Half the World

BEHIND THE THRONE

“I look like a clown,” snapped Thorn, as she wove through the teeming streets after Father Yarvi.

“No, no,” he said. “Clowns make people smile.”

He’d made her wash, and put some bitter-smelling herb in the searing water to kill off her lice, and she felt as raw under her chafing new clothes as the skinned men on the docks of Kalyiv. Safrit had clipped half her hair back to stubble, then hacked at the matted side with a bone comb but given up in disgust once she broke three teeth off it. She’d given Thorn a tunic of some blood-colored cloth with gold stitching about the collar, so fine and soft it felt as if you were wearing nothing, then when Thorn demanded her old clothes back Safrit had pointed out a heap of burning rags in the street and asked if she was sure.

Thorn might’ve been a head taller but Safrit was as irresistible as Skifr in her way and would not be denied. She had ended up with jingling silver rings on her arms and a necklace of red glass beads wound around and around her neck. The sort of things that would have made her mother clasp her hands with pride to see her daughter wearing, but had always felt as comfortable as slave’s chains to Thorn.

“People here expect a certain …” Yarvi waved his crippled hand at a group of black-skinned men whose silks were set with flashing splinters of mirror. “Theater. They will find you fascinatingly fearsome. Or fearsomely fascinating. You look just right.”

“Huh.” Thorn knew she looked an utter fool because when she finally emerged in all her perfumed absurdity Koll had sniggered, and Skifr had puffed out her cheeks, and Brand had just stared at her in silence as if he’d seen the dead walk. Thorn’s face had burned with the humiliation and had hardly stopped burning since.

A man in a tall hat gaped at her as she passed. She would have liked to show him her father’s sword but foreigners weren’t allowed to carry weapons in the First of Cities. So she leaned close and snapped her teeth at him instead, which proved more than enough armament to make him squeak in fear and scurry off.

“Why haven’t you made any effort?” she asked, catching up to Yarvi. He seemed to have a knack of slipping unnoticed through the press while she had to shoulder after him leaving a trail of anger in her wake.

“I have.” The minister brushed down his plain black coat, not a trace of adornment anywhere. “Among these gaudy crowds I will stand out for my humble simplicity, a trustworthy servant of the Father of Doves.”

“You?”

“I said I’d look like one, not that I’d be one.” Father Yarvi shook his head as she dragged at the over-tight seat of her new trousers yet again. “Honestly, Brand was right when he said there is no blessing you cannot treat like a curse. Most people would be thankful for fine new clothes. I can scarcely take you to the palace reeking like a beggar, can I?”

“Why are you taking me to the palace at all?”

“Should I go alone?”

“You could take someone who won’t say the worst thing at the worst time. Safrit, or Rulf, or Brand, even? He’s got one of those faces folk trust.”

“He’s got one of those faces folk take advantage of. And not to dismiss the towering diplomatic talents of Safrit, or Rulf, or Brand, but there’s always the chance the young Empress Vialine will warm to a woman her own age.”

“Me? Folk never warm to me!” Thorn remembered the contempt of the girls in Thorlby, the dagger-stares and the poison-laughter and, even though she’d killed eight men, she shivered at the thought. “Women my age least of all.”

“This will be different.”

“Why?”

“Because you will be keeping your tongue still and smiling ever so sweetly.”

Thorn raised her brows at that. “Doesn’t sound much like me. You sure?”

Yarvi’s narrowed eyes slid across to hers. “Oh, I am sure. Wait, now.”

Thorn’s jaw dropped at the sight of six strange monsters crossing the street, each fastened to the one behind by a silver chain, necks long as a man was tall swaying mournfully.

“We’re a long way from Gettland,” she muttered as she watched them plod off between white buildings so high the crooked lane was like a shadowy canyon. She remembered the damp, dark stone of Gettland, the morning mist over gray Mother Sea, her breath smoking on the dawn chill, huddling about the fire for warmth in the long evening, her mother’s voice crooning out the night prayer. It seemed another life. It seemed another world. One Thorn had never thought she might miss.

“Yes we are,” said Yarvi, setting briskly off through the sticky, stinking heat of the First of Cities. Thorn knew the year was wearing on, but autumn here was far hotter than midsummer in Thorlby.

She thought of the hard miles they’d traveled. The months of rowing. The slaving over the tall hauls. The constant danger of the steppe. Not to mention the brooding presence of Prince Varoslaf across the path. “Could the empress give us any help even if she chose to try?”

“Perhaps not in steel, but in silver, most definitely.” Yarvi murmured an apology in some unknown language as he stepped around a group of women in dark veils, their paint-rimmed eyes following Thorn as if she was the strange one.

“The odds at home will still be long.” Thorn counted the enemies off on her calloused fingers. “The High King’s own men in Yutmark, and the Inglings, and the Lowlanders, and the Vanstermen, and the Islanders-”

“You may be surprised to learn I had thought of this already.”

“And we’ve got only the Throvenlanders on our side.”

Yarvi snorted. “That alliance is milk left in the noon heat.”

“Eh?”

“Won’t last.”

“But King Fynn said-”

“King Fynn is a bloated bag of guts with little authority even in his own kingdom. Only his vanity will bind him to us, and that will melt before Grandmother Wexen’s wrath in due course like snow before Mother Sun. That little trick only bought us time.”

“Then … we’ll stand alone.”

“My uncle Uthil would stand alone against the world and insist that steel is the answer.”

“That sounds brave,” said Thorn.

“Doubtless.”

“But … not wise.”

Yarvi gave her a smile. “I’m impressed. I expected you to learn swordsmanship, but never prudence. Don’t worry, though. I hope to find other ways to shorten the odds.”

As soon as they stepped through the towering bronze doors of the palace Thorn went from embarrassment at being dressed like a princess to shame at being dressed like a peasant. The slaves here looked like queens, the guards like heroes of legend. The hall in which they were received was crowded with jewel-encrusted courtiers as brightly colored, as pompous and, as far as Thorn could tell, every bit as useless as the peacocks that swaggered about the immaculate gardens outside.

She would happily have shrivelled away into her new boots but they had great thick soles, and she had grown the past few months, and she stood taller than Father Yarvi now, who was taller than most himself. As always she was left with no choice but to push her shoulders back and her chin up and put on that bravest face of hers, however much the coward behind it might be sweating through her absurd crimson tunic.

Duke Mikedas sat above them in a golden chair on a high dais, one leg slung casually over its carven arm, his fabulous armor covered with gilded swirls. He was one of those handsome men who fancies himself more handsome than he is, dark-skinned and with a twinkling eye, his black hair and beard streaked with silver.

“Greetings, friends, and welcome to the First of Cities!” He flashed a winning smile, though it won nothing from Thorn but the deepest suspicion. “How is my mastery of your tongue?”

Father Yarvi bowed low and Thorn followed. Bow when I bow, he had said, and that seemed to mean whenever possible. “Flawless, your grace. A most welcome and impressive-”

“Remind me of your names again, I have the most abysmal memory for names.”

“He is Father Yarvi, Minister of Gettland.”

The woman who spoke was long and lean and very pale, her head close shaven. Elf-bangles rattled on one tattooed forearm, ancient steel, and gold, and broken crystal glittering. Thorn curled her lips back from her teeth, and only just remembered in time not to spit on the highly polished floor.

“Mother Scaer,” said Yarvi. “Every time our paths cross it is a fresh delight.”

The Minister of Vansterland, who whispered in the ear of Grom-gil-Gorm, and had been sent south by Grandmother Wexen to warn Prince Varoslaf not to paddle in the Shattered Sea.

“I wish I could say the same,” said Mother Scaer. “But none of our three meetings has been altogether pleasant.” She moved her ice-blue gaze to Thorn. “This woman I do not know.”

“In fact you met in Skekenhouse. She is Thorn Bathu, daughter of Storn Headland.”

Thorn was somewhat gratified to see Mother Scaer’s eyes widen. “Whatever have you been feeding her?”

“Fire and whetstones,” said Yarvi, smiling, “and she has quite the appetite. She is a proven warrior now, tested against the Uzhaks.”

“What curious warriors you have!” Duke Mikedas sounded more amused than impressed and his courtiers tittered obediently. “I’d like to see her matched against a man of my household guard.”

“How about two of ’em?” snapped Thorn, before she even realized her mouth was open. The voice hardly sounded like hers, a grating challenge echoing loud and savage from the silver-fretted marble walls.

But the duke only laughed. “Wonderful! The exuberance of the young! My niece is the same. She thinks anything can be done, in spite of tradition, in spite of the feelings of others, in spite of … realities.”

Yarvi bowed again. “Those who rule, and those beside them, must be always mindful of realities.”

The duke wagged his finger. “I like you already.”

“I believe, in fact, we have a friend in common.”

“Oh?”

“Ebdel Aric Shadikshirram.”

The duke’s eyes widened, and he swung his leg down from the chair and sat forward. “How is she?”

“I am sorry to tell you she has passed through the Last Door, your grace.”

“Dead?”

“Killed by a treacherous slave.”

“Merciful God.” The duke slumped back. “She was a singular woman. I asked her to marry me, you know. I was a young man then, of course, but …” He shook his head in wonderment. “She refused me.”

“A singular woman indeed.”

“The years trickle like water through our fingers. It seems only yesterday …” The duke gave a long sigh, and his eyes hardened. “But, to the matter.”

“Of course, your grace.” Father Yarvi bowed again. His head was bobbing like an apple in a bucket. “I come as emissary from Queen Laithlin and King Uthil of Gettland, and seek an audience with her radiance Vialine, Empress of the South.”

“Hmmmm.” The duke propped himself on one elbow and rubbed unhappily at his beard. “Where is Guttland again?”

Thorn ground her teeth but Father Yarvi’s patience was steel-forged. “Gettland is on the western shore of the Shattered Sea, your grace, north of the High King’s seat at Skekenhouse.”

“So many little countries up there it takes a scholar to keep track of them!” A tinkling of laughter from the courtiers and Thorn felt a powerful urge to put her fist in their faces. “I wish I could honor every supplicant with an audience, but you must understand this is a difficult time.”

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace.”

“So many enemies to be tamed and friends to be reassured. So many alliances to tend to and some … less important than others, no disrespect intended.” His brilliant smile exuded disrespect like the stink from an old cheese.

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace.”

“The Empress Vialine is not a woman of …” he gestured at Thorn as if at an unpromising horse in his stable, “this type. She is little more than a girl. Impressionable. Innocent. She has so very much to learn about how things truly are. You understand I must be cautious. You understand you must be patient. For a nation as wide and varied as ours to ford the river from one ruler to another is always … a bumpy crossing. But I will send for you in due course.”

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace. Might I ask when?”

The duke waved him away with a flourish of his long fingers. “Due course, Father, er …”

“Yarvi,” hissed out Mother Scaer.

Thorn was no diplomat, but she got the strong impression due course meant never.

Mother Scaer was waiting for them in the statue-lined hallway outside with two warriors of her own, a scowling Vansterman and a great Lowlander with a face like a stone slab. Thorn was in a black mood and set straight away to bristling, but neither seemed willing to be stared down.

Nor did their mistress. “I am surprised to see you here, Father Yarvi.”

“And I you, Mother Scaer.” Though neither of them looked surprised in the least. “We both find ourselves half the world from our proper places. I thought you would be beside your king, Grom-gil-Gorm. He needs you to speak for Father Peace, before Mother War drags him to ruin against Gettland.”

Mother Scaer’s look grew even icier, if that was possible. “I would be with him, had Grandmother Wexen not chosen me for this mission.”

“A high honor.” The slightest curl at the corner of Yarvi’s mouth suggested it was closer to a sentence of exile, and they both knew it. “You must truly have delighted Grandmother Wexen to earn it. Did you speak up for your country? Did you stand for your king and his people, as a minister should?”

“When I make an oath I keep it,” snapped Scaer. “A loyal minister goes where her grandmother asks her.”

“Just like a loyal slave.”

“You are the expert there. Does your neck still chafe?”

Yarvi’s smile grew strained at that. “The scars are quite healed.”

“Are they?” Scaer leaned close, her thin lips curling from her teeth. “If I were you, I would return to the Shattered Sea before you pick up some more.” And she brushed past, Thorn and the Vansterman exchanging one more lingering scowl before he strode away.

“She’s trouble,” whispered Thorn once they were out of earshot.

“Yes.”

“And she’s close with the duke.”

“Yes.”

“And was sent here ahead of us.”

“Yes.”

“So … Grandmother Wexen guessed what you’d do long before you did it.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve a feeling we’re not going to get an audience with anything this way.”

Yarvi looked sourly across at her. “See? You’re a diplomat after all.”