Sasharia en Garde

by Sherwood Smith

  The king waved a hand. “All that can wait. I can see from the mud you’ve been riding all day. Go get something to eat. Get some rest. I can read through the reports while you do those things.”

  Randart stood up. “I’ll give the orders for the execution. We can do that at noon tomorrow, before I—”

  “Execution?” Canardan repeated.

  “Of course. The traitor guardsmen. Silvag, and I forget the other’s name. If we put crossbolts through them, that should solve your civilian-trial problem—”

  Canardan was just irritated enough with Randart to resent this summary disposition of his time. “Not tomorrow. I have three interviews, two of those with envoys. Nothing is more awkward than executions, especially when you’re trying to smooth things over. It can wait.”

  Randart had been considering whether or not to tell Canardan about the report and his theory on Atanial’s missing daughter. Telling the king would have eased some of the bitterness of his defeat. On the other hand, nailing that girl down first would go even further in removing the bitterness of defeat.

  Then there was the matter of Canardan’s wavering.

  Maybe it would be better to secure her first, and . . .

  And see.

  Smiling with grim anticipation, Randart withdrew.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bored and hot, the two guards on patrol rode at an idle pace along the established perimeter. You didn’t question orders, you just obeyed, but there wasn’t much chance of action guarding a bunch of old people, half of whom were in jail.

  Atanial watched them from the shade of an ancient, gnarled willow. Through its hanging green curtain, still in the late-summer air, she peered after the patrol, timing them as she waited for the cover of darkness.

  She was tired and hungry and thirsty, despite having had a long drink at the last stream. She knew she’d be a lot worse off if she had to let the horse go. That might happen. It’s difficult to hide a horse.

  So far, she was all right. The animal stood patiently in the shade with her, tail twitching. When at last the shadows fused into darkness, she decided to move after the next patrol. It came right on time, roughly an hour after the last round. She waited until the pair had safely ridden by, then tied the reins of her horse loosely to a low branch, pulled out the feedbag, filled it, and put it on the horse.

  This took longer than she’d thought it would, as she and the horse were unfamiliar with one another. The movements were also unfamiliar.

  When she was done, she took off running with her head low. She zipped across the road and over a gentle hill toward the Silvags’ orchard. She was thinking of cover, but she almost ran Lark down, out picking peaches now that the sun was gone.

  They both gasped, Lark almost dropping her basket. The girl poised to flee.

  Atanial whispered, “It’s me, Sun—er, Atanial.”

  Lark whistled. “You better leave, your highness, before my mother—”

  “Before your mother what?” Plir Silvag rounded an old peach tree, a basket on her arm. She was only a silhouette in the deepening gloom, but Atanial saw the tension in her movements. “Who are you? You can’t be—”

  “Sun. Atanial. Whatever—”

  “Get. Out.”

  Atanial sighed, the inner vision of water, food, a bath vanishing. “Please. Just listen to me.”

  “Last time I listened to you, my husband got taken. He may even be dead for all I know—”

  “He’s not.”

  “So you say—”

  “He’s not. Tam would have told me. They’re all safe. The king won’t do anything to them because he agreed to hold a trial.”

  “She’s right,” Lark said. “Tam said so. So did my cousin in the stable.”

  “You hold your tongue.”

  “Ma, Tam keeps telling us—”

  “He’ll say anything,” Plir retorted. “To protect that little traitor Marka.”

  Atanial winced. How sickening civil war was, the conflict and division from regions right down to the personal level.

  Plir’s basket whisked against her skirt, a scratchy sound, as she shifted it. “All right. I’ll listen. But if that patrol catches you, I’ll just stand by and watch. I’m not losing my home too.”

  “I’ll be quick, I promise. I spied on the patrol all day, and I know when they’ll come round again. I promise to be long gone before they do.”

  “Speak, then.”

  “First, I’m sorry about your husband, and I know they got Folgothan too.”

  “He couldn’t run,” Plir Silvag said bitterly. “Because someone stabbed him in the leg. And my husband wouldn’t just leave him.”

  “Is Haxin all right?” Atanial remembered the name of the ferret-faced fellow.

  “He is,” Lark spoke up. “But Kenda—his daughter, my age, well, Kenda was dismissed from the service. She just got promoted to signal flag officer on Adamant. But the war commander turfed her out. On account of her dad.”

  “They went over the mountain back to Locan Jora, where his cousins live,” Plir said.

  “Oh no.” Atanial hadn’t meant it to slip out, but both the Silvags exclaimed, “What?” Their voices were hoarse with the effort to keep from yelling.

  “That’s why I came. Word is, the king plans an invasion of Locan Jora in the spring. No, no, please don’t talk. I promised you I’d speak my piece and be gone, so let me speak it. I know you don’t want any fighting, not with friends and cousins and so forth over there. I don’t either. You saw what happened when I took up the sword. One fight, and Folgothan got hurt and arrested. Even small wounds can have bad consequences.”

  Lark and Plir gave similar short nods.

  “So what I want to do is gather all the women, those who have family in the military. The military have to follow orders, I understand that. And we can’t do much against trained fighters, not alone. But what if we were a great number? What if, just imagine it, we had half the kingdom raised, all peaceful, no swords among us, and we begged the king not to invade?”

  Plir went very still. Atanial scarcely breathed.

  “Randart would cut us down without compunction,” Plir stated.

  “But Canardan won’t. He’d hate even the suggestion. I don’t have a lot to say in his favor, but I know he wouldn’t do that.”

  Plir shifted the basket again. “Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you and Canardan.”

  Atanial sighed. “My prison was a beautiful suite. He gave me clothes, and he even gave me jewels.” And how many times am I going to have this conversation? With every single woman, no doubt. “He wanted everyone seeing me in those clothes and jewels. He wanted people to see me dancing at that masquerade, because he knew what people would think.”

  “Queen Ananda’s servants swore you and he were not lovers,” Plir said unexpectedly. “But he could have forced them to say that before he pensioned them off.” She turned away. “I have to think.”

  Atanial backed up a step or two. “I said I’d be going. I’ll be gathering at Ivory Mountain,” she added deliberately and walked away, her heart thumping hard.

  The stars were just emerging, weak glimmers overhead. It was close timing, but she heard no sound of hoof beats on the still air.

  She mistook four trees for her willow and had to backtrack to the road before she found the right one. Freezing into place under its sheltering curtain, she watched the riders amble into view, each carrying a bobbing lantern.

  Their noise smothered the quiet, steady munch of the horse. Atanial leaned against the animal’s neck, arms pressed across her front. She knew she was going to face that same conversation every time she tried to build her protest march.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t after all, if some angry woman reported her.

  No self-pity. She would simply go until she either had her peace marchers a la the sixties, or she was caught. At least, she thought, trying for humor, if Canardan catches me again I’ll get another soak in that wonderful tub.

  She
’d just mounted up when a furtive step caused her to whirl around.

  “It’s me. Lark. Ma sent me. I’ll show you who’s important. She’s going to stay here and spread the word.”

  Atanial’s eyelids burned with grateful tears. She wiped her eyes, then helped Lark up onto the horse’s back. She mounted, and they vanished into the night, Lark pointing the way.

  o0o

  Mindful of his promise, Jehan agreed to attend a ball that evening, freeing up his father for his private interview with Randart.

  Attending a ball was not exactly torture. In fact, one of the duchesses had brought a daughter, newly arrived home from Colend, who was bright, beautiful, witty, and fun to dance with.

  A year ago he would have lingered and found a way to visit her again. But now he discovered there was just no spark. Her trenchant observations on the shortcomings of last season’s plays in Colend made him want to take Sasha to Alsais to see how she liked Colendi theater. Though the duchess’s daughter employed all her arts to attract, Jehan did not really notice her tiny waist, or her exquisite sense of style in gown and hair. The image that compelled him most came from memory, a tall woman with a swinging stride and hawk’s beak nose, her braids dancing around her shoulders, her grin rakish and not the least coy.

  After two or three dances, the duchess’s daughter sensed his indifference to her arts of attraction. Her laughter gradually lilted less and became a lot more wry. At the end of a long night of waltzing and scintillating talk on the subject of art, he gracefully saluted her hand, expressing a friendly wish they would meet again to continue their conversation.

  Presently she left with her mother, saying, “Conversation is all he means. I think there’s someone else.”

  “Nonsense.” The duchess snorted. “He’s notoriously cloud-brained. You’ll have to work harder to catch his attention.”

  The daughter did not argue. She never did. But mentally she resolved to return to Colend, and when she came back again to Khanerenth she would be married. Next time he saw her, this Prince Jehan—who wasn’t cloud-brained, by the way—would probably want to introduce his wife.

  As for Jehan, he was glad to drop wearily into bed at last. Too tired to plan much beyond avoiding Randart the next day, he slid into slumber in the last watch before dawn.

  And woke with Kazdi at his bedside, holding a tray of aromatic coffee. “Randart rode out after the sun came up.”

  Jehan sipped, burned his lips and tongue, and sighed. “Any idea where?”

  “Bar Larsca Valley. The guards were joking about the siege site, and how Randart can’t seem to stay away from the game.”

  Jehan frowned. “Riding off the morning after arriving? There has to be something else.”

  Kazdi shrugged. He never even tried to understand Randart, much less out-think him. That was the prince’s job. His job was to try to deflect Chas and other spies.

  “He’s suspicious.”

  “Of us?” Kazdi’s voice cracked on the word us, but Jehan didn’t smile, and Kazdi was too anxious to blush.

  “I don’t know,” Jehan said finally. “Let’s accept that as a given and go from there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The rest of the academy and the guards finally joined Damedran and the academy cadets at Cheslan Castle.

  By then the senior cadets had a camp set up at the site the baron had designated with planted flags, a stretch of land recently harvested. In the fields beyond the campsite, the work of harvest went on as the newly arrived cadets finished helping set up the permanent camp.

  Damedran, as senior cadet, accompanied his father to the castle for the first meeting with the baron. It was a meeting of surpassing tedium, but Damedran didn’t care, at first, his mood was a happy blend of anticipation and triumph. After weeks and weeks of stony looks and avoidance, Lesi Valleg had finally spoken to him. It was short and gruff—about watch assignments—but that was far better than being scowled at.

  As the baron and Orthan Randart settled what the army could and could not do with the castle, outbuildings and grounds, Damedran thought about Lesi.

  He loved war games, he loved commanding and, well, some said Lesi had ears like open clam shells and buckteeth, but he’d liked her ever since they were little. She was tough, smart, and no one in the entire academy shot better than she did.

  She was also the leader of the cadets who didn’t like him, Damedran knew. When he was younger, that was the perfect excuse for scrapping whenever there was an opportunity. But this year thrashing them had gotten less fun, somehow. He much preferred things when the seniors were all together as a unit. With him at the top, of course.

  It was especially clear after this boring ride that having the senior class divided was no good. When half weren’t talking to the other half, opportunities for some great practical jokes and some well-earned and entirely fair swank in front of the younger brats went right by.

  What was it the sheep had said? Prince Jehan, he reminded himself. They’d have to be unified if Norsunder attacked. And, much as he’d love to believe how tough they were, he and his gang, the midsummer games had sure proved that wrong.

  Reminded of that mysterious nine-year-old boy, Damedran shrugged inwardly. Rumors had been flying around since the games disaster, most insisting that boy was really the son of the hated Siamis of Norsunder, who had commanded two wars in the previous decade. Either his son or the son of the far worse villain, Detlev, about whom the stories were amazing and chilling.

  But Damedran scoffed at such gassing. Even if those enigmatic villains, who commanded vast armies and had their eyes set on world conquering, had children, wouldn’t those children be busy in some hidden lair learning whatever it was you learned for world conquering, and not wandering around shooting in stupid contests like the yearly games in Khanerenth?

  That much he said out loud when the others brought up the games and rumors. But alone at night, thinking and, well, go ahead and admit it. Worrying. He couldn’t help wonder about what Wolfie had said after that fight. And that amazing training.

  “All right then, that covers it, Orthan. We’re done. I look forward to watching, heh heh.”

  “I hope we’ll show you something worth seeing.”

  The men stood, breaking Damedran’s reverie. He was glad to be interrupted.

  Orthan Randart started out, pleased with his son’s quiet, even agreeable demeanor, unlike his accustomed slouch and scowl. Not realizing that Damedran had not heard a single word spoken, Orthan rubbed his hands as they descended the main stairway and clattered through the old hall to the front gate, their heels ringing loudly, their mail and gear jingling. On either side of them, servants were busy taking down and rolling tapestries, or carrying off heavy, carved chairs with gold inlay, the style of three generations previous. Windows were being removed, leaving the castle a bare shell, suitable for a satisfactory siege game.

  “It’s good to deal with one who understands the military,” Orthan said. “Here’s the boundaries, here’s the rules, point, point, point, and we’re done. Civs, they argue about every piece of porcelain, every bush, yowling, ‘But what if?’ until your head aches, and then they’ve got their hands out. The king’s purse might be deep, but it’s not a bottomless pit. As they ought to be the first to know, they argue so much about taxes. Heh. Looks like we’ve got everyone in at last.”

  They had passed through the courtyard to see dust hanging in the air above the meadow where they had set up camp. The swarms of youth in brown had been obscured entirely by strings of horses, wagons, and a mass of warriors moving about with various duties, a few casting glances skyward at the gathering clouds. The smell of horse and human, of cooking food, hit them with a similar sense of sharp anticipation.

  As they got closer, the mass became identifiable as discrete patrols, each with a task. Most talked, laughed, and joked with the geniality that father and son associated with the commencement of a massive war game, the prospect of fun not only for a day or a week,
but for an extended period.

  Orthan veered to search for the newly arrived captains. Damedran lagged, hoping to slip away to his own crowd to find out how much was finished, and what practical jokes might be possible.

  Then a bugle’s exciting challenge ripped the air from a distance: the king’s signal, but blown once.

  “It’s the war commander. Riding at the gallop!”

  Heads turned, voices sharpened, and that enormous crowd of people—everyone at different chores—parted like the waters of a great river. Down the cleared, trampled grass rode Randart at the head of an honor guard of six.

  Damedran’s first reaction was the old excitement. That’s what command did for you, it parted the way better than magic ever could.

  Orthan laughed at his son’s avid expression. “Dannath does so love scattering us like chickens in a fowl yard. Always has.”

  Damedran looked up skeptically. “Uncle Dannath? He doesn’t love anything. Except work.”

  Orthan shook his head, watching the riders rein to a halt. They were immediately surrounded by officers, to fade back again when Randart waved a gloved hand, obviously giving some order, after which he disappeared into the command tent, two of his guard taking up position at the flap. “He loves power,” Orthan murmured.

  Damedran grinned. “And we don’t?”

  Orthan grinned back. “I like my power circumscribed. I wouldn’t take a crown if it fell in the dust at my feet. Too much work. Think about it. I was upstairs watching my old cadet friend, Trevan Hazhan, now the Baron Cheslan. He was with Dannath and me and the king in the academy. The king handed out titles as he’d promised. We got ours. But are we ever at our castle?”

  Damedran’s lips parted. It was true. He was technically heir to a barony now, but that title had never seemed real. He’d only been in the castle for a few brief visits since he was eight, and old enough for the academy. Wolfie’s mother helped Damedran’s mother govern it, and Damedran had gradually grown accustomed to the idea that Wolfie would inherit. Because he was going to have a much higher rank.