The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III Page 22

  The Lord Seneschal nodded, his lips compressed into a thin line, though whether from tension or because he was trying not to say something he shouldn’t, T’fyrr wasn’t certain.

  “I believe you ought to give the Deliambrens that blanket permission, Your Majesty,” the Lord Seneschal said, after a moment’s pause. “You really don’t have to call a Council on it, any more than you had to call a Council to add Sire T’fyrr to your personal household. It is in the nature of a favor from you to Lord Harperus, after all.”

  T’fyrr held his tongue, though it was difficult. It was very clever of the Seneschal to have brought up the stormy Council session that ended with his own appointment to the King’s personal household. Theovere was still steaming over that one—and the reminder of how recalcitrant most of his Advisors had been was exactly what Harperus needed.

  Theovere would see this as a multiple opportunity now. He could do Harperus, who he liked, a favor. He could do the Deliambrens a favor that might earn him more little toys like the star projector. He could thwart the Council, taking revenge for the way they had tried to block his appointment of T’fyrr.

  He could obtain maps that would help him to solve disputes between the Kings, between the Barons, between the Sires. He could enforce decisions on the strength of those maps.

  And he can prove that he is still the High King. Perhaps my music is working?

  “This will harm no one, Your Majesty,” the Seneschal urged. “And it will be of great benefit to many.”

  Theovere did not think it over for more than a heartbeat after that. “Fine,” he said, and gestured to three of the Royal Scribes. “Consider it done.” He leaned his head back for a moment and rattled off the appropriate language for the official document; the scribes took it all down as fast as Theovere recited.

  Feeble minded? I don’t think so, T’fyrr remarked to himself. Not when he can do that, without even blinking.

  When they finished, they presented all three copies to the Seneschal, who made certain that they were identical, then handed them on to Theovere to sign and seal.

  One of the three he presented to Harperus on the spot. “There you are, Lord Harperus,” he said with a smile. “Signed, sealed and official. No one will argue with your little expedition now.” He turned to the Chief Scribe and handed him the remaining two copies. “See that the usual duplicates are made, and so on,” he told the man, “but—send them along to the Councilors with, oh, the household documents. This certainly doesn’t have any more importance than an inventory of linen.”

  The scribe bowed, face expressionless, and took himself out. The Lord Seneschal’s mouth twitched. T’fyrr knew why.

  They’ll take those household accountings and give them to some flunky to file and never look at them. They’ll never know about this declaration unless Harperus has to use it in some, way that draws attention to it, and by then it will be too late, of course. Oh, clever! Feeble-minded? No, no, not Theovere.

  “Now,” the High King said, turning toward T’fyrr, who was very glad that he did not have a face that was as easy to read as a human’s. “I’d really like you to hear more of your friend’s magnificent singing, if you have the time for it.”

  Harperus smiled and took a seat when the King indicated he could. “I always have time for T’fyrr, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly. “And I am glad that you have learned that my friend is far more talented than he seems.”

  T’fyrr only bowed without blinking an eye—but in subtle revenge, he began a Deliambren courting song, full of double and triple dealings, and such vivid descriptions of who did what to whom that a human Priest would have had it banned on the spot as the vilest of pornography.

  And watching Harperus’ face as he struggled to remain polite was revenge enough for all Harperus had thus far inflicted on him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nightingale waited for T’fyrr, perched on a metal balcony on the exterior of Freehold; streetlamps gave all the light she needed to see what lay below her, although it wasn’t much cooler now than it had been this afternoon. T’fyrr had told her three nights ago that he wanted to arrive at Freehold openly tonight. She hadn’t been all that sure it was a good idea, but apparently Harperus and Tyladen thought it was best if he were actually seen coming and going now and again.

  But for him to be seen by the maximum number of people, he would have to arrive afoot just after sunset, and not come flying in to the roof long after dark.

  No one has tried to attack him since the first attempt, she reminded herself. No one has even dared to enter Freehold and so much as look at him crossly. We have walked the streets of Lyonarie during the day together, and no one has tried to ambush us. He believes the danger is over.

  So why did she still have misgivings? Why did she expect trouble, when there had been no sign of trouble?

  She sighed, and rested her chin on her hand, peering between the bars of the railing. Because I am always seeing danger, she admitted to herself, even where there might not be any danger. Isn’t that why I am waiting here, above the street, watching for him? I’m going to extremes because there could be trouble.

  At least she had the night off; those who were featured performers got one night in seven to rest. Silas was playing, though, and she was looking forward to listening to him with T’fyrr.

  The exterior of Freehold was festooned in several places with metal balconies, staircases and walkways, some of which connected the building with others on the block, none of which could actually be reached from the ground outside, only from special window exits above the second floor, or from the roof itself. That made them good places to watch the street below. Many of the staff did just that in their off hours, especially in the balmier months.

  This was not a balmy month; the heat rising from the street below was enough to bake bread on the balcony, and Nightingale’s hair was damp with sweat. I’m going to feel the right fool if nothing happens, she thought ironically. Getting baked for nothing but a stupid feeling that things have been too quiet. Ah well, it won’t be the first time that I’ve made a fool of myself.

  At least there was no one here to see her, and from below, it was very difficult to tell that there was anyone at all on this second-floor walkway. She had made it even harder, since she was sitting cross-legged below the railing and had taken care to wear one of her nondescript “Tanager” outfits.

  Nothing clever about that, though. I just didn’t want to get anything nice all sweaty and dirty.

  Freehold faced a much newer block of buildings across the narrow street; it was one of those blocks with second floors that overhung the street below. Just about everyone took shelter in the shadowed area under the overhang even at night. For one thing, people had a bad habit of tossing noxious things out of the second-floor windows at night, even though it was supposed to be against the law. For another, it was marginally cooler there; the pavement hadn’t been baked all day long by the sun.

  It wasn’t hard to identify people, even from this walkway, and she amused herself by trying to recognize some of her regulars coming toward Freehold. Movement of something larger than a pedestrian coming up the street caught her eye, and she turned to see what was coming. Odd. I haven’t seen that many horsemen here in a long time. At least, not all together. But she dismissed them from her mind as soon as she saw them, for she spotted T’fyrr turning the corner at the other end of the block, approaching Freehold from the shelter of the overhang like everyone else.

  He looked relaxed; his wings were not held tightly to his body as they were whenever he was nervous. She smiled to see that tiny sign; something must have gone well for him today.

  But her smile vanished—for the horsemen suddenly spurred their beasts into a lurching run, scattering the other pedestrians before them, and converged on him. The horses were quick, nimble-footed and used to the city streets, cutting T’fyrr off before he even knew they were there!

  Her heart started up into her throat, and her chest constri
cted with sudden fear. There were seven of them; whoever his attackers were, they weren’t taking any chances on him getting away.

  They had closed in on him and surrounded him, trapping him under the overhang where he couldn’t take to the air. His talons were of limited use in a situation like this one. No one was going to come to his aid, not in this neighborhood—there were a few of her army of children loitering about the street, but children could do nothing against horsemen, even unarmed horsemen. One of the boys rushed toward the door of Freehold and began to pound on it frantically, but there was no way that enough help would arrive in time from inside. In a few moments, they could subdue him, haul him onto a horse, and carry him away!

  But she was a Gypsy, and a Gypsy is never unarmed.

  She pulled the sash from around her waist and dove into her pocket for the pennies left over from her distribution of largesse to the children this afternoon. Those aren’t battle-trained cavalry beasts, those are only common riding horses—Even as the first of the riders moved to pull something from his belt, she had fitted a penny into the pocket of her sash, whirled it three times over her head, and let it fly.

  She had kept herself fed, many a time, with the sling. Her aim did not fail her this time, either, with a much larger target than the tiny head of a squirrel. Her penny hit the rump of the horse with a satisfying smack, and more satisfying was the horse’s natural reaction to the stinging missile. It was, as she had hoped, much worse than the worst biting fly.

  As the first horse reared and neighed wildly, completely unseating his rider, she lobbed another two pennies at two more of the hapless mounts. As the first man landed—badly—on the pavement, the next two horses reacted the same way the first one had. Only instead of simply throwing their riders and dancing around like beasts possessed, these two reared, bucking their riders off and bolted, lumbering into the rest of the horses, scattering them for the moment.

  That was enough to give T’fyrr the opening he needed. He dashed into the gap left when the first horse ran off and launched himself into the air, wings beating powerfully, further panicking the horses.

  The street was full of neighing, dancing horses, or so it seemed. Their riders had their hands full for the moment.

  She didn’t wait to see what would happen next; if anyone down there suspected that they had been attacked from one of the balconies and happened to look up, she could be in serious trouble. She ducked inside the nearest window exit, getting into hiding quickly, before any of T’fyrr’s assailants had a chance to calm his beast, look up, and spot her.

  Then she ran for the inside stairs, heading for the roof. That, surely, would be where he would go. Freehold meant the nearest point of safety, and the roof was the best place for him to land.

  He’ll be in a panic, and once he gets out of the streetlights, his eyes won’t have time to adjust and he’ll be flying half-blind. He may land hard—

  She burst out onto the roof at the same time he landed as hard and clumsily as she had expected, and as he heard her footfall behind him, he whirled to face her, hands fanned, talons extended in an attack stance. His eyes were wild, black pupils fully dilated. His beak parted, and his tongue extended as he hissed at her.

  “T’fyrr!” she cried. “It’s me! It’s all right, Joyee is getting the Freehold peace-keepers at the door—no one is going to get past them—”

  She expected him to relax then, but he didn’t so much relax as collapse, going to his knees, his wings drooping around him. One moment, he was ready to slash her to ribbons; the next, he was falling to pieces himself.

  Dear Lady! She ran to him in alarm; he moved to reach for her feebly, and when she touched his arm, his emotional turmoil boiled up to engulf her, making her own breath come short and her throat fill with bile.

  Quickly she shunted it away; helped him to his feet, and led him as quickly as she could to the staircase. My room. I have to get him somewhere quiet. If he panics more—

  She didn’t want to speculate. He was armed with five long talons on each hand, and four longer talons on each foot, not to mention that cruel beak. This collapse might only be momentary. If he thought he was in danger again, and lost control of himself—

  Well, she had seen hawks in a panic; they could and did put talons right through a man’s hand. T’fyrr was at least ten times the size of a hawk.

  Somehow she got him into her room and shut the door; she lowered the bed and put him down on it, dimming the lights. He seemed to be in a state of shock now; he shook, every feather trembling, and he didn’t seem to know she was there.

  All right. I can work with that. I don’t need him to notice me.

  Of course not. All she needed was to touch him—and open up every shield she had on herself. But there was no choice, and no hesitation. She sat down beside him, laid one hand on his arm, and released her shielding walls.

  It was worse, much worse, than she had ever dreamed.

  After a time, she realized that he was speaking, brokenly. Some of it was in her tongue, some in his own, but she finally pieced together what he was saying, aided by the flood of emotions that racked him. He could not weep, of course; it seemed horribly cruel to her that he did not have that release. If ever anyone needed to be able to weep, it was T’fyrr.

  He had gone to Gradford, on behalf of Harperus, and he had been captured and held as a demon by agents of the Church. They had bound him, imprisoned him in a cage so small he could not even spread his wings, which had driven him half-mad.

  She tried to imagine it, and failed. Take all the worst nightmares, the most terrible of fears, then make them all come true. The Haspur needed space, freedom; needed these things the way a human needed air and light. Take those away—and then take away air, and light as well—

  How did he endure it? Only by descent into madness . . .

  But that had not been enough for them. Then they had starved him—which had sent him past madness altogether, turned him from a thinking being into a being ruled only by fear, pain and instinct.

  As familiar as she was with hawks, she knew only too well what they were like when they hungered. Their entire being centered on finding prey and eating it—and woe betide anything that got in the way. But T’fyrr had never been so overwhelmed by his own instincts before; he had not known such a thing could happen. He retained just enough of his reasoning ability to take advantage of an opportunity to escape provided by the Free Bards.

  He did not have enough left to do more than react instinctively when one of the Church Guards tried to stop him.

  He did not realize what he had done until after—after he had killed and eaten a sheep on the mountainside, and remembered, with a Haspur’s extraordinary memory, what had happened as he escaped. He could not even soften the blow to himself by forgetting . . .

  He killed. He had never killed before, other than the animals that were his food. Certainly he had never even hurt another thinking being before. For all their fearsome appearance, the Haspur were surprisingly gentle, and they had not engaged in any kind of conflict for centuries. It was inconceivable for the average Haspur to take a sentient life with his own talons. Oh, there were Haspur who retained some of the savage nature of their ancestors, enough that they served as guards to warn off would-be invaders, or destroy them if they must. But the average Haspur looked on the guards the same way the average farmer looked on the professional mercenary captain; with a touch of awe, a touch of queasiness, and the surety that he could not do such a thing.

  To discover that he could had undone T’fyrr.

  To learn, twice now, that his battle-madness had been no momentary aberration was just as devastating.

  Gradually, he allowed her to hold him, as he shook and rocked back and forth, his spirit in agony. He had come close, so close, to killing again tonight, that the experience had reopened all his soul-wounds. The man who had been nearest him had been reaching for a hand-crossbow at his belt—and that was how he had been captured the first time, with a
drugged dart shot by a man who caught him on the ground. The horror of that experience was such that he would rather die—or kill again—than endure it a second time.

  And with her spirit open to his, she endured all the horror of it with him, and the horror of knowing that he could and would kill as well.

  His throat ached and clenched; his breath came in hard-won gasps, harsh and unmusical, and every muscle in his body was as tight as it could be. If he had been a human, he would have been sobbing uncontrollably.

  He could not—so she wept for him.

  She understood, with every fiber of her spirit, just how his heart cried out with revulsion at the simple fact that he had taken a life, that if forced to he would do so again. There was no room in his vision of the world for self-defense, only for those who killed and those who did not. She knew, deep inside her bones, why he hated himself for it.

  He had not stopped; had not tried to subdue rather than kill. Never mind that he was mad with fear, pain, hunger. Never mind that the man who had tried to stop his escape would probably have killed him to prevent it. The man himself was not his enemy; the man was only doing the job he’d been set. T’fyrr had not even paused for a heartbeat to consider what he was doing. He had struck to kill and fled with the man’s heart-blood on his talons.

  And she told him so, over and over, between her sobs of grief for him, just how and why she understood. She would have felt the same, precisely the same, even though there were plenty of people she considered her friends and Clansfolk who would never agree with her. Her personal rule—which she did not impose on anyone else—forbade killing. She knew that she might find herself in the position one day of having to kill or die herself. She did not know how she would meet that. She tried to make certain to avoid situations where that was the only way out.

  Which was why, of course, she avoided cities. Death was cheap in cities; the more people, the cheaper it was. At least out in the countryside, life was held at a dearer cost than here, where there were people living just around the corner who would probably strangle their own children for a few coins.