by Sharon Shinn
Senneth studied Justin’s stubborn face. He was the most sarcastic and prickly of her particular band of friends; he was the one who could be counted on to point out your slightest mistake. But Justin, she had learned long ago, was the one who could not bear the idea of misplacing a friend, who could not stand solitude or loneliness. He had lost so many people so early in his life—and he had trusted so few others—that he absolutely refused to part with those to whom he gave his allegiance. It was no surprise he had become a Rider, famed for his devotion to his king. It was more of a surprise that such a position existed in the world, as if tailored especially for Justin’s soul.
“So who taught these Fortunalt guards how to fight like Riders?” she asked again. “Did they say?”
“Apparently their captain—the one who held the auditions and hand selected her team—she’s the one who’s been training them.”
Senneth glanced around the training yard again. There were two women on the field, in addition to Janni, but neither of them was Wen. “Where is she?”
His mouth twisted. “She’s been called away for a few days. Orson says he’s not sure when she’ll return.” Clearly, Justin didn’t believe this.
“Did they describe her? Name her?”
“Willa is what they call her. Orson was vague about her appearance, but Moss talked a little more freely. Small, compact, brown-haired.” He met Senneth’s eyes. “It could be her. It has to be her.”
She glanced over at her husband, now walking Karryn through a fairly straightforward strength move. “What does Tayse say?”
Justin’s face was full of dissent. “He says if it is Wen, she obviously chose not to be here when we arrived and we should respect her decision to stay away from us.”
“And what do the other Riders say?”
A small grin came to his mouth. “They think we should go looking for her.”
Senneth let out a long breath. “Well. This is an unexpected development. I suppose, no matter what, we should be pleased that Karryn is gathering a strong guard around her. Her mother mentioned that she’d been attacked on the road not long ago.”
“Worse than that,” Justin said, and proceeded to relate a shocking tale about an attempted kidnapping.
“I wonder if Cammon knew about this when he decided to set out for the southern Houses?” Senneth said.
Justin shrugged. “Who can ever guess what Cammon knows? But he realized there were outlaws on the southern roads. He might have known about Karryn.”
Neither of them said the obvious. And he definitely knows if Wen is here, calling herself Willa. It seemed unlikely, however, that he would break his accustomed silence on this topic to tell them what they wanted to know. “Well,” Senneth said. “Go back to your workout. I’ll see what I can find out from Jasper Paladar.”
Justin shook off his dark mood and gave her a lazy smile. “What about you? Don’t you want to practice this morning, too?”
She glanced down at her dress. “I don’t think I’m properly attired.”
“Probably do the serramarra good to see how well a woman can fight.”
“If this Willa really is Wen, Karryn has already seen a woman fight much better than I’ll ever be able to.”
“A titled lady then,” Justin said. “You must be the best swordswoman among the Twelve Houses. Serra Karryn could profit from your example.”
“I don’t think I’m along on this trip to show off my prowess as a fighter,” Senneth said, picking up her skirts and turning back toward the house. “I’m here to lend some respectability to Cammon.”
That made Justin laugh outright. “Then they got the wrong woman for an impossible job,” he said.
“I agree on both counts,” she said. “But I must go and do my best.”
Chapter 32
WEN WAS BORED AND RESTLESS WITHIN FOUR HOURS OF checking in to the quiet little inn on a backstreet in Forten City. She had thought she might take the opportunity to relax a little, but she found almost immediately that she couldn’t settle. She’d eaten in the small taproom on the first level of the inn, then retired to her room while it was scarcely a couple hours past dark. Then she just perched on the edge of her bed, too tense to even attempt to lie down and sleep.
If she were at Fortune right now, she would be finishing up dinner at the barracks or heading to the house to consult with Jasper Paladar. If she were at Fortune, she would be looking forward to a night spent in the lord’s bed, laughing and making love.
No, if she were at Fortune right now, she would be face-to-face with nine Riders, enduring their questions or their sympathy or their silent scorn.
For so many reasons, she wanted to be at Fortune.
It was pointless to undress and lie on the bed merely to stare up at the ceiling. So she pulled her boots back on, armed herself with a couple of her more discreet weapons, and headed back out into the night.
It was middle spring now, and the day had been exceptionally warm. Evening had dropped the temperature, but pleasantly so, and the streets were crowded with people made cheerful by the weather. More men than women, more youthful than aged, but sharing a desire to express their high spirits by prowling through the friendly night.
Wen had chosen an inn away from the more commercial districts of the city, but just a few turns down the busy streets brought her to an intersection that was lined on all four corners with taverns doing a brisk business. The first one she tried was too rowdy even for her restless soul, and filled to bursting with what looked like a whole crew of men just off some trading vessel and spoiling for a fight. The second one was a little quieter, though Wen couldn’t find an open table. She stood at the bar and ordered a drink, then rested her spine against the counter and sipped from her glass while she watched the other patrons.
Most of them were men intent upon getting drunk; a few were women who had obviously been paid for their companionship. No one looked to be more than thirty years old, although one or two appeared to have at least a little noble blood. Wen found herself watching a card game among six young men, one of whom she was fairly certain was cheating. The rest looked like bankers’ sons or merchants’ heirs, well-heeled and stupidly confident in their skill. She smiled a little to see them make progressively larger wagers and then exclaim in indignation when they lost.
Sure enough, about an hour in, one of the rich boys cried, “You’ve marked the cards! No one gets lucky that often!” and pretty soon people were jumping to their feet and knocking over chairs and exchanging wild blows. A few of the other patrons happily joined the fray, while the barman pounded on the counter and called for order. Wen felt absolutely no inclination to enter the fight, even though the respectable young men were obviously no better at fighting than they were at card playing and it was clear they were going to lose the brawl and all their money. No—they were hardly helpless; she was not needed here. She paid for her drink and stepped back into the night.
Cooler out now, but still a couple hours from midnight. She was still too wound up to attempt to sleep. She strolled farther down one of the main streets, looking for a quieter place to try next, and found one tucked beside a millinery shop that was closed for the night. It was a single story high, clean, and well-maintained, and a warm yellow light streamed out from under the heavy oak door. Wen pushed it open and went in.
Ah—far more respectable. The tables were well-polished and widely spaced; the floor had obviously been swept that very morning. As was usual, there were more men than women sitting at the tables, but the women looked to be merchants’ wives or shop owners themselves, enjoying a relaxing evening after a hard day of work. Wen was probably a notch below the usual clientele, but it was the kind of place where anyone would be welcome as long as he or she did not start trouble.
She found an unoccupied booth in the back and sat so that she could watch the door and most of the room. The barmaid was an older woman who was probably the owner, or the owner’s wife, Wen decided.
“Having food
or just drinking?” the woman asked.
“I’ve eaten, but if you have pie, I’d take a slice of that,” Wen replied. “And to drink—”
She looked up as a figure approached the table, all of her senses on high alert. But this was someone she recognized, though she hadn’t expected to run into him here. He slid into the booth on the bench across from her.
“And to drink, she’ll have a bottle of Rappengrass wine,” said Ryne Coravann. “My treat.”
The woman nodded, which Wen took to mean she was familiar with this particular patron and knew he was good for the expensive order. “Anything else?”
“I think that will do for now,” Ryne said, and the barmaid departed.
Wen was left face-to-face with the impudent young Coravann serramar, who smiled at her as if he had just won a decisive victory in a long-running contest.
“Captain Willa,” he said. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Less of a surprise to see you here,” she said, “though I confess I would have expected you in a place a little less decent.”
He laughed at that. He was slouching back in the seat, one arm resting casually on the table. She thought he might have already gone through a couple bottles of Rappengrass wine before she arrived.
“I had a meeting with one of my father’s contacts, and this was the place he suggested,” Ryne replied. “I was just on the point of leaving for livelier venues when I saw you walk in. What brings you to Forten City?”
“Business of my own,” she said.
“I suppose you haven’t been fired from your position,” he said.
“Not yet. Perhaps you haven’t spoken out against me strongly enough.”
“I’m waiting for a major infraction. Although, from what I hear, you’ve really earned your keep in this past week, so perhaps I’ll refrain from trying to get you released just yet.”
The barmaid arrived with an open bottle, two glasses, and Wen’s pie. As soon as she had arranged the items on the table and departed, Wen replied. “What story did you hear? And who told it?”
“Lindy Coverroe was full of Karryn’s brush with death on the road back from the Flyten house,” Ryne said, pouring full glasses for both of them. “If even half of what she said was true, Karryn was truly in danger.”
Wen sipped the wine, which was drier than she liked and oddly spiced. But it went down smoothly and made a warm sensation in her stomach. “Karryn was truly in danger,” she said. “If we’d had one less man with us, or one more of our guards had gotten hurt, the outcome could have been entirely different.”
Ryne tossed off his first glass without even seeming to notice it and poured himself another. “Who attacked her?” he asked bluntly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Where were you a week ago?”
It was deliberately provocative, and his eyes gleamed with humor. “I spent nearly a week aboard one of my father’s trading ships that came into harbor here, honoring the captain with my magnificent presence,” he said. “Haven’t you missed me? I’ve been absent from Fortune for days.”
She’d been too preoccupied to notice he wasn’t around, but that annoyed her, so she said, “It was the kind of attack that could have been hired out, you know. I wouldn’t have expected you to actually be at the scene, taking part.”
He drank his second glass a little more slowly, while she ate most of her pie. When he spoke again, his glass was almost empty and his voice was grave. “Hired ruffians? Specifically sent to assault Karryn, you think?”
“That’s my guess,” she said. “Assault the serramarra—and kill her. Lindy didn’t pass on that information?”
“I don’t think she realized it.” Now his eyes looked shadowed, almost concerned. It was a look that seemed strange on that laughing face. “Who would want to kill Karryn?”
“Since I don’t actually consider you a suspect,” she drawled, which earned her a faint smile, “you might provide some insight. Who would want to kill any Twelfth House noble? And why?”
“Her heir, of course, except I don’t know who inherits after Karryn,” he said. “Other than that—someone who feels he’s suffered under her. Been rendered a harsh judgment when he came to her with some dispute.”
“I don’t think Karryn’s handled any disputes,” Wen said.
“Jasper then.”
Wen lifted her eyebrows. “You think someone might have been trying to kill Jasper Paladar, not Karryn?” The thought made her feel sick to her stomach. For some reason that possibility hadn’t occurred to her before. “Has he been a harsh overseer?”
She expected a flippant answer, but Ryne surprised her by being serious. “Actually, from everything I’ve heard, Jasper is highly respected among the serlords and the Thirteenth House nobles. Even Zellin Banlish speaks well of him, and he hates everyone.”
“So Jasper is unlikely to be the target. Karryn is, but why? Could somebody hate her simply because she is her father’s daughter? Could he want to revenge himself on Rayson through Karryn?”
Ryne shrugged. “Maybe, but it makes no sense. The best thing that ever happened to Fortunalt was to lose Rayson in the war. Even if Karryn is a terrible marlady, she would have to be better than he was. Everyone must realize that.”
“Then who would want to kill her?” Wen demanded.
He shrugged again. “It has to be someone who covets Fortune.”
Wen threw her hands wide in a gesture of frustration. “Jasper has had the heir investigated. It’s some backwater lord who scarcely sets foot off his own lands. The man doesn’t appear to have ever even seen his inheritance.”
Ryne gave her a sleepy smile. “You don’t think like a woman who wants a title,” he said in a chiding voice. “You are too focused on the immediate. My sister and her friends can recite bloodlines that go back ten generations—and possibilities that unfold ten generations into the future.”
Wen frowned, trying to unravel that. “You think—it could be someone who would inherit after this obscure lord? His heir?”
“That’s the kind of scheming I would expect from someone who was truly determined to win a House,” he said.
“But then—this man and his family are also in danger, are they not?”
“Possibly,” Ryne agreed. “Probably.”
“Then Jasper must warn them—although, if they are, in fact, the ones who are trying to kill Karryn, the warning will be a bit ironic—”
Ryne drained his second glass and grinned at her. “So, you see that life in the Twelve Houses never fails to be fascinating.”
Wen rubbed her forehead. “Give me a straightforward enemy any day,” she said. “I was never much of one for scheming and plotting.”
“It’s much less effort if you have no expectation of inheriting, and not much interest in it, either,” he said in a consoling voice.
Wen finished off her wine—she was beginning to feel she needed it—and poured a second glass. The bottle was almost empty, but she was not going to be the one to signal for a second one. She remembered the conversation she had overheard between Ryne and Karryn about two weeks ago. “You’re a marlord’s son,” she said slowly, “but the property doesn’t go to you, does it?”
“No,” he said indifferently. “My sister inherits.”
“What happens to serramar who don’t become marlords?”
He flashed her that dangerous smile. “Their parents usually bestow some fine property on them, and they marry and have children, and those children marry and produce offspring, and in a couple of generations you have another layer of Thirteenth House lords who feel aggrieved because their bloodlines aren’t quite good enough.”
