King's Shield

  The others all stared in amazement as he explained the golden cases, how they transferred notes instantly. He taught them the transfer spell, which they grasped easily, then finished, “And I have enough for each of you, if I double up with Evred. Since I’m with him—that’s my place as Royal Shield Arm—we only need one. You can practice as you move into position.”

  “What about the rest of us?” Rat said, pointing to himself and Barend.

  “Let’s get the parley over.” Inda flipped up the back of his hand toward the window. “Find out what the Venn want. Anyway, we can’t pull out of here until we have Ola-Vayir and Buck covering Lindeth and the road here—” Inda stopped, throwing back his head. One hand drummed absently on the map, then he jerked his chin down. “—what did I—yes. We have to have Buck and Ola-Vayir here, guarding our backs, because I just know the Venn are going to try to pinch us between two forces in the pass. That’s what anyone’d do.”

  He sighed sharply, and flung out his hands. “Cherry-Stripe. Cama. I just—I want you in place.”

  “Watch,” Cherry-Stripe vowed. “We’ll be in place when you need us.”

  Strut, Hawkeye thought in disgust.

  “Then it’s starting now,” Cama said slowly, turning his head so he could take them all in. “It’s not in a season. Or a month. Or even a week.”

  The Sier Danas exchanged looks, as if something more was needed, some great speech, but Evred hated speeches, they all knew that, and none of them wanted to sing a ballad. Even the sword dance had been done.

  “It’s us,” Cherry-Stripe marveled, his blue eyes wide and earnest. “The Tveis. Not, you know, everyone we expected to lead the battle against the Venn. It’s us. How did that happen?”

  “Because things have changed, and we’re different,” Rat Cassad said unexpectedly. Ranged alongside his cousin Barend, one could see the differences between them, though they shared the Cassad features: broad brow, narrow chin, short upper lip, but Rat’s front teeth were as bucked as when he was ten. He had the Cassad fair hair and slight build. Barend was thin but tall, as well as dark-haired: Montrei-Vayir traits. “Remember the Battle of Marlovar Bridge? In the old days the fathers would have used that to test us. Instead we were bundled away, because our fathers wanted to protect the inheritance.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the boys training to be future Runners, who were down in the courtyard now, yelling and playing, now that the squall was past. “They’re the same age we were then,” he said, opening the casement again. “Things have changed again.”

  The boys’ voices rose as they played with the scout dogs. Everyone except Inda lifted their heads, listening. Inda had turned his face to the wall. It was that weird mental absence they’d all gotten used to. He thumped his forehead gently against the stone, his sun-ruined hair jolting against the back of his stained, dust-printed coat on every thump.

  Rat jerked his thumb toward the window. “They’ll be holding our weapons, right there in battle. The little girls up on the walls with Hawkeye’s great-aunt want to defend the castle. Now the young’uns are raised up to war.”

  Noddy said, “Ten years of Idayagans, pirates, and Venn will do that.”

  “Something our fathers found unthinkable ten years ago,” Rat said wryly. “Is it good or bad?”

  Inda rolled his forehead against the stone, back and forth, back and forth.

  Evred said, “Everything that happened was unthinkable. But it happened. We’re done here. Pick your men, get them ready—”

  “Wait,” Inda said, a hand thrust out.

  Hawkeye watched Evred-Harvaldar defer without any sign of affront. Defer to a command by this scrub mate who’d been fooling around with boats for years, learning fighting from pirates instead of properly at the academy. The academy bond seemed so strong it was unperceivable, like air.

  Hawkeye remembered to breathe.

  Your first loyalty was always to the king, and second to your family lands, but everyone knew that those were duty, that the strongest loyalty was the one that took no effort: to your academy mates. It was unprecedented for second brothers to ride to war like these had, yet they all appeared to accept it as an unquestioned right. And so had the king, because he was one of them. Though he’d scrupulously given Hawkeye this post, he’d relied most on Horsebutt’s brother Cama for investigation, advice, all the other functions of a Harskialdna. Until Inda came.

  “They’re coming,” Inda said. Grind, grind. “I’ve been feeling it for days, ever since the winds changed. If we didn’t have the beacons, and people on the coast watching, I’d swear they were already here. I would be.”

  “But we don’t have people watching the coast.” Evred frowned, turning toward his cousin. “Aren’t our patrols confined to the outer perimeter of the harbor?”

  Barend said, “I tried to get a coastal watch but Lindeth fought me too hard. They scarcely tolerated the perimeter guard—except when pirates appeared, then they wanted us there to fight.” He flushed. “I guess I should have put someone out a month ago, but I was up north—”

  Inda snapped a hand out, palm down, and the two Montrei-Vayirs shut up.

  “Tau.” Inda’s face was still to the wall, as he ground his forehead back and forth.

  Tau had been lounging unnoticed against the wall opposite Hawkeye. “Present,” Tau said after a protracted pause.

  Inda said to the wall, “I should have asked if there was a coastal watch posted, instead of expecting—I thought Ola-Vayir would arrive when we did—yeah. Huh. Tau.”

  “Still here.”

  Inda turned around, dug his heel palms into his eyes, then slapped his palms on the table.

  “Go to Lindeth Harbor. You can get there by sunset if you ride. Scout the horizon. If there’s nothing there, talk to the fisherfolk, but wear sailor duds. Don’t look like one of us. Find out who is watching the coast, and what they’ve seen.” Inda tapped his golden case. “Report back.”

  Tau was gone in half a dozen quick steps.

  Inda jerked his thumb in the direction of the inner castle, and the room they’d picked for the Venn parley. “Let’s get that set up. Nothing in view, nothing to see out the windows, nothing they can learn about us, is what I’m thinking ...”

  Chapter Eight

  EVERYONE expected trouble. No one expected boring. The four men who appeared in a huddle around the transfer token were tall, two dressed like warriors—battle tunics, chain mail glinting at the side-slits, straight swords in baldrics—the other two in blue robes that hung down to the tops of their sandaled feet.

  The Marlovans smacked hands to knives, ready to spring—then settled back to vigilance when they saw the strain magical transfer caused in the newcomers. One of the Venn staggered, another gulped in air, sweat beading his brow. The two in the blue robes plopped abruptly into the waiting chairs opposite a grand wingback chair.

  The pair of warriors seemed to be an honor guard. As soon as they got control of the transfer-reaction they laid hands to their weapons.

  The guards were herded behind the chairs by these muscular young Marlovans who had no intention of letting them anywhere near the red-haired young fellow in the crimson silk battle-tunic who sat in the wingback chair.

  Since the guards’ range of vision had thus been limited to shoulders, ponytails, and the backs of their two charges, they settled themselves into endurance mode.

  The five Marlovan guards in the gray coats took up the remaining wall space around two seated Marlovans. The blue-coated messenger (also red haired) at the table leaned forward. His brows rose in question over steady hazel eyes as his inky fingers dipped a freshly sharpened quill in the inkpot and poised the pen over a paper.

  The Marlovans studied the Venn truce party.

  The ill-famed Dag Erkric introduced himself and his companions in slow, sonorous words. The mage was a long-nosed, heavily-built man with light-colored eyes that never stopped moving, and smooth butter-yellow hair. He stood with his arms crossed, a self-imp
ortant pose. But he was the Dag of all the Venn, kind of like a king of mages, wasn’t he?

  The second mage was short, round, young, and fussed nervously with papers that he never read, just held or twiddled.

  Inda had chosen a room with the only two windows firmly shuttered. If the dags asked for air, the windows opened onto the back court and the outer wall. No sentry walked there. The perimeter guards, out of sight, made certain that no person, horse, dog, or even cat—and the castle was full of mousers, though they were nearly all hiding from the unaccustomed onslaught of humans—strayed into view.

  Inda, Barend, and the Sier Danas had insisted that yes, someone had to be king, but not Evred. So Barend had plucked out a tall young man with bright red hair who sweltered in Evred-Harvaldar’s heavy silk House battle-tunic, best linen shirt, sturdy new riding trousers, and his good pair of boots. The hapless scout was trying not to sweat into the royal garments—unsuccessfully.

  “King Evred,” the shorter mage said, bowing to the red-haired scout. “I am here to translate. The Dag shall speak the words of our prince in our tongue. Then I can translate his words into your tongue. If you please.”

  Evred caught himself before he could say, “Why not speak in Sartoran?” He resigned himself to tedium.

  The mages observed the king’s gaze stray toward the messenger with the quill, then go diffuse. “Ah. Go on.” The supposed king plucked at the stiff gold embroidery on the high neck of his tunic, then hastily lowered his hand.

  Dag Erkric unloosed a long, droning speech in his own language, as the short mage nodded his head every few words, his eyes half-closed, his fingers running up and down the edge of his papers. Every so often he covertly watched the room.

  The speech went on and on. Evred had tried to study some Venn, not that they’d had many examples of the language in the royal archive, the last communication between Marlovan and Venn having mainly been confined to the Montredavan-An family. He comprehended maybe one word in twenty.

  Hawkeye’s attention stayed on the two armsmen, but Rat’s drifted. Inda, stationed by one shuttered window as far from the dags’ line of sight as he could get, at first fought against the itch in his ears. He clenched one hand around his earrings in his pocket, fighting the urge to scratch and tug at his earlobes. But when the feeling finally subsided, he found himself lulled by the buzzing of an insect outside the shutter. He studied the scuffed toes of Cherry-Stripe’s old boots. Though the uppers had long ago reshaped to his feet, he still didn’t think of the boots as his.

  He summoned the map to mind, and mentally evaluated the dotted path just outside the northern wall of the city, trying to estimate how far Cama and Cherry-Stripe had gotten. He wondered if the beacon was up there . . . maybe he should tell Cama to watch for it . . . Oh, Cama’d think of that, wouldn’t he? Gradually his chin sank down onto his chest. Evred . . . ask him . . . keeping beacons a secret, too late now, surely . . . the thoughts turned into dreams . . .

  A businesslike elbow thumped him in the ribs, and he jolted upright with a snort. Oh, it was a snore.

  Embarrassment burned through him. He discovered that the corner of his mouth was wet. Fine Harskialdna, falling asleep against a wall, snoring and just about to start drooling!

  Quick glance. Barend shaking as he tried not to laugh. Rat smothering a yawn so hard his eyes watered. Inda could see the tears from across the room. Even Noddy looked more brow-furrowed and jowly than ever. Only Evred sat upright, writing away. What was he writing? Probably lists of what to do, in one of his codes . . . didn’t his uncle used to do that? . . . maybe it’s a good thing overall, codes . . . stop that!

  It was time for the tricks he’d used to stay awake on watch during long nights aboard ship, beginning with standing on his toes just enough to force his body to balance. Then he counted the flags in the stone floor.

  Time wore on as the dag spoke, and the other man translated this long, complicated speech, full of compliments and diplomatic but empty phrases: . . . mutual desire for honorable peace . . . assumed goodwill in negotiating a satisfactory compromise . . . with respect to all concerned parties . . . cognizance . . . No words that meant anything, that you could get hold of.

  Everyone shifted in relief when at last the Dag made a gesture of peace and nodded regally at the little mage, who said, “Dag Erkric wishes me to inform you that there have been petitions sent to the north side of the strait, from all three harbor towns along the Idayagan shore.”

  “What kind of petitions?” the fake king asked, after encountering several surreptitious glances, nods, and thumb-twitches to remind him of his role.

  “What? Kind? Of petitions?” the interpreter repeated, hands out.

  Evred’s feet shifted. He repressed the urge to start tapping his fingers. This was the first Venn parley, ever, and he must not be the one to break it.

  “You mentioned petitions,” the scout repeated, forgetting whose tabard he wore for just long enough to draw the rich silken sleeve across his brow.

  His face lengthened in dismay; Rat turned his attention ferociously to the sharply squared toes of his boots. New boots, those. His father and brother had insisted he’d go to war in style.

  The negotiator placed his palms together and bowed, then he addressed the mage in a long speech, to which the Dag responded in slow, rolling Venn.

  Then the interpreter turned, his air apologetic. “These petitions, they request us to come to this land. To protect them. We demand nothing of the landmen, you see. Nothing. Only toll from ships, our just due for keeping pirates away from the trade ships.”

  Dag Erkric uncorked another long, sonorous flow.

  Evred’s gaze strayed to Inda, who stood against the opposite wall, his jaw locked as he repressed a yawn.

  In the distance the bells rang. It was later than Evred thought. He stirred, picking up the quill and brushing it against his ear in the signal they’d arranged.

  The scout was stiff and miserable—and bored. Yawn after yawn tried to pry his jaws apart, so he kept his teeth gritted until his eyes watered into the drips already running down his face. A dry cough and a scrape of a heel from Rat (who was now studying the ceiling) snapped him back to the present. He shot a look at the king, saw the signal for End It.

  How long had he been doing that?

  Thoroughly miserable, he waited until the talking magic fellow drew a breath, then said in his most polite voice, “It’s getting late—”

  The short one said, “We just have two questions. If you will permit, that you Marlovans withdraw from the lands in the north, as we identify it: the lands just above the mountains.”

  “And?”

  “Our honored Prince Rajnir requires, you must comprehend, the, ah, how to term, the body of the pirate Inda Elgar, who stands accused of attacking and burning civilian ships in our waters, and must be tried and punished. To surrender a criminal, it is to be hoped, would serve as a gesture of honor, of peaceful intention.”

  The pretend king sat up straight, looking startled, and then uneasy.

  Laying down the quill, Evred mouthed the word, “Who?”

  The scout took the hint, and repeated, “Who?”

  The Dag betrayed a flicker of expression, quickly replaced by the bland goodwill they’d all seen so far.

  The scout remembered his coaching and added, “And what are you offering us?”

  The negotiator sounded smooth and well-rehearsed. “Prince Rajnir offers a peaceful negotiation satisfactory to all parties if you demonstrate your goodwill with the two gestures we just mentioned.” And, seeing the scout stir, “Shall we retire to permit you to consider? And meet again? Say, tomorrow, when the bells ring at midday? Or do you need more time?”

  The scout waved a hand. “Tomorrow is agreed.”

  The two mages placed their hands together in the way Evred and Inda had seen Signi do, only with far less grace. In fact, it seemed that the short one, who had begun nervous and trembling, was now smiling with a faint smugness.
But as soon as the two men-at-arms closed in behind them, they all vanished, the air briefly stirring.

  Rat Cassad nearly cracked his jaws on a yawn. “So that’s a diplomatic parley! If it was a meeting between battle grounds I’d call it stalling.”

  The scout stood up and, using great care, pulled the heavy Montrei-Vayir House tabard up over his head.

  “Tau said diplomats can spin talks out forever when they have to,” Inda said doubtfully as he rubbed his ears vigorously, then began to affix the earrings again. “But you’d think they’d want peace right away.”

  “Unless—” Evred frowned as he extended his arm for the scout to lay the tabard over it. So much of what he’d seen struck him as odd, though he couldn’t define why.

  The scout thought the frown was for him. “I tried not to, but I sweated these up something fierce,” he said in a low, apologetic voice, indicating the damp, wrinkled linen shirt.

  Distracted, Evred dealt with the easiest thing first. “It’s hot enough to boil broth in here.” He indicated the sodden shirt. “Just give the clothes over to Kened after you change. Thank you. You did well.”

  The others echoed the praise as the blushing scout hustled out to go bore his mates, in strictest confidence, about his day as king.

  “Unless they’re stalling for time,” Rat finished Evred’s comment, and stretched his hands over his head. His back cracked as he kicked the door shut behind the scout.

  “Thought the mage would know more of our language,” Noddy said from his place in the corner. “Heh. Why not Sartoran? Isn’t that supposed to be the court language for everyone who has courts?”

  “If he’s the right mage.” Rat rubbed at his neck.

  Evred turned. “Why do you say that?”

  Rat waved a lazy hand. “Said the magic words mighty slow and stiff. Reminded me of a pigtail with the lances, instead of a dragoon.”