Ker whistled silently. “You mean us, as in—”
“As in Talent and soldier, yes.”
“I haven’t said anything other than that I was waiting for you. She might guess when she sees us holding hands.”
“So, we don’t hide it from her?”
Ker squeezed his hand a little tighter, afraid to let it go. The same questions still hung over them. How long would they be together? Would the presence of the Feelers change everything, or would they be expected to separate once Law was restored? “We don’t hide it, no, but we’ll wait for her to ask.”
“And the others? The Feelers? Do we mention them?”
“That’s not our secret. We can’t risk telling anyone who hasn’t been blocked by the Feelers themselves. If the Halians find out about them before we’re ready, we could lose everything.”
Tel tapped the back of her hand with a finger. “If she goes to the Mines, she’ll find out for herself. In the meantime, we wait.” He shrugged. “I know. It’s the soldiers’ lot. Put on your armor and wait for orders, march to the frontier, and wait for orders. Dig a hole and then wait some more. I hope this princess is worth it.”
“Jerek thinks so. According to him, she could be a Feeler herself.”
“That reminds me.” Tel shifted until he could reach into the front of his tunic without completely losing contact with her. He pulled out a small leather pouch. Ker’s eyebrows took on a life of their own when he emptied the bag out into her hand. A jewel. Inert, but a jewel.
“Remember this? Larin got it off Luca, and she gave it to Jerek to give to me,” Tel said. “She said you’d know what to do with it.”
“How did Larin get it? Never mind.” It was almost impossible to keep track of what the little Time-seer was up to. There was a lot of speculation, especially among those who remembered the old Time-seer, Ara, as to whether Larin might have been more intelligible if her Gift had come at the usual age, instead of so early, or if she’d been able to finish her apprenticeship before the old lady’s death.
Though there were many, Ker included, who weren’t sure the woman was completely gone.
“Who knows?” Tel said, in an eerie echo to her thoughts.
Ker shook her head, turning the jewel over in her hand. “Well, I don’t know what to do with it, that’s for certain.”
“Maybe you’re going to know.”
* * *
• • •
“The great thing about being in love with a Talent,” Tel murmured into her ear, “is that you don’t have to actually tell her how you feel. She already knows.”
“Oh, you think so?”
A cough from the doorway ended their wrestling match before it could go much further. Ester came in and closed the door behind her. Tel got to his feet and came to attention in the only space high enough to allow it.
“Tel Cursar, Third Officer, Black Company, Emerald Cohort of Bears.”
“Ester Nast, Emerald Cohort Leader of Eagles.” Her smile was a twisted thing. “And currently working as a server and assistant bouncer here in the Ram and Boar.” Her eyes flicked from Tel to Ker and back again. “What are you two planning for the future?” she asked. “Or are you just hoping no one will ever notice?”
Ker almost smiled at the look on Tel’s face. It had always been difficult to hide things from her sister. “The Polity has changed, and even when we send the Halians running off to their ships, nothing is going to be the same,” he said.
“Exactly, and one of the changes is that she—you,” she corrected, turning to Ker. “You and the other Talents left will be needed more than ever.”
Ker glanced at Tel and found him looking at her with eyebrows raised. He shrugged ever so slightly. Ester had once been Ker’s Cohort leader, as well as her sister, and she wasn’t comfortable denying her in either role. “There’s more to it than that,” she said finally.
“But you can’t tell me what it is.” Ester looked between them, with narrowed eyes, her face suddenly hard, the face of a Cohort Leader, not someone’s sister.
“It’s not our secret to tell. Juria Sweetwater knows, if that sets your mind at ease.”
“And I’m sure that makes her Bears feel much better. Does my Faro, the Luqs of Farama, know?” Ester’s voice hardened to match her face.
“He does.”
“Then it’s for him to tell me, when I reach him.”
* * *
Weimerk floated in a sea of colors, of light and of warmth, a small part of a much larger whole. At first, he had taken great delight in the joining. Sharing mind and spirit with all griffins was beyond all he had imagined. However, each time he joined, it took more effort, more energy, more focus.
He dropped out of the joining, feeling once again his own paws, his own wings, and his own stomach in need of food.
“This is not well done, young one.” The old griffin Zeinin appeared to Weimerk’s left. Zeinin was so old you could see marks of age. The way his right wing did not lie perfectly flat against his back and sides, the roughness of his feathers and fur, the crooked twist in his right rear paw. Even when joined, his mind felt faded and worn. “The joining gives strength and keeps us whole.”
“If the joining gives strength, old one,” Weimerk answered. “You yourself are not doing well to leave it.” He knew what the old griffin would tell him. That he should forget about Kerida and his other friends.
Zeinin made a sound that was meant to be laughter. “When we left the Serpents Teeth, I was not so old as this, though even then I was eldest. Until the Prophecy is complete, I will always be the eldest.”
Weimerk hung his head. He knew griffins were not only hatched in the Serpents Teeth, but they returned there to die, their spirits joining the great auroras of the world, their bones returned to the rock. Since the griffins had sworn not to return to the mountain range until the Prophecy was complete, Zeinin could not die.
“I am sorry, Zeinin.”
“You have done me nothing but good, young one. You are part of the Prophecy, one of the signs. This is the closest I have ever been to my death.”
“I would have done more.” Weimerk’s tail lashed. “I would do more.”
Zeinin shook his head. “You cannot live in two worlds, Weimerk. You have difficulty with the joining because you have two paws still in the world of humans. You must make a choice. Decide where all four paws will be.”
“Deilih did not give me this choice.”
The old griffin’s chuckling sounded like a series of coughs. “Deilih is still young. Not so young as you, but young enough to see only one way. Young enough to feel she may make decisions for others.” Zeinin flicked out his right wing, folded it again slowly. “Take careful thought. Consider what you gain, but consider also what you lose.”
IN every story that Baku had ever read escapes were always made in the middle of the night. Jerek had disagreed.
“Think about it,” he had said. “At night the halls will be empty of everyone except guards. If you’re seen, you’ll be stopped and questioned for certain. But during the day—”
“During the day I would simply be one of the many who are always in the halls and courtyards,” Baku had finished, immediately understanding Jerek’s point. “To be truthful, I find myself relieved.” That there was something else she’d prefer to do in the daylight, she did not tell him. He would be sure to disagree strongly.
It was Jerek who had advised her to practice walking about in men’s clothing, with her face uncovered, in the privacy of her own bedroom. It helped that men and women wore essentially the same clothing in Farama. Trousers or leggings, tunics long or short depending on purpose or formality, worn over shirts of cheaper or costlier fabrics, depending on the wearer’s wealth. Boots or shoes, depending on the weather. A satchel, sometimes very decorative, to carry personal items, and a knife, sometimes very deco
rative.
“How can I get a knife?” she had asked.
“Better you don’t have one,” he had said. “Women aren’t supposed to be armed, not even personal knives, not anymore. That’s a question you don’t want to be asked—in fact, you don’t want to be questioned at all.”
“If I am caught, I can say I am emulating the Emperor Cor Tyn Lao, who went about his people in disguise. In Halia, men expect women to have these romantic notions.”
Practicing walking in trousers turned out to be a good idea. As did using the shoes Jerek had advised her to get. Her own shoes and boots were too easily recognized, much more so than she was herself, in fact, considering that her feet were all most people ever saw of her. She herself thought of how to obtain the shoes, asking her maids to find her something informal but sturdy to wear in her apartments and gardens, where comfort was of more importance than elegance. True, Narl Koven had raised eyebrows at this request, but several pairs of shoes had materialized, all with good thick soles.
Jerek had many good suggestions. Where to hide the clothes she meant to use, where to get them in the first place. Which pieces of her own clothing were suitable for her purpose.
“And try to take some food with you, at least one meal’s worth.”
“Surely I can buy food?” Baku was rather looking forward to trying the dishes whose wonderful odors she could sometimes smell wafting up to her from the market squares and the trays carried past her rooms.
“You have money?”
Baku had to let her embarrassed silence answer him. Of course, she had no money. What need would the Princess Imperial have for money? “I have jewelry,” she had said.
“Bring it, but don’t try to sell it yourself.”
She pulled her tunic straight for the fourth time. She must go soon if she were not to lose her nerve completely. She had contrived to have both of her maids absent at the same time, but one or the other could return soon. Baku took a deep breath, nodded once, and picked up her satchel, putting her head and one arm through the strap, as Jerek had told her to do—though the satchel was larger than the one he had suggested. Before she could change her mind, she crossed her sitting room, using the long strides she had practiced. At the door she hesitated. The opening mechanism consisted of a lever instead of a knob to turn. Did one push it down, or move it upward? As she wavered, undecided, her hand over the lever, the door suddenly opened in her face and she stepped back, hands raised to defend herself, and a nearby nut dish leaped into her right hand. Shocked, Baku dropped the dish, which landed softly on the rug.
Narl Koven looked astonished for only a moment; she recovered quickly and shut the door behind her, leaning against it. She looked Baku up and down and gave a sharp nod.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “My path crossed with Kvena’s, and when I realized you must be alone, I came back right away.”
Baku drew herself up. “You cannot stop me.”
“I don’t want to; this is the best idea you’ve had since you got here. Have you somewhere to go? No, don’t tell me where. Just say yes or no.”
Baku nodded, speechless. Narl Koven was going to help her?
“Good. How were you planning to get past the guard outside the door?”
“None of them have seen my face.” Baku shrugged. “I thought I could say I was a servant.”
“And that would work, but they’d expect to see you coming out only if they’d seen you going in.”
Baku’s heart began to beat faster, and her breath came short. What an error she had almost made.
Narl looked around her, eyes narrowed, before finally pulling off the veil she’d thrown back on entering the room. “Here, why don’t you be me?” She held up the veil. “It’ll cover you to the knees, and from the knees down we look alike. See, even our shoes match.”
Baku looked down at her feet and then at Narl’s. Sure enough, they were both wearing a green half-boot with a low heel and bright silver buckles. She looked back up. “You knew? When you brought me the shoes, you knew?”
“I thought it was possible. I also know why you couldn’t ask for help.”
“What will happen to you?” She had not thought of that until this moment. Jerek would be ashamed of her.
“You think I’m going to wait around to find out? Don’t worry about me.”
“I do not know how to thank you.”
“You’re messing up Poppy-boy’s plans, and that’s thanks enough for me.”
Baku smothered the bark of laughter that had slipped out at the other woman’s disrespect. She touched Narl on the arm, wanting to hug her, but being uncertain how it would be received.
The look in the woman’s eyes softened. “Go on. Get out. Don’t look back. As soon as you’re out of sight of the door guard, take the veil off.” Narl took hold of the door handle. “Ready?”
Baku nodded. Narl opened the door in such a way that she remained hidden behind it, and Baku stepped out into the hall. The guard—she didn’t dare look him in the face—straightened but didn’t speak. She hurried past him, hoping she looked like Narl sent on an urgent errand. Once around the first corner, the veil was off and stuffed behind the nearest tapestry.
The one thing she could not have prepared for was how it felt to walk about in the free air uncovered. Her head felt lighter, and the air seemed to trace light fingers on her skin. Of course, she’d often been without headdress, but never outside her rooms, never where the public might see her. And here she was without pins or combs or hair lacquer, just a braid down her back.
Now came the hard part, the part she had had no intention of telling Jerek. She did not know from where the knowledge had come, but she knew the location of the rooms belonging to the Poppy Shekayrin. Pollik Kvar used a suite on the same floor as Baku’s own, though in the opposite section of the royal wing. According to what Dern Firoxi had told her during one of their numerous card games, at this time of day the Shekayrin should be in the council chambers, directing the Luqs in his rulings. She marched along firmly, “As though you have somewhere to be,” was how Jerek had put it. She told herself it also kept her legs from trembling. She saw only one other person along the main hallway, a man dressed much as she was herself, who passed her by with lowered eyes. This gave her heart, and she was able to relax her shoulders.
She rounded the final corner and narrowly avoided walking straight into a thickset man wearing the gray tunic of a soldier.
“Whoa,” he said, taking her by the arm and righting her. It took all of Baku’s strength not to cringe away from him. She could not remember the last time she had been directly touched by a man, and she had never been touched by a stranger. Fortunately, the man released her at once.
“Steady, young lady,” he said. “Where are you off to so quickly?”
Baku ducked her head down. “Message for the Shekayrin.”
The soldier stepped back from her, and Baku risked a glance upward to his face. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were narrowed. He looked Baku up and down, something no one had ever done to her, though she had seen it done to other women. Finally, he shrugged. “Message, eh? Well, you’d best get on with it. Third door on the right.” He turned and walked away without another word.
He was angry, she thought, though not with her. He had not stopped her from proceeding, but he had wished to. She had her hand on the door handle before she wondered how she knew.
And how she knew that the rooms behind the door were empty.
Still, she pressed down on the handle slowly, letting the door swing open with its own weight. She hovered in the doorway. To shut the door behind her, or to leave it open? She could see advantages and disadvantages either way. Open. Three steps in Baku turned back and shut the door. The feeling of that open maw behind her was far worse than the fear of being shut in.
The sitting room itself glowed
like an emerald, as sunlight shone through green window shades. Unlike her own rooms, Kvar’s were furnished in Halian style, with open-backed stools, thick patterned carpets, and a scattering of large cushions. A hammered brass table held a delicate porcelain kaff set, inlaid with blue-and-green enamels. Her heart sank when she saw a row of five chests against the inner wall of the room. Would she have to search each one? Every minute she stayed in this room increased her risk of being caught. Flexing her fingers, she swallowed and stepped forward.
Once she reached the first chest, however, she found herself drawn farther into the room. She pushed aside a heavily embroidered tapestry and found what must be the door of the suite’s bedroom. Nodding, she let herself in, this time leaving the door open behind her.
And there it was. Near the head of the bed stood a small table draped with a blue cloth embroidered with white poppies. And on the table, under the cloth, was an unmistakable shape. Baku blew on suddenly cold fingers and threw back the covering, exposing the small chest that held her mask. Now that her hands were once again upon it, she knew the box itself would not fit into her satchel. She would have to take only the mask. She pushed back the lid and opened the layers of silk wrappings with trembling hands.
There lay her brother’s face. The Sky Emperor, Son of the Sun, Father of the Moon. The Lord of Horses, as Inurek Star had called him. She stroked the cheek of the mask, as though it were indeed her brother. It seemed to be smiling at her, the lips parted, about to speak. That must be a trick of the light, she thought. The mask is not my brother; it is not speaking to me. Yet, somehow, she had known that the mask was not in one of the chests in the sitting room. What did this mean? Even before she was netted, she had not known information of this kind.
Baku lifted out the mask with both hands. She wrapped it in the red silk of the innermost lining, tucking the rod into the last fold. With the flap on her satchel pulled back, Baku settled the mask in its new home, between two extra shirts and four chicken rolls wrapped in linen napkins.
Gift of Griffins Page 22
