The Dragon Revenant - Katharine Kerr [142]
For the rest of that afternoon and long into the evening, after the slaves had lit a hundred oil lamps in the glittering room and an impromptu meal had been served, Jill was a spectator at the strangest tournament she’d ever seen, round after round of mock combats fought only with words and precious few plain ones at that. She was shocked to see just how devious, just what a master of innuendo Nevyn could be when he set himself to it, and, of course, the archon would never have been elected if he hadn’t been as subtle as a greased stoat. It was some hours before she realized that this battle was being fought not over principles, but out of fear. If there had been no Hawks of the Brotherhood to threaten his life, Graffaeo would have bankrupted himself gladly to help them safely home and revenge the murdered priests, but there were, always present, always threatening, the Hawks. Not, of course, that the archon ever mentioned their name—he talked mostly of regrettable circumstances and electoral discontent. Yet everyone knew what he meant, just as everyone realized that he as well as they assumed that the Hawks were behind the deaths at the hermitage.
“Of course,” Nevyn said at one point. “There’s bound to be an outcry among the voters when the news of the slaughter spreads—as it’s doubtless doing right now. My manservant does happen to be watching over our horses out in the stables.”
“Oh, my good sir, no doubt it would have spread quite quickly no matter what either of us did.” Graffaeo moved neatly to undercut the dweomermaster’s small victory. “Never fear. I shall do everything I can to reassure the people that the matter is well in hand.”
“Justice must be served, um?” Nevyn saluted him with a wine cup. “Even if the meal is meager?”
Graffaeo flushed scarlet.
“Justice will be served, sir. One way or another.”
Nevyn paused with the cup halfway to his mouth and considered the archon over the brim. Under their bristling white brows his ice-blue eyes seemed strangely sympathetic.
“One way or another, indeed.” He lowered the cup. “I realize, of course, that you’re in a very difficult position, with so many factors and factions to weigh and balance. What a pity that someone couldn’t just take this little matter off your shoulders—unofficially, of course, while the official investigation goes forward.”
“Ah.” Graffaeo took a dried fig from a silver tray and considered its many convolutions. “A pity, indeed. If such a thing were possible, it would of course earn my extreme gratitude.”
“Of course.” Nevyn had a sip of wine and looked casually away toward a fresco that depicted the Star Goddesses presenting a heroically drawn figure with a lodestone. “What a beautiful painting that is! The artist must be well known.”
“Oh, he is, he is. We were lucky to get him.”
“Does anyone remember the names of the apprentices who mixed the plaster and ground the colors, or the journeyman who took the artist’s drawings and pounced and scored them upon the wall?”
“What? Why should they?” Then the archon smiled in gentle understanding. “Indeed, why should anyone remember that?”
“Indeed. The agents of the great are never remembered, though much of the, shall we say, less pleasant work falls to them.”
“A pity, in its way.” The archon picked up the silver tray. “May I offer you a sweetmeat, Lord Galrion?”
“My thanks.”
When Nevyn took a handful of almonds, Jill realized that a bargain had just been concluded—though what it was, she couldn’t say.
For the appearances of the thing they lingered some minutes more, but as soon as possible Nevyn made their escape in a flurry of bows and protests of mutual admiration. As they all waited out in the lamplit courtyard for the horses to be Drought round, Salamander was beside himself, practically jigging where he stood.
“Oh, most brilliant stroke, Lord Galrion!” He spoke in Deverrian, as secret as a whisper up here in the hill country. “Well-played indeed!”
“Hold your tongue, you chattering elf!” Nevyn sounded weary. “Don’t gloat