He waited; she suddenly realized by the stares and stir he created that he was standing near the door to the Audience Chamber, at the end of a cleared corridor that divided the courtiers into near-equal groups. She turned, met his eyes, and started. Silence descended, the heavy silence that falls whenever a mob senses drama.
"Oh, gods!" he shouted into the silence, clutching his robe melodramatically at his throat. "Oh, gods, it is true! I thought they were lying, I thought—"
He advanced toward her, where she stood at the foot of the platform holding the Emperor's bench. Shalaman might have been a statue; he neither stirred nor spoke. "You bitch!" he snarled. "You faithless dog, running to lick the hand of the first man who offers you a better bone and wallow at his feet! You mongrel cur! You—you—perchi!"
She stood staring at him, her eyes round and shocked, her mouth open in disbelief.
"It is not enough that I am accused of vile crimes I know nothing about!" he cried, his voice already hoarse with shouting. "It is not enough that I am a prisoner without a trial! It is not enough that you lose faith in me! But to run to fawn at the feet of him, to use this as an excuse to make yourself a queen—you are lower than a perchi! At least a perchi gives satisfaction for the money! You give nothing but hollow lies and false smiles, you feign what you cannot feel, and you don't even do it well!"
He went on with an extensive account of her faults, ranting graphically and at length about her failures as a lover. Finally she reddened, lost the look of utter shock, and he knew he was about to get as good as he had just given.
She was a lady—but she had worked in an army. She had worked among soldiers who saw no reason to temper their language around her, and she had tended gryphons, who were the earthiest creatures he knew. She was absolutely outraged and not thinking at all, and all she wanted to do was to strike back. By the time she was well wound up and in full voice, if he'd had a reputation left, it would have been in shreds.
He got caught up in her hysteria, which fed back to her, and only made the performance better. They railed at each other like a pair of gutter-whores, and for several agonizing moments he was afraid that he had done his work too well. She wasn't holding back—and she sounded as if she meant it all.
Then, just as his voice began to hold the intimation of real heartache, he caught a familiar sparkle in her eyes.
Relief nearly made him faint—which certainly would have been a dramatic ending to the fight, but not the one he'd intended!
End it now, before she starts laughing!
"I cannot bear this!" he cried, pulling out the knife he'd concealed in the breast of his robe. He raised it over his head—making the motion vague enough that it was open to interpretation whether he was going to kill himself or her.
It didn't matter; the King's bodyguards, specifically warned by the King to watch for this particular gesture, rushed at him, seized him and the knife, and bundled him out. He heard the King issuing orders over his screams to lock him in his rooms.
Now he had every reason in the world never to appear in public—as himself.
He was a kestra'chern, adept with costume and drama; he was confident that he could look like a dozen people, all very different from each other—and there were an unspecified number of new "diplomats" from White Gryphon who had just arrived. "Poor, mad Amberdrake" could stay locked in his suite. Someone else would join Judeth's people. Someone taller than Amberdrake, with austere tastes, funereal leather clothing, and a forbidding demeanor, whose slicked-back, dark hair (there were more uses for feather-dye than dyeing feathers) never escaped the mathematically-precise tail at the back of his neck. A personal bodyguard appointed for Skandranon—And he is going to love that! The King's two guards only manhandled him as long as they were all in sight of the courtiers. The moment that the doors closed on his private rooms, they released him with apologies.
He thanked them—and handed over the knife with a wink. "I'd rather you gentlemen had this—just in case someone asks what you did with it! I'm a dangerous fellow, you know, and you shouldn't leave me in possession of a weapon!"
They both grinned—showing very white, even teeth in extremely black faces; unlike most of the folk of Shalaman's land, their skin tone was a true black, with a bluish cast to it. "Thank you," said the taller of the two. "It would be like that idiot of a Chamberlain to ask that, in front of the Court!"
Amberdrake looked from one friendly face to the other, as something occurred to him. "You seem very—accommodating—to someone who's been accused of murder."
The tall one shrugged. "Here is our logic. The Emperor must believe that you are innocent, or why go through all this? If he believes that you are innocent, he must have brought in his Truthsayer, and for some reason, doubtless a reason that seems good to him, he has not made that public. That is enough for me."
The shorter fellow tossed the "confiscated" knife from hand to hand for a moment, before sheathing it in his belt. "Also—we have seen what was done to those women," the man pointed out. "And we have seen the rooms. Now, this might have been done by a mage—but you are not a mage, or you would have gotten rid of them in much subtler ways. It would have been much easier to have them drop over dead with no sign upon them. It might have been done by someone who was both a skilled thief and a skilled torturer, and while as a kestra'chern you have the knowledge to be a torturer, it takes a lifetime to learn the craft of the kestra'chern. Therefore, unless you are much, much older than you look, you could not also have become a skilled thief. It might have been done by several people working together—but there has never, during these murders, been a time when three out of the four of you have not had witnesses to prove where you were. I believe in my Emperor, and I believe in the power of the Truthsayer, but I also believe in logic."
Amberdrake had listened to this well-reasoned discourse with astonishment. This was a bodyguard?
"You have thought of all that, and you are only a bodyguard?" he blurted. "The gods forbid I should encounter a scholar!" The man laughed aloud.
"Not only a bodyguard, good kestra'chern Amberdrake," he said, with a little bow. "Also the son of King Sulemeth, the Emperor of Ghandai. This is my brother." He indicated the other guard, who bowed also. "This is how Shalaman and every other Haighlei Emperor preserves the peace among us and our lands—they all have sons who are their neighbors' personal bodyguards, as well as daughters who are Healers, Household Priestesses, Wives, or Consorts."
"But I thought—" Amberdrake began, confused, "I thought Shalaman had no wife, no children."
"Shalaman does not yet have sons and daughters by a Chief Wife and Consort," the man corrected with a smile, "But he does have them by the ten Priestess Year-Wives of the first decade of his reign, and that is sufficient to the purpose. Year-Sons and Year-Daughters can inherit if there is no heir by a Chief Wife."
"It is not wise to contemplate violence when your potential foe's sons are the men guarding your back, but this is neither the best time or place for a discussion of our customs. Now, let us leave you to your rest."
"Indeed." Amberdrake came back to his mission with a start. "Thank you for being so civilized."
The taller guard smiled again. "At first, you were thought to be barbarians. We who are at Shalaman's side are also his voices in matters that would be improper for him to speak of. All I can say is that you are not barbaric—you are civilized, only different. The time of Change is upon us all—even the Emperor."
Winterhart stormed into the bathing room just as he was putting the finishing touches on his disguise.
"You! You beast! You miserable dog!" she said, picking up the first thing that came to hand—which fortunately was a dish of soap and not the feather-dye. "You bastard!" She flung it at him; he ducked, and it smashed against the wall.
The single act of destruction seemed to run all of her rage out of her. "How could you?" she wailed, turning from anger to tears in a heartbeat. He froze in dismay; he'd thought she understood back there!
"How could you say those things? How could—"
"I could say them because I didn't mean them!" he cried, as her distress spilled over into him. "Oh ke'chara, how could you think I meant any of that?"
"But the things about—you know I'm sensitive about—" she dissolved into sobs, and he dropped everything he was holding to take her in his arms—leaving behind more shards of glass and pottery in his wake.
The moment he touched her, he was overcome by the same terrible grief, and for one moment, he could not shut it out. He was so used to leaving himself completely open to her it struck him like a great wave. Close up, close up now or you never will— It was a struggle, but he managed to close up his shields before he was overwhelmed and lost.
Think of her as a client, Drake—get her out of this. It's just hysteria and strain, she was close to laughing in the Audience Chamber, and that was as much hysteria as this is. Besides, she's had all this time to brood on it all, and you know how she makes things worse by brooding! Maybe you knew it was just a sham—but she didn't, not for certain, not at the time of the shock. No matter how much she trusts you, it was a shock and she couldn't be positive in her own mind that there wasn't some truth in what you said to her.
He calmed and soothed her with all the resources at his command, now very grateful that their daughter was nowhere nearby. This was the last way he'd want Windsong to see her parents, and as sensitive as she was, she might very well be affected by it all. Such small things as a child built one reaction upon another.
Gentle deflection while appearing to stay on the subject....
"You handled yourself well, lover. You stood in the midst of the Court and spoke your mind without fear. Now, no one will ever think you are hiding your true feelings. I don't see how anyone could! The breeze we feel tonight should be from their lips flapping!"
Finally he had her laughing again, mostly at the absurdity of the situation, at the shocked and avid expressions he'd seen on the courtiers' faces, at the effect the outburst had invoked in the staid and mannered life of the Haighlei Court.
"They looked as if we'd dropped a muck pile in the middle of the floor," he chuckled. "If this shocked them, I wonder what they would have thought of the tantrums some of Urtho's people used to pull in public?"
"Oh, you've quite driven every thought of the murders out of their minds, beloved," she said as he wiped her face with a damp cloth to remove all traces of tears, then led her back into the bedroom. "You've driven all thoughts of anything else out of their minds, at least for the next day or so. It was all they could talk about, and now I know who favors what faction, just by whether or not they came up to sympathize with me or politely gloat at my situation."
"Gloat?" he said. "The ones who don't want you as Consort, do you suppose?"
She nodded as they both sat down on the bed. Sunset had come and gone, and the usual evening breeze had sprung up, driving the stale humidity from the room. "And those very few, mostly women, who really don't believe that you're guilty and who think I'm everything you said about me for deserting you and taking the Necklace." She quirked an eyebrow at him, with just the faintest hint of jealousy. "You have quite a devoted following in some quarters. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they start showing up at your door, wanting to console you in your deep distress."
"Console me?" he said in dismay. "There are women who feel sorry for me and want to console me?" That was a possibility that hadn't occurred to him and it presented any number of unpleasant and inconvenient possibilities!
"Hadn't counted on that, hmm?" She was smiling smugly now, and didn't bother to hide it—probably in just retribution for what he had just put her through. "Oh, yes, I'm sure they'll be eager to console you, personally and intimately. However, the King's physicians have said you're mad and not to be trusted without a keeper. Theoretically, he has sent one to take charge of you, so no one is going to get in here unless you let him—or her—in."
He heaved a sigh of relief. Trust Shalaman to think of that! He knew his courtiers better than Amberdrake had suspected.
She blinked then and touched his hair as if she had only just that moment noticed it. "What's this?" she asked, startled. "You won't be able to show up in public like that—"
"Not as Amberdrake, but as Hawkwind, Skandranon's bodyguard, there shouldn't be a problem," he told her, and laughed. "Besides, this is a carrier version of the feather-dye. It washes right out again. I won't be able to swim or take a bath in public, but not everyone swims, and these people don't have public baths. I'll just hope it doesn't rain much. Come to think of it, I'd better have a hood with me."
"Why do this at all?" she asked. "We have enough people now. You don't need to go out in public."
"Three reasons." He sat back and stretched his shoulder muscles as he spoke, easing the tension out of them. "Skan should have a bodyguard, and he won't listen to anyone but me. Granted, he doesn't often listen to me either, but at least I have a better chance of getting through to him. Two, if I'm not here and an assassin comes calling, I won't be killed, and only the assassin would know I wasn't here. So anyone who would accuse me of sneaking out would be the assassin, or have hired one. Three, no one ever pays any attention to a bodyguard, as I just had brought home to me. I might hear or see something you and Skan don't, since you are Personages and I won't be."
She nodded, and added another reason. "Four, you're going crazy here, cooped up in these rooms."
"I hadn't wanted to mention that," he admitted, "But yes. You're right. It's very lonely here."
He hadn't intended to admit that, but somehow it came out. She blinked thoughtfully, and nodded.
"I can see that," she began, when there was a tapping on the door to the balcony.
Before either of them could answer it, the door opened, and the Black Gryphon stepped in, leaving the door ajar to let in more of the fresh breeze that followed him inside.
"I," he said to both of them, "am one frustrated gryphon."
Skandranon finished the third night of his patrols the way he had finished the first two; with empty talons.
Well, not quite empty—he had already caught three thieves this evening alone. One was not exactly a petty thief, either; he'd managed to scale one of the lesser treasure-towers, and was about to break in through a window hardly big enough to admit a child. Of course, since this man was either a dwarf or of some race that was naturally stunted, the window made a fine entrance. Since the thief was so small, he was able to comfortably snatch the small man from the wall. The Black Gryphon carried the man's tiny, terrified body to the proper authorities, whereupon the thief blurted out a full confession, as they all had. Leyuet's Spears had them all in custody, a neat arrangement so far as Skan was concerned.
He'd assumed that since magic wasn't working properly, their enemies couldn't be using it even to disguise their movement or hide themselves—and that his old night-combat and night-spying skills would be better suited to spotting the culprits from above than even the most experienced Haighlei guard from below. Whoever this was might not think about hiding himself from a watcher above him. Even Ma'ar's people, as accustomed as they were to dealing with gryphons, still occasionally forgot.
All it had netted him, though, was the common and not-so-common thief. No killers. Most of the little rats had not been any kind of threat physically.
Put a bedridden old woman with a cane against any of these clowns, and 1 would bet on the old woman to beat them senseless.
But he was not going to give up. For one thing, Drake was watching.
The fact that Amberdrake was still considered to be the person in charge of this whole operation still rankled, even though he agreed logically with it. It rankled even though he agreed emotionally—at least in part.
He just hated to think he'd been superseded, and worst of all, no one had asked him about it. They'd all just assumed it would be all right with him.
That was what left the really sour taste in his mouth.
&n
bsp; As he glided on still-rising thermals, circling with a minimum of wingbeats, it continued to rankle.
Drake is a terrific planner. Drake is a fine organizer. Drake knows what he's doing, and yes, I am a bit too reckless, as long as it's only my own neck I'm baring to the makaar's talon. But still—if they'd just asked me....
He probably would have said yes. He probably would have cheered. Now, it itched like an ingrown feather, and he couldn't stop obsessing on it.
Only a few days to the Eclipse Ceremony, and we still don't have our killer. That was his second ingrown feather. Shalaman can't marry Winterhart, so he can't ally with us that way. He can't declare us allies while we're still under suspicion. He can't declare us innocent, not without forcing the hand of our enemy in some way we probably won't like. Probably what would happen would be that he would just quit, leaving us with several corpses and no answers, but there are other things he could do—and Drake's histrionics should make him go after another victim before the Ceremony. He'll probably make it look as if I did it, since I'm making myself so conveniently obvious as a potential killer.
Wait a moment. What's this?
He turned a slow, lazy circle in the sky and peered down at the hint of movement below. There was something or someone climbing up the side of that tower—Now, it could have been a simie, one of those furry little creatures that looked so very human; normally they lived in some of the gardens and made the paintbox-birds miserable with their antics. But the simies often got out of their designated "areas" and went looking for something to do, some new mischief to get into, when they ran out of ways to torment the birds.
I thought the shadow looked too big to be a simie, though—heyla!
There he was....
Skan spiraled down, taking care not to betray himself with the flapping of wings, and drew nearer. Silence....
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