Elvenborn (8 page)

ation the Great Lords have created—at war with their own sons! If they had remembered the past, and the feuds that sent us fleeing Evelon in the first place, they might have avoided this tragedy."

"I sometimes wonder if it isn't a little mad to pursue the past so relentlessly," Kyrtian replied, his mood suddenly shadowed. "Why else would father have disappeared?"

Lydiell's cheeks flushed delicately with anger, but she did not give rein to it. "Why else?" she asked, and answered the question herself, forcefully. "A combination of dedication and bad luck—or, perhaps, the acquisition of a ruthless enemy. I don't know what Darthenian was hunting when he vanished, my love, for he kept it a secret even from me, but I do know that it was important and potentially very powerful. That made the secret a dangerous one, and that was why he kept it from me. It is possible that he met with an accident. It is also possible that someone besides me took him seriously—and wished to learn what he knew, or prevent him from discovering anything that might have given him an edge in the endless jostling for power."

"Are you suggesting that he was—murdered?" Kyrtian asked slowly. It was something that had never occurred to him.

Lydiell sighed. "I don't know. It is possible—but I cannot even guess at how likely it is. I have never seen or heard any¬thing to allow me to dismiss the idea, or that confirmed it." Her expression was haunted by that very uncertainty. "Nevertheless, let others remember him as an unstable dabbler for delving into the oldest of our records—I know better, and so should you."

Kyrtian immediately felt ashamed, and bent his head in mute apology. "And I should not allow the views of V'kel Aelmarkin er-Lord Tornal to shade my opinion of even so trivial a question as wine selection, much less anything important." He frowned. "I've half a mind to turn his invitation down. It's come too quickly on the Council's decision, and Aelmarkin is nothing if not persistent. He surely has something planned as an attempt to embarrass me."

But Lydiell shook her head. "That, you mustn't do. He has more political power than you, and he could make things diffi-

cult if you offend him. Do you really want to waste your time countering his petty nastiness with the Council, when you could avoid having to do so by attending his gathering?"

Kyrtian sighed, knowing with resignation that he was going to have to go and play the fool to keep Aelmarkin happy. "Not really. When is this farce scheduled?"

"In three days," Lydiell told him, and patted his hand comfort¬ingly. "Cheer up," she offered. "It's only for an afternoon. How hard can it be to maintain your composure for an afternoon?"

How hard can it be to maintain my composure for an after¬noon? Kyrtian asked himself savagely, as he glared down at the sands of the arena to avoid meeting any more contemptuous or amused glances. Harder than getting the better of Gel in a sword-bout, that's how!

From the moment he'd stepped out of the Portal into Ael-markin's manor, he'd realized two things. The first: Lydiell had been absolutely right; if he hadn't shown his face—and his sanity—at this function, Aelmarkin would have been able to say whatever he liked and be believed. The second: it was going to stress his patience and his acting ability to the limit to put up with the attitude of every other guest that Aelmarkin had in¬vited. He had never felt so utterly out-of-place in his life. Why, he had more in common with the humans of his estate than he did these strange creatures of his own race!

A great many of them were approximately his age—much younger than Aelmarkin—the idle offspring of Great Lords who didn't care to attend this particular challenge-fight them¬selves, but wanted to send representatives. Of course this meant that he was surrounded by those with little to do except chatter about others of their set, current fads, useless pastimes, and new fashions. The people of their social set were people he didn't know anything about, and the pursuits they found so important—well, he couldn't imagine why anyone would waste time on such things. But in their eyes, he was clearly impossi¬bly backward, out-of-step, and provincial.

None of them knew anything about any of the subjects he cared about, which made him sound both a bore and a boor.

And after he'd shown a flicker of startlement at statements he considered outrageous, they probably put him down as callow and a prig.

Well, by their standards, I am a prig. I don't consider an af¬ternoon spent in having my jaded appetites aroused by poor hu¬man girls who only exist to serve as my concubines to be particularly amusing.

After the first hour, they snubbed him openly, and with un¬veiled contempt.

This, strangely enough, made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't expected them to make him feel that way. He could try to tell himself that these people didn't matter, that all he had to do was remain polite and comport himself like a gentleman and nothing they reported back to their fathers would do any harm—but that didn't make the sneers and the sniggering any easier to bear. He didn't like them, but they were many and he was one; it was all too easy to feel the hurt of the scorned out¬sider. He truly hadn't anticipated that sort of reaction from him¬self, and he wished there was a way he could gracefully extricate himself and go home.

As he stared fixedly down at the wooden-walled arena below him, he heard whispers behind him, and snickering, and felt the back of his neck grow hot. He was just glad that Gel was here with him, in the role of bodyguard; somehow it was easier to stay composed with Gel's stone-faced example to copy.

I'm on their choice of ground; the best I can hope to do is get out of this without making any major blunders. Mother couldn 't possibly have known how slippery this situation could become. He was acutely aware that they had far more experience than he at the maneuvering of intrigue and politics. He felt horribly young, shallow, and naive; these people had drunk machination with their first milk, and he had no idea how to deal with situa¬tions they wouldn't even hesitate over.

Kyrtian had taken a seat in the first row to avoid meeting their eyes any longer, but they continued to speak to each other in voices pitched for him to overhear, taunting him to respond.

"Who, exactly, is this fellow?" asked an arrogant young male a little to Kyrtian's left.

"My cousin Kyrtian," Aelmarkin said lightly. "Son of the late Lord Darthenian, my uncle."

"Lord Darthenian..." someone murmured behind him. "That name sounds familiar. Don't I know it from some old story or other?"

"Try coupling the name with daft," drawled another, sound¬ing so smug that it was all Kyrtian could do to keep from stand¬ing up and going for the fellow's throat. "Daft Darthenian, pot-hunter, excavator of things better left buried, and pursuer of useless old manuscripts. Missing in pursuit of same, and pre¬sumed dead, oh, decades ago."

"Now, Ferahine, there's nothing wrong with having a hobby," replied Aelmarkin, in a tone so tolerant that Kyrtian clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair to keep himself in his seat. "Isn't insect-collecting as silly? I've seen you send slaves out bobbing about in fields and forests with a net and a bottle—and all those boxes of dead beetles are just as useless as unreadable manuscripts!"

"Point taken. Still, hobbies are all very well, Aelmarkin," said the drawler, "But no gentleman and no sane fellow goes off himself to dig up nasty old discards in parts unknown, now, does he? I certainly don't go rambling through briars with nets and bottles! That's what slaves are for! And he went out alone, too! Why, that was simply insane, if you ask me."

Kyrtian gritted his teeth. He knew he was meant to overhear all of this. He knew they were trying to provoke him. And they were only saying in his hearing what they told each other—and what their elders said. If he just kept his temper, he would learn a great deal. If they thought he was too dull to understand—or too cowardly to respond—what possible harm could it do?

Still, it was the hardest thing he had ever done, to sit there and let strangers abuse the memory of his own father, without challenging them.

"Alone!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Why didn't he take slaves, if he wouldn't send them to do his hunting for him? Ael¬markin, admit it, he must have been deranged!"

There was an audible rustle of fabric, marking Aelmarkin's careless shrug. "He was always secretive about these hunts of

his, and never more so than on the last one. He was hunting the site of the Great Gate that brought us from Evelon, and the things that were discarded as useless because they no longer functioned after passing the Gate. Why? I haven't a notion."

"Yes, well, it's obvious he was an obsessive, at the very least," said the drawler, dismissively. "And judging from the disaster of a conversation I had with Kyrtian, yonder, obsession runs in the family blood. All the poor fool can talk about is military matters! History, tactics, battles no one cares about." A sneer crept into the drawl. "As if anyone would ever give the likes of him com¬mand over so much as a squad of latrine-diggers."

By now Kyrtian's neck burned, his cheeks were nearly the same temperature, and his jaw and shoulders ached with the strain of tightly-clenched muscles. He gladly would have given half his possessions for the opportunity to come at any of those foppish fools in barehanded combat!

And that's just what they expect from you, he reminded him¬self, trying mentally to throw a little cold water on his over¬heated temper. They think you 're an atavistic barbarian, and they may very well be waiting for you to stand up and attack them physically! They would have the right to challenge you or bring you up in front of the Great Council.

And that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was what Aelmarkin wanted him to do, for such an attack would prove to everyone's satisfaction that he, Kyrtian, was just as mad as Aelmarkin claimed in his petition. An Elvenlord and a gentleman did not settle differences hand-to-hand. An Elvenlord and a gentleman issued a proper challenge, and settled it as this feud was being settled.

I have to keep my mouth closed and my eyes open and find out just how these things work! he told himself vehemently. So that if I get a chance, I can arrange for these fools to eat their words without salt!

Beside him, Gel stood at wary attention, as impassive as any statue, and as invisible to these fools as any other bodyguard. Gel had heard every word, too—but you would never know it by looking at him.

Copy Gel, he told himself. Stay quiet, if not calm. Wait, and

watch. He knew only that these feuds were settled in trial-by-combat, using slaves as proxies. If his fighters were better-trained than these—

Then it might be worth dealing with these dolts in a way they 'II understand.

Abruptly, conversation behind him ceased, as some signal he didn't recognize warned the idlers that the combat was about to begin. Abruptly caught up in spite of himself, Kyrtian leaned forward with the rest, as the light in the arena brightened, and the lights above their seats dimmed.

5

Two bronze doors, one at each end of the arena and deco¬rated with hammered images of armored fighters, opened onto the sands of the arena. Two lines of heavily-equipped fighters paced through them, moving ponderously into the light. There were fourteen of these humans in all, seven to each side. One set was armored in pale green, with a winged serpent badge in brilliant blue on their breastplates and shields, the other in emerald green with the badge of a rearing alicorn in white.

The armor was impressive; the men inside it were less so. Kyrtian studied each of the fighters minutely, weighing and measuring their general strength, noting the kinds of weapons each man carried. He assumed that Gel was doing the same.

"Ancestors!" came another whisper from behind. "What can be so fascinating about a handful of fighters? Is he so provincial that he's never seen gladiators before?"

Kyrtian's neck burned again for a moment, but he calmed himself quickly. With something before him to study and ana¬lyze, he finally managed to think of his own situation in terms of tactics rather than emotions.

Most of them are taking me for a provincial boor, but those are the ones who are ignoring me. The comments might be com¬ing from those who are suspicious of me—thinking that the "provincial fool" might just be a pose. They would be trying to prod me into either doing something typical of a fool—such as lose my temper and insult them back—or to do or say some¬thing that will give them more information about what I'm re¬ally here for. If I do neither, I'll confuse them further. It's even possible that Aelmarkin is behind the prodding. The possible number of plots and counterplots going on behind his back made him feel dizzy.

And these strangers seemed even more alien to him. How did they do it? How could anyone live like that, spending most of every day in guarding against treachery, and the rest in planning treachery? It would drive him mad in no time. He could not imagine how they coped with the constant paranoia.

Perhaps that is why they spend so much time in debauching themselves. Only by immersing themselves in pleasure can they relax for a few moments. If that was so—he felt suddenly sorry for them. But not too sorry.

The best weapon he had to use against them was the uncer¬tainty he represented, the very fact that he was unknown. No matter what Aelmarkin had told them, they probably wouldn't really believe it until they had proved for themselves what he was. They would tend to judge him against the standard of their own behavior. What would one of them do in a situation similar to his? Play the fool? Try and find an ally?

Probably look for an ally or a protector; hopefully by doing neither, he had confused them further. He wished he could talk openly to Gel; of all the times he needed advice—

Then again, Gel might not have any better notion of how to handle these effete creatures than he did.

Well, others have mistaken my caution for a lack of imagina¬tion in the past—so perhaps that is what is going on now. I can only hope so; it will make them underestimate me further.