Avar, leaning against the door, rubbed his face. “Would someone care to tell us why we’re here now? Certainly there are better times for theatrics than the wee hours of the morning.”
“The Path is preparing a move to preempt me from taking control of the young men from them,” said Tier. “Myrceria told me that they are intending to have a Disciplining—a particularly brutal method they employ to keep their secrets. One of the boys is singled out and punished by everyone. I gather that the boy who is punished sometimes doesn’t survive. I think that they’ll choose Collarn—but they might take Toarsen or Kissel as they are the three who are my closest associates.”
Phoran humpfed, then said, “I can warn Collarn on my way back to bed without anyone being the wiser. But we ought to finish the introductions before we attend to business further. Do be a credit to your parents’ instructions in manners and introduce us to your family, Tier.”
Tier bowed and grinned sheepishly. “This is my wife Seraph, Raven of the Clan of Isolda the Silent. My son Jesaphi, whom we call Jes, Guardian. My younger son Lehr, Hunter. Seraph, Jes, Lehr, may I introduce you to Phoran the Twenty-Seventh.”
Over the polite murmurs and shuffles, Toarsen said, “Twenty-Sixth.”
Phoran grinned. “Only if you don’t count the first one. I always do, since without him there wouldn’t have been an Empire, whatever his son Phoran the First or Second said.”
Toarsen smiled reluctantly. No wonder her husband liked this boy who happened to be emperor, thought Seraph. They were very much alike.
“I had intended to warn Collarn,” said Tier, returning to the matter at hand. “But my wife pointed out that this Disciplining is the best chance we’ll have of clearing the whole lot. Everyone is supposed to attend them. They’ll be expecting some resistance from the Passerines—too many of them have begun to look at the things the Path wants of them—but they won’t be expecting an outside attack.”
“When will it be?” asked Phoran.
“Sometime in the next few days,” replied Tier.
Phoran shook his head. “There are two hundred of them—and five wizards, and the Sept of Gerant and his men aren’t here yet. I have—”
“I have twenty men here,” said Avar, “who are my men, not my father’s.”
“And my wife tells me that she can bring another fifty or so—light foot, armed mostly with knives with a few swords,” said Tier. “Travelers.”
Suspiciously, Avar asked, “Why would you Travelers be interested in this?”
“Because our people are dying out,” Seraph said. “For as long as I remember the Septs have been trying to destroy them. If my friends help you, Phoran—would you be willing to return the favor?”
Phoran nodded his head slowly. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t have the power that an emperor should, and championing the Travelers is not going to help. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Will that be good enough?” asked Avar.
Seraph smiled. “The Path have been killing Travelers for centuries. We just didn’t know about them until now—if Phoran would not invite us in to help him, we would go after them on our own. But it’s much safer to invade the palace under imperial command.”
“Myrceria will try and find out when this Disciplining will take place,” continued Tier.
“I’ll know sooner,” said Toarsen. “Myrceria will have to wait until someone tells her about it—me they have to send for. With your permission”—he glanced from Tier to Phoran as if he didn’t really know whose permission he needed—“I’ll let Kissel know, too, in case it’s me they’ve decided to use as an example.”
“How much lead time do you need to bring in the Travelers?” asked Phoran, and they all began planning.
Seraph settled back and gave them information as they asked for it. Clearly the Emperor, Avar, and Tier were having the time of their lives, and the younger men were almost as bad—except for Jes, who seemed content to stay in the background.
It amused Seraph to see that the Emperor, the Sept of Leheigh, and his younger brother all ceded the leadership to Tier, though they all outranked him—and he had them hanging on his every word.
CHAPTER 16
The next morning Tier was bone-tired, but more peace- ful than he’d been for a long time. Seraph was here. Well, not here. She’d gone off to play diplomat among the Travelers, which was pretty strange—the only person that he knew less suited to diplomacy was Alinath.
“Keep your guard centered,” he told one of his Passerines. “Remember this isn’t about first blood, it’s about who lives and who dies. Make sure you’re one of the former and not the latter.”
He paced behind his troops, watching foot positions, when a servant caught hold of his sleeve.
“Telleridge requests a moment of your time.”
“Toarsen,” called Tier. “Kissel. Run the drills for me. If I’m not back, break when every man’s shirt is wet through.”
Toarsen stepped out of the line and made a quick mocking salute as he did. He didn’t look nearly as tired as Tier felt, and he’d had no more sleep. It made Tier feel old.
The servant took Tier to one of the smaller rooms that served as the Raptors’ meeting halls and opened the door for Tier’s entrance. The room had been partially screened off with a delicately carved wooden panel. Four black-robed figures sat in gold upholstered chairs ringed in front of a cheerful fire, two empty chairs in the center. Telleridge, also in his robes, stood in front of the fire.
Telleridge looked up when Tier entered, though the others kept their eyes on the fireplace.
“Ah, thank you for attending me. Baskins, you may leave.”
The servant shut the door, leaving Tier alone with the Path’s wizards.
“Come have a seat, Bard,” Telleridge said in an unreadable tone.
Warily, Tier sat on the edge of one of the empty chairs as the Master took the other. He had the odd impression that Telleridge’s calm was just a thin film spread over turbulent waters.
“You have cost us much, my friend,” Telleridge said. “Whatever possessed you to try and take the Passerines from us? Did you think that we would allow it?”
“You aren’t doing anything with them,” replied Tier. “There are a number of fine young men amongst the Passerines—and a few who are a waste of shoe leather.”
“They are useful to us.” said Telleridge, sounding distantly amused. Tier took note of the effect, planning to save it for some time when he wanted to be obnoxiously patronizing. “Just as they were. We’ve called a Disciplining, which will return control to us, but I fear that very few of these Passerines will make it to Raptor now. I was particularly upset when you took the Sept of Leheigh’s young brother. I had great hopes for him. And it’s too bad about the young musician, Collarn—we shall miss having music in these halls when you both are gone.”
“I see,” said Tier, deciding to let the Master direct the conversation into the gently ironic tones he seemed to prefer. “I take it that my demise will happen a little sooner than you planned?”
There was a noise from behind the screen, but it was too faint for Tier to identify.
“I’m not any happier about it than you are,” the Master said. Apparently the others had all been told to sit and be silent, because none of them had done anything more exciting than breathe since Tier entered the room. “Owls are few and far between, and this haste will destroy our plans. That makes two failures in as many years. We’ve never had this much trouble controlling a Bard—I assume it’s a Bardic talent you are using to win over the Passerines?”
Tier frowned at him. “How could it be? You’ve told me that you have my Order under control.” He’d used the methods Gerant had taught him instead, because he’d never relied on his Order for much—unlike a Traveler-raised Bard.
“I wonder that none of our other Bards have done such a thing,” said the Master.