The warriors favored sooner and the ministers the compromise; but, in the end, they came together at the precise two weeks Baltraine had wanted from the start. The prime minister had long ago realized that settlement worked best when he exaggerated his initial demands.
Chapter 7
Reuniting
Battles are won by swordsmen, not swords.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Moonlight drew stripes through the dusty windows of Béarn’s tavern, merging with the lantern light at every table. Shadows broke the contour at irregular intervals, and laughter rumbled over the constant buzz of conversation. At a table in the corner, sitting with the master healer and watched over by two guards, Baltraine paid sound and movement little heed. Stale beer and unwashed bodies blended into a familiar, rancid stench that had come to define taverns and seemed pleasant for the association rather than for the smell itself. Nothing Baltraine had ever known came near to matching the distinctive aroma of alcohol in its various formulations.
Baltraine and the healer kept their voices low so that even the hovering pair of guardsmen could not hear them, at least not beneath their own conversation. Baltraine had given them permission to relax, eat, and even to drink a beer or two. In truth, the escort seemed like paranoia. Few knew enough about the prime minister’s power to have reason to harm him, and nothing could be gained by doing so. Nevertheless, caution had become the operative word in Castle Béarn. For only the second time in history, Knights of Erythane had been called to permanent station in Béarn and Renshai had become commonplace.
Baltraine anticipated no trouble here. He had come to unwind, to shed the anger he had hidden valiantly during the ministers’ meeting. The knight-captain had become an irritation Baltraine could no longer tolerate. In addition, he had needed a private corner to discuss the king’s condition without servants or nobles overhearing. Since the suggestion that treason might have played a hand in the deaths of the young heirs, Baltraine felt as if every wall and floor in the castle had sprouted ears. Now, he confirmed what he already suspected. The king’s periods of lucidity would only continue to diminish. Eventually, he would slip into permanent coma that could last months, years, or possibly decades with the healer’s assistance. Baltraine gave back the only advice he could: the king’s life must be prolonged to its utmost, no matter the cost. To prevent a panic or coup, only a handful of Béarn’s most trusted and loyal could know how serious the king’s condition had become. For now, that consisted only of the master healer and himself. As Baltraine continued his careful assessment of his staff’s devotion to their regent, he hoped to invite others into his confidence and designs.
Business settled, Baltraine allowed himself the relaxation he had sought. Concerns of the kingdom had grown into a burden he had not had the time to recognize. In every way but title, he would soon become Béarn’s king. The decisions he made affected every aspect of Béarnian politics. Considered in this light for the first time, the implications awed and frightened him. Baltraine knew a brief, guilty pleasure at the recognition of his ruling skill. The survival of a kingdom lay in his capable hands, and those who disrupted the fragile balance he sustained could not be tolerated. Problems like Knight-Captain Kedrin escalated from nuisance to menace if not quickly contained.
“Hey! You there!” A guard’s shout yanked Baltraine from his thoughts. He glanced over as a wild-looking teenager scampered deeper into the tavern, the guards thundering after him. “Stop that thief!”
A crowd of Béarnides came to their feet as the boy skittered over their table, sending stoneware crashing to the slate floor. Several lunged for him, mostly managing to entangle themselves as he dodged their attacks with a cat’s speed and grace. One guard plowed into the mass of people that suddenly stood between him and his quarry. The other managed to circle the group, closing in on the youngster with an agility that would make a race for the door a close call.
Instinctively, Baltraine checked his pockets. One of his money pouches was missing. He scowled, more annoyed than angry or impressed. Beer and reflection had turned him into a nearly oblivious victim, and his obvious rich dress and demeanor made him the thief’s natural target. Still, it had required some skill for the boy to slip unnoticed past the guards, even briefly.
Guard and thief sprinted for the exit. About two running steps from it, the boy abruptly veered back the way he had come. Carried by momentum, the guard slammed into the door, bouncing on his shoulder to deflect his course back in the right direction. Having wrestled through the crowd, the other guard charged the door. The thief sprinted toward another table. The occupants vacated, some grabbing drinks to rescue them from the fate of those on the other table. But the youngster plunged beneath it, scarcely slowed by the need to hunch. The guard scurried for the opposite edge; but the thief darted out from under a side, and the Béarnide’s grab fell short. The boy sprang to the window ledge and plunged out into the night.
The guard muttered a harsh oath, then curbed his tongue. He glanced at Baltraine for direction.
“Catch him, if you can. I’ll meet you back here.” Baltraine gestured at the door, which the second guard had opened. Both hesitated, then headed out after their quarry, shutting the door behind them.
Baltraine excused himself from the healer’s company on the pretext of needing to relieve himself. The angle of his seat had shown him something, he believed, no other patron had seen. The thief had not leaped through the window then run, as it appeared. Instead, he had clung to the upper ledge and swung himself to the rooftop. The lack of crashing footfalls overhead suggested he remained quietly in place, watching the guards weave through Béarn’s streets in what they hoped was his wake. Baltraine did not yet understand why he had not alerted the guards to his knowledge; but experience told him that, subconsciously, he saw a use for this thief that had not yet reached significance in his own mind.
Baltraine left the tavern, quietly walking to the side without stealth or threat. He wanted to make it clear he knew the other’s location without frightening the boy into running or silence. A plan took shape as he moved, one that made the loss of a few silvers seem petty. Careful to skirt the window so the men in the tavern did not notice him, he whispered upward, “Boy.”
The chirp and buzz of the night insects was his only reply.
Baltraine wondered whether the thief had crept away while he found the words to explain his own departure. He had assessed the boy’s heritage from habit and guessed, by size and conduct, that the thief was no Béarnide. The city’s close-knit population precluded orphans, elderly, or the insane living with anyone but family or friends. Pudar, however, held its share of beggars, drunkards, and urchins; and this boy seemed more like a rowdy than any Béarnide ever could. Never having lived on the streets, Baltraine could not know whether hiding or escape seemed the better strategy. Certainly the thief would, however.
“Boy,” Baltraine repeated. “You can keep the money. If you help me, I’ll see to it the guards leave you alone. And I’ll pay you.” Baltraine had no intention of giving the thief free rein to steal; but, since it was his purse that had been stolen, he could and would pardon this crime.
More silence followed. Baltraine sighed, dismissing the idea that his plan could not succeed without one such as this boy. He started back toward the entry, arrested by a soft voice from above. “Wait.”
Baltraine froze and swiveled his gaze upward, though he saw nothing but the dark silhouette of building and roof.
“How much?” The thief used the trading tongue, as Baltraine had, but with a heavy Eastern accent.
Baltraine paused, surprised. Though more common than Northmen, Easterners came to the West only occasionally and usually specifically to the great trading city of Pudar. Merchants of every type plied their wares in Béarn as well, but none of these seemed likely to leave an adolescent behind. He surmised this boy might have become orphaned by an Eastern family visiting Pudar, then wandered here. Or, perhaps, he had escaped slave ser
vice to some Eastern merchant. Baltraine dropped speculation that held no bearing on the matter at hand and returned his thoughts to bargaining. He had no idea how much a theft was worth but guessed he would at least need to supply the value of the item to lower the thief’s temptation to keep it, once stolen. “Six silvers.” He left enough doubt in his tone to let the boy know he would haggle.
“What do I have to do?” The voice wafted from the roof, this time accompanied by a shadowed face. Moonlight revealed the straight, shaggy hair Baltraine had seen in the tavern, and a single brown eye glittered beneath the tangles.
Baltraine glanced about to make certain no one could overhear. “Steal a dagger from a knight.” He added quickly. “A specific dagger from a specific knight.”
“From his person?”
Baltraine considered. Surely, it would prove simpler to sneak the knife from Kedrin’s quarters, but that would require allowing the thief inside the castle walls, which would place far more than the knight’s possessions at risk. “Yes.”
“That will cost you double. Half in advance.”
Thoughts raced through Baltraine’s mind. His diplomat’s training taught him that hesitation killed bargains, raised prices, and drew suspicion where none would otherwise exist. He needed to make decisions swiftly, even in a case where he had no experience from which to speculate. The thief’s swift, smooth negotiation suggested familiarity with similar deals and, consequently, with hired thefts. However, his youth and strangeness made such unlikely. An experienced burglar surely would have a standard price for his services or would measure his employer carefully before setting one that maximized profits and minimized dissatisfaction. It seemed more as if this youngster bartered over groceries in an alien market having learned that the natives usually asked for twice as much as they would eventually take in trade. These ideas passed in moments. Baltraine could well afford the twelve silver, and he dared not risk getting caught discussing business with a criminal. “All right. Double. But only a quarter in advance and the rest on delivery. And you have to take the knife without his notice, or the deal’s broken.”
Darkness swallowed the thief’s eyes, leaving only a disembodied voice filtering down from on high. “Agreed. Now exactly what and who?”
* * *
Sunlight streamed intermittently through scattered, broken cloud cover, the beams becoming more vertical as the sun snaked higher. Darris sat beneath the stonework canopy that protected his favorite garden from rain in other times. His constant need to be alone had turned his skin sallow, emphasizing the lighter hair and hazel eyes that already set him apart from the full-blooded Béarnides. This day, as the seven before it, approaching midday brought a gladness that had not touched his thoughts for months. Ever since Ra-khir had come to Béarn, Darris had gained a friend to help him forget and to ease the burden of sadness that had poisoned him since overprotective guardians had spirited Matrinka from his sight.
Usually, the loss simply flavored his mood from moment to moment. Now, direct consideration drew his memory to the day of the bears’ attack. That night, the two Renshai women had allowed him to stay with Matrinka, with special permission from the king who believed the bard’s heir’s familiar face might soothe the agony that would follow tragedy and accompany changes. Afterward, the Renshai argued that any frequent presence, no matter how trusted, posed a clear present and future risk to the princess. In addition, they argued, his perceived need to protect Matrinka and his “unorthodox” methods of doing so might interfere with their task. Whether he assisted or not, he would surely get in their way and hamper their guardianship.
Hamper their guardianship. As always, the description left a wake of irritation. Yet Darris understood the need to protect the remaining heirs, had seen the bloody destruction the bears had caused, and knew Matrinka required more than the protection he could accord. She needed Renshai. With that need came a price that made him ill, but he would have it no other way. As a ward of Renshai, Matrinka was safe; and if that meant he could not see her until after an heir took the throne, so be it. Her safety mattered far more than his comfort. He only hoped she did not suffer the misery he did.
Darris had not pressed the boundaries of the Renshai’s decision. If guardians trained and indoctrinated from birth believed it best that he not interfere, he would abide by their decision. Nevertheless, his bard’s curiosity drove him to glean as much information as he could about a situation of which he was no longer a part. He knew about Matrinka’s depression and the push to marry her off as soon as her mood improved. He had studied every possible suitor to assure that she found one who would treat her with the kindness and dignity she deserved. None seemed nearly good enough; but he found a few with whom, he believed, she could find an adequate future.
Lost in his thoughts, Darris scarcely noticed when another entered his private garden. Anticipating Ra-khir’s arrival, he raised his head and managed a smile. Instead of friendly green eyes beneath a lengthy snarl of red-blond hair, he found the more familiar Béarnian features that had come to define beauty and compassion in his mind. Startled and thrilled at once, he lurched to his feet while intending only to bow. The result was an awkward stumble that left him on one knee before a princess who detested such formality from friends. Mumbling apologies instead of greetings, he staggered to his feet. The instant he did, Matrinka threw herself into his arms.
The sudden weight in his embrace threw Darris further off-balance. Afraid to let Matrinka fall, he clutched her tightly and stabilized himself with desperate self-control. Eyes closed, Matrinka apparently missed the struggle.
Desire rose within Darris, one he knew he could never satisfy, and it sparked shame. Only as he struggled with his emotions, hoping desperately that Matrinka did not notice his excitement, did he register that she had not come alone. He glanced over her shoulder at a youthful blonde with narrowed, blue eyes that judged every nuance and movement. Her expression held obvious contempt. Apparently, she had measured the inattentiveness that had allowed them to come so close before he noticed them as well as the striking clumsiness he had displayed since their arrival.
Glad for a distraction from inappropriate lust and wishing for a chance to amend the poor impression he had made, Darris pulled free and bowed to the Renshai. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Darris, the bard’s heir.” He gestured at the pack he had left on the bench, brimming with a lute, a mandolin, and sundry smaller instruments. He paused, awaiting a return introduction that he did not receive.
The Renshai looked beyond or through him, a nasty half-smile seeming out of place on otherwise cherubic features.
Though put off by the rudeness, Darris maintained his own manners. “You must be Matrinka’s bodyguard.” His studies and discussions completed the details for him. “Kevralyn Tainharsdatter of the Renshai tribe of Modrey.”
The blue eyes glared suddenly and directly at Darris. The Renshai’s lips tightened into a grimace, and lines creased the pale forehead. “Don’t ever call me that! No one ever calls me that!”
Apparently startled by the vehemence, Matrinka took a step backward. Darris’ mind emptied of amenities. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I–I thought that was your name.”
“It is,” the Renshai said, her gaze slipping beyond Darris again. “And my title, of which I’m proud. But no one calls me any name but—”
“Kevral.” Ra-khir’s voice, dripping with distaste, came from behind Darris, the precise location of the Renshai’s stare. Ra-khir’s tone implied a simple statement of recognition rather than any intention to complete the Renshai’s sentence. He had only that moment come within speaking, or hearing, distance.
Darris whirled. Matrinka glanced at Ra-khir, and the Renshai remained in place, the cocksure grin resuming its position on her face. Thrilled to have his two favorite friends together at the same time, Darris launched into introductions. “Ra-khir, this is Princess Matrinka.” He returned his gaze to the Béarnide to explain. “Ra-khir’s an apprentice knight and
the son of their captain.”
Ra-khir moved first, as politeness demanded. Removing his cap, he knelt with lowered head, face obscured by a spilled tangle of sweat-matted, copper hair that had obviously spent most of the morning crushed beneath a helmet.
The respect seemed to stun Matrinka who, Darris knew, had always preferred walking the gardens to sitting in the courtroom. Knights’ maneuvers rarely brought them into contact with other royalty than the king. While she stared, apparently searching for her tongue, Mior slunk to her side. The cat eased forward, sniffing delicately at the knight apprentice’s hair. “Um . . . that’s not necessary,” Matrinka said softly, face flushed at the grand display. “I’m glad to meet you, Ra-khir. Just treat me as you would anyone else.”
Ra-khir rose, tossing back his head to fling hair from his eyes, then replacing his cap. “Princess, I’m honored.”
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