Lioness Rampant

by Tamora Pierce

  Myles sent al Marganit home with well-earned praise and a fat purse. The agent had never failed him, and this time he’d succeeded past Myles’s greatest dreams. The knight considered every aspect of what he’d learned for an hour or so, then went to tell Eleni Cooper and her son.

  Chance, and the first sunny day in more than a week, brought large numbers of people to the Corns marketplace that spring morning. Jonathan, after much persuasion, agreed to go riding—his first such outing since the King’s funeral. He was a commanding figure in mourning black, flanked by Roger and Sir Gary, both also in black. With them rode other knights and ladies, including Delia of Eldorne, Alex of Tirragen, and Princess Josiane of the Copper Isles.

  The company was a beautiful sight, even in their mourning colors of black, lavender, and grey. A crowd soon gathered in the market to watch them pass. The men of the King’s Own—many of them uniformed Bazhir, these days—exchanged wary looks and kept an eye on the people who closed in on the riding party. They were disturbed by the crowd’s silence. No one called blessings on the King-to-be; many made the Sign against Evil when Roger passed them. There were no cheers. The usual audible and sometimes satiric comments on the nobles’ dress and private lives were missing.

  George Cooper watched. He’d risked reopening his wounds and being spotted by Claw’s or the Provost’s men to see how people received their new King. He scanned faces in the crowd, trying to find any feelings other than suspicion or wariness.

  “That Conté Duke looks like a king,” someone muttered. “Against him Prince Jonathan’s a boy.”

  “I never heard bad of the Prince,” someone else hissed. “I’ve heard plenty bad about his Grace! Ain’t natural for a man t’live twice—”

  “Th’ Prince be cursed,” came a third voice, cracked with age. “Th’ Sweatin’ Sickness when he was a lad, that took my Alish, and both his parents dead, and him, the sorcerer, come back—”

  “He drove the evil from the Black City, away south,” a fourth voice argued. “He made peace with the Bazhir. The old King, his grandda, couldn’t even do that.”

  “He helped a woman make herself a knight. If that ain’t unnatural—”

  “Hush! Crowds is full of spies, and you’ve a loose tongue in your head!”

  The people stirred with interest as the Lord Provost rode up to change places with Gary. George’s long-time enemy was blue-eyed and lean, his face leathery from years in the sun and framed by heavy silver hair and a short silver beard. The Tortall rogues called him “The Old Demon” and were intensely proud of him; foreign rogues made the Sign when he was mentioned.

  The people in the crowd, the honest ones, liked the fierce old man. Someone applauded, then someone else. A woman raised a cheer and was joined by others.

  Jonathan smiled. Someone cried, “God bless you, Majesty!” This received a cheer from many, and George smiled at the fickle nature of the crowd.

  A woman in front of the riding party held her child up to see, and shrieked when the toddler wriggled out of her hands and ran into the cluster of riders. Jon swung far to the right and down, seizing the child with one hand and scooping it up out of danger from the horses’ hooves. Darkness reared and plunged at his rider’s activity, but the King-to-be held him as the child wailed. The Provost gripped Darkness’s bridle, forcing the stallion down.

  Jonathan dismounted, carrying the squalling toddler. The mother ran forward under the glares of the King’s Own, laughing and crying, to take her little one back. She hugged Jon in one arm and the child in the other, thanking the young man. Her words were inaudible against the cheer that went up as word circulated about what Jon had done. Uneasy for some reason, George left his niche and began to make his way through the crowd, heading for the group of nobles.

  His intuition was good. A man near the party drew a knife from his belt and ran for Jonathan while George was too far away to help. The attacker was screaming something. Later the Provost told Myles it sounded like “Death to the unlucky King!”

  Jonathan was tangled in woman and child. His companions were hampered by the crowd and their own horses. It was Darkness who came to his master’s defense, rearing to strike the assassin with his hooves. The man went down as other killers swathed in cloaks appeared out of the crowd.

  George tackled one and knifed another. The Provost had dismounted and was fighting with knives, grinning fiercely as he caught one man on crossed blades and kneed him. Horses reared, ladies screamed, and the Great Market Riot had begun.

  Of it all, George remembered only the moment when he and the Provost—for the first time in their long war—came face-to-face in the melee. Given a choice, he would have relinquished the honor. Now he froze, letting the assassin he’d targeted get away. The Provost looked at him, turned, and disappeared back into the crowd. Had he winked?

  Accompanied by his most trusted people—the brothers Orem and Shem, the knife masters Ercole and Marek—George reached Jonathan’s party to find the King-to-be nursing a wounded arm. The King’s Own closed in, forming a tight circle around Gary, Jonathan, and Josiane. Roger was nowhere to be seen, the thief noted. The Provost was mounting his horse, secure in the middle of a second ring of guards. George’s shoulder wound had opened and was bleeding again.

  He ignored it. “I know a way out!” he called to Jon. “If you’ll trust me!”

  The leader of the King’s Own glanced at the Prince, who nodded. George guided Jon’s party into a side street and out of the riot, keeping an eye out for assassins. He and his people left the nobles on the Temple Way when others of the riding party arrived and a second company of the King’s Own came riding down from the palace.

  “It was Claw,” George told Eleni and Myles at House Olau soon after. He winced as his mother applied yet another poultice to his reopened shoulder. “The assassins were his, every one, and they wanted Jon.”

  “What does Claw gain if anything happens to Jonathan?” Myles wanted to know. “He’s not connected to anyone at the palace who would benefit—not as far as I’ve heard. Although Delia—”

  “I find it interestin’ that his Grace of Conté got out so easy,” George drawled, propping his feet on a hassock. “But you’re right, it still makes no sense. ’Twas too easy for the innocent to get hurt along with the guilty this mornin”. If he planned it, he ran as great a risk of bein’ trampled as the rest of us.”

  Eleni shook her head sadly. “I’m worried about those who got hurt in this madness. I’d best go see what I may do.” She stood, shaking out her skirts. “But isn’t that always the way when folk plot to steal power? The innocent get hurt.”

  The final toll of the Great Market Riot was fifteen dead, thirty-six hurt (including the King-to-be), and untold damages to shops and stalls. The atmosphere of suspicion and fear thickened. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, Jonathan began to ride once a week through the capital and the surrounding countryside.

  Jonathan watched the stars appear from a castle balcony, relaxing as he prepared himself for a night among his court. Again Josiane would try to win him back, and again he’d keep her at a distance. Not for the first time he regretted his involvement with the Princess from the Copper Isles. He’d tired of her quickly, and she’d been reluctant to understand that. Now that he knew her better, he also realized that, in spite of his mother’s plans for Josiane, the Princess would have made a very bad Queen.

  Still, he had to smile. He’d just come from his time as the Voice of the Tribes. In touch with Coram for the first time since January, he’d learned that the wayfarers had reached Maren’s western border and would anchor in Tyra in the morning. Soon Alanna would be home, and he could put his Lioness—and the Dominion Jewel—to work.

  “That’s all of it, Majesty.” The humpbacked man known as Aled the Armorer fidgeted. “I wish Claw’d never come t’me. I don’t like this, nor the consequences if words leaks out of what’s afoot.”

  George sprawled in his chair, rubbing his chin as he surveyed his infor
mant. His hazel eyes glittered through his lashes, making the armorer twist his cap into a knot. “Mayhap Claw fed you a tale, Aled. It won’t be the first time a man tested loyalty by givin’ out a lie.”

  “He paid gold for his tale, then,” Aled whined. “Asides, he don’t know I’ve been sellin’ t’Isham Killmaster and Kasi the Spy these five years. Only Killmaster favors armor in the K’miri style but lacquered black like they never do. And the Spy-”

  “Enough. If you say that’s who’s involved, I must trust you. I pay you enough.”

  “T’ain’t just the gold, Majesty,” Aled protested. “My mam raised no fools. They’s one fate for them as kills a king.” His gesture illustrated the fate clearly. “I’m afeared of Claw, bein’s he’s crazier’n a priest, but Provost’s justice is fast. Our folk be crooked, but loyal all the same. If they knew Claw was up t’this, them that helps ’im wouldn’t live t’face the Provost. I’m between Goddess and Black God with no place to run.”

  George tossed a silver noble to the Armorer, who caught it and bit it (to make sure it wasn’t fake). “Not a word to Claw, Aled.”

  The other man winced. He knew what Claw would do to him if the news he’d talked to George leaked out. “No, indeed, Majesty!” He left the Dancing Dove, muttering.

  George stared into the distance. When Alanna had introduced him to Jonathan, he knew the day might come when his duty to the Rogue would conflict with his friendship with the Prince. That time had come. What was he to do? A rescue in a riot, with everyone too excited to think clearly, was one thing. Informing on a plot was another. The marketplace assassins were dead and Claw in hiding, so no good would have come of his saying who’d started the whole thing. But Aled’s tale had concerned corrupt servants, and a new plot that reached from the palace to Claw.

  George grew up in the Lower City, learning the underworld’s laws: obey the Rogue; pay his tax; and—most importantly—never betray a fellow Rogue to the King’s Justice. The penalty was slow death. A year ago George would have been the last to consider such a betrayal. But that was before Claw changed things.

  Jonathan was his friend. They’d spent many good evenings together; they’d loved the same woman; they both knew what kingship meant. In some ways Jon was closer to him than Alanna—she couldn’t conceive the burdens of a king, and Jon had never known anything else.

  Either I’ve turned stupid, or life’s turned hard, he thought with a sigh.

  The first thing Thom of Trebond noticed, returning late to his palace rooms, was that the door to his study was not closed. “I’ll turn the maids into fish if they left the door ajar!” he roared, slamming the door open.

  The shadowy figure sitting by his hearth was thrown into relief by the glow from Thom. “I can see we’ll not be needin’ candles,” George drawled. “Close the door. There’s a good lad.”

  Thom stared at his guest, then obeyed. As he slumped into a chair, he demanded, “What’re you doing here at this hour? Up to no good, I bet.”

  “Why must you ask? Don’t you see all that happens in your tea cup in the mornin’?” George’s voice was bitter. He’d just come from telling Jon about the newest threat to his life—from betraying the Rogue, part of his mind insisted.

  Thom tried to read George’s face, but the glow he cast wasn’t that strong. Not yet, he thought bitterly. “You haven’t done something...Rogue-ish, have you?”

  George glared at him. “Don’t play me for an innocent, Thommy my lad. If I wanted to tell you, I would. It chances that I don’t.”

  Thom shrugged. “As you wish.” He threw fire at the candles beside George; it was too much, consuming half of the fat wax sticks. He looked at the thief to see what he made of it, but only a slight crinkling around George’s eyes gave away that he’d noticed anything unusual.

  “Say something.” Thom’s voice was tight. “Everyone else has! I heard Baird tell Jonathan perhaps the Mithrans let me go too soon.” When George didn’t reply, he yelled, “Say it, damn you!”

  “You keep things chilly in here,” was the mild reply. “I know this old pile’s hard to warm, and it’s near midsummer and all—”

  Thom laughed and could not stop. He buried his face in his hands, his thin body shaking. George rose, a worried look in his eyes, and put a hand on Thom’s shoulder.

  “Don’t!” the sorcerer cried, but it was too late. George pulled back his hand after only a brief touch: Thom was far hotter than any mortal could be and still live.

  “Black God’s belly, Thom! How long’ve you been like this?”

  The younger man shook his head. “I have no idea.” He saw George shiver. “Go ahead—start a fire. It doesn’t make a difference. I’d do it myself, but—” He looked at the candles.

  George knelt to use flint and steel to start a blaze. Watching it burn, he said cautiously, “I was struck by old Si-cham, when we visited you at the City.”

  “No. No, I tell you! Have him come, and gloat—”

  “He didn’t look like the gloatin’ kind to me, lad. He would’ve liked you, had you given him a chance. He was a bright young sprout himself, once.”

  Bloodshot amethyst eyes stared at him. “D’you think this is some trouble I stumbled into, that my teaching-master can get me out of? A safety measure I didn’t take? Some bit of carelessness that can be mended by someone older and more experienced?”

  “No. That kind of mistake’s known right off, and it’s often fatal. But Si-cham may’ve seen what’s wrong with you before—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Thom’s voice was flat as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “They were jealous of me in the City, all of those masters. There’s nothing they’d like better than to see me caught in a mistake.”

  George considered his next remark carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Finally he decided to speak anyway. “What of Duke Baird, him that’s chief of the palace healers? Mayhap he—”

  Thom giggled in earnest, his laugh hoarse with disuse. “Baird! What do I tell him? That—that—” He caught his breath. “I have a cold in my Gift?”

  George smiled. “Does your friend know?”

  They both knew who he meant. “If he does, he keeps it to himself. I can’t—won’t—ask him.” Softly Thom added, “I’m afraid to.” He looked at George his face white and pinched. “I believe he knows exactly what it is.” He jumped out of his chair. “Are you happy? Will you tell Myles he was right all along? Why not tell Jon, while you’re at it? You have no proof he’s whole again, no proof!” Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Lad, calm down,” George said, keeping his alarm hidden. “You’re wearin’ me out.”

  Thom laughed. “I don’t have any proof, either,” he went on tiredly. “But what else can I think, except that somehow he can do this? It’s that or...I have to believe the gods turned away from me. Because I thought and said it would be easy to make myself a god.”

  “If there’s anyone you can ask—”

  “No one. I made sure of that, didn’t I? This will pass. I’ll find a cure—something. I haven’t looked in the right places.”

  George knew a dismissal when he heard it. He gathered up his cloak.

  “Thank you.” It was a whisper.

  “I did nothin’ to be thanked for this night,” George said harshly. “Not for you, not for anyone.”

  “You listened, even though I’ve tried my best to discourage you. And you didn’t say you’ve warned me. If he is doing something.”

  George nodded and left. Thom watched the fire for a moment, then rasped three words. A wave of sea water broke over the hearth, toppled the candles, and doused the fire before vanishing. He sat for the rest of the night, smelling scorched wood, ocean, and wet carpeting.

  The thief, who was gone from Thom’s thoughts when the door closed, went to his most recent hideout. At dawn George’s messenger rode north to the City of the Gods with George’s urgent letter to Si-cham, First Master of the Order of Mithros.

  Several nights after
George had passed on his information, Jonathan and the Lord Provost laid their plans to catch the conspirators. They met in a room near the servants’ quarters. By Jonathan’s command, Roger was also present. “You are in charge, my lord,” Jon told the Provost when his cousin arrived. “Give us your instructions.”

  The Provost opened a hidden panel that led to the maze of secret passages and servants’ corridors in this section of the palace. “We’ll be able to see and hear everything. My boys were able to fix the room, thanks to all this advance warnin’. But neither of you make a sound, or you’ll blow the game.” The old man was common-born and it showed in his speech. “If they say what it’s claimed they will, I’ll signal the arrest.”

  “I cannot see why my presence is necessary,” Roger commented. He looked bored.

  Jonathan glanced at him and snapped, “Call it my whim, Roger.”

  “Since when does the King-to-be take part in spying, even on a whim?” Roger’s melodic voice was filled with sarcasm.

  “We’re spyin’ on would-be regicides,” the Provost said dryly. “King-killers.”

  “A plot against my cousin? What folly!” Roger’s voice sharpened. “You suspect me, Jonathan?”

  “You haven’t been implicated,” was the cool reply.

  “I thought I was to be forgiven my...earlier errors,” said Roger bitterly.

  “Do your friends feel the same way?” Jon demanded. “Perhaps you should ask them. If you don’t know the answer already!”

  “Enough!” the Provost ordered. “Let’s get movin’.”

  They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost’s men. Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King’s Own.