by Emerson, Ru
“Have care,” Ariadne said quietly, “he is injured.” Chris closed his eyes as two men scrambled to the bow to scoop him up and settle him on the nearest seat; Chris clawed for something to hold on to as the boat began to ease back into the water. One of the men still in the water threw himself in, then the other. The boat rocked alarmingly.
“Ready?” One of the English asked.
“I—ah, hells!” Ariadne swore. Chris stared across her shoulder. Dupret slid from his horse and crossed the sand; he held a long-barreled pistol in one hand and another was shoved through his belt.
“Stop!” he shouted. “That man killed my servant!” The sailors glanced at each other, and one of them eyed Chris warily.
“Liar!” Ariadne shouted back at him. She held up the knife where he could clearly see it. “I killed him! And I am glad!”
“Murderess,” Dupret hissed. “I knew this morning, when I found you and him gone, and they came to tell me a ship had left harbor, that you planned this escape! Murderess! You English dare not remove them from Philippe-sur-Mer, you have been already warned! That man has committed serious crimes, and by her own words she convicts herself!”
“Look at my husband, look at his face, you English, see what the man Maurice did!”
“Maurice?” one of the sailors asked. “I know that one, big nasty-tempered brute of a man. He did that to you, mister?”
“Mmmm,” Chris managed.
“Cast off, boys,” the sailor said sharply. “Lady did us all a favor, so far’s I can see.”
Dupret spat and drew his second pistol. “I shoot!”
“We have guns also, Dupret!” one of the others shouted back. “Four shots to your two.”
“I have other men and more guns, not far behind!” Dupret topped him.
Ariadne laughed. “But there is a shipful of witnesses out there! Will you kill them all?” Dupret looked beyond her, hesitated. She rose to full height, balancing against the sway of the boat, reversed the knife and threw it, hard. One of the sailors gasped; the hilt quivered in the sand, between Dupret’s feet. He paled suddenly; his eyes were wide.
“Keep that,” she said flatly. “I will get another, with your name upon it if you dare ever seek us out again. I swear that by my mother.”
“You—” He couldn’t seem to manage anything else, except to stare from her to the knife. The boat was backing through the water; Ariadne dropped down to one knee and gripped the gunnels as it rode up a wave, down the back side. Dupret stared after them, pistol hanging loose and apparently forgotten at his side.
9
Jennifer rounded the corner of the large fish pool at an easy lope, slowed still more as she emerged from the trees. It was windy on the ancient parade ground; dust whirled upward in narrow spirals and branches skittered along the hard-packed dirt. Wind whipped the knee-length, very baggy breeks she wore as a compromise since her old running shorts had gotten too tight. The extra fabric twisted around her legs; the slightly damp shirt billowed. “Inhale, two, three, ex—hale—oh, drat!” The slow run became a fast walk; another gust wrapped her knees together; she caught hold of fabric, yanked it loose, and kept going, the shirtfront firmly in both hands. “Steps, turn around, go back,” she panted. It had been hard enough getting up the energy to run this morning: the air was late-fall chilly and the wind made it downright cold; low clouds scudded across the sky. Fighting her clothes was the last straw. Jennifer cast the upper towers a sour glance, brought her head down so she could watch the ground before her feet. She liked this kind of weather—so long as she could watch it from behind secure windows, from a warm room. “Yah,” she mumbled as she neared the steps. “You sat all day yesterday, and the day before. You want to look like your mother, after a couple kids?” Not that her mother had been obese, exactly; just—just soft. And heavier than I want to ever be in my life.
The endorphins weren’t kicking in today, like they usually did by this point in a run. “Maybe it’s just as well Dahven and Sretha won’t let me run in the streets anymore. Get—exhausted out past the city gates, have—have to walk back? Bo-ring!” Of course, that was part of the problem: She did get bored running the same route within the walls every single time—particularly a double or triple loop like she had to do in here to get any decent mileage. She slapped the low wall next to the steps—where she and Chris had sat and watched Ariadne duel with Dahven—turned, and shuffled off toward the woods. “Pick—up the—pace,” she told herself.
A short while later, she emerged from the trees at a walk. “Yah. Fun—when you quit,” she told herself. The wind slackened suddenly, just long enough for her to hear her name being shouted from the steps. She looked up; Dahven stood in the entry, a bundle of paper clutched in his hand. She sighed faintly, blotted her forehead against her sleeve, and walked a little faster. Dahven stepped aside, closed the door behind them. She sighed. “Oh, does that feel good.”
“What—the run? Even on a day like this?”
She laughed breathily. “No, silly, don’t look so horrified! I meant, the lack of wind. And quitting, today.” She led the way into the family dining room, dropped into her chair. He hitched up a leg, sat on the table next to her. Jennifer eyed the bundle of telegraph paper with distaste. “That much since last night?” He dropped the pile. “You read them?”
“Just the top one,” Dahven said. “Eniss brought the rest while I was reading it; thought you’d want to see at least this one right away.” He snagged the top sheet of paper, handed it to her. “Want water?”
“Mmmm, please.” Jennifer scanned down the first few lines, let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Eddie says they’ve got Chris and Ariadne back. When did he send—? Four days ago! My God, that’s awful!”
Dahven ticked off the fingers of his left hand. “Mondego to the mainland to the northeasternmost town in the Gallic States, by horse to Fahlia, by ship across the isthmus—I hope Adreban really does go ahead and have line run south to the States.”
“Shesseran wouldn’t like that,” Jennifer said absently. She set a finger on the sheet to mark her place, glanced up. Dahven shrugged.
“He doesn’t pay much heed to Fahlia and Derra Vos; Adreban’s used to doing what he likes, whatever the Emperor says. And after all, with his sister married to Shesseran’s heir—”
“I suppose. At least we heard something. With shipping shut down, we might not have found out for—oh.” She stared at the sheet. “Black eyes, a fat lip, two cracked ribs. Nice. Hope Eddie got a good healer for him, ribs can be painful.”
“I know.” Dahven shoved her cup next to her elbow, settled on the edge of the table again. “Food should be here in a moment.”
“Food. Food? Dahven!”
“You’re supposed to eat a proper breakfast, remember? Not just coffee.”
“I had bread.” Jennifer drained the cup.
“Sretha and the midwife both sent instructions to the kitchen.” Dahven picked up another message. “Ah, finally, it’s from Dro Pent, Wudron’s own writing.” Jennifer set Edrith’s message aside, picked up the next in the stack, but let it drop to her lap as Dahven whistled thoughtfully. “Not good.” He handed her a sheet of heavy cream-colored stuff.
“This is worse than the last Dro Pent message,” Jennifer grumbled. She tossed it on the table. “Can’t make out a word of it.”
“He’s in full panic.” Dahven picked it up, turned it right side up. “Wudron, that is. Says, ‘Rumor is rife in city that Vuhlem holds Dro Pent, and Emperor means to take Duchy back by force. By all the gods at once, pay no heed to the rumor, and tell the Emperor he must not! Dahven, your pledge of utter silence, Vuhlem took my son, he says he will kill the boy if I do anything to give him away. I know he would use such an attack as Shesseran’s upon my city as excuse and do murder upon my heir.’” He let the sheet fall, folded his hands together; his eyes were black. “How very like Vuhlem.”
Jennifer slammed the long table with her fist. “Damn the man! Dahven! We
can’t let him get away with this, the boy’s barely five, isn’t he?”
“Just five.”
“Wonderful. If Vuhlem gets away with that, what’s next?”
“Another attack on Shesseran? I don’t know; probably Vuhlem doesn’t, either. Taking the boy was stupid. Still.” Dahven’s voice trailed off. He considered this in silence for some moments; his fingers drummed the table. “If he has the boy in Holmaddan, I don’t see what we can do. His palace is enormous, probably the oldest and best guarded in all Rhadaz; he could keep the child inside his walls and no one would ever find him, if Vuhlem didn’t want him found. And—well, there’s the sea at his back door. I’m sorry, Jen, this is just the kind of thing Shesseran does nothing about best: no proof except Wudron’s word the boy went north, no sign of the boy, Vuhlem claiming ignorance of the whole mess—”
“There has to be something we can do,” Jennifer said flatly. “You think about it; I will, too. We’re not going to let that old pig win, not this time.” She drew another message from the stack, read it, sighed, and handed it to Dahven wordlessly.
DUKE’S FORT; ALETTO AWAKE, WEAK BUT TO GOIN TO BE FINE, THANKS FOR HEALER. LIZELLE DEAD, SUICIDE, HAD CACHE OF THAT BRANDY, INCLUDING BOTTLE MEANT. GOD, IT’S MAD HERE, WHERE’S MY RUBY SLIPPERS? ROBYN.
Dahven crumbled the sheet, dropped the wad of paper. “Wretched woman; I’ll wager she suicided to make them feel guilty. She would. And—poor Aletto, he will, too. But I thought they took all the drug away from her!” He slid off the table as the door to the kitchen swung open and one of the new girls came into the room with a heavy tray. She set it on the table, glanced at Jennifer curiously, curtseyed and left quickly.
Jennifer stared at the table with dismay. The tray held three kinds of fruit, a pile of bread, milk, even a dish of scrambled eggs—the one thing she’d had success teaching the kitchen to make. “I can’t eat all that!” She eyed the eggs, swallowed, and shoved them aside. “And in case no one’s noticed lately, I can’t eat those just now, they make me puke.”
“Eat something,” Dahven said mildly. “I’m supposed to see that you do, and I’ll get cross if your midwife nags me because you don’t.” He snared a slice of apple and popped it into his mouth. Jennifer spooned fruit butter onto bread and bit into it, then tucked the bite into her cheek.
“Lizelle—I know Robyn, she probably did take everything away from the poor thing, but addicts like that have hiding places, lots of them. It’s too bad; Birdy doesn’t need the hassle, and I bet Aletto really does feel guilty. Birdy’d never say, but I’ll bet she’s just pissed at Lizelle for doing that to Aletto.” She chewed bread, took another bite, and reached for the next message. “Eat more of the apple; I don’t like the texture. We’d better get word down to Afronsan right away, about Wudron’s boy.”
“Already did.” Dahven poured her more water. “Just, ‘Vuhlem kidnapped Oloric, longer message to follow.’ Keep him from starting anything.”
“As if he had the opportunity, with Shesseran breathing down his neck,” Jennifer retorted. “Let’s see—Misarla’s had more problems with the drug coming in; and her border guard says there are men camped on the Holmaddan side of the line.”
“Men?”
“Small camp of soldiers. Couple of her Cornekkans went to check. The camp is Vuhlem’s, captain says they’re trying to find where drugs are coming into Holmaddan, grumbled about all that deserted shoreline. Misarla’s man wonders if that was his real reason; says the Holmaddi guard usually send only a handful of men, and this was a full armed company. Also, the captain was awfully talkative for one of Vuhlem’s.”
“Mmm. Spreading the lie thick. Possible. She wire Afronsan?”
“Ahhh, yeah. Says here, same message, via Duke’s Fort to Podhru; Robyn and Aletto will know by now, too. Old pig. Vuhlem’s getting seriously above himself.”
Dahven laughed shortly. “I’d love to be there when he’s taken down. I do truly loathe that man. He’s nastier than Father at his worst.”
“Charming,” Jennifer murmured. “Here—I think this settles it. Message from Lialla; there’s a couple of Red Hawk caravaners waiting at the Cap and Feather in case we want to send word back to her. They—one of them, anyway—saw the boy being carried into Vuhlem’s palace. A boy,” Jennifer corrected herself. “Pale haired. Lialla thinks it must be young Oloric. Vuhlem has Lasanachi ships at his personal docks, boy came on one of them.”
“All of which is illegal. Lialla’s got no business up there, spying on Vuhlem, she’ll get herself killed yet,” Dahven said gloomily. “Stupid young woman.”
Jennifer shook her head. “Not really stupid, just—like Chris. Thinks no one’s going to get at her.”
“I’d wager he doesn’t feel that way anymore.” Dahven snared the rest of her apple, spooned a little fruit butter onto one slice, and ate it. “Not with broken ribs to remind him every time he draws breath. More of the bread, you,” he added sternly.
“You want me fat,” Jennifer complained. She didn’t sound too worried. She tore a piece in half. “Compromise, all right?” She ate with one hand, read the rest of the message. Sighed faintly and swallowed. “Lialla says she’s probably going to return to Sikkre soon; things are too crazy around there right now for her to be any help to the women and—hmmm.” She was quiet for a moment. “She doesn’t say; I get the feeling that Triad scares her—the one Vuhlem’s supposed to have.”
“Probably has Jadek’s old Triad,” Dahven said gloomily.
“No—didn’t I tell you about them, a while back?” He shook his head. “They start seriously bonding, changing from three individual people to one—well, one whatever—and they get religion, or something. Jadek’s left him because he wanted to play rough, and they—it—wanted enlightenment.”
“Sounds crazy enough to be true. Where’d you get that?”
“Talked to the Light Shaper your father used to keep.”
“Oh.” He eyed her sidelong. “You did? Brave you; doesn’t sound exactly safe to me.”
“Possibly why I didn’t tell you. I’m still not sure Vuhlem has a Triad; where’d he get a young Triad these days?” Jennifer shoved the tray aside. “That’s all I eat. I’m not hungry after a run, anyway; any more food and I’ll be sick. Anything else in the messages, or can I go clean up?”
Dahven grinned, and held out a small folded square of blue market paper. “Just one—saved the best for last.”
“Best? Whstt—something good in all this?” She unfolded the paper, studied it in silence, finally whistled softly. “So, Audren Henry’s decided to rat on his steel-mill employers.”
“Keeping in mind, he says he doesn’t know much,” Dahven reminded her mildly.
“Well, yes. Still, he may know more than he realizes. Give me a few hours to pick his brains, and we’ll find out.” She smiled, folded the sheet, and dropped it onto the others. “Hope Chris has some more input for us, and soon; this may actually start turning things in our favor.” She held out her hands. “Here, make yourself useful, help me up, so I can go get clean and get back to work.”
THUKARA JENNIFER TO AFRONSAN: ENTIRE TEXT OF MESSAGE FROM WUDRON OF DRO PENT FOLLOWS. SUGGEST CAUTION REGARDING INVASION OF SAME, FOR OBVIOUS REASONS. ALSO SUGGEST WE FIND A WAY TO GET WRETCHED VUHLEM TO BEHAVE HIMSELF.
Afronsan reread the lower part of the message that contained Wudron’s terrified plea. He sat very still for some moments, staring vacantly toward the near wall; his lips moved soundlessly. Finally, he dragged himself to his feet and crossed the room, opened the door, and leaned into the hall. “Messenger!” he called out. The sound echoed in the long, high-ceilinged, cold hallway, followed by the echoing clatter of rapid footsteps as one of the messenger boys came at a dead run. “Go to the main floor, where the Emperor has his messenger chamber; if there is someone waiting, pass to him the message that Afronsan humbly begs leave to meet with his brother. If not, return to me at once for further instruction, or if there is anyone who might ride to the Em
peror, right away, send that one. It’s quite urgent.”
“Sir.” The boy turned and sprinted back the way he’d come.
An hour later, Afronsan shook rain from his waterproofed cloak, dropped it and the broad-brimmed, oiled hat across his saddle, and crossed the covered courtyard of the Emperor’s city apartments. The servant had the main doors open for him, bowed low as he passed. Apparently, I am once more useful to my brother, Afronsan thought dryly. The first time he’d come to the city palace after Shesseran’s birthday fete, the servants had averted their eyes and backed away from him, barely remembering sufficient protocol to bow. Even a handful of days ago, proper response to the presence of royalty was notably lacking here.
The hallway was colder than his own, sterile: bare of ornament, carpet, or window. Only two lights flickered at the far end, where another servant waited to bow him into the Emperor’s bedroom. Shesseran’s private room was overly warm, particularly after the chilly hall and the long ride across town in the driving rain and wind that marked an early winter storm.
The Emperor lay upon a thin-mattressed, narrow bed, a plain coverlet drawn to his waist, the half-dozen cushions at his back the only sign of wealth or rank in the entire chamber—aside from the well-tended fire. Afronsan bowed neatly, then held out the Thukara’s message. Shesseran inclined his head a little in reply, coughed into the elbow of his rough-woven bedrobe, took the message, and read it in silence. It slid to the bedding, then to the floor. Afronsan let it fall and, after a long moment, took courage in his hands to ask, “Well?”
Shesseran coughed, grimaced. “I know Vuhlem.” There wasn’t much strength to his voice; Afronsan had to lean close to catch his words. “He would never dare—” The Emperor’s voice faded; he gazed up at his much younger brother anxiously. Afronsan schooled himself to patience—wants me to assure him Vuhlem indeed would not dare—and took the Emperor’s hand.