by Ru Emerson
Her dagger lay there—Brendan's dagger. Illusion. The drug again. But the hilts, with its copper ship, felt very much real; the leather smelled of the oil she'd rubbed into it just before Fest. She gripped the hilts, drew the blade partway out; stopped. Something had come loose; Something mostly white, crumpled—she let the knife fall, picked up the note Jers had written. Smothered a giggle that was half-hysteria. "You will know what to do with this, to deliver yourself. A friend. Gods, I find myself surrounded with friends!”
Who had done this? When was easy, the dagger had not been there an hour before. But who? She reread the note, smiled grimly. It was in Nedaoan, the writing that of a man comfortable with Nedaoan script. And the intention was ludicrously clear. Only Jers would have such ease with her language and wish her dead by her own hand. But before I kill myself, this blade will kill another first. How had he got hold of it—sly, sneaking creature that he was? It scarcely mattered. It was hers again.
She glanced over her shoulder. Vess might not come to her so early in the day; he never had liked mornings. Nothing to trust. She cut a hole in the mattress, resheathed the blade and buried it deep in the straw filling, piled sheets, blankets, pillows back over the top. Unless he searched, he'd never know it was there. And there was no reason for him to search.
The note—in tales, folk usually ate them, but she knew a more sensible way to dispose of it. She tore it into lengthwise strips, crossed the chamber as she tore the strips into bits and then smaller bits still and threw all of them down the latrine.
She lay back down, shoving most of the cushions aside, pulling two under her head, feeling cautiously under them. She could, with a little cautious maneuvering of her hand, get a grip on the hilts. She shifted her position, shifted the blade so she could get at it with the least amount of movement. Finally satisfied, she pulled the linen sheet up over the hole in the mattress, curled up and slept.
It was early afternoon when she woke. Someone had brought her wine, a wooden jug of fresh water. She drank some of the water, left the wine. Harder to tell if wine had been tampered with. Vess hadn't come yet; it wouldn't be long now.
There was heavy activity down by the river: New ships in, most of them Sea-Raider hunter ships; one or two of the heavier oared, open-decked Holthan warboats. She could see Vess on the docks, arguing with a pack of Ylsans. Something was afoot. At the moment, she didn't much care what, so long as it kept him out of Koderra, out of the Tower and out of her bed.
She gazed out the window. The wind was strongly west to east, fortunately, because they were killing pigs somewhere beyond the north wall; the horrid squealing was unmistakable. Carrion birds were already gathering, waiting. Someone shouted at them, a voice briefly rising above the shrieks of terrified beasts, and they rose in a clatter of wings to circle the corner of the Tower where she watched. One of them caught her eye: It was brown, white-bellied and half again the size of the normal Plains-vulture. She glanced back at the docks. Vess was still there, now standing on the deck of one of the Holthan vessels, talking with some brightly clad sailors.
She went back to the table for more water and a piece of bread to dip in the now runny butter, and so did not see the great brown and white bird launch itself from the wall to circle high and sail down across the south walls. Two Ragnolan commons at guard on the south tower stared after it. “A sea-scavenger, isn't it?” one of them asked. His companion shrugged.
“Perhaps. If it builds a nest here, though, that ought to be luck, oughtn't it?”
“Ah—might be. Back home, it would.” They turned to watch it out of sight.
There was little sun left in the narrow ravine. The bird landed in one of the remaining patches, folded his wings and stared up at the sky. Slowly, his legs lengthened and straightened, and became thicker; the claws on his feet retracted, became flat, part of stubby, pale toes, part of long, high-arched feet. The wings shimmered, spread again, the feathers shrank, faded, were gone—replaced by arms covered in sturdy blue Nedaoan cloth. The neck moved back on broadening shoulders, thickened, the head blurred, shifted. Changed. Bendesevorian drew a deep, shaky breath, and dropped down to sit in the warm sunlight.
But only for a moment; he was not as worn by half as he thought he'd be. And there wasn't much time. Vess—at this range, Vess was simple to find; out there, on the river. Further cautious touch showed a disquieting matter: Vess was sending advance ships to Yslar for Lyiadd to send against Nar. And there was urgency involved: A five-day, two at most.
Bendesevorian set aside what little he learned in that brief touch for later, after he came back to Nedao. Ylia. She must be his first, his only concern.
Find the entrance to the tunnel to begin with. It took time, more than he could have wished. But he finally located it among rock and brush, unexpectedly on the left flank of the ravine and a full four lengths from its upper end. It had been blocked by falling dirt, stone and the brick that had once made the lintel; he managed to squeeze through and walked the dark tunnel beyond it.
The blank wall was where Galdan's thought had placed it, and the least bit of mind-touch showed him the trigger. The wall eased back silently, with a strong odor of fresh oil. He found himself behind an enormous, heavy woven woolen hanging. There was no one in the chamber when he came from behind the tapestry. Now. He stood still, reinforced the place that created the insubstantiality. It should hold even against Vess, but with luck, he would not need to chance that. Get her and go.
The guard at the door was talking to the woman scrubbing the hallway. Neither noticed as the Nasath walked lightly past them.
With the sense of Ylia strong here, he had no difficulty finding the stairway to the family apartments but at the base of the stair, he had to wait until chance moved some of the young men lounging there. He took the stairs two at a time, paused on the landing to test the air.
Something unpleasant, there, to his left. But it did not seem enough of a threat to chance a search. He moved up the narrow stairs and stood just inside the chamber. Ylia had been in this room, recently. And the passage he bad seen in Galdan's mind—he crossed the room and laid a hand on the wall. It was still there, and recently repaired.
He turned aside then to move silently into the main hallway. That door almost to the bend. A key hung from the lock. Perhaps, with Vess temporarily out, with that escapeway, so near—
He pressed himself into the wall and reinforced the insubstantiality as two men came up the stairs behind him. They moved down to the window, opened the shutters and stood in the warm afternoon sun, talking and watching the locked room.
Well, luck had held well enough. And he hadn't been caught. But he couldn't go in after her, not now. He couldn't cover her, he couldn't maintain a cloak of insubstantiality to shield himself and her. He would need to find someone whose mind he could bend to aiding him. One of these men? It would have to be both, but could he manage both?
He stood irresolute only a moment. For just then, coming from the other direction, was a tall, red-haired Sea-Raider. Mal Brit Arren ignored the guard, slowed as he passed Ylia's door. He shrugged faintly and moved on, so near Bendesevorian the Nasath might have touched him. His thought was a roil, difficult to sort through. At the very heart of it all, though ... Bendesevorian turned to follow. He had found his ally.
21
Bendesevorian caught up with the Sea-Raider just past the turn in the stair. Brit Arren leaped as an unseen, hand touched his arm; he staggered back into the railing, tearing himself free. “What is that?” he whispered; his voice wouldn't hold any more volume. Was it Vess, testing him again as he had over and over in that wine-scented, black cellar?
“Come with me,” Bendesevorian whispered in reply. “The small chamber behind you.”
“I—” Mal Brit Arren pulled his mouth shut with an effort. There was nothing there! Nothing to see, he amended hastily, and fought a shudder. But not Vess; unskilled in sorcery as he was, Brit Arren knew he could tell if it was Vess. He fumbled at his belt, fo
und the warding charm his first captain had given him and clutched it before him like a Shield as he started up the narrow stairs.
The Sea-Raiders on guard waved at him, but he didn't see them; they looked at each other as he vanished into the library and one shook his head. “He still hasn't all his oars down, does he?”
“No.” He has cause, was on the other's face, but he prudently did not say it.
“Where are you? Who are you?” Brit Arren whispered. He stared wildly around the small chamber, the charm held at arm's length before him.
“You may put that aside, it cannot affect me, but I do not intend you harm.” Bendesevorian emerged from the corner where Jers’ prayer bench and his blanket were. Brit Arren kept the charm where it was. “I am real enough. Feel, if you wish.” The Nasath extended a hand; the Sea-Raider touched it gingerly. “I came to find Queen Ylia of Nedao. Invisibility is useful to me, as you might think.” Silence. Brit Arren gazed at the Nasath as though he might vanish at any moment. “I have found her. I must free her.”
“Free her.” Brit Arren pulled himself together. “You'll die for even thinking it. Vess will read your intention, even if he cannot see you.”
“No. You did not see me when you passed me in the hallway, near her door. Vess will neither see nor sense me. What you think is dangerous to you, Mal Brit Arren.”
“How—how did—?”
“I read your name when I read your thought. I am sorry but my need is great and so is the need for haste.”
“Greater than you know,” Brit Arren replied grimly. “He has given her Ragnolan drugs. Already she thinks of death.”
“Your risk is no less. If Vess read your thought now, he would kill you.”
Brit Arren shrugged. “If he dies also, I do not care.” He turned away, drove his hands through his hair. “I owe Jon that.”
“I know.” He pitied Brit Arren; he kept that from his voice, knowing the Sea-Raider would not thank him for it. “I must free Ylia.”
Mal Brit Arren turned back. “The halls are thick with men, and I no longer control any of them, even those who once obeyed my orders. You can get to the woman, if you wish suicide as your cup; you will not get half-way down those stairs with her.”
Bendesevorian shook his head, crossed the room and felt along the wall. Little of the ornamentation remained. But the triggering device was still there, near the ceiling. He pressed his ear against the wall until he heard the latch open. “Listen carefully. The spell I used to be unseen in that hall covers only me. I cannot shield another with it.”
“Sorcery.” Brit Arren spat.
“If you like. I will not be able to fetch her; Vess cannot sense me now, but he might if I attempted to shield myself and her. I do not wish to chance Ylia, having come so far to save her, and I do not want Vess to know of my presence, not until he comes against Nar or Nedao and finds me there.” Brit Arren folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, a thoughtful look on his face. “So I need you.”
“Me. Why?”
“A man with nothing to lose, a man who is not loyal to Vess. A man who stands and listens while I speak of these things.” He paused. “Find a moment when she is alone and unguarded. Bring her here and use the passage behind this panel. I will await you both below. Do this and I will do two things in turn for you.”
“All I want is to stand in reach of Vess, with a dagger in hand and the will to strike,” Brit Arren said. “But no Sea-Raider ever turned down coin.”
Bendesevorian shook his head. “No coin. A better thing. First, this.” He held out a cloth bag. Brit Arren took it warily. “Carry it with you, when you enter her chambers, when you bring her down the passageway. Vess will not then sense your presence in that room, or your part in her escape.”
Brit Arren laughed, without humor. “He will read all of us, until he finds his villain and kills him. But he must touch me to kill me, and if I had a dagger—”
“No. A better plan,” the Nasath said. “If I could rearrange the outer semblance of your thought once Ylia was safely in my hands, make it that you had not seen or touched the woman, that you had never plotted to free her or to harm Vess? That your intentions toward him were—if not those of a man sworn to him, at least those of a man who examines his options and finds only one sensible course left to him?” Brit Arren felt for the edge of the table, sat on it and stared. “If by that he might grow to trust you and treat you as an ally—and if not one worthy to command, one worthy of again holding blades and fighting for him? But under that, your thought would be your own, still.”
“I—” He closed his mouth, swallowed, tried again. No sound came.
“Think upon it; if you wish, but take the bag.”
“No. Wait.” Brit Arren closed his eyes, let his head fall back, tried to think. Too many branching futures, gods, how to choose? And this—like something from a mother's tales, how dared a man believe in such a thing? But—if it worked! If he could bring himself to patience and to playing the part. But I can, if I must, for I will not die without one chance to kill Vess, as he made me kill Jon.
The strange man was watching him with compassion. For some reason, it did not bother him. Such a man would not live by normal rules. Man? “Are you a god?” he blurted. Bendesevorian smiled faintly; shook his head.
“I? No. Merely one of those the Ylsans call Guardians, and not the strongest or the wisest of those, I am what Ylia of Nedao has—what you have. If you help us, I will give you what I can in return: I cannot promise Vess will grow to trust you. Know that.”
“Of course not. That is my business. And he will,” Brit Arren promised flatly. “I will aid you. Stay here, while I go and scout the hallway.”
“No. Wait.” The guard clattered across the landing and down the stairs to be greeted noisily by those in the lower hall. Brit Arren stirred, but Bendesevorian again shook his head. “Wait. A little.”
“Why?” Get this over and done with!
“Because—Vess is with her.”
The key turned in the lock, rousing her from a long, blank study of the Plain: Barefoot children were herding goats across the brow of the hill; someone with a round net was fishing the river. Something to look at; better than walls. She didn't bother to turn; it was Vess’ step. She'd see him soon enough.
“You look tired, sweet cousin.” He bent down to kiss her throat. “You should be resting.”
“Why? Have you another night planned for me like the last?”
He laughed, let his fingers trail down her arm. It took all the determination she had left not to pull away from him. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I prefer to keep such things a surprise. They are more effective.” Silence. “I nearly had you, last night.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You will not succeed. Too much, too often and you'll only kill me.”
Vess laughed low in his throat. “Ah. And you would prefer that? You think so, perhaps, but you are merely confused about your desires, like most women. Nothing more.”
“No”
His fingers dug into her shoulder, hard. “Have you not yet learned that you must not say ‘no’ to me?”
Ylia turned into his grip and met his eyes. “No.” There was a chill little moment of quiet. Then Vess smiled, but he didn't look as confident, and he seemed to hesitate over various thing she might say.
“My father will deal with you.”
“I am certain you cannot wait to tell him you have failed so miserably!” His fingers dug in harder and he brought his face close to hers.
“Do not think you know me because you once knew one side of me, cousin, he whispered finally. He walked over to the table and poured himself wine. “I see you drank none of this. Did you think I would poison it?”
“Perhaps,” she replied, consciously mocking his earlier words “Perhaps not. I wish no wine today; my head aches.”
Vess laughed, finished his wine and poured more. “Well.” He set the cup aside. Ylia caught at the windowsill
with one hand and gripped it hard as he stood. She could not escape him here; she had to battle herself not to attempt to elude him. “There are men I must speak with before the ships leave port. But they must match the low tide, and so I have—an hour to spend with you, sweet cousin.”
So hard to keep disgust from her face as he took her arm to lead her across the room as though she were a woman eager for him. She gave in to the pressure on her elbow, let him press her down onto the bed. The knife—show nothing; give away nothing. Vess’ face almost touched hers. “I cannot think why you give me so much trouble, cousin. I am not unskilled, not ugly, not fat or soft. Not old.”
“No. You are none of those things, Vess,” she said quietly.
Her hand touched the pillow, pulled it under her head. She let the hand remain there.
Vess’ hand touched her shoulder. “That is the first nice thing you have said to me. And we have had so few days together. Perhaps you have had time to think, is that it? Do think, Ylia.” His whisper tickled her ear. “Consider. Already sense convinces you not to fight me, and that has brought you fresh air, good food, clean clothing. I will obtain pretty gowns made just for you. Jewels, sapphires, to match your eyes. And for what? A little pleasure for both of us, once you accept what I give.” He pulled back so he could meet her eyes. “Can you not simply enjoy what I give you, this once? There is no other choice, for you. You know it: Why not make things pleasant?” Ylia gave no answer. She is not stupid, only stubborn. Is it possible she has finally come to her senses? Stubborn women so often capitulated suddenly and unexpectedly: He didn't dare believe his fortune, but when he clasped her hand, her fingers curled around his. He closed his eyes and kissed it and still she did not pull it away.
Move, she ordered herself. Do it! This would be the hardest part—not to convince him, who was more than prepared to be convinced, but to pretend compliance. She shifted slightly so her body pressed against his; tentatively at first. Vess made a happy little wordless sound, buried his face against the low throat of her gown.