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corner room.
"You mean how Porifors's master of horse was stabbed by that Jokonan courtier?
Goram told me of it while we were swabbing down that fat palomino. Odd
fellow I think he's a little simple in the head but he knows his trade." She
added, "Here, Royina, you are limping worse than my second horse.
Sit, rest." She chose a shaded bench at the court's far end, the one where
Cattilara's ladies had collected the previous evening, and with an air of
determined heedfulness settled Ista upon it.
After a moment of silence, she gave Ista a sidelong look. "Funny old man,
Goram. He wanted to know if a royina outranked a princess. Because a princess
was the daughter of a prince, but you were only the daughter of a provincar.
And that Roya Orico's widow Sara was a dowager royina more recent than you. I
said a Chalionese provincar was worth any Roknari prince, and besides, you
were the mother of the royina of all Chalion-Ibra herself, and nobody else is
that."
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Ista forced herself to smile. "Royinas do not often come in his way, I expect.
Did your answers pacify him?"
Liss shrugged. "Seemed to." Her frown deepened. "Isn't it a strange thing, for
a man to lie stunned like that, for months?"
It was Ista's turn to shrug. "Palsy-strokes, broken heads, broken necks . . .
drownings ... it happens that way, sometimes."
"Some recover though, don't they?"
"I think those that recover start to do so ... sooner. Most struck down that
way do not live long thereafter, unless their care is extraordinary. It's a
slow, ugly death for a man. Or anyone. Better to go swiftly, at the first."
"If Goram cares for Lord Illvin half as well as he cares for his horses,
perhaps that explains it."
Ista became conscious that the runty man himself had emerged from the corner
chamber and hunkered down behind the balustrade, watching them. After a time
he rose, came down the stairs, and crossed the court. As he neared, his steps
shortened, his head drew in like a turtle's, and his hands gripped one
another.
He stopped a little distance off, bent his knees, and ducked his head, first
to Ista, then to Liss, then back to Ista again as if to make sure. His eyes
were the color of unpolished steel. His stare, from under those bushy brows,
was unblinking.
"Aye," he said at last, to a point halfway between the two women. "She's the
one he was going on about, no mistake." He pursed his lips, and his gaze
suddenly fixed on Liss. "Did you ask her?"
Liss smiled crookedly. "Hello, Goram. Well, I was working up to it."
He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking forward and back. "Ask her, then."
Liss cocked her head. "Why don't you? She doesn't bite."
" 'B 'n 't," he mumbled obscurely, glowering at his booted feet. "You."
Liss shrugged amused bafflement and turned to Ista. "Royina, Goram wishes you
to come view his master."
Ista sat back and was silent for a long, withheld breath. "Why?" she finally
asked.
Goram peered up at her, then back down at his feet. "You were the one he was
going on about."
"Surely," said Ista after another moment, "no man would wish to be seen in his
sickbed by strangers."
"That's all right," Goram pronounced. He blinked, and stared hard at her.
Liss, her eyes crinkling, cupped her hand and whispered in Ista's ear, "He was
more talkative in the stalls. I think you frighten him."
Articulate smooth persuasion, Ista thought she might resist. In this odd
tangle, she could hardly find an end. Urgent eyes, tongue of wood, a silent
pressure of expectation . . . She could curse a god. She could not curse a
groom.
She glanced around the court. Neither midnight nor noon, now; no details
matched her dreams. Her dream had held neither Goram nor Liss, the time of day
was all wrong . . . maybe it was safe, benign.
She drew a breath.
"So, then, Liss. Let us renew my pilgrimage party and go view another ruin."
Liss helped her up, her face alert with open curiosity. Ista climbed the
stairs upon her arm, slowly.
Goram watched her anxiously, his lips moving, as if mentally boosting her up
each step.
The women followed the groom to the end of the gallery. He opened the door,
backed up, bowed again. Ista hesitated, then followed Liss inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ROOM WAS LIGHTER THAN SHE'D SEEN IT IN HER VISION, the shutters on the far
wall open now to the blue sky beyond. The effect was airy and gracious. The
chamber didn't smell like a sickroom, no bunches of heavy-scented herbs
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hanging from the rafters failing to mask an underlying tang of feces, vomit,
sweat, or despair. Just cool air, wood wax, and a faint, not unpleasing aroma
of masculine occupation. Not unpleasing at all.
Ista forced her gaze to the bed, and stood rooted.
The bed was made. He rested atop the counterpane not like a man in a sickbed,
but like a man who had lain down for but a moment in the middle of a busy day.
Or like a corpse laid out in best garb for his funeral. Long and lean, exactly
as in her dreams, but dressed very differently: not patient or sleeper, but
courtier. A tan tunic embroidered with twining leaves was fastened up to his
neck. Matching trousers were tucked into polished boots buckled up to his
calves. A maroon vest-cloak spread beneath and beside him, and a sheathed
sword lay upon the neatly arranged folds, its inlaid hilt beneath his slack
left hand. A seal ring gleamed on one finger.
His hair was not merely combed back from his high forehead, but braided in
neat cords up from each temple and over his crown. The dark, frosted length of
it ended in a queue brought back over his right shoulder to rest upon his
chest, the tail of it, beyond the maroon tie, brushed out straight. He was
shaved, and that recently. A scent of lavender water tickled Ista's nostrils.
She became aware that Goram was watching her with a painful intensity, his
hands flexing as they gripped each other.
All this silent beauty must be his work. What must the man on the bed have
been to receive such devotion from this lackey now, when he had so plainly
lost all power to punish or reward? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]