Trickster's Choice

by Tamora Pierce

  Aly remained where she was, a hand pressed to her lips, for a long time.

  Realizing that if Bronau came they were as prepared as they could be, Aly threw her energies into the winter preparations at Tanair. There was plenty for everyone to do, from the duke and the duchess to the child who brought in the eggs each day. The older Balitang women and their twenty servants and slaves worked at the tasks of the season: boiling and jellying, peeling and cutting, grinding and sealing, smoking and pickling. Mequen was everywhere, helping to get the crops in, the wood cut and stored, and making sure Tanair was weatherproofed. Like the village children, Elsren and Petranne helped their families. Each night Petranne showed Aly her day’s work, presenting the wads of lumpily spun wool with as much pride as if they were the finest thread. Elsren collected baskets of pine cones to use as kindling, losing half of them on the way home.

  Weapons training was the only thing to continue uninterrupted. Sarai worked on more complex battle dances. These were combinations of footwork, thrusts, blocks, and chops meant to be used until she could do the sequences without thought in response to a real attack. Winnamine still labored to master the most basic battle dance, but she practiced ferociously, ignoring blisters and aching muscles. Dove’s archery improved daily. She could now shoot a cluster of five arrows in a circle no wider than her stepmother’s hand. All the same, Dove never got so good that Nawat couldn’t catch her arrows. Aly grinned to see grizzled veterans consoling the twelve-year-old, assuring her that they, too, could not loose a shot that Nawat didn’t catch.

  One morning, as Aly rode out with her young mistresses and their guards, she noted clouds along the western edge of the mountains. “Let’s make it quick,” she advised. “We take the medicines to Pohon and back. That looks like rain to me.”

  “You worry too much, Aly,” Sarai scoffed as she mounted up. “Those clouds are miles away.”

  “Aly is right,” Fesgao told his mistress firmly. “To Pohon and back, no farther. Storms move fast up here. You should know this by now.”

  Sarai put up her nose and galloped her mount through Tanair’s open village gate. Aly watched Fesgao gallop after Sarai and shook her head.

  “She’ll calm down,” Dove told Aly as the two girls rode out of Tanair. Nawat followed them at an easy trot. Ochobu had commissioned him to gather roadside herbs for her that day. “She just doesn’t know what she thinks about Bronau going so wrong. The only way she knows to deal with it is to ride hard.”

  Aly grinned and glanced down at Nawat. “I don’t suppose you’d flirt with Sarai?” she asked the crow-man. “She thinks you’re handsome. You could clean the bugs from your teeth.”

  “And you aren’t old and stupid like Bronau,” Dove added.

  “I am too young for Sarai,” Nawat replied soberly. “I am not even a month old. Sarai is ancient compared to me.”

  Aly and Dove giggled. “Oh, tell her that when I’m there to see,” Dove begged. “I want to watch her face when you do.”

  They caught up to Sarai and Fesgao five miles outside Pohon. The other two riders had reined up at the spot where a barely used track met the road.

  “Sarai, no!” cried Dove, exasperated beyond her usual calm. “Can’t we, just once, go somewhere and return quickly?”

  Nawat raised a finger, his eyes sharp. “Hold.”

  Aly held very still, listening. Why had the usually polite Nawat voiced something like an order? Then she heard it, the raucous clamor of dozens of crows in the East. She strained to hear, but many of them called different things, some of which she had never been taught. “What—” she began.

  “A winged four-legger comes from the mountains that hold the morning sun,” said Nawat. “She bears a fledgling two-legger on her back. They seek the stone sti—the castle.”

  Aly frowned. “Winged . . . a kudarung. A big one, to carry a child on her back.”

  “That’s a royal messenger,” Sarai commented, her perfect brows knit in disapproval. “Only the Rittevon line may call on winged horses as messengers. I doubt that Dunevon would think of using one unless he wanted a ride.”

  All three girls wheeled their mounts and raced to Tanair, their guards on their heels. Nawat was left behind to make his way on foot.

  They had to slow to a trot through the village. By then Aly had already spotted the new arrivals: a boy or girl of ten, clad in shearling garments against the cold of the upper air, strapped to a large gray mare with a white mane and tail and huge, bat-like wings. Messenger and mount sailed over the girls’ heads. With an adjustment to her Sight, Aly could see the winged horse badge of the Rittevon family—they would never use the raka word kudarung—on both the messenger’s tunic and the chest piece of the kudarung’s harness.

  The pair set down within the castle’s inner courtyard as the girls and their guards rode through the gate. Ochobu’s three tiny kudarung darted from the kitchen to circle the gray, looking like blackbirds against a thundercloud. Dove tumbled off her horse’s back and raced inside to alert the duchess. Sarai ordered Veron to find the duke. Aly slipped off Cinnamon and took the three mounts to Lokeij and his stable boys.

  “You know what the luarin say, don’t you?” Lokeij murmured as he watched the messenger unbuckle the straps that held her to her mare. “Deadly news rides horses that fly.”

  Aly sighed. “If only the Rittevons use them as messengers, I can see how people might think that.”

  “The custom is an old one, from the time before the kudarung were banished to the Divine Realms,” Lokeij said. “Our people had all but forgotten, until they returned twelve years past. Once the kudarung came here in flocks, all sizes of them, to nest and rear their young.”

  Aly washed her hands in a bucket of water, the picture of idle innocence. To Lokeij she said quietly, “Someone implied to me they served the old raka monarchs freely, but that King Oron had to capture some and breed them for his service.”

  “It was farsighted of Oron, may we live to spit on his grave.” Lokeij grinned, revealing all the gaps in his teeth. “When Sarai takes power, the people will see the kudarung come to her freely. They will see she holds the crown by right.”

  “Don’t say that aloud, even to a friend,” Aly warned. “The less it’s mentioned, the less chance someone will overhear who shouldn’t.”

  “Cautious Aly of the crooked eye,” said Lokeij with a chuckle.

  “If you keep sweet-talking me so, I’ll charge you before the duke of turning my poor frivolous head,” Aly replied, batting her eyelashes at him. “An incautious spy is soon dead. And don’t start asking again who I was before I ended up here.”

  “You think that others don’t wonder?” Lokeij asked, his eyes glittering with interest. “That Their Graces don’t ask how many tiny signs and tricks a god could teach a mortal in a short time?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter,” said Aly as she shook her hands dry. “I just live my life at the god’s beck and call.”

  Lokeij snorted his disbelief.

  Aly waved a lazy hand at him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to snoop.”

  Once the duke arrived, he and Winnamine retired to their private rooms with Sarai and the messenger. They didn’t ask for a servant to attend them. Aly idled in the great hall, restacking logs on the hearth, until Sarai appeared at the top of the stairs. “Aly, have Ulasim find this girl a place for the night,” she called, urging the messenger down the stairs. “Papa and Mama have asked for you to bring some wine.”

  Aly obeyed, summoning Ulasim for the messenger and going to Chenaol for the wine. When she reached the duke’s rooms with the tray, Sarai took it, then poured cups for her father and stepmother. Winnamine offered the messenger’s letter to Aly. All three Balitangs looked haunted.

  Aly took the letter and scanned it. The seal was the Rittevons’: a winged horse triumphant, rearing on its hind legs, wings outstretched. The writing on the document was firm and elegant, though it was not in the professionally smooth hand of a scribe.<
br />
  My dear Mequen and Winna,

  I regret that this letter brings no good news to you. King Hazarin is dead of apoplexy. Dunevon, my lady’s half brother, is now king, with Imajane and me as his regents. That would be tragic enough. Hazarin was in his prime, and no kingdom ruled by a child is stable. There is worse news, however. My brother, in madness or folly, attempted to kidnap Dunevon, to what purpose I cannot guess. He has been formally charged with high treason. Our agents seek him throughout the realm. Already we have learned that my brother is attempting to create rebellion among the outland nobility. This cannot be allowed.

  I am concerned that he may seek refuge with you and your family, as he did when he incurred Oron’s disfavor. For the love you bear me, will you ask him to come to Rajmuat, to answer the charges? If he comes of his own accord, I may be able to smooth things over with the king’s council. Should his enemies take him, I fear for my brother’s life. He has always said you and Winnamine are the coolest heads in the family. I agree. If you can persuade him to return, Imajane and I will be forever in your debt. We are reversing Oron’s charges against you. Soon you will be able to return to Rajmuat. I cannot envision keeping the Midwinter Festival without my best friends there. With thanks from Imajane and from me,

  Your friend Rubinyan

  Aly reread the letter. Rubinyan says he’s worried, she thought, but he never calls Bronau by his name or implies that he cares for him. And he doesn’t ask the Balitangs to come home now, when he is as good as king himself, for all that he calls them “friends.” Does he want them to serve as bait for his brother first?

  She returned the letter to Mequen. Of course His Grace will do it, she thought, watching the duke’s troubled face as he rolled the letter up into a tight scroll. He has faith that Bronau can explain his way out of this, or that Rubinyan will save him from the gallows. But he can also tell that something is not right here.

  Mequen tapped the rolled letter against his leg. “He sent this by winged horse,” he said at last. “It’s a private letter from him to me, but he used royal messengers for it. Is he mad? In the reign of Hanoren the First, it was ruled that no regent may take on the prerogatives of the Crown. That includes the use of winged horses.”

  “He wanted the news to reach us as quickly as possible, with all the distance between us,” the duchess explained. “He thought you would understand. And it does involve the attempt on Dunevon.”

  “I do not like it,” replied Mequen. “It is most improper.”

  “Perhaps Aunt Imajane wished us to get the letter quickly, and she granted the use of the messengers?” asked Sarai. “She is as royal as Dunevon, even if she can’t inherit.”

  Aly folded her hands in front of her. “Will Your Grace tell this to the household?” she asked politely. “Let them know that the prince’s next visit may be . . .” She chose her words carefully. “Different,” she finished.

  The duke and duchess traded glances. It was Sarai who replied. “Is this the kind of thing servants should know?”

  Aly looked at her. “If the prince comes and there is a fight, they’ll be involved,” she pointed out. “And some of the servants . . .” She stopped. Light was growing in the room, casting the family and the furnishings into high relief. The source of it, she realized, was her.

  With a mental sigh she silently asked Kyprioth, “Will you stop playing games?”

  “You want them to listen, don’t you?” asked the god. “Keep talking.”

  Aly resigned herself. I must be sure that my next task in life can be handled without gods, she told herself. To the Balitangs she said, “You have servants who will be useful if things go wrong. Ulasim, for one. Ochobu. Royal spy or not, Veron must be warned that Bronau may come armed, with soldiers on his tail.” Aly went silently to the door to the servants’ stair to reveal Dove, who had been listening again. Aly beckoned her inside and closed the door. “Lady Dove should have been here already, to further her instruction about the world she must live in.”

  “Dove, eavesdropping is a slave’s trick,” the duke told his younger daughter.

  Dove looked down. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she replied, though she was clearly not.

  Aly looked at the family. She still gleamed with power lent to her by the god. “I advise you only because I want to ensure nothing happens to you. I want to keep you and your children safe, and I cannot do it alone. I am not the sort to go dashing around with a sword in each hand.”

  The duchess pursed her lips. “When you put it that way, of course, we must listen,” she said drily. The glow that blazed from Aly faded.

  “Find those you think must know and send them to us here,” Mequen instructed. “We will explain.”

  Once she’d found Ochobu, Veron, and Ulasim, Aly left it to the duke to share the news. She wandered down to the kitchen. There Chenaol and the kitchen staff were feeding the messenger, bombarding the girl with questions. Chenaol winked when she saw Aly. The cook would get any scraps of information the messenger might have.

  Aly nodded to Chenaol and went outside. Near the stable, the winged horse and Nawat stood forehead to forehead. Nawat’s lips moved. Aly watched, fascinated. What was Nawat doing?

  “They speak, as winged creatures will,” Lokeij said. He had appeared at Aly’s elbow. “Whatever news the kudarung has, Nawat will hear it.”

  Aly ran a finger under the metal ring on her neck. It bothered her more than usual tonight, having picked up bits of hay during her day’s work.

  “Annoying, isn’t it?” Lokeij asked. “Now you feel like a raka. Even those who do not wear a metal collar have felt luarin rule chafing for nearly three centuries.”

  Aly raised an eyebrow at the old man. Here was another chance to make the point she had tried to impress on Ochobu: the greatest problem with the raka’s and Kyprioth’s plans. “I know luarin rule irks you,” she replied evenly. “So let me ask this: does it bother you that blood will be shed to remove your collars? That the luarin who try to do their best by you, who only inherited the mess the Rittevons have made, may die to ease the collar off your necks?”

  “Do you speak of our lady’s family, or of Prince Bronau?” asked Lokeij. “The Jimajen house is known for its brutality to their raka. We will rejoice if Jimajen blood is shed.”

  Hands in his pockets, Nawat left the winged horse to the meal of oats Lokeij had supplied and sauntered over to the hostler and Aly. “She says that the winter rains will come late in the jungles,” he told them. “The fishing is off. She says also that the free kudarung know the old blood is present here, on Lombyn. When the time comes, the kudarung will gather to salute the new queen.”

  Aly thought this over. A powerful symbol of someone’s right to rule was always useful: the appearance of the Dominion Jewel had once convinced Tortallans that Jonathan was the rightful king. She nodded. “Thank her, please. We are honored that the kudarung will help us.”

  “It will be as it was before,” Lokeij whispered, eyes bright with awe. “The rightful queen in Rajmuat, and the kudarung soaring in the skies.”

  “She isn’t on the throne yet,” Aly cautioned. “Don’t let your dreams outrun your common sense.” She took another look at the kudarung, who had folded her wings as she ate greedily. Still thoughtful, Aly returned to the castle, absently running a finger around her slave collar.

  When Aly left the tower the following morning, she found Nawat at work outside, as usual. Crows were perched all around the inner courtyard, on every space they could find. There must have been thirty of them.

  Nawat greeted her with his warm smile, the one that always got an answering smile from her. “My clan will roost here for a time, until the weather says it is the season to fly down to warmer country. They say they will be sure to empty their bowels off the sides of this nest.” With a wave of his hand he indicated the castle walls.

  Aly looked at the crows, then at the young man carefully attaching sharp Stormwing fletchings to a heavy arrow shaft. “Another mage killer
?” she asked. For the first time she noticed that despite his deftness and assurance, he always worked slowly with the razor-edged Stormwing feathers.

  “There are all kinds of mages in the world, and sometimes they run in packs,” Nawat replied.

  Aly nodded. Looking at the circle of crows, she asked, “Will we need so many?”

  Nawat bird-shrugged. “They are my clan. If they are not needed, they will watch the game.”

  Aly raised an eyebrow as she turned her gaze on him. “Is this a game to you?” she asked.

  Nawat looked up. His dark eyes held hers. “You are never a game to me, Aly. And hawks are never a game to crows.”

  “But you aren’t a crow now,” she pointed out softly.

  “A crow may put on human shape or crow shape, but we remain crows,” he replied firmly. “Hawks, too, are the same, whether they are born in human nests or hawk ones. The nestlings must always be protected. Since you have chosen to protect these, I and mine will protect you.”

  Aly nodded, blinking her eyes against sudden tears. She couldn’t think of a thing to say in response to such a declaration of complete friendship. Instead she rested her hand on Nawat’s shoulder. His warm fingers covered hers for a moment. Then he returned to his fletching, and Aly wandered out through the gate to inspect the Tanair defenses.

  She walked down through the village, waving to the baker and exchanging greetings with the innkeeper’s wife. Visda and Ekit raced by, surrounding Aly with goats and sheep. She grinned as they swirled out through the village gate on their way to pasture.

  Except for those early risers and the sleepy-looking men-at-arms on the wall, Aly had the ground to herself as she examined the village defenses. Duke Mequen had worked on the wall along with other projects all summer. Much had been done since their arrival, shoring up what was left of the ancient stone wall and bracing the palisade just outside. More than anything Aly wished they’d been able to build the stone wall to the height of the log one. If an enemy came at them with battle fire, the palisade would burn, and the stone walls wouldn’t stop anyone. Aly understood why more hadn’t been done. The duke could only call on those of his men-at-arms who weren’t on duty and the few villagers who didn’t have crops to harvest or winter preparations of their own. It didn’t make Aly feel any better. She would just have to pray that no enemies came with battle fire, or that those who did fell into the ditch in front of the palisade. If they burned the wooden barrier, the villagers would have to retreat within the castle walls and expect to lose everything outside them.