The Eban girl was thrust into a chair.
Randart said, “Don’t even bother lying to me.” He gestured toward Samdan. “He positively identified you as having been in the courtyard with the pirate the day Atanial Zhavalieshin’s daughter appeared through the World Gate, attacked the king’s guards sent to meet her, and vanished. Using, I understand, magic done by your renegade brother.”
Samdan saw the girl’s eyes widen and her lips part in surprise. Then a flush of—relief? No, it couldn’t be.
Relief it was, followed by sorrow, and anger. Elva, her head aching, her muscles trembling over watery bones, recognized how close she’d come to betrayal. It wasn’t Prince Jehan. He kept his word.
She hated his guts, but he had kept his word.
So she had to keep hers.
“I don’t know anything,” she said shortly.
Randart stepped forward and struck her across the face so hard he knocked her out of the chair. He gestured for the guard to pluck her off the floor and plunk her back onto the chair.
She blinked, her cheek now smeared with blood.
“Let’s begin again,” Randart said pleasantly. For the first time in weeks, he was enjoying himself very much. “Where were you transferred, and where, exactly, did the pirate take the Zhavalieshin girl? What was your part in all that?”
“He dumped my brother and me as soon as we transferred,” she said through rapidly swelling lips. “Didn’t want us. Only her. For ransom, he said.”
“She went willingly?”
“No.”
“What happened next?”
“Left us behind. Took her away. Pirate escort.”
Randart leaned forward. “You mean I am supposed to believe that the pirate Zathdar happened, without any previous communication with you or your brother, to pop up at the tower the very day your brother crossed to the other world, and you had no idea he’d be there?”
“He had spies. Following Devli.”
“Spies, is it? But you fought alongside him anyway, against the king’s own? Did the pirate have a knife at your back?”
Elva flushed. “We wanted to save her from you. You already know we’re fighting to restore Prince Math to the throne—”
Randart struck her again, so hard she lay stunned, gazing up at the bulkhead above.
“Prince Math,” he stated in a soft, deadly voice, “is dead. Or gone, living it up somewhere far away. There is, you may have noticed, a legally crowned king.”
Randart was aware of stirrings and shufflings around him. He would have loved to beat some sense into this arrogant scrub, but not here, not now. Some of these fools were young enough to be sentimental, obviously.
“Get the mage. Tell her to bring kinthus. We’ll get the truth without any further exertion. After that you may take this traitor out and hang her. I think our friends working the sails need a reminder of who the lawful king is, and what upholding the law means.”
Below, Magister Lorat was expecting some sort of summons. Randart’s voice had carried through the scuttle quite clearly, and she had been writing his words as they were spoken. She had enough time to twist the tiny paper up, drop it into her magical transfer case and send it to Magister Zhavic by the time the banging came on her door.
She slid the case into the pocket in her robe and turned to fetch her herbs, including her vial of the powder made from the kinthus plant, carefully dried and ground into a concentrate of dangerous power that could so easily part spirit from body.
There was no time to wait for orders from the king’s mage, but then he could not countermand the king’s war commander. She would have to do as she was told.
She trod up to the captain’s cabin, and said nothing when she found her victim lying on the deck where she’d fallen. She said nothing when she saw the look in the girl’s eyes, not dazzlement, but a single-minded concentration.
Her brother is a mage student, Lorat thought. Her own observations had not been commanded and would not be offered. She would do as she was told.
While she slowly and steadily poured water into a waiting cup, and then measured out the fine powder whose smell was so strong she had to hold her breath—and every man in the room moved back an inadvertent step—she gave the girl as much time as she dared.
On the third ship out, Captain Tham watched his boat return from the Dancing Clam and his trusted first mate clamber up.
Closed in the cabin, the young men stared at one another in dismay—both big, strong, smart and very loyal to Zathdar. Tham knew his secret identity. The mate hadn’t been told, but suspected enough not to ask questions.
The first mate said, “Word is, they arrested the daughter of old Steward Eban. Randart is putting her to the question right now.”
Tham was writing as the first mate spoke. He sent the message off, and sat back to wait, case in hand. Either the prince got it now, or he wasn’t there to get it.
An answer came back almost immediately.
Send notice to Robin: attack, full force. I am on my way.
Chapter Eleven
Elva lay on the deck, grateful not to be moved. The commander and all his men stood around, looking like brown, frowning statues from this vantage, and maybe it was supposed to be humiliating, and it did hurt with her arms doubled so unnaturally behind her, but lying flat she could fight better against pain, nausea and fear.
Kinthus. Focus on the present.
She stared up at the wood curving overhead. Devli’s face, long ago, when he came home on a visit. Took her to the woods, said, Did you know there’s a trick to getting round green kinthus? The mages taught us, but not all of us can do it.
Her own voice. A trick? Teach me.
She never thought she’d need it, or maybe she did, the way her mother worried every time a messenger came and went. But it seemed fun, it seemed a way to fool them, the king’s people, and they practiced keeping their thoughts strictly on the present.
Don’t think of the past, Devli had said, or it opens the door to memory. The trick they showed me is to run through all the senses, what you’re seeing, hearing, smelling. Right now. If you do it and keep doing it, memory stays locked away. Your mind runs along in the present, and there’s nothing they can do.
She concentrated on the present moment, each sense in turn. When a mage appeared, kneeling down beside her, Elva kept her thoughts on the now. She’s my mother’s age, maybe, moving slow—light on the glass—oh, that was a good wave, the lamp swinging, is the wind north by northwest—what grain of wood is that?
The woman finally slid her hand firmly under the back of Elva’s neck and lifted her head enough for her to drink. And she did, because she knew there was no other choice, Taste—it’s actually like chidder-weed and mint, but it makes my nose feel like a sneeze, ugh, ugh, cold, I’m thirsty—
A blanket seemed to settle over her mind, but she did not examine it, she kept on looking, listening, sniffing, taste, touch, the touch of her fingers bunched behind her, the grit on the deck boards—
“Can you speak?” the mage murmured.
“…the grit of the deck boards feels like sand. Sand at sea, I can’t smell it past this kinthus nobody told me it smells like chid-weed. We call chidder-weed chid or…” Elva whispered.
The mage looked up at Randart. “The kinthus has taken hold.”
On board the Zathdar, Robin, temporary captain, received Tham’s note. She carefully slid her magic case deep into a pocket. None of her current crew knew the captain’s real identity, though they knew he sometimes had access to transfer magic. Anyone who had enough money could buy transfer tokens.
She placed the one Owl had given her on the table in the captain’s cabin, then backed hastily out, closing the door and staring upward, ostensibly watching the set of the sail.
She was wondering how long she’d have to stand there looking stupid when she heard a muffled thump and thud in the cabin behind her. She opened to door to find Prince Jehan getting up from the deck, his complex
ion the familiar greenish-tinged mask of nausea and pain.
She waited while he leaned on the table, hands gripping the edge of it, as he recovered his balance. Two deep, shuddering breaths, his face flushed red, and he gave the sheen on his forehead a swipe with an exquisitely made cambric shirt sleeve. That and his white hair were proof he was really a prince in disguise. She always had trouble believing it. She’d always known him as a privateer, until very recently.
“I’m here,” he said. “And awake. Status?”
“Fleet downwind, on station in two columns. The Skate had been leading the Aloca fleet. They’re tacking straight out to sea. They have to be trying to get upwind and close on us, so we’ve hauled east to keep the wind.”
While she spoke, he flung off his clothes, rolling up the expensive linen and cambric. She glimpsed his long, muscular back and shifted her gaze out the stern windows, where she could see the Jumping Bug rising on the swell, sails taut. Funny, how when she was small the older men changed in front of everyone, as did the women. You didn’t get much privacy on a ship. But when they were little they didn’t pay any attention, and Zathdar had always seemed one of the grownups, Owl’s generation. Then suddenly—she hadn’t really noticed when—he was closer to her generation, and, well, you couldn’t help looking.
So she scowled at the Jumping Bug, forcing her mind to shift to the crisis. Attack. Bad enough of a crisis, yes. There’s the Bug with fighting sail ready, and probably passing out weapons to the fire crews. Ready, waiting for orders to… Could even Zathdar take three ships in against half the entire navy?
She swung around, forgetting irrelevancies like personal privacy.
“We’re really going to attack Randart’s whole fleet?”
“Are you ready?” He was pulling on a shirt, brilliant pink, she noted, a flicker of laughter appearing and vanishing back in her mind like a stray sunbeam during a rainstorm. Brilliant pink except for the orange peonies embroidered all over it. The trousers were striped blue and white. “I signaled to prepare for action before I got out the transfer coin. You know how many of them there are?” Strange, how when he was Prince Jehan his eyes were so blue under that white hair. Blue and vague. When he put on the pirate clothes, his face changed. Intense, it became.
“Are we really going to rescue Elva Eban?” Robin asked. “She acted like a worse snot than you’d have expected of the princess. And she wasn’t a snot at all.”
“Elva Eban was crew.”
The subject was ended, Robin knew. Even if Elva only actually helped serve a day or so, he’d decided she was crew, and they all knew his first rule: We never abandon crew to the enemy.
He yanked a green-striped bandana from the chest, flung his old clothes in, slammed the lid. A few quick, practiced twists and his hair was bound up, the yellow fringes dancing against the horrible pink shirt. Last, he unfastened the diamond in his ear, moved to the little carved box on the shelf above the bed, and she heard the clatter as he tossed it in. “Let’s take a look.” He grabbed his spyglass with one hand and snapped the clasp on his gold hoop with the other.
Together they strode out on deck, she aware of the waiting tension, the watching eyes, he seemingly unaware as he tucked his glass under one arm and scrambled up to the masthead.
She was right behind him with her own glass.
No sound, no voices, only the endless wash of the sea, the creak of wood as he eyed the fleet. And then he smiled, lowered the glass. He spoke in a pitched voice. He wanted the others to overhear. “He doesn’t have half the navy, he only has part of it.”
Everyone was listening.
“Another thing. What we see here is not one fleet, but two. Randart thinks he has one. But one look at those ill-kept columns and it’s clear to anyone used to the sea he’s got his dozen or so of the Ellir Fleet, beautifully on station, plus a lot of craft that seem to be having trouble staying more or less in a line. Which one is he on? Fleet flagship doesn’t seem to be flying the king’s banner.”
“That’s because he’s on the biggest merch,” Robin said.
“He’s what?” Zathdar looked askance, and there was some subdued laughter from the tops. “He isn’t that stupid.”
“According to the orders relayed among the merches via Tham, he’s been there to see that they learn their place. He says he’s training them navy-style.”
“But he doesn’t know anything about the navy.”
“That’s the word.”
Zathdar murmured so softly the wind almost took his words away, “Chain of command forged by fear.” He nodded. “Then that gives us a bit more time. Even better, my rescue attempt might even work.”
“Two fleets…” “Two fleets…” The whisper susurrated through the crew.
He lifted his voice. “Set sail now, right down the middle. Fire-arrow barrage from both sides. Aim for sails, no human targets. I want every single sail in that fleet on fire. As soon as we draw nigh Tham, tell him to be ready with the sugar bricks.”
Randart crouched over his prisoner, who stared upward, a slight frown between her eyes. The rest of her dirty, blood-smeared face was impossible to read, but her bruised lips kept moving as she whispered.
“You were taken by the pirate Zathdar,” he said clearly. “Where did he take you?”
“…and what is that smell? I smell sweat. Old sweat, some mud. Mud on a ship—you don’t get mud on a ship—from the swell I’d say the wind is out of the northwest…”
Randart raised a hand, hesitated, not wanting her blood dirtying his hands. So he gripped her hair and yanked her head so she faced him.
Tears filled her eyes.
“Hurts! Pain—stab of needles, hot needles, not on the scalp but down my neck my stomach boils I might puke I don’t want to puke I had nothing to eat my head aches feels like a cloth tied around it—”
Randart sighed in exasperation.
“Zathdar!” he said sharply.
“Pirate,” Elva responded. “Those colors ugly colors brown, brown, brown all around am I wearing my blue tunic I need a cleaning frame don’t want it ruined—”
Thumping and yells on the deck distracted Randart, who bent closer to hear the continuous stream of whispered words.
“Where. Is. Zathdar’s. Land. Base?” he enunciated distinctly.
“…different pain from my arms, that’s red pain, white pain is the sudden sharp one maybe it’s like the glow of a dying fire…”
“Atanial! Zathdar!”
“Princess. Pirate name.” Elva blinked, her eyes losing focus. “Ugly—my clothes are never ugly I don’t like choosing clothes blood on my sleeve I can feel the wet against my arm it smells like sweet salt but with iron rust—”
The rumble of feet overhead caused Randart to glare at one of his aides. “Tell them to stay quiet on the ceiling. Whatever they are doing can wait until I am done.”
The door whisked open. The noise from outside the cabin was briefly louder.
“Voices,” Elva babbled on. “Do I know anyone I don’t think I know them my head does hurt so—”
Randart cursed, irritated by the increase in noise from the sailors above. Were they possibly making it on purpose? He’d have them all flogged as mutineers. He was also irritated by this fool of a girl, who should, by rights, be spewing memory, not inanities about whatever she saw right in front of her nose.
His aide returned and took up his position beside the door as Randart glared at the mage. “I thought you people were supposed to be experts with kinthus. I can do better. Have done better my very first interrogation.”
She opened her hand as if to say Be my guest, but said only, “I am not trained in interrogation. My expertise is wood. However, it appears she’s caught in an immediate thought stream. It can happen to some, with green kinthus.”
She sat back, hands folded. She had been ordered to cooperate with the war commander, and her oath to the king required that she strictly obey orders. But he made her so angry she would not offer him a single
breath of aid beyond what he’d ordered.
So if he didn’t know that the girl had managed to shutter off her memory, she wasn’t going to offer the information.
For a time Magister Lorat watched, impassive, as he shook the girl, slapped her again, barked words at her, but all she did was talk about what she was seeing, hearing. Feeling. Especially feeling. When she started commenting on the revulsion she felt at the commander’s proximity, and there was a revealing scrape somewhere behind them—probably someone trying hard not to laugh or even to breathe—he flung her down.
“Is there any use in continuing? How about giving her more?”
“She is on the verge of falling asleep as it is,” the mage replied tonelessly. “Any more will probably kill her.”
“Save the herb.” He looked up at his aide and the day captain of his personal guard. “Take her out and hang her.”
The guards were in the act of picking up Elva by the arms when there came a rap at the door.
“What,” Randart shouted over his shoulder.
“Pardon, Commander,” came the voice of the ship’s captain. “But I felt you should be informed that we are under attack.”
“Lower the cutter,” Zathdar ordered.
Robin frowned. “You’re not going to board the flagship?”
Zathdar paused on his way to the weapons locker, and glanced back. “Who else?”
“Anyone else. How did that fool get herself caught anyway?”
“I’m afraid it’s our fault,” Zathdar said.
Robin scowled, for she hadn’t liked that Elva Eban, always grumping about on the deck with her sniffy attitude. As if she were the princess, whereas Prince Math’s daughter had been instant mates with everyone, without a hint of swank. And she could have swanked, not only because she was a prince’s daughter, but because she was one of the best fighters in the fleet.
Zathdar could see Robin’s thoughts fairly clearly, and so he stepped close and murmured apologetically, “Owl’s mistake, actually.”
Leaving her nothing more to say on the matter.
Twice a Prince Page 9