Sasharia en Garde

  “Yes, yes, everyone always has the good of the kingdom in mind, especially when they begin arguing with me.” Canardan waved a hand to cut off the flow of self-justification. He uttered a sharp laugh. “If you didn’t, you would hardly be alive to argue.”

  The implied threat silenced the mage.

  Canardan felt the inner click of the message-box magic, which was somewhat of a relief. Dannath had, so far, always responded immediately.

  He flipped it open and pulled out the folded square. Randart’s neat writing filled the entire paper. For a month we have been tracking Atanial’s daughter Sasharia on your orders earlier in the summer. Damedran has her now. I am in Ambais to meet him. Planned to have her in hand before sending my report.

  Canardan laughed, then flicked the paper in Zhavic’s direction. He watched the master mage read it.

  “What’s the matter now?” Canardan demanded when the mage handed back the paper, his lips tightly closed.

  Zhavic looked out the window as rain began tapping the glass. “A month. And you didn’t know. I wonder if he really was going to tell you when he did get hold of her.”

  Canardan threw the pen down. “Damnation, we’re right back to where we were! Why not? What else would he do with her?”

  “Perran believes that she might be coerced into a match with Damedran. So that he could become . . . the heir.”

  “That again.”

  Canardan’s grim look sent a spurt of pleasure through Zhavic. The mages didn’t believe any such thing. Randart’s mind did not run to marriages. But the king’s did. And reminding him of the Randarts’ suspected plot to put Damedran on the throne was always a good idea.

  Zhavic went on in a slow, ruminative voice, as if he were thinking, though he and Perran had rehearsed this interview half a dozen times. “I think Perran’s wrong. I wonder if Randart means to assassinate her. The war commander’s thinking appears to be of military and political advantage, not magical.”

  Canardan frowned at the mage. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why else would he take so long to secure her and without letting you know? If he wanted to find out where she was going—”

  “The cook! She was the cook!” The king snapped his fingers. “Jehan had her briefly. Randart went out to search Jehan’s yacht and didn’t find her. I assumed because the girl had slipped Jehan’s grip before Randart showed up. But now I think Jehan was lying to Randart. And she was there all along. Which changes everything.” The king drew in a slow breath. “Only which way?”

  “What?” Zhavic’s voice, which was far more revealing than his face, lost the smoothness of rehearsed musing and revealed genuine spontaneity. “Princess Atanial’s daughter is a cook?”

  The king snorted a not-quite-laugh. “You don’t remember? I do. I’ve always had a head for details. Which, one could argue, is what kingship is. The tall female cook on Jehan’s yacht, with the flour all over her face so no one saw what she looked like—” He turned his head, spoke sharply. “Page!”

  The runner on duty outside the king’s study opened the door.

  “Request Prince Jehan to attend me for an immediate interview.” He turned back to Zhavic. “Finish your point.”

  Magister Zhavic had been wondering how to get back to it. He smiled. “Well. If you consider she was last known aboard the pirate ship, and presumably managed to escape somewhere along the coast—”

  “Or was rescued by a very romantic prince, let us say.”

  Zhavic blinked, and the look he gave the king caused Canardan to laugh out loud.

  “No, I have not lost my wits. Though I might be chasing down the wrong trail. We’ll know in a moment. Go on. So Atanial’s daughter escapes on the coast . . .”

  “. . . then turns up in Bar Larsca, what kind of a vector, as the military term it, does that give you?”

  The king rubbed his chin, mentally reviewing the map. “Not the siege, though she’s close. That makes no sense.”

  “Think magic, not military,” Zhavic urged. “Remember who her father was. Though you were not trained, surely your first wife told you some things about the magical part of our history—”

  “Ivory Mountain?” the king asked and watched the mage’s face smooth into blandness. “But why? That’s an old morvende geliath, empty for centuries. Even I know that.”

  As usual, Zhavic’s voice betrayed him. “If Mathias is alive, it could be that he is hiding there, beyond time.”

  Canardan rapped his knuckles on the table. “How do you get to that conclusion?”

  “While guarding the old World Gate site, Perran decided to do a thorough search of the castle. He found a couple of hidden chambers, and one of them held some of Glathan’s old papers. Nothing was astoundingly revealing, or we would have reported instantly to you,” Zhavic added quickly.

  He shifted on his seat. “But in a chest Glathan had stored an old book on morvende geliaths. That book is well known to mages. Most of us have a copy. At first Perran didn’t even look through it. But as time went on and he had finished his search, he decided to go through all the books and papers in a methodical way. In that book, the reference to Ivory Mountain had a scribble next to it, in some kind of code.”

  “So you think this girl might go to Ivory Mountain and free Math? But she’s not a mage.”

  “We know she was taught at least one difficult spell.”

  Canardan nodded slowly. He was beginning to wish he’d listened to Dannath in those early days. His reasoning was clear, if brutal. A quick, clean death for Math, and the problem goes away. Kill the woman, too, or send her back to her own world. Keep the girl and raise her to marry the heir. The popular but incompetent family Zhavalieshin sinks into memory, along with incompetent royal families of the past.

  Canardan ran his thumb back and forth along Randart’s note, remembering how he’d steeled himself to see it through. All those clear reasons Mathias should die: most important, his incompetence as king. Except at this remove, Canardan knew that most of Mathias’s supposed incompetence had actually been attempts to cope with the mess the old king had made of things.

  He gave his head a shake. The prospect of Mathias walking back in suddenly had ceased to worry him a few years ago. Now it was back.

  Canardan turned in his chair, as if physical movement could shake certain other more uncomfortable memories, and he frowned at the mage, who was studying his hands. Underneath all this hinting and innuendo about Randart’s secret plans lay the old question again. Why did the mages really want to find Mathias? The mages always seemed to have their own plans, which may or may not quite be the same as his. Mathias had been raised to magic knowledge, not to military. Maybe they thought if he returned, mages would gain the political ascendance that Randart thwarted with vigilant energy.

  A tap at the door caused Canardan to lean forward. “Enter.”

  The page stepped inside. “Prince Jehan is not in the castle.”

  Chas appeared directly behind him, face slick with sweat.

  The king locked his jaw hard against a surge of rage. He twiddled his fingers in dismissal, and the page ducked round Chas, obviously relieved at being able to escape.

  Chas walked in and gave the mage a poisonous look. But the king did not dismiss Magister Zhavic.

  So Chas said, “He’s gone. So is that boy he kept as personal servant. And—”

  “There’s always an ‘and’, these days,” Canardan murmured, waggling his fingers again. “Yes, get on with it.”

  “Certain among the guard are missing as well, all without leave.”

  Canardan smacked his hands down on the desk, stood, and dropped back into his chair. This time he swept everything except the inkwell off the desk in one angry motion. Papers hissed to a snowdrift on the floor as he pulled a small communication note from inside the desk, and wrote:

  Jehan, where are you and what are you doing?

  He shoved the paper inside the magic box and tapped out Jehan’s signal.


  No one spoke, or moved, until the king twitched. He’d received a magical signal, which meant an answer had arrived. He pulled out and read a paper, then tossed it onto the desk, the inscription toward them. “What d’you make of that?” he asked, grinning.

  They leaned forward and read:

  I am here to rescue Sasharia Zhavalieshin from Dannath Randart.

  “My son might be an idiot, but he’s a romantic idiot,” Canardan said, almost buoyant with relief. He’d feared treachery. He couldn’t even bear to think about that. Here was the real answer, even if it wasn’t quite reasonable. But Jehan had always been like his mother, romantic and idealistic. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me. Maybe more romantic that way. Wait. He did tell me the other day that he wanted to find her . . . and yes, I told him to sit tight. Well, well. Maybe he’s not such an idiot after all. At least, not when it comes to romance.”

  Laughing, he bent over the paper, crossed out the former words and wrote below, in small letters: So who has her?

  And the answer came back: No one, right now.

  Canardan did not show that response to Zhavic or Chas, who tried to sneak peeks at those upside down letters, but the king kept using the same scrap of paper, as did the prince, the writings tinier and tinier.

  And if I order you to come home? Saying that I will deal with Randart as I see fit?

  This time the wait was longer. The king was aware of his own breathing sounding loud and harsh, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears as he stared down at his thumb prints on the gleaming golden box.

  Zing! An answer. Jehan’s print was small, the letters carefully formed. I have to do what is right. I don’t think you can protect her from Randart. I think I can.

  The king sighed, ripping the paper into tiny bits. Then he got up from behind the desk. The other two wheeled to face him as he paced the few steps to the fireplace and cast the note into the fire. But he kept his back to the two men as he sorted his reactions. Some relief, much exasperation. Jehan was a romantic, but it seemed he’d chosen to grow up at last. And typical of sons, with terrible timing and headlong foolishness.

  Canardan sat down at the desk, pulled out another note, and wrote: Dannath, whether you have the girl or not, return to the siege. He shoved it into the case and tapped out Randart’s pattern.

  Silence again, the mage and the spy standing, the king neither speaking nor looking their way as he waited for an answer. Again there was a wait. Then:

  With all respect, sire, are you not losing sight of an advantage? Permit me to secure then bring to you this objective. You can then decide what to do from a position of strength.

  Canardan sat back. Another day—yesterday—before the mage came, before the note from his son, he might have shrugged and accepted that. As he always had in the past. But. He stared down at the piece of paper and Randart’s strong, assured handwriting. Despite their long friendship, despite the reasonable wording, the implied service, the truth was, Dannath Randart had refused an order.

  Canardan tapped his fingers on the magic box. His first impulse was to demand that Dannath return at once and face him. But even if he said he was riding back, how many of those damned transfer tokens did he possess? Unless he was directly under Canardan’s eye, he could go anywhere in an eyeblink, do anything, while saying he was on his way back.

  Canardan swung around, glaring at the fire. Did he distrust Dannath, after all these years?

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Randart had made no mention of Ivory Mountain. If he did capture that wretched girl and promptly ride either for the siege or for the royal city, Canardan would know everything was as it should be. Least said, the better.

  The king looked up at the waiting men. “Have my guard saddle up. Say nothing of the destination, only that the king wishes to ride on inspection.” His smile was unpleasant. “We’re riding for Ivory Mountain, but as yet only the three of us know that. It will be interesting to see who else shows up, eh?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  War Commander Randart counted out his paces. Fifty . . . a hundred. Still no answer.

  Relief. If the king was going to answer, he would have by now. Why had he suddenly took it into his head to interfere at this moment, when matters were the busiest? But wasn’t it always that way? You are presented with a crisis of events, and that’s when one and all choose to interrupt.

  Randart looked out through the tower window at the rain, already receding eastward. Rain. Another disruption. If Damedran hadn’t managed to reach one of the military roads, he was no doubt bogged down on some civilian mud track, and that would slow him down.

  Randart threw his gold case with a clatter onto the desk, then remembered he was at Ambais. This was a loyal garrison, but they were not used to his ways, and he didn’t want to have to shoot someone who touched his things.

  So he picked up the case again, thrust it into his pouch, and began pacing, glaring periodically out the window at the courtyard as if he could mentally pull Damedran and those boys in by force of will.

  Elsewhere in the castle he could hear the orderly march of events—sentries at their duty, some noise from the mess hall at the bottom of the stone stairway. This was an old fortress, small, inconvenient, but easy to defend and tough to attack. Not that he expected an attack.

  Pace, pace, glance out the window. Was that a speck on the road? More than one speck?

  He wrenched open the ill-fitting glass, which was befogged with steam. Cold air blew in drops of rain as he peered down the gentle slope below the castle. Sharp disappointment. Yes, two riders galloping up the military road.

  Not Damedran, only the trackers he’d sent out to meet the boys and reinforce them for the last leg of their journey. He’d known Damedran would be disgusted with any reinforcement on his first mission, especially a successful mission. Randart would have been at his age as well. But this vile female was far too important for any prudent commander to consider mere boyish emotions.

  He resisted the impulse to run downstairs to the court—as if hearing the trackers’ bad news that little measure faster would make much difference.

  Instead he sat, forcing himself to review the pile of reports he’d thrust into the dispatch bag before riding away from the siege, until the sound of footsteps caused him to look up.

  His trackers dashed in, muddy to the waist. “War Commander, they were intercepted.”

  Fury flared through Randart. He kept his lips tight for one breath. Two. “Report.”

  The older, more experienced tracker said, “We are reasonably sure we located their trail. Valgan here rode back down it to make certain, and said it definitely led to the farm where the cadets had tracked the target. We even found the place they had to have ambushed the target.”

  Faint question infused the man’s face and voice on the word “target”. Randart had not told them who the target was, only that Damedran had been sent to this specific olive farm belonging to the local duke in order to arrest a traitor.

  “Looked like a pretty good fight,” he added, obviously hoping to provoke some information. “At least, as far as we could tell, as the rain was already beginning to obliterate the tracks.”

  He paused. When Randart did not respond, he shrugged and went on. “There was another ambush say half a watch’s ride from here, twice as many hoof prints. They all rode northwest, cross-country.”

  “Where did the ambushers come from, could you tell?”

  “Their prints began at the military road,” was the answer.

  Military road? Who could possibly have betrayed him? Who even knew where he was? Not the king. Not even Orthan. Only Damedran—

  Randart jammed the reports back into the dispatch bag. “You two. Ride ahead, find their trail. Get a communication box from your commander, Valgan, and report the signal to me before you depart. I am going to follow you with my entire force. So you had better ride at the gallop.”

  o0o

  Damedran did not know what to think.


  Jehan, the sheep who had quite suddenly changed into a wolf, did not ask for parole, nor did he bind up his prisoners. In fact, he said nothing at all about who would ride where. He didn’t even take their weapons.

  And so Damedran rode next to him, silent at first as they put in a gallop. His knee throbbed where the princess had kicked him, but he could ignore that. He could wait. You don’t gallop horses for long unless you have a lot of posting houses or garrisons with ready mounts. Well, the garrisons did, but the prince seemed to be avoiding them.

  They galloped on the flat, smooth, well-maintained military road, and once their trail was thus thoroughly obliterated, they took a side trail over a hard-packed road, one of Jehan’s people being detailed to smooth their tracks after them. Then they slowed, walking the horses until they’d cooled, and stopping at a trickling stream to water them.

  Jehan squinted at the western sky above the mountaintops. The sun rimmed a uniformly dense gray bar of cloud that covered the entire western horizon, the upper edge of which lit with fiery oranges and reds and yellows, colors that warmed the sky and echoed in the vanguard of cloud patches overhead. A spectacular sunset, but it meant heavy rain on the way.

  Red snickered. “They’ll be up to their armpits in mud at the siege,” he muttered.

  “Wonder who’s got the night run?” Bowsprit whispered back. “They may’s well take boats.”

  The boys’ laughter was subdued, all the clearer because Prince Jehan’s men—all wearing warrior brown, but not a one known by sight to Damedran—worked in silence, switching gear to the remounts.

  A last ochre ray of sun shone on Jehan’s white hair, making him easy to pick out from the others. Damedran waited until Jehan was done talking with one of the men, who promptly rode up the trail and vanished into the woods.

  The last of the sun disappeared. The warm sunset colors bleached to cold grays and blues as a wind rose, rustling through the grasses and moaning through the distant trees.

  “I don’t understand,” Damedran said, when at last Jehan turned his way. The words seemed to wring from somewhere inside his chest. “I thought—I thought—”