Enna was sitting behind Megina, leaning back on her hands, staring at the ceiling. Razo eased a small pebble out of his pouch, and keeping his arm down straight at his side, he flicked it, striking Enna on the shoulder.
“What…?” Enna sat up.
Razo bit his lip to throbbing to kill his laugh and stared straight ahead. Finn breathed out an almost silent chuckle.
“Did you ask something?” said Megina.
“No, my lady,” said Enna. “Just a cough.”
Razo felt a sting on the side of his neck and slapped it, thinking it was an insect. Until he smelled burning hair. He looked at his palm. She had singed a single hair from his neck.
By the time they dragged into Thousand Years, the sun was making a show of setting, the sky all rust and gold and heaving with clouds. After hours of standing at attention, Razo thought he could eat his saddle raw. The pastry kitchen was empty, the only sound a low fire snapping at a log. No sooner had he started to poke around for a treat than Pela hopped through the door, her shrubs of yellow hair flopping. Instinctively, he moved toward the door, not feeling safe alone around a girl like Pela with so many sharp knives about. But she’s become friendlier, he thought, remembering how she touched his hand when giving him a cup of tea.
“There you are.” She set down an empty tray. “I have something to show you.”
“You do?” Razo hoped it was something to eat.
“Yes, but it will cost you.”
He was about to protest his poverty when in some slur of movement, some hitch of skirt, leg wrapped around leg, hop, and a trip, Razo found himself sitting on a stool against the wall, Pela on his lap, her legs bestride his.
“Oh,” he said. Or perhaps grunted. She was pleasantly robust. He squeezed his arms against his sides in case she tried to tickle him.
“I don’t want much,” she said, affecting a shy face and toying with his lummas.
Enna often declared that when it came to catching innuendo, Razo was as slow as a dead hare fleeing, but he thought he had a handle on this.
“What is it?” He was appalled to find that his voice had tangled in his throat and came out less of a manly inquiry and more of a squeal. He did not want her to think that she was the only girl ever to climb onto his lap, so he grumbled his throat clear and asked again, “What is it?”
She leaned in closer, her lips just separated from his.
“A parchment,” she whispered. Her breath tickled his face, and he tried not to squirm. She smelled nice, like salted meat, and that made him want to hold very still so that she would not go away.
“What’s on the parchment?” His hands were still tight to his sides. Should he put them on her waist or back or something?
“I don’t know, but when I entered Lady Dasha’s room, she stuffed it away, hiding it all suspicious-like, and since you were nudging for any information on her the other day, I pinched it for you this morning. And all I want for it is—”
“You took a parchment from Dasha’s room?” He bolted upright, sending Pela tumbling to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning over her, trying to help her upright. “Whoops, that was awkward.” She reached for his hand, but he was trying to lift her from under her shoulders, and she fell on her rump again.
“Never mind, I’m fine,” she said, finally gaining her feet on her own and shaking her skirt clean. Her entire face glowed red.
Razo picked up a folded paper that must have fallen from her pocket. “Is this it?”
The door banged open and a parade of girls with empty trays poured through. Pela and Razo took a few guilty steps away from each other, Razo stuffing the parchment into the waist of his leggings.
“Hello, Razo.”
“Evening, Razo.”
The freckled girl came in laughing. “Did Lord Rogis’s son Victar propose to anyone else at dinner or just me?”
“Stay away from that one!” said another. “Acts as if he’ll drape amber around your neck, but the word is he and his rich father aren’t even talking….”
Razo said hello to all the girls and kissed the pastry chef’s cheek, telling her she worked too hard and to let the girls finish up so she could go soak her feet. When he left, Pela followed him out the door, pressing herself against his back, her mouth on his ear. He could feel some nice parts of her body touching his.
“If you don’t return that before Lady Dasha notices, my skin will pay for it,” she whispered. “Her chamber door is unlocked. Read it quickly, then go stick the parchment back beneath her lamp. She won’t be back tonight, so you could look around a bit too, if it helped.”
Razo nodded and left, but not before she patted his bum.
Thoughts of Pela chased after him down the dark corridor, inching over his skin, wriggling so that the hairs of his arms stood up. She was a pretty girl. And, well, she was any girl. He had not thought much of anyone since Bettin.
He paced outside Talone’s dark apartment in the heavy huff of night, flicking pebbles with his thumbnail to hear them pop against the door. With every moment his anxiety tightened, a rope twisting. Getting caught with a parchment stolen from Lady Dasha’s room would not do much to ease the political tension.
Some hour later, the captain returned, emanating the salty fish smell of Tiran dinner.
“It’s about time,” said Razo. “If there’s ever any doubt of my commitment to Bayern and peace, know that I missed a meal to wait for you.”
“There was never a doubt.” Talone ushered him inside and lit a lamp.
“Found in Dasha’s room and I’ve got to get it back quick, but I don’t know reading.”
Talone scanned the parchment. “This looks like notes taken while studying some books. She cites several sources that mention ‘fire-witches.’”
“Uh-oh.”
“Indeed.” He studied it, his brow furrowed. “She seemed interested in the fire worshippers from Yasid, people who know how to work both fire and water. Here’s a note at the bottom that says, ‘Apparently live healthy all their lives,’ underlined twice.”
“You think Dasha is the…”
Talone shook his head. “After Enna, we won’t make the mistake to assume anything, not without definitive proof.”
So Razo set off to find proof. He scurried down the servants’ walkway until it climbed into the lamplit main corridor of the palace. A dusting girl passed by, and Razo ducked into a side hallway just in time, grinning at the darkness. Skulking around a palace was quite a bit more exciting than hunting squirrels. The fear of being caught gave speed to his blood and made his pulse click in his ear.
He’d followed Dasha once before and remembered which door was hers. He knocked, peered inside, then jumped in and shut the door, quiet as brushing two feathers together. He smiled at his own stealth, then swaggered right into a chair, banging it against the wall.
You oaf. He cut short his swagger and began to move with exaggerated sneakiness. There was a certain pleasure in that, too.
Three large windows opened to the central courtyard, allowing the pale moonlight to creep in and over everything, marking the chairs and tables with rims of silver. He did not know what he was looking for, but clothing streaked with soot might be a handy implication of guilt.
He slid the parchment beneath a lamp on a table. Various bottles, jars, and wooden boxes were arranged in pretty little groups. He peered into a few—powders, mint leaves for chewing, a yellow cream that had no odor. He shook a silver tube, heard the muted slosh of liquid, and raised the cap to his nose. A perfume of tangerine blossoms teased him with uncertain intimacy. What did it remind him of? He closed his eyes, and the scent pulled him into a memory of the ocean, his feet uneven in the sand, the lulling hush of waves, and Dasha standing close.
Razo sorted through the wardrobe—no burn marks, no scent of smoke. So he shrugged at the moon, slipped into the corridor, and stood a moment by her door, wondering what to do next.
“Tree rat!”
R
azo jumped back at least two steps and hit his back against a wall. His heart banged so hard against his ribs, it felt bruised.
“Dasha…Lady Dasha…I…”
“Oh, what happened to your nose?”
“Nothing.” He sniffed. “Ouch. I mean, it broke. Accident.”
“I’m sorry. Were you looking for me just now?”
He nodded, not quite ready to give up the support of the wall. “Yes, um, how are you?”
Dasha smiled, and her nose crinkled. How did that one expression make him feel as helpless as if two big brothers sat on his chest or Pela straddled his lap?
“So I guess that means you heard.” Dasha opened her door and handed him her lamp. “There was no one here, but I wouldn’t mind having you look around again.”
What is she talking about? Razo wondered, but he played along, holding the lamp aloft and walking through her rooms.
“Of course,” she said, “it was probably a lie all along. The door was unlocked for some reason, but why would a Bayern hide in my rooms and wait to murder me? I told the soldiers that when they came for me an hour ago, but they insisted on escorting me to my rooms. Said they’d had a very reliable tip. Nonsense, I said, and sure enough, the soldiers didn’t find anyone lurking about. I’ve just now come from Lord Belvan’s chambers, convincing him that the Bayern aren’t a threat to me no matter what some troublemaker claimed.”
Razo realized that if he’d come here as soon as he’d left Pela instead of going to Talone first, he would have been the one stalking Dasha’s rooms, just in time for soldiers to burst in. The light in Razo’s hand swayed, sending shadows zooming across the walls.
“Nothing appears to be missing.” She removed her lummas and laid it directly over the parchment Razo had replaced. Coincidence, or was she hiding it?
“All… all clear,” he said, pleased his voice betrayed only a petty tremble.
“Thank you.” She took the lamp and smiled at him, right into the ghostly light. “I’ve been meaning to tell someone from your party that I’ll be leaving tomorrow, back to my father’s estate. In the summer, the assembly is in recess, and most people return to their lands in the country. I will be away for three months, but Lord Belvan will be here to aid you. Look at you! You seem crushed.”
He did? “I’m not.” That seemed rude. “I mean, I’ll miss you.” What was he saying? “But I hope you have a good time.” He was a spy; he should be trying to find out information. “I guess you have business to deal with in the country. Well, have you, you know, taken care of everything you need to here?”
“I have tried….” A shiver of uncertainty crossed her face, as though she’d stepped on something sharp and tried to hide the pain. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Her stare pinned him, and he had the sudden and unhappy conviction that small though she was, this Dasha was as dangerous to play with as a well-sharpened dagger.
“You wouldn’t just ask for no reason. What would I need to take care of?”
“Just… stuff. I mean, I was just wondering if I could do anything for you while you’re gone.”
“I’m in a real muddle, Razo. I wish…” She looked at him, so hard that it made him squirm. “No, I don’t think you can help me.”
“Are you sure? I’m pretty smart.” That sounded stupid. He inhaled through the space in his front teeth as if he could suck those words back inside.
“You don’t…Never mind. But thank you.”
Her thanks seemed so genuine, he had a passing stitch of guilt for pretending to offer help after prowling around her chambers, searching for a sign that she was a murderer.
“Um, uh, you’ll be wanting to get sleep, then, I guess, if you’re on your way tomorrow.”
He left, congratulating himself for coming up with the weakest good-bye ever spoken.
In short order, his guilt was overcome by a cramp of hunger. He found a tangerine tree in the courtyard and looted the leaves for the last of the season, eating the stingingly sweet fruit in its branches. The ground felt too dangerous, the place where Tiran like Tumas walked, eager for a chance to skip the nose breaking and move on to Razo’s spine. Rubbed between the sensation of fear and the pleasure of food, he watched Dasha’s window.
A lamp flickered on her windowsill. Had she lit it without spark or flint? She knew something, Razo was certain. Her gaze often shifted, her fingers twitched. Her bearing declared too heartily that she was happy, fine, all openness and nothing to hide.
So what did she hide?
The lamp sputtered; the window went dark.
12
The Best Sling Finn Ever Saw
Razo woke to the guttering snores in the barracks, sat up, yawned, and gasped for air. Heat weighed down his body, slick and damp, crawling into his mouth and down his throat with each breath. It seemed the change of seasons had accosted the city of rivers overnight.
The Bayern soldiers staggered into their boots and outside, hoping to find breathable air, but out was as stifling as in, shade as scorching as sunlight. The air was heavy with ocean, the invisible drops of water clinging to everything. Razo wondered if he might drown.
“Welcome to an Ingridan summer,” said Victar, joining Razo on the way to breakfast.
“This heat’s cruel mean.”
“No meaner than a Bayern winter.” Victar recounted winter nights during the Tiran invasion, runny noses forming tiny icicles on upper lips, raids canceled because the men could not lift a spear for shivering. He flung his words casually, laughing and gesturing with no hesitation. He seemed completely unaware how his talk of the recent war tightened the mood around him.
“My elder brother is already at our father’s estate in the country, but I’m a military man now and must stand the heat like any Ingridan lad. The rich and squeamish flee the city summer. The hearty stay behind.”
“Stay and sweat,” said Victar’s friend.
The two companies breakfasted in a dark, first-story room in the north wing of the palace, all the windows open, holding their breath for a breeze. The cheese was salty, the bread gristly, and Razo missed his ma’s stewpot with a cruel ache. But he was becoming crazed for those spicy Ingridan olives. He liked how when he bit them, they bit back.
He had filled his plate and was about to join Conrad when Victar waved him over. Might be good to make friends with some Tiran, he thought.
Razo was gabbing with Victar’s friends when Tumas entered, as big and angry as the heat. He looked at Razo, and his lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though it resembled more the snarl of a feral dog. Razo returned an openmouthed grin and waved with mock glee.
“Tiran Fifth Company,” called Ledel’s secondman, a lean, tall soldier with skin tanned dark brown. He stood in the doorway, waiting for the room to quiet.
“Where’s your captain?” Razo asked Victar in a whisper.
“On one of his many jaunts, I suppose. Yesterday was a feast day, and the captain always disappears on feast days. Beat me with a spear if I know where he goes.”
“I have news from Lord Belvan,” said the secondman. “Our summer assignment has changed to the Tacitan province. We leave in the morning.”
The Tiran cheered and slapped the tables. Razo guessed Tacitan was a cool, windy place.
“For once, birdface Belvan does something right,” said a young, squinty friend of Tumas. The raucous laugh among the Tiran made Razo feel as though he’d been insulted but was too thickheaded to see.
“What’d Belvan do so wrong?” Razo asked Victar.
“He was opposed to the war from the beginning and was not demoted after the failed invasion. Nowhere outside his own company is that man much loved.”
“Do you like him?” asked Razo.
Victar shrugged. “I don’t concern myself with him.”
“What say we have a last bout with these Bayern boys?” asked Tumas, his glance sliding over Razo. “Stretch our backs before the long march?”
Ta
lone was having his weekly meeting with Lord Belvan, so Brynn was in charge of the Bayern. He looked around, gauging the eagerness in the expressions of his countrymen. Finn had been the sound victor at the last scuffle, and none of Bayern’s Own seemed opposed. Razo wondered if he could sneak away unnoticed.
“Heartily accepted,” said Brynn. “Bayern’s Own don’t turn down a challenge.”
Yes, yes, all right, curse them, thought Razo. I’m an Own. I won’t flee.
He grumbled as he followed the others to the training ground, tapping his javelin against his backside, herding himself like a sheep to the slaughtering shed. Enna and Finn caught up with him.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Mock combat. You going to join us, Finn?”
“Sure, I’ll play.”
Razo snorted. If this was play, the game should be called Humiliate Razo with a Wooden Sword, not unlike many of his childhood games: Five Brothers Wrestle Razo, Little Man Underfoot, Razo the Rug, Razo Our Tiny Foe. His mother never had guessed why her youngest son spent so much time tromping alone through the trees with his sling.
They arrived at the training ground before Razo had been able to formulate any plan. He stood on the sidelines, cheering and jesting with the others. Inwardly he crouched and shuddered and felt that bowl of olives in his stomach start to churn.
Ledel arrived, carrying a bundle of something under his arm. “What is going on?” His voice was raspy again from lack of sleep, and his jaw scar was an unpleasant purple color.
“Another bout, Captain,” said the secondman, “before we prepare to leave. Your permission to continue?”
The Tiran soldiers held still, waiting. Victar yawned.
“Proceed,” said Ledel, though he seemed particularly grumpy about something.
Brynn set up two fighting rings, and practice battles began to swirl and clash, Tiran and Bayern stepping in and out. With each defeat the sun scorched hotter.
Waiting for his first turn, Razo bounced on the balls of his feet, chewing on his bottom lip. The heat made his eyelids sticky and lungs heavy. Though not as heavy as his stomach. He burped extravagantly.