“Thanks,” Taybur said. “Have a care for your young lady—her popularity is noticed.” He hesitated, then added, “I suppose the next time I see you, we'll be at the gate to the Gray Palace.” With a nod, he strode off down the path.
He'd given Aly a new concern. If Imajane and Rubinyan had decided to do something about Dove's popularity, they would be idiots to try it inside the palace, where no one would believe they were blameless. After the jailbreak at Kanodang, they would be reluctant to imprison another popular luarin. Aly would lay odds their attack would come on the street.
Taybur had also let Aly know the part he was ready to play once things came to a fight. I'll keep him to myself, just in case he changes his mind, she decided. No one needs to know what he'll do, if he chooses to.
She returned to the Robing Pavilion to sit with Vereyu. They “talked” about hidden stores of drugs and weapons by writing on a slate and passing it to each other. There was no corner safe from eavesdroppers in the Robing Pavilion. When their conversation was over and they were picking through a plate of dumplings, Fesgao—still dressed as a footman—wandered into the ladies' side of the pavilion. “Pretty Aly, will you walk with me?” he asked, offering his arm.
“You want to watch this one,” Vereyu warned Aly. “He's got a wife who's a trapper on Imahyn.”
Aly fluttered her lashes at Fesgao, the image of an empty-headed flirt. To Vereyu she said, “It's only a walk. What could happen on a walk?”
Fesgao leered and led her down the Golden Road to the Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures. “This was the old Haiming palace,” he murmured, for all intents looking like a man who whispered secrets in his sweetheart's ear. Aly giggled as she clung to his arm. “They tore down the New Palace to build their gray stone monster,” Fesgao continued, “but the old one was still used for celebrations and guests. And the old escape tunnel is still here, kept up by generations of raka.” Slowly they wandered around the side of the Pavilion of Delightful Pleasures, Aly stopping to smell a flower as a squad of the Rittevon Guard marched by on the Golden Road. Once the soldiers had passed, Fesgao led her around the pavilion's side, between the bubbling stream and its veranda. Marmosets cheeped to each other in warning from overhead, while brightly colored finches peered at them from the trees. Aly looked up to see a dart of light from a Stormwing's feathers, then the shifting white veil in the sky that marked the Great Goddess's war with Kyprioth.
When they could see the pond that lay behind the pavilion, Fesgao drew Aly across a bridge over the stream, to a small building set behind a screen of trees. Aly flinched and put up a hand to shield her eyes. Raka magic might be hidden to luarin mages, but not to anyone with the Sight. The building and the ground at its rear wall blazed with it. “You people are lucky no one with the Sight came near this place,” she informed Fesgao, blinking to twist her vision so she would See the magic, yet not be blinded.
“Raka prefer not to trust in luck,” the man replied. “This place is watched, and not by mages. Had you crossed that bridge with anyone but me, or walked down the other side of the building, you would soon find polite gardeners to turn you back. If you are stubborn, they can be less polite.” He knelt and ran his hands through the grass behind the building. He stopped at what looked like a trailing vine and yanked hard. The grass and its bed, several inches of earth, lifted as if it were hung on oiled hinges. Fesgao raised it only a foot, to show Aly a wooden door below. At its center was a ring of steel to use as a grip.
“Now you know,” Fesgao said. “That makes five of us: you, me, Ochobu, Ulasim, and Chenaol.”
“I don't know where it opens out,” Aly reminded him. “Beyond both walls, I assume, but not where. Why haven't the raka used this way to attack the luarin from inside?”
Fesgao raised his brows at her as he lowered the grass mat again. “Because we were told to wait for the one who is twice royal,” he told her. “Because there were too many luarin, and we were too beaten. And because the kings before Oron liked mages and kept them around. Then Oron talked a mage into killing old King Hanoren so Oron might take the throne. No one of the royal family has trusted mages since. Besides, we needed the god.”
“All right,” Aly said, holding up her hands in surrender. “You had plenty of reasons.” I still would have tried it, she thought as they walked back toward the Golden Road, once again arm in arm.
“You will be shown how to enter soon,” Fesgao murmured. “When it is time.”
Aly spent the rest of the morning with the maids, waiting for her ladies to return. The main thing she learned from the servants was that they were too frightened to talk of anything important. As they spoke of the coming eclipse and coronation, their voices sounded false to Aly, as if they forced themselves to sound eager for the holiday. They chatted of weather, dress, and hairstyles, and of places where they found the best bargains.
I'll be happy when Dove's on the throne and I can go home, she thought as a maid came to say the ladies were returning. I'm tired of living with fear and fearful people. Of course, first we have to get Dove on the throne. Opening the box of riding dresses, she found her darking necklace waiting for her. Carefully she slid it over her head.
“Enjoy yourselves?” she murmured.
“Rubinyan says he must take soldiers from Imahyn and Ikang and some from Gempang to fight rebels on Malubesang,” Trick whispered by her ear. “He says they must retake Imahyn later. He says he may have to use soldiers from Lombyn to defend north Kypriang. Imajane not know Rittevon estates on north Kypriang all in revolt.”
Aly whistled softly as Jimarn, Boulaj, and Junai took the riding dresses from the box. Having lived among warriors, Aly knew it was a sign of weakness to give an enemy one position in order to hold another. Rubinyan might as well have shouted that his armies were spread too thin.
She shared that news with Fesgao as the Balitang ladies dressed. She also passed on to him, Boulaj, Junai, and Jimarn the word that Dove's popularity no longer sat well with the Crown, though she didn't name her source. Fesgao went to tell their men-at-arms they were leaving, and to pass on the order to watch for trouble on the way home. The wagon would follow outside the ring of men-at-arms this time, so that they made a tighter double circle around the women.
Down Rittevon's Lance they went, the servants on foot beside their mistresses. Boulaj kept her hands tucked into her sash: she wore cestuses, leather gloves with iron plates sewn across the knuckles. She was adept with the cestuses and could even deflect sword blows with them. Junai carried her spear, a weapon that, when the grip was twisted, presented a blade at each end. Jimarn and Aly had their knives within quick reach.
Though their ladies must have noticed the warlike preparations—Fesgao had produced his own longsword from the wagon—they said nothing. Instead they let their maids walk between their mounts and the two rings of guards, and drew their horses closer together. They could not ride three abreast on Rittevon's Lance, so Nuritin changed places with Dove, allowing her to ride beside her mother, closer to more men-at-arms.
As they left the green belt for the city, Aly noticed immediately that there were more civilians outside. There were also more soldiers, placed in lines along the pavement as well as at the checkpoints. The streets were packed, as were the buildings on either side of their route.
Something red fluttered in the air above them. Aly flinched, but it was a flower, tossed from someone's window. Another flower dropped on them, followed by more. Soon they were passing through a rain of blossoms.
Aly ground her teeth. Civilians. If the new monarchs had wanted proof that someone in the Balitang family drew the crowds, they had it. They could, if they chose, lock up the entire household on suspicion of rebellion with nothing more than this.
They neared the intersection and checkpoint at Rittevon Square. The great bronze statue of the first Rittevon king was now covered with open shackle insignia, each showing gold through his weathered bronze skin and clothes. As they entered the square, the Balitangs
moved out of the range of the flower throwers. It was then that Aly, her head swiveling, saw a crossbow poke through a third-floor window into the open, crowded square.
“Down!” she yelled, shoving Dove toward Winnamine, out of range. The bolt struck a man-at-arms in the shoulder. His knees buckled; another man kept him on his feet.
Winnamine stood in her stirrups. Dove was already off her horse, standing on the ground, shielded by the two mounts. “Soldiers of the Crown,” the duchess cried in a voice any field general might envy, “protect us!”
The men of the King's Watch did not move from their positions. Fesgao dragged Winnamine from the saddle and beckoned for Nuritin to dismount. On foot, they were less visible targets.
Aly put a foot in the stirrup of Dove's horse, gripped the saddlehorn, and pulled herself up, balancing for a look over the men-at-arms' heads. The line of soldiers parted in two places, one on either side of their group. Men in rough laborers' clothing armed with knives or short swords darted through. Aly yelled, “There! And there!”
The men-at-arms faced the invaders, weapons up. Aly glanced at the squad of the King's Watch at the checkpoint. They lazed at the barricades, no expression on their faces. They already knew they were not to interfere.
Aly didn't see the first rock fly. She did see it strike a soldier's helmet, just as she glimpsed the dent it left before the soldier went down.
“They're killing her!” someone screamed. “They're killing our hope!”
Suddenly the men of the Watch were the targets of a rain of flowerpots, pans, stones, and chamberpots both empty and full. People held back by the soldiers shrieked and surged forward, clawing at their old oppressors. The soldiers fought for their lives. They killed and killed, but they could not kill everyone. Thrusting his sword into one civilian, a soldier would be swarmed by five more armed with belt knives, stones, or fingernails. The crowd boiled through the gaps in the lines as soldiers began to fall.
The assassins pushed past the men-at-arms, where they collided with Junai, Jimarn, and Boulaj. Jimarn leaped onto an assassin's back and clawed at his eyes. Boulaj killed one man as Junai accounted for a second. The horses fidgeted, eyes rolling, wanting to panic. The three Balitang ladies hung on to their reins for their lives. In these crowded quarters, the horses might kill the very people they served.
A crack opened in the doubled ring of household fighters in front. Aly saw the assassin pair slip through, one engaging Fesgao as another came at Dove. Aly pushed off the saddlehorn, swinging her legs over the restless horse's rump, smashing into the killer with both feet. She was down on him with a knife in each hand, taking his life before he even understood where he was. Trick and Secret screeched their disgust as blood struck them.
“Sorry,” Aly told them, panting. She mounted Dove's horse properly so she wouldn't need to use a time-wasting jump like that a second time. Everywhere she looked she saw chaos. People streamed in to fill the square, many carrying weapons. Others fought to escape it. Some failed and were trampled. The square filled with a roar of sound: screams, furious yells, battle-voiced commands. Above that animal sound was a high, warbling trill. The Stormwings had come to feast on the pain and fear.
A little girl, shrieking, tried to climb the statue to escape the mob. A boy who might have been an older brother pushed her from behind, trying to get her to the top, the only safe place he could see. A handful of other children splashed through the fountain. One of them was pushed into the water, toward that bit of safety, by a woman who fell then beneath a man's club.
Light blazed from steel. Down came two Stormwings, deflecting the rare arrow with a sweep of deadly wing. The first seized the girl in her claws; the second grabbed her brother. Others came for the remaining children, carrying them up to the balconies that overlooked the square.
Aunt Daine wasn't joking, thought Aly in awe. They do like children.
A rotting melon struck the back of her head, jolting her. A moment later a rock flew past her nose. Aly dismounted in a hurry, remembering her grandfather Miles's adage: “A spy is not a target. A spy points out the targets.” Moments after she touched the ground, an arrow caught her mount in the withers. Dove's horse screamed in pain and reared. The men-at-arms tried to get out of the maddened animal's way as it yanked its reins free. A flying hoof caught one man's shoulder with the crack of breaking bone as the horse plunged into the crowd.
Their remaining men-at-arms instantly closed the gap. Once more they placed themselves as a living fence between the mob and Dove.
“Soldiers come,” Trick shrieked in Aly's ear. She looked around, hearing nothing but the crowd and the Stormwings. Then, in a break in the overall noise, she heard the tread of heavy boots. At the far end of the square a stallion neighed. From Middle Way came a company of the King's Watch, half wielding clubs, half with short swords. From Shield Way on the southwest side of the square Aly heard the clatter of hooves. She adjusted her Sight and strained for a look. It was a company of Rittevon Lancers, armed with swords and spears. They cut a route through the mob.
Suddenly the Lancers' disciplined line of riders bent outward, then split. Organized columns of raka and part-raka in leather tunics stitched with metal rings plowed into the horsemen. Ulasim's secret troops carried small round shields and longswords, and they hammered at the cavalry. Once the lancers' lines were broken and the mounted soldiers were fighting in groups of twos and threes, the raka warriors, men and women alike, surrounded them, striving to cut away their saddles and bring them to the ground.
The men of the King's Watch on Middle Way slammed into the mob, which turned on them. Those civilians who had been fighting each other now had a better target, one that wore a uniform. They swamped the new arrivals, grabbing weapons that fallen guards had dropped, wielding them with enthusiasm if not expertise.
Slowly the group that guarded Dove moved out into the open square, trying to make it to a side street. Instead the battle forced them forward, though they fought to hold their ground. They would be crushed against the fountain.
A gap opened before Aly. A soldier had grabbed a club. He was about to bring it down on the skull of a toddler who clutched his knees, screaming. Aly lunged out, knifing the soldier in the back as she yanked the child away with her free hand. Another soldier descended on her with a roar of fury. She slung the toddler toward the Balitang group and blinded the soldier before she cut his throat.
“I know it's nasty,” she told the darkings, panting as she wiped her blades, “but this is the not-very-fun part.”
Trick and Secret didn't answer. Both of them leaped from Aly's neck to cover the faces of two soldiers who were headed for Dove. As the men fought to breathe, a raka woman with muscles like rocks bashed one with a piece of stone. A luarin woman thrust a short sword home through the other soldier. Trick and Secret leaped to Aly as the two unknown women continued to fight soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, falling back until they filled the gaps in the line around Dove. Aly stayed behind them, in case this was a ruse to let assassins get close to her mistress. The ladies paid attention to nothing but the people who smashed into them.
Aly looked around in despair, wondering how they were going to escape. The riot was growing. It would help no one if Dove got crushed.
Crows and miniature kudarung rained down, shrieking and gouging, biting and blinding, driving everyone from a space in front of the fountain. In their wake came a much larger shadow, one so big that even those who battled around Aly's companions looked up. Everywhere else the insanity raged. Here there was a moment of quiet as a bright chestnut kudarung stallion spiraled down to land in the open space. As regal as any king, he walked over to the Balitang defenders, who moved aside. At last he stood before Dove.
Slowly, gracefully, the great creature furled his batlike wings and knelt on his forelegs, a plain salute to the girl.
Aly was the first to recover. “Don't just stand there, climb on!” she cried, yanking Dove's arm so she would advance. “Fesgao, your sash!
”
“But . . . a saddle,” Dove murmured, stroking the chestnut's muzzle. “Where do I, um, mount?”
Aly envisioned the messenger who had come to Tanair the year before on a captive kudarung. “Behind his wings,” she said. Fesgao thrust his sash into her reaching hand. “Excuse me,” Aly told the great creature. “It's demeaning, but necessary.” She tied the sash around that powerful neck, and passed its ends to Dove. She hesitated, then slung the toddler she had rescued up in front of Dove. “If you don't mind?” she asked the kudarung.
He straightened his forelegs. Then he nodded.
“Balitang House?” she asked.
Again the kudarung nodded. His hindquarters bunched, and he jumped, massive wings opening with a snap. Up he soared, scooping at the air until he was above the houses. Then he flew into the distance, toward Balitang House.
The afternoon was half over when the rest of them came home. Footmen and maids waited for them beside the guard at the locked gate. They took charge of the worst hurt, carrying or helping them to the infirmary. All were bruised, scraped, and bloody. Petranne shrieked to see her mother and her great-aunt disheveled and carrying the red-bladed spears they had grabbed to help in the fight. The duchess passed her spear to Nuritin and scooped up her daughter, hugging her until Petranne yelped. Nuritin placed one spear on the front hall bench and, taking out her handkerchief, began to clean the blade of the one she held.
Chenaol had followed them from the gate. She grinned at Nuritin and collected the other spear. “If you want me to take that, my lady, I'll clean it properly,” she said, nodding toward the weapon Nuritin still held.
Nuritin looked at the spear, then at Chenaol. The old woman trembled from top to toe, but her voice was firm and clear as she replied, “I thank you, but I will clean it myself. I suspect I may need it again. My father said a good blade should always be seen to by the one who uses it.”
Trickster's Queen Page 37
