Ilaan sighed and said. "The Mages would have taken him away because they have plans for his human blood, so I sent him through The Door."
She stared at him. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life. Why are you making up an awful story like that? Is it because you're jealous? You can't even let me have a part of him? Does he have to belong to you only?" She could hear the blood singing in her head. What a terrible thing to say, she thought. And in fact she'd never seen her beautiful, perfect, impossible brother look so sad.
"Aelle. I know you don't mean that. You know I'm telling the truth. You know that's why the Mages came here. They found out about Rhuun—that his father was a human man, and they came for him, so I sent him somewhere safe."
"Father is going to kill you. I don't know what you did but when he finds out, he'll fill your mouth with sand." Her eyes blurred with tears. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You would have run right to your father. Isn't that true, shan?" Siia picked her way through the party debris and joined them in the courtyard. "He's the one who makes it rain for you, doesn't he?" She tucked a stray curl back into Aelle's coiled hair. "Everyone else is a distant second."
Aelle glared at her mother, shaking her hand away. "You all treat me like I'm simple."
"The truth is I didn't know any of this until today," said Ilaan. "But Mother is right, I wouldn't have told you anyway." He turned to Siia. "How bad is it?"
She said, "Gather your things and leave." He looked stunned. "I will do what I can to pour water on your father's heart, but I make no promises. You've put a foot through some of his dearest plans. You and Rhuun." She shook her head. "I knew there was something strange about that boy. Well, it all makes sense now. Shame. You would have made such a lovely queen, Aelle." She turned back to Ilaan. "I don't know when your father will return, but I can't recommend he find you here. Go up to your room and take what you need. We will talk again soon, when he's cooled down. Best to let me contact you."
Ilaan moved to embrace Aelle. "I was supposed to take care of you."
She stepped back. "I can take care of myself. And if I can't, Father can." She lifted her chin, daring him to disagree.
He nodded, his face remade by grief. Then he was gone, a smudge of light in the air where he'd been standing.
"Well, that's done," said Siia after a moment. She looked around the courtyard. "Your father will be home soon. We might as well clean up."
Chapter 49
...second moonset, and as he’d been instructed, McVeigh waited at the front gate with a hot towel and a brandy.
"Where would I be without you?" the Duke asked as his valet helped him out of the rough wooden cart.
"Ours is not to know, although I’m feeling a ditch might be involved," the older man replied, passing the driver a stack of bills.
A familiar woman’s voice came from the back of the little cart. "Are we there yet? I’ll never get this smell out of my hair!"
"I’ll draw a bath for Miss Cybelle, then," said McVeigh, handing over a few more bills.
-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 91
Malloy Dos Capeheart, Little Gorda Press (out of print)
Mistra
100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar
20 years later, Eriisai calendar
Night of the Quarter Moons party
Where to get a horse and cart? He didn’t have a choice, he had to follow that miserable child’s decree, and finally it had been Billah, with some assistance from The Duke, who’d given him the idea. A trash cart, and the back of the house. The night of the Quarter Moons party, well, all the regular cabs would be taken, and anyone with a vehicle might earn some extra coin transporting the good citizens of Mistra to and from events. He made his way to the Green Leaf Gate and said, "I have to leave the property." His head did not respond with a painful yank, and he took a step, and then another, until he was around the corner and out of sight of the house.
He took a deep breath of the damp, cool air. Not as pleasant as the horse riding park, or even the forest, but at least he was outside. It was getting dark, and the muddy road alongside the canal was rich with shadows. He passed several human persons on their own errands, but no one looked his way. The road turned away from the canal and the paving became more regular, although it was still mean and dank compared to the neighborhood they called the Upper Garden. This place was called Fool’s Hill, which didn’t make sense since it was as flat as a floor. As to the mental character of the residents, most humans seemed fairly foolish to him anyway.
He smelled the stable before he came in sight of it, and slipped into a shadowy corner to watch how it worked. There was a line of ragged men (no women looked for work here tonight) who signed their names or made a mark on a board and drove off with a horse and cart, presumably looking for late night revelers to ferry home. He pulled his hat down and got in line.
When it was his turn, he wrote his name under everyone else’s—M. Moth—and followed the example of climbing up into the driver’s seat.
"Oi, Mister...Math?" the man passed him two leather ropes. "You new around here?"
"Aye," he replied, hoping his voice did not betray him as one of what they called the Fancy Fifty down here. He knew he sounded foreign and hoped it would work in his favor. "Beesley sent me."
The man frowned. "Beeseley?"
"Oh, aye. Billy Beesley. He woulda come but his wife was dead set on a party tonight or he’d be sleeping with the horse himself. Said I oughta try and rake in some coin." He gave the leads an experimental shake, and to his relief, the horse started moving. "Well, see you in the morning. Heiresses to kidnap and all, right?"
The man scratched his head and was about to reply, but the horse, uncomfortable with what was now behind it, began to move at a fair pace out of the stableyard and up the street. The man shrugged and turned to his next driver.
Moth didn’t look back or dare to breathe until they were out of sight of the other workers. "I did it," he told the horse. His hands were shaking, he couldn’t recall ever being so excited. "I did it; they thought I was a human." The horse ignored him. It was on the skinny side, white with big black spots, and not as big or as shiny and well groomed as Lelet’s Petrel, but on the other hand it didn’t appear to be as nervous and high strung.
He pulled the strap in his right hand, the horse stopped moving.
"No," he said, "I need you to keep going." He pulled the other leather rope, then slapped them together on the animal’s back. It gave a disgusted snort and began walking again—to the left. "No, I—fine. We’ll do it your way."
The horse seemed to prefer left turns, and finally they had completed a circle of boarded up storefronts, businesses closed for the night, and dimly lit taverns and come out where they’d started. They were now pointed in the right direction. There was enough light from the moons and from gas lamps to throw back an oily sheen from the canal. "Never thought I’d be happy to see something so ugly," Moth told the horse. The animal seemed content to amble down the canal-side road, and when they had come nearly in sight of the Green Leaf Gate, he pulled on the leads until, with a whining moan, the cart came to a halt.
It was dark on the path, the gas lamp above their heads was unlit—either broken or abandoned, and the dank reek of the canal combined with the garbage smell of the cart nearly made Moth’s eyes water. "Stay here," he told the horse, who found something to nibble on between its feet. "I’m already late, she should be there." He could only imagine what her mood would be like. Well, he had a plan for that, too. The Duke would serve as his model. She would understand he was to be respected. Keeping close to the stone wall and out of sight, he edged towards the back gate of the house.
"Per?" It was Lelet, and she was coming his way fast.
Rushta, he hissed, and stepped into her path. In the dark, she slammed into him, and without thinking, he scooped her up.
"Don’t scream, wench, or it’ll go worse for you," he told her.
&nbs
p; Instead of being quiet and obeying his order, Lelet screamed so loud the rats ran away. She punched him the small of the back and wriggled like a jumpmouse. They reached the cart and he set her on her feet.
"Please," she said quietly. "My family has money. You must know that. Whatever you’ve been paid, they will pay more. Just set me down and I’ll walk away. No one will know. Let me go."
He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that he would take care of her, that he thought she was pretty and clever, but of course he couldn’t do any of those things. He lifted her and dropped her over the side of the cart. Too late, he realized he’d misjudged how deep it was, because she bounced off the bottom and lay still.
He scrambled in next to her. If I’ve damaged her, I’m throwing myself straight into the canal. But she muttered something and rolled onto her side. A curl of white hair had come loose from a jeweled pin, and he brushed it back from her brow. Sitting back, he noticed she was barefoot.
"She’ll be looking for her shoes," he told the horse. He retrieved them, along with her muddy wrap and her little clutch. It held only a slim cigarette holder and a few folded bills. He put all her things in the big leather bag, then covered her with the blanket. She opened her eyes and tried to sit up.
"Where...."
"Shh, Lady, you must rest." He pitched his voice low and gentle.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
"Why, surely you are dreaming, Lady. Close your eyes and sleep again."
He'd chosen the words that Sir Edward had used to placate Lady Cybelle—of course, Sir Edward first poisoned poor Cybelle and planned to murder as soon as she closed her eyes, but the little speech had the same effect on Lelet. She appeared to be not injured but merely asleep. He was relieved that he could fall back on his book after all, since he'd have to talk to the girl eventually. There were hours until dawn and he hoped she would sleep quietly and wake peacefully. Perhaps he'd start with the speech the Duke made to Gwenyth when they met? He'd come across as stern, not to be trifled with, but ultimately fair and reasonable. He was sure she would respond in kind.
Chapter 50
Cybelle awoke with a great start into darkness. Where was she? Why was she outside? She groped for her clutch, hoping the tiny dagger was still inside.
"Shh, Lady, you must rest." Cybelle frowned. The voice was familiar, she couldn’t place it, but she felt strangely comforted.
"Where am I?" The last thing she remembered was a goblet of sweet wine.
"Why, surely you are dreaming, Lady. Close your eyes and sleep again."
As soon as he was sure Cybelle slept, Sir Edward crept towards her, the knotted silk cord wrapped in his fist.
-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 95
Malloy Dos Capeheart, Little Gorda Press (out of print)
Mistra
100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar
20 years later, Eriisai calendar
Road through the Great Forest
It was daytime, that much was clear, and there were tall trees bending towards each other overhead. Lelet sat up and took a look around.
The road was wide enough for two carts to pass without the drivers being able to touch hands, although at the moment they were the only ones traveling. It was indifferently maintained and the cart bumped over the occasional branch and into a few ruts. There were many ways to get out of Mistra, but this particular road ran from the city straight to the Green Sea, snaking through the deep and dark Great Forest. There were better routes to visit one of the nice resorts on the coast, so unless you were in a great hurry, there was no real reason to travel this way. Who left Mistra City to visit a farm or a tavern? The big farms (including those held by the va'Everly family) were in the other direction, in the valleys and lowlands between Mistra and the mountains.
Lelet frowned, trying to remember—she'd had the strangest dream—someone talking to her in a sweet whisper... but it was gone. She touched the back of her head, fearing the worst, but found only a small bump and no blood. Nothing seemed to be broken and her vision was clear. She wriggled her hands, her wrist was fine. The person who had taken her was sitting up on a bench at the front of the cart, wrapped in a cloak of some sort, with a hat pulled low. He was talking to the horse.
"Well, it’s true that you aren’t as big as I was expecting, but I feel that if we work together we can get this over with-"
"Are you insane?" she asked. He glanced over his shoulder.
"I am glad you aren’t dead. Or impaired. I apologize for hurting your head." He pulled awkwardly on the reins until the horse gave up trying to figure out what the man wanted and began walking in a large, slow circle. She watched, her initial terror draining away, until he finally got the animal to stop. His accent was faint and strangely familiar, but she couldn't place it. He sounded young, but who used words like 'impaired’?
"I have some things for you," he said.
He jumped down and handed her a large leather bag. He was tall enough that he didn't have to reach up at all to pass it to her over the wooden plank which gated the back of the cart.
She looked at the empty road behind him. On the one hand she wasn’t tied up or secured in any way. On the other, she was barefoot, her beautiful white dress was damaged beyond repair, and she had no idea where she was. The trees were so tall that when she looked back to where they'd come from, she couldn't find the city skyline at all. She decided to look in the bag, which she snatched away from him and pulled to the far side of the cart. He kept his head down, the hat hid most of his face. He had unfashionably long dark hair, was tall, possibly insane, and couldn’t drive a cart. Beyond that she had no idea.
She looked in the bag and her heart sank. She pulled out her white shoes.
"I thought you’d probably not want to lose those," he said, as if that was an explanation.
She pulled out her white satin purse.
"Don’t worry," he said with a smirk. "I checked it for weapons."
"You think I carry weapons in my purse?" She pulled out a slim cigarette case—yes! Matches! She had a brief moment of ecstasy as she took a long drag.
"Why are you doing that?" he asked, waving his hand at the curl of smoke.
"I know, it’s disgusting, I mostly quit. But I think I earned it." She stubbed out the cigarette and narrowed her eyes at him. "So, you grab me, knock me unconscious, and then go back and fetch my bag?"
"Your wrap thing is in there also. I tried to clean it off but it got pretty muddy."
She threw the stub away and edged towards him. "How much did Rane pay you?" She swung herself over the back of the cart, climbed down and advanced on him. "Or was it Althee? That bitch, is this her idea? Are you supposed to be the pirate? Or was it the two of them together?"
To her surprise he took a step back as if she were his size and a threat and not a small and barefoot girl in need of a bath and a change of clothes. "Rane takes advantage of people. He figured you were simple and he got you involved, am I right? I bet it was Rane, Althee has more sense than this. So, what are you supposed to do with me now?" She took another step forward and he continued his retreat.
"I am not simple. Why does everyone..." He shook his head and said in a louder voice, "That’s enough, wench! Get back in the cart or I’ll leave you here to starve in the woods." He nodded approvingly to himself. She stared at him with disbelief.
"Wench? Are you from a hundred years ago? What is going on?" He didn't answer. "Well, there's absolutely no way I'm going anywhere with you." She turned and began walking the way they'd come. He walked behind her.
"There are bears lurking in the woods, you know," he told her. "Bears and, um, what else lurks? ...Brigands! Bears and brigands. You're much safer with me than out here alone."
After stepping on the fifth or sixth sharp stone, she swore under her breath, turned and stomped past him. "Fine. Take me on your little cart to Rane and he and I will have it out once and for all. He's going to pay for this. My dress is ruined, I missed the pa
rty, and my feet are crippled. And stop calling me wench, it sounds ridiculous."
"There is a warmer dress in that bag. Put it on and if you give me this one," he pointed at her white gown, "I'll fix it for you. I won't look."
He held his hand out to help her back into the cart. She glared at him and hoisted herself back over the rail. Peering in the leather bag, she found an enormously ugly dark brown dress. She looked over at the man, who already had turned away—polite, at least. He had crossed his arms and was looking at the sky. She wished he'd take off the hat, she wanted to get a better look at him. One thing at a time, though. She wiggled out of the white dress and into the brown one in a flash, and threw the white silk at his back. The new one came to mid-calf and felt like carpeting but it was certainly warmer than the silk.
"I don't know what you mean by fixing it, but knock yourself out." She continued to root through the bag, next finding several apples, a lump of cheese wrapped in paper, and a loaf of bread. "How rustic," she sneered. "Well, I won't starve, I guess. So. Instead of a pirate, I get you. Rane is supposed to be out with my father at our farm. How did he pull this off? You might as well tell me." She began working on the apple.
"I am to deliver you to someone. I won’t hurt you. That’s all you need to know." He took his seat on the driver’s bench and began tugging—randomly, it looked like—on the reins.
She glared at his back. "Try keeping them the same length," she said, "and we might go in a straight line."
"It doesn’t become a woman to give orders," he informed her.
When she had recovered her composure she said, "All right then. We’re not going to talk anymore right now. Good luck with your new friend."
Chapter 51
Cybelle dos Shaddach peered into her tiny hand mirror and applied more color to her already perfect coral lips. She laid a slim hand on the Duke’s arm. "For you, my Lord, the great wide world is your arsenal. You may pluck your weapons from wherever you chose. But we women, we must keep our weapons close at hand."
The Sand Prince Page 27
