Summerblood (32 page)

“Chief, I apologize,” Tyrill protested, trying again to rise.
“It was unseemly. I, of all people, should keep my pride in check.”

“You have as much to be proud of as anyone in this kingdom,” Mavayn shot back, though she withdrew her hand. “Perhaps if I sat here after you, we might be equally wicked.” For all her age, she grinned at that, showing yellow teeth. What she proposed
was
wicked, too—and preposterous. There was no luck worse than to sit in the Chief's Chair before the appointed time of one's Raising to that title—which would not be until tomorrow's sunrise, after all masks were shed.

“So you're saying we would each owe the other a secret?” Tyrill dared. “I think not. What you do when I leave here is your business, of course. And it would be unseemly for me to try to stop you.”

And somehow, in the midst of that rejoinder, which had commenced so casually, Tyrill's old iron-hard adherence to tradition had returned. She started back down the aisle toward the door, but paused halfway there and turned again. “I will expect a reprimand from you tomorrow,” she said quietly, and departed.

Lynee was looking anxious when Tyrill finally reappeared in the corridor. “You must hurry, Chief,” she said. “You've barely enough time to reach the Citadel before the ball begins.”

“Ah,” Tyrill chuckled grimly. “But wouldn't that be appropriate, too?”

Yet two fingers later, she and Lynee had climbed into the transport they had chosen for the evening: the poorest coach they could find in Argen's stables, pulled by the poorest horses. Indeed, had Tyrill not been so infirm, they properly should have walked, but she'd drawn the line at that. Still, they wore motley, as everyone was supposed to do, with no clan insignia anywhere about. And their masks were the standard issue everyone began the evening wearing across their eyes and noses, adding decorations as impulse directed, from piles of feathers, glass gems, furs, and other baubles set up at intervals around the city.

The sun had just vanished below the edge of the gorge, so it appeared, which was the signal for the bonfires to be lit— which they were, in front of every Hall and Hold from the Citadel all the way down to Farewell Island. In spite of herself, Tyrill felt a thrill as the nearest flame flared up, followed at once by the first of the revelers jumping through it, which was supposed to ensure luck.

The River Walk was already thick with people flooding out of the Halls and Holds, as well as from the bridges to South Bank, where most of the lower clans lived and had their businesses. Not that anyone could distinguish High from low now, save perhaps by height or build, since few High Clan men or women were notably thin, stout, tall, or short. True to form, many sported straw daggers and paper shields, and more than one mock combat was already taking place, to the enthusiastic cheers of those less inclined to play the fool.

Before Tyrill knew it, they'd reached the largest fire of all: the one that blazed before the open gates of the Court of Rites. She'd have to traverse the last part of the way on foot, however, so she ordered the coach to stop and let Lynee help her down. With that, she dismissed the coachman, who was clearly eager to begin his own revelry. Nor did it matter, really. The Eight knew there were quarters aplenty she could claim in the Citadel. Squaring her shoulders, but giving Lynee her arm, she made her way through the open gates of the most important public space in all Eron.

A makeshift parody of a palace had been erected there, three stories high, not including the towers, and wrought of every kind of discarded item one could imagine. Once the basic structure had been constructed by apprentices from Wood, anyone else in Eron had been allowed to contribute what he would to that most fanciful of buildings. True to form, however, the front was left open so that everyone could view the Chief of Masks, who even now held court from a hay bale throne.

A table stretched before him, covered with food donated by
anyone who wished, with ale from the royal stores by Avall's command. Many were drunk already, and so much noise roared within the place that Tyrill could barely hear. She was supposed to make her way to the Chief of Masks, present herself, remove her own mask, so that all could see that order was indeed being passed, then retreat into obscurity once more.

She was late, however, and knew it. Worse, everyone else seemed to know it, and the Chief of Masks, in particular, was clearly irked by her tardiness.

It would still take a while to make her way to the dais, too. But since chaos was supposed to rule tonight, perhaps it would be fitting to follow another plan.

“Chief!” she called from where she stood, rising on tiptoes, then pausing to seize a horn from a passing reveler. Scowling all the while, she set it to her lips and blew.

At first she was ignored, but Lynee had a particularly loud voice for a young lady, and soon made her shouts of “Heed! Heed!” heard above the din.

The Chief of Masks stood abruptly, looking her way, taking a moment to find them.

To Tyrill's chagrin, two young men promptly hoisted her up on their shoulders. Half-breathless, she nevertheless managed to rip off her mask, so that all could see that it was indeed she who addressed them. “The Steward has arrived!” she shouted through rising fury. “The Steward gives the court to the Chief of Masks. Let his reign begin!”

“Until sunrise,” the Chief promptly shouted back. “Let the
revelry
begin!”

An explosion of shouts echoed around the court, punctuated by much banging of straw knives against paper shields, which produced a sort of raspy rattle.

More than one person stabbed his fellow, precipitating more mock battles, for such feigned combats were much the order of the day. Thus, Tyrill was not in the least alarmed when, just outside the gates, the young men set her down, laughed—and stabbed her.

Only when she felt cold steel slide along her side did she realize that one of the stray daggers had merely been a mask for a far more lethal one. Nor, as she sank to her knees, did she realize that all across the Court of Rites, High Clan men and women who had been carefully identified by certain people who made it their business to know such things, were likewise feasting on steel and death that night.

But she
was
aware, as the ground rose up to hit her, of Lynee flinging herself atop her, whispering, “Lie still, Lady, if you be not dead already. Safety lies in shadows”—followed by outraged wailing.

And Tyrill, once a careful assessment had determined that she'd only received a flesh wound, was willing to go along with that. After all, if she were lucky, no one would bother killing someone who was presumably dead already.

Meenon syn Nyvvon, Craft-Chief of Glass, poured himself a mug of dark wine and ambled toward the hot pool in Nyvvon-Hall's baths. He wore a loose robe of Nyvvon green that floated around legs still strong with youth—unlike that flapping against his Clan-Chief's spindly shanks before him. Their other two companions, Sallaro of Weaving and his Chief, Ganall syn Vrine, who was also bond-brother to Nyvvon's Chief, were waiting for them already, sitting naked in the pool while vapors rose up around them to soothe flesh grown stiff with age—though at that, the two elders looked little different than they had twenty years before. Meenon sighed as he approached. This was ritual on a day when rituals were supposed to be denied. Yet the four Chiefs had been meeting like this, once every eight-day, since the two Clan-Chiefs were boys. The only change was who bore the Craft-Chief's title—for either clan. And even that had not changed for the five seasons since Sallaro had succeeded Lady Orzheen.

He supposed he could endure. These sessions didn't actually take very long, if one controlled the conversation with
care. And the ale, which Weaving provided, was always different, but always good.

So it was that Meenon's thoughts were on nothing in particular as he discarded his robe on the bench provided and eased his tired body into the steaming water. The others welcomed him with toasts. Small talk followed. Before long, Meenon was sufficiently relaxed that he'd lost any desire for haste. Oh, he'd have to make an appearance at the revels eventually, but that could wait. In the meantime—well, in the meantime more wine would be nice. And scented oil.

As if the lad had read his mind, a hall page appeared. He wore a half mask—obviously he was on his way to some revel and was sparing them one last consideration on a night when he owed them none. Meenon didn't recognize the face below the mask and motley, then again, there was no particular reason he should. The lad carried an ale pitcher; that was the important thing. And was grinning as he approached.

Meenon raised his cup to receive what the lad was about to offer, but to his surprise, the boy upended the jar atop him, then swirled it around, to splatter them all with what was certainly
not
ale.

“A poor joke that, lad,” Sallaro protested. But by then Meenon had identified the scent of what covered his head and torso and lay as a skim across the water. Fire oil, so named because it was so easily ignited and so difficult to extinguish.

“What … ?” he shouted in alarm, trying to haul himself out, but finding the edge too slick to grasp. The page kicked him with a booted foot, revealing a sole studded with short spikes. And then ran, pausing only to toss the torch by the entrance into the bathing pool, and close the door.

Meenon didn't hear the bolt click home because his ears were burning.

“To your health!” cried Lady Vroo san Criff, Chief of the clan that ruled Clay. “Chaos may rule without, but indulge me in
order a little longer.” She paused with her mug still raised, surveying the other ten faces ranged around the table. They wore motley already, but their masks lay piled on a chest by the door. Both sexes were represented, and their ages ranged from twenty-three to eighty-seven. They were the subchiefs of her craft, with a few sub-subchiefs thrown in.

“How much longer?” someone called cheerfully.

“Long enough,” Vroo called back. “Assain, how is it that you're always so eager to begin the breaking?” she continued, referring to the fact that, while on Mask Day her clan donated a year's worth of failed efforts at their craft to the Chief of Masks' banquet, they always kept a supply of imperfect crockery to break themselves.

“Because that's how she covers her mistakes,” Kynall shot back, with a raucous laugh.

“More wine, I say,” Intaro added, lifting a mug himself, then draining it, and flinging the empty vessel to the floor.

“And more cups!” someone appended, following his example. Whereupon chaos ensued in truth, with every drinking vessel in sight—including some that were properly too fine to suffer the fate that met them—summarily drained and broken.

“Wine!” Vroo called again, lifting her own fine vessel, then casting it to the floor. “Bring us the best, and then be about your play. We will drink one final toast, then see how the rest of the city fares.”

The hall page did his best to obey the order, filling ten fresh cups in succession, while another page distributed them.

Clan Criff started to drink as one, but Vroo paused with the cup at her lips. “Perhaps it is best that the page propose this toast, since this is the day when all rules are inverted.”

The page hesitated, clearly embarrassed, but another page entered just then, this one masked and obviously drunk already. Not that it mattered, as he gamely raised his cup on high. “Lady, I hope you enjoy that vintage, which was sent to you by my master, and now let us drink a toast!”

“A toast,” they cried in unison.

“To life!” cried the visiting stranger.

“To life!” came the responding chorus.

And the drinking, all in one long draught.

“And to Death,” the stranger added, and swept away.

“To Death,” someone echoed, then broke off. Vroo started to reprimand her, then paused herself. Blackness swam before her eyes, and she had only time to gasp out one word before death seized her in truth. And that one word was
poison
.

The last thing she saw was the hall page's anguished face as he screamed, “Oh Eight, no!” then pounded in raw panic out the door.

The last things she heard were the sounds of her kinsmen, one by one, expiring.

“Lady, oh, Lady!” came Lynee's urgent whisper. “You have to stand up now, you
have
to! They've gone, but they may come back. We can't let them find you.”

“Let
who
find me?” Tyrill huffed, as, with Lynee's help, she found her feet, though she didn't shy away from that helpful arm beneath her shoulder. She gasped when she came upright, as the wound in her side reminded her of why she was lying on the ground to start with.

“Them! I don't know who, Lady, but it's chaos out here. I … I don't think you were the only one, but they may come back. You have to be gone by then.”

“Where?”

“I don't know, Lady, but … but this seems planned. It had to be.”

Tyrill's heart double-beat, and not from fear for herself. “Eight, you may be right! What better time than when the King is away to stage a coup? But who, and how far—?”

“Priest-Clan, I would say,” Lynee grunted, as she continued to haul Tyrill along—south, she noted absently. “Or that group within them that's seized Gem.”

“It would make sense,” Tyrill agreed. “But if I was a target, there have to have been others.”

“You think?”

“It makes sense.”

Tyrill stood as straight as her old bones and bad joints would allow. “I'm hurt; I won't lie about that, but I can manage. Right now, we have to learn two things: How far does this coup extend, and is there anyone around to stop it?”

“Lady …”

Lynee didn't get to finish, for the first question was already being answered. A reveler had rushed up to them, stone sober, but wild-eyed behind his mask. “Ladies, you should—it's terrible. You have to get away from here!”

“What?” Tyrill demanded.

“They've killed the Chiefs of Glass, Clay, and Weaving. And more, I fear. Forget masks, see to your skins!”

“Lady?” the squire asked again.

“He's right,” Tyrill said firmly. “We have to get out of here. With all the confusion tonight, there's no telling who's alive or dead. But there's no way we can regain control of Tir-Eron quickly, and maybe no one to control it if we did. They won't listen to me without the Guard, and the Guard are all off with Avall, save my honor guard, to whom I foolishly gave the night off—and I'll bet they've all been assassinated. Anything I do, I'll have to do outside what's now passing for order. Priest-Clan have won—for now. Beyond that—we need to know how far this extends, and then we need to escape.”