Aspects, p.16
Aspects, page 16
There was a flash of something terrible in Edaire’s face; Longlight did not flinch.
Edaire wrapped her hand around her ring, shut her eyes, and said, “I have just caused Dany to score an undeserved touch on Silvern. I shall have to apologize to both of them.” She looked at Longlight. “To answer your fair and honest question, I believe that Varic has looked quite clearly into the wells of his own darkness. I choose to believe that he knows what he could do, and is happy that he does not do it.”
“I said one thing too many, didn’t I.”
“No. He hurt you—not from wanting to hurt, and not without help from people who should have thought better—but you were hurt, and you had every right to ask what he is. What all of us are.”
“It’s easier for you,” Longlight said as a statement of fact, without bitterness. “You’re always first in each other’s minds.”
“Conseil is not a common state, we all know that,” Edaire said, “and inevitably misunderstood. There are conseil couples who do not have exclusive relations. We met a pair once who gloried in others; and of course they were both sharing whatever either did. They wanted very much to pair off with us, simultaneously—or perhaps group would be a better word.”
“That sounds—well. Did you?”
“We couldn’t. Our vow is exclusive in aspect. Anyway, I think they expected too much. We wouldn’t have linked to them.”
Longlight said, “Would you have liked to try?”
“It’s possible for me to think about it. Just as it’s possible for Silvern to respond, deeply, to the sight of a woman who may be nothing like I am, but has those qualities that attract him.” She smiled, and Longlight’s fingers tightened on her teacup.
The mantel clock chimed four. A few silent minimi later, Strange wheeled his chair into the parlor. “It’s quiet down here. Am I interrupting?”
Edaire gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. Longlight said, “No. We were just getting acquainted.”
Strange smiled. “No one better to do it with. Longlight, do you really mean to leave us after all?”
“I should like to stay, a night at least. If I may.”
“That was never in question. I am most pleased. Then I may say that Dany has asked if you would be up for a match, three points or a concetta? We have all the equipment you might need.”
“I’d be pleased.”
“Then let us proceed at once. Edaire, dear, will you push?”
She took the handles of Strange’s chair, and the three of them started down the hall.
They descended in the lift to the ground-floor hallway, and went through one of the inner doors to the arenetto. It was modestly sized, a room ten steps square with seats and exercise equipment on two sides of a slightly raised wooden square five steps on a side.
Dany and Silvern were at work on the boards. Dany wore a jacket and knee-length skirt of padded rough silk reinforced with broad leather bands. The silk was an autumn gold color, the leather decorated with bronze. It was a beautifully made armor, certainly not Lescorial in design. Below the skirt she wore more typical steel shin guards, and she was working barefoot. She was fighting with an iron-tipped staff as tall as an average man (and up to Dany’s shoulder).
Silvern wore a sleeveless shirt and loose trousers of light cotton cloth, pale gray darkened in patches by sweat. He had thin gloves and soft boots, but no armor at all, and his spread hands were empty.
Dany spun the staff as if to sweep at Silvern’s unprotected head. Most of the way through the move, she shifted her weight on the ball of a foot, recoiled and thrust with the end of the stick directly at Silvern’s breastbone.
There was a circular motion in the air before Silvern’s chest, like ripples in water, and the thrust was stopped with an audible bang of metal against metal.
A singlestick grew from Silvern’s fingers, a thin rod a little longer than his arm, of a dead black color. He knocked Dany’s staff aside with it; the sound this time was like a steel hammer against rock. They sparred a few blows more; then the singlestick flickered and was in Silvern’s left hand. The motion made it seem as if he had tossed the rod from one hand to the other, but he had not: it was an Armiger’s weapon, made from magic and will. It could not leave his touch.
Edaire turned Strange’s chair to the left, silently circling the wood. Longlight stood still, watching the players. She knew singlestick and staff fighting both very well; she had been taught them before any edged weapon. One couldn’t count on having an edge to hand, but there was always a stick—a fireplace poker, a branch, a chair leg.
This wasn’t that sort of brawl, though neither was it highly formal. Longlight could hardly imagine Dany hurting Silvern, no matter how skilled she might be; his sorcerer’s armor appeared as a reflex, faster than thought. This wasn’t combat training, or even battle practice. It was mental exercise, honing the already-sharp edge. For her, it had a strange fascination, so much wilder than conventional weapon-play and yet so controlled.
Silvern had two black batons now, and scissored Dany’s staff between them. She slipped her weapon free, whirled it on fingertips high above her head, then shifted her grip to the very end and brought it around in a huge swing that grazed the edge of the wooden square and seemed to throw her dangerously off balance. Silvern crouched to one side.
Dany planted the tip of the staff and vaulted up with it, her whole long body tumbling over Silvern’s bent back; she landed squarely behind him, and swung the staff upward against Silvern’s throat, grabbing the free end with her other hand. Against an ordinary fighter, she could have easily levered back to crush the larynx or snap the neck.
Silvern was, of course, not ordinary. As the staff pulled back, a dark band of protection appeared around his throat. Longlight expected him to throw Dany forward, over his shoulders and onto her back.
Instead, he slashed his right hand sidewise at Dany’s right wrist. Longlight had half an instanta to recognize that if the blow connected, it would almost certainly crack Dany’s forearm.
But her forearm wasn’t there. In that same part’ina, Dany released her grip, spun to the left—under the staff, twirling it in her left fingers—and came up facing Silvern. He pushed the staff away, separating them by a step or so, and laughed out loud.
Silvern held his left hand in front of Dany’s face: the first two fingers were upright, second two folded, thumb extended outward. It was the swordplayer’s signal for pause. Dany nodded, turned to look at the spectators. She leaned on her staff and bowed. Then she faced Longlight and held up her right hand, thumb and little finger touching, three fingers spread in a trident. That was the polite request for a match, and Longlight crossed her palms to accept.
Dany turned to Silvern, who was taking long steps off the wooden square. Without looking back, he said, “Oh, yes, Dany, of course I’ll proctor. Get Longlight set up, and I’ll be ready when you are.”
He held his arms forward. Edaire went to him, held his hands discreetly for one moment, then embraced him fully, lifted onto her toes.
“You’re all clean,” Silvern said. “You’ll have to change.”
“We’re going to dress for dinner, silly.” She tilted her head back, and they kissed. Then their lips separated, just by a little fingers-breadth, and something passed between them, silent but perceptible.
Silvern turned to look at Longlight. He said, quietly and plainly, “I am glad you will be staying for the holiday.”
“This way,” Dany said, and led Longlight across the platform, through a door into a room lined with storage cabinets and exercise equipment. A shower room connected at the back.
Dany opened some cabinets, and quickly found Longlight an athletic breasthalter, a shirt with padded sleeves, a leather vest that buckled to size. Longlight changed her trousers for a loose pair in heavy white cotton, strapped on kneepads, put her own boots on again.
Across the room, Silvern was assembling a pair of splintans, the weapons for swordgame: slightly curved wooden slats held together with leather clips, the edge filled with chalk to mark a touch. The clips were supposed to give way under an excessive blow. It didn’t always prevent a cracked bone, but it was considered bad form to snap one’s sword. The game was about movement and control, not simple force.
Silvern tried the swords, balanced and swung them, then nodded to himself and chalked the edges.
“Dany’s challenge,” he said, and offered choice of weapons to Longlight. She took a splintan, went to a corner of the square, and stood at relaxed guard. Dany went to the opposite corner.
Silvern took up a post at the edge of the platform. “Normal rules,” he said, “no effect of wounds. Three, two, one … go.”
Both women took a step to the right. Longlight held her sword upright, two-handed; Dany’s was horizontal in her right hand, her left close in to her body. They took another step. They were observing the circle, an imaginary pattern on the floor, defined by the length of sword, arm, and stride. In theory, one was safe as long as one kept to the circumference of the circle. In practice, it meant very little in anything but formal swordgame; but one had to start somewhere. The first phase of the game ended when someone broke the formality.
Longlight decided to break it. She took a long, diving step, thrusting at Dany’s left hip. Dany sidestepped without effort and crossed swords with Longlight, gently, sending a faint puff of chalk into the air. Longlight returned the stroke. Then they both recovered, stepped back, stepped close again and exchanged serious blows, rattling the splintans. Dany seemed to stumble; Longlight took a wary step forward, felt the swish of air past her shoulder.
Longlight was aware that Dany was drawing her back, one step and parry at a time. Her family’s combat master called it jugging the hare. The double object was to analyze your opponent’s style, see what response each move brought, and draw the opponent into a position where the learned and logical response would be fatally wrong.
Once you were aware of the strategy, there were two tactics against it. One was to turn wild, fight randomly and furiously for a minima or so, upsetting the opponent’s calculations. The other way required a detailed and absolute knowledge of one’s own habits and reflexes, the ability to stand above and behind oneself, conscious of what one would do by instinct—then further see what move the opponent was counting on, and alter it into a trap.
Longlight was not in a reflective mood. That settled the issue. She tore in, step-swing, step-thrust, step-dodge-stroke. Abruptly there was a flash of red dust, and a streak of chalk scarred Longlight’s left forearm. “Point,” she said, and without missing a motion swept Dany’s blade aside, scored on her arm, on her shoulder.
“Concetta,” Dany said, and let the point of her splintan drop to the boards. They separated, bowed to each other.
There was applause from the sideline. Longlight turned. Another person was sitting with Strange and Edaire: a large, black-haired man, almost as big as Silvern, with a broad smile on his broad, pale face. He wore a black satin waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black cravat. Tucked casually into his waistcoat pocket was a silver rete and quadrant, and a heavy silver ring with a polished onyx was on his left hand.
Strange said, “My dear Longlight, I would have you meet another of our regular companions, the honorable Birch. Birch, my lady Longlight of the Great Rogue Hills.”
Birch held out his right hand.
Longlight dropped to both knees. “Supergratio.…”
“My lady Coron,” Birch said gravely, “most honored. But please rise. In Strange House we do not go about kneeling to one another.”
As Longlight rose, Birch said, “I believe we are about to be something like neighbors. Can you tell me how the travel is between your country and Capel Storrow?”
“There are roads,” she said, hurrying to think, “and we try to keep them open. No near Ironway, I’m afraid.” She glanced at Edaire, who said nothing. “But I hope you will visit us.”
Birch spread his hands. “I am your Archimage and would be neglectful if I did not. But I look forward to the pleasure.”
Longlight looked at herself, the sweat on her clothes, said, “I must clean up now.…”
“Of course I shall see you at dinner.”
Longlight, Dany, and Silvern went back to the changing room. Birch said to Strange, “I ought to retire for a bit. At dinner, then?”
Strange nodded, and Birch went out.
From the inner room, the sound of showers could be heard. Quietly, not to be heard above the water, Edaire said, “Sometimes I forget how we can look to a new guest.”
Strange said, “I think Longlight will settle in well. She seems to have an independent soul.”
“Yes.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of his chair. “How much of it did you know, old owl?”
“Most. Her state on arrival, and Varic’s. And what happened when Varic left the group to see Agate.”
“So you picked me to…”
“I set you in her way, I suppose.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for the trouble, and after the day you’d had already. Can I make it right?”
“No need,” she said, smiling. “Silvern will say the same thing, a little later. And I’m sure he will.”
* * *
Out of the cold shower, Longlight reached for her clothes, but Dany said, “Those are all travel-dusty. No use to put them on again, just to rest and change again for dinner. Here.” She was wearing a long, white linen robe and thick-soled canvas slippers, and produced the same for Longlight. “Here, put the hood up, too. Your hair’s still damp.”
“Thank you, Dany.”
“You fight handsome. You mean it when you cut. Next time we should use real singlesticks, do you think?”
“That could be very good. Though I liked watching your staff work. I haven’t used a staff in years; do you think we could practice that?”
They talked combat all the way upstairs and into the entry hall, where a voice said, “Excuse me, I seem to be having a vision of Goddess. Double vision, in fact.”
The women turned. Winterhill was standing by the secretary desk, dressed in brown riding leathers, his hand on a dispatch bag.
A young woman was with him. She had long, red hair that curved around her narrow face, enclosing it. She wore a thigh-length huntsman’s coat of dark red leather, black wool trousers tucked into riding boots. The thumbs of her long-fingered hands were hooked into the coat’s belt. She stepped lightly forward, took Dany’s hands in hers; they hugged.
Winterhill said, “I am delighted to see you here, milady Coron. I see you’ve already found an adventure. May I introduce you to another friend? Reccan, the Coron Longlight. My lady Coron, Reccan of the City Lystourel.”
Longlight said, “Pleased, Reccan.”
Reccan smiled, without opening her mouth, and bowed, pressed Longlight’s hand between her palms.
“Can she not speak?” Longlight said to Winterhill.
Reccan flicked a pencil apparently from the air, scribbled on a pad that had appeared just as suddenly in her right hand. She pulled off the top sheet and presented it to Longlight. It said, in precise block writing:
NO. BUT I HEAR YOU WELL ENOUGH.
“My regrets,” Longlight said quickly. Reccan gave an elaborate shrug, a dismissive wave of her left hand. Then her left fingers moved in a complicated, rapid set of gestures.
Winterhill’s hand twitched in what seemed to be a reply. He said, “Reccan would like to know if you are enjoying your stay here.”
Longlight started to reply to Winterhill, then turned to face Reccan and said, “Very much so. My grandfather, as’t goes, was a guest here. I wish I had known of it sooner.”
Reccan wrote a note: I WISH THE SAME.
“Are you a hunter, Reccan?”
Winterhill tilted his head, with a sly look, but did not speak.
Reccan held out her hands, palms up and empty, then rolled her left hand over. A dark green pencil, unsharpened, poked out beyond her fingertips. Her fingers were long, but the pencil was longer than her whole hand. Then it fanned out into three pencils, red, blue, and green. Her left hand took the fan away, and another grew in its place. Then she crossed the two fans, and they seemed to interpenetrate, weave into a wooden lattice; Reccan tapped it on the desk to show its solidity. Then she tugged at its corners, and it came apart into six straight, solid rods again, which she pressed into Longlight’s hand. Longlight looked down: she was holding a single white-painted pencil, with a freshly sharpened point.
“I see,” Longlight said. “Varic spoke of you, though not by name.”
The short pencil and pad came out again. WINTERHILL SPOKE OF YOU. BUT OF COURSE NO ONE BELIEVES HIS STORIES.
“Ah, I see,” Longlight said. Then a breeze caught her legs, and she was abruptly reminded of her casual dress. “Your pardon, but I must get properly dressed.”
“Well, I find it quite becoming,” Winterhill said. “Call me a Pandekt, but simplicity has great attractions.”
Dany folded her arms and pretended to look stern. Winterhill held up his hands in mock defense. “Very well, very well, no Pandekt, just a City boy loose in the woods. Milady Coron, I hope we shall talk later, when you are properly dressed. Dany, I would greet you rightly, but I taste like a horse-path. Until we can be better met, then, I take my leave.” He bowed extravagantly and stepped lightly down the hall.
Longlight and Dany looked after him. Dany said, “He has no sense of place, that man, and I wonder he lives in spite of it; but it is a good strong heart inside. Worthy, do you know.”
“I think I do know.” Longlight looked at her robe. “And I really ought to find my room—and I know Strange told me where it was, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Upper floor, one more above us, the end room on the courtyard side. Climb the stairs where the hall turns, and enter the last door on the right hand. It is sure to be ready for you. Of the doors in the end of the hall, the locked ones are maids’ cupboards; the one you can open, with the glass panel, is the stairway. Down a floor to the service kitchen, where you may help yourself if you’re hungry, or ring down for anything, anytime. Dinner will be at nine, so there is time for you finally to rest.”
