A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

Inos looked again at the miraculous fabric that enveloped her. She had never owned anything like this before. She had not known that such material existed. What a gown it would make! Gold dragons on green fields and fall foliage … Whenever she moved the dragons shimmered, as if about to fly. Aunt Kade would be ecstatic over it and delighted that Inos was taking an interest in clothes at last. And her father would certainly not object, for she must expect to start playing her part in formal functions soon, as she neared her coming of age. She would ask Kade to advise her on the design.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Inos said firmly. “I absolutely must have it. How much is it?”

  2

  No one had ever suggested that Mistress Meolorne might be a sorceress, but the thought occurred to Inos as she panted up the last alleyway that led to the castle. Three and a half gold imperials? How had she ever been bewitched into agreeing to pay so much for a mere swatch of silk?

  Aunt Kade would have hysterics.

  Aunt Kade must not be allowed to find out.

  The best strategy was certainly for Inos to go to her father at once and explain that she had saved him the trouble of choosing a birthday gift for her. True, her birthday was still some time off. Also true, he had never given her anything worth three and a half gold imperials—not close, even—but she was growing up and she needed such little luxuries now. Surely he would understand when he saw the silk itself and she explained why she had chosen it and why it was so suitable. He would be pleased that she was beginning to take more of an interest in ladylike matters … Wouldn’t he?

  She had some jewelry of her own that she might be able to sell—if she was able to sneak back into the town again. She might raise a half imperial that way. A straight “three” would sound a much neater, rounder sort of number.

  Father would understand, of course, that the only alternative was his dear daughter’s tragic suicide from the highest battlements. Possibly she could live without the silk—she had managed so far—but she could certainly not endure the shame of having to return it. So he would congratulate her on her good taste and see that the money was sent as she had promised.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She reached the top of the lane and paused to catch her breath, and also to reconnoiter the courtyard. There was only one gate to the castle and it opened into this cobbled outer court. Now there was no wagon in sight to provide cover, only a few ambling pedestrians. The summer sun was high enough to smile in over the ancient stone walls and brighten the pigeons that strutted around, cleaning up the horse droppings. Relics of winter snow bled quietly to death in corners. A man-at-arms was standing as rigid as his pike beside the gate, with two mangy dogs snuffling aimlessly beside him. Within the big arch of the entrance, nosy old Thosolin would be lurking in his guard room.

  It was none of Thosolin’s business, she decided firmly. Whether or not he had the right to stop her going out, he certainly could not stop her coming in. She did not recognize the petrified man- at-arms, but he looked as if he were taking his job unusually seriously and so would not interfere. She squared her shoulders, adjusted the silk below her arm, and began to march.

  She had every right to go into the town by herself, and if she chose to do so in shabby old jodhpurs and a leather doublet that might have been thrown out by one of Inisso’s stablehands, well, that was certainly not Thosolin’s business either.

  She wondered who the guard on the gate was, he must be somebody new. It was not until she had almost reached the arch that—

  “Rap!”

  He rolled his eyes in alarm and almost dropped his pike. Then he came even more stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, not looking at her. Inosolan bristled angrily.

  His cone-shaped helmet was too small, sitting like an oversize egg in the nest of his unruly brown hair. His chain mail was rusty and much too large. His very plain face was turning from brown to pink, showing up his freckles.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “I thought you were off on the mainland.”

  “I’m just back for a couple of days,” he muttered. His eyes rolled warningly toward the guard room door.

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” She put her hands on her hips and inspected him crossly. “You look absurd! Why are you dressed up like that? And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the stables?”

  Pudding, the gang had called Rap when they were all small together. He’d had almost no nose then, and not much more now. His face was all chin and mouth and big gray eyes.

  “Please, Inos,” he whispered. “I’m on guard duty. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  She tossed her head. “Indeed? I shall speak to Sergeant Thosolin about that.”

  Rap never suspected a bluff. “No!” He shot another horrified glance toward the guard room.

  He had grown, even in the short time he had been gone, unless it was those stupid boots. He was taller than her now by quite a bit, and the armor made him seem broader and deeper. Perhaps he did not look quite so bad as she had thought at first, but she would not tell him so.

  “Explain!” She glared at him.

  “A couple of the mares had to come back.” He was trying not to move his lips, staring straight through Inos. “So I brought them. I’m going back with the wagons. Old Hononin had nothing for me to do, with the other ponies away.”

  “Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Well, you still aren’t doing anything very much. You will take me riding after lunch. I’ll speak to the sergeant.”

  A mixture of fury and stubbornness came over his face, wrinkling his wide nose until she half expected the freckles to start popping off like brown snowflakes. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Don’t you speak to me like that!”

  “I won’t ever speak to you again!”

  They glared at each other for a moment. Rap as a man-at-arms? She remembered now that he had expressed some silly ambition to play with swords. It was an idiotic idea. He was tremendously good with horses. He had a natural gift for them.

  “What good do you think you’re doing standing here with that stupid pike?”

  “I’m guarding the palace!”

  Inos snorted before she remembered again that snorting was not regal. “From what? Dragons? Sorcerers? Imperial legions?”

  He was growing very angry now, she was pleased to see, but he made a great effort to answer civilly. “I challenge strangers.”

  Tommyrot! She suppressed another snort; and there, as if sent by the Gods, a stranger came strolling across the yard toward the gate.

  “Right!” Inos said. “Challenge this one.”

  Rap bit his lip. “He doesn’t look very dangerous.”

  “Challenge! I want to see how it’s done.”

  He clenched his big jaw angrily. “Stand back, then!” As the stranger drew near, Rap swung his pike to the level, took one pace with his left foot, and demanded loudly, “Who goes there—fiend or froe?”

  The young man stopped, raised his eyebrows, and considered the question. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?” he asked in a pleasant tenor.

  Rap turned very red and said nothing, waiting for an answer.

  Inos suppressed a snigger, letting just enough escape that Rap would know it was there.

  “Well, I’m not a fiend.” The stranger was quite young, slim, and not very tall, but a blond jotunn nonetheless. Anyone less like a fiend Inos could not imagine. He wore a brown wool cloak with the hood back, a leather doublet, and rather baggy brown hose. She decided that his clothes were all too big for him, which made him seem shabbier than he truly was. He was fresh-faced and scrubbed and clean—a point of note in Krasnegar—and the sun blazed on his white-gold hair.

  “Definitely I’m not a fiend,” he repeated. “I’m a wandering minstrel, so I suppose I’m either a to or a froe. Yes, I must be a froe.”

  “What’s your name, minstrel?” Rap demanded hoarsely.

  “My name is Jalon.” But the stranger�
�s attention had wandered to Inos. He bowed. “And I know who this is. Your humble servant, Highness.”

  He had big blue eyes, with a dreamy air that she found quite appealing. On impulse, she held out her hand. He took it in his long minstrel’s fingers and kissed it.

  “I saw you when you were very small, Highness.” He had a charming smile. “I knew then that one day you would amaze the world with your beauty. But I see that I underestimated it.”

  He was a very nice young man.

  “If you’re a minstrel, why haven’t you got a harp?” Rap was still holding his pike at the challenge position.

  “How long did you see me?” Inos asked. He could not be so very many years older than she was. She could not recall any minstrel so young. Perhaps he had been an apprentice accompanying his master.

  He smiled vaguely at her and turned to Rap. “Harps are heavy.” He pulled a pipe from a pocket in his cloak and played a trill.

  “Do you sing, too?” Rap was still suspicious.

  “Not at the same time,” Jalon said solemnly.

  This time the snigger escaped completely, and Rap shot Inos a murderous glare from the corner of his eye.

  Jalon did not seem very worried by the pike. “But I do play the harp and there used to be a good one on the mantel in the hall, so I can borrow that again, I’m sure.” He did not seem as if he would be very worried by anything at all—and there certainly was a harp on the mantel.

  “Wait here!” Rap put his pike over his shoulder rather clumsily and swung around, stamping his boots and apparently headed for the guard room.

  That would not do at all! Inos did not want Sergeant Thosolin, and perhaps others, coming out and seeing her wandering unaccompanied, carrying home her own purchases. “Rap? Should you go off and leave me helpless with this dangerous stranger?”

  Rap stopped and spun around, almost grinding his teeth.

  “And the castle!” she exclaimed. “What if a troll comes, or a griffon? And you’re not here to guard us!”

  “You come with me, then!” He was quite furious now.

  “No!” Inos said. “I think you should take Master Jalon to the guard room with you if you think he is dangerous. You are welcome in my father’s house, minstrel.” That sounded very gracious and regal.

  The stranger smiled and bowed to her again. He strolled toward the guard room with Rap. Inos lingered for a moment, then slipped through the archway, unobserved and very satisfied.

  Like the town itself, the castle was all up and down, and she was soon puffing again as she hurried up the endless steps toward her chamber. Halfway there she met old Kondoral, the seneschal, picking his way carefully down an especially dark staircase. He was small and stooped and white-haired, with gray, withered skin and eyes so rheumy that she did not like to look at them … but quite a pleasant old relic when he did not talk your ears numb. His memory for recent events was failing. He repeated the same stories endlessly, yet he could remember the remote past quite well.

  “Good day to you, Master Kondoral,” she said, stopping.

  He peered down at her for a moment, clutching the rail. “And to you, Highness.” He sounded surprised, as if he had expected someone much younger.

  “Do you know a minstrel called Jalon?” Inos was still bothered by her inability to recall that polite young man. Minstrels came but rarely to remote Krasnegar.

  “Jalon?” Kondoral frowned and pulled his lip. “Why, yes, my lady! A very fine troubadour.” The old man beamed. “Is he come here again?”

  “He is,” she said crossly. “I don’t remember him.”

  “Oh, no, you wouldn’t.” The old man shook his head. “Dear me, no. It has been many years! But that is good news. We shall hear some fine singing from Master Jalon if his voice has not lost its thrill. I remember how he brought tears to all our eyes when he sang ‘The Maiden and the Dragon’—”

  “He doesn’t look very old,” she said quickly. “Not much older than me.” Well, not very much.

  Kondoral shook his head again, looking doubtful. “I can recall hearing tell of him when I was young myself, my lady. This must be a son, then, or grandson?”

  “Perhaps!” she said, and dodged quickly by, before he could start reminiscing.

  Several staircases later she reached her summer chamber, at the top of one of the shorter spires. She had taken it over the previous year and loved it, although it was much too cold to use in winter. It was circular and bright, with walls so low so that the high conical ceiling swooped almost to the floor. There were four pointed dormer windows and from here she could look down on all of Krasnegar. She laid her precious packet of silk on the bed and started pulling off her riding clothes and dropping them on the rug.

  To the north lay the Winter Ocean, sparkling blue now and smiling under the caress of summer. The swell broke lazily over the reefs, showing hardly any white at all, and seabirds swooped. To the west stood the castle’s towers and yards, roofs and terraces, a thicket of black masonry. Southward she could see the town, falling away steeply to the harbor. Beyond that lay the beach and then the hills, rounded and grassy. Those hills were certainly part of her father’s demesne. He also claimed the moors that lay beyond the horizon, although she had seen those only rarely, when she had gone hunting with her parents.

  Stripped to her linen, Inos grabbed up the silk and attempted to drape it over herself as Mistress Meolorne had done for her. She did not succeed very well, but the effect was still spectacular.

  Never had she seen such a fabric. She had not known that threads could be so fine, so soft, so cunningly woven; nor that it was possible to make such pictures with a loom. Gold and green and bronze—the colors shone even brighter in her room than they had in the dingy little store.

  And there was so much of it! She tried arranging a train and almost fell over, making the golden dragons writhe. Originally it must have come from distant Guwush, on the shores of the Spring Sea, Meolorne had said—a great rarity in these parts. She had bought it many years ago from a jotunn sailor, who had probably looted it in a trifling act of piracy. Or perhaps it had come over the great trade routes and been pillaged from some unfortunate city. But it was old and very splendid and obviously destined to display the royal beauty of the Princess Inosolan of Krasnegar.

  Three and a half imperials!

  Inos sighed to the mirror. Her father must be made to understand. Suicide was the only possible alternative.

  But why had she promised that the money would be sent that very day? She should have left herself more time for strategy.

  Yet a gown fashioned from this glory would be worn only on special occasions, so it would last for years. She had stopped growing taller, so she would not grow out of it. She still had to grow more in other directions—she certainly hoped she had more to grow in other directions—but that could be handled with a little discreet padding that could be removed when it was no longer required. She wondered how much padding Aunt Kade would allow.

  Well, there was nothing to be gained by standing in front of the mirror. She must talk to her father. She began to fold the silk again, while pondering what to wear for the interview. Probably her dowdy brown worsted, too small now and patched. That would do very well.

  3

  It took Inos some time to locate her father, but she was eventually informed that he was in the royal bedchamber, which was astonishing news at that time of day. It also meant more stairs, but anywhere meant more stairs in Krasnegar.

  The royal chamber was located at the top of the great tower, known as Inisso’s Tower, and she wound her way up the spiral stairs that ran within the walls. There were far too many levels—throne room, presence chamber, robing room, antechamber … Pausing to catch her breath in the withdrawing room, Inos wondered, and not for the first time, why in the names of all the Gods her father did not move his quarters to somewhere more convenient.

  The withdrawing room was her favorite, though. When Aunt Kade had returned from Kinvale two year
s ago, she had brought a whole roomful of furniture—not the heavy, antique, stuffing- falling-out furniture that cluttered most of the palace, but supremely elegant gilt and rosewood, with incredibly slender legs, with roses and butterflies embroidered on the cushions, and the woodwork all glossy. There was no room more gracious in all of Krasnegar. Even the rugs were works of art. While Inos would never be so disloyal to her mother’s memory as to admit the fact, she loved the withdrawing room as Aunt Kade had remade it.

  Sufficiently recovered to move, she crossed the withdrawing room, went up more stairs, across what they now called the dressing room, but which had been her bedroom until quite recently, and finally—more slowly than when she had started—up the final stair to her father’s door.

  It was ajar, so she walked in.

  With very mixed feelings, she glanced over the clumsy, massive furnishings. She came here rarely now, and for the first time she saw how shabby they all were, the trappings of an aging widower who clung to old familiar things without regard to their state of wear. The crimsons had faded, the golds’ tarnished, colors and fabrics become dull and sad. The drapes were shabby, the rugs a disgrace. Her mother’s portrait still hung over the fireplace, but it was blurred by smoke stain.

  Many, many icy mornings Inos had cuddled into that great bed between her parents, under the heaped furs of winter, and yet those memories were overlain now by a last transparent image of her mother, burning away in fever when the great sickness had come on the first ship of spring and stalked all that terrible summer through the town.

  Never mind that …

  No one was there!

  Furiously she pouted, glaring around as if the furniture itself were at fault. The drapes on the four-poster were pulled back, so her father was not in bed, and she could not imagine him going to bed in the middle of the day anyway. She eyed the wardrobe, but the chances that King Holindarn of Krasnegar would hide inside a wardrobe did not seem worth crossing a room to investigate. The windows were deeply recessed, but on those, also, the drapes were open. There was nowhere …