The woman in blue was close behind, gentling her gelding. The animal was rolling its eyes nervously at the vociferous objections of the half-orc prisoner to being tied on the back of a horse. Lakini doubted the horse thought much of the idea, either.
“Can any at the Shadrun see to Goldstone’s wound?” The woman addressed Lakini, but she was clearly concerned about the animal, so the deva took no offense.
“We have a stable-mistress skilled in tending animals,” she said, studying the woman’s face. She was taller and more solidly made than Kestrel, with determined eyebrows and a redder tinge to her hair, but her features were similar enough that Lakini thought she must, indeed, be the girl’s sister. “She’ll treat your Goldstone well.”
The woman nodded.
“We are much beholden to you,” she said in her straightforward way, gathering her skirts and tugging the gelding forward. “Thanks to the incompetence of our guards, my sister was almost killed this day.”
As she let the caravan precede her up the slope and fell in after the wagon passed, Lakini wondered. If the rogue intended to kill the Beguine girl, a long knife was a poor choice. It was more likely he would put it at her throat and take her hostage. He had tried to grasp her wrist, after all.
Was it coincidence that it was Kestrel he had targeted? Standing by the side of the road, was she the easiest mark? Or did it have something to do with her betrothed state? Many would profit from this proposed alliance, but many, too, would profit from the chaos that would result if it fell through.
What of the sage green livery? Were they ex-Jadarens, gone rogue? Had they plotted to meet the Beguine emissaries as friends but changed their plans midway?
And then there was that Captain Nimor, that expression on his face of surprise and more—betrayal.
It bothered her to think of Kestrel Beguine as a target. She liked the girl’s face.
Bithesi met the party and took charge of Goldstone personally, examining his wound while the children who helped her in the stables saw to the rest of the horses. As the simple stone buildings of Shadrun-of-the-Snows came into view, a messenger came to first Lusk, then Lakini, telling them that Sanwar Beguine, brother of Nicol—and Kestrel’s uncle—had arrived in the morning, while the devas were on patrol in the woods at the base of the mountain, and eagerly awaited the arrival of his nieces.
Sanwar Beguine regarded the bodies laid in a row outside the courtyard before the sanctuary.
“The livery of House Jadaren,” he said, his voice shaking in rage. “They dare set an ambush for my niece, on her way to make an alliance with them! Kestrel!” He turned to the girl next to him, who surveyed the bloodstained corpses with a pale but resolute face. “You see the madness in this plan now, I hope, even if your father does not.”
Lakini studied the man’s face—handsome, and indolent in a way she suspected was just for show. She wondered again why he hadn’t made part of the caravan.
He had said that once the traveling party had left, he feared treachery and had a premonition of an assassination attempt, and so had ridden to the sanctuary on his own, risking the dangers of a solitary journey out of love for his niece.
Commendable enough, Lakini thought. But it was strange he had missed the caravan along the way and had chosen instead a back route to reach Shadrun-of-the-Snows before Kestrel and her escort.
Instead of replying to Sanwar directly, Kestrel left her sister’s side and crouched beside the body of the man Ansel Chuit had killed. She took a bit of sage green cloth gingerly between her fingertips. Ansel, having taken Lakini’s lecture to heart, stood close by her side, his hands on the hilt of his newly bloodied weapon. His gaze flicked across the gathered folk, which included those who dwelt at the sanctuary, as well as curious pilgrims. Among them was Diamar, the Vashtun’s right hand. Long ago he had given up family name, status, and inheritance to serve at Shadrun-of-the-Snows and would eventually take on the duties of his master.
Better Ansel take his duties too seriously than neglect them, thought Lakini, as the young guard glanced at the forest stretched below them, at the white-marbled entrance to the Great Hall of the sanctuary, and at the human and half-orc bodies as if their deaths were an elaborate ruse and they were likely to jump up and fight again. If he lived long enough, he would learn balance.
“This cloth is terribly worn,” Kestrel said. “Look. The seam is torn halfway up and has been repaired with crude twine.”
She rubbed the tunic between her forefinger and thumb. “And it has a strange feel to it, as though it’s been churned in the washing like work clothes.”
She straightened and rubbed her hand on her skirt, frowning in concentration.
“What of it?” said Sanwar. “It’s unsurprising that a crew of brigands would take poor care of their clothing.”
“Unsurprising for brigands,” broke in Lakini. “But what of the guards you hire in your household? How do you clothe them? I’ll wager their uniforms are kept in good condition. And likewise I wager House Jadaren is no different.”
“Our worn livery is stripped of its insignia and sold down-market,” said Kestrel. “I know, because I keep the records. I wonder if those chevrons are real.”
“They’re not.”
Kestrel started as a slender young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a thin face and mouse brown hair, spoke behind her. He grinned at her startled expression and made a low bow.
“Arna Jadaren, at your service, my lady,” he said.
Ansel started and drew his sword a few inches from its scabbard. Lakini managed to catch his eye, and at her fierce look he reddened and let it slide back, taking his too-ready hand from the hilt as he did so.
Lakini didn’t miss how Sanwar Beguine, flushed with anger and sputtering at the appearance of the Jadaren heir, looked eagerly at the young guard when he seized his weapon, and frowned when at Lakini’s look he stood down. An attack on Arna Jadaren by those sworn to House Beguine would be disastrous at this point. Lakini was reasonably sure Sanwar knew that.
Kestrel rose, looking at Arna with a puzzled expression.
“But … I’ve seen you before,” she said, her voice uncertain.
Ciari strode over to the young man and peered closely at his face. “As have I,” she said flatly. “On market day in Nonthal, with the Druit boy with the cantrips.”
Arna turned beet red as she put her hands on her hips and lowered her brows at him. “Just what did you mean by that, sneaking under false pretenses into my town? You’re lucky you weren’t found out.”
“In my defense, fairlady,” said Arna, with all the dignity he could muster, “I never said I wasn’t who I am.”
He glanced at Kestrel’s bewildered face with an abashed smile. Then he made a deep, formal bow to Ciari.
“Forgive my curiosity, Mistress Kestrel,” he said, “but when the opportunity to see the maiden that might become my bride arose, I couldn’t resist.”
Ciari looked from the back of his reddened neck to her sister, and back again. At her silence, Arna looked up from his bow, puzzled. She had turned as red as he and made a sputtering noise not unlike the hiss of a kettle.
Arna turned to Lakini, bewildered.
“She’s not going to hit me, is she?” he said.
“She might,” the deva replied.
Ciari didn’t hit him, bursting into laughter instead. Her sister went to her and placed a solicitous arm around her shoulders, a rueful smile playing on her lips.
Arna blinked. “Perhaps someone might tell me the joke?” he asked mildly.
Ansel Chuit had taken his hand from the hilt of his weapon.
“It might have something to do with the fact that you were addressing Mistress Ciari, not Kestrel,” he said, somewhat tartly.
Arna opened his mouth, considered what to say, then shut it with a snap.
“I’m sorry for your disappointment,” said Kestrel, as her sister quieted, “but it’s no more than you deserve for trying to spy us out in the first place.”
“I’m not disappointed …” sputtered Arna. He stopped and turned to Ciari. “That is, I wouldn’t … You’re both very …”
He gasped and looked a little like a fish, unable to stop an expression of delight from passing over his face.
“Get over yourself, Jadaren,” said Ciari, pushing Kestrel toward him. “You well know you’re not man enough for me.”
Arna recovered himself and inclined his head to her. “I have no doubt you are correct, Mistress Ciari,” he said.
He turned to the rest of the party.
“My apologies for my early and unceremonious arrival,” he said, acutely aware of Kestrel standing beside him. With an abashed expression he addressed Sanwar. “And to you, sir, for not knowing who you were when you arrived and making your acquaintance.”
Sanwar found his tongue. He was as red as Arna, but with anger instead of embarrassment.
“Am I to understand that you came to Nonthal to spy upon my niece, to see if she was fair enough for you?” he said. “And that you came by stealth to a place of negotiation, seeking to find the advantage of the ground?”
He spat on the ground at Arna’s feet, drawing a low protest from Kestrel. “It shouldn’t surprise me, considering that you sent your men to ambush my niece.”
Lakini tensed, feeling Lusk do the same. But before they could interfere, a voice came from the crowd.
“Arna Jadaren is a guest in this place.” Diamar, clad in a simple white robe and barefoot, stepped forward. In response to his voice, which was at once mild and full of authority, everyone stepped back a pace.
“I gave my name freely when I arrived,” returned Arna, angry in his turn. “I came without guards, only a representative empowered to negotiate for my family. It’s not my fault you didn’t inquire after the guests of the sanctuary when you arrived—as quietly as I did, I notice.”
“Calm yourself, Uncle,” said Kestrel, moving between the two men. “He has no reason to harm me. And he was merely curious.”
Sanwar was still fuming. “So, Jadaren, this ambush was no plan of yours?”
Ciari broke in before her uncle could speak again, and her voice was forceful but not accusing. “I assure you, sir, and my lady, neither I nor my House would contemplate such a thing,” said Arna, keeping his temper in check. “As Mistress—as Kestrel suspected, these uniforms are castoffs, and these chevrons are nothing like those our guard wear. Ours are crafted as a piece, while these”—with his toe he indicated the scraps of fabric on the half-orc’s sleeve—“are bits of ribbon sewn directly onto the cloth. They’re also the wrong color.”
He gathered his courage and looked directly at Kestrel. “I assist in the record keeping as well.”
A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Do you also decide what to do with the bad plums?” she said.
“I’ve given orders that they be made into plum butter,” he replied.
Kestrel placed a tentative hand on his sleeve. “Shall I give you my source for brandy?”
“I would be grateful.”
At a gesture from Diamar, two of the Beguine guards manhandled the surviving rogue, her arms bound tightly at her back. She was cocooned in yards of rope. Kaarl vor Beguine stood nearby with his pike.
“Sanwar Beguine has a quick temper at the best of times,” he confided to Lusk and Lakini. “And Nimor, Captain of the Guard, was his picked man.” He nodded at the shrouded body that lay apart from the brigands. “He has no love for anything Jadaren at this moment.”
Sanwar pushed past Diamar to confront the half-orc, who still wore the tattered tunic that mimicked the Jadaren livery.
“Out with it,” he growled. “Who sent you? Which of the Jadarens? Bron?” He indicated Arna with a jerk of his head. “Or was it this upstart?”
“Look,” breathed Lusk into Lakini’s ear.
“I saw,” she mouthed back.
During his tirade, Sanwar had made a gesture with his left hand—a closed fist with the thumb outside along the knuckles, and then a shift to a fist with the thumb enclosed. It was at an angle where only the half-orc—and the two of them—could see it.
Lakini didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but she knew what it was. She and Lusk were very familiar with the various kinds of hand signals used to communicate in secret. She’d never seen this one, but she could guess—Keep it inside. Don’t reveal the truth.
The brigand grinned at Sanwar, her lower tusks protruding over her upper lip. “Who and what you are don’t mean a thing to us, worm,” she said in the guttural accent of her kind. “We were just looking for the easy pickings.”
“Liar,” thundered Sanwar.
Lakini and Lusk saw his left hand move again. This time the fingers curved half-open, with the thumb tapping the palm.
More coin for you, Lakini guessed.
“Sir,” said Diamar, touching Sanwar gently on the shoulder. “Her kind’s not susceptible to angry words and threats. Let me try.”
Sanwar’s mouth twisted, but he stepped aside, not without a quick, meaningful look at the brigand. Lakini thought she saw the brute nod briefly in response. No matter. Diamar would have the truth out of her.
The Vashtun’s Second pulled his homespun cowl back from his head and stood before the half-orc, his face completely blank. The brigand threw him a look of utter contempt and tried to pull away from her guards. They both hung on, and Kaarl prodded her meaningfully over the kidneys.
Diamar closed his eyes a long moment and suddenly opened them. They had the particularly blank look that Lakini had noticed in the Vashtun.
The half-orc stopped struggling and, ignoring the pike at her back, seemed to relax, returning the Second’s blank look. When Diamar spoke, his voice seemed to come from a long way away.
“What did you mean to do?” Diamar asked, almost offhandedly.
The half-orc opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap, pulling her left-hand guard almost off his feet. Diamar raised his hand, palm out, and closed his eyes again, his forehead creased in concentration. The half-orc relaxed again.
The Second repeated the question.
“We meant to kill the guards and take the girls,” she replied, with a voice as detached and unemotional as Diamar’s had been. “Kill the others if it was convenient, and if we cared to. We could take the goods. But the girls … not them. They were worth more alive than dead. Let the older one go if she struggled and take the little one. Especially make sure the older guard in blue, the fat man, make sure he was dead.”
“Were you working for the Jadarens?” Diamar asked.
The half-orc furrowed her brow, as if puzzled. “I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, a little indignantly. “You know it’s a secret.”
“I told you it was the Jadarens,” snarled Sanwar, glaring at Arna, who looked at Kestrel beside him and shrugged, shaking his head in denial.
“Let the man do his work, Uncle,” said Kestrel, with some asperity.
Diamar’s tone was that of a kindly teacher to a promising but recalcitrant student. “It’s better if you tell me, you know that.” His eyes narrowed, as if he were shuffling through the brigand’s mind as he would through loose papers on an untidy desk. “Garush. That’s your name. It’s easier if you tell me. Whom are you working for, Garush, yourself, or the Jadarens?”
While both the Vashtun and his Second’s ability to shake the truth from someone was always a matter of fascination for Lakini, she always had the unpleasant sensation that her mind was being probed as well when she was in their presence, as if some remote, utterly alien entity were examining the inside of her skull like a curiosity. The Vashtun had almost entirely disappeared from any public appearance, and she must admit it was a relief, for she fancied she could see some other consciousness, infinitely aware yet infinitely distant, looking out of his eyes. She preferred dealing with Diamar, but lately she had the same feeling when he spoke to her or to Lusk.
�
�The girl was wearing a red dress,” remarked the now-docile Garush. She glanced at Kestrel and she flinched back. “He was right about that. Don’t hurt her much, he said.”
“Who, Garush?”
The half-orc’s eyes bulged, and her entire body convulsed so violently that she pulled free of her startled guard, sprawling to the ground.
“Can’t … breathe—” she managed, and struggled to her knees.
Diamar’s palm was still raised, and his expression was bemused. With a single smooth movement, Kaarl cut the ropes binding Garush’s arms down the middle with the point of his pike. Her hands free, the half-orc grasped at her throat. Her face was purple now, and a trickle of blackish blood trailed from her nostril.
The movement was small, but Lakini saw it. The fingers of Sanwar’s left hand were flickering rapidly. A leather cord, studded with intricate knots, was looped around his wrist. As Garush’s mouth stretched open in a silent scream, Sanwar slipped his hand underneath his tunic, but the movement of his fingers continued.
Lakini tensed, ready to stop Sanwar, but paused when she felt Lusk’s strong hand circle her upper arm.
“It’s not our quarrel, Cserhelm,” he whispered. “Let the merchants find their own way.”
“He’s killing the witness,” Lakini hissed back. “Are you seriously suggesting we let that happen?”
“Perhaps he is. Perhaps he’s trying to signal to her again. Perhaps it’s your imagination. It doesn’t concern us.”
With a final shudder, Garush fell over. Her hands remained locked about her throat, and a bluish tongue protruded from between the swollen, purple lips. Kestrel turned away, and Lakini noticed that Arna had his hand on her shoulder.
Diamar looked down at the half-orc’s body, sprawled between the nonplussed guards, who looked back at Kaarl as if asking him what they should do now. Kaarl laid his pike on the ground and kneeled by the body, gently loosing the huge, battle-scarred hand from the half-orc’s throat and forcing the jaw open. He took his short, practical knife and pressed the back of the protruding tongue down, peering as best he could down Garush’s maw.
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