Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "No, m'lord," Kethry replied, as Tarma privately wondered what on earth a Companion could be. "These are Shin'a'in purebred saddlemares and geldings from the Dhorisha Plains."

  "Shin'a'in!" The man stepped back a pace. "Lord and Lady—how did you ever get Shin'a'in to part with them? I'd have thought they'd have shown you their sword-edge rather than their horses."

  "Easily enough—I'm blood-sister to the handler, there. I thought to bring a string up here and try our luck."

  "She's—Shin'a'in—?" The man gulped, and eased another footstep or two away, putting Kethry between himself and Tarma. Tarma wasn't certain whether to laugh or continue to look as if she didn't understand. The man acted like she was some kind of demon!

  "Oh yes," Kethry answered, "and Kal'enedral." She must have noted his look of blank nonrecognition, because she added, "Swordsworn."

  He turned completely white. "I—hope—excuse me, lady, but I trust she's—under control."

  "Warrior's Oath, she'enedra, what in Hell have they heard about us?" Tarma kept to her own tongue, as per the plan, and was keeping her face utterly still and impassive, but she knew Kethry could hear the suppressed laughter in her voice.

  "Probably that you eat raw meat for breakfast and raw babies for dinner," Kethry replied, and Tarma could see the struggle to keep her expression guileless in the laughter sparkling in her eyes.

  "Pardon—but—what's she saying?" The man eyed Tarma as if he expected her to unsheathe her blade and behead him at any moment.

  "That she noticed how much you admire the horses, and thanks you for the compliment of your attention."

  Tarma took care to nod graciously at him, and he relaxed visibly. She then turned her attention back to the horses. The corral seemed sizable enough to hold them comfortably; she'd been a little worried about that. Let's see—pump or well for the watering trough? And where would it be—ah! She spotted a pump, after a bit of looking. Good. One good thing about so-called civilization: pumps. Think maybe I might see if the Clans would agree to having a couple installed on the artesian wells....

  "Stand," she told Ironheart. The battlemare obediently locked her legs in position; it would take an earthquake to move her now. Tarma unslung the sword from her back and looped the baldric over the pommel of the saddle. "Guard," she ordered. That blade was a sweet one, and had been dearly paid for in her own blood; she didn't intend to lose it. Ironheart would see that she didn't.

  "You'd better tell your friend to stay clear of 'Heart or he'll lose a hand," she called to Kethry, then dismounted and vaulted over the fence into the stockade to water her other charges. That bit of bravado cost, too, but it was worth a bit of strain to put on a proper show. Tarma meant to leave these folks with their mouths gaping—for that meant that the highborns would hear of them that much sooner.

  :You're going to hurt in the morning,: Warrl observed. Thus far, the crowd's attention had been so taken up with the horses that they hadn't paid much heed to him. He'd stayed in the shadow of Ironheart, who was so tall that he didn't stand out as the monster he truly was.

  And—she couldn't tell, but he might well be exercising a bit of his own magic to look more like an ordinary herd dog. He'd hinted that he could do just that on the way here. Which was no bad idea.

  Tarma felt the strain of the muscles she'd used, and privately agreed with his critical remark about hurting. For every scar she bore on her hide, there was twice the scar tissue under it, where it didn't show—but it certainly made itself felt. Particularly when she started showing off.

  But they were drawing a bigger crowd by the moment; the onlookers murmured as the loose horses crowded around her, shoving their heads under her hands for a scratch, or lipping playfully at her hair. She laughed at them, pushed them out of the way, and got to the pump. As she began to fill the trough, they pushed in to get at the water, and she rebuked them with a single sharp "Nes!" They shied and danced a bit, then behaved themselves.

  Tarma had been doing some serious training with them on the trail—knowing that once they were in Rethwellan she would have to be able to command them by voice, for if they spooked, she, Kethry, and Warrl would not be enough to keep them under control. Her ability to keep them in line seemed to impress their audience no end. She decided to go all out to impress them.

  She picked out one of the herd mares she'd been working with far more than the others, and called her. The chestnut mare pricked her ears, and came to the summons eagerly—she knew what this meant; first a trick from her, and then a treat was in store. Tarma ordered the others out of her way, then raised her hand high over her head. The mare stepped out away from her about fifteen paces, then as Tarma began to turn, followed her turn as if she was being lunged.

  Except there was no lunging-rein on her.

  At a command from Tarma she picked up to a trot, then a canter; after traveling all day, Tarma was not going to ask her to gallop. At a third command she stopped dead in her tracks. At the fourth, she reared—

  The fifth command was "Come—" and meant a piece of dried apple and a good scratch behind the ears. She obeyed that one with eager promptitude.

  The spectators, now thick on the fence, applauded, The horses flickered their ears nervously, but when nothing came of the noise, went back to watching Tarma, hoping for treats themselves.

  Tarma was pleased—more than pleased. Everything was going according to the plan they'd mapped out. "Patience, children," she told the rest. "Dinner should be here soon."

  Their ears flickered forward nearly as one at that welcome word, and they continued to watch her with expectation in their soft, sweet eyes.

  And within moments, the beast-market attendants did appear, with the hay and sweet-feed Tarma had told Kethry to order—and more than that—

  She saw carrots poking out of more than one pocket Hmm. This was gratifying, if it was evidence of the fact that the attendants were taken with the looks of the string—but it could also be an attempt on the part of some other horsebreeder to poison her stock.

  :I'm checking, mindmate.: the voice in her head told her.

  "Keth, tell the younglings over there to hold absolutely still. I think they just want to treat the children, but Warrl's going to check for drugging just in case."

  Kethry called out the warning, and the attendants froze; the whole crowd froze when they saw Warrl's great gray body moving toward them. Now they could see just how huge he was—his shoulder came nearly to Tarma's waist—and how much like a wolf he looked. Tarma took advantage of the situation to vault the fence again, and begin relieving the attendants of their burdens. Warrl sniffed the feed over, then checked the youngsters themselves and the treats they'd brought.

  :They're fine, mindmate,: Warrl told her, cheerfully. :And about ready to soil themselves if I sneeze.:

  Tarma laughed, and patted the one next to her on the head as she took his bale of hay away from him. "They're all right, Keth. Urn—tell them to wait until I've finished, then they can give the children their treats so long as they stay out of the corral. I don't want anybody in there; they get spooked, and it'll take half a day to calm them down again. And tell them we won't need any nightwatchers, that Warrl will be guarding them when I'm not here—that should prevent anybody even thinking about drugging them."

  Warrl sprang over the fence with a single, graceful leap. The horses, of course, were so used to his presence that they totally ignored him, being far more interested in their dinner. With a fence between themselves and Warrl, the attendants calmed down a bit.

  Tarma completed her task, and (with an inward wince) vaulted the fence a third time, to return to where Ironheart still stood, statue-firm.

  "Rest," she said, and the battlemare unlocked her legs, and reached around to nuzzle at her rider's arm. The others were getting fed; she wanted her dinner.

  "Hungry, jel'enedra?" Tarma murmured, letting her have the handful of sweet-feed she'd brought with her. "Patience, we'll be at the inn soon enough."

&nb
sp; She cast a glance over at Kethry's companion. His eyes were taking up half of his head.

  "Warrl, would you mind staying—"

  :If you send me a nice haunch of pig as soon as you get there.:

  "And a half-dozen marrowbones already cracked; you deserve it." She swung up into her saddle, and turned to Kethry, who was smiling broadly enough to split her face in two. "So much for the barbarian dog and pony show, she'enedra," she said, stifling a chuckle. "Tell these nice people they can go home, and let's find our inn, shall we?"

  "So how barbarian do you want me to look?" Tarma asked her partner, as they strolled down the creaking wooden stairs of the inn to the dimly lit common room. "And what kind? The aloof desert princeling, the snarling beast-thing, what?"

  "Better stick with the aloof desert princeling; we don't want these people afraid to have you near the Court," Kethry chuckled. Tarma was plainly enjoying herself, willing to act any part to the hilt. "Brood—that always looks impressive, and you've certainly got the face for it."

  "Oh, have I now!" They were continuing to speak in Shin'a'in between themselves; it was better than a code. The likelihood of anyone knowing Tarma's tongue, here in a country where tales of Shin'a'in were obviously so outlandish that they feared the Swordsworn, was nil.

  The common room went absolutely silent as they entered. Tarma stepped in first, looking around sharply, as if she expected enemies to emerge from beneath the tables. Finally she gave a quick nod as if to herself, stepped aside, and motioned Kethry to precede her. She kept a casual hand on the hilt of the larger of her daggers the entire time. She'd wanted to wear her sword, but Kethry had argued against the idea; now she was glad she'd won. If Tarma had worn anything larger than a dagger, she might well have caused a panicked exodus! As it was, the impression she left was a complicated one; that she was very dangerous and suspicious of everyone and everything, that she and Kethry were equal, but that she also considered herself in charge of Kethry's safety.

  It was a masterful performance, carefully planned and choreographed to avoid a problem before it could come up. The people of the primary religious sect of Rethwellan took a dim view of same-sex lovers, and the partners were doing their best to make that notion, which was inevitably going to occur to someone, seem a total absurdity. This touch-me-not bodyguarding act Tarma was putting on was hopefully going to do just that—among other things.

  They took a table with seats for two in a far corner. Tarma motioned for Kethry to take the seat actually in the corner, then took the outer seat so that she would stand (or rather, sit) between Kethry and The Rest Of The World. Kethry signaled the waiter while her partner turned her own chair so that the back was up against the wall, and finally sat down. Tarma continued to watch the room from that vantage, broodingly, while Kethry placed orders for both of them. Conversation started back up again once they were seated, but Kethry noted that it was a trifle uneasy, and most of the diners kept one eye on Tarma at all times.

  "They think you're going to start a holy war any second, she'enedra," Kethry said, finally.

  "Good," her partner replied, folding her arms, leaning back against the wall beside their table, and continuing to watch the room with icy, hooded eyes. "I hope this act of mine gets us prompt service; I'm about to eat the candle."

  "Now, now, I thought you were being princely."

  "I am—but I'm a hungry prince."

  At just that moment, a serving wench, shaking in her shoes, brought their orders. Tarma looked at the cutlery, sniffed disdainfully, and drew the smaller of her daggers, cutting neat bits with it and eating them off the point. After a look of her own at the state of the implements they'd been given, Kethry rather wished the part she was playing allowed her to do the same.

  They were nearly finished when the innkeeper himself, sidling carefully around Tarma, came to stand obsequiously at Kethry's elbow. She allowed him to wait a moment before deigning to notice his presence. This was in keeping with the rest of the parts they were playing—

  For although they had arrived in dusty, well-worn traveling leathers—Tarma's being all-too-plainly armor, Kethry's bearing no hint of her mage-status—they were now dressed in silks. Kethry wore a kneelength robe, of an exotic cut and a deep green, and breeches of a deeper green; Tarma wore Shin'a'in style wrapped jacket, shirt, and breeches—in black. With them, she wore a black sweatband of matching silk confining her short-cropped hair, and a wrapped sash holding her two daggers of differing sizes, a black silk baldric for the sword that she had left in the room above, and black quilted silk boots. Her choice of outfitting had stirred uneasy feelings in Kethry, but Tarma had pointed out with irrefutable logic that if the Captain was to hear of two strangers in Petras, and have that outfit described to her, she would know who those strangers were. And she would know by the sable hue that Tarma was expecting her Captain to be in trouble—possibly in need of avenging.

  Their clothing was clearly the most costly (and certainly the most outre) in the room, and this was (dubious eating utensils notwithstanding) not an inexpensive inn. They wanted their presence to be known and commented on; they wanted word to spread. Ideally it would spread to Idra, wherever she was; if not, to the ear of the King.

  "My lady," the innkeeper said, in tones both frightened and fawning, tones that made Kethry long for their old friend Hadell of the Broken Sword, or plain, genial Oskar of the Bottomless Barrel. "My lady, there is a gentleman who wishes to speak with you."

  "So?" she raised an elegant eyebrow. "On what subject?"

  "He did not confide in me, my lady, but—he wears the livery of the King."

  "Does he, then? Well, I'll hear him out—if you have somewhere a bit more—private—than this."

  "Of a certainty, if my lady would follow—" He bowed, and groveled, and at length brought them to a small but comfortably appointed chamber, equipped with one table, four chairs, and a door that shut quite firmly. He bowed himself out; wine appeared, in cleaner vessels than they had been favored with before this, and finally, the visitor himself.

  Kethry chose to receive him seated; Tarma stood, leaning against the wall with her arms folded, in the shadows at her right hand. Their visitor gave the Shin'a'in a fairly nervous glance before accosting Kethry.

  "My lady," he said, bowing over her hand.

  Kethry was having a hard time keeping from laughing herself sick. The right corner of Tarma's mouth kept twitching, sure sign that she was holding herself in only by the exertion of a formidable amount of willpower. This liveried fop was precisely the degree of lackey they had hoped to lure in; personal servant to the King, and probably a minor noble himself. He was languishing, and vapid, and quite thoroughly full of himself. His absurd court dress of pale yellow and green with the scarlet and gold badge of the King's Household on the right shoulder was exceedingly expensive as well as in appallingly bad taste. There was more than a little trace of a more careful toilette than Kethry ever bothered with in his appearance. His carefully pointed mouse-brown mustaches alone must have taken him an hour to tease into shape.

  "My lord wishes to know the identity of two such—fascinating—strangers to our realm," he said, when he'd completed his oozing over Kethry's hand. "And what brings them here."

  "I shall answer the second question first, my lord," Kethry replied, with just a hint of cool hauteur. "What brings us, is trade, purely and simply. But not just any trade, I do assure you; no, what we have are the mounts of princes, princes of the Shin'a'in—and we intend them to grace the stables of the princes of other realms. The horses we have brought are princes and princesses themselves—as I am certain you are aware."

  "Word—had reached my noble lord that your beasts were extraordinary—"

  "They are creatures whose like no one here has ever seen. It is only through my friendship with the noble Tarma shena Tale'sedrin, the Tale'sedrin of Tale'sedrin, that I was able to obtain them."

  His glance lit again upon Tarma, who was still standing in the shadows behind Keth
ry. She moved forward into the light, inclined her head graciously at the sound of her name, and said in Shin'a'in, "I also happen to be the only Tale'sedrin other than you, but we won't go into that, will we?"

  "My companion tells me she is pleased to make the acquaintance of so goodly a gentleman," Kethry said smoothly, as Tarma allowed the shadows to obscure her again. "As for myself, I am Kethryveris, scion of House Pheregul of Mournedealth, a House of ancient and honorable lineage."

  From the blankness of his gaze, Kethry knew he'd never even heard of Mournedealth, much less her House—which, so far as she was concerned, was all to the good.

  "A House of renown, indeed," he said, covering his ignorance. "Then, let me now tender my lord's words. I come from King Raschar himself." He paused, to allow Kethry to voice the expected murmurs of amazement and gratification. "He heard of your wondrous beasts, and wishes to have his Master of Horse view them himself—more than view them, if what rumor says of them is even half the truth. And since you prove to be more than merely common merchants, he would like to tender you an invitation to extend your visit to Petras in his Court, that he may learn of you, and you of him."

  "And you may end up in the bastard's bed, if he likes your looks," murmured Tarma from the darkness.

  "Tell your lord that we are gratified—and that we shall await his Master of Horse with eagerness, and will be more than pleased to take advantage of the hospitality of his Court."

  More smooth nonsense was exchanged, and finally the man bowed himself out. They waited, holding their breaths, until they were certain he was out of earshot—then collapsed into each other's arms, helpless with stifled laughter.

  "Goddess! 'Tale'sedrin of Tale'sedrin' indeed! That great booby didn't even know it was a clan name and not a title!" Tarma choked. "Isda so'trekoth! You know what my people say, don't you? 'Proud is the Clanchief. Prideful is the Clanchief of a two-member clan!'"