Sword of Waters

by Hilari Bell

  “I’ll bet he believed it,” said Weasel, looking at Marfus’ hopeful face. “Even in this day and age, every priest I’ve talked to thinks those three comets a couple of months ago were a portent. Of course, they were all remarkably vague about what it was a portent of.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Edoran. “There was an earthquake when I was born—I’m told my mother was quite alarmed. Anyway, half the priests and all the old wives in the palace claimed it was a portent that I’d do great things. Either that or die horribly. They couldn’t make up their minds.”

  Weasel’s face sobered suddenly. “Do you remember your mother?” he asked the prince. “At all?”

  “A little, I think,” said Edoran. “But I might be imagining that. My father used to tell me about her.”

  And he clearly remembered his father well, though he’d been only six when the king’s horse had fallen and then rolled on its rider.

  “Anyway,” said Edoran, moving down the line to another picture, “this is the man during whose reign the sword and shield were lost.”

  Arisa gazed up at Regalis’ clever, familiar face. “Why is he the only king who holds them himself?”

  “No one knows,” said Edoran. “But this is the last portrait in which the sword and shield appear, so I thought you’d want to see it. There are other portraits of Regalis too. The palace practically crawls with them.”

  “There’s one on the main landing,” said Weasel. “And another over the fireplace in the ballroom.”

  “He probably wanted to show off his clothes to posterity,” said Arisa contemptuously. The shoes in this portrait had rubies in the heels.

  “He must not have loved his clothes too much,” said Weasel, eyeing the portrait critically. “In the story where he loses the sword and shield gambling, he lost everything else first, even his smallclothes, and walked home from the tavern nak—”

  “That can’t be true,” said Arisa. “If nothing else, he could have sent someone for a coach and clothing.”

  “The story said it was the middle of the night,” Weasel told her. “But I agree, it doesn’t sound likely. And he wouldn’t have taken the sword and shield to a tavern in the first place, so it’s probably all rot.”

  “Not all of it,” said Edoran. “He is the king who lost the sword and shield, however it happened.”

  “That wasn’t all he lost,” said Arisa, gazing up at the king who had also lost the country folk’s respect. “If the sword and shield aren’t in any other portraits, he probably lost them soon after this was painted. If we can find out when that was, it might give us a date!”

  “The approximate date is well known,” Edoran told her. “The sword and shield vanished sometime in the third week of Rish, in the second year of Regalis’ reign. Some of the kings in later portraits are holding swords, but it’s never the sword.”

  Weasel stepped back a few paces, gazing at the portrait to Regalis’ left. “Regalis doesn’t look much like his father. In fact, he doesn’t look like any of the previous kings.”

  “Not all men look like their fathers,” Arisa said. “I don’t look like my mother. I bet Regalis takes after his mother.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Edoran. “There’s a portrait of her in the blue salon, and she’s small and plump and very fair.”

  “So maybe he resembles her father,” said Arisa. “Or one of her other ancestors.”

  “You could be right,” Edoran admitted. “But I’m afraid my father agreed with Weasel; he thought that the line of Deor’s descendents was broken here.”

  “Why?” Arisa asked. “Just because he doesn’t look like his parents is no reason to assume—”

  “It was more than that,” Edoran told her. “The old king’s advisers detested the queen. She was… She evidently wasn’t a responsible person. Regalis took after her that way, at least. He was a terrible king.”

  He didn’t seem upset about it, and Weasel eyed him curiously. “So you think you’re descended from Regalis, and not Deor at all? That doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’m descended from my father,” Edoran said proudly. “And he was a fine king. He’d have been one of the great ones, if he hadn’t died.” He looked wistfully toward the last portrait in the line.

  Weasel took advantage of a rumble of thunder to lean close to Arisa’s ear and murmur, “That’s easy to say, since it can’t be proved.”

  If Arisa’s father had kept journals, she’d have read them. And he’d been a good naval officer too.

  “I’ve heard nothing but good about the king,” she replied to both Weasel and Edoran. “So you may very well be right.”

  Edoran smiled at her. “He wasn’t perfect. He could get lost in his studies and forget things—both cabinet meetings and promises to his son. But he’d have been a good king, no matter who his ancestors were. And I’m descended from Deor, anyway.”

  Weasel glanced up at Regalis’ portrait. “How could you be, if the line of descent was broken with him?”

  “I had two parents,” Edoran reminded them. “One of the things my father did before he came to the throne was track down King Deor’s other descendants, to ask them about their family history and stories.”

  “His other descendants?” Arisa asked. “Who besides them…?” She gestured at the line of paintings.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Weasel. “I’ll bet old Marfus alone produced dozens of kids.” He turned to the prince. “So how are you related to Deor?”

  “Through my mother,” said Edoran. “My father met her when he was tracking down the other descendants. My mother’s family weren’t even shareholders any longer, since her line came through a couple of younger sons. The whole court was scandalized when my father married the second daughter of a minor baron, but he told the court that King Deor’s blood should be good enough for anyone. Of course he also said, in his journal, that at this point half the realm probably carries some of Deor’s blood. I think he’d have married her no matter who her ancestors were.”

  Weasel was looking cynical again, so Arisa said swiftly, “That’s very romantic. But it doesn’t get us closer to the sword. What’s the next step, research-wise?”

  Edoran visibly shook off the past. “I thought that since it’s going— That is, if the weather’s decent, we could ride out to the university and look at the records of the official investigation. My father didn’t think much of it, but it might give us some ideas.”

  “That sounds good,” said Arisa. “There might be other documents from that time too.”

  “Probably more than you want,” said Edoran. “My father took me there sometimes when I was little. I don’t remember much, but there were lots and lots of papers.”

  To a six-year-old, “lots and lots” could be a stack two inches high, but Arisa didn’t say this. Separated from his courtiers, alone in this cold, quiet gallery, she was finding Prince Edoran less… obnoxious than she’d expected.

  His gaze had gone back to Regalis. “He was a bad king,” the prince said softly. “But I always felt sorry for him. I wondered if maybe he didn’t want to be king…”

  He stopped speaking, but the silent “either” at the end of the sentence was as clear as if he’d shouted it.

  Arisa woke well before dawn the next morning. Her bedroom was hot, and under the thick blankets she was roasting. Hadn’t she cracked the door open?

  Pulling on her slippers, Arisa went over to the balcony door. Shut tight. She must have forgotten to brace it open, for she’d been both troubled and puzzled when evening court finally drew to a close.

  The stares and whispers that had followed her were uncomfortable—though she hadn’t minded being snubbed by Danica and Ronelle’s friends.

  But watching Edoran, surrounded by the usual crowd of courtiers, she had finally seen past the glowing jewels and smiling faces. Edoran had mostly looked bored.

  Arisa flung the door wide and stepped out onto the balcony. Soon she would be cold, and glad to return to her bed,
but for now the cool air felt wonderful.

  The moon shone through the scattered clouds, frosting the long lawns, the barren flower beds, and the slates of the stable roof. It was lovely, though much tamer than the forest and country fields she’d grown up with. If she’d been raised here, as Edoran had, it would probably seem perfect.

  Did he mean what he said, about not wanting to be king?

  Arisa frowned. He’d been wrong about Regalis—that overdressed popinjay had adored being king. At least the flattery that came with it, if not the work. Once she’d been certain that Edoran was the same, but now she wasn’t sure.

  When she’d first seen him he’d been dressed as richly as Regalis, though in a modern style, and cringing with fear as her mother held him at pistol point.

  Of course, Weasel had brought the shield into a state dinner, which she now knew you had to dress up for. And while Arisa had known that her mother wasn’t going to shoot the prince unless she had to, he might not have known that.

  But if he did have some spine, why hadn’t he fought Pettibone himself? Why hadn’t he pardoned Justice Holis, as Weasel had begged him to? And supported the conspirators who’d plotted Pettibone’s overthrow?

  There are times when a body can’t fight, Yallin’s voice echoed in her memory.

  Arisa leaned on the balcony rail, scowling at the moon-silvered park. If the cause was important, you had to fight! Even if you couldn’t win. Even if…

  Something cold and clammy was sticking to her arm. Mud. There was mud on her balcony railing. How had it gotten there?

  Now that she was looking for it, Arisa saw more mud between the posts to one side, right where someone would step off the vines that clung to the wall, and then swing their feet over the rail to where Arisa stood. Reaching down, she found fresh mud on some of the vines as well.

  Those vines were one of the reasons she’d approved of this room—she’d liked knowing that if she ever wanted to sneak out, she could.

  But she didn’t like the idea of someone sneaking in! Had someone gone through her room while she was asleep?

  Arisa wrapped her arms around herself, and her sudden chill had nothing to do with the honest night air.

  She hadn’t been harmed. And the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that someone could have gone through her bedroom without waking her.

  If you climbed onto her balcony railing, you could step up onto the wide sill of Katrin’s window, and if you inched along that, you could step off onto the next balcony, and then the next, all down that side of the building. There were several places where the vines were sturdy enough to climb.

  Arisa’s lips twitched. This was probably the nighttime version of the servants’ stair. Most of the servants lived in the city and came into work in the morning, but the upper servants were supposed to live in the palace, ready for a summons to duty at anytime—the palace’s doors and the gates into the grounds were locked at night.

  If someone had found her balcony door open, they might well have shut it to keep her from hearing the vines rattle as they climbed down.

  Still, Arisa went inside and closed the door behind her. Later in the morning she’d have to find the key, or some other way to secure it. And then convince Katrin not to build up the fire in the evening. If, of course, Katrin was still her maid.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Book: the creations of man’s intellect, both good and ill. Knowledge, scholarship, and the affairs of men.

  Unfortunately, Katrin was still her maid. She showed up just before dawn, carrying a pair of britches and a jacket that looked like a footman’s uniform, though none of the footmen were as small as Arisa. Had they shrunk in the wash? There hadn’t been time to have anything made.

  Arisa decided that as long as she could fence in them she didn’t care, and she thanked Katrin politely.

  Katrin, who hadn’t said one word all morning, sniffed frostily.

  Arisa sighed.

  Fencing was the same as the day before, except that instead of fencing with her, Master Giles simply corrected her and Weasel’s exercises—and she felt even sorrier for the prince.

  Yallin had her work on fancy stitches, and Arisa spent most of the lesson staring out the window at the hovering clouds. If their expedition to the university depended on clear weather, they weren’t likely to go today, whatever the prince had thought.

  But shortly after luncheon the overcast began to break up. By the time her etiquette teacher finished, patches of sun were breaking through.

  Arisa returned to her room. Slipping her arms out of her sleeves and sucking in her stomach, she managed to pull her dress around so she could unfasten it—no need to summon Katrin. She could get into her riding habit by herself!

  But holding the heavy skirt in her arms, she hesitated. It was even more voluminous than most of her gowns, in order to conceal the slit skirt, and it was cut longer to keep from showing too much of her legs when she sat in the saddle. It was almost as bad as hoops for restricting her movement.

  Hang it! Arisa decided. Katrin had taken her fencing shirt to be washed, but the britches and jacket still hung in her wardrobe.

  Arisa chose a more feminine blouse to go with them, and thought she looked… well, not proper, but quite fetching.

  Besides, countrywomen often wore britches for rough work, and she was going to work, after a fashion.

  She strode down the corridors to the stable, ignoring the shocked or amused looks sent her way. There were fewer such looks than there had been that first morning. If she wore nothing but britches for a week, no one would think twice about them, but that was… not a bad idea, actually.

  Arisa walked into the muddy stable yard, with plots for a clothing rebellion blooming in her mind.

  The prince had evidently remembered their plan; three horses waited in the yard, saddled and ready. The neat mare Edoran favored wore the prince’s gold-embroidered saddlecloth, and at the mare’s side stood the sluggish gelding Weasel rode and a fiery chestnut mare that was Arisa’s favorite mount—with a regular saddle, not the sidesaddle she’d refused to ever use again after the first time she’d tried it.

  She went up to the mare, taking the reins from the groom, who stood on the horse’s other side. “Hello, Honey-girl. Did you miss me yesterday?”

  In fact, Honey hated to get wet, but she pranced and snorted warm breath into Arisa’s face—and if that wasn’t horse-language saying she’d missed their ride, it was plenty close enough.

  Arisa laughed, gathering the reins and inserting one foot into the high stirrup, but a pair of firm hands on her rump boosted her into the saddle before she could pull herself up.

  A groom was supposed to cup his hands for a lady to step into, or at worst discreetly grip her waist to hoist her up. Arisa turned and then gasped at the familiar craggy face beaming up at her.

  “Lady’s supposed to wait for a groom t’ help her. Don’t you know that?”

  “Sammel!” Arisa exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I thought… Did Justice Holis change his mind?”

  One of the first disagreements between Justice Holis and her mother had been about the fate of the bandit-rebels her mother had led. The Falcon had wanted them to replace the palace guardsmen who’d been loyal to the old regent—and thus found themselves out of work after his death.

  Arisa felt sorry for the old guardsmen, though her mother pointed out that most men in Holis’ position would have had them executed. Summarily firing them was an act of mercy on his part.

  That had made it even more shocking when Holis had fired her mother’s men, refusing to allow them to take the palace guardsmen’s place, or even go into the army or the city guard. In fact, Justice Holis had told her mother that according to the law her men were more deserving of prison or hanging than Pettibone’s! Her mother had pointed out that Holis owed his life and freedom to her men, as much as he owed it to her!

  They’d argued about it for days, but in the end the men Arisa had grown up wi
th had been dismissed to make their own way in the world—though they had been given full legal pardons for any crimes they’d committed under the Falcon’s command. That much her mother had insisted on.

  But all that made it unlikely…

  Arisa dropped her voice to a murmur. “Does Justice Holis know you’re here?”

  Sammel considered. “There’s a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ to that, young mistress. He might know a new groom’s been hired, if he cares about such things. As to the rest… Every lock has a key, doesn’t it now?”

  Suddenly he straightened, stepping back from her horse, his expression blankly polite. Before she even turned to look, Arisa knew that Weasel and Edoran had come out to join her.

  Half a dozen grooms flooded out of the stable to see the prince safely onto his horse, and one of them deigned to assist Weasel, who needed it.

  “Henley, go fetch a cloth,” the head groom snapped. “One of the prince’s boots is besmirched.”

  Sammel turned obediently, offering Arisa a flickering wink. Henley?

  If that was the only way her mother could get jobs for her loyal men, then more power to both of them! Arisa would have to be careful not to call him Sammel. Or to publicly recognize any more of her mother’s men if she saw them working around the palace.

  Were there others?

  “My boots are fine,” Edoran told the head groom. “Don’t bother with a cloth. Just open the gate so we can go.”

  “But Highness, you can’t go out in public—”

  Edoran’s mouth thinned. “Open those gates. I comm— Open them now.”

  His exasperated tone was as effective as a command. The gates flew open and Edoran kicked his mare out into the quiet residential street that abutted that side of the palace. Arisa sent Honey cantering after him, and they both had to stop at the corner to wait for Weasel, who never urged his horse even to a trot if he could avoid it.

  “They’re only doing their jobs,” Weasel told the prince as the old gelding ambled up to them.