Jehan, as always, was oblivious to the sudden change of tone—
Jehan. Prisoners. Market Street—cadets—
Randart put out a hand, remembering again what had bothered him when he woke up. He’d been bothered enough to go down to the lockup and ask a few questions, despite the loaded schedule. “You arrested a cutpurse in Market Street yesterday?”
Jehan’s thin brows lifted. “I did?”
“Damedran saw you. That is, the boys saw you from the senior barracks. But the only thief in the lockup is the pickpocket brought in by the pier patrol on the morning rotation.”
Jehan sighed, looking apologetic. “Well. I did try. But my miscreant got away.”
So he didn’t have any of his followers in the king’s guard with him. “Why didn’t you call up the guard? There’s always a patrol within earshot.”
“I thought they were off duty,” Jehan said vaguely. “I did not like to disturb them.”
Randart sat back in disgust. He marshaled himself enough to say with forced politeness, “I believe they are waiting on their prizes, your highness. Forgive me for detaining you.”
Jehan bowed, a court bow and highly inappropriate here, but that was as usual. Everything was as usual, so why did he feel something crucial was missing from that testimony?
I’m seeing conspiracies everywhere, Randart thought. But just the same, before the prince reached the end of the platform and was about to step down into the regular stands to descend to the field, he called, “Remember, after we speak to the winners, the king requires you to remain with us. Your highness.”
Once again a court bow, hand gracefully at his heart, and Jehan ran lightly down the steps to the field, where the captains had the cadets lined up in field order. While the seniors looked around for Wolfie and Red and their two cronies, Randart said to his brother, “I want the prince followed. Say it’s for his safety. But put someone discreet on it.”
Startled, Orthan leaned over to speak to the aide on duty, who hustled along the back of the platform to the hidden doorway leading down to the guardroom.
The brothers turned their attention back to the field, where Jehan stood next to the four small cadets who so carefully held the prizes. Both forgot the prince when they saw why the ceremonies had not begun. It was not Jehan getting himself lost counting butterflies, it was because the recipients were nowhere in sight.
Randart gripped the edge of his seat. “The little one was just there, riding that horse. Where did he go? Find them. I want them. Whatever excuse it takes. I want to know who they are. Why they were here, if it wasn’t to compete to get into our training.”
Orthan got up. After a glance at his brother’s face, he hustled after his own underling.
On the field, Jehan spoke a few graceful words that few listened to, then gave the signal for the captains to dismiss the contestants. The cadets surged toward the mess hall, everyone voicing his or her opinion, or putting questions to the air. Comments and questions mirrored in the watchers in the stands, who filed out the other way and back down the long zigzagging steps into the harbor city below.
As Jehan traversed the halls between the guard barracks and the academy, the morvende part of his hearing, developed for generations to sift human sound from wind and water rushing along stone tunnels and caverns, registered footsteps matching his pace.
He paused at the guard room to get a drink of water after the long, hot afternoon in the sun, nodded pleasantly when the guards on duty leaped to their feet and saluted, and waved them lazily back to their seats. No one entered after him.
He left. Moseyed slowly to the mess hall, hot as it was and smelling of fish simmered in herbs and tomato. Below that he detected the distinct odor of summer-afternoon adolescent sweat. Jehan stepped into the kitchen, nipped a biscuit from one of the trays being pulled from the oven, and exited through the opposite door as he tossed the hot biscuit from hand to hand.
Still there, same distance back.
Down to the cadet stable, which was built into the oldest part of the castle. There he asked about some of his favorite mounts and ordered Clover to be saddled up. “I want to ride back along the relay trails,” he said clearly. “I hope our mysterious visitors did not get lost somewhere along the way.”
While the duty cadets and the shadow busied themselves with horse saddling, Jehan slipped through the tack room into the old storage room, which smelled of mildew and stone. He slid the bolt, then keyed the entrance to a passageway that Prince Math had shown him when he was a boy, the single time they had been there together.
When he emerged at the other end, he was dressed again in the blue outfit, a fisherman’s stocking cap on his head hiding his hair, his brown velvet hanging in a net bag over his shoulder. He made his way through the rotting barrels that hid the door to the passage, slipped into the alley behind the old row of shops, and from there he strolled into Market Street as the low sun slanted ochre shafts between buildings.
Jehan didn’t trouble to look around. The shadow would be riding as fast as he could for the relay trail, which was sure to keep him or her busy for a while. Jehan suspected that David and his three friends, who had indicated they would speak to him after the competition, would find him if they wanted him.
He was right. A crowd of sailors strolled by, talking and laughing; out of their number appeared two figures who flanked Jehan. The tall black-haired one grinned. “Nice sidestep.”
He meant it as a compliment. They were aware of the shadow, and how Jehan had slipped the shadow’s vigilance. Prickles of invisible ice cooled his neck and the backs of his arms, as the thin one flicked a hand toward one of the more modest tents.
Inside they found David holding a table, to which a harried young woman brought a loaded tray of chicken pies, cornbread and cold, frosty ale.
Almost immediately the small boy drifted in, unnoticed by anyone else in the tent—the conversations at the other tables being mostly about the fleet being made up for the pirate hunt, and who’d hired on where, and what it was doing to trade.
The boy was wearing an outsized shirt. He slid in next to David, then said with a quiet air almost of apology, “I had to use the other for bindings.”
Jehan realized then what he’d known instinctively, that these four somehow spoke mind to mind. He knew now from where he recognized the tall one, and possibly the one with the hair. They’d competed in the midsummer games years before, always well, but previously they’d never quite stood out.
Jehan sat back. “So your roustabout was intended as a general humiliation, or for fun?”
David looked surprised, and the fiery-eyed one grinned. “For instruction.”
David put down his fork. “Tell me you didn’t see what we were doing.”
Jehan shrugged a shoulder. “So you are giving me lessons in curriculum design why?”
The mock surprise and fake air of helpfulness vanished. “Because you will need to train ’em better,” David said. “And if I might suggest an added course of instruction, hill warfare against occupation.”
Again the ice, burning with warning.
“Norsunder,” Jehan breathed. “What? When?” He knew now who they were, but not why they were here.
Before he could speak again, the tall one flicked up a scarred hand. “Don’t say anything.” He flicked one ear. “They do actually have wards against certain names.”
Jehan studied the four faces. “But—the stories about you—whose side are you on, anyway?”
“What’s a side?” the smallest one asked.
“The easiest would be anything or anyone that fights against Norsunder taking land, people, life, liberty. Will and spirit,” Jehan said deliberately.
“That would be our side,” said the boy, his gaze steady. Meeting it felt strangely like falling and falling through the air.
“Not what I’ve heard about you.” Jehan looked away, steadying himself with his hands flat on the table.
The one with the hair look
ed down, the tall one flashed his sharp-edged grin. David said, “Is everything said about you—action, motivation—true?”
“No.”
The small one murmured, “Some of what’s said about us is true. But we bring no intent to harm here.”
Jehan believed that because he knew what they were capable of.
The tall one had gone on eating. He looked up. “Damedran. Bad bridle training. You take the reins.” He gestured, meaning qualified approval, and returned to his meal.
Jehan let out a soundless laugh. He couldn’t quite point out that he had no reins to hold, not with Randart hunting him in phantom form and now, possibly in real, all because of that hasty abduction. It was only a matter of time before he slipped and Randart penetrated the tenuous disguise. When seen in the perspective of world politics—the sinister powers hunting the blood of these four and the infamous figures who had trained them—his problems seemed small.
“Everyone is going to have to pitch it together,” the one with the hair spoke for the first time. “Everyone. To the best of their ability. War is coming, we cannot avoid it, but we can resist if everyone works together.”
David turned his head sharply; Jehan heard a cadenced march above the general noise of the tent.
A search party of guards halted outside the tent. The patrons fell silent and the harried girl ran to the canvas door and lifted it, exclaiming in question and alarm.
Jehan turned back to warn his companions. They were gone, the bottom of the tent reverberating as if just dropped.
He was alone at the table. Even their food was gone, leaving him to hunch over his meal. He felt the hot, weary, exasperated gaze of the search captain sweep past him, and then came the sounds of the searchers marching farther up the row of tents.
Jehan sat there thinking, while he had this precious time to think. War, imminent. I’d better have Tharlif stockpile those weapons she took off Randart’s fleet.
He slipped out to make his way to the boat as the sun vanished at last and shadows merged.
It was time to go try to make amends with Sasharia. And despite his headache, his regrets, the new threats to his kingdom and to the world, he looked forward to seeing her. Maybe, just maybe, he could get her to laugh.
o0o
On the other side of the castle, while riding the last leg of the relay without finding Prince Jehan, or anyone else, his shadow came across four cadets making their way slowly toward the parade ground. In amazement he recognized Wolf, nephew of the commander, and three others. All with broken bones—a wrist, an arm, a shoulder, and Wolf with a broken leg. Each wound thoughtfully splinted and bound up with neatly torn strips from a boy-sized shirt.
No one spoke as he helped them back to the academy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The last of the day’s light glowed deep blue on the western horizon behind him when Jehan reached the yacht. He’d left orders for a single lantern at the stern rather than running lights, so he was surprised to see lanterns swinging and winking as silhouettes crossed back and forth, the sort of movement you expected to see during work aboard a ship.
What work? The sails were furled, the yacht riding at single anchor on the out-flowing tide. He smothered his lantern and waited, oars at rest, until his eyes adjusted enough to determine that the yacht was not being attacked. He’d first seen climbing figures. Now the crew was at the falls and tackle, bringing up the second boat.
There could only be one reason it had been let down. He uncovered his lantern, once again shielding it from the shore side, and pulled hard on his oars, occasionally peering over his shoulder until he could make out a shivering figure with long dripping braids huddled in a blanket on deck as the other crew members finished stowing the second boat.
“Dolphin,” he called.
“Dolphin ho. Falls ready,” came Owl’s wry voice.
Jehan climbed up the side and crossed to the captain’s deck. As he passed Sasharia, she lifted her chin, her face pale and defiant when she recognized him.
“I would have tried it, too,” he said.
She laughed, and his breath caught. “You. W-would. Have. G-gotten. Away.” Her teeth chattered so hard she almost couldn’t speak.
A step nearer, and he saw her blue lips. Angry, he turned his head. “Where is something hot—”
“Right away. Gave the orders when we got back.” Owl worked in tandem with the other crew, pulling up Jehan’s boat.
“Here I am,” came the accented voice of Kaelande, the cook, and a heartbeat later he appeared with a tray of hot coffee, which he set on the capstan. “Dinner,” he added after an inscrutable glance at them all, “will be ready anon.” He vanished back down to his galley, a tall, stocky man who had been trained in Alsais’s royal palace, the most exclusive cooking school in the entire southern hemisphere.
Owl turned a slant-browed, assessing look Jehan’s way, and then toward Sasharia. “Looks to me like we could all use it.”
Sasharia took her mug, her eyes closing as she cherished its warmth. She carried it toward the guest cabin in the forecastle, and Owl followed Jehan down into the main cabin. They sank onto the fine-carved chairs bolted to the deck, and Owl sighed. “I didn’t think she’d try a swim for shore from out here.”
“I didn’t either. We were wrong. But that’s one more tot in the day’s total.” Jehan tried to shut out the image of Sasha’s tall, strong body in that wet clothing. His life was complicated enough, and he knew she didn’t want any part of him. But there she was, somehow larger than life in all the ways that were good, with a sudden smile like the sun on the world’s first day.
He pressed his thumbs into his eyelids, trying to shutter away Sasha’s image. “Randart will probably have a search team out here by morning, soon as he can figure an excuse.”
“He’s onto us?”
“I think he suspects. And I’m coming to believe, despite his former friendliness, that he would like any excuse to help me suffer a fatal accident. But that’s not our biggest problem. Not nearly.”
Owl grimaced. “If there’s something worse, I’d rather get a meal in me first.”
“We’ll all do that.”
Owl jerked his thumb toward the front of the ship in question.
Jehan said, “Invite her. Then I don’t have to explain twice.”
Owl waited, but Jehan’s gaze had gone diffuse the way it did when he was evolving plans, and so he left.
o0o
I stood in the cabin while my core temperature gradually achieved something resembling human levels, rather than penguin, and stared into the coffee.
I hate coffee. That is, I love the smell but find it bitter to drink unless I doctor it with honey and milk. Lots and lots of milk. But I wasn’t going to complain about it now. First of all because I needed the warmth, and second because they very definitely had the high moral ground.
Human nature, or maybe it’s my own nature, has mule-kick stubbornness beat hollow. If they’d yelled at me for my stupid act, I would have been planning another try. But they’d been nice about it, so I felt guilty. Guilty for simply trying my best to get away, on my own, until I figured out what was right? No, guilty because they’d gone to a terrible amount of trouble to search me out in the ocean, their faces worried sick when they found me about two nanoseconds before my numb body was about to give up.
I felt guilty and cold and waterlogged. All my gear was soaked as well, for the gear bag was not waterproof, and I’d thrown away the horrible basket-weave. Owl had put me through the cleaning frame as soon as I got on board, so the salt sting was gone, but that did not dry anything.
For a short time I stood there staring haplessly down at the soggy firebird coverlet and my other outfit. I let them drop to the deck with a squelch.
A knock a moment later. “Will you join us for dinner?” That was Owl. I knew Owl’s voice very well by now. First he’d been on the other side of that hot quilt the day before. Today he’d been calling to me, calling to me,
as they sought for me in the boat despite the darkness, as I was about to sink . . .
“No clothes.” My lips were numb, my jaw shuddering. “W-wet.”
No answer.
I was pressing the cup against my face when the knock came again. “Jehan offers these with his compliments.”
I fumbled with still-numb fingers at the cabin door. It opened. Owl handed me folded cloth. “He apologizes for the colors, but says they went through the cleaning frame. If you give me yours, I’ll put ’em through the frame and spread ’em near the galley fire.”
I silently handed him the cloth things from the gear bag, then shut the door and shucked my tunic and trousers. My undies were wet, too, but no help for those. At least they were clean.
I turned to the clothes. Jehan’s clothes. The idea whopped me right behind the ribs. I held up a fine linen shirt, the lacing another of those long braided silk things with a tiny gold leaf at the end. Under that, some black riding trousers. Last, a long velvet tunic somewhat like a battle tunic, except obviously not made to be fought in. Brown, with the cup stitched on in real silver—the royal colors. Hence the apology.
I was too numb to care. The shirt was roomy and only slightly large, but the pants, tailored to a very different body, were way tight where it counted most. My wet underwear threatened to make the wedgie of the century, so I took the trousers off again, and slipped on the tunic. Its hem fell below my knees, except for the slits on the sides, but the shirt was long enough to cover me to mid-thigh. Hardly immodest, even here, when during summer many rolled their deck trousers to their knees, especially when working with water.
Still. I felt off-balance, intensely aware of a sense of intimacy in the wearing of Jehan’s clothes. The cleaning frame had removed any trace of him, so they smelled like clean cloth, but that curious electricity lingered, the sensory evidence of attraction. I ran my hand down the tunic, which was cut to fit a man—the shoulders hanging over my upper arms, the front reshaped by me. The slim line of the tunic hugged my hips, which are built on the Valkyrie model. If there was a mirror in that cabin, I had not found it. Not that I’d really searched, for earlier in the day I’d only had escape on my mind.
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