Crow, her voice the barest breath of sound, said, “Four ahead, two behind. They mean to kill us if they can. Now!”
She raised her hand. The Sword leapt into it, and in the same movement she dug her heels into Blanca’s sides. As if she’d only been waiting for the signal, Blanca jumped from a standing position to a full gallop. Pedro was a second behind her, the Bard’s rawboned roan at Pedro’s heels. Ahead, the Sword flashed lightning as Crow flourished it, cutting swathes through the air. “Seer and Sword, to arms, to arms!” Crow bellowed.
“Seer and Sword, to arms!” Sharryn cried, the Staff freed of its sheath and held at the ready. Blanca’s neigh was like a rumble of thunder, and Pedro’s high bray a promise of death and destruction. The silver runes inscribed on the blade of the Sword and around the pole of the Staff glowed with a white light that seemed almost to smoke with rage. “Seer and Sword, to arms!” The words seemed to grow in volume and to repeat themselves so that the very leaves and thorns on the demon trees were stripped away by their passage.
They galloped around the bend at full tilt, no check, no pause. Blanca crashed into the four horsemen waiting there and Crow laid about her, the Sword alive with fury in her hand. There, one man disarmed. There, another screamed when the sword in his hand shattered and the bone in the arm holding it shattered as well.
Behind her Sharryn and the Bard had wheeled to face the two horsemen attacking from the rear. Crow heard the meaty sound of wood on flesh, a shriek of pain, and the thud of a body hitting the ground. A horse whinnied in terror, and there was the clang of metal on metal.
The two attackers in front of her were armed with swords and wielded them well, but not as well as Crow, and their swords were no match for hers. One of them realized that before the other, pulled viciously at the reins of his horse, and yelled, “Away! Away to me!” The disarmed man had already vanished. The third man dropped his guard and paused only to haul the man with the shattered arm up behind him before kicking his horse into a gallop.
A touch of the knee, and Blanca turned a neat half circle on two hooves to face behind them, just in time for Crow to see two horses vanishing around the bend of the road in the opposite direction. “I thought I heard one unhorsed!”
“You did,” Sharryn said sourly, inspecting her Staff for nicks. She ran a loving hand down its length and settled it back in its sheath. “He got up again. I must be slipping.”
The Bard had his sword already in his scabbard. “Who were they?” he said, a little breathless.
Crow shook her head. “I don’t know. It was personal, though. Their hatred was very real and very strong.” She started to say something else, then shook her head. “Very strong.”
“Handy Talent you’ve got there,” the Bard said.
“Just make sure you pronounce my name correctly when you sing the song,” Crow said, and he laughed.
She held the Sword upright before her. Thank you, she thought, and pressed her lips to the cross guard.
They rode through the gates of Ydra Castle just as the sun sank behind the jagged peaks of the Kimaera Mountains. It was a large and forbidding structure, built of black granite flecked with mica, so that light seemed to strike sparks from its surface, like a forge constantly at work on a new weapon. The curtain wall was twenty feet thick, topped with ramparts wide enough for two men to walk abreast and pierced with narrow slits spaced an arm’s length apart. Assessing the defenses with a warrior’s eye, Crow saw that they were only sparsely manned, bowmen present at only every sixth or seventh station.
The walls ended in the perpendicular face of Mount Daemos on either side of the castle itself, which had been hewn from the side of the mountain. The rooms and passageways were rumored to run for leagues beneath the mountain, each king of Kalliope having made his own additions, some of them in secret. It was said that one of the more merciful punishments meted out by a displeased ruler was to be marooned in a disused corridor, sentenced to wander the halls of Ydra Castle for all time.
There was no king of Kalliope, the direct line having died with Opheon in the Siege of Hestia. The Count of Kalliope received them instead, one Moris Naupactus, who was also the Lord Governeur. In Kalliope, the civil authority and the heredity authority would always be one and the same.
He greeted them civilly enough, actually managing to meet their eyes. “Your journey was uneventful, I trust?”
“I’m afraid not, lord,” Crow said. “We were attacked on the road early this afternoon.”
He sat forward, his brow furrowed as he listened to their account, and when they were done, he snapped to an aide, “Send a troop out at sunrise to see what you can find.” The aide bowed and departed. “I am relieved to see that you suffered no hurt,” he said, and almost seemed to mean it. “My most sincere apologies for this outrage. I promise you, every effort will be made to apprehend your attackers. When they are caught, I shall deal with them myself.”
Crow bowed again. “We could ask no more.”
“The Assizes will be held in the Grand Hall through which you entered,” the count said, changing the subject. “We trust that is acceptable. Good. Shall we say Mineus, then, after we break our fast?”
He raised a hand as if to dismiss them. Crow forestalled him. “That is three days hence, Count. It was our understanding that we had a month to review the cases before court went into session. We have discovered through experience that many prospective cases can be resolved by mediation.”
His smile was bland. “It is our wish that the Assizes begin on Mineus, Sword. You will dine with me this evening. My servant will fetch you.”
He turned toward the Bard. “King’s Singer.”
“Lord,” the Bard said.
“What news do you bring us from abroad?”
This time their dismissal was unmistakable, and they retired to their quarters, a large suite consisting of two bedrooms with a parlor between. Like all the other rooms they had seen in Castle Ydra, they had been hewn from the mountainside. The darkness—there were no windows, of course—was alleviated by a series of tapers burning in wall sconces.
There was about the room, as there was about everything they had seen in Kalliope from the port of Pylos on, an air of deterioration, if not outright decay. The sconces and the candelabra were brass, but tarnished. The tapestries were massive but faded and threadbare. The beds were large and ornate but elderly and creaking in their joints. Putting Sharryn’s thoughts into words, Crow said, “With the possible exception of the Soldier’s Rest, everything in this province seems like it’s on a downhill slide, and rather closer to the bottom than to the top.”
A small fire was lit, but the fireplace in the parlor was so massive it swallowed up any heat thrown off. “How I wish we were back at the Soldier’s Rest,” Sharryn said, shivering. “Speaking of which, where were you this morning?”
“What?”
“I woke up, you were gone. You’ve never been an early riser.” An eyebrow lifted in her direction. “Did the innkeeper prove more charming in private than he was in public?”
Crow was spared further inquisition when there was a knock at the door. A servant in the count’s livery, patched at elbows and knees, came in, held the door wide, and announced, “The Viscountess Naiche, daughter of Moris.”
The lady was reported to be twenty-five years old, but she looked much younger. Slender to the point of thinness, she had large, dark eyes, a high-bridged nose, a firm-lipped mouth, and a very decided chin carried high and proud. She wore a plain black dress, belted with a narrow girdle with a plain silver buckle. Beneath the hem of her skirt, Crow saw leggings and flat-heeled shoes made of sturdy leather.
Crow exchanged a swift glance with Sharryn. “Lady Naiche. I am Crowfoot the Sword. This is Sharryn the Seer.”
The lady inclined her head. “My father the count sends me to see that you are comfortable in your lodgings, and well provided for.”
“We are, lady, I thank you,” Crow said.
She had ent
ered the room with a long stride, her head high, and she met Crow’s eyes with a direct, unflinching gaze. “It is said that you were attacked on the road from Pylos. Our court physician is able, should you have sustained any hurts.”
“We did not, lady.”
“That is well.”
Crow exchanged another look with Sharryn, and said delicately, “Perhaps someone else has reported to the physician for aid.”
A wintry smile crossed Naiche’s face. “Perhaps.”
They waited, but the viscountess said no more. Crow meditated for a moment, and decided on a frontal assault. “Lady, we are told you will stand before us on Mineus.”
The viscountess nodded, her expression impassive. “That is correct.”
Again they waited. Again, the count’s daughter waited with them. Goaded, Sharryn said tartly, “Accused of a most heinous crime.”
“Yes,” the viscountess said, and no more.
Sharryn, at a loss, looked at Crow. Crow said bluntly, “Lady, we have not long been in your province, but it is plain to see that any woman would have a very poor hearing before any court held in Kalliope.”
Naiche, Viscountess of Kalliope, inclined her head. Her hands were clasped before her, and Crow could see her knuckles white with strain. Looking closer, Crow saw the folds of her skirt shaking, as if the young woman’s knees were trembling. “Lady,” she said, “if you have any evidence to offer in your own defense, and if you have no reasonable expectation of being allowed to lay that evidence in open court, now would be the time to lay it before Seer and Sword.”
Naiche’s face was white to the lips, and she spoke stiffly. “I thank you for your concern, Crowfoot the Sword, but the customs of Kalliope do not permit it.” She turned, and the liveried servant hastened to open the door.
“Then perhaps, lady,” Sharryn said to her retreating back, “it is time for the customs of Kalliope to change.”
Naiche stopped short of the threshold. Without turning around, she said in a low voice, “Impossible. There is nothing you can do for me.” A pause. “Except, I beg you, cause the Sword’s judgment to be rendered as swiftly as possible.”
The door closed gently behind her, and Sharryn and Crow were left staring at each other.
“Hear ye, hear ye. The Grand Assizes of Mnemosynea, created by Charter and ratified by Treaty, is now in session. All who stand in need of the King’s Justice, draw near to be heard. The King’s Seer is summoned to hear the truth.”
“The King’s Seer answers,” Sharryn said, striding forward, the Staff in her hand striking the stone floor with a clear ring.
“The King’s Sword is summoned to render justice.”
“The King’s Sword answers,” Crow said, and drew the Sword from its sheath on her back and raised it before her in both hands. She took her place at Sharryn’s side. Mindful of both their office and of local custom, they had taken care with their attire, clean, neat, badges of office clearly displayed on their shoulders. Above all, Crow thought, no unseemly exposure of bare flesh to offend the Kalliopean gentry who had flooded in from the countryside to view personally this abomination of women in public and to take the tale home again to their shires and villages.
Our bare faces are affront enough to this lot. The link from mind to mind had as usual kicked in at the drawing of the Sword.
Peace, Crow replied. They have offered us no insult since we have been here.
Tolerating our presence among them doesn’t mean they have any respect for us.
They don’t have to respect us. Just the office.
You were gone again this morning.
Crow was spared a reply by the bailiff’s summons. “Hear ye, hear ye, draw all ye near to bear witness, hear ye, hear ye.”
The words echoed hollowly up into an arched stone ceiling so high there was a perceptible echo. The Great Hall had been cleared of everything except a dais at the far end, upon which were placed two chairs. At a slow, measured pace Sharryn and Crow progressed down the center of the hall, the crowd drawing back to make a path for them, and took their seats on the dais. Crow reversed the Sword and let the tip rest on the dais but kept it upright, a shining blade of tempered steel wrought by the alchemy of the Lycian smiths, the cross-guard silver chased with sapphires, the hilt made to fit Crow’s hand, the pommel set with another, much larger sapphire, the length inscribed with silver runes.
Sharryn’s Staff was cut from one of the sacred boles of the Forest of Arthemeus, its length chased in silver runes by the same Talented artisan and its head set with the twin of the sapphire in Crow’s Sword.
The king’s secretary acted as bailiff. He was a thin, nervous man with scant hair and a mouth pursed in perpetual disapproval as he read out cases from the docket.
The kidnapping came first before them. It wasn’t kidnapping the accused was charged with, however. It was rather the dispossession of a valuable asset—to wit, one daughter, the loss of whom had deprived her family of, not her Talent (unspecified), no, no, nothing so inconsequential, but of her womb, which in Kalliope was the property of her father and as such to be dispensed with to whom he saw fit. Her father didn’t approve of his daughter’s new husband, and, of course, his daughter wasn’t called to bear witness, but there was enough evidence to bring the charge home.
Simple theft, Sharryn thought.
Proven, Crow thought, and wondered what the Sword would make of it.
The rape and the subsequent stoning to death of the victim and three revenge murders took up the next three days. On the fifth day, the Great Hall was crowded with what seemed to be most of the population of the keep jostling for space. The count himself was there, standing to one side in a small circle of deferential space. The Bard was also there, making polite conversation with the mirror image of the count, only much younger and considerably better dressed. The son, Crow thought. The Viscount Kerel.
I see him. But not the daughter, heavens no. You recognize him, don’t you?
Indeed Crow did. It was the arrogant little nobleman from Pylos, who had called them witches and spat at Blanca’s hooves. Crow had wondered if perhaps he might have had something to do with the attack on the road.
The charge was murder, lodged against the daughter of the Count of Kalliope. Worse, it was infanticide, the murder of a child, a baby not out of its crib. And most horrible of all, a male child, the putative heir to the hereditary ruler of the province of Kalliope.
Why did they send us here for this case? What possible motive could they have for pulling out Aeros and Thanos only halfway through their assigned year? And replacing them with us, of all the Seers and Swords? They must have known that our very presence would alone be an incitement to riot.
Trust in the Sword.
Sharryn’s snort was audible and drew glances. She raised her chin and looked around the Great Hall, deliberately catching the eyes of those men not quick enough to look away.
The bailiff stepped forward and called the first witness, the head of the palace guard and the investigating officer, one Captain Sergeus. A burly man in his midfifties, he wore the black livery of Ydra Keep and held his uniform cap beneath one arm as he testified in a steady voice, shoulders squared, eyes straight ahead. His voice was deep and calm, relating the facts of the case in chronological order.
Count Moris Naupactus was that rarity among Kalliopeans, a man with two children. The first was a daughter of twenty-five, Naiche, born to his first wife, unnamed in the record.
Imagine that, Sharryn thought.
The second child was a son of twenty-three, Kerel, born to Moris’s second wife, also unnamed.
The brat preens at the mere mention of his name, Sharryn thought.
He did, too, but what interested Crow more was the way his father kept his face turned away from his son. Come to think of it, they were even on opposite sides of the room. She wondered if that was by accident or design.
Last year, in the month of Numina, Kerel had become the proud father of an infant son.
Three months later, on the morning of the third day of the Festival of Freya (Festival, my eye, Sharryn thought, call it an orgy and be done with it), the baby’s crib had been found empty. A hue and cry had followed, Captain Sergeus said, in his dry recounting of the facts. The entire population of Ydra had been turned out, and no corner of the Keep had been left unsearched.
A deep ravine cut between Mount Yrdra and a section of the Keep, with a swift, narrow river below. A postern opened onto a small plateau that overlooked the ravine. One of the searchers had seen something on a ledge halfway down, where the baby’s body had been found, broken and cold in death.
Next to the body had been found the personal seal of Naiche, daughter to Moris, sister to Kerel, and aunt of the deceased.
“The personal seal?” Sharryn said.
“Yes, Seer,” Captain Sergeus said, indicating a table set near him.
“Bring it forward, please.”
He picked it up and took it to the dais. Sharryn examined it closely and passed it to Crow. The seal was made of some dark, hard stone with a device inset into one side, that of a small hawk, so swift, so fierce it seemed almost in motion, so marvelous was the Kalliopean carver’s art.
A curious symbol for a female of this province, Crow thought.
Very, Sharryn thought. Aloud, she said, “And this seal has been recognized as belonging to Naiche, daughter of Moris?”
“It is, Seer. It has been so attested to by the count, the viscount, and the viscountess.”
There was a stain on the seal, a thin film dried a rough dark brown. Crow sniffed it. Blood. Her eyes met Sharryn’s. “There is blood on the stone, Captain.”
“There is, Seer. With your permission, I would call Petros, the court physician, to testify.”
“Bring him forward.”
The captain raised his voice. “The Count of Kalliope summons Petros, son of Kostas, born of Ydra, physician to the Count of Kalliope, to come forth and give testimony in this matter.”
A tall, gaunt man garbed in the gray of the physician came forward with a deliberate pace, halting before the dais. He looked up at Seer and Sword with an unwavering stare. When he spoke, he spoke as an equal, without deference, but also without the general Kalliopean contempt to which they had become accustomed. He spoke directly and to the point. Yes, Sergeus had brought him the seal. Yes, he had identified the blood on it as that of the child’s.
Unusual Suspects: Stories of Mystery & Fantasy Page 25
