Senrid

The first one slipped back between the wagons, and a moment later Puddlenose heard him call out: “Cassandra?”

  “We have to check,” the second man said somewhat apologetically.

  The boys followed the man into the light of the campfire, where they surveyed one another. Puddlenose saw an ordinary middle-aged man, long hair, the bright clothing of the traveling player. Propped near the wheel of the wagon he’d stopped near was a woodwind.

  A moment later the blond girl had joined them. She was about the age of Clair and the girls, barefoot, dressed in a plain gown much too big for her, bound close by a fringed sash. She pulled from the sash something that glinted with blue-silver light: a long pin, its head carved to look like either a leaf or a feather.

  She held the pin out and Puddlenose wondered if he was supposed to take it; Senrid crossed his arms and Christoph scratched his head.

  “They are not Norsundrians,” the girl said, then tucked the pin back into her sash.

  The man did not hide his relief. He gestured to Puddlenose, a friendly gesture. “Tell her your warning?”

  Puddlenose repeated it, watching the girl’s face. She listened soberly, and then sighed. “They must have found out that the enchantment is breaking over some of us. That’s all I can figure.”

  Puddlenose felt a million questions piling up in the back of his head, but he squashed them down. He knew that they were on the very edge of impending action—something big, possibly just about to begin.

  He looked over, met Christoph’s eyes. Christoph shrugged faintly: he agreed.

  Senrid hadn’t reacted at all.

  “Come! Join us for a meal?”

  “Don’t need to ask twice,” Christoph said enthusiastically.

  The players had plenty to eat, which was surprising to Puddlenose, but he didn’t question that either. An atmosphere of tension tightened jaws, and caused quick looks, even though everyone appeared to be having a good time with their music and dance.

  The girl Cassandra vanished after a while. Christoph wandered about looking at various musical instruments, but Puddlenose was content to sit with his eyes half-closed and watch the fire.

  After a while he realized he was hearing a pair of voices.

  “…you’ll walk into a trap,” an old woman said slowly. Was this the same woman they’d seen on the road? “You must believe that magic communication preceded you.”

  Senrid said, “Trap. South?”

  Puddlenose saw images in the fire: them entering the southern forest again, by day, reaching the shore, being jumped by a patrol of Chwahir, sent by magic transfer…

  The old woman’s voice whispered on, low and slow, and Puddlenose couldn’t make out the words. He almost dropped off to sleep when he discovered Senrid next to him.

  “Come on,” he said. “They’ve given us food and water. Said if we leave at night, we travel much faster through the outer land.”

  Puddlenose rubbed gritty eyes and scrambled to his feet. He found Christoph right behind him.

  “We will?”

  “And we apparently will run into transfer magic,” Senrid said dryly.

  “You don’t sound pleased.”

  “I don’t trust it,” Senrid said. “I hate interference.”

  “So does everybody,” Puddlenose retorted cheerfully “Let’s go.”

  Silence stayed with them as they trod back up the path.

  Through the stones, and into the hazed desert-land; a long night of travel brought them within hearing of the ocean but before any of them could remark on it, magic seized them and Puddlenose and Christoph found themselves in Mearsies Heili—without Senrid.

  Clair was as used to their sudden reappearances as they, and was grateful it was midmorning, and not in the middle of the night, as had happened before.

  “I just finished four interviews,” she said. “No other appointments, so all I have to do is wait for noon, and then we can go.”

  “Go?” Christoph said; they were tired, but that could be ignored if something fun was planned.

  “Yes. Diana and Seshe have laid out a treasure hunt. Team game, whoever loses has to do snow patrol against the Chwahir and all kitchen chores for the winners for two weeks.”

  Puddlenose rubbed his hands. “Are we good or what?” he gloated, as Christoph laughed.

  Clair said, “So how did you get here—who sent you?”

  “Dunno,” both boys said, which was more typical than not. And, because it was not yet noon, they plopped down on the steps of the dais and told her everything, Puddlenose finishing with giving her the necklace.

  Clair turned it absently in her hands, but there was a frown between her brows.

  “I have to admit it bothers me, too, this feeling that somebody is watching him. It could happen to any of us.”

  Puddlenose shrugged. “And what can you do? My advice that no one asked for is this: pretend they don’t exist.”

  Christoph sighed. “I have to admit I hope I never see Senrid again.”

  The cousins looked his way. “Why? Did you dislike him?” Clair asked.

  Christoph grimaced. “No, I liked him. That’s the problem.”

  Puddlenose cracked his knuckles. “Yup. He’s sitting on the fence right now. Anything could push him either way. If he goes for the Norsunder side, I don’t want to see him again either. He’s too smart, too nervy—it’s too likely you would end up seeing him grinning there at the head of an army. C’mon, let’s roust us out some eats before the noon bells.”

  SIX

  Kyale woke up to the sound of Conrad growling.

  She opened her eyes, sat up, and flung off the bedclothes.

  The growl wasn’t just Conrad. Meta, the powerful black leopard who almost never came indoors unless there was a blizzard, also prowled about her room, back and forth, tail twitching, teeth gleaming, coat ruffled as she growled.

  “Uh oh,” Kitty breathed, and dashed into her wardrobe. She scrambled into a warm woolen dress, for the air was chilly. She hesitated at stockings and shoes, then decided against them. It would take too long to lace up her slippers.

  So she ran barefoot into the hall—just as a young man in a black and tan uniform entered from the other end.

  She whirled, ducked back inside, slammed her door, and bolted it.

  She fled to the window, remembering Faline’s climb up the ivy. If Faline could go up, Kitty could go down.

  But a glance into the courtyard revealed a terrible sight—a group of fellows in those familiar black-and-tan uniforms, all of them with drawn steel. As she stared down, one glanced up. He was about Leander’s age, his lean face framed by pale blond hair. He grinned. It was a challenging grin, not at all friendly, and Kitty whirled away, then drew her curtains.

  Bang! Someone pounded on the door with something hard.

  “Open up!”

  Kitty looked around, shivering. “Under the bed, kits,” she cried, dropping down onto the floor to follow her own order.

  Her small cats were already there. The two large ones did not heed her.

  The door smashed open, wood splintering. Two or three sets of iron-capped heels trod in, clumped around, then a voice said, in accented Leroran, “Come out, or these beasts are dead.”

  Kitty poked her head out from under the bed duster—along with three or four small cat heads.

  Someone muffled a snicker at the sight, but the faces in view were stern, one in the back sneering. None of them friendly.

  “Now.”

  Kitty scrambled out, and dashed for her desk. In one hand she grabbed up her letter-opener, and in the other a solid gold candleholder.

  When the first Marloven took a step near her, she flung the opener, which spun through the air past the fellow’s shoulder and clattered against her broken door.

  “You went first,” said the leader, a very young man with a determined face and serious light brown eyes. “Now it’s my turn.”

  He drew a long dagger from the sheath at his side, flipped it expertly i
n his fingers so that he held it by the blade, and cocked his arm back as he sighted on Meta.

  Conrad growled, crouching to spring; the others pulled their swords and knives with a hiss and ring of steel.

  “All right,” she said in a squeaky voice. “I won’t throw this thing. Don’t hurt the kits.”

  She put the candleholder down, and he sheathed his knife. Conrad stayed crouched, growling on every breath, ears flat back, but didn’t move.

  “Come along.”

  She came. All the Marlovens closed in around her. She heard the soft thud of cat pads on the marble flooring, and Meta and Conrad vanished down the hall the other way. A couple of the Marlovens watched, but they didn’t react; one gave her a Prod between the shoulder blades.

  In lip-biting silence Kitty hustled to keep up with the others’ quick strides. They thundered down the stairs to the old garrison courtyard, which was overgrown with weeds, and stopped when a pair of Marlovens crossed from the other direction.

  “Here,” said the leader from behind Kyale. He spoke in Marloven—which Kitty now understood, thanks to Leander’s persistence, but she didn’t let on. “Regent wants this brat stashed in the tower for now.”

  And, without warning, a gloved hand gave Kitty a shove.

  She stumbled forward. One of the new ones crooked a finger at her, then pointed at the tower. She hesitated, heard them all breathing behind her, sensed their impatience. There was no way she was getting out of this mess, so she crossed her arms and stalked toward the old tower, which had been unused since her mother’s day. Her toes bunched against the cold stones of the courtyard.

  Up the steps, which were wet from the recent rain; the old-style arrow-slit windows were all open to the weather. To the top, and in. The door slammed, she heard the bar thrown, and bootheels receding back down the stone steps.

  She looked around. The bleak gray light revealed moss on the stones, and a small pile of withered leaves against the far wall. Above her head a trap door—but it was well beyond her reach.

  She sat down, pulled her skirts about her, put her head on her knees, and wept.

  Leander woke up with his skull aching and a nasty metallic taste in his mouth. Darkness surrounded him. He sniffed, recognized the dusty smells of stone, hemp, and the doggy smell of damp wool.

  He was in the storerooms that in Mara Jinea’s day had been a dungeon, under the unused garrison.

  He lay without moving, breathing slowly, fighting the nausea that had wrung him in waves when he first moved his head. He was on his side; with cautious fingers he explored the swollen lump behind his right ear. Pain sent lightning bolts shooting behind his eyes, and he winced, then let his hand fall.

  Memory came back, unwanted, humiliating: he had walked into the kitchen to order up some tea just as an assault team burst in through the door to the truck garden.

  Nelyas had defended herself with a carving knife. Her mother had struggled with two assailants, trying desperately to brain one with a cooking pot. Leander had looked about him for something to use as a weapon, but he never got a chance. Behind him a sword rang as it was pulled from a sheath. He turned in time for someone to club him across the back of the head with a hilt.

  And that was that. The great king Leander Tlennen-Hess, youngest of the family ever to come to the throne, taken down without having struck a single blow. His rule had lasted not quite a year—and his defense of his kingdom had lasted about three quick breaths.

  Don’t think like that.

  Can’t think at all.

  Up in the tower, the day wore slowly on, weak light changing in the two arrow slits then darkening. From time to time Kitty heard the echo of voices ricocheting up the stones, always in Marloven. Sometimes commands, other times punctuated by the ring of bootheels. A few times chatter, and even laughter. Not gloating laughter, aimed at her, but the snickers of fun.

  Those Marlovens out there were having fun.

  Kitty raged and fumed to herself, after trying to hear the talk below, but the echoes, the low murmuring voices, made it impossible. Some of the commands she did hear, but they didn’t tell her anything other than one group was coming on duty and another going off. No sign of Leander, or anyone else she knew. Just Marlovens—some stationed on the walls, like in her mother’s day. Their words were carried away by the wind the few times she heard their voices.

  She stood on tiptoe and peered through the window slit that overlooked the courtyard. She didn’t see much, just Marlovens walking about.

  Once a pair clattered in through the gate, dressed like the others except their helms had long horse-tails, not steel spikes. These two didn’t wear their helms, but carried them in their left arms. The Marlovens with the steel points on their helms all got out of the way; the two with the horse-tail helms crossed the courtyard, one of them talking in a low voice, the other laughing as they disappeared inside the old garrison.

  Kitty’s toes hurt, so she sat back down.

  At sunset she heard someone tramp up the stairs. The bar was thrown back, the door creaked partially open, and a long arm set in first a jug, then a bowl with a wooden spoon sticking out. The door slammed, the bar clunked into place, and the steps receded.

  Kitty crossed the cell, shivering. The dishes she recognized from the kitchen. The jug was cold, full of water, but the bowl was warm. She sniffed, smelled spiced cabbage and barley cooked in turkey broth in a thick soup. It seemed an insult—the prisoner slop you hear about in stories—but she ate it anyway, enjoying the warmth more than the taste.

  A long drink of water, then she set the dishes down again, and crouched down directly opposite the arrow slit, where she didn’t feel the breeze as much.

  Dark fell.

  After a time she roused from shivering half-slumber when the bar scraped up and the door opened, and someone pitched in a blanket. From the smell of dust and mildew it was one of the old ones from the unused garrison. She wrapped herself up in it and tried to sleep.

  Leander felt hunger and thirst supercede the pain in his head. He had no idea how long he lay there in the storeroom. Sleep came intermittently, with unpleasant dreams.

  He was soggy with sleep when the door opened. Dream images flickered and died, chased by the flaring of orange torchlight. His head ached abominably, and he shivered.

  Hands gripped his arms, pulled him to his feet.

  “I’ll walk,” he said in Marloven, trying to shake off the hands.

  One let go, but the other did not. Dizzy, he almost pitched forward, and the second hand grabbed hastily and this time did not let go.

  An ignominious walk came next, with torchlight shifting the dimensions of his own storerooms and the servants’ stairs upward, making the dizziness worse.

  Into the castle, which had Marloven guards posted at all the main landings and doors. Some of them looked at him curiously. Leander noted that most of them were young men. He’d pictured them all being Alaxandar’s age, only more grizzled. Bigger. These were his size, most of them fair-haired—like Senrid.

  They were all armed. He was not.

  His guides force-marched him down past the old reception rooms, empty this past year, toward Mara Jinea’s throne room, which he had never used. He drew in a deep breath. They were armed, they’d taken his home—probably his land, or nearly. He strongly suspected he was about to meet Senrid’s uncle, the Regent. He had nothing to help him but his knowledge of Tdanerend, garnered from Kitty, the Mearsieans, and the Regent’s own daughter—that, and his wits.

  Sure enough, the doors to the throne room stood open. The room was lit with glowglobes, but no attempt had been made to warm the icy, stale air. Leander had never bothered to get rid of Mara Jinea’s obsidian-inlaid throne, or the black walnut chairs with their golden edging; Marloven colors, Leander realized belatedly. Just how far had her ambitions reached?

  His dry lips twisted. She was gone. The threat now was Tdanerend, who seemed to like throne rooms.

  The guards halted, bringing Leand
er face to face with Tdanerend. They were nearly the same height, but Tdanerend was far heavier in build. His hair was reddish brown, his eyes dark, his face lined with ill humor.

  He wore a Marloven uniform, glittering with medals and rank insignia.

  Leander imagined how he himself looked: filthy dark hair hanging in his bruised face, his weedy form clad in mildew-grubby shirt and old trousers and house slippers. He laughed.

  Tdanerend’s mouth pruned. “Your options are these,” he said. “You will either consent to a loyalty spell, so that I may use you here in place of a governor, or I’ll hold you against any uprisings—any trouble at all—and give your people the messiest show they’ve ever had as a demonstration.”

  Ice-trickle pooled inside Leander’s innards. But those words—loyalty spell—sparked enough anger to make him determined: defeated he might be, but not without a fight.

  He said as derisively as possible, “Am I supposed to be impressed? Or are they?” He jerked his head back toward the two flanking him. “It’ll take more than a throne room, you sorry fart-wind.”

  Tdanerend’s mouth thinned. “Out. Let Rathend teach him some manners. We’ll try again in the morning.”

  Back through the door. Leander’s heart slammed painfully in his chest, and his wrists felt watery, but exhilaration sang through him, sang until he was shoved into a cold, bad-smelling room with a cruel-faced man whose clothes were stained with blood obviously not his.

  The night was long and miserable for Kitty.

  When she woke, it was to the sound of the door closing, and she sat up, her breath clouding, to find the bowl gone and in its place another bowl, this one with something steaming. She wriggled over, keeping the blanket about her, and discovered that it was oat slurry with boiled egg.

  Only commoners ate dishes like that, and this slurry was watery, with only the faintest dash of honey in it, the egg overcooked. Disgusting! But the urge to throw it out the window only lasted about two breaths, then she drank it all down.

  Her jug of water had a thin film of ice on top. She poked a hole through and drank a few sips, shuddering at the coldness, then she wriggled back to her spot. It was no longer warm. She lay down again.