“Nothing,” Christoph said, shrugging. “Curious, is all. I mean, you’re here, and I don’t recall you climbing up.”
“I was put here,” Senrid stated in a hard voice. “You wouldn’t have happened to come here the same way?”
“No. We walked. Then climbed. My guess is, you’re probably here as someone’s idea of a joke, but I don’t know who,” Puddlenose said easily. “Now.” He decided to do some indirect testing of his own. “If you like pulling rank—which we don’t—ol’ Christoph here had it a long time ago on another world, and if I get nabbed again, Shnit of the Chwahir thinks he can make me his heir.”
He and Christoph said “Yeccch” together in what was clearly long-established ritual.
Puddlenose watched Senrid register the word ‘Chwahir’. Senrid said, his disbelief clear, “A Chwahir wants a Mearsiean as heir?”
“Only if my brains are enchanted out. He thinks watching me betray my family would be the entertainment high point of his overlong life.”
Puddlenose saw that impact Senrid. It wasn’t an overt reaction—no more than a tightening of the corners of his mouth, a hint of a sympathetic revulsion—but it was enough to enable Puddlenose to decide that whatever else lay in Senrid’s background, he was going to be no threat to Christoph or him.
So on with the adventure—whatever it was to be. “Let’s seek out some eats,” Puddlenose suggested.
Senrid turned his palm up. Then, as they started climbing down, “Puddlenose? Is that a Chwahir name?”
Puddlenose laughed. “No, it’s a Chwahir insult. Shnit’s idea was to stick me with a traditional Chwahir name, but he couldn’t decide if my poisonous Mearsiean self deserved one of their kings’ names, or if he should give me a lowly one. To add to the insult to Mearsies Heili, you know.”
Christoph, who’d heard (and told) this story many times over, added with enthusiasm, “So they mostly called him by insults. None of them being fond of babies. Puddlenose was the most frequent, but there are some other goodies—”
“Addlepate,” Puddlenose said.
“Eckbittle—”
“What’s that?” Senrid asked, looking askance. From the wariness of his expression, the tighness of his smile, Puddlenose guessed Senrid couldn’t tell if he was the target of an elaborate joke or if these two crazies he’d been dumped with were serious.
“You don’t want Eckbittle translated,” Christoph said with a grim smile.
“But the girls think it sounds funny, so we keep it in the Royal Name,” Puddlenose explained. “CJ amended some of the others, going by sound. Like Eluded-Glue. Oh, and Puddlenose in Chwahir sounds, according to CJ, like ‘Prunebald’ so that stays in. Then there’s Louseface—”
“What’s a louse?”
“A villain, according to CJ. Muttonmouth is another. And Dummkopf, but both Gwen and CJ insist they’re real Earth words, or mutton is, anyway.”
“Butterfingers, though, we can translate through,” Christoph offered with a helpful air.
As the two traded off with the names they scouted around, stopping only when they found cribs of freshly harvested fruit. They helped themselves and slid out into the open air, Puddlenose ending with, “They never knew my real name at home, or at least the one aunt who did disappeared after Clair’s mother died. And though I’ve considered many fine new ones—”
“My favorite is Erdelarintarsa,” Christoph interjected. “Sounds good and pompous! But the girls favor some of the old stinkers in Mearsiean history.” He snickered.
“Anyway,” Puddlenose said, waving an apple, “anything I tried, I’d forget that they meant me when somebody used it. So I stuck with Puddlenose. Which does remind me every time I hear it that I escaped. Ha ha!”
“Ho ho!” Christoph said, and they eased out, silent as they looked furtively around.
The owners of the farm were all busy in the cornfield not too distant. The barn that the boys were in was auxiliary storage, at the edge of the property, so they reached the road unseen.
The sky was blue, the air warm. As the morning progressed the weather warmed, and it was with relief that Puddlenose spotted the line of trees bordering a meandering line across the fields that denoted a good-sized spring.
“Water,” he said, pointing. “Shall we?”
Senrid’s longing was unmistakable.
They found a dammed-off section that local kids probably used as a pool when they weren’t busy with harvest chores. The three had it to themselves, so they stripped off their grimy clothes. Puddlenose stashed his sword in a convenient place, noting that Senrid had been sporting a wicked-looking dagger in a wrist sheath: he cleaned it first, examining it this way and that with an expert eye before resheathing it.
Interesting, Puddlenose thought. Bundling his clothes under one arm, he dove in.
Puddlenose and Christoph were content to wedge their duds against the rocks forming the dam, letting the water’s own action do whatever cleaning it might, but Senrid took the time to scrub at his clothing with considerable vigor before he set it neatly on the rocks beside his wrist sheath and boots to dry.
Puddlenose, idly splashing, looked him over. Though Senrid was smaller and slighter in build than Christoph, he was solid muscle. He was also skinny in the way that people who don’t eat enough are skinny, and his back across his shoulders showed the straight pink horizontal scars of caning harsh enough to draw blood. Puddlenose recognized those scars because he had some of his own, though not as many, and far older, from his days with the Chwahir. Lots of trouble, then, in Senrid’s life, and chocolate pies smothered in cream few and far between, eh?
Puddlenose said nothing, though, except to propose a game of diving for rocks, to which Senrid readily assented. The three played about for a time, then climbed out and dried off in the sun, Puddlenose’s and Christoph’s clothes having also been spread on rocks by then.
When they decided to dress and move on, the clothes were not yet dry, but the cool, damp fabric felt good in the hot afternoon sun. Puddlenose noted that the dagger had vanished again into Senrid’s heavy linen long-sleeved shirt. He also wore his trousers outside his riding boots, instead of tucked in. At first glance one wouldn’t know he was wearing riding boots, unless one looked at the heels, which were made to catch against stirrups—usually for those in some kind of military calling, who might need that extra kind of balance.
Interesting.
After a short time walking along a road, Puddlenose said casually, “So you recognized our accent, huh? Not many know about Mearsies Heili, as it isn’t one of your biggies in size or in rep.”
Senrid turned his palm up. “I’ve met a couple Mearsieans.”
“Like who?” Christoph added, walking backwards. “Here, let’s cut across yon fallow-field. This road is boring. Any of the queen’s friends? If you’ve ever sampled Faline’s jokes, you wouldn’t forget those in a hurry.”
“I met Faline,” Senrid said, following obligingly as the other two struck northward into a field. “You’re right about the jokes.”
“So you met the girls! Hear any of CJ’s better Pocalubes?” Christoph chortled.
“Pocalubes?” Senrid asked.
“Name the girls made up for their insults. They have rules, you know, for the proper insulting of villains.”
“I heard a few,” Senrid admitted.
“Ho! So the girls have had an adventure since we saw them last, eh? Tell us what happened, then when we go home, we can annoy them by already knowing.”
“Oh, you’ll get it better from them,” Senrid said.
And the subject necessarily ended then because Puddlenose saw something in the grass at his feet, started back, then tripped over the end of his sword and fell full length in the grass. The smell of broken herbs made him sneeze, and he sat up dizzily, to find Christoph and Senrid staring at a girl apparently their own age whose friendly face was disconcertingly half-invisible.
TWO
At the same moment that Senrid landed in
that barn in East Arland, Leander and Kyale were transferred directly to the courtyard of their castle in Crestel, where it was still light. When the transfer dizziness passed, they found themselves staring up at the familiar ivy-covered walls of home.
“Ah! My kits!” Kyale exclaimed, and ran inside.
Those of her feline friends in view were all hale and happy; only the smaller ones were around. Once she’d greeted each, and petted them, and crooned over them, she called to Llhei, her old governess, to prepare her a bath.
Leander paused, wondering who had transferred them, and only them, to their home in Crestel. Like Senrid, he felt the pressure of an invisible but powerful hand behind their strange adventure. No hints who, or more important, why.
Only one thing was clear: the unknown power was not inimical. So he dismissed conjecture with a mental shrug and ran down the main hallway to the anteroom that had become his unofficial interview room, and there he found Alaxandar, the tough, stocky liegeman who served as his steward.
Alaxandar’s dark eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed in rare, expressive relief.
“You’re back. What happened?”
“Magic tangle with Senrid over the hill,” Leander said, tipping his head westward. “We were thrown off-world for a time. News? Are our spies still in place? And all right?”
“So that was true, then, about the magic battle,” Alaxandar said grimly. “Rumor had it that the Regent had killed the boy at last, and was taking over. Our spies are all right, but all they hear is rumor—that’s all anyone hears. Tdanerend hasn’t issued any statements that have reached Collet, whose latest letter reached Arel at the border two days ago. I opened it, as you instructed.”
Leander heard the question in his voice, and grinned, relieved, oh, so very much to be home. “Right. As for ‘the boy,’ he was with us. I assume he was sent home as we were—though what that’s going to mean is anyone’s guess.”
Alaxandar shook his head slowly. “Tdanerend is making a power play of some kind, and I’ll wager anything you care to name that we’ve been selected as the hapless victims on whom he’s going to exhibit his military prowess. He’s prated too much over there about reunification.”
“He wants the border mines,” Leander said. “So what’s he doing?”
“He’s got riders all along the border, and there are military camps forming out beyond the pass. Here, I’ll show you on the map.”
Leander sighed. “I’ll have to take a look, but a bath first. Not a frame-zap, but a real bath. I’ve been soaking in saltwater for weeks. What is the date, anyway?”
Alaxandar followed him upstairs, and while Leander had a fast bath, filled him in on the details.
When he emerged, and headed down toward the kitchens to wait for the hot meal the cook was preparing, Kyale joined him, eager for news.
Every statement Alaxandar made about Tdanerend or Senrid was punctuated by Kyale’s heartfelt insults-interpolations which amused the other two at first, Kyale having memorized a lot of CJ’s favorite expressions, but slowly got to be wearing as she kept it up with untiring energy.
Leander responded with patience. Alaxandar began looking sardonic, which made Kitty defensive. He’d been laughing before, so why wasn’t he now? Because he was a sour-pie, of course. And hated her.
And that in turn increased her belligerent tone.
“Since dinner isn’t ready yet I think I’d better to look at the border,” Leander said at last, when it was clear that the conversation was going to founder on Kyale’s more frequent interruptions.
“I’m going, too,” Kyale said promptly.
“No you’re not,” Leander said, and when she sucked in a breath to yell, he stuck out his tongue at her.
She choked on laughter; he did the transfer magic, and vanished.
“Huh,” she said, and raced upstairs to the library where he kept his magic books.
Lessons in magic had been sporadic at best, because she loathed the dullness of elemental memorization that he insisted on. Her idea of learning magic was to get spells for wonderful things. His insistence on her learning the boring way, just because he had, seemed stupid.
She ran her finger along the books until she came to the one she’d mentally marked before, and pulled it down. She knew that in a transfer spell you were supposed to think on your destination. That was easy—she pictured Leander, but from the back, and slowly read the spell.
Nothing happened.
Huffing in annoyance, she wondered if he’d messed with it to spite her, and read faster—then gasped as magic sucked at her from inside.
She appeared behind Leander at a distance of about fifty paces, which placed her beyond a couple of tall ash trees. She felt sick to her stomach, and kept the book tightly clutched against her until the dizziness passed.
Scary, she thought, but when she saw Leander’s dark head in front of her, triumph replaced the magic-reaction. He stood on the very edge of a rocky cliff, looking at something below. Since she couldn’t see his face, she did not know what it was he was studying—or how he felt about it.
She looked beyond, to the plains of Marloven Hess, which stretched away into a purplish haze in the far distance. Forestland in the lower hills gave way to the squares of farms. Most of those squares were bare; only the grapevines were left, on the south-facing hills, and winter-hay, and some seed-flax.
It was a pretty land, she thought, if you didn’t know who lived there.
She turned her gaze southward, toward the green hills that formed the borderland. On the Vasande side, she could see neat slopes of dark green—mulberry trees, a part of the silk trade that Leander was trying so hard to get going again.
Without warning Leander vanished again, and she felt a puff of cold breeze in her face. Alone, she felt apprehensive, and so she opened the book. Fear made her accurate; she pictured the library, and made it on the first try.
When the reaction dissipated, she shoved the book back into the shelf, and retreated—almost running smack into Leander, who was reaching for the door to the library.
“What were you doing in there?” he asked.
She eyed him, sorting his tone. He was annoyed, all right, but she could see the worry in the way his brows quirked.
“Standing on my head,” she snarled, because she knew she’d been in the wrong. “What a stupid question.”
“I thought you’d given up messing with my books.”
“Well,” she said, testing, “I could say I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shook his head. “Won’t work. You could have asked.”
“I did, and you said no.”
He opened the door. “Come in.”
She gave him a narrow glance, then nodded regally. She’d already worked it out in her head that he was to blame.
Leander followed her inside, repressing a sigh. Kitty was twelve, but sometimes she seemed more like six. When he was twelve, he’d already had the responsibility of people depending on him, and because of it, he found it hard to understand a kid who’d been raised in luxury but was otherwise totally ignored by a cold, cruel, ambitious woman who killed anyone in her way with no apparent regrets. Kitty wasn’t even a blood relation, but one forced upon him when Mara Jinea married his father, but she was here, she needed a family, or a semblance of a family, and so did he. So he had to find a way to make it work.
Though he didn’t understand her thinking, he was beginning to predict her reactions. Getting mad would guarantee that Kitty saw herself as a victim, no matter how difficult she’d been.
So he wouldn’t get mad.
“I’d love to teach you magic,” he said. “It’d be great to have some help. But you’ve got to learn the basics. That transport spell—if you don’t do it right, well, you saw what happened when CJ and Senrid’s magic tangled.”
She stared at him, her eyes huge. “I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.
“And the only reason why we’re here—still alive—is
that some stronger magic interfered,” Leander added.
She was listening.
“It could be even worse,” he said. “You could get caught between times.”
“I thought it was only black magic that was dangerous. Not white,” she retorted. “We got caught in Senrid’s nasty spell, not CJ’s. Or yours.”
“Everything in black magic is dangerous, for it mostly is summoned for force, which spends magic with equally rapid force. But there are dangerous spells in white, and transport is one of them. Why do you think most people take months to get around the usual way—and some magicians even travel normally? If it was really easy, we’d all be using it all the time.” He pointed. “Don’t you feel tired right now?”
Her lips compressed, which was enough of an answer. Then she sighed. “All right. I won’t. No more nagging.”
“Then promise me,” he said. “It’s for your own safety, not mine. Promise you won’t mess with magic any more, not until I can give you lessons.” He blocked the door, risking a tantrum—and retaliation—but he counted on that residual fear he saw in her face.
And he was right.
Though she’d mentally blamed him for not teaching her, she was secretly relieved. Though she couldn’t show it, for that would be giving in. “All right. I promise. Now, is the lecture over? I’m hungry.”
Lecture over,” he said, relieved and not trying to hide it. Let’s go get something to eat, preferably something that has nothing whatsoever to do with the ocean.”
Kitty laughed. “Sounds good to me.”
They walked downstairs together.
THREE
The see-through girl greeted the three boys with tranquil politeness.
Christoph was too busy laughing at Puddlenose’s clumsiness to pay much attention to her, and Puddlenose was distracted by Senrid’s appalled reaction.
Christoph was the first to speak, after a protracted silence that might have been embarrassing to anyone else. But Senrid was too furious, and Puddlenose too curious about Senrid’s fury, to notice.
Christoph said, head to one side, “Are you a ghost?”
Senrid Page 21