When the dizziness subsided, I found myself looking into a football huddle of grim faces, as sweaty and dusty as I knew my own had to be. Red’s grimness was slightly bemused as he wheezed, and Damedran glowered.
A couple of them exchanged uneasy glances, obviously unwilling to speak first. Damedran kept flicking dark-eyed looks up at me then down at one hand as the other rubbed at his knee.
“Your call.” My heart raced. I shifted my weight, knowing I probably couldn’t do much besides spring to my feet, but if this ambush was shortly to end in murder, it wouldn’t be with my cooperation.
Red gave me a somewhat shaky grin as he rubbed his middle. “Hoo, princess. You really do know how to fight.”
Princess. Not Lasva.
So this was a royal hunt.
“Yah. Well. Not well enough to get away.”
Damedran glared at me. “How did you know who I was?”
I occupied myself for a moment in trying unsuccessfully to blow a couple of my braids out of my face. My hair knot, so easily made that morning (as the universe had neglected to hint that I should dress for abduction) had come undone.
Though I was ambivalent about Jehan, I had one sure conviction: I did not trust Dannath Randart or any part of his family for a nanosecond. Reluctant to outright lie any more, I said slowly, “You look like your uncle. And I remember him from when I was little.”
True, though I would not have recognized Damedran without that introduction aboard Jehan’s yacht.
But he seemed to accept it.
“If you’re supposed to kill me next, I really would like the chance to fight for my life.”
Ban sat back, looking revolted, and Damedran said quickly, “We are not here to kill you.”
I sighed. “Nice to know, but you have to see what it looks like to me. The disguises—” I nodded at Ban and Red in their humongous tunics. “The lie about hiring me—”
“Why are you traveling under a false name?” Damedran asked abruptly.
I shrugged. “Come on. Think about it. I’m yanked to this world against my will. My mother is taken prisoner. Am I really going to tell everyone who I am? I want to be left alone.”
“To go to Tser Mearsies or to Bar Larsca?” He leaned forward. “I mean, what is there?”
“Nothing except anonymity. I’ve been a law-abiding olive picker for the past few weeks. I was about to become an apple picker. I thought.”
“But you said you had somewhere to be,” Red pointed out.
I shrugged. “Conversational gambit. To find out how long I’d be hired.”
They exchanged uncertain looks. I suspected they didn’t know whether to believe me or not. Time to get the subject from my goals to theirs.
I wriggled my shoulders. “So what next? The noose, war-commander style, or would that be a crossbolt in the back?”
Damedran’s splendid cheekbones highlighted even more splendidly with a blush.
Ban said, “Blade in the back? Why did you say that?”
“Well, isn’t that the way he gets rid of inconvenient people? He certainly did to Magister Glathan. I cannot imagine he’d find me anything but inconvenient, or I wouldn’t have been ambushed like this.”
More uneasy glances met these words.
“Tell me where I’m wrong,” I invited, trying again to sling my braids out of my face. I needed to see. I would have expected gloating, bullying, but if anything, these boys seemed if not reluctant, at least ambivalent about their having captured me.
“He wouldn’t,” Ban said, but I think we all heard the unspoken Would he? and he shot a pained look at Damedran.
Who seemed to be totally absorbed in reading his palms. Once again quiet fell, except for the breeze through some autumn red trees, the distant chuckling of an unseen stream and the snort of a horse.
Finally I said, testing the parameters of this abduction, “Hey. If you’re not really going to kill me, how about untying me? You know I can’t get the drop on seven of you.”
“Yes—” Ban began.
But Damedran put out a hand. “She has magic, remember?”
I sighed, wiggling my fingers. They were tingling slightly, despite Damedran’s efforts not to cut off my circulation. I suspect adrenaline had not made him as accurate in safe knot tying as he’d thought he was. “I only know about three spells. Make no mistake, they are powerful, but they are also specific. If I could transfer around by magic, I would have rescued my mother and vanished long ago.”
Damedran turned to Ban, who jerked his chin up, then brought his attention back to me. “So you can’t use any of these powerful spells and turn us into rocks or something?”
I shook my head. “They are specific, having to do with types of healing, I guess you could say. Like that one your guys saw me do when I was first brought here by Devli Eban. That spell changes…”
I thought in English, because I did not know the magical vocabulary. The spell enabled one to “see” a poison in a person and shift what amounted to a dangerous molecule or two, so that they became neutral, and that shift propagated swiftly through the person.
I turned my attention to Damedran, who had crouched down near me, one hand absently rubbing his sore knee as he waited for my answer. It seemed plain that this situation was as important for him as it was for me.
“The spell calls a kind of fire, and not all people can hold it, but it seems I can. So you send the fire in a kind of thread into the person, and it burns out the poison, so to speak, and then is gone.”
Ban nodded silently. “My sister said something of the sort once. But she said that kind of magic is only taught when you’re at a high level.”
“My father was desperate,” I answered, glad to speak some truth, anyway. “And I guess I had the aptitude. My mother doesn’t. She told me once he tried to teach her, but she couldn’t hold the magic up here.” I tipped my head back and forth. “There wasn’t time to teach me all the basics, so he taught me that healing spell in hopes it would protect Mom and me in the other world. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough magic potential there for it ever to work.”
Damedran rubbed his jaw. “You can’t use the spell to, I dunno, change someone’s mind about something?”
I laughed. “No. No mood-altering, or mind-altering. At least, I do remember someone talking about the ancient Sartorans, and how they could do that sort of thing. How the villain Detlev can kill with just his mind, without moving a finger. But whether or not that’s true, or the exaggeration of rumor, I can’t do anything like that.”
“Well, remember that Siamis fellow, Detlev’s nephew, enchanted us all by talking to leaders,” Red said.
Damedran sighed. “All right, but those rotters are four thousand years old, supposedly. Enough about them. What use is magic? I mean, I know, it keeps water clean, and so forth. But—” He shrugged. “Can you use it for much of anything else?”
Ban said soberly, “If you mean for war, my sister says any new spell has to be vetted by the Mage Council. And they find out if you’re doing them. Magic is like rain to them. Say you ride into a territory well after the clouds dispersed, but you can smell the wet grass, see puddles, so forth. That’s what my sister has told me. There’s a lot of it at high levels that can do frightening things. But the other mages always know it.”
Red said, “Like Siamis spreading that spell just by talking. Of course he didn’t care who knew he’d done it.”
Come on, boys, see me as a person, not an objective. “Didn’t you all pretty much lose a year? That’s what I was told. Though I don’t get how enchanting leaders of countries got people enchanted too.”
Red pulled off the huge rough-woven tunic and threw it down, leaving him wearing his shirt and brown cadet riding trousers stuffed into his boots. He was the shortest and leanest of them, but that meant he was my size. “If you were loyal to anyone, and he enchanted that person, you fell into it too. That’s what we were told.”
Ban opened a hand. “My sister thinks time ki
nd of stopped during that enchantment. The way they know is, babies stayed babies. You know how fast they grow. Nobody’s baby started walking and talking that year.”
That’s right, talk to me, boys. Don’t let me be the war commander’s next crossbow target.
One of the quieter boys spoke up unexpectedly. “There’s even bigger magic, in history. Like mages raised all the mountains north of Sartor. My tutor told me it affected weather for a century or more. Yet those spells didn’t keep out Norsunder.”
That silenced everyone.
I was trying to think of a way to shift the talk from evil mages to evil war commanders when Damedran got to his feet. He looked skyward, then around at the countryside, which was full of russet-hued trees and grass and late-flowering weeds, birds, a stream, and our horses, but no other people.
Then he sighed and faced me, though he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’d like to untie you. Even if you give us another run.” His brief grin was wry and changed his entire demeanor. His gaze touched mine for a fleeting moment. “I apologize for knocking you off the horse.”
I shrugged. “Hey, you didn’t use the blade on me, for which I’m grateful. That was a cool trick.”
Cool puzzled them, but they seemed to get the idea.
“As for my part of the fight, well, I’m not going to apologize for anything until I am convinced I’m not on my way to a hasty execution, just because my family name happens to be Zhavalieshin.”
Their easy expressions vanished as if wiped by a cloth.
Damedran looked sulky and brooding again. “I can’t do anything until I report to my uncle and get orders.”
“But—” Ban began.
Damedran swung around. “You know what the orders were,” he snapped. Under his breath, though I heard it, “And what will happen if anything goes wrong.”
I’d forgotten about fear.
In silence he wrote a note reporting my capture, put it in his magical transfer box and sent it to the war commander.
Chapter Twenty
In a lifetime of unexpected blows and tough decisions Jehan had avoided the toughest of all. Until now.
As soon as he received Owl’s note—I think I found her, somewhere in Bar Larsca, but Damedran is ahead of me—he sent Kazdi to dispatch one of his covert teams of guards to Owl as backup.
And then he had to wait.
Days dragged by, excruciatingly slow and meaningless. He stood next to his father to review the palace guard before the chosen wing rode off to participate in the war game. He sat in the royal box during two jaw-stiffeningly boring plays dedicated ostentatiously to the king. Canardan skipped out on the second one, but Jehan remained where all could see him. He attended balls, picnics, regattas, dancing the night away and in the morning he attended trade sessions, but only as a spectator.
Then, unexpectedly, the king said after breakfast one morning, “There’s no putting off these hearings concerning this treason-trial foolery. You may as well suffer along with me. It’ll look good when these Guild Council fools unload the speeches they’ve been scribbling for days.”
On the ride over (in an open carriage, so they could be seen, but surrounded by armed guards, so they couldn’t be touched) Jehan said, “Why are we here? It’s hot and stuffy in those halls, Father. Are you really going to hold a treason trial for those people?”
“Of course not. Treason trials are nothing but an excuse to riot or an excuse to kill off half the populace. I don’t want either of those things.”
“So why do we go?”
“Because it looks like good faith. I’ll whittle ’em down, one or two at a time, while we negotiate the trial. Meantime we’ll let them talk as long as they like. It makes them feel good to talk. I want them to feel good. And so they can keep on making speeches and negotiating and feeling good until there’s none of the fools left in prison.”
Canardan had not meant to say that much, but the question on such a hot morning was unexpected. For some reason Jehan’s tone reminded him of Math in the old days, the same dreamy pretense at being reasonable, without any awareness of how kings really did things.
He sent a sharp look at his son, half expecting one of Math’s idiotic replies about ideals and loyalty and oaths, but Jehan just squinted up at the sky, admiring a flight of birds flying north for winter. Canardan sat back, wondering irritably why he was thinking of Math, of all people. Maybe he shouldn’t eat so many smackerberry tartlets on hot mornings.
At first things began exactly as Canardan predicted. Jehan stood behind his father’s cushioned chair on a hastily made dais as guild masters and mistresses unloosed long, carefully written speeches that were almost comical, how constrained they were to be complimentary to the king and yet make their demands clear.
Another person might have laughed at how the plump, red-cheeked Wood Guild Master bowed every time he made a demand, followed by half a dozen effusive compliments. “As your majesty well knows, your loyal populace appreciates your condescension in…” hoola-loola-loo. “But.” Bow. “We feel that if we are truly to move past the sad events of two decades ago, as you have often said so gracefully in your Oath Day speeches, then perhaps it might be deemed wise to forgive the, ah, assumed transgressions of these unfortunates in custody…” Bow.
Jehan did not laugh. Nor did he find the thin, tremble-voiced Hatters Guild Mistress funny when her good shoes, worn once a year, squeaked as she walked to the front. Her speech had been signed by all the people involved in hat making. As if the king cared for any of those named, but Jehan could imagine the courage it had taken to tramp the hot streets during this unconscionably hot autumn weather, collecting these names, believing that the number of them would impress the king.
Jehan sustained a brief but intense memory of Prince Math’s face. He would care. He would listen. Jehan knew it. He could almost see Math listening to the frightened old woman, his head slightly tilted at an encouraging angle.
Pity conflicted with resentment for his father’s faint air of endurance, of boredom, the little smile that indicated the king was far off in thought. These people with their wretched speeches so full of clumsy hyperbole were not laughable at all. They were simply out of their realm of experience, but that was evidence of their courage. Wasn’t it?
That image of Prince Math nodded emphatically, frizzy hair lifting like a sun corona round his head.
When the Hatters had had their say, they were followed by the Bricklayers and Stonemasons, the Silversmiths, the Ironmongers, the Millers and Bakers and Toymakers and Brewers and Vintners.
After the Coopers’ Guild Master hoarsely whispered through his speech, the sea-related guilds were yet to come. Canardan raised a hand, and the old Cooper hastened to his seat as though he feared the sword on the spot.
“Good people.” Canardan smiled, lifting his voice so all could hear. “I did say that each of you would have a chance to speak, and I keep my word. Khanerenth’s tradition grants that all have access to the king. In turn, the king has access to all. We will not hasten into any decision, be assured, before all you are heard. This has been our civil law…”
A flash of warning tightened along Jehan’s nerves. He remembered his father’s words earlier about whittling down and realized what was coming next.
A moment later Canardan said, “…as for military matters, we all know that those are conducted separately.”
He’s going to cut out Silvag and Folgothan first. Jehan remembered his father’s conversation with Randart, and his careless promise to deal with the matter “later”. Apparently later meant now.
Canardan paused for the expected agreement, and of course he got it. He’d spoken no more than the truth. They could also feel the threat coming as Canardan said, “…and so we can agree that military matters can be effectively overseen by War Commander Randart—”
There was the name, and the implied judgment flitting toward the future, bearing those men’s lives, impossible to retrieve.
“—who is, as w
e all know, a follower of the law.” Jehan stood, heart hammering. His gaze slid past his astonished father, to the people.
Canardan stared at Jehan. Once again, this time more distinctly, there was the impulse to laugh. These good people looked so surprised, as if the unlit chandelier had begun to spout poetry. Or more to the point, if a sheep had trotted in from a nearby field and raised up its voice to discourse on law. He waved a hand to invite Jehan to speak, wondering what the boy could possibly have to say.
“I admire the war commander second to none.” Jehan turned in a slow circle, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. “You all will remember how well he reorganized the academy. The new regulations were strict, but all the old favoritism and slackness disappeared. He is an example to us all in how he obeys regulations from dawn to dusk, the same as the smallest cadet and the oldest guard captain.”
He paused for breath, got an encouraging nod from his father and went on in his blandest voice. “So I just know he’ll remind us that the two guardsmen are in fact ex-guardsmen, hmm, and though I don’t always pay attention the way I should, it seems to me that they might be termed, ah—”
“Civilians, if I may beg your highness’s pardon,” the guild master said, rising with more haste than dignity. He bowed to Jehan and to the king. “Former guardsmen Silvag and Folgothan are civilians.” His voice was reedy with relief. Now he was on sure ground: civilian law.
“That is true,” the Heralds’ Guild representative said, raising a quill. “They have not been under orders for twenty years—”
“Their oaths were refused,” exclaimed a voice from the back, and in the susurrus of quiet’s and shhh’s that followed, the Scribe Guild’s representative said in her soft, mild voice, “If they have not received pay in twenty years, and that is easy to check in the paymaster’s books, they are civilians in all points of law.”
Someone in the back snarled, “I will not be silent! I’m related to the Folgothans, and I know they didn’t do a thing, just talked. Are we all to be arrested for just talking, that is what I want to know!”
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