Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  Imorelda made a noise distinctly like a sneeze. *Not too picky, apparently. One made a baby with the likes of you.*

  Tae ignored the insult. *She means about their swords.*

  *So they’re more careful with their swords than their children?*

  *Renshai?Yes.*

  *Sounds about right.* Imorelda curled back into Tae’s lap. *Nasty things.*

  *Renshai? Or swords?*

  *Children.*

  Tae disengaged to ask Béarn’s king, “I presume you still have some of these weapons? Their make—?”

  “Our best experts couldn’t identify the workmanship, though they were most impressed by it. We reused as many as we could. The ones too damaged or large, we melted down and recast.” Griff sighed. “Iron ore shortage, you know.”

  “I know.” Tae did not wish to discuss trade issues now. The East still had a reasonable amount, but its price had tripled because of the West’s shortage. Only the North still had a strong, steady supply. “It’s common, though, for armies to see the other side as having a greater percentage of larger men.”

  When no one said anything, Tae continued.

  “Just as it’s customary for enemies to multiply during battle. You know, a few dozen men seems like a hundred when you’re fighting for your life. And a hundred men seems more like ten thousand.”

  “Yes,” Darris finally spoke again. “But these are Béarnides.”

  Tae glanced at the king and queen, and he got the point. Matrinka had sported a whale-boned frame even before she carried the extra childbirth weight, and Griff had always looked more like a bear than a human. Tae chuckled. “Yes, I suppose when Béarnides start reporting an unusually large number of huge warriors, it’s probably not exaggeration.” Though he enjoyed the conversation with his old friends, it seemed pointless to continue in this vein. “So, we seem to have established that the enemy comes from beyond our known boundaries, likely from beyond the Western Sea. What next?”

  “I don’t know,” Griff hung his leonine head. “I thought if only we could communicate, we might parley. Or, at least, learn what to expect. Right now, we’re fighting this war blind. We don’t even know what they’re after.” He shook his head. “But if you can’t talk to them . . .”

  Tae allowed his brows to creep steadily upward. “Who said I can’t talk to them?”

  All eyes jerked instantly to the Eastern king, who remained utterly composed, more from habit than intention.

  “Eventually,” Tae added, the plan he had considered on his walk taking a more solid form in his mind. “Given the right circumstances.”

  “Go on.” Darris leaned far forward in his chair, excitement lighting up his hazel eyes.

  Tae kept his attention on Griff. “Didn’t you tell me you managed to capture a second man?”

  “Two days ago.Yes.”

  “Can you put the two together? In the same cell?”

  Griff’s head started to shake, slowly at first, then with more force. “Tae, the reason it took us so long to take prisoners is because these enemies fight to their last breath. When things look hopeless for any one of them, they choose death over capture. In fact, several took the lives of companions and their own rather than surrender.”

  Though not directly spoken, Griff’s issue became clear to Tae. “It’s hard to kill yourself alone without sharp or heavy objects.”

  “It is impossible,” Griff finished, “to strangle yourself with your bare hands.”

  That made conjoining cells unworkable as well, since one could reach through the bars, and the other, presumably, would allow it. “So,” Tae continued, “you could put them in the same area, so long as there was one entire cell between them.”

  Griff nodded, clearly waiting for Tae to explain.

  “They could talk freely. And, if some ratty little thief got put in the cell between them . . .”

  “No!” Matrinka leaped to her feet. “I’m not letting you lock yourself in that filthy, disgusting place.”

  Rantire started laughing, the sound startlingly loud and out of place given the intensity of the discussion. “Your Majesty,” she managed between guffaws. “You just called—the king of the Eastlands—a ratty little—”

  Matrinka would have none of it. “I didn’t call him that. He called himself that.”

  “I know.” Rantire could scarcely get the words out. “You only concurred.” She lapsed into another fit of laughter.

  Imorelda patted Tae’s ear. *A more fitting queen would have her beheaded.*

  *Matrinka is the best queen in the world and totally fit for her job.* “Actually,” Tae continued aloud, “I didn’t say who the ratty little thief was, but thanks for clarifying it, Matrinka.”

  Matrinka flushed. Rantire could not stop grinning, but at least her laughter ceased.

  “I only meant I would pretend to be a ratty little thief who happened to get imprisoned between them. In the past, I’ve learned languages just by listening to conversations.” Tae added for Rantire’s sake, “It’s how I picked up Renshai, for example.”

  Rantire’s jollity disappeared completely.

  “And I still say ‘no.’ ” Matrinka placed her hands firmly on her ample hips. “We are not going to lock Tae in that horrible place, wedged between two killers.”

  Griff cleared his throat softly. “I’m not sure we have a choice.” Matrinka whirled to face her husband, clearly speechless.

  “We can see to his comfort there. Warm, soft blankets, good food.”

  Though the idea pleased him, Tae knew it could not happen that way. “No. If they see me getting special treatment, the captives will guard their tongues.”

  Matrinka opened her mouth, but Tae spoke over her.

  “Believe me, the eyes of inmates miss nothing. In fact, it would be best if we could do this without the guards knowing.”

  “But that’s just stupid, Tae!” Matrinka had to get her words out. “Someone might hurt you. Even the guards themselves. And the food. It’s . . . it’s unsanitary.”

  “I’m sure I’ve eaten worse.”

  “You have?” the words were clearly startled from Griff. His features screwed into a knot. “Ewww.”

  Tae barely stopped himself from laughing. Despite nearly two decades on the throne, Griff still fell back into his naïve farmboy ways at times. In fact, childlike simplicity seemed to be a prerequisite for passing the tests that chose the king of Béarn.

  Matrinka looked positively pained. “How will we talk to you? What if you find out something important? Or you’re hurt? Or in trouble?”

  *I always take care of you.* Imorelda yowled. *Is she insulting me?*

  *Not deliberately.You know she loves you.* Aloud, Tae spoke for the cat. “Imorelda can let you know if I’m in trouble.”

  “How?” Matrinka demanded, apparently forgetting Rantire and Griff did not know about her bond with Mior nor Tae’s with Imorelda. “You’re the only one—”

  Tae interrupted before she could say more. “She can be very persistent and persuasive when she needs something.”

  Imorelda stalked across the table toward Matrinka, tail lashing.

  Rantire snorted. “You mean like a fish head? What good does it do you to have your cat badgering the cook?”

  Mid-movement, Imorelda lowered her head and advanced on Rantire.

  “She’s extremely intelligent for a cat,” Tae explained. “She understands more than most people give her credit for.”

  Rantire eyeballed Imorelda, hand falling to her hilt. “Yeah? Well if you don’t want the furball in tonight’s stewpot, you’ll call her off me.”

  “Rantire!” Darris grumbled warningly. “Show some respect. Tae is a king.”

  Imorelda sat on the table and calmly licked her paws, as if she had merely intended to do so from her first movement. *I hate her.*

  *I’m not fond of her either,* Tae admitted. *But she does take good care of King Griff.*

  Rantire glared at Darris but forced a curtsy. “Forgive me, Yo
ur Majesties. I was out of line.”

  Griff nodded his acceptance despite the obvious insincerity of the Renshai’s apology.

  Tae simply ignored it. “All right. So schedule me for weekly torture sessions or something. Just make sure whichever guard is supposed to administer them knows I’m actually meeting with you, and he has some acting experience so that he doesn’t give it away.”

  Matrinka pounced on a single word. “Weekly?”

  “You want me to suffer beatings every day?”

  Matrinka’s mouth fell open. She looked positively horrified. “You’re not really going to get tortured, and we could get you out for at least one good meal a day.”

  Tae heaved a sigh, wishing he could have met with Griff alone. The wise, innocent king would not harry him with speculation. “Matrinka, this is learning, not magic. You can’t expect me to glean anything useful day by day. I have to fully immerse myself in this language, and that’s hard enough when I only have two speakers and they’re constrained by locks, guards, and distance.”

  Tae avoided mentioning that he would have to suffer at least a small amount of violence during the briefings. Cosmetics would not fool his new neighbors, especially if they started rubbing or flaking off. He had a high tolerance for pain but hated it as much as anyone. “Like it or not, this will take time.” Knowing Matrinka would have a new question for every answer, Tae rose. “Now, if it’s all right with everyone, I’d like to prepare. I need to totally undo my bath and combing, dress down into some rags . . . you know, enjoy myself.”

  Griff pulled at his beard. “How will you make yourself unrecognizable to the guards?”

  “Very few prison guards have seen me up close more than once or twice. Even most of those should be fooled by grime, location, and clothing.” Imorelda returned to Tae’s arms. “They won’t expect me in a cell, so they won’t recognize me there. If one does, you can let him in on the secret so long as he can keep it.”

  Tae rose, hoping that would forestall more questions. They could not anticipate everything; the details would fall into place.

  Imorelda clambered up Tae’s chest and draped herself across his shoulders. *You’re not fooling me.You don’t want to do this.*

  *Of course, I do. It’s an adventure.*

  *Liar!* Imorelda patted his face with a plushy paw. *Admit it.You can’t stand closed-up places you can’t get out of.When you have a choice, you don’t eat garbage, and you don’t wear dirty rags. Although you do turn everything nice into dirty rags.*

  Tae walked toward the door, still engaged in this internal dialogue. *Are you saying anything I wear should be considered tainted just because I’m wearing it?*

  Imorelda slapped him again, this time with just a hint of claw. *I mean you shred the seamstresses’ handiwork by crawling around and climbing like a child. Only you can’t do that here, because it might alert the guards to what you’re doing. So you’re going to have to consort with pigs and cows, aren’t you?* Imorelda crinkled her kitty nose. *Disgusting.*

  Tae had not yet given any thought to the “how.” Imorelda was right, though. He did secretly dread the job he had demanded. It had taken him years of hard work to overcome the panic that used to assail him in enclosed places in the wake of his imprisonment in Pudar. Accustomed to doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and at no one’s say-so, he did not look forward to being manhandled by strange guards who believed him a thief or an Eastern spy. *It’s not a matter of what I want, or what makes me comfortable.* He reached for the door latch. *I’m the only person who can crack this language, and I’m doing it for the security, not just of my friends in Béarn, but for the entire world.*

  *The entire world?* Imorelda sneezed. *Aren’t you being just a bit . . . melodramatic?*

  *Maybe. * Tae Tae tripped the latch and opened the door. *But I don’t think so. I don’t know what these pirates want, but it’s obviously not to negotiate. Not if they’re taking and leaving no prisoners.* He stepped out into the hallway, inhaling the familiar smells of Béarn castle: mustiness, cat dander, and baking bread. Though enticed by the food, he deliberately turned away from the kitchen. Nothing would draw suspicions more than a captive gaining weight in prison. *I think we’re only seeing the first wave.They’re testing us before sending in a larger force to take our land or our ore or, simply, our lives.*

  *I still think you’re overthinking this.*

  *Maybe,* Tae conceded. *But we can’t afford to assume it. Because, if I’m right, we’re all in dire trouble.*

  CHAPTER 22

  Ninety percent of an effective trap is surprise.

  —King Tae Kahn of Stalmize

  TALAMIR AWAKENED TO a sense of alarm and imminent death, surprised to find himself more comfortable than he had felt in weeks. Healers had removed the arrowhead from his thigh, pumping him full of herbs. The cold floor of the cell eased his many wounds and bruises, and his belly felt full for the first time in many days. He could scarcely remember his meal the previous night; he had eaten it with such gusto he could not recall tasting it. It had existed only to fill the void in his gut, and it had satisfied its purpose admirably.

  Renshai training kicked in swiftly, revealing the presence of two guards outside his cell. Though Talamir had an overall feeling of unease, they were not the cause of it. Their demeanors seemed relaxed, nonthreatening and, oddly, weaponless. They clearly posed no immediate threat, and he saw no reason not to let them know he had awakened.

  Sitting up, Talamir looked around him. He sat in the middle of a small cell containing nothing but a chamber pot and the bedraggled blanket he had ignored the previous night. He rose and used the pot, taking comfort from the normalcy of the sound of urine splashing into clay. From the smells around him, he knew several prisoners had missed their targets, but he took pride in aiming every drop into its rightful place. Missing would only make his cell more disgusting, and targeting the guards would assure food mixed with filth and spit, manhandling, and a more painful death.

  The guards spoke softly to one another before approaching his cell.Talamir did not recognize them specifically, though he had probably seen them around the castle. Both sported the fine black hair, swarthy skin, and dark eyes of Easterners; but, there, all resemblance ended. One had fine, almost chiseled features. Tall, young, and willowy, he seemed almost delicate. The other was average height, middle-aged and well-muscled, with scarred features. Much to Talamir’s surprise, neither carried any obvious weaponry, not even a sword; and that annoyed him. It suggested they did not see him as enough of a threat to need weapons to contain him.

  “Are you ready for your audience?” the younger one asked politely. “Or do you need more time?”

  Sarcastic replies about finishing perfumed baths and changing into suitable silks came to mind, but Talamir discarded them. So far, the guards seemed kind enough, and it would be foolish to antagonize them. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to face King Tae Kahn.”

  “Then you’re in luck,” the older man said. “The king is away on business.You’re meeting with his regent, Lord Weile Kahn.”

  Talamir relaxed a bit. So far, the king’s father had shown him significantly more leniency. Whether it would hold up given that he had not fulfilled his promises remained to be seen. “Oh. I . . . suppose . . . I’m ready, then. Thanks for asking.”

  The middle-aged guard jiggled a ring of keys until he separated out the one he wanted. He jabbed it into the lock, studying Talamir as he did so. “You are going to come peacefully, right? Because that would definitely be in your best interests.”

  Talamir gave no answer. Currently, he had no reason to fight. But, if circumstances changed, he would not hesitate to do so, at the expense of almost anyone’s life. Their lack of swords further irked him because it meant he could not arm himself from their lapses.

  Apparently, they did not require an answer.The one guard opened the lock with a deft twist, then pocketed the keys in a motion so swift Talamir did not see exactly where he put
them. The other watched him, hawklike. Whatever their reasons for remaining weaponless, it clearly had nothing to do with a lack of agility or competence.

  Talamir glided cautiously from his cell, uncertain what to expect. The taller, thinner Easterner led the way, while the other fell into step behind Talamir.

  They led him past other prisoners, who watched them curiously but remained silent in the gloom. They also walked past other guards who gave the procession acknowledging nods. To Talamir’s surprise, his escort did not lead him toward the stairs that opened onto the castle proper. Instead, they took him to a small room that he suspected they used for interrogation. Talamir’s heart pounded, and his mind raced. He had no specific information they needed, and he expected any brutal death they chose to inflict upon him to wait for Tae’s return. Surely, the king would not want to miss it.

  The leading guard opened the door to reveal a small room, its bare walls speckled with dark brown stains that could represent blood as easily as dirt. The only furnishings were four rickety chairs, though all three of the men inside remained standing. Two were swathed in elite guard black with silver veils, no weapons evident. Weile Kahn stood in the back, a strangely looming and unreadable presence.

  It seemed odd to Talamir that a man so average in height, build, and coloring could radiate so much power. He seemed strangely massive, stunningly handsome, the very definition of charisma even standing perfectly still. Talamir was a Renshai torke, trained to face the biggest dangers of the universe without a moment’s hesitation. Nevertheless, he felt intimidated, barely able to meet the older man’s gaze as his escort departed, closing the door behind them.

  Weile spoke first, “How is my grandson, Talamir?”

  Talamir swallowed hard. He could lie, but he felt certain it would backfire. A man like Weile did not ask a question to which he did not already know the answer. “I hear he’s doing very well. The innkeepers treat him like a star, and the women . . .” He swallowed hard. “The women seem to find him irresistible.”

  “Yes, well. He is the prince of Stalmize.”