by Emerson, Ru
“Most Lasanachi are fair haired but they don’t travel with family, certainly not with babes.”
“So. All right. But—it could be anyone’s babe, couldn’t it?”
Sil shook her head this time. “But why? Why have a child aboard a Lasanachi ship at all? Vuhlem hasn’t sons, and his daughters are too young to wed or make him grandsons. There’s no honest reason for a lad that young to be brought to Vuhlem’s palace by sea, and carried in secretly—those Lasanachi ships were certainly docked well before sundown, so a babe arriving honestly would have been carried inside at once. This child was smuggled into the palace at the dead hour.”
“You’re right about the ships,” Ryselle put in. She still sounded angry; her words were clipped. “The tide was wrong for landing in a north harbor past midday.”
“So the boy—well, it looked furtive to me, and I think you’re right, Lialla. Vuhlem has no reason to kidnap any other child and smuggle him into the palace. Especially if he has Dro Pent—the heir would make a perfect guarantee that Wudron wouldn’t run to the Emperor crying invasion and foul.”
Ryselle swallowed. “Perhaps not. The Duke did take children once, that I know of; the village just inland from us. Took all the eldest boys and held them in his dungeons under the palace, until the village paid the taxes.”
Sil waved a dismissive hand. “He does that so often, though. There’d be gossip if it were merely a Holmaddi child and taxes. But again, why would he ever slip a single, bundled local child into the castle by stealth, and by night? I remember some years ago, one of the villages just down the coast toward Cornekka: He had the boys bound and marched right through the streets of the city and out to the palace. So everyone would know it wasn’t wise to withhold coin from the Duke.”
“Mmmm.” Lialla was quietly busy with her pattern; Sil glanced at her rapidly moving fingers, looked hastily away. Ryselle tugged at her skirts.
“You look cold and exhausted. Sit, I’ll fix you tea.”
“That sounds good.” Sil eased her way down, kept her back against the warm stones, watched Ryselle build the fire back up, and edge the water pot into the hot coals. “You washed up,” she said, and shook a finger as Ryselle glanced at her. “That was supposed to be my task tonight.”
“I was worried,” Ryselle mumbled; she fixed her eyes on the little square of cloth, began powdering several different kinds of leaves onto it. Her lashes were damp. “It gave me something to do.”
“No, it’s Wudron’s heir,” Lialla said finally. “Has to be. Remember what Jen said in her last message, Vuhlem had Wudron’s lady? Maybe she wasn’t a proper hostage. Vuhlem wouldn’t think a mere wife worth bothering with, after all, even if Wudron might think so. But a son, an heir—especially since he hasn’t any himself. You couldn’t make out anything else, Sil?”
Sil shrugged. “Not enough light. Just—small, maybe four years, pale hair and skin, and he was whimpering. That could have been fear or simply the hour, but the man carrying him wasn’t being kindly.”
“Lasanachi wouldn’t know what the word meant,” Lialla said. “No sign of—of Vuhlem’s Triad?”
“Nothing I could see. But I wasn’t there long, and I probably could’ve tripped over them and not known any better.”
“Maybe,” Lialla replied. “I wish I knew where it is, and what it’s up to. Under, up.” She muttered to herself for a moment, manipulated string between her thumbs and index fingers. Kepron sat cross-legged, his mouth a little open as he watched what she did, his own string limp across his knees. “We’d better send word south to Sikkre as soon as we can. Remind me to ask Jen if she’s heard anything about that Triad. But she’ll know what to do about the boy—the Thukara will, I mean.”
Sil laughed. “I know she’s Thukara. Told me to call her Jen, too—and that even after I risked my neck to tell her you’d come bach north. The old Thukar would have murdered the messenger; I’d never have made it back here.”
Lialla grinned. “If it had been old Dahmec, why would I have sent you there? Ah, hah!” she added triumphantly, and held out her hands. “Seventeenth pattern!”
Kepron groaned. “Seventeenth? Gods of the chill deeps, how many are there?”
“Lots,” Lialla replied promptly. She looked at his face and laughed. “I’m not going to insist you get that far: Most Wielders don’t make it beyond ten; it isn’t really necessary for Wielding, anyway. I just—I like doing them.”
“Then why—?”
“Why you?” Lialla finished for him. “Because it’s an excellent way to clear your mind so you can work Thread, and it’s good discipline, which most novice Wielders need anyway. In my case, my mentor set me to them, and I found I liked the puzzles, better than she ever did. Sil—who’s coming in, when—what clan, I mean? We need to get a message sent south, soon as possible.”
Sil sipped tea, considered this. “Blue Heron, I think—a day or so, small group. Silver Star, for sure. I have a suggestion, though,” she added. “Since Vuhlem’s man got a fairly good look at me in the light of his wretched lantern, and just to keep Ducal questions at bay.” She glanced at Kepron, grinned. “How’d you like to get outside tomorrow? Walk the market with your caravaner wife?”
He stared at her, finally shook his head. “I can’t go out there, you know I can’t!”
“I think,” Sil put in mildly, “that if you’re clad as a caravaner, and with a caravaner, no one will look too closely at you. I’m supposed to have gone desperately in search of a beaded scarf my jealous husband gave me; I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea for said husband to take a short walk with me in the morning. We all know you can glower convincingly,” she added, and grinned as Kepron glared at her.
“You think that’s necessary?” Ryselle was watching her, nibbling an already-too-short thumbnail.
Sil shrugged. “Probably no more necessary than Vuhlem’s ride through the streets today. What did you call it, Lialla? Window dressing? Probably that guard’s already forgotten about me. Just in case, though. It can’t hurt, can it?”
Lialla considered this as she wadded up her red string and shoved it into her pocket. “I guess not. You’d better find a scarf to cover his hair, though.”
“Of course. Plenty of things down in storage; there’s always a few bundles of spare clothing around.” She set down her cup, got back to her feet. “I’d probably better go search out a Gray Fisher’s scarf—maybe the rest of the kit. Do it now—unless you don’t mind a damp and musty shirt?” she asked.
Kepron wrinkled his nose, folded his red string, and said, “Wait. I’ll get a lantern and help you.”
Lialla was quiet until the two had crossed the long room and gone down the steps to the stable area; she then slewed around to look at Ryselle. “I think he’s growing manners—are you all right?” she added sharply.
Ryselle blotted her eyes carefully on the edge of her scarf and nodded. “Of course,” she said. Her voice was tight and trembly. “I just—” She broke off, shook her head angrily.
Lialla touched her shoulder. “I know. She scared me, too.”
“If Vuhlem had—” Ryselle blotted her eyes again, this time against her sleeve.
“Shhh. I know. As Sil herself would say, he didn’t.”
“Mmmm.”
“Here, is there any tea left? No, not for me, drink a little yourself,” Lialla urged. “I can hear them coming back already.”
“Thanks,” Ryselle mumbled. She turned toward the fire, lowered her face to the steaming mug and let her eyes close briefly. How many days have I known her? I’ve never had such—such a friend. She’s caravaner, of course, and so she’s like all the young caravaner women that men like my father don’t want us to know: competent, strong. They’re all like that, and yet, Sil is—She swallowed tea. Better not to even complete such a blasphemous thought; not even to herself.
It was quiet and dark in Duke’s Fort; down in the kitchens, an apprentice fed the fire, and outside, men and horses stood in the foggy courtya
rd, ready to ride out on border patrol as soon as the second company came in.
Robyn and Aletto had the Ducal apartments to themselves for the moment; Frisa had persuaded Iana and Amarni to share her room for the evening. The old nursery stood vacant and cold; Robyn was already deep in plans to turn it into part of the Duke’s apartments, to give Frisa and the children the spacious and sunny rooms Jennifer and Dahven had used that first summer.
Aletto lay flat on his stomach once more, while Robyn rubbed ointment into his back and shoulders. “That all right?” she asked softly.
“Good,” he said. “I don’t feel anywhere near as stiff.”
She worked her fingers down his right arm, back to the shoulder. “Have to get you out and walking tomorrow.”
Aletto laughed briefly. “Sounds awful, at the moment. No, I know you’re right. I do feel better, most times, when we walk. But I can hardly believe it’s been that long—”
“Let the guards and the servants see you,” she said, and lightly slapped his shoulders. “They’ve been pretty worried. There. Want me to work your leg muscles?”
“Not right now.” He maneuvered rather awkwardly onto his elbows, rolled over, and fell flat on the pillow. “Sit, talk to me some more.” His fingers found hers.
“I’m sticky—”
“I don’t care. I just—I thought you were gone forever, all those awful things I said. Then to find out you hadn’t left me—on purpose—”
“I know.” She gripped his fingers. “I’m just sorry you had such a scare. But I wouldn’t leave you, and I’d never take your—our children and desert you. Ever. You should know that.”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“I know you weren’t,” Robyn broke in tartly. She kissed his fingers. “Hey, if I haven’t split by now, I never will, okay?” He nodded, kissed her fingers in turn; his nose wrinkled. “I warned you my hand was camphor-flavored from that muscle goo the healer left me. Besides, if your mother hasn’t driven me away by now, with all her hysterical fits, that isn’t gonna happen, either. Though I’m about ready to flatten her, I swear. She could have told you about your father, before this!”
Aletto sighed, scrubbed his lips on the covers. “No, she couldn’t. She doesn’t think that way—and I probably would never have accepted it before—before you.”
“I suppose,” Robyn said dubiously. “Anyway, now we know. So—no big deal, right? We deal with it, that’s all.”
“I’ve probably ruined Amarni for life. And Iana; thinking she doesn’t count, that only the heir—”
“Shhh. Don’t remind me. Aletto, your kids love you. Time’ll come, you can say something to both of them about it, you know. I mean, you were upset and surprised and said something dumb; people do. But you can explain things to kids.”
He sighed faintly. “You make it sound easy.”
“No. It isn’t. But kids tend to trust their parents; I know you can’t push that too far, but still, a good father like you can explain things and they understand you meant well, even if you did screw up. These two kids will.” Aletto shook his head. “C’mon. Raising kids isn’t ever easy. Especially if you want to do it right, like we’re trying to do.”
“And not like my mother did,” Aletto said. He sighed, very faintly. Smiled at her. “You helped me see that. She has reasons for being the way she is; Jadek—hurt her, I couldn’t understand it until I had you, Birdy. But even before Father died, I could never talk to her, not really tell her anything.”
Robyn hesitated. Go with care. “She tried. I think she truly did. She loves you and Lialla. But she’s just not—she doesn’t understand how kids think, what’s important to them.”
“Or grown children, either,” Aletto replied gloomily.
“Mmmm?”
“Headache,” he reminded her. “She has one, won’t come see me.”
“Oh. Right. Well, if you want my opinion, she’s embarrassed, doesn’t know what to say to you, after telling you your dad could shift; and by the way, here’s some drugged wine to take the pain away. So she’s putting off having to deal with the whole mess. That’s typical Lizelle. But I’d be pretty embarrassed, myself: even though she didn’t know what that bottle of stuff would do to you, she knew better than to give you booze.”
“She kept telling me I could handle it—”
“I know. I pried all the messy details out of her, after I got back with the kids—didn’t I tell you? I tried explaining how it’s like her damned Zero, you start and you can’t stop, but I didn’t get through.”
“She doesn’t realize about the Zero, that it’s got her,” Aletto said. He sighed. “If she won’t come here, I should be able to walk down to her rooms tomorrow.”
“Good idea. If you can’t walk that far alone, I’ll hold you up most of the way, let you go see her alone. She’ll think you really are pissed off, otherwise.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” Robyn frowned. “You know—that Vuhlem booze. For Shesseran’s birthday. How much was there?”
“Don’t know—wait.” He was quiet for a moment or so. “She said a basket came, a bottle for her and one for me—”
“For you, or one for us, like you and me?”
“Don’t know. Why?”
Robyn shrugged. “I just wondered. We located the bottle she kept back, it was just about empty. I just—” She shrugged again. “Remind me, will you? Ask her about that tomorrow.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, right. We got a wire earlier today from Cornekka; Jubelo’s captain is pretty certain he can locate the twins’ family and get them free; we may be able to let your mother have her girls back again.”
“Only pretty certain?”
“Cornekka’s a big Duchy, remember?”
Aletto shifted his weight cautiously; sighed as Robyn tugged his pillow straight. “And as easy to comb as Zelharri—I know. That might help a lot. Give Mother the comfort of her girls, give her a chance to get herself together. We’d better not say anything to her until we’re certain, though.”
“Of course not.” Robyn slid off the bed. “I’m going to have the fire banked for the night and get them to bring a jug of mulled cider, that sound good to you?”
“It sounds wonderful.” Aletto watched her cross the room to the bell rope. “Birdy?”
She turned to look at him. “What?”
“I’m—I—”
She smiled and blew him a kiss, Iana-style, using her whole arm. “Yeah, babe. Me, too.”
Down the hall, the par-Duchess’s fire had been banked hours earlier, and the woman who had tended her rooms since the twins left tiptoed over to the elaborately curtained bed to turn down the lamp. The par-Duchess had apparently taken headache powders hours earlier and, still fully clad, slept heavily. The woman listened for a moment; her brow furrowed. The par-Duchess must be catching cold, the way she breathed. Well, sleep would surely help with that, as well as the headache. It wouldn’t be wise to bother her simply for the change of clothing, either; Lizelle’s tempers were renowned, particularly over a small matter like that.
The woman left the lamp burning very low, then went in search of her own bed.
The room was quiet, except for the occasional crackle of a dying fire, and Lizelle’s harsh, labored breathing.
7
Chris woke disoriented and aching in a dozen or more places; his face hurt. For a long moment, he stayed flat and very, very still, unable to remember why it seemed desperately important he not move, where he was, why he ached so—why the bedding under his cheek was silky against scratchy beard, why it smelled very faintly of Ariadne. Her bed. Oh, God. We fell onto it late last night, clothes and all. In—ah, jeez, in Dupret’s house, in French Jamaica. Wonderful. Can anything else go wrong? He couldn’t recall anything else at the moment, nothing of Ari’s rooms except forcing his swollen feet from miserably snug boots and letting the nasty, salt-ruined chunks of hardened leather drop to the floor. The gut-wrenching fear—Dupret. “Oh, man?” he muttered. His face w
as red with sunburn; that thanks to Albione and his damned open-deck sail to French Jamaica. At least for the moment, there wasn’t a brute looming over him, waiting to knock him silly if he twitched. Sure. Then again, Maurice might be—ah, hell and damn, forget that!
“Shhh.” Ariadne spoke very quietly against his ear; her breath ruffled his hair and her fingers lay against his lips. “There was talking outside the door, just now.” He must be getting used to her utterly silent approaches; for once, he hardly jumped at all. Ariadne moved away from him; Chris clenched his jaw and tried to push himself up, but his arms didn’t want to cooperate. The counterpane slid from his shoulders.
He tried again, finally managed to ease himself up on trembling arms, then forced himself upright and swung his legs down. Did she really pull the covers over me, last night—after I passed out? Nice. Unexpected. Ariadne cast him a scowl that he couldn’t begin to interpret: Was she angry? Worried about him? Or something else—who knew what? She turned and moved on swift and utterly silent, little booted feet to the door, where she stood for a long moment with her ear against the panel. She shrugged finally and came back to join him.
“They must have gone on.” She kept her voice very low. “I can hear breathing outside, though; the door is guarded.”
“Yeah,” Chris said gloomily. “Real surprise, huh?” He gingerly dug fingers into his biceps, bit back a cry as his muscles howled in protest. He forced himself to keep on massaging gruesomely stiff arms, then looked up at her.
She was fully clad, light boots and all; he seemed to remember that she’d shed the boots and stockings almost at once the night before, once they’d been locked in, that she’d unbuttoned her shirtwaist so she could unlace the stays. Yeah. If I had an old man like Dupret, who’d tried to sell me to his fat, old buddy, and I was back locked under his roof, maybe I’d want everything covered, too. God, what a thought. Still, he himself felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t ever before, not even when the Cholani had nabbed him and pounded his feet to a jelly. At least they didn’t threaten my—right. Forget that, it won’t help anything. He tried a smile. “Hey, lady. How long did you let me sleep in?” She shook her head. “Did you sleep at all? Honestly, Ariadne, okay?”
