One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  "Which leaves—?"

  "We go after Jen and Dahven and Eddie. I—look, would you know real guards from fake?"

  "Did I once today?” Lialla asked gloomily. “But if you're worried about those men in red and gold, they're Emperor's Street Guard. There aren't so many of them, and they're terribly important. I don't think anyone would dare impersonate them; anyone who lives in Podhru would know at once."

  "Well, yeah. Like living in L.A. and passing yourself off as a Laker—never mind. Tell you later. Well, okay, maybe.” Chris tugged at his earlobe, handed Lialla her reins and swung himself onto the horse. “All right. My decision, okay? We go after the guys in red, stay as far back as we can without losing them, so we don't get grabbed, and we at least know for sure where Jen and the guys got taken. And then: Well, we can figure it out from there. But I figure we'd better get back out to mom and your brother before they get mondo worried, maybe talk to Colin because he lives around here."

  "Go,” Lialla said as she settled herself in the saddle and brushed back hair that had slipped from her plait. It was one of her crisp, precise orders—all he'd ever heard out of her for days, early on. Chris kneed his horse and went.

  Except that Lialla had been the one, that second night, who'd offered him her share of the bread. “I remember how my stomach felt all the years I was growing, always empty.” That had been unexpected, really nice. He cast her a sidelong glance as she drew up even with him. Hey, the chick's got a lot of hassle in her life, and she's still all right. Too bad she was his aunt's age.

  Aunt Jen. He couldn't see any of them, now that he was out in the open, but when he would have said so, Lialla drew him to a halt and laid a hand across his mouth. Listened, finally pointed. “Ahead of us,” she murmured. “Go."

  Fortunately for Chris's peace of mind, they came upon the first of the five-way intersections just in time to see a glimpse of red and gold in the distance, before the horseman rounded the edge of a jutting building. Chris gave his horse a nudge to speed it up a little, drew back only as they came around the same building. There were three of the guard, one riding double—God, that's Eddie up there, behind him, he realized dismally. Just behind that horse, two more—Jen and Dahven, side by side, his hand on her leg. He knew her at once by the hair; it had fallen loose across her shoulders. The enormous handbag tied to the back of the saddle would have given her away if she'd been in full costume, though.

  For some reason, the handbag reassured him, and he drew his first deep, comfortable breath since Edrith had come off the back of the wagon to warn them. “They let her grab her stuff, Li, lookit. Her jeans, her high-tops. Would they do that if they were just going to take her out and shoot her?"

  "Take her—? Never mind, tell me later. The bag was under just about everything else; they must have given her permission to bring it, taken the time to free it.” Lialla caught his hand and urged her horse on. “Hurry, we're losing them again!” She was quiet until they could see the last of the city guard once more. “It's very unlikely they'd have any sort of writ against her anyway."

  "For helping you and Aletto—?"

  "That's not a crime,” Lialla said. “Even if there is a writ for Dahven—or for us,” she added bleakly, “there wouldn't be one for Jen, or for either you or Robyn. You'd have to commit some crime that involved the Emperor."

  "You forget about the minor matter of killing—” Chris began. But Lialla shook her head.

  "That's Duchy business, not a matter for the Emperor. Unless someone murdered by Light, or murdered a member of the nobility, or royalty.” She sagged momentarily. “Are they—? Oh, gods, there they are. That's why the Emperor might have writs of his own out for Dahven, or for Aletto or me."

  "Because of this Carolan? Or Dahven's old man?"

  "His father. Yes. Jadek could have sent a writ to Podhru because of Carolan, of course. But it would—he wouldn't, I don't think he would."

  "Yeah,” Chris said bitingly. “Who'd think he was still the nice guy if he did that?"

  Lialla tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You know,” she said finally, “you know more than anyone would think, looking at you."

  "Hey. Someday I'll tell you all about life in the big city, and like that. Besides,” he added as they neared yet another bend in the narrow street and slowed to check the way ahead before going on, “seventeen-year olds where I come from are a whole different kind of thing.” He grinned, nudged the horse on. “But you knew that, right?"

  Lialla smiled. “I knew that."

  "Hey. Street's gone major wide, and those guys are—what's that thing, that big place they're heading for? Looks like a palace!"

  "Oh.” Lialla's smile vanished. “Unless I'm very mistaken, that's the government center, the clerks’ building."

  "Oh.” Chris considered this, drew his horse and Lialla's to one side of the boulevard, where they could watch as the guard escorted their three prisoners across a stone plaza, between two long pools, and under an arch. “Do we dare go any farther?"

  Lialla shook her head so hard the plait slapped across her thin shoulders. “Better not; we might not be recognized but we'd be known for outsiders at once. If the guard has actually put them under restraint, they might be looking for outsiders."

  "Hey.” Chris tugged at the side of her mount's bridle and leaned sideways to give her a quick, hard hug. “Lookit, in there at least they're safe from Jadek and the Sikkreni, right? Safer than they were out on the street, at least. And I don't think any of ‘em got hurt, so that's something, too. So I think our job is to get back outside, get to that park, let mom and your brother know what's going on."

  "I—” Lialla cast one last unhappy glance at the huge, efficient-looking rectangle of building, finally nodded. “All right. Let's go. But”—she tugged on his sleeve and held it until he turned back to face her—“you be careful! And watch everyone, will you?"

  "With that last episode as a guide? Are you kidding?"

  Once out on the boulevard, mixed in with so many people, Chris found it easier to pretend he was just part of the crowd. It was late enough in the afternoon and the street broad enough for him to make out shadow and get them oriented in the proper direction. The boulevard opened into another, similar street—busier, not quite so wide—and he heard Lialla sigh with relief. “I know where we are,” she said quietly.

  "Yeah. Me, too. Look, slow way down when we get close to the gates, will you? Take a hard look around for anyone who might be trouble."

  "As if I'd know trouble,” Lialla mumbled. Chris decided to pretend he hadn't heard that and just kept going.

  The area around the gates was as crowded as it had been hours earlier but there was more haste among the people milling from stand to stand; more people seemed to have a definite destination that put them squarely in front of the horses. And the horses, Chris thought, had probably had enough of a bad day already; the one under him was growing restive and wanted to shy at loud noises. When it balked as a small child and a dog ran under its feet, Chris slid to the ground, hauled the reins forward over its head and held out his left to Lialla. “Gimme,” he said. “Before the damn thing steps on a rug rat.” She shook her head, clearly not quite understanding, but handed over the reins as he crooked the fingers at her. “Don't want to get chilled by the local man, do you?"

  "Possibly not.” Lialla froze, staring out toward the west along the street. She came up in the stirrups, shaded her eyes with one hand. Chris stood on tiptoe, swore; all he could see was heads and the flanks of some damned large horses and camels. “I—Chris, can you get through all this? Hurry, please; I think I just saw Enardi."

  "Oh, jeez, what's he doing—?” Chris bit his lip as someone turned to look at him in mild curiosity, eased his way through the jumble of people and beasts. Some of the stands out here were closing up for the night, adding to the mess. But he finally broke through, handed Lialla her reins and climbed back on a now thoroughly displeased and nervous horse.

  "
There.” Lialla pointed rather cautiously. “Ahead of us—there must be ten people in the wagon, but isn't that him?"

  "Can't—wait.” Chris nodded and nudged the horse forward. “I'm pretty sure that's him, and that could be the mule—but the wheel's a dead giveaway; it looks like a puzzle."

  They caught up to the wagon not far from the park; Chris had wanted to go after it flat out but Lialla had reminded him that two people galloping out of Podhru might rouse a number of questions. He'd drawn in, but the horse was nearly impossible for him to control; clearly it sensed his nervousness and impatience.

  Enardi was on the seat but he'd given the reins over to Biyallan, who drew the wagon to a stop at once when she could see who they were. “You're all right! Enardi—Merson, please hold the mule steady for me.” She edged over the wheel and jumped to the ground in a flurry of full blue skirts. “Are you coming with us? Is that safe?"

  Chris opened his mouth; Lialla shook her head, stopping him. “No, now you're here. We'll wait somewhere around here—to make certain they're all right. Get them, take them in, we'll keep you in sight."

  "Of course.” Biyallan merely nodded and let two of her companions hand her into the wagon. “We'll sort it,” she said over her shoulder, and brought the reins down hard across the mule's back. Chris's horse would have followed, and the reins wrenched at his shoulders. He tightened his grip, rotated his shoulders rather cautiously, managed to get the animal turned and following Lialla as she made for the shadow of a cluster of young trees. He wasn't certain he'd be able to dismount without shaming himself, but somehow he was down, still on his feet, not visibly clinging to the saddle. Lialla came around the horse, water bottle in her hand. She drank, held it out.

  "Here. You need this."

  "God. I feel like I know what mom means when she says she needs a drink."

  "Oh.” Lialla shook her head. “I never could see what Aletto found in the stuff; it only makes me ill and gives me a headache."

  "Yeah.” Chris managed a faint grin. “Me, too. And wine is really gross stuff". A beer, maybe—but it doesn't taste that great either.” He sighed. “I'd just kill for a Coke, though."

  "A coke—?” Lialla shook her head and as Chris began to speak she echoed him. “Tell—you—later."

  "One of these days, I'll talk your leg off, explaining all this stuff. It's funny, though. The way mom drinks, everyone all through school that knew, all mom's—um, friends—everyone figured I probably started on booze before I could read. Not like she ever tried to keep it from me; mom's no hypocrite. I just—it doesn't taste good, and I got too many things I want to do without taking out the time for getting wasted.” He shook his head. “Sorry. That probably doesn't make any sense, I'm just running my mouth, you know?"

  "Worried,” Lialla said. “I know, who wouldn't be? I had the time, just no inclination for making myself ill, Aletto—well, he had nothing but time, after all. Now that he's got better things to occupy himself, he's quit."

  "Yeah. Don't just take that at face value,” Chris said glumly. “So'd mom, and she's really serious about not doing anything to encourage your brother to hit the bottle again. But it's not that easy. I don't know how he's managing but I've seen her fighting it. Back at the inn, back when Fedthyr was pushing the stuff at her.” He started when Lialla clutched his sleeve; her eyes were fixed across his left shoulder. When he turned rather cautiously to look, he could see the wagon, the mule moving at a trot, heading back east. “I didn't see them; did you see them?"

  "Robyn—both of them,” Lialla replied tersely as she stepped into the saddle and turned the horse toward the road once more. Chris dragged himself back up and followed.

  * * * *

  Some distance away, in a pair of neatly if sparsely furnished rooms that fronted on an inner courtyard four floors below, Jennifer tucked the chambray shirt into her jeans and pulled the zipper up, ran fingers through her hair preparatory to going at the flattened and snarled mess with her pick. The city guard had turned them over to other men, old, bearded men dressed in unrelieved black, who in turn escorted them along hallways, up flights of stairs, and finally showed them through one plain door of many. The door closed quietly behind them; when she tried it, though, the latch didn't move.

  Dahven was sitting on the edge of a deeply cushioned sofa, head in his hands, and so far as she could tell, he hadn't moved, not during the time she had used to shed Caro Ellaway's sweat-laden dress and sponge down in the deep bowl of clean water, not all the while it had taken her to get her clothes sorted out and on. She came across, socks on and high-tops dangling from her fingers, to kneel before him. “Dahven,” she said gently. “Dahven, how bad is it? Tell me, before someone comes, please?"

  "Bad—” He sighed, removed one hand to let it fall limp across his leg. “It's surely bad enough. And with you here—"

  "That's done, over with, past doing anything about,” she said, as gently. “So you don't have to worry about that any more. Just tell me what to expect."

  "I—"

  "No, wait. Let me get my shoes on. While I'm doing that, I want you to think, put your thoughts in order.” He let the other hand fall, shook his head faintly. “Don't look at me like that. I'm your advocate, remember?"

  "You weren't—"

  "I was as serous as I've ever been about anything. And frankly, after the past few days, I begin to think I'd be much happier fighting with my mouth, the way I used to."

  "Dear, beloved gods,” Dahven said softly. “Your face is bruised—"

  "Shhh. That's past, too. Worry about it later, if you must. It's not painful. It's not important. I'm your advocate, and I'm an outsider, I don't know anything near enough about your laws, your rules. Don't even say it, I know I can't learn all that in an hour or so. That's why I want you to think, so you can help me prepare. All right?"

  "I—all right."

  "Are they likely to come before I finish getting dressed?"

  He considered this, glanced at the distant—barred—window, and shook his head. “Not at this hour. Not before morning, now."

  "Good. Then think, will you? What charges they might bring, what the law is concerning such charges. What special rights you might have, or the Emperor might. I'll get my shoes on.” She shoved her foot in one high-top, paused with a handful of laces, and bent over to wrap her hands around the back of his neck and kiss him. “If talk can get you out of this mess, somehow I'll do it. Believe that."

  He bent down to pick up her other high-top and held it out to her. “I heard you talk my father to a standstill, remember?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Jennifer. Why are you laughing like that?"

  14

  To his credit, once Dahven had the opportunity to marshal his thoughts, he gave her a creditable synopsis of the events in Sikkre as he knew them—telling her dispassionately about his return to his rooms, finding his father and brothers already there. The waiting seamen.

  "When I left Sikkre, my father was yet alive.” He shook his head. “Whether any man chooses to believe that—"

  "These Lasanachi,” Jennifer said calmly. “Describe them.” He glanced up at her, did so. “I find it difficult to believe that such men—visibly unlike most Sikkreni, dressed as you describe them—could enter or leave the Thukar's tower without someone seeing them. Someone,” she added gently before he could say it himself, “besides those who freely gave their allegiance to your brothers. We know they would perjure themselves if your brothers asked it."

  "We do?” Dahven glanced up hopefully and Jennifer managed a small smile.

  "Your advocate intends to press that notion, and with conviction."

  "Oh."

  "I couldn't press it if it weren't already very likely. As things presently stand, I do believe we have a good chance of injecting doubt into the matter—as to your opportunity to murder your father."

  "I could almost feel reassured, listening to you."

  "Good. But that's only one side of the matter. Tell me what you can about t
he charges they might have against you."

  He sat back and considered this. Jennifer drew one of her last yellow pads from the depths of the bag, set three ballpoint pens and a pencil across it, and waited—she hoped calmly. Dahven was already upset enough, without worrying that she didn't have a handle on matters. He leaned forward as she picked up one of the pens; his face lit up, then, and he reached for the pencil. “May I? This—the wizard Snake had three in a small bag he carried, with the paper I told you about, for music. He gave one each to Deehar and Dayher, not so long ago. They were pleased, and I thought it must be quite a sacrifice on the man's part, since his own was a piece no longer than my little finger by then."

  "Pencil,” Jennifer said, and closed his fingers over it. “Keep it, I have another—several, actually. That one's fairly new so the eraser's probably still good, they get hard after a while, don't work too well.” She uncapped her stick ballpoint pen, scribbled a couple of lines in one corner to get the ink flowing, made quick shorthand notes of what he'd already told her. Dahven got up and came around the table to watch over her shoulder. “All right. Tell me some more, we might well have the rest of the night, but I should think you'd like to sleep part of it."

  He sighed, laid a hand on her hair. “Sleep. It may be my last night for that—"

  "Don't.” She captured his fingers, laid them on her right shoulder. “Tell me things instead, that's more useful, isn't it? A really good advocate should be able to spring a guilty client, I only have an innocent one to fight for, so it shouldn't be as difficult, should it?” Silence. She added, rather anxiously, “You were kidding about last possible night, weren't you? They wouldn't simply take you out and—and what? Execute you without even a trial?"