Her Grace wanted answers on the Rift, too. Or else I was in serious trouble. My husband grumbled, and I felt him burrow underneath the covers next to me.
I stumbled blindly out of bed, kicked over the chamber pot, and groped my way toward the front door. An impatient cyclone frowned at me when I opened it. He held a lantern up to my eyes, and I squinted at the sudden glare.
“You’re Gondel Vedd?” He sounded disappointed, as though he’d expected someone much more impressive. My parents would have sympathized. They’d always expected me to be much more impressive as well.
“Yes, I am he. How may I help you?”
“The mistral requires your presence at the palace. I’m to bring you to her immediately.” He said this quickly, as if the speed of his tongue could lend greater urgency to his mission.
“Is my head to be struck off?”
The cyclone blanched, the question taking him by surprise. He considered it seriously, though, unable to appreciate the absurdity—for why would the mistral need to decapitate men when she could simply feed them to the ocean?—and then said in reassuring tones, “I doubt it, Scholar. That form of execution is only practiced by the Nentians.”
“Ah. You relieve me excessively. Let me get dressed. What time is it, Cyclone?” I called.
“Two hours before dawn, I think.”
“Too blasted early,” my love mumbled.
“You could show some concern here,” I whispered to him.
“Mmf. Can’t be mad at me. I’m unconscious.”
“You can be sure we’ll talk when you’re conscious, then.”
What had happened that the mistral needed to see me at this time of night? Perhaps she needed my aid translating something in the old language. I hoped it was something simple like that. I could see no other positive reason for sending a cyclone for me at this hour. Mistrals do not bestow medals and titles on scholars before breakfast. Or after it, if we are to speak honestly.
“Has the mistral not slept?” I asked.
“I’d be surprised if she had, what with this—well. You’ll see.”
Interesting. Whatever had happened today had little to do with me, then. Until now. “I’m sorry to hear of her unrest. But the wind will bring us peace,” I said, taking comfort in the ritual phrase.
“We breathe it as we speak,” the cyclone answered automatically.
I shoved my ancient shanks into some breeches and hastily pulled a tunic over my head. Finding my belt proved problematic, and I could almost feel the cyclone’s impatience boiling over as I scrambled to find it.
“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called from the doorway. “We must be on our way.”
Finding my boots was no problem at all. I nearly tripped over them, and I yelped in fear. That was a broken hip narrowly escaped. And Maron slept through it, ripping out a tremendous snore.
“Are you all right, Scholar?”
“Yes, a moment. Almost ready.” I was probably a mismatched horror, and the fops at court—if any were awake—would mock me mercilessly, but on the whole I counted it better than appearing nude. Careful searching allowed me to find the pitcher of water on my bureau. I poured some into the washbasin next to it and splashed my face, then tried to tame my hair by drowning it so that it hung from my scalp like sodden clumps of wool.
“All right, we can go now,” I said, returning to the front door. The cyclone’s face suggested that his second impression of me was worse than the first.
A chariot awaited in the street, and we managed to travel three whole blocks before the cyclone brought up my family.
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “but—”
“Yes, Tammel Vedd is my brother,” I interrupted, “and no, we are not very much alike.”
“Oh. Well. Um. Great man, your brother,” and then he added, “Sorry,” perhaps realizing he’d implied I wasn’t a great man or as if he thought I might not agree.
“No need to apologize. It’s true that my brother is a great man. But for all that, we do not speak very much.”
It was a bald statement of fact that didn’t assign any fault, but I knew the cyclone would assign the blame for our chilly relationship to me. The wind of conversations about my brother always blew in the same direction, but I was always grateful when they got to this point, because the awkward silence that followed for whoever was with me was a blessed silence in my mind. I am as proud of him as I should be, but I do not enjoy