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  “I will indeed say freely, my lord.” Cernach grinned, a sailor’s impudence. “I have sworn no oaths with anyone. That is not the way of Ys, unless maybe among the fishers down at the place they call Scot’s Landing, and those are an uncanny lot. True, there are men of Ys—and women, ah, women—whom I like; and I have profit of my trade. It would grieve me to see Ys ruined the way Alba is being ruined. However—lord, I said I would be frank—I do not believe you can harm it. It is too strong, its masters too wise and wary. Even mighty Niall could break his heart against that rampart. Maybe I can do you the service of making you see this. Whether or no, well, why should I not play druid and instruct you?”

  The warriors stiffened, half appalled. Niall himself tensed. His lips pulled back over his teeth. Then he slackened, rattled forth a laugh, lifted his goblet. “Boldly spoken! It seems I can trust you to do what you agreed, in full measure. Come, drink; and I see that the hostelkeeper is carrying out food after your journey.”

  —But later, as the fire guttered low, his mood darkened again. “Never seek to turn me from my vengeance,” he muttered. “It would spill our time. It could cost you your head. Remember that.”

  Cernach’s wife Sadb leaned toward him. “You have an inward sorrow, Niall maqq Echach,” she said softly. “Could I be relieving of it a little this night?”

  Niall considered her. At last he smiled. “You could that,” he answered. “Let us away.”

  They said their good evenings and left for the enclosed space given him, his arm about her waist. Cernach looked after them with an expression that became pleased. Bran cleared his throat and said, “I think we can still find a girl awake for you, guest who has gotten such an honor.”

  On the face of Bran’s wife were disappointment and envy. Niall was not only powerful and handsome. The word went among the women of Ériu that he was a lover without compare.

  3

  When the Suffetes met at vernal equinox, a thing occurred that Ys had never known before. The King brought charges against one of their number.

  “—Nagon Demari, Labor Councillor. It has been notorious how his bullies terrorize the waterfront and beat insensible men who resist the demands he makes of them through the guild he heads. Direct evidence has been lacking…. Now Donnerch, son of Arel, the independent carter who was taking the lead in forming a new and honest guild, he has been murdered, set on as he passed through the Fishtail after dark and stabbed. This is common news and has caused widespread mourning. What did not come out hitherto is that Donnerch was so robust he did not die at once. He regained awareness and named his two assailants to the patrolmen who found him lying in that alley. Fate made these be legionaries, and therefore they reported directly to me. The Captain of Marines is honest and able, but restricted in what he may do. Without impartial witnesses, the killers need only maintain that Donnerch must have been mistaken, and they would go free. I had them quietly seized and privately interrogated. Torture was not necessary. To me, the Incarnation of Taranis, they confessed as soon as I promised to spare their lives—a pledge the Captain of Marines does not have power to give. They have told me, as they will tell you, that they acted on the order of Nagon Demari.”

  Uproar. Horror. Oratory. The grindstone that was procedure.

  “’Tis a foul bargain, letting hired murderers keep their heads,” protested Bomatin Kusuri, Mariner Councillor.

  “They shall be taken in chains to Gesocribate and put on the Roman slave market,” Gratillonius replied. “The proceeds shall go to Donnerch’s widow and children.”

  He cast all his force and all his power of persuasion and, aye, intimidation into the effort to destroy Nagon. That man had been a thorn in the side of Ys, and the wound suppurating, far too long.

  “The testimony’s not good enough,” declared Osrach Taniti, Fisher Councillor, himself a hard-bitten old salt. “We can’t condemn him on the word of two lampreys like those. Mind ye, I’m no friend to Nagon. My Brotherhood’s often had to work with his Guild, but we’ve nay had to like it. However, Nagon has gotten betterment of the longshoremen’s lot. Else yon fellows could ha’ whistled for a share in this prosperity we’re supposed to’ve gained. That speaks for his character.”

  “It says merely that every tyrant or demagogue must needs do some service for somebody,” retorted Queen Vindilis. “The King has confided in the Nine. We are agreed Nagon is evil.”

  “We would never wish to ruin the Guild itself,” said Forsquilis. “Let honest leadership rebuild it.”

  “Ah, but who shall name that leadership?” demanded Soren Cartagi. “The King? Beware!” He raised a hand. “Nay, hear me out. None will deny that Gratillonius has wrought mightily on behalf of Ys. Yet time and again he has overreached himself, he has broken bounds that were ancient already when Brennilis lived. He has not been content to be high priest, president of this Council, and war chieftain. He would become dictator. I say this to his face, more in respect than in anger. He is a well-intentioned man, ofttimes mistaken but mayhap more often right. However, what of his successor? What could, say, another Colconor do with power such as Gratillonius would put in the hands of the King?”

  There were those, the accused among them, who flatly denied the charges. Argument roiled on throughout the day.

  Finally, wearily, a majority voted a compromise. The evidence was deemed insufficient to convict Nagon Demari of a capital crime. The killers might have taken his instructions wrong, or become overexcited. Still, they were henchmen of his, and bad men. His association with them was by itself a grave violation of trust, and gave credence to many more allegations. Nagon Demari was therefore stripped of every office and forbidden to hold any for the rest of his life.

  “Stand forth,” Gratillonius bade him, “if you have aught to say ere I confirm or dismiss this judgment of the Council.”

  Left untouched had been the question Soren raised, whether the King himself had exceeded his rights and established a dangerous precedent.

  The stocky, sandy-haired man stepped up. He kept his back to the assembly, in scorn. It was the one on the dais whom his chill gaze defied, and the soldiers behind, and perhaps the eidolons of the Three looming above them.

  “What is there to say?” he rasped. “You’ve hounded me for years, and at last you have me between your jaws. Ill was the fate that brought you to the Wood. May a challenger soon come and kill you. You shall not crush the workers who will be cursing your name, nor shall you break my spirit. But here I will not linger, where thanks to you my innocent family can no longer hold their heads high. You will be rid of me, Grallon, because I will take myself away from your pestilential presence. You will not be rid of divine justice.”

  Gasps went around the chamber. Gratillonius said merely, “Go, then, and live among the Romans. You’ll take enough loot with you.” The struggle had exhausted him. It was worse than combat. On the battlefield you at least usually had a clear-cut victory or defeat.

  He adjourned the session and departed amidst his guards, waving off every attempt to speak with him. Bodilis followed the squad. This was to be a visit he paid her.

  Dusk brimmed the city with blue when they reached her house. The soldiers left them and they entered. Bodilis took him to her scriptorium, pending supper. That large room—crammed with her books, writing materials, artistic work in progress, specimens, objects of beauty—was their refuge, now that the bedchamber was denied them. Candleglow fell on small refreshments, wine, water, tisane kept warm by a lamp.

  “Won’t you shed cloak and robe?” she suggested in the Latin they commonly used when alone together. “They must hang heavy this evening.”

  “They do that,” he sighed, pulled them off and laid them over a stool. Her cat promptly sprang up and sat on the raiment. Bodilis’s look followed Gratillonius as he went to pour himself a glass of wine, undiluted, and take a lengthy draught. His light undertunic hung across shoulders still broad and back straight, leaving bare the powerful limbs. Bits of silver glinted in the
auburn of his hair and close-trimmed beard. Her locks were quite gray.

  “I’m glad this is your evening,” he said. “I need your strength.”

  “Others among us have as much,” she answered softly, “and comfort to give you besides.”

  “But not your… calm, your fellow-feeling. And your wisdom. You can see beyond the politics of what we did today and help me discover what it really means.” He sat down and stared at the floor.

  She took a cup of herbal brew and a chair facing his. “You speak extravagantly.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ll set my clumsy words aside, though, and ask for your opinions.” It was not the first time in the past decade. The pain of the barrier he had perforce raised between them had long since become familiar; they could talk freely as of old, until he bade her goodnight and sought his bed at the palace.

  “Do you wonder what we can best do about Nagon’s partisans?” she replied. “We know there will be much resentment. Most of his working men believe that, whatever his faults, he was on their side.”

  “That was considered beforehand,” he said impatiently. “Don’t fear any riots. Patrols will be doubled at the waterfront for the next several days. I do wish the Gallicenae would help cool things down.”

  “You know we mustn’t take sides. We serve the Goddess on behalf of everybody.”

  “I meant in reconstructing the guild. If the Nine were counselors and overseers of that, who could doubt the job was done as honestly as human beings are able?… But we’ve covered this ground already. I’ll do what I can with what tools are allowed me.”

  “Well, I can propose to my sisters that we reconsider, but it’ll surely be futile. We went as far as we should in condemning Nagon. You must have something else on your mind.”

  “I do.” His expression was troubled, almost bewildered. “What certain staunch men said—Oh, I’d given the matter thought before, but hastily. Always there’s been too much to do, at once, no time for reflection; and afterward it’s too late. But am I being wise, wise not for myself but for Ys? You’ve made me think back to my history lessons when I was a boy. Marius, who saved Rome from the Cimbri, meant to do well by the people but undermined the Republic—which Caesar demolished in all but name, meaning to repair the states—Am I sapping the wall of Ys? What about the King after me?”

  “Oh, darling!” she cried, leaned forward and seized his hand. “Don’t talk like that!”

  “I’d better,” he said grimly. “I’ll leave so many behind me, Dahut, Tambilis, the children, maybe you—”

  “But you have years ahead of you,” she insisted, “as strong as you are. Who has even challenged you since Rufinus, more than a decade ago, in spite of your sparing him? And all the omens foretell a new Age for Ys. It could well bring an end to, to that which happens in the Wood.”

  His bleakness did not ease. She hurried on: “Meanwhile, true, we do have serious matters to deal with. You understand—understand fully, don’t you?—you will be getting a new Queen.”

  He hesitated. “Poor Fennalis is ill,” he admitted. She had not attended the Council, nor any function of the Gallicenae.

  Bodilis studied him. “You shy from this,” she murmured.

  “Oh, now, I call on her whenever I can. She’s cheerful.”

  “She puts on a good face. But how often have her servants asked you to turn back at her door, saying she’s asleep or whatever? That’s been at her orders. Gratillonius, lately she’s begun vomiting thick, gritty black masses. We know what those mean. She will soon die. We can only try to ease her way a little. You must not hide from the truth.”

  “What can I do, though?” he groaned. “Which of the vestals will be next? There’s no foretelling.”

  “There can be forethought. What if the Sign comes upon one of your own daughters?”

  He stiffened. After a silence that grew long he said, flat-voiced, “That would be very unwise of your Gods.”

  “Well,” she said, more hastily than before, “we Sisters have been considering the girls of the second and third generations. They have their family connections, generally to Suffetes. Whichever of those clans gets the high honor—well, some members will stand aloof, but some will try for this or that advantage. Lanarvilis can best advise you about it.”

  “Hm.” He rubbed his chin. The beard felt wiry. “I’ll seek her out.”

  “First,” Bodilis urged, “you should give reverence to the Three. What happened today was truly an upheaval. It may win Their favor, and certainly it’ll help calm both Suffetes and commoners, if you recess the Council tomorrow and hold a solemn sacrifice.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  She was shocked. “Why not?”

  “I’ve made another promise. It should have been kept earlier, but the word reached me in the middle of my preparations for this day’s business, and… Tomorrow at sunset I’ll be leading a high rite of Mithras. It would make me impure if I offered first to Anyone else.”

  “By why is this?” she whispered. “No holy day of His—”

  “My father in Britannia has died,” he told her. “My initiates and I must give his spirit its farewell.”

  “Oh, my dear.” She rose and reached for him. He got up too. They clung to each other.

  4

  Joreth kept an apartment on the third floor of that tower called the Flying Doe. She had had its walls done over so that motifs of the sea played across them, waves, dolphins, fish, seals, kelp, shells. Sea-green were the draperies along the windows and the coverings of her bed. Small erotic sculptures decorated the main room. The incense that wafted about lacked the heavy sweetness common in places of this kind; it was subtly wild.

  When Carsa entered, he stopped and caught his breath. Daylight through glass limned Joreth’s lissomeness against heaven. It smoldered in the amber masses of her hair. She wore a silken gown, close about breasts and hips, flowing of sleeves and skirt, gauzy save where embroidered vines curled tantalizing. “Welcome,” she purred, and undulated forward to take his hands in hers. “Be very welcome. What a lovely youth you are.”

  He swallowed dryness. His heart thuttered.

  Enormous blue eyes looked up out of the delicate face. “Aulus Metellus Carsa, nay?” she said with a smile like daybreak. “A Roman from far Burdigala, dwelling among us in Ys. Oh, you must have many an adventure to tell of.”

  He remembered vaguely how her ancilla had received him two days ago in an upstairs room. Before taking his money and setting this hour, she had engaged him in amiable conversation. It was known that Joreth did not receive men whom she would find unpleasing; she had no need to. Now Carsa realized that the information about him had been passed on, doubtless including that fact that he was sturdy, with curly dark-brown hair and features broad, blunt, but regular. Well, he thought, foreknowledge helped her charm her patrons.

  The sight of her was enough, though. Glimpsing her in the streets, hearing enraptured stories from friends, he could at last no longer resist. The price was scarcely within his means, but—

  But she was so like Dahut.

  She led him to a couch, bade him sit down, poured a fine wine for them both, settled herself beside him. “Come,” she proposed, “let us get acquainted. Unlock that tongue of yours.”

  “You’re beautiful!” he blurted, threw his arm about her waist and sought to kiss her.

  She held him off with a gesture of her whole body that was not a repulsion but a promise. “Pray wait,” she laughed. “You shall have your desire, but I would fain give you the greatest pleasure therein. This is no cheap tavern where you must wolf your girl as fast as your food. You have time ahead of you. Let your… appetite… grow at leisure.”

  “Looking at you,” he mumbled, “I can hardly rein myself in. I was hoping—twice, ere my time had drained out of the clepsydra—”

  “Well we’ll see about that. Young men are quickly ready again. But Carsa, I tell you afresh, this is no whorehouse. I want to know my lovers in sp
irit as well as flesh. Else they and I are mere beasts in rut. That is wrong.”

  He fumbled for words. “Aye. The more so when, when you are of royal birth.”

  She arched her brows. “You have heard?”

  “Somewhat. I cannot really untangle it,” he admitted. “These many Queens and Kings through the years. But I’m told you are kin to—to Queen Bodilis.”

  Joreth threw back her head and laughed anew, a peal to which he thought he heard a certain thinness. “To Princess Dahut, you mean. Deny it not. ’Tis my good fortune that I resemble her.”

  “And mine,” he sprang to say.

  “La, you’re swift to learn our pretty Ysan ways, Roman,” she teased. “I’ll enjoy teaching you further. Shall I begin by explaining my descent?”

  “Whatever you wish,” he answered humbly.

  “Well, in the days of King Wulfgar there was a Queen who had taken the name Vallilis. The first child she bore him was to become Queen Tambilis—not the present Queen of that name, but her grandmother. Near the end of her life—she died accidentally, unless ’tis true what some believe, that the Gods Themselves decide the doom of all the Gallicenae—Vallilis bore Wulfgar another daughter, Evana.”

  Carsa winced. He could not forget the story of Wulfgar. At the death of Vallilis, the Sign came upon Tambilis, his daughter by her. Helpless in the grip of a Power, Wulfgar had possessed her, and she bore him Bodilis. It was not reckoned incestuous in Ys, when the Gods had made the choice. But Wulfgar was said to have been haunted by guilt. He fell to the sword of Gaetulius, though he should have prevailed over the Mauritanian.

  Tambilis lived on. When Hoel had taken the crown, she bore him that Estar who became Dahilis after she, the mother, passed away. And Dahilis became, by Gratillonius, the mother of Dahut.