Matty Tinwright screeched. The world spun wildly, it seemed, then he realized it was himself-or rather it wasn't him, it was the world: he was flat on his back and the world wasn't simply spinning, it was whirling like A child's top, and he was about to be sick. He only just swallowed the bile back down.
As he lay with his cheek against the stones and the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he heard Havemore speak again, in irritation. "Look at what you've done, lackwit! It's not Tinwright at all to be executed, this says someone named Wainwright-fellow who strangled a reeve." The poet heard a grunt and a squeak of pain as the castellan struck his page. "Can't you read, idiot child? I wanted the order for 'Tinwright, not 'Wain¬wright'!" Matt Tinwright could hear more rustling of parchment and the whispering of the surrounding courtiers rose again like a flock of bats tak¬ing flight. "Here it is. He's to wait for His Lordship."
"No need-I am here," said a new voice. A pair of black boots trimmed with silver chains stopped beside Tinwright's face where it rested against the floor. "And here is the poet. Still, it seems a strange place to wait."
Tinwright had just enough sense to scramble to his feet. Hendon Tolly watched him rise, the corner of his mouth cocked in a charmless grin, then turned away and moved to his regent's chair, which he dropped himself into with the practiced ease of a cat jumping down off a low wall. "Tinwright, isn't it?"
"Yes, Lord. I was… I was told you wanted to see me."
"I did, yes, but not necessarily in that strange position. What were you doing on the floor?"
"I… I was told I was to be executed."
Hendon Tolly laughed. "Really? And so you fainted, did you? I suppose it would be the kind thing, then, for me to tell you that nothing like that is planned." He was grinning, but his eyes were absolutely cold. "Unless I decide to execute you anyway. The day has been short on amusements."
Oh, merciful gods, Tinwright thought. He plays with me as if I were a mouse. He swallowed, tried to take a breath without bursting into helpless sobs. "Do… do you plan to kill me, then, Lord Guardian?"
Tolly cocked his head. He was dressed in the finery of a Syannese court dandy, with pleated scarlet tunic and black sleeves immensely puffed above the elbow, and his hair was dressed in foppish strands that hung down into his eyes, but Tinwright knew beyond doubt that if the mood took him this
overdressed dandy could murder the poet or anyone else as quickly and eas¬ily as an ordinary man could kick over a chair.
The guardian of Southmarch narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed, but his stare still glinted. "I am told you are… ambitious."
Elan. He does know. "I–I'm not sure… what you mean, Lord."
lolly flicked his fingers as if they were wet. "Don't parse words with me. You know what the word 'ambitious' means. Are you? Do you have eyes above your station, poet?"
"I… I wish to better myself, sir. As do most men."
Tolly leaned forward, smiling as though he had finally found something worth hunting, or trapping, or killing. "Ah, but is that so? I think most men are cattle, poet. I think they hope to be ignored by the wolves, and when one of their fellows is taken they all move closer together and start hoping again. Men of ambition are the wolves-we must feed on the cattle in order to survive, and it makes us cleverer than they. What do you think, Tin¬wright? Is that a, what do you call it, a metaphor? Is it a good metaphor?"
Puzzled, Tinwright almost shook his head in confusion, but realized it might be mistaken as a denial of Hendon Tolly's words. Did the guardian fancy himself a poet? What would that mean for Tinwright? "Yes, Lord, of course, it is a metaphor. A very good one, I daresay."
"Hah." Tolly toyed with the grip of his sword. Other than the royal guardsmen, he was the only one in the room with a visible weapon. Tin¬wright had heard enough stories about his facility with it that he had to struggle not to stare as Tolly caressed the hilt. "I have a commission for you," the guardian of Southmarch said at last. "I heard your song about Caylor and thought it quite good work, so I have decided to put you to honest labor."
"I beg your pardon?" Matt Tinwright could not have listed a group of words he had less expected to hear.
"A commission, fool-unless you think you are too good to take such work. But I hear otherwise." Tolly gave him that blank, contemplative stare again. "In fact, I hear much of your time is spent making up to your betters."
This made Tinwright think uncomfortably about Elan M'Cory again. Was the talk of commission just a ruse? Was Tolly just playing some ab¬stract, cruel game with him before having him killed? Still, he did not dare to behave as anything other than an innocent man. "I would be delighted, Lord. I have never received a greater honor."
His new patron smiled. "Not true. In fact, I hear you were given an im-portant task by a highborn lady. Isn't that true?"
Tinwright knew he must look like a rabbit staring at a swaying serpent. "I don't catch your meaning, my lord."
Tolly settled back in the chair, grinning. "Surely you have not forgotten your poem in praise of our beloved Princess Briony?"
"Oh! Oh, no, sir. No, but… but I confess my heart has not been in it of late…"
"Since her disappearance. Yes, a feeling we all share. Poor Briony. Brave girl!" Tolly did not even bother to feign sorrow. "We all wait for news of her." He leaned forward. Havemore had reappeared beside his chair and was rattling his papers officiously. "Now, listen closely, Tinwright. I find it a good idea to keep a man of your talents occupied, so I wish you to prepare an epic for me, for a special occasion. My brother Caradon is coming and will be here the first day of the Kerneia-Caradon, Duke of Summer-field? You do know the name?"
Tinwright realized he had been staring openmouthed, still not certain he would survive this interview. "Yes, of course, sir. Your older brother. A splendid man…!"
Hendon cut off the paean with a wave of his hand. "I want something special in honor of his visit, and the Tolly family's… stewardship of South-march. You will provide a poem, something in a fitting style. You are to make your verses on the fall of Sveros."
"Sveros, the god of the evening sky?" said Tinwright, amazed. He could not imagine either of the Tolly brothers as lovers of religious poetry.
"What other? I would like the story of his tyrannical rule-and of how he was deposed by three brothers."
It was the myth of the Trigon, of course, Perin and his brothers Erivor and Kernios destroying their cruel father. "If that is what you want, Lord… of course!"
"I find it highly appropriate, you see." Tolly grinned again, showing his teeth and reminding the poet that this man was a wolf even among other wolves. "Three brothers, one of them dead-because Kernios was killed, of course, before he came back to life-who must overthrow an old, useless king." He flicked a finger. "Get to work, then. Keep yourself busy. We would not want such a gifted fellow as you to fall into idleness. That breeds danger for young men."
Three brothers, one dead, overthrow the king, Tinwright thought as he bowed
to his new patron. Surely that's the Tollys taking Olin's throne, He wants me to write a celebration of himself stealing the throne of Southmarch!
But even as this idea roiled in his guts, another one crept in. He's as much its said he'll kill me if I cause him any trouble-if I go near Elan. Clever Zosim, protector of fools like me, what can I do?
"You will perform it at the feast on the first night of Kerneia," Tolly said. "Now you may go."
Before going back to his rooms Tinwright stumbled into the garden so he could be alone as he threw up into a box hedge.