The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (17 page)

Antybion looked back at her from out of his dark green eyes. To Riathona's surprise he didn't seem intimidated by his surroundings,

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though in his eyes they must seem opulent in comparison to all he had

known before. Strangely enough his direct stare wasn't in the least insolent. Just open and waiting for whatever would be coming. His attitude neither defiant, nor cowering. She would have preferred either.

“Let the servant bring you to the kitchens. You'll be given something to eat and drink,” she said to the old man. “I want to talk with the boy in private.”

“First, let me thank you for receiving us and even considering this,”

Antybion said in a clear voice, as soon as they were alone. “It must be such an imposition. How may I address you? Mistress?”

Riathona was taken aback. She hadn't even given it a thought how she wished the young man to call her. Mistress wouldn't do. That was for the slaves and the servants, and a Riatho, even one of obscure descent, wasn't a servant, much less a slave.

“You can call me Aunt, I suppose,” she said after some thinking.

“I'm not of course, but maybe it's better all around that people think you're my nephew, a few times removed.”

“He's indeed polite, just as his grandfather said he was,”
Riathona thought. Then it struck her that by giving him permission to call her Aunt, she as good as had made the decision to let him stay. How had that happened? No, he hadn't in any way tried to worm his way into her house or her affections, she had to admit. He had just asked a proper, civil question.

Then Antybion gave her a way out, and closed it again in almost the same breath.

“Should you decide to let me stay, Aunt,” the young man said, “I want you to know that I don't expect you to take care of me for nothing. I am young, but I am stronger than I look. Whatever you need to be done around here, I'll gladly do. I don't mind working with the servants to earn my living. Or, if need be, you can send me to work as a

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hired hand somewhere, to pay for my food and lodgings. There is work

to be had here, isn't there? There wasn't in Marovi.”

Riathona was positively shocked now. A Riatho working as a hired hand? Never. Certainly not with all the plans she had for her son and his father. It would only be used against her. But on the other hand, the boy showed a good spirit. He clearly wasn't afraid, or too proud, to earn his keep. That made it all the more difficult to deny him. What if she did, and he went out to look for work on his own? With his win— ning smile and open face he would get all kind of offers, some less than honorable. As for letting him work with her own servants, that was out of the question as well. Too much familiarity between a member — a distant member, she reminded herself — of the kinship and the servants. No, there was a chasm between the social classes and for good reasons too. There seemed to be nothing else for it than to admit this Antybion into the kinship.

She was just about to tell the boy that she was letting him stay, and that she would inform him of his duties at a later time, when, without knocking, her son entered the room.

“Is this him?” he asked without further ado.

“Yorn, sweetheart, I would so much prefer it if you would knock before entering. And yes, this is Antybion. He's sort of your cousin, several times removed.”

“Welcome, cousin,” Yorn said gravely. “He's staying, isn't he?” he added, looking at his mother.

“Well,” Riathona said, “I was just about—”

“Good,” Yorn cut her short.

The boys mustered each other.

Yorn had very dark brown, abundant hair, kept medium short, but not short enough to prevent silken locks of it covering all of his

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forehead. His almost black eyes looked cautiously into the world from

under them. There was a permanent half smile on his lips, which somehow gave him a sad look, as if he wanted to make excuses for taking up so much space. In fact, he looked like a resigned puppy that craved being petted but was afraid to importune anyone. At the same time he carried himself with an innate, patient dignity. Whatever he had in self-assurance came from knowing and accepting who and what he was, his insecurity from some vague suspicion that it would never be enough. His whole demeanor seemed to proclaim, “I'm sorry, but this is all there is.”

He looked at the guy before him and instantly liked what he saw.

Antybion stood, his legs a bit apart, firmly planted, almost rooted, looking at him with open eyes. He didn't hide, and neither did he try to hide that he was examining his cousin. His eyes were penetrating, but in an inquisitive, accepting, non-threatening way. He wasn't embarrassed for wearing his simple, actually shabby, but clean tunic, while everybody around him was clad in the finest clothes money could buy.

It was as if he was saying, “I make no apologies. This is it and it will have to do.”

“How shall I address you, cousin?” Antybion asked.

“What? Oh… Yorn. My name is Yorn. Yours is Antybion, isn't it?”

Yorn replied.

He looked at his mother as if for approval, but Riathona only shrugged.

“Aren't you hungry?” Yorn asked.

“Hungry? I could eat a whole cow, straight from the meadow.”

Yorn smiled thinly, as if it hurt a bit.

“I'm sorry, but I don't think we have a whole cow right now in the kitchens. And what we have is cooked, I'm afraid.”

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“I'm not picky,” Antybion laughed. “Whatever you can spare is

good enough for me.”

“Mum, I'm taking him to the kitchens. He's hungry,” Yorn said, as if Riathona hadn't heard a thing of what they had just said.

“Sweetie, I wasn't finished yet and—”

“Surely it can wait,” Yorn said. “First let him eat and drink. Then I'll help him move in. The room next to mine is free.”

“Oh, darling, you know that is the guest room. I'm afraid that would not—”

“The guest room? Mum, we have three of them and I can't remember the last time we had a guest.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Where else would you have him stay?”

“Whatever your mother decides is appropriate will do,” Antybion intervened.

“No, it won't. If it were up to her, she would have you stay in the shed in the back of the garden.”

“Yorn, sweetheart, I would never—”

“You agree then? Good. We'll have the servants unload his baggage and bring it up to his room.”

Antybion laughed.

“I think I can manage my bag on my own,” he said.

“Bag? One bag? That's all?” Yorn asked, unbelievingly.

“You don't need more than one bag if all you have to take with you is your only other tunic and a few small personal belongings.” Antybion shrugged.

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Yorn colored red.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn't. You weren't to know. But maybe you'd like to reconsider your offer. I don't mind sleeping with the servants. I'm sure it won't make much of a difference with what I'm used to anyway.”

“No,” mother and son said at almost the same time.

They looked at each other.

”No,” Riathona said, sighing, “no matter how far removed, you are one of the kinship. You can have the room next to Yorn's, since he seems to insist upon it.”

“That's settled then,” Yorn smiled. ”Let's go and have something to eat.”

He grabbed Antybion by the wrist and pulled him with him out of the room.

When the boys had gone Riathona frowned. This had not gone completely as anticipated. What had she expected, exactly? Upon reflection she realized she had thought that those distant relatives would turn out to be nothing more than parasitic, half-wild animals and that the boy would need to be kept in check for fear that he would shame the kinship. It seemed some minor adjustments would suffice. Tone down the ebullience somewhat, maybe.

All in all it seemed he would make a fine companion for Yorn. He could never pose a threat to what she already took for granted to be Yorn's position in society. On the contrary, with any luck he could prove to be a valuable asset for her son. He was a bit too outgoing, but Riathona liked his unassuming self-confidence, and he hadn't lied when he said he was stronger than he looked at first sight. Moreover,

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the boys seemed to like each other. Provided that endured, Antybion

could become very useful to Yorn. A trusted lieutenant even. Perhaps.

Thanks to Yorn she hadn't even had the chance to inquire if the boy could read and write, or if he had any ancient Baltoc.

Yorn. Yorn had smiled. At least twice, which was somewhat of a record. Riathona smiled herself.

Oh yes, Antybion could stay.

Quastell Meri Noridann had his Rhonoman residence upon the plateau of the Parryrhona, the highest hill of Rhonoma, as was fitting for a member of one of the oldest noble kinships of the City. On the outside his house was totally unadorned, almost drab. It looked austere and forbidding with its strong oaken door behind an iron grille, and no windows at all that looked out onto the street. The entrance hall was bare, and here and there paint flaked from the walls. Only when you were permitted to enter the house proper did it reveal its sumptuousness and luxuriance. There was nothing shy or restrained about its demonstrative wealth and here the paint wouldn't have dared flake.

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“Your father is a moron,” the senator said to a young man of about

twenty-five, seated on a sofa across from him. “I blame your grandmother. Something about the blood in her kinship is not right, and once in a while a dullard is born. Your father being the latest in a long row. Not my fault. Your great-grandfather, my father, arranged the marriage and it was very beneficial at the time, bringing many useful political alliances to the kinship. It's like with vineyards. Sometimes the grapes stay bitter, the next season they're sweet. That's the only explanation I can give that my doltish son ever managed to produce you.

That and the noble blood of his wife, your mother.”

The young man smiled indulgently. It was clearly not the first time he had heard this diatribe.

Quastell retrieved a flat round silver container from a hidden pocket of his lounging robe and unscrewed it. With two long, bony fingers he took a pinch of the grayish white powder it contained and sprinkled it into his wine. He drank deeply from his golden cup, smacked his lips and grimaced.

“Does it help?” Dronykas asked.

Quastell held up his hand.

“It doesn't cure me, but it eases the pain,” he said when the burning in his throat had abated sufficiently to make speaking possible again.

“I'm sorry,” the young man answered.

“Why? It's out of your control as it is out of mine. I just hope the Gods let me live long enough to set our work underway. But it is a constant reminder that our time together is running out, my dear boy. The only thing we can do is try to set Rhonoma back on the right track. Not an easy endeavor when even senators of ancient kinships conduct themselves as breeders.”

He coughed.

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“Really, Gramps, should you call the common people breeders?”

“Should you really call your grandfather gramps?” the old man retorted, but it was clear he meant it in a jocular way.

“You're right, of course, oh Grandsire.”

“Don't overdo it, Dronykas,” Quastell chuckled. “Now, I've told you what we know and I've told you what we suspect. Your analysis?”

Dronykas slipped his feet out of his sandals and put them on the sofa, hugging his knees, upon which he rested his chin. Usually his face had two main expressions, one rascally and mischievous, the other serious and forbidding. Now he showed a third. Only a few people ever saw the one of grave absorption in thought. The other two were only disguises, masks, meant for wearing in public. Dronykas preferred it that people underestimate him.

“Begin with your main, general conclusion,” Quastell prodded him on. “In one word.”

“Opportunity,” Dronykas said.

“Excellent. Why?”

“Whatever happens, war is unavoidable.”

“Is it? What if Ximerion wins the war with Lorsanthia?” the senator asked.

“Very, very improbable. Look at the size of Lorsanthia. Look at its resources. To put a definitive end to the threat Ximerion would have to conquer and occupy Lorsanthia right out. It can never do that. It hasn't the manpower. All the more so, now that it is further weakened by the loss of its northern dominions.”

“Nothing is impossible, but in all likelihood the most Ximerion can hope for is a draw. Just keeping the behemoth on the right side of its borders will take up all the kingdom's forces.”

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“What about inner dissension?” the young man asked. “I mean, in

Lorsanthia.”

“Most improbable. We call Vartoligor the king of Lorsanthia because we have no word for his title in Standard Palton or Ancient Baltoc. I have it on good authority that it translates something like ‘living God’ or ‘God amongst us’ or some such nonsense.”

“A very hierarchic regime, it seems.”

“Make no mistake, Dronykas. Ours is the only government of free people. Not counting the breeders, the rabble, but that goes without saying. Only in the independent city states does true freedom exist.

For some and to some extent. Our system is not perfect, though. Can you see the main drawback?”