Midnight Tides

‘Your manservant seemed sure that you’d be awake. Why is that?’



‘Dear brother, Bugg’s talents are veritably preternatural.’



Brys walked over to the bed and studied it for a moment. ‘What happens when it rains?’



‘Alas, I am forced to retire to the room below. There to suffer Bugg’s incessant snoring.’



‘Is that what’s driven you to sleeping on the roof?’



Tehol smiled, then realized it was not likely Brys could see that smile in the darkness. Then decided it was all for the best. ‘King’s Champion. I have been remiss in congratulating you. Thus, congratulations.’



Brys was motionless. ‘How often do you visit the crypt? Or do you ever visit?’



Crossing his arms, Tehol swung his gaze to the canal below. A smeared gleam of reflected stars, crawling through the city. ‘It’s been years, Brys.’



‘Since you last visited?’



‘Since they died. We all have different ways of honouring their memory. The family crypt?’ He shrugged. ‘A stone-walled sunken room containing nothing of consequence.’



‘I see. I’m curious, Tehol, how precisely do you honour their memory these days?’



‘You have no idea.’



‘No, I don’t.’



Tehol rubbed at his eyes, only now realizing how tired he was. Thinking was proving a voracious feeder on his energies, leading him to admit he’d been out of practice. Not just thinking, of course. The brain did other things, as well, even more exhausting. The revisiting of siblings, of long-estranged relationships, saw old, burnished armour donned once more, weapons reached for, old stances once believed abandoned proving to have simply been lying dormant. ‘Is this a festive holiday, Brys? Have I missed something? Had we cousins, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, we could gather to walk the familiar ruts. Round and round the empty chairs where our mother and father once sat. And we could make our language unspoken in a manner to mimic another truth – that the dead speak in silences and so never leave us in peace-’



‘I need your help, Tehol.’



He glanced up, but could make nothing of his brother’s expression in the gloom.



‘It’s Hull,’ Brys went on. ‘He’s going to get himself killed.’



‘Tell me,’ Tehol said, ‘have you ever wondered why not one of us has found a wife?’



‘I was talking about-’



‘It’s simple, really. Blame our mother, Brys. She was too smart. Errant take us, what an understatement. It wasn’t Father who managed the investments.’



‘And you are her son, Tehol. More than me and Hull, by far. Every time I look at you, every time I listen to you, struggle to follow your lines of thought. But I don’t see how that-’



‘Our expectations reside in the clouds, Brys. Oh, we try. All of us have tried, haven’t we?’



‘Damn it, Tehol, what’s your point?’



‘Hull, of course. That’s who you came here to talk about, isn’t it? Well. He met a woman. As smart as our mother, in her own way. Or, rather, she found him. Hull’s greatest gift, but he didn’t even recognize it for what it was, when it was right there in his hands.’



Brys stepped closer, hands lifting as if about to grasp his brother by the throat. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. After a moment his hands fell away. ‘The prince will see him killed. Or, if not the prince, then the First Eunuch – should Hull speak out against the king. But wait!’ He laughed without humour. ‘There’s also Gerun Eberict! Who’ll also be there! Have I left anyone out? I’m not sure. Does it matter? Hull will be at the parley. The only one whose motives are unknown – to anyone. You can’t play your game if a stranger wades in at the last moment, can you?’



‘Calm yourself, brother,’ Tehol said. ‘I was getting to my point.’



‘Well, I can’t see it!’



‘Quietly, please. Hull found her, then lost her. But she’s still there – that much is clear. Seren Pedac, Brys. She’ll protect him-’



Brys snarled and turned away. ‘Like Mother did Father?’



Tehol winced, then sighed. ‘Mitigating circumstances-’



‘And Hull is our father’s son!’



‘You asked, a moment ago, how I honour the memory of our parents. I can tell you this, Brys. When I see you. How you stand. The deadly grace – your skill, taught you by his hand – well, I have no need for memory. He stands before me, right now. More than with Hull. Far more. And, I’d hazard, I am much as you say – like her . Thus,’ he spread his hands helplessly, ‘you ask for help, but will not hear what I tell you. Need there be reminders of the fates of our parents? Need there be memory, Brys? We stand here, you and I, and play out once more the old familial tortures.’