Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "Laid it on good and thick, didn't I?" Kethry replied, wiping tears out of her eyes. "Goddess bless, I didn't know I had that much manure in me!"

  "Oh, you could have fertilized half a farm, 'my la-dy.'" Tarma gasped, imitating his obsequious bow. "Bright Star-Eyed! Here—" she handed Kethry one of the goblets and poured it full of wine, then took a second for herself. "We'd better get ourselves under control if we're going to get from here to our room without giving the game away."

  "You're right," Kethry said, taking a long sip, and exerting control to sober herself. "There's more at stake than just this little game."

  "Hai'she'li. This is just the tail of the beastie. We're going to have to get into its lair to see if it's a grasscat or a treehare—and if it's got Idra in its mouth."

  "And I just realized something," Kethry told her, all thought of laughter gone. "We know the new King's name, but we don't know which of the brothers he is. And that could make a deal of difference."

  "Indeed, ves'tacha," Tarma replied, her eyes gone brooding in truth. "In very deed."

  At dawn Tarma relieved Warrl of his watch on the horses, and amused herself by first going through a few sword drills, then working them, much to the titillation of the gawkers. Toward noon, Kethry (who had been playing the aristo, rising late, and demanding breakfast in bed) put in her appearance. With her was a pale stranger, as expensively dressed as their visitor of the previous evening, but in much better taste. He, too, wore the badge of the King's Household on his right shoulder. By his walk Tarma would have known him for a horseman. By the clothing and the badge, she knew him for the Master of the King's Horse.

  And by the appreciation in his eyes, Tarma knew him for a man who knew his business. She heaved a mental sigh of relief at that; she'd half feared he might turn out to be as big a booby as the courtier of the night before. It would have cut her to the heart to sell these lovelies to an ignoramus—but if she refused to sell, they'd lose their cover story.

  She had been taking the horses out of the corral, one at a time, and working them in a smaller pen. Most of them she did work on a lunge—there were only a handful among the thirty she could work loose, the way she had the chestnut. She had a particularly skittish young buckskin gelding out when Kethry and her escort arrived, one she needed to devote most of her attention to. So after taking a few mental notes on the man, she went back to work.

  He spent a long time looking over the herd as a whole, and all in complete silence.

  :This is a good one, mindmate,: Warrl said, from his resting place under the horse trough. :He smells of soap and leather, not perfume. And there's no fear in him, nor on him.:

  "Kathal, dester'edre," she told the buckskin, who kept wanting to break into a canter. "What else can you pick up from him?"

  :Lots of horse-scent, and not a trace of horse-fear.:

  "For'shava."

  After a time the Master of Horse left his post at the corral, and took up a nearly identical stance at the fence of the pen where she was working the buckskin. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, appraisingly. He was older than she'd first thought. Medium height, dark eyes, dark hair, beard and mustache—his complexion would be very white if not for his suntan—muscles in his shoulders that made his tunic leather stretch when he moved. His sole vanity seemed to be a set of matching silver jewelry: fillet, torque, bracelets, all inset with a single moonstone apiece. He leaned comfortably on the fence, missing nothing she did. Finally, he spoke to Kethry, who was standing at his side, dressed for the day in a cleaner and far more expensive set of the leathers she'd worn to ride in yesterday. Sewen had not spared the Company coffers when it had come time to outfit them for their ruse.

  "I understood that your companion was working the horses yesterday without a lunge...."

  "Only a few of the horses are schooled enough to work that way at the moment," Kethry said smoothly, "although eventually all of them could be trained so. Do you wish to see her work one of them now?"

  "If you would both be so kind."

  Kethry leaned over the fence. "You heard him, she'enedra; is Master Flutterby there ready to pause?"

  The buckskin was obeying now, having tried to fret himself into a froth. Tarma halted him, then gave him a quick rubdown, and led him out. This time she called up a gentle dappled gelding—one she was rather glad hadn't been chosen by a Sunhawk. He was so good-natured—he really wasn't suited to a battlefield, but he was so earnest he'd have broken his heart or a leg trying to do what was asked of him.

  She didn't even bother to take him into the pen, she worked him in the open, then mounted him bareback, and put him through a bit of easy dressage. When she slid off, the Horsemaster approached; she kept one hand on the dapple's neck and watched as he examined the animal almost exactly as she would have. The dapple, curious, craned his head around and whuffed the man's hair as he ran his hands gently down the horse's legs, rear, then front, then picked up a forefoot. At that, the man grinned—a most unexpected expression on so solemn a face—and held out his hand for the dapple to smell, then rubbed his nose, gently.

  "Lady," he spoke directly to Tarma, though he must have been told she didn't speak the language—a courtesy as delicate as any she'd ever been given, "I would cheerfully sell the Palace to purchase these horses. For once, rumor has understated fact."

  "I think he's rather well hooked, she'enedra," Kethry said, pretending to translate. "How is he as a horseman? Can you feel happy letting them go to his care?"

  Tarma gave that slight bow of respect to him, and allowed a hint of a smile to cross her face. "I'm pleased, Warrl's pleased, and have a look at Dust, if you would."

  The dapple's eyes were half-closed in pleasure as the Horsemaster continued to scratch under his loose halter.

  "I think it's safe to say that they'll be in good hands. See if you can wangle a deal with him that will include me as a temporary trainer; that will give us another excuse to linger."

  "My companion is gratified by your praise, my lord," Kethry said to him, "and impressed with your knowledge; she says she believes she could not find one to whose care she would be more willing to entrust her beasts."

  Again, that unexpected smile. "Then, if you would care to return with me, I believe we can agree to something mutually pleasing. Since you will be selling into the King's household, there will be no merchant taxes. And I think—" He gave the dapple's forehead a last scratch. "—I think perhaps that I shall keep this one out of his Majesty's sight. I have my pick of the King's stables, but only after he has taken his choice. It is a pity a mount this intelligent is also so beautiful."

  "Do you suppose you can come up with a distractor, Tarma?"

  "Do I? I think so!" She led the dapple back into the pen, and walked into the center of the herd to bring out the one horse of the lot that was mostly show and little substance—a lovely gelding with a coat of gold, a mane and tail of molten silver, and without a jot of brains in that beautiful head. Fortunately, he was reasonably even of temper as well as being utterly gentle, or there'd have been no handling him.

  He'd been included in the lot sent to the Sunhawks although if he'd had a bit less in the way of good looks he'd have been counted a cull. Tarma had gotten the notion that Idra might like a parademount, and had asked her people to be on the lookout for a truly impressive beast of good temper; for parade, brains didn't matter. You couldn't have told his beauty though, except by his lines and the way he carried himself. That was because he was filthy from rolling in the dust—which he insisted on doing when any opportunity presented itself.

  Tarma went to work on him with brushes, as he sighed and leaned into the strokes. He was dreadfully vain, and he loved being groomed. Tarma almost suspected him of dust-rolling on purpose, just so he'd get groomed more often. As the silver and gold began to emerge from under the dirt, the Horsemaster exclaimed in surprise. When Tarma was done, and paraded the horse before him, he smacked his fist into his palm in glee.

  "By the
gods! One look at him and his Majesty won't give a bean for the gray! I thank you, my ladies," he bowed slightly to both Kethry and her partner, "and let us conclude this business as quickly as may be! I won't be easy until these beauties are safely in the Royal Stables."

  As he and Kethry returned the way they had come, Tarma turned the gold loose in the stockade—where he promptly went to his knees and wallowed in the dirt.

  "You," she laughed at him, "are hopeless!"

  By twilight they were installed, bag and baggage, in the Palace, in one of the suites reserved for minor foreign dignitaries.

  It had all happened so fast that Tarma was still looking a little bemused. Kethry, who knew just how quickly high-ranking courtiers could get things accomplished when they wanted to exert themselves, had been a bit less surprised.

  She and the Master of Horse had concluded their bargain in fairly short order—and to her satisfaction, it had been at his suggestion that Tarma was retained for continued training. No sooner had a price been settled on and a writ made out to a reputable goldsmith, than a stream of thirty grooms and stable hands had been sent to walk the horses from the corral at the stockyard to the Royal Stables, each horse to have its own handler. The Horsemaster was taking no chances on accident or injury.

  When Kethry returned to the inn, there were already three porters waiting for her orders, all in the Royal livery. They were none too sure of themselves; Tarma (still in her barbarian persona) had refused them entrance to the suite, and was guarding the door as much with her scowl as her drawn sword.

  They allowed the porters to carry away most of their belongings, the ones that didn't matter, like some of that elaborate clothing. Tarma's armor and weaponry (including a few nasty little surprises she definitely did not want anyone to know about), Need, their trail gear, and the few physical supplies Kethry needed for her magecraft they brought themselves, in sealed saddlebags. They rode Hellsbane and Ironheart; Kethry had no intention of chancing accidents with a trained battlemare. "Accidents" involving a Shin'a'in warsteed generally ended up in broken bones—and not the horse's.

  More obsequious servants met them once the mares were safely stabled, and again, Kethry made it plain to the stable crew that only Tarma was to handle their personal horses. To enforce that, they left Warrl with the mounts, provided with his own stall between the ones supplied to the two mares. One look at the kyree was all it took to convince the stablehands that they did not wish to rouse the beast's ire. That was where Tarma and Kethry left their real gear, the things they would truly need if they had to cut and run, and between Warrl and the horses, it would be worth a person's life to touch it.

  But as they crossed the threshold of the Palace, a curious chill had settled over Kethry, a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. Her good humor and faint amusement had vanished. The Palace seemed built of secrets—dark secrets. Their mission suddenly took on an ominous feeling.

  The suite, consisting of a private bathing room, two bedrooms, and an outer public room, all opulently furnished in dark wood and amber velvet, had been a good indication that their putative status was fairly high. The two personal servants assigned to them, in addition to the regular staff, had told them that they ranked somewhere in the "minor envoy" range. This was close to perfect: Kethry would be able to move about the Court fairly freely.

  Now Tarma was immersed to her neck in a hot bath; Kethry had already had hers, and was dressing in her most impressive outfit for there would be a formal reception for them in an hour.

  Tarma did not look at all relaxed. Kethry didn't blame her; she'd been increasingly uneasy herself.

  "There was no sign of Gray in the stables, and I looked for him," Tarma called abruptly from the bathing room. Gray was Idra's gelding; a palfrey, and not the Shin'a'in stallion she rode on campaign. "No sign of Hawk tack, either. It's like she's been long gone, or was never here at all."

  Kethry heard splashing as her partner stood; and shortly thereafter the Shin'a'in emerged from the bathing room with a huge towel wrapped about herself. They'd turned down an offer of bath attendants; after one look at Tarma's arsenal, the attendants had seemed just as glad.

  "If she's been here, we should find out about it tonight. Especially after the wine begins to flow. Do I look impressive, or seducable?" Kethry glided into Tarma's room, and turned so that her partner could survey her from all angles.

  "Impressive," Tarma judged, vigorously toweling her hair.

  "Good; I don't want to have to slap Royal fingers and get strung up for my pains."

  Kethry's loose robes were of dark amber silk, about three shades darker than her hair, and highnecked, bound at the waist with a silk-and-gold cord. At her throat she wore a cabochon piece of amber the size of an egg; she had confined her hair into a severe knot, only allowing two decorous tendrils in front of her ears. The robes had full, scalloped in edged sleeves that were bound with gold thread. She looked beautiful, and incredibly dignified.

  Tarma was dressing in a more elaborate version of her black silk outfit, this one piped at every seam and hem with silver; she had a silver mesh belt instead of a silk sash, and a silver fillet with a black moonstone instead of a headband confining her midnight hair.

  "You look fairly impressive, yourself."

  "I don't like the feel of this place, I'll tell you that now," Tarma replied bluntly. "I've got my Kal'enedral chainmail on under my shirt, and I'm bloody well armed to the teeth. I'm going to stay that way until we're out of here."

  Kethry rubbed her neck, nervously. "You, too?"

  "Me, too."

  "You know the drill—"

  "You talk and mingle, I lurk behind you. If I hear anything interesting, I cough twice, and we get somewhere where we can discuss it."

  All their good humor had vanished into the shadows of the Palace, and all that was left them was foreboding.

  "I don't suppose that Need..."

  "Not a hint. Just the same as back at Hawksnest. Which could mean about anything; most likely is that the Captain is out of the edge of her range."

  "I hope you're right," Tarma sighed. "Well, shall we get on with it?"

  Closing the door on the dubious shelter of their suite, they moved, side by side, deeper into the web of intrigue.

  Six

  Perfume, wine, and wire-tight nerves. Musk, hot wax, and dying flowers. The air in the Great Hall was so thick with scent that Tarma felt overpowered by all the warring odors. The butter-colored marble of the very walls and floor seemed warm rather than cool. Lighted candles were everywhere, from massed groupings of thin tapers to pillars as thick as Tarma's wrist. The pale polished marble reflected the light until the Great Hall glowed, fully as bright as daylight. The hundreds of jewels, the softly gleaming gold on brow and neck and arm, the winking golden bullion weighing down hems sparkled like a panoply of stars.

  It was not precisely noisy here—but the murmuring of dozens, hundreds of conversations, the underlying current of the music of a score of minstrels, the sound of twenty pairs of feet weaving through an intricate dance—the combination added up to an effect as dizzying as the light, heat or scent.

  Carved wooden doors along one wall opened up onto a courtyard garden, also illuminated for the evening—but by magic, not candles. But few moved to take advantage of the quiet and cool garden—not when the real power in this land was here.

  If power had possessed a scent, it would have overwhelmed all the others in the hall. The scarlet-and-gold-clad man lounging on the gilded wooden throne at the far end of the Great Hall was young, younger than Tarma, but very obviously the sole agent of control here. No matter what they were doing, nearly everyone in this room kept one eye on him at all times; if he leaned forward the better to listen to one of the minstrels, all conversation hushed—if he nodded to a lady, peacock-bright gallants thronged about her. But if he smiled upon her, even her escort deserted her, not to return until their monarch's interest wandered elsewhere.

  He was not partic
ularly imposing, physically. Brown hair, brown eyes; medium build; long, lantern-jawed face with a hard mouth and eyebrows like ruler-drawn lines over his eyes—his was not the body of a warrior, but not the body of a weakling, either.

  Then he looks at you, Tarma thought, and you see the predator, the king of his territory, the strongest beast of the pack. And you want to crawl to him on your belly and present your throat in submission.

  :Unless,: the thin tendril of Warrl's mind-voice insinuated itself into her preoccupation, :just unless you happen to be a pair of rogue bitches like yourself and your sister. You bow to your chosen packleader, and no one else. And you never grovel.:

  The brilliantly-bedecked courtiers weren't entirely certain how to treat Kethry and her black-clad shadow—probably because the King himself hadn't been all that certain. Wherever they walked, conversation faltered and died. There was veiled fright in the courtiers' eyes—real fright. Tarma wondered if she hadn't overdone her act a bit.

  On the other hand. King Raschar had kept his hands off the sorceress. It had looked for a moment as if he was considering chancing her "protector's" wrath—but one look into Tarma's coldly impassive eyes, (eyes, she'd often been told, that marked her as a born killer) seemed to make him decide that it might not be worth it.

  Tarma would have laid money down on the odds she knew exactly what he was thinking when he gave her that measuring look. He could well have reckoned that she might be barbarian enough to act if she took offense—and quick enough to do him harm before his guards could do anything about her. Maybe even quick enough to kill him.

  :The predator recognizes another of his kind.:

  Tarma nodded to herself. Warrl wasn't far wrong. If this was highborn life, Tarma was just as glad she'd been born a Shin'a'in nomad. The candlelight that winked from exquisite jewels also reflected from hollow, hungry eyes; voices were shrill with artificial gaiety. There was no peace to be found here, and no real enjoyment. Just a never-ending round of competition, competition in which the smallest of gestures took on worlds of meaning, and in which they, as unknown elements, were a very disturbing pair of unexpected variables.