As soon as the sun went down, we were off work. After dinner there was equipment to ready for the next day, then we were pretty much on our own. Every night people who had learned some sort of instrument (some good, some not so, but they could all more or less follow a tune) and the singers got up some sort of concert or dance, and tired as we were, we found energy for dancing.
So did I get a romance going?
Either I tell the truth or toss this thing in the fire.
Easy answer first. Tavan, the cute guy, took no notice of me. He seemed to prefer the shorter girls. But there were other guys, nice ones, cute ones, who seemed to like my looks as much as I liked theirs.
Did I flirt? Jokes and comments, yeah. The easy stuff. But ardent eyes, the narrowed gaze of interest, personal questions, that subtle shift from general interest to individual—whenever I sensed those things, I found somewhere else to be. My favorite retreat was the women’s baths, a long room with a hot spring diverted to run through, carrying endless clean water in a natural Jacuzzi. Wow, did that feel good.
Anyway, back to the guys. Why didn’t I respond? I’ll get there in a sec.
At the end of the first week, which was all I owed as a traveler, the work boss called me over and asked me if I’d put in a second week as the crop was ripening fast, and I’d be paid. They didn’t have enough tall women.
I thought, why not? I was having fun. I didn’t feel any hurry, except a vague sense of unease when occasional bits of gossip radiated out from Vadnais’s royal castle. When my mother’s name came up, the rumors were all about how the king and Princess Atanial were constantly giving parties and balls. Sifting that, I figured my mother was at least safe. She’d been guarding herself a lot longer than I had been guarding me, after all.
In fact, there is one conversation I’ll report. We were all sitting on the plain plank porch outside our dorm, the evening cool but still, the air faintly blue everywhere but the forest, which was a vast black silhouette. Insects chirruped peacefully, and in the distance a couple of the horses whinnied at one another.
They’d passed out letters brought in by a runner, and someone mentioned the king and Princess Atanial.
One woman said, “So is she gonna marry him? I mean, she must be after him.”
“She’s a prisoner,” I said, but under my breath.
The woman next to me, who was sewing a hole in the armpit of her shirt, glanced over. “She is?”
“Ribbons for chains. But she can’t leave. Remember whose wife she is,” I said quickly, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. I’d gotten into the habit of carrying out those arguments under my breath while picking.
A thoughtful silence settled, and one of the younger women, sitting on the ground leaning against the rail, murmured slowly, “I never thought about it before, but what does a princess do?” At the laughs and expressions of scorn, she added hastily, “I know! Balls, gowns, flirt with princes. But, is that it?”
“Practice to be queens?” said the sewing woman. “You would have to know how to read, for example.”
The younger woman stirred at this sarcasm, so I said hastily, “I never thought about it, either, but you’re watched all the time, I expect. Everyone wants a piece of you. I don’t mean that necessarily in a good way.”
“‘Piece of you’,” the sewer repeated. “A strange way to put it. Yet it seems right, from anything I’ve ever heard.”
The younger one laughed. “You can’t be serious. How much work is going to a ball?”
They broke into chattering groups, but at least the subject of Princess Atanial was forgotten.
So now the subject I’ve been avoiding. The real reason I didn’t flirt was because of Jehan.
After those mental arguments I worked hard to shove him out of my mind. But if memory didn’t intrude, occasional bits of gossip brought him right back to the forefront of my attention.
I worked so hard to forget him that one afternoon I accidentally broke a branch by yanking too hard, but luckily the olives on it were all ripe and I hastily stripped them off and stowed them in my bucket.
I took my three-quarters-filled bucket away so I wouldn’t hear the chatter about Prince Jehan and the Sartoran ambassador’s beautiful cousin dancing all night in some marble hall. I didn’t care about his flirts, no, not me. He could double-talk anyone he wanted, yessiree-Bob.
Despite my determined efforts Not To Think About Him, I always ended up in those long, exasperating imagined arguments with him. They were exasperating because I didn’t know the truth. So when I was mad at him, I imagined him admitting to being a liar, traitor, and all the rest of it, lower than the lowest slug . . . and I’d think, why fool yourself? You were a total IDIOT to have dusted out without finding out the truth.
But how was I to find out the truth while his prisoner and surrounded by his people?
No, I had to stick to my plan. Find my father. Dump the entire mess into his lap. He’d know what to do about Prince Jehan Jervaes Merindar.
I wished—oh, you have no idea how hard I wished—that I hadn’t kissed Jehan.
Because my subconscious, who is about as stubborn as a corral full of hungry mules, didn’t care about politics, promises, power, princes or princesses. Her needs were direct. Despite how hard I fought during the day, every night when I had to surrender to her realm she adored pressing the backtrack button over and over to replay in my dreams every moment of that sweet, breathlessly intense, absolutely glorious experience.
Me: Subconscious, please don’t do that.
Her: I want that one.
Me: You’re being a total cow. I mean, anybody with half a brain does not mistake lust for love.
Her: I want that one.
Me: He’s a liar. He cheats his own father! He says what he wants me to hear, just like dear old dad.
Her: Oooookay, you wanna be like that? Just wait for your dreams tonight, sucker.
Despite the fact that in this culture, as long as you have not married with the ring ceremony, it’s expected you’ll shop around before finding a mate, I couldn’t head for the sweet-smelling shadowy glades where insects softly chirruped and autumn leaves rustled, to enjoy some recreational kissy-face with one of the nice, cute, pleasant young men I met there, who had no possible interest in politics or power or any of the rest of it, only in me. Because my subconscious promised stubbornly that if I did, I’d have about as much fun as kissing a fence post.
There I was, almost three weeks later, when the last of the olive crop was pretty much down and we were doing a second run for gleanings.
I was a day from finishing the job, so I put in some time that morning asking easy questions here and there about the main landmarks that would lead me to Ivory Mountain.
We were about to break for the midday meal when the entire camp was surprised by new arrivals.
We Got Males.
Chapter Eighteen
Once they were actually on the road, Damedran and his princess-hunting posse enjoyed the ride. The second morning, as they relaxed around the campfire in their bedrolls while the two servants saw to the horses and cooking, they gloatingly counted up the toilsome chores they weren’t doing, unlike the other senior cadets.
When breakfast was ready they climbed out of their bedrolls, and after the servants cleaned up, they took to horse. Through the remainder of the day’s ride, they wondered aloud from time to time what their own group was doing right at that moment, but Damedran and Ban both noticed that once you were actually out of sight of the game, most of the fun was gone. You had to be there.
Adjusting to what they were missing was a whole lot easier when they remembered that they had the king’s sigil. They could change horses whenever they wanted, and could eat anywhere they wanted, what they wanted, and that included drink. And no one made a peep. The shot would be sent back to Vadnais to be paid by Uncle Dannath’s paymaster.
Ban Kender and Bowsprit Lanarg hadn’t much liked being pulled from the war game, but that was becau
se Damedran hadn’t told them why until Castle Cheslan was far behind them. Their first reaction to We’re going to intercept Princess Atanial’s daughter was surprise. Then both of them thought philosophically of the fact that success meant early promotion. Their families counted on their doing well in the military, and if finding and escorting a princess’s daughter to the royal city got them made patrol leaders way ahead of the other seniors, well, see the tears?
Except for one bump, the good mood lasted until they reached the outskirts of Zhavlir a few days later. The bump happened midway through the ride, when they reached Barlir and visited an inn. There they were, with no glowering captains, masters, or war-commanding uncles to order them around. They didn’t have to spend, or account for, a copper dunket of their own. And the dark ale here was famed throughout the army. What a perfect opportunity to get snockered!
. . . except they had to ride the next day.
Well, all right, so you learn something about how unfun it is to get drunk anywhere but at home, and not with duty the next day.
After that never-too-soon-forgotten ride, things went right back to first rank. Even the weather cooperated, turning from cold with occasional bands of rain to a stretch of sunny, warm days.
The moment finally came when they cleared the last hill above Zhavlir and saw the fine, smooth military road curving gently down between hedgerows toward the city gates.
Damedran cleared his throat. “Getting sick?” Red asked.
“No.” Damedran did not look at any of them. Of his six companions, Ban, Red and Bowsprit rode close. The others had formed in a row behind, and could only hear the murmur of voices ahead. Behind them rode the two servants with the equipment packed on the remounts, talking quietly to one another; they didn’t even try to listen in on the toff cadets.
Damedran said quickly, “Our orders are, we grab her, and report to my uncle. Then we take her back to him, wherever he is.”
Red shrugged. “Sounds easy to me.”
Bowsprit turned to Ban, who sent him a grimace.
Ban eyed Damedran. Something was wrong. “We’re not taking her to the king?”
“No.”
Bowsprit whistled.
Damedran flushed. “My uncle is the war commander. He’s the king’s voice, his right hand—”
“This isn’t a military matter,” Ban cut in. “It’s a royal one. Why aren’t we taking her straight to the king? Or at least contacting him?”
Damedran snarled, “Shut up. Just shut up. You want to be reported for insubordination? In case you have forgotten, I am patrol captain for this mission, and it’s I who has the communication relay.” He dug the gold case out of the pouch at his belt and brandished it.
Ban’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he faced forward.
Bowsprit sent Damedran one last, unhappy glance, then he too faced resolutely forward.
Red jerked his good shoulder up in agreement. When the three behind started in with variations on “What did he say? We can’t hear!” he explained in a few terse words.
Two of them shrugged. They were used to Damedran’s ways. But the third burst out, “I don’t like this.”
Ban drawled over his shoulder, “Lord Damedran Randart is the patrol leader. Oh, I beg your pardon. Patrol captain. Haven’t you heard? He has the communication relay. He can snitch, I mean, report, us for insubordination. Just for asking honest questions.”
“Shut up, Ban.”
Ban lifted his voice. “But we’re not to think. We are here as muscle. Our next order will probably be to beat her up. That doesn’t take any thinking. Six of us! Six and no thinking allowed—”
“Shut up, Ban!”
“Is that an order, Lord High Patrol Captain?”
Damedran burned with fury, and his fists bunched. He longed to fling himself on Ban and pound his face into the dirt. But they weren’t behind the stable where cadet fights were carried out with friends on watch. They were here, they were supposedly on their first mission as men, and not cadets.
First mission. As men.
He groaned, remembering his uncle’s softly uttered threat, and his anger doused like water on flames. “My uncle ordered this secret mission. Want to know what he said when I dared one single question?”
Instantly sobered, Ban shook his head. He’d only seen the war commander lose his temper once, but he’d seen the results of it many times. Not only terrible floggings before the entire assembled academy and garrison, but he’d heard of people vanishing altogether.
As for Damedran, Ban had never actually envied him his exalted position, not after the first time he watched his fellow ten-year-old leave his uncle’s chamber after a thrashing. Though Damedran’s father was the head of the academy, everyone knew he obeyed his older brother in everything, including how to raise his son.
Red said in a make-peace voice, “King or war commander, what’s the problem?”
Bowsprit slewed round in his saddle, studying Ban’s long face, then he slewed back. “When Red puts it that way, what is the problem?”
Ban hunched his shoulders, glowering between his horse’s flicking ears. She was aware of the animals on the civilian road on the other side of the hill, though none of the humans were.
Ban said slowly, working it out as he spoke, “I think it’s the secret part of the mission. And the fact that it’s us. And not any of the guard. Think of it. Your uncle could send any of the top scouts, any of his honor guard, who are all picked for skill and speed and all that. I mean we’re about the best in the academy, with one or two exceptions—”
He paused for the hoots and scornful comments to die down, then continued. “—but we’re still academy. Why isn’t he sending any of them, when they are so much better?”
“Yeah.” Bowsprit slewed around again. “Yeah!”
“We don’t have orders to, ah, kill her, or anything?” Ban asked in his most surly voice in an effort to hide his anxiety.
Not that it worked, because Damedran felt the same way. “No! No. We’re to capture her in secret. No one to find out who she is. Tie her up so she can’t do magic. Report to my uncle via message box. And then take her to wherever he says. Only to him, he kept repeating. Not to anyone else, and not a word to anyone, either.”
Silence fell between them as they reached the bottom of the hill. They were in arrow shot of the city gates, and the military road was about to blend with the crowded civ road.
“I don’t like it,” Ban said as the two roads converged, and Damedran made a short gesture meaning shut up!
This time Ban obeyed, and they fell in just behind a wagon full of bushels of vegetables, driven by a very shapely girl who kept looking round in a pretense of checking her cargo.
Bowsprit and Red sat up straighter, sneaking peeks at the girl, who scoped them out pretty thoroughly from under drifting black curls. The boys tried to catch her eye when she looked their way. The rest of the time they were checking out her figure instead of watching the road, until Damedran caught them at it. He pulled his riding gloves from his belt, leaned out and whapped Red.
“Pay attention,” he snarled. “What if that pirate has spies tracking us?”
They all looked around, radiating furtiveness.
Satisfied that the passing farmers and merchants were not secret spies, Damedran said in a low voice. “Now, here’s what we’ll do . . .”
None of them gave a second look to the scruffy, scrawny red-haired man slouched on the back of a tired horse, who plodded two wagons behind them. The kingdom seemed to be filled with plain, wiry red-haired men who served in stables or at table or sewed or cobbled or did masonry.
The same was not true of this scruffy red-haired man—known at this end of the continent only as Owl—who was finally close enough to identify them.
He’d first spotted them as the military and civilian roads topped separate hills and started down toward the fork. He always watched for military roads and who might be on them, going where.
; His glimpse of a patrol of cadets had taken him by surprise. The boys looked familiar. He’d ridden along in frustration, peering as they vanished and reappeared again, hidden by hedgerows and the last hill, and then never-to-be-cursed-enough wild ferns growing alongside the roads.
He dared not gallop or in any wise call attention to himself. If that really was Damedran Randart and some of his pack of rats, they might possibly recognize him from his menial labors around the academy. Unlikely, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. It was too strange to encounter them here, so far from Castle Cheslan and the rest of the army. Surely they should be at the center of the war game.
Everything seemed to conspire against him, including the angle of the bright sun turning them into silhouettes, until at last the two roads merged. A few moments later the one riding point turned his head, long blue-black hair swinging, as he whapped the red-haired boy with gloves—and Owl stared in amazement. That was indeed Damedran Randart.
Why? The only thing Owl was sure of was that Randart was behind it, for some purpose sinister and sneaky. Surprise inspection for the local garrison, maybe?
The urge to write a note to Jehan gripped him, to be fought off. One thing that would call attention to him would be scrawling a note on horseback, and whipping out a golden case to put it into. Owl knew that he’d be seen. Circumstances were lamentably predictable that way.
So once they were through the city gates, he deliberately turned his horse up a different street than the main street, which led straight to the garrison. He dismounted when he found a quirk between two old alleyways, moss growing between the bricks. He slid off the horse and kept it between him and the alleyway intersection as he pulled out his chalk and a scrap of paper from his pack, and wrote:
Sasharia en Garde Page 38