Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  All of these were equally delightful reasons to pursue his current course. But beyond those was the most delightful of all.

  Personal revenge. Revenge on Amberdrake, who had dared to sit in judgment on him. Revenge on Skandranon, who had given Amberdrake the authority to throw Hadanelith to the wolves. Revenge on all of those fools of White Gryphon, who agreed with Amberdrake and Skandranon and who tamely went along with anything those two wanted.

  Hadanelith would prove that he was cleverer, craftier, superior to all of them. Wasn't he proving it now? His hosts thought that they were the ones in control of the situation, that they held Hadanelith's leash. They didn't know he was the one using them.

  Once the news of the Kaled'a'in settlement reached the Haighlei, Noyoki had scryed the area around White Gryphon during one of the few times that his magic worked properly. He was nobly educated; he knew several northern languages, and he had probably done his scrying in the vague hope of discovering a malcontent among the Kaled'a'in that he could make use of. He found Hadanelith, skulking around the guarded periphery, stealing from the gardens—and he'd scryed out people who knew something of Hadanelith's so-called "crimes."

  He'd sent swift hunters and a small, fast vessel of his own to find Hadanelith and bring him back. That much, Noyoki had conveyed to him in his own language, obviously hoping to get some sort of gratitude in return.

  Hadanelith kept his own counsel and simply looked agreeable. After he'd used his own rudimentary powers of mind-magic to pluck their own language out of their heads, he had made one small error out of sheer pique. He'd been so annoyed with Noyoki's callous remarks about how he planned to exploit Hadanelith's "madness" that he'd revealed his own knowledge of their tongue before he'd taken thought to what that slip might cost him.

  Still, that sudden expertise in their tongue had impressed them no end. And he'd discovered with that slight mistake just how horrifying they found the bare concept of mind-magic. Forewarned, he'd managed to pass his sudden proficiency off as simple intelligence, and perhaps a side-effect of his "madness," rather than the use of anything forbidden.

  So now he had a double advantage over them; he knew their language much better than they had any notion that he did, and he could occasionally read their thoughts. He knew that while they were aware he was of the same general race as Amberdrake, they did not know that he actually knew Amberdrake. They had no idea that he had his own little vendetta to pursue, and that they were helping him to do so.

  So much the better. The less they realized that he wanted to do what he was doing for more reasons than just the obvious, the more power over them he held.

  He shaved another sliver of wood from a curve of the sculpture and ran his finger over it to assure himself that there were no splinters or rough spots there. That would not do at all.

  It was interesting that his "partners" were not at all horrified by the various acts he perpetrated on their chosen targets. In fact, so far as Noyoki was concerned, the more—artistic—the better. Noyoki apparently had more reasons than one himself for choosing these women; Hadanelith had sensed a deep and abiding resentment, even hatred, for each of them. That was interesting, too. Hadanelith intended to continue watching Noyoki's thoughts for more such information. Information was power, and one could never have too much power.

  As for Kanshin, he was indifferent to the fate or plight of anyone except himself. Hadanelith found that attitude laudable as well as practical—and the exact opposite of those idiots from White Gryphon, who concerned themselves over the fate of every little social butterfly, slave, and useless leech.

  Together the two of them fit very neatly into his plan. Noyoki obviously wanted the envoys from White Gryphon discredited and disgraced at the very least, and possibly destroyed at the most. Kanshin wouldn't care what Hadanelith did as long as he continued to get paid.

  So now that some shadows had been cast over the reputations of the newcomers, Hadanelith would pour a little more fuel over the fire.

  Before Amberdrake died—and he would die, in disgrace and despair—Hadanelith would see that he suffered all the agonies that only so sensitive a person was capable of suffering.

  He had arranged via Kanshin to have some of Amberdrake's distinctive finery filched from the Palace laundry. Not enough of it to be missed, at least not immediately, but just enough to leave a few incriminating clues at the site of the next little exercise. Amberdrake's combination of Kaled'a'in styles and kestra'chern construction and luxury, with the specially woven fabrics and elaborate bead-fringes, were absolutely unique to him and him alone.

  Hadanelith took up a fine wood rasp and began smoothing the surface of the carving, smiling with anticipation. This would be so sweet, so very sweet! The next victim would be left bound and gagged as well as whatever else Noyoki wanted him to simulate, and the Haighlei would find the tantalizing little bits of evidence nearby, as if torn from the murderer's clothing. There was no way that they could mistake these things for something Haighlei—oh, no. They would be identifiable immediately as distinctly foreign, and then as distinctly in the style of no one else but Amberdrake.

  Suspicion would move from Skandranon—for the moment—to Amberdrake. Unlike Skandranon, however, it was not likely that Amberdrake would have any watchers to provide him with an alibi.

  There was one small flaw in this plan. It was just barely possible that Amberdrake would recall Hadanelith and his predilection for bindings and gaggings... and might remember that Hadanelith knew more about him than anyone else outside the White Gryphon delegation. It might occur to him to wonder if somehow Hadanelith had found his way here, to Khimbata, Shalaman's capital.

  But even if he did, there was still the large matter of convincing the Haighlei that Hadanelith could be the guilty party. His story of a mad kestra'chern banished into the wilderness, who had mysteriously transported himself to the capital to begin murdering high-ranked Haighlei, would be so ridiculous that no one would be foolish enough to give it credence. It would sound like something made up out of pure desperation—and not concocted very well, either.

  In fact, if I told myself my own story, I wouldn't believe it. Hadanelith giggled and continued to smooth the dense, dark wood with his rasp. No matter how logically he presents it, no one would ever believe a wild tale like that. He could bring all the witnesses he liked, and it would make no difference. No one here has seen me but my two partners, and my little playmates. My partners aren't likely to talk, and as for my playmates—unless someone here has the ability to speak with the spirits, they are otherwise occupied.

  He giggled hysterically at his own wit while he continued to work on his latest sculpture. Perhaps, when he didn't need it anymore, he would present this one to Noyoki.

  I may never come to truly understand these people, Amberdrake thought with resignation. Winterhart told him that he didn't need to understand them as long as he could follow the logic of their customs, but he had been a kestra'chern for too long to ever be content with anything that superficial. Life at Court had gotten back to a semblance of normalcy—as normal as it could be, with three murders being gossiped about, and foreigners under suspicion. Nevertheless, the Haighlei being what they were, custom, even in the face of murder, must be observed.

  Which meant that every night must contain Evening Court, and every Evening Court must be followed by an Entertainment. Tonight the Entertainment was a play, a very stylized play, accompanied by equally stylized music. Amberdrake had to admit that this one baffled him, even with his experience in all manner of entertainments. The actors wore heavy masks and their dialogue was chanted to the sounds of a drum and two particularly nasal-sounding instruments, one a stringed thing and one a reed flute. Their multicolored, multilayered costumes were so complicated that the actors had to move slowly when they could move at all. The scenery was sketchy at best—a plant in a pot represented the jungle, a screen invoked a bedroom, a spindly desk someone's office or study. The tiniest gesture of a finger was
supposed to convey entire volumes of information, but the gestures were so arcane that only an aficionado could ever decipher them. The result was that Amberdrake had given up even pretending to watch the play, and had moved away so that the music didn't give him a headache.

  He wasn't the only one ignoring the piece, however; it seemed that most of the Haighlei were doing the same. One wasn't required to sit and be a "proper" audience for this piece the way one was for a performance of the Royal Dancers, and little knots of conversation had formed all over the room. Only a few folk still sat on the cushions provided in front of the tiny stage. Either the rest of them already knew this thing by heart, or it was as annoying to the natives as it was to a foreigner.

  Very possibly the latter! he thought with amusement. It must be rather disheartening for the performers, however. Perhaps they were used to it. Perhaps they didn't care as long as they were paid. Or perhaps they were content to display their complicated art for the benefit of the few faithful. He managed to have a rather lively discussion with another envoy regarding the merits of several different massage-lotions for the treatment of aged joints, and he was looking for Winterhart when the musicians suddenly stopped in the middle of a phrase with a decidedly unmusical squawk, and the performance end of the room, where both Emperor Shalaman and "King" Skandranon were ensconced erupted into frenzied activity.

  Naturally, Amberdrake and everyone else at his end of the room hurried over to find out what the fuss was about, expecting it to be something minor—someone who'd been slighted or insulted by another courtier, perhaps, or even word of a dangerous lion attacking a village. King Shalaman was famous for his lion hunts, but he never hunted anything but man-killers, and there hadn't been one of those in several years. Amberdrake found himself shuffled right up to the front of the crowd with absolutely no expectation of trouble in his mind—just as a grim-faced Leyuet and his brace of Spears of the Law laid bloody evidence of yet another murder down in front of Shalaman and Skan.

  Amberdrake froze, as did everyone else within sight of the relics. There were bloodstained ropes and a ball-gag, torn clothing—

  And then Amberdrake's heart stopped beating completely, for among the evidence was a bit of beaded fringe that could only have come from one of his own costumes.

  No—no, it can't—

  His face froze into an expression of absolute blank-ness, and his mind went numb, as he recognized more of the bits of torn clothing as his own.

  This isn't possible!

  Fear clutched a chilling hand around his throat, choking off his breath, and he went cold as all eyes turned toward him. He was not the only one to have recognized those telltale bits of finery.

  How did that—where—how—His thoughts ran around like mice trapped in a barrel.

  Skandranon rose from his seat, his hackles raised and his eyes dilated with rage, as a murmur passed through the crowd. At that point the courtiers began to back away from Amberdrake, leaving him the center of a very empty space, the evidence of terrible murder lying practically at his feet.

  "These things—" Leyuet poked at the bead fringe, the torn cloth, with the end of his staff, "These things, clearly the property of the foreigner Amberdrake, were found with the body, oh King," he said stiffly, clearly continuing a statement he had begun before Amberdrake got there. "The bit of fringe was found in her hand. The death occurred at the afternoon recess, when Amberdrake dismissed his servants and there are thusly no witnesses to Amberdrake's whereabouts save only his own people—"

  Skandranon let out his breath in a long, startlingly loud hiss, interrupting Leyuet in mid-sentence. "I can vouch for Amberdrake's whereabouts," he said fiercely, yet with surprising control. "But I will do more than vouch for it." He faced Shalaman, who sat his throne as impassively as a carving. "If you suspect Amberdrake of murder despite that, then I must stand prisoner alongside him. Pray recall, Serenity, that you suspected me of these murders less than a week ago!"

  There was another murmur running through the crowd, this time of surprise mingled with shock, as Skandranon held up his head and challenged both the Emperor and Leyuet with his gaze. "I am as good as any of my fellows and companions from White Gryphon, and they are as trustworthy and law abiding as I. If their integrity is to be under question, then so must mine. I will offer my freedom in trust for their innocence."

  Skan's voice carried to the farthest reaches of the room, and Amberdrake managed to shake himself out of shock enough to look around to see the effect of those words. Oh, sun above, has Skandranon lost the last of his sanity? What is he doing...? The dumbfoundedness he saw on every face told him without any explanations how unheard of this kind of declaration was. Obviously, no Haighlei ruler would ever have stood personal surety for the honor of a subject; this went quite out of their understanding.

  But Urtho would have done the same—Skan raised himself to his full height, and Amberdrake realized that he was slimmer and more muscular than he had been a few weeks ago. He was changing somehow. Had the gryphon been exercising in secret? "Let it be known that the honor of those I trust is my honor!" he said, in the Haighlei tongue, clearly as the call of a trumpet. "This so-called evidence was concocted to cast suspicion upon one who is innocent, just as the other murders were accomplished in such a way as to cast suspicion on me! Amberdrake is innocent of any wrongdoing—and just as I urged the Spears of the Law to seek for the true perpetrator in the last murders, I urge them to do the same now! If you imprison him, you must imprison me as well, for I am as guilty or as innocent as he. I demand it! I stand by my companions, in honor and in suspicion!"

  Amberdrake nearly choked. Did Skan realize what he was saying? By these peoples' customs, he was linking his own fate with that of Amberdrake!

  Not that Urtho would not have done the same as well, but—but that was Urtho, Mage of Silence and Adept of more powers than Amberdrake could number!

  "And if it is proved that Amberdrake did murder, will you die beside him?" That was Palisar, as cagy and crafty as ever, making certain that Skandranon knew what he was doing with his assertions, so that he could not claim later that he was not aware of all of the implications.

  Skan snorted contemptuously. "No, of course not," the gryphon replied immediately. "That would be ridiculous. My friends and I are honorable, but we are not stupid. But if you could prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt and to my personal satisfaction, that he had done such a thing, I would deliver the death sentence upon him myself, and I would carry it out myself."

  The murmuring swelled to a low rumble, as Leyuet and Palisar stared at both Skan and Amberdrake, and the King blinked thoughtfully. Skandranon had now made it impossible to imprison Amberdrake and perhaps "question" him under torture to extract a spurious confession, yes, but—

  But has he lost his mind? Amberdrake was practically ready to gibber and foam at the mouth, although the shrieking voice was only in his own thoughts. Oh, he's been clever, all right—he's thinking on his feet—

  —and he moved like the old Skandranon, alive with a fire and an enthusiasm that could not be denied.

  But had he lost his reasoning to recklessness?

  And what about me? his thoughts wailed, as his knees turned weak with fear. They think I've committed murder, and there's no way to prove them wrong! We can't use magic, we haven't any way to hunt a criminal out, we're strangers here, and the natives aren't likely to look for one of their own when they have a convenient suspect! What am I going to do?

  Never mind that Skan had already been a suspect—he at least had solid alibis. Amberdrake had nothing. And whoever was behind these deaths was smart enough to see to it that things remained that way. Except for the first murder, when Amberdrake had been watching the Dance with the others, he had no alibi at all for the times those other deaths had taken place. He could be charged, not only with this murder, but with all the rest as well!

  What am I going to do? He wanted to run, but he knew he didn't dare even move. He felt horribly like a mou
se looking up at the talons of an owl. Anything he did could look suspicious at this point!

  As he stood there, frozen with fright and indecision, terror and shock, Skandranon continued to speak, taking the attention of everyone—even Leyuet—off of him. The removal of their multiplied regard freed him somewhat, and he felt the paralysis that had held his limbs weaken its hold over him, but he still didn't know what his very next action should be. How was he going to disprove all this? He was a kestra'chern, his skills didn't lie in investigation! And where was Winterhart? Had they already taken her into custody as an accomplice?

  Oh, Star-Eyed, if they've taken her and they're torturing her right now—Paralysis was replaced by panic.

  A gentle touch on his arm at that precise moment made him jump, and he began to shake as he turned. Now it came—despite anything Skan had said. Leyuet had sent Spears around to take him, arrest him, and carry him off under the cover of the crowd. They'd have a confession out of him in no time and—

  But it was not a frowning, brawny man who had touched him to get his attention. He turned to gaze into the face of, not a dark and forbidding stranger, but an oh-so-welcome, calm visage he knew just as well as the face in his mirror.

  "Silver Veil—what—is happening to—" he began, then forcibly shut his lips on what threatened to turn into hysterical babble as she laid a finger on her own lips.

  "Come with me," she said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and leading him to a side entrance of the Audience Chamber. "You and I must talk—and quickly."

  Zhaneel did not want to attend Court or the Entertainment, and she had a perfect excuse not to: the gryphlets. Makke was better company than all the courtiers rolled into a bundle.

  What was more, Makke was willing to help with them and more willing to learn about them than either of the "nursemaids."

  "So, you see?" Zhaneel said, as Makke wiped down the feathers of both gryphlets with a very lightly oiled cloth. "First the bath, then the drying, then the oil. When they are older, they will oil themselves like any bird, but for now we must do so for them. Otherwise, if their feathers get too wet, if they decided to go fishing in the fountain after dark, for instance, they could take a chill."