The only members of this gathering that seemed to be enjoying themselves in any way were a scant handful of folks, who, by the look of them, were not important enough to worry the power-players; a few courting couples, some elderly nobles and merchants—and a pair of men over in one corner, conversing quietly in the shadows, garbed so as to seem almost shadows themselves, who stood together with winecups in hand. They were well out of the swirl of the main action, ignored for the most part by the players of this frenetic game. When one of the two shifted, the one wearing the darkest clothing, Tarma caught a good look at the face and recognized him for the Horsemaster. He had donned that impassive mask he'd worn when he first looked the horses over, and he was dressed more for comfort than to impress. Like Tarma he was dressed mainly in black—in his case, with touches of scarlet. His only ornaments were the silver-and-moonstone pieces he'd worn earlier.
The other man was all in gray, and Tarma could not manage to catch a glimpse of his face. Whoever he was, Tarma was beginning to wish she was with him and the Horsemaster. She was already tired to the teeth of this reception.
Although Tarma usually enjoyed warmth, the air in the Great Hall was stiflingly hot even to her. As she watched the men out of the corner of her eye, they evidently decided the same, for they began moving in the direction of one of the doors that led out into the gardens. As they began to walk, Tarma saw with a start that the second man limped markedly.
"Keth, d'you see our friend from this afternoon?" she said in a conversational tone. "Will you lay me odds that the fellow with him is that Archivist?"
"I don't think I'd care to; I believe that you'd win." Kethry nodded to one of the suddenly-tongue-tied courtiers as they passed, the very essence of gracious calm. The man nodded back, but his eyes were fixed on Tarma. "Care for a breath of fresh air?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
They made their own way across the room, without hurrying, and not directly—simply drifting gradually as the ebb and flow of the crowd permitted. They stopped once to accept fresh wine from a servant, and again to exchange words with one of the few nobles (a frail, alert-eyed old woman swathed in white fur) who didn't seem terrified of them. It seemed to take forever, and was rather like treading the measures of an intricate dance. But eventually they reached the open door with its carvings and panels of bronze, and escaped into the cool duskiness of the illuminated gardens.
Tarma had been prepared to fade into the shadows and stalk until she found their quarry, but the two men were in plain sight beside one of the mage-light decorated fountains. They were clearly silhouetted against the sparkling, blue-glowing waters. The Archivist was seated on a white marble bench, holding his winecup in both hands: the Horsemaster stood beside him, leaning over to speak to him with one booted foot on the stone slab, his own cup dangling perilously from loose fingers.
The partners strolled unhurriedly to the fountain, pretending that Kethry was admiring it. The Horsemaster saw them approaching; as Tarma watched, his mouth tightened, and he made a little negating motion with his free hand to his companion as the two women came within earshot.
But when they continued to close, he suddenly became resignedly affable. Placing his cup on the stone bench, he prepared to approach them.
"My Lady Kethryveris, I would not have recognized you," he said, leaving his associate's side, taking her hand in his, and bowing over it. "You surprise me; I would have thought you could not be more attractive than you were this afternoon. I trust the gathering pleases you?"
"A... remarkable assemblage," Kethry replied, allowing a hint of irony to creep into her voice. "But I do not believe anyone introduced me to your friend—?"
"Then you must allow me to rectify the mistake at once." He led her around the bench, Tarma following silently as if she truly was Kethry's shadow, so that they faced the man seated there. The fountain pattered behind them, masking their conversation from anyone outside their immediate vicinity.
"Lady Kethryveris, may I present Jadrek, the Rethwellan Archivist."
For some reason Tarma liked this man even more than she had the Horsemaster, liked him immediately. The mage-light behind them lit his features clearly. He was a man of middle years, sandy hair going slightly to silver, his face was thin and ascetic and his forehead broad. His gray eyes held an echo of pain, and there were answering lines of pain about his generous mouth. That was an odd mouth; it looked as if it had been made expressly to smile, widely and often, but something had caused it to set in an expression of permanent cynicism. His gray tunic and breeches were of soft moleskin, and it almost seemed to Tarma that he wore them with the intent to fade into the background of wherever he might be.
This is a man the Clans would hold in high esteem—in the greatest of honor. There is wisdom in him, as well as learning. So why is he unregarded and ignored here? No matter what Idra said—I find it hard to understand people who do not honor wisdom when they see it.
"I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Jadrek," Kethry said, softly and sweetly, as she gave him her hand. "I am more pleased because I had heard good things of you from Captain Idra."
Tarma felt for the hilts of her knives as inconspicuously as she could, as both men jerked as if they'd been shot. This had not been part of the plans she and Kethry had discussed earlier!
The Archivist recovered first. "Are you then something other than you seem, Lady Kethryveris, that you call the Lady Idra 'Captain'?"
Kethry smiled, as Tarma loosened the knife hidden in her sleeve and wished she could get at the one at the nape of her neck without giving herself away.
Damn—I can't get them both—Keth, what the hell are you doing?
"In no way," her partner replied smoothly. "I am all that I claim to be. I simply have not claimed all that I am. We hoped to find the lady here, but strangely enough, we've seen no sign other."
Keth—Tarma thought, waiting for one or both of the men to make some kind of move,—you bloody idiot! I hope you have a reason for this!
The Horsemaster continued to stare in taut wariness, and Tarma had a suspicion that he, too, had a blade concealed somewhere about him. Maybe in his boot? The Archivist was eyeing them with suspicion, but also as if he was trying to recall something.
"You... could be the chief mage of the Sunhawks. You seem to match the description," he said finally, then turned slightly to stare at Tarma. "And that would make you the... Scoutmaster? Tindel, these may well be two of Idra's fighters; they certainly correspond with what I've been told."
The Horsemaster pondered them, and Tarma noted a very slight relaxation of his muscles. "Might be... might be," he replied, "But there are ways to make certain. Why does Idra ride Gray rather than her warhorse when not in battle?" He spoke directly to Tarma, who gave up pretending not to understand him.
"Because Black enjoys using his teeth," she said, enjoying his start of shock at her harsh voice, "and if he can't take a piece out of anything else, he'll go for his rider's legs. She's tried kicking him from here to Valdemar for it, and still hasn't broken him of it. So she never rides him except in a fight. And if you know about Black, you'll also know that we almost lost him in the last campaign; he took a crossbow bolt and went down with Idra on his back, but he was just too damned mean to die. Now you tell me one; why won't she let me give her a Shin'a'in saddlebred to ride when she's not on Black?"
"Because she won't start negotiations with clients on a bad footing by being better-mounted than they are," the Archivist said quietly.
"I taught her that," the Horsemaster added. "I told her that the day she first rode out of here on her own, and wanted to take the best-looking horse in the stable. When she rode out, it was on a Karsite cob that had been rough-trained to fight; it was as ugly as a mud brick. When did she lose it?"
"Uh—long before we joined; I think when she was in Randel's Raiders," Kethry replied to the lightning-quick question after a bit of thought.
"I think perhaps we have verified ea
ch other as genuine?" Tindel asked with a twisted smile. Jadrek continued to watch them; measuringly, and warily still.
"Has Idra been here?" Kethry countered.
"Yes; been, and gone again."
"Keth, we both know there's something going on around here that nobody's talking about." Tarma glanced at the two men, and Tindel nodded slightly. "If we don't want to raise questions we'd rather not answer, I think we'd better either rejoin the rest of the world, or drift around the garden, then retire."
"Your instincts are correct; as strangers you're automatically under observation. It's safe enough to mention Idra, so long as you don't call her 'Captain,'" Tindel offered. "But I should warn you that we two are not entirely in good odor with His Majesty—Jadrek in particular. I might be in better case after tomorrow, when he sees those horses. Nevertheless it won't do you any good to be seen with us. I think you might do well to check with other information sources before you come to one of us again."
Tarma looked him squarely in the eyes, trying to read him. Every bit of experience she had told her he was telling the truth—and that now that the approach had been made, it would take a deal of courting before they would confide anything. She looked down at Jadrek; if eyes were the "windows of the soul" his had the storm shutters up. He had identified them; that didn't mean he trusted them. Finally she nodded. "We'll do that."
"Gods!" Tindel swore softly. "Of all the rabbit-brained—women!" He didn't pace, but by the clenching of his hand on his goblet, Jadrek knew that he badly wanted to. "If anybody had been close enough to hear her—"
"If they're what they say they are, they wouldn't have pulled this with anyone close enough to hear them," Jadrek retorted, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as his left knee shot a spasm of pain up his leg. "On the other hand, if they aren't, they might well have wanted witnesses."
"If, if, if—Jadrek—" Tindel's face was stormy.
"I still haven't made up my mind about them," the Archivist interrupted his friend. "If they are Idra's friends, they're going about this intelligently. If they're Raschar's creatures, they're being very canny. They could be either. We haven't seen or heard of the pretty one so much as lighting a candle, but if she's really Idra's prime mage, she wouldn't. Char surely knows as much about the Hawks as we do, and having two women, one of them Shin'a'in Swordsworn, show up here after Idra's gone off into the unknown, must certainly have alerted his suspicions. If the other did something proving herself to be a mage, he wouldn't be suspicious anymore, he'd be certain."
"So what do we do?"
Jadrek smiled wearily at his only friend. "We do what we've been doing all along. We wait and watch. We see what they do. Then—maybe—we recruit them to our side."
Tindel snorted. "And meanwhile, Idra..."
"Idra is either perfectly safe—or beyond help. And in either case, nothing we do or don't do in the next few days is going to make any difference at all."
"Next time just stop my heart, why don't you?" Tarma asked crossly when they reached their suite. She shut the door tightly behind them and set her back against it, slumping weak-kneed at having safely attained their haven.
"I acted on a hunch. I'm sorry." Kethry paused for a fraction of a second, then headed for her bedroom, the soft soles of her shoes making scarcely a sound on the marble floor. Her partner followed, staggering just slightly as she pushed off from the door.
"You could have gotten us killed," Tarma continued, following the mage into the gilded splendor of her bedroom. Kethry turned; Tarma took a good look at her partner's utterly still and sober expression, then sighed. "Na, forget I yelled. I'm a woolbrain. There were signs you were reading that I couldn't see, is that it?"
Kethry nodded, eyes dark with thought. "I can't even tell you exactly what it was," she said apologetically.
"Never mind," Tarma replied, reversing a chair to sit straddle-legged on it with her arms folded over the back and her head resting on her arms, forcing her tense shoulder muscles to relax. "It's like trailreading for me; I don't even think about it anymore. First question; can you find other sources?"
"Maybe. Some of the older nobles, like that old lady who talked to us; the ones who weren't afraid of you. Most older courtiers love to talk, have seen everything, and nobody will listen to them. So—" Kethry shrugged, then glided over to the bed, slipping out of the amber robe and draping it over another chair that stood next to it. Fire and candle light glinted from her hair and softened the hard muscles other body. "—I use a little kindness, risk being bored, and maybe learn a lot."
"I guess I'll stick to the original plan then; work the horses, play that I don't understand the local tongue, and keep my ears open," Tarma wasn't sure anymore that this was such a good plan, certainly not as certain as she had been when they first rode in. This place seemed full of invisible pitfalls.
"One other thing; there's more than a handful of mages around here, and I don't dare use my powers much. If I do, they'll know me for what I am. Some of them felt pretty strong, and none of them were in mage-robes."
"Is that a good sign, or a bad?"
"I don't know." Kethry unpinned her hair and shook it loose, then slipped on a wisp of shift—supplied by their host—and climbed into her bed. The mattress sighed under her weight, as she settled under the blankets in the middle: then she sat up, gazing forlornly at her partner. She looked like a child in the enormous expanse of featherbed—and she looked uncomfortable and unhappy as well.
Tarma knew that lost expression. This place was far too like the luxurious abode of Wethes Goldmarchant, the man to whom Kethry's brother had sold her when she was barely nubile.
Kethry plainly didn't want to be left alone in here. They also didn't dare share the bed without arousing very unwelcome gossip. But there was a third solution.
"I don't trust our host any farther than I could toss Ironheart," she said, standing up abruptly, and shoving the chair away with a grating across the stone floor. "And I'm bloody damned barbarian enough that nothing I do is going to surprise people, provided it's weird and warlike."
With that, she stalked into her bedroom, stripped the velvet coverlet, featherbed and downy blankets from the bedstead, and wrestled the lot into Kethry's room, cursing under her breath the whole time.
"Tarma! What—"
"I'm bedding down in here; at the foot of your bed so the servants don't gossip. They've been watching me bodyguard you all day, so this isn't going to be out of character."
She stripped to the skin, glad enough to be out of those over-fine garments, and pulled on a worn-out pair of breeches and another of those flimsy shifts, tossing her clothes on the chair next to Kethry's.
"But you don't have to make yourself miserable!" Kethry protested feebly, her gratitude for Tarma's company overpowering her misgivings.
"Great good gods, this is a damn sight better than the tent." Tarma laughed, and laid her weapons, dagger and sword, both unsheathed, on the floor next to the mattress. "Besides, when the servants come in to wake us up, I'll rise with steel in hand. That ought to give 'em something to talk about and distract them from who we were associating with last night. And—"
"And?"
"Well, I don't entirely trust Raschar's good sense if his lust's involved; for all we know, he's got hidden passages in the walls that would let him in here when I'm not around. Hmm?"
"A good point," Kethry conceded with such relief that it was obvious to Tarma that she had been thinking something along the same lines. "Arc you sure you'll be all right?"
Tarma tried her improvised bed, and found it better than she'd expected. "Best doss I've had in my life," she replied, wriggling luxuriously into the soft blankets, and grinning. "You'd better find out what happened to Idra pretty quick, she'enedra. Otherwise, I may not want to leave."
Kethry sighed, reached up for the sconce beside her, and blew out the candle, leaving the room in darkness.
The following day Tarma managed to frighten the maids half to death, r
ising from the pile of bedding on the floor with sword in hand at the first sound of anyone stirring. The younger of the two fainted dead away at the sight of her. The other squeaked and ran for the door. They didn't see that maid again, so Tarma figured she had refused to go back into their suite; defying any and all punishments. The other girl vanished as soon as Kethry revived her, and they didn't see her again, either, so she probably had done the same. The next servants to enter the suite were a pair of haglike old crones with faces fit to frighten fish out of water; they attended to the cleaning and picking up of the suite, and took themselves out again with an admirable efficiency and haste. That was more like what Tarma wanted out of servants; the giggly girls fussing about drove her to distraction at the best of times, and now—well, now she wasn't going to take anything or anyone at face value. Those giggly girls were probably spies—maybe more.
Kethry heaved a sigh or two of relief when they saw the last of the new set of servitors.
Hell, she's an old campaigner; she knows it, too. Gods, I hate this place.
After wolfing down some bread and fruit from the over-generous breakfast the second set of servants had brought, Tarma headed off to oversee the further training of the horses, concentrating on the gold and the dapple. The gold she wanted schooled enough that he wouldn't cause his rider any problems; the dapple she wanted trained to the limits of his understanding. She hoped that might sweeten the Horsemaster's attitude toward them.
She kept her ears open—and as she'd hoped, the stable folk were fairly free with their tongues while they thought she couldn't understand them. Besides several unflattering comments about her own looks, she managed to pick up that Idra had gone off rather abruptly, but that her disappearance had not been entirely unexpected. Her name was coupled on more than one occasion with the words "that wild-goose quest." She learned little more than that.
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