Of the other brother. Prince Stefansen, she learned a bit more. He'd run off on his brother's coronation day. And he'd done something worse than just run, according to rumor, though what it was, no one really seemed to know. Whatever, it had been enough to goad the new king into declaring him an outlaw. If Raschar caught him, his head was forfeit.
And that was fair interesting indeed. And was more than Tarma had expected to learn.
"That doesn't much surprise me, given what I've heard," Kethry remarked that evening, when they settled into their suite after another one of those stifling evening gatherings. This one had been only a little less formal than their reception. It seemed this sort of thing took place every night—and attendance was expected, even of visitors. "I'd gathered something like that from Countess Lyris. It was about the only useful thing to come out of this evening."
"I think I may die of the boredom, provided the perfume doesn't kill me off first," Tarma yawned. She was sprawled on the floor of Kethry's room on her featherbed (which the maids had not dared move.) Her eyes were sleepy; her posture wasn't. Kethry knew from years of partnering her that no one and nothing would move inside or near the suite without her knowing it. She was operating on sentry reflexes, and it showed in a subtle tenseness of her muscles.
"The perfume may; I don't think boredom is going to be a problem," Kethry replied slowly. She leaned back into the pillows heaped at the head of the bed, and combed her hair while she spoke in tones hardly louder than a whisper. The candlelight from the sconce in the headboard behind her made a kind of amber aura around her head. "There is one hell of a lot more going on here than meets the eye. This is what I've gotten so far: when Idra got here, she supported Raschar over Stefansen. The whole idea was that Stefansen was going to be allowed to exile himself off to one of the estates and indulge himself in whatever way he wanted. Presumably he was going to fade away into quiet debauchery. Raschar was crowned—and suddenly Stefansen was gone, with a price on his head. Nobody knows where he went, but the best guess is north."
Tarma looked a good deal more alert at that, and leaned up against the bedside, propping her head on her hands. "Oh, really? And what came of the original plan? Especially if Stefansen had agreed to it?"
Kethry shrugged, and frowned. It was a puzzle, and one that left a prickle between her shoulderblades, as if someone were aiming a weapon for that spot. "No one seems to know. No one knows what it was Stefansen did to warrant a death sentence. But Raschar was—and is, still, according to one of my sources—very nervous about proving that he is the rightful claimant to the throne. There's a tale that the Royal Line used to have a sword in Raschar's grandfather's time that was able to choose the rightful heir—or the best king, the stories aren't very clear on the subject, at least not the ones I heard. It was stolen forty or fifty years ago. Idra apparently volunteered to see if she could find it for Raschar, the assumption being that the sword would pick him. They say he was very eager for her to find it—and at the moment everyone seems convinced that she took off to go looking for it."
Tarma shook her head, slowly. Her mouth was twisted a little in a skeptical frown. "That doesn't sound much like the Captain to me. Sure, she might well say she was going off looking for it, but to really do it? Personally? Alone? When the Hawks are waiting for her to join them and it's nearly fighting season? And why not rope in one of Raschar's tame mages to help smell out the magic? It's not likely."
"Not bloody likely," Kethry agreed. "I could see it as an excuse to get back to us, but not anything else."
"Have you made any moves at old Jadrek?"
Kethry sighed. Jadrek had been exceptionally hard to get at. For a lame man, he could vanish with remarkable dexterity. "I'm courting him, cautiously. He doesn't seem to trust anyone except Tindel. I did find out why neither Raschar nor his father cared for Jadrek or his. The hereditary Archivists of Rethwellan both suffered from an overdose of honesty."
"Let's not get abstruse, shall we?"
Kethry grinned. This part, at least, did have a certain ironic humor to it. "Both Jadrek and his father before him insisted on putting events in the Archives exactly as they happened, instead of tailoring them to suit the monarch's sensibilities."
"So what's to stop the King from having the Archives altered at his pleasure?"
"They can't," Kethry replied, still amused in spite of her feelings that they were both treading an invisible knife edge of danger. "The Archive books are bespelled. They have to be kept up to date, or, and I quote, 'something nasty happens.' The Archives, once written in, are protected magically and can't be altered, and Raschar doesn't have a mage knowledgeable enough to break the spell. Once something is in the Archives, it's there forever."
Tarma choked on a laugh, and stuffed the back of her hand into her mouth to keep it from being overheard in the corridor outside. They had infrequent eavesdroppers out there. "Who was responsible for this little pickle?"
"One of the first Kings—predictably called 'the Honest'—he was also an Adept of the Leverand school, so he could easily enforce his honesty. I gather he wasn't terribly popular; I also gather that he didn't much care."
Tarma made a wry face. "Hair shirts and dry bread?"
"And weekly fasts—with the whole of his Court included. But this isn't getting us anywhere—"
Tarma nodded, and buried one hand in her short hair, leaning her head on it. "Too true. Ideas?"
Kethry sighed, and shook her head. "Not a one. You?"
To her mild surprise, Tarma nodded thoughtfully, biting her lip. "Maybe. Just maybe. But try the indirect approach first. My way is either going to earn us our information or scare the bird into cover so deep we'll never get him to fly."
"Him?"
Again Tarma nodded. "Uh-huh. Jadrek."
Three days later, with not much more information than they'd gotten in the first two days, Tarma decided it was time to try her plan.
It involved a fair amount of risk; although they planned to be as careful as they could, they were undoubtedly going to be seen at some point or other, since skulking about would raise suspicions. Tarma only hoped that no one would guess that their goal was Jadrek's rooms.
She waited for a long while with her ear pressed up against the edge of the door, listening to the sounds of servants and guests out in the hall. The hour following the mandatory evening gathering was a busy one; the nightlife of the Court of Rethwellan continued sometimes until dawn, and the hour of dismissal was followed by what Kethry called "the hour of scurrying" as nobles and notables found their own various entertainments.
Finally—"It's been quiet for a while now," Tarma said, when the last of the footsteps had faded and the last giggling servant departed. "I think this is a lull. Let's head out before we get another influx of dicers or something."
As usual, Kethry sailed through the door first, with Tarma her sinister shadow. There was no one in the gilded hallway, Tarma was pleased to note. In fact, at least half the polished bronze lamps were out, indicating that there would be no major entertainments tonight in this end of the Palace.
I hope Warrl's ready to come out of hiding, Tarma thought to herself, a little worriedly. This whole notion of mine rests on him.
:Must you think of me as if I couldn't hear you?: Warrl snapped in exasperation. :Of course I'm ready. Just get the old savant's window open and I'll be in through it before you can blink.:
Sorry, Tarma replied sheepishly. I keep forgetting—damnit, Furface, I'm still not used to mind-talking with you! It's just not something Shin'a'in do.
Warrl did not answer at once. :I know,: he said finally. :And I shouldn't eavesdrop, but it's the mindmate bond. I sometimes have to force myself not to listen to you. We've got so much in common; you're Kal'enedral and I'm neuter and we're both fighters. You know—there are times when I wonder if your Lady might not take me along with you in the end—I think I'd like that.:
Tarma was astonished; so surprised that she stopped dead for a moment. You—
you would? Really?
:Not if you start acting like a fool about it!: he snapped, jolting her back to sense. :Great Horned Moon—will you keep your mind on your work?:
To traverse the guests' section they wore clothing that suggested they might be paying a social call; but once they got into the plainer hallways of the quarters belonging to those who were not quite nobility, but not exactly servants—like the Archivist and the Master of Horse—they stepped into a granite-walled alcove long enough to strip off their outer garments to reveal their well-worn traveling leathers. In the dim light of the infrequent candles they looked enough like servants that Tarma hoped no one would look at them too carefully. They covered their hair with scarves, and folded their clothing into bulky bundles; they carried those bundles conspicuously, so that they were unlikely (Tarma hoped) to be levied into some task or other as extra hands.
The corridor had changed. Gone were the soft, heavy hangings, the frequent lanterns. The passage here was bare stone, polished granite, floor and wall, and the lighting was by cheap clay lanterns or cheaper tallow candles placed in holders along the walls at long intervals. It was chilly here, and damp, and the tallow candles smoked.
"Well, this explains one thing about that sour old bastard," Tarma muttered under her breath, while Kethry counted doors.
"Seven, eight—who? What?"
"Jadrek. Why he's such a meddlar-face. Man's obviously got bones as stiff as I'm going to have in a few years. Living in this section must make him as creaky as a pair of new boots."
"Ten—never thought of that. Remind me to stay on the right side of Royal displeasure. This should be it."
Kethry stopped at a wooden door set into the corridor wall, a door no different from any of the others, and knocked softly.
Tarma listened as hard as she could; heard limping footsteps; then the door creaked open a crack, showing a line of light at its edge—
She rammed her shoulder into it without giving Jadrek a chance to see who was on the other side of it, and shoved it open before the Archivist had time to react. Kethry was less than half a step behind her. They were inside and had the door shut tightly behind them before Jadrek had a chance to go from shock to outrage at their intrusion.
Tarma put her back to the rough wood of the door and braced herself against it; no half-cripple like Jadrek was going to be able to move her away from the door until she was good and ready. The rest was up to Kethry's silver tongue.
Jadrek glared, his whole attitude one of affronted dignity, but did not call for help or gibber in helpless anger as Tarma had half expected. Instead every word he spoke was forceful, but deadly cold, controlled—and quiet.
"What, pray, is this supposed to mean?" The gray eyes were shadowed with considerable pain at the moment; Tarma hoped it was not because of something she'd done to him in getting the door open. "I have come to expect a certain amount of cavalier treatment, but not in my own quarters!"
"My lord—" Kethry began.
"I," he said bitterly, "am no one's lord. You may abandon that pretense."
Kethry sighed. "Jadrek, I humbly beg your pardon, but we were trying to find a way to speak with you without drawing undue attention. If you want us to leave this moment, we will—but damnitall, we are trying to find out what's become of our Captain, and you seem to be the only source of reliable information!"
He raised one eyebrow in surprise at her outspokenness, and looked at her steadily. "And you might well be the instrument of my execution for treason."
Tarma whistled softly through her teeth, causing both of their heads to swivel in her direction. "That bad, is it?"
His jaw tightened, but he did not answer.
"Believe or not, I've got an answer for you. Look, I would assume you are probably the most well-read man in this city; that's what the Captain seemed to think," Kethry continued. "Do you know what a kyree is?"
He nodded warily.
"Do you know what it means to be mindmated to one?"
"A little. I also know that they are reputedly incapable of lying mind-to-mind—"
At Kethry's hand signal, Tarma stood away from the door, crossed the room at a sprint and flung open the casement window that looked out over the stableyard. She had seen Jadrek at this window the night before, which was how she and Kethry had figured out which set of rooms was his. Warrl was ready, in the yard below; Tarma could see him bulking dark in the thin moonlight. Before Jadrek could react to Tarma's sudden movement, Warrl launched himself through the open window and landed lightly in the middle of the rather small room. It seemed that much smaller for his being there.
The kyree looked at Jadrek—seemed to look through him—his eyes glowing like topaz in the sun. Then he bowed his head once in respect to the Archivist, and mindspoke to all three of them.
:I am Warrl. We are Captain Idra's friends; we want to kelp her, but we cannot if we do not know what has happened to her. Wise One, you are one of the few honest men in this place. Will you not help us?:
Jadrek stared at the kyree, his jaw slack with astonishment. "But—but—"
:You wonder how I can speak with you, and how I managed to remain concealed. I have certain small powers of magic,: the kyree said, nearly grinning. :You may have heard that the barbarian brought her herd dog with her. I chose to appear somewhat smaller than I am; the stablehands think me a rather large wolf-dog cross.:
The Archivist reached for the back of a chair beside him to steady himself. He was pale, and there was marked confusion in his eyes. "I—please, ladies, sit down, or as a gentleman, I cannot—and I feel the need of something other than my legs to support me—"
There were only two chairs in the room; Tarma solved the problem of who was to take them by sinking cross-legged to the floor. Warrl curled behind her as a kind of backrest, which made the room look much less crowded. While Kethry took the second chair and Jadrek the one he had obviously (by the book on the table beside it) vacated at their knock, Tarma took a quick, assessing look around her.
There were old, threadbare hangings on most of the stone walls, probably put up in a rather futile attempt to ward off the damp chill. There was a small fire on the hearth to her right, probably for the same reason. Beside the hearth was a chair—or rather, a small bench with a back to it—with shabby brown cushions. This was the seat Jadrek had resumed, his own brown robes blending with the cushions. Beside this chair stood a table with a single lamp, a book that seemed to have been put down rather hastily, and a half-empty wineglass. Across from this was a second, identical seat; To Tarma's left stood a set of shelves, full of books, odd bits of rock and pieces of statuary, and things not readily identifiable in the poor light. At the sight of the books, Tarma felt a long-suppressed desire to get one of them in her hands; she hadn't had a good read in months, and her soul thirsted for the new knowledge contained within those dusty volumes.
In the wall with the bookcase was another door, presumably to Jadrek's bedchamber. In the wall directly opposite the one they had entered was the window.
Pretty barren place. This time Tarma was thinking directly at the kyree.
:He has less—far less—respect than he deserves,: Warrl said with some heat. :This man has knowledge many would die for, and he is looked upon as some kind of fool!:
"I... had rather be considered a fool," Jadrek said slowly.
The kyree raised his head off his paws sharply, and looked at the man in total astonishment. :You hear me?:
"Yes—wasn't I supposed to?"
Tarma and the kyree exchanged a measured glance, and did not answer him directly. "Why would you rather be considered a fool?" Tarma asked, after a moment of consideration.
"Because a fool hears a great deal—and a fool is not worth killing."
"I think," Kethry said, leaning forward, "you had better begin at the beginning."
Some hours later they had a full picture, and it was not a pleasant one.
"So the story is that Stefansen intended some unspecified harm t
o his brother, and when caught, fled. In actuality, Tindel and I overheard some things that made us think Raschar might be considering assuring that there would be no other male claimants to the throne and we warned Stefansen."
"Where did he go?" Kethry asked.
"I don't know, I don't want to know. The less I know, the less I can betray." His eyes had gone shadowy and full of secrets.
"Good point. All right, what then?"
"Have you had a good look around you?"
"Raschar's pretty free with his money," Tarma observed.
"Freer than you think; he supports most of the hangers-on here. He's also indulging in some expensive habits. Tran dust, it's said. Certainly some very expensive liquors, dainties, and ladies."
"Nice lad. Where's the money coming from?"
Jadrek sighed. "That's the main reason why I—and my father before me—are not in favor. King Destillion began taxing the peasantry and the merchant class far too heavily to my mind about twenty years ago; Raschar is continuing the tradition. About half of our peasants have been turned into serfs; more follow every year. Opposing that was a point Stefansen agreed with me on—and one of the reasons why Destillion intended to cut him out of the succession."
"But didn't?" Kethry asked.
Jadrek shook his head. "Not for lack of trying, but the priests kept him from doing so."
"Idra," Tarma reminded them.
"She saw what Raschar was doing, and began to think that despite Stefansen's habit of hopping into bed with anything that wiggled its hips at him, he might well have been a better choice after all. He certainly had more understanding of the peasantry and how the kingdom's strength depends on them." Jadrek almost managed a smile. "Granted, he spent a great deal of time with them, and pretty much with rowdies, but I'm not certain now that his experience with the rougher classes was a bad thing. Well, Idra wanted an excuse to go after him—I unearthed the old story of the Sword that Sings. Raschar has one chink in his armor; he's desperate to prove he's the rightful monarch. Idra took Raschar the old Archive books and got permission to look for the Sword. Then—she vanished."
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