Prince Gajdosik said with the same flat certainty, “It is insupportable that Bherijda should lay his hand to the Kieba’s power.”
“It would be better if my father didn’t, either,” Gulien said, not quite to him, but to the whole small gathering. “He is the Kieba’s enemy. But he’s wrong. We need the Kieba. Not just us. Everyone. We dare not allow any of her enemies to cast her down.” There was a slight pause. Not even Paulin said a word.
Gulien turned slightly to take in the ruined palace. Dust and smoke swirled slowly and heavily where the many-storied palace of the Madalin family had once stood. One might see a kind of metaphor in that, if one were so inclined.
He said to Gajdosik, “You remain my prisoner, Your Highness.”
Prince Gajdosik inclined his head. “I acknowledge it, Your Highness. I do not dispute it.”
Gulien nodded. “I gave you tactical command. You hold it still, Prince Gajdosik Garamanaj, and you must continue to hold it. Establish order in my city. That is my command. Clear out the rest of your brother’s men. Protect Caras from all her enemies. I leave my city to you in trust, Your Highness.” He more than half expected someone—Lord Paulin or Erren or someone—to object. No one said a word.
“I will keep this trust,” Prince Gajdosik said formally.
“I know you will,” Gulien told him. “In this exigency, my people will support you.” He looked at Lord Paulin and then Lord Beroen and then at Erren, collecting reluctant acknowledgment from one man and then the next and the next. Satisfied—as satisfied as possible under the circumstances— he started to turn, then swung back. “Cooperate with one another!” he ordered them all. “If the Kieba sends word to you here, then obey her word as well!”
“With a dedicated will, Your Highness,” Gajdosik promised him.
Gulien nodded. He wanted to add, And find Oressa. But he didn’t dare admit publicly he didn’t know where she was. Besides, though Gajdosik would surely send someone after her, notwithstanding the most dedicated will in the world, he knew no one would find his sister if Oressa didn’t want to be found.
He wanted to look for her himself. But he had no time. He knew that most clearly of all.
CHAPTER 23
Oressa had thought it might be exciting, being alone outside the palace, disguised as a common woman. In fact, it was awful. An ordinary night might have been different, but she had forgotten somehow that Caras was an occupied city—that Bherijda’s men would be patrolling the streets and that at night, without lamps over doors and lanterns glowing in windows, the city would be terrifyingly dark. Almost no moonlight made its way down to light the narrow streets between the blank walls of the closed-up houses. Only the scorpion soldiers carried lanterns, which made them easier to avoid, but it was almost impossible to pick her way through the streets without a lantern of her own.
Not only that, but she found out the hard way that not all the scorpion soldiers traveled in a wave of light and noise. One small, quiet troop nearly caught her before she got properly away from the palace. Oressa tucked herself behind a feathery tamarisk in a heavy stone planter until they were past, then peeked cautiously after them until she lost them in the darkness.
There seemed a great many scorpion soldiers. Far more than she’d expected. She’d thought Bherijda had taken them all with him, but plainly he had left a good many behind. She supposed there was no reason to think Bherijda had brought fewer men across the Narrow Sea than Gajdosik. In that case, even if he’d taken a thousand men with him on the road toward the Kieba’s mountain, he might have left thousands more in Caras. It certainly seemed like thousands, when one was attempting to sneak unobtrusively out of the city. She hoped, at least, that if so many men were out here in the city, then Gulien might have more freedom to act within the palace. But that was only a hope. What she knew was that at every turn she seemed to be surrounded by enemies.
Oressa also couldn’t guess what her own people would do if she stumbled into them and asked for aid. Would they help her get away to the north? If she told them who she was, what then? Would they believe her, and if they did, would they expect her to lead them in some mad, defiant gesture? She rather liked the idea of a mad, defiant gesture, but not when she actually needed to get away and find Gajdosik’s people. Besides, she wasn’t quite certain how she could explain to her own people that she meant to get away in order to bring back a lot more Tamaristan soldiers. On the whole, it seemed better to slip away unobserved by anyone at all.
But the city seemed bigger and darker and far more frightening once she started trying to find her way through it alone and on foot. She simply hadn’t realized how utterly strange it would be to sneak through an occupied city completely on her own.
But she would do it. She would. She would get out and get a horse somehow, ride north and find Gajdosik’s men, and nothing would stop her.
Even if she had to wait till dawn to make her way through these streets, which seemed frustratingly inclined to tangle up into a maze. At least she had managed to pick her way a little farther from the palace and so felt a bit safer, but though she longed for light, she was afraid to stop without finding a better hiding place. If she could find a way to scramble up onto the rooftops . . . That way, once the sun came up, she could see where she was—
There was a faint, unexpected clatter, not very far away, as of someone stumbling over something in the dark, and someone hissed, “Hsst! Ox! Watch where you put your feet.”
Oressa froze, not knowing whether to crouch down in the dark and hold still or bolt back the way she’d come. But those words had been in Esse; those weren’t Bherijda’s men. Running away blind seemed like a stupid idea; she’d surely trip or run into something. She thought again of the rooftops, but the nearest wall, when she ran her hand across it hopefully, was smooth, unbroken plaster. Even her breathing seemed loud to her.
“Someone’s here,” whispered a different voice. “Spread out, you lot.”
Oressa guessed there were at least three or four men ahead of her. She began to edge away, back the way she’d come, gently, not too fast. She was listening so intently to the whispers that she ran right into someone else, someone big and sturdy but alarmingly quiet, who closed powerful arms around her before she could duck away. He had, she realized instantly, been waiting for her to be spooked back into him. They’d done that on purpose—flushed her just like a hare into a hunter’s net.
There was no way she could get away. But she knew the man was Carastindin, not one of Bherijda’s men. So Oressa didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she said, in an icy, quiet voice, not whispering, “Don’t we have enough trouble with all those scorpion soldiers without ambushing one another? Let me go.”
“A girl!” exclaimed her captor. He did let her go, mostly, though he kept one broad hand wrapped around her arm. He patted her on the head with his other hand gently, as though he were reassuring a dog.
“Not safe out for a girl during daylight, never mind at night,” muttered one of the other men, who seemed to be the leader. “What are you doing out here, girl?”
“Trying to get away from them,” Oressa said truthfully. “But I think I’m lost.”
“I think maybe you are,” agreed the men, and laughed, a short, grim sound without a lot of humor to it.
Oressa could hardly see her captors, but she could hear them breathing. They smelled of olives and smoke and something else, burnt clay or something. She wondered who they were—potters, craftsmen? Militia, more than likely, whatever else they were. She asked tentatively, “Can you help me? I was trying to get to the north road. It’s important I get away to the north. They might be looking for me—”
“Maybe, maybe,” muttered the man. “Hush!”
For a long moment everyone stood very still, listening.
In the distance Oressa could hear some of the scorpion soldiers—loud, rhythmic, marching in step. The light from their lanterns dipped and swayed as they drew near. They were moving at an oblique angle, but s
he could tell they were going to come quite near.
She stirred anxiously, but before she could speak, the leader said to the big man holding her, in a low mutter, “We’ll deal with those. You, get her to the other one, that guard officer from the palace. He’s wanting to go north. He can escort her. Don’t take all night about it, hear me? I need you here.”
Oressa was cautiously delighted. This sounded perfect. A guardsman from the palace! She wasn’t sure why a guardsman would be going north—perhaps to rally help from Addas, that might make sense. Or maybe to get a firsthand look at Gajdosik’s men, bring back news about exactly where the Tamaristan force was and whether it was moving and how fast and in what direction. That seemed likely, in fact. Any intelligent man would want to know all about the sea-eagle, whether he hoped Gajdosik’s men might be allies against Bherijda or feared they would be yet more enemies. Lord Paulin would know how important it was to have real information—or Lord Beroen might have sent a man.
Anyway, it must be someone she knew. Not Erren, surely, but someone with sense, someone like Beriad, who could guide her and help her, so she wouldn’t have to try to do everything by herself. Beriad would be perfect.
But when the big man finally led her up to a dark building—that looked to Oressa exactly like every other building they had passed—and tapped a rapid sequence on the door, and the door opened into lantern-lit warmth and safety, it wasn’t Beriad who turned sharply to see who had come in.
It was Kelian.
Oressa was torn between leaping back out the door into the dark city and stalking forward to slap him, but settled for a glare. “What are you doing here?”
Kelian seemed at least as startled to see Oressa as she was to see him, and not, apparently, much better pleased. He opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish. When he finally got his breath and started to say something, she put her fists on her hips and stared at him, and he sputtered wordlessly.
“I don’t want his help!” Oressa told the big man who had brought her here. He truly was enormous, now that she could see him properly: not much taller than Kelian, but twice his bulk, with blunt, heavy features and deep-set eyes. He looked strong enough to pick up a horse with one hand, and possibly the wagon it had been pulling with the other. He also looked confused.
Kelian began, “No, now, look—”
“What are you doing here?” Oressa interrupted him. “They said you were going north. That’s why they thought you could escort me. Why would you be going north?” She hadn’t even known there was a puzzle, but now pieces slotted into place one after another. She gave Kelian a narrow, considering look, and he paled. Then she was sure. Turning to the big man, she began, “Listen, he—”
Jumping forward, Kelian wrapped one arm around her shoulders and flattened his other hand across her mouth. “She’s a traitor,” he said to the big man. “She’s working for them. She’s one of the bunch that blew up the harbor cannons. She’s trying to get out of the city to carry news to another detachment of Tamaristan soldiers. Good job bringing her to me! I’ll take care of her now.”
The big man grunted, an impressed sound, and glowered at Oressa. She tried to bite Kelian’s hand, but the way he held her, it was surprisingly difficult. She tried to struggle, but he was taller and stronger and heavier than she was, and she couldn’t budge him. He tightened his grip, and she began to think he might smother her, possibly by accident, and how stupid would that be? She stood still.
“You think your people’ve got horses ready yet?” Kelian asked, panting slightly. When the man nodded, he went on, still a little breathlessly. “Then I think I’ll go right now. It’s almost dawn anyway. No, I appreciate your concern, but haste is of the utmost importance! Your help has been invaluable, my friend, simply invaluable, and you may be sure I’ll mention your name to the king! Let me have a bit of cloth for a gag, if you would. Can’t have the girl crying out for help, all those Tamaristan friends of her . . . Excellent. Thank you, my friend. Now, if you could check outside—”
Kelian turned out to be unfortunately thorough and competent, now that he was acting on his own behalf and not pretending to be on her side—on Carastind’s side. The horses had cloth-wrapped hooves and muffled bits, and the men who had brought them looked at Oressa in disgust and didn’t question Kelian’s decision to take her with him. Why would they question him? He really was a guardsman from the palace, and in her plain servant’s dress, not one of them recognized her. Despite her furious lack of cooperation, the big man had no difficulty lifting her into the saddle of one of the horses. Kelian tied her wrists to the pommel and took her reins.
Oressa, finding no chance to get away as Kelian led her horse through the dark city, pretended to have given up. She knew he really was going north, and she knew he really was going to take her with him, and she knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. Because—she had no proof, but she was sure she was right—he was a traitor himself. But he wasn’t working for any Tamaristan prince. She was almost entirely certain he was working for Estenda.
Long ago, when the Kieba had first raised up her mountain in the heart of the drylands of what was then merely the least regarded of the sprawling provinces of Greater Estenda, Ges Madalin, Oressa’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, had seized his chance to rebel. He had flung down the Estendan prince who ruled the province. With the Kieba’s favor, he had made the drylands into the free land of Carastind. Estenda, weakened and embarrassed, had ended up losing more than the southern drylands, because Markand, in the east, had also seized the opportunity to break away. Now Estenda ruled only the northern lands beyond the broken hills, and both Markand and Carastind made their own laws and trade agreements and paid tribute to no one.
Estenda had not, Oressa knew, ever quite resigned itself to its lesser role in the world. Its great king had been replaced by a clutter of merchant-princes who agreed about nothing, except about their right to rule the world—thus the Little War in which Oressa’s grandfather had been killed. But the Kieba’s presence in Carastind had prevented the Little War from becoming a great war.
But now one or another among Estenda’s merchant-princes must be wondering whether the Kieba would again intervene for Carastind. If even Tamarist had guessed that she had quarreled with Osir Madalin, Estenda must have been nearly certain of it. So they had sent a man of theirs to find out the truth of that quarrel. Oressa could see now that Kelian must have been their spy all along. But he’d fooled her completely. How pleased Kelian must have been when Gulien had given him that artifact to carry to the Kieba! And how furious when Oressa had invited herself along, stopping him from bearing it instead to his master in Estenda.
Now he would take her to Estenda instead. However things worked out in Carastind, his master would no doubt be delighted to bargain with either her father or her brother or Gajdosik or Bherijda for her. How ironic, that any of them would bargain for her.
She was not going to let it happen.
But she could not immediately see any means of stopping Kelian from getting away with everything.
The sun was coming up at last, the interminable night giving way to a rose and peach dawn. The whitewashed homes of the city glowed apricot in the new day, the roof tiles a dark and ruddy red. Kelian had brought them through the maze of narrow streets where the houses and shops all ran together. They passed a dozen places where Oressa could easily have scrambled from her horse’s saddle to the rooftops, and once up there, she knew she could keep away from a dozen pursuers forever, and never mind Kelian. But her hands were tied to the pommel, so that was impossible.
And now, as the alleys turned and twisted, she could catch glimpses of the wall. She wondered whether the north gates would be open or shut, and who would be guarding them if they were shut. She was fairly certain Kelian would have no trouble talking himself—and her—through those gates if they were held by her own people. It seemed strange to hope that they were guarded by Bherijda’s men—in fact, she didn’t hope for that,
but then she hardly knew what to hope for instead. She twisted her hands gently against the thongs that bound her. They were tight, and a lockpick wouldn’t help her now, even if she had a lockpick, which she didn’t.
On the other hand, most of Kelian’s attention was on the surrounding streets, not on Oressa, whose horse had to come behind his in the narrow alleys. From the moment they had started moving, she took every chance—as they crossed another street or an open square or paused to listen or to wait for someone unseen to pass by—to duck her head and work at getting the gag out of her mouth. That, she knew she could do—it was a little looser every time she jerked at it. Once she succeeded in getting the gag off, she could at least hope to call out. One chance, that was all she’d get, at best.
As soon as she got the gag off, she started using her teeth to try to get the cords off her wrists. At first it seemed hopeless. The knots were too tight, and she was certain that at any moment Kelian would see what she was doing. He did frequently glance over his shoulder at her, but he was distracted, and for the first part of the ride it was luckily too dark for him to see that the gag wasn’t over her mouth anymore. Then, as the sun rose, the threat from scorpion soldiers became greater, so he had less attention to spare for her. And she made sure to keep quiet, so quiet that he might think she was too cowed to fight him. And she suspected he had never really taken her seriously anyway.
But then, she had not really taken him seriously either, or he would never have fooled her for so long. She had been remarkably stupid; she saw that now. Worse, she had very little hope now unless he was more foolish still.
They were approaching the wall now, and Kelian probably had seen whether the gates were open and whose banner flew over them, but Oressa didn’t dare take time to look, because at last she almost had the thongs—at least one of the thongs—pulled free. She could hear people moving around, men, soldiers—boots ringing on the fitted stones of the north road entryway and thudding more softly on the packed earth of the ordinary streets. In a minute Kelian was going to turn his head and look at her, she could feel it—Oressa jerked the gag up with her still-bound hands and straightened in the saddle.
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