The Lord-Protector's Daughter

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  As she seated herself before the master ledger that Kiedryn had placed there and opened it to the most recent entries, the white-haired clerk looked up from his longer table, stacked with five different account ledgers. “Good afternoon, Mistress Mykella.”

  “Good afternoon, Kiedryn.” She smiled crookedly. “I had some…obligations.” How else could she explain where she had been without getting into messy details? But then, she was probably the only one in the family who even felt a need to explain much of anything.

  “For the Lord-Protector and his family, there are always those.” The chief clerk nodded.

  “Some of them seem so useless. I’d rather be here.”

  Kiedryn offered a smile. “Here you can only determine what has been done and what in the way of golds remains to do what else must be done.”

  Mykella’s laugh was rueful. “That’s a very polite way of saying that keeping track of golds may give me some understanding, but that mere accounting changes nothing.”

  “People decide how golds are spent, people like your father and your uncle.”

  Certainly not mere daughters like Mykella and her sisters. While Mykella thought that, there was little point in saying so. “I can hope that studying the ledgers will teach me something about how to spend wisely and how to avoid foolish spending.”

  “The ledgers can teach more than that, if you look closely, Mistress,” replied Kiedryn. “That is, if you understand who controls which ledger.”

  There was a click as the door to the outer corridor began to open. The clerk turned his eyes back to the ledger before him.

  The outer door swung wide, thumping into the stone wall. Joramyl stepped into the chamber. He immediately addressed Kiedryn. “Did you make the transfer from the general tariff account to the Southern Guard procurement account?” His voice was deep and commanding, his pale green eyes hard under the bushy blond and silver eyebrows.

  “Yes, sir. I took care of that yesterday.”

  Joramyl nodded and stepped past the senior clerk. He opened the door to his inner study and entered it without so much as looking at his niece.

  Mykella looked down at the entries and the figures entered in the black iron-gall ink. Exactly what was Kiedryn suggesting? Joramyl was the Finance Minister, but he didn’t actually control spending.

  She turned her thoughts to what her uncle had said. Why was Joramyl transferring golds to the Southern Guards? The Guards actually were carrying a considerable surplus over the previous years, and it was near the end of the year, and there were more than enough golds to cover the likely outlays.

  She went to the shelves, took out the ledger that held the record of Guard expenditures over the past two years, and carried it to her table. She opened it and began to check the entries. Almost a glass later, she closed it. There were no regular entries in the last week of the previous year that suggested a periodic significant expense. Was someone planning another large purchase of riding gear from Berjor? But why, when the number of Southern Guards was down from the level in previous years?

  As she puzzled, Berenyt pushed his way through the door, nodded brusquely to Kiedryn, then, almost as an afterthought stopped, turned, and smiled at Mykella. She could sense the falsity.

  “You’re far too pretty to spend your time poring over account ledgers, Mykella.” His wide smile accented his slightly-too-big white teeth.

  “It makes me feel useful, and I’d like to think that it helps Father,” she replied.

  “You’d help him more with a match that would bring him allies and trade,” suggested Berenyt winningly.

  Much as she bristled inside, she matched his smile with one she hoped was more genuine-looking, even if it happened to be just as false. “Others have to make matches for daughters. Until they do, I can be helpful here.”

  “So you can. So you can.” After flashing another smile, he turned and opened the door into his father’s study.

  While Berenyt was talking to his sire, Mykella replaced the Southern Guard ledger, then reseated herself at her table. “Are there many large expenses that come due near the end of the year, Kiedryn?”

  The chief clerk tilted his head. “Not that many, Mistress Mykella. At other times, there are. There are always larger outlays for bridge and pier repairs in the spring, and the Southern Guards usually acquire mounts in summer…”

  Mykella listened carefully, but Kiedryn’s recitation of various expenditures only suggested that large expenditures near the turn of winter were not a common occurrence. She supposed she’d have to wait and see what the Guards ended up buying that required so many additional golds.

  After his brief talk with his father, Berenyt hurried out, bestowing a quick smile on Mykella, an expression that faded even before he was past her. Before long, Joramyl also left, not really looking at either Kiedryn or Mykella.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Mykella just reviewed the new entries, if at times pausing to try to think about why the Southern Guards might need more golds. Even though she couldn’t find an answer that satisfied her, she was certain about one thing. It wasn’t a good idea for either her or Kiedryn to ask Joramyl about the transfer.

  Neither Feranyt nor Jeraxylt were at dinner on Duadi evening, and, of course, neither was Eranya. Even before the serving girls had brought the bread pudding that was often dessert when the men were not present, since both despised it, Rachylana had excused herself, leaving Salyna and Mykella.

  “How was your day?” Mykella asked Salyna.

  “I could only practice against the more junior guards, and they’re really not good enough.”

  “With the saber, you mean?”

  “With anything.” Salyna snorted. “I practice left-handed against them, and they hardly notice.”

  “They’re afraid they’ll hurt you.”

  “They don’t try that hard against each other, either. The real guards are the ones garrisoned in Indyor or in the border forts on the high roads. The companies guarding Tempre and the palace are mostly for show.”

  “We don’t have any real Southern Guards here?”

  “Oh…there are some. They rotate a few through Tempre to give them a rest or easier duty, and they rotate some out of Tempre to give them experience. That’s if they show some true ability.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Most of the guards, in one way or another.” Salyna looked at Mykella. “How did your meeting with Cheleyza go?”

  “I told her I appreciated her kind gesture with the dress. She accepted my explanation and insisted I stay for midmorning refreshments. She knows I refused the dress because I didn’t want to look like a sack of flour, and I know that was her intent, and we were both very polite.”

  “She’s a scheming bitch.” Salyna’s voice was as casual as if she had said that it was dark outside.

  “She also said that Berenyt was a dear.”

  “If I were Berenyt, I’d worry.”

  “I’m not about to worry over him. Rachylana can do that.”

  “She’s so infatuated with him that she can’t think to worry,” replied Salyna.

  “She’d best learn.”

  “Mykella…she is our sister.”

  Mykella sighed. “He can’t marry her, not under normal conditions. Even if he could, he wouldn’t.”

  “He might. I think he does care for her—as much as he can care for anyone.”

  “There’s not much we can do. She won’t listen.” Mykella paused. “You’re right. I’ll try to be gentler. It’s hard, though.”

  “You need to be matched to a ruler, Mykella. You’re meant to do things.”

  Mykella smiled and shook her head. “That won’t happen, either. Never in a thousand generations.”

  “Never say ‘Never.’” Salyna took the last bite of her bread pudding and eased the dish away.

  Mykella looked down at her empty bowl. She didn’t even remember eating it.

  Salyna rose, as did Mykella, but Mykella did not wait all that l
ong after she returned to her chamber before she created her sight-shield and slipped out of the family quarters and down the main staircase, and then the smaller one to the lower level. She managed to be quiet enough that the sentries at the top and bottom of the main staircase heard nothing, nor did the guard near the door to the lower staircase.

  The Table looked and felt the same—dark to her eyes and faintly glowing purple to her senses. The light-torches cast the same weary amber glow across the chamber, and she wondered, not for the first time, for how many generations they had continued to shine.

  She stepped up to the Table, knowing she had to learn more. She just had to.

  Then she looked down at the mirrorlike surface, concentrating on Joramyl, his blond hair and green eyes, and the coldness within him. The swirling mists appeared, then cleared to reveal Joramyl—seen from behind—embracing Cheleyza. Both were naked, but the one thing that transfixed Mykella was the lambent hardness of her aunt’s gray eyes. Mykella pushed away the image, then concentrated on finding Berenyt through the Table.

  Not surprisingly, the mists cleared to reveal her cousin and Rachylana seated side by side on a long settee in the sitting room adjoining the Lord-Protector’s official study. They were not talking, unless it was lip-to-lip, but at least they were both fully clothed.

  Mykella took a deep breath and released the image, letting the Table’s surface return to its mirror finish. Now what?

  She looked at the Table again, then forced herself to climb up onto it. She stood there for a time, then began to cast forth her thoughts toward the greenish-blackness beneath the purple. This time she dropped through the Table and into the darkness and chill beneath far more quickly. In the blackish green distance she could sense more clearly what seemed to be points of light. One was the black point she had “visited” before, but she had no idea how black could also be a point of light—except it was. There was also an amber point and one of sullen red that did not seem too distant.

  As the chill began to seep through her nightsilk jacket, she focused on the sullen point of red. For a time nothing occurred. Then, slowly, the sullen red point grew larger, before rushing toward her with a wave of purpled miasma.

  Chill and the purple shattered around her and vanished, replaced by far warmer air and a dry mustiness. The chamber was dark, and as she tried to turn, her head bumped into something with enough force that she staggered and her eyes watered. As she turned, carefully, she could see nothing, but she could sense the chamber around her, what of it that remained intact. Two stone supports crossed above the Table, the lower of which had banged her head when she had tried to straighten up. Sand and dust filled much of the space around the Table, and the door lintels had collapsed into each other, blocking access to the still-solid door behind them. Some sort of chest had been crushed into a flat and splintered mass by another massive stone pillar that rose through the mass of stones seemingly held in place by the two columns that intersected above the Table.

  Mykella could tell that there was no escape from the chamber, but she couldn’t help wondering what had brought down the building above with such force. Did Tempre hold the only Table chamber that was not damaged or otherwise inaccessible?

  As she moved her feet, dust sifted upward, and she sneezed. Her head struck the stone pillar, if not so hard as the first time. There was no question. Once more, she needed to return to Tempre.

  She concentrated on dropping into the greenish black darkness. Even as she did, her nose continued to itch, an itch frozen by the chill of the darkness. As the blueness that seemed to be associated with the Tempre Table (at least from a distance) rushed toward her, she began to feel another kind of chill, one purplish and almost slimy.

  The Ifrit was searching for her!

  Once she was standing on the Tempre Table, she jumped off, her boots hitting hard on the stone floor, then glanced back at the Table. Purplish mists began to rise from the mirrored surface. It had to be the Ifrit. Did she want to deal with him?

  Not when she was as tired and as fretful as she found herself.

  She hurried out the door, quickly closing it behind her. She hurried toward the staircase up to the main level, almost running down the long corridor, trying to ignore the voice inside her that kept telling her that she would have to face the Ifrit sooner or later.

  Later…when she was rested and knew more. Later.

  18

  Mykella didn’t lie awake on Duadi night, but neither did she sleep all that well. Again, her dreams were far from pleasant, especially the one in which the Ifrit appeared and purple arms rose from the Table and captured her, time after time. Despite the chill in her chamber, she awoke damp with sweat that smelled of fear, and it took her longer than usual to wash up and dress. Part of that slowness was because she was still thinking, distractedly, about how little she had been able to learn or accomplish through the Table and how long it was taking her to learn much of anything about either the Table or the tariff situation.

  When Mykella stepped into the breakfast room on Tridi morning, she was surprised to see Jeraxylt sitting in his place, wearing a clean Southern Guards uniform. “When did you get back from your maneuvers?”

  “Early evening,” he replied with a smile.

  “You weren’t at dinner.”

  “I had other plans.” His smile was broader.

  Mykella managed not to flush or to make a cutting remark. She just nodded as she settled into her place just before her father stepped into the breakfast room.

  “Good morning,” offered Feranyt cheerfully.

  “Good morning.”

  “It’s good to see you all so cheerful.”

  Both Muergya and Akilsa served breakfast, beginning with Feranyt—crispy bacon, cheese omelets that were warm enough that Mykella could see the heat rising, and mixed berry biscuits.

  “What did you do on your maneuvers in Viencet?” asked Salyna.

  “Maneuvers,” replied Jeraxylt after swallowing a bite of omelet.

  “I know that,” replied Salyna. “What kind of maneuvers? Charges? By squad or by full company? Open terrain pursuit?”

  “Pretty much everything. They have a special area there where they train…” Jeraxylt let his words die off as he took a swallow of spiced tea.

  “All the replacement troopers before they’re sent to the border posts?” pressed Salyna.

  “Salyna,” interjected Feranyt, “you might let your brother eat his breakfast.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Mykella could tell that Salyna was irritated, despite the sweetness in her voice.

  After that Salyna didn’t say much, and neither did Mykella nor Rachylana.

  Before long, Feranyt finished his second mug of spiced tea, then rose from the table with a nod at his offspring and strode off.

  Mykella followed immediately, but waited outside the family breakfast room for Jeraxylt because she definitely didn’t want Rachylana to hear the conversation that would follow, whether Jeraxylt agreed with her plan or not. As he stepped into the hall, she cornered him. “Have some of the guards left or been stipended off?”

  “How would I know?” Jeraxylt looked past her down the corridor toward the staircase to the main level of the palace.

  “You know everything about the Guards,” Mykella said gently. “You’ve told me how many companies and battalions there are…”

  “The numbers change every week, and every season. There might be a few less now. Some of the companies are under strength.” Jeraxylt paused. “I wouldn’t know about stipends to ranker guards. I do know that Majer Querlyt petitioned for an early stipend because of deaths in his family. The Arms-Commander granted it. Commander Demyl said that there were reasons to grant it, but they only gave him a half stipend, and if he’d served two more years, it would have been full.”

  “Was he a good commander?”

  “One of the best. He and Undercommander Areyst were the ones who turned back the Ongelyan nomads three years ago, and he
hardly lost any men at all. Neither did Areyst. Oh, Majer Choalt was there, too, but he was a captain then. Good man, though.”

  “Jeraxylt? How would you like to help me?” Mykella tried to make her voice confidentially winning.

  “Mykella…I am rather…involved in my training.”

  “What I have in mind will certainly not interfere with your training.” She offered her most persuasive smile.

  “Whom do you want to meet?” He grinned broadly.

  “It’s not that kind of help.” She didn’t need Jeraxylt’s assistance in meeting men, not that she’d seen any in the Southern Guards or around the palace who appealed to her. “I need to follow up on some of the tariff collections, and I need an escort.”

  “Mykella…” His voice expressed extreme doubt.

  “Of course, I could make it known that you’ve been bedding Majer Allahyr’s younger daughter.”

  “So?”

  “Father wouldn’t be pleased that you’re taking your pleasures with the younger sister of his mistress, nor would he like it known. Besides, if you help me, you’ll get to ride through Tempre in that uniform, and everyone will know who you are and admire you.”

  “Why don’t you ask Arms-Commander Nephryt?”

  “My asking him might make matters…difficult, because, well…I hope you understand. Anyway, the collections don’t match up. You don’t want to see Father cheated, do you?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Would you like to be cheated when you become Lord-Protector?” she asked. “Would you like to see the cheating continue until you do, and then have to be the one to tell everyone that they can’t keep doing what they’ve done for years?”

  Jeraxylt thought about that for a moment. “How do you know…” He shook his head. “You and your ledgers and figures.” Then he cocked his head and smiled.

  Mykella could sense what he was feeling—the mix of wanting to show initiative, the appeal of being seen in uniform, and the idea of wanting to call in a future favor from Mykella, as well as a certain doubt.