The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  Preparing herself to make her selection as natural as possible, she was totally unprepared when the streetside door burst open. Sunlight drizzled the floor through the thick haze of incense and seven women escorted by five men staggered through.

  “Ale! Ale!” one woman chanted drunkenly. Another, disdaining to state the obvious, went directly to the barrels and claimed the nearest tap, kneeling so it decanted directly into her open mouth.

  The bower youths quickly joined the merriment, providing mostly clean mugs. Three of the new arrivals started singing. Every occupant of the taproom not yet standing jumped up into what was soon a deafening din.

  “Drinks all around!” someone cried. “Celebrate the grand occasion!”

  “C’mere, cockie!” a blonde woman shouted. “I’ll console you for not being in Lady Glenin’s bed last night!”

  Sarra winced, and not only at mention of her sister’s name. Taig was among the raucous invaders. He clambered over a bench, reached for a mug, drained it, and roared for a refill. The Minstrel—at least, she assumed it was he, for he fit the general outlines of the man she’d seen in the temple—tottered over to where Sarra and Orlin stood. Grinning all over his florid face, he announced, “To hell with Glenin! I’ll take this one!” and pinched her cheek.

  Men who touched Sarra without her permission regretted it profoundly. A surreptitious hand on her knee was one thing. But—He thinks I’m—that I’m a—!

  She slapped his face. It was not, in point of fact, the sort of masculine face she favored: every line of it proclaimed rogue, born liar, and devoted follower of Pierga Cleverhand, patron of thieves. The obnoxious face laughed down at her, and she drew back her hand, intending to slap him again.

  Butterfly Wings came down the stairs with the promised farmboys—hulking, hunch-shouldered lads who might or might not have been de-loused. The Minstrel sidled around, dark gaze stroking Sarra’s figure. The urge to slap someone was transferred to Orlin. Why wasn’t he being any help? And where was Taig?

  More importantly, where was Cailet?

  Dark brown eyes laughed at her above the red mark of her hand on his cheek. He chucked her under the chin. She planted four dainty knuckles squarely on his jaw. His head snapped back, teeth clacking; she hoped she’d broken a few. It couldn’t hurt his appearance any more than that smug grin.

  Success at last. He took a step backward, cradling his abused jaw with long fingers. “Hellspawn!”

  “Blood Daughter,” she corrected icily, and proceeded to ignore him.

  “What’s all this, then?” cried Butterfly Wings. “This is a decent respectable bower, I’ll not have you coming in and—”

  All at once the Minstrel was picked up by the shoulders, swung around, and slammed facedown across a tabletop.

  “Women are like peaches, friend. Never pluck them underripe,” came a new voice—deeply melodious, fashioned equally for speech and song. It belonged to a very tall, very broad-shouldered man about Taig’s age. Very blue eyes regarded her with a tolerant amusement Sarra immediately loathed more than the other man’s leer. “Besides,” he went on, “this one’s not worth a tin cutpiece.”

  Orlin cleared his throat as if his coif—or laughter—were half-strangling him. “Umm . . . she isn’t—er—she’s not—”

  Not for sale? Sarra thought furiously. Or not worth a tin cutpiece?

  “On offer?” suggested Blue-eyes.

  “Exactly,” said Orlin. “Underripe, as you say. We’re here to remedy that, actually.” He clasped the man’s left hand for a moment, leaving a quick glisten of gold in the palm.

  Sarra stared. This was the Minstrel, his troubles to be partially cured by application of Agatine’s gold? Recalling Taig’s description, she searched the edges of the black coif. Ah—there, just at the right temple, a few curling coppery hairs. Definitely the Minstrel. She considered her original plan, then glimpsed Taig—reeling up the stairs with a boy on each arm, bawling a drinking ballad. He’d probably give them the slip and take one of the horses. That left the stupid Minstrel to take care of.

  “Papa?” she ventured, favoring Orlin with her best wide-eyed born-this-morning look. “I think I like this one. Buy him for me, please?”

  Blue-eyes choked.

  The taproom noise resolved into a popular ballad praising Lady Glenin Feiran’s charms. Butterfly Wings was leading the chorus. More money to be made from many customers than one, after all; Sarra’s transaction could wait.

  Orlin’s brows knotted over gleeful eyes. “But he’s not a professional—are you?” he asked the Minstrel, who turned an interesting shade of purple.

  “Oh, but he’s clean—at least, he doesn’t smell too bad,” Sarra said sweetly. She took his hand as Orlin had done, making a show of inspecting his nails. He snatched his hand back, but not before she felt the fingertip calluses of the ardent lutenist. Absolutely the Minstrel. “If he’s not a professional, he won’t cost that much, will he?”

  For someone who presumably made his living with his voice, the Minstrel was singularly silent. The very blue eyes expressed a very serious need to strangle Sarra.

  She plied her dimples. “Unless, of course, you don’t know how.”

  For another moment he struggled with some overpowering emotion. Then he found his voice in successively louder stages. “You—can’t—buy—ME!”

  “Now, don’t try to run the price up just because I fancy you,” Sarra scolded winsomely as she moved closer and kicked him in the ankle. The moron didn’t even know when he was being rescued. Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, she finished, “I’ll take this one, Papa. Let’s go home.”

  Orlin nodded helplessly, tears of repressed mirth in his eyes.

  “Our horses are out back,” Sarra said, gesturing to the kitchen. “Papa, should you give the bower mistress something for her trouble?”

  Recovering, he winked at her. “Don’t leave without me, now that you’re so eager.” He threaded through the tables to Butterfly Wings.

  Sarra prodded the Minstrel into the kitchen. “Hurry up!” she hissed. “We don’t have all day!”

  A peek out the kitchen door showed Sarra the urchin faithfully holding the Tillinshir grays—while he picked the meager brass decorations off the saddles. Damn Taig—he can’t actually be waiting for this dimwit to join him. Well, first things first—get the Minstrel out of here, and worry about Taig later. Do I have to do everything?

  And where’s Cailet? If anything’s happened to her, if anyone’s hurt her—

  Sarra started for the horses. Hard fingers around her wrist halted her in mid-stride.

  “Nobody buys me!”

  When she yanked at his arm, he flung her off so powerfully that she stumbled against the doorframe. “You idiot!” she hissed. “I wouldn’t have you if you paid me!”

  The insult was lost in the increasing space between them: he was halfway back through the kitchen. The commotion in the taproom had for some unknown reason subsided to a ragged hush. Sarra sprang for the Minstrel, getting both hands around his elbow. He merely dragged her along with him. The kitchen boy, watching avidly from the hearth, giggled; Sarra turned red to her toenails at the picture she presented of frantic virginal lust.

  Clouds of incense swirled around six new arrivals wearing Council Guard uniforms and formidable frowns. Murderous lengths of silver glinted down their thighs from gold belts. Sarra yanked the Minstrel’s arm. He freed himself vehemently. Straining on tiptoe, she glimpsed Steenan’s red head and Orlin’s towering dark coif—and Butterfly Wings, screeching as Steenan’s fist connected with Orlin’s jaw.

  The taproom erupted into a free-for-all. Bower youths, drunken customers, roaring Guards—the Minstrel pushed up his sleeves, very blue eyes alight, and ripped off his coif. Sarra let all her weight hang limp from his shoulder.

  “Get off me, you little shit!” he snarled.

  This was without question th
e stupidest—not to mention the rudest and most hateful—man on Lenfell. Didn’t know a rescue when it handed him money, didn’t know a diversion when it broke out in a fight staged for his benefit—

  Steenan battled himself within range, both fists flailing, one eye already blacking. The Minstrel, off balance and with only one arm free, slammed the heel of his hand into Steenan’s opponent—the red-faced lout who’d accosted Sarra earlier.

  Chivalry lives, she thought sourly, and scrabbled for footing; having decided he couldn’t get rid of her, he’d wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off the floor, more or less out of his way.

  “Thanks!” Steenan panted. “Now get out of here!”

  The Minstrel laughed. “And miss the fun?” He landed a right to the jaw just as Steenan delivered a left to the stomach of a Council Guard. Sword, teeth, and coif were knocked awry. Sarra, swinging from the Minstrel’s elbow like a rag doll, swore luridly and kicked as she sensed someone approach from behind.

  “Get gone!” Steenan commanded. “Taig will follow later! Hurry!”

  “After what Guards have done to me the last few years? Not fuckin’ likely!”

  “There’ll be another time, and a better one! Don’t be a fool!”

  Sarra would have commented on the hopelessness of this admonition if she hadn’t been half-suffocated.

  “All right, all right, later,” the Minstrel grumbled.

  “Run for it!” Steenan craned his head around, grinning suddenly at Sarra. “So you do like ’em red-haired, eh, Domna?”

  She glared. “Get me out of here!”

  “Anything for a Lady,” the Minstrel responded. And with a surge of muscles Sarra’s world upended. He slung her across his shoulder, ran through the kitchen, and with completely consistent lack of ceremony tossed her across Orlin’s horse.

  “What are you doing?” Sarra gasped, trying to right herself.

  “Kidnapping you.” He was in the saddle instantly, one hand firmly on her backside to keep her where she was. “Scream, why don’t you?” he invited, giving her a sudden thwack on the rump.

  She obliged involuntarily.

  “You call that a scream?” He reined around, giving her a sidewise view of the back door.

  “You call this a kidnapping? What’re you waiting for?” she yelled.

  “Them!”

  She had one good look at a pair of Guards with bloody noses colliding with each other on their way through the door. Then she hung on to whatever she could grab as at last he kicked the gray into a gallop.

  They rode in a wild clatter through winding streets, curses in their wake as pedestrians scattered right and left. Shops, faces, laden washlines, patches of sun and sky all went by at dizzying speed. Sarra was sure she would throw up. The next thing she knew was the hay-and-horse half-dark of a stable, and a snarled command to stay put.

  Naturally, she slid off the horse at once. The Minstrel was rummaging in a pile of straw, bent over. She took the opportunity the Saints provided and kicked him right in the ass.

  “Don’t you ever put a hand on me again!”

  He rolled to his feet clutching a lute case in one hand. “Get b—” Menacing tone and threatening step were both marred by a slight slide in horse dung. “Get back on that horse.”

  “For a tin cutpiece I’d turn you in to the Council Guard myself!”

  “I don’t care what you do once you get me past the gate. Nobody’ll stop me if I’ve got the First Daughter of—which exalted Blood are you, anyway?”

  Sarra fiercely regretted there was nothing handy to throw at him—say, an anvil—to make an impression in his thick skull. Instead she marched up to him, careful even in rage to avoid dark plops on the cobbles, and stuck a finger in his face. That she must reach so far to do it improved her temper not a whit.

  “I know Taig Ostin, I know who you are, and I’ve been trying to keep the Council Guard from nailing your worthless hide to the St. Tamas Gate! The man with me was Orlin Renne—husband of Agatine Slegin, which means you have powerful friends—which is obviously more than you deserve!”

  He heard this speech without a flicker of expression. Sarra nearly spat with frustration. At last he said, “Lady Agatine Slegin?”

  At last something had gotten through. Sarra tugged her clothes to rights and waited for the rest of it to connect.

  “So who the hell are you?”

  “Sarra Liwellan. Do you know of any other safe places to—”

  “Sarra—? You silly cow, you’re the one who accused me of rape last night!”

  “That was a mistake. I—”

  “You’re damned right it was!”

  It seemed she’d have to explain everything in words of one syllable or less. Well, what could one expect from someone who sang a proscribed song right out in the open? She drew a breath that left her in a whoosh as the Minstrel grabbed her. He tugged her vest down to pin her arms; silver buttons ripped free and tinkled to the cobbles. Then he kicked her feet out from under her. She sat abruptly on hard stone and soft stinky glop. Her struggles to rise gave him time to unfasten his longvest and whip the belt from his waist.

  For a horrified instant she thought he was going to do what the Justices thought he’d attempted last night. He didn’t. Seizing an ankle, he lashed worn leather around her boot and despite her frantic kicks quickly performed the same service for her other leg, fastening the buckle tight. Sarra let loose a string of invective. The Minstrel told her to shut up, and set about securing the lute case behind the saddle with reins cut from a pegged bridle.

  “You Blood Daughters—always sticking your meddling little fingers where they don’t belong—”

  “How dare you do this to me!”

  “Predictable down to the last platitude.” He hauled her up. “Stop squirming!” he ordered, replacing her on the horse.

  “Orlin will kill you for—ow!” Sarra yelped, the shift of the saddle as he mounted causing the horn to dig into her ribs. “If I don’t kill you first!”

  “I said shut up!” And he dealt her another whack on the rump.

  She bit his knee.

  “Do that again and I’ll—”

  “Don’t you threaten me!”

  Then they were galloping the streets again and with every stride her middle bounced against the saddle. By now the Council Guard would be doubly alert for him. Subversion, attempted rape, now kidnapping—Sarra hoped they caught him.

  But they didn’t. He seemed to know the streets of Pinderon as if a map were engraved on his eyeballs. Twists and turns, a mad gallop, a short rest in a dark alley—Sarra, who’d always thought her sense of direction superior and her instant comprehension of town plans unequaled, was thoroughly lost. Then again, she’d never seen a town at this angle, either.

  She could hear nothing past the drumming of the horse’s hooves. Faces blurred past—mostly shocked and startled. Infuriatingly amused, some of them. The men, naturally. Guard uniforms glimpsed in a flash of red and gold; the local Watch in the Witte Blood’s yellow and red; garish inn signs, bright clothes, and the occasional burst of sunlight that half-blinded her.

  Suddenly all was sunlight as they left the buildings behind and the Tillinshir gray broke into a flat gallop. Sarra saw the Minstrel’s hand reach back to steady the lute. No such tender consideration was shown her. She slid and bounced, bruises compounding earlier bruises until her whole body felt raw.

  I’ll kill him.

  No. That’s too good for him. I’ll keep him locked in a very small room for a very long time.

  And make him listen to Tarise sing.

  And I will learn the lute. Badly.

  “Gatekeeper!” he bellowed all at once, reining in hard. “Open up! Unless you want to take the blame for the little Blood here getting hurt!”

  Sarra craned her neck and saw that the gates were indeed closed. The Minstrel stuck a finger into her ribs a
nd she yelped. The gates swung open.

  “Much obliged!”

  Sarra gasped as the gray leaped forward. At long painful last the horse slowed to a walk. They were miles and miles north of the city, up in the hills where in winter animals grazed. They and their herders were in high spring pasture now. The drowsy landscape of waving grass and murmuring trees was completely deserted.

  Sarra tumbled to the ground. The belt was removed from her ankles. She sat up and tugged her vest tidy, rubbing her side and shoulder.

  “Congratulations,” she rasped. “Now the Watch and the Guard will want you for kidnap as well as attempted rape and sedition.”

  “There’s worse on my charge sheet.” He grinned as he rethreaded the belt through trouser loops. “Besides, who’d believe I’d have to use force to get a woman to do exactly what I want?”

  Conceited pig! she fumed, rubbing her tingly-numb feet.

  “It’s a long walk back to Pinderon, Domna. Get moving.”

  She peered up at him. “You’re not taking me with you?”

  He paused in the process of finger-combing his hair, and his brows arched. “I’m flattered, Blood Daughter.”

  She stared blankly, sitting there in the dirt. Then she understood. “You?” she choked.

  “Better me than some sleek, pampered bower cockie,” he went on, raking a hand back through wildly curling coppery hair. “Admit it, sweetheart. You’d rather have a real man teach you what your husband—Saints pity the poor fool—will need to know.”

  Furious, she scrambled to her feet and took a wobbly step toward him, fists knotted at her sides.

  “After all,” he went on, very blue eyes wicked as he fingered into a vest pocket, “Orlin Renne already paid for the privilege of my knowledge and experience.” He flipped the gold coin high in the air and caught it again. “Granted, I’m expensive, but well worth it. Besides, there’s nobody like me in any cock-broker’s bower. I’m one of a kind.”

  “Cock-bro—?”

  “The vulgar vernacular, kitten. See, you’ve already learned something. There’s plenty more I could teach you if you want to come along for the ride.” He pocketed the coin, laughing down at her. “So to speak.”