One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  "Little warm sand gods, but you two were of no use at all, were you?"

  "We couldn't do other than what we did,” Jessat replied sullenly. “They'd have suspected—"

  "Which they did anyway, apparently. Did you recognize any of them? The Zelharri?"

  "There were a boy and girl on horses. I didn't know either of them; the boy might have been the outlander disguised. The girl—I never saw her before. The other—” He shrugged, winced and bent over coughing.

  "Tell me who they are, when they left you—where they went. I might spare you.” Jennifer set her lips in an even tighter line and just looked at him. His fingers dug into her left shoulder, hard, and for a moment everything swam. He eased the pressure. “Tell me."

  "Go to hell,” she said evenly. God, idiot, what's the matter with you? she thought in a sudden panic. But if he was going to kill her anyway, maybe it was better to provoke him into doing it quickly—Oh, Lord, I can't believe this is me, even thinking that! She gave him a flash of clenched teeth, looked over his shoulder. The two men still held Dahven but apparently hadn't done anything except to restrain him. She smiled at him; felt her heart lift slightly as he smiled back. She let her gaze move back past the wagon, then. Movement—? She felt her blood run cold. Please God, don't let that be Chris, or Enardi, or Edrith! The two of us dying is going to be bad enough without them keeping us company. One or two more—what possible difference could that make against men like these?

  "What are you looking at?” Miklan demanded. She ignored him, even when his hand tightened on her bad arm; none of them had worn red coming into the city. Whoever was coming along this dead-end, narrow alley was mounted—and wore red and gold.

  Jessat apparently had followed her gaze; one of the men holding Dahven shifted so he could look across his shoulder. He and his companion let go their prisoner so suddenly that Dahven fell back against the wagon. Jessat turned to scramble after them. Jennifer found herself dragged half a dozen paces past the mule, toward the open, sagging door in the left-hand wall; she dug in her heels then and dropped to the ground. Miklan yanked; Jennifer swore as her backside bumped into hard stone and then into a deep, wet hole between cobbles. Miklan swore in turn, spun back to hiss in her face, “It doesn't end here. Remember that!” He let her go, sprinted for the opening.

  "Damn right it doesn't!” she shouted furiously after him. Dahven had her by the shoulders then, and he pulled her around, face into his rough brown shirt. He squatted down in the alley next to her.

  "By all the gods there are, be still!” he said in a low, urgent voice, with a nervous glance across his shoulder. “You're going to get us both in terrible trouble."

  "Trouble?” Jennifer sat back and wiped a hand across her forehead, dislodging what was left of Chris's taped piece of hair. “Trouble?” She scooted backwards out of the muddy hole, wrapped both arms around his waist and began to laugh.

  13

  Enardi and Edrith were ahead of the guard by a few short paces; they pushed by the mule to kneel at Jennifer's side. “Are you all right?” Enardi asked aloud, adding in a very low voice, “Let me talk as much as possible, I think I can divert any suspicion."

  Edrith laid a trembling hand against her forehead, nodded, and said in a voice that carried even less: “It's the same men; be careful, both of you.” Jennifer sighed wearily, let her eyes close and shifted her weight slightly so she could curl into Dahven's arms.

  "What trouble here?” a cold voice broke into a too-short, welcome silence. It was the guard-master who'd interviewed her at the inn. It wanted only this, she thought even more wearily, but pried her eyes open and managed to lean away from Dahven.

  "I'm sorry you've had trouble with me twice,” she said, and offered him a tentative smile. She might as well have been smiling at a brick wall; the guard-master leaned against the wagon, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, face chill in its lack of expression. There were four others, one just pressing past him; another knelt by the guard Karadan, and two had gone on up the alley to begin testing the door. Jennifer glanced that direction, nodded. “They went through there—"

  "We saw.” The guard-master shrugged himself away from the wagon, walked around Enardi, past Edrith to stand behind Jennifer. He folded his arms again, stared down at Dahven, who looked reluctantly up. “Why don't you simply give us your real name, sir?” he went on abruptly.

  Dahven shook his head. “I don't—"

  "Before someone is hurt,” the guard broke in flatly. “Such as this lady has already been? Or before the lady is killed? It's said Lord Dahven holds her high in his regard."

  Dahven's shoulders sagged. No! Jennifer mouthed at him anxiously—too late. His eyes closed briefly; he nodded then.

  "He does,” Dahven said, and gave her a faint smile. “Though a man would never know it, seeing the way she's been used.” He set her fingers aside and got to his feet. “I am Dahven, Dahmec's son. Not his murderer—but that's not for you to decide, is it?"

  "No, Honor."

  Dahven laughed. “Not Honor, you know. My brothers hold that title; they preface my name these days with ‘the traitor,’ or didn't you know?"

  "The will has not yet been satisfactorily proven."

  "Oh? How that must please my brothers.” Dahven's smile vanished. “Never mind. If you must take me—"

  "Then I go with him,” Jennifer announced as she let Edrith help her up. Dahven opened his mouth; she closed the distance between them and set her hand on his lips, turned back to face the guard. “It is surely the man's right to be represented by counsel. I am his advocate.” Behind her Dahven said something; Jennifer reached back to take hold of his fingers but held her ground.

  For the first time, she saw something like an expression on the guard-master's face—it might have been the beginnings of a smile. “His advocate. Well. There is no law that prohibits me from escorting the man and his advocate."

  "Jennifer, no—"

  "Dahven,” Jennifer said in a low voice, “your advocate suggests to you that you're going to prejudice your case. Shut up."

  "I—oh, cold, yellow hells,” Dahven gritted between his teeth and then did indeed fall silent. The guard-master had already turned away to fix Edrith with a cool eye.

  "You came with this man from Sikkre?"

  "No. I found him in Bezjeriad. It's a long story—"

  "You will come also. There is plenty of time."

  "I wouldn't have it any other way,” Edrith said evenly. The guard-master gave him a sharp glance, shrugged and went on to Enardi. “And you—since we know now that these two are not from northern Andar Perigha, and that you did not in fact come from that direction with them—who are you?"

  To Jennifer's surprise, Enardi fairly radiated practical good sense—what she thought of as the attitude of wealth and power toward mere power; she'd seen it now and again in the firm's clients back home, when one of them challenged a moving violation. “I am the son of Fedthyr, of the Street of Weavers in Bezjeriad. I had certain contractual matters to handle here for my father, and since this lady and her companions wished to travel overland, it was thought I might journey in their company."

  "You knew who they were?"

  Enardi shrugged. “Of course. But, sirs, no one has suggested to me or to my father that any of these people are criminals or others with whom an honest man should have no dealings—"

  "That is not suggested now."

  "Well. I wanted to come to Podhru, and since my father intends me to take his place one day, he prefers that I take over all such distant matters for him, rather than giving them to agents as so many do. I become ill when I travel by ship and my father does not like me traveling the road alone. And so—” He made a gesture that was Fedthyr at his finest, taking in his companions. The guard-master frowned and appeared to think this over while he glared at the nearest wall. After a moment, Enardi added tentatively, “Sirs, I truly am expected at the Street of the Blind Muse. This emergency has cost me hours, a thing I h
ad not counted on since I sent messages from the inn; my host will begin to worry about me."

  The guard-master transferred the frown to him; Enardi gave him a small smile, and waited until the man shrugged and sighed. “Ah, well. Another question or two, then, before we extract you and your wagon from this hole. On the way here, you saw no other outlanders?"

  "Today?"

  "At any time."

  "Besides Jennifer? No."

  "No other persons, not necessarily outlander but not Bez merchants? We particularly wish to speak with a young man with a lame leg, a woman who might be his sister—?"

  "Ah.” Enardi smiled and appeared to relax all at once. “That would be Duke Aletto and the sin-Duchess Lialla, wouldn't it?"

  "It would?” The guard-master took a step toward him. “And why is that?"

  "Well—Everyone knows about them, of course. There is rumor all up and down the Bez market, my cousins brought extremely wild gossip recently from Sikkre. But for myself—I am sorry, sirs. I would not know where they are."

  "They are not with your company?"

  "No. Just—myself, these three.” Enardi glanced upward as though trying to determine how late the hour by the narrow strip of sky. The guard-master shook his head but turned to his followers. “You — over there. Help the Bezanti get his wagon out of here and turned, direct him to the Street of the Blind Muse. It isn't far,” he added to Enardi. “Only a matter of two turnings back.” He glanced over his shoulder as his other men came back through the now destroyed doorway, shutting what little was left of the door in a tooth-clenching shriek of unoiled metal hinge. They were alone: One shook his head, the other cast his eyes up.

  Enardi looked at them anxiously as they came close, turned to gaze at the guard-master. “Sir, if those ruffians have left—they knew my destination. You don't think—"

  "Enardi, is it?” The guard-master shook his head. “Most likely they were after this man and the lady, not you."

  "They might think my father wealthy enough—"

  "Not in Podhru,” the guard-master said so flatly that Enardi fell silent at once and ducked his head, but he glanced sidelong at Jennifer, tipped her a very grave wink. “I would suggest, however, young master, that you avoid such streets as this in future. There is no sense in actively seeking problems—is there?"

  "No—oh, no, sir,” Enardi replied in a very low and respectful tone.

  Between them—three guardsmen and Enardi—they finally got the wagon backed free and turned, though Enardi had to unhook the mule and let Edrith lead him back separately when the little beast utterly refused to back more than two paces. The guard-master waited in silence while Enardi refastened the harness and climbed onto the seat. “I won't insist you come with us now, young sir. But you had better come to the civil offices in the next day or so, to give your statement."

  Enardi nodded. “If I weren't concerned about the hour—"

  "We've enough to manage the rest of this day. You want the offices of the Emperor's Street Guard, remember that."

  "Sir. Thank you, sir."

  "Wait.” Jennifer came alongside the wagon and climbed awkwardly into the back. “I want my bag, my own clothing. If you don't mind."

  "Whatever is yours, lady,” the guard-master replied, and he sounded almost courteous. The courtesy held when he looked up at Dahven. “Honor, if you've any belongings there—"

  "I've nothing but the horses,” Dahven said. “Mine and hers.” Edrith had already loosed them from the tailgate when they backed the wagon out of the alley. He handed Dahven his reins, accepted a hand up onto the back of Dahven's mount; he slid down again once it became clear Jennifer couldn't get the large purse—now fatter by a pair of jeans, a chambray shirt and a newly darned tee-shirt, a pair of high-tops with a wad of white socks protruding from one unlaced cuff—hooked into its usual place. Clearly she'd never get herself mounted without assistance, and Edrith finally knelt to catch hold of her left foot so he could lift her. She winced as her arm jarred on the saddlebow; again when her backside—unpleasantly wet and muddy as well as sore from at least one hard fall—touched the saddle. But she shook her head when the guard-master looked at her in inquiry.

  "Nothing important,” she said rather shortly, adding, “sir,” as an afterthought. “Let's go, get this done. Enardi,” she added as they turned away from the wagon, “take care of yourself, will you?"

  He looked forlorn and very young—and perilously near tears. He nodded, ran a surreptitious finger under his nose, blinked hard. “I will.” Jennifer managed a smile for him, then edged her horse nearer Dahven's; he freed a hand and took hold of her fingers. One of the red-and-gold-clad city guard edged in front of the wagon to escort Enardi; another—he had taken Edrith up behind his saddle—moved out ahead of them and set off the other way. Jennifer clenched her jaw and loosened her grip on the reins; her horse shook his head so his mane flew wildly, and followed.

  * * * *

  A short distance away, down another dark side street, Chris held the two horses while Lialla crouched in an empty doorway, eyes closed, hands clutching at rough stone. He glanced at her, shrugged and turned away. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything, either—she said she was going to Wield, so, fine. He suffered a momentary qualm, which he identified and dismissed a breath later: A city this big, there were bound to be plenty of people using magic. He'd been warned a dozen times to keep his mouth shut; no one had warned anyone else about using magic, though. Not something aboveboard like Night-Thread, anyway.

  Chris wrapped reins around his fingers, neatly, concentrating on keeping the turns flat and even, and he swore under his breath, every word he knew in English, every word he'd picked up in Rhadazi since. I think I'll murder Eddie, he thought, but after a moment, he dismissed that thought, too: Jennifer had wanted them out of there, so they could get help. Chris still had to admit that at the moment when Edrith came back to warn them, it had made more sense for him to stick with Lialla. Jennifer was at least as capable as anyone else of taking care of herself; Dahven was good at it. Lialla—well, she wasn't half bad but the idea was to keep her out of sight and out of trouble, wasn't it? “Well,” Chris mumbled gloomily, “I sure did that, didn't I?"

  Who'd have figured those guys for Jadek's cheesy imitations of guards—who'd think Jadek would have the nerve to pull a stunt like that here? From the looks on those other guys’ faces, the guys in the red, they hadn't been too thrilled. Chris finished winding reins around his fingers, shook them loose once more, glanced back at Lialla. “You know,” he asked himself very quietly, “I wonder how come those guys were right there when Eddie went looking for them?” He could feel the blood draining from his face and if he hadn't been holding onto the horse, he'd probably have sat down right on the cobbles. “Oh, shit. You don't suppose those guys in red are Jadek's too?"

  Lialla caught his attention as she got back to her feet and slipped on a pile of rubble, sending a cascade of small stones and bits of wood across his feet. He turned, caught hold of her. “You all right?” he whispered. Lialla shifted in his grip to look at up him, and he wasn't certain she knew him. She drew a gasping breath, nodded, pointed back in the direction they'd come.

  "Moving,” she whispered.

  "Huh?"

  "Oh, gods,” Lialla murmured. “They have Jen, we can't—"

  "No!” Chris dug his fingers into her shoulders as she would have edged around him and probably run right into the street.

  "They have her, have Dahven!” Lialla insisted, her voice rising to a piercing whisper. “We can't—!"

  He heard the wagon creaking very close by, heard it turn away from them, and, following it, horses. A mounted man in red and gold came first, braid decorating his shoulders and his horse. Another followed him—same colors, plain garb—and behind him ... Lialla gasped and wriggled in Chris's hands. He drew a deep, steadying breath, expelled it in a gust, and with a muttered, “Well, hell,” caught the sin-Duchess close and planted a kiss squarely on her
mouth.

  At first he thought she was going to protest; Lialla apparently thought so, too, but as the horses went by the narrow, dark alleyway, she suddenly leaned into him and—you couldn't call it contributed, really, Chris decided. Definitely cooperated, though. Kind of nice.

  As soon as the sound of the horses passed and faded, though, she pressed both palms flat against his chest and twisted free. Her normally pale face was flushed across the cheekbones. Chris was annoyed to find himself blushing. “Um, hey, look,” he began. Lialla waved a hand to silence him and grinned crookedly.

  "Don't. I know what you did and why you did it."

  "Well, you know? Maybe I really wanted to—"

  Lialla's grin widened and she laughed, clapped a hand across her mouth as the sound filled the deserted little area. “Shhh,” she urged him, but the laugh was still in her voice. “Don't. Leave it as it is, it's much nicer that way.” Her eyes went grave over the hand, then, and she reached for his sleeve. “Chris, what are we going to do?"

  "Um.” He nodded, glanced all around them, scratched at his scalp until he remembered the hair was supposed to be flat. “Um, all right, we have options, we'd better go with them fast, though. Look, Ernie went the other direction; did you get a look at them? I don't think they did anything about him, I think that guy was pointing him in the right direction, sure looked that way to me. We could follow Enardi, catch up with him—but we can locate that street of his any time, if we can get back out of the city. Colin would know how to find it, wouldn't he?"

  "Don't know,” Lialla admitted. “Chris, I don't like to say so, but your young Bezanti friend—"

  "Yeah, don't say it,” Chris sighed. “Poor Ernie's not going to be much use in a tight spot and man, is that ever what we have right now. Besides, we don't know for certain he got turned loose, do we? Maybe they were tossing him out of town, or taking him some other place—I don't know. So, next idea, we find our way back out of the city, get the others, get Colin, make a plan—but I don't like that one, either. It would take time; our people may not have time."