The RuneLords Read online

  He felt as if he were experiencing all these things at once, and he wondered if any gardener had really ever felt such a keen thrill of anticipation as the one that assailed him at this moment. Oddest of all, Gaborn had never done these things--had never hitched himself to a plow or stooped to plant the earth.

  Yet he wished at this moment that he had. He wished that at this very second, he stood in the earth.

  Myrrima looked at him strangely. Gaborn's Days gave no reply, playing the invisible observer.

  But Borenson's eyes shone with laughter. "Milord, I think you have had too much air today. Your face is pale and sweaty. Do you feel well?"

  "I feel...very...healthy," Gaborn said, wondering if he was ill. Wondering if he was mad. Few weaknesses ever impaired a Runelord. An endowment of wit could repair a lord with poor memory, an endowment of stamina could bolster a sickly king. But madness...

  "Well then," Gaborn said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts, to consider what could cause these profound feelings of...planting, "I think you two should spend some time getting acquainted--the afternoon."

  "My lord, I am your body--" Borenson said, not willing to leave his side. Gaborn could count the times on his fingers when Borenson had been away for more than a night.

  "And I will be lounging in a hostel, with nothing more dangerous than a joint of pork before me." Borenson could hardly refuse. Custom dictated that he go privately to the woman's house to beg her hand in marriage. With a witless mother and no father, custom might be somewhat circumvented in this case, but it could not be put aside entirely.

  "Are you certain? I don't think this is wise," Borenson said, his manner becoming deadly earnest. Gaborn was in a strange country, after all, and he was heir apparent to the wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.

  "Just go, will you?" Gaborn urged them, smiling. "If it makes you feel better, I promise that as soon as I lunch, I will go to my room and bolt the door."

  "We'll be back well before dark," Myrrima said.

  Gaborn said, "No, I'll seek out your home. I'd like to meet your kind sisters, and your mother."

  Myrrima urged, breathlessly, "Across the Himmeroft Bridge--four miles down the Bluebell Way, a gray cabin in the meadow."

  Borenson shook his head adamantly. "No, I'll come back for you. I won't have you riding alone."

  "Farewell, then, until this afternoon," Gaborn said. He watched them scurry off through the crowd, hand-in-hand, a certain lightness to their steps.

  For a few moments, Gaborn stayed in the market, watching an entertainer who had trained albino doves to do all manner of aerial acrobatics; then he wandered the cobbled streets of Bannisferre, every step dogged by his Days.

  In the city's center towered a dozen graystone songhouses, six and seven stories tall, with elaborate friezes and statuary about them.

  On the steps of one songhouse, a handsome young woman sang a delicate aria, accompanied by woodwinds and harp. A group of peasants crowded round. Her voice drifted hauntingly, echoing from the tall stone buildings, mesmerizing. She merely advertised, of course. She hoped to attract an audience for her performance later tonight.

  Gaborn decided he would attend, bring Borenson and Myrrima.

  Sturdy bathhouses and gymnasiums squatted farther down the street. On the broad avenues, several carriages could maneuver with ease. Fine shops displayed bone china, silver goods, and gentlemen's weaponry.

  Bannisferre was a young city, less than four hundred years old. It had started simply as a meeting ground for local farmers to exchange wares, until iron was discovered along the Durkin Hills. The ironsmiths opened a foundry, where the quality of the goods soon attracted a wealthy clientele who demanded fine accommodations and entertainment.

  So Bannisferre had grown to be a center for the arts, attracting smiths who worked iron, silver, and gold; ceramists famed for their cloisonne and bone china; glassblowers who constructed bewitching mugs and vases in magnificent colors--until finally, the city became crowded with craftsmen and performers from all walks of life.

  Bannisferre was a fine place, a city free of grime. Now everywhere it was festooned with images of the Earth King--elaborate wooden images, painted and dressed with loving care. The streets had no urchins running about underfoot. And the reeves hereabout were dressed in fine leather coats with gold brocade, as if they were just another adornment to Bannisferre, not working lawmen.

  Somehow, the loveliness of this place saddened Gaborn. The city's defenses seemed woefully inadequate. It was built beside a river, without benefit of a fortress. A low wall of rocks around the city would barely repel a cavalry charge--and then only if the cavalry was not riding force horses, perhaps a few soldiers could hold out for a bit in the songhouses, skirmishing among the statuary.

  No, in a war, Bannisferre would be overrun, its beauty defiled. The graceful songhouses and bathhouses were made of stone, but the stonework was wrought for ornament, not with defense in mind. The doorways were too wide, the windows too expansive. Even the bridges across River Dwindell were wide enough so carriages could drive across four abreast. They could not be easily defended.

  Gaborn returned to the South Market, ambled back through the cloud of honeybees into the shade of his hostel.

  He intended to keep his promise to Borenson, keep safe. He found a corner table, ordered a dinner suitable to a refined palate, then rested his feet on the table.

  His Days sat across from him. Gaborn felt like celebrating Borenson's good fortune. He tossed a silver coin to a towheaded servant boy perhaps five years younger than himself. "Bring us wine. Something sweet for the Days. Addleberry for me."

  "Yes, sir," the boy answered. Gaborn looked around. The room was fairly empty. Three dozen chairs, but only a few of them filled. At the far end of the room, two gentlemen of dark complexion sat talking softly about the relative virtues of different inns in town. A few greenbottle flies wheeled in slow circles. Outside, a pig squealed in the market.

  Toward evening, the inn would fill.

  The serving boy returned with two brown clay mugs and two genuine bottles of yellow glass, not the hide flasks used in the south. Each bottle had a red wax seal over the cap, with the initial B inscribed. It seemed a fine vintage, the bottles well aged and covered with grime. Gaborn was not used to such nice drink. Wine laid up in bags turned vinegary after six months.

  The boy poured a draught for each man, then left the bottles on the table. Moisture began to condense on the bottles. They were that cold.

  Gaborn studied the bottles absently, reached out with an index finger and touched the dust on a bottle, tasted the soil. Good, sweet earth. Good for planting.

  The Days took a swallow of wine, regarded it carefully. "Hmmm..." he said. "I've never tasted anything so fine." In seconds he downed the whole mug, thought a moment, then poured himself a second.

  Gaborn simply stared at the Days. He'd never seen the like. The Days was such a sober man--he never drank to excess. Neither did he womanize or waste time with any other form of diversion. He was singularly committed to his discipline, to chronicling the lives of kings on behalf of the Time Lords. Since he was twinned with another--each man having given the other an endowment of wit--the two completed a circle. Both men shared a single mind, knowing the same things. Such sharing usually led to madness, both members of the pair struggling for control of the joint minds. But somewhere, in a monastery in the isles beyond Orwynne, Days' partner transcribed all that Days learned. It was only because the two Days had given complete control of their own identities to their order that they both survived.

  So it was odd to watch a Days guzzle wine. It was an extraordinarily selfish act.

  Gaborn tasted his own wine. Addleberry wine was not truly made with any kind of berry, only with sweet grapes that were treated with herbs--such as vervain, evening primrose, and elderflower--that stimulated thought and reduced the detrimental effects of alcohol. It tasted spicier, less sweet than common wine, and the cost tended to be
prohibitive. Its name was a jest: ironically, addleberry wine did not dull the wits, but instead stimulated them. If one were to be intoxicated, Gaborn reasoned, it was best to be intoxicated on insight.

  Here in the inn, with the pleasant smells of cooking bread and pork, Gaborn felt a little more at ease. He took a couple of sips of wine, found it surprisingly good, but not as addictive as the vintage Days guzzled.

  Yet Gaborn still worried. Outside, an hour earlier, he'd felt an odd rush of power. Outside, he'd just married off his bodyguard, and he'd congratulated himself on doing so. But inside the hostel, it seemed...so peculiar. An impulsive, childish thing to do.

  Though he'd someday be sovereign over one of the world's great realms, under normal circumstances he'd never have dared use his position to act as a matchmaker.

  Gaborn wondered. He was shouldered with the responsibility of becoming a king. But what kind of king would he make, if he did such foolish things?

  In the House of Understanding, in the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Ibirmarle had once said, "Not even a Runelord can rule affairs of the heart. Only a fool would try."

  Yet Gaborn had convinced Borenson to take a wife.

  What if he ends up hating her? Gaborn wondered. Will he resent what I've done?

  It was such a muddling thought. And what of Myrrima? Would she love Borenson?

  The Days began drinking his second mug of wine, downed it in a few gulps despite his attempts at restraint.

  "I did a good thing, didn't I?" Gaborn said. "I mean, Borenson is a good man, isn't he? He'll love her."

  The Days smiled a tight-lipped smile, watching Gaborn from slitted eyes. "There is a saying among our kind: Good deeds portend good fortune."

  Gaborn considered the words "our kind." Though the Days were human, they considered themselves as creatures apart. Perhaps they were right.

  Their service to the Time Lords required great sacrifices. They forsook home and family, loyalties to any king. Instead, these mysterious men and women simply studied the great lords, wrote the chronicles, published the deeds of a man's life when he died, and in all other ways remained aloof from common politics.

  Yet Gaborn did not entirely trust these watchers, with their secretive smiles. They only feigned aloofness in the affairs of men, of that Gaborn felt certain. Every Runelord was followed by a Days who recorded his words and deeds. Sometimes, when two Days met, they reported to one another in coded phrases. Gaborn's ancestors had been studying the Days for generations, trying to break their codes.

  But how aloof were they really? Gaborn suspected that the Days had sometimes betrayed secrets to enemy kings. Certain battles could only have been won on the advice of informers--informers who were probably Days. Yet if as a group the Days took sides in wars between nations, neither Gaborn nor anyone else had ever been able to determine where the Days placed their allegiance.

  No discernible battle lines were drawn. Evil kings prospered from Days' spying as often as did good. And no king could escape them. Some kings had tried ridding themselves of the Days, either through assassination or banishment. But such kings never reigned for another season. As a group, the Days were too powerful. Any king who dared strike down one Days would discover just how much information a Days' partner could divulge. Distressing information would be revealed to enemy kings, fortunes would be ruined, peasants would revolt.

  No one could defy the Days. Nor did Gaborn feel certain that any man should want to do so. An old adage went, "A man who will not bear scrutiny cannot bear a crown." It was said that those words were given by the Glories themselves, when the Days were first partnered to the kings. "A Runelord should be a servant to man," the Glories had said.

  So Gaborn's title came with a price. He would never be free of this man, never be alone. Though he might rule a kingdom, some things were right-fully denied even to Gaborn.

  Lost in thought, Gaborn wondered once again about Borenson. The man was a soldier, and soldiers did not necessarily make good lords, for they were trained to solve every problem through use of force. Gaborn's father preferred to sell titles to merchants, who were trained to barter for what they wanted. Gaborn suddenly realized that the Days had never fully answered him, had avoided the question.

  "I said, 'Borenson is a good man, isn't he?' "

  The Days looked up, his head nodding just a bit. The disciple was well on his way to being solidly drunk. He poured more wine. "Not nearly so good as you, Your Lordship. But he'll make her happy enough, I'd wager."

  Your Lordship. Not my lord.

  "But he's a good man, isn't he?" Gaborn asked a third time, suddenly angry at the Days' evasion.

  The Days looked away, started to mumble something.

  Gaborn struck the table hard enough so the wine bottles jumped and the mugs clanked. He shouted, "Answer me!"

  The Days gaped in surprise. He knew to take warning. Fists would soon fly. Gaborn had endowments of brawn from three men. His blow could kill a commoner.

  "Hah--what does it matter, Your Lordship?" the Days averred, struggling to clear his muddled thoughts. "You've never worried about his goodness before. You've never questioned his moral fiber."

  The Days took another swig of wine, seemed to want more, but thought better of it and carefully set the mug aside.

  Why am I questioning Borenson's moral character? Gaborn wondered, and the answers flowed to him: Because you were drinking addleberry wine and noticed how Days tried to evade the question. Because Myrrima said that Princess Iome doubts your own goodness, and now you are worrying at what others think. Because...because you know that any lout can win a parcel of land, but it takes a special kind of king to win the hearts of his people.

  Gaborn hoped to win the hearts of Iome and her people. But he dared not reveal details of his plan to Days--or to anyone. If Gaborn's father, King Orden, learned what Gaborn planned, the King might try to stop him.

  The wine was having its way with Gaborn now, bringing the world into focus. But Gaborn would not be sidetracked from his questioning by other observations. "Answer my question, Days! What do you think of Borenson ?"

  The Days put both hands on the table, screwed up his courage. "As you wish, Your Lordship: I once asked Borenson what his favorite animal is, and he told me he 'admires dogs.' I asked him why, and he answered: 'I love to hear them snarl. I love the way they greet strangers with senseless aggression.' "

  Gaborn laughed. It was the kind of perfect thing Borenson would say. The man was a terror in battle.

  The Days seemed relieved by Gaborn's good humor. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "To tell you the truth, Your Lordship, I think Borenson admires another attribute in dogs. One he did not name."

  "Which is?"

  "Loyalty."

  Gaborn laughed harder. "So, Borenson is a dog?"

  "No. He only aspires to be one. If I may be so bold, I fear he has all of dog's finest virtues but loyalty."

  "So you don't believe he is a good man?"

  "He's an assassin. A butcher, Your Lordship. That is why he is captain of your guard."

  This angered Gaborn. The Days was wrong. The historian smiled drunkenly, took another swig to fortify his courage.

  The Days continued, "In fact, none of your friends are very good people, Your Lordship. You don't value virtue in your friends."

  "What do you mean?" Gaborn asked. He'd always thought his friends had an acceptable level of virtue.

  "It is simple, Your Lordship," the Days said. "Some men pick their friends based on looks, others on wealth or political station, others on common interests. Some choose friends based on their virtue. But you do not value any of these traits, highly."

  It was true, Gaborn had friends among the ugly, the powerless. His friend Eldon Parris sold roasted rabbits in a public market. And Gaborn also enjoyed the company of more than one person who might best be described as a scoundrel.

  "Then how do I pick my friends?" Gaborn asked.

  "Because you are young, you valu
e men based upon their insights into the human heart, Your Lordship."

  This statement struck Gaborn like a blast of air off a frozen lake. It was stunning, refreshingly honest, and, of course, obviously true.

  "I had never noticed..."

  The Days laughed. "It's one of the seven keys to understanding motives. I fear, young master Gaborn, you are lousy at picking friends. Hah! I sometimes imagine how it will be when you are a king: You'll surround yourselves with eccentrics, and scholars. In no time they'll have you taking garlic enemas and wearing pointy shoes! Hah!"

  "Seven keys? Where did you learn such lore?" Gaborn asked.

  "In the Room of Dreams," the Days said. Then he suddenly sat up straight, recognizing his mistake.

  In the House of Understanding, the Room of Dreams was forbidden to Runelords. The secrets one learned there, of human motivations and desires, were considered by scholars to be too powerful to put in the hands of a king.

  Gaborn smiled triumphantly at this little tidbit, raised his glass in toast. "To dreams."

  But the Days would not toast with him. The man would most likely never drink in Gaborn's presence again.

  From a far corner of the room, a small ratlike ferrin woman came out of the shadows, bearing one of her pups in hand. The pup squealed in its small way, but the Days did not hear it, didn't have Gaborn's keen ears. All six of the ferrin woman's nipples were red and swollen, and she wore a yellow rag tied round her shoulders. She stood only a foot tall, and her pudgy face was accented by thick jowls. She waddled up behind the Days, nearly blinded by daylight, and stuffed the pup in the Days' coat pocket.

  The ferrin were not an intelligent people. They had a language of sorts, used some crude tools. Most folk considered them vermin, since the ferrin constantly tunneled into houses to steal food.

  Gaborn had heard it was common for a ferrin woman to wean her pups this way, by finding an inn, then sending the pup off in the pocket of a stranger. But he'd never seen it happen.

  Many a man would have tossed a dagger into the ferrin. Gaborn smiled blandly, averted his eyes.

  Good, he thought, let the pup eat the lining of the damned historian's coat.