by Cas Peace
Grooms ran over to take Drum and Thunder. Sullyan gathered up her pack, gesturing for Taran to do the same. “Come, Captain, I will show you the bathhouse. We both need to wash after this morning’s exertions. I want to check on that wound, and then we need to see about replacing your jacket and cloak.”
“There’s no need, Colonel,” he protested, following her example as far as her title was concerned. “I’m perfectly capable of mending these. They’re not that badly ripped.”
She turned, giving him a warm look. He flushed, as he often did under her direct gaze. “Captain,” she reproved gently, “no one under my command goes about in mended clothing, and certainly not under the King’s roof! Besides,” she smiled, “we need not burden Elias with the cost. It is my intention to exact the price from Lady Jinella’s uncle. Surely a Baron would not begrudge the savior of his niece’s honor, not to mention her life, replacements for clothing damaged in that service. Do you not agree?”
Taran could hardly refuse, but he was relieved that the King wouldn’t be paying for two such costly items of apparel.
He accompanied Sullyan toward the bathhouse. Before they got there, she was hailed by the young officer who had met them at the gates. He strode up to them, grinning widely.
“You look pleased, Denny,” said Sullyan. “You must have been given good odds.”
His grin broadened. “Fifty-to-one!” he crowed, rubbing his hands together. “Mainly because the booksman I chose has never heard of you or Drum. Hah! Just wait ’til that gets out. You won’t be able to get evens then.”
“What are the odds on the King?” asked Taran.
The young officer laughed. “Are you mad, man? No one bets on the King. The Queen doesn’t like it, she thinks it’s disrespectful. She doesn’t like him riding in races either, but so far he’s managed to hold on to that pleasure.”
Sullyan glanced sharply at him and he made a face. “Don’t look at me like that, Colonel. You know it’s true. And anyway, I don’t say that sort of thing in public.” He turned back to Taran, an irrepressible glint in his eyes. “No, my friend, you can get a price on any of the runners save Elias.”
Sullyan snorted. “I hope the King places a bet on me, then.”
Denny stared at her before roaring with laughter. “Oh, Sullyan, I’ve missed you!” Then he sobered. “My lads all want to hear your account of the duel with that demon lord, you know. Is it true you lost? And that he nearly killed you?”
She gave him a straight look. “Yes to both.”
He shook his head. “I never thought I’d hear you admit to losing a fight. The Master won’t like it.”
Taran frowned at the censure in the officer’s tone. “There was more to it than just swordplay,” he objected.
Sullyan shot him an irritated look and he flushed, wishing he had held his tongue. But it was too late. Denny pounced on him.
“Were you there?”
“Er… sort of.”
“You’re an Artesan too?” At Taran’s nod, Denny said, “Well, I’d watch your step, both of you. The King might favor you, but few others here do.”
Sullyan caught his arm. “What have you heard?”
He flashed an impudent grin. “I’ll trade you. Once you’ve freshened up, you tell me and the lads the tale of that duel, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”
Taran glanced at Sullyan, expecting her to be annoyed, but she agreed easily enough. “Very well, that sounds like a fair trade to me. Once we have bathed and seen to Taran’s injury, we will meet you by the barracks.”
*****
Taran was relieved when the garrison bathhouse turned out to be much more civilized than the Manor’s. Instead of just one large room with lots of tubs and no privacy, the garrison bathhouse had numerous small cubicles and tubs behind screens, as well as a larger room with a small communal pool.
There were also women here, runners from the King’s messenger service, Taran supposed, and Sullyan left him for their company once she had tended his injury. Two sessions of healing from a Senior Master, plus Taran’s own attentions while riding on the coach, had brought it along nicely. Once he had bathed and washed away the dried blood, he was left with an angry red scar and a dull ache. The muscle would need a bit longer to recover fully, but otherwise he was fit.
Damp, clean, and dressed in fresh clothing, he met Sullyan outside the bathhouse. Her tawny hair was loose down her back, framing her face with its shimmering masses. Taran tried not to stare.
“We had better go and speak with the Chamberlain, find out what arrangements have been made before we get sidetracked by Denny’s men,” she said, and led the way toward the arch giving onto the castle courtyard.
There were more people about now, and most of them nodded pleasantly as Taran and Sullyan passed. Just before they reached the steps to the castle’s great double doors, they heard a hail. Turning, Taran saw a small, swarthy-skinned man walking toward them, trailed by a page. The man wore a long-suffering look with the air of someone who would much rather be somewhere else. Sullyan’s eyes narrowed as she watched his approach.
He was conservatively dressed in black breeches, dark blue linen shirt, and black tunic. He wore no ornament, which was unusual in a society where men as well as women wore lavish jewelry at court. Taran recognized him immediately, but it took Sullyan a moment longer. Little wonder, thought Taran, for they had never formally been introduced, and she had been in no state to notice him on his last visit to the Manor.
Halting in front of her, he executed a barely courteous bow. His page announced him and Taran saw comprehension in Sullyan’s eyes.
“Baron Reen,” she said, inclining her head in imitation of his grudging bow. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
The man’s gray eyes shifted between her and Taran, and the Adept had the distinct impression that his presence wasn’t welcome. Sullyan waited him out. At last he said, stiffly polite, “I gather I owe you a debt of thanks, Colonel.”
Taran wasn’t surprised when Sullyan chose to be difficult.
“Do you, my Lord?”
The Baron’s lips thinned, but he tried to hide his irritation. “My niece, Lady Jinella, informs me that you rescued her from forest brigands this morning. She wishes me to offer you recompense.”
Taran didn’t miss the inference that he personally had no wish to reward them. He was acting under duress and wanted them to know it.
Sullyan didn’t miss it either, and her gaze turned topaz-hard. “We only did our duty, my Lord, as anyone would under such circumstances. I thank you for your offer of recompense, but I assure you it is not necessary.”
Reen’s expression lightened. He thought he was going to escape with both honor and purse intact. Sullyan’s next words, however, disabused him of that notion. Continuing as if struck by a sudden thought, she said, “However, my Captain here was wounded in your service and a considerable amount of expensive clothing was damaged. His cloak, combat jacket, and shirt were all ruined by the brigands’ steel, and he will be severely out of pocket if he has to replace them.”
Embarrassed, Taran betrayed an involuntary start. In his mind he heard her sharp warning—Be still—and subsided.
On hearing the list of damaged items, the Baron turned pale. The shirt would not be too costly, but the jacket and cloak, if they were to be of suitable quality, would require a significant outlay. If he skimped and purchased inferior material, however, his ingratitude would undoubtedly get back to the King.
He was trapped and he knew it.
Trying to put the best face possible on the situation, he stiffly said, “Colonel, I would not dream of allowing your Captain to bear the cost of these items. If you will let me have the damaged clothing for size, I will replace them immediately. It is the least I can do.”
Sullyan nodded. “We left them with the garrison quartermaster, my Lord. I trust your niece is none the worse for her adventure?”
Reen replied brusquely, no doubt keen to end the i
nterview. “She is well, Colonel, thank you for your concern.” He turned to Taran. “Captain Elijah, my niece wishes to speak with you after the evening meal. I trust this is convenient?”
Taran glanced briefly at Sullyan, who ignored him. “Oh, of course, my Lord. Please tell her I look forward to it.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the Baron sketched a hasty bow. As he stalked away they heard him instructing the page to fetch Taran’s damaged clothing.
“What an odious little man!”
Taran was amazed. He had rarely heard Sullyan pass judgment or make derogatory comments behind anyone’s back. She was normally politeness itself.
As they resumed their walk to the castle steps, he raised his brows at her.
“Taran, what do you remember of the Baron when he accompanied the King to the Manor last year? I had other things on my mind at the time and do not recall much about him.”
Taran wasn’t surprised. “I don’t think he spent much time talking to anyone,” he said slowly. “He seemed to want to keep out of the way. But I do recall he looked very uncomfortable during the Hierarch’s confirmation ceremony. He must have eaten something that disagreed with him, because Tad told Robin that he’d seen the Baron being physically sick behind the pavilion after you left with the King and the Hierarch. It stuck in my mind because Tad was terribly amused to see someone so proud and aloof kneeling on the grass spilling their guts. He took great delight in describing just what the Baron looked and sounded like.”
She smiled. “Did he? That is very interesting. Perhaps I should have a little talk with our youngest cadet when we return. Did you, by any chance, sense anything from the Baron while we were speaking just now?”
“Apart from the fact that he didn’t want to be there? No,” he admitted. “I wasn’t paying him much attention.”
She halted, and he saw in her expression just how seriously she was taking this. “From now on, Captain, you must be more aware. Indeed, we must both be constantly alert. We are fortunate to have the support of the King and I am hoping to have a private word with him before the fair begins. He may have some news for us, but until then, stay vigilant. We still need to find the creator of Rykan’s Staff, and a good first step would be to discover who at court has no love for our kind. We might possibly glean some useful information from Denny later, but we must be wary of everyone until we have more knowledge. So keep your shield up and be on your guard. Watch for anyone who seems uncomfortable around us, anyone who is reluctant to talk. Listen to gossip—eavesdrop if you must! This is a deadly serious business, and our lives may depend on our success.
“Now, let us find the Chamberlain, and then I have an appointment to keep with the garrison.”
They found Lord Kinsey, chamberlain and secretary to the King, in his office. He was a thickly built man with blond hair and washed-out blue eyes. He greeted them cordially, informing them that the King had ordered rooms made ready for them in the castle’s private apartments.
“It was my intention to quarter with the garrison, Lord Chamberlain,” Sullyan protested.
Kinsey was aghast. “With the garrison, Colonel? Certainly not! That would hardly be appropriate.”
“What could be more appropriate than a colonel of the King’s forces quartering with the King’s Guard, my Lord?”
He turned disapproving eyes on her. “But you are not just a colonel, are you, my dear?”
Realizing the futility of argument, she backed down. “Very well. Since the King has ordered the arrangement, we will not offend him by refusing.”
Kinsey huffed. “I should think not! I’ll have a servant take your things up to your rooms. The King sends his apologies for not being here to greet you, but he received an urgent message earlier that demanded his attention. He will speak with you in the morning.”
“I thank you, my Lord. We will await his summons.”
Returning to the sunny courtyard, they walked back under the heavy stone arch separating the castle from the garrison. The military buildings were all very functional, built of the same sandy-colored stone as the castle itself. Some were obviously as old as the main structure, which had been constructed generations ago by Elias’s ancestors, while others had been added later.
As he and Sullyan strolled toward the training ground, Taran could see that a practice session was in progress. Fourteen or fifteen men, Denny among them, were also hanging around outside the arena, watching those within. As he drew closer, Taran could see five pairs of fighters sparring under their swordmaster’s eye.
The man drilling the fighters was a tough-looking grizzle-haired individual who appeared to be in his early sixties. He was pacing round his students, studying their movements and making acid comments whenever they failed to impress. Taran wondered if he was the King’s legendary swordmaster, Master Ardoch.
Sparing the occupants of the arena only the briefest glance, Sullyan approached the men by the rails. “Heads up, lads, here she is,” called Denny, drawing his companions’ attention away from the arena.
The men greeted Sullyan, crowding eagerly around her. Taran was amazed to find that she knew most of them by name, and wondered how that could be when she had only been here twice before.
Denny saw his puzzlement and guessed its cause.
“Most of us who are stationed at the castle have also spent time at the Manor,” he said, fondly watching his men. “Many of these lads were in Sullyan’s cadet group.”
He grinned indulgently at all the good natured banter going on. Once it had died down a bit, he called, “Sullyan, is our old friend Glinn Parren still at the Manor? Is he still carrying a torch for you?”
Taran was shocked. So that’s why Parren was so hostile toward Robin!
Sullyan’s eyes turned hard and she flicked Taran a glance. “I put that out for him a long time ago, as well you know, Owyn Denny. I did not come here to talk about Glinn Parren. Do you want to hear this tale or not?”
Effectively sidetracked, Denny dropped the subject as he and his men concentrated on Sullyan’s words. She leaned back against the wall of the building bordering the arena, hands resting on her sword belt as she spoke, leaving out as much painful personal detail as possible.
Taran, who had heard it all before, turned to lean his elbows on the railing, watching the swordplay. He could immediately see that the old weaponsmaster knew what he was doing. The exercises he had set his students were complex, and he instantly pulled them up on anything they executed with less than complete precision. Time and again he corrected them, even going so far as to show them himself until they got it right. His acid tongue and barbed comments lashed anyone foolish enough not to pay attention. Now and again, his eyes strayed to the group by the wall.
Once Sullyan had gone through her tale and the men began asking questions, Denny came to Taran’s side. “That must have been some duel,” he said casually, his eyes on the swordplay. “You said you were there. Did you see it?”
“Most of it.” Taran was cautious, not wanting to reveal his experiences on that fateful day. “She was very skilful.”
“She had an excellent teacher, as we all did.” Denny nodded at the old swordmaster. “But I don’t think the Master will agree with you. She lost the fight, after all.”
Denny’s words stung Taran. “She was hardly fit to fight at all!” he retorted. “Rykan was taller, heavier, had a longer reach, and was in very robust health. And he’d also—” He broke off, furious with himself for nearly revealing a very personal piece of information.
Denny grinned. “It’s all right, I won’t pry. I know what Sullyan’s like about not giving things away. She’s always been the same. It’s none of my business anyway. But the Master won’t be impressed if she uses ill health and a stronger opponent as an excuse.”
“Excuse!” blurted Taran. “She did defeat him, after all!”
The man’s smile widened in a knowing way, and Taran frowned, fearing that this lively-minded officer was making a
ssumptions he shouldn’t. “Easy, man,” Denny said. “I’m baiting you.”
Taran grimaced. “Sorry. That wasn’t a good time for any of us.”
“No, I suppose not.” Denny turned his head. “Whoops, look out!”
Following his line of sight, Taran saw that the training session was over. Master Ardoch had dismissed his students, many of whom were massaging bruised muscles, and was approaching the group by the wall. He ducked under the railing and came to stand before Sullyan, his hands on his hips, his eyes on her face.
Nudging Taran sharply, Denny hissed, “This should be good.”
Sullyan had fallen silent and was watching the swordmaster with a neutral expression. The men around her pulled away but didn’t go far. There was a peculiar tension in the air that made Taran nervous.
Sullyan broke the silence. “Master Ardoch.” Her greeting was soft, toneless.
He inclined his head and answered in the same way. “Colonel Sullyan.”
As he looked her over, his gaze came to rest on the hilt of her sword. The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that blade of demon forging?” Ardoch’s voice had a strong burr that originated in the Torlands of Albia’s eastern mountains.
“It is.”
He held out his hand and she unsheathed the sword, offering it hilt first. Master Ardoch inspected the weapon, testing the flexibility of the steel, its weight and balance. Finally, he nodded and handed it back to her.
“A good blade. Is it the one ye used against the demon laird?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then why did ye lose?”
Arrested in the act of sheathing the sword, she turned her golden gaze on him. “Because he was too strong.”
Taran heard gasps from the men.
Master Ardoch frowned, unimpressed, as Denny had predicted. “That’s no excuse. Most men are stronger than ye are. Did I not teach ye how to overcome a more powerful opponent? Have ye forgotten my lessons, lassie?”
Taran was shocked by his belligerent tone and glanced at Sullyan, fearing her temper.
She remained unruffled. “Never, Master. I used your training to good effect, believe me. But some battles are best won by means other than the sword, and this was one of them. I could have done no more.”
