One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  It made a reasonably impressive sheaf of yellow pad, particularly since she'd used every single line, both sides, in order to conserve a resource that was dwindling even faster than her aspirins: paper. Paper, specifically, that was just this size, this thinness, this texture—yellow. She still had three legal pads with varying amounts of unused paper on them. Maybe by the time they were used up, she'd have adjusted to having to use something else, be able to think in a format that wasn't eight and one-half by eleven, blue-lined, yellow. There were enough law firms in L.A. already making their people shift to white pads because of recycling, anyway.

  Unimportant, damnit, she told herself fiercely. Aloud, she said, “That's all you can tell me?"

  He was still for a very long moment, thinking. “I can't recall another single thing.” More silence, broken only by the scratch of his pencil, the more furtive noise of her ballpoint. “It won't be enough. Will it?"

  She finished her note, set down the capital letter for the next point and dropped the pen so she could massage out her fingers. “I think it will. Remember we have Edrith, also; you know he won't let you down, don't you?"

  "I know that. I'm simply thinking of his background, whether anyone would take the word of a known thief against that of two noblemen—"

  "Combined with everything else, corroborated by my word—"

  "You have a vested interest in me,” Dahven said shrewdly.

  "A possible one,” Jennifer corrected him gently. She let him take her hand and massage the fingers.

  "I—"

  "Meaning, of course, that while many women might take up with a nobleman for half his birthright, obviously a lot of women haven't asked that much of you. There's no proof that I held out on you for that, is there? Or that you offered it? In any event, I don't think my testimony is that prejudiced, and since they've kept us apart from Edrith, they won't be able to assume we've matched stories—"

  "Well, not since coming into Podhru,” Dahven said gloomily.

  "That's true. However,” Jennifer hesitated, then reached to shove back his shirt sleeve. The pale, wide line where a Lasanachi manacle had been was still there, fainter now, slightly pink from too much sun. “You have other corroboration, of all of it. If you'll let me use it."

  "Gods of my father.” He tugged, freeing the hand, shoved the sleeve down with one hard yank against the table. “I can't—I can't do that."

  "Not for your birthright? Your Duchy? For me—my life and your own?"

  "I can't—"

  "I won't ask it, not unless I must. Dahven, please, believe that I won't. I know how you feel about it."

  "You can't."

  "I can!” she said fiercely. “Oh, not personally, not all the way to the base of my guts, the way you do. From seeing Robyn beaten black and blue, her arm broken, her half silly from pain drugs—and trying to tell me, Chris, anyone who'd listen, that she'd tripped over something on the front step and fallen! Because her boyfriend got mad over something and knocked her around.” Dahven brought his head up and stared at her. Jennifer nodded. “At first, I couldn't understand it. If anyone had hit me like that, I'd have killed them. If that wasn't possible—he was nearly twice her size, after all—I'd have called the cops, filed charges. He'd have been in jail so fast his head would've spun. She couldn't do that, she was so embarrassed, so ashamed that something that stupidly, dumbly violent had happened to her, that she lied about it. Hell, I don't know, by now maybe even she believes her own lie.

  "But you know what was the worst thing about it?” Eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head slowly. “The absolutely worst pain was, after Robyn got rid of him, he went on to get another girlfriend, beat up on her. And her kids, and her mother. He got away with it for so long, so many times, he didn't even worry any more about getting caught or stopped.” Silence. Jennifer retrieved her pen, began writing next to the letter she'd set down, wrote another point, a sub-number, and stopped again to look up at him. “You wouldn't happen to see any parallels there, would you?” she asked.

  "You think my brothers—?"

  "Oh, Dahven, damnit! You know they were responsible for your father's death—whether he simply died of frustration and a heart attack, or they laced his evening wine with something! You talked to those men on the road here; you know damn well your brothers want you dead! Who or what's next after you? Anyone in Sikkre's market who dislikes their policies? Anyone who was your friend, your girlfriend, your ally, Aletto's?"

  "They wouldn't—” He stopped, shook his head. “All right, maybe they would. But—"

  "Trust your advocate,” she overrode him firmly. “I'll do everything I can with argument. I told you I didn't understand Birdy's attitude, all that shame. Well, I'm older now, and I've been around a little more; I understand better about privacy. You have a right to it, to outsiders not knowing things about you. Things that would make them uncomfortable, or you. So I promise I won't ask you to show anyone your arm—or to take off your shirt and let them see what's left of the scars on your back—unless nothing else is going to save your life.” She drew a deep breath, pen poised over yellow pad, and met his gaze squarely. “But if it comes to that, I'll use anything I have, anything I can. I'd be a lousy advocate if I did anything else."

  Silence once more. She finished her synopsis and looked up to see he was still watching her, but now he was smiling. “You're lying,” he said lightly. “A good advocate works within the laws; you said as much yourself."

  "A really good advocate wouldn't be in love with her client either,” Jennifer said, and pointed the pen at his nose. “That doesn't mean you're going to pull any of my strings, though, you got that?” She stifled a yawn, capped the ballpoint and flipped the pages back so that the yellow pad lay flat. “God, I think I'm dead. What time is it?” She glanced at her watch and groaned. “Too late. I think the sun's probably only four hours away. Any idea when they start work here?"

  Dahven considered this, finally shrugged. “Father's men began when sun entered the clerks’ hall, about three hours past sunrise, in order to save on the cost and smoke of candles and lanterns. That may hold true here, it may not."

  "Well.” She pushed away from the table, forced herself up onto dead, stiff legs and stretched hard. “Four hours sleep is better than none, don't you agree?"

  He got himself upright, turned away from the table, looked around the room, and through the arched entry to the next. There was a low, pallet bed in this room, another in the next. “Four hours,” he murmured, and when Jennifer brushed by him, he caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I doubt there's any sleep in me, in all honesty.” She leaned back against him, rubbing his chin with the top of her head; he pressed his cheek against dark curls and let his eyes close for a moment. “Since my advocate demands strict honesty from me."

  She sighed faintly, but didn't pull away as he half expected; her fingers tightened on his. “I'm not certain I'll sleep either. I should try, and so should you.” She looked up from under a spill of hair. “There's no reason for us to make the effort in separate bedding, though, is there?"

  "Well—” He appeared to give this serious consideration, finally shook his head.

  "Will they give you the courtesy of a knock in the morning, or simply come through that door?"

  "Well—” He considered this in turn. “Given my rank, even if there are writs against me, even Shesseran's own writs—they were courteous enough when they brought us here, weren't they?” He reached down to slide a finger under her chin and looked at her consideringly. “Are there reasons for asking?"

  Jennifer laughed quietly. “The look on your face!"

  "What look?"

  "Don't try and sound so innocent; it isn't working. Or so naively hopeful—or so confused. I'll bet you really are a hit with the girls back home."

  "That's not fair,” he protested mildly.

  "Yes, that was my thought exactly,” Jennifer replied dryly. “Yes, there are reasons, specifically that I'd like to at le
ast be back in my shirt before anyone breaks the door down tomorrow. All right?” She turned and slid into his arms, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

  He swallowed, his mouth suddenly much too dry. “All right.” He swallowed a second time, leaned back to look down into dark and very serious eyes. “I meant what I said before, you know: that it wasn't likely this was my last night."

  "Oh, I know that. This isn't desperation on my part, you know. Or prompted by fear.” Her mouth quirked. “Or to seal the bargain on half of Sikkre, either.” She took both his hands and began walking slowly backwards toward the second room, bringing him perforce with her. He stopped suddenly, shook his head.

  "My arm band—"

  "Your—oh, that.” Jennifer laughed, then cleared her throat; her cheekbones were brightly pink. “Protection, right? Um. Thank you, I appreciate the reminder. Back by the window, in my bag—I think that's all—um—covered.” She considered this, laughed again and went red right to her eyebrows.

  "Jennifer?” Dahven asked in a quiet, baffled voice. She merely shook her head, took hold of his hands once more, and drew him across the main chamber and into the second with her.

  * * * *

  A floor lower in the same building, and across the central courtyard, Edrith lay on a narrow raised platform, hands behind his head. He was contemplating the distant and not very visible ceiling; unlike Jennifer and Dahven, the guards hadn't offered him light beyond a single lantern, and whatever oil it had been filled with gave him a headache and made his eyes water. He had turned it down immediately after eating what was a surprisingly well-prepared meal (much better, Edrith thought, then anything he'd ever had in Sikkre's lockups), let the guard turn it up a short time later when the red-and-gold-clad guard-master came in with a long-nosed clerk. The guard-master had let him tell his own story first—again, surprisingly—about his discovery of Dahven in Bez, the subsequent journey to Podhru, and after had asked a series of highly intelligent and to-the-point questions. Not stupid at all, Edrith thought uncomfortably. He'd had enough time to think about things, to plan what he'd say about the whole state of affairs; it was difficult to keep to that with the guard-master snapping questions at him, that old man writing every word down. He'd come south with a number of people, yes, stayed off the road at their request, no, hadn't considered at the time they might be other than the innocuous travelers they said. Well, perhaps it had occurred to him after the first couple of attacks that it might be Zelharri's nera-Duke, but it wasn't his business to ask; he'd been hired to take care of the animals and to guide them to a certain house in Bezjeriad, and he'd done all that.

  Yes, he had known Lord Dahven, several years’ worth. No, he sincerely doubted the man was capable of anyone's murder. He'd felt the sweat on his forehead, running down from his armpits when he began describing the afternoon in the lower Bez markets, down by the docks, finding Dahven, blood on his hand, the rescue. By then he wasn't attempting to hedge the truth at all, knowing there was nothing in the story to reflect adversely on any of them—reasonably certain Jennifer would tell the same story.

  He'd been frank and truthful about everything since—leaving out Aletto's name, and Lialla's. Now that he thought about it, it was curious that the guard hadn't asked any more about them. Maybe he was one of those only capable of concentrating on one point at a time—or maybe he'd been told not to bring up the nera-Duke. Edrith thought about this, shook his head and got himself settled a little more comfortably on the pallet bed. That kind of thinking wasn't his forte, and he could second-guess the fancy-clad city guardsman all night and still only be guessing.

  He'd turned the lamp all the way down as soon as he'd signed the clerk's written pages and they'd gone away, while he had gone in search of the last of the wine that had accompanied his meal and then this bed.

  They'd been polite; he wondered if they'd somehow mistaken his rank, or if such men would be polite to anyone who might be under Dahven's protection. Gods of my mother, Edrith thought. I hope they were as good to him, and to Jen. Where, he wondered, in all this massive building had they placed those two? And how much longer before things were decided for all of them?

  15

  Chris didn't care at all for Lord Evany. The man—what he could only think of as a “little man”—came bustling into the patio after an hour or so, just percolating with self-importance. He wore silk, stripes that tried to make him look tall and slender and only succeeded in emphasizing the stretch of fabric over a discreet, round paunch. He was shorter than his youngest daughter, neatly combed and bearded, his hands soft as a girl's—or as the blue leather slippers he wore on fat little feet. Soft, Chris thought in mild disgust. Middle-aged, upper-class, rich and soft. Swell. He wondered how his mother was going to manage to suck up to this one; Ernie's dad Fedthyr had at least been a funny little duck. This guy was simply fussy, one of those who'd straighten the pillows behind you and empty ashtrays while you were using them—if, Chris corrected himself with a rather embarrassed glance at his mother, there had been ashtrays and cigarettes here. Fusspot. From the look on Robyn's face, she saw what her son saw: money, lots of old and conservative money, together with a corresponding lack of desire to take chances, or try anything new.

  Aletto didn't seem to have any such worries, of course; this was the dude who'd pulled rabbits from a hat at the dinner table, or something like that. Chris had to admit, to himself anyway, that such a guy would be bound to make a lasting impression on a kid. All the same, Aletto wasn't exactly a kid any more, and a lot of lives depended on what he was doing. Wasn't as though he didn't know that, either. But he just didn't seem to catch on that you had to figure some years had gone by, you had to judge people by something besides a kid's impressions of them. I learned that pretty early on, myself, Chris thought sourly. Not like it's impossible; should only take getting burned once.

  He brought his attention back to the moment with some difficulty; the headache was still there and his neck hurt, too, from being so tight so long. Evany was talking, quickly, his voice a little too high-pitched for a grown man's, and during the rare moments when he wasn't actually speaking his lips thinned against his teeth. Yeah. Wants us gone, before we get him in trouble, cost him the fancy house and all. Chris glanced over at Meriyas and mentally shrugged. Then again, the guy had a point; who'd want the Emperor getting pissed and kicking a chick like that out in the street? “My Lord—Honor Aletto,” Evany corrected himself smoothly, “you are welcome to my house. How may I aid you?"

  Aletto smiled; he had gotten on his feet as soon as the older man came into sight, and now he had Evany's hands in his. “Sir, you've scarcely changed since Sehfi. I've never forgotten your kindness in livening otherwise dull formal dinners for a boy. I understand from the Bezjeriad merchants who once bought and sold under father, particularly Fedthyr—he sends you his personal greeting, by the way—Fedthyr tells me there is a supply of coin to be put at my disposal—?"

  "Yes,” Evany said rather warily.

  "And Father's old armsmaster is to meet me here?” Evany nodded. The smile hung on his lips as though he'd forgotten it, incongruous beneath the drawn brows and worried-looking eyes. Aletto smiled again, let the man's hands go. “I truly do not wish to rush you, please understand that, but I have been gone so long from Duke's Fort, and I hope to settle matters between myself and my uncle as quickly as possible. This indecision and uncertainty is not good for the Duchy, and,” he added ruefully, “it is not particularly pleasant for me, either."

  Evany's relief was almost comical; Aletto turned away and appeared not to notice. Chris bent forward to rub his nose and smother a laugh.

  "Honor Aletto. You and your guests are welcome to my house. It is late now, of course; too late to accomplish anything of much import. Word is out, you understand, among our own kind. Gyrdan will doubtless come at first light, and there are others here in Podhru, men such as myself exiled when your uncle seized the Fort. They want to meet you, I know."

  "Of cour
se,” Aletto said. He sealed on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle. “Were any of that money mine, I should also like to see what manner of man intended to carry it north.” Evany's smile faded briefly and his eyes widened, obviously surprised that Aletto was so sharp, Chris thought. A breath later, he had his face under control, and he laughed, spread his hands wide.

  "Well, as you say, Honor, men such as myself understand the value of coin, and most of us dislike wasting money. A good cause, of course—” He let the sentence hang, gestured imperiously to his daughters. “The hour is late; tonight you may have my guest room—and such of you as wish may sleep here; the weather is quite warm, and most in Podhru sleep outside of the house when it is like this. The walls are high and I assure you that none will scale them to bother you.” He waited while they discussed this—even Robyn preferred remaining outside. Evany smiled then and spread his arms again, taking them all in. “My daughters and my servants will bring more sleeping mats for you, coverings and more cushions. There is shade where you are in the morning; those trees block first sun. We will take tea together early, if it pleases you. Until then.” He inclined his upper body, backed several paces, then turned and swept up the graveled walk and into the house, shooing his daughters before him.

  * * * *

  It had been Biyallan's notion that she and Enardi should remain at Evany's for the night; that there wasn't much sense to the two of them going back to Kamahl's and possibly drawing someone's attention to either household. It occurred to Chris also that it would give her another opportunity to talk to Aletto—one the other Bezanti at Kamahl's wouldn't get. And of course a chance for Enardi to maybe finalize that deal Aletto'd already talked to him about. Chris dismissed Biyallan from his thoughts and sent a covert glance toward the house. Meriyas, on the other hand—yeah, right, really cute. With my luck, she's got the brains of a poodle, or she was promised out by her old man when she was ten. Well, a guy could look, though—if he was reasonably careful about it, he could. And Meriyas sure looked back at him, a lot. He sighed rather contentedly and picked carefully at his hair, washed out at Kamahl's and still too dark from the sage rinse but again clean and spiked with the least amount of hair spray he could get away with.