Sasharia en Garde

  Bowsprit knocked Ban in the arm again. “Let’s go.”

  In silence they followed the others, each thinking without coming to any conclusions. Sometimes it was better not to say what you thought, and other times it was useless even to think.

  o0o

  Jehan paused as the two sober-faced boys passed him on their way to the quarter-staff court.

  He was certain they were two of Damedran Randart’s followers, though he only recognized tall, dark-haired Ban Kender. But he’d been watching the games, and how the academy had been changing under the Randarts’ command, for years.

  He waited until they’d rounded the stone archway between command and the barracks, and followed, but instead of turning toward the courts, he continued across the parade ground to the stable, his expression so thoughtful that Owl, who was dressed in stable homespun and lurking around on the watch, pursed his lips.

  They were long practiced at deception. Jehan inspected the high-bred horses reserved for those in command, and the scrappy redhead, who looked like so many others in this part of the world so close to Sarendan where red hair was quite common, busily swept out the stalls.

  When they knew they wouldn’t be overheard, Owl said, “She’s all right. Other than mad as fire.”

  Jehan nodded. “I know. What troubles me more at the moment is Lesi Valleg, who I discovered is on the sick list. The official report is that she tripped, but Elkin tells me one of Damedran’s boys got her drunk while on duty and stretched a cord across the bottom two stairs when she ran down.”

  Owl winced. “What for? I thought he’d outgrown the bullying.”

  “He stopped doing it for fun. This one might be to a purpose. Its happening right before the games is too suspicious to be accident. So the question is, what purpose?” Jehan shook his head. “Never mind that. What about Devlaen Eban?”

  “He’s on his way back to his cousin’s new hideout, with the mages who wouldn’t swear the allegiance oath. Promises to relay the messages to the mages, asking them to shadow Perran and Zhavic.”

  “And Elva?”

  Owl said, “Devlaen told her the news about their mother being held prisoner. That sobered her enough to get her to agree to keep her mouth shut. I think she will. She’s stubborn but honest. I left her in line at the hiring office, as she turned down my offer to join our crew. Her parting words to me were that she wanted to get to sea and forget all of us.”

  Jehan shook his head. “I really stumbled there.”

  “Maybe.” Owl pinched his nose. “But not as badly as I did.”

  “We can’t slip like that again.”

  They watched past one another’s shoulders as they talked, but now they looked around to make extra certain. The stable was empty.

  Jehan said, “Back to the games. Damedran’s going to sweep all the categories, that much we can predict. What I wonder is if that connects with the rumored order for more weaponry from abroad? The war games ordered for autumn, including a castle siege, expensive as that is. And the requisitions for increased supplies for the guard in spring. Separately, these orders seem a little odd, but not extraordinarily so. Together, they add up to very odd indeed. Has Randart set the time for his invasion at last?”

  Owl watched him as he moved dust around on the ground. He’d known Jehan for years, and was used to living life at a run. This was the prince’s method of thinking aloud.

  Jehan turned his way, his chin lifting. He’d reached a decision. “We have to intercept that weapons shipment. Get Aslo down to the harbor master’s to underbid the others for the ships being hired to deliver the weapons. I don’t care how much he has to scant his profit. I’ll make up the shortfall. It’s to be a sober merchant ship hired into that fleet.”

  Owl grinned. Their success depended on being able to pick the right battleground, and with one of their own ships sailing with the weapons consignment and relaying the position, they’d be able to do just that.

  “I’ll send a message to Tharlif to signal for a good-sized fleet to intercept that shipment. It won’t stop an invasion if Randart really plans one, but at least it will hold him up.”

  Owl nodded. “You want me back on board the Zathdar?”

  “No, let Robin take command. She’s ready. You need to stay on that yacht. The most important piece of the puzzle is on it right now. The fewer who know who Sasharia is the better, and no one but us must know where she is.” He ran his hand over the flanks of a dappled gray mare, and absently held out his fingers to be lipped. “Tell the Jumping Bug and Mulekick to make targets for Randart to chase, one off Aloca and one here. I want him busy all over the seas, chasing us and not other independents. Keep the navy busy and scattered as long as possible.”

  “And you?”

  Jehan sighed. “I’m going to have to face the fire.”

  Owl grinned. “Orders for Kazdi to pass on to the Randarts?”

  “Oh, let me see. This time it ought to be a painter. She’s even more beautiful than my balladeer, and I promised to see her rendition of Lasva Sky Child being crowned queen of Colend. But I swear to be back by the start of the games.”

  Jehan left to be seen out in the practice field staring at clouds instead of watching the boys practice staff fighting. He waited until he’d spotted War Commander Randart scowling contemptuously down at him from the command tower, and drifted away.

  Chapter Twenty

  I couldn’t see anything, and all I smelled was dust, old wool, and mold. Presently the cart stopped jolting, and the sensations changed to a kind of wallowing.

  Angry as the situation made me, the moment I realized I was being lowered into a boat I stopped kicking. I didn’t want to end up being dropped into the drink, and if I nailed Owl in the beezer, he might not be any speed demon about fishing me back out. Ending my life at the bottom of the harbor did not fit into my evolving career plans.

  I will say the pirate—that is, the prince—well, anyway, his guys were careful, despite my having gotten in a couple of solid kicks early on in the abduction. The journey in the rowboat was accomplished in complete silence. I had no idea who was doing the oar work. Likewise the horrifying lift via boom up onto the deck was also silent.

  Then people picked me up again and put me on a bunk.

  But did they untie me? No. I was left in that sweltering cocoon for what seemed about ten centuries.

  First I lay there thinking. Remembering. Lingering over every affront, until gradually the justified anger cooled into question, which in turn begat more questions, until I fell into a nasty sort of hot, smothered sleep.

  I woke with the welcome sensation of the bonds easing.

  With an inarticulate roar of rage, I fought my way out of the quilt—to discover I was alone, in a cabin I did not recognize. I blinked against the light of a lantern as I gulped in sweet, cool, fresh air. Someone had thoughtfully opened beautifully made leaded glass windows. Actual windows, not just scuttles.

  Even the smell of brine seemed sweet compared to the old mold of that quilt.

  Someone had set the lantern on a hook inside the door, which was carved out of redwood in a theme of galloping horses.

  I rolled off the bunk, lunged to the door, and found it locked.

  I lunged back and in another surge of rage gathered up that quilt and stuffed it out one of the windows. It took some effort, but finally I heard the satisfying splash, and for a short time I stood there on the redwood decking of the small but elegant cabin, breathing hard and watching the quilt float on the night-black sea.

  Gradually the bubble holding it up diminished and the quilting soaked up enough water to sink. The last I saw of it was a pale blue corner and then it was gone.

  As if released from its ghostly grip, I turned around to take in a cabin obviously designed and made for someone with extreme wealth. Carved wood in themes of running horses, entwined leaves, and artsy lilies, the lines enhanced with inlaid threads of gold.

  The cabin’s shape indicated that once again, I
was in the bow. A tiny table had been fitted into the pointy end, within reach of the bunks angled inward on either side. On this little table someone had set a small porcelain tray with a silver pot all bedewed with moisture. A glass sat next to it.

  My tongue felt like a sponge left out in the Gobi Desert, and I pounced, drinking down water until I was breathless. I continued my survey more slowly, looking for possible means of escape.

  Built-in drawers with gold handles had been fitted below each bunk, the handles fashioned in the shape of two lilies with entwined stems. A shelf containing handmade books and old scrolls tied with ribbon had been built above one bunk. Affixed over the opposite bunk, a hand-drawn and colored map of the world, every river cobalt blue, paler blue for small lakes, different shades of green representing the predominant trees in forests, different browns for types of land. Cities indicated by highly stylized drawings of small or large towns, walled cities with walls, open ones with main roads done in gold.

  It was a breathtaking work of art. I clambered up on the bunk to examine the map more closely. It was so beautiful I almost missed the sound of the cabin door opening behind me.

  I whirled around as Jehan ducked slightly and entered, carrying a tray. “Like the map?”

  When I was sixteen I might have yelled, No! Or tried to tear it up. My adult version of the correct etiquette for an abductee was to say, as rudely as possible, “From whom did you steal it?”

  “My father.” He flicked down a larger table from the wall, a table so cunningly worked into the bulkhead I’d missed it. He set the tray carefully down as he added, “He stole it from his relatives when he was booted out of Remalna after a family fight and sent here to the military school under strict orders to never return. You’ll find Remalna northwest of where the Mardgar drains into the Sartoran Sea. Where the gold crown is drawn in.”

  I glanced at the map, and found the tiny kingdom, far smaller than Khanerenth. Marking it indeed was a crown, a typical piece of Merindar arrogance.

  “Go ahead.” He leaned against the opposite bulkhead. I noticed he was dressed in dark colors, a linen shirt dyed dark blue, black sash, and trousers. “Get ’em out.”

  “Get what out?”

  “All the insults you’ve piled up. You’ve got to have thought up some good ones. Let’s hear them.”

  “Then what, you can laugh from your oh-so-superior position?” I snapped, eyeing the tray. My appetite had woken like a cage of roaring lions. I considered for about one second the moral satisfaction of flinging that tray at him, but figured he’d just duck, like the total and complete stinker he was, and there’d be all that lovely food wasted.

  Because it was lovely—a tomato soup sprinkled with fresh basil, some kind of incredibly savory cheese making it creamy, and bits of the very good rice this world grows. Next to it fresh bread, with pats of the honey-butter popular all over the kingdom. A spray of purple grapes, a perfectly sliced peach, and a silver urn containing hot chocolate joined a crystal decanter full of wine in making a feast for a king.

  I glared at Zathdar. No, Jehan. Those were Zathdar’s blue eyes watching me, but the long, fine white hair was unfamiliar. A diamond glinted in one ear. The laces in his shirt were braided silk, with tiny gold leaves fastening the ends.

  I was staring. And the cabin seemed suddenly quite small. So I turned my attention back to the food.

  “Go ahead,” he invited.

  “There are too many dishes,” I said, scowling.

  “Well, I haven’t eaten all day, either. If it helps, feel free to fling my share out the window after Owl’s mother’s quilt.”

  Unwillingly I had to laugh. “All right. You win. That much, anyway. Sit down.”

  The table exactly fitted the space between the two bunks, on which we sat opposite one another.

  I’d only had that single bite in the Gold Inn, so I set to with enthusiasm. Two goblets of wine plus the meal later, I sat back, trying to decide if I had enough appetite to assay the chocolate.

  Neither of us had spoken, though I was very aware of him sitting an arm’s reach away, the play of his hands on the goblet, pouring wine, picking up bread and cheese, homely tasks all, but executed with grace. He ate neatly, with far better manners than I suspected I displayed. But I’d been catching meals on the run for years, usually with a book in one hand.

  I frowned at my goblet. Was what I felt the same as my mother had felt all those years ago, when this man’s father no doubt ate intimate dinners with her while my own father was busy tending to kingly business for my ailing grandfather?

  I looked up. Jehan regarded me steadily over his cup of wine.

  I said, crossly, “I suppose you dye your eyelashes and brows?”

  “No. Darker shade than my father’s, as it happens,” he replied in an easy tone, as though he fielded this nosy question every day. “For some reason most half-morvende have dark brows and lashes. The ones with white lashes come from families who have lived over a thousand years underground. Some of the more recent family lines have color here.” He indicated a thin stripe at the top of his head. “Almost always black. Sometimes red or yellow or brown. A lot of ’em get rid of it by magic,” he added. “If it comes in stripes.”

  A short pause ensued, during which I was hyper-aware of the soft plash of water against the hull of the vessel, of the flicker of the flame in the lantern, and its golden reflection made manifold by the glass sectioning inside the burnished copper frame. I breathed in the rich fragrance of the chocolate, and set my goblet down.

  A phosphorescent tingle sparked along my nerves. I gripped my hands in my lap.

  “I apologize for the, ah, summary invitation aboard my yacht,” Jehan continued, in the same conversational tone. “I’ll end it when I can.”

  I looked up, the flare of anger back. “You mean when you will.”

  “No one outside of a dozen people know who I am.” He lifted a shoulder in a slight, apologetic shrug. “Except the Ebans, now. And you.”

  “What did you do to Elva?”

  “Nothing. Owl tried to recruit her. She refused. Last he saw, she was trying to find another ship to sign onto.”

  “Devli?”

  “On his way to his mage tutors, wherever they’re hiding.”

  I twisted my fingers. “That might even be true. But if it is, why am I not asked to keep silent, and set free to go on my way?”

  “Because . . .” He looked away, out the window into the darkness, then back at me. “Because too many people see you as a tool necessary to grip control of the kingdom.”

  “Including you?”

  He looked away again. Then back. “Will you listen to my side of things?” His eyes narrowed. “But you won’t believe me, will you?” He moved suddenly, not toward me—though I braced for it—but away, to the little alcove at the point of the cabin. The bulkhead below the tiny table had been adapted into a kind of desk that reminded me of a rolltop, with a lot of little drawers.

  He opened one and drew out a packet of heavy linen paper.

  “You want to read my correspondence with your father?” He held out the letters.

  “How do I know those are real?” I felt not so much angry as sick and miserable. “I wouldn’t recognize his handwriting. I wouldn’t even know his style. I was ten, the last time I saw him.”

  He dropped the letters back into the drawer and leaned there with hands on the desk, the silken shirt laces swinging, their golden leaves winking with tiny reflected flames in the light of the lantern. I was staring again.

  He turned his head slightly, his white hair drifting over his shoulder. His gaze met mine, and fireworks lit off right behind my ribs. I hate chemistry. I jerked my head away, half expecting my eyes to make popping sounds like cartoon tentacles. Argh! I scowled at the carved racing horses in the wood panels.

  “Why won’t you listen? Do you really think I’d go to all this trouble if I was my father’s tool?”

  I said to the chocolate pot, “Why didn’t yo
u answer me when I asked why I’m here, but you let the Ebans go free?” A quick glance, to see the effect of my words. “You are good at deflecting awkward questions, aren’t you?”

  I could feel him regarding me steadily, trying to read my reactions. “They don’t hold the key to the kingdom. You do. I really did mean to let you go, but that was before I found Randart and all his guards right here in Ellir, and then there was Elba shadowing Owl. Elba’s mother is under arrest; if Elba, in dashing out to expose me for a fraud had revealed her own name—and you know she would have—Randart would have snatched her. Do you really want to know what Randart would do to her to get whatever she knew out of her?”

  “No.” I breathed out the word.

  Jehan said quickly, “Then we come to you. There are orders to grab you on sight. I don’t know why yet, except that everyone believes that you know where Prince Math is.” He got up and put his hand on the latch to the cabin door. “I should mention that your mother followed you through the World Gate. And unfortunately my father has her as well as Kreki Eban. No, don’t say it.” He raised his hand as I drew in a deep breath. “Whatever you believe me capable of, I can promise you this. If my father gets his hands on you, you can absolutely count on him using your lives against one another in order to get what he wants. Chocolate? Yes? No?”

  “Lost my appetite,” I said wearily.

  He took the tray and left. Locking the door behind him.

  Pretty soon I heard through the open windows the noises of the booms being used to lower a small boat. I peered down at an angle as a silhouette descended.

  I recognized Jehan by the way he moved. He had confined that moon-pale hair in some sort of knitted sailor cap. That and the dark clothing made him unremarkable, one of many people plying little boats to and fro on the dark waters between the boats all lit by strings of lanterns.