Heart of Steel

by Samantha M. Derr

  Something rough flashed across her porcelain face, and Isi regretted his retort.

  "Sir Cur, then. What are you looking at?" She'd slipped back to Skellan, and he had no way of knowing if she realized what he'd overheard.

  "Nothing." That was overly deferential. He'd sounded like a servant. Damn, why could he not make the right words come out in the right tone?

  Her eyes darted up and down his form, taking him all in. "I know you. You're Tom's little Maupe pet, are you not?"

  This unbalanced him all the more. She knew he was not Mheztil? Who could have told her that?

  "I… that is, yes, I suppose, I am. Sir Isi Mheztil, your highness, at your pleasure."

  "My pleasure. Hah. Tell me, Sir Cur. Do you know where my husband is?"

  She had been married to Prince Itzcoatl, the highest-ranking man to ever make the long crossing, for something near a year, now. Isi had lived in Skel much longer than the delegation that had finally brought Itzcoatl with them. He did not know the man except by reputation, and stayed well out of his way.

  "No."

  "Then you offer me no pleasure. Be gone, Sir Cur. You make an inadequate spy."

  "I was not—"

  But Princess Marian was already gone, melting into the shadows like the hell-spirits she had so eerily reminded him of.

  *~*~*

  Isi was agitated in the morning. An excess of energy suffused him, and all he wanted was to get it out of his system by hitting something.

  He and the others had trained rigorously for months to prove worthy of their investiture. Isi did not see any reason for that pattern to change; now, more than ever, they must be ready to protect the prince against any threat.

  But all the others wanted to do this morning was compare notes about their bedsport, one-upping each other with one patently ridiculous boast after another.

  It was intolerable.

  "Where is Tom?" he eventually asked amid the noise, because talk like this always made him uncomfortable, and he was not good at feigning it. He did not think the ladies referenced would be very pleased with it, either. Though what did he know, truly? Perhaps they all gathered to exchange notes in much the same way.

  "Didn't you hear?" Walter asked. "There's some new crisis brewing with the Mheztil."

  Emery promptly punched Walter in the arm.

  "Ow! What was that for?"

  "Idiot. No wonder Tom pegged you for the Sightless King: you are blind to all sense."

  "Why's he not allowed to know about the Mheztil problem?"

  "Yes. Why aren't I allowed to know about the Mheztil problem? And what is the Mheztil problem?"

  Emery heaved a great sigh. "The delegation is threatening to nullify the trade treaty, withdraw, and return across the sea."

  Isi scowled. "Which delegation?"

  "All of them."

  There were currently two hundred and seventeen individual Mheztil in Skel, from five different voyages. Not many at all, when it came down to it. And yet, Isi imagined all of them gone, and himself the only man on this island with his skin, and he suddenly felt very cold.

  "Don't be so dramatic, Em," Sol said. "The Mheztil aren't going to leave. They still want access to the timber farms."

  "Access that we haven't sufficiently granted them, despite thirty years of negotiation. I think they've finally reached their limit. Perhaps it will be war for real this time."

  And with that Walter, Emery, and Sol all turned to Isi.

  "What? You think they would tell me?"

  "You must hear things," Emery said. "You speak their language, for one thing."

  "I am Naquel. They do not speak to me, and if they did, it would probably be to plant lies."

  The Empire had discovered Skel quite by accident three decades ago, when one small, open boat had gotten lost on the great ocean and, against all odds, survived to the far shore. They had never even known there was a far shore to find, and yet they had found it. From the moment they landed, they wanted such resources as Skel could provide. They were an empire after all, and what did an empire do but consume and expand?

  But the long crossing was incredibly dangerous, and could only be achieved by small parties at great risk. Mheztil very simply did not have the boats sufficient for a large-scale invasion of a country weeks away across the great ocean. It had seemed, for a time, that the Red Ruin would do the Empire's work for them, weakening Skel as sickness and death washed across the land, but that tide had eventually receded.

  So it had been diplomacy. Thirty years of bargains, over cloth and spice and wine, over gold and gods and, most important of all to an Empire trying to build new ships capable of conquering new lands, sturdy Skellan oak.

  "Their price for peace is getting too high," Sol whispered like a gossipmonger. "The marriage between Marian and that cobra prince of theirs was supposed to finally seal the treaty. But we all know how well that has gone."

  "Sure, she's a cold fish." Walter shrugged with a grin. "But I'd taste it."

  Isi felt his skin heat like embers. "That is badly said, sir."

  "Oh calm down, Is. I only mean that there must be something wrong with that Itzcoatl fellow. Haven't you heard that they've never—"

  Sol cleared his throat, loudly, over whatever insult Walter was about to speak about the princess. "She must not be that cold, because now the Mheztil are angling for all the girls."

  "What, all of them? Even Anne?"

  "Of course Anne. You know they don't have the concept of bastards over there. It's all figured out by the rank of the wives."

  In all, Tom had five sisters, four full and one half. Marian, Katherine, and Elinor were his elders, Anne and little Lys his juniors. Isi could not think why the Empire would want all of them, aside from simple greed. Most Mheztil men here seemed to find Skellan women repellant and turned to each other for companionship instead. He'd even heard his old masters openly worrying that Skellans were too narrow-hipped to bear strong sons. Perhaps they were only trying to see just how far they could push before King Andrew pushed back.

  "Someone must have explained to them that Katherine and Elinor are already engaged," Emery said, not sounding sure of that at all.

  And then, of course, all three of them swiveled to look at Isi again. As if he had some magical insight into the matter.

  When all he wanted to do was lay Walter out flat for that crack about cold fish.

  "They won't get them all," he said, instead. "King Andrew and Tom would start a war over that, no matter the other problems."

  "And here I thought life as a knight would be all wine, women, and song," Walter said with a sigh. "Well, I suppose we'd better stop wasting the day and get practicing for our inevitable life of conflict. Line up, gentlemen."

  Finally. Isi was absolutely itching. He took the spot nearest Walter, ready to let everything out.

  *~*~*

  "Tilt your head back, darling," Anne clucked, fussing with the linen dressing in Walter's knightly nostrils. "There, now, it's only a little bit of blood. Hardly a mortal wound."

  Isi couldn't help the smile that stole over his face. The skin beneath Walter's eyes was already turning purple as midnight.

  "He hit my face," Walter moaned. Or, more accurately: 'e 'it mah fahthe

  "Armed brutes after Tom won't care about your face." Isi shrugged, taking a sip of ale. "Why should I?"

  "He does have a point, Ames," Tom said, surprising them all by coming up from behind. Chairs scraped against the floor as they all of them, even bleeding Walter, remembered at once that they were supposed to stand in the presence of their liege lord.

  "Oh, be at ease," Tom sighed. He swung out a chair and dropped into it. "I'm tired of that bit of etiquette already. As I was saying. I was looking from the window onto the yard, and you were being very half-assed about that fight, Walter. Isi wouldn't have managed that blow if you were paying any attention at all."

  "'e bwoke mah nowse."

  "And a very fine favor he did you, sir, for
the ladies love a man with battle scars."

  Emery ran out of patience for banter. "What news of the Mheztil, Tom?"

  Tom sighed and signaled for a drink. They waited as he took a long draught, waited as he settled his tankard on the table and fiddled with it, turning it back and forth.

  "We're going on a hunt," he said, finally.

  "A hunt?"

  "North through to Haulhaugh, then west to Kaldbek. Father wants to show off the riches of Skel one last time."

  "Does he think that will persuade them not to go home?" Isi asked.

  "Father thinks we're in more danger of them going across the Strait, and I'm fairly sure he's right about that. Mheztil is far away and ships might sink on the long crossing, but Neydel is right at our back, and if the Mheztil take their treaties elsewhere…"

  Neydel, properly speaking, was a small country. But once, long ago, Neydelese rule had stretched from the farthest Western reaches of Skel to the Eastern mountain ranges of the lands of ice and snow, thousands of miles beyond the Strait. If the Mheztil turned their back on Skel and went to Neydel instead, there was every possibility that their trade would suffice to restore the old empire to a shade of its former glory. And Skel would be caught in the middle of two powers, alone and friendless.

  "How's a boar hunt supposed to stop an alliance with Neydel?" Anne asked, confounded.

  "Oh, we're not going boar hunting." Tom took another shaky drink. "We're hunting dragons."

  The rest of them just blinked, for a long moment of silence.

  Walter tipped his chin back to its usual alignment. "Dragons aren't real."

  Tom sighed. "Thank you as always for stating the obvious, Sir Walter. Father has in mind a… cultural exchange, you might term it. Isi, the Mheztil have dragons in their iconography, don't they?"

  "Fire serpents, yes. Not exactly like your winged beasts, but I suppose they are similar enough."

  "Well, the king endeavors to prove that to the Mheztil. That our cultures are more alike than they generally seem, much closer aligned than Mheztil and Neydel could ever be."

  "Who put that nonsense into his head?" Sol wanted to know.

  "Who else but Percy Gelhorn?"

  Emery groaned. "He's trouble, Tom. Didn't I tell you so?"

  "I know, but what am I supposed to say? You know my father is enthralled by the man. He even wanted me to put him in the Court of Four. And if I say anything against him, I'm jealous and unseemly. So it goes."

  Isi could tell that Tom was more ill at ease than he wanted to appear. Gelhorn was a maternal cousin of the king's late half-brother, but though his lineage was of little note, his political ascendency had been swift. He'd made his fortune off of a housing agreement forged with one of the early Mheztil expeditions, and he had used a good bulk of that fortune to impress the king on a state visit some years back. The details escaped Isi, but the pattern did not.

  Tom and King Andrew had never been comfortable with one another. They were both too stubborn and assured of their own supremacy to get along easily. But King Andrew liked Gelhorn, who was obsequious to the extreme. And while Tom had once appreciated that Gelhorn's insertion into political matters left him more time to carouse, Isi knew that he was starting to worry.

  In Mheztil, the High Emperor did not always cede his earthly rule to his natural child. Quite rarely, in truth. Succession was a game that played out through backroom dealings and bets on the ballcourts. In Skel, things were nominally different. King Andrew's rule had been validated by Tom's birth; Tom's rule would be validated by his father's death. But Gelhorn gave Tom more than adequate cause for concern. Traditions could always change.

  "And will Percy be accompanying us on this fool's errand?" Emery asked, archly.

  "Now, now, you know he prefers the comforts of civilization to roughing it in the wilds. Besides, someone must be left in care of Skelhome."

  "Tom." Emery was aghast, and he wasn't alone in that. Even Isi wondered. Could Gelhorn be orchestrating this trip in order to gain more power in the king's absence?

  "I know, I know. But if I go against Father, he'll only turn to Gelhorn more. At least this way, he'll be out of Gelhorn's influence for a time. So we hunt for dragons while the fox moves into the henhouse. And we try to keep the Mheztil entertained, because if we can't do that, then what else are we good for? Pack your trunks. We leave in a week at dawn."

  *~*~*

  Isi had gone on a few expeditions with the Skellan court before, but always as a translator and body slave, so it was hard to rein in the impulse to join in the work of setting up camp. They wouldn't even let him curry his own horse. Apparently it was unseemly for a man of rank to personally care for his own mount, unless it was his battle mount, and that had of course been left at home.

  So he released his sweet flea-bitten grey Peaseblossom into the care of the grooms and wandered, no aim in mind but to avoid the Mheztil scattered around. An almost impossible task.

  For four days, the long train of royals, nobles, Mheztil, and attendants had been winding northward, making slower-than-usual progress through the Eskwood. They were slowed because King Andrew kept calling a halt to show off old ruins that depicted dragons in flight, or have his personal bard recite an old tale near what might once have been an altar, or point out one of Skel's many, varied natural wonders. Itzcoatl and his faction didn't put up much of a show of interest in these diversions, but at least there had been some good game hunting along the way. That kept everyone busy and doused some of the tension.

  Still, Isi could not help feeling awkward. Stuck between the Mheztil and the Skellans in such close quarters, he hardly knew what to do with himself.

  So he found himself, absurdly, watching over Princess Marian.

  It wasn't as if she were ignored. She had a passel of female attendants, servants of the body and servants of the wardrobe, and gentleman guards assigned by her father. It wasn't as if she were in any danger.

  But she seemed so alone.

  Princess Marian was resplendent in the finely-spun riding gowns she donned each day. The highest ranking woman on the hunt, her mother having stayed in Skelhome, she dutifully sang the Evening Adoration before each supper. She rode permanently three steps behind her husband, and translated her father's remarks for him with an astonishingly competent grasp of Mheztil diction.

  And yet, aside from those evening songs and the necessary translations, she never spoke. She seemed to sit, forgotten by all, at the center of the vortex of the hunt.

  And she looked miserably sad.

  Isi's nerves were frayed. Tom kept treating him like a bauble to show off for the Mheztil—look what I have made of the pretty toy you threw away. When he wasn't being displayed to the people who despised him, he was trying to fend off the camp-followers who seemed to find him alluring for reasons he could not fathom. And he had to share a tent with Walter, who apparently needed sex more than he needed sleep, and who wasn't quiet or discreet as he went about it.

  So perhaps it was reasonable that he was looking for a distraction, something to take his mind off everything else.

  But he couldn't help feeling something of a kinship with Marian, too. Though she hid it well, and Isi doubted many others would ever see, she looked like he felt. And that made his heart twist inside his chest.

  He'd lost track of her in the bustle of camp, though. Deprived of his horse and any useful occupation, he wandered off in search of Sol, who always had dice in his pocket.

  Tom found him first, calling out as he passed by the cluster of royal pavilions. "Isi! Just the man I need. Come here for a moment, will you?"

  Isi ducked into the tent behind Tom, awkward and too tall. "Yes?"

  Tom rummaged in a massive cedar chest. It was really quite absurd, all of the paraphernalia they had dragged on this journey. Isi felt a pang for the porters.

  "Before the Mheztil start their stories of valor at dinner, I want you to sing. You'll put them all to shame. That one about the warrior maid. Oh, and s
omething about the Kings shattering the yoke of Neyd, of course. You know all the good ones."

  "Tom, I don't want to sing."

  "Nonsense. Everyone loves it when you sing. You'll impress my father."

  "Why do I need to impress the king?"

  "Because he needs impressing. And a Mheztil—sorry, Maupe, I do forget—singing Skellan songs will remind everyone that we can foster a valuable cultural exchange that's as important as any trade. Or some such rot—does that sound convincing?"

  Isi grinned. "Not in the least. You're not very good at political posturing."

  "Well, try this. Everyone's bored, and Father has gotten it into his head that it's my fault. As if I could ever be called boring."

  He held up a bright blue shirt near Isi's chest, then tossed it his way. "Borrow that. Oh, and wear your sapphire, will you?"

  Isi felt the blood drain from his face. "Tom, do you want them to murder you?"

  "Oh, come. It's all a game, and I only want to set them on edge. Besides, it's so pretty, and you never wear it. Did you lose it?"

  "Of course not."

  "Well, did you give it away? To a pretty girl with pretty favors, perhaps?"

  Isi's stomach twisted. The silver-set ear bauble Tom had given him, no tiny trinket, was wrapped securely in a linen kerchief and tucked at the bottom of the pocket he wore on him always, next to his curved knife.

  "I have it. But I am not pretty enough to wear it."

  "Of course you are not pretty. But the sapphire is, and you know what it will remind those Mheztil snobs of. Please? For me?"

  It was that tone that got him, every single time. Tom knew he did not have to ask for anything. He had only to command and Isi would be honor-bound to obey. No matter what else rested between them, that oath would stand until Isi's last breath.

  But still he asked. In a voice that charmed, a voice that teased, a voice that said, in Isi's deepest imaginings, see how you are dear to me?