He knew there were some among the staff and Carnelian Guard who hadn’t thought that well of Tek-aKet Tarkin, who’d maybe been a bit pleased when he was gone. But there were few-very few-who had found they actually preferred Lok-iKol Tenebro. For the last three days the halls and corridors had been filled with smiling faces, Rab-iRab, the Tarkina’s lady page, was practically dancing in her work, and altogether everything, Tel thought with satisfaction, was once again as it should be.
Today he was so happy that he wasn’t really listening very hard to the conversations behind him. After the first few they were pretty much the same. The first House into the room had been Fen-oNef Penrado, no surprise there. His support for Tek-aKet Tarkin had been unwavering. The second was unexpected. It was Jor-iRoj Esmolo’s daughter whom rumor had promised to Lok-iKol. Either the rumor had been false, or the Esmoloso was anxious that Tek-aKet believe it so. After that bit of excitement, the conversations had been boringly repetitious. If everyone was so glad to see Tek-aKet in what they all referred to as his “rightful place,” how had it been so easy for Lok-iKol Tenebro to sit in it?
Tel stood straighter to attention and pricked up his ears. Old Fen-oNef was approaching the throne again, and since he’d already paid his respects, this meant that he had some other business with the Tarkin, business that might require the Tarkin’s Runner.
“My lord Tarkin,” the old man was saying. “I see there are no Jaldeans present this afternoon.”
A little surprised, Tel glanced around the room. No, there weren’t any of the recognizable dark brown robes. How had he missed that?
“They are saying, my lord, that the Jaldean Shrines are shut, and petitioners are being turned away.”
“Is this so?” The Tarkin sounded tired. Tel hoped the audience would be over soon.
“My men tell me that one of the shrines has been broken open by discontented believers, and found empty, not a priest or acolyte in sight.”
Tel carefully kept his face from showing his surprise. He knew that Lok-iKol had stopped supporting the New Believers as soon as his particular friend the priest Beslyn-Tor had become ill, but he hadn’t been aware just how far the fortunes of the Jaldeans had fallen.
“My lord.” Old Fen-oNef was still speaking. “If you would take the frank advice of an old ally, let me remind you what your father would have done in these circumstances.” Fen-oNef waited for the Tarkin’s nod before proceeding. Old family friend he might be, fool he was not. “Once or twice it seemed that the Houses had lost confidence in Nyl-aLyn Tarkin.” Here the old man smiled, brushing back his long mustaches with the back of his hand, but Tel managed to keep his face straight. He knew that with his “once or twice” Fen-oNef referred to the near-rebellions that Tek-aKet’s fierce father had suppressed. “At those times, you may remember,” the old man continued, “your father held a Ceremony of Dedication, where each House reaffirmed its loyalty and support. Why not do the same? If nothing else, it is a marvelous excuse for a banquet.”
At this Tel did smile, almost squirming at his post in excitement. He’d been too young to be a page when Tek-aKet became Tarkin, but a Dedication was almost as good as an Anointing.
“An excellent suggestion, Fen,” Tek-aKet said, his hand straying up to his left cheek. Tel frowned. He’d seen that gesture once or twice already, and if the Tarkin’s head still pained him, this audience should be cut short.
“It will take some organization, I know,” Fen-oNef said. “But I’m sure Gan-eGan has left able assistants, and, if I may, I would advise this as soon as possible.”
The Tarkin tapped his mouth with the first two fingers of his right hand as he considered this. “I agree,” he said finally. “Preparations can begin immediately, but I would suggest the ceremony itself wait for the arrival of the Mesticha Stone. That should serve to quell any fears felt by the Jaldeans and appease their faction.”
The Tarkin and the Penradoso went on speaking, but their words were drowned by the buzzing in Tel’s ears. The Mesticha Stone? Tel had almost forgotten about it, even though he himself had helped the Steward of Keys arrange with a representative of the Jaldeans for the Stone’s arrival. One of the small rooms behind the throne had been designated as the artifact’s resting place, though as yet no changes had been made.
But it had been Lok-iKol who had asked for these arrangements, not Tek-aKet. He risked a glance over his shoulder at the Tarkin. What did Tek-aKet know about this? How did he know?
It wasn’t until after the evening meal that Telian-Han decided he would, after all, speak to someone about what he’d overheard.
Mar looked up from her book when Rab-iRab Culebro led a younger, male page into the receiving room of the Tarkina’s suite. She and Rab had become friends over the last few days, finding that they had oddly much in common, seeing that their backgrounds were so distinct. Rab was from the Tarkin’s own House, and had grown up in a country Household, riding and roughhousing with her three older brothers, living the life that Mar had lost when the sickness had taken her parents. There was no snobbery about her, however, and Rab had been indignant when Mar had told her of the reception she’d had in House Tenebro.
“One of those Tenebro girls came to be a lady page with us last year,” Rab had said. “Zelianora Tarkina gave her a three-month trial before sending her home. She won’t tolerate any of that type here.” Rab had welcomed her Tarkina back with laughter, and not a few tears, and had embraced Mar willingly, all the more so as her fellow senior page had left to be married some few weeks before the night of terror.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that Rab had been much impressed by Mar’s adventures. “It reminds me of the Tale of Evanian the Carver,” she’d said. “I hope your life has every bit as good an ending.”
It was the same excited but serious look that Rab-iRab was wearing now.
“Mar,” she said, barely waiting for the door to close behind them. “Is the Tarkina still asleep?”
Zelianora had come back from the audience in the throne room exhausted, her emotional resources worn to thinness by all that had happened in the last half moon. Now that she was finally enjoying a deep and satisfying sleep, Mar was reluctant to wake her, and said so.
“This is Telian-Han,” Rab said, indicating the younger boy. “He’s one of the Tarkin’s pages.”
Mar smiled at the boy and he smiled back, though the frown that drew down the corners of his eyes did not go away. “Can your message wait until the Tarkina awakens?”
“It’s not a message, Lady Mar,” the boy said, clearing his throat as his voice croaked. “It’s something that happened in the throne room this afternoon. Something that worried me.”
“It won’t seem like much,” Rab said. “But it made me think of something you’d told me in your adventures. How the Wolfshead said that a scout’s report should include everything, even the details that don’t seem important because you can’t tell what’s important until you have all the details.”
Mar looked from one young face to another. The boy was definitely frightened, and desperately hiding it. Rab’s flushed cheeks showed her excitement, but her eyes were steady and serious. These two lived here with Lok-iKol, Mar reminded herself. And with whatever Lok had become. They’d been having their own adventures.
“Tell me,” she said. “Maybe together we can decide what to do.”
Mar could tell from the practiced way he told the story that Tel had given this a great deal of thought. What she couldn’t see was why the boy was so frightened.