As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re in a mood. Did you miss a meal or something?”

  “No. Get your cloak. It’s time for us to go pay a visit to the baron. You’ve been avoiding it long enough.”

  “Avoiding? I’ve done no such thing. I’ve been planning.” Storming a wizard’s castle in an attempt to claim something one knows the wizard won’t willingly surrender wasn’t something a person did on a lark. It took careful scheming and expert timing at which, luckily for Tanris, I was an expert.

  “Right.” He smiled thinly and turned away, but rather than going to the door, he headed toward his room.

  Ack! No! Did he hear the sudden clamor of my heart? “Are we going now, then?”

  “Soon as I change my shirt. Just in case Red did manage to follow me, I don’t want to make things too easy for him.”

  “Tanris, wait.” What was I going to do? I couldn’t very well volunteer to go get a shirt for him, since he was perfectly capable. There was nothing for it. “Duzayan poisoned your wife,” I blurted.

  Silence. I should be used to this.

  “With the same thing he put in me,” I added, hating the squeak in my voice.

  More silence. It did not escape me that his silence was good for my health. It meant I wasn’t in danger of a trouncing. Still, Tanris stared at me as though I had turned into something hideously loathsome.

  “Tanris?” I ventured, and mentally calculated the distance to the door and my chances of getting out before he caught me. Perhaps I should attempt the window instead. I could get out the balcony door and up onto the roof in a flash.

  “Is she—?”

  “Not yet.”

  He stared at me a moment longer, then turned away, slowly dragging one hand down his ashen face. “Where—” he started, swallowed, then tried again. “Where is she?”

  “She’s in a bad way, Tanris. Very bad,” I said softly.

  “Where is she, Crow?” he repeated, carefully enunciating each word.

  I bit my lip and nodded toward the door to his room. Astonishment flickered in his eyes.

  “You brought her here?”

  Was that a bad thing? Well, as it pertained to me and my—our—plans, yes. As soon as he caught sight of her he would turn into a great, useless blob of jelly. “Yes,” I affirmed, inserting more confidence into the word than I felt. “Yes, of course.”

  All sorts of emotions quavered off him. Fear, dread, wonder, hope. Bright, bright hope. He seemed to glow with it, sudden and fierce, then he hurried to the bedroom door. Briefly, I wished I didn’t know what he was going to find on the other side.

  “Tanris,” I tried to slow him for a minute without actually chasing after him and dragging him to a stop. “I gave her some of the potion, but I—fear it didn’t help much.” My voice dwindled away as he disappeared. Silence reigned for a moment or two, then came a soft murmuring. I heard him quietly crying, just as I’d predicted. I looked up at the ceiling. “This would be a really good time for a miraculous intervention by the gods,” I pointed out. Unsurprisingly, I received no reply. “Is anyone listening?”

  Not even the Ancestors answered.

  Girl poked her head out of the kitchen and gave me a sharp look. Not-An-Egg waddled over to me, creaking questions I could not interpret. If this was the answer the deities had for me, I didn’t understand and I didn’t find this particular riddle amusing. For a truth, I felt more than a little sick at heart.

  “Did you hear any of that?” I asked Girl.

  She nodded and came another step or two down the hall.

  “I’m going back out. Keep an eye on him.” I did not wait for her agreement, but loosed Not-An-Egg from my leg, went to my room to change my shirt and collect a few small items, then I was gone.

  — 31 —

  Strategic Transportation of Equipment to an Alternate Location

  Flying over the rooftops of Marketh has always been one of the greatest freedoms I have ever known. It is a challenge, to be sure, to meet the varying slopes of roofs, the tangle of chimneys, rooftop gardens, windows, statuary, clotheslines… Vaulting from level to level and leaping over the chasms between buildings has never failed to fill my heart with giddy exhilaration. Leaving the apartment, I wanted more than anything to find that release—and I could not. Yes, I could climb and I could run and I could jump, but I felt keenly the effects of four months travel, and of beatings and hunger and poison and deep melancholy. My flight through the city lacked the thrill I craved, but sufficed to clear my head sufficiently to deal with the business laying before me.

  I had not fruitlessly wasted all my time since we’d arrived in the city and had, in fact, discovered exactly the information I sought. Working my way back to the Sunhar District, I did not go to my apartment but to another two streets down and further along the hill. It, too, boasted a view of the emperor’s palace, though not as good as mine. I judged for myself after I picked the lock—a skill that had not waned in the least—and let myself in. The rooms were sumptuous. Elegant. As one might expect in such refined quarters, a fine assortment of costly ornaments and treasures adorned many of the surfaces. I selected a few I found particularly appealing and migrated them to the pouch I wore at my waist. Nary a tingle of warning did I receive from any but one, and you can imagine my caution. From room to room I went, learning the layout, exploring the floor for squeaks, oiling the door hinges with lamp oil I found delightfully scented for discriminating noses, and otherwise arranging things the way I liked and preparing the stage.

  From the window of the sitting room I watched the sun reflecting on the palace’s golden roof and marveled at what a jewel it was, what a triumph of architecture. If I stood at the far right side of the glass and leaned close I could see my building and—yes, my own balcony. I would never find accommodations equal to those. From there one could enjoy the view of the palace’s dome as well as the needle-like towers surrounding it. One could even see the tops of the trees rising up over high walls of beautiful, creamy white trimmed with blue and gold tiles.

  Even while I admired the view and joyfully recalled my occasional visits inside the palace (there are ways even a beggar can get in to see the fantastic structure), I kept an eye on the traffic in the street below and listened closely for the key in the lock. “Tell me,” I requested of the Ancestors as an extra precaution, “if anyone approaches the door.”

  No one did, not until the sun had begun to color the sky in glorious shades of amber and rose. I watched my target, in the company of a plainly dressed maid, alight from an open carriage, brush her elegant skirts straight as she waited for the maid to retrieve some packages, then disappear from view as the pair of them approached the door of the building. My earlier exploration of the apartment allowed me to choose an advantageous hiding place—an unoccupied bedchamber next to m’lady’s. By the door, I waited and listened as the pair entered, chatting merrily about the day’s shopping adventure and preparations for this evening’s dinner engagement. When the maid was dismissed to heat bath water I opened the door just a crack. The maid’s back retreated from view and I slipped out into the hall.

  The mistress of the house was so comfortable in her security that she’d left the bedchamber door open. It was kind of her to be so accommodating, though a locked door would hardly have restrained me. I closed it quietly behind me and leaned against it, watching the woman sitting at the dressing table. She’d donned a robe of embroidered red silk—my favorite—and was brushing her long, black hair. Humming to herself, she was, and the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows bathed her perfect skin in a tender glow. So entranced was she with the image in the glass that she did not at first observe my approach. She had a lovely visage, to be sure, her face perfectly proportioned, eyes black as coal framed by elegantly shaped brows. Those glorious eyes widened as she caught sight of my reflection and she moved to stand.

  “Did you miss me, my dove?” I asked, settling my hands on her shoulders and pushing her right back down again.r />
  “Crow!” lovely Tarsha gasped, her cheeks draining of color. “What are you doing here?”

  I gave her a chiding look in the glass. “Is that any way to greet a long absent lover?” I took some satisfaction in the knowledge that I’d surprised her right out of a glib, convincing reply.

  “You can’t be here.” She could deny it all she liked, but her opinion didn’t change the facts.

  “Oh, but I am.”

  She tried to stand again. I pushed her back down, then drew her hair back over her shoulder to run my fingers through it. So rich and thick and silky… But trust my wild Tarsha to be unafraid. Alarmed yes, and already conniving. I could feel it moving through her, twisting and turning.

  “It’s not safe here, my love. Tell me where you are staying and I will come to you.”

  I could imagine all too well how that would turn out. “Do you promise?”

  “Nothing could keep me away,” she vowed, and this time when she rose I let her. Turning to me, she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me quite, quite warmly. I could hardly protest, could I? Her kisses were everything I remembered and the warmth of her body against mine pure delight. “Where can I find you?” she whispered breathlessly. “You must leave at once, Crow. Sayanna will return any moment. I’ve missed you so!”

  “Sayanna… Your maid?” I murmured back, reacquainting myself with her completely enchanting shape. There was no fault at all to find in her face or form. “Lock the door.”

  The reluctance she feigned in breaking off our kiss did not match the irritation I sensed. She smoothed her hands down my chest and sighed, fluttering her lashes demurely. “We can’t do this, not here, my darling.”

  “It’s been so long,” I protested, seeking her lips again.

  “Crow, no. I—I’m married now.” She blushed prettily and held me off, but only lightly. A token protest.

  “You’re what?” Two could play this game and I adopted a suitable expression and caught her upper arms, pushing her away to stare in feigned shock.

  “I had to!” she declared with admirably wide eyes. “I’m carrying your child.”

  “Praise be to the gods!” I gushed, drawing her abruptly against me and then pushing her back again. “It’s a miracle!”

  “Oh, Crow!” she laughed. “Hardly a miracle considering your… appetite.”

  “A miracle,” I pronounced, “as you were very certainly not pregnant when I was taken. Let me count.” Releasing her, I held up my fingers to illustrate. “A little more than a month in Duzayan’s lovely dungeons in the company of naught but rats—believe me, I’d have remembered if you snuck in to visit—and one, two-and-a-little-bit months getting to our destination, plus one and a little bit more getting back; that puts us at five-ish months since I’ve seen you, which means we are indubitably the subjects of divine intervention. Doesn’t it?” I beamed at her.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but I interrupted before she could. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon, you know. It must have been quite the whirlwind courtship. You and—what’s his name? Jackal?”

  “Jashel,” she provided, tight-lipped. “Lord Jashel.”

  “Yes, yes.” I waggled my fingers dismissively. “Betrothed some two weeks following my precipitous departure from Marketh and wed six weeks later.”

  “You know?” Was that a blurt? Not from my lovely Tarsha! So uncouth! “How long have you been back? Duzayan doesn’t know you’re here, does he.” The last was no real question at all. Already, the toothy little cogs in her head turned. Wasn’t she quick and clever?

  “Of course I know. The High Houses are slightly more discreet with their gossip, but your friends at Even Street and the Rare Stair and the Anchor Moon and—I cannot recall the other, but they were all abuzz with the story. The marriage of an aristocrat to a dancing girl, no matter how beautiful, is the subject of very juicy gossip in circles high and low,” I reminded her, wagging a finger.

  Glaring, she slapped at my hand, which I easily avoided.

  I chuckled and played gently with a lock of her lovely hair. “Jashel, as everyone knows, is the only son of Baron Maruban who, coincidentally, enjoys a position as one of Duzayan’s bosom companions. Nearly as rich, too, I hear. Quite the coincidence, this sudden marriage to dear Jashel, isn’t it?”

  I did not like to think of Maruban as a wizard but, given the company he kept, it was an awful possibility—one that cast suspicion on his son as well, in which case my presence in the apartment of his new bride could prove quite dangerous, if not fatal.

  Color blossomed in Tarsha’s cheeks and something distinctly unattractive flitted through her dark eyes. “The baron told me you were dead! What was I to do, Crow? Wait for a ghost to return to me?” Perfectly timed tears trembled on her lashes.

  “Mm. I would have liked if you’d not had such a willing hand in arranging for my demise.”

  “I did not!” she exclaimed. A few of the Spirits flitted around the room and the draperies stirred, though Tarsha appeared unaware. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “Oh, it might have something to do with your interaction with the guards at your apartment that night. Or maybe the way you slipped the baron’s pearl back into my pocket for them to find after all the work you went to convincing me to steal it for you. Or it could have even been the way you did absolutely nothing to help me.

  “Do you know, riding through miles and miles of empty wasteland gave me plenty of time to reminisce, and one of the things that stood out in my memory was you, my dear. I recalled your tragic, teary countenance upon our last meeting, when the baron brought Tanris and me to see you. And eventually I recalled how you asked what would happen to you. You had nary a word of concern for me. Not a one… You didn’t even romantically scream my name when the guards dragged me back out.”

  “I can scream now.” Her dark eyes flashed with the threat, banishing all trace of subterfuge.

  “You could,” I agreed, “but then I’d have to resort to violence, and although I would find that a trifle annoying and possibly even anticlimactic, it wouldn’t bother me very much at all. What you are going to do is come over to the door and tell Sayanna that you’ve decided to postpone your bath and take a bit of a nap. You can feel a headache coming on and you don’t want it to ruin your evening. You’ll hesitate, and then you’ll tell her to take an hour or two for herself. Perhaps she’d like a walk in the garden.”

  “She won’t believe me.”

  “Of course she will. You’re a kind and thoughtful mistress, are you not?”

  Her chin lifted. Very well, she wasn’t that kind and thoughtful, but it hardly mattered.

  “Come along, now.” I shifted my hold on her hair to grip the lot of it and give her a little turn, pushing her toward the door. As I did, I unsheathed my knife.

  “I won’t do it,” she said defiantly.

  “If you do not, I will chop off all your beautiful hair,” I promised without the slightest trace of rancor. “Really short.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  It was pointless arguing with her. A tug and a slice and a little flip, and a hank of hair drifted to the carpeted floor. “Won’t I?”

  She squeaked in dismay and tried to twist away. I was not the only one inordinately fond of her raven locks. Her struggles resulted in another severed lock before I had her pushed against the wall, my body holding her there firmly.

  “Do you believe me now?”

  The tears in her eyes were real this time. She wept more for her hair than she had for me. Chin trembling, she nodded, and I eased away, still holding my knife up to her precious locks.

  “Careful,” I warned as she opened the door.

  “Sayanna?” she called tremulously.

  It was a moment or two before the maid’s voice came from further down the hallway. “Yes, mistress?”

  “I—I think I’ll wait to take my bath. My head is beginning to hurt. I’m going to lie down and take a nap.”

  “
Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea?”

  “No. No, thank you. Why don’t you take an hour or so to yourself and go sit in the gardens?”

  There was a hesitation and a flicker of surprise. “Are you certain, my lady? I have some mending I could tend to.”

  “Make her believe,” I murmured. “Make her believe…” The cool caress of the Spirits touched my cheek. Tarsha must have felt it, too, for she shivered perceptibly.

  “I’ll be fine, Sayanna, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy the sunshine.”

  The faint whisper of dry leaves came from beyond the door. “Yes, my lady. Thank you!”

  “Smile,” I ordered, and Tarsha pasted a grimace on her face that lent credence to her claim of poor health, whether she’d intended it or not. “Don’t close the door.”

  “Now what?”

  “Wait until she’s gone.”

  It was several long minutes before we heard Sayanna leave and the grating of the key in the lock. Was it my fault there was a little sand in it? Well, maybe.

  “How long until your husband returns?” I asked, turning her about and steering her toward the dressing table again.

  “He’ll be home any moment, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  I thought about shivering in my boots. Instead, I guided her down onto the chair then tugged gently backward on her hair until she was looking up at me. “If you are going to lie to me, sweetheart, please put a little more effort into it. Your assumption of my stupidity is insulting.”

  “What am I to expect after your laughable display of gullibility!” she hissed and, in a display of ingenuity and perhaps desperation, she swung her hairbrush at my face.

  I twisted my head out of the way but her elbow caught me a blow. I had her chair to protect my groin, but she struck my side then she grabbed with her left hand at something on the dressing table and spun about to strike me. Alas for her, I still had a perfectly good hold of her hair and I propelled her bodily to the floor, bringing the hilt of my blade down hard on her wrist. Her scream of frustration was cut off by my knee in her back. She was nothing if not a spitfire. I twisted her arm until the wickedly sharp hair stick she’d attempted to employ as a weapon dropped to the floor, and all around us the Voices hissed, kicking up such a stir that draperies and bedclothes fluttered and a few scarves that had been carelessly hung drifted to the floor.