The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  There was another possible option, though not, in Maura’s opinion, an appealing one. Court gossip had it that Kurash, the hazar of the Seven Thousand, had boasted of his intention to ask for the princess’s hand in marriage. But Yasiha would find no love there, either; from what little Maura had observed of the man, she doubted he was capable of real affection. Yasiha might accede to his proposal if it came—as royalty, she might not have a choice in the matter—but there was no doubt as to which man she preferred.

  In any event, Maura was eager to have no further part to play in Yasiha and Borne’s relationship. When the Basilea had sent her to inquire about the Gralian herald, she’d dutifully reported back what little she’d learned from Master D’Avencote, but the prying had made her feel disloyal to both of them.

  So she was relieved when, the next time the empress summoned Maura, it was for another reason altogether. The audience took place in the opulent royal suite, its spacious rooms drenched in sunlight that illuminated the painted ceilings and the colorful mosaic floors, and Her Imperial Majesty spent nearly a quarter of an hour quizzing Maura on the subject of textiles, for which Shareen had apparently learned Melisa the tutor had a discerning eye.

  The empress then invited her to partake of a cup of darduma, an icy, lemony confection served only to honored guests. While Maura sipped at the cold drink, Shareen toyed with her string of luminous pearls, making Maura feel like a mouse between a cat’s paws.

  “I should like you to do something for me, Melisa.”

  Maura set aside her glass. “If it is in my power, Basilea, I would be honored to serve you.”

  Shareen inclined her head. “A gracious answer—it’s clear you are gently bred.”

  For a nervous heartbeat, Maura feared the empress might demand to know more about her. But the older woman merely reached down and slipped off her golden strapped sandals. Then, with practiced grace, she tucked her long legs under her pleated gown of pale coral, leaving only her painted toes peeking out.

  “A caravan has newly arrived from the east. I should like you to go to the bazaar and seek out Al-Nageri’s stalls. You shall ask to see his finest silk before it’s put up for general sale. Although it’s expressly forbidden by law, I know that old fox keeps back the best of his stock for export to the west, where it fetches ten times what he can get here.” The Basilea’s vermillion-stained lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. “But if you, as a member of the Gralian embassy, were to obtain samples of these silks and bring them to me… then I could force him to produce the cloth and sell it to me. He’s a crafty old swindler though, so you’ll need to be well disguised.”

  The prospect of hoodwinking a dishonest cloth dealer appealed to the instincts of a fabric merchant’s daughter far more than did the role of a spy.

  “I shall try my best, Your Majesty.”

  A gentle breeze swept through the full-length windows, fluttering the diaphanous drapes and lifting the cloth covering the lower half of Maura’s face. She reached up hastily to smooth it.

  The Basilea observed her with shrewd, kohl-lined eyes. “I’ve never heard of a foreigner adopting the veil. Why have you chosen to wear it?”

  Maura had answered this question innumerable times since her arrival in the seraglio, but citing vague “private reasons” would not suffice when addressing a royal personage. “I… I wish not to attract attention to myself,” she replied honestly.

  The Basilea arched her perfect brows. “Are you disfigured in some way?”

  “No, Your Majesty—that is, unless you count my freckles, which are considered by some to be a flaw. If it is your preference, I can remove the veil now.”

  The Basilea waved her bejeweled fingers. “There is no need. I was merely curious.”

  A slave came forward with the jug of darduma, but Maura, sensing the empress’s interest in her waning, covered her cup in polite refusal.

  The Basilea’s smile warmed. “I shall have the appropriate attire for your excursion to the bazaar sent to you at once.” Then her Imperial Highness raised her chin, signaling that the audience was at an end.

  That same day, a parcel was delivered to Maura’s chamber. It held a complete set of men’s clothing—tunic, belt, hose, doublet, and boots, all of them in the latest fashion and of the highest quality. There was also a pot of face paint with which to darken her complexion, and a strip of hair that she determined to be a fake moustache. A mashdash, the local headscarf that even western men wore to shield their skin from the pounding sun, completed the costume.

  After donning the outfit, Maura surveyed herself in the narrow looking-glass on her wall. She was highly satisfied with her transformation into a young Gralian nobleman, and eager to test her disguise. So she threw a long shawl over her garb, left it behind a barrel once she was out of the palace, then set off to do the Basilea’s bidding.

  Dressed as a man, she required no chaperone to escort her to the bazaar, and she relished the liberating experience of moving freely among the locals. She found the wily Al-Nageri more than happy to give the young foreign gentleman samples of his finest cloth, and flush with her success, Maura boldly stopped to partake of a cup of spiced chay in a pavilion crowded with men. A few covert glances were cast at her princely foreign dress, but after that, she was ignored.

  Walking back through the crowded market stalls, Maura had a delicious idea. She stopped to make some special purchases of her own before, laden with her treasures, she made her way back to the palace.

  * * *

  The Basilea was clearly pleased with the samples Maura procured, for a week later, a splendid gown of violet silk was delivered to her little chamber. Its bodice was embroidered with a small fortune in amethysts and gold thread, and the draped skirt fell from her waist in soft, whispering folds. Of course, since Melisa the tutor didn’t attend court affairs, there was nowhere for her to wear the dress, but she treasured it all the same for its beauty and exquisite craftsmanship.

  Equally pleasing were the personal purchases Maura had made during that first solo visit to the bazaar: a pair of simple cotton trousers, a secondhand tunic, and a black talum, the ubiquitous headscarf that the street urchins wore, leaving only their eyes exposed—which proved particularly useful while making their acquisitive raids throughout the bazaar. With her diminutive stature, a liberal application of face paint, and the head cloth to conceal her hair, Maura easily passed for one of these orphans, and soon, whenever she was free from her duties, she’d wear her disguise under her cloak and slip out of the palace on a contrived errand for her mistress. These sojourns not only provided her with a much-needed respite from the constant female company she was required to keep in the seraglio, they also gave her abundant opportunities to improve her Olquarish. The vendors in the bazaar soon came to know her, and before long she was chatting with them in their local argot.

  She would often start her outings with a visit to Umuhan, the kindly juice seller who would invite her—or rather, the quiet boy she pretended to be—to sit behind her stall while she pressed the ruby nectar from pomegranate seeds and chattered away to her guest. After the juice stall, she would visit Kitapi, a slender young man who sold and re-bound books. If he surmised from Maura’s limited Olquarish that she wasn’t who she appeared to be, he never let on. The average Olquarian was not a voracious reader, according to Kitapi, preferring stories enacted through dance and song, but Maura loved browsing the crammed stacks, looking especially for journals written by travelers from another place and time. She even found an illustrated account of the labyrinth of tunnels under Tell-Uyuk—and purchased this treasure on the spot.

  But on this day, Maura meandered to the eastern edge of the bazaar. Here, rows upon rows of exotic animals stood in cages or were tethered to stakes. Many would be sold for their fur or various body parts, but some were on offer as curiosities and pets. There were hawks and owls, moon bears and manguts, bearded monkeys and b
arred cats. The conditions under which the animals were held distressed Maura, and she wished she could free them all, particularly the lapins. But all she could do was peer into their cages and hum her old soothing song to the frightened creatures, always half-fearing she’d discover Glinda or Herlic behind the narrow bars.

  She was about to head back to the palace when angry shouts rang out, and a mob of street urchins surged down the narrow passageway between the stalls. She pressed back out of their path, not feeling unduly alarmed; countless orphans roamed throughout Tell-Uyuk scrounging for a living any way they could, and she had her purse tucked safely under her tunic.

  Dressed as she was in her plain cotton garb, the children paid her no heed. It was only after they streamed past that the men pursuing them hove into view. One of them caught the arm of a fleeing boy, and Maura covered her cry with her hands as the man flung the child to the ground and swung his boot into his skull.

  Then the brute lifted his head and stared directly at her. Maura froze, realizing too late that he would grant her no time to explain her disguise, nor would the horde of men pounding after him.

  She spun on her heel and raced after the throng of bolting children. Once in their midst, she careened down the streets with them until she spied a passage to her left to dart down. She was immediately forced to a halt by a big man who blocked her path. When she attempted to duck past him, he seized her shoulders firmly, then looked beyond her.

  “They’re on to you. Come—this way!” He ducked down the narrow alley, and the shouts of the pursuing vendors bent on blood were all the encouragement she needed; she pelted after him. When the man, whose ragged cloak and talum were similar to hers, scrambled over a low, crumbling wall at the end of the alley, she scaled it as well.

  Dropping to the ground on the other side, she saw they were back at the livestock market. As several of Maura’s pursuers seethed over the wall, she chased after the scruffy man, who led her zigzagging around a jumble of birdcages, setting off a cacophony of shrills and whistles, then past a line of bellowing bulls and snarling feral cats.

  They had reached the edge of the vast bazaar now, and the Censibas stood before them. Maura’s pounding heart sank, for the arena’s smooth, imposing walls offered no convenient handholds for climbing, and in any event, it was currently off-limits to the public while the obstacles for the upcoming tournament were being finalized.

  Apparently, her companion either didn’t know this or didn’t care; he raced right through the open gates. Since the angry vendors were still coming on, Maura had little choice but to do the same.

  The big man made for a tower of scaffolding, and after pulling himself up onto the first level, he held out his hand to her. Born and bred a mountain lass, Maura levered herself up on her own.

  Her guide gave a muffled laugh, then sprinted on with surprising grace along the narrow boards. Maura ran after him, keeping her eyes trained on the tall man’s receding back as he leapt into the air onto a dangling rope, propelling himself forward to another and another until he reached the next set of scaffolds.

  From below, voices raised in anger followed them. Their pursuers had met with opposition from the workmen, who were denying them entry.

  Maura snatched the first rope as it arced back, then swung through the air from rope to rope. When she landed on the next set of scaffolding, the man was waiting for her. He briefly steadied her, but before she could get a good look at his face, he ran on, rounding the corner of the wooden tower.

  The merchants’ cries were drawing closer. Maura scampered after her ragged rescuer, but when she rounded the corner, he was nowhere in sight. From this vantage point, the vast arena, which she’d been too flustered to appreciate on her previous visit, stretched before her. It was said the entire population of Tell-Uyuk could be contained within the Censibas’s walls, but only now did she believe it.

  A low whistle drew her attention to a huge piece of piping stemming out from the scaffolding the next level down. The ragged man was perched on its rim. With a wave, he slipped down the pipe.

  By now, Maura had realized they were running the obstacles set up for the yaraket exhibition the following week. She dove after the stranger into the mouth of the pipe, sliding through the dark to be spit out onto a deep bed of sand. Another whistle directed her attention to a series of hanging rings extending over an open pit, which her leader had already traversed. Though his face was still shrouded by his talum, she saw that he’d tied his cloak up around his waist, revealing bulging calf muscles.

  More shouting off to Maura’s left prompted her to action. The rings were beyond her reach, but she spied an empty crate upon which to stand. It took only a moment to move it into position, and once on top of it, she grabbed hold of the first ring, then swung hand over hand across the divide.

  When she dropped to the ground, the ragged man was clambering over a rough wall into which a series of spikes had been hammered. She pulled herself onto the wall’s face, then began to move crablike across it.

  Suddenly she felt a hand encircle her ankle, and she was yanked unceremoniously to the ground. The brute who had kicked the boy senseless in the market leered down at her with chay-stained teeth. He swung back his boot to give her the same treatment, but a sudden whine and whoosh made him pause, just long enough for Maura to register his surprise as a spiral of rope dropped over his head and pinned his arms to his sides. She rolled out of the way as her attacker was wrenched off his feet, to land hard on his back.

  “Come on!” called her rescuer, before leapfrogging over the next two barricades in their path, then flipping over a third.

  “Now you’re just showing off!” Maura muttered.

  The man cast her a puzzled look over his shoulder. Maura, realizing she’d spoken in Drinn, wasn’t surprised by his confusion—that is, until she saw his cornflower-blue eyes.

  For a breath, her heart stopped, then the pounding footfalls at her back spurred her after the man who posed a different kind of danger for her. At the moment, it was less intimidating than the prospect of having her brains dashed out by an Olquarian merchant’s boot.

  Her fingers flew up to see that her talum was still firmly in place, then she mirrored his movements to cross over the barricades. They both leapt onto the next obstacle, a narrow pole, and slithered one after the other to the ground. As Maura landed, Borne was shedding his tattered cloak. With two great strides, he ran up the next wall and grabbed its ledge to haul himself astride it. Maura charged after him. This time she accepted the hand he offered, using it as leverage as she pivoted and dropped to the ground on the other side, landing neatly on her feet.

  Their pursuers now seemed of less importance than the course stretching ahead of them. Side by side, they skipped over a series of raised stones, then vaulted identical boulders before racing across the sandy foundation toward the next series of obstacles. Despite the risks she faced, Maura felt delightfully free.

  She darted past Borne and cleared the water trap looming up in her path, then threw a look over her shoulder to see Borne hauling himself up out of the water. His talum had slipped off, but he was smiling, his dimples boring holes in his cheeks.

  He sprinted past her and veered toward a row of tethered dromas. Maura had never ridden one of the beasts, but she’d raced over the hills on coilhorns from an early age. And she’d flown on a dragon through the clouds.

  Borne vaulted on to a droma’s back, and waited patiently as Maura mounted another. She gathered the reins, then gave a small cry of surprise as it swayed to its feet.

  “Steady there,” Borne said, and she was relieved that he spoke Olquarish. Perhaps she’d only imagined his previous look of puzzlement. He lifted his chin to a remnant of cloth tied on the scaffolding above them. “Once around the course—first one under that red flag wins.”

  In reply, Maura gave her mount a little kick. It shot forward like a bolt from a crossbo
w, nearly unseating her. She leaned close to the droma’s neck, relaxing her body into the creature’s unexpected gait. Once she’d adjusted to its rolling rhythm, she called out sweet words of encouragement as they galloped around the huge arena’s perimeter.

  A quarter of the way around the course, Borne still hadn’t caught up with her. She’d seen him joust, so she knew how skilled a rider he was. But her mount carried the lighter load, and she’d managed to get a head start. It wasn’t until the flat run on the far side of the arena that she heard the pounding of hooves behind her. As her droma came into the wide curve that would bring them full circuit, Borne’s moved up alongside.

  Neck and neck they raced, Maura nearly prone on her droma as they swept around the long arc leading back to their starting point. Try as she might, she couldn’t spur her racer ahead of Borne’s, but neither did she give ground, and in the end, they surged past the red cloth together.

  Maura laughed aloud, exhilarated from the wild race, as they brought the dromas to a halt.

  “What do you think?” Borne said, as his beast dropped its knees. “Shall we call it a draw?”

  Maura tugged her talum up over her nose, then she too dismounted. “I’m afraid we shall have to,” she said, trying to make her voice gruff.

  “Where in the realms did you learn to ride like that?”