Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  "Did you think I jested?" Dar inquired in an elegantly dangerous tone of voice. "Did you think, when I spoke of your death as the stakes of the game, I meant nothing of what I said?"

  "Oh, I know you meant it," Hart answered, smiling.

  "I can smell the stink on all of you, this desire for my death." Again he stirred the coins, admiring their patina in the candlelight. Still he smiled a little, but mostly to himself; he preferred not to provoke the Solindishman further, and yet a part of him did not care. He met Dar's eyes and shrugged. "But I have learned that even a life may be purchased—or bought back—when the loser is wealthy enough." He paused. "Or has other means to force it."

  Dar himself smiled. "There are three men behind you with knives in their hands. And more behind them."

  Hart shrugged, shaking his head. "It makes no difference. The force I speak of has nothing to do with weapons."

  "Mine does." Dar touched the hilt of his knife with a single eloquent finger.

  Hart laughed. "Effective against a man, perhaps, but what about a hawk?"

  "I think—“ But Dar stopped short, interrupting himself. He looked at Hart in silence a long moment. And then, though his expression did not change, the tone of his voice altered perceptibly. "Cheysuli," he said flatly.

  "Aye," Hart agreed.

  Silence filled the room. And then was swallowed by murmurs of shock and muttered Solindish epithets.

  Dar's nostrils were pinched, his mouth drawn flat and tight. For only a moment his fingers remained near the knife, and then he took his hand away. "Cheysuli," he repeated. "An accursed shapechanger in our midst."

  "Now," Hart said, "shall we negotiate this loss?"

  Dar smiled tightly. "It was a loss," he said, "and you knew the stakes. Your life against the stones. Cheysuli, Homanan, it does not matter. The wager stands."

  Hart matched his tone, "I have only to summon my lir"

  "Do it." Dar laughed as Hart frowned his incomprehension. "Do it, shapechanger—or should I say, try."

  His glance went past Hart to another man. "Even I know that a Cheysuli has no power before an Ihlini."

  Hart swung on his stool and felt the knife blade against his throat. He sat very still, but he saw the man Dar's glance had indicated. "Ihlini?" he demanded.

  The man inclined his head politely, though his smile was coolly derisive. "This is Solinde, is it not? Here, we go where we will go, just as you do in Homana."

  For the first time since entering the tavern. Hart went into the link to contact Rael. And instantly felt the blankness that signaled Ihlini presence and canceled out the link.

  Oh, gods—oh, lir, what have I done now?

  "Now," Dar said gently, "shall we speak again of the wager?"

  Oh, gods, where is Brennan when I need him?

  On his stool. Hart swung back around to face Dar, wary of the knife so near his throat. He forced a smile and tapped the pile of silver and gold. "Surely there is enough here to buy my life from you."

  "No." Dar's tone did not waver.

  "This is worth—"

  "Worthless," Dar said distinctly. "This is Solinde, Homanan; do you think your coin has value here? I have seen how you look at our red Solindish gold; how you covet it with your eyes." His own narrowed. "Eyes which, I might add, are blue instead of yellow. Cheysuli? I think not. I think you are a liar who lives on the legends of other men."

  That touched prickly Cheysuli pride. Hart went rigid on the stool, but dared not move with so many knives prepared to take his life. He scowled blackly at Dar.

  "And is every Solindishman the same color?"

  Dar's mouth twitched. "But I have heard so much about the beast-eyes of the Cheysuli. . . ." He grinned, unable to suppress his amusement. "Glare at me all you wish, Homanan—blue eyes are less effective, I think, than yellow."

  "Ku'reshtin,” Hart snapped. "Were there no Ihlini here— "

  “But there is," Dar said coolly, "and your claim has no validity."

  Hart stripped black hair behind his left ear. "Oh no?"

  The Solindishman shrugged negligently. "Many men wear similar adornment."

  Hart gritted his teeth. "Then give me leave to show you other adornment."

  Dar laughed. "If you wish. But if you mean to show us your weapon, Homanan, recall there are women present."

  Even Oma laughed, eyeing Hart with derisive amusement. Heat coursed through his body and stung his armpits, but he rose slowly and unbuckled his belt with careful deliberation. He dropped it and the heavy knife on the table, then stripped out of the rich blue tunic. It left him aglitter in silver mail, and he saw a flash of irritation in Dar's eyes as well as envy in the eyes of others.

  "I am laced," Hart said tightly.

  Dar gestured. "Oma, unlace him. Tend him as benefits a Solindish lordling."

  The girl's fingers were deft as she undid the laces of the mail shirt. When she was done Hart shrugged out of it, letting it slide to his stool where it lay in a shining pool of exquisite mesh. Ceremonial only, it was lighter than traditional Homanan ringmail, but was more than he cared to carry,

  It left only the quilted linen shirt used to keep the links from his flesh. Quickly Hart divested himself of it and draped it casually over Oma's shoulder, though she immediately threw it to the floor. He smiled, knowing no man—or woman—in The White Swan would dare call him liar now.

  Dar kept his face expressionless, but there was no hiding the grudging acknowledgment in his eyes as he looked at the massive lir-bands. There were mutters in the room, but he nodded. "Well, enough, blue-eyed or not, you have the right to call yourself Cheysuli. But it does not change the wager."

  Hart pointed. "There is my coin. If it is not enough, be assured I have the means to get more."

  "I have already said Homanan gold and silver has no value here," Dar said patiently. His eyes were still on Hart's armbands. "Cheysuli gold, however—"

  "No." The refusal was distinct.

  "Then what?" Dar asked idly. "You say you have the means to buy your life from us, and yet you offer nothing."

  No, I do have something, though undoubtedly Tarron will not like it. Hart drew in a deep breath. "Then I will buy it with something emminently Solindish." He pointed to the leather belt-purse. "There is something in there which should more than cover the worth of my life, Solindishman."

  Lazily Dar reached out and took up the leather pouch, upending it. He shook it; a ring fell out onto the table. It rattled, rolled, stopped. It was solid gold, red Solindish gold, and large enough to hide half of Hart's forefinger when he wore it. But he had never worn it.

  And now I never will.

  Oma bent close to look; Dar's rigid hand thrust her rudely away from the table. In the light from the fat wax candle, the heavy ring glowed.

  "The Third Seal," he said in disbelief.

  "Part of the Trey," Hart agreed. "Enough, do you think, to purchase the life of the Prince of Solinde?"

  "There is no Prince of Solinde—has been none for eighty years or more, ever since Bellam's son Ellic was killed by Shaine the Mujhar." But Dar's tone was dulled by shock and comprehension. Slowly he reached out and took up the ring, turning it so the light fell fully on the incised pattern that formed the Third Seal of Solinde, and the key to almost limitless power. "No prince," he said distinctly, "until the Lady Lisa weds and bears a son." He looked at Hart in dawning recognition. "There was a man, she said—a Cheysuli warrior, who carried the Third Seal ... a man she nearly killed."

  So, her name is Lisa. Hart smiled crookedly and pulled hair aside, baring swollen brow and ugly scrape. "Nearly. But not, quite."

  Dar tipped the ring into his palm and rolled it back and forth. "With this, a man could rule Solinde."

  "No. Even she told me that much: without the other two, this one is not so important. And the other two are safely held by the regent and my father."

  Dar looked at him thoughtfully. "Niall is your father."

  "Aye. My jehan. Mujhar of Homana."
He glanced at Oma and the others, marking how attentively they watched him. The hostility had altered significantly to shock and wonder. He found he preferred the latter. "I did not come of my own accord," he said, for their benefit as much as for Dar's, who held his life. "I was sent, I am to learn to rule Solinde . . . and I want it no more than you do."

  Dar looked at him sharply. "You do not?"

  Hart shrugged. "Not now. Later, aye—I have been bred and raised for it, and have no intention of turning my back on my tahlmorra—but as for now, my interest lies in other directions." He looked at the ring in Dar's hand. "Is it enough?"

  "To buy back your life?" Dar's tone was incredulous.

  "This is worth much more than you can imagine, my Homanan-Cheysuli princeling. This is worth a woman."

  Hart frowned as Dar began to laugh. "A woman?"

  Still laughing, the Solindishman shook his head. "Ah, shapechanger, how you amuse me with your ignorance. Obviously you have no aptitude for ruling, else you would have steeped yourself in the politics of Solinde. And I refuse to be your tutor." He grinned. "Your life is duly bought. Take your borrowed clothing and your hawk and all your worthless Homanan coin and get yourself back to the palace."

  He had never been dismissed so arrantly by anyone, even his father, who had more right. And yet he dared not vent his anger on Dar or any of the Solindish; in a way, he acknowledged their right to treat him as they did. He knew nothing of them at all, or their realm, and yet he came expecting to rule them, whether he wanted to or not.

  In taut silence, Hart put on the linen shirt and gathered up mail, silken tunic, belt and belt-purse. Then he turned and walked out of the tavern.

  In the morning Hart went to see the regent and briefly explained the circumstances of the evening before, glossing over the very real threat to his welfare and stressing instead the need to learn more about the woman called Lisa, who could give Solinde a prince merely by wedding and bearing a son. He expected Tarron to express relief at his escape and compliment him on his resolution; instead. Hart was mildly startled to see the regent of Solinde gape unattractively, banishing his habitual dignity.

  Tarron grasped the arms of his chair and thrust himself out of it stiffly. "You lost the Third Seal?"

  "In return for my life, I allowed Dar to keep it," Hart explained again. He shrugged. "One ring is as good as another. Have a duplicate made; it will serve as well."

  "Will it?" Tarron's face was red, though the color slowly faded to white. He sat down again, but the motion lacked anything akin to grace. The regent stared blindly at Hart. "You have no conception of what you have done."

  Hart sighed. He was restless, wanting little more than to go out of the palace and into the city again, leaving behind the responsibilities Tan-on intended him to assume. Hands on hips, he faced the regent in Tarron's private council chamber. "What I have done? Aye, I think I do. I think—“

  Tarron did not wait for him to finish. "I think you have placed all my work in jeopardy . . . possibly even the entire succession." He shook his head in disbelief.

  "The Mujhar warned me—he said you required watching until you learned the importance of your role. But I thought surely he exaggerated—" He shut his eyes. "By the gods, you have given over the Third Seal into the hands of those who would wrest this throne from your father . . . from those who would gladly see you dead so they can crown their own candidate Prince of Solinde. . . ."

  "Tarron—"

  "Be silent!" The regent sat upright in the chair and glared at Hart, who gazed back in astonishment. "Hold your tongue, my lord, while I try to think of a way to make certain you may keep the head that wags it!"

  Hart scowled. "May I remind you—"

  "May I remind you?" Tarron snapped. Then, more quietly, "Listen to me, my lord, and perhaps you will see that I am less concerned for your rank and personal pleasure than for your life."

  After a moment. Hart nodded and sat down in the nearest chair. "I will listen."

  Tarron sighed a little. "To put it as succinctly as possible: you understand, of course, that Solinde is an occupied land in vassalage to your father. All judgments concerning the welfare of this realm are made by him, and him alone, although he encourages and acts on advice from me as well as other Homanans he has placed to administer the governing of Solinde."

  "Of course."

  The regent nodded. "It is a necessary practice that documents requiring triple seals—the Trey of Solinde—must be sent to Mujhara for the Mujhar's acknowledgment. For all the days of his rule, Niall the Mujhar has held the First and Third Seals of Solinde, while I held the Second. Nothing in Solindish law can be done without the Trey, the complete Trey. No orders can be carried out, no armies paid, no judgments rendered to the petitioners who gather at court for such things. Without the Trey, the wheel stops turning." Tarron drew in a calming breath.

  "He gave you the Third Seal so that you could have an active role in governing the realm that one day you will rule absolutely, with no fealty paid to Homana."

  Hart sat upright. "Do you mean he intends to give me sole responsibility? But—I thought I would rule in his name . . ." He frowned. "I thought things would continue mostly as they are."

  The regent's smile was bleak. "How many times has he told you Solinde would one day be yours?"

  Hart shrugged. "As long as I can remember, but—"

  "But nothing," Tarron said flatly. "On the day of his death, you will become king in your own right. Solinde will be yours, my lord. Yours. To do with as you will."

  Hart snorted inelegantly. "And if I choose to give it back to the Solindish?"

  "So be it." To his credit, Tarron did not flinch. "Although you may have done that already."

  Hart grunted skepticism. "How?"

  "You gave over the ring, my lord. The seal. And into the hands of one of the men most likely to order your death."

  Hart shook his head. "Dar had the chance last night. He let me live."

  “Because while the lady delays her decision, he has no power. Only promised power—whatever man she weds becomes Consort, and a son by him on Lisa will be named Prince of Solinde. Power, my lord, is often gained through marriage. Or through children,"

  Hart grunted. "That I know well enough. Of five children, my jehan betrothed two of us before we were ever born."

  "And you, my lord?"

  Hart grinned. "A free man, Tarron, with no marital obligations."

  Tarron did not match his humor. "If the lady weds before you are fully accepted, she provides a threat to your security."

  "If she weds Dar."

  “If she weds any man, although she will not wed 'any man.' She is too highly born. Too close to the old Solindish line of succession; her grandmother's mother was youngest sister to Bellam, the last king of Solinde." Tarron tapped his hand on the chair arm. "Dar is only one of several Solindish lords who desire to wed the lady, although it is said he has a better chance than most. He is young, handsome, wealthy—and dedicated to Solindish rule."

  Hart scowled at the regent. "I know the solution as well as you, Tarron. You intend to tell me that I should wed her, if only to keep her out of Solindish hands."

  "I intend to tell you no such thing," Tarron retorted.

  "For all I know, you may prefer a Cheysuli woman. So long as the lady weds no man, your path is safe. We watch her very closely, my lord—more closely than she likes. And she shows no signs of choosing any man."

  "But she is aware of what it could mean to Solinde?"

  "Very aware," Tarron said grimly. "My lord, tread gently. I have seen the lady ... I understand very well how a man could lose his head over her. But if you press her for anything, anything at all, she will bolt. And, most likely, she will bolt to the closest den."

  "Dar's." Hart nodded thoughtfully. "An interesting position, regent. If I pursue her, she bolts. If I ignore her, she may simply go to the same den more slowly." He smiled. "What would you propose?"

  Tarron's voice was steady.
"I would propose that you get the ring back from Dar, my lord, before he puts it to use. With it, he stands a better chance of winning the lady. With it and Lisa, your time in Solinde is done."

  Hart swore beneath his breath. He was of no mind to wed, not even for the sake of a realm. Let Brennan make the sacrifice with Aileen of Erinn, and Keely with the girl's brother, Sean. His choice would be his own, and the timing of it.

  The Third Seal— Abruptly he brightened. "There is a way I might be able to get it back, and without bloodshed. But it will require something from you."

  Tarron did not hesitate. "Anything, my lord."

  Hart smiled warmly. "Change my Homanan gold for Solindish."

  Four

  "My lord," the servant said, "the messenger will speak only to you, though he sends this with me."

  Hart, more concerned with the dice he tossed across the table than the messenger's intentions, glanced only absently at the speaker. But his interest sharpened as he saw the palace servant carried the saddlepacks lost to Lisa. He rose at once and took them from the man, relieved he could finally trade borrowed Solindish clothing for familiar Cheysuli leathers. "Have him come up at once."

  The man bowed yet again. "My lord, he waits outside, in the bailey. He says he may not leave the gift intended for Hart of Homana, nor bring it into the palace."

  Hart, digging leathers out of the packs, looked at the servant in distracted surprise. "A gift?"

  "Aye, my lord."

  He shrugged and resumed his search. "Well, then, I shall go down and tend to this gift. Tell the messenger I am coming."

  "Aye, my lord." The servant departed at once.

  Hart found the leathers he wanted and dumped the packs across the table, scattering dice. Quickly he stripped out of his borrowed finery and into leggings and jerkin, buckling on a wide leather belt tooled with runic glyphs.

  The buckle was heavy gold set with lapis; the knife he retrieved from the Solindish belt and slid it home in the Cheysuli sheath. Bare-armed at last, his race was plain to see.