“Your honored mother is well, my lord, although she must feel her years, as we all do. She is currently in the city, so far as I know.”
Dicerno returned to his corner and came back carrying a basket, from which he produced a towel. Cavotti accepted it gratefully, having by this time stripped down to his scars, brass collar, and two pelf strings laden with silver and copper twists. He dried his face.
“Will you take a message to her for me?”
“Um… of course, my lord.” The tactful pause said more than the words.
“Has Celebre sunk so far that mothers betray their sons?”
“The Fist’s methods are brutal beyond belief, my lord.” Remember, she was forced to watch your father die. “If any rumor of your visit reaches his ears, she and all your family will be in gravest peril. She cannot lie to a seer.”
Cavotti said, “And I am putting you at risk also. I will give you silver, master, and I want you to leave the city tomorrow to go and spend some time elsewhere. I know you have sixty-sixty friends you can call on. No, do not argue-it will not serve my cause to have you flayed in the piazza for aiding me. I need instruction in the present affairs of the city. What news of the doge? I must see him tonight and be gone by dawn.”
“I do not believe that will be possible, my lord.” The old man was emptying his basket of all the things Siero had asked for-more towels, scented oil, clothes, rope, food, a razor.
“Ah! Celebrian bread! I missed this more than anything.” Cavotti added with his mouth full, “Without the beard.”
“I am more relieved to hear that than you can imagine. My reputation would be ruined. But even without the beard, the noble lord will not receive you.”
“Why not? Is my mother out of favor?”
Dicerno shook his head. “It is his health. The Mercies are in constant attendance. The lady Oliva is acting as regent, unofficially.”
This news complicated matters. “Grievous tidings! I knew he was failing, of course, but not so far.” The Mutineer had not known how hungry he was, either. He tore off a chunk of cold meat and chewed vigorously.
“Few in the city do, my lord,” the old man said apologetically. “Even Bloodlord Stralg may not.”
Deceiving your enemies was a good idea; confusing your friends was not-but that assumed Cavotti and his army of liberation were to be regarded as friends of Celebre, which was to be the topic of tonight’s discussion.
“How often do the healers treat him?”
Dicerno frowned, reluctant to set aside his lifelong hatred of gossip. “The doge rallied markedly back in the spring. Thanks to holy Sinura, he even appeared in public a few times, but it is whispered that Her price for that remission was a healer’s life. No Sinurist has attended him since, although this is said to have been the doge’s decision, not theirs. As for your honored mother, if you have matters to discuss with her, then I shall advise her of your arrival. If you are merely seeking access to the lady Oliva, of course I can arrange that for you.”
“You have pupils within the Ducal Palace?”
“I do have that honor.” Even now he would tell Cavotti no more than he felt he must.
“Such as the boy, Chies?”
The silver head bowed in acquiescence.
“He must be… fourteen now?”
Again the preceptor nodded, but he was not smiling, and the lack of automatic praise was a crushing comment on the youth in question.
“And who will succeed Doge Piero when the Old One claims him?”
The old man said coldly, “You know that the council of elders makes that decision, lord. You should perhaps discuss it with your honored mother.”
It would certainly not be an easy topic to raise with the lady Oliva.
“This collar of mine…” The Mutineer reached into the pile of garments Dicerno had produced from his basket of wonders and extracted a Nulist cowl of brown linen. There was a matching gown, too, and when he held it against himself, it was revealed to be very large. “Where in the world did you manage to obtain these on such short notice? You said you did not expect the visitor to be me? Master, did you not teach us that excessive modesty is a form of arrogance?”
The dark eyes twinkled inside their nests of wrinkles. “I also taught you that the poet Gievo sang, ‘Those who hope greatly must love disappointment.’ I was not disappointed this time, is all.”
Cavotti assumed the singsong chant of a pupil repeating his lessons. “Master, holy Demern decrees: ‘He who makes false claim to belong to a guild commits a crime, and an extrinsic who masquerades as initiate of a cult is guilty of blasphemy, and both shall be sold into slavery.’”
The smile that teased the preceptor’s withered lips was an unusual outburst of emotion for him. “But this dogma is subordinate to the paramount duties, specifically the fourth. Would you not judge that if you visit the palace with your collar showing, then your life will be forfeit to the Evil One?”
“That and then some. I also consider that I visit the palace to serve my birth lord the doge-although he may not agree-and therefore the second duty also applies. See how well you taught me?”
“And the first duty?”
Cavotti laughed aloud. “Oh, the cunning of the man!” He reverted to singsong. “Master, it is decreed: ‘A mortal’s first duty is to honor and obey the gods.’” He grinned through his piratical beard. “First chapter, clause one. But when the mortal is a henotheist, then he must give precedence to the oaths and edicts of his chosen god. Also first chapter, I believe?”
“Clause five.” Dicerno beamed at this escape into the unreal world of the scholar. “Far be it from me to pry into the secrets of a holy mystery, but the vulgar believe that the god of battle gives only one directive to His Heroes, and that is to win at any cost and by any means.”
“So only a fool would trust a Werist,” the Mutineer agreed. “If you start hinting that you may betray me, old master, I will break your neck.”
“Being in my dotage, I am prepared to trust you.”
More fool him! The play was wearing thin, wandering dangerously close to reality, for Cavotti’s activities very well might kill the old man. He glanced across to the solitary lamp in the corner. “What were you doing that I interrupted?” He strolled over there, still eating and still unclothed, although he knew such boorish behavior must pain his old teacher like a robe of nettles. He had forgotten how much he had enjoyed provoking the old pedant. Evidently he still did.
As he had guessed, a branching trail of colored pentagons had been laid out on the planks. “Tegale, of course! And five-color tegale at that! What is the contention?”
“You still play?” Dicerno asked eagerly.
“I manage a game once in a while, but never more than three-color. Werists are not chosen for their brains, master. Tegale is a game for Demernists. What is the contention?”
The preceptor had been the best player in Celebre when Cavotti had known him. He rubbed his hands in glee as he explained. “It is a very old puzzle, my lord, shown to me many years ago by the present doge’s father, when I was a mere lad. I don’t believe it really has a solution. He knew of none. The contention is to obtain closure in two moves, against any defense. As you can see, the logical move is to revert that blue to a green, but then your opponent merely plays a white here, and you are lost. I expect I have forgotten the correct layout, or perhaps he did. It is impossible.”
Cavotti said, “Perhaps. It will be something to keep me from worrying while you are gone-after I have removed the baneful beard, illicitly robed myself as a Nulist, scouted an emergency escape route out of this house, and generally made myself more worthy of your teaching. I will even clean up the mud I tracked in from the door.”
“I did not teach you how to do that, my lord!” Dicerno was shocked at the very idea of a noble performing such labor. He could not have the slightest idea of the systematic degradation involved in Werist training.