Beyond the terrace Zastis had flushed the river like metallic wine. It brought them the first consolation of passion, and soon a fire to consume them. The mansion was a quiet and secret place; it muffled the whispers and the cries of lovers, and the anguish or the joy which lay between each joining through the long embers of the night.
Kloris crossed the still garden of the Palace of Peace. He had had a good deal of wine, and it was very late—or early, he supposed—near dawn. By a little ornamental pool sat a girl in a loose pale dress.
He still pursued Lyki simply because he had not yet had her. It had occurred to him, after his fourth cup of liquor, that he now possessed a piece of news which might alter things.
He stumbled on a root. In the tree to which the root belonged, a bird woke and let out a single piercing argent note. Lyki turned.
“What a clumsy spy you are, Kloris.”
He chuckled.
“One day you’ll cut your mouth on your tongue. What makes you think I’ve been spying on you? I don’t need to, do I, to see how your belly’s rounding?”
He was pleased when she flinched and looked away. Reaching her, he slipped an arm about her and fondled her breast. She thrust him off.
“Still hoping your virile Dragon Lord will do that for you, Lyki?” She made no reply. “The Sarite,” Kloris said, very carefully, “has found himself another repast. A strange eccentric lady, who sends mute beggars to conduct him to her.”
He saw he had caught her attention.
“What do you mean?”
“A mute came, and Raldnor followed him out. Where else would they be going on a Zastis night?”
“A dumb man—” she said. She seemed bemused.
He leaned on the tree casually.
“A dumb, tongueless, speechless mute.”
Moving then, he thought, with unexpected speed, he blundered against her and caught her close, but she twisted away and, before he could stop her, raked his cheek with needle-pointed nails. As he shouted and staggered, she shot across the level lawns.
Going back through the garden, Kloris passed the night patrol with their lamps.
When he was barely past, one turned grinning to the other.
“Kloris found a kalinx in the shrubbery tonight.”
The dawn was cold with the ashes of the Star, as cold as burned-out fire.
Cold eyed, Lyki halted at the gate of the Palace of Peace.
As she had thought, the iron chariot stood a little way up the white road, waiting for her. There was a veil of mist, and the chariot seemed to grow out of it, heavy and black as an old anger. She set her hand on the rail and looked up. He had learned to drive and control his team with his left hand. It must have been hard to do.
“Your little urchin messenger found me, as you see,” he said. “It seems now you’re as anxious to harm Raldnor of Sar, in your woman’s way, as I am. I thought the time might come.”
“I’ll tell you something to make you happy then, Ryhgon. And after that I’m done with it.” She looked down at her hand on the rail, then up again. “Your enemy has spent the past night with the Princess Astaris.”
The scar on Ryhgon’s face seemed to catch light. A grimace of pain or savage pleasure twisted his features.
“Do you know what you’ve said, woman? Are you speaking the truth, or what your wicked tongue suggests to you?”
“The truth. Would I dare make such an accusation otherwise?”
“I remember,” Ryhgon said, “he was never out of the beds of the whores at Abissa. It seems he hasn’t lost the habit.”
“I’d thought for a long while there was something between them,” Lyki continued, venom in her eyes. “Yesterday a man came begging for bread. He was a mute, and she happened to hear of it. She ordered me to fetch him, and then sent me out. That was before the Queen’s escort came to take her to the Palace. When she went with them at dusk, she left all her women behind to see to her clothes and jewels. That was unusual, but she’s always strange. I thought no more of it until I learned that a dumb man came here at midnight and summoned Raldnor away with him, as it’s fancied, to some tryst.”
“You’re a jealous little bitch, Lyki. The gods will see you suffer for it.” But he grinned at her. “Now you’ll come with me and tell the lord Kathaos all this.”
Startled, she drew back from the chariot.
“I said, I’m done with it.”
“You’re not.”
She turned to run in sudden panic, but he caught her up and thrust her in beside him. A jeweled comb fell from her hair on to the road.
The chariot lurched into movement and the sky broke into a fiery race.
They came to Kathaos’s villa, stone-still above the city in the morning.
Ryhgon pulled the chariot to a halt and tethered the animals. He looked back at her only once.
“Stay here. If you run, I’ll come after you, and I can be tenacious.”
He went in through a wall entrance, and the door was shut.
She did not dare flight, though she waited a long while. She recalled too well the angry scar, igniting with its own purple life. Eventually she opened a round of mirror in her bracelet and tried to repair her face paint. The comb she had lost on the road had been worth a good deal; no doubt some thief would find it and be grateful.
At last a servant in Kathaos’s yellow livery came to the wall door and beckoned her in. She followed him through the tasteful and opulent rooms until she found herself facing Kathaos across a length of icy marble.
He was quite expressionless, as usual, but Ryhgon stood on his left, his face congested with impatience.
“Well, madam.” Kathaos’s coldness offset the demoniac elation of the man beside him. “I’ve heard a curious story. I believe you’ve been Raldnor’s mistress.”
“A while since,” she said sharply.
“And now you’re telling tales about your lover.”
“I wasn’t brought here willingly.”
“Were you not? Did you speak unwillingly to Ryhgon, too? What prompted you, madam—your sense or your spite?”
Tightly, and with acid dignity, she said: “I don’t think the gods of Dorthar would spare me if I allowed the Storm Lord’s bed to be soiled.”
“Very well. I’ll hear your story again. I’d advise you to choose your words with care. I wonder if you understand what you’ll be sending Raldnor to. I see you think you do. Then you can bear in mind that if you lie to me, you yourself will go to it.”
Val Mala poised a jewel in the hollow of her creamy throat.
“Poor Kathaos,” she murmured, “I’ve been neglecting you.”
Kathaos smiled.
“That’s your privilege, madam, and my misfortune. But not the reason I’ve sought an audience.”
She raised her eyebrows. Amrek had returned this morning, and any signs of her rumored illness had been put from her. Their meeting, he had heard, had as usual been turbulent. Certainly, Val Mala would not have gone to it in any state of vulnerability.
“I’ve been made the master of some strange information that will doubtless bring you much grief.” He paused only for a fraction. “The information is unfavorable to your son’s bride.” He marked her interest. She did not attempt to disguise it. “Nevertheless, the facts of the matter are uncertain. I require your jurisdiction, madam, to prove them true or false.”
“Tell me what she’s done.”
“I hear that she’s kept an assignation with the Storm Lord’s elected Commander, Raldnor of Sar.”
He was unprepared for the excessive excitement with which she greeted this statement. Eyes burning, she demanded: “You mean she’s given herself to him, made herself his whore?”
He concealed a smile. Ironically he supposed she too had made herself Raldnor’s “whore.” She seemed to guess his thought.