“All right. But what are we watching for?”
Two sets of footsteps started down the narrow tower stairs, and Sun knew the voices would soon fade. She hesitated, then eased the curtain back and plunged through the icy illusory wall. She tiptoed barefoot to the stairs, grimacing at the feel of cold slimy moss.
“Anyone. Anyone at all. But the king mentioned females.”
“Commander? We were all shifted from badly needed coastal patrol to watch a castle for . . . women?”
Sun followed down two, three more steps. Come on, Randart, you know you want to tell him, she urged mentally.
“Yes,” War Commander Randart said shortly as he reached the arched tower door. “And if any appear, bring them straight to the king. To no one else. No matter who they are. No matter what they say.”
The creak of the heavy door caused Sun to crouch on her step and peer around the angled stairs. A shaft of early morning sunlight outlined Randart’s tall, broad-shouldered form. Except for looking older and even tougher, he hadn’t changed much. His shaggy dark hair was graying, his hard face lined. The other man was also tall and broad, as you’d expect from the king’s own men-at-arms. Younger than Randart, though.
He thrust the door open and morning light lanced halfway up the stairs, stopping just short of her toes. The men thumped the door shut behind them and the poised bar thocked into place.
Sun slipped back upstairs to the secret room. She ripped the tarnished silver stitching from the brown tunic, and the bits of rotted red silk. Mentally she heard Math’s laughing voice. Livery was supposed to be gold. Silver and gold. But for a long time they couldn’t get the dyes to match, and so the runners and warriors were galloping around in pumpkin orange, rust, even pink and yellow, if the sun changed the dye. Not exactly impressive! Finally they settled on brown.
They were still wearing brown, she’d seen. But with the Merindar cup over the heart, and not the firebird of the Zhavalieshins.
She packed her things together, dug underneath the folded clothes, and brought up the rapier she’d laid in the chest that last night.
Her hands were calm as she pulled the baldric over her shoulder and shifted the sword to her hip. She undid the knife from under her trousers and strapped it on outside. The little knife came next, tucked sideways into her sash the way Math had taught her so long ago.
She knew who the enemy was now, and where to go. But first she had to get out of the castle without being seen.
After a quick listen at the false door, back she trod down to the tower door that led to the courtyard adjacent to the stable. From the courtyard outside came the muted clatter of horse hooves. Ah, that would be Randart’s departure. The watch had changed, and the patrols were just beginning. Now was the time to slip out, before the newcomers had discovered all the blind spots and had deployed watchers to cover them.
And hopefully before they’d had their morning coffee and were awake.
As she eased the door open, she smiled, remembering her discovery so long ago that this world had coffee. Proof that the humans here were indeed from Earth—coffee and chocolate. Her smile was a little sad. She could remember thinking, What can go wrong, if a world is beautiful and has magic, coffee and chocolate?
Answer: it also has humans, with all the familiar greed, ambition, and intent. Ah well.
Courtyard. Open. With no better route out of the castle, she eased along the inner wall, watching the sentry walk opposite. So far, no one in view along those crenellations. Randart had probably concentrated the guards around the Destination tower on the other side of the courtyard, inside as well as out.
She slunk farther along the wall, one hand on her sword to keep it from scraping the stone. A flicker in her peripheral vision made her duck behind a hay cart tucked in the corner next to the stable door.
She crouched down and peered between the hay mound and the cart’s seat up at the opposite wall, along which walked two guards carrying spears, one of the men wolfing down a bread-and-cheese sandwich, his spear tucked in the crook of his arm. From their shuffling gait and their desultory conversation, she figured they’d just been woken up. The real go-getters were probably searching more methodically inside.
Good. Her job now was to keep it that way.
As soon as they passed beyond the lower tower, she slipped around the cart and into the stable. The animals paid little attention. Heads bobbed in the loose boxes as stable hands rubbed down the mounts that had galloped in that morning. She ghost-footed past. Some of the horses twitched ears at her, and one snorted, but the stable hands were too occupied to pay attention.
She found another door adjacent to a tack room, and sneaked out. The long early morning shadows stretched westward, with two silhouetted guards standing at either end of the wall. The road leading up to the stable entrance bisected a broad grassy expanse, no cover whatsoever.
So she hugged the wall until she reached the north side, with its rough terrain overgrown with weeds and brush. None of it had been cleared away for decades.
Picking her way with care over the rough, rocky ground—she did not want to rustle the shrubs—she eased away from the castle until she reached the shelter of a stand of young maples on a ridge. Now hidden from the castle’s walls by their thick canopy, she slipped onto a narrow animal path and hurried downhill to the stream that fed the castle’s water supply, and thence along the stream until the castle slid out of sight.
The stream zigzagged steadily downhill. She paused to drink from the cold, clear water from time to time, then clambered awkwardly parallel to the stream, toiling uphill when the ground rose.
Her stomach roiled with hunger by the time she reached flat ground. But no convenient fruit trees grew in the middle of that blossoming forest of mostly cedar, maple, with chestnut trees here and there. The season was early summer, from the look of the bright green growth and the heady sweet smell of bloom. Birds twittered, cheeped and warbled everywhere, hidden by the green canopy overhead. No nuts would fall for months.
At least she’d stumbled upon an old road, shaded by massive oak and maples. Here the air was considerably cooler, and she was no longer being scratched by shrubs, all of which seemed to grow prickly leaves. She stretched out her legs, forcing herself up to a rapid march. The plain brown tunic would mark her as a runner. If she came upon any of Canary’s men, she would lie like a rug about being a messenger, and hope that old names and castles matched up with present owners.
The sun glinted high overhead when her ears registered a sound that didn’t belong in the rustle of a midday forest landscape. Math had told her, Don’t try to identify every sound and sight, only those that don’t belong.
Instinct got the message first. When her mind caught up with the Danger Flag, she discovered both sword and knife in hand. She hefted them, regretting the two years since her last fencing lesson, and faced the three scruffy highwaymen.
Two feints from either side and she knew they were used to working together, though they moved slowly, their strokes perfunctory instead of precise. She’d instinctively turned her back to an enormous thornberry tree, so the three could not surround her. They stayed well out of one another’s range as they tried to close in from either side.
She used her old backup tricks: kicked dirt up into the face of the first, lunged at the second, and while he was shifting his weight to block and the third side-stepped to back him up, she whirled and cut low. Her point stabbed the knee of the third guy, who’d shifted to back up his pal.
He let out a howl as his partner slashed down at her. She flourished her blade into a spiraling downward block, turning the strike toward the ground.
By then Dirtface had recovered, and switched his sword from one hand to the other. The angle of his wrists, the set of his shoulders, caught at memory. She flicked a look at his face. About her own age, heavy chin, big jug-handle ears—
“I know you,” she exclaimed, backing up, her point hovering midway between the two on their feet.
The pair also halted, Dirtface squinting.
“You were one of Math’s men.” She waved her sword for emphasis. “Robbing people?”
Dirtface gaped. “Your—your highness?” He turned to the others. “That accent. It’s her highness. Princess Atanial!”
Atanial! The name Sun hadn’t heard for fifteen years, the last time being spoken by Math, just before kissing her goodbye. Atan—bright sun—my darling. With his kiss warm on her lips, he’d pushed her through the World Gate.
“Hoo.” The second one looked away guiltily.
“Still in . . . practice,” the third whispered, voice tight with pain. He sat in the dirt, hands pressed to his knee as blood seeped nastily between his fingers.
She flung down her sword, heedless of the others holding their weapons. “Let me look at that knee. It felt like my point went in too far.”
“Oh yes. Oh yes,” the man muttered, teeth clenched.
“Well, what are you idiots doing holding people up? Math must be dead or he’d die of shame.”
Three variations of upset and dismay faced her.
Dirtface, he of the ears, said, “We never heard he was dead. But he isn’t here, either.”
The second man, the leanest one, with a thin ferret face, had been silent a while. He jerked his thumb at his taller companion. “Ye recognized them ears. Didn’t ya?”
Sun laughed. “Yes. I don’t suppose you fellows have anything to eat?”
Dirtface had pulled a length of mostly clean cloth from the pouch at his sash, which he handed down to her. She helped the man she’d wounded to shove up his trouser leg, and she bound his knee snugly.
Dirtface nodded approval when she was done. “If we did, we’d be eatin’ and not robbin’.”
Sun laughed again, winning rueful smiles from the others. “So here we are. Four middle-aged folks starving in the middle of the forest. Three running from the law one way and one running from the law the other, I guess? Come on, let’s at least find a stream. I badly need information.” She added wryly, “And to rest my bones.”
The two helped their companion up, and they made their way off the road to the river, which ran more or less parallel. They washed faces and hands, and the wounded man soaked his leg in the water, then rebound the bandage. They sat on the grass, Sun with shoes and socks off. She hadn’t walked so far in ages. Her feet hurt. It felt wonderful to soak them in the cold stream.
She kicked her toes in and out of the sparkling water, sensing that the armsmen—former armsmen—were uneasy. “I arrived in Khanerenth last night. My daughter is here, apparently in the company of some pirate.”
Dirtface pursed his lips. “If it’s Zathdar, she’ll be held for ransom from the king. If someone else, no telling what’s going on.”
“What can you tell me about this Zathdar?”
Dirtface shrugged. The second man said, “Rumor from the coast has it he attacks the king’s fleet. Keeps ’em in a stir. Messin’ up trade. Randart has a prince’s fortune on his head as bounty. But no one can catch him. They can’t find his lair.”
“I mean to find my daughter, lair or no lair.” Sun smacked her hands on her knees. “First I need to know a few things. Like, what year is it? What is the last you heard about Math? And—forgive me—but why are you robbing people?”
Dirtface looked at the others, who all deferred to him. “The year is ’54. No word of the prince for ten years, now. And we took to the road because there is no other way to fill our bellies.”
“Of course the times don’t match up,” she murmured. “I should have known that. But what’s this about no way to earn a living?”
“The King.” Dirtface made a spitting motion to the side. “He threw us out of the castle guard. Said lay down arms and disperse or he’d hang us all, meaning Prince Math’s guard, man and woman. Some found work. Others found closed doors and threats. We got the doors and threats. Not even a stable would take us.”
“It’s them ears, see,” put in the second man, with a thumb toward Dirtface. “Everyone knows the Silvag family. Personal guards to Zhavalieshins for time out of mind. Big ears, every one.”
“True.” The third man winced. “And we don’t know anything but sword and horse.”
“What about teaching at that war school?” Sun asked. “Though I remember it was mostly maritime, still—”
“Closed in ’34.” Silvag lifted a shoulder.
“Opened again after the Siamis War,” the second one said. “But Commander Randart made certain none of us can poke a nose near the place.”
Siamis War? Who or what or where was that? Obviously she had some history to catch up on. But that could come later. “All right, then answer me this. Do you know where Steward Eban lives?”
“Everyone knows that. Everyone from the old days,” Silvag scrupulously amended. “But they watch her place day and night. Especially since spring.”
“Well, good to know.” Sun forced herself to be cheerful. “Then we’ll have some time on the walk to figure a way in, won’t we?”
“We?” Silvag said, and Sun saw the wary hope in his face, and heard it in his gruff voice.
“Unless you’d rather stay around here and rob people. I want to find my daughter, and then find Math. It looks like he’s needed.”
Chapter Nine
When I saw Zathdar the next morning, I actually stopped right in my tracks. Poor Elva thumped into me from behind.
She peered around my arm, then snorted. “Ugh. Talk about swagger.”
Zathdar flicked his crimson silk shirt, turning this way and that. That shirt was so gaudy it was barbaric with its black and gold embroidery in highly stylized patterns of raptors on the wing. “Handsome, isn’t it?” He preened, grinning at Elva. “Bought it in an old pirate cove on the other side of the world. Couldn’t resist.”
“But . . . couldn’t you have found a bandana to match?” I pointed at the glorious green and gold silk tied round his head. This one had even longer fringes than his last. His trousers were sturdy black cotton-wool, but he made up for that lapse into sobriety with a purple sash. “And . . . purple with crimson? Wait, I’m asking that of a guy who wore orange and green together yesterday, with a crimson vest. Never mind.”
He spread his hands. “My captains on the other ships have to be able to see me.”
I turned to Elva. “That does kind of make sense.”
“Signal flags make more sense.” She eyed the grinning privateer.
“Not in the middle of battle when everyone is too busy to hoist flags. Speaking of which, since the winds are contrary, we’re about to conduct morning drill. If you’d like to watch, feel free, but I must warn you that the gangways here will be busy.” He indicated the deck running along the rail on either side of the masts, curving in toward the bow.
I pointed at an elegant rowboat on two hoists. “Shall we watch from there?”
He extended a hand and we clambered up into it.
Someone rang the ship’s bell in a fast pattern—ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting—and the crew stampeded to battle stations, some with smoking firepots, others carrying arrows dipped in oil, and bows, and the youngsters with buckets of sand, presumably to put out any fires the enemy started.
There were no cannons, of course. I remembered that from childhood. My mother had explained that gunpowder did not work on this world, whether because of the cooler, wetter climate or because of some magical influence, she wasn’t clear. But no cannon meant longer, lighter, faster ships than those of the Earth age of sail—and completely different fighting tactics.
The crew hauled expertly on steel-edged booms—like long knives on poles—to be swung out to cut enemy rigging, and sweep along the rail of the enemy to lethal effect. Archery parties in the tops went through the motions of shooting arrows, and the sail crews practiced snapping sails out, up, around as the captain called orders. The people at the helm caused the ship to veer and yaw.
“Not bad,” Zathdar called out
when at last the ship rocked in the water, sails reefed, crew watching him expectantly.
He flicked up his eyeglass and trained it on the closest of the consorts, the Jumping Bug. Their crew was still running about the deck.
“But not good, either. Again.”
The first mate drowned mutters and groans with a high, tweeting whistle. Once again they ran to their stations.
Next he had the other two of his ships attack. This time the bow crews shot blunted arrows with what looked like paper twists of jelly or some red, sticky substance at the tips, which scored hits on crew and ship alike. The ships yawed and slanted even faster, each trying to board the others, to be vigorously beaten back with wooden practice weapons. By noon they were all red-faced and sweaty, but their motions had tightened to a smoother speed. They had shifted from thinking about what to do to automatic reaction. That’s the point of drills, I’d learned during my years at the dojo, and on the fencing floor.
The bells rang a slower pattern, and everyone relaxed, talking as they put away their practice weapons and lined up for water. The captains of the two other ships rowed over and climbed up, then vanished into Zathdar’s cabin for a conference. Zathdar kept the door shut, and the helmsman made certain no one walked about on the little half-deck where his scuttles opened to the air.
We climbed out of the lifeboat as the crew returned to their regular duties, the night crew going below to their rest.
Elva scowled and prowled the deck. When the sounds from below the open shuttles indicated the crew had all been served their midday meal, I asked Elva to join me in the cramped wardroom. I was starving.
The cook, a woman my own age, cheerfully provided us with two lipped wooden plates and a helping of what the crew had had. The way Elva dug in, I suspected that these biscuits stuffed with cabbage, savory beans, and cheese were common fare on ships, along with the orange wedges. We ate with our fingers.
Sasharia en Garde Page 7