Dhulyn left the door of the caravan open behind her as she and Parno climbed in. The two youngsters sat on opposite benches, eyeing each other over the caravan’s table, a flap of time-darkened wood that had been let down from where it attached to the wall at the front end. A candle set into a silvered holder reflected light into the space, and illuminated a platter on which rested a partially eaten loaf—yesterday’s bread, Dhulyn’s thought, eyeing it with sudden interest, half a dozen cold potatoes and a handful of sticks of dried meat.
Parno rubbed his hands together and slid in next to Edmir, leaving Zania’s side of the table to Dhulyn.
“And to drink?” Parno said.
Zania lifted a clay jug from the floor at her feet and passed it over the table. Parno pulled the stopper, smelled the jug, and frowned.
“I’ll fetch water,” he said, and started to rise to his feet.
“There’s water here also,” Zania said, reaching down for another jug. “I didn’t think you’d want it.”
“We’re Mercenary Brothers,” Dhulyn told her. “Not soldiers, not guards. We don’t go off duty at the end of the watch.”
“And in any case, our watch lasts until Edmir here gets home safely,” Parno added, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand and passing the water jug to Dhulyn. She stifled a smile as she accepted the jug. As Parno had told the prince, he came from a House fully as noble as the prince’s own—perhaps more so—and yet here he was pouring water directly into his mouth without touching the jug to his lips as handily as any country man. There was no bumpkin in the man—country or otherwise—and yet Parno liked to play the part. She looked at the faces of the prince and the dancer. Parno’s little act did help to set people at ease, she thought. It did that.
“Then the sooner I get home, the better for all of us,” Edmir said. “We must get to Beolind as quickly as we can, we must reach my mother.”
Parno caught Dhulyn’s eye and scratched his nose with his left forefinger. She blinked, and gave herself time to swallow the bread she’d been chewing. “Let us not be hasty, Edmir,” she said, emphasizing the prince’s name ever so slightly. Let him hear her use his name without a title, let him remember, she hoped, that Zania did not know who he was. “It’s no return for you if it’s not a return to safety.”
“I know he’s Lord Prince Edmir, if that’s what you’re being so careful about.” The girl’s tone was at once crisp and smug, like a student who had all the right answers and was ready to show off.
Edmir coughed on the water he was drinking. Dhulyn looked at Parno and saw the twinkle in his eyes. When she smiled back, her Partner broke into laughter. Still smiling, she shook her head at him.
“I didn’t tell her.” Edmir was indignant.
“No need to tell me.” The smugness was now clearly to the fore. “You were declared dead almost four days ago, time enough for likenesses to be made and put up around the town. I saw one in front of the Jaldean Shrine, as well as at the prayer stations for the other gods. They made you look younger and more innocent, of course, but it was you all right.”
Parno sat back against the cushions. “Well, this will make things more comfortable.”
“For you maybe,” Edmir muttered.
“We, at least, can stop watching our tongues when we are in private,” Dhulyn said, letting a touch of frost enter her voice. “And you can stop pretending to be an ordinary person.”
“And doing a poor job of it.” The two women gave each other brisk nods. Parno grinned broadly, took the last piece of bread, broke it, and gave half to her. She took it with a shrug. No point in doing without, it wouldn’t last another day.
“Zania’s brought up a good point,” Parno began.
“What, that he’s no actor?”
“Enough, little Cat. I meant that if Edmir’s been declared dead, and the country is in mourning, we can’t merely turn up at the Queen’s Court with him and ask for breakfast.”
This time it was the two young people who looked at each other, shared ignorance bringing them together until they noticed what they were doing and looked away.
“Why? If it’s not a stupid question?” the girl said.
“There are no stupid questions,” Dhulyn said. She sat forward, her elbows on the tabletop. “The prince isn’t dead, but someone wants him to be, and going straight to the capital doesn’t seem the best method to keep him alive. There are too many questions with no clear answers.”
“Who warned the Nisveans you were coming? Because they knew, no doubt there,” Parno put in, looking at Edmir.
“Why didn’t the Blue Mage’s magic work? And why were the Nisveans so adamant about keeping you?” Dhulyn added.
“And why have you been so quickly declared dead, since you obviously aren’t?” Zania blinked and lifted her chin to return Edmir’s stare.
“And why,” Parno said in the tone of someone being careful not to hurt, “did a man who has known and loved you all your life not recognize you, when recognizing you would mean that all the country— including your mother and sister—would rejoice?”
“Meaning that until we find out who wouldn’t be rejoicing, it’s best we stay hidden.” Dhulyn gently tapped the table with her index finger.
“And not just for the prince’s sake,” Parno said. “If what Lord Tzanek was saying is true, the Mercenary Brotherhood has been asked to leave Tegrian—” He caught Dhulyn’s eyes with the look that said, We’ll talk of this later. “And since we have no intention of leaving Tegrian at the moment, where can we go to both learn things and stay hidden?” Parno asked.
“I still say here’s the best place to hide.” Zania rapped the table in front of her hard. “The last place anyone will look for you, prince or Mercenary Brother, is performing on a public stage. And we can learn things, too. People are used to passing the news, even letters, along with travelers like us . . .” Her voice faltered. “Like me.”
“Agreed,” Dhulyn said. “But even players have a destination, a route. And so should we.” She bit off the end of a twist of dried meat.
“We can go to Jarlkevo,” Edmir said.
Dhulyn, her mouth full, raised her eyebrows at Parno.
“And what’s in Jarlkevo?” he asked.
“My aunt Valaika.”
“And we can know that she’s not part of this—whatever this is?”
Edmir shook his head. His lips were pressed into a thin line. “She’s my father’s sister. She came with him from Hellik when he married my mother. They had some kind of falling out when I was a child—” Edmir shrugged. No need to say, Dhulyn thought, that he hadn’t been interested, or perhaps old enough at the time to remember the details now.
“She wanted to marry someone unsuitable, something like that,” he continued. “She left the Royal House, and the Holding at Jarlkevo, part of my father’s marriage gift, was elevated to a House and given to her. I don’t think she’s been back at court since my father’s funeral. She didn’t come for Kera’s naming day, just sent her a nice horse.” From the change in his voice, Dhulyn thought Edmir would have liked a nice horse from his aunt as well.
“And will she be disposed to help you now?” Dhulyn asked.
Edmir shrugged, every line in his face turning downward. “I can be sure she had no part in my present circumstances,” he said. “That, at least, I can say.”
“Jarlkevo it is, then,” Dhulyn said.
“Parno,” Dhulyn said, once the platters had been cleared away and the tabletop folded to its upright position. “Get your pipes, my soul. Some music will soothe us.”
Parno met her glance and made the smallest shrugging motion with his shoulders. Edmir was staring into space again, looking at the Moon and Stars knew what ghastly sight, and Zania’s eyes had taken on that hollow look which said “my people are all gone, and I’m still alive.” It was a look Dhulyn herself was well familiar with. The girl would be feeling some guilt now, and would feel it again and again, as even planning what she should do
next would seem selfish and a betrayal in the light of what had happened to her family. It would be a long process, coming to terms with the events of the past day, but what the girl needed right now was sleep, to give her thoughts at least one night’s distance from the events of the day.
And Edmir—how must he feel? Someone had betrayed him, the question was, who?
The bag holding Parno’s pipes was one of the first things they had brought into the caravan, and it was a matter of moments for him to unfasten the heavy silk cords of the bag’s opening. As he set the drones to one side, and took out just the chanter, Dhulyn helped the little Cat bring out the bedding and unfold it along the benches. Edmir lay down without hesitation, his eyes still focused on the middle distance, but Zania shook her head.
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “There’s too much to think about, plans to make.” Her chin trembled for a moment, but she soon had it under control again. “There’s things that won’t wait until tomorrow, now that my uncle is dead—” Abruptly, she stopped and clamped her jaw. Dhulyn guessed that she was seeing once more the blood-drained face, the staring eyes.
Sitting in the open doorway, Parno began to play softly, a simple tune that made Dhulyn smile. It was a variation on a well-known children’s song, a game which often involved a blindfold, but played at a tempo that made it a lullaby.
“Tell me your ideas,” Dhulyn said, drawing the girl’s attention. “What should you be planning? Do you have other family? Another troupe, perhaps, with whom you have ties?”
The little Cat was shaking her head, but her color was better, and her trembling had stopped. “There is a meeting place, after the Harvest Fairs have run their course and the Midwinter Festivals have yet to begin, but before that I must finish—If you are going to Beolind, that will suit me perfectly. I can begin there.”
“Begin what?” Edmir was not asleep yet, after all. His dark eyes looked even darker in the shadows cast by the oil lamp.
“Your pardon, Lord Prince,” Zania said, lowering her eyes. “But my business is my own.”
“Fair enough, for now, little Cat,” Dhulyn said. “But our road will lie together, and we have pledged to help each other, keep that to mind.”
The girl straightened her shoulders. “In part, that’s what has been pulling at my thoughts,” she said. “Most of our pieces—the ones I know by heart anyway—use my . . . use the whole troupe. But there are others, smaller plays, pieces that would need only two or three players.”
“Best think of something for two.” Dhulyn patted the bedclothes on the bench and stood up. “Think lying down. Let Parno’s music guide your thoughts.”
The little Cat drew in her brows and nodded as she obeyed, tucking up her feet and letting Dhulyn cover her.
“I remember we did all manner of things before the troupe split up, when my mother still lived. There are books and scrolls . . .”
“To be looked at in the morning’s light,” murmured Dhulyn. “Come, just rest your eyes a for a moment. Is it not a beautiful tune my Partner plays?”
Still frowning, Zania closed her eyes. Dhulyn waited, letting the familiar music wash over her as well, loosening the tensions of the day. She glanced at Parno, but his eyes were closed in concentration. Dhulyn let herself out past his sprawling feet and settled on the step outside. She let her head fall back against his thigh and her own eyes closed.
It’s summer, late in the day, but the sun still shines, and it is warm enough that the boys all have their blood-red hair braided and one or two are shirtless. They sit on the ground, cross-legged, in a circle, taking turns making gestures in the air, as if they are drawing. One or two are quickly successful, a symbol in light hovering in front of them for a few moments before disappearing. One boy forgets a part of the symbol he is drawing, and it collapses; the other boys laugh. There is one who does not laugh. Only Dhulyn can see him, hiding, watching from behind the hanging awning of a nearby tent. This is not a child, excluded because of age from the business of those who are almost men. He is the same age as the others; his hair is braided, down is forming on his cheeks. Something else keeps him hiding, watching, his hands in fists, with a look of dark hatred on his face . . .
Parno is sitting at a small table, an oil lamp with a curious glass shade illuminating the page on which he is writing. Dhulyn frowns. Usually when there is any writing to be done, she does it. Parno is literate, and in the manner of the sons of Noble Houses in Imrion, well-educated, particularly in history, politics, and economics. But she is the one who has spent a year in a Scholars’ Library, while she learned the life was not for her, and it is she who writes a better hand. He frowns, crosses out a short word, and writes something else.
This is an older Parno, Parno-to-come, Dhulyn realizes. The familiar dark red and deep yellow of his Mercenary badge is clear in the lamplight. The lines in his face are more pronounced, his hair is cut much shorter than he wears it now, and there seems to be gray under the gold. Parno lays down his pen and rubs at the wristband on his left wrist. Dhulyn recognizes it. She wears it on her own wrist now. The now of the real world, not the now of the Vision.
Where is she? . . .
Moonlight washes all the color from what must be a beautiful garden surrounded by high walls. A slim man is seated on the edge of a pool of water. He looks down at the surface with great concentration. Perhaps he is a Finder, using the pool as a scrying bowl. Dhulyn can’t get close enough to him to see his face, which is turned away and obscured in the faulty light. Nor can she see what it is that so absorbs him in the water. A movement to one side reveals there is a girl sitting on a rough part of the wall, watching the man. He doesn’t know she’s there. . . .
A redheaded man on horseback, his fur-lined cloak pushed back to free his arms, makes a curiously familiar gesture, drawing in the air in front of him. A blue line of light follows the end of his finger, lingering in the air a moment before it fades. The trail of hoofprints in the snow behind him disappears.
When she woke up, Zania thought for one blessed moment that all the horror—the blood on her aunt’s face, her cousin’s limp hand—had been a nightmare, and the voices she heard coming from outside were her uncle Jovan and her aunt Ester. But then she remembered. They both were dead, lying in a row, wrapped in blankets in the stable yard of the hostel, and she would never hear their voices again. As the tears began, she turned over to face the caravan’s wall, covering her face with her hands to stifle any sound she might make. She couldn’t let anyone see her crying. They would lose respect for her, think her no more than an untried child.
When she could finally take a deep breath without sobbing, Zania sat up, throwing off the rugs she didn’t remember pulling over her. Everything in the caravan was now hers. Everything. Including the troupe’s charter from the old Galan of Cabrea, an age-yellowed bit of parchment that at least in theory gave them free passage wherever they might choose to go. These important documents were here, inside, where her elder relatives normally slept while she, Jovana, and the twins slept under the caravan. But Prince Edmir was asleep in her great-uncle’s place, and she couldn’t light a lamp now. There were more papers, books and scrolls, performance pieces for the most part, wrapped in oiled cloth and stored in an old chest that was rarely opened, and therefore was kept up top, under the flat pieces of scenery.
But that wasn’t what she wanted just now. Zania swung her feet off the bench and padded silently to the door, letting herself out before she could change her mind. The cool night air made her shiver, but she didn’t expect to be out very long. She heard a horse snort over to her left, but though she waited, holding her breath, she heard nothing else. They were silent sleepers, then, these Mercenaries.
The moon had set, and even the stars had been obscured by clouds. But this caravan had been Zania’s home her whole life; she didn’t need light to find her away around it. She crept forward along one side, trailing her fingers across the painted surface until she felt the hard edge of the ladder that
gave access to the driver’s seat. Zania hitched up her skirt, pulled herself up the three short steps and swung into the seat. She ran her fingers over the bits of decorative wooden trim that formed geometric shapes on the front of the caravan. She’d never actually done this herself, but she and her cousin had watched Great-Uncle Therin many times, when they were supposed to be asleep under the wagon.
There. The bottom piece on the left shifted down under her prodding, swung to one side and exposed a flat opening panel about the size of her hand. Zania hesitated, hand lifted, tongue pressing on her upper lip. This was Great-Uncle Therin’s secret hiding place, never even to be spoken of. If she had needed any proof that life as she’d known it had ended, and that things would never be the same again, she had it now. She took a deep breath, slipped her hand into the space, and brought out her great-uncle’s journal. She lifted it to her face. It smelled like him, of the garlic he loved in all his food, of the herbal rub he used on his lower back and arthritic knees.
She tucked the journal into the front of her gown, returned the piece of wood trim to its original position, feeling the slight “click” through her fingers. She let herself down the short ladder and felt her heart leap as a long-fingered hand closed over her left biceps.
“Stay quiet, there are others who wish to sleep, though you’ve finished.”
The Wolfshead. Though her breath still came short, Zania relaxed. Intellectually she knew—she’d been warned by her aunt—that women could be just as dangerous to a young person as men, but the bare truth was that predatory women were rare, and if she was safe with anyone, it would be Dhulyn Wolfshead.
The Soldier King Page 14
