THE DARK LADY
Belthus Byet sat beside Jayde, sipping at his little glass of the juniper-strongwine he'd brought, looking both austere and elegant in that clothing of his that was blacker than black. "I do apologize for the trouble," he said softly.
Jayde laughed. "Oh, come. He has not returned," she said. "He's gone to Myr, as I understand it. Or rather somewhere about Myr." She gestured to the old man, playing cyvasse at a table with one of Brightstar nieces. "He says it is some fort…"
"Blackcastle Tower," said the old man, not even looking up from the board as he made his next cyvasse move. His niece bit her lip and started to look over the game nervously.
"That is it," said Jayde, chuckling.
Belthus Byet shrugged. "Still, I should have remembered that like many worms, Vargo Hoat tends to lash out at vulnerable targets when crushed under the heel of a strong boot." He bowed his head. "Again apologies for heedlessness."
Jayde shook her head. "I never knew you Qohrik could be so sweet. Or that your drinks could be so fine." She brought up her own little cup of that juniper-strongwine and took a sip. "It is… interesting. The flavor…"
"Enjoy it in moderation," said the Qohorik. "Peket has a demon in it that can take those who overindulge."
"Like most pleasures, then," said Jayde.
Belthus took her hand. "The lady is wise," he said, then brought her hand to her lips and left the faintest of kisses on it.
Chataya shook her head and glanced at the Qohorik musicians she had hired, playing unobtrusively in the corner. She'd thought originally to have them here only for this meeting that Lord Belthus was having with some of his fellows, but they were proving quite… adept. She'd always imagined that Qohor music must be nothing but dirges but it was far from that. She watched their leader play another spritely tune on his strange six-stringed lute. You would not think a man could get so many notes out of such a thing, but somehow he could. She had sent for some Summer Isles' musicians – now she was wondering if perhaps she should simply retain these Qohorik. She shook her head. I've sent for them, and they are my people. I will give them a chance. I'm sure we can work something out if I decide to keep these Qohorik.
"And I take your king," said the old man.
His niece clicked her tongue. "That was mean, qybor," she stated. "You made me think I was winning. I'd taken both your dragons."
"Cyvasse's a cruel game," he said, tipping his ridiculous hat at her. "And you were closer than you might think."
"How close?" asked the girl.
"Leave an old man his secrets, my dear," said her uncle, smiling. He turned to Chataya and signaled for a drink. She smiled, and poured him another, then walked to their table. "Ahh, thank you, mine hostess. I fear I've not wet my lips in a while."
"Qybor," said the girl, raising one silver-gold eyebrow in concern.
The old man sighed. "Oh, very well." He turned to Chataya. "Make it a small drink. Liquor is one of the family evils, I'm afraid." He shrugged, and turned to his niece, as Chataya poured some of the wine back into the jug. "There, see, Ilyra? Your dear uncle knows how to care for himself." Ilyra smiled, and pinched his cheek. The old man smiled back, then took the glass from Chataya. "A treasure, is she not? Like her sisters and various cousins of various degrees."
"They have been a great help," said Chataya. It was true, and not simply in pillow play. Ilyra in particular was helping with the children – Alayaya and Dancy adored her, and even shy Marei seemed to becoming fond of her. As for the others… She glanced around the room, where every Brightstar and Nightstar there seemed to be seated near a happy client. They are doing well here.
"Of course they have," said the old man. "My darlings are exquisitely trained, and of exceptional breeding." He gestured about. "Why, each has the blood of princes…" He leaned forward. "You think I jest. But Ilyra is the daughter of a Prince of Pentos!"
Ilyra nodded at this. "Of course this is true of a good portion of the noblewomen of Pentos," she noted with a sardonic grin.
The old man gestured towards a table where three of his nieces, two with dark hair and one with the same silvery-gold as Ilyra were entertaining a group of Tyroshi nobles. "Seja and Soji Nightstar, and Syloa Brightstar are each the offspring of a different Prince of Lorath." He gestured to another table, where a handsome young youth wearing an elaborate bright red wig was flirting outrageously with a pair of older Tyrosh men. "Young Losha is of noble Norvosi stock, though his family does… mmm, not like to acknowledge him. You know how the Norvosi are."
He waved to one that Chataya knew well, exotic Tyaka, with her teak-and-honey skin and pale white hair. Presently she sat at a table with a solitary Tyroshi nobleman, who had five trained lemurs with him. The little creatures darted about on his command, and even fed him. He seemed to take the food from their little paws with a rather disturbing avidity to Chataya's eyes, though Tyaka . "She is the daughter of a countryman of yours, one of great fame," said her uncle. "Xhobar Qhoqua."
"The Ebon Prince was from the Bones," said Chataya quietly. "Not a countryman."
"His mother was from Sweet Lotus Vale," noted the old man. "And Xhobar would have said that all from the Summer Isles are countrymen." He shrugged. "But perhaps that was his problem. A fine cyvasse player, mind you. Oh, the games he and I played at the House." He began to set the board for another game. "There's a pair of sons in the Golden Company, as I understand it. No kin of mine, mind you." Tyaka leaned forward and patted the head of one of her companion's lemurs. The Tyroshi seemed quite appreciative of this.
Chataya was still thinking of this revelation when Belthus placed his sheathed sword on the table before Jayde. The woman laughed. "I didn't think you'd actually do that," she said.
"You requested it," said Belthus. "I'm a man of honor, and it is within the bounds of my oaths." He ran his fingers familiarly over the covered blade. "It is very old, you know. A true Fifteenth." Jayde blinked at that. The Qohorik smiled. "In the days of the Freehold, it was the price that for every fourteen blades we forged for Old Valyria, we could make one for ourselves of the Metal." He spoke this last word with a peculiar emphasis tinged with reverence.
Jayde stared at it, looking almost afraid of it. "I'd… heard that Valyrian steel was made in Valyria."
"And so it was," said the Qohorik. "For only the Fourteen Flames burned hot enough to start work on the Metal, and only many dragons could keep the flames going so it could be finished. But the art and the craft of my people – it was only with this that the Freehold could truly unlock all the potential of the Metal. Each of those blades made for ourselves, the makers poured their all their craft into, making some of the finest blades imaginable. In this way, if no other, the height of the Freehold was our height."
Belthus sighed and shook his head. "Now… we have the means to reforge it, to repair it, to reshape it if necessary but… even leaving aside the fact that no more of the Metal may be produced, our finest smiths and artisans were at Valyria when the Doom came. Their secrets and spells lost now forever. And that damned fool Aurion Belaerys took many others with him when he marched them to the Doom." He shook his head. "Even with the Freehold gone, the Valyrians still found ways to make my people suffer for their pleasure."
"Wasn't… Qohor a colony of Valyria?" whispered Jayde.
Belthus gave an enigmatic smile. "The city of Qohor began as a logging camp in the Forest of Qohor. As it grew, it became a colony dedicated to the worship of the Black Goat." The Qohorik shrugged. "This is true. And yet my people will tell you we have been in Qohor since the dawn of time, and we have worshiped the Black Goat about as long. And perhaps this is also true."
Jayde nodded, and then looked again at the sword. "Lord Lucerys once showed me his Valyrian steel dagger. It was… a strangely beautiful thing…"
"I do not unsheath my blade, save when I must," said Belthus, returning the sword to his belt. "Such is my vow."
One of the Tyroshi nobles, a man wearing orange clothing, with hair dyed a bright red, had been watching all this with interest, and rose suddenly, walking to Belthus and Jadye's table. "Qohorik," he said, eyes filled with contempt, "did I hear that you need a reason to unsheath your blade?"
"No," said Belthus. "But I believe you have misconstrued it as such. Be off with you." The old man frowned and rose from his chair, making his way to the musicians.
"Do you know who I am?" said the noble.
"No, but I sense you are going to tell me," said Belthus.
"I am Stallados Ostoyr," said the Tyrosh, spreading his bright orange cloak to show the blade at his side. "Men call me the Furious Tiger." Baladar Xi moved carefully from the door.
Belthus nodded. "As you appear to enjoy this, my congratulations."
"Do not mock me, Qohorik," snapped Stallados. "You are not worthy of this fine blade you carry. I…" The musicians began to play a tune, a surprisingly sprightly one. Stallados' face paled as he heard it, while Belthus' eyes narrowed. The Qohorik looked to the musicians and said something in his native tongue. It struck Chataya that it was one of the oddest tongues of the Free Cities, guttural and harsh where the others were lilting and musical. If the others seemed to have all started as Valyrian, even Braavosi, Qohorik sounded like it had started as itself, and then had Valyrian briefly move through it. The tune stopped. "You... you are Belthus Byet," said Stallados slowly.
"That is my name, yes," said the Qohorik.
Stallados gulped, and pulled his cloak close, hiding his blade. "I…" He gave a nervous chuckle, then bowed. "Apologies, Lord Byet," he said. "I… didn't realize it was you."
"That is obvious," replied Belthus.
"None… none of what I said was meant," said the Tyroshi, backing away nervously.
"Oh, it was meant," said Belthus. "Just for a man other than I. Relax, Furious Tiger. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead right now." The Tyroshi walked back quickly to his table, and said something to his companions. After a moment, they all rose, and rushed to leave the establishment. Belthus watched them go, then glanced at Chataya. "My apologies for scaring away your custom."
"They have already paid," replied Chataya. "And you are a far more valuable customer."
Belthus smiled at that, nodded, and then turned to the musicians. "My apologies as well, Master Mydarra. I… dislike having that song played around me. Your decision…"
"My decision," said the old man, returning to his seat. "I am the one who told him to play that. And paid him when he objected."
"Then a double apology, for my harshness, and my mistake," said the Qohorik. He turned to the old man. "I understand your intentions, but I found that display… gauche and extravagant."
"I am a bawd, Lord Byet," said the old man, returning to his cyvasse game. "Being gauche and extravagant goes with the profession." The Qohorik smiled at that, and took another sip of his drink.
"What was the song?" asked Jayde.
Belthus sighed. "A silly thing about a deed of little note I performed once," he said. "They call it 'A Fifteenth on His Hip', and they sometimes play it and think I will be flattered." He shrugged, and there was an uncomfortable silence. The door opened, and another Qohorik entered, a woman, followed by an older Sarnori man. Like her fellow, she was clad almost entirely in black, though her clothing lacked the little silver ornaments that Belthus had on his sleeves and collar. Belthus nodded at her as she entered. "Lady Severa. Hail and well met, brave companion."
Severa's dark eyes looked around the chamber. "Hail and well met, brave companion." She gestured to the Sarnori who accompanied her. "Zor Dmitri accompanies me, as you requested."
The old Sarnori gave a slight bow. "I thank you, Lord and Lady, for your aid."
"We are companions of the Vow," said Belthos, as Severa sat down beside him. "Thanks are not needed. We serve as our oaths direct us."
"I heard some Tyroshi muttering about you as my charge and I entered," said the Qohorik woman.
"There was a small scene," said Belthos. "It ended swiftly once the man starting it knew it was I he dealt with."
"Perhaps I should have hurried here," said Severa, spreading her cloak. There was a sword on its side, the hilt crowned by the image of a snarling wolf's head. The sword's guard appeared to be Valyrian steel worked in the image of a pair of measuring scales. "Two brave companions are better than one."
Jayde glanced at the pair as Zor Dmitri took his seat. "You keep saying… Is this like Vargo Hoat's sellsword company?"
Severa's eyebrow raised. "Vargo Hoat has a sellsword company now?"
"He was named captain of the Doughty and the True last year," said Belthos. "He's renamed it the Brave Companions."
"That… sounds like him," muttered Severa, with a scowl. "One day, I swear, my blade will find his throat…"
"If the Black Goat wills it," said Belthus, sipping his drink.
Severa scowled further at this, and turned to Jayde. "To answer your question, no, we are nothing like that bloody fool, and whatever gathering of gutter trash he now stands at the head of. At best he wishes he were like us." She chuckled darkly. "That is Vargo Hoat. As pathetic and disgraceful as he is vile. I can almost pity him. Almost." She glanced at Jayde and Belthus' glasses, licked her lips, then signaled Chataya for a glass.
Chataya approached with two, and handed her one. She gave the other to Zor Dmitri and then gestured to the wine bottles at her desk. "Not now," said the Sarnori. "I would like a clear head when my guests arrive."
Belthus was already pouring Severa some of the juniper-strongwine from his flask. "Quite admirable," he said.
"Indeed, indeed," said Severa, sipping down her drink. "We have great respect for your temperance."
There was a clatter coming down the stairs, as Lord Tydres' party came down. Some members were cheerful, and others were less so, though trying not to show it. The Merryweathers were with them, Taena looking happy and gay, and Orton looking quietly pleased. Lord Brymel stood in the back, his hair now dyed a flamboyant red. As his fellows filed out, he looked rather pleadingly at Lord Orton. "About those winnings…" he began.
"Tut tut, Lord Brymel," answered Orton calmly, "I am in no hurry to collect. Whenever you have the funds ready to pay, then I will accept them."
Brymel nodded nervously. "Yes, yes, thank you…" He began to head quickly to the door.
"I do hope we can see you again soon, Lord Brymel," said Taena, all sweetness. As soon as he was out of sight, she glanced at her husband and smirked.
The old man moved his catapult on the cyvasse board. "I thought you worked by losing your games?"
"Most of the time," said Orton. "But I allow myself the occasional streak of good luck. Especially when it helps with other matters. Lord Brymel is about to encounter someone who will offer a great deal of money to undertake certain actions. He has a definite incentive to do so now. Or more of one. Spends his money quite freely, does our Lord Brymel."
"He simply spends freely," said Taena with a chuckle. Orton snorted in response.
The old man raised a silvery eyebrow at this. "So what is the cause of your patron?"
"We do not know," replied Taena.
"Nor do we care," noted Orton. His wife nodded at this. "As long as we are paid," he continued, "and have a clean route away from any trouble, we are well-satisfied."
The old man regarded them for a moment. "As charming as I find the pair of you," he said at last, "I think you number among some of the most terrifyingly cold-blooded people I know. And I have known many terrifying people."
"We'll take that as a compliment, cove," said Taena, as the pair headed out.
The old man shook his head and sighed. He glanced at Chataya. "At moments like this, I start to feel I have a poor taste in friends."
Chataya chuckled. "I think it is better to say you can appreciate a broad range of people, from heroes to villains."
He laughed at that, and moved another cyvasse piece. "A gift for all in our profession."
"Another is charm, and you most assuredly have that," she noted.
"Thank you, lady," he said with a nod. "My mother told me once it was a gift of the gods. Of course, as she had her left arm tied down at that time as she felt it was conspiring to kill her, I've never been quite sure how to take it."
The door opened again, as yet another black-clad Qohorik entered, a tall and grizzled man, whose cloak and garb seemed worn. Severa and Belthus nodded at him. "Hail and well met, brave companion," they said.
"Hail and well met, brave companions," he said in reply. He gestured behind him. "I bring with me the cause for our meeting, Zor Alexi, and Lok of Far Ib." Chataya looked and saw a handsome young Sarnori man with a neat black beard, and a red-haired Ibbenese man. Zor Alexi's garb was fine but simple, from his blue-green cloak, to his pale yellow tunic, on which the image of a sea-dragon wrapped around a pearl was painted. Lok's was understated, but all fine – his brown cloak was threaded with gold and silver, and he had emeralds and sapphires laced into his beard.
Zor Dmitri stood. "Excellent. It is you then? The Lord of the Silver Hall, Master of the Two Hundred Gates, Chanter of the Names of the Thirtyfold Thirty Gods, Prince of the Line Illustrious, Son of Mishka, Grandson of Zor Fyodor, the Pearl Beyond Price, the Thread Which Does Not Diminish, Friend to the Supplicant, Staff to the Needy, He Who Is, Blood of the High Kings, Heir to the Line Regnal, First Lord of Saath, and High Prince of the Sarnor?"
Alexi sighed. "Those are among my titles, yes."
Dmitri nodded. "Good." He turned to Chataya. "I will have that drink now." As she started to pour, the old Sarnori turned to the guests. "Know that before you stands Zor Dmitri, Lord of the Halls of Battle, Shield to His People, Scourge to His Foes, Speaker of the Name of Victory, Prince of the Line Triumphant, Son of Zor Yaropolk, Grandson of Zor Olag, the Sword of Battle, the Arrow That Does Not Miss, Breaker of Bones, Crusher of Wills, He Whose Hands Are Red, Blood of the Fated, First Lord and Sovereign of Mardosh." Chataya handed him his drink, noting to herself that his wrinkled hands were most certainly not red. Dmitri took the glass, and raised it high. "To the city unconquered, even in defeat!" He gulped the drink down in one swallow, and then set it down on the table.
Chataya had thought herself surprised by the man's utterance, but Zor Alexi was shocked. "Mardosh?" he said. "But… Mardosh has been dust and ashes for three and half centuries."
"Indeed, oh, Pearl Beyond Price," said Dmitri. "Dust and ashes, its people slain by their own hands to escape defilement and enslavement by the Dothraki. And I… I am its Prince." He sat down and shook his head. "Ahh, it is a proud day for me. My Aloshya… he should be here. To meet you… the High Prince of our people. He would enjoy this."
Alexi and Lok glanced at each other and walked to the table. "I must thank you, Lord Byet, Lady Vileks, and Lord Snow, for your aid in arranging this meeting…" said the Sarnori prince.
"Unlike my fellows I am no lord, great sirs," said the Qohorik who had brought Lok and Alexi here as he sat down next to Lady Severa. "Merely a Companion of the Vow."
"You say that as if it means nothing," noted Alexi, sitting down. "There are fewer of you than there are princes and lords in Saath. There can not be more than thirty of you…"
"Twenty-five, at present," said Snow.
"Twenty-four," corrected Belthus, a sad smile on his face. "Delthan Ot has passed."
Snow and Severa both looked grim at this news. "May the Black Goat watch His own," said Snow at last. "What happened, and how did you hear of it?"
"He died from wounds received in the Flatlands, in service to his vow," said Belthus. "I heard it from the Bringer of Woe, who goes to Pentos to collect Indignation."
"Good to hear the Supplicant can stir from his wives at Kadath," said Severa.
"Lord Efraeym is a man of honor," said Snow. "That he cares for his family is no flaw, especially as it hardly prevents him from his duties as these present circumstances show." Severa scowled at that, while Belthus gave a polite cough.
"We offend the ears of those with us with the paltry and uninteresting doings of our order," noted Belthus.
Lok shook his shaggy head even as Chataya poured his drink. "Oh, on the contrary, we find this all fascinating." The Ibbenese smiled. "And we are very thankful for Qohor's aid in this…"
"Our aid," said Snow. "This comes from Brave Companions of the Vow, doing as we will."
"We walk where we walk," said Belthus. "We go where we go."
"Ours the path with no ending," said Severa. "Ours the charge, ours the vow. Through the wood, to the dark and past it."
"If Qohor be aided by our wanderings, well, we rejoice, for who cannot love the land of their birth," noted Snow. "But our ways are ours, and the way of Qohor, Qohor's."
Zor Alexi chuckled at this. "Well, whether you or your city, you have my gratitude."
"Speak not of it, Lord of the Silver Hall," said Belthus. "Does the Black Goat not teach us that the sufferer is our kin?" The three Qohorik bowed their heads. "Yea, I speak to you of a wonder and a glorious mystery," said Belthus. "There is a light shining in the deepest darkness."
"And the darkness has not overcome it," said Severa and Snow in unison. There was an eerie serenity to their faces as they said this, and it struck Chataya that for all the Qohorik looked nothing like the Valyrians, they did possess an inhuman beauty all their own. It was a thing of hard edges not ethereal delicacy, of stony severity, not fiery passion. But it existed, and it was their own.
The others were silent for a moment. "You Qohorik have a strange talent for making everything sound terrifying," noted Lok.
"The world is terrifying, Lok of Far Ib," said Severa.
"And also wonderful," said Belthus.
"That as well," agreed Severa, nodding. The three Qohorik smiled at that, dark eyes glittering. Severa and Belthus' were a dark brown that was almost black, while Snow's were an eerie grey.
Lok shook his head. "I've no head for gods and the like. No Ibbenese has. We had some once, but they were a nuisance, so we killed them. Life's been simpler since. Less bloody too."
Zor Alexi shrugged. "And we of Sarnor have too many. It's impossible to keep them all straight, and to take them seriously after a certain point." He looked at Zor Dmitri. "My apologies if I offend. I… I am probably not what you expected in a High Prince."
"Oh, you meet most of my expectations," said the older Sarnori. "But then… well, would you hear the tale of my line?" Alexi nodded at this. "It is nothing grand. They snuck us out during the siege. We went to Braavos. We were to live in hiding until the Dothraki were vanquished, and then rebuild Mardosh. But… well, that did not happen. The Dothraki vanquished us, and more of the Sarnori fled abroad. For those of Mardosh… we were cursed and blamed for inspiring the High King to ride to his ruin. And so we left Braavos, and settled in time here. And here we've stayed. The line of kings stretches unbroken to me."
"And to your son, afterwards," noted Alexi with some awe.
"Yes, him as well," said Dmitri. "Oh, you should see him, Pearl Beyond Price. So brave, so clever, with eyes green as the sea." He sighed. "But… he could not be here." The man bit his lip, and looked at Alexi. "Still, I am here. I will call you my Huzhor, should you let me, and I will follow you into battle, this last grand battle by which the Tall Men shall rise or fall. I can raise… oh, three hundred men, easily. Perhaps five hundred with good fortune. Not much… but enough."
Alexi seemed startled by this. "Zor Dmitri, I… it will be a hard battle and I cannot say…"
"I know I am old," said Dmitri, "but I am still hardy, still strong. I swing my sword as well as any man, as not only are fellow Tall Men, but the Ibbense and Qohorik who dwell here can tell you from when we have banded together to keep the mobs from destroying us. The last time was only a few years ago." He looked at Alexi imploringly. "And I know we may lose, and that I may die. I do not care. The battle… the battle is all. Let me go to this battle…"
"What does your son say to this?" asked Lok suddenly.
Dmitri was quiet for a moment. "He… he is proud of his father, he…"
Lok nodded. "Ahh. I thought so." He took a deep breath. "As incredible as it may seem to you, I am married, and happily, to a woman who I hold beautiful. We had a daughter, a lovely child in my eyes. And one day, my dear little girl went swimming, and she drowned." He looked on Dmitri with sympathy. "For a long time, my wife and I would speak of her as if she were alive. It… helped the pain. So, I ask you, Zor Dmitri, without malice or rancor… how did your son die?"
Dmitri's face fell and he was silent for a long time. At last he spoke, his eyes, filled with tears. "He went to the tallest tower in this city, and he jumped." The man began to sob. "My beautiful, beautiful boy, my heir with his eyes like the sea, he died like that, a twisted mangled thing, oh Aloshya, Aloshya,..." He lowered his head to the table, weeping. Severa placed a calming hand on his back as he wept.
After a moment, Dmitri composed himself to speak again. "Some say it was for a woman, and others, debts, but… before it happened, he spoke to me. He asked me… he asked me if I ever wondered if there was any point to our people having escaped Mardosh. If we all had done since then was simply… exist." His face was grave. "I sputtered out an inadequate answer, some foolish thing I cannot even recall and he… he went and he ended himself." He stared Alexi in the face. "Despair killed my son. It is killing me. It is killing all of us here. And that is why I must do this. I must be there. Let me down one foe, strike one blow, lead a charge though I end it dead with an arrow in my throat. I must do this because otherwise… otherwise, what has it all been for? What did we leave Mardosh for but this? What say you, Friend to the Supplicant and Staff to the Needy? What say you, Thread Which Does Not Diminish and He Who Is?"
Alexi was silent for a while, and then he raised his glass. "To the city unconquered, even in defeat." The others around the table joined him in the toast, as did a few others about, including Ilya and her uncle. Dmitri nodded as he raised his glass, a sad smile on his face. He put it to his lips and gulped down his drink again, all in one swallow.
