Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2)

by Nilsen, Karen

  “Safire, really. We need a mirror, and that was a nice one. Besides, it’s bad luck to break a mirror.” He paused, looking down at me. “What’s wrong now?”

  “I can’t do anything right!” I exclaimed in a burst of stormy sobs.

  He grinned, his hand suddenly in my hair. “I beg to differ. I can think of many things you do right, most of them unmentionable.”

  “You’re teasing me now.”

  “Here, blow your nose.” He gave me his handkerchief.

  Obediently, I blew, then crumpled the handkerchief against my palm. “I know that women are moody when they’re with child, but it can’t be natural to cry this much.”

  “Probably not, but it is amusing. Sometimes,” he amended, noticing my look. “All right, never. It’s never amusing. It’s very serious.”

  I glared at him an instant more, then dissolved into a fit of giggles. He laughed and gathered me to him so my cheek was against his midriff.

  “You’re a lunatic. Now come to bed.”

  I sighed, feeling his alive warmth against me, the silvery sparkle of him. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Is that so bad?” He pulled me to my feet. Our mouths came together so easily that I ached inside when we paused to catch our breath.

  Chapter Eight--Merius

  Safire and I parted at the back entrance to the palace with a quick kiss. “Be careful now,” she said as the guards escorted her through the gates.

  “Be careful yourself. I’ll come for you this evening a little after six,” I added, unnecessarily since I came for her every evening a little after six. However, I always said it--it was more of a warning to those damned guards than anything else. My hand on the cold iron gate, I watched her disappear around the corner of the passageway, her loose hair like a torch in the gloom, her light footfalls lost among the sharp march of the guards‘ boots. Then I turned away with a sigh, aware of the gatekeepers’ eyes trailing my every move. Bastards.

  The misty gray light of early morning was just beginning to flare golden on the edges of the cobbles as I made my way to the embassy. The streets were empty save for the few lonely peddlers setting out their wares and the city watch, which wore blue cloaks and patrolled in pairs. I passed a bakery and inhaled deeply, my stomach growling at the yeasty smell of warm bread. I ducked down a shadowy side street, a shortcut to the embassy. The sun hadn’t reached here yet, and the damp chill of night still clung to the stones.

  I paused to adjust my cloak, the lingering echo of my footsteps in the air. Wait, that was no echo . . . I glanced around, all my senses suddenly on edge. My eyes caught a fleeting movement in an arched doorway a dozen yards or so behind me. My hand on my sword, I crept towards the darkened arch. Perhaps it was only a cat, I told myself, but my stomach remained a taut fist. The doorway was deep. I blindly lunged around the edge and into the rough wool of a cloak. I gripped the cloak and drew my sword. My pursuer gave a muffled grunt of surprise and tried to twist away.

  I dragged him out of the doorway. His sword was still in its sheath, but I was taking no chances. I threw him to the ground and put my blade tip to his throat. He looked back up at me, his dark eyes bright. Despite his old clothes and uncombed appearance, he didn’t seem like the thief I had first thought him to be. He was too fearless for that.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Falken. Selkie knows me.”

  “Who’s Selkie?”

  “Your wife.”

  “You’re bold,” I said evenly, “to make remarks about a man’s wife when you’re at the business end of his blade.”

  “It’s her hair--that’s why I called her Selkie.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She drew a portrait of me.”

  “Where?”

  “Down on the locks.” My blade pressed into his neck. “I swear,” he continued quickly, “that’s it, I haven’t touched her . . .”

  “I know you haven’t touched her.”

  “How?”

  “Because I know her.”

  He grinned. “Aesir has smiled on you, for you to have found a woman you trust so much.”

  “Why were you following me?”

  “If you let me up, I’ll tell you.”

  “You must think me a fool. Now talk.”

  He sighed. “You won’t believe me, but I want to help you.”

  “With what?”

  “With Selkie.”

  “I don’t need any help with my wife.”

  He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of entreaty. “I told you already, I don’t mean it like that. She’s a desirable woman, but I would never risk it. I know the Cormalen pale eyes kill for their women--it‘s a legend here.”

  “So be clearer explaining yourself, lest you end up part of the legend.”

  “I know Toscar,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve known him since I was a child. I’ve known the queen since I was a child . . .”

  “How?”

  “The queen’s dead brother was . . . was . . .” he faltered at the sound of boots on the cobbles.

  I glanced up. A pair of city watchmen were approaching us, their swords drawn. “What is this?” the older one demanded gruffly.

  “This man was following me.”

  “And who are you, sir?”

  “Merius of Landers, Cormalen king’s guard with Lord Rankin.”

  “Falken,” the younger watchman exclaimed, suddenly noticing who was at the end of my blade. “Get up--what mischief have you been stirring in now?”

  I removed my sword from Falken’s neck, and he scrambled up and brushed the dirt off his cloak and trousers. “I saw this man with Lord Rankin. I wanted to know if there would be a position at the embassy for me, so I thought I’d ask him.”

  “Why do you want a position at the Cormalen embassy?” the elder watchman asked.

  “None of your affair.”

  “It may be none of my affair, but you’d best think up a better story than that before Lord Toscar asks you the reason.”

  Falken straightened to his full height, his eyes narrow. He suddenly had the bearing of a courtier, even in his peddler’s clothes. “How dare you question me? And if you go to Toscar with this, you’ll regret it. Did you ever think perhaps he ordered me to get a position at the embassy? I know more about his dealings than you do.”

  The watchman glanced from Falken to me, still thinking. “So how did he end up at the end of your sword?” he asked me.

  “It’s early morning--I heard him following me. I assumed him to be a thief.”

  “That’s a reasonable man’s assumption,” the younger watchman commented. Falken glowered at him but said nothing.

  “All right then.” The elder man sheathed his sword. “Come Kristar--we have a patrol to walk.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two watchmen continued down the street. When they had gone around the corner and out of sight, Falken picked up his sword and returned it to his scabbard.

  “It’s bad they saw that,” he muttered.

  “Toscar’s spies?”

  He nodded. “They’re all Toscar’s spies, though my threat might keep them quiet--if they believed it.”

  “It seemed the elder one did.”

  “He’s been around long enough to know I’m in Toscar’s confidence and that Toscar doesn’t tolerate interference. It’s the younger one I’m worried about--like all of them, he’s trying to make a name for himself.”

  “Toscar’s confidence?”

  “Do you know of Queen Jazmene’s dead brother Urtzi?” When I nodded, Falken continued, “I’m his bastard. My mother was a tinker man’s daughter he saw at the Midmarch market and fancied.”

  “If that’s the case, you should be dead. The Numerian royal family is too ruthless to permit an errant branch.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You have to admit, you are a political impossibility. Besides, if all who claimed to be some prince’s mishap were believed, half the world would ha
ve royal blood in their veins.”

  He grinned, unshaken. “In my case, the queen believes my parentage enough to use me as a pawn in her games.”

  “Then you have a better claim than most. But why tell me this?”

  “Your Selkie’s caught in a web, and I want to help you get her free.”

  “Horseshit.” I chuckled, my hand still on my sword hilt. “Toscar sent you to draw me out.”

  “I don’t follow that snake-spawn’s orders,” he said with some heat.

  “Then why the hell are you here?”

  He moved closer. “I led him to her,” he said quietly. “He would never have seen her, her work, but for me. When I saw him with her in the palace courtyard the other day, his grip on her arm . . . It made me ill, like seeing my own sister there with him. Now I don’t know what he wants with her pictures, but I do know he and the queen don’t let loose their prey easily.”

  My father’s son, I was suspicious of all. But his story, the way he spoke, had the sound of truth. Still, I remained cautious. I wanted to ask Safire about him. She had a sense about people that was uncanny, whether or not one believed in what she called auras. She would know how far Falken could be trusted. Of course, at this point I would deal with the devil, hell, even deal with my father, to extricate us from this latest mess. As Father had predicted that last day at Landers Hall, my famous pride was all but absent when it came to protecting Safire. The only thing stopping me from writing him was fear of the strings he would attach to any help he provided. No, treating with Father was a last resort, and I certainly wasn’t out of resorts yet. He hadn’t trained me at court for nothing.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Cedric lunged, his practice blade low, but I stood my ground, sensing he was only trying to draw me out. “How did you know it was a feint?” he demanded through his mesh mask, pausing to catch his breath.

  “You never make lower blows, lest they’re feints.” I swung my sword, and he blocked it perfunctorily.

  “Herrod said that it’s a bad habit.”

  “Unless you’re fighting a gentleman, it is. Your opponents here won’t be anywhere near so chivalrous.”

  He leapt aside as I charged him. “All these assassins know how to do is strike below the belt.”

  “I suspect that’s why they’re assassins--no honor or chivalry. If we’re going to beat them, that’s how we have to be too.” I struck a blow to his hip.

  “That’s how you already are, Landers.”

  I went after him with a rain of blows, only a few of which he managed to block. “All right, all right--I only meant in swordplay. Otherwise you’re the most honest fellow I know.”

  “Honest fellow? Somehow that doesn’t sound sincere to me.” I circled him, lightly jabbing him in the side. It was so easy here, with the polished wood floors and the high beamed ceiling and the wide windows, dust motes flying in the sunlight. It was fine enough to be a ballroom, and my muscles responded as if this were a dance, pure action, so instinctive that I didn‘t need to think about it. My body went through the motions on its own, my mind thirteen years old again, Father barking orders about the difference between aristocratic swordplay and real fighting. I wondered suddenly how Father had learned the sword--it certainly hadn’t been at the palace salon. More likely on the docks, with all the nasty tricks he had taught me.

  “Merius--I need a break.”

  I halted, realizing I was still attacking Cedric. “Sorry--I don’t take well to slurs on my honor.”

  “It was a jest.” He took off his mask and shook his head. “God, I hate that thing--it’s like my head‘s in a cage.”

  I cuffed him on the shoulder. “You better watch out--my dirty fighting may save your life someday.”

  He laughed as he wiped a cloth over his face and neck. “Likely you’re right.”

  The door from the hall opened, and Rankin’s steward stepped inside, bowing. “My Lord wishes to see you, Sir Merius.”

  “In the middle of practice?”

  The man shrugged. “I only relay his commands. He wants to see you now.”

  I grimaced at my sweaty shirt. Of course, it was Rankin’s own fault, calling me out of practice. I saluted Cedric with my sword, and he nodded back, his expression quizzical. As much at a loss as he was about Rankin‘s summons, I followed the steward.

  Rankin was sitting at the table in the center of his library, books open all around him as he examined a teardrop-shaped glass vial with a spout. He turned it up to the light, and I noticed it was half full of a bright blue liquid. “Fascinating,” he said, not looking up from the object.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s supposed to be a barometer.”

  “I thought those required quicksilver to work.”

  “That’s what I thought too, but Lord Quxor swears by this one.” Rankin tapped the spout. “I can see how it’s supposed to work--during fair weather, increased air pressure inside the vial forces more liquid up the spout--but this one doesn’t seem to be accurate. According to it, we should be in the middle of a storm right now. Ah, well . . .” He set the instrument aside.

  “You summoned me, my lord?”

  “Yes.” He sighed, likely regretful he had to abandon his books for the moment. He looked at me, his eyes suddenly glinting. “I hear you and Safire have been dining frequently at the palace--with both Her Majesty Jazmene and Lord Toscar. Merius, I’ll be blunt. My guards’ loyalty can’t be compromised, especially yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father is a provincial minister, your family is next to royalty in Cormalen . . .”

  “I no longer claim the name Landers except as a formality.”

  His fingers worried at the end of his beard. “It doesn’t matter--you’re still a mark for those who desire influence--in any court.”

  “Safire’s the mark in this instance, not me.” At his questioning look, I continued, “Queen Jazmene likes her sketches. A lot. For the last several weeks, Safire’s been receiving painting instruction at court.”

  “Merius . . .”

  “My lord, I know the position this puts me in . . .”

  “I’m certain you do, but that doesn’t change the situation.”

  I inhaled painfully. “I know it doesn’t. Since Cormalen and Sarneth are such close allies, I assumed this particular embassy position would be fairly quiet and away from court politics, but evidently I assumed too much." I hesitated, wondering if I should continue. After Father's manipulations, I rarely trusted anyone in authority, but Rankin seemed different. He was a scholar, more interested in his books than court intrigue. "Maybe you could help us,” I said finally. After all, I was just asking for help--I didn't have to tell him everything.

  "I could speak with the queen. Maybe Safire could receive her lessons here instead of at the palace."

  Visions of Rankin and others at the embassy perhaps seeing the movement in Safire's paintings flitted through my head. The movement became more obvious everyday--there was no way she could paint here.

  I managed a chuckle. "That solution presumes Queen Jazmene is a reasonable woman."

  He shrugged. "Well, what do you suggest?"

  "Release my oath so we're free to return to Cormalen." Rankin had to release my oath to him if I hoped to have any career in the king's guard. If I just left my post, my commander Herrod would see that as desertion except in the direst of circumstances. I could be cast out of the guard for desertion.

  “You’re an excellent guard, you’re intelligent, and frankly, you have connections I would like to keep--as long as those connections are in my service and no one else‘s. Get your wife out of the palace, and there’ll be no reason for you to leave.” Rankin sounded almost curt.

  “It’s not that simple, my lord.”

  “Merius, do you realize how that sounds? What are they doing? Bribing you?”

  “No.” I paused. “They’re guarding her. Day and night.”

  Rankin’s eyes gleamed dangerously brig
ht. “They’re guarding your wife? What for?”

  “I think the queen fears us as flight risks. Safire's been cooperative so far, but . . .”

  “You’re insulting both of us by insisting this is all about Safire’s work and not about your parentage. The queen does collect art, but she is hardly so obsessed as to set guards outside your door. Merius, I don’t believe you. Be honest, and I‘ll try to help you.”

  “I am being honest.”

  “But you’re not telling me everything.”

  “No, I’m not, because it involves my wife. Now, I can leave your service today if you‘ll release my oath. I want to get Safire out of here . . .”

  “Past the queen’s guards?” Rankin’s tone was dry.

  “I escaped a band of cutthroat SerVerinese traders--I can handle court guards.”

  He sighed. “It could ruin your reputation if I release your oath--people may think it’s because I don’t trust you.”

  “Well, you don’t.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just concerned that even an honorable man can be pushed into a corner when his wife’s being threatened.”

  “I share your concern.” I swallowed. “Every day when I go to fetch her, I worry they‘ll have locked her away somewhere I can‘t see her unless I do what they say. Toscar is the sort of man who‘ll set a price on anything.”

  “That he is. At least you’re aware of your limitations.” He fingered the gilt edge of a book resting on the table.

  “So you’ll release my oath?”

  “No. I don't think that's the best way to help you and Safire in the long run. If the queen's obsessed and unreasonable enough to have guards following you, what makes you think you'll be able to board a ship?”

  "But if I get rid of the guards . . ."

  "I still think you'll have problems leaving--they watch the ships for fugitives of all kinds, and neither you nor Safire blend well into a crowd. All they'd have to do is catch a glimpse of Safire's hair." He paused. "You know, your father could help--he's clever about such things."

  "I don't want the strings attached to his help," I snapped.