As Aly was pouring the last cup of wine for the meal, Bronau half turned to get a better look at her. “I know you,” he said with a smile. “You’re the little luarin slave who opened the door, the night I brought the king’s news to my friends. You’ve risen in the world, from doorkeeper to wine pourer.”
Aly bowed. “I do all manner of chores now, Your Highness,” she murmured. “I would not have had this opportunity in Rajmuat.”
“I’ll bet it’s not as exciting here as in the capital,” the prince said. “If my memory’s right, you had more of a Tortallan accent then. Did it rub off in the jungle? And your hair has grown more. The color is most becoming.” He was teasing her, his gray eyes dancing.
Aly knew what she was expected to do. She did it, bridling and smiling at the prince. “I’ve learned ever so much more since I first saw Your Highness,” she told him, acting the flattered female. Privately she supposed that Bronau was well enough, as men went, though he was much too old for her—he looked to be in his mid-thirties. Smile as he might and wink as he did when he straightened in his chair, Aly was unmoved. He did have nice hair, charm, and elegance, but he was lipless, shallow, and direct. He would bore her within a fortnight. Queen Thayet had once teased Aly that she would never find a man who could keep her attention for very long. Aly hoped that wasn’t true. For now, she considered ways to avoid Bronau in case he invited her to share his bed.
“Sleep with him?” Chenaol asked when Aly mentioned it, once she had returned to the kitchen with the wine tray. “As I told you early on, you can say no. His Grace lets his people make their own choices.”
“I thought the nobility would bid their servants to please their guests,” Aly remarked as she sat down to a meal of leftovers.
“Not His Grace. If they’re willing, and they’re protected from getting themselves with child, they may do as they please, and His Grace will defend them,” Chenaol replied. She was greasing her favorite wide cooking pot, the one like a large bowl. “But he won’t have anyone forced.” The woman looked Aly full in the face. “Why do you think people are so loyal to this family?” she asked quietly. “Because all are people in this house—raka and luarin, slave and free. The first time Petranne slapped a slave and called her a lazy cow, the duchess spanked her, and took away her dolls for a month. Petranne said she’d heard it at a friend’s house, and the duke ended the friendship. There are good luarin here, Aly-who-knows-so-much.”
Aly gnawed on her lower lip, then murmured, “And of course, there are Duchess Sarugani’s heirs.” She knew it was a risk to say it, but with the household aflutter with the new arrivals, the raka might accidently reveal more than they had before. Aly hoped to catch them off their guard.
“Why do you say ‘heirs’?” Chenaol demanded, her voice soft. Her small brown eyes were sharp as she looked at Aly. “Under the luarin, only males inherit.”
Under the luarin, Chenaol had said. Aly stuffed a rice ball into her mouth and chewed as she thought. So Chenaol knew of the old law, the law under which the females could inherit—females such as Sarugani’s daughters. Aly had once heard a man-at-arms figure the population of the Isles was one white among six brown. Did that number cover the mixed-bloods? Where might they stand if the raka chose to take back their home?
She was reaching for another rice ball when a sharp knife pricked the delicate skin under her ear. She was filled with admiration. She hadn’t even seen Chenaol palm the blade. “Is that the boning knife, or a chopping knife?” she asked politely. “If you press hard and cut down, I should bleed to death quickly. Of course, I’ll make a mess.”
“You’re very calm for someone who’s about to get her corpse dumped somewhere for the crows to eat,” whispered Chenaol.
“Now, this simply will not do.” A white, bright figure in the shape of a man appeared, seated across the table from Aly. Elsewhere in the kitchen everyone froze in place, eyes and chests unmoving. Only Aly and the cook were free. “Chenaol, my dear girl, stop that.” The bright figure spoke with Kyprioth’s crisp, cheery voice, accented just now with impatience. “I send help, and how do you thank her? We won’t get very far if you kill a luarin who can be of use.”
“Bright One, she’s a royal spy,” Chenaol snapped. “Too curious by half, sticking her nose in everywhere . . .”
“She is our spy, not the Crown’s,” Kyprioth informed the cook. “Imported for your purposes with not a little trouble on my part, I might add. I’ll take that.” The knife vanished from the cook’s hand to reappear in front of the god’s light-shape.
Aly glared at him. “I was handling this,” she informed Kyprioth. “I didn’t need you.”
“Yes, but you’re so careful about asking around that our wager will be done before my people realize you can help,” Kyprioth said reasonably. “Chenaol, why has it taken you so long to realize that Aly is someone special? Think of all the things you can do with her to help.”
Chenaol glanced at Aly, then at Kyprioth’s glowing form. She held out her hand. “You and your games, Bright One. It would be so wonderful if you ever once gave a body a hint about what you had in mind. I’ll take my knife back, please.”
“She isn’t very respectful,” Aly pointed out, interested. She couldn’t be angry with Chenaol. In her shoes, Aly would have killed such a nosy slave on the road to Tanair.
“Respect is hard to get when you’re a trickster,” the god said mournfully. “People are so often inclined to think the worst of one.”
Aly propped her chin on her hand. “I can’t imagine why,” she retorted. “Give the knife back.”
“I mean to be sure that she won’t murder you when my back is turned,” argued Kyprioth. To Chenaol he said, “If you kill this spy, I’m not getting you a new one.”
“You should have told us,” the cook repeated.
“I expected you to work it out,” snapped the god. “I wouldn’t have let a royal spy get a whiff of our girl. Really, must I do everything?” Without so much as a flicker he was gone. The knife was back in Chenaol’s hands. The other servants and slaves in the kitchen began moving about again, unaware that they had been held captive for a short time.
Aly watched Chenaol for a moment before she said, “I’m glad he’s not my god.”
The cook gave her the thinnest of smiles. “As long as his eye is on you, girl, you are his. Mountains give way before that one does.”
Aly shrugged. “All gods are like that. You can’t reason with them.” Hastily she added, “Or so I’ve heard.” She knew it from her mother, the Goddess’s own warrior, and from her Aunt Daine, a demi-goddess in her own right, who had met far more gods than any human would think healthy.
Chenaol sighed. “And so you are a spy.”
Aly winced. “Please keep your voice down.”
“I’ll have to tell the others,” Chenaol pointed out, eyeing the edge on her knife. “They feared that we’d have to kill you, when all of us like you so much. Fesgao insisted we give you a chance.” She put down the knife. “At least the god didn’t steal this. He’s as bad as a crow for taking things. I got my cooking knives from my mother, and she from hers.”
Aly rubbed the back of her neck. “Then raka inheritance is through the mother’s line,” she confirmed.
“Yes, of course. And the oldest child inherits. We don’t care if it’s a boy or girl.”
Aly looked around. No one was within hearing. Most of the staff had gone back to the main hall, where Bronau’s minstrel was tuning a lute. A shimmer of bells told her some of the staff had brought out their instruments. She murmured, “So under raka law, Sarai and Dove are their mother’s heirs. And their mother was royalty, wasn’t she?”
Chenaol got up and poured herself a cup of arak. She sat and propped her feet on a little stool. “The last of the house,” she replied, as quiet as Aly. “You know, some of the luarin nobility have taken up the custom. The first child inherits, whatever sex it may be.”
“But not the royal line,” Aly remind
ed her.
Chenaol lifted her cup in a silent toast. “Anything can change,” she said, and drank.
Aly was drifting off to sleep when she heard steps approach her in the dark main hall. She waited, a hand on her stolen knife. Feathers rustled as two shadowy figures dropped pallets on either side of her. Aly caught the drift of jasmine scent from her left, and soap mixed with aloe from her right. “You’re supposed to be in your parents’ room,” she whispered to Dove and Sarai.
“But you’re more interesting, and it’s too hot upstairs,” Sarai whispered.
“Can I bear the compliment?” Aly asked. “I’m not telling Lioness tales all night.”
“It really is too hot up there,” Dove said. “And we’re not used to such close quarters. We can tell you stories, if you like. Since you’re not from here.”
Aly yawned as she thought quickly. “I’m too tired for a long story,” she told the girls. “But I’d like to know what your mother was like.”
“She came from the old raka blood, the nobility before the luarin conquest,” replied Sarai, her voice dreamy in the shadows. “She was light, and color, and fun. She had a laugh like small gold bells. Every day was a holiday with her. She and the present duchess were best friends. I suppose that made it easier for Winnamine to take her place.” Her voice had turned bitter.
“If she was trying to replace your mother, would she and your father have waited years before they wed?” Aly wanted to know. “I heard it was one of your aunts who made him remember he owed it to the family to remarry.”
“What’s your mother like?” asked Sarai abruptly. “You’re so cool and thinking all the time—is that how your mother is?”
Aly had wondered what she would say when this question was asked. The obvious lie, that her mother was dead, felt too much like an ill-wishing to her. Her mother walked dangerous roads too often for Aly even to lie about her fate.
Instead she told a different falsehood. “I never knew her,” she replied. “I’m told she is a traveling musician. Her company spent winters in town, and she’d live there with my father, who’s a merchant. Only, the year after she had me, she stopped coming.”
For a moment both girls were quiet. Then Sarai whispered, “Aly, I’m sorry. We never meant to pry.”
Aly put a small quiver in her voice and replied bravely, “I hardly ever think of it. Da’s so good to us.” Softly she added, “She didn’t leave because of my sisters. Only me.”
“Do you mind?” someone growled nearby. “We have work in the morning, in case some of us have forgotten.”
“Aly, forgive us,” whispered Dove as she lay down on her pallet.
“I’m your slave,” Aly replied. “You have the right.”
Sarai murmured, “No, we don’t.” The sisters fell silent.
And that should be the end of that kind of question, Aly thought, satisfied.
Essence spells. We carry our essence everywhere, in our skin, in our hair, our nails. This means that everything we touch picks up some of ourselves. The longer the contact, the more essence is transferred. Thus, if you get clothing someone has worn when he or she has been active, or hot, or upset, that clothing will supply you with more than enough essence to work a spell. Mages favor essence spells for things such as locks and keys, because such spells can be linked to the owner alone. They are foolproof. They work if the owner touches something in a hurry, while under stress, in the cold. And there are ways to go around such spells.
—From a lecture on basic magical theory
by Numair Salmalin at the Royal University at Corus, attended by the thirteen-year-old Aly
8
A SPY’S WORK
Aly rose before dawn, as usual, since the duchess had not suggested that she give up her daytime work. She emerged from the kitchen wing to find Nawat seated on the rim of the well that served the cooks. He was surrounded by crows. The birds had found seats on the well’s cover, Nawat’s shoulders, the ground, the kitchen garden fence, and even the archery targets set up between the barracks and the garden. All of the birds looked as pleased as any human to be up so early, with the sun just showing above the eastern horizon. They sat or stood or walked, feathers ruffled against the early morning chill, eyes half shut with sleep. They stirred as Aly moved through them. Nawat turned to look at her.
“My clan has come,” he explained. “We will mob the Bronau hawk if you ask it. He is a danger to humans and their nestlings.”
Aly scratched her head. What was she supposed to say to that? Certainly she agreed. Her wager depended on keeping the Balitang nestlings alive this summer. Bronau was one of the factors that put them at risk.
“It’s not so easy among two-leggers,” she explained, wondering how she could explain human politics to her feathered allies. “We can’t drive him off. We’ll put the nestlings in more danger if we do.”
One crow made a croaking noise that sounded like a variation on the call to attack and kill.
“Then let us kill him and his flock,” Nawat said brightly. “He cannot kill or steal anyone if his bones are scattered between here and the mountains.”
Aly sighed. “Nawat, it’s not just Bronau. These soldiers who follow him? They are not his entire flock. He has a vast flock that will come to destroy everything where he was killed, understand? His brother, his sister-in-law, the king . . .”
Nawat regarded her with puzzlement, head cocked to one side. The other crows had the same expression and tilt to their heads.
“Humans do these things differently.” Aly knew she sounded feeble, but she was unsure how to explain matters so that they would make sense to them. “They aren’t as consistent as crows. Rank and alliances change among humans all the time, inside the flock and outside. And if you hurt one of their kin, they’ll punish whole families, even whole towns. You are here to help me, and I am here to keep the Balitang nestlings alive all summer, yes?”
Nawat smiled. “Yes, Aly.”
“Then you must trust me when I say that mobbing the prince would place them in even more danger,” Aly told him, now feeling weak and peculiar. She wondered if Aunt Daine ever felt this way, and if being able to speak animal languages made times like this easier for her aunt. “If we are vigilant with the nestlings, if we never let them stray from our eyes, we can hold them safe without mobbing anyone.” She rubbed her forehead, which had begun to ache. “Will you tell your friends, Nawat?” she asked. “And I will explain to you about humans and royalty later.”
“Yes, Aly,” Nawat told her with that particularly sweet smile. It was a smile that could divert her attention from Kyprioth’s wager, so she thrust all thought of it from her mind and went to collect her goats. She was leading them through the village gates when she heard the crows take flight from the castle. For a while she turned and walked backward to see the birds soar above Tanair, delighting at the sight of their iridescent blue-black feathers in the early light, and the graceful sweep of their wings. Soon they were gone, some to the trees among the eastern rocks, others to the fields that supported Tanair. She only hoped they hadn’t left large, white, streaky signs of their presence for the household to find when they went outside.
Aly walked on, savoring the fresh morning air and the promise of warmth to come. The weather here was nearly perfect: warm to hot days, and cool nights. She walked among fields that showed signs of crops coming in, down roads lined with wildflowers and the occasional tree. There were worse places to spend the summer, she decided as she led the goats into the rocks about the Dimari road. With Bronau’s presence to keep her alert and with the understanding that Kyprioth would not have troubled to involve Aly and the crows if he’d anticipated a peaceful summer, she knew she could pass a few interesting, pleasant months here. She did like a challenge.
Aly settled the goats in the rocks above the road to Dimari. Once they were happily grazing, she sat to peel the casing from her morning’s cold sausage. “Kyprioth,” she called teasingly. “I’ll share my breakfast with you
.”
“Spare me.” The god appeared atop a nearby boulder, dressed as a raka with his usual scrambled collection of jewelry and sparkling ornaments. He sat casually, his arms looped around one bent knee, so the jewels in his bracelets caught the morning sun. “Sausage has no appeal for me whatever.”
Aly sighed. “It’s cooked, silly.”
Kyprioth turned his face into the wind. “Cooked or raw, sausage is not the food of the gods. Why are we talking? My brother and sister won’t stay occupied with other wars forever, you know.”
Aly examined her fingernails as if she weren’t interested in her next question: “Are you looking to start a war here, sir?”
Kyprioth grinned, white teeth flashing against brown skin. It was a grin that was the essence of mischief, with none of the sweetness of Nawat’s smile. “A fine effort and well executed. May I remind you that you never call me ‘sir’?”
Aly grimaced. Tiny slips like that betrayed an impersonation.
“Why should you care?” the god went on. “You have but one task between now and the autumn equinox: to keep the Balitang children alive. War isn’t a concern for you.”
Aly leaned back against a tree, her eyes on the goats rather than the god. “You see, that’s what I wanted to ask you about,” she explained in her friendliest manner. “It’s just that I worry Chenaol will believe I am here for a bit longer than the summer. I would hate to disappoint her when I go. She might even believe that you might keep me here.”
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