Purane rolled his eyes. "Relax, son. It wasn't a criticism of you. Mauritane is one of the best fighters I've ever encountered. If he went down easily then he may not be in the best fighting condition. That may bode ill for this… whatever it is that the Queen has entrusted to him."
"He appeared to be none the weaker for his imprisonment, father. Perhaps I simply got lucky."
"Enough," said Purane, his voice rising slightly. "What did you learn of his mission? Did he appear to have any prior knowledge of it?"
Purane-Es shook his head. "No, if anything he seemed baffled that the Queen would call upon him."
Purane nodded. "Yes, I expected as much." He ordered wine from a servant and then pointed a finger at Purane-Es. "Whatever you do, don't underestimate Mauritane," he said. "He's a dangerous man. He's brilliant, he's ruthless, and he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. He's also utterly devoted to Her Majesty, or at least he was before that business in Beleriand. Make no mistake, child. Mauritane rose to his captaincy through skill alone, and if you take him too lightly, you won't live long to regret it."
Purane-Es allowed the slightest snarl to touch his upper lip. "I'll try to remember that."
"See that you do."
The servant reappeared with a dust-covered bottle and uncorked it before them, pouring two glasses from a crystal serving set on the dining room's mantel.
Purane-Es inhaled the bouquet, swirling the dark purple wine in his glass. "Eb Elen?" he asked, as though guessing.
"Yes," said Purane, grinning at his son's talent. "How old?"
Purane-Es took a sip, swishing it in his mouth. "A guess. Twenty years?"
"There's one thing I will give you credit for, boy, and that's your knowledge of spirits." Purane's mood lightened.
"Speaking of Mauritane," he said, deliberately changing the subject, "I've got a question about the guest list at your latest extravagance."
Purane-Es sighed. "I assume you're referring to one guest in particular?"
"I am," said Purane. "Tell me, son. Why have you invited the Lady Anne? Is she not still married to the man?"
"She is indeed. But she is also noble-born, and he is not. If she wishes to divorce him, she has merely to say it, and it is done."
Purane's eye's widened. "Are you telling me that you intend to court her?"
"I am. And I intend to win her."
"To what end?"
"She was the ideal wife for a Captain of the Guard, father. And someday I hope to inherit that position."
Purane chuckled. "Son, sometimes I don't know whether to praise you or to damn you. You're nothing like your brother was."
Purane-Es's mood drained at the mention of Purane-La. "No, father. I'm nothing like him. Someday, though, I think you'll see that it's a good thing."
The Lady Anne sat primly in the sitting room of Cucu's boutique, pretending that she wasn't being ignored in the same way the Cucu was pretending not to ignore her. When she'd entered the shop, Cucu had shot her an amazed glance, then let her eyes drift past the Lady Anne to another customer. Anne was amazed at the difference a few brief years could make.
As a person of quality, it was tacitly agreed among the patrons and staff at establishments such as this that the Lady Anne should be seen before any merchant's daughter or alderman's wife. She was noble-born, and when she was the wife of the Captain of the Royal Guard, she was given the proper respect. Now she was the wife of a traitor and a criminal, and Cucu could barely countenance her presence.
While she sat, the fluttering that stirred in the Lady Anne's stomach grew to a tremor. She felt ill. Upon receiving the invitation from this Purane-Es, she'd naively thought that her troubles were simply and suddenly behind her. But the sidelong glances from the ladies in Cucu's fitting room spoke volumes against that notion. She wanted to take Purane-Es's invitation from her handbag and show it around the shop, shouting, "See this! I am still one of you! I still exist!" But that wasn't possible. They would all have to wait. And when they saw her at the arm of a Commander in the Royal Guard, a man of unblemished character and noble birth, there would be no cautious looks.
Or would there? Could there be any doubt of her status once she was feted thus? Certainly not. When that day came, just a few nights hence, they would all be smiling at her from behind their fans, asking her to dance in their reels, join in their songs. And then it would be her turn to look sideways. Mauritane be damned.
While she sat, touching her hair with a carefully bred carelessness, a man entered the shop, wearing the uniform of some low office in the Queen's Guard. No soldier, this one wore spectacles and had no braids to adorn his bald head. Someone's aide, no doubt.
The aide strode to Cucu as though he were her master and pulled her aside. They spoke in whispers, every so often glancing in the Lady Anne's direction. Cucu's eyes widened, and she gasped. The man bowed slightly and left as quickly as he'd entered.
"Is that the Lady Anne?" cried Cucu, clutching her hands to her chest. "My darling woman, it's been so long I didn't recognize you. Why didn't you say something?" Cucu took Anne's hands and guided her gently to her feet. "Let me look at you," she said. "Oh, now don't I feel like an idiot?" She clucked her tongue.
The Lady Anne stared blankly at her as she struggled to understand. "The man who was just here, who was he?" she asked, in as haughty a voice as she could manage.
"Oh, him? Just an aide belonging to Purane-Es. A little sprite tells me you're to be the guest of honor at his upcoming fete! I'm so delighted to hear it!" She nearly squealed in what passed for delight. Behind her eyes, Anne read fear and, as much as she hated to admit it, it pleased her.
Anne breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Oh, how they would regret having treated her so poorly. "Think nothing of your oversight, dear Cucu," she said. "I've been hiding out from the witchlight, just waiting for the perfect moment to reappear."
Cucu nodded heartily. "Come, dearie. I've got just the thing for you. Glamoured butterflies, little flowers along the hem that bloom when you dance. It will look perfect on your delightful figure."
The Lady Anne almost said it out loud. Mauritane be damned!
Chapter 21
the admiration of the novice! by the water's edge
"Silverdun! Behind you!"
Mauritane followed his warning cry with a sidelong thrust of his saber. The tip of his blade caught the advancing buggane in the side and it fell to the ground screeching. Silverdun wheeled around, saw that Mauritane had taken it, then continued his spin, planting his dagger in the belly of the creature in front of him.
The bugganes had attacked quickly, without warning. There were perhaps thirty of them. They fell from the treetops, bodkins in hand, their long, sharp teeth bared. They were dressed in tattered rags, with curly, matted hair and lumpy green skin protruding from every seam. Their only sounds were the low grunts of their attacks and the high-pitched squeal of their pain.
When they'd appeared, Mauritane had immediately dismounted and ordered the others to do the same. "Take the horses away from the fighting," he'd called to Satterly, tossing the reins in Satterly's direction as he drew his sword and knife.
From the relative safety of the rim of the small valley where they'd been ambushed, Satterly watched the combat with awe, hardly believing that he might someday take part in such an encounter. With the admiration of the novice, he mentally noted the vast differences in the fighting styles of each of his companions.
Silverdun was a trickster, not so much a swordsman. He would taunt and goad his opponent into a corner from which the creature could not maneuver, then pin him with a short, quick thrust. He cajoled and shouted at the creatures, constantly trying to keep them off balance.
Raieve's chief weapon was her speed. None of the bugganes could touch her; her thin blade whipped and flashed in the morning sun, always finding her enemy's blade before it could find her. She twirled and danced around two of them at once, picking away at them until they fell.
Gray Mave took
one buggane at a time, swinging his heavy sword almost like a cudgel. He was slow; but his blows, when they struck, were almost always lethal. His face was blank as he fought, years of martial training as a guard guiding his motions.
Satterly was impressed that Mauritane had somehow assembled what must have been the best team of swordsmen in all of Crete Sulace, not that he was an expert on such matters. How had he known how well their styles would interact? From where he stood, the fight was a foregone conclusion. The bugganes didn't stand a chance. Watching Mauritane, Satterly thought that he might have been able to take on all of the bugganes himself.
He watched Mauritane move, taking on three attackers at once while simultaneously ensuring that his companions were not surrounded or attacked from behind and guiding the melee away from where Satterly stood with the horses. Though it was difficult to see his face for all his movement, Satterly could swear that Mauritane looked almost pleased, as though fighting for him was like breathing for anyone else. He moved without apparent effort, whirling his blades around him with perfect fluid grace, as if he were demonstrating the art of sword fighting, rather than engaging in it.
"Try to remain uphill of them," Mauritane shouted, lashing out with an elbow that caught one of the creatures on the forehead, dropping it to the ground.
Gray Mave cried out, a low guttural sound, as his opponent caught him in the chest with a slash of its thin blade. Mauritane, not able to reach him, took his own attacker by the throat and lifted it off its feet like it was made of straw. He hurled the creature headlong toward where Gray Mave stood clutching his torso. The flying buggane slammed heavily into Mave's adversary. The two creatures' heads crashed together and blood sprayed from between them.
By then, only four of the bugganes remained. At some point, their leader had been slain and they began to fight warily, backing away rather than advancing. They started looking over their shoulders.
"Shall we let them run?" said Raieve, kicking one in the knees.
"No," said Mauritane. "Kill them all."
At that, two of the creatures began to flee. They were surprisingly swift. Silverdun hit one of them between the shoulder blades with his thrown dagger, but the other cut around behind a stand of trees and vanished.
"Streak!" shouted Mauritane. The horse cried out at Satterly's side and ran toward its master. Mauritane caught a stirrup with a raised left leg and swung his body astride the horse before the beast could stop. He kicked Streak forward, shouting, "Go!" He slapped the horse's flank with the flat of his sword.
"What's he doing?" shouted Satterly, as Gray Mave and Raieve finished off the remaining bugganes.
Silverdun shrugged. "I guess they made him angry."
Satterly watched as Mauritane chased the fleet creature, its long thin legs carrying it across the densely packed snow of the valley nearly as fast as Mauritane moved on horseback. Mauritane closed on it, came around slicing with his sword. The creature ducked, stumbled to the ground, and Mauritane fell on it, hacking with his blade.
When he returned, his chest was covered in the thick purplish blood of the thing.
"Why did you chase the creature down?" asked Raieve angrily. "It was retreating."
Mauritane wiped the blade of his sword on one of the fallen creatures' garments. "Bugganes travel in packs of up to a thousand. It wasn't retreating," he said. "It was going for reinforcements." He let the rag fall to the ground. "Gray Mave, how badly are you injured?"
"Not much more than a scratch," said Mave, touching the wound on his chest. "It got beneath the skin, but not by much."
"Put a poultice on it and watch it. The last thing we need is for you to die from an infected wound."
A strange look appeared on Gray Mave's face as he prodded the skin around his cut. "Yes, of course," he said.
"Good then," said Mauritane. "We need to get out of here. Quickly."
Satterly winced, looking to Mave for commiseration. Both of their backsides were beginning to ache from Mauritane's idea of quickness. They had been two days already in the Contested Lands, and Mauritane had allowed nothing faster than a trot. The gait caused no trouble for the more experienced riders, but Satterly and Gray Mave both had bruises on their thighs from the constant slapping of the saddle. When they complained, Mauritane said only, "Learn to ride properly and it won't be a problem."
Aside from a few bandits, who generally fled at the sight of five armed horsemen, and the current buggane encounter, they had encountered few living things of any kind in the Contested Lands. Their chief enemy, in fact, had been the weather.
"The air in many of the shifting places is much warmer than our current wintry clime," Silverdun had explained as they crossed into the Contested Lands. "That difference creates storms more massive than any you've ever seen."
He had not been exaggerating. The first night saw wind and hail, with stones the size of pebbles striking the tents, bringing Gray Mave's down on top of him. The second day it rained without cease, the storm carried in on a warm, humid breeze from some distant shifting place. The water soaked through even the best-oiled skins leaving their rations, their clothing, even their bedrolls damp. The second night had not been pleasant for anyone.
Now, as they rode away from the small valley, a brisk wind picked up from the south, drying the sweat from their foreheads, and the sun shone through the tangle of clouds overhead, lifting water vapor from every tunic and saddle blanket.
"Tell me again why we have to ride so slowly?" said Satterly, cursing under his breath. "Aren't we in a hurry here?"
Gray Mave nodded sympathetically. "Lord Silverdun must keep watch for the shifting places," he said.
Satterly winced. "I know, Mave. I was just complaining." He groaned. "Do you have anything in your bag for saddle sores?"
"Aye," said Mave. "A concoction my mother taught me the use of. It's effective enough, but it does smell very much like shit."
"I'll pass."
"Suit yourself."
"I don't know about the rest of you," said Raieve, "but I actually feel better. Anticipating an attack from an unknown enemy is worse than the fight itself, in my mind."
Silverdun nodded but said nothing. Since his encounter with Faella, he'd spoken little, hiding his disfigured face behind the hood of his cloak. When asked about it, he would say only, "I can't remove it," and something about that seemed to disturb him deeply.
Finally, Mauritane said, "I agree," though his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere as well.
Later in the afternoon they came upon a rocky outcropping with a flat top that had been kept free of snow and ice by the wind. Though darkness was still more than an hour away, he ordered the others to make camp while he and Silverdun studied the charts.
"I don't see how we can make Sylvan by Fourth Stag at this rate," Silverdun confessed, marking their estimated position on one of the maps. "It's Thirty-first Swan now. That leaves us only five days, and by this chart we're easily seven days out at our current speed."
"I feared as much," said Mauritane, lighting his pipe and drawing on it thoughtfully. "And that's assuming we cross the Contested Lands without further molestation."
"Right. I don't think we have any choice."
"You think we should try the shifting places?"
"I don't see how we can avoid it at this point. It's dangerous, but from the tone of the Chamberlain's letter, it would appear that our lot is even graver if we fail to reach Sylvan in time."
"Do you believe you can find the right places?"
Silverdun nodded slowly, the hood of his cloak hiding his eyes. "It will be difficult, and we'll have to ride even more slowly. But if we come across a suitable patch of torn land, we can make up the time in a few hours."
"Then I believe we have no other viable alternative. Start explaining to Mave and Satterly how to ride into a shifting place while I go for water with Raieve. There is a matter I must discuss with her."
Silverdun raised his head and looked directly at Mauritane. "A ma
tter?" he said, his lip turned up in a mischievous grin.
"Don't be coy, Silverdun," said Mauritane. "It ill suits you."
He rose and called out to Raieve, who had just finished raising her tent. "Come with me, Raieve. Bring the water skins. I believe I saw a stream as we approached." He pointed down a sloping hillside.
When they were away from the camp, he said, "Raieve, there is something we must discuss."
Raieve nodded. "Yes, I've thought so as well."
"Really?" said Mauritane. "We must not be speaking of the same matter. What is yours?"
Raieve bit her lip. "I… perhaps now is not the best time. I may have been mistaken."
Mauritane nodded and they walked in silence. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Sharp, proud, beautiful. A part of him ached to watch her.
"Say it anyway," said Mauritane. "Perhaps now is the best time."
Raieve looked at him. "I wanted to ask you. I'm merely curious." She bit her lip again, and Mauritane found that this tiny display of vulnerability on her part warmed his spirit.
"Yes?"
"I've noticed that you seem to be avoiding me. I wondered if perhaps I had done something to displease you."
Mauritane nodded slowly. "I'd like to say I don't know what you're talking about. That would be easier. But it would not be the truth."
It was Raieve's turn to nod. "So I have displeased you in some way."
"No!" said Mauritane, a bit louder than he had intended. "It's not that at all."
"What then?" She brushed her braids away from her face uneasily.
"It's difficult for me to discuss, Raieve, for many reasons. While we're on this mission, I am your captain, not your friend. It's not appropriate to discuss… personal matters."
"I think they should be discussed if they interfere with our working relationship, don't you?" Raieve raised an eyebrow.
"What do you want me to say, Raieve?" said Mauritane, stopping and turning to face her. "That I am attracted to you? That I watch you whenever you're not looking? That I wish things were different somehow?"
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