Taudde knew the quiet that lay outside his window was an illusion, that the darkness concealed discreet movements and dangerous secrets. The same might be true of any city, but it seemed to him that the pale light of the streetlamps of Lonne accented the city’s darkness; that the magecrafted lights only cast more and darker shadows. To the north and west, there was a steadier, brighter glow than the streetlamps could provide. That was the candlelight district, where from dusk till dawn the city was anything but quiet.
Taudde was very tired, yet he knew he would not be able to rest. Anger and shock still roiled through him. He should frame a plan, something clever that would let him slip through the hands of the conspirators. But he couldn’t think. Not now, not tonight, not while all his thoughts rushed continually forward and backward without coherence or order.
He wanted to pace, but knew it wouldn’t help. He longed for music, but did not dare play so much as a note. He knew he should rest, but could not bear to stay still. Turning on his heel, he strode back toward the stairs. If he dared not go out alone, Benne would evidently serve well as a bodyguard—and a mute man could ask no awkward questions. Benne was a safer escort than any other man could be, for a bardic sorcerer who had dared enter Lirionne in defiance of the Seriantes ban.
Benne did not, in fact, seem to find anything curious about his employer’s desire to go down to the rugged shore and look at the sea. Other men might enjoy the light and laughter of the candlelight district, but if a foreigner from land-bound Miskiannes wished to sit on the cold rocks and stare out at the dark sea, why not?
The sea stretched out infinitely far, melding imperceptibly with the star-flecked sky. Taudde, sitting on a sharp-edged stone new-fallen from the rugged cliffs beneath the Laodd, allowed himself to fall into the endless cadence of the waves, away from all the anger and shock and fear of the endless day and evening. He did not look up toward the road, where Benne waited, patient and silent, unable to question even the strangest orders. If he did not look, Taudde could pretend that he was entirely alone.
The intrinsic magic of the sea compelled attention, drowning other concerns. It blurred at the edges into a kind of music that was tantalizingly close to something Taudde could understand, yet so far always a little out of his grasp. He let his mind pour out into the music of the sea, let it pour itself into him, trying to lose himself in its rhythm.
One might string a harp with the winds from the heights, but the music of the sea had so far eluded Taudde’s attempts to bind it into wire. Perhaps pipes… perhaps reeds? If the sea’s music could not be bound, it might perhaps be echoed… There was no intrinsic reason this wild magic could not be blended into bardic sorcery. Surely there was not. He was so close to understanding the heart of the sea… yet he had thought so for days, for weeks, and seemed never quite able to plunge from the edge of the cliff into that wild heart.
But he could lose himself, and all his ephemeral worries, in the attempt.
In the morning, Taudde, wakening at dawn as always despite his late night, stood at the window to watch the sunlight pour over the crests of the mountains and fill the streets. Then he went thoughtfully down the stairs to the kitchen.
Nala gave him a cordial nod, a smile, and a plate of sweet rolls. She had been stirring the savory rice porridge with which the folk of Lonne liked to break their fast, sprinkling a handful of shredded dried scallops into the pot, but she knew that the rolls were more to Taudde’s taste. The fragrance of honey and toasted walnuts filled the air.
Taudde took a roll and leaned his hip on the edge of the table while he ate it. “Tell me, Nala,” he asked as he picked up a second roll, “what is the best keiso House in this city?”
“Maple Leaf House is very glamorous, lord,” the woman said promptly, “if my lord wishes the very highest style. Cloisonné House or the House of Butterflies are also elegant, but not so… so…”
“Snobbish?”
The woman blinked at this, but agreed, “Just so, lord. The keiso at the House of Butterflies are famous for their good cheer.” She gave him an appraising stare and then went on, “Though the more discerning often consider that the keiso of Cloisonné House are more graceful.” From Nala’s matter-of-fact tone, he might have asked her for the names of the best spice merchants in Lonne.
“The most artistic? The most accomplished?”
“Ah, now, that is likely Cloisonné,” Nala said decisively. “They have very fine dancers there, and the best instrumentalist in Lonne came out of that House.”
Taudde inclined his head, acknowledging the woman’s expertise. “I will be dining at Lord Miennes’s house tomorrow evening.”