“Captain, my dear old friend,” said Chacor, embracing Yennef. “So happy you’ll be with me.”
“To the hilt. What else?”
Chacor said to Jerish: “I mean it. I’m deadly in earnest. Don’t let that darling get away.”
“Tsk. Your mind should be only on Elissi.”
“It is. But this is the matter of Anackire.”
Jerish raised his brows. Chacor’s use of such a phrase amused him. Nevertheless he said to Baed, “We’re to keep him close, that one. We’re serious, you understand.”
Tiddly and obliging, Baed agreed.
All in communion then, the Raiding Party marched on, Yennef borne in its midst.
“Open your doors! Open your doors!”
Neighbors on balconies and leaning over sills threw ribbons and flowers.
“Open up, or we’ll bum you out!”
The doors were opened.
Arn Yr, in elegant regalia, stood with a drawn sword in the hall.
“My daughter you shall not have.”
“I have sworn to have her,” said Chacor in ringing tones, enjoying it after all. “I have sworn by my gods. By Anackire,” he added, to see Arn Yr’s face.
“No,” said Arn Yr. “My daughter must remain with me. She is my jewel.”
“She shall be that to me,” said Chacor. “Are you with me, my boys?” he asked the Raiders. They yelled and stamped, and Arn Yr’s servants came pounding into the hall, grinning hugely and toting cudgels.
Then the priest spoke from the stair.
“Men, now listen to the voice of the woman.”
And down the stair came Elissi.
She wore the Moih wedding-gown that was passed, mother to daughter, sister to sister, aunt to niece, cousin to cousin, for generations. It was a loose garment of woven thread-of-gold, belted by a sash of white silk. On the bride’s hair clung a rippling veil of sintal yellow. She was like every proper bride, more lovely than life.
She said, “My father, you are dear to me, but in the natural way I must leave you. Here is the man I choose.”
And Arn Yr threw down his sword and made the mock gesture of weeping.
And Chacor, in whose birthplace men were not permitted tears of any sort, having forgotten it, waited for Elissi to cross the floor and take his hand, which she did.
Then the priest came down in his dark robe with its fringes of Moiyan gold, and married them before their witnesses, by the fallen sword, in the sight of something which was not named, a goddess, or their own souls, or only the wakening stars above the roof.
The wedding feast, for which three interconnecting rooms had been opened, the double doors taken off their hinges, sailed like a shining lighted ship into the night.
Master Vanek found, with some interest at his elbow, glamorous and not entirely sober, the bridegroom.
“Master Vanek, where’s your apprentice?”
“Which?”
“The very talented one, whose casts for silver work go to Sheep Lane.”
Vanek looked lost, then he said, “But we’ve got farther than that. You mean Rehger Am Ly.”
“Don’t tell me he isn’t here.”
“I suppose he is, if you asked him to be. Have one of these salt-grapes.”
“Delicious. I must find him. Before I forget him altogether.”
“Hmm,” said Vanek. He called over another man, very nearly deformed, for his greatly muscled neck, torso and arms dwarfed the two bandy legs beneath. “Have you seen the Lydian?”
“In a cloud of women,” said this man, amicably, “discussing the price of bronze with Arn’s officer of deck.”
He led Chacor across the three rooms, introducing himself as they went as the sculptor Mur. He said his name with such diffidence, Chacor became aware he must be well-known in Moih, and had the social wit to thank him for coming to the wedding.
The last room opened on a stair to the garden. Rehger and two Moiyan beauties,.one sable, one saffron, were on the terrace with Arn’s deck master, and some others.
Mur stood surveying the scene. He indicated the Lydian, as if Chacor did not know him. “What a Raldnor he made,” said Mur, after a moment. His face expressed an absorbed, nonsexual admiration. “He fought professionally at Saardsinmey. By the goddess. He could hardly have made his body better if he’d hewn and carved it.” Mur tugged at his lip. “You heard of the mishap?”
“Up at the fort, we get little—”
“The statue was twice life-size, drawn out of the finest marble. I supervised the cutting of the block myself. I worked day and night. With such stone and such a model, it was a dedication, not a labor. Finished, it seemed to me some of my best work was in it, although the expression of the face—with that I could never satisfy myself.”
(Chacor fretted at Mur’s shoulder. Three rooms distant, Elissi was blooming. Corrah-Anackire speed this anecdote.)
“The features were kingly enough. I had no problem in that way. It’s no use taking a body from one and the head from another—a bedding in Aarl that is. But there was some obstacle. If I’d understood it, perhaps I could have surmounted it.” Mur made a sign with his left hand, averting dark thoughts. “The statue was completed despite my niggling, and to schedule. It was then moved, under guard, to Xarabiss. A couple of miles from the winter palace at Xarar, from a clear sky, a freak summer storm, A river burst its banks and came down on the riders. The zeebas panicked, awash to their girths. Men were swept under and almost drowned. The platform toppled over. The head of the statue was smashed off.”
Chacor swore swiftly. Even upon his hot impatience this ill-omened thing struck chill.
“Does Rehger know that?”
“Yes. He took it sensibly. The racers say, if a man heeded every stray shadow on the track, he’d be thrown at the first lap.”
“What of the Xarab king?”
“Refused the statue and any repair. He said the gods were against it. But he still paid up.”
Rehger turned at that moment, and saw them.
Yes, he could himself have been a king. They had said that in Alisaar, with the love-words. Now he seemed no different, the body kept at its vivid pitch by daily exercise, the commanding height, the curious completeness, nothing redundant. He no longer dressed like a lord, that was all. The clothes were those of a well-bred artisan on holiday, no adornment. A king in disguise.
He came over to Chacor.
“The best of congratulations.”
“I receive them with pleasure. Fill your cup. I want you to meet another of my wedding guests.”
The women on the terrace called plaintively as Chacor took him back into the house.
They had provided the tall handsome Lan with some refreshments, then locked him into an upstairs anteroom. If Arn knew about it was not certain. Jerish and Annah had now and then been seen lingering nearby, or Jerish’s fair-skinned, yellow-haired brother and his coppery Ommish wife. Once there had been some knocking on the inside of the door. Through the sounds of the feast it was not much audible. The Ommos lady went to the door, however, and said sternly, “Come, sir, would Yannul the Hero of Lan have behaved so timorously? Shush!”
“He’s in there,” said Chacor, bringing Rehger to the door.
Conceivably he expected Rehger to know already who this was, since they were operating within the design of the goddess. But Rehger only said, “Who is that?”
“My last wedding guest.”
“You’ve locked the door,” said Rehger. “Is he vicious?”
“By now that’s a possibility. So I’ve brought you, Swordsman, to quell him.”
Chacor unlocked the door, opened it, and guided Rehger to the doorway. Rehger paused, then moved forward, into the room. Chacor smartly shut the door and relocked it. Having listened a moment for the phonetics of assault and battery—there was only silence—he led his accomplices away.
Yennef was drinking the wine and eating the savory breads.
He looked at the man who had entered, and remarked, “I judge it would be unreasonable to ask for an explanation. After all, this is a marriage feast.”
The arrival was dark Vis . . . maybe he was an inch or so taller even than Yennef. Powerful, couth—almost a Dortharian demeanor. But when he spoke, it was the accent of Free Ahsaar.