Path of Honor

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  A fanfare sounded, and the first course began with the service of a light, delicate wine, platters of various breads and a mouthwatering array of meats, cheeses and vegetable spreads. They were served in pastry shells shaped like roses, orchids and tulips. Given the drought, the long winter and the shortage of food in the city and Fringes, it was a decadent beginning to an even more decadent feast. Juhrnus could hardly choke it down. As for the sorceress, she ate sparingly, taking bare sips of her wine and spending more time pushing her food around the plate than eating.

  Though it was Juhrnus’s turn to converse with her, the Basham on her other side chatting animatedly with the woman on his right, he couldn’t scrape up anything to say, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth.

  “What do you call your ahalad-kaaslane?” she asked suddenly, coming to his rescue.

  “Esper. He’s a sisalik. From the western part of Kodu Riik. Gets hot there, and swampy. Lots of trees.”

  “He dislikes the cold, then.” She sounded disapproving.

  Juhrnus smiled. “He does enjoy a good fire.”

  “I’d like to see the rest of the city,” the sorceress said abruptly.

  “I can show you around,” Juhrnus offered quickly. If he could get her alone, perhaps he could discover something. . . .

  “I would hate to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble. I would be pleased to do it.”

  Once again she cast him that glittering look, and Juhrnus squirmed on his chair.

  Soon the next course began, and it was time to flirt with the Preili on his left. Beyond he could see Menegal-Hakar, gimlet eyes flickering over the assembly as he speared food into his mouth. He seemed unimpressed by the parade of servants presenting platter after platter of beautifully prepared foods—meats molded into hedgehogs and badgers, whole roasted pigs, dozens of varieties of fish, twenty different omelets made of quail eggs, roasted partridges and pheasants still in their feathers with gilded beaks and claws, and more. Between each course came jugglers, minstrels, balladeers, illusionists and instrumental sets.

  Determined to discover more about the sorceress, with the next course and change of partners, Juhrnus began asking a barrage of questions. “Tell me about Scallas. What’s it like?”

  “Hot.”

  “Quite a change for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have family?”

  “My mother.”

  “You must miss her.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Gone.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “In Keemasan. Our capital city.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She did not answer, cutting into the golden apple that had just been placed on her plate. She took a bite, chewing slowly, then laid her fork and knife down.

  “It’s beautiful. The buildings are built of many-colored stones, gleaming in the sunlight like fairy sculptures. They are carved from bottom to top with celebrations of Dahre-Sniwan.” Her voice dropped at the mention of the name of Scallas’s patron god. “There are gardens everywhere, in every tiny corner, on rooftops, on window ledges. Even in the niches of the walls. They overflow with fragrant flowers of every color and variety, filling the air with glorious smells. The bushes and trees are extraordinary, growing in fantastical shapes and so brilliantly green. Water is precious in Scallas. Though the cloud-wardens call the rain, there is scarcely ever enough. But the gardens show our devotion to Dahre-Sniwan.

  “Keemasan is an oasis for thousands of birds. Their song is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. No matter how many walls separate you from the outside, morning or night, you can hear them.”

  She stopped and Juhrnus waited, hoping she’d say more. But now came the parade of pastries: pies, cakes, tarts, custards, truffles, fruit breads and compotes. Now the sorceress had turned to her other partner. The plump Preili on Juhrnus’s left was busy with the mountain of sweets on her plate and in no need of Juhrnus’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the sorceress.

  She bent her head and lifted a bite of pastry to her mouth. Juhrnus watched her lips open, feeling once again that pull between them. He tensed against it. And just when he would have looked away, broken the connection, the pastry on her fork disappeared. Vanished. He blinked. She set her fork down and half of what had been on the plate was gone as well.

  Juhrnus drew a startled breath. There was something infinitely frightening in that casual disappearance. He’d seen no evidence of sorcery, though what he’d expected, he didn’t know. When Reisil used magic, her eyes generally changed color—green in healing, red in battle—and the ivy on her face began to glow. But there’d been no warning, no outward sign of magic from the sorceress. And to use such power on such a minor thing! Did she have so much to spare, then?

  What had Sodur invited into Kodu Riik? For as easily as she had banished her food, the sorceress could banish a person, or the entire Banquet Hall full of people. What could all three of them do together? Was Reisil a match for the Scallacians? Juhrnus shuddered, his skin prickling. Reisil was untrained; though she bore a sharp sword, she used it like a club. The sorcerers were akin to assassins, with a hoard of weapons and infinitely greater skills. How could Reisil’s brute force compete with that?

  The fanfare signaling the end of the meal sounded, and everyone stood. The Verit offered a toast to the Scallacians, and then everyone began to disperse into gossiping groups.

  “When would you like your tour of the city?”

  The sorceress hesitated, glancing at the two sorcerers who were walking away with the Verit and Lord Marshal. She looked back at Juhrnus. “Is dawn too early?”

  He raised his brows. “Not for me, Dajam. But you may not have had time to sleep by then.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she said in an odd voice. “Dawn it is, then. Thank you for your kindness in escorting me to dine.”

  Juhrnus gave a short bow, scrambling for something else to say. Then something Reisil had said struck him and he straightened.

  “It was my pleasure. But if I might keep you for just one more moment . . . I do not know how to address you. Abi, I think Menegal-Hakar called you.”

  The sorceress yanked her hand from his. Her face paled, and her eyes flattened over flared nostrils. She pointed a shaking finger at him, and with clenching fear, Juhrnus saw wisps of purple smoke curling from its end like smoke from a blown candle.

  “Never—,” she said, her upper lip curling. Then she caught herself. She drew a harsh breath, and her hand flattened in the air between them. Without another word she stalked away. For a moment Juhrnus hesitated.

  ~Go. She is off balance. And you learned something. Reisiltark is right. There is something dangerous brewing between her and them.

  The way Esper said them was like an epithet, though oddly the sentiment didn’t seem to extend to the sorceress. But Esper’s judgment on the situation was enough for Juhrnus, who began tracking the sorceress’s retreat through the throng. It was no easy task. The room was large with a great many nooks and doors.

  Juhrnus peeked into the alcove where he and Reisil had taken refuge earlier. He apologized for disturbing the young nobleman with his mature lover and then moved quickly away. He searched up and down the Great Hall, but she was nowhere to be seen. He slipped out into the Grand Foyer and glanced into the other reception rooms. Would she have returned to her quarters? No. It was too strange a place. It wouldn’t be any comfort to her. So where?

  The wind gusted again and outside the wind howled. High above on the rotunda roof, ice clicked and clattered against the stone. Juhrnus stared up at the alabaster dome. She wouldn’t. Not on such a night. But his gut told him otherwise.

  ~Do you want to stay here? I don’t have my sling or a coat. It’s going to be cold.

  Esper hesitated, and Juhrnus could feel his ahalad-kaaslane ’s indecision. Juhrnus reached up and lifted Esper down, setting him down beside a
linen-covered cabinet. ~It should be warm enough under there. Wait for me.

  ~I shouldn’t let you go alone.

  ~I’m never alone. You are always with me. Juhrnus tapped the side of his head meaningfully. Esper licked his tongue across the back of his hand before crawling beneath the linen draperies to curl up and wait.

  Juhrnus stood and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension from carrying Esper for so long. He looked at the large front doors. No, she would have found another way out. Something less conspicuous. He dodged into one of the serving passageways. It led into another and another until he came to the bustling kitchens. She wouldn’t have gone in there. Juhrnus backtracked up the corridor, testing doors until he found one unlatched, leading into the kitchen gardens.

  He pushed on the door. It pushed back. He put his shoulder to it and stumbled out into the dark, winter-killed gardens. The wind pummeled him, chilling him to his skin. Ice pellets raised stinging welts on his face. Demonballs! Where was she?

  He made his way down the walk, skidding and sliding on the slick stones. Giving up, Juhrnus stepped into the planter bed where the frozen furrowed dirt and leaf meal lent him better traction. He quartered the garden, finding nothing, and moved on into the next. He found her at the far wall, gazing into the violent sky.

  Juhrnus paused, hunched against the wind, wondering how to approach her. As he watched, he was struck by the realization that her robes hung still and unmoving, nor did the wind tease her hair from its smooth cap.

  Suddenly she thrust her hands up to the sky, and the magic shielding fell away. Her robes billowed and flapped, exposing her bare legs beneath the chain undergarment. Her hair tossed and streamed. Standing thus, she looked nothing more like a rashani, wild and ferocious and mad. Juhrnus didn’t know whether to advance or retreat.

  Then the decision was taken from him.

  She turned slowly, her magical shields snapping up. She stared at him, her face white and skeletal in the violent night. Bruised purple smoke curled around her hands and up her arms. She spoke, but Juhrnus couldn’t hear anything past the roaring in his ears. She moved closer, a stark, white halo erupting around her and making Juhrnus squint against its sudden brilliance. She thrust her hand, pointing, and Juhrnus flinched. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was trapped in her spell and completely at her mercy.

  Chapter 24

  Metyein guided the incensed Kijal Deviik into an unused solar.

  “This is intolerable!” the Kijal exploded. “What does your father intend to do about it?”

  “He has sent men to meet with Thevul Bro-heyek. But if Soka is there, they will keep him hidden. In all truth, until the Thevul crosses out of his borders, there is little to be done. Sending troops could incite retaliation, even if troops could be spared. But as my father has pointed out to me, the mystery of Soka’s disappearance could equally be attributed to a woman as to his father’s plotting. Bro-heyek has been content to leave his son here for more than a decade. There’s nothing to suggest he’d try to liberate him now.”

  And indeed, those were nearly the exact words his father had used when Metyein demanded a search.

  “But my lands! Bro-heyek has always coveted my eastern valley. It is the largest and most fertile valley that far north. He’ll have it for the plucking. And once he’s ensconced, he’ll not be easily moved without taking one of his boy’s ears, or his whole head!” The Kijal shook his head and paced in a zigzagged path. “I must speak to your father—the first-tier lords. They will support me. Bro-heyek must be stripped of his lands. He’s nothing but a common thief and a pirate.”

  “Undoubtedly so, Kaj Deviik. But doing so right this moment would be a grave mistake.”

  The Kijal jerked around, his jaw jutting, his broad face florid. “A mistake? To defend my lands from that scum?”

  “A mistake to show your hand too early, Kaj Deviik. Think about it. Soka could not make the long trip home alone. He’s hardly ever been outside the gates of this city. How would he find his way? How would he deal with the terrain, with a lame horse or a nokula? That is, if Soka ran. I have my doubts.”

  The Kijal straightened, crossing his arms and staring down at Metyein with a cold look. “That’s right. You and the puppy are friends.”

  “We still are, if I’m right. Which is why I am talking to you.”

  “And what do you think has happened?”

  “I think that it’s highly coincidental that he should disappear right at this moment, when the Scallacians have arrived and we are facing so much pressure from the plague and the nokulas. Bro-heyek has little to gain that I can see. Certainly a few hectares of land, but that is only temporary. He knows my father would send troops eventually, that he would lose his heir, and likely his lands. That’s even supposing he’d be stupid enough not to wait until your people had tilled and planted the fields and pastured your herds. Why put himself to expense when he can take it out of your coffers? You know him. Does this sound likely?” Metyein paused. “But someone else might wish you to retire from Koduteel, to take your voice from the Arkeinik.”

  “This is ludicrous. You seek merely to assuage cas Raakin’s guilt.”

  “There is a regency on the table, Kaj Deviik. Which way will you vote? No one but you knows if you’ll vote Aare the regency or not. With the stakes so high, either side would play this sort of game to win the day. It need not be the Verit or my father: many others stand to win or lose by your choice, or your departure from the city. But on my honor, I swear Soka cas Raakin would not have broken the hostage pact of his own free will.”

  The Kijal turned away and went to the window, brooding. Finally he swung back around. “Suppose I accept for now that cas Raakin has not left willingly, but that someone plots my removal from Koduteel. What do you want of me?”

  “First, that you make your own investigation. Make no secret of your ire and malice for Thevul Bro-heyek. I have no doubt that information shall be provided, too easily and too quickly. And it shall rule against Soka.”

  “And how will that convince me that you are right?” the Kijal demanded. “If the evidence points to cas Raakin, why should I discount it?”

  Metyein nodded. “Make it known you remain undecided on the vote, nor do you intend to leave Koduteel. The longer you do, the more anxious they’ll get. They’ll have to make another move. Their initial feint having failed, they’ll push harder, expose themselves. The rest of the first-tier lords are set in their positions. You are the only wild card.”

  Metyein had thought through the argument for days. If someone had wanted to influence the vote, Soka could easily have been taken by himself without harm. He often walked the streets alone and late at night, having gambled or dallied long past any polite hour. But why would someone come after the four of them in the Jarrah Gardens? And why use practice tips on the arrows, which might or might not kill? What was the point?

  But if Deviik bought his argument, then whoever had taken Soka would be forced to make a move. When they did, Metyein would be ready.

  “Very well. I don’t relish being anyone’s pawn. But mark my words, if I find Soka cas Raakin has broken the hostage pact, I’ll slit his throat myself and stake his head on the battlements.”

  “If he’s broken the pact, then it’s no more than he deserves.”

  Metyein drained his glass as Kijal Deviik departed, wincing as the liquid flamed in his empty stomach. He’d carried it off. He tapped his fingers against his thigh. There were three or four hours before the feast ended. His father wouldn’t notice his absence until then. The time was ripe to search in the seedier quarters. If Soka was alive, that was where he’d be hiding.

  Metyein reached for the door and then paused, looking down at himself. He couldn’t go looking like this. He’d stand out like a peacock in a cockyard. But in this weather, a man wearing a cloak and hood wouldn’t raise suspicions. Metyein knew just where to find what he needed.

  He hurried down the corridor and out a servants’ entra
nce, grateful for the curiosity that had led him and Soka to explore these corridors so thoroughly as children. He sped to his father’s house, where he raided Pelodra’s quarters for a weathered cloak, gloves and boots. He shoved his own clothing into a pack and carried it beneath the cloak, giving him a hunched, aged appearance. He took a plain sword from his own rooms and headed down to the red quarter to begin his search.

  Metyein returned later than he’d planned and was chagrined to find that the feast had already finished. He hurried up a back staircase to an upper floor, where he slipped into a lady’s unoccupied boudoir. There he changed back into his own boots and gloves and removed his sword. With the aid of the anonymous lady’s toiletry paraphernalia, he combed out his hair and then smoothed his clothing. There was little he could do for his cravat. It had long since wilted and flattened beyond repair.

  He examined himself in the mirror. He still looked a bit unkempt. There was nothing to be done about it. But that wasn’t what worried him. There was a tightness to his lips and an intensity in his gaze that betrayed the turbulence of his mind. His father was certain to notice. With effort, he forced his lips into their familiar mocking smile and slumped his body in a loose, careless way. But there was nothing he could do to temper the look in his eyes. The information he’d learned still thundered in his blood. He sighed and let his lids droop. With luck, his father would be too preoccupied to notice him.

  A few minutes later Metyein sauntered down the marble staircase to the Grand Foyer. Though the Great Hall and the constellation of reception rooms remained crowded, the Foyer itself was unoccupied. Metyein nearly missed a step when there began a wild churning beneath one of the linen-covered tables against the wall. Out from beneath skittered Juhrnus’s ahalad-kaaslane, his head and tail whipping back and forth. The agitated sisalik raced to the middle of the floor, spinning in circles, his claws clicking and scraping, the sound sending shivers down Metyein’s spine.