Song of the Lioness #4 - Lioness Rampant

by Tamora Pierce

  George grew up in the Lower City, learning the underworld's laws: obey the Rogue; pay his tax; and—most importantly—never betray a fellow Rogue to the King's Justice. The penalty was slow death. A year ago George would have been the last to consider such a betrayal. But that was before Claw changed things.

  Jonathan was his friend. They'd spent many good evenings together; they'd loved the same woman; they both knew what kingship meant. In some ways Jon was closer to him than Alanna—she couldn't conceive the burdens of a king, and Jon had never known anything else.

  Either I've turned stupid, or life's turned hard, he thought with a sigh.

  THE FIRST thing Thom of Trebond noticed, returning late to his palace rooms, was that the door to his study was not closed. "I'll turn the maids into fish if they left the door ajar!" he roared, slamming the door open.

  The shadowy figure sitting by his hearth was thrown into relief by the glow from Thom. "I can see we'll not be needin' candles," George drawled."Close the door. There's a good lad."

  Thom stared at his guest, then obeyed. As he slumped into a chair, he demanded, "What're you doing here at this hour? Up to no good, I bet."

  "Why must you ask? Don't you see all that happens in your tea cup in the mornin'?" George's voice was bitter. He'd just come from telling Jon about the newest threat to his life—from betraying the Rogue, part of his mind insisted.

  Thom tried to read George's face, but the glow he cast wasn't that strong. Not yet, he thought bitterly. "You haven't done something—Rogue-ish, have you?"

  George glared at him. "Don't play me for an innocent, Thommy my lad. If I wanted to tell you, I would. It chances that I don't."

  Thom shrugged. "As you wish." He threw fire at the candles beside George; it was too much, consuming half of the fat wax sticks. He looked at the thief to see what he made of it, but only a slight crinkling around George's eyes gave away that he'd noticed anything unusual.

  "Say something." Thom's voice was tight. "Everyone else has! I heard Baird tell Jonathan perhaps the Mithrans let me go too soon." When George didn't reply, he yelled, "Say it, damn you!"

  "You keep things chilly in here," was the mild reply. "I know this old pile's hard to warm, and it's near midsummer and all—"

  Thom laughed and could not stop. He buried his face in his hands, his thin body shaking. George rose, a worried look in his eyes, and put a hand on Thom's shoulder.

  "Don't!" the sorcerer cried, but it was too late. George pulled back his hand after only a brief touch: Thom was far hotter than any mortal could be and still live.

  "Black God's belly, Thom! How long've you been like this?"

  The younger man shook his head. "I have no idea." He saw George shiver. "Go ahead—start a fire. It doesn't make a difference. I'd do it myself, but—" He looked at the candles.

  George knelt to use flint and steel to start a blaze. Watching it burn, he said cautiously, "I was struck by old Si-cham, when we visited you at the City."

  "No. No, I tell you! Have him come, and gloat—"

  "He didn't look like the gloatin' kind to me, lad. He would've liked you, had you given him a chance. He was a bright young sprout himself, once."

  Bloodshot amethyst eyes stared at him. "D'you think this is some trouble I stumbled into, that my teaching-master can get me out of? A safety measure I didn't take? Some bit of carelessness that can be mended by someone older and more experienced?"

  "No. That kind of mistake's known right off, and it's often fatal. But Si-cham may've seen what's wrong with you before—"

  "I don't want to hear it." Thom's voice was flat as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "They were jealous of me in the City, all of those masters. There's nothing they'd like better than to see me caught in a mistake."

  George considered his next remark carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Finally he decided to speak anyway. "What of Duke Baird, him that's chief of the palace healers? Mayhap he—"

  Thom giggled in earnest, his laugh hoarse with disuse. "Baird! What do I tell him? That—that—" He caught his breath. "I have a cold in my Gift?"

  George smiled. "Does your friend know?"

  They both knew who he meant. "If he does, he keeps it to himself. I can't—won't—ask him." Softly Thom added, "I'm afraid to." He looked at George, his face white and pinched. "I believe he knows exactly what it is." He jumped out of his chair. "Are you happy? Will you tell Myles he was right all along? Why not tell Jon, while you're at it? You have no proof he's whole again, no proof!" Tears ran down his cheeks.

  "Lad, calm down," George said, keeping his alarm hidden. "You're wearin' me out."

  Thom laughed."I don't have any proof, either," he went on tiredly. "But what else can I think, except that somehow he can do this? It's that or… I have to believe the gods turned away from me. Because I thought and said it would be easy to make myself a god."

  "If there's anyone you can ask—"

  "No one. I made sure of that, didn't I? This will pass. I'll find a cure—something. I haven't looked in the right places."

  George knew a dismissal when he heard it. He gathered up his cloak.

  "Thank you." It was a whisper.

  "I did nothin' to be thanked for this night," George said harshly. "Not for you, not for anyone."

  "You listened, even though I've tried my best to discourage you. And you didn't say you've warned me. If he is doing something."

  George nodded and left. Thom watched the fire for a moment, then rasped three words. A wave of sea water broke over the hearth, toppled the candles and doused the fire before vanishing. He sat for the rest of the night, smelling scorched wood, ocean, and wet carpeting.

  The thief, who was gone from Thom's thoughts when the door closed, went to his most recent hideout. At dawn George's messenger rode north to the City of the Gods with George's urgent letter to Si-cham, First Master of the Order of Mithros.

  SEVERAL nights after George had passed on his information, Jonathan and the Lord Provost laid their plans to catch the conspirators. They met in a room near the servants' quarters. By Jonathan's command, Roger was also present."You are in charge, my lord," Jon told the Provost when his cousin arrived. "Give us your instructions."

  The Provost opened a hidden panel that led to the maze of secret passages and servants' corridors in this section of the palace. "We'll be able to see and hear everything. My boys were able to fix the room, thanks to all this advance warnin'. But neither of you make a sound, or you'll blow the game." The old man was common-born and it showed in his speech. "If they say what it's claimed they will, I'll signal the arrest."

  "I cannot see why my presence is necessary," Roger commented. He looked bored.

  Jonathan glanced at him and snapped, "Call it my whim, Roger."

  "Since when does the King-to-be take part in spying, even on a whim?" Roger's melodic voice was filled with sarcasm.

  "We're spyin' on would-be regicides," the Provost said drily. "King-killers."

  "A plot against my cousin? What folly!" Roger's voice sharpened. "You suspect me, Jonathan?"

  "You haven't been implicated," was the cool reply.

  "I thought I was to be forgiven my—earlier errors," said Roger bitterly.

  "Do your friends feel the same way?" Jon demanded. "Perhaps you should ask them. If you don't know the answer already!"

  "Enough!" the Provost ordered. "Let's get movin'."

  They threaded through the corridors until they met one of the Provost's men. Quietly the three of them were guided to spy holes in the corridor wall. Shielded from notice inside the room, the holes nevertheless allowed them to see and hear what took place inside. Three servants stood, sat, or paced the room, according to their natures. With a start Jonathan recognized his groom of chambers and the maid who brought him food or drink late at night. The third man, a nailbiter, wore the uniform of the Palace Guard, the rivals of the King's Own.

  Jon sneaked a look at Roger to see his cousin's reaction. Roger's mouth was set i
n a grim line as he watched the scene before him. He didn't appear upset or worried, reactions Jon had half expected.

  "When're they coming?" the Guard snapped. "If my sergeant inspects—"

  "You said he never inspects." The girl's voice was clear and cold.

  "But if he does, tonight—"

  "Keep your breeches on," the groom ordered scornfully. "If you followed your orders, everything will proceed according to plan."

  There were two raps on the door—everyone inside stiffened. There were two more raps, a pause, then two more. The maid undid the bolt and let four men in. One was Jonathan's favorite palace scribe, who had apparently guided those with him to the meeting place. Putting aside his bitterness over the scribe's betrayal, Jon turned his attention to the outsiders.

  He recognized Claw—Ralon of Malven—from his description. The other two he assumed to be the assassins, the Spy and the Killmaster—they had the look of paid killers.

  The maid bolted the door as Claw looked around. "You were careful on your way here?" he demanded of the servants. Jon smiled grimly. Unlike Myles, he knew Ralon's voice instantly. "No one followed?" Claw went on, checking the corners of the room. He apparently was unable to keep still. "Woe to any of you if you betray me."

  "None of us dare betray anyone," the groom answered. "We're all in too deep." He tossed a packet of documents on the table in the center of the room. "Here's my part of it. Diagrams of the King's rooms and every way to get in or out."

  The Guard put a paper on the table. "Here's the nights I'm on duty at the kitchen gate. But I don't want to hear details—"

  Claw put his hand on his dagger hilt, his single eye suddenly wild. "You hear whatever I want you to hear! And when I want your opinions, I'll tell you to give them!" The Guard shrank back, frightened. At the edge of his vision Jon saw the Provost give a hand signal to one of his men. The man nodded and trotted away silently.

  "Memorize their faces," Claw was telling the assassins when Jon focused on the room again. "So you know who to kill if we're betrayed." The assassins looked slowly at each of the servants until the others were clearly frightened. Suddenly Claw leaned over the table and drew his finger over the surface. He stared at his fingertip for a moment before turning on the maid.

  "You said no one ever uses this room. But there's no dust on the table."

  The maid steeled herself. "I came in and dusted around. I didn't want to breathe ten years' worth of dirt—"

  Claw backhanded her viciously. "Stupid female!" Walking straight back until he was inches away from the Lord Provost's spy hole, he drew a finger down the intricate molding of the screen that masked the wall and the openings in it. He brought it away clean.

  "And you dusted back here, too?" he screamed at the maid. He ran for the door and yanked it open as he drew his sword.

  The Provost's men outside were caught unaware and unready. Claw cut down one of them as the assassins rushed to follow. The Provost had already left at a run. Jonathan and Roger drew back from the wall.

  "Tell me you knew nothing of this—cousin," Jon snapped. "Tell me this isn't yet another of your plots to gain the throne. I don't care if you didn't bespell my mother one more time. It was because of your past work that she lost the strength to live. What is there to stop me from believing this is just another of your schemes? That you want my throne as badly as you ever did?"

  Roger gripped Jon's arm. "I had no knowledge of a plot. I'll swear it by any of your gods," the Duke hissed. "If those who planned this did so for reasons they claim involve me, I shall hunt them down and—disabuse them of their mistake. In the name of the Goddess and the Black God, I swear I do not want your throne. Does that satisfy you?"

  He'd just invoked two deities famous for their fierce punishments for oath-breakers. Reluctantly, Jon nodded. "You say 'your gods.' Don't you believe in them?"

  Roger's smile was bitter. "I believe in them. Only a fool does not. Since they have made it very clear they do not like me, I refuse to worship them." He stared into the distance, his eyes glittering. "But they can be defeated, Jonathan. The right man can shake their thrones."

  A few minutes later a slightly mussed Provost found Jonathan alone in the passage. "We have all of them but Claw," he said wearily. "And two of my lads are dead. The others might wish they was dead, once I get through with them for lettin' Claw escape."

  "He's slippery," Jonathan said absently. "I have every faith that you'll get another chance at him, though."

  ELENI Cooper came awake, feeling uneasy. In her own home that feeling meant someone needed her as a healer. Deciding it couldn't be different here, she pulled on a robe and ran downstairs. A bleary-eyed maidservant held up a lamp as Bazhir guards helped three people in at the door. One Bazhir gave orders to others outside: Eleni saw the glitter of drawn swords as the door was closed and barred.

  "Mistress Cooper!" Relief was in the maid's sleepy face. "These people say they're friends of Master George."

  Eleni recognized them. "Marek Swiftknife, can't you keep yourself in one piece?" She ran forward, taking charge of a pale and bloody Rispah while still lecturing Marek. "It's only six months since I patched you up last!"

  Marek tried to smile. "Sorry, Mother Cooper."

  "We need the empty storeroom," Eleni told the maid. "And wake Myles—"

  "Unnecessary." The knight hurried downstairs, his hair and beard in disarray. "Mistress Cooper needs her bag, Tereze. Wake the housekeeper. We need clean linen and boiling water!" He opened the storeroom.

  "You're learning," Eleni said with a smile. She helped Rispah onto a clean table in the unused room. "Who's the worst hurt?"

  "Ercole, then Marek," Rispah whispered. "I'm all right, Aunt."

  Marek held a wadded burnoose to a wound in his side; another in his thigh bled freely. "They got Ercole five times," he told Myles as Eleni laid the oldest of the three on his table.

  The healer looked at one of the Bazhir. "Someone must go for Mistress Kuri Tailor, House Kuri on Weaver's Lane. She's a friend, a healer, and I need help." The man bowed and was gone as she stripped Ercole down.

  Myles's servants brought Eleni everything she needed. As she cleaned Ercole's wounds, Marek talked to Myles. "It was Claw—he found us, him and his people. He said he had a job, a secret job, and he was betrayed."

  "Betrayed?" Myles frowned.

  "Just as we was betrayed." Marek looked away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "They're dead, Myles—Scholar, Red Nell, Orem, Shem, Lightfingers, The Peddler, and Zia the Hedge-witch; we was the only ones t'escape."

  Kuri arrived, her red-bronze hair flowing down the back of her cloak. Throwing that garment onto a chair, she came to Marek with her healer's bag. She tied back her hair and rinsed her hands, appraising Marek's wounds with level brown eyes. Eleni finished cleaning Ercole's wounds and began to stitch them, her hand steady. Fortunately for healer and patient, Ercole was unconscious.

  "How did they find you?" Myles's voice broke. Scholar had been a friend.

  "Ana," Marek whispered, gritting his teeth as Kuri probed the wound in his side. "She brought them in."

  "Your lady?" Myles asked, horrified.

  Marek nodded. "Claw told her one of us sold 'im to the Provost. She gave us over because we broke Rogue's Law."

  Kuri stitched Marek's wounds quickly and went to Rispah. The redhead who'd promised her heart to Coram bore a long gash on her left arm from shoulder to wrist. Kuri went to work as Rispah fought to keep still.

  "I hope someone did turn that crazy bastard over," she snapped, her voice tight with pain. "Since he tried for George last Midwinter, more than a hundred of us've died. And it hasn't mattered if the dead was for him or against him or innocent altogether. I haven't forgotten the Market Day fight. Who could? With Claw loose, we don't need my Lord Provost to weed us out!"

  "What if Claw's not wrong entirely?" George had come at last, hooded and cloaked like the Bazhir to escape detection. "What if I made sure he and his people were taken up before
they killed Jonathan? What then?"

  The room was silent as everyone but Eleni and Ercole stared at him. Then Myles whispered, "Regicide." Kuri made the Sign.

  "Remember the tale of Oswan that murdered King Adar the Weak?" Rispah asked. "The law said he wasn't to be let die till he was tortured three days, dawn to dark. The gods turned their faces from him and he lived six days."

  "Royal dynasties get their right from the gods. Only the gods can take it back—not men," Kuri added softly.

  "I don't know if you did right, George." Marek lay back, his face white. "I only wish you'd'a shivved Claw yourself afore lettin' him escape my lord."

  THE ROOM was a parlor decorated in pale green and cream, perfect for the emerald-eyed brunette on the sofa, less perfect for the striking blonde beside her. A swarthy nobleman lounged in an armchair. It was a room meant for chatter and flirtation. The fourth man, with his battered clothes and ravaged face, was wrong here. He stood before the cold hearth, hands jammed into pockets.

  "We erred in letting you join us, Ralon," Delia of Eldorne said coldly. "Last fall you said you would be Rogue in a matter of weeks. You are still not master among the thieves. You tell us, leave the killing of a certain Prince to you. Now the Provost has your people who were to handle the matter, and Jonathan is alerted to his danger."

  "I was betrayed!" Ralon of Malven was rigid with fury. "No one knew Cooper would—"

  "I'm not finished!" Delia rapped out. "Explain this!" She thrust a parchment at him.

  The drawing was clearly one of Ralon. Beneath it was written:

  WANTED BY MY LORD PROVOST

  FOR TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN

  ONE CLAW, BORN RALON OF MALVEN

  REWARD: ONE THOUSAND GOLD NOBLES

  It described him in detail. "How did they learn my name?" he whispered in horror.

  "That is immaterial," Princess Josiane said coldly.

  "You're useless to us," Alex of Tirragen pointed out. "More than useless—you are a danger."