Phoran laughed. “If anyone should have hope that reformation is possible, it should be me. Get me a list of names and I’ll come up with something.”
“Military would work for most of them,” said Tier. “Bloodless dueling seems to be a pastime around here—and there are a number of fine swordsmen in the bunch.”
Phoran shook his head. “I don’t know where I’d put them. The city guards are political appointments through the merchant guilds. The palace guards are mostly inherited positions—and one of the Raptors is the captain of the guards. Neither troop is one a nobleman would willingly join.”
“You’re a Sept yourself, aren’t you?” asked Tier.
“Yes, Sept of Taela and of Hawkshold—but Hawkshold is a meaningless title. It’s been part of Taela for several hundred years. My lands are cared for by the palace guard, the city guard, and, if those won’t do, I can call upon the Septs to create an imperial army.”
“If the council leader were to countermand one of your orders to the palace guard, who would they obey?” asked Tier.
Phoran didn’t answer, because the answer was obvious.
“Gerant’s men will obey him, and he’ll obey you,” said Tier, his question answered by Phoran’s silence. “But his Sept is in a border area. He cannot stay in Taela for long without risking disaster to his own lands.”
“You’re saying that if I make up a troop of the Passerines they will obey me rather than the Raptors?”
Tier smiled a little grimly. “The Raptors provide the Passerines with drink, sex, and a place to lurk about and pretend to be dangerous. They are sent out periodically to destroy a tavern or rape and pillage or maim. There are sixty of them and I’ve seen five or six already that I wouldn’t want at my back—but there are some good men. If you make them feel like men, not boys, they will follow you to hell and back.”
Phoran was flattered, but he knew what he was. “They won’t follow me, Tier. A drunkard and a stupid fop.”
“You may be right,” agreed Tier readily. “But that’s not who you are, Phoran. It is what you once allowed yourself to become. But you do not smell of alcohol tonight, and there’s not a stupid man alive who ever got the best of the Council of Septs. Be honest with them, Phoran; they know what you have done. Lead and they will follow, my emperor. Just as Gerant and I follow.”
Phoran swallowed hard. “Get me a list of the men you think could work.”
“I’ll do that,” agreed Tier. “Let me have some more time with them first, maybe a couple of weeks. Then I’ll have a better idea who is suitable and who is not.” He hummed a haunting descant to go with the song he played, and then suddenly he smiled. “I have one for you already. There’s a young man named Collarn. Do you know him?”
Phoran shook his head.
“He is a musician, but one with more technical ability than talent. What he is good with are instruments and their care. And the stranger the instrument, the better he likes it.” Tier silenced his strings. “Am I mistaken in assuming that this labyrinth of yours might have a musical instrument or two?”
Phoran laughed and held up a hand. “I’ll find out.”
After a moment, Tier said, “If the Raptors are playing games with the merchant guilds as you think, you might go to them if you need more support. It seems to me that a group who’s being blackmailed, like the Weavers’ Guild is, wouldn’t be unhappy at removing their blackmailer’s ability to hurt them.”
Phoran smiled back, “Likely not.”
He closed his eyes and listened to the music, wondering when he’d ever been this content before. This was the feeling he’d been looking for since his uncle died. He had a larger purpose, if he could hold on to the gains he’d made today. But there was more, too: for the first time in his life he felt like an adult. He smiled to himself—Tier was right, it was a powerful feeling.
CHAPTER 14
Tier staked out a table on the edge of the Eyrie where hecould observe the Passerines. Myrceria sat with him as she usually did, never giving the appearance of being bored. He wondered at her attentions, though he said nothing to her. She was in charge of the running of the Eyrie: the servants, whores, and cooks all looked to her for guidance. From little things the Passerines let drop, she was a great favorite of several of the Raptors and a few of the older Passerines. Even so, none of them approached her while she was with him, and, if he was out of his cell, she was with him.
She was not the only one who attended him, though. Wherever he went there were always a few Passerines who came to gossip and quiz him about his life as a Traveler. Since Tier had never so much as seen a Traveler clan, he told them stories of being a soldier instead—which they seemed perfectly happy with.
All the while he watched them. Sorting the salvageable from the worthless in a process the Sept of Gerant had called “sieving the ferrets.” The Sept would gather all of the new recruits together and start them training with two or three veterans. Then he’d send in a man just to observe—usually Gerant himself, though Tier had done that duty more than once.
At the end of several weeks, the observer would pick out the troublemakers, the cowards, and the men just not physically cut out for warfare and send them on their way with a bit of silver for their trouble.
Tier found that sorting the boys of the Silent Path was a bit more difficult because the Path encouraged just the kind of behavior he was looking to weed out. He’d found five or six that he’d not have in any of his fighting troops, and ten more that he’d have been able to whip into shape eventually—but he was going to turn these boys over to Phoran, not an experienced military leader.
Phoran had good instincts, but he also had some things that would make commanding a group like the one Tier proposed difficult. First of all, he was young. But worse was his reputation. It would make leading the Passerines in anything but drunken debauchery difficult.
Tier had decided that he’d have to do a little training first. He took a judicious sip of his ale. He’d just wait until the next fight broke out—which, if the night ran to form, would be in the next hour or so.
“Came and knocked on our suite this morning,” Collarn was saying with palpable excitement. “My father thought they’d come to arrest me for something stupid I’d done. I thought he’d die of shock when they told him that the Emperor had decided that the Keeper of Music needed help and that the masters at the School of Music had recommended me for the position.”
Tier smiled at him. “So are you going to take the job?”
Collarn grinned back. “And have to slave around after an old man for years, cleaning, tuning, and refinishing instruments? Absolutely. Do you know the kinds of things that are rabbited away in these rooms?” He gave a vague wave around to indicate the palace. “Neither do I. But I’ve already gotten to play instruments that are worth more than all my family’s holdings combined.”
Tier talked with him a bit more, and gradually turned the conversation over to Myrceria. When she had Collarn’s attention fully engaged, Tier excused himself and began meandering through the auditorium because the unmistakable sounds of another fight were starting to rumble from somewhere near the stage.
He spoke casually to a few boys as he passed. By the time he made it to the fight, a crowd had gathered around to call encouragement to the combatants. They parted for Tier willingly enough. Once he had a clear view of the action, Tier folded his arms and watched.
The first boy was Toarsen, who was a hotheaded, bitter young man and, like most of his fellows, spoiled by too much money and nothing to do. But he was smart, which Tier liked, and he wasn’t a coward.