Trickster's Choice

by Tamora Pierce

  Aly trudged back up to the castle. Perhaps Ochobu could fireproof the palisade. She wanted to be certain the duke could summon the villagers inside the walls and warn the valley herders to hide with their stock. They needed ways to heat barrels of oil or water and get them onto the walls to dump on any attackers . . .

  Enough, she told herself, leaning her forehead against the stone of the outer courtyard wall. They’ll only let you do so much. His Grace and Veron will have plans laid to bring folk inside the castle and defend it. My job is to twiddle my thumbs and wait for something to happen. If I’m to do that, I may as well go sew winter clothes. I can only act on what information I have, as I have already done. Now it’s a matter of waiting.

  I hate waiting.

  “Kyprioth,” she called silently in a teasing voice. “Kyprioth, Kyprioth, Kyprioth. Don’t pretend you aren’t nearby. All this is too important to you. Talk to me.”

  “You are getting to know me a little too well,” the familiar voice said wearily. “What is it?”

  “Oh, don’t be grumpy,” she told him, still being playful. “Isn’t it a grand thing that I do know you so well? Now, tell me—something’s about to happen, isn’t it? The reason why you brought me here in the first place.”

  “Well?” demanded the god.

  “What is it?” Aly wanted to know. “What’s coming? I could use a hint. My working blind isn’t precisely useful, you know.”

  “All I see is a coming together of lives and possibilities. Anything could happen.”

  “Just a little hint? You’re a god, you must have some notion,” she replied, prodding him.

  “I DO NOT.” Suddenly the god’s voice boomed in her mind as it must boom in the minds of the Balitangs and the raka. Aly locked her knees. She would not drop to the ground, no matter how much Kyprioth sounded like a Great God to her just now. She stubbornly remained on her feet as he continued, “It is the hour of mortal choices. It is your turn to dictate the course of fate. I can do no more.”

  Just when she thought he was finished, that he’d made his portentous announcement and gone away, she heard him say, much more quietly, “Besides, my brother and sister have returned. Well, I knew they would. Don’t betray my trick to them, Aly. Keep them thinking this is just another human squabble.”

  “Thanks ever so,” she thought to him. “I’ll do as much for you one day. And you still owe me.”

  When her sense of Kyprioth’s presence faded, Aly sat at the base of the castle wall. She had her answer, in a manner of speaking. Things—events—were unfolding, and now the humans would have to do their part. The gods had to let the dice fall as they may.

  Wonderful, Aly thought, leaning her head against the wall. Might I have the Graveyard Hag’s dice right now? Aunt Daine says they’re weighted with lead, so the Hag wins every roll. I don’t mind cheating at a time like this.

  A shadow passed over her. Aly looked up to see the kudarung and her rider in flight, on their way back to Dimari.

  Three afternoons later the crows at the pass shrieked the news that eleven armed riders were on the road to Tanair. Crows and a raka patrol followed them to the village to make sure that none of the visitors left their group unnoticed.

  Nawat was working at his bench when the crows proclaimed the news. “They say that Bronau is with them,” he told Aly. She helped him by holding a piece of leather flat on the bench while Nawat cut it up for laces. “The hawk is coming.”

  Aly nodded. “I have to let go,” she warned him. Nawat sat back. Aly released the leather, then ran to report first to the duchess. Winnamine took Aly to the duke, who was reviewing the harvest totals.

  “We’ll let him in. Bronau can relax, and tell his side of the story. I want to hear what he has to say,” he told Aly and his wife. “We owe him that. And I am sure he will do the right thing, once he’s had a chance to think it over.”

  Aly carried word to Chenaol, and thus to Sarai and Dove, who were helping the cook to strain seeds from newly made jelly. To their credit, the girls finished their tasks before they raced to their rooms to change clothes and to move things so their parents could sleep on the third story with them. Bronau would have Winnamine’s and Mequen’s rooms, but the fourth floor was no longer available to his men-at-arms, as it was full of winter stores. Even Bronau would not suspect his friends did not want his soldiers living among them. Instead they would sleep in one of the new buildings, under Veron’s eye.

  Aly was cleaned up and wearing a dress by the time Bronau entered the great hall. Mequen and Winnamine waited there to meet him, as did Sarai. Dove had refused to greet the traitor, using words just that blunt. From her position behind Sarai, Aly watched as Bronau handed his outer coat and gloves to one of the house slaves. He approached his friends with his ready smile.

  “So grim,” he said teasingly. “Whatever can you have heard?” He kissed Winnamine on both cheeks and gave Mequen a man’s brisk hug. He took Sarai’s hand and kissed her fingers with comic elegance, his raised brows and twinkling eyes drawing a smile from her in spite of herself.

  “We’ve heard dreadful things, my lord,” she explained shyly.

  “Come up to our rooms and talk,” offered Mequen. “Aly, refreshments, please.”

  Aly curtsied and went to the kitchen. Chenaol had already assembled a tray for her. “Ten men-at-arms, Fesgao says,” the cook reported in a whisper for Aly’s ears alone. “They’ve been riding hard. If ten’s all he’s got, His Grace could simply kill them all and ship Bronau back to Rajmuat. Or kill Bronau and send his pickled head to the regents. It’s a good way to make sure there’s no more trouble.”

  “The duke wants to keep it friendly,” Ochobu said icily. She was seated at a table, clutching a mug of tea with knobby fingers. “Whoever heard of a luarin that wasn’t ready to shed the blood of others? And this is a fine time to have such qualms, when killing the Jimajen prince would simplify things.”

  Aly grimaced. “Things are not precisely friendly between him and the prince,” she pointed out, though privately she agreed that their lives would be far easier if Bronau and his men were dead. The duke was not that kind of person, however. “His Grace says that if Bronau grovels a bit, it will be all right. He says Rubinyan would never order the death of his own brother. We’re to wait and see.”

  “The duke’s too good for this, you know,” Chenaol said, glaring at Ochobu. “For that luarin snakepit they call the royal court. He always was.”

  “He’s soft,” the old mage said harshly. “And he doesn’t know anything about the house of Jimajen. They will turn on him with a smile and a razor in their hands.”

  “Aly.” Lokeij stood at the kitchen door, beckoning. Aly went to him. “Something’s off,” whispered the hostler. “None of these came with him before—not the men, not the horses. And he’s brought no body servants. Warn the duke.”

  Aly nodded and took the tray from Chenaol. The change in attendants could be entirely harmless. Perhaps Bronau hadn’t cared to burden himself with body servants when he was on the run. Perhaps they’d been captured. Perhaps his usual warriors had been unable to follow him when he escaped Rajmuat.

  I hate perhapses when lives are at stake, she thought as she climbed the stairs. And I’d as soon handle a jar of acid on a bumpy road than try to guess what folly Bronau will commit next.

  Once more she poured out wine for everyone in the duke’s sitting room, even Sarai. She also murmured Lokeij’s news into the duke’s ear as she served him. Mequen nodded and gestured for her to take her place behind the duchess. “You can speak before Aly,” the duke assured Bronau. “Whom would she tell it to? The grass?”

  Bronau smirked at Aly, then addressed his friends. “There was something wrong in Hazarin dying so unexpectedly. I don’t suspect my brother, of course,” he said, grinning, holding up a hand to stop the protest he expected Mequen to make. “Imajane, though—she doesn’t show the madness, but would you care to wager that it skipped her and got every other member of th
e Rittevon family?”

  “Even Dunevon?” asked Winnamine with a smile, offering Bronau the pastry dish. He accepted one and wolfed it down. Aly wondered when he had eaten last.

  “Oh, who knows?” asked Bronau. “He’s only three, poor lad. Winna, it would break your heart, the way they keep him. No boys his own age in that tomb of a chamber, their servants in place of his . . . I’d never use a child of my blood so.” He glanced sidelong at Sarai, who ducked her head shyly. “But Imajane is as cold as the ocean deeps. It would never occur to her that Dunevon’s a child more than he is a king.”

  “But you tried to kidnap that king,” Mequen said gently. “Bronau, Rubinyan has written to us.”

  “Ah,” said the prince. “So that is why you regard me with such reserve today. It was a rash act, I see that now. I wasn’t thinking of anything but getting the boy to safety. If they killed a reigning king, will they stop at murdering a child?”

  “I cannot believe Rubinyan would be a part of either crime,” Mequen replied stiffly.

  Bronau hung his head. “No, no, of course not.” He turned his feverish eyes on Winnamine. “Don’t you find it suspicious that Hazarin’s servants and healer vanished all at once? I’ll wager they could tell some stories.”

  “These are all good points,” said Mequen, “but until the charges against you are dismissed, you can only sow disorder with such talk.” Nothing about him suggested that he knew the true fate of Hazarin’s servants and healer. “You must answer to the king’s council and clear your name. If the misunderstanding cannot be dismissed, Rubinyan may have to make some gesture. Send you into exile, perhaps, or imprison you at the Stronghold. But your friends will seek your pardon.”

  “Return and stand trial,” suggested Winnamine. “You’ll slip the rug out from under them. By running, you only create more doubt in people’s minds. Once the council sees and hears you, and knows you felt that you did your duty by the Crown, I think you’ll find more allies than you suspect.”

  Bronau chewed on a fingernail, the picture of a guilty child. “Do you truly think so?”

  “Of course,” Winnamine replied, resting a hand on his arm.

  “Men on the hunt for other men, particularly a man known as a fighter, like you—such hunters do make mistakes,” Mequen reminded his friend. “If you’re caught, if you fight, some dreadful accident might happen. You might be killed by an overzealous armsman before you can speak to the council at all.”

  Aly refilled glasses as the conversation went on. Daylight faded into sunset. Mequen and Winnamine came at Bronau in close order, persuading, joking, and debating. They did all they could to sow a gentler, more thoughtful mood in their rash friend.

  The turning point came when Bronau looked at Sarai. “And what of you?” he asked. “Do you think I am a criminal?”

  She lowered her eyes. “My lord, how could I think you a criminal? It is your life, I fear for . . .” Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies. “—And your future,” she added in a shy whisper.

  Oh, she’s good, thought Aly in admiration, remembering Sarai’s fury when she heard of Bronau’s kidnapping attempt. She’s very good. I could turn opponents to her queenship right around by just giving her time to work on them.

  Mequen eyed his daughter and his friend. At last the silence created by Sarai was finally broken by the supper bell. Mequen asked, “Will it help if I go to Rajmuat with you? Rubinyan will listen to me, I think, and the two of us can talk to Imajane.”

  “Papa!” cried Sarai, alarmed out of her maidenly distress.

  “My dear, I don’t think you could return before the passes close for the winter,” Winnamine said, her hands clenched in her lap.

  “This is more important,” Mequen explained gravely to his wife and daughter. “If only one of us goes to Rajmuat, it won’t seem as if we are forcing our way back into favor. If I must wait to return until spring . . .” He shrugged.

  Bronau stared at Mequen. “You would do that for me? They could arrest you.”

  “I don’t believe Rubinyan will allow that. And yes, I will go, if it helps to ease the trouble between the two of you,” replied Mequen, his gaze sober. “The realm needs you and Rubinyan both. We can’t afford dissent in the family that rules the Isles, not with a child on the throne and our Carthaki friends eyeing us like a ripe plum to be picked.”

  “Of your goodwill, give me a day to discuss it with my people,” he said, voice and body weary. “They have been with me over many hard miles. They deserve a chance to decide if they will return and share whatever happens to me.”

  “Of course you may have the time,” Mequen said, getting to his feet. He went to Bronau, who stood and embraced him. “And you should rest before you return. You look worn to the bone.”

  Bronau looked at Mequen, then at Winnamine and Sarai, obviously puzzled. “It hasn’t occurred to you, has it?” he asked. “Should anything happen to Dunevon, you would be king. You—”

  Mequen put a hand over his friend’s mouth. “Please don’t speak of that again,” he said gently. “Ever. Haven’t you noticed? Kingship in the Copper Isles drives people mad. I don’t want it, for myself or my family. And in case you’ve forgotten, when I first married, the king had me swear before Mithros that I would never seek the crown. I keep my word.”

  Bronau hugged Mequen impulsively. “You were always better than the rest of us,” he said, his voice thick. He let Mequen go and stepped back. “Now. Where may I clean up? I must tell you, I haven’t had a true meal in days.”

  Aly took Bronau to the duke’s bedchamber, where he would sleep as he had on his last visit. Once he was supplied with hot water, soap, and drying cloths, Aly returned to the family. The door was unlatched. She entered the room to find that Sarai had gone. The duke and the duchess were in each other’s arms.

  “I’m sorry,” Aly said when they looked at her.

  The duchess had been crying. She muttered an apology and went to the washstand to splash water on her face.

  “It’s all right,” Mequen replied. With Bronau no longer in view, the duke’s true feelings were easier to read. His shoulders drooped, and the lines on his face were deep with care. “We must go downstairs in a moment in any case.”

  Aly hesitated. What she had to say would distress him, but she needed to say it. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but should you not make him swear before the god to behave? To abide by your direction?” she asked, trying to tell him to do it without making it a direct order. She didn’t think they trusted her enough to accept orders, even if she went against her training and gave them. “If he panics, there’s no telling what he might do. An oath would rein him in.”

  Mequen sighed. “Aly, if you were noble-born, you would know that would be an intolerable insult to an honorable man like Bronau. To ask for such a vow implies I do not trust him. Do you wish to spark the very kind of outburst that got him into this mess? Leave the nobility to handle the nobility.”

  Aly blinked at him. Just once she wished she could speak her mind, to tell him that she, too, was noble-born, and some nobles could not be trusted as far as they could be thrown. She was sorely tempted to point out to him that Trebond blood was bluer than that of any Kyprish luarin. Instead she put such unwise answers from her mind, came about, and tried another tack. “Your Grace, he has a point. They might well imprison you if you returned.” I would, she thought, but did not say aloud.

  Mequen shook his head. “Rubinyan and I have been friends since boyhood. He would never do such a thing.” When Aly opened her mouth again, he raised a hand to silence her. “Enough of plots and plotting. Don’t you have the wine service at supper?”

  Aly had been dismissed. Never mind that I speak for the god, she thought with a mental sigh. Never mind that I am trying to keep him and his family from harm. Aly turned and left the room without so much as a curtsy to her master.

  16

  BETRAYAL

  Aly woke the next morning with the other servants, having taken forever to
sleep the night before. Yawning, she rolled her pallet and stored it, then cleaned up for the day. Once presentable, she joined the line for breakfast. Chenaol was serving. When Aly reached the cook, she asked Chenaol to remind everyone to watch Bronau and his people.

  “That’s easy enough,” Chenaol said drily, keeping her voice soft. “They amble about the courtyards like this was a friendly visit. Just look at that.” She pointed to one of the kitchen slaves, who flirted busily with two of Bronau’s men at the outer door. “They act like they haven’t a care in the world. That’s just not right, not with Princess Imajane at their tails. She’s not nearly as kind as Oron—she once had a man flayed when he spat on her shadow. Any idea of what the prince means to do?”

  “He’s thinking,” Aly murmured as Chenaol filled her bowl with porridge. “It will take him a while, since thinking isn’t something that comes naturally to him.”

  Chenaol laughed hard and long. Aly smiled reluctantly. “I’m glad you’re amused,” she said, and went off to eat her meal in peace.

  She was almost finished when Ulasim found her. “The duchess asks for you,” he told her. “Hurry—they just sent the order for the ladies’ and the prince’s horses to be saddled. Lokeij will have yours ready.”

  Aly gave her empty bowl to the slaves who washed the dishes, then climbed the stairs to the family’s quarters. The duke sat writing at his sitting room desk. Aly heard the voices of Winnamine, Sarai, and Dove in the bedchamber.