Liar's Moon

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Well, no, I certainly didn’t want that. I shook my head vigorously, and he finally let me go. I hastily headed for the nearest street leading away from the river, as Karst turned back toward the docks. But then I heard a very unwelcome voice from the warehouse behind me.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  Pox — Barris. I flashed a look over my shoulder, and saw that Karst had halted at Barris’s voice as well. “Don’t you know who that is? Stop her — don’t let her leave!”

  Ah, hells. I hiked up my skirts and skittered off down the street, but Karst, for all his size and gimpy leg, was surprisingly fast. Fighting for breath in the muggy air, I turned deeper into the city, away from the water, where the buildings were thicker. Damn — he was right behind me. I swung around a tight corner, caught the edge of a stone corbel on the first handy building with an overhanging roof, and hauled myself up to the tiles. I pulled myself flat, heart banging painfully against the slates, as Karst pounded into view. He stared around the intersection, hands curling as if he’d already caught me.

  Not even breathing, I eased toward the peak of the roof so I could slide down soundlessly to the other side. A broken tile snagged my skirt and tore my hem, but I swallowed my curses as Barris caught up with Karst. He pointed around the corner, and they charged down the street below me.

  “Marau’s balls, she’s gone.” Karst’s voice was gruff and breathless.

  “Damn it.” I saw Barris sheath a dagger — expensive, by the look of it, and I hoped he wasn’t as practiced with it as he appeared just then.

  “Who was she?” Karst said, looking down another street.

  “That girl I told you about.” Barris swore again.

  “You mean the one —” Karst’s expression shifted. “Oh, aye. Wouldn’t mind getting my hands on her, then. I bet she’d be worth a pretty coin to our friends.” I stiffened, fingers cramping from their grip on the narrow slates. What did he mean by that?

  “Don’t get ambitious,” Barris said, turning back the way he’d come.

  I didn’t breathe again until Karst’s scuffing footsteps disappeared after him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When I got back to the bakery, after taking a ridiculously circuitous route to shake off any possible tails, I had another note from Cwalo, this time arranging our meeting with Berdal and certain “friends” who would be amenable to just such a conversation, set for the following afternoon.

  I couldn’t help puzzling over what had happened on the docks. It was possible Geirt simply had gotten a better post in a different city, but I doubted it. Still, why would anyone want to get rid of her? She was the best witness against Durrel. Had those sharp green eyes seen more than the silhouette of a Decath leaving Talth’s rooms after midnight? And Karst’s statements about ridding himself of rivals to his Ferrying operation seemed awfully ominous as well. I had one dead merchant, one dead prisoner, and now a missing chambermaid. Bodies were piling up (or at least disappearing on me), and the connections among them still weren’t making themselves plain. I was looking forward to the meeting at Cwalo’s — I could do with a distraction now, and the war seemed just the thing.

  The pretty house in the Spiral was in an uproar when Berdal, Durrel, and I arrived late the following afternoon.

  “Impossible!” Mistress Mirelle was bellowing, although Master Cwalo sat well within earshot. Mirelle was a tall, striking woman with black hair and at least six inches on her husband. I had liked her instantly when I’d first met her in the spring.

  “What’s impossible?” I asked, poking my head into the snug drawing room.

  Mirelle just flung her hands skyward and stalked out. Cwalo grinned his odd, sinister smile and greeted Durrel and Berdal. “Well met, milord, Captain.” He turned to me. “Garod has announced his intentions to marry, if you believe it.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. Garod was Cwalo son number two, the one his parents most despaired of settling down. “Who’s the bride?”

  “A chorus girl from the Well!” Mirelle cried from whatever room she’d disappeared into. I wasn’t sure what “the well” meant, but from her inflection, I gathered it must be some kind of less-than-reputable establishment in Yeris Volbann.

  “He, uh, sounds a lucky fellow,” Durrel suggested tentatively. He’d been sullen and brooding on the way over here, but the lively chaos of the Cwalo home was enough to shake anyone out of misery.

  “He’s a libertine!” Mirelle said, but stepped back into the parlor to have a look at my companions, pinning the boys into a corner for examination. I felt a sudden empathy of terror for her sons, enduring that intense scrutiny for a lifetime. “You’re too thin,” she told Durrel. “Go into the kitchens and tell Runa to give you a pie.”

  “But you’re just about to serve —” Seeing Mirelle’s expression, Durrel gave it up and slinked away in the direction Mistress Cwalo was pointing.

  “And you,” she said severely to Berdal, examining his wounded arm. “Blackberry and dock tisane,” she pronounced with disapproval, as if the sling had done her a personal injury. “We have some in the kitchen.”

  Berdal was nodding, smiling his broad smile. “Aye, we use that in the mountains, mistress.” He followed her out of the parlor, leaving me with Cwalo.

  “I have a treasure for you, lass,” he said, producing a folded paper from an inlaid chest. It was a letter, clearly much traveled, judging from the wear around the corners. “Though it took its own time making its way to us.”

  The letter in question was from Meri, a single, folded sheet, its seal long broken; it had obviously begun its journey well before Berdal had left her side. For a moment I felt a twinge of anxiety, picturing the many hands this letter must have traded, and all the eyes that had taken in its contents. But Meri was too smart to write anything incriminating, and the note was breezy and newsy, with very little substance to be alarmed over.

  Lady Merista Nemair of Bryn Shaer sends these tidings to her sister-by-heart in Gerse, Celyn Contrare:

  We have spent a very busy summer here, with much time upon the horses and with traveling here and there. We see friends everywhere we go and count ourselves lucky to meet so many kindred souls along our path. I am sure back at home you are busy as well, with festivals and with moving, as they tell me you have done now several times, but I would have you please put pen to page once in an age, as you have friends here who wonder after you.

  It was all very typically Meri, frothy and upbeat and full of happy nothings. But there was more to the note that was also unmistakably Meri — its secret content. Somehow she had covered every inch of the back of the page with tiny, invisible writing that sparked to life when I touched it, a letter not only in invisible ink (smart little Meri!), but in magic. She had taken a chance that only I would be able to read it, and the fact that the letter had made it to me confirmed her faith in herself and whatever network she’d entrusted it to. It was risky and brilliant, and enough evidence to condemn this entire household to the Inquisition.

  I looked over the edge of the page to see Cwalo watching me solemnly, so I came and sat beside him, and read out Meri’s real letter:

  Celyn, there hasn’t been much time to write with all the fighting going on. It is all happening much faster than anyone suspected, and they are saying we shall be near you by the end of the season. They have put me to work as we expected, and I am honored to do my part, but it is much harder than I had thought and I often wish there was someone else here to relieve me. We have had one or two new recruits in our little battalion since summer came, and they are welcome, though none yet who can share my task. But they do take good care of me! You should see the food they’ve been shoveling into me; I am the only one in His Highness’s army who has grown fat this summer! The prince says I must remind you to eat, because he thinks you will not; but I heard that you were living near a bakery, and I told him you would not starve if there was bread nearby.

  Hereupon Cwalo interrupted the account with a
snort.

  Mother has organized the surgery, of course, and complains constantly that her aides do not have half your skill at a sickbed. But I think she is just weary and afraid like the rest of us, for she and Kespa save more than they do not. They have sworn me to secrecy because you will only worry, but I think you should know that the prince has been injured, though not seriously and he is on the mend — or he would be, if Mother could get him to lie quietly for more than a half hour at a time.

  I must go now; I am running out of paper and I do not dare send a second page. But I would bid you to stay away from this strife if you may, and that if you are not too busy, perhaps you would look forth and see if you might not find another like me and send him our way, because we could sorely use him now.

  The prince says to “watch your flank.” Do you know what that means?

  — M

  “The best of tidings,” Cwalo said, and I nodded absently, tracing my fingers across the bright letters. “Not all warriors are on the battlefield, my girl. You are where you are meant to be.” He gave my knee a squeeze, then rose from his seat. “I’d best go check on the squab; Mirelle has been immolating them of late.”

  I watched him leave, then saw Durrel standing in the doorway, listening. I waved him over, and he held out his hand for the letter. I let him take it, with the feeling his thoughts were too near my own.

  “He raised her, you know,” he said after a long moment, stroking the blank-to-him back side of the page. “My father. For five years he kept Meri safe, kept her secret. How could he be involved in —” He gave up, lost in Meri’s letter, as if the invisible swirls of power on the paper were hiding all the answers.

  Mirelle called us to eat a few minutes later, and we fell to a happy enough meal of roasted pigeons and a delicate seafood stew. Even at Mirelle’s table the food shortages were evident; there was no bread, the squab were city-caught, Cwalo’s spices couldn’t disguise that the broth was mostly water, and Mirelle’s expression of distaste as she served out every portion said the rest. Still, it was a jolly meal, with Berdal and Cwalo trading unbelievable stories of their travels, and Durrel even joining in with the odd tale of hilarity at Favom Court.

  About halfway through dinner, we were cut off by a knock at the door. I looked up, uneasy.

  “Don’t fret, girl. It’s just another guest,” Cwalo said, rising to meet the new visitor, who was just then being ushered into the crowded dining room by the serving lad. I blinked and dropped my spoon. It was Lord Hobin — Rat’s Hobin — now greeting everyone with low bows, and dressed improbably in a poorly matched leather doublet and linen trews that were apparently meant to make him look common. And on his heels, giving me a broad wink, was Rat.

  “I see we’ve interrupted your meal,” Lord Hobin said, stooping through the arched doorway. “Have we come at the wrong time?”

  “Not at all,” Mirelle said warmly. “Come and have a plate.”

  I was too dumbfounded to say anything, but Durrel had no such qualms. “What interest does a member of the Ministry of War have in this company?”

  Berdal looked perplexed and alarmed, but Cwalo just moved his chair aside to make room for Hobin. “One might ask the same of a Decath,” Hobin said smoothly as he sat. “But for my part, I am ever partial to a perfectly cooked squab. A rare delicacy indeed, Mistress Cwalo. Digger, my darling girl, you’re looking much healed from when I saw you last.”

  My fingers flew to the cut on my cheek, and I nodded dumbly. “Well, I’m offended,” Rat said cheerily, squeezing beside me on the bench. “We invited Digger to dinner, but she did not return the favor, and we had to crash. Tsk, tsk.”

  I glared at him, but Cwalo broke in. “I asked Lord Hobin to join us because these matters we discuss affect his interests and his work, and I felt it critical to have someone here to tell us how things stand with the king.”

  Mirelle gave her husband a quelling look that plainly said, No politics at the dinner table. But Hobin spoke up. “My loyalties are to Llyvraneth and the city of Gerse,” he said. “Not the king. If I am in a position to help my country and my city, I will do so.”

  Everyone was looking at me expectantly. “I —” I frowned. “Rat trusts him,” I finally said. He had never given any hint that Lord Hobin was anything other than the most steady of officials, without a streak of zeal for any particular cause or faction. And I trusted Rat with my life. Even if he was currently picking food off my plate.

  “Very well,” Mirelle said as if that settled the matter. “Your lordship, do try the citron marmalade. Cwalo brings it from Talanca. Halcot, how are your parents?”

  After that, the rest of the meal passed smoothly, conversation touching on only the lightest topics. Hobin roared with laughter at the account of Garod Cwalo’s betrothal and Cwalo’s efforts to pair up the others. “Merciful Goddess,” he said. “You make me thankful my own son is well settled, and that I had only the one!”

  “You have a son?” I said, surprise making it sound a little rude.

  “Dear girl, of course! I’d hardly be allowed to go on with Halcot if there wasn’t already another Lord Hobin to come after me.”

  “He’s not in the war, I hope,” said Mirelle, whose two middle boys, Andor and Viorst, fought with Wierolf.

  Hobin shook his head. “No, thank the gods. He’s well out of it, reading law in Talanca. I’d like to bring him home to a country at peace with itself and its neighbors.”

  The meal had rounded out, and apparently Mirelle judged this an appropriate time for the discussion to turn serious. The remains of dinner were cleared away, and she decamped for the kitchens, sliding the dining room doors closed behind her.

  “Well, now, we all know why we’re here,” Cwalo said. “Captain Berdal, if you’ll begin?”

  Berdal gave a cough and shifted forward in his seat. “I’m not at liberty to reveal anything about the prince’s position or strategy.” I wondered if that caution would have applied without Lord Hobin’s presence.

  “Of course,” Lord Hobin replied. “You’ve come only to discover how things stand in the city, and I’m sure you’ve seen much for yourself.”

  Berdal nodded grimly. “The food shortage is worse than reported. Celyn has said that the people are restless, and many would not resist an invasion, but Lord Durrel says the city’s noble population and gentry rulers are still loyal to the king.”

  Hobin looked thoughtful. “We are required to be loyal,” he said. “It isn’t exactly the same thing. And we pay dearly for the privilege.”

  I held up a hand, thoughts clicking. “Lord Decath told me he paid heavy fines for keeping Meri all those years. But every other noble who ever showed any signs of Sarist sympathies was exiled, or worse.”

  Durrel sat up straighter at this. “Bardolph needs money more than he needs another enemy.” He scrambled for a piece of paper, supplied by Cwalo from the chest in the other room, and began jotting notes. “The whole war effort’s got to be fantastically expensive.” Hobin and Cwalo leaned over the paper with him, and they fell into calculations together for several tense, quiet minutes as the rest of us looked on in bemusement. Rat refilled our glasses. Finally Durrel stuck his head up again. “That’s why he’s been diverting grain and meat from the city markets. Not so he can feed his troops with it, but —”

  “So he can sell it on the black market,” Rat finished. “Not a bad business, really.”

  Cwalo looked up sharply, dark eyes alight. “Damn, lad, I think you’re right. And from what I’ve heard, Bardolph’s also been charging the city billeting fees for housing soldiers here, while at the same time taking it out of the troops’ pay and calling it a lodging tax.”

  Hobin watched us stonily. Finally he said, “That would be a violation of the terms by which the army has been mustered. They’re to be lodged in common homes only when barrack space is unavailable, and they — and the household — are to be paid allowances by the army. If this is correct, the troops are owed quite a bit of back wages.
”

  “But there are unused barracks all over the city,” I put in. “They’ve been building them for years. Don’t the soldiers care?”

  Berdal gave a shrug. “Most common troops — especially Green Army — wouldn’t even know their contracts weren’t being honored. And besides, the king does what the king wants.”

  “And if they learned about this?” Rat asked quietly, looking at Hobin. A long moment passed, and it was Berdal who answered.

  “An army has to have faith in its commanders, and a breach of trust like that wouldn’t go over well.”

  “If even a portion of the Green Army fell to discord,” Hobin said slowly, “Astilan’s attention would have to be diverted to deal with the uprising.”

  There was silence in the wake of this suggestion, a chasm too immense to be filled with words. Finally Cwalo spoke up. “And that might be enough to give Wierolf the final advantage he needs. March on the city and take Hanivard Palace.”

  “The soldiers in the city aren’t happy either,” Berdal said. “I had a few drinks with some local Green Army boys, and they’re mad as hells about back pay, no food, and having to bunk with civilians.”

  “How in the world did you manage that?” I asked.

  Berdal grinned. “They come into that public house where I’m staying. They see the arm, and nobody even thinks to ask which side I fought on. I was at all the right battles, after all. Anyway, they complain about everything. Even saw one of them toast that great banner. Course, I also saw one lad drop his pants to it.”

  “How tasteful,” Lord Hobin said. “I’m glad to see our beloved city is defended by only the finer sorts of people.”

  “The question is,” Cwalo was saying, rubbing his bald head thoughtfully, “how to use this intelligence to our benefit. If we could stir up this discontent among a few key-placed battalions . . .”