No Quarter

by Tanya Huff

  “Lots of bards Sing water, darlin’, but none of them Sing it like you do. I’ve seen you Sing up kigh in a raindrop, and I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more to sing the queen across the strait.”

  “You’re deliberately not understanding—with Kovar here, they don’t need me.”

  “Need?” She snorted, blowing a cloud of heated breath into the air. “Need has nothing to do with it. All bards who Sing water take turns Singing the queen across the strait, and now it’s your turn.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, it’s nice to be useful for something.”

  “You bet your ass it is. Plenty of people never know the place they’re supposed to fill, but us, we’re lucky. We have the security of knowing that our talent defines us. And as for you …” She stopped walking and, when Benedikt turned to face her, poked him in the chest with a gloved and emphatic finger. “There’s nothing that makes a good-looking man less attractive than watching him feel sorry for himself. You’re a bard of Shkoder, Benedikt—one of the few, one of the proud—and I’ve never met a bard that didn’t have an ego big enough to hold the entire Citadel with room left over for Dockside. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “What did I say?”

  The corners of his mouth curled up. “That you think I’m too good-looking to feel sorry for myself.”

  “Ah. I see you didn’t actually need that reminder about bardic ego.” She studied his face for a moment then reached up and patted his cheek. “Just remember you’re as much a bard as Kovar is, and if I wasn’t freezing my ass off standing here, I’d pass on a few choice tidbits about our exalted captain.” Leaning forward, she dropped her voice and murmured, “He has a tendency to be, well, windy in the morning.”

  Benedikt rolled his eyes. “I’ll remember that.”

  Stepping back, Terezka grinned. “You will, you know.” A quick glance at the sky brought on a tightening of straps. “If I don’t get going, I’ll never reach Planter’s Basin before dark, and these old bones have no intention of spending the night without a bed.” She thrust out her fist. “Good music, Benedikt.”

  He touched his fist to the top of hers. “Good music, Terezka.”

  “So that’s it, then. Give me a kiss and point me up the Coast Road.”

  Having done as she commanded, Benedikt stood where she’d left him until a curve in the road took her from view. A breeze ruffled his hair as he turned back toward the fort, and he couldn’t help thinking that, with him around, at least the Bardic Captain wouldn’t be taken away from more important duties during the voyage.

  * * * *

  “What do you think they’re saying?” Otavas wondered, nodding toward Jelena and her grandmother. The two women were standing together on the palace steps, well out of the way of the jostling crowd of horses and riders that nearly filled the Citadel’s main courtyard.

  Magda looked up, twisted around in the saddle, and grinned. “Her Majesty, Queen Lilyana, is telling her granddaughter, Her Majesty, Queen Jelena, that she should be wearing a heavier coat. Jelena is protesting that it’s almost First Quarter Festival. Queen Lilyana is reminding her that we could still get snow and at the very least would she please put on a scarf. Jelena is insisting she’ll be fine, but if it makes her grandmother happy, she’ll wear the scarf.”

  As Magda finished speaking, the queen accepted a length of crimson fabric from her grandmother and wrapped it around her throat.

  Kovar, on Magda’s other side, turned his attention from the groom adjusting his stirrups and looked down a disapproving nose at the healer. “It is impolite to eavesdrop.”

  “I wasn’t. When I said good-bye to Her Majesty—that is, Queen Lilyana—earlier, she was carrying the scarf. It didn’t take half a lifetime of studying the fifth kigh to work out the rest.” Reaching across the distance between their mounts, she patted the Bardic Captain on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kovar. Cloud Dancer here is the calmest horse in the Citadel stables. All you have to do is stay in the saddle. She’ll do the rest.”

  “I suppose it would be a waste of time to tell you I’m not concerned about my horsemanship?”

  “It would as long as you maintain that white-knuckled grip on the saddle horn.”

  On the palace steps, Jelena kissed her grandmother, descended into the chaos of the courtyard, and rose above it almost instantly as she accepted a leg up into the saddle.

  “Are you all right?” Otavas asked softly as her groom led her horse into position beside his.

  Jelena pulled on a pair of riding gloves, using the time to find a neutral expression before she turned to face her consort’s concern. “Grandmother wanted to come with us, at least to the city limits, but I convinced her that my sister and the idiot courting her would be sufficient escort that far.”

  “Not to mention Bannon and two full troops of the Queen’s Guard.”

  “Not to mention.” A glance across the courtyard showed that the ex-Imperial assassin had taken up position where he could defend all possible approaches to his royal charges. “If Bannon’s coming, why do we need the guard?”

  “Even soldiers like to feel wanted.”

  “I suppose.” Leaning back, Jelena peered around Otavas at the young noblewoman murmuring the Circle only knew what into her sister’s ear. “The lady Marineka reminds me of my father.”

  Otavas couldn’t see a resemblance, but as he spent very little time with Lord Jurgis, the queen’s father, he realized he could be missing subtleties. “Is that a good thing?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Lord Jurgis was a hearty and athletic man who’d never been comfortable at court and, once he’d helped ensure continuation of the royal line, had spent very little time there. Except for state occasions where it was necessary they present a united front and during specific family celebrations, Queen Onele and her consort had lived separate lives—growing up, Jelena and her sister had used their father’s country estates as a refuge from the duties and responsibilities that fell to them from their mother’s position. Although he’d honestly grieved at the death of his queen, he’d returned to the country the moment her body had been interred. Jelena still wasn’t certain how she felt about that; as much as she’d wanted his support, as long as he remained unchanged, safe in the country, he was still a refuge.

  “Majesty?”

  She jerked out of her reverie, glad of the groom at her bridle as her horse responded to her shifting weight by moving forward.

  “The company is assembled, Majesty.”

  “Very well, then.” She glanced up at the sky. Midmorning. The last time it had been midmorning on the sixth day of the third moon of the Fourth Quarter, she’d been standing on the steps next to her grandmother, waving good-bye. If we leave now, we’ll reach the place where my mother died by late tomorrow afternoon. “Open the gates, Troop-Captain, and let’s get this over with.”

  * * * *

  As the company moved out through the gate and into the city, Lilyana folded her hands inside her muff, fingers laced tightly together to keep her from reaching out and grabbing hold of her granddaughter. She smiled as the young queen rode away, experience hiding the lie. Given a choice, she’d have kept Jelena from going to the forts, kept her safely in the Palace, kept her off the road where Onele had died. Where the crown had been passed on. Again. Loss of a husband. Loss of a daughter. Lilyana didn’t think she could bear it if she outlived a third monarch of Shkoder.

  * * * *

  “Captain, we seem to have left the cheering crowds behind—at least for a moment. Would it be possible to speed things up a little?”

  The Troop-Captain glanced over at his queen, then ahead at the road. “Majesty, with the sun in our eyes and the road following so close along the cliff, it would perhaps be safest to proceed at a walk.”

  Drawing in a deep lungful of sea air, Onele kicked both feet free of the stirrups and stretched her legs. “I’ve been on this horse for a day and a half, I’ve s
miled and I’ve waved, and I’ve accepted half a dozen bouquets from small children. The sooner we reach Fort Kazpar the happier I’ll be. I think we can risk a trot.” When the Troop-Captain hesitated, she sighed. “This is my eighth trip out to the forts, Captain. We’re as safe on this road as we would be riding down Hill Street in Elbasan. We’ll just keep Stoyan here in the center of the company so that we don’t lose him.”

  “Majesty, you cut me to the quick!” The young bard placed one hand on his heart and tightened the other around the saddle horn. “Has my horsemanship so disgraced you?”

  Onele grinned as the Troop-Captain muttered, “Horsemanship?”

  “I did not fall off,” Stoyan protested with dramatic dignity. “I was dismounting and taken by surprise when the ground was not where I expected it to be. Although, I must admit, I agree with Her Majesty …” He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “… the sooner we get to Fort Kazpar, the happier I’ll be.”

  “So we trot,” the queen announced.

  Six horses, six soldiers in the Queen’s Guard riding two by two, had already passed the nest when the bird decided to rise. Shrieking in panic or defiance or both, her wings drumming against the air, she catapulted into the air right under the nose of the queen’s horse.

  Eyes rolling, white showing all around, the gelding flung himself four feet to the right. Taken by surprise, Onele lost her stirrups and made a desperate grab for the saddle horn. Mane whipping her face, she slammed forward into his neck as he reared and flipped back off over the cantle when he landed.

  The Troop-Captain had insisted that the queen ride on the inside position, away from the edge of the cliff. At first, he thanked all the gods in the Circle he had.

  And then he realized it hadn’t mattered.

  Stroking sightless eyes closed with trembling fingers, Stoyan howled a lament onto the wind and the kigh spread the news that the queen was dead.

  * * * *

  “This is where it happened?”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “And the rock?”

  “Her guard threw it off the cliff. It was the only vengeance they could take.”

  Jelena turned to look at her own guard, standing by the horses a respectful distance away. Every one of them had been with her mother that day.

  “Let them come,” Magda had advised her when the Troop-Captain made the request. “They need this as much as you do.”

  “Who built the memorial?”

  “Fyona i’Amalica, a stonemason from Fort Kazpar, and Stoyan, the bard who was with her when it happened.”

  The stone pillar stood exactly as tall as the late queen. The crowned ship of Shkoder had been carved into its seaward face. The other three sides had been polished silken smooth.

  “If you would allow me, Majesty?” When Jelena nodded, the Bardic Captain Sang the four notes of Onele’s name.

  From the stone, or the air around the stone, came a song wild with grief and denial. It wasn’t long, but it didn’t need to be.

  “Stoyan’s lament.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  She couldn’t remember moving into the comforting circle of Otavas’ arms nor could she remember crying, but his arms were around her and her cheeks were wet. Her body felt awkward as she stepped slowly forward and pressed both palms against the stone. This place, this monument, the lament—all three had nothing to do with her. Together they lifted the dark weight of her mother’s death, the weight she’d carried since the day the Bardic Captain had told her she was queen and could finally do all the things she’d planned.

  She waited until the stone turned warm under her hands, then she turned and started walking back toward the horses. “We should go.”

  His own eyes damp, Otavas fell into step beside her. She leaned gratefully against his support.

  “Are you all right, carimei?” He murmured the Imperial endearment against her hair.

  “I don’t know.” Every movement she made seemed to take more conscious thought than it ever had. “I feel empty.”

  A half-dozen careful steps behind, Kovar turned to the healer and pitched his voice for her ears alone. “Empty? Is that good?”

  Most of her attention still on the queen, Magda shrugged. “That depends on what moves in to fill the space.”

  * * * *

  “This is Benedikt, Your Majesty. He’ll be Singing your boat across to Fort Tunov.”

  As he straightened out of his bow, Benedikt found himself being examined by a pair of shadowed eyes.

  “I’ve heard you Sing at festivals.”

  “Majesty?” All fledglings Sang in the Citadel’s Center as part of their training so she’d definitely heard him, he just couldn’t believe she’d remember.

  “You Sang water. My mother once told me that she thought you could Sing the kigh out of a tear. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have Sing me across the strait. And,” she continued as he searched for a response, any response, “I read your recall on the floods in Seven’s Bay back in Third Quarter. Good work.”

  He stammered his thanks, managing not to disgrace his training too badly although he barely heard the Bardic Captain’s request for a meeting so they could discuss the next day’s ceremony. When the consort’s Imperial bodyguard snapped his fingers under his nose, Benedikt was astonished to see that the royal party had moved into the inner bailey, “I’m sorry.” Feeling as though he’d could walk on water if the queen required it, he smiled apologetically at the waiting ex-assassin. “Do you want me?”

  While golden-haired young men with that pouty just-smacked-in-the-mouth vulnerability weren’t exactly his type, Bannon flashed him a predator smile on principle. “Maybe later. Right now, I need you to show me tomorrow’s pattern.”

  A thick Imperial accent added strange emphasis to the words. “Pattern?”

  “Where Her Majesty will be, where His Highness will be, where everyone else will be.” When Prince Otavas had contracted to join with the Heir of Shkoder, Bannon had added the Princess Jelena to his responsibilities. No one had asked him to, but since his prince had thought it an excellent idea, no one had been able to stop him either.

  Benedikt frowned. Kovar had told him he’d be attending the ceremony at the forts before his last Walk, almost as he was on his way out the Citadel gates. He’d had no time to read the recall of his immediate predecessor, but some things were a given. “You accompanied His Highness here in Second Quarter.”

  “I did.”

  “It’ll be the same ceremony.”

  “Not quite. Her Majesty wasn’t here in Second Quarter.” Gripping the bard’s shoulder a little harder than was strictly necessary, he turned him in a slow circle. “Those barrels weren’t here in Second Quarter; two of the flagstones by the gate are cracked, there’s a new half door on the stable, and there’s evidence of repair on the rim of the well.”

  Benedikt whistled softly in amazement and remembered some of the stories floating around the Citadel concerning the ex-assassin. Apparently, those involving his obsessive attention to detail were true. Remembering other stories, a chill spread out from under the pressure of the gripping fingers and lapped against the bard’s spine. If some were true, then all could be, and many weren’t particularly pleasant. Although some were. An unexpected heat followed the chill, and Benedikt had to swallow before he could ask, “Is there any danger?”

  “Always. But if you’re asking if Her Majesty is in any danger …” Bannon grinned ferally. “Not when I’m around.”

  Benedikt didn’t doubt that for a moment.

  And as he pointed out the places the queen and her consort would stand, as he waited while Bannon calculated lines of sight, he couldn’t stop thinking of how he was now one of the details the ex-assassin noted.

  * * * *

  “You’re looking solemn,” Kovar commented quietly as he and Magda picked their way down a spiral staircase to the floor below the royal suite. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not exactly. A couple of the guard
s are still carrying a lot of guilt about the late queen’s death but I feel that escorting Her Majesty here safely should help them work through it and move on.”

  “Since we’re speaking of Her Majesty …” Conscious of the way the stone bounced sound all around them, Kovar dropped his voice until the words were little more than a soft buzz against the healer’s ear. “Shouldn’t you be with her?”

  “No. Otavas can do more for her right now than I can.”

  “You believe that His Highness can fill the emptiness?”

  “I believe love will fill the emptiness,” Magda told him, her tone leaving little room for argument.

  Kovar nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, an heir would help.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Stepping out into the corridor, she turned and favored him with a disapproving scowl. “And they don’t need you repeating the opinion of every other old fusspot in the country.”

  “Every other old fusspot?”

  His indignant protest banished the scowl and drew a laugh. “Kovar, you’re a year older than my father.”

  “And that makes me incredibly decrepit, I’m sure.” He sighed, wondering, not for the first time, when the children had taken over. “And as I am so decrepit, I’d best have the room closest to the garderobe.” When Magda indicated he should go ahead, he pushed open the door and glanced into the small rectangle. “All the comforts of home.”

  “And exactly like this one,” Magda added, looking into the next room along. “A bed, a chair, and a washstand. I can see why the members of the court aren’t exactly falling over each other to accompany Her Majesty on this trip. Can you imagine the Duc of Vidor’s reaction to this?” She peered curiously down the corridor at another half-dozen identical doors. “I wonder if they’ve ever managed to fill their guest quarters.”

  “I expect young Benedikt’s in one of them.”

  “Ah.”

  About to enter his room, Kovar paused. “Was that a professional ah, or a personal ah?” When Magda hesitated, he took a step toward her. “I know you saw him a great deal when he was a fledgling, but I’d thought all that had been dealt with.”