One Land, One Duke

by Emerson, Ru

  Her handbag was already packed: pads of local paper (a very pale yellow, unlined and tied with string), pens and pencils, the makeup bag—scarcely depleted at all—and the aspirin and vitamin tablets, now at a worrying low. She'd run out of toothpaste, and the brush was looking rather dreadful these days; Robyn had given her a tooth cloth and a corked little jug of paste that was at least partly mint. She carefully didn't inquire as to the rest of the ingredients. Robyn had also given her a box of loose willow-bark tea; it tasted dire but Robyn swore it was the natural forerunner of aspirin. Possibly it was; it seemed to dispose of headaches. Now, if only she could find something to take the taste out of her mouth. It reminded her of her introduction to the combination of stale drinking water in leather bottles, mealy apples and those oat cakes Lialla had been so fond of.

  She had relatively few things to pack: Lialla had held to her promise of duplicates for her blue jeans—or tried to. Jennifer had finally managed to convey an alternative and now had three pairs of lightweight cottony pants, roomy affairs with drawstring waists, large pockets, snug ankles. Her socks were wearing thin, though she'd gone barefoot most of the summer, except when she ran.

  To Jennifer's surprise, the running itself didn't cause that much excitement. After the first day, she couldn't bring herself to wear her shorts again, though. People stared; stood and stared, and called to other people, who also came and stood and stared. She'd felt like the only float in a parade after a while. Lialla joined her now and again; or Dahven did.

  She hadn't really had much time to herself, other than the time she insisted upon for her runs: Aletto had made extensive use of her as an advocate, and she'd learned Rhadazi law as she went, made ridiculous and embarrassing mistakes at first, finally developed a feeling for what she did. Aletto's father had provided his own advocates a library—incomplete, but better than none.

  She'd learned to read Rhadazi about the same way she picked up their law—by feel, by guess and by God, by learning from her mistakes. Aletto kept two of his uncle's advocates on—older men who were inclined at first to be stiff with her. They'd finally accepted her the way partners in her old office had accepted associates: someone to write the first drafts, carry the law books, make the small deals and take the flak when something went wrong. It was irksome but reassuringly familiar at the same time. Dahven spent most of early summer going back and forth between Sehfi and Podhru, anyway—she could soak up as much work and knowledge as she could handle in a single day without worrying about slighting him.

  Lizelle had knit her stockings: pale blue wool, a little itchy, and the tops sagged out and worked down into her high-tops after a while. But Jennifer had been truly touched by the gesture. The woman had been crushed for weeks after Jadek's death, too weak to even appear at the burial ceremony. She'd kept to bed for a good deal of the summer and was still overly thin, brittle-looking. But she'd begun to take more interest in things recently: her own appearance, the herb gardens that had once been her pride, her needlework. Jennifer had worried at first how Lizelle would feel about Robyn; a daughter-in-law only a few years younger than she, after all, and Robyn had been sprung on her. But Lizelle liked Robyn, a feeling Robyn reciprocated.

  She had spent more time in Aletto's company than anyone else's the past few months, oddly enough. But Aletto had thrown himself into bringing Sehfi's miserable market back to strength, which necessitated numerous drafts of local contracts and even more drafts to be sent to Podhru—drafts which often came back as ink-stained messes, revisions and suggested revisions tied to the back, long letters suggesting other revisions, new contracts—

  Aletto had often simply sought her out to talk. “I can talk to Robyn,” he said once. “Or Dahven. But not the same way. Robyn never believes me when I say I feel as though it's just around the corner, the mistake that will bring it all down on my head. Dahven laughs and says he feels the same way, and how can I believe that? You listen. And I like your advice.” She wondered what he would do once she was gone; but those talks had grown less frequent of late. Maybe he was finally beginning to trust himself. God knew he'd better: He'd done a lot already, and there was a new atmosphere of optimism all around the Fort. But he had a very long way to go. And word had just come a few days earlier that Biyallan and some of her friends had filed petitions for the construction of a new road between Bez and Zelharri, another for certain new outside trade routes. Incorporating all that with existing business—simply finalizing all the paperwork—would keep the new Duke busy for a long time.

  New pants, new shirts. Some weaver in the market had duplicated chambray very closely, if she remembered to be careful the first few wearings. Otherwise, the dye came off on her wrists. A handful of scarves. A new pair of soft leather boots and a pair of low shoes. Slippers for indoors, but she'd packed those nearly unworn: While the weather stayed warm, she went barefoot, the way Robyn did. Jennifer grinned; Chris had sworn his mother had to be tracked down and wrestled into shoes for the ceremony that named her Duchess. It was true Robyn hardly wore shoes of any kind other than for important occasions.

  She dropped the small blackwood box Aletto had given her on top of her new shirts. It contained a silver filigree charm on a silk cord; Protection against illness, the charm was said to be. Eminently sensible of Aletto; but he was proving himself that, daily.

  One last look around the room. There wasn't anything else, if something turned up beneath the bed, Robyn could have it sent on—or bring it, perhaps. It wasn't that far from Zelharri to Sikkre, after all. Especially if one could stay on the road. She tightened the lacing on the bag, double-knotted the bow and slung it over her shoulder, along with the handbag.

  * * * *

  Robyn was sitting cross-legged in the sun down in her favorite small garden, weeding: There were roses here, a reflecting pool, plenty of brightly colored and scented things Jennifer didn't know; she hadn't ever recognized much beyond roses and marigolds back home, anyway.

  "Hey, Duchess,” Jennifer called out. Robyn looked up and grinned.

  "Yeah, don't I look it, kiddo?” She sat back, blotted her forehead. “You look ready to shove off."

  "'Fraid so."

  "You don't look that; I think Dahven must be driving you nuts wanting to get back now that he's got the go-ahead."

  Jennifer laughed. “Just because you can hear him vibrating when he walks by. I don't think he really believed he'd prevail, whatever he said. He's been too hyper since he got that stack of documents from Afronsan."

  "Well.” Robyn sighed gustily. “You're not going to make me get up, are you?"

  "You probably should; I don't know if that much cold, damp dirt is good for pregnant ladies."

  "Sure it is. Remember where I lived when I was making Chris? So I'm a little older now.” Jennifer laughed and knelt next to her sister, shed both bags and hugged her hard. “Hey, kiddo, you take care of that pretty guy, all right? And make him marry you before I get too fat to travel."

  Jennifer sighed. “He's probably already got that date set; I'm the one holding back, remember?"

  "Don't you dare,” Robyn said severely and shook a finger at her. “He's not his father—or ours, come to think of it. You make an honest man of that boy, run his market for him and like that."

  "Just the jitters, you know?” She considered this remark, laughed ruefully. “I mean, you know? Your kid ruined me."

  "Which one?” Robyn demanded. “God, I miss those two!"

  "They won't be long, this is supposed to be a shakedown cruise; remember? Down into Fahlia and into what should be Mexico. With an established trading company."

  "Your idea, wasn't that?"

  "Seemed better to me than jumping onto the first around-the-Horn ship heading for the Atlantic,” Jennifer admitted. “And in our own world, there's a lot of good coffee that comes from that end of the world. Mexico, Central America—” She sighed deeply. “I have this vision of cornering the market here on Jamaica Blue Mountain—which of course wouldn't have gone
down the tubes. It's coffee,” she added, as Robyn stared at her blankly. “Wonderful, wonderful, expensive, rare coffee."

  "Oh. Don't forget that tea I made up for you. Willow bark has that stuff that's the aspirin—"

  "Got it with me."

  "Good.” Robyn looked at her for a long moment, then hugged her again and planted a kiss somewhere between her nose and her ear. “Take care of yourself. Write letters, damnit."

  "I will.” Jennifer got back to her feet, retrieved her bags and looked down at her sister. Robyn shoved long, straight loose hair behind her ears with a wrist. “Sure looks like a Duchess to me."

  "We'll start a trend,” Robyn said. She sat watching as Jennifer strode across the garden and out through the gates, waved as her sister turned to blow her a kiss; she adjusted the waistband on her jeans and after a cautious glance all around, eased the shirttails to the outside and released the button, let the zipper down an inch or so, and eased herself onto her knees with a gusty sigh of relief. They said there wouldn't be a lot more of the warm, sunny weather, and there were entirely too many dandelions in with the cornflowers.

  * * * *

  Jennifer went back across the kitchen garden and down the long corridor toward the courtyard she, Edrith and Lialla had crossed that night three months earlier. Dahven had sent the wagon on ahead and was waiting with the horses. She wasn't looking forward to riding, not after avoiding horses as much as possible all summer—but Dahven liked to ride, was genuinely fond of his horses. If he'd realized she didn't care for them he wouldn't have insisted, of course; she thought it was a small enough sacrifice, under the circumstances. If my hip sockets survive the first day, anyway.

  "Jen! Wait!” Lialla's voice echoed down the hall; she stopped at the door into the courtyard and turned back to wait. Lialla came flying after her, stopped panting just short of the doorway, where sun lay in a hot pool, and clung to the wall. “Wait, I've run—from—your rooms—"

  "Take your time; you're saving me from a horse,” Jennifer said. Lialla grinned, finally caught her breath and expelled one last pant in a loud gust.

  Three months had done visible wonders for the sin-Duchess, though the change had been coming since the night she first left Sehfi: She walked with a confident stride, spoke with authority. Wielded with calm assurance. She was corresponding with several novice Wielders in Podhru and Bez; so far as Jennifer knew, she had been candid with all of them regarding her magic, and those who'd responded so far showed none of Merrida's narrowness, or Neri's.

  Chris had contributed greatly to the most obvious change: Lialla had disposed of all but one set of Wielder Blacks; just now, she wore bright red trousers and a loose shirt patterned in red on white; that was belted to a narrow waist with a red-and-gold knotted rope belt of Chris's own design—a cross between macrame and sailor's knots and set with an enormous polished seashell: very like the belts that had been popular back in L.A. She wore her hair in a high braid, bright ribbons holding it at both ends. Jennifer found it increasingly difficult to remember the faded, insecure young woman in rusty black garments who hunched her shoulders, mumbled when she had to speak, who faded into the background with ease. Lialla looked easily ten years younger, buoyant, and if she wasn't fully in command of herself and her magic, she wasn't letting the whole world see it.

  She held out both hands and gripped Jennifer's fingers. “I know it won't be very long until I'm in Sikkre but I didn't want you to go without saying good-bye."

  "Good. I haven't given up on what you're doing yet,” she added. Lialla laughed. It was a stock line between them any more; Jennifer had in fact long since given up on trying to master Lialla's meld of Light and Thread, and they both knew it. Of late, she hadn't even had that much time to work Thread, and she wondered how she'd ever fare if Dahven followed through his promise to present her with an a'lud and music lessons.

  "You'd better not give up; I'm going to drill you like mad when I get to the Thukar's palace."

  "Do that,” Jennifer warned, “and you get the Tower room again."

  Lialla wrinkled her nose and laughed again. “That wasn't such a bad room. It needs a new mattress, though; Robyn murdered the old one so I could make rope.” She gave Jennifer a quick hug. “I will truly miss you. But I think Dahven got a better bargain in you."

  "I think we'll do all right,” Jennifer replied mildly. Lialla stepped back, waved vigorously and sprinted back the way she'd come, vanishing through the slit into the base of Merrida's old tower. Her tower, now, of course.

  * * * *

  Jennifer shifted her load and walked across the courtyard; one of Aletto's men took the leather gym bag and ran ahead to call into the stable. By the time she reached the entry, Dahven was on his way out, leading the horses: his newly acquired and greatly prized matched grays. She hooked the handbag in its familiar place at the front of the saddle and managed to mount without any help. All that running I've gotten away with here; more than I managed all my last year in L.A. Legs're a lot stronger. The smell of horse hadn't improved any at all, but it wasn't unbearable; the animal and its tack were all clean, at least. She gathered up the reins, let the stableboy shorten the stirrups, waited while he fastened her bag on behind the saddle. Dahven swung up and tossed a copper ceri down to the boy, another to the boy who held the gate open for them. They rode out onto the dusty road, turned right. Dahven turned to look back as the boy closed the double gates, peered down the road.

  "It's an easy ride, if a warm one, and the sun will be in our eyes most of the way,” he said. As they set out at a comfortable walk, he edged his gray over so he could take her fingers, then, and he smiled that wonderful, delighted, enchanting smile that had caught her off guard over his father's table. “Jennifer, let's go home."

  Home. The word had such an odd ring to it; it had meant so many different things and for so long what it had meant most was pain—the place you can't go, any more. That might have been forever ago, like L.A., a cello, a red Honda, a dusty antique shop in the desert with Eisenhower—no, Stevenson—buttons in the window.

  Old data. She shrugged, then smiled and brought his hand to her lips. “All right. Let's go home."

  If you’ve enjoyed this book and would like to read more great SF, you’ll find literally thousands of classic Science Fiction & Fantasy titles through the SF Gateway.

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  Also by Ru Emerson

  In the Cave of Exile

  On the Seas of Destiny

  To the Haunted Mountains

  One Land, One Duke

  The Two in Hiding

  The Calling of the Three

  Dedication

  For Doug

  and

  Patrick Rumrill,

  best of all the Mongeese

  Ru Emerson (1944 - )

  Ru Emerson was raised in Butte Montana (which she claims explains a lot), and after entirely too many years in some of the seedier neighborhoods of Los Angeles, moved to rural Oregon, where she has lived for the past 13 years with Doug (aka ‘The Phantom Roommate’), several dogs, rabbits, pigeons, two cats and a furry daughter named Roberta. She has written and sold 17 novels, including the popular NIGHT THREADS 6-volume series, and the first three tie-in novels based on the hit TV Series XENA: WARRIOR PRINCESS. Her novels are also currently in print in Germany, England, Spain and Italy. When not buried in research or actively writing, Emerson can be found running, mountain biking, gardening, weight training or flying two and four-line stunt kites on the Oregon Coast.

  Copyright

  A Gollancz eBook

  Copyright © Ru Emerson 1992

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Ru Emerson to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and P
atents Act 1988.

  This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2011 by

  Gollancz

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

  London, WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 0 575 12696 1

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real

  persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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