No more doubts from Dar or his ilk, he thought in satisfaction. Now, lir, shall we go?
We go, Rael agreed, and lifted from the perch.
The gift was nothing at all a messenger might bring inside the palace, being a tall chestnut stallion with four white stockings and flaxen mane and tail, who eyed Hart with intense interest as he came into the bailey. At the stallion's head stood a man in blue-and-white livery, the royal colors of Solinde.
Though he was not the expert in horseflesh Brennan was, Hart nonetheless knew well enough the stallion was magnificent. The chestnut's height was impressive, as was his conditioning; a deep chest, long shoulders and strong legs bespoke his stamina. Fox-red ears tipped inward toward one another, and his brown eyes were large and intelligent. He stood quietly enough, but there was a quivering expectancy about him that told Hart he required a rider who was alert to equine tricks.
Another way to attempt my death? Hart smiled as Rael drifted down to perch upon the bailey wall. Quietly he approached the stallion and gently caught his head with both hands, cupping nose and jaw. The firm flesh quivered at once; the stallion lifted his upper lip to display awesome teeth as he tried to catch an unwary finger.
"Shansu," Hart said quietly. "You and I will settle our differences another time; for now, you will leave my fingers intact." He nodded to the messenger. "I am Hart of Homana, now the Prince of Solinde."
The man's face was a polite mask, though his tone was civil enough. "My lord, I am given no title other than your name. It is my lady's contention that there is no other than your name. It is my lady's contention that there is no Prince of Solinde."
"The Lady Lisa is stubborn." Hart laughed.
The man ignored that. "The Lady Lisa sends to say this stallion cannot replace the one you lost, but will nonetheless provide a means of transportation. She acknowledges her part in the loss of your mount, and repays the debt freely." He held out the reins perfunctorily.
Hart accepted them, automatically stroking the firm layers of muscle lying beneath the flesh of the stallion's underjaw. "Tell the lady I am honored by her gift, if not by her refusal to acknowledge my Solindish title." He did not really care if she chose to ignore his status, but it was all a part of the game. "And tell the lady I will one day claim her forfeit."
"My lord, I will." Lisa's messenger fell back as Hart swung up into the saddle. The gear was Solindish and unfamiliar, but he found it not uncomfortable. The stallion bunched massive hindquarters and essayed a single sidestep, then relaxed beneath Hart's quieting touch.
He grinned down at the messenger. "You may tell the lady I am pleased indeed."
"Aye, my lord."
Hart signaled and one of the stable lads came running.
"Have word sent to the regent that I am about the business we discussed. I may return very late." And then he summoned Rael and rode out of the double gates.
Rael's dubiousness became patently clear as Hart reined in before The White Swan. Are you certain? the hawk inquired.
Quite, Hart answered. If Dar is not here, I will look for him elsewhere. But he must be found, and the seal won back.
There are other ways, lir.
And do you suggest I turn thief? Hart asked wryly. Worse, yet, murderer?
No. I suggest you think about what you intend to do.
Hart laughed and jumped off the stallion. I intend to take you inside with me, and enter into a game. What other thinking need I do?
Rael's tone was resigned. More than that, I think.
Hart tied off the stallion and waited for Rael to settle upon his forearm. The hawk was large, too large; it was not a comfortable position, but an impressive one—for the moment, precisely what he wanted. Once inside, Rael would find another perch.
The stallion snorted and shook his head, clattering brass appointments. The setting sun glinted off the metal, flashing in Hart's eyes. He turned away and thrust open the door.
He had not expected a welcome and did not receive one. Casual glances turned into frozen stares, and once again he heard the cacophony of the common room die into expectant silence. A single word through the link loosed Rael into the room, and the great hawk lifted to stir the air against staring faces. He flew to the rooftree and perched himself upon it, shedding a single black-edged feather.
"Dar," Hart said only.
As one, the faces turned from him to stare at the man who walked out of the shadows into the candlelight.
Standing, he was at least as tall as Hart, though his quilted Solindish doublet and padded trews hid much of such things as true weight, frame, strength. Hart's snug Cheysuli leathers did not.
Dar carried a silver goblet in one negligent hand. On his forefinger Hart saw the heavy ring he himself had lost but three nights before. Dar smiled faintly, and it was not without its share of honest amusement taken at no one's expense, least of all at Hart's.
"I thought you might be back." He waved a hand at the nearest table. The patrons deserted it at once.
Hart jerked his belt-purse loose and held it up in the light. "Solindish gold," he said pointedly. "Red Solindish gold."
Dar grinned, "Bezat, my lord? Or did you find the stakes too high?"
Hart crossed the room and hooked a stool free. "Bezat," he agreed calmly. "You had your chance at my life, and accepted payment in its place. This time we play for gold."
"Until I have won all of yours, and then you will wager something else." Dar sat down. "I know your kind, Cheysuli. You live for the wager, the risk—everything else is too tame." He slapped the flat of his hand down upon the table. "Oma! The bowl!"
She brought it at once and thumped it down on the table. Hart grinned at her and was rewarded, as he expected, with a muttered Solindish curse between small Solindish teeth.
Dar laughed, ordering a jug of wine and a cup for Hart. "She is all sting and no venom. Be assured, if you want her, you have only to win my gold. Oma goes with the man who has the most.”
Hart busied himself with stirring the contents of the bowl. "My taste runs to fair-haired women."
Dar looked at him sharply, but Hart's face gave nothing away. He placed his own belt-purse on the table.
"My taste runs to women, period. I have no preferences."
"None?" Hart smiled blandly. "But then, a man who aspires to wed the Lady Lisa might not even see the others."
Dar did not smile. "You have learned well in three days, my lord."
“To survive in Solinde, I have to." Hart pushed the bowl in Dar's direction. "Stir them?—or shall I?"
Tight-mouthed, Dar stirred, and Hart drew the first stone for him.
They played the hours away, burning the candle down to a stub. Red Solindish gold changed hands many times, making one man a pauper, another wealthy, and then went the other way with the draw of a single rune-stone.
Blank bezats held no threat for Hart, who had weathered the first high-stakes game and felt the others far too tame. But he would not risk himself again.
When at last he and Dar stared at one another across a pile of stones—red-eyed, dry-mouthed, stiff from hunched postures—no man could be called a victor. Each shared equally in the wealth.
Dar scraped his stool back. "Enough, shapechanger. The cock will crow within an hour, and my bed beckons me."
"One more time," Hart said intently. "Once more, Dar."
The Solindishman shook his head. "I have wasted enough time for now—"
"Then I will see to it there is no waste." Hart shoved his pile of gold forward. "All of it, on but a single game."
Dar looked at the gold thoughtfully. Then he shrugged, dismissing it. "Not worth the effort,"
"Wait—" Hart rose. "If we made it worth the effort?"
Brown eyes narrowed. "With what? You will not risk your Cheysuli gold; you have said so." He looked across the room at Rael, still perched on a limb of the roof-tree. "Unless you mean to put up your hawk."
Hart was incredulous that Dar could even think it.
&
nbsp; And then he laughed, realizing the man could not possibly know what the hawk was to him. "No," he said clearly, and thrust his left hand into the air. "Sooner this than my lir."
Dar shrugged. "Then again I must say, what have you to offer?"
Hart looked down at his right hand. On his finger glittered the heavy sapphire signet ring of his Homanan rank. Quickly he stripped it off and tossed it into the pile of coins. "This."
A light came up in Dar's brown eyes. It was not the ring so much. Hart knew, but the sudden desire for higher stakes, high stakes; they both of them lived to walk the edge of the blade.
"More," Dar said quietly.
Hart laughed. "You do not have nearly enough to match it. The wager would be no wager."
Dar's eyes narrowed. "Try me," he said. "I will match in worth whatever you have to wager."
Hart assessed him a moment. Then, smiling, he said,
"A horse."
Dar shrugged. "I breed the finest horseflesh in Solinde. It would be difficult to offer me better than I have."
"Judge him for yourself. He is tied just outside."
The Solindishman's mouth twitched in amusement. "So prepared to lose . . . well enough, let us judge the worth of this horse."
Hart led the way outside. Once there, he was pleased to see the look of shock on Dar's face. "My horse, Solindishman. Worth enough, do you think?"
"That is Lisa's horse! I myself bred him, raised him, trained him ... I sold him to her only because she refused to accept him as a gift." His face was white with anger. "How does he come to be with you?"
"A gift," Hart said lightly, "from the lady to me."
Dar's breath hissed. "You lie!”
"Send a messenger to ask her." Purposely, Hart kept his tone light. He had known all along divulging the source of the stallion would force Dar's hand, although he had not known the man himself had bred the stallion.
It made the challenge all the sweeter. "If you will recall from the lady's story of our meeting in the wood, my own mount broke both forelegs and had to be destroyed. This horse was sent to replace him."
"This horse—" Dar was nearly incoherent as he swung to face Hart directly. "Name your wager, shapechanger. This horse is worth more than the gold I offer."
Blandly, Hart smiled. "The Third Seal of Solinde."
After a moment of taut silence, Dar said something succint in explicit—and idiomatic—Solindish. Hart's grasp of the language extended only to a few halting phrases; slang was beyond him. But the tone told him more than enough.
"Undoubtedly I am whatever you claimed I am," he said cheerfully. "Now, shall we go back inside and settle this?"
Dar looked at the stallion, who tugged at his reins and tried to reach out to the Solindishman. It set white dents of anger at the corners of Dar's mouth. His eyes were black as he stared at Hart. "You risked the Seal without knowing its worth," he said flatly. "I am not so foolish—I know its worth. Do you think I will risk it on a thing so inconsequential as a game?"
"Perhaps not," Hart said calmly. "But will you risk it for a woman?"
Dar spat at the ground, just missing Hart's boots.
"That for your game!" he said tightly. "Inside, shapechanger, and we shall see who gains that woman."
In silence, they played a final game of Bezat. Hart did not look at the Solindish ring that sat atop the pile of red gold in front of Dar; he did not dare to. Nor did he look at his own pile, upon which waited the sapphire ring he risked as well as the horse. The stakes were not anything like the game in which he had risked his life, but he found it no less fascinating. If he won, it would prove there was a place in the world for his gaming.
If he won. If he had won.
But he did not.
Dar laughed aloud as he turned over the final rune-stone. No bezats, but the worth of his stones outweighed the worth of Hart's. And so the man who had risked more won more; Hart was left to stare at the gold that was now Dar's, knowing the sapphire and the horse were lost also.
The Solindishman raked red gold across the table amidst hearty congratulations. The Solindish ring he slipped onto his forefinger again; the sapphire he tossed to the wine-girl, Oma. "There!" he cried, in Homanan for Hart's benefit. "A token of my thanks, Oma, for good service throughout the years."
Hart found himself on his feet. "That ring is worthy of more respect, Solindish!"
"Is it?" Dar shrugged. "It is Homanan, is it not? And I say again, this is Solinde." He poured his winnings into his belt-purse. "I will tell the lady how little you thought of her gift, shapechanger; so little you wagered it in a silly gambling game." His smile was eloquently derisive.
"Lisa does not entirely approve of such feckless pursuits, being so personally involved in something as important as the future of her realm."
"What of you?" Hart demanded. "Will you tell her how often you wager your wealth in silly gambling games?"
Dar laughed. "I thought I would leave it to the lady to reform me." He tied the now-bulging purse onto his belt.
"I bid you good night and good morning, shapechanger . . . and my thanks for a worthwhile game,"
Inwardly, Hart swore. Outwardly, he took his lir and left, hating the laughter that followed him.
In private chambers, the Homanan regent of Solinde perused parchments attentively. He read through one carefully, nodded thoughtfully, set it aside for further review. The next he scanned, then put it atop another pile. Briefly he glanced at the young man who waited impatiently near the table.
"You—lost?" Tarron nodded before Hart could answer. "Aye, I thought that was what you said. Well then, we must live with the fact the Third Seal is in the hands of the enemy, and we can no longer govern Solinde." His faint smile was wintry. "I have written to the Mujhar."
Hart swore, then scowled at Tarron. "There is still a chance I can get it back from him."
"In yet another game?" Tarron sat back in his chair. "My instructions from your father are quite clear, my lord. I am to give you no money other than the allowance he will provide."
"Payable how often?"
Tarron smiled. "Once a year."
"Once a year!" Hart nearly gaped. "How am I to make it last the entire twelve-month? Has he gone mad? Have you gone mad? How am I to live?"
"By learning not to wager it in foolish fortune-games."
Tarron picked up another parchment. "My lord, if you will excuse me, there are things I must attend to."
"Then give it to me now."
After a moment, the regent glanced up from the parchment. "My lord?"
"My allowance. Give it to me now."
"I think not, my lord. It has not yet arrived from Homana."
Hart bit back another curse. "Then loan me the coin until it comes, and pay yourself back from that."
"I think not, my lord."
"Tarron!"
The regent set down the parchment. "Aye, my lord?"
Hart stepped very close to the table. "I can order you," he said quietly. "I am your liege lord,"
Unexpectedly, Tarron laughed. "No," be said, "you cannot. Because you are not. My liege lord is Niall of Homana."
Hart glared at him angrily. "Do you think I have no resources, regent? Do you think I need your coin? No-No. I have gold, good Cheysuli gold, and plenty of gemstones, in wristlets, buckles, rings—countless other baubles. Do you think denying me coin can keep me from the game?"
Tarron's face was austere, yet oddly compassionate.
"My lord, you are welcome to strip your caskets of every piece of jewelry you possess; it changes nothing. You may beggar yourself, my lord, but it will not change my mind. I have my orders from the Mujhar."
Pushed too far. Hart bared his teeth at the regent. "And when I am king in his place?"
The answering tone was very calm. "The day that happens, my lord, I will excuse myself from your service."
Hart's anger evaporated instantly, replaced with cold shock. He stared at the man in dawning acknowledgment. "You hate me t
hat much."
"What is there to hate, my lord?" Tarron asked. "No. I dislike you, aye, because you waste yourself. I know your father well; I know his good sense, his mettle, his generosity. I know the Prince of Homana; he is a responsible, mature adult who will do as well as his father when he assumes the throne. But what do I know of you?" He spread his hands. "I know you prefer taverns to council chambers, games to governing, personal gratification to responsibilities. Certainly there are many men who feel as you do. But none of them are Prince of Solinde."
Guilty, Hart chafed beneath the gentle reprimand. "Aye, aye, I know—and one day I will become the man you think I can be— "
"But not yet?" Tarron did not smile. "If you are not very careful, you will not live long enough to become that man."
Hart pressed both hands against the regent's table and leaned forward. "I can win the ring back, if you let me," he promised, working hard to charm the man. "I know I can. And I will. All I require—"
"No."
"Tarron—"
The regent was not charmed. "No."
"You ku'reshtin—"
But Tarron cut him off. "My lord, if you will forgive me, there is much I must attend to. Without the Seal, many things must be handled with delicacy and deliberation." He gestured toward the stacks of parchments.
"Unless you care to aid me—?"
Hart merely laughed at him.
Tarron nodded. "Well enough, I shall deal with it. But if I may suggest it, my lord, you might wish to consider what you will wear to the feast."
Hart, heading toward the door, turned to look at him blankly. "The feast?"
"The feast to celebrate your arrival, my lord. In one week's time." Tarron waved a negligent hand. "All the Solindish nobility will be here, as well as all the Homanans in the city."
“All the nobility?"
"Aye." Tarron's face was oddly expressionless. "Including the Lady Lisa, and all the lords who wish to wed her."
"Ku'reshtin," Hart muttered. "I know what you mean to do."
"Do you?" Tarron's raised his brows. "I think perhaps not, my lord. What purpose would your marriage to Lisa serve if you refuse to rule Solinde in the realm's best interests? What purpose if you died unexpectedly? She would still be Princess—or even Queen—and it would make it that much easier for the Solindish to throw us out of Solinde." He smiled thinly. "Such a wedding might well prove a disaster."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 22