"We should go," she said abruptly, as Niall took her into his chamber. Protocol required they keep separate apartments, and so they did—even had they wed, it would have been the same—but more often they spent the nights in his. "We should go to visit Liam before we are old and gray."
Niall bent to greet the black-masked silver wolf who got up from his place in the huge draperied tester bed to lean against one thigh-booted, royal leg. Their brief communion was intensely private, intensely singular, but Deirdre was used to it. No one came between a warrior and his lir, not even the woman he loved.
Serri, his greeting complete, went back to the bed.
Niall smiled, brushed back a lock of hair from his brow and looked at Deirdre in amusement. "The gray begins already, meijha—perhaps we should leave for Erinn tomorrow."
"Ah, ye skilfin, you're no more gray than I am!" But she put a hand to her heavy braid as if to reassure herself she bore no tainted strands. " 'Tis serious I am, Niall—how many times must Liam invite us? And I his own sister?"
"And still a princess of Erinn." Niall stopped abruptly as he shut the heavy door behind her. "Ah, Deirdre, will you forgive me for that? You deserve to be a queen."
Astonished, she stared up at him. One slim hand was locked in his plain brown doublet. "Niall . . ." Slowly she shook her head. "Ah, no—d'ye think 'tis what I want? No, no, my love—'tis nothing to me, I swear, this thing of titles." Her mouth flattened, then twisted scornfully. "Queen of Homana, indeed. Well, I say let Gisella keep it—'tis all she has. I have you."
"Not so much, I think," he said mildly, but bent his head to kiss her.
A knock at the door intruded. "My lord? My lord Mujhar? Taggart, my lord ... are you there?"
Niall sighed. "A moment," he promised her, and went to open the door. "Aye, Taggart, I am. What is it?"
Taggart was a slim, wiry man of fifty, clad in Homanan colors: black tunic with a red rampant lion stitched over his left breast. His trews were also black, with a gilt-buckled red leather belt cinching his waist. Graying hair was trimmed neatly against his head. He bowed briefly.
"My lord—it is the princes."
Niall looked past the man to the empty corridor- "Oh? Where?"
Taggart was clearly uncomfortable. "My lord—not here. That is why I am here." He paused. "Because they are not."
The Mujhar's tawny brows rose a trifle. "Taggart, what are you trying to tell me? And make haste—my bath is getting cold."
Taggart bowed again, eloquent apology. "My lord, I—well—" He paused. "They are missing."
"Missing?" Niall smiled indulgently. "For the moment, perhaps, but I am sure they are here somewhere. You might try the stables; Brennan has a new stallion. Or the guardroom, if Hart has coin enough left for a fortune-game." He shrugged negligently, patently unconcerned by the temporary disappearance of his three sons. "And only the gods know what Corin may have suggested as an afternoon's diversion."
"Or Keely," Deirdre added dryly.
"My lord, no," Taggart said plainly. "I have looked in all those places. They are not here. They are not in Homana-Mujhar."
Deirdre came up to Niall's left side, where he could see her clearly; it was a habit she encouraged in everyone so he would not be embarrassed unduly or caught off-guard. "They knew about the banquet," she said, though it sounded more question than statement. "I know they did; Brennan remarked on it. He said he did not think much of Einar, or Einar's cousin, Reynald." She nodded, frowning a little. " 'Tis what he said, did Brennan—about the Caledonese princes."
Niall heaved a weary sigh of distracted annoyance and scratched at the scars in his right cheek. "Well, if Brennan remarked on it, then it took Hart to persuade him to leave so soon before a banquet. And Hart, likely, was talked into it by Corin. Oh, gods—" he cast a long-suffered glance at the ceiling, "—when you saw fit to bless me with three sons, you might have given me proper ones. Ones who know how to respect their jehan's wishes."
He shook his head. "How is it I have raised three rebels? I was never particularly rebellious, myself."
Deirdre laughed. "Were you not, my lord? But I think you must have been, because I'm seeing you in all of them. Though more, I'll own, in Brennan than in the others."
"He is the first-born," Niall said absently. "And he knows he will be Mujhar after me; it makes a difference."
"Keely probably knows where they are," Deirdre suggested, somewhat pointedly.
Niall cast her a disgusted glance. "For all we know, Keely might have encouraged their defection. She is as bad as any of them. There are times I think she is more a warrior than even myself."
"Shall I ask her, my lord?" Taggart inquired.
Niall waved the suggestion away. "No, no—Keely would never say. If Corin is involved, she'll say nothing simply to protect him, even if she had nothing to do with it. Even, I think, if I asked her," He shook his head, frowning again. "Brennan knows better. Hart and Corin may not, but he does."
"Aye," Deirdre said gently, "but he protects Hart and Corin now just as he did when they were children. D'ye think he'd be stopping simply because they're grown?"
"Are they?" Niall's tone was sour. He did not wait for her answer, but turned to Taggart. "You may go. I attach no blame to you. It is not your fault if the Mujhar cannot control his own unruly sons."
Taggart, smiling, bowed and took his leave. Niall shut the door and turned back to face Deirdre once more.
"Well, then, what is there to do? There will be three empty chairs where there are supposed to be princes, and Einar will undoubtedly consider it a snub."
"Oh, Einar!" Deirdre's tone clearly signified her opinion of the Caledonese heir. "I'll set Maeve next to him, and he'll not be noticing absent princes. And I'll put Keely on the other side." Her widening smile was suspiciously devious. "Caught between those two, he'll not be knowing what has become of him."
"Oh, gods," Niall begged, "save me from a woman who dearly loves intrigue." And then, abruptly, he began to smile. "Einar will never recover."
"No," Deirdre agreed contentedly. " Tis why I'll be doing it."
"Still—" Niall moved past her to the nearest chair and dropped into it, propping his booted feet up on a table that bore a decanter of wine and two goblets, "—they might have picked a better night to play truant. I do want that trade alliance. And I did want Brennan to handle as much of the negotiation as he could. He needs the practice."
"Brennan knows enough of negotiations." Deirdre poured him wine, passed him the goblet. "He is a mature, responsible man, Niall, not a boy. Save your disgust for Conn's bad tempers, or Hart's gambling debts, or Keely's waywardness—but give none of it to Brennan. He's not deserving of it."
"Come here." He sipped from his goblet as she came to perch on the arm of his wooden chair. "Tell me what you are deserving of."
"Your love," she answered promptly. "Am I not generous with mine? And I have given you a lovely daughter."
"Maeve is lovely," Niall agreed immediately, paternal pride rearing its head, "And sweet-tempered, and soft-spoken, and eager to please ... all the things Keely most decidedly is not."
"And do you love her the less for it?"
Niall, smiling, shook his head. "She is a proud, strong woman, Cheysuli to the bone. . . ." He grinned at Deirdre, slipping into the Erinnish lilt. "And I'd be wanting her no other way."
"And the boys?" Deirdre's green eyes, across the rim of her silver goblet, were demurely downcast, but Niall knew her far too well.
"Aye, and I know what you are trying to tell me, meijha—that I should want them no different, either. Mostly, I do not. But there are times. . . ."
"Times," she said. "Like now? The bathwater, I'm sure, is cold, and yet you sit here and drink your wine. You are no better than your sons, my lord Mujhar."
"But you see, I am Mujhar. The banquet must wait for me." His fingers were in the lacings of her gown. "The banquet must wait for us both."
Deirdre smothered a giggle. She was, she thought, to
o old for giggles now. "And your sons?" she asked. "What about your sons?"
"At this particular moment, I am less concerned with my sons than with the knots you have tied in your laces. Have you taken up celibacy?"
The giggle broke free of her throat. "No. Very definitely, no." She reached down, took his belt-knife from its sheath, presented it to him hilt-first. "My lord Mujhar, must I be plainer still?"
Niall, smiling, accepted the knife and deftly cut the first lace. "The banquet," he said calmly, "will be indefinitely delayed."
Deirdre sat very still. "To make certain your sons will be present, of course."
"Of course," he agreed equably, and cut the second knot.
Two
The tavern was one of Mujhara's finest. It lay in High Street, where business catered to the aristocracy of Homana: where boys with brooms swept the cobbles six times a day and poured water on the puddles of urine left by horses, sweeping again, so customers did not have to concern themselves with the condition of their boots.
The Rampant Lion was clean, well-lighted, well-run, and enjoyed an excellent reputation, faring well even among stiff competition.
Rhiannon had not expected to get the job as wine-girl at The Lion. But she had paid six copper pennies for a bath two days before she applied, pinned up her hair in the way she had seen ladies do, and put on the cleanest dress she owned. Carefully, she had told the tavern-keeper in her best accent that she was of good family, but lacked means; was there a place for a young woman who needed to earn a living in a respectable establishment?
She was delighted when her looks and well-practiced refinement won her the position, and she worked very hard to keep it. She was born of poor people; she had thought to spend her years in poverty and whoredom. But the gods had blessed her with cream-fair skin, thick black hair and wide black eyes, and a form that would win any man's regard.
It did not fail her now. She passed easily among the tables, serving the fine wines The Rampant Lion specialized in. The Falian white, considered by many to be the finest vintage available, sold best. But the sweet Caledonese red and the rich, dark vintage of Ellas did nearly as well. The ales and lagers found fewer throats; Homanan nobles had a taste for wine, rarely imbibing lesser brews, and almost never the common liquors, such as usca. It was considered too harsh among the nobles, who boasted more refined tastes.
Nonetheless, it was usca Rhiannon was instructed to bring to a rectangular table of polished hardwood near the wide-boiled trunk of the roof-tree in the middle of the common room. She set the 'stoneware jug in the precise center of the table, put down the pottery cups without the crude clacking sound heard in most taverns, where the wine-girls knew no better, and watched as the three young men poured-the blue-glazed cups quite full.
It was obvious, from the way they drank it down, usca was no stranger to their throats.
She curtsied as gracefully as she knew how, hoping for a generous tip. They could afford it, she knew; she had an eye for wealth. These three young lords dressed less ostentatiously than many others in the common room, clothed in subdued if rich velvet and soft-worked leather, but there was gold around their necks as well as in their ears. At least, in one ear. On them all, only the left bore ornamentation,
They were all fine looking men, she thought; the gods had blessed them with good bones and fine, clean lines in their handsome faces, accentuated by strong, straight noses and well-defined mouths. All men, she thought, if young still, lacking the hardening that years and experience would bring them- Rhiannon's taste ran to men, not pretty boys; these three were aesthetically satisfying as well as highborn, and more than comfortable in the belt-purse.
One, however, was clearly Cheysuli. Though he was the first shapechanger Rhiannon had ever seen, she knew.
She had heard stories about them; how they slept with animals instead of women and so could shift their shapes, not being wholly human. A man could tell them by their color and their gold; Cheysuli were uniformly black-haired, dark-skinned, and their eyes, as his, were always a clear, uncanny yellow.
But where was his animal?
Rhiannon looked carefully, searching discreetly for the beast that was his other self. But the only thing visible beneath the table were their legs. Six of them, altogether, all knee-booted and thigh-muscled under taut, soft leather breeches of excellent cut and quality. '
She glanced up, frowning, and saw his eyes on her.
Rhiannon sucked in a startled breath. Yellow was not enough, she decided; not nearly enough to describe Cheysuli eyes. They were yellow, aye, and odd enough in that, but there was something about them that made her back away a step, clutching her linen apron.
He looked at her, and she froze, unable to take a step.
"Aye?" he asked, when she continued staring.
A human voice. No growl. No bark. No whine.
Transfixed, Rhiannon did not answer.
"Aye?" he asked again, and the slanted black brows drew down.
He was, she thought, a demon, all black and bronze and yellow.
"Are you a lackwit, Brennan?" one of the others asked.
"She works for more than kind words and copper pennies." Almost absently, he rattled dice and rune-sticks in a wooden casket. A heavy sapphire signet ring glistened on one long finger. He had the hands of an artist, she thought; the hands of a musician.
"Of course." The shapechanger reached into his belt-purse and took out a silver piece. Without looking, he offered Rhiannon the coin.
When she did not take it, he looked at her again, turning away from the sticks and dice the other threw. The silver was quite bright against the dark flesh of his fingers.
"I think," drawled the man with the casket, "she has only just seen her first Cheysuli." He grinned and looked up at her. "Let alone three at once,"
Three? Rhiannon looked at him quickly. He was black-haired, aye, and his skin was as sun-bronzed as the shapechanger's, but his eyes were decidedly blue. Very blue; the sort of blue that put her in mind of spring, and the richness of the sky. They made her think of love, his eyes; so did the smile he smiled.
Disconcerted, she looked away from him as well. To the third, where she knew herself safe at last. He was all Homanan, obviously, with tawny blond hair and dark blue eyes; his skin was Homanan fair. And when he looked at her it was not to frown as the shapechanger did, or to smile an invitation as the second one did; no, none of those things. When he looked at her it was to look at her, to find out what she wanted.
Well, what did she want?
Rhiannon put up her chin. "Aye," she agreed plainly. "I've not seen a shapechanger before."
"Cheysuli," The shapechanger put the coin on the table, where it glinted against polished wood. "Not 'shapechanger,' meijhana . . unless you mean to insult us."
There it was again us. She frowned, flicked a glance at the blue-eyed man with the fortune-game, looked quickly away as his smiled slowly widened. And the fair-haired man merely laughed.
"So much for believing the Homanans trust us," he said. "Well, Brennan, how does it feel to have a woman afraid of you, instead of trying to keep your favor for more than a single night?"
"Cruel, cruel, Corin," the man with the casket drawled, and yet his smile belied the words. "You will have me thinking you are jealous of your oldest rujholli.'"
Rhiannon thought the fair-haired man—Corin, the other had called him—was her age, which made him all of twenty. The other two, she was certain, were older yet, by at least a year. The shapechanger looked at her. "Are you afraid of me?"
Rhiannon swallowed. "Aye."
Somehow, she had hurt him. She saw it quite clearly, and instantly. There was little change in his expression, but the eyes were eloquent. Such an eloquent, eerie yellow,
"Well," he said, after a moment's thoughtful silence, "perhaps you would do well to serve the other tables, and send some other girl to us."
Oh, gods, if that were to happen, she would lose her place for certain! "No," she said quick
ly. "No, I—I'll serve you." She nodded in the direction of the jug. "You have your usca now. You won't be needing more."
"Will we not?" Tawny Corin smiled and lifted his pottery cup. "You judge us too quickly, meijhana."
There it was again, the strange, foreign word. Shapechanger? Rhiannon thought it likely. No doubt when they were together, they spoke in growls and barks.
"Brennan frightens the girl, and now Corin flirts with her." The third young noble laughed. "What is left over for me?"
Yellow-eyed Brennan looked up at Rhiannon. "Do you wager?" he asked calmly, without the trace of a smile. And yet she saw one clearly in his eyes; it was meant for the man with the fortune-game. "Say aye, and you will make Hart's evening complete."
"No, no," the other—Hart—demurred. "You leave out what comes after, when a lady is involved."
That Rhiannon understood plainly enough. Shapechangers they might be, but obviously it was not true they only lay with beasts. She knew desire when she saw it, as well as the prelude to it.
"No, I don't wager," she told them curtly. "Not even with silver pennies." And she went away, leaving the coin upon the table.
As one, they looked at the spurned gratuity. In the light from hanging lanterns, the silver royal gleamed.
"Well," said the one called Hart, "I wonder if she would come back for it if she knew what it was worth. Silver penny indeed!"
As he made as if to pick it up, Brennan hid it beneath one palm. "Wager with your own coin," he said grimly. "Or have you none left?"
"None left," Hart said cheerfully. "A run of bad fortune." As if on cue, one of the rune-sticks rolled.
Corin's snort was eloquently condescending. "Only bad fortune because I was the better man when you tried to beat me this afternoon." He picked up the stick and dropped it back into the casket. "Which means Brennan and I must pay for the usca."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 2
