“I suppose it makes sense. But why did we put the Tollys and Durstin Crowel and the other troublemakers all so close together?”
“Because Crowel requested it some time back, Highness,” said Nynor. “At the end of the summer he told me he would be hosting an entertainment with the Tollys during the Orphan’s Day celebrations. I thought at the time he simply meant Duke Gailon and his entourage.”
Briony frowned. “Does that mean they were planning something even then?”
Avin Brone grunted. “I don’t trust the Tollys, but let us not pretend they’re the worst of our problems.”
Old Nynor shook his head. “It is possible they had some scheme, Highness, but it is also possible that all they were planning was a banquet. And, speaking of which, Princess, we must make some arrangements about the feasting.”
For a moment she didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Feasting? Do you mean for Orphan’s Day? Are you mad? We are at war!”
“All the more reason “ Steffans Nynor could be stubborn, and had not been castellan so many years without developing ideas of his own. Briony was irritated and tempted simply to say no and dismiss him, but thought of what her father would say—something like, If you are going to give men tasks to do, then once they have proved themselves, you should let them get on without you standing over them There is no point giving responsibility without trust.
“Why, then, do you think we should do this?"
“Because these are holy days in which we praise the gods and demigods, and we need their help now more than ever. That is one reason.”
“Yes, but we can perform the sacrifices and the rituals without the feasting and merrymaking.”
“Why else do people need merrymaking, Highness, if not to take some of the thorns out of life?" The old man rapidly blinked his watery eyes, but his gaze was sharp and demanding. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Princess Briony, but it seems that what a city under siege most needs is courage. Also to be reminded what it is fighting to protect. A little happiness, a little ordinary life, is a powerful aid to both those things.”
She saw the wisdom in what he said, but a part of her couldn’t help feeling it would be a sham, that falsity was worse than misery.
Avin Brone seemed able to hear those thoughts as if they had been spoken. “People will not forget the true dangers, Highness. I think Nynor is right. A muted festivity perhaps—we do not want to seem to be celebrating too grandly in the shadow of war, and most especially in the shadow of Gailon’s murder—and your brother’s death, too, of course—but neither do we want to make this winter any more dreary than necessity dictates.”
“Very well, a quiet celebration it will be.”
Nynor nodded, then bowed and withdrew. He looked pleased, almost grateful, and for an unpleasant moment Briony wondered if the castellan had some other agenda, if he had manipulated her for some secret, selfish purpose.
And so it goes, she thought. I cannot do even the simplest thing without doubt anymore, without fear, without suspicion. How could Father live this way all those years? It must have been a little better in more peaceful days, but still…
Curse these times.
Before they reached the populous areas, Beetledown announced that he was taking his leave. He dismissed Chert’s worried questions. “I’ll find my way, sure. Naught else, these caves seem full of slow, stupid rat-folk. I’ll go home mounted proud, tha will see.”
He was too tired to do more than thank the Rooftopper again. After all they had shared, it was a hasty and strangely muted parting, but Chert didn’t have long to consider it.
In the midst of such strange times their little procession was not the oddest thing the people of Funderling Town had heard of, but it was certainly one of the odder things they had actually seen: by the time Chert reached his house with Flint and the acolyte he was surrounded by a ragtag parade of children and more than a few adults. He did his best to ignore their questions and fondly mocking comments. He had no idea what time it was, or even what day. The young temple brother Antimony at the front end of the litter told him it was Skyday, fourth chime. Chert was astonished to realize that he had been almost three days in the lower depths.
Poor Opal! She must be cracked with worry.
The news had run ahead on child feet; a crowd of neighbors waited at the mouth of Wedge Road to join the throng. The tale had reached his own house as welclass="underline" Opal ran out before he had even reached the dooryard, her face a confusion of joy and terror.
He tried not to be upset that the first thing she did was throw her arms around the senseless boy, even though it nearly upset the litter. He was even wearier than he had realized, and could only struggle to hold his end up and shake his head in silent dismissal of his neighbors’ questions. Burly Antimony helped clear a path to the door.
“He isn’t dead,” Opal said, kneeling beside the boy. “Tell me that he isn’t dead.” “He’s alive, just… sleeping.”
“Praise the Elders—but he’s so cold!”
“He needs your nursing, dear wife.” Chert slumped onto a bench.
She paused, then suddenly rushed to him and put her arms around his neck, kissed his cheeks. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re not dead either, you old fool. Disappearing for days! I’ve been fretting over you, too, you know.”
“I’ve been fretting over me as well, my girl. Go on, now. I’ll tell you all this strange story later.” Antimony helped Opal move the boy to his bed, then turned down her distracted offer of food or drink and went out instead to placate the waiting crowd with some unspecific answers. Chert suspected the acolyte didn’t find this too dreadful a chore. From what he knew, the temple brothers, especially the younger ones, didn’t get much chance to come up to Funderling Town the market trips and other such opportunities for distraction and temptation were reserved for the older, more trustworthy brothers.
He could hear Opal in the bedroom, crooning over the boy as she took off his dirty rags, cleaning him and checking for injuries just as the Metamorphic Brothers had done. Chert didn’t think fresh smallclothes would be the thing that woke the boy, but he knew very well his wife needed to do something.
Chert looked up at a rustling noise, aware for the first time that he was not alone in the room. A very young woman, one of the big folk, sat on their long bench in the shadows against the wall, staring back at him with an air of patient detachment. Her dark hair was gathered untidily and she wore a dress that did not quite fit her thin frame. Chert had never seen her before, could thmk of no reason on or under the earth why someone like her should be in his house, even on a day of such bizarre branchings and cross-tunnels.
“Who are you?”
Opal came out of the back room with a look close to embarrassment on her face. “I forgot to tell you, what with the boy and all. She came about the second chime or so and she’s been waiting ever since. Said she must speak to you, only to you. I… I thought it might be something to do with Flint…”
The young woman stirred on the bench. She seemed almost half-asleep. “You are Chert of the Blue Quartz?” “Yes. Who are you?”
“My name is Willow, but I am nothing.” She stood up; her head almost touched the ceiling. She extended a hand. “Come. I have been sent to bring you to my master.”
35. The Silken Cord
THE CRABS:
All are dancing
The moon is crouching low for fear
He will see the naked Mother of All