One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  The heat was growing by the moment; the sun reached zenith and began edging west. By the time they could make out shadow sufficiently to tell direction by it, even Chris had to admit they probably weren't going to find the Street of the Blind Muse on their own. That they had no idea where they were in relationship to it, the gate they had come through early in the day, or even to the temple they'd passed hours before. By Jennifer's count, they'd had at least a glimpse of Podhru's bay twenty or more times. They'd smelled more dead fish than she cared to think had ever lived, and there'd been other, less pleasant odors.

  When the two men in plain, dark blue uniform came walking around the end of another of the endless, featureless walls, Jennifer stirred, ready to jump down and accost them herself, if need be. Dahven got a grip on her elbow, minutely shook his head, leaned over to touch Enardi's arm. The Bezanti sighed faintly but obediently waved an arm to catch the guards’ attention, drew the mule to a halt and waited for them to come up. Jennifer cast a warning glance back at Chris, who touched Lialla's knee and winked at her. The sin-Duchess gave him a smile in reply; she looked too pale and very nervous. Keep quiet back there, Jennifer thought; she leaned into Dahven's arm, cautiously shifted her left onto her lap, grateful all at once for the sling: The jolting ride through rough-cobbled streets was making it ache in earnest.

  The guards were both young, probably not any older than Chris, slender in new-looking blue uniforms, unmarked except for a small copper pin at the throat. Both wore belts that held a short wooden club and a narrow blade—something longer than a dagger, shorter than a sword. One also had a number of rope lengths hanging from a leather strap attached to the belt. Low-tech handcuffs, Jennifer thought, and shifted her glance at once. The very thought made her nervous, and she wondered whether they'd expect that; whether an ordinary Rhadazi woman would be nervous around armed city guards. But you're an outlander, one who was wounded only a few days ago, in mistake for someone else, she reminded herself firmly, and leaned into Dahven's side. You have every right to be shaky, even around what Robyn would call the local fuzz. Around anyone with a sharp blade. She forced her eyes away from the weapons belts and studied the two men: One was fairly dark, what she was beginning to think of as the typical Rhadazi—medium height, compact body, hair as dark a brown as Lialla's, brown eyes, swarthy complexion. His companion was perhaps a little taller and more slender, slightly paler against a reddish brown moustache and dark red hair. “Sirs?” Enardi said when they came around the mule to look at the wagon and its contents. It didn't ease Jennifer's nerves at all to hear the unusually deferential tone the boy used.

  Or the slightly arrogant voice of the dark-haired guard. “Young sir? You appear lost."

  "I fear so.” Enardi smiled, spread his arms in a broad shrug. “I've come from Bez on my father's business, he sent me to finalize a contract for wool—"

  "Yes,” the dark guard broke in impatiently. “What business do you seek, have you a name?"

  "Sirs, Kamahl, he's from Bez years since, a shop among the weavers in the Street of the Blind Muse.” Enardi's smile became rueful. “I've not visited Kamahl in perhaps three years, and my elder brother always found the shop. The way I know, that he used to take—well, there was a temple washing."

  "There were several today.” The red-haired guard sounded just as impatient. The heat, Jennifer told herself. Maybe she'd sound like that, too, if she had to patrol the narrow, airless streets in this town.

  "I was forced to turn north, and so lost my way. If you could give me proper directions—"

  The guards looked at each other appraisingly and didn't respond right away; Jennifer's stomach dropped and her mouth went suddenly dry. But the redhead shrugged, looked back the way they had come, shrugged again. “There aren't any good directions. The street comes to a dead end four separate times that I know of, against new buildings. And it's not the only street that does in that sector. But the Street of the Blind Muse isn't very far; we can take you partway. Far enough to point you where you should be."

  Enardi inclined his head and picked up the reins. “That's extremely kind of you, sirs."

  "It's what we're paid for,” the dark man replied and he sounded rather huffy about it. Jennifer glanced nervously at Enardi, who seemed momentarily at a loss for anything to say and finally decided to say nothing. The guard glanced across Enardi to look at her. “The lady looks unwell,” he said accusingly.

  "An injury,” Jennifer managed, adding, “sirs,” when the man's eyebrows went up. “I can rest when we've reached Kamahl's shop."

  "Sirs, my wife is tired and hot,” Dahven put in quietly, when the guard gave no sign of moving. “We spoke with city guard some days ago, when this”—he indicated Jennifer's wrapped arm—“occurred."

  "City guard—what name?” the dark man demanded.

  "They gave me none, sirs. Red and gold uniform."

  The dark guard gave his companion a look Jennifer couldn't begin to fathom; the redhead tugged at his moustache, finally nodded and took hold of the mule's harness. “Apologies, lady,” he said, and gave her a smile that would have been almost friendly, if it had reached his eyes. Those were still chill and appraising, or so she thought. “It is our business to make certain such matters aren't left unreported in city walls."

  She nodded, swallowed past a dry throat. “Of course, sirs."

  "Since the matter has already been reported and dealt with, we won't delay you any more.” He started back up the street, turning the way he and his companion guard had just come. Jennifer sighed and leaned against Dahven. She could feel sweat trickling down her ribs. Waste of the antiperspirant I put on this morning. Dahven's arm was across her shoulders; the hand that rested against the base of her throat trembled. Behind them, Chris and Lialla were extremely quiet, and if not for the sound of hooves against large paving brick, she wouldn't have been certain the two were still there.

  * * * *

  They went slowly, since the two men who led them were afoot. Another of those radiating intersections, and then another. Jennifer tried not to look anxious, however she felt, tried not to watch the guard lest they catch her at it and take offense.

  Something simply felt wrong. Thread, she thought. Would either of these men know, if she attempted to Wield right now? She finally decided not, as they passed through a widening in the street that held a well and a pool, where three women were washing clothes. Lialla would know; Jennifer hoped she'd have the sense to keep quiet. She tried to shift: nothing.

  After three attempts, she swore under her breath and gave it up. Something was wrong; unlike those times when she'd been too tired or hurting too badly, even when she was riding that wretched horse—she could sense it out there. See it, hear it, however faintly; almost touch it. Almost. There was something between her and Thread.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead; she wondered how much longer the tape would hold Chris's bangs against so much moisture. Something there. It could be some block set by the Emperor, or one of his religions, to keep magic from being utilized in Podhru. But if so, why hadn't anyone told her? Damn unlikely, Jennifer thought. Those two— She shifted, sitting as straight as possible so she could whisper against Dahven's ear. “Problem,” she said softly. “I can't touch Thread. The guard—"

  Dahven's arm stiffened around her; he made no other sign she'd spoken. She glanced at him sidelong; he was studying the two. “Different uniform,” he murmured finally. “I don't know it, means nothing, haven't been here in a long time.” He fell silent.

  "I'm blocked,” she said and bit back anything else; her whisper didn't want to stay under control. One of the guards glanced back at them as they crossed through yet another of the radiating intersections, bearing left this time. Jennifer managed a faint smile, winced as the wagon jolted across a drainage cut. The red-haired guard smiled in reply, said something to his companion. The second man turned briefly to say, “Not far now.” Jennifer smiled at him, too, then bent forward to let her head fall on her hand. She s
ighed, heavily, felt Dahven's arm tighten on her waist.

  Edrith was behind her, a silent presence still kneeling just behind the bench seat, where he could look between her and Enardi. She let her right arm fall, brought it close across her body and worked it under the layers of brown cloth to poke the Sikkreni in the side. He jerked, caught hold of the bench and then her fingers, leaned forward as though looking around. “What?” he breathed against her ear.

  "Something wrong—"

  "I thought so. They don't feel right. You know—?"

  "No,” Jennifer admitted. “You be ready to run."

  She'd feared argument from him; he scratched his chin, gave her the least of nods. “Of course. Get help."

  "Chris,” she went on anxiously, and with a nervous look from under her eyebrows at the two guards.

  "I'll get Chris and Lialla out,” he assured her. The dark guard glanced around; Edrith yawned hugely and sat back on his heels, dropping out of sight. Jennifer sighed, leaned into Dahven once more.

  I can't take this, she thought miserably. More fighting? Knives, blades—I can't do it.

  They took another turn, into a narrow street so high-walled the sky was a slender ribbon of blue far overhead. There were paving stones missing here; the mule stumbled in the gloom and Enardi swore as the wagon creaked ominously. “Sirs,” he began anxiously. “If there is another way, my wagon won't take this mistreatment.” The guard ignored him. Enardi pulled the mule to a halt. “Sirs,” he said, a little louder. His voice echoed; he looked around nervously. There were no windows here, only a few doors and those in disrepair. The walls were solid, dark stone and Jennifer would have sworn the wall to their right was the same construction as the outer city walls they'd passed through hours ago. They rose straight up, and at perhaps third-floor height above her head sloped steeply toward a distant ledge or parapet.

  There was no place to turn, scarcely enough room for a man to walk either side of the wagon. Jennifer swallowed an evil taste, glanced at Dahven. His face was set and grim under the hood. Enardi on her other side was absolutely white, and she wondered if the boy was going to faint. She reached across with her good hand, squeezed his elbow, and when he looked at her, she nodded. He managed a very thin smile. She let her gaze go past him, up and around, casually across her shoulder. Edrith was gone, and she'd never heard him go. So, less quietly, were Chris and Lialla; she was aware of the faint, distant clatter of hooves on stone, rapidly receding.

  Enardi drew the reins close to his chest, came partway up. The two guards stood talking just in front of the mule, one holding the bridle. “Sirs,” Enardi said again, a little louder. “Sirs, I might suggest this isn't a good way to get ourselves and this wagon to the Street of the Blind Muse. And I remember the street itself well enough to know this is not it."

  "No.” The red-haired guard came back along the driver's side of the wagon. “This, however, is where you were going.” He smiled, a cold flash of teeth below chill blue eyes. “There are those who would have words with you, Lord Dahven. And with those who travel with you.” He glanced into the bed of the wagon for the first time, swore, and leaned across the bed to stare back the way they had come. “Jessat, the other three! They're gone!"

  "Cowards,” Jessat snapped.

  "They could have gone for aid—"

  "Hah.” The dark man let go his grip on the harness and spat. “Aid from whom, Karadan? There's no guard this time of day hereabouts; on a day like this, they're bunched down by the temples anyway. Besides, aid against us? We're guard, remember?” He looked at the three on the wagon seat, passing over Enardi at once, his glance holding Jennifer's only briefly before it fastened on Dahven. He smiled, a thin turning of lips, took two steps up the narrow alley and drew his long knife to beat on the door there with the hilt. He came back along the wagon then, to stop next to the mule. Dahven looked down at him without expression. Jennifer felt his hand slip from her shoulder to slide along her back, down to the blade he'd fixed at the small of his back. Two of them, she thought numbly. Two against what? I can hold the bo, I don't think I can use it. Enardi's—look at him, poor boy, he's too afraid to move.

  Well, she could suddenly understand that; she was nearly that frightened. But two of them against Dahven—Dahven who'd stuffed his sword down under the seat so no one would doubt the part he played, Dahven who only had a long dagger to face two men armed with something similar. No. Oh, no. She shifted gingerly, carefully, slid her right hand into the sling. I swore I wouldn't need this, I swore I wouldn't use it— Well, bless Chris for insisting she put Edrith's spare knife and sheath inside the sling anyway.

  Noise up ahead of them got her attention; three men had come out of the door Jessat knocked on. Two carried swords; the third had a throwing spear in one hand, and a bolos swung gently from his other. Jessat glanced over his shoulder, turned back and smiled. “There'll be no trouble, Lord Dahven."

  "No trouble,” Dahven replied quietly. Jennifer felt his left arm tense as he freed the knife from its sheath; her own fingers tightened on the dagger. She set her foot on Enardi's and when he glanced at her, she moved her eyes sharply back. She wasn't certain he'd understand that as an order to get out of the way but apparently he did. His own eyes slid back, he tightened his lips, blinked instead of nodding.

  "Let go the weapon,” Karadan ordered.

  "Weapon?” Dahven asked.

  "Now,” the guard insisted flatly. “Or the lady will be the one who suffers. They say you're fond of her."

  "They say,” Dahven scoffed. His fingers pressed against her side, a signal to move, and he threw himself onto Jessat. Enardi rolled backwards off the seat as the red-haired guard snatched at his arm; Jennifer moved herself across to where Enardi had been, slashing in a hard arc. Karadan yelped as she touched the back of his hand, drawing blood in a thin line across the base of his fingers. He snatched the fingers back; Jennifer landed on the left-hand edge of the seat hard enough to jar her teeth and set her left arm throbbing furiously. A moment later, Karadan had her by the elbow, dragging her from the wagon. She shrieked in fury, drew a deep breath to project with an opera-singer's voice: “Thieves! Murderers! Let go of me, you bastards!"

  "Shut her up!” the man with the throwing spear shouted. Karadan snarled wordlessly; he had his hands full and Jennifer still had the knife.

  "Rapists! Robbers! Fire!” Jennifer bellowed. She screamed in pain as Karadan got a better grip on her left arm and squeezed; the man with the throwing spear dropped it and strode forward to wrest the knife from her fingers and hit her, hard, just under the ribs. Jennifer choked and bent double, fighting for breath. Dahven went down under three men, Jessat on top.

  Karadan tore the scarf from her head and wrapped a hand in her hair, dragging her upright against him. “It didn't need to come to this kind of violence,” he said against her ear. “No one wanted to hurt you—"

  "Save it,” Jennifer gasped. “Save the lies. No one believes you.” She could feel his rather anxious, unhappy gaze on her; the man who'd hit her retrieved his spear and went past them to gaze around behind the wagon.

  "Where's that boy who was driving? The other two?"

  "In no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find him,” Jennifer spat. “That's a quote,” she added as he pushed back around her. “Which you'd be too stupid to recognize in my world.” He reversed the spear and brought it up; Karadan swung her around, putting himself between the two.

  "Don't, Miklan,” he urged. “Their Honors didn't want the woman hurt—"

  "Let them deal with her, then,” the spearman said flatly. “For the other, though—” He gave her a nasty, gloating smile and stepped back. “No one said anything about him going home alive."

  "No,” she whispered and dragged against the armsman's grip; she hissed and went limp when his fingers dug into her biceps and the barely healed spear cut. They had Dahven on his feet again; there was blood on his forehead, a thin line of it running down his cheek. Two of them held his arms
; the man Jessat stood a pace or so away, smiling grimly. He brought the knife up in an underhand grip. Jennifer shook her head. “No! Someone will hear, they'll come—"

  "Shut her up, Karadan."

  "Lady, please don't—” Karadan began unhappily. Jessat's knife touched Dahven's shoulder; the tip sliced through fabric. Jennifer spun into the red-haired boy and let her full weight hit him. Caught by surprise and thrown off balance, he staggered into the wall. She got a handful of shirt, went almost to her knee, pulling him forward with her, straightened at the last moment and got her right foot behind his leg. His head hit the wall, hard; Jennifer went down with him, tore loose from suddenly limp fingers and drew back, feeling cautiously for the man's dagger. He'd drawn it, earlier; she'd just heard it hit—there. She looked up, knife in her hand as someone yelled. “Dahven? Oh, God—” But it wasn't. Dahven has used the two men holding him for leverage and had thrown a tremendous kick; the man Jessat was doubled over, his face deeply purple, and as Jennifer scrambled between the mule's front and back feet, he fell onto his side and lay there, whimpering.

  "Jennifer, look out—!” Dahven's voice cut off abruptly, as though someone had driven the air out of him. A foot slammed down across the blade of the long knife, pinning it and her hand. Miklan dropped his spear and reached down to grab her wrist and haul her upright; he'd dropped the bolos, too. The free hand cracked down hard across her left cheek and ear; she staggered into the mule and nearly fell. Miklan caught hold of both shoulders and shook her fiercely.

  "Whatever their Honors want,” he hissed, “no man with any sense would keep such a woman alive! First, however, you'll tell me who was the other with you: the boy who was driving the wagon. His name!” She shook her head, hard, set her lips in a tight line.

  "Miklan.” A hoarse voice from somewhere near their feet. The guard Jessat faltered to his feet, still bent nearly double, and clutched the mule's harness for balance. The animal danced nervously away from him, went still as the man swore and slammed a fist into the back of its head. “Miklan, there were three more—"