by Angela Boord
Spring to winter. My mother’s face had looked too tight as well. But Geoffre…
Geoffre had always reminded me of a wolf. The way he smiled, the way he walked. The kind of wolf that picked off sheep.
Crunch.
If I had been good enough to fight with Arsenault, I would not have been so absorbed in my thoughts. I would have heard Lobardin approach. But by the time I heard the crunching gravel beneath his boots, it was too late. He stood almost in front of me. The spicy-sweet smell of kacin smoke followed him.
I clutched the letter to my chest and leapt to my feet.
“Kyrra,” he said, slurring the r’s. His pupils almost swallowed his irises, and he walked with a listing gait. “Fancy seeing you here. Where’s Arsenault?”
“With my father,” I said. I kept a wary eye on Lobardin. He had a personality like quicksilver, and it was worse when he was smoking. And he'd changed over the past year -- grown more bitter, more anxious, more resentful of Arsenault. The effects, perhaps, of knowing that Arsenault was supposed to use him, but not knowing what for and having to wait an interminable amount of time to find out.
“With your father,” he repeated slowly. “So…not here.”
“No,” I said, stuffing the letter in my pocket. “And I’ve chores to do, so I’ll be going. You’d better clean yourself up before you go back to the barracks.”
“What did you put in your pocket?”
“Nothing.” I dusted my trousers off. “A list of simples. That’s all.”
“Arsenault has you replenishing our store of herbs now?”
Shrugging, I said, “I do as I’m directed.”
Lobardin laughed in a soft, hazy way. “I’m sure you do,” he said, and I tried not to flinch. He let his gaze sweep over me. “Still wearing trousers, are you?”
I stiffened and heat seeped into my cheeks. “I live among you,” I said. “And I’m not one of your girls. So, why should I dress like one?”
He cocked his head and kept looking at me. “To be honest, I like the look of a woman when you can see the line of her legs.”
I took a step backward. I didn’t think Lobardin would hurt me, but I had taken to carrying a large iron cloak pin on the inside of my belt in place of the dagger Arsenault had given me. Carrying the dagger made me jumpy.
“A man needs a bit of an arse to grab, though.” Lobardin took a quick step toward me and shot his arm around me before I could back out of the way. I stamped on his foot, tried vainly to get my knee in a position where I could bring it up into his crotch, but couldn’t shove him away because he held me pressed up against him, pinning my left arm with his. He jammed his mouth down on mine and forced my lips apart in the second kiss I’d gotten that afternoon, this one much different from the first. With his right hand he withdrew the missive Arsenault had thrown at me.
This letter will not fall into the hands of the enemy.
I went cold, stiffened in fear, not of rape but of Lobardin reading what was written in that letter. Then I bit him, as hard as I could. His blood washed into my mouth, salty and warm, and he pulled away abruptly, stumbling backward, with the sleeve of his right arm pressed against his mouth, the letter clutched in his right hand.
I slid my fingers into my belt and came out with the cloak pin. “It’s nothing to you,” I said. I flipped the pin open and held it like a dagger. “Why do you think it’s your business?”
Lobardin took his arm down from his mouth. Blood trickled over his chin. His blood still lay, warm and wet, on my own lips. I couldn’t wipe my mouth with the stump of my right arm, so I just licked it off.
Lobardin’s eyebrows shot upward. His face lost its dangerous look, and instead he started to grin, which might have been worse. He shook his hair away and wiped the remaining blood from his lips with his thumb. “If it’s only herbs, why hide it from me?” I snatched for it, and he jerked it away. “See? So concerned.” Then he looked at the letter and frowned. “Is this code?”
I grabbed the letter from his hands before he had a chance to look at it any more. “It’s between Arsenault and me,” I said. “Nothing more.”
He smiled, lopsided, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The blood he’d wiped from his mouth left a long red streak down his sleeve. “Oh, but you don’t know how much I burn to know what goes on between you and Arsenault, Kyrra.”
I flushed a deep scarlet and tried to turn my shame to anger.
“So you try to take me for yourself? If that’s all you’re about, then you ought to know that I’m Arsenault’s page, nothing more.”
Lobardin’s grin grew wider. “His page to write on, maybe.”
I forgot everything Arsenault had taught me. I lashed out with the cloak pin. Lobardin, a well-trained warrior, barely had to move to catch my forearm and wrench it around backward, pinning it against my back.
The cloak pin tumbled to the ground. My muscles burned with pain and I stood, hunched, up against him, unable to break free. Unwilling tears welled up in my eyes and splashed into the dust.
Lobardin spoke into my ear. “Kyrra. You know Arsenault’s just using you, the way he’s using all of us. Stringing you along, making you think you can take care of yourself so he can get what he wants out of you. But I could have you down in the dirt right here and you’d be able to do nothing about it. Would you.” He paused as if I was supposed to answer. When I said nothing, he shook me. “Would you.”
“No,” I gasped, the truth. I was burning inside now, beyond tears or blush. I bit my lip to keep from saying anything else, to force the hurt back inside me. This was not the same Lobardin who had brought me orchids when I was unwell or danced with me in the hall. This was the Lobardin who had crawled out of the lean-to in the Talos, deep in the grip of his drug. I could smell it with every warm exhalation of his breath at my ear. I wondered if he even knew what he was doing, but I also wondered if it was all kacin, or if the wild magic that claimed both of us also guided his actions. For a terrifying moment, what frightened me most was that I might end up like him.
“Well, I’m not that stupid,” he said, shoving me away. My arm sprang back into a normal position as I stumbled and fell on my knees in the dirt. I scrambled to my feet and faced him, my arm pressed close to my chest. He stood with his boot on the cloak pin.
“You’re Arsenault’s woman, whether you admit it or not, and your father’s daughter, and I’d be a fool to anger either one of them. But I want to know what the letter says. Who it’s from. Why there’s a raven in Arsenault’s quarters with a tube tied to its foot.”
The raven had flown all the way back to the barracks already? And knew Arsenault’s room?
Surely, it was no natural bird.
“Why do you need to know?” I asked. “Jon and Arsenault got you a commission away from Geoffre di Prinze. Isn’t that what you wanted? Or is your loyalty still for sale?”
“My loyalty is my only asset. I’m afraid it’s always up for sale. But when have I failed your father?”
“Perhaps it’s not my father I’m talking about. Perhaps I’m talking about you failing me.”
“Oh.” His features furrowed in confusion, and he looked down at the cloak pin beneath his boot as if he were seeing it for the first time. Then he looked up at me. “Kyrra. Did I hurt you?”
My heart hammered. How to separate the effects of drugs and magic? Which was it that made him act this way?
“I thought we were on better terms; that’s all.”
Those expressive brows pinched together, and it was clear that he was struggling to follow my train of thought. “Kyrra No-Name…you aren’t suggesting that you like me?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps if you had asked me nicely, I might have told you about the letter. I don’t want Arsenault to know I took it.”
Lobardin eyed me warily, like a fox who’s scented a dog. “Can you read it?”
“No,” I lied, putting on my darkest scowl. “I can’t read a bit of it.”
He ran a hand thr
ough his hair and left it mussed up. “I don’t know how he expects men to fight when he doesn’t tell us anything. We all know who our commander will be when the time comes.”
Then he crouched down and retrieved the cloak pin from beneath the toe of his boot. When he stood up, he held it out to me in the flat of his palm.
“Arsenault is a fool,” he said. “For more than one reason. And you can tell him I said so.”
I thought furiously as I walked back to the barracks and set up the washbasin in Arsenault's room to bathe my lips, trying to invent some excuse for my injured arm and hoping the pain would go away. But it didn’t, and I tasted Lobardin’s blood no matter how many times I washed. I was still standing there when the door opened and Arsenault walked in.
I cursed myself for not braving the pain of doing something as simple as hanging up the damn blanket.
Arsenault walked over to his bed without saying anything. I had left the letter on there, and he stared at it for a minute, then picked up a tallow candle from his work table and lit it with a spark from his flint. He took the letter and set it alight.
We both watched the black smoke, thick with ash, drift up toward the ceiling. Little pieces of paper whirled upward on air currents and then drifted down again like snow. Arsenault held the paper until the fire had eaten most of it, then he threw it onto the dirt floor and stomped the flames out.
“You’re satisfied?” he said. His words were clipped, his voice cold.
It seemed safer to focus on the information contained in the letter than on anything as volatile as my feelings as I watched him standing there with his hands on his hilts and that thundercloud look on his face, completely at odds with his voice.
“So, Jon isn’t just a kacin smuggler,” I said, taking a deep breath. “He’s the brother of the queen of Dakkar. What does that make him? A prince?”
Some of the storminess disappeared from Arsenault’s expression. “The Dakkarans don’t think of it like that. He’s second-born, so he’s Adayze’s Dagger. Her right hand, out in the world.”
“Then why doesn’t he use his title?”
“Because it’s a secret. He gets more done that way. That’s the way things are in Dakkar. The Firstborn conducts ceremonies and diplomacy; the Secondborn does the dirty work.”
“And is it your work, too?”
He gave me a sideways look like the raven’s, then unbuckled his swordbelt, hung it on its peg, and sat down on his bed. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his shoulders slumped, and propped his head in his hands. When he spoke, it was to the floor instead of to me.
“Somewhat,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
He rubbed his temples. “It would probably be best for you not to know anything about the work I do with Jon.”
“Do you really think I’m that naive? Do you think I haven’t been paying attention to all the stories you tell? None of them add up! You’re not old enough to have done half the things you claim to. Unless your magic is inventing memories for you, you’re lying to me about something!”
He rose abruptly and paced to his worktable, where the raven perched, its wings folded. “You think I’m lying, do you? All right. I’ll give you some lies. Perhaps that’s what I should have done all along. How about this one—I killed a man in a barroom brawl and was banished for it, so I stowed away on a Vençalan caravel and was sold to the Qalfans, who carried me through the Great Salt Desert on a caravan and—”
“Arsenault!”
His jaw twitched. Then he rubbed his scar with his thumb. “Pardon. Kyrra.”
“All I want to know,” I said through gritted teeth, “is how you came to be in this man’s service, and where your loyalty lies. And what you told my father.”
“You can’t protect your father.”
“I have to try.”
He glanced at me over the ridge of his knuckles. The little white nicks that spoke of a lifetime of confrontation stood out against his tanned skin. He let his hand drop, and it immediately sought the pommel of a sword that wasn’t there. “I came to be in the Ibuu’s service because his daughter pulled me off a slaver.”
“His daughter. Adayze?”
He looked tense for a moment. Then he nodded.
“I had a cabin on one of the Outer Islands, where Tule and Dagmar send their outlaws. I thought it would be better if I just died alone, but I couldn’t take the loneliness. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I came down into the village. Did odd jobs for the widows and the women whose husbands were at sea. One night, we were raided by pirates. They put all of us left alive into the hold and shipped us to Dakkar.
“The Dakkarans have standards for how slaves are supposed to be treated. The captain was violating those standards, so Adayze pulled me off the ship and gave me to Jon.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Jon owns you?”
Arsenault glanced up, his mouth twisted into a wry hook. “Well, not now.”
“But…Arsenault…why are you working for a man who owned you at any time?”
“Because I made a promise.”
“To Jon? While you were still a slave?”
“No. To Adayze. Out of my own free will.” He frowned. “I don’t— Look, Kyrra, there are holes there. I don’t remember everything, but I needed to help my people, the ones who were bought off that ship, and then there was a cabin boy who helped me. I did what I had to do.”
“And you don’t remember what that was?”
“Jon’s a decent man.”
“But a man in his position might sacrifice decency in order to do his sovereign’s bidding. Isn’t that the definition of dirty work?”
Arsenault frowned and rubbed his collarbone in a distracted gesture. “That’s thinking like a Lieran,” he said.
“I’ve learned from experience.”
He gave me a sharp glance and looked as if he was biting down on something he wanted to say. I shifted uncomfortably as a wash of heat spread through me—a strange mix of guilt and desire. It was clear he wanted to say something about what had happened earlier between us. But he didn’t.
Instead, he looked down at the floor and grumbled, “Well, you had good teachers.”
“What—”
“I’ve been chasing the Prinze for a while,” he said. “Jon and I turned up some connections to Geoffre while I was trying to find my people. We followed those connections north, and that’s how I ended up serving on Qalfan caravans.”
“And fighting in Onzarro, where you took that arrow?” I said.
“The arrow…” he said, his brows pulling down over the ridge in his nose. “Oh, the arrow. Yes, right. The arrow.”
“Have you forgotten that story, too?”
“I— No. I remember now.”
“Had you forgotten?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I explained this to you, Kyrra.”
“What else have you forgotten?”
He leaned back against the worktable and crossed his arms. “If I remembered what I’d forgotten, it wouldn’t be forgotten, would it?”
“You’re insufferable. You knew what I meant.”
He shrugged but didn’t say anything else.
I let my breath out. “Who’s in charge, Arsenault? Did you fulfill your promise to Jon’s sister or is it still binding?”
“I’m free to make my own choices,” he said, glancing at the raven. “For what it’s worth.”
I looked at the raven too. It cocked its head at me, and I couldn’t help but shiver.
“Erelf—” I began, and Arsenault made a hasty sign in front of his chest, one I had never seen before.
“Let’s not speak of him,” he said.
“What hold does he have over you?”
“I said, I won’t speak of him. That’s all. It invites his attention.” He shifted against the worktable, angling himself toward me. “But this conflict with the Prinze, it’s bigger and longer than you know. I wanted you to see…” His voice crack
ed and he cleared his throat. “Well. Geoffre’s burned a whole city, hasn’t he? A whole city and—”
He brought his head up and I saw his throat work.
“You know, Jemma was a beautiful woman. Not so much on the outside—I mean, she was pretty but her beauty wasn’t physical. When she smiled, it was like the sun shining through clouds. And, dear gods, did she love Jon and those boys…”
If there was anything that could have undone me more, I didn’t know what it was. I couldn’t stand to see him in pain.
I went to him. I tried to reach out with my left arm to offer my awkward one-armed hug, but pain shot through my arm when I lifted it, and I hissed and brought it close to my body in reflex.
He straightened up. “Kyrra. Are you hurt?”
His gaze swept over me then locked onto my arm and his frown deepened. “What’s that on your sleeve?”
A few short streaks of flaky maroon blood had dried there. Lobardin’s blood. “Dirt, probably,” I said, forcing a smile. I tried to move my arm to hide the stain, but he caught it and I couldn’t bite back my cry in time.
His brow furrowed with worry and concern. His fingers crept up over my bicep to my shoulder, where he pressed down, kneading the muscle. “It’s not dislocated,” he said in relief. Then he looked at me. “How did this happen?”
“I—”
“Kyrra. I told you the truth. Now you tell me.”
I didn’t want to admit that I had been stupid enough to be caught out by Lobardin, but it looked as if there wasn’t any getting around it.
“Lobardin tried to read the letter,” I said. “But he couldn’t. He says you don’t tell the men enough. I don’t think he’s working for the Prinze, but…”
Arsenault scowled. “Where are you cut?”
There was no way around this. “It’s not my blood,” I said.
His eyebrows shot upward. “Lobardin’s blood? You pulled your dagger?”
“No. I bit him.”