Mistress of Ambiguities

  Mistress of Ambiguities

  J F Rivkin

  Mistress of Ambiguities

  J. F. Rivkin

  1

  “Oh, I could complain

  That my life is a curse,

  But ‘twould be in vain

  All my woes to rehearse.

  For one thing is plain-

  Things could always be worse!” sang Nyctasia. She ate one of the walnuts she’d been shelling, and tossed all the hulls onto the coals of the cooking hearth. “Corson, let me do that for you,” she suggested.

  Corson was trying to chop suet and scraps of meat, holding a wooden bowl awkwardly in her lap while wielding a crescent-shaped mincer. Her left arm was in a sling and kept getting in her way, but she ignored Nyctasia’s offer of help. She was not in the best of humors. Her bandaged arm hampered her, and it was very hot in the kitchen of the busy tavern, where meats were kept roasting all day, even in the warm late-summer weather.

  “That fool song of yours!” she said. “You were singing that the first time I laid eyes on you-cursed be the day. That’s when all my troubles began, so I tell you.”

  “I remember it well,” Nyctasia said mildly. “The moment you swaggered into The Lame Fox, I thought, ‘There’s the one I want. Strong, oversure of herself, and none too clever-perfect for my purposes.’”

  The others laughed, and Corson turned and deliberately spat into the fire, knowing that Nyctasia found the habit revolting. “I must have been a fool, I can’t deny it. If I’d had the wits of a newborn newt, I’d not have been cozened into taking your part. I’d have kept to my bargain with your enemies, and cut you into shreds.” She demonstrated with the mincer. “That’s what a clever person would’ve done.”

  “But you couldn’t very well do that-you were in thrall to my artful charms and evil spells. You know I’m irresistible.”

  “Like a serpent.” Corson agreed, “that fascinates its prey with its stare, then paralyzes them with its poison. That’s you.”

  Nyctasia regarded her coolly. “Your braid is in the chopped suet,” she observed,

  “which is not making either of them more appealing.”

  Corson cursed and tried to fasten up her long braid with one hand, but she soon dropped her hair-clasp and had to pick it out of the half-minced meat. Nyctasia let her struggle stubbornly with it for a while, then sighed and went over to pin up her hair for her.

  “Don’t get your hands dirty, m’lady,” Corson grumbled.

  The others, who had heard their bickering time and again, lost interest and went on about their own tasks. When Walden’s back was turned, Nyctasia stole silently across the kitchen, intent on snatching a handful of sweet raisins from the barrel.

  “Get out of that,” the burly cook growled, without turning around, “or we’ll be serving up Roast of Rhaicime with Raisins tonight,” He sank a cleaver through a slab of beefsteak, with a threatening flourish. “If you’ve finished the walnuts, you can get on with the apples.”

  Nyctasia retreated hastily. “How does he do that?” she complained, “It’s demonic. I never made a sound. I can stalk a deer within ten paces-”

  Walden snorted. “I’ve a dozen children-I have to have eyes in my back. And you’re always up to something. Skinny people aren’t to be trusted. Don’t they feed you at that fine court of yours?”

  “Oh, the food’s plentiful enough,” Corson said with a grin, “but she doesn’t dare eat much of it, for fear someone’s poisoned her share.”

  “Saves up her appetite for her visits here,” Steifann put in, “then eats me out of a month’s earnings. As if it wasn’t hard enough feeding Corson, now there’s two of the ravening leeches, and the one just as useless as the other.”

  Nyctasia paid no heed to his disrespectful remarks. She knew as well as the rest that Steifann’s tavern profited from the patronage of a noblewoman of her rank.

  Word that she frequented the Hare had reached the local gentry and brought Steifann much desirable trade from among them, and her connections to a clan of eastern vintners had made the finest wines of the Midlands available to him as well. All in all, Corson’s acquaintance with the Rhaicime of Rhostshyl had proven most advantageous for Steifann, but since he had taken a liking to Nyctasia himself, he naturally treated her as a nuisance and a burden.

  “Nyc may be useless,” Corson protested, “like all the aristocracy, but I’m-”

  “Don’t forget you’re a lady now yourself,” said Annin, the head serving-woman at the Hare.

  “That’s different! I earned my title by my sword. Nyc’s a lady born and bred.”

  Though Corson held the rank of Desthene, no land or fortune pertained to the title, and she still made her living as a mercenary swordfighter-much to the disgust of Steifann, who felt that she should settle down with him.

  “Earned that wound by your rutting sword too,” he said sourly, gesturing at Corson’s bandaged arm. “Worthless halfwit. You could have been killed, and now here you are living on my bounty as usual, not fit for a scrap of work.”

  “I’m as fit with one arm as you are with two! It’s you who won’t let me lift a hand to the heavy chores-”

  “Now, Corson,” Nyctasia interrupted, “we all know that you like nothing so much as an opportunity to indulge your indolence, but-”

  “What did she say?” one of the scullions demanded, poking the serving-lad Trask.

  “She means Corson’s lazy,” he explained with a grin. Trask was no better educated than the rest, but was considerably more ambitious. He never lost a chance to learn fine phrases and aristocratic ways from Nyctasia.

  “-but as your pride is even more excessive than your sloth,” Nyctasia continued,

  “you’d try to carry on just as usual if we let you, and give that injury no time to knit. You’re to rest easy till you’re properly healed, you heed me. I’m not so useless that I don’t know how to treat a wound.”

  Nyctasia was a skilled healer, and Corson knew it well, but she scoffed, “Fuss, fuss, fuss-you’re as bad as Steifann. It’s just a nasty scratch from a hayfork, no more. None of them had proper weapons. A border skirmish with a few peasants fool enough to attack the escort of an imperial emissary. It was my own fault I was hurt. I thought we could scatter them without killing the lot.” She shook her head in wonder at her own behavior. “Fight to kill or run away-one or the other-remember that,” she admonished a pair of the cook’s children, who were listening wide-eyed to this martial wisdom.

  The others ignored her bravado, as usual. “You’d not have to kill or be killed if you stayed here where you belong, instead of traipsing all over creation looking for trouble,” Steifann pointed out. “I daresay as soon as you’re whole you’ll be off on some other addlepated chase.”

  Corson laughed. “Addlepated enough, but only as far as Rhostshyl. Nyc wants me to guard those precious books of hers on the road-if Destiver ever delivers them. Though why anyone would want to steal the moldy old things is more than I could tell you.”

  Nyctasia was in Chiastelm to receive a shipment of books from her kinfolk in the Midlands. With each lot of wine they sent to Steifann, they dispatched, at her instruction, certain works from the abandoned library of rare scholarly lore that had been discovered on their land nearly two years before. It was not easy for Nyctasia to get away from her duties in Rhostshyl for even a few days, but she had felt that she must without fail take possession of these particular volumes herself.

  “These books are especially valuable, Corson,” she explained. “And especially dangerous. To let them fall into the wrong hands would be unforgivable.”

  “Spells,” Corson guessed. “With all your learning, Nyc, you’ll never learn that no good comes of meddling wi
th magic.”

  “Not from meddling, no,” Nyctasia agreed curtly. She frowned. “Where is Destiver? The Windhover’s been in port for hours.” She had sent two of her people to the docks to see that the books were safely delivered, but she would not feel easy about them until she had them under lock and key.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be here in time for a meal, if I know that one,” Corson said with a sneer. There had never been much love lost between the two of them, but since Corson bad unwittingly taken part in the capture of Destiver’s band of smugglers, their mutual dislike had grown to new heights of loathing. It was only through Nyctasia’s intervention with the powerful Merchants’ Guild of Chiastelm that Destiver had escaped hanging, and she held Corson to blame that she was now forced to make an honest living as a cargo-runner. Corson, for her part, resented any rival for Steifann’s affections, and she knew that Steifann and Destiver had shared a memorable past. She spat again.

  “When the rest of her cargo’s unloaded, she’ll be along with ours,” Steifann assured Nyctasia. Most tradespeople fetched their own goods from Merchants’

  Wharf, but Destiver usually delivered Steifann’s wares herself, so as to sample them, and to pass the time with her old friends Steifann and Annin.

  “If she hasn’t drunk up our cargo already,” said Trask, smacking his tips. “That wine of yours is too good for a sot like her, Nyc. It’s fit for the imperial court. I don’t see why your kin in Rhostshyl disapprove of it.” Trask knew nothing about fine wines, of course, but this did not discourage him from talking as if he did.

  “It’s not the wine itself they condemn,” Nyctasia told him, “it’s my impropriety in allowing our Midland cousins to export their wares to the Maritime markets.

  Now any commoner on the coast who has the price can purchase wine that bears our family name-as if the House of Edonaris were engaged in trade!”

  “No one need be ashamed of those wines,” Steifann declared with satisfaction.

  “They’ll make my reputation yet among the gentry.”

  “And they’ll destroy ours, according to some.” Nyctasia smiled. “There can be no greater disgrace for a family like mine than the taint of commerce. I believe that not even the marriage-alliance with the Teiryn has scandalized them so much as this. The Teiryn may be the arch-enemies of our House, but they are of the high nobility, you see.”

  “And this latest outrage of yours will give your kin something to think of besides reconciliation with the Teiryn, no?” Corson asked shrewdly, “Divert your opponent’s eye from your true objective-that’s good strategy. How goes your grand scheme to unite the enemies? Has your vixen sister murdered her Teiryn husband yet?”

  “By no means. Tiambria’s proud and willful, but she’s not a fool. One couldn’t keep company with Jehamias ar’n Teiryn for long without finding him an agreeable companion. And he was madly smitten with her at once, which rather helped matters along, I fancy. Half the city think him a traitor to his House, and the rest think I’ve spellcast him. Ettasuan ar’n Teiryn’s sworn to have his blood, and he’s not the only one. Tiambria did scorn him for a coward, at first, but she’s come to see that it took far more courage for him to marry her than to refuse. It’s not she who worries me now, it’s ’Kasten.”

  “Your brother Erikasten, her twin? What stone’s in his shoe? Have you found a Teiryn lass for him to marry?”

  “Would that I had! He’s so driven by jealousy he’s easily led by those who claim that the family’s been dishonored by the union. I think,” she added, more to herself than to Corson, “that I must find some pretext to send him off on an important mission soon, to somewhere at a considerable distance.”

  “Eh, jealousy?” said Corson. “But he couldn’t very well expect to marry her himself-unless you Edonaris are even crazier than folk say.”

  “No, but no one expected her to marry so young, least of all Erikasten. It’s hard on him-first he lost his brother to the war, then his sister to the peace.

  And no one’s ever come between him and Tiambria before, not like this. He’s always depended on her and followed her lead. Now that she has a husband and child to think of-”

  “A child! I’ve not been away so long as that!”

  “To be sure, you’ve not heard the news-I forget that others don’t concern themselves day and night with the tidings of Rhostshyl. Of course she’s not a mother yet, but she shall be, and that before three seasons are out.” A radiant smile lit Nyctasia’s features as she spoke of her sister’s unborn child. She seemed suddenly illumined by an inner flame, and her words rang like chimes, joyous and confident. “All my hopes for the future rest with this child, the heir of two great Houses. I have dreamed of a new dynasty, and I believe that we shall soon see the birth of that bloodline-the lineage that will bring peace and prosperity back to the city, that will unite all the people of Rhostshyl at last!” The power of her vision was undeniable.

  “It’s as good as a play to hear that one talk,” Annin said, amused.

  “She wields words as well as I do weapons,” Corson agreed. “And she wins, too.

  I’m bound to say. I’ve seen it at court time and again-she makes them all do what she wants, just by talking at them till they surrender.”

  “It seems you’ve learned some of her ways, then. When she’s not talking, you are.”

  “Oh, Corson was always ready with her tongue,” said Nyctasia. “You can’t blame me for that.”

  “True enough,” Steifann replied. “And talk’s all very well to pass the time, but there’s Destiver out back, and talk won’t get those barrels down the stairs. At least keep out of the way, the pair of you.” The wine casks would have to be brought through the kitchen to the cellarway, and there was little room to spare. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go sing for the taproom?” he suggested to Nyctasia.

  Nyctasia obediently took up her harp. “Very well. If I stay here, Walden will only set me to peeling potatoes, after all.” Though she occasionally made a formal visit to the Hare with the full retinue befitting a Rhaicime, she did so purely to enhance the tavern’s reputation, as a favor to Steifann. Usually she came, as she had today, in the guise of a commonplace traveler, a student or minstrel, and no one who chanced to see her would take her for a personage of rank and importance. “You come too, Corson. I’ve a new drinking-song you might like to hear. Just let me see to those books first, so please you, sir,” she said to Steifann with mock humility.

  Corson was willing. She couldn’t help unload the barrels this time, and she didn’t much care to meet with Destiver, that was certain. Besides, she could tell from Nyctasia’s manner that there was mischief brewing. She went out to the taproom while Nyctasia attended to the unloading and storing of her books.

  They were to be kept in locked chests in Steifann’s quarters until Corson was able to convey them to Rhostshyl herself. When they had been secured, Nyctasia dismissed her people, but before she could follow, Annin slipped into the room and shut the door firmly behind her. “I want a word with you, Nyc,” she said, sitting on one of the chests and gesturing for Nyctasia to take the other. “It’s about Trask. You’ll have to do something for him, you know. He’s not a child anymore. This place has no more to offer him.”

  “I?” gasped Nyctasia. “What is it to do with me? Why am I to be responsible for every stray mudchild who follows Steifann home?”

  “You’re the only one among us who can make a place for him,” Annin said reasonably. “It’s not as if he’ll inherit the Hare-Steifann and Corson will settle down and raise a brood of their own someday. No, you’ll just have to find a position for him, Nyc. That one could make something of himself, with half a chance. And it’s your fault that he has a taste for such things anyway.”

  Nyctasia argued, but she knew it was a losing battle. Even her powers of persuasion were no match for Annin’s determination. Only by promising to give the matter her earnest consideration was she able to escape to the taproom.


  Nyctasia’s new drinking-song proved quite popular with the patrons of The Jugged Hare, although they were not able to hear the entire work on that occasion. It was, she announced, entitled “The Host of the Hare,” and was a tribute to the estimable Steifann. She perched on a table like any common tavern-singer, pushing dirty platters and mugs out of her way, then winked at Corson and struck a few dramatic chords on her small lap-harp. When she had the attention of the house, she began:

  “In fair Chiastelm

  On the coast.

  Stands the far-famed tavern

  Of a worthy host.

  Tall as a tree

  Is the host of the Hare,

  Broad as a barrel,

  Big as a bear.

  With eyes green as jade

  And a beard of black thatch,

  A neck like a bull’s

  And a temper to match!

  The song of his praises

  Could run on forever.

  He’s strong as three oxen

  And nearly as clever.

  He’s feared for his fists

  Throughout the west,

  As a braggart and drunkard

  He ranks with the best.

  As a lover, it’s said,

  He’s a man without peer.

  And folk flock to his bed

  From afar and from near.

  From the woods to the water,

  It matters not where,

  You’ll not meet the like

  Of the host of the Hare!”

  Steifann did indeed have quite a reputation, at least in certain quarters of Chiastelm, and not a few of his customers knew him well. Nyctasia’s mockery was received with enthusiasm, and by no one more than Corson. By this time, Corson was leading the applause, pounding the table with her tankard, cheering after each verse, and shouting for more. Call her a useless layabout, would he? She intended to learn every word of Nyctasia’s new ballad. Trust Nyc to fashion a sword out of words!

  The song, Corson had realized, was Nyctasia’s calculated revenge for Steifann’s inhospitable reception of her when she’d first visited the Hare a year ago, in search of Corson. Goaded by jealousy, Steifann had all but flung her into the street, and though Nyctasia had forgiven his behavior, she had not forgotten it.