“He’s known for his taste,” Falken whispered to me. “High at court--it’s an honor for him to even look at them. He usually has his nose too far in the air to notice any of the street artists.”
Honor or not, I wished he would stop. His aura, an icy blue, shrank to a band of indigo every time he focused on a sketch. This told me that despite his brusque exterior, he was deeply shaken by something. What? By the portrait? But what could have bothered him about that besides Falken’s jests? And why did he look at everything else so long with his hard eyes?
Finally, he straightened. He went back through all my sketches, picking up the ones he had looked at the longest. Then he turned to me. “What’s your name, girl?”
“It’s on the sketches.”
He glanced down at the ones he held. “Safire? That’s only a first name.”
“My other names are none of your affair.”
“You speak too proudly for a peasant, and you‘re wearing a seal ring.” He snatched my hand, the one that bore Merius’s rings. His skin was cool and smooth, a gentleman‘s skin. “The House of Landers has a new branch?” he asked after a long moment. His aura was intense now, almost black.
My breath stopped--he must be high in the Sarneth court indeed, to know how Cormalen nobles showed the breaks and different branches of their Houses on their rings. “That’s . . .”
“Your husband’s House,” he finished, not what I was going to say, but chillingly accurate. He looked at me as an expert would examine a rare and fascinating specimen. “What is the wife of a high Cormalen nobleman doing on the streets?”
“I sell my work here, my lord.”
“You--and your work--are most unusual indeed.” He still had not released my hand, and his fingers tightened painfully around mine as he looked at Falken. “You have a better eye than I thought, boy.”
“I come by it honestly. Or dishonestly, depending on how you look at it.”
Another mysterious jibe that made My Lord’s eyes even narrower. “I must be off--my lady waits,” he muttered. He let go of me and searched his cloak. When his hand emerged, he held a dozen lupins. “For the sketches.” The gold felt cold on my palms--I needed both hands to hold all the coins. “Your husband’s with the ambassador Rankin,” he continued.
“How do you . . .”
“Falken.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Be at the Circle Thursday, three in the afternoon. Don’t test my patience again.”
“All right,” Falken drawled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.
“And you.” My Lord looked at me. “You’ll be seeing me again, Lady Landers.” He bobbed his head, then turned and left, my sketches tucked under his arm.
“What did he mean by that?”
Falken shrugged. “He liked your work.”
“I don’t think that was it.” I stuffed the lupins in my coin purse, the seams on the verge of bursting when I finished. Then I began to wander around, collecting my remaining sketches with trembling hands. Only the landscapes were left. Anything with a person or an animal in it, even the crude sketch I‘d done of Merius‘s horse Shadowfoot the day before we left Cormalen--all of them, gone. But why? And twelve lupins? That was a small fortune--I charged at most three silvers for any sketch.
I shook myself. Here I should be, dancing and screaming in the street for making such a princely sum, more than I’d ever made, and all I could do was quiver inside and wish I had Merius here. What sort of carping fool was I, anyway? The sort who knows twelve lupins come with long purse strings.
Chapter Two - Merius
The embassy was quiet this afternoon, the dust motes moving in the sunlight slanting through the windows the only activity I could discern. I yawned and glanced at my fellow guard Cedric. He had been polishing his sword and dagger, but his hand had stilled, and now he stared into space, the soft oiled cloth dangling forlornly between his fingers.
“That sword will likely blind your enemy before you even get close to him,” I said.
Cedric started, then grinned. “That’s my intention, Merius.” He began rubbing the blade in smooth circles, a soldier’s gesture of worship.
“Do you polish your weapons every day?”
“Pretty much.”
I considered this a moment. A man should care for his blades, but every day? It seemed he would wear the metal out with such obsessive devotion. Of course, perhaps Cedric only did it to fill the time. I could certainly understand that motivation. I yawned again and shifted my feet, wondering if we dared pull out the deck of cards. Then the door creaked behind us. Cedric and I sprang to attention as Lord Rankin stepped out of the entrance that led to his family’s private chambers.
“Good afternoon, lads,” said Rankin. He wore a rumpled doublet with gold and green braid, Cormalen’s colors, and had no sword strapped to his belt, which meant we were going to the Sarneth court. “Ready for a jaunt? I’m due at the palace around two.”
I moved to ring the servant bell. “As soon as the carriage is ready.”
Lord Rankin waved his hand. “No carriage today, Merius. We’ll walk--it’s not far.”
“I’d advise against it, my lord,” Cedric said, with a glance at me. We had discussed this earlier.
“Nonsense, Cedric. It’s a fine afternoon, and I’ve been inside too long. Even I grow tired of the library dust.”
“With all due respect, my lord, I agree that the afternoon is fine and worth a walk, but the carriage is safer,” I said.
“You’re still thinking of that assassinated SerVerin man, what’s his name--Lazaran?”
“Al Zarin, my lord.”
“Al Zarin, that’s an ancient name.” He combed his long fingers through his graying beard thoughtfully. “A family that was established before the discovery of Cormalen. Zarin means headwaters, or alternately oasis in some of the desert dialects. Fascinating tongue, SerVerinese. More dialects than words, practically. You’ve studied it, Landers?”
“Yes, my lord.” Cedric and I braced ourselves for another history lesson.
“Which dialects?”
“The royal, the mountain, and the Tarzin. Not all the desert strains, just that one, my lord.”
“Still, your father taught you well. Most only learn the royal, maybe the mountain.”
“My father also taught me at arms, and he always said never walk over a Midmarch gutter when you can ride in a carriage.”
Most would take such bluntness as disrespect, but Rankin merely gave one of his mild smiles, amused. “I have no doubt Mordric has to worry about the Sarneth gutter rats, given what the crown entrusts to him. I, on the other hand, am entrusted with little that would interest a spy or assassin, hiding in the embassy as I do, quiet as a spider among my books. You have the dull job of guarding a figurehead while the real work goes on elsewhere. Now come, lads.”
We followed him down the hall to the main staircase. “The Tarzin dialect, of course, is the main language of the deserts. All the others are merely offshoots of that one, although there are some notable variations . . .” And he was off, happy to lecture to a half-listening audience. He had been the language expert at the Cormalen court, fluent in one tongue too many for me to keep straight.
Suddenly, he turned at the front door. “Merius, go fetch my leather pouch--I almost forgot the papers I need.”
I ran back up the marble stairs and into the library. There was the pouch, sitting in plain view on the heavy teak desk in the middle of the chamber. I shook my head and grabbed it. He left secret papers lying around so casually that one began to wonder if it was deliberate. Sometimes the best hiding place was the most obvious.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We strode along through the open streets, Cedric on Rankin’s right and me on his left. We were in a place that presented little danger, so I kept my eyes and ears alert but let my mind wander as Rankin continued to dissect the various SerVerin desert dialects. The snow is a thief / That steals the clomp of my boots / With
. . . with . . . with what? A cold whisper? That sounded a trifle insipid. Or did it? I’d have to see it written out first to know for certain. Things that sounded insipid in the head sometimes read well on the page. She sits and weaves a tangled crown of seaweed . . . wait, that was an entirely different verse. I couldn’t have seaweed and snow in the same poem. The seaweed one was the siren poem, not the snow poem. Damn it, I had to write these down. They were starting to get all tangled in my head . . . tangled--was that the right word to put before crown? I’d have to try them out on Safire tonight, see what she thought.
A man in a red cloak near the well caught my eye. What was he hiding? I watched him for a moment as he took a drink from the dipper, then decided he was harmless if somewhat daft for wearing a cloak in this weather. I was already sweating under my tunic. The streets grew more crowded as we neared the palace, and there was more to watch. A boy darted out in front of us, the sudden movement causing my fingers to twitch in the direction of my hilt. Water from an upstairs window splashed on the cobbles behind us, and Cedric and I both started.
Rankin turned on to a narrow street, a short cut to the palace that only courtiers or ambassadors on foot used. Usually there were palace guards at the entrance of the street, but not today. The houses here were concealed behind walls, glimpses of lush greenery visible through locked iron gates. There was the babble of running water--many of the gardens had fountains with bright fish flitting in their shallow pools.
I breathed deeply. The usual stench of unwashed bodies and gutter filth was absent, the air cool and fragrant with late-blooming astaris, a climbing Sarneth vine heavy with large white flowers that smelled of cinnamon. Safire loved to walk through here in the evenings and take a whiff of every garden. Sometimes there were banquets and dances behind the walls, laughter and occasional words floating out to us like tantalizing gifts. This was where Safire and I would have stayed, had I retained my inheritance and been sent on a mission for the House of Landers instead of for the king‘s guard. I gritted my teeth. Someday, when I made commander, I would bring her back here and we would stay and I would plant her like a flower in one of those high-walled gardens that she loved so much. Someday, when we didn’t have to keep the secret of my kinsman Whitten’s crime against her. Someday, when I had my vengeance.
We left the bustle of the main streets behind, our footfalls echoing against the high walls. The sun had left here not long after one, and now all was cool quiet shadow. So when a stone clattered across the cobbles, both Cedric and I started as Lord Rankin continued walking, untroubled. Someone hissed a curse in Sarns. I glanced up, my eyes traveling over the tops of the walls and tiled roofs. On the right, over the edge of the wall we had just passed, I glimpsed the peaked shadow of a hooded head, the glint of metal. My blood pounded in my ears, and I reached out, pushing Lord Rankin down to his knees as Cedric ducked beside me, his sword already unsheathed. A gleaming throwing star whizzed over my shoulder. It glanced against the wall and clattered to the cobbles. Another instantly followed, aimed at Cedric. He was holding his sword at an angle, and the star hit the blade, nicking it. The hooded form suddenly vanished behind the wall.
I plucked up one of the stars and grabbed Rankin’s arm. “Lads . . .” he began.
Without a word, I dragged him after me, Cedric covering his back.
We made it almost to the end of the street when two men in black hoods and masks stepped out in front of us from around the left-hand corner, blades drawn. Cedric shoved Rankin into an arched gateway. I pulled out my sword and dagger as the masked men charged us. I blocked the first man’s scimitar with mine, the other man’s scimitar sliding down my dagger blade with a horridly smooth metallic rasp that made me bite the inside of my mouth.
Cedric joined me, lunging at the second man as the first charged me again. I parried, stepping aside so my back was to Rankin’s niche, sheltering him as best I could. The man swung his scimitar at my left side. I didn’t dodge soon enough, and the tip caught in the folds of my tunic, slicing a large gash in the fabric.
“Damn you,” I swore. This time I managed to block him with my dagger. I lunged at him. He ducked, but not before my sword tip left a nasty cut down his right shoulder and upper arm. He switched his scimitar to his left hand and continued swinging with clumsy determination. A third man ran up, likely the one on the wall who had thrown the stars.
“Cedric! Your right!” I yelled as the third man came within inches of cutting Cedric. Cedric, who was still fighting with the second man, flicked out his dagger and blocked the third man.
The man I’d wounded swung his blade at my neck. I ducked, stabbing my sword at his throat. The tip severed a vein and slashed his windpipe. I cringed at the futile sucking of air through the wound, the red bubbling at the edges. Blood poured over his collar, disappearing against the black fabric as he choked and staggered back. I brushed past him and went for the second man. He turned from Cedric, his scimitar coming towards me in a tight arc. My blade met his with a ringing clatter. We circled each other, swords extended.
The man facing me lunged. I jumped back. He was fast, quicker than the one I had killed. We continued to circle each other, feeling each other out with staccato bursts of clashing steel, followed by tense silence. I noticed he had no right ear, just a shiny, knotted lump of flesh as if someone had burned it off. Punishment for some crime perhaps? Numerian laws could be brutal. One would think he’d have to sense to cover such an identifying scar . . .
He lunged, and I realized I had gotten distracted. His blade cut me on my right side. At first it didn’t hurt; then, a searing pain, like someone had pressed a hot curry comb against my skin, all the little metal teeth biting into my flesh. I blinked, swallowed air, barely blocking his next swing. Quickly I leapt back, then forward again as I feinted a blow to his lower left side. He parried, leaving his right exposed for a lightning instant. I sliced at his sword arm, and he swore.
A small crowd had gathered a good distance from us. Up until now, they had been mostly silent but for a murmur here and a prayer there, but suddenly there came a yell. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a young woman push her way to the front. “Bahir!” she screamed. “Bahir, no!”
The man I was fighting glanced around, his blade faltering. I lunged forward and pushed him down, then knocked him hard on the back of his head with my sword pommel. He fell forward on his knees, blood streaming down his neck from the gash in his scalp. He collapsed face first on the cobbles, dropping his scimitar. I grabbed it and tossed it and my blade aside, then braced my knee on his back and brought his hands around. I ripped a strip off my tunic where the first man had slashed it earlier and used that to tie Bahir’s wrists. The woman, sobbing, stumbled forward.
“Bahir . . .” She grasped his shoulder, her hand gleaming with the tawdry flashes of glass jewels. “Bahir, you’re bleeding . . .” she gasped in heavily accented Sarns.
Cedric's blade tip caught the edge of the third man's mask, slicing through the thin fabric to reveal a surprisingly young face, black beard and mustache mere straggly shadows against dark skin. The young man turned and bolted. Cedric ran after him, both disappearing in the crowd. I started after Cedric, then realized I couldn’t run anywhere. My legs were wobbly, and I sank back down on my knees, pretending to be preoccupied with tying up the prisoner.
“Bahir . . . what are you going to do with him?” She looked at me, her dark eyes glittering with tearful accusation. Her dress was dirty green taffeta, a cast-off from her mistress perhaps, her face young and unlined and trusting. Too trusting. I shook my head. Most likely a servant girl, debauched by a rebel.
“That’s for the watch to decide,” said Lord Rankin, coming up behind me. “Are you all right, Merius?”
“I’m fine. How do you know this is him?” I asked her. “He’s wearing a mask.”
“His poor ear. And his scimitar now that I can see it. Only his has that red stone on the hilt.” She reached for it, her fingers shaking. I blocked her--we
didn‘t need an assassin‘s woman running around with a blade.
“You can’t have the scimitar--the watch will want it. What was he doing, trying to kill the Cormalen ambassador and his guard?”
“I don‘t know . . .” She fell back on her heels, wailing into her hands.
Several watchmen in the blue and silver uniform of the Sarneth court shoved their way through the crowd. “Out of the way now!” the one at the front yelled. “What’s been going on here? Bodies and bawling women all over the place . . .”
Lord Rankin stepped forward, displaying his ambassador seal. The head watchman’s bluster immediately deflated to sober deference. “My lord,” he said, bowing.
“Good sir. It appears that this hangdog,” Rankin pointed at Bahir, “and his confederate,” here he pointed at the body of the man I had stabbed in the throat, “tried to assassinate me. There was a third as well, but he fled, my other guard in pursuit. I’ll let you handle it from here, as my guard here is wounded. I believe this cur’s name is Bahir.” He lightly kicked Bahir’s shoulder with his foot.
The head watchman was looking at Rankin like someone trying to recount a story he only half remembered. “All right, my lord,” he said finally, nodding. “Boys, take this Bahir to the lock-ups. The body should be stripped and taken to the convict’s graveyard.”
I pulled the throwing star from my pocket. “Someone threw two of these at us,” I told the head watchman. “It appears to be Numerian.”
The watchman took the star--from the way he was peering at it, I knew he had never seen one before.
“See the black mark here?” Lord Rankin indicated two lines engraved on the surface of the star. “And it has five points, curved. Only the Numerians do that.”
“Captain,” called one of the watchman. “What should we do with this woman?” He gripped the weeping dark-eyed woman by the shoulder.
“She needs to be questioned.”
“You’re not taking her to the lock-ups?” I asked. The lock-ups were full of rough and desperate men, no place for a woman.
Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Page 4