"Wait," said Utta. "Perhaps that is who it means. Chaven is a priest of sorts-a priest of logic and science. And his is the particular study of light and the stars, with those lenses of his. Perhaps Chaven had some powerful object that is now lost."
"But Chaven is the one who's lost!" said Merolanna. "He's vanished! And that means my son is lost forever…!"
"No one simply disappears," said Utta."Unless the gods themselves take them. And the Rooftoppers' god, at least, does not seem to know what's happened to Chaven, so perhaps he is still alive." She stood. "I will see what I can discover, Your Grace."
"Be careful!" Merolanna cried as Utta moved to the door. She extended her arms again as though to draw the Zorian sister back. "You are all I have left!"
"We have the gods, Duchess. I will pray for my gracious lady Zoria's help. You should do the same."
Merolanna slumped back. "Gods, fairies… the world has run utterly mad."
Utta called in the little maid Eilis. "See to your mistress," she told the girl. "Take good care of her. She has had a shock."
But who will see to me? she wondered as she left Merolanna's chambers. Who will take care of me in this mad time when legends spring to life at our feet? Zoria, merciful goddess, I need your help now more than ever.
Even to Matty Tinwright, who had never found it easy to say no to a celebration or a feast, especially if someone else was paying the tally, it seemed a bit much. Surely with an invading force just across the river-an invading force of monsters and demons at that-all these fetes and fairs were a waste, if not worse?
Perhaps Lord Hendon is only trying to divert us from our troubles. If so, he had set himself a hard task, because troubles were plentiful. The creatures across the bay had not attacked the keep, but they had certainly cut off all sup¬plies coming to the overfilled castle from the west, and the short, terrify¬ing war had emptied the valleys to the west and south as well, so there were no cattle or sheep being driven in from Marrinswalk and Silverside and no wool or cheese from Settland, only such supplies as could be brought in by ships, which lay crammed in Southmarch harbor like drift¬wood against a seawall.
Despite all this, the merriment went on. Tonight, to celebrate the first evening of Gestrimadi, the festival in honor of the Mother of the Gods, there would be a public fair in Market Square and here in the castle a great supper and masked fete, with music and dancing.
And yet surely there has not been a darker Dimene-month since the Twilight folk last marched on us, two hundred years gone?
It was strange, Tinwright thought, that a place as solemn and silent dur-ing the day as this should spring to life so feverishly at night, as though the chambers were tombs which discharged their occupants only after sunset, so that they could dance and flirt in imitation of the living.
It was a powerful image, and he thought suddenly that he should write it down. Surely there was a poem in it, the courtiers emerging from their stony dens at nightfall, wearing masks that hid everything but their too-bright eyes…
But Hendon Tolly and his circle will not like it, and these days that is a very dangerous thing. Didn't Lord Nynor disappear after being heard criticizing the Tollys' rule? Still, the lure of the idea was strong. He decided that he could write it and keep it hidden until better times, when his foresight would be recognized, and his brilliance (if not his courage) honored.
Poets are not made to be hanged, he reminded himself. They are made to ad¬mired. And even if I could only be admired for being hanged, I would choose obscu¬rity, I think. No, he would stay alive. In any case, he had other things to live for, these days…
"Oh, most effective, Master Tinwright!" said Puzzle approvingly. Now that he had been picked up by Hendon Tolly's set, however mockingly, the old jester had developed a loud heartiness to his tone that Tinwright found irritating. Strangely, though, his wrinkled face suddenly crumpled into sad¬ness. "You will captivate many a young heart tonight, that is certain."
Tinwright looked down at the forest-green hose, which had a disturb¬ing tendency to twist between ankle and crotch so that each leg's seam looked more like a winding country road than a straight royal thorough¬fare. The colors were pleasing, though no real traveling minstrel ever wore such peacockery as this. It was a party costume that had belonged to Puz¬zle's dead friend Robben Hulligan, and the old man was actually weeping now to see him in it.
"He was fair of face and shapely of leg, my good old Robben." Puzzle rubbed his eyes. He had dressed for the masked fete himself in a black man¬tis' robe, and it suited him strangely, making his long, dour face seem for the first time to have found its proper setting. "He too loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him."
Tinwright didn't say anything, He had heartd this Robben-talk before and know the old man would have his say no matter what Tinwright did.
"He was murdered by bandits, poor fellow," said Puzzle, shaking his head. Tinwright could have recited the rest of his speech with him, so many times had he heard it. "Taken by Kernios long before his time. Have I told you of him? Sweet singing Robben."
Tinwright was even thinking of going to the temple for the services, just to avoid the rest of the old man's maundering, but was saved that igno¬minious fate by the arrival of a small boy, a page, bearing a message to Puz¬zle from Hendon Tolly's squire.
"Ah, it seems I am wanted!" the old man said with a pleasure he could barely contain. "The guardian wishes me to sit with him during the feast, so that I may entertain him."
The guardian must be trying to keep himself from eating too much, Tinwright thought but of course did not say: he was fond of Puzzle, if a bit tired of spending so much time with him. The old fellow's recent rise in favor had made him cheerful, but had made him a bit boastful as well, and Matt Tinwright's more dubious fortunes made it hard sometimes to enjoy his friend's triumphs. "Does it say anything about me?"
"I fear not," said Puzzle. "Perhaps you could come with me, though. I could sing my lord one of your songs, and surely…"
Tinwright thought back on the disastrous and humiliating reception he had received the last time he had tagged after Puzzle. That made it much easier to remember something that was true, if not useful to a man in search of advancement: he had decided he truly disliked Hendon Tolly. No, more than that-Tinwright was terrified of him. "Fear not, good friend Puzzle," he said aloud. "As you pointed out, there are doubtless many fair young faces and firm young bosoms that await my attention tonight. I hope you will have good fortune at the guardian's table." He could not help dispensing a little advice, though, since Puzzle these days seemed as innocently smitten of attention as a child. "Be careful of that man Havemore, though. He does not love anyone, and will go to subtle lengths to be cruel."
"He is a good enough fellow in his way," said Puzzle, quick to defend any of the wealthy, powerful men who had so unexpectedly taken him up. "When next you come with me, you will see and know him better."
"Let's hope not," said Matt Tinwright under his breath. If Tolly was a
predator, Tirnan Havemore was a scavenger, a graveyard dog that would snatch up whatever it could find and hold onto it with stinking jaws. "Me well and be merry, Uncle."
He waved as Puzzle went out, and then realized he had forgotten to ask him whether Hulligan's borrowed costume was buttoned correctly in the back. He wished he had a dressing-mirror, but only a rich man-or at least a man who made poems for rich men-could afford such a thing.
Ah, Princess Briony, where did you go? Your poet needs you. At least you ap¬preciated my true quality, if scarcely anyone else did… or does…