Sasharia en Garde

by Sherwood Smith

  Now she wondered if Jehan had suddenly become another one, as Canardan reached for the fresh bread, offering her some first.

  Then he sighed. “He slipped away to visit another female, apparently. No, he didn’t tell me. He never does. But a letter was found in his chambers. Perfume. Written in purple ink, if you can imagine. Do these so-called artists really think they will actually marry him? It cannot be his company—” Canardan shut his mouth, a gesture so determined Atanial, watching in fascination, saw his jaw clench.

  A letter was found. So the prince was not exempt from searches, either. Definitely signs of trouble in paradise.

  “Up all night worrying, eh?” she asked, and when he gave her a narrow-eyed glance, she deflected the flash of anger by shifting from specifics to general. “The price of parenthood on all worlds, I suspect.”

  “Your girl left you up all night worrying, I gather?”

  “Oh yes.” That was only fair, since she’d asked first. But to ward any more questions she added, “I was always afraid she might lose her temper with some villain, and the police would come to arrest her for ridding the world of one more slimebag.”

  He did not ask if that was a subtle hint. He knew it was. Therefore he knew how unsubtle. But he also knew she was being irritating in order to sting him into revealing more, and though he felt the usual surge of laughter and attraction that her ripostes inevitably caused, he was too tired to keep his guard up. He fell silent, only answering when, in desperation, she turned to the weather and the harvest.

  Such a limping conversation couldn’t end fast enough for either of them. Once she’d turned down his offer of a ride—a picnic—a tour (in other words, another public display of his prize prisoner), she excused herself.

  That left her to another boring day. Later she barely remembered it. What she did remember was the faint but persistent tapping at the window long after she’d finally dropped into troubled dreams.

  She sat up, disoriented. The tapping had sounded like the brush of barren twigs against a window, the way the bitter, dry desert winds of Southern California blew the tree branches all during the months that elsewhere were called winter. But she was in a tower, not in Los Angeles.

  She sat up, and once again heard the faint tapping.

  She threw off the covers and ran across the floor of the bedroom, and started violently when she saw a pale face peering in through a dark window.

  She stumbled back, then halted when the pale starlight revealed the oval of a young female. She unlocked the casement, swung it open and stared down into vaguely familiar eyes. A hand extended up in mute appeal. Atanial gripped it and pulled. The girl shifted her weight; there was a rustle, a heave, and the young woman tumbled inside the window.

  “Sh, sh,” she hissed softly, though Atanial had neither spoken or made a sound. The girl looked around fearfully and whispered, “You have to come now. Tam can only vouch for his sentry watch.”

  “Tam?”

  She blushed. “Sharveshin.”

  Tam . . . one of Kreki Eban’s conspirators.

  “Marka?” Atanial peered down. Yes, the starlight glimmered softly on short reddish curls ruffling all round the girl’s head.

  “It is I. Come. Did you know they are getting a trial? The king cannot kill them now. So I’m here to get you out of the castle. Tam and, well, some others, they are all covering your exit. But you have to climb down outside the window, which isn’t warded like the doors are.”

  Obviously young love had managed to overcome political differences. “Climb down the stones of the tower?”

  “There’s ivy.”

  Atanial gritted her teeth. The idea of climbing down a hundred feet of ivy did not appeal, but neither did staying here in this jewel-box prison one second more, now that she no longer had to.

  She swung around, dug through her clothes with shaking hands, and dressed in layers of dark, sensible clothing. Into her bra she shoved her magic tokens, and the few bits of jewelry she’d been given. She would probably need them to trade for food.

  Marka slipped out the window. “Put your hands and feet where I do.”

  It felt like four hours later she was maybe ten feet below the window, her hands aching from the death grip on the branches, her muscles trembling, when she felt a familiar nauseous ache behind her sternum that spread outward as heat.

  She stopped, leaning her forehead against her arm, and nearly sobbed. Great. Climbing down a tower wall, and here comes a hot flash.

  “Princess?”

  “I’m on my way,” she muttered, her voice shaky.

  She wiped her sweaty hands on her clothes one at a time, placed a foot, a hand, and eased herself down a few inches. Ivy tickled her nose, but she held her breath against a sneeze. Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.

  Later that journey seemed longer than all the weeks of her imprisonment. But at last, oh, at last her foot encountered stone, and she stepped onto the sentry wall.

  Marka took her hand, sweaty and gritty as it was, and pulled her unresisting inside a dank access-way. They flitted down some mossy steps and across a dripping hall that smelled of mold and old wood. Then they continued down, this time to a stable.

  “Here she is,” Marka breathed, running toward a shadowy corner.

  Tam Sharveshin emerged, sword in hand. “Ride out.”

  A tall, skinny teenage boy with a prominent Adam’s apple and tousled cinnamon hair silently handed to Atanial a folded cape, the plain brown of a runner.

  “Don’t tell us where,” Tam added.

  Atanial shook her head. “I won’t. But I’d like to know whom to thank for this rescue.”

  Tam and the teen glanced up at the tower where Prince Jehan’s rooms were lit, even though he was gone.

  “Ah.” Jehan Merindar.

  The teen said in an unprepossessing nasal honk, “He told us to arrange it. Not to say when. So he officially won’t know when or how. His fellows in the guard helped. They’re all busy looking elsewhere.”

  “I understand.” Atanial suspected the cost of being caught. They were so young to be in such danger, but she knew better than to mention it. From the looks of him, that teen would on Earth be a computer geek, the type who loved logistical challenges. “What will you say?”

  “Nothing, if I get back to my patrol. They know you have some magical device.” Tam mimed holding a disc. “I overheard the orders for the search of your rooms when you were with the king, under Magister Zhavic’s direction. Rumor was, the magister thinks you carry a token around, but the king wouldn’t let him search you. So we figured if there were no signs left behind—and they won’t think to check the ivy—they’ll figure on magical transfer. And no one on wall duty right now will see anything at all.”

  Atanial nodded, then the boy gave her a hasty lesson in horse care, indicating the feed bag, rolled blanket, and curry comb in the saddle pack. “Most people will help with a horse if asked,” he finished.

  Atanial thanked him as she shook out the cape and pulled up the hood. The soft, sturdy woolen garment smelled sun fresh. “All of you—I mean all including those outside this space. Thank you, my dears.” She kissed Marka and Tam, laughing silently when they blushed like children.

  She hesitated before the teen, whose shoulders had come up to his jug-handle ears. She knew from his agonized face, his defensive posture, that however he felt about kisses from young ladies, he was definitely at that age when teenage boys would rather be tortured by fire and sword than kissed by old ones. So she patted him kindly on the arm, and laughed to herself at the way Marka and Tam’s hands came together, gripping tightly.

  She mounted up and left at a sedate pace, riding along the military trail they’d pointed out, staying with it only until she was out of sight of the city gates. Then she turned off the road.

  Before long the low gray clouds began to drizzle, and she discovered that the runner cloak was warded against wet. The cool, sweet air smelled the better for the sense of freedom.

 
; During the days and days she’d had time to think, she’d decided if she ever won free, she would begin her search at the abandoned morvende geliath Math had talked about, where mysterious mages had once taught him some mysterious magic: Ivory Mountain. Oh, not ivory from animals. They didn’t kill mammals for fur, meat, or anything else on this world. “Ivory” was far weirder, a stone that was more like metal, and in ancient histories—so Math had told her once, his eyes wide with wonder—it sang.

  But before she found her way to Ivory Mountain, she needed allies. Alone, she couldn’t do anything. But one thing people in Los Angeles knew was the sheer weight of a crowd.

  An inward image of a smart girl with capable hands, jug ears framed uncompromisingly by braids: What better person to go to first than Lark Silvag?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Because she rode northwest, she and Jehan happened to be on the opposite sides of the city, one departing, one arriving. Though they would have loved to have the leisure for a talk, they were unaware of the other’s movements.

  Jehan’s mood was sober. Triumph after a successful escapade didn’t last long any more, not before the impending storm of trouble threatening the kingdom. At least this time he was spared the necessity that—it was becoming more obvious every day—only he insisted on, the swearing of a new partisan not to himself but to King Math. Elva Eban was already sworn to Math.

  Even thinking about it brought Owl’s voice back a year or two ago. “What are you going to do if he’s dead?”

  “I can’t think of that,” Jehan had responded. “I have to go on as if he’s alive.”

  Owl, who had never known Math, shook his head with some sympathy. “You’d better think of it. Because you can be sure Randart is. Every single day.”

  Owl’s voice echoed in Jehan’s ears as he rode through the south gate, waving in response to the salute from the sentries on the wall. He was going to be facing Randart soon, maybe now, more likely later. Jehan had hoped to get back before the war commander, who detested magic as much as he distrusted it. But that couldn’t be counted on.

  The covert glances sent Jehan’s way when he reached the royal castle’s stable served as his weather vane. From the silence, the furtive glances, and the tension in hands and shoulders, it seemed his father was in far more of a temper than Jehan had expected. Maybe they hadn’t found the fake letter, or maybe they had and had figured out at last that those letters were indeed fake.

  He handed over the reins of his mount and walked inside. He was met almost at once by a runner who said, with scared eyes, “The king would like you to come straightaway in, your highness.”

  “All right. Thank you.” Tension gripped him.

  His father sat in his workroom. As soon as Jehan walked in, Canardan threw down his pen so hard it clattered to the floor. “Why,” he began in a tired voice, “did you see fit to ride out without a word to anyone, not even your own servants?” He flicked the letter. “Was her desire for your company really all that much more alluring than duty?”

  “I thought so.” Jehan kept his voice even. “But then my duty is surpassing tedious. Not that I find Princess Atanial tedious, but trying to get her to go on rides, or even a walk in the garden, is not much of a duty when she refuses every single day, leaving me little to do.”

  Regarding his son with a strange mixture of relief and anger, Canardan said abruptly, “Atanial vanished.”

  Jehan had not expected that so soon. Mentally saluting Kazdi and the other guards, he exclaimed, “What?”

  Canardan saw that unfeigned surprise and let out a slow breath.

  Jehan comprehended then that his father had feared he’d been involved.

  The king said in a far milder voice, “Atanial. Is gone. Missing. Probably used that thrice-damned magic token the mages said she had on her, but which I, being a fool, insisted they not take off her because she assuredly kept it next to her person. She would never have forgiven that.”

  What that revealed: the king had had her rooms searched, and she knew it. She hadn’t trusted him, and he knew it.

  Jehan sat down as Canardan walked around the desk, stooped, and picked up the pen. “I don’t know where she went. Maybe back to her world, as Zhavic insisted the token was a World Gate one. Maybe she had a transfer spell for this world over it, and went straight to the tower, and then out. Perran, who is there, might not have even seen her. At least he hasn’t been here to report anything untoward at the tower. I hope that’s the case.”

  Jehan rubbed his jaw. “Is it a problem to have her here?”

  “No. Yes. Everything is a problem,” Canardan said angrily.

  Jehan’s neck tightened. Was his father, at last, going to admit to the secret plans for the spring invasion?

  For weeks Jehan had wrestled inwardly about that question—whether it would be better or worse to be told. Either way was going to mean endless trouble, but he had finally decided that if his father kept it secret, it was because the king truly knew that breaking the treaty with Locan Jora was wrong. Whatever excuses would subsequently be offered.

  If the king had talked himself into speaking openly about it before Jehan, that brought its own troubles. An invasion of what was legally if not historically another country was royal treachery on a scale that could only be dealt with by a king. Like Math. Otherwise the kingdom would be plunged into the sort of bloody civil war that had happened far too often over Khanerenth’s long history.

  And none of Jehan’s own intensely loyal, dedicated, brave, smart, risk-taking and innovative followers knew about the invasion, except for Owl. He couldn’t tell them until he knew for certain it was true.

  “. . . so you see, though I know what it’s like to be young—and I loved assignations as much as the next young man, when I was your age—I need you to stay here. You can grace various occasions, especially those given by foreigners with their constant spies, when my time demands I be elsewhere. We have too many problems. I cannot risk angering the least of the ambassadors or envoys by avoiding their social foolishness, and with winter coming, there will be even more of it.”

  Jehan signified assent. A runner entered and bowed. “War Commander Randart rode into the stable, your majesty. Requests an immediate interview.”

  Canardan lifted a hand and she dashed out.

  “Let’s not say anything about this, shall we?” Canardan murmured, picking up the fake letter and tossing it onto the fire. “I’m certain that Randart has enough on his mind, and we understand one another, do we not?”

  Jehan bowed. “I’m certain he will wish to keep his interview private.”

  Canardan was on the verge of acknowledging the truth of this, then he paused, regarding his son with a puzzled frown. Duty. The boy did seem to be slightly less wool-minded than usual. Was it possible he was waking up to his responsibilities?

  “Stay,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. “Zhavic sent me a report. There was trouble with the fleet, and the pirate apparently got away. Whatever Randart has to say, you may as well hear it.”

  The war commander reached them moments later, a tall, husky man whose strong arms strained against the sleeves of his sturdy brown cotton-wool tunic. He scorned velvet. The tunic was also unmarked as any warrior’s, except for the silver crown stitched over the golden cup—the device of the king’s own man. He didn’t need to wear rank markers, because in his own view, his rank was the highest in the kingdom, above mere dukes. Except of course for the king himself.

  Randart’s face hardened even more than usual when he saw who sat with the king. He hesitated, and Jehan knew that the war commander was waiting for the king to dismiss his son like an errant lap dog.

  “Your report?” Canardan asked, with the smiling irony that signaled to Jehan his father was quite aware of Randart’s attitude.

  Randart clawed his shaggy, gray-streaked hair back, a rare, entirely human gesture. Both father and son recognized how upset Randart had been by his defeat. “The pirate tangled the merchants wi
th my naval ships, under cover of smoke screen. I’d captured one of the Eban brats, and was in the middle of questioning her when the attack commenced. The pirates boarded my flagship, a merchant, and got her away while my own guard and the sailors ran around getting in the way of one another’s blades. The smoke did not help. In short, a disaster.”

  He dropped a sheaf of papers onto the king’s desk. “Here are the details, if you want them, on the top report. The rest are my brother’s reports on guard and academy matters.”

  Canardan did not even glance at the papers. “Why did you make a flagship of a merchant? Did they know naval maneuvers?”

  “No. I intended to train them into a fighting fleet.”

  “In a matter of weeks? I thought our navy trained for longer. Well, never mind, I can appreciate your thinking, but it might be better in the future to set up your flag on the fastest ship.”

  Randart saluted, lips tight.

  “I take it Zathdar himself was present?”

  “Description of the leader of the rescue party fits, but I did not see him myself.”

  Canardan frowned. “Yet you say this happened aboard your flagship. Where were you?”

  “Buried underneath an enormous sail which apparently fell due to fires in the upper masts. The pirates kept up a steady barrage of fire arrows. By the time I cut my way out, the pirates were gone, with my prisoner.”

  Canardan sighed. “And so we have it to do again.”

  Randart hesitated, looked at the vacant blue eyes of the idiot son, and shut his teeth. His subsequent discoveries and surmises would wait until he could be alone with the king. It made him angry enough to have to admit to defeat before the Fool. But he deemed it just retribution.

  Except, what did the sheep know? Prompted by the sudden, unpleasant conviction that the king had told the sheep about the invasion, he tested, saying, “So as for the future—”