“It is not fair.”
“No, it is not.” She pulled me into a sumptuously outfitted room. Padded wooden chairs sat in front of a roaring fire and a fantastically expensive desk, made of the slow-growing darkwoods found only in the north, dominated one corner of the room while richly embroidered tapestries covered the shuttered window and plastered walls behind it. My master pulled aside a tapestry to reveal a small alcove. “In here, Girton. Any minute now the Festival Lords will appear to try and strong-arm Adran into leaving the keep and the gates to the keepyard open. It is a perfect time for us to observe the Festival Lords—well, listen to them,” she said as she let the tapestry fall back and shut out the light. “As there’s little to be learnt from staring at the back of some embroidery.”
I counted three hundred my-masters before the Festival Lords shuffled into the room. From behind the tapestry I heard them settle into position and wondered how they coped, wrapped in thick blankets in all weathers.
“This is not acceptable,” said one. I was surprised to hear it was a woman.
“A woman? I thought they were all men,” I said in the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear.
“Why?” My master said. I did not reply as there was no good answer. “Now be quiet and listen.”
“You are right, it is not acceptable.” This speaker was a man.
“We shall not stand for this.” Another man. “It is imprisonment.”
“No, Festival cannot be controlled, it must not be.” The woman spoke again.
“Quiet,” a second woman said. “It is more than likely we are listened to. These dead buildings are riddled with tunnels and passages.”
My master smiled at me when the woman said that. Then whispered, “The Festival Lords follow the old ways—they balance. Two men, two women.”
“Lords.” Queen Adran’s voice, confident as ever.
“You cannot imprison Festival,” said one of the male Festival Lords.
“I have no intention of imprisoning Festival,” said Adran
“You said the gates would be closed.”
“Yes, but not the townyard gate. Your caravans and your suppliers will still be able to get to you and come and go as they wish.”
I leaned to one side so I could look through a tear in the tapestry. I could see two of the Festival Lords and the back of Adran as she paced back and forth. The Festival Lords did not move at all. Swathed in blankets, their faces covered by corn stalk masks, it was easy to understand why people thought them inhuman.
“And how will our tumblers and entertainers make their living, Queen Adran? They pass through the castle and get paid by your blessed.”
“Did you fail to understand what I said in the theatre hall? My son is—”
“Your son is not our concern.”
“The death of the heir should be everyone’s concern.” There was steel in Adran’s voice.
When the Festival Lord replied his voice was low, almost threatening. “Do you accuse us of this?”
“No,” said Adran, “of course not. I would never intimate such a thing. But Festival is huge and it is possible an assassin could use it to slip into the castle.”
Silence for five counts of my-master.
“To shut us out is not done,” said a male Festival Lord. “It has never been done. It is not the way of things.”
“Well, change is often unstoppable,” said Adran coldly.
“If you had listened to your jester you would know change is not always a good thing,” one of the women said.
“That was not my jester,” said Adran. “And besides, the blessed of the castle will still visit Festival, only in groups so no intruders may slip in.”
“If you force this on us, you may find that Festival stops elsewhere next year and your fruit and fish are left to rot.”
Another silence. Ten “my-masters.”
“Listen to me,” hissed Adran. “I had hoped to avoid this, but you leave me no choice. Let us be plain: you need Castle Maniyadoc as a stop. There is nowhere else before the western sourlands that can provide enough fodder and water for your animals, and I know the sort of profit you make on our produce—more than enough to put up with a little inconvenience.”
I heard a rustle of material that I presumed was one, or all, of the Festival Lords standing.
“Profit is not everything, Queen Adran. Leave the gates open as tradition dictates or we will find some way to avoid your castle next year.”
“No,” said Adran. As she spoke her voice dropped further and further, becoming quieter and quieter which only served to underline the threat she made. “You should keep in mind, before you threaten me, that the marriage of my son and the high king’s sister is only a matter of time. The high king has no heir. Aydor will be next high king and I will stand behind him. He will be no figurehead when he’s on the high throne; he will be a power. I, and he, will remember who was his friend, Festival Lords. My reach will be long and if you do not accept the closure of the keepyard I will make sure you pay. Taxes on Festival will increase; the Landsmen will be less respectful of your autonomy, check you for sorcerers more thoroughly and be slower to come to your defence if you are troubled. So choose wisely, Festival Lords, for you hold your future in your hands.”
I waited, not knowing what would happen. I had never been in the same room as powerful people when they chose to bump heads and the air almost throbbed with tension.
“You dream, Queen Adran.”
“Do I?”
She did not sound like she dreamed and the ensuing silence lasted ten my-masters.
“Close your gates then, Queen,” said one of the female Festival Lords quietly. “You need not throw the traditional leaving banquet for us though; we will not be attending.”
The rustle of clothes and then the closing of the door.
“Merela, come out,” said Adran, and we squeezed out of our hiding place. “Well, what do you think? Are they likely to want my son dead?”
“They may now,” said my master. “But they would not have before. You should not have pushed them so hard.”
Adran sat heavily on one of the overstuffed chairs. “And what else could I do?” When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. “What else could I do, Merela? He is my son and I love him.” She stood and gathered herself, straightening her green jerkin. “Of course, I should not expect you to understand a mother’s love. Go, it is late,” she pointed at the door. “Leave me!”
We walked to our room in silence. When I was huddled in my bed and my master had blown out the candle I gave voice to a question that had been burning within me: “What did she mean?”
“Who?” said my master.
“Adran, when she spoke of you …” I was suddenly awkward, having to think of my master as a woman. “Well, you know. Not understanding a mother’s love?”
“It doesn’t matter, Girton. Go to sleep.”
Five my-masters.
“How well do you know Adran?”
“I said you should sleep.”
Ten my-masters.