Tigana. Guy Gavriel Kay

his wine. They had come to the moment at last. He looked from Scalvaia over to burly Nievole.

      ‘The two of you,’ he said soberly, ‘were considered by my father to be the last lords of any real power left in Astibar. Two winters past he decided—and informed me—that he intended to die on the eve of this Festival. At a time when Alberico would not be able to refuse him full rites of burial—which rites include a vigil such as this. At a time when you would both be in Astibar, which would allow me to name you his vigil-keepers.’

      He paused in the measured, deliberate recitation and let his glance linger on each of them. ‘My father did this so that we might come together without suspicion, or interruption, or risk of being detected, to set in motion certain plans for the overthrow of Alberico who rules in Astibar.’

      He was watching closely, but Sandre had chosen well. Neither of the two men to whom he spoke betrayed surprise or dismay by so much as a flicker of a muscle.

      Slowly Scalvaia lowered his cane and laid it down on the table by his chair. The stick was of onyx and machial, Tomasso found himself noticing. Strange how the mind worked at moments such as this.

      ‘Do you know,’ said bluff Nievole from by the larger fire, ‘do you know that this thought had actually crossed my mind when I tried to hazard why your Triad-cursed father—ah, forgive me, old habits die hard—’ His smile was wolfish, rather than apologetic, and it did not reach his narrowed eyes. ‘—why Duke Sandre would name me to hold vigil for him. He must have known how many times I tried to hasten these mourning rites along in the days when he ruled.’

      Tomasso smiled in return, just as thinly. ‘He was certain you would wonder,’ he said politely to the man he was almost sure had paid for the cup of wine that had killed his mother. ‘He was also quite certain you would agree to come, being one of the last of a dying breed in Astibar. Indeed, in the whole of the Palm.’

      Bearded Nievole raised his glass. ‘You flatter well, bar Sandre. And I must say I do prefer your voice as it is now, without all the dips and flutters and wristy things that normally go with it.’

      Scalvaia looked amused. Taeri laughed aloud. Herado was carefully watchful. Tomasso liked him very much: though not, as he’d had to assure his father in one diverting conversation, in his own particular fashion.

      ‘I prefer this voice as well,’ he said to the two lords. ‘You will both have been deducing in the last few minutes, being who and what you are, why I have conducted certain aspects of my life in certain well-known ways. There are advantages to being seen as aimlessly degenerate.’

      ‘There are,’ Scalvaia agreed blandly, ‘if you have a purpose that is served by such a misconception. You named a name a moment ago, and intimated we might all be rendered happier in our hearts were the bearer of that name dead or gone. We will leave aside for the moment what possibilities might follow such a dramatic eventuality.’

      His gaze was quite unreadable; Tomasso had been warned it would be. He said nothing. Taeri shifted uneasily but blessedly kept quiet, as instructed. He walked over and took one of the other chairs on the far side of the bier.

      Scalvaia went on, ‘We cannot be unaware that by saying what you have said you have put yourselves completely in our hands, or so it might initially appear. At the same time, I do surmise that were we, in fact, to rise and begin to ride back towards Astibar carrying word of treachery we would join your father among the dead before we left these woods.’

      It was casually stated—a minor fact to be confirmed before moving on to more important issues.

      Tomasso shook his head. ‘Hardly,’ he lied. ‘You do us honour by your presence and are entirely free to leave. Indeed, we will escort you if you wish, for the path is deceptive in darkness. My father did suggest that I might wish to point out that although you could readily have us wristed and death-wheeled after torture, it is exceedingly likely, approaching a certainty, that Alberico would then see compelling cause to do the same to both of you, for having been considered likely accomplices of ours. You will remember what happened to the Canziano after that misfortunate incident in Ferraut some years ago?’

      There was a smoothly graceful silence acknowledging all of this.

      It was broken by Nievole. ‘That was Sandre’s doing, wasn’t it?’ he growled from by his fire. ‘Not the Canziano at all!’

      ‘It was our doing,’ Tomasso agreed calmly. ‘We learned a great deal, I must say.’

      ‘So,’ Scalvaia murmured drily, ‘did the Canziano. Your father always hated Fabro bar Canzian.’

      ‘They could not have been said to be on the best of terms,’ Tomasso said blandly. ‘Though I must say that if you focus on that aspect of things I fear you might miss the point.’

      ‘The point you prefer us to take,’ Nievole amended pointedly.

      Unexpectedly, Scalvaia came to Tomasso’s aid. ‘Not fair, my lord,’ he said to Nievole. ‘If we can accept anything as true in this room and these times it is that Sandre’s hatred and his desire had moved beyond old wars and rivalries. His target was Alberico.’

      His icy blue eyes held Nievole’s for a long moment, and finally the bigger man nodded. Scalvaia shifted in his chair, wincing at a pain in his afflicted leg.

      ‘Very well,’ he said to Tomasso. ‘You have now told us why we are here and have made clear your father’s purpose and your own. For my own part I will make a confession. I will confess, in the spirit of truth that a death vigil should inspire, that being ruled by a coarse, vicious, overbearing minor lord from Barbadior brings little joy to my aged heart. I am with you. If you have a plan I would like to hear it. On my oath and honour I will keep faith with the Sandreni in this.’

      Tomasso shivered at the invocation of the ancient words. ‘Your oath and honour are sureties beyond measure,’ he said, and meant it.

      ‘They are indeed, bar Sandre,’ said Nievole, taking a heavy step forward from the fire. ‘And I will dare to say that the word of the Nievolene has never been valued at lesser coin. The dearest wish of my heart is for the Barbadian to lie dead and cut to pieces—Triad willing, by my own blade. I too am with you—by my oath and honour.’

      ‘Such terribly splendid words!’ said an amused voice from the window opposite the door.

      Five faces, four white with shock and the bearded one flushing red, whipped around. The speaker stood outside the open window, elbows resting on the ledge, chin in his hands. He eyed them with a mild scrutiny, his face shadowed by the wood of the window-frame.

      ‘I have never yet,’ he said, ‘known gallant phrases from however august a lineage to succeed in ousting a tyrant. In the Palm or anywhere else.’ With an economical motion he hoisted himself upwards, swung his feet into the room and sat comfortably perched on the ledge. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘agreeing on a cause does make a starting-point, I will concede that much.’

      ‘You are the sixth of whom my father spoke?’ Tomasso asked warily.

      The man did look familiar now that he was in the light. He was dressed for the forest not the city, in two shades of grey with a black sheepskin vest over his shirt, and breeches tucked into worn black riding boots. There was a knife at his belt, without ornament.

      ‘I heard you mention that,’ the fellow said. ‘I actually hope I’m not, because if I am the implications are unsettling, to say the least. The fact is, I never spoke to your father in my life. If he knew of my activities and somehow expected me to find out about this meeting and be here . . . well, I would be somewhat flattered by his confidence but rather more disturbed that he would have known so much about me. On the other hand,’ he said for a second time, ‘it is Sandre d’Astibar we’re talking about, and I do seem to make six here, don’t I?’ He bowed, without any visible irony, towards the bier on its trestles.

      ‘You are, then, also in league against Alberico?’ Nievole’s eyes were watchful.

      ‘I am not,’