And here came the much-talked of, much-hated Marlovans, riding in perfect formation two by two, great swallow-tailed banners rippling, deep blue and gold.
Four sets of eyes snapped to that figure at the front.
Alone of the four, Lavais had seen Connar previously, but she had since talked herself into believing that such an uncouth background would have coarsened the pretty boy she’d glimpsed across the throne room at the Convocation in ’77, ten years ago.
If anything, he was more beautiful, his straight limbs having hardened to a splendid form. He rode easily, impossibly masculine—broad shoulders and narrow waist set off by that gray coat unadorned except for the glint of gold below the shoulder pauldrons, his sash gray. Beneath the long, glossy blue-black hair, the cut of his cheekbones and jaw were no sharper than the cut of his mouth, all dominated by eyes of such a blue the color seemed to gather lucence from those banners piercing the sky behind him.
Ryu’s jaw dropped.
Lavais looked askance at her son, and she watched the heads turn as Connar Olavayir rode by, her thoughts churned rapidly. Maybe having that pretty young animal as the target of all eyes would work in their favor.
Connar reined up before the gate. Lavais stepped forward three paces and bowed as she spoke words of welcome and introduction. That signaled the rest of the gathered company in making bows, Sartoran-style—her intent to demonstrate civilized manners going right past the intended targets.
Rat rolled his eyes (which was seen by Ryu, whose ears reddened under his golden hair); one of his captains muffled a snicker when Jugears, Rat’s second runner, commented under his breath that the servants at the back must be impressed by all those butts sticking out.
“And wouldn’t I like to be the one to deliver a good kick,” was the whispered response through unmoving lips.
“If you care to dismount, your host, Holder Artolei, will personally conduct you to Princess Seonrei,” Lavais said in her clearest voice to Connar.
Artolei, still mortified by the looting of his ancestral home, and the loss of the records detailing the commons and their service, stepped forward, forcing a semblance of a smile.
No one paid him any attention.
Connar leaped down from his horse. As Fish supervised the handling of the animals and the gear on the saddlebags, Connar said to Demeos and Ryu, “Your Tax Gang wasn’t anywhere near the village. Someone must have warned ‘em off.”
Though his scout had reported a fire and a great to-do at the Artolei castle, Connar wasn’t going to let on he knew. He wanted to find out, if he could, what lay under the surface of things. “I can send out a company to search.”
Artolei flushed with fury.
Demeos said hastily, “No need, no need. It’s winter—bad weather—they’ve surely gone to ground. It’s a matter for spring. Our information was entirely remiss.”
Connar and Rat remained stolidly blank in demeanor, their lack of surprise watched suspiciously by Artolei as they were led inside the warmth and color of a splendid palace furnished in all the latest Sartoran styles—lyre-backed chairs everywhere, low tables with curved legs, and a profusion of refreshments awaiting the guests.
Here they were introduced to the Sartoran princess. Rat had told them that the dialect of Iascan used in the south had a lot of Sartoran words—enough for them to fumble through a brief conversation.
Lavais gave Seonrei six painful, stumbling exchanges to see how awkward the Marlovans were, then signaled for everyone to move to the dining room for a meal. Connar and his two captains were separated off from the rest of their men, who were led to a series of cottages that had been cleared of their residents—along with most of their furnishings.
Demeos, Ryu, and Artolei had invited a carefully curated list of young nobles, mostly from the Feravayir side of the border, except for some friends and a hanger-on cousin or two from the Jayad side whom Artolei trusted to do exactly what he said.
Lineas watched from among the servants.
Until she saw from an upper window that they had actually arrived, she expected every day to hear that the Marlovans had turned toward Parayid—had ridden away—anything but what actually happened.
When she was summoned downstairs to join the long line of servants carrying the food to the banquet hall, she met Plix’s shocked eyes, and remembered that it was the steward’s brother who had been sent to Parayid so that Noth could send runners to warn off Connar.
That night, Lineas and the rest of the servants were kept up half the night dealing with a flurry of orders, everything to be done at once. Many of the orders conflicting.
The Nyidris had spared no expense in luring entertainers. As Lineas hauled away dirty dishes by the cartload, she heard musicians in four separate locations. Laughter and the giddy smells of spiced wine floated through the beautiful chambers whose carved and decorated walls boasted hangings painted delicate colors to offset embroidered cushions and matching tapestries.
They scarce had three hours of snatched rest before the orders flowed in again, sending them scurrying, and so passed another exhausting day, followed by a third.
For Connar, those days passed in a haze of sensory delights. After a miserable ride, it was good to be clean again. And warm. And met with inviting gazes on every side.
Jethren, too, got his share of flattering attention. The only captain who stayed sober and went to bed alone was Rat. He hated the situation, hated the false smiles, and especially hated the smirk he glimpsed on Ryu’s smug face whenever their eyes met. But Ryu didn’t say a word to him—in fact, he went out of the way to pretend Rat didn’t exist. All his teeth-scrapingly false flattery was aimed at Connar.
Human nature being what it is, many of those who protested the loudest about barbarians went back two or three times to really make certain just how loutish they were in intimacy—that is, those Connar obliged. Those to whom he turned an indifferent eye were sharp in their criticism, but whoever wished to note whom the barbarian prince rejected smirked behind fans held up to hide one eyebrow.
Lineas kept away, in an agony lest Connar spot her lugging dirty dishes away, and react in some way that would call attention to her. And yet she had to speak to them—warn them. She could no longer be certain Plix’s brother had been able to. But the Marlovans were always surrounded by the nobles, not just during the day, but the gossip going around the kitchen was that they had plenty of company over the nights as well.
She didn’t even know where they were kept, except it was over on the nobles’ side, where she was forbidden to go: useless (the Nyidris believed) as a spy, she had been demoted to the army of kitchen slubs, fetching endless stacks of dirty cups, goblets, and dishes, and dunking them in the ensorcelled barrel, drying them, and lugging them out to be filled again.
After the third night, enough of a rhythm had been established for the servants to be caught up. By midnight most were sent to bed, to be called the hour before dawn, as usual. As she made her way along the servants’ routes, she poked her head in at the entertainment rooms, hoping she might catch sight of Rat, or Fish, or someone she knew, who wasn’t the center of attention.
There seemed to be a lot fewer guests. Or maybe it was just the smoother routine that made it seem that way.
She dismissed that thought as irrelevant; speculation was useless. She had to get to Rat, to tell him what she’d overheard those weeks ago. Even though she’d never again heard anything but the dullest talk, there was too much in the present circumstances that matched that plan the brothers had been hatching. Rat should know, even if he scoffed.
But if she asked through gesture where the Marlovan captains were, someone would be sure to ask why she wanted to know. So she stopped in the supply room to fetch a cleaning bucket and cloth, which implements effectively made her invisible, and set out to find them.
By venturing into halls she’d never had time to explore, and listening to snatches of talk, she finally discovered that the captains were housed in separa
te cottages in the side garden, Connar in the biggest and closest. Judging by the snickering about his staying power, Lineas assumed he was not alone. But Fish would be.
She made her way to a side exit to the garden, stashed her bucket and cloth behind an ornamental shrub coated with snow, and began to slip along the close-growing junipers—
Until something hard hit her in the back, and she took a header, knocking the breath from her lungs.
Furious at herself for her inattention, she rolled as a figure tried to pin her down. Lineas fought off her attacker, and in grappling discovered that though the person was smaller than she, it seemed to be made of whipcord.
But it was not yelling for the guards—
At the same moment she changed her intent from breaking a limb to blocking, the assailant also backed off. “No assassin goes unarmed,” a voice whispered in the purest Sartoran Lineas had heard since she left Shendan in Darchelde. Then the voice—it was female—began a question in heavily accented Iascan.
Lineas whispered back, “I speak Sartoran. And I am no assassin. Who are you?”
“Let us leave that question for a time,” the woman responded. “Your purpose?”
“What is yours?”
A shift, and a thin face looked up into Lineas’s, dark pits for eyes. A small gasp. “Aren’t you—the deaf maid?”
Lineas opened her hands.
“Ah, so you have your own purpose, it seems. As do I: I am entrusted with my princess’s safety. And you?”
It was Lineas’s turn to gasp. “You’re one of the Sartorans?”
“As you see.” Two pale hands gestured gracefully, in a manner no Marlovan would ever use.
Lineas dithered for a heartbeat, then decided to speak, for this Sartoran had not called for the guards—who would certainly have come a-running to protect that royal guest. “I must get to the prince’s quarters. There is something I need to tell him.”
“Has it to do with the sly departure of the lower rank of guests, then?”
“What?” Lineas asked.
Her assailant was Iaeth, who was a far better spy than Lineas ever would be. Iaeth had tackled Lineas before she moved too close to silent watchers planted in the garden, all of whom Iaeth had located.
Iaeth said, “From the first morning, the Nyidris have been sending some of the guests out the servants’ back way, in a style I can only term furtive. You did not know?”
“I thought we were doing fewer dishes.” Lineas gave a soft sigh. “What does it mean?”
“I endeavor to discover that myself,” Iaeth said with mordant humor. “I sense danger all around.”
Lineas rubbed her aching neck. “This is what I want to tell Prince Connar’s....” Lineas realized that she did not know terms for first runners in Sartoran. “His principal servant.” And, rapidly, she described what she had overheard that day in the guest parlor.
At the end, Iaeth exclaimed, “Life! This is much worse than...come. I will take you to the one who sleeps alone. But you must in your turn permit me to hear the conversation.”
Lineas agreed. And when she then learned that there were Artolei watchers posted throughout the garden to report on any movement by anybody, whom she most certainly would have stumbled into, she was very glad that she had.
Iaeth took her by a circuitous route to Rat’s chamber. By then Lineas’s feet were numb in her silent servant slippers, her hands icy. But she shivered more with excitement than cold.
When they reached the cottage, Lineas tapped at the door. Though the windows were dark, the door opened at once. She made out a familiar long head—“Jugears?” she whispered, naming Rat’s second runner.
“Who’s that?”
“Lineas Noth, royal runner, and a Sartoran runner to the princess.”
Jugears held the door open and shut it behind them. Still in the dark, he said, “Are you doggo?”
“What’s he saying?” Iaeth whispered.
Lineas said to Jugears, “Yes. We need to speak to Rat.” And to Iaeth, in Sartoran, “He wants to know if we’re trying to avoid discovery. Rat knows the Iascan of the south, if you can speak that.”
“I have learned this,” Iaeth said in the Iascan she had worked hard to master. “If you can comprehend this, my accent.”
“It’s very good,” Lineas assured her. “Much better than my Sartoran, I am sure.”
Iaeth gave a faint chuckle, scarcely more than a breath. “Your accent is charming. I met one once before with this accent, some years ago.”
By then Jugears had fetched Rat, who said, “Come into the bedroom.”
They did. It was lit by a candle. Rat stood before them in unlaced shirt and pants, barefoot, his hair hanging down his back. Digger, his tall, lanky first runner, was also there.
Lineas swiftly repeated what she’d just told Iaeth—and Plix, weeks ago.
Rat listened in grim silence.
At the end, Iaeth said, “Here is what I have seen: twenty caravans of supplies, one a day, sometimes two. The men bringing the carts took them to the village half a day away, over the east hill. There they remain, these men.”
Rat’s eyes narrowed. “So what it sounds like is, Artolei and the Nyidris are ridding themselves of the civs here a little at a time. And there’s an army out there.”
Iaeth was going to protest the word army, which meant something specific to her. But then she remembered the numbers she’d seen—and how she had kept silent about them. Regret pulsed through her, and she said, “Effectively, so.”
Rat gritted his teeth. “I sent a runner to report to my father that we’ve arrived here. What do you want to bet he’s lying frozen dead on the other side of the river.”
Neither woman answered that.
Rat muttered, “How much time do we have? No, you wouldn’t know. But my guess is, if this is still their plan, nothing will happen until the Nyidris leave. They’ll hide behind Artolei. Pretend they know nothing about it.”
He fell silent, brooding. Then glanced up. “And my best two long runners are....” He shifted his gaze to Lineas. “You’re the fastest one left. Can you get out?”
“I—I think so,” Lineas said, but cast a doubtful glance at Iaeth.
Iaeth spoke up. “I can get her out.”
Rat’s lips had pressed into a white line. “Then do it. Grass run to the Cassads—it’s closer, straight north.” He briefly outlined the message he’d passed to his Noth relations before the ride south. “Seems to me we’re going to need them to come in force, saddle-to-saddle, hot ride.”
Lineas had tucked her hands into her armpits. “If you can get me some gloves and boots and a coat, I’ll go straight from here.”
“Not Marlovan coats,” Iaeth put in. “If Ryu Nyidri is killing your messengers, then that coat makes you an easy target. Here. Take this one I’m wearing. I swapped my Sartoran coat for it, from a chatty glazier I met a month ago.”
Lineas was going to point out that its sleeves would be too short, but Rat produced a long pair of riding gauntlets that she could stuff into the sleeves. Between Rat, Iaeth, Digger, and Jugears, she was soon kitted out in ill-fitting clothing. At least she would not get frostburn.
“There.” Iaeth stood back, regarding Lineas critically. “You look anonymous enough, but I still wouldn’t trust any locals for aid, not with that Marlovan accent.”
“Why not?” Lineas asked.
Iaeth’s eyes widened. “Tempers are quite hot due to your king’s extra demands.”
Lineas and Rat spoke almost together, “What extra demands?” and, “The king?”
“Where do you think all the food you people are swilling and gulping came from? Winter stores from every family for weeks’ ride was required at swordpoint—it was said, by royal order.”
Lineas and Rat exchanged startled looks. “But that wasn’t the king. I left the king at New Year’s, and he knew nothing about this gathering, only that we were leaving for inspection. And I’ve never heard of him demanding anything from c
ivs at swordpoint.”
Iaeth regarded him narrowly. “The food demands are on top of quadruple taxes.”
This time Lineas and Rat’s voices blended perfectly, “The what?”
“There is no quadruple tax,” Rat said slowly. “The guilds wouldn’t stand for it. We’ve had the king’s tenth since the jarls agreed to war at Convocation. The Adrani war is over, so I expect that we’ll go back to the usual half-tenth at the next Convocation.”
Lineas opened her palms in assent.
Iaeth scraped her teeth over her bottom lip, then asked gently, “Is it possible your king and queen tell you one thing and do another?”
Lineas uttered a gasping laugh as she turned wide eyes to Rat, who said, “If you’d ever met them, you’d know how impossible that is. Or, at least, the queen, as I haven’t had much to do with the king. Everybody says Danet-Gunvaer can smell a lie at a hundred paces. Her eyes are like swords. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t sweat through their clothes talking to her, even when telling the truth. As for her, I think if she ever told a lie she’d drop down dead.”
Lineas had been thinking rapidly. She should leave now, while the palace was quiet, but instinct kept her. This conversation seemed important in ways she couldn’t yet define.
So she said, “I’ve listened to much over these past weeks. Things people didn’t realize I understood. While I never heard the Nyidris actually accuse Anred-Harvaldar of quadrupling taxes, I have heard things that...put blame away from the cause.” She scowled. Even that was too imprecise to be useful. So she tried again. “As I traveled cross Feravayir, I saw villages with houses needing repair. People in ragged clothes. I thought a war had happened, a long one, that we did not know about in the north.”
Honest Rat said, bewildered, “No wars. And what has that to do with anything?”
Lineas put her palm up, her attention on Iaeth. “Further, this I can attest to, the king and the queen eat exactly what the household eats.”
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