by Tanya Huff
“But you’re fond of frostbite?”
His grimace didn’t even pretend to be a smile. “You lowlanders don’t know what cold water is,” he growled and ducked under.
Annice almost screamed in sympathy then reluctantly raised a hand to her own limp tangle of hair. “All things being enclosed,” she muttered the hand dropping to her belly, “it’s a good thing I’ve got an excuse not to be in there with him.”
She watched appreciatively as he surfaced, muscles rigid, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, hair flung up in an ebony/crystal arc spraying water across the pond. “Very nice,” she said as he waded with dignified haste toward the shore, “but wasn’t that bigger the last time I saw it?”
Pjerin glanced down. “Shut up,” he snarled.
Lips curved but obediently closed, Annice pulled a cloak up off the pack and handed it to him with exaggerated solicitude.
“I thought I’d let the sun dry me off.”
“It’s barely up,” she pointed out. “And so’s …”
“Annice!”
“Sorry. I’ll get some food ready and we can move on.” With plenty of dry deadfall around, she had a small, very hot fire going in minutes, and water nearly boiling in their squat iron trailpot shortly after.
Pjerin was dressed and had the packs ready to load by the time the oatmeal was done. “You put raisins in it.”
She nodded and carefully unwrapped her horn spoon. “Stasya says that oatmeal without raisins is called a hot grain mash and you feed it to hor …” Her mouth worked, but the last syllable wouldn’t come out. All at once, she wasn’t hungry. She set the bowl aside.
Pjerin put it back into her hands, wrapping her fingers around the wooden curve and holding them there until they gripped on their own. “You have to eat.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Tough. The baby hasn’t made that choice.”
“You don’t understand. I forgot. I hadn’t thought of it all morning.”
“As you said, the sun’s barely up.”
“What about last night? We were alone. We could’ve tried to find out what was going on. All we did was sleep.”
“Annice, you were barely in command of yourself last night, you couldn’t have Commanded me, and you certainly didn’t have the energy to begin to untangle the mess in my head.”
“But …”
“No buts.” He pushed wet hair off his face. “You can’t think about injustice all the time.”
Annice lifted her head, nearly choking on the lump in her throat, and met his eyes. “Can’t you?” she asked pointedly.
They sat like that for a long moment.
“Eat your oatmeal,” the Duc of Ohrid told her at last.
* * * *
“Ya said ya wouldn’t want her fer days yet.” The owner of the livery stable squinted up at Otik as he mounted. “Ya shouldn’t oughta just take her out like that. Not without warnin’ me.”
Otik sighed, settled in the saddle, and threw the man a purse. “Look, she’s my horse, I can take her when I want her. The full sum we agreed on is in there.”
A quick weighing on the palm brought a gap-tooth smile. “But ya said ya wouldn’t want her fer days and …”
“Never mind what I said!” Otik snapped. “I’m taking her now!” He yanked the mare around, put his legs to her, and trotted her out of the livery yard.
The stable owner shrugged and pocketed the purse. “Can’t say as I didn’t try to tell ‘im.”
* * * *
Otik had grown up in Vidor. In order to head due east—and Ohrid was due east—there was only one way out of town. A few questions in the right places and a gull or two changing hands had elicited the information that a man and a woman and a mule had passed that way early the previous evening. The woman had been quite pregnant. The man, taller than average, broad shouldered, and dark haired.
“Good lookin’ mule, too, yer honor.”
A muscle jumped in Otik’s cheek. “I don’t care about the unenclosed mule!”
Given the woman’s condition, they wouldn’t be traveling very fast—or very far in the dark. He knew the road and had a good idea of where they must’ve spent the night. It was mid-morning when he turned his horse off the track, dismounted, and saw he’d guessed correctly.
“Probably pulled out just after sunrise,” he muttered. “And likely heading for Turnu. The bard’ll know of it, even if the duc doesn’t.” A day’s travel from Vidor in good weather, Turnu was the last village of any size heading east. If they needed any supplies, or even one last chance to sleep in a bed, they’d stop at Turnu.
Back on the track, Otik pushed his horse into a canter. Fields and trees rolled by on either side with gratifying speed; he’d be on them long before they could reach the village. His free hand slipped down to pat the crossbow hanging from his saddle.
The mare stumbled.
Otik catapulted headfirst over her shoulder, landed, and rolled dangerously close to still moving hooves. Impact jolted the reins from his hands and, through bones driven into dirt, he felt her jog away. He lay there for a moment, taking inventory, then slowly got to his feet blinking away multicolored flashes of light. All things being enclosed, he was lucky nothing had broken, although the arm he’d landed on would be black and blue and too stiff to use very shortly.
Swearing under his breath, a habit he’d gotten into when he’d made captain, he limped down the track to where his horse had stopped to pull at the new grass, weight resting off her left foreleg. The moment he saw her stance, he knew what he would find when he lifted the hoof.
The shoe had been loose when he’d left her at the stable upon arriving at Vidor and he had given explicit instructions that it was to be immediately taken care of. Running his fingers over the cracked horn, for the shoe had not cast cleanly, Otik added a snarled opinion of the stable owner’s lineage to his stream of profanity.
He had no choice. He’d have to walk the horse back to Vidor and have a farrier repair the damage.
“A reprieve,” he muttered, catching up the reins, “nothing more. Tomorrow, they are mine.”
* * * *
“I want you to Walk directly to Ohrid by way of Marienka. Act in no way that would draw suspicion on yourself but don’t delay. I need you as my eyes at that pass as soon as possible.”
Stasya stepped off the stern deck of the riverboat and onto the dock at Vidor, exhausted but pleased with herself. Although “as soon as possible” was not a speed often traveled by bards, she’d used the season to her advantage; moving quickly upriver as King Theron had commanded without alerting possible enemies. That she’d done it with everyone from Elbasan to Vidor watching, made it a particularly bardic solution.
She’d have enjoyed her accomplishment more, however, if every note hadn’t been tinted with worry for Annice.
“You’ve a right powerful Song there,” the pilot told her as his family swarmed over the boat. “Be a good omen fer the season, first boat travelin’ so fast.” He spat into the water. “River willin’.”
“River willing,” Stasya echoed, spitting carefully just beyond the reach of a lingering kigh. The last thing she needed was to have the ritual thrown back into her face. Her voice rasped against the sides of her throat and her head throbbed with the echoes of her Singing. She’d spent almost every waking moment of the last four days ensuring that the huge, square sail remained full and would no doubt spend the next four regretting such prolonged contact with the kigh.
The Riverfolk traveled downstream with the currents from the mountains and upstream with the winds that blew inland off the sea. Although the kigh might not fill another sail all season, after the breakup of the ice the symbolic first boat was always Sung upriver. Only the kigh could hope to move even the nearly flat-bottomed riverboats against the First Quarter currents. Stasya had seen no reason why she couldn’t be that bard and the captain had agreed.
She rescued her instrument case from an overeager teenager
and let the congratulations of the gathering crowd wash over her. First boat attracted a lot of attention. Although she wouldn’t be able to leave until after the blessing and the celebration that followed, it had still been a much faster trip than walking River Road.
Passed from one set of admiring hands to another, Stasya soaked up the goodwill of the crowd, but even while she wished she would surrender to the moment, she found herself scanning the surrounding faces for the familiar curve of Annice’s smile. Which was ridiculous. If Annice was in Vidor—a possibility not entirely removed from the Circle for all she’d left some days before—she’d have—they’d have, for the duc would be close by her side—no reason to be hanging about the docks. Connected by the kigh for as long as they’d known each other, Stasya hated this sudden separation. It was one thing when she knew Annice was safe and secure back at Bardic Hall and another thing entirely with her pregnant and wandering Shkoder. With, she added silently, struggling to control her expression, His Grace, the unenclosed Duc of Ohrid. The urge to write a scathing song about the man that would last for centuries was intense.
She had no idea how she was going to manage the next month and a half of ignorance and couldn’t understand how His Majesty had turned his back for ten years.
That was, however, not the only question the king had avoided answering before he dismissed her.
“The captain will contact you through the kigh the moment we’ve constructed a plan, so there’s no need for you to waste the limited time we have waiting around here. Given that the actual traitors believe their plot has succeeded, you should be in no danger until the Cemandian army arrives. Before you arrive, we’ll have come up with a reason for you to be there and then a reason for me to follow with an escort of guards.” His Majesty’s expression had been grim. “If you’ve managed to discover the identity of the traitor, I’ll hold a Judgment and ensure the keep is in loyal hands. If not, we’ll face the army together.”
His Majesty obviously had more faith than she did in what a king, a troop of guards, and a bard could hope to accomplish facing an army.
With a noncommittal smile and ears tuned to catch any comments directed specifically at her, Stasya let the celebration sweep her into her appointed role, all the while wondering just how the king intended to get to Ohrid with his guard without attracting the kind of attention he’d commanded her to avoid.
* * * *
“Suppose,” the Bardic Captain said thoughtfully, turning from the window where she’d been watching a team of gardeners pack up their tools for the day, “you went to Ohrid to accept the allegiance oath of the new duc.”
Theron looked up from the maps spread out over his desk. On the topmost map, the border that split the ancient mountains between Shkoder and Cemandia had been thickly traced in red. The pass at Ohrid appeared to have been circled in blood. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you acknowledge that Pjerin a’Stasiek made a valid point when he accused the crown of failing in its obligations to the principalities, Majesty.” Liene stepped forward, the soles of her boots crushing the plush nap of the carpet. They’d discarded a score of ideas since Stasya had left for Vidor, but she was certain this one would work. “If you go to Ohrid rather than have the duc come to you, you’ll be showing a willingness to break the isolation.”
“And strengthening the ties between Ohrid and the crown,” the king mused, tapping a fingernail against the smooth curve of the ivory button closing his vest. “A logical and politically astute move, seeing as the last duc committed treason and we’d like to prevent that from happening again.”
Liene nodded. “It would also be seen by your people as a way of showing the Cemandians you intend to hold the border.”
Theron almost smiled. “Makes so much sense, even the Cemandians should have no trouble believing it. And I’d be a tempting enough bait that we’ll be able to schedule the arrival of the invading army.”
“Bait, Majesty?”
“If they hold their attack until I’m in the keep on my alleged diplomatic mission, they have the chance to not only enter Shkoder through an undefended pass—thanks to the traitor they think we don’t know about—but also to remove Shkoder’s king. Queen Jirina’s no fool, she’ll see the opportunity and she’ll take it.”
Liene frowned as she considered the implications. “Your Majesty, we can’t put you in that kind of danger.”
“Captain,” Theron spread his hands, “we don’t have any choice.”
“But, Majesty, suppose the traitor is still unidentified when you arrive? It would only make sense for this person to kill you before the invasion actually occurs. You’ll have no idea of the direction of the threat, so you’ll be unable to defend yourself. The army will pour through the pass unopposed and down over Shkoder with your head on a pike before them.”
“Could happen,” Theron admitted. “All things being enclosed.”
Liene took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Although she was only twelve years older than the king, there were days—and this was one of them—when she felt those years stretch to at least a century. Squaring her shoulders, she twitched the edge of her tunic straight. “Your pardon, Majesty, but you can’t go to Ohrid.”
“Captain, I’m going.” He sat back in his chair, the tooled leather creaking under his shifting weight, his jaw set in an obstinate line the captain had seen on both his father and his youngest sister. “I’m going for a number of reasons. When the traitor is found, only I can pass Judgment. It’s the law. I alone can carry the weight of that death.” Something in his tone said that this particular weight wouldn’t add much to the burden he already carried. “Now, if the traitor hasn’t been found before I arrive, you’re probably right and he or she will be unable to resist trying to kill me. My presence there will force the culprit into betraying himself, and that is, after all, what we want.”
“He can betray himself right out of the Circle, Majesty, but it won’t do us any good if you’re dead.”
“Then I’ll just have to stay alive.” His face and voice grew grim. “But, essentially, I’m going to Ohrid because Cemandia made this a personal battle when they set me up to remove Pjerin a’Stasiek from their way.”
Liene knew it wouldn’t do any good to remind him that kings seldom had the luxury of indulging in personal vengeance. Finding the traitor before the Cemandian army arrived was the only way to avoid a war they couldn’t hope to win. Tempting the Cemandians with the King of Shkoder ensured they’d attack on Shkoder’s schedule. Theron’s presence in the keep was the best way to prod the traitor into betrayal.
The king traveling to Ohrid to take the oath of Gerek a’Pjerin was a perfectly believable way to set the whole plan in motion. She wished she’d never thought of it.
She could just see herself explaining to the new queen, as she hurriedly armed the country, how it was her father had died confronting a Cemandian invasion he knew was going to occur backed up by nothing more than a diplomatic entourage. I’m getting too old for this shit.
Then she realized they’d missed considering one vital component of the whole convoluted mess.
“What of the duc, Majesty? The guard hasn’t found him yet. Suppose they don’t? Suppose Pjerin a’Stasiek arrives in Ohrid before you do? He could destroy the entire plan.”
“As I understand it, he has to remain close to Annice to stay undetected by the kigh and she won’t be moving very quickly in her condition. Even if Captain Luci and her troop prove themselves completely inept, I doubt that they’ll arrive before Stasya. If Stasya makes herself visible, Annice will contact her, and Stasya will explain what’s going on. Simple.”
“Simple, Majesty? The duc has an even greater personal stake in this than you do. If I read him correctly, he’s as likely to single-handedly storm the keep as listen to anything either Annice or Stasya have to say.”
Theron shook his head. “He won’t jeopardize his chance to get his hands around the throat of the person who did this to him.�
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“And what of that person?” Well aware she was getting nowhere with her arguments, the captain felt she had to keep trying; for duty’s sake if nothing else. “I need the duc to find out who that is?”
“He may know by the time he arrives,” Theron pointed out thoughtfully. “He is traveling with a bard, remember. Once Stasya explains, I think he’s politically astute enough to work with me on this. And if he isn’t, Annice is.”
“Are you willing to risk your life on the possibility that Annice can control him?”
Was he? Theron thought about it. Thought about a fourteen-year-old who’d thrown away everything—family, privilege, responsibility—to follow her own desire. “I think,” he said slowly, “he’s met his match in Annice.” And but for Annice, his hands curled into fists, this whole problem could have been solved ten years ago.
* * * *
“… join with Prince Rajmund, Heir of Cemandia.”
Annice’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “I will not.”
It took Theron a moment to find his voice in the face of such bald denial and he fought to sound reasonable. “It won’t happen immediately. You’ll be betrothed first, the actually joining won’t happen until you’re both eighteen. This arrangement is for the good of Shkoder …”
“But what about me?” Annice broke in, reaching forward and grabbing his sleeve. “You know I want to be a bard. You know I do, Theron. I’ve just got to get permission from His Majesty.”
“He won’t give it and you’re living in a dream world if you think he will, Annice. It’s time to grow up.” He pulled his arm free and squared his shoulders. “You have a responsibility to the royal family, a responsibility to the country.”
She stared up at him in confusion. “I always thought you understood how much being a bard means to me and that if His Majesty wouldn’t give permission, then, when he died, you would.”
If she believed that, Theron knew it was because he’d given her reason. But that was before the Cemandian ambassador had come to him—to him because the king had no interest in anything but his own mortality and the lingering death that had been moving slowly closer to him for almost a full quarter. Theron, tired of waiting for power, had grasped the opportunity.