the voice boomed again. I dived through the open door and pulled it nearly shut behind me. Then I drew my sword and waited with my ear to the door. I trusted Zefra because the woman I had met matched the woman I had imagined from her letter. But Pylomel was an unknown quantity.

  I heard some quick movements in the room, then Zefra opened the door. “Why did you not open on the first summons, wife?” said a voice I disliked instantly. It was whiny and carried a sarcastic, affected petulance.

  “Your pardon, Pylomel,” Zefra said coolly, “but I was disrobed. My dressmaker is here, as you see. She was measuring me for a new gown for the Celebration Dance.”

  “And would it be so inappropriate for a husband to see his wife disrobed?” said the nasty voice again.

  “Not at all. But would my husband like his announcer to see me in such a state?”

  I heard a bass-tone chuckle that was quickly choked off. It solved the puzzle of how one voice could both whine and command so convincingly.

  “Obilin informed me that your dressmaker had arrived,” Pylomel said, obviously deciding that it was time to get to the point. “It is she I have come to see, not you, lady. Rassa, my beautiful girl, come with me.”

  “She will stay here,” Zefra said, her voice still quite calm.

  “By sending her here, her father has granted me certain … privileges, lady. I’m sure you understand.”

  Zefra made a tight, sharp sound that might have been a laugh. “I understand quite well, Lord. I have no quarrel with your pleasures. But the Celebration Dance is only two days away, and Rassa must make a gown for me. She will stay here in this apartment until the gown is complete to my satisfaction. Then you may have her.”

  “And when, dear lady,” said Pylomel, “did you decide to attend the dance? The last time we discussed it, you denied your son the honor of your presence on this important occasion.”

  “I have thought better of it,” Zefra said, and her voice took on a different tone, almost humble. “Indomel is my only child, after all. And now that I have acceded to your wishes, Lord, will you punish me by depriving me of the only dressmaker I trust to prepare my gown in the time left?”

  A moment’s silence. My hand tightened on the hilt of the sword, while I strained and waited to hear Pylomel’s next words.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “She may stay—with this understanding. On the night of the celebration, after the dance, she will come to me.” He laughed. “Perhaps that is appropriate, after all. It is a high occasion, and we will continue our celebration through the night. Is that not so, Rassa?

  “Why, girl, you’re trembling. Let me comfort you a moment.”

  I gritted my teeth, and told myself: Zefra knows what she’s doing, and Tarani isn’t being hurt. But as the silence stretched on, it changed to: If he doesn’t take his hands off her …

  “Better now, dear girl?” Pylomel’s voice said, and he was answered by an indistinct murmur. “Then it is settled, Zefra. She will stay here until after the Celebration Dance—and it is your duty to see she remains. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Lord. Now, may we get on with the measuring? Time is very short.”

  “Certainly. And I will inform our son of your change of heart. Doubtless he will be overcome with joy.”

  The minute I heard the doors close, I ran out into the room and took Tarani into my arms. She sagged against me and shuddered.

  12

  “Did you see him?” Tarani asked. “Rikardon, I’ve never met anyone so … repulsive.” She pulled away from me and faced Zefra. “Mother, now could you stand to be here … with him … all these years?

  “I had to be with him only a short time, dear,” she answered, and turned away abruptly. Her voice came softly, bitterly, over her shoulder. “Only until I produced an heir.” She seemed to shake herself, then began to pace about the room as she talked. “Since Indomel’s birth, Pylomel has left me quite alone. I have even been spared the need to appear at official functions—though he did request my presence at the Celebration Dance.”

  “I’ve heard something of the celebration,” I said. “But I don’t understand what the occasion is.”

  “Indomel will be designated the next High Lord,” Zefra said. “Oh, he won’t have the position until Pylomel dies, but I wouldn’t put it past the little fleason to assassinate his father, first chance he gets.”

  “You said Indomel is your son!” Tarani cried, shocked.

  “The son of my body, Tarani. But Pylomel took him away hours after his birth, and he’s trained him to be as devious and decadent and … I hate him almost as much as I hate Pylomel.”

  Tarani and I were both a little stunned at the violence of the outburst, but in the next moment, Zefra’s voice was tender once again.

  “You, my darling, are the daughter of my spirit as well as my body.”

  “Mother,” Tarani said impulsively, “you must come with us when we leave Eddarta. You’ve no reason to stay here any longer, not to protect me or—Volitar.”

  “Yes, your young man told me that he is gone,” Zefra said sadly, and once more mother and daughter embraced.

  I didn’t ask Tarani how she planned to get her mother out of there. Tarani’s world and Zefra’s world had been entirely separate until bare moments ago, yet the two women, so much alike physically, had formed an immediate affection for one another. I knew that if it were possible, Zefra would leave Eddarta with us. I could no more willingly leave her behind than I could leave Tarani.

  But other things had to come first.

  “Gharlas killed Volitar,” I said, and Zefra and Tarani drew apart. “And he stole something which belongs to Tarani. That’s why we’ve come—to get it back.”

  “Gharlas? Why would he kill Volitar?”

  Tarani spoke, then, telling then Zefra about Gharlas. How he had blackmailed Volitar into duplicating gemstones, so that Gharlas could replace the treasures in Pylomel’s vault, using the secret entrance Gharlas had found. How Volitar had fought to the last to protect Tarani from him. How we had confronted Gharlas in the workshop, and Tarani’s display of power had proved her heritage.

  “He knows who I am, Mother, and he could use that against you. Even if he hadn’t killed Volitar, the threat to you would give me enough reason to be here.”

  I was startled when I got a good look at Zefra’s face. There was sadness in it, and an odd glow that made me uneasy. I didn’t know if it meant she was a little unbalanced—hardly an unreasonable occurrence, considering the peculiar life she lived—or if that light was anticipation of revenge on Gharla
s.

  “There are few here who would regret Gharlas’s death,” she said. “But he isn’t in the city, as far as I know.”

  “He’s on his way,” I said. “Tomorrow—the day after at the latest—he’ll be here. We need your help to know where to find him.”

  Zefra smiled, and the odd light went away. “He is easily found; he lives in the last house, the one nearest the wall. Also the smallest.” She laughed. “What sweet justice that the old passageway really does exist.”

  “You know about it?” Tarani asked. “Can we use it to get into his house unobserved?”

  “No, child, for if it truly is Troman’s Way, it connects only with the Council Chamber in the Lord Hall. There have always been rumors of its existence. Troman was a High Lord of an elder age, who believed in the semblance of discretion. He installed a succession of young women in that small house, and visited them while he was, supposedly, inspecting the treasure vault.”

  “Wasn’t he afraid that the women would steal from him?” I asked.

  “Indeed, he was. That’s why he concealed the house entry so cleverly that none of the girls ever found it—or the many residents who have searched for it since. When he died, the secret died, which was just as well. There has never been a High Lord since Troman who bothered to conceal his … pleasures. It has been so long, now, that it’s generally believed that Troman’s Way was only a rumor.”

  “Well, if we can’t use it, then it’s not important,” I said. “This Celebration Dance—will Gharlas be there?”

  “If he has arrived by then, certainly. Attendance is mandatory.” She smiled, and the strange light was back. “For everyone but me, that is.”

  “Then we’ll plan to search the house that night.”

  “And if it isn’t in the house?” Tarani asked.

  “Then he’ll have it on his person. We can wait for him to come back.”

  “Meanwhile,” Zefra said, “I must do something about a new gown. Pylomel is nothing if not observant; if I wear an old gown, he will recognize it.”