Sasharia en Garde

  Damedran here. Know why? Should I do anything?

  He tucked it into the notecase and leaned tiredly against the horse to wait. Jehan might answer right away, if he was alone. But if he wasn’t, it could be half a day. Or longer. So he’d give himself a breather. If nothing came, it meant Jehan was away from his rooms.

  As he stood there absently running his hands over the neck of the drooping animal, he thought back over the exercise in frustration the past weeks had been. Like losing the princess during the very first storm that ended the summer and discovering she’d vanished. He’d ridden as hard as he could along the river road, pausing only to arrange for changes of mount, until he reached the foothills below the border mountains.

  Here the road narrowed, leading directly to Moonsky Lake at the border. He’d asked at the inn where absolutely everyone stopped, and despite coins and exhaustive questioning, discovered no trace of any tall woman fitting the description of Sasharia Zhavalieshin.

  So he’d ridden all the way back to the last inn he’d seen her at, wishing he’d dared sleep inside the first time. But that enormous wedding party and all those harvesters had convinced him to ride on to the next inn and wait for her to catch up. That was before the big storm.

  He hoped that the inn folk remembered her. A description, some added coin, and the innkeeping pair told him they did indeed remember her. She’d helped that night, and further she’d carried a letter for them to the Three Falls Inn in Zhavlir . . .

  Zhavlir? On the other side of the river?

  Owl got a room, sat down, wrote a bitter letter, tore it up. Wrote another saying only that he’d found the right road. Sure enough Jehan wrote back: Waste no time. Find her.

  So here he was again, after another mad dashing ride. Now he only had to locate the inn.

  He yawned, leaning against the horse. “Just one more ride, old friend,” he murmured, making a mental promise of bran mash as he himself thought longingly of a good pull on some fine dark ale . . .

  While he was trying to find the energy to get himself back in the saddle and seek the inn, Damedran and his posse had ridden straight to the garrison in the middle of the town, sent a servant in to get directions to the Three Falls, and rode the few blocks to reach it.

  They dismounted in the stable yard, Damedran saying, “The trail is at least a week old, so she can’t still be here. But in case, I want a perimeter. Make certain you can all see one another. No yelling, no attention.”

  The others obeyed while Damedran walked into the inn. A teenaged girl clearing a table took in his long stride, his swinging black hair, the sword at his side, blushed and ran into the kitchen. He never gave her a glance, but made directly for the tall man at the counter.

  He said, “Master Innkeeper? I’m looking for an old friend I was supposed to meet on the road. A woman with honey-colored hair, one of her names being Lasva. Very tall. Carried a letter for you.”

  Until the mention of the last, the innkeeper had looked puzzled, for he’d served plenty of tall women with honey-colored hair, and Lasva was a very common name. But the letter?

  “Ah, the sailor! Very nice person. You come from the west, then? Your accent is good. Are those not guard colors?” He indicated the brown tunic.

  “West?” Damedran repeated, as confused as the innkeeper.

  “Yes. What was it . . . somewhere west of Colend . . . Bermund? Hanbria? No, I think it might have been Tser Mearsies. Yes. My wife made her a map, see. She can draw a mighty fine map. She puts things like rivers and forests and mountains in it, little tiny ones. Not like real ones, if you get my drift, but to represent—”

  Damedran waved a hand. “I comprehend. So she rode west, did she?”

  The man shrugged. “One can only assume so, if she asked for the map to help her get home again.”

  Damedran bit his lip against letting out any curses, turned away, then turned back. He pulled out his coin purse and laid several heavy golden six-sided coins on the counter, but kept his hand on them. “Did she happen to mention any other places?”

  He shrugged again, but his wife appeared, drying her hands, glanced from the coins to Damedran. Her tired face took on a wary look. “Is there a problem? She was a very nice young woman. Even neatened her room when she left. They don’t always, the young.”

  “I think someone we know sent her wrong,” Damedran invented desperately. He’d never been good at lying on the spot, he always had to think them out first. “But she was going to meet me, and I was east, see, not west.”

  “You don’t look anything like her.” The wife smoothed stray hairs off her forehead and narrowed her eyes. “Family, you say?”

  “Friends. Ah, my older sister is a sailor too, see, and they got to know each other. And, well, I’m trying to find her.” Running out of ideas, Damedran fought against losing his temper again.

  The wife looked up at her tall spouse, who gazed down with an air of helpless question, and when a customer yelled out, “Innkeep! Is that ale ready, or must I fetch it myself?” the man whirled away and the woman gave a tiny shrug. “Well. Not my business, I guess you could say. She did ask a bit about Bar Larsca Valley. Said she was looking for a friend. I think she might even have said a sailor, come to think on it.”

  Damedran grinned. “Ah. Listen, I don’t want any more mixed messages. It’s not likely anyone else would ask. But if they do. You’ve forgotten, yes?” He took his hand off the coins.

  She smiled, sweeping them into her apron. “I’m always happy to help a nice young woman like that. Indeed, sir.”

  Damedran almost ran out, signaling to Ban as he did. Ban waved at the next cadet down, and they soon assembled in the courtyard.

  “Bar Larsca Valley,” Damedran said. “Right back where we started out!”

  “Unless she’s at the other end,” Ban put in. “You know, at the mountains.”

  “Why would anyone go to the mountains?” Red asked.

  Damedran ignored them. “Or she went to Tser Mearsies. But why would she go there?”

  “Escape us,” Ban said dryly.

  “Not in Bar Larsca.” Damedran shook his head, thinking of Castle Cheslan sitting at the southeast end of the valley. “Anyone would tell her about the siege game. You’d think. So maybe she did go to Tser Mearsies after all.”

  “And leave her ma behind?” Red put in.

  They all looked thoughtful at that, turning to Red with expressions very close to respect. Red blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t. Leave my ma. If—” If I knew she was a prisoner of the king. He might get himself into trouble if he said any more, and so he flapped his hands out from his sides, looking skyward.

  Damedran was done with the conversation anyway. “Back to the garrison. New mounts, and we’re on the road. Remember, we’re at least a week behind her.”

  They returned to the servants, who had been holding the reins of the horses all this time. They remounted and rode sedately out, remembering the order not to call attention to themselves.

  One they reached the open road, they could loosen the reins and gallop with the wind.

  They reached the garrison at the same time as Owl reached the inn. He walked up to where Mistress Innkeeper was polishing the counter, her expression distracted. The common room was empty except for a table of drunks at one corner, with whom Master Innkeeper was obviously trying to reason. In the kitchen a pair of young teens were busy frosting pastries. Both glanced at Owl, then went back to work, obviously losing interest.

  Owl felt the inward tingle of magic—an answer from Jehan.

  He laid a silver coin on the counter. “I was told that your relations sent a letter via a young woman, tall, wheat-colored hair probably in braids. I would like to know where she went, if you remember?”

  The woman glanced from the coin to Owl’s face, her jaw tight, her hands thrust into her apron pockets. “Couldn’t rightly say,” she finally replied.

  Owl sighed. “I may as well get a room, then. Send word to the stable I’ll pay
for a bran mash for the mount. Name’s Owl.”

  He sat in a corner, looking about. The man was dealing with the drunks, the woman had vanished, the teenagers were busy in the kitchen, talking and working.

  He pulled out the golden case and found a rolled paper on which Jehan had written:

  I know nothing about Damedran and some mission. Will try to find out. I don’t like this coincidence.

  Owl turned over the paper, took from his pouch his drawing chalk, and wrote, I’m at the inn. They say they know nothing. Do you really want me riding on, weeks behind the last sign of her?

  He put the note in the case, sent it, stowed the case, and then ate supper while one of the teens brought in his gear from the stable and carried it upstairs.

  He’d expected an answer right away, but none came. One never knew when Jehan could get the freedom to visit his rooms.

  At sundown four young musicians came in, bearing instruments. Mistress Innkeeper opened all the windows and set lamps on each sill. The music drifted out onto the streets and before long the place was filled with custom, drinking, eating, dancing, singing, talking. Owl sat in isolation, too tired to care when the dancers, maneuvering for space, bumped him with hip or elbow. When he caught himself falling asleep right there in the chair, he trod upstairs to the third floor and down the hall to where someone had chalk-marked “Owl” on the door.

  The door shut out most of the noise. Someone had lit a lamp, which cast weak light on a bed, a small table with his saddlebag directly below it, a window opened to the cool night air below the slanting beams of the roof.

  He pulled the gold case out and removed the tiny scrap of paper on which Jehan had written in careful letters that betrayed not haste but a long period of reflection:

  Return to Vadnais.

  Though he suspected Jehan was bitter with disappointment for several good reasons, Owl sighed with relief and fell into bed.

  His mood was as sunny as the weather the next morning. After a long sleep, a long soak in the bath and a long breakfast, he slung his gear over his shoulder, paid his shot and sauntered out to the stable to retrieve his mount and start the journey south. This time he needn’t hurry.

  He was smiling to himself, mentally planning a route that would include as many good inns as possible, when he noticed the head stableman watching him in an uncertain way. A stealthy way, even.

  Owl checked shoes, saddle, feedbag, then mounted up, and couldn’t resist a single glance back. The man shook his head slightly and turned away.

  “What is it,” Owl said, suspecting he would hate whatever he was about to hear.

  The man turned around again, this time scanning in both directions. But all the stable hands were busy, out of earshot.

  He stepped to Owl’s stirrup. “The mistress is a good one, few better. But she does like a gold coin, and she also is partial to a young, handsome face.”

  “What?” Owl knew this could not possibly refer to him, as he had offered no one gold, he was no longer young, and had never been handsome.

  “Boys in cadet gear here yesterday.” The man looked around. “Girl told me they offered six golds for information, and for Mistress to keep quiet. But no one saw fit to pay me.”

  At that subtle hint, Owl dug into his pouch. “Guards?” Damedran? Here?

  A nod, then the man leaned up and muttered, “Lookin’ for a tall woman. Light hair. Named Lasva. Carried a letter from Master’s cousin at an inn downriver. Girl in the kitchen overheard it all.”

  Owl gaped. Damedran Randart had been here. Not at the garrison, on some fool army task.

  There was only one explanation for him being here. He was hunting Sasharia. What had happened? Owl could have sworn Randart had no suspicions when he left the Dolphin. Well, of course not, or he would have used that force to take her.

  The man sneaked another look around. “I’d swear that boy on point was a Randart. To say no more, a certain relation o’ his being one of the reasons I no longer serve in the guard,” he added sourly.

  Owl handed down a fistful of silver coinage, which was the highest worth he carried. “She say where she was going?”

  Another look. “Mistress drew her a map to go west cross-country. They said west of Colend. But she asked about Larsca territory. And when she rode out, she didn’t turn west or north, but right down the south road.”

  Owl slapped the rest of his silver into the man’s hand. “Thank you,” he murmured. “And . . . I’d not mention this conversation.”

  The man gave him a wry smile. “I never even saw you.”

  Owl paused once, again at a corner where he couldn’t be seen, and wrote a fast note to Jehan. Without waiting for an answer he started galloping down the south road.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Lasva, there’s a couple of lookers here to see you,” one of the younger girls said to me, eyes wide with interest and curiosity. Probably the more-so since I hadn’t been among those going off for long walks in the woods during those evenings, or dancing until past midnight.

  “For me?”

  My first thought was Jehan.

  I scoffed at myself. How would he possibly know where I was, after all these weeks? And second, more to the point, if he was here, they wouldn’t say “a couple of lookers,” not with that white hair, and the inevitable outriders and hoopla. They’d be going nuts over the sudden appearance of a royal prince.

  So I shrugged, and hefted my bag as I’d been heading toward the stable anyway. Probably someone who wanted to hire me for my great reach. Like for apple picking or something.

  When I reached the stable yard, two of the younger of my dorm mates were flirting with a pair of teenage guys. The one with the red hair was flirting back. I couldn’t hear the words over the noise in the yard, what with horses coming and going, shouts of workers, and conversations everywhere as our former olive-picking mates began their departures.

  The redhead laughed, leaned down, and tugged teasingly at one of the girls’ braids, to get his hand slapped away with a pretense of anger. The other one, cuter by far, was tall, with a long, serious face and thick waving brown hair worn clipped back. Both wore ill-fitting summer tunics over their shirts, and brown riding trousers tucked into blackweave riding boots much like the military wear. They each had swords at their saddles and knives at their belts.

  I walked up. “Looking for me?” I asked, relieved I didn’t know them.

  The dark-haired one regarded me with an expression impossible to interpret, but the redhead wiggled his brows. “Oh, I do hope you are Lasva.”

  The girls laughed, and the shorter, blond one (the biggest flirt in our dorm) cast me a mirthful glance. “Good luck winning a kiss out of Lasva! She’s far too picky. You’re better off with me.”

  “If they’re hiring for kissing, you are the expert. But if it’s apple picking,” I said, making a show of looking down on her, “you’re hopeless.”

  The girls and the redhead laughed. The other boy leaned forward to pat his horse’s neck, as the animal was restless, ears flicking, weight shifting from one leg to the other, head tossing. His hand was big, strong, and callused across the palm.

  “Apple picking?” The redheaded guy pretended surprise. “How ever did you know?”

  “Because I’ve already worked a week over the quota on account of my size,” I retorted. “What did they give you at the front, a name of all the tall ones who don’t spend their time chasing after kisses?”

  “Hey! I was a good presser,” the blonde protested.

  “Yeah. When Tavan was around,” her friend retorted, rolling her eyes.

  “Am I as handsome as Tavan?” The redhead smoothed back his tousled hair.

  “No.” All three of us women shook our heads.

  Both of the guys laughed this time.

  The redhead said to me, “Well, will you come apple picking?”

  “Is it really apples? How amazing is that?” I said.

  “How . . . amazing . . . is what?” Th
e dark-haired one looked puzzled.

  The blonde said, “She talks funny. But she’s a sailor.” As if that explained everything.

  “We have an orchard.” The redhead waved a hand in a vague circle. “Actually, several fruits and things.”

  I shrugged. “How long and where? I do have somewhere to be.”

  “Oh,” asked the redhead. “Where is that?”

  The dark-haired one sent him a frown, but the redhead shrugged.

  “Tser Mearsies.” I gave them one of my lies, surprised a little that they would ask.

  “This won’t take long. Not a large orchard.” The redhead grinned.

  “All right.” I shrugged, thinking that the fewer of those jewels I had to use on my journeys, the less attention I garnered. And anyway my father might need them back. “Let me get my mount.”

  The blonde grinned at me. “We’ll keep them occupied. Take your time.”

  As I trod to the stable, the teasing, flirting, and laughter promptly started up again behind me.

  I found my mare. She was fresh and ready to go, her head tossing, eyes alert, nostrils flaring. The stable hands had already saddled her, and my sword was intact, so all I had to do was tie on my gear and lead her out.

  The short time I’d been gone, several more of the younger girls had gathered round. As I led my mare up, I was informed by the girls that my escorts were named Red and Ban.

  “Call me Lasva.” I mounted up. My riding muscles twinged. Weird, how quickly you lose it if you don’t use it.

  Everyone exchanged farewells and the fellows led the way out of the place where I’d spent so pleasant a stay. My earnings jingled with satisfying weight in my little belt pouch.

  We proceeded at a walking pace toward the crossroads on the other side of the hill from the farm. They did not angle toward the big main road, rutted from all those wagon runs to and from the duke’s row of farms and orchards, but toward a smaller side road. We cut through all the traffic of wagons, riders, and walkers.