The Soldier King

by Violette Malan

  Parno put up his hand like a junior Scholar in a Library. “I know,” he said. “We’re trapped inside a fortress and the city’s under attack.”

  Dhulyn rolled her eyes, but Edmir ignored them both.

  “No. I mean Tzanek. I was looking right at him, straight into his eyes, as I looked into yours just now, and I saw nothing. Do you understand?No hidden message. No recognition. It isn’t just that Tzanek said he didn’t know me. He didn’t know me.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  Edmir nodded. “My sister and I used to play at disguises, and see who we could fool among the court people and the servers. I know what it looks like when people know me and when they don’t.” He rubbed at his forehead. “And what it looks like when they know me and are pretending they don’t. Tzanek doesn’t know me.”

  “And who do we know that might be able to do that?”

  “The Blue Mage,” Dhulyn said. She exchanged a glance with Parno behind Edmir’s head. She could see that they shared the same thought. Was the Mage working alone, or was the sister in it as well?

  “If you will take these to the House Seamstress, that will be all for today.”

  Princess Kera indicated a bundle of Edmir’s cloaks and watched Metrick the page gather them up make his way slowly to the door of Edmir’s quarters. She wondered if he would have been so ready to help her if her brother wasn’t dead. Metrick was one of the new pages, from a High Noble House in Balnia—not that she could remember which one just at the moment. There the Noble Houses had long had the custom of sending their children for a final polish of manners and service to their Tarkin’s House, and since Tegrian had conquered them, and their Tarkins were no more, those sons and daughters came to Queen Kedneara instead.

  “Be careful what you say in front of that one, Lady Prince.” Sharian Tzeczova, Kera’s own senior lady page was taking folded shirts out of Edmir’s clothespress. “The other pages are already saying that he’s too ready to run with tales to others.”

  “He’s like a badly trained dog,” Kera agreed. “He goes begging to everyone in the room, and performs his tricks for everyone.”

  “Well, to be fair,” Sharian said. “He’s just a House page at the moment, and doesn’t really have a master yet. Though it seems to me, since your brother’s death, he’s thinking you’ll do.”

  “I’ll have to be careful, then.”

  “Do so. His House is a good one, and he might fancy himself at your side. You’re Lady Prince now, remember.”

  Kera turned her face away so Sharian wouldn’t see her grit her teeth. As if she could forget. As if she wasn’t here, right now, in Edmir’s room, going through his things because Edmir was dead.

  “Sharian, would you mind leaving me here a while?”

  The lady page couldn’t really mind, whatever she might think, and however often she might serve as an informal tutor.

  And besides, it would seem natural to anyone that she would like to sit a while in her late brother’s room, by herself, where she might think about him, and what his absence now meant to her.

  Sharian picked up the shirts she’d been sorting and headed for the door, bestowing an understanding smile that put Kera’s teeth on edge. As soon as the door shut behind the older woman, Kera jumped to her feet and went to it, pressing her ear against the opening. Sharian’s house shoes made no noise on the smooth wooden floors of the passage outside Edmir’s rooms, so Kera counted to twenty before looking to assure herself that the passage was empty. She shut the door, latched it from the inside, and threw the bolts. The outer room secure, Kera went into Edmir’s bedroom, directly to the fireplace that took up much of the far side of the room.

  The hearth was surrounded by an elaborate mantel built up of several different kinds of dark wood, and large pieces of stone on which the faces of animals had been carved. It took only a few seconds for Kera to find the face of a fox on the left-hand side of the fireplace and press its nose with her thumbs. The stone gave under the pressure and a square of wood lower on the right-hand side popped soundlessly open.

  Kera knelt and stuck her hand into the opening, smiling as her fingers brushed against a leather corner. Just as she’d thought, Edmir had not found a new hiding place for his journals. She pulled them out one by one. Altogether there were seven books, all showing wear and one a chewed corner where a favored puppy had once got hold of it. The two most recent were made from the newer, lighter-weight paper, cut and bound with the pages sewn together, and stiff covers made from leather. She opened them, and found both were filled from cover to cover with Edmir’s neat handwriting.

  Of course. She sat back on her heels. The latest one, the one he was writing in now, must have gone with him to Nisvea. Kera tilted her head back, taking a deep breath and blinking to forestall the tears. Where would it be now, her brother’s last journal? On the battlefield somewhere, soaked in Edmir’s blood? Did the Nisveans have it? Or the Mercenaries who were said to have taken him—might they have kept it?

  She hadn’t really thought he’d leave it. Edmir was always writing in his journal. But she’d hoped to be wrong. She’d hoped to have this chance to find out why Edmir had ignored her advice. Without his journal, she would never know what possessed him to change his plans, to listen to the Mage.

  She gathered together the hem of her gown, making a pouch in which she could stash the journals. There was a satchel in Edmir’s clothespress that would hold them all, and she could use that to transport them unseen to her own secret hiding place. As she reached into the hole, making sure that she hadn’t left a journal behind, one slipped out of the fold in her skirt and fell open onto the floor. Kera caught sight of her own name in Edmir’s handwriting.

  Princess Kera and the Seven Suitors, were the words at the top of the page. There are seven silver fish in the garden pond of the Queen of Tegrian, the story began. Kera sat heavily on the floor and touched the ink with her fingertip. Edmir had once made up a story that the fish in her mother’s pond were really princes who had been turned into fish when they’d come, one by one, to beg for her hand. One had been a pirate prince, she remembered, who’d tried to steal her away. She’d never known that Edmir had written the story down.

  This time, she could not stop the tears.

  “Troop of six pikemen just ran by,” Dhulyn said. They had made it past the kitchens, and were at a scullery door that would take them out into the courtyard and stables. “They’re joining others leaving by the gate into the city.” She turned back to the door crack in time to see another small group, this time armed with swords and small round shields, heading in the same direction as the first. She needn’t have bothered being careful; none of the soldiers were looking her way.

  “They’ll be coming from the guardhouse, at the other end of the courtyard.” Edmir tried to see around her, but Dhulyn kept her elbows out.

  “And heading for the walls, though from the sounds of things, those are already breached.”

  “How is any of this possible? The strength of Probic’s walls is legendary . . .” Edmir shook his head.

  “All it takes is one man to open a door,” Dhulyn said. “And if they tricked their way in, as that page said . . .” She shrugged.

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  Dhulyn just stopped herself from sighing aloud. The lad would have to get more cynical than this if he expected to be king one day. “The same person who doesn’t seem to know you any longer, I would judge. Or someone that he sent.”

  “But the Blue Mage . . .” Edmir’s voice died away, and he drew down his brows as he processed the idea that Dhulyn had lent him.

  She knew what he would have said. That fear of the Blue Mage— or respect for his powers, which amounted to much the same thing— had kept Tegrian free of invasion for the last three seasons at least. Why and how had that changed now?

  And what other change had resulted in the banishment of Mercenaries from Tegrian?

  “Edmir. Can the Blue Mage communicate
with others over long distances?” Racha Clouds could with their birds, she knew, but she had never heard such a thing about the Blue Mage.

  “Now is not the time for such questions, my heart.” Parno gestured Dhulyn forward with a tip of his head. She shrugged and turned back to the door. Her Partner was right. She hovered in the doorway for another few heartbeats, shaking her shoulders loose, moving her head from one side to the other, as she began the Stalking Cat Shora. Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat slowed. Her hearing grew more acute. She toned down her awareness of Parno and the prince so that their breathing and their heartbeats would not distract her.

  She tilted her head to one side. She held up her left hand, pointed to the open doorway of the stables, and held up one finger. From the corner of her eyes she saw Parno nod. She moved out of the scullery and over to the stable door, noting the shifting of air as Parno and Edmir fell in behind her. The prince was very quiet, but she could hear both his breathing and his footfalls. She pointed downward with the index finger of her left hand and they stayed back, allowing her to approach the stable alone. She paced to the left, staying out of line of sight for the single person she knew to be inside. When she reached a point to the left of the opening, she squatted on her heels and took a quick glance inside the building, her mind and eye automatically registering all within.

  She beckoned the others forward, easing back from the edge of the opening. “A table between us and him. Some bowls, tack, and harness on it. Stool on our side,” she said, using the nightwatch voice. She looked at Parno. “I went last time.”

  Parno shrugged. “True.” He sheathed his sword, pushed his hands through his hair, and sauntered loose-footed into the open doorway so naturally and so casually that he had the tall, three-legged stool in his hands before the man shutting the stall gate on the opposite side of the table even felt his presence as a threat. The stableman was no amateur, however, and was turned around in one heartbeat, an ax in his hand the next.

  The prince pushed against Dhulyn’s arm. “He’s got an ax.”

  “And Parno has a stool. Calm down. This will only take a moment.”

  As if prompted by her words, Parno smashed the stool down on the tabletop, breaking off the seat and leaving himself with two of the stool’s stout legs, each as thick as three of Dhulyn’s fingers, and as long as Parno’s forearm and hand.

  She drummed her fingers on the doorframe and blew out a breath.

  Parno tossed the hair out of his eyes, and leaped onto the table, kicking horse brushes and pots of liniment at the stableman. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Parno’s Mercenary badge, but almost without hesitation he took a step back, lessening the advantage of Parno’s elevation, and swung the ax in a controlled sweep at Parno’s legs. Without taking his eyes off the man’s face, Parno jumped over the moving blade and moved the chair legs once—a blow numbing the stableman’s arm with a swing of his left hand—and twice—clubbing him to the ground with a swing of his right.

  “They don’t pay this man enough,” he said, as he jumped back to the ground and held his fingers at the man’s throat.

  “Will he be able to collect more pay in the future?” Now that she was in the stable, Dhulyn whistled and saw three heads pop out over stall doors along the left-hand side of the stable: Bloodbone, Warhammer, and Stumpy.

  “Of course, what do you take me for?”

  “I thought you might have been a bit rushed.” Dhulyn pushed past him and ran down to Bloodbone. The horses she’d known would be here. What she hadn’t expected was to find their own packs and saddlebags sitting in each stall, at the horses’ feet.

  “Not even opened,” she said. Their extra weapons, even the crossbow Parno had hooked on his saddle, were lying untouched on top of the packs.

  “Our reputation precedes us,” Parno said, as he stepped past her and opened Warhammer’s stall. Edmir looked between them frowning, clearly bewildered. Parno indicated the unopened packs. “Not a buckle, not a flap, not even the knots in the laces have been disturbed. Someone’s told them we booby trap our packs, that’s why they’ve not been opened.”

  As they spoke, Dhulyn opened the pack at her feet, slipping the buckles loose and pulling the ties open with one practiced flick of her wrist. If you knew your knots and ties—and there were Shora for ropes and bindings—a bundle you had tied shut yourself was as good as open, however confounding it might have been for someone else.

  She reached inside, took out the two leather gauntlets she’d packed on top, and pulled them on, settling the knives they held along the inside of her forearms. She bit her lip. Her other throwing knives were in their roll in the saddlebags, no time to fetch them out now. But the small hatchet slipped easily into its place down the back of her vest, and two more daggers went into the tops of her boots, along with a moon razor.

  There, now she felt properly dressed.

  “We leave the packhorse,” Dhulyn said. She picked up Bloodbone’s saddle pad and threw it over the mare’s back. “Saddlebags, weapons, and camp gear only, and then what food we have room for.”

  “We don’t take everything?”

  “We must travel faster now,” Parno said. “And the packhorse will slow us down. As for food, unlike an army, we can feed ourselves as we go.”

  “Hunting won’t slow us down?” He might be questioning them, but Edmir was already moving to open Stumpy’s stall.

  “Not the way we hunt,” Dhulyn said.

  The prince hesitated, his hand on Stumpy’s saddle pad. “Can’t I take one of the better horses?”

  Dhulyn continued saddling Bloodbone. “Better how, Lord Prince? Stumpy’s trained to our ways, and we’ve no time to train any of these.”

  “And besides,” Parno added, “at the moment we want to get away unseen, and unnoticed. Old Stumpy here draws no one’s eye, and you’ve more chance to be recognized on a good horse.”

  And judging from the look on Edmir’s face, it could go unsaid that recognition, with invaders already inside the gates, was the last thing they wanted right now. The prince was not stupid, Dhulyn thanked Sun and Moon, just inexperienced.

  They left City House finally by the simple expedient of joining the tail end of a small contingent of guards and riding out of the gate after them. It appeared that the banishment Tzanek had spoken of was not widely known.

  “Don’t skulk, Edmir,” Parno said in an undertone. “Shoulders back, chin up, ride as though you belong here.”

  Edmir straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as he followed Dhulyn through the gate. His grip on Stumpy’s reins was too tight, he could feel the tension in his forearms already, but he didn’t seem to be able to relax. No one took notice of them, however. Once outside into the city proper there was so much else to notice. More noise, for one thing, the unmistakable sound of steel striking steel in the distance, cries and shouts, and the smell of burning. Edmir gritted his teeth and tried to push the images of the battle of Limona out of his head.

  They took the first turning they came to, and found themselves suddenly alone in a small square with a stone pillory in its center, raised above the cobbles of the square itself on three granite steps. The iron arms, with their hooked ends for tying off ropes and prisoners, looked innocent enough, but Edmir licked his suddenly dry lips when he saw the stains on the pillar, on the granite steps, and on the flagstones immediately around them. The pillory’s long shadow stretched almost the length of the square. The late afternoon sun cast their own shadows before them.

  Dhulyn Wolfshead touched him on the elbow and Edmir jumped.

  “This way.”

  Seven

  THEY LEFT THE SQUARE just in time to avoid a small group of four mounted guards wearing Probic’s town colors of green and rust, their uniform tunics torn, their weapons bloodied, one being steadied on his horse by a comrade. Even in these smaller streets and alleys Parno could hear the sounds of fighting, the clash of metal, the far-off yells and even the occasional blast of trumpet or ho
rn as signals were given to troops too spread out to hear their orders.

  And there was the smell of fire as the poorer, wooden quarters of the town were set ablaze.

  Dhulyn stopped, holding up her right hand. Three men in dark blue tunics—wall guards—crossed the alley in front of them without even so much as looking their way.

  “It goes against the grain to leave the fight behind us,” Parno said, as Edmir caught his eye. “But we have nothing but enemies here.”

  The prince nodded, his teeth clenched, and at Parno’s gesture fell back into position between him and Dhulyn. She set a steady but unremarkable pace, neither chasing nor running from, the best way to avoid unwelcome attention. As they got farther away from the City House, the streets became quieter, deserted, and doors were clearly bolted. Dhulyn stopped once more, tilted her head like a Racha bird catching its partner’s thoughts. Then she relaxed, glancing at Parno and indicating upward with her eyes. Yes, he thought, following her glance, there was someone watching them from behind a third-floor shutter. He touched his fingertips to his forehead in the Mercenary salute to the silent watcher. Banished or not, it seemed not everyone here was their enemy, after all.

  Two men wearing the long leather aprons of smiths, dragging a corpse in Nisvean colors by the heels, turned into their path and stopped abruptly—looking first at them, down at the corpse, and back at them again. Parno tried hard not to smile as, without speaking, Dhulyn turned her head and tapped the side of her face, indicating her Mercenary badge. The two smiths stood aside then, dragging the corpse out of their path, and watched as they passed by. Once again, Parno touched his forehead to them.

  They hadn’t gone much farther along, and Dhulyn was signaling a turn to the left as their alley approached the square in front of a Jaldean Shrine, when the unmistakable sound of a woman screaming brought Dhulyn up short.

  Out in the late afternoon sunlight that filled the square, a young woman hung between two men, not much bigger than she was herself, who were twisting her arms up behind her back. Her spangled head scarf lay on the ground at her feet, and the taller, wider man in front of her had hold of her white-blonde hair in his right fist, his left cocked back to hit her again. Her face showed signs that she’d been punched at least once already, but she was still screaming, and kicked out—a well-placed blow that had her attacker bent over and bellowing as she caught him squarely in the groin. The man holding her left arm laughed, but the man holding her on the right pulled his knife from his belt and held it to her throat, yelling something in her ear. The girl stopped squirming, her eyes almost crossing in her attempt to look simultaneously at both the man and his knife.