The Ships of Merior. Janny Wurts

the nerve of Jaelot’s mayor, to dare to suggest what I should wear in the presence of his ridiculous wife!’ Halliron whirled, kicked the low cot to an explosion of dust from the ticking, and staggered a hopping half-step to end bent double in a sneeze. The paroxysm effectively sobered him. He regarded his knotted fists, and the wry twist to his lips unravelled in a burst of sudden laughter. ‘Dharkaron have mercy! Could you see me wearing some dandy’s tight-assed hose? In pink, no less, against a doublet with chartreuse shoulder ruffles?’

      Medlir choked back a smile. ‘Imagination fails me. Did his lordship send a mask as well?’

      ‘Ath. A lamb’s head. You can picture that!’ The Masterbard collapsed on his mattress, loose-limbed as a puppet whose midriff had suddenly lost its stuffing. ‘I’ll be deliriously happy to be quit of this town.’

      Far from disarmed by the subject change, Medlir clicked the door shut with his heel. ‘You didn’t say what Jaelot’s mayor sent for me to wear.’

      ‘No, I didn’t,’ Halliron cracked back in caustic, protective sharpness. ‘You at least will stay out of this.’

      ‘Well, there we disagree.’ The flexible humour Dakar could never shake disappeared. Suddenly more killer than singer, his stance radiating leashed force, the man in the doorway shook out his right sleeve and used his teeth to yank more tension in his cuff ties. ‘I’m going. Don’t pretend you won’t need me.’

      The Masterbard locked eyes with the musician he had apprenticed, and the whetted determination he encountered threw him back six years to the memory of a prince’s oath swearing in a woodland dell. ‘I’m no match for Torbrand’s temper,’ he said quickly. ‘But if you make this your duty, and harm comes to you, I’ll go to my grave without forgiveness.’

      ‘Oh Ath,’ Medlir said on a queer note of change. ‘If you’re worried only for me, then surely there’s hope left for both of us.’

      The sunset on summer solstice blazed over a city fragrant with fresh-split birch and cut flowers. Long since finished with his dressing, Halliron leaned on the sill of the opened casement, kneading the joints of his fingers. ‘Sithaer take it, we have a visitor.’

      Caught while threading his points, Medlir said sharply, ‘Another servant of the mayor’s? After today, I wouldn’t expect such a one would dare to show his face here.’

      ‘You still believe there’s a man in this town who was born with any sense of shame?’ At the thump of footsteps on the landing, Halliron wrenched the door open in the face of the startled arrival and demanded, ‘Where’s Dakar? Or is it true that armed guardsmen snatched him off the streets in the middle of Beckburn market?’

      The mayor’s footman tugged down his waistcoat, ridden up over the dome of his belly in his puffing ascent of the stairs. Taken aback by the tall elder in his black silk doublet, he fell back a step and ventured, ‘You speak of the mayor’s prisoner?’

      ‘I speak of a man who carries my personal word as bond on his civil behaviour.’ Halliron did not look aside as Medlir snatched his belt and stepped to his shoulder to back him.

      The footman cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

      ‘But you do know where Dakar is,’ Medlir cut in. ‘Stop hedging.’

      Dusk had fallen. Uncertain light from the chamber’s single candle played into the gloom of the hall and raised hard sparkles from the trim on Halliron’s dress clothes. A dimmer gleam of sweat sheened the footman’s pink forehead as he fluttered his hands in ruffled cuffs. ‘Well, I’m not to blame,’ he began, then flinched back, though no one moved forward to threaten him. ‘Your prophet’s set in chains in the banquet hall. My Lord Mayor decreed his fetters shall be struck only after the Masterbard has delivered his promised performance.’

      From the street three storeys below, a carriage rumbled by, the harness bells on the team a sweet trill behind a woman’s airy laughter. A dog barked, and a scullion banged the door to the midden as life in the precinct of the innyard ran its indifferent course: in contrast, confined, unspeaking tension gripped the close little garret.

      Then Halliron spun on his heel to a near soundless whisper of rich silk. None of his temper showed, nor did his words reflect rancour as he said in terse quiet to his apprentice, ‘Ath forgive me, you were right. In every sense, I will need you.’’

      Unobtrusive in his tunic of dove-grey linen, Medlir had no words. The silver-tipped laces of his shirt sleeves tapped and chimed as he hooked the last studs on his bootcuffs. He fetched his master’s wrapped lyranthe from its corner peg behind the bed, and wondered in silent and venomous fury whether any other ruler in Athera’s history had grossly flaunted such ignorance, to repudiate a masterbard’s given word before his very face.

      ‘Come on now.’ The footman edged toward the stairwell. ‘My Lord Mayor has a carriage ready outside to collect you.’

      Another insult: by ancient custom, a masterbard came and went at no man’s pleasure. Halliron said stiffly, ‘Tell your mayor I would break all my fingers before I accepted the ride.’

      The brass buttons on the footman’s waistcoat flashed to his protesting breath. ‘But -’

      ‘The weather is fine. We will walk.’ Anchored against rage by the guiding touch of Medlir’s hand on his shoulder, the Masterbard of Athera swept the mayor’s cringing servant aside.

      He left behind a garret picked clean of belongings and a paid up account with the landlord. The pony cart also waited, packed to roll at a moment’s notice, in the post stable nearest to the gate.

      ‘Dawn,’ Medlir murmured. ‘It can’t come soon enough.’

      Master and apprentice reached the base of the stairs and by unspoken agreement turned down the service corridor that let into the alley beyond the kitchen. Behind, the tavern bulked massive and dark, its high, gabled roofline like folded black paper against a sky pricked with midsummer stars. The sea breeze reeked of salt and the fish offal spread to dry for fertilizer. Birch smoke drifted from the festival fires alight in the markets by Dagrien Court. The thready, wild notes of a fiddle spun through the dark, clipped by the slap of harness leather and the grinding turn of wheels as the mayor’s carriage team was shaken up and reined around to leave the stableyard, its conveyance empty of passengers.

      Halliron set a brisk pace. The palace lay in the fashionable quarter across from the council hall, a distance made difficult by crooked streets and cobblestone byways that rose and fell with the terrain, or zigzagged unexpectedly into staircases cut into the ribs of the headland. After six months, Medlir knew every shortcut; given the gifts of his mastery, darkness held no impediment.

      Tempered back to reason by the anonymity of the night, Halliron gave a rueful sigh. ‘I should have worried more about footpads.’

      ‘Why? Because of your jewels and gold chains?’ Medlir grinned and turned his shoulder to guard the wrapped bulk of the lyranthe as he passed through a narrow archway. ‘Take a closer look at yourself, my friend.’

      The Masterbard glanced down, rocked by a start to see his glittering court finery masked to featureless black. ‘Ath! Your shadows? I should have guessed.’

      ‘Pray the thieves won’t,’ Medlir said. ‘There’s little risk to use my power here. No one knows my reputation well enough to send an informer to Etarra. And anyway, if you’d set foot in that carriage, I would have broken the mayor’s head. I still might. Do your joints hurt?’

      ‘Not so much.’ Halliron glanced at the prosperous tall-fronted houses limned in the bronze glow of torches. A high-wheeled phaeton rattled by, driven by a dandy bedecked in peacock plumes. ‘Where are we?’

      ‘Spicer’s Row,’ Medlir said around a small cough. The last female to share the phaeton’s upholstery had bequeathed enough perfume to shed a cloud of patchouli in the wake of the vehicle’s passage. ‘But never mind if you can’t smell the cinnamon.