The Bronze of Eddarta (12 page)

A young girl answered Tarani’s knock.

“I am Rassa,” Tarani told her. “I am to create a gown for the lady Zefra.”

“She awaits you,” the girl said in a shy but formal voice, and opened both doors to admit “Rassa” and the goods-bearing slaves. I entered beside her; Tarani’s hand was clutching mine so hard that I worried about something breaking.

We were in a small, rectangular sitting room that had doors in both narrow halls. A stone ledge ran along the bottom of one long wall, and was padded with embroidered cushions that matched those in the three free-standing chairs. A ledge along the other doorless wall was left bare, and it was there that the slaves placed the bolts of cloth under Tarani’s direction. When the cloth was properly displayed, and the slaves had left, the girl spoke again.

“The lady Zefra asked me to bring you her greetings, Rassa. She will be with you shortly. In the meantime, I have another errand to perform. With your permission …”

The girl bowed and left through the entry door. Tarani sighed and relaxed as the illusions vanished; I caught her and lowered her into one of the chairs. No sooner was she seated, however, than the inner door opened and Zefra came in. Clearly, she had been waiting for the slave-girl to leave us alone.

Tarani looked around toward the door as she heard it open, and she stared for a long time while Zefra stood, as if turned to stone, and stared back. I was kneeling beside Tarani, but I might as well have been still invisible. I must have responded subconsciously to their exclusion of me, for by the time Zefra moved, I was on the other side of the room, pressing my back against the double door.

Tarani was still shaky from the strain of holding the illusions so long, but she stood up as Zefra approached her. The older woman’s hands reached out to frame the girl’s face for another long, searching look, and then Zefra moved closer and placed her cheek against Tarani’s. Suddenly they were holding one another, gasping softly and rocking back and forth.

Right smack in the middle of it, someone knocked on the door behind me, so heavily that the vibrations sent me staggering toward the women. A voice boomed through the closed doors: “OPEN FOR THE HIGH LORD.”

I ran for the inner doors, grabbing Tarani’s hand as I passed. “He wants Rassa,” I whispered, dragging Tarani toward the door.

Zefra caught the girl’s hand and hauled the other way, stopping me. “Then he must find her here,” she said. “I know you’re weary, daughter,” she whispered, touching Tarani’s face again, “but you must keep Rassa’s illusion a bit longer.”

“Rikardon—” Tarani started to say.

“He
can
hide in my apartment,” Zefra said. “You need only keep Rassa’s illusion.
Can you do it?
”

Tarani nodded.

“You—” she said to me. “Go through the door. Tarani will be safe—you must trust me.”

“OPEN FOR THE HIGH LORD!” the voice boomed again. I dived through the open door and pulled it nearly shut behind me. Then I drew my sword and waited with my ear to the door. I trusted Zefra because the woman I had met matched the woman I had imagined from her letter. But Pylomel was an unknown quantity.

I heard some quick movements in the room, then Zefra opened the door. “Why did you not open on the first summons, wife?” said a voice I disliked instantly. It was whiny and carried a sarcastic, affected petulance.

“Your pardon, Pylomel,” Zefra said coolly, “but I was disrobed. My dressmaker is here, as you see. She was measuring me for a new gown for the Celebration Dance.”

“And would it be so inappropriate for a husband to see his wife disrobed?” said the nasty voice again.

“Not at all. But would my husband like his announcer to see me in such a state?”

I heard a bass-tone chuckle that was quickly choked off. It solved the puzzle of how one voice could both whine and command so convincingly.

“Obilin informed me that your dressmaker had arrived,” Pylomel said, obviously deciding that it was time to get to the point. “It is she I have come to see, not you, lady. Rassa, my beautiful girl, come with me.”

“She will stay here,” Zefra said, her voice still quite calm.

“By sending her here, her father has granted me certain … privileges, lady. I’m sure you understand.”

Zefra made a tight, sharp sound that might have been a laugh. “I understand quite well, Lord. I have no quarrel with your pleasures. But the Celebration Dance is only two days away, and Rassa must make a gown for me. She will stay here in this apartment until the gown is complete to my satisfaction. Then you may have her.”

“And when, dear lady,” said Pylomel, “did you decide to attend the dance? The last time we discussed it, you denied your son the honor of your presence on this important occasion.”

“I have thought better of it,” Zefra said, and her voice took on a different tone, almost humble. “Indomel is my only child, after all. And now that I have acceded to your wishes, Lord, will you punish me by depriving me of the only dressmaker I trust to prepare my gown in the time left?”

A moment’s silence. My hand tightened on the hilt of the sword, while I strained and waited to hear Pylomel’s next words.

“Very well,” he said at last. “She may stay—with this understanding. On the night of the celebration, after the dance, she will come to me.” He laughed. “Perhaps that is appropriate, after all. It is a high occasion, and we will continue our celebration through the night. Is that not so, Rassa?

“Why, girl, you’re trembling. Let me comfort you a moment.”

I gritted my teeth, and told myself:
Zefra knows what she’s doing, and Tarani isn’t being hurt.
But as the silence stretched on, it changed to:
If
he doesn’t take his hands off her …

“Better now, dear girl?” Pylomel’s voice said, and he was answered by an indistinct murmur. “Then it is settled, Zefra. She will stay here until after the Celebration Dance—and it is your duty to see she remains. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, Lord. Now, may we get on with the measuring? Time is very short.”

“Certainly. And I will inform our son of your change of heart. Doubtless he will be overcome with joy.”

The minute I heard the doors close, I ran out into the room and took Tarani into my arms. She sagged against me and shuddered.

“Did you see him?” Tarani asked. “Rikardon, I’ve never met anyone so … repulsive.” She pulled away from me and faced Zefra. “Mother, now could you stand to be here …
with him
… all these years?

“I had to be with him only a short time, dear,” she answered, and turned away abruptly. Her voice came softly, bitterly, over her shoulder. “Only until I produced an heir.” She seemed to shake herself, then began to pace about the room as she talked. “Since Indomel’s birth, Pylomel has left me quite alone. I have even been spared the need to appear at official functions—though he did request my presence at the Celebration Dance.”

“I’ve heard something of the celebration,” I said. “But I don’t understand what the occasion is.”

“Indomel will be designated the next High Lord,” Zefra said. “Oh, he won’t have the position until Pylomel dies, but I wouldn’t put it past the little fleason to assassinate his father, first chance he gets.”

“You said Indomel is your son!” Tarani cried, shocked.

“The son of my body, Tarani. But Pylomel took him away
hours
after his birth, and he’s trained him to be as devious and decadent and … I hate him almost as much as I hate Pylomel.”

Tarani and I were both a little stunned at the violence of the outburst, but in the next moment, Zefra’s voice was tender once again.

“You, my darling, are the daughter of my spirit as well as my body.”

“Mother,” Tarani said impulsively, “you must come with us when we leave Eddarta. You’ve no reason to stay here any longer, not to protect me or—Volitar.”

“Yes, your young man told me that he is gone,” Zefra said sadly, and once more mother and daughter embraced.

I didn’t ask Tarani how she planned to get her mother out of there. Tarani’s world and Zefra’s world had been entirely separate until bare moments ago, yet the two women, so much alike physically, had formed an immediate affection for one another. I knew that if it were possible, Zefra would leave Eddarta with us. I could no more willingly leave her behind than I could leave Tarani.

But other things had to come first.

“Gharlas killed Volitar,” I said, and Zefra and Tarani drew apart. “And he stole something which belongs to Tarani. That’s why we’ve come—to get it back.”

“Gharlas? Why would he kill Volitar?”

Tarani spoke, then, telling then Zefra about Gharlas. How he had blackmailed Volitar into duplicating gemstones, so that Gharlas could replace the treasures in Pylomel’s vault, using the secret entrance Gharlas had found. How Volitar had fought to the last to protect Tarani from him. How we had confronted Gharlas in the workshop, and Tarani’s display of power had proved her heritage.

“He knows who I am, Mother, and he could use that against you. Even if he hadn’t killed Volitar, the threat to you would give me enough reason to be here.”

I was startled when I got a good look at Zefra’s face. There was sadness in it, and an odd glow that made me uneasy. I didn’t know if it meant she was a little unbalanced—hardly an unreasonable occurrence, considering the peculiar life she lived—or if that light was anticipation of revenge on Gharlas.

“There are few here who would regret Gharlas’s death,” she said. “But he isn’t in the city, as far as I know.”

“He’s on his way,” I said. “Tomorrow—the day after at the latest—he’ll be here. We need your help to know where to find him.”

Zefra smiled, and the odd light went away. “He is easily found; he lives in the last house, the one nearest the wall. Also the smallest.” She laughed. “What sweet justice that the old passageway really does exist.”

“You know about it?” Tarani asked. “Can we use it to get into his house unobserved?”

“No, child, for if it truly is Troman’s Way, it connects only with the Council Chamber in the Lord Hall. There have always been rumors of its existence. Troman was a High Lord of an elder age, who believed in the semblance of discretion. He installed a succession of young women in that small house, and visited them while he was, supposedly, inspecting the treasure vault.”

“Wasn’t he afraid that the women would steal from him?” I asked.

“Indeed, he was. That’s why he concealed the house entry so cleverly that none of the girls ever found it—or the many residents who have searched for it since. When he died, the secret died, which was just as well. There has never been a High Lord since Troman who bothered to conceal his … pleasures. It has been so long, now, that it’s generally believed that Troman’s Way was only a rumor.”

“Well, if we can’t use it, then it’s not important,” I said. “This Celebration Dance—will Gharlas be there?”

“If he has arrived by then, certainly. Attendance is mandatory.” She smiled, and the strange light was back. “For everyone but me, that is.”

“Then we’ll plan to search the house that night.”

“And if it isn’t in the house?” Tarani asked.

“Then he’ll have it on his person. We can wait for him to come back.”

“Meanwhile,” Zefra said, “I must do something about a new gown. Pylomel is nothing if not observant; if I wear an old gown, he will recognize it.”

Tarani laughed—a beautiful sound. “Oh, that’s not a problem, Mother. I
can
sew. Come and choose a fabric.”

We spent the night and the next day in Zefra’s apartment. At first, Tarani did most of the talking, her fingers busy with the soft, pale fabric which Zefra had chosen. I could hear the love and admiration in her voice when she talked of Volitar—his care of her, the things he believed in, his patience and skill as he mastered his new trade. Tarani spoke more diffidently of the Recorder’s school which she had attended until age sixteen.

“Yes, I knew you had a strong mindpower the day you were born, Tarani, and I warned Volitar to watch for it to emerge.”

“How did you know, so soon?” Tarani asked.

Zefra didn’t answer immediately. “Even as an infant,” she said at last, “your resemblance to me was apparent. I have a strong mind-gift, and it seemed possible that you would inherit that quality, also.” She smiled. “You are very skilled at illusion, daughter. Did the Recorders teach you that?”

“No,” Tarani said, and the skin of her cheeks seemed to shrink in on the bone structure.

She’s trying to decide whether to tell Zefra about Molik
, I realized.
Surely Zefra, of all people, would understand her drive and determination to get what she wanted—at any cost. But Tarani’s still not comfortable with the memory.

Even as those thoughts were flashing through my mind, Tarani had made her decision, and was speaking. “I worked for a while as a seamstress,” she lied, “and when I had enough money, I organized an entertainment troupe.”

She continued the story from there, and managed to tell it without mentioning Molik or his assassins. She dwelled mostly on the acts in the show, including her own. Once Zefra turned to me—the first time she addressed me directly—and asked me if I had seen the show. Tarani busied herself with her sewing, and I knew she was remembering that her performance had been a diversion, so that Molik’s assassins would have a chance to kill me.

Is she afraid I’ll tell the truth?
I wondered, feeling a little hurt at her lack of trust.
Well, I will.

“I have seen Tarani dance, Zefra,” I answered. “There is nothing in this world more lovely.”

“And how did you meet my daughter, Rikardon? Why are you helping her in her quest for revenge against Gharlas?”

“It is my quest, too,” I said, then hesitated, searching for a plausible reason for my involvement.

But Zefra smiled and nodded, reached out to press my hand with her own for a moment. “You needn’t try to hide the obvious, Rikardon. I have seen the love you share. Remember that I have known that kind of love, as well. I’m very glad that Tarani is not alone.”

I didn’t dare look at Tarani, and I noticed that she was quick to change the subject.