Shianan looked down, wondering what he should have said differently.
Septime cleared his throat. “We have the strangers, but it seems they have committed no crime. They will be released.”
The king nodded. “I suppose we cannot fault them for answering what they believed was a royal summons.”
“They were quite insistent on their payment, Your Majesty. What should be done about that?”
“What did he offer them?”
“Two hundred fifty.”
The king’s face darkened. “Presumptuous! But it’s over our own seal... Pay the men, and I’ll take it from his allowance.”
Shianan looked away as Septime nodded.
“And we should give something to the Black Mage. She did well, interrupting the fight and gentling the spectators with a display. We should send her a gift.” He frowned. “I am unsure what would be appreciated.”
“Flowers,” put in Shianan quickly. “Fruit and flowers, from the hothouses. They are difficult to find fresh in the market.” His face grew hot.
Neither man seemed to notice his embarrassment. “Yes, that’s an idea,” Jerome agreed. “Good. See to it.” He looked at Shianan. “And I should compliment the two of you, as this morning’s presentation went well. Our army is something for pride, and our people know it. Thank you.”
Shianan flushed again. He glanced at Septime and bowed low with the general. “We are glad to serve, Your Majesty,” Septime answered. “But as usual, it was Becknam who saw to most of the review.”
“Bailaha,” Jerome corrected mildly. “And he did well.”
Shianan bowed again. Straightening, he caught the king’s eyes, which flicked significantly toward the floor again. Shianan bent his head and dropped to one knee. He owed obeisance to his king.
“I only wish you had soundly defeated the two swordsmen,” the king continued. “After so much rumor of the commander’s abilities, it would have been satisfying to see it.”
Septime glanced at Shianan. “We did not know the intentions of the two strangers, my lord, and thought it better to control the situation rather than allow your exhibition to become bloody.”
“Of course. It was only a thought. Is there anything else, General?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Then you may go.”
Septime bowed and backed away, and Shianan rose and followed. Once safely out of the audience room, the general turned to face Shianan, looking as if he wanted to speak. Then he turned and started away, ignoring the pages and secretaries cluttering the antechamber. Shianan trailed him.
The king had been pleased with the morning’s presentation. That was good. And he’d relented after he’d learned it was Alasdair who was responsible for the strange swordsmen and not Shianan. Shianan didn’t know what to make of the king’s disappointment in his failure to defeat the strangers immediately. It wasn’t so simple.
Septime went to his own office, waving away the aide who tried to address him as he entered. “Close the door, Becknam.”
Shianan did, his heart sinking. Then he turned and straightened before Septime.
“Fate above, man, what have you done? Why should the prince be working to shame you in public?” Septime looked agitated. “What were you doing?”
“I’ve done nothing, sir, nothing I can think of.”
“Are you saying that Prince Alasdair simply woke one morning and decided to put mercenaries against you, without any provocation? That he had no reason to set a public challenge for you?”
Shianan had no answer.
“That was almost a disaster today—what if they had injured you? Or if you’d killed one of them during what was supposed to be a friendly entertainment for the people?” He eyed Shianan narrowly. “We can’t afford a rift between the military and the prince. If he is trying to reach you, it will affect all of us.” Septime crossed his arms. “You will not put the reputation or the efficiency of this army at risk because of your personal animosities.”
Shianan clenched his fists, hiding them behind his legs. “Sir, I have not done anything to—”
“There must be something, Becknam. The prince did not choose this at random.” He made a vague gesture. “Go. We both have work. And stay well away from Prince Alasdair.”
“Yes, sir.” Shianan left the office and closed the door, letting his hand rest on the worn wood a moment. The injustice of it burned, but there was nothing to do. Even if the general believed he had done nothing to antagonize Alasdair, the instructions must remain the same—do not allow a rift to form between the prince and the military.
He dropped his forehead against his hand on the door, closing his eyes. How would he ask now for permission to marry? Was the king pleased enough with the review that he would overlook the fight? Worse, did Shianan dare risk that somehow Alasdair would learn of Ariana—that he would find some new way to torment Shianan through her?
He wanted to see Ariana. He wanted to sit for ten minutes and be himself, nothing to anyone, neither commander nor bastard nor soldier. He missed Luca.
“Commander.”
The voice made him jump, and he turned to see Torg standing a few paces away. He offered an embarrassed smile. “Sorry,” he said unnecessarily. “I was just tired, after this morning and then the match.”
Torg did not look convinced, but he did not offer to argue. “Do you have time, sir?”
Shianan exhaled. “What now?”
Torg shook his head. “No, sir, I only thought that I hadn’t seen you take a proper meal.” He shrugged. “It was the general’s order that you eat. It’s the duty of a captain to help his commander carry out his orders, and I thought I might buy us each a plate in the pub.”
A bit of tension leaked from Shianan’s shoulders. “Would that meal include ale?”
“At least two pints.”
“Done.” He ran his fingers through his hair and gingerly met Torg’s eyes. “Thanks.”
It was not late enough for the usual crowd, but the festival atmosphere had sent many patrons to the public rooms and taverns early. Torg and Shianan found a narrow table against a wall in the Brining Tankard and waved for service.
Shianan rubbed at his eyes, wondering if the ale would soothe his building headache. Torg gave him a concerned look. “How did it go? With the king, I mean?”
“The royal seal had been—borrowed,” Shianan said softly, trusting the clamor of the room would keep the secret.
“Then it wasn’t the king who hired the mercenaries?” Torg seemed oddly relieved. “You’re sure?”
“Why would the king hire mercenaries against me? I’m his own commander.”
Torg hesitated and then shrugged. “But king’s oats, who would have the ’nads to use the royal seal?”
“Alasdair, though of course no one will know that.”
Torg whistled. “Holy—and what did you do that he—”
“I didn’t do anything!” snapped Shianan. “King’s oats, I haven’t done anything.” He ran his fingers savagely through his hair. “He...” But he couldn’t tell Torg that he’d been sworn to Alasdair’s service, that the prince had seen him violently humiliated by the king, that Alasdair had no reason at all not to view Shianan as a ripe victim for bullying.
Torg shifted in his seat. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t think that maybe you’d been asked that already.”
Shianan shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. But I haven’t done anything.” He rested his forehead on his fists. “I was born, that’s all.”
“Look who’s here.” The first mercenary slid into the table next to them. “The great commander drinks with common men?”
“I drink where I please. Obviously they let you go.”
The mercenary looked over his shoulder at the slave swordsman behind him. “We hadn’t done anything wrong, after all.” The slave moved and took a seat across from the first.
Shianan nodded toward him. “You know the Brining Tankard doesn’t serve slaves?”
&nb
sp; “Doesn’t it? Well, it’s fortunate they don’t rate fashion, neither, and Mallach can keep his sleeves hanging long.” The mercenary wore his own weapons now, and his motley assortment of mismatched clothing and weaponry bespoke his trade more clearly. He drew one foot onto the chair and rested his elbow on his knee. “So you’re the demon commander. Odd. They talk you such a hero elsewhere, and almost the first I see you is getting chewed out by your officer.” The mercenary bit at his thumb. “Aren’t you a hero here? They said enough on it when they called you up today.”
Torg bristled. “What you saw was just the general trying to sort out what you yourself had—”
“Oh, I don’t mean it malicious. I was just thinking maybe they don’t see things the same way. Wondering why.” He put out a hand. “I’m Mannig. For hire, if you know anyone.”
Shianan accepted it warily. “Mannig.” He was trying to evaluate the man, who seemed somehow amiable in his rudeness. “Shianan Becknam.”
“And you’re lord of something, too.”
“A count,” Shianan answered evenly. “Bailaha.”
“Nice.” Mannig indicated the slave with a flick of his thumb. “This is Mallach. He’s a good man, and I’m awfully glad you didn’t break his wrist today.”
Shianan raised an eyebrow. “You saw that coming?”
“Flames, I had it myself once.” He held up his left hand. “Still not quite right. Never been glad to be leveled by a mage before, but it interrupted something that was going ugly quick.”
Mallach nodded solemnly.
Mannig looked at Torg. “I mean no disrespect to your commander, here. He’s got quite a name.”
“I’ve known the commander a long time,” Torg answered. “And I’ve known a lot of mercenaries.”
Mannig grinned. “Some of us aren’t as bad as all that.” He took a deep drink of the ale as it arrived. Mallach drank, too, a bit of sleeve pinched between the tankard and his palm so it couldn’t slip to show the cuff.
Shianan looked at his own ale, recalling another slave in the Brining Tankard.
“Commander.” Mallach’s voice was deep and unexpected. “You fight well.”
Shianan looked at him, startled.
“What he means is,” Mannig interjected, “we’ve heard a lot about you and we weren’t sure we wanted to sign on for this. They say you’re good, you know.” He nodded toward Mallach. “He was supposed to come in a little faster, but he didn’t. Said he felt bad coming behind in what was just a match for show, where you didn’t have a reason to watch your back.” He shrugged. “Can’t say I blame him. But you didn’t need much, did you? Flames, it was plain enough to see when you weren’t fighting for show anymore.” He grinned. “It was an honor to go with you, commander, your lordship.”
Shianan felt he needed a moment to sort through Mannig’s words. “Er, thank you.”
“Your king has a lot of faith in you,” Mannig said, sipping at his ale. “It’s not many who would hire a couple of outsiders to surprise his champion in public. We didn’t have orders to lose, you know.” He shook his head. “Just odd to see your officer angry like that. I suppose the king straightened him out, though.” He grinned. “But I guess you don’t have to worry about that, do you? Got some extra help there?”
Shianan stiffened and looked away. “Not so much as that.”
“Oh, nothing by that. Forget it.”
Their meals arrived, and Torg made a sound of approval. Shianan took a long drink of ale.
Mannig gestured to their empty cups and the serving woman nodded. Then he turned back to Shianan. “That was a juicy cut of loin what came after you, though, fleshed out for a magicker,” he said appreciatively. “Pike, I’d be glad to pack her! A tumble there would make up for a bit.”
Shianan’s shoulders went rigid. “Leave her be.”
Mannig held up his hands in laughing placation. “Easy, commander! Nothing by that, either. Just admiring.” He gave Shianan a narrow look. “Or don’t you...” His voice trailed off and he took a quick drink.
Shianan was uncomfortably aware of Torg’s eyes shifting between them. “Ariana Hazelrig is a Mage of the Great Circle.”
“The Circle, eh? Pike. I suppose in a tiff she could scald off your stones easy as spending a penny.” Mannig took a casual drink. “Still. Handful in all the right places, and she’s got a tender place for you. Hard to resist tapping that cask.”
Shianan turned his head, but Torg was already speaking. “Do you usually try to pick these fights? Or do you mean to finish what was interrupted this afternoon—one on one?”
Mannig’s jaw tightened. Mallach shook his head subtly. Mannig took a breath and turned it into a sigh. “I can see I’ve stumbled upon something more than I thought. My apologies, commander, captain.” He eyed his drink. “Still, must be awkward. Defeat the Ryuven, defend the kingdom, save the Shard, save the world, but can’t take a woman to please yourself.”
Torg started to speak, but Shianan gestured. They didn’t need a public argument. The mercenary’s comments were too ridiculous to merit response.
Defend the kingdom, but you can’t please yourself.
That would change.
Mannig nodded toward Mallach. “We’re off east, next. Mallach found something possible on the Wakari Coast for us. But if ever you need extra blades, lordship, we’d be more than honored to fight with you.”
“We don’t often call mercenaries,” Shianan replied diplomatically, “but I’ll keep you in mind.” The Wakari Coast! But they would have no reason to know Luca, or his family.
Mannig caught the serving woman’s eye. “Bring another round,” he said. “We’ll stand everyone a drink—even you, captain.” He grinned. “Just to show we’re not so bad.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
EWAN HAZELRIG HESITATED as the crowd shifted and pushed, and he glanced over his shoulder. It was foolish, he knew. Tam knew the city, and if his slave boy form were delayed in the busy street, he could find his way home quickly enough. But Ewan felt a renewed responsibility for the Ryuven who had found his friend a prisoner.
That was part of the reason he had offered to help Tamaryl become Tam once more, to go and select himself the books he thought potentially useful from the Wheel’s library. Ewan could have gone on his behalf, but he wanted Tamaryl to feel they were doing all they could. He had shared the reports on the last Ryuven raids, agreeing with Tamaryl that they seemed to have halted. When the Founding Festival had ended, Ewan wanted to follow up on those reports, particularly the last.
With most of the Circle outside for the festivities, there was no one to wonder at a slave poring over the priceless tomes. Tam had browsed many of the volumes as Ewan’s famulus, and within an hour he had chosen those to carry back for further reading. Only one had Ewan forbidden; the Claire Ledger, chained to its lectern, was too rare and precious to leave the library and would be missed immediately. Most of the others Ewan could justify taking home, where they would research Subduing reversal and a possible escape through the renewed shield.
He felt a sharp corner from the books in Tam’s arms as the slave boy was jostled against him. Tam murmured an appropriate apology to the passerby and tried to navigate to Ewan’s side. “I always forget the crowding.”
Ewan nodded. “The festival’s a bit more festive each year. And the fights should be just ending. Some of this traffic is from that, no doubt.”
“Lady Ariana went to watch?”
“She did. She’s never seen real battle. Staged exhibitions still excite her.”
“And the commander will be watching as well, no doubt.” Tam did not quite conceal the bitterness in his voice.
“Yes.” Ewan didn’t spare him. “In fact, I saw he had been added to the list of participants.”
“Splendid,” commented Tam sourly. “So he will fight a mock battle against mock opponents and come out a glorious victor, no doubt. How thrilling.”
Another passerby stumbled against Tam, nearly knocking th
e precious books from his grasp. Tam scrabbled for them, keeping them precariously balanced in his arms, and the man growled a reproach as he cuffed the boy’s head. Ewan turned to intervene, but the man was already moving away, talking with a companion. Tam, squinting against the blow, braced his chin on the books and shifted one back into position.
“Steady!” Ewan turned back anxiously. “Do you have those?”
Tam’s face tightened. “I will not drop them, master.”
The rebuke stung. Generally Tam had used the slave’s address only when others observed them. Ewan knew the Ryuven was unhappy, but how could he blame him? And mentioning it would likely make him more uncomfortable. Instead he tried, “If you need a hand...”
Tam’s reply was interrupted by a horn blast across the wide plaza. A man gifted with extraordinary lungs began to shout over the crowd. “This is your last opportunity, ladies and gentlemen, goodmen and goodwives, fishmongers and slaves! See the last Ryuven alive here—and see him die!”
Tam and Ewan came to a staring halt, ignoring the press around them.
“Here he is, the last Ryuven in all Chrenada! Your prisoner, and today you’ll see him executed! No more bloody raids, no more—”
Tam started running, his fair hair flailing. Ewan bolted after him.
Parrin’sho was pushed onto the railed platform, staring wide-eyed about him. He seemed to be fighting for composure, his folded wings shifting frequently. His arms were securely shackled, chained to a heavy iron ball and a guard, so he would not escape into the air.
“Stop!” gasped Tam.
A half-eaten pie splatted against Parrin’s face. The Ryuven recoiled, and a few other missiles flew onto the platform. A stone cut the Ryuven’s forehead and opened a bleeding gash. The attached guard whirled as another vegetable struck him and snarled a warning at the jeering mob, which subsided as additional guards moved about the base.
An axeman climbed onto the stage, and the crier gestured to him. “Here for your—”
“Stop!” shouted Tam, shoving between the pressing crowd. “Stop!”
“Stop!” called Ewan, running after him and waving at the crier. “Wait, you can’t—”
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