Ialin snorted, clenching and unclenching the muscles of his backside against the seat. It allowed him to give in to his need for constant movement without revealing it to the guards. “I lent the regular rig to my good-for-nothing brother. I didn’t think I’d need it for a spell, but then I got a whole load of vilegro. It won’t keep, and I wanted to give His Majesty first rights to it. I borrowed who and what I could to get it here.” Ialin gestured at the old cart and Falima, who kept her head low in a mulish posture.
Silence followed.
“So,” Ialin continued, “I’m irritable, annoyed, and tired. Are you going to let me in, or do I take my business elsewhere?” He had deliberately chosen an excellent product. Not only did the spoilage story work for explaining the mule cart in place of Eshwyn’s finer ox-drawn wagon, the guards would anticipate the rare and delicious gahiri the castle cook would create from the vilegro seed.
“I’ll get the drawbridge.” Wittmore disappeared.
Ialin lowered his head, but not before he caught a glimpse of several faces peering at him over the parapets. The king had increased his outer wall guards and, probably, his patrols. Ialin hoped that meant shorting the inner defenses. Likely, no guard in human form was off duty, but that only supplied the castle with a few extra hands. No decree of the king could delay, abridge, or change the horse and dog times of his security forces.
Ialin dismounted from the cart as the drawbridge jerked downward, chains clanking and creaking. He caught Falima’s halter as she tossed her head with a series of nervous snorts. The braid of rope tore at his callused palm. “Quiet,” he reminded. “Be still. You’re a mule, not a horse. A mule.”
Falima quieted, though her hooves beat a wild, chaotic tattoo against the dirt.
Ialin gritted his teeth. Her behavior would give her away more surely than any noise. Mule vocalizations varied in their similarity to a horse’s, but they tended toward a steady calmness that precluded panic. As the plank dropped to the ground in front of Ialin, he made a difficult decision he had considered on the trip. Falima’s enormous switch-form turned her into a liability once inside the castle grounds. Aisa thought Falima could blend in with the guard forces, but Ialin had doubts. He preferred not to risk anyone unnecessarily. In her current form, Falima did not have the overlap to protest; and, though he knew he would catch trouble for it later, Ialin planned to take advantage of that weakness.
Ialin unbound Falima from the cart. He removed the various ropes, waving them into her face. “Yay, mule! Get on home with you!”
Startled, Falima reared. When she dropped back down, Ialin hissed into her ear. “Go on, Falima. Go somewhere safe. We’ll meet up with you later.” Seizing the traces, Ialin hauled the cart onto the drawbridge. Despite the light load, it was more difficult than he expected; he had to hurl all of his meager weight into the task. Not for the first time, he wished he were larger. Constant movement had granted him strength beyond his bulk, but only that of a normal-sized man.
The cart rumbled across the slats, boards squeaking. Aisa squawked and flapped, her wings kicking up a draft that stirred the water and dried the sweat on Ialin’s neck. A wing beat slapped him in the face, flopping a greased clump of black hair into his eyes. He paused to brush it back into place. “Easy, Frida.” He used the name of Eshwyn’s wife to remind Aisa of her role. “Please don’t make this any harder.”
Aisa rumpled her feathers and hunkered down on Ialin’s shoulder.
Once across the moat, Ialin met two more guards at the gate, one a willowy female, the other a compact male. He knew the man’s name, Thelfori, but not the woman’s. He nodded a greeting to both.
The woman studied him with clear curiosity. “Do you always leave one of your entourage behind?”
Ialin glanced over his shoulder, glad Falima had left his line of vision and not attempted to follow. The last time she had crossed this drawbridge, the hollow ring of her hooves against suspended wood had spooked her. “First time,” he admitted. “She has another engagement, and she’s just about ready to switch. I only paid her to come this far.”
The guard just grunted, helping her companion pull open the heavy, ironbound gates.
Ialin hauled the cart into the gatehouse, trying not to look winded. The doors swung shut behind him, immersing him in darkness. He took the moment to flex every muscle. He felt locked in cramps from head to toe, tired of suppressing the natural and constant motion that kept him alive in hummingbird form. Then, the doors in front of him swung open, placing him back into the bright rush of sunlight and the judgment of a group of guards.
Now, Ialin could not wholly suppress his anxiety, nor did he believe he needed to do so. Even a regular to the court of King Terrin might find an increase in his guard accompaniment intimidating. He glanced around his escort, as if seeking solace in familiar faces. Though not as skilled at reading others’ emotions as Zylas, Ialin did manage to pick out one soft-eyed woman who clearly sympathized. He smiled and winked at her, and her grin broadened.
A burly man held out his hands. “Let me take the cart, sir.”
Ialin gave over his burden gladly. His companions lay safely on his person, for now. Aisa eyed the gathering, cocking her head this way and that to bring every guard within the scrutiny of at least one steel-blue eye. Vernon stayed still in his pocket, taking his cues from Ialin. For the mouse’s sake, he tried to keep his muscles loose, his movements fine and smooth. If the guards examined his cargo closely, they would find lesser plants buried beneath a layer of vilegro. He hoped it would not come to that. Pawing through a merchant’s wares was imprudent at best and potentially dangerous. To do it at the request of the king meant gravely insulting his guest. Without the monarch’s consent, a guard risked charges of theft or treason.
The female guard who had returned Ialin’s smile worked her way through the group to take his arm. He searched his memory for her name, without success. He smiled warmly and whispered, “Thanks.”
“I thought you might prefer a familiar face.” The guard steered Ialin toward the castle. “Your usual room, Eshwyn?”
Ialin nodded, knowing precisely which guestroom Eshwyn preferred, on the third floor in the south wing.
“Do you need to gather your personals?”
Ialin could have kicked himself. He should have anticipated that question, too. “We don’t plan to stay long. Anything I need, I can send for.”
“Very well.” She gestured at her closest associates, and they gave Ialin more space. Some peeled away to various tasks, leaving a crew of five to lead him to the inner courtyard.
Ialin avoided speaking as much as possible, devoting the majority of his attention to maintaining his persona and not squirming. He tried to ignore all thoughts of Zylas. Worry already drove him to an extremely risky rescue. He could not afford to betray his intentions by exhibiting concern or need. So far, he appeared to have passed whatever tests the guards had thrown at him. The facade could only hold up so long, however. The renegades’ information was as imperfect as the men and women who gathered it, and they could not be present for every miniscule interaction. At some point, he would need to properly recognize a stranger, would overlook an unanticipated fine detail that the real Eshwyn would never miss. Anyone who came to Opernes Castle now, in the hours before Zylas’ execution, would have to weather suspicion and undergo intense scrutiny. Ialin wondered how long he could hold out.
They passed through another gatehouse, into the inner courtyard, and headed toward the castle. Unable to wholly suppress the fretfulness that assailed him even in the most familiar circumstances, Ialin turned every movement into something seemingly deliberate: a scratch, a readjustment, a gesture. When he had joined the renegades as a starry-eyed, idealistic youth, he had never expected any plan this crucial to fall squarely on his tiny shoulders. Zylas was the key to so much; without him, the renegades might fall apart without achieving the one goal that mattered: removing the Curse that had haunted Barakhai for centuries. Benton Collins had b
een right about one thing; they should never have risked Zylas on the previous mission. Like Prinivere, the rat/man should sit in some safe command center, changing quarters with every threat, concern, or whim.
That thought brought a smile to Ialin’s lips. He could not imagine anything short of magic keeping Zylas from the rebel movement’s front, and it raised a familiar paradox. That which made the albino such a charismatic key figure for their cause also placed him in positions of greatest peril. His many successes had left them all complacent. Luck, not omnipotence, had kept Zylas alive this long. Now, it seemed, he had run out of it.
Realizing he had come back to the very topic he had vowed to avoid, Ialin turned his attention to the castle which was drawing ever closer. His entourage seemed unbothered by his long silence, even the woman who now unlinked her arm from his. Soon, they stood in front of the castle door, and Ialin’s escort chatted briefly with the sentries. Those moved aside, and the massive door swung open to reveal the inner regions of Opernes Castle.
Ialin had never entered the massive edifice through the door before and never in human guise. He toed the line between gawking and giving enough of his mind to his surroundings to memorize them while still holding his constant drive to move at bay. He also kept his attention on the guards, watching for evidence of suspicion, anything that might suggest a need to switch to his second plan. He dared not rely on Collins, certain the blundering fool would foul up the rescue, just as he had his last mission, the one that ended in Zylas’ capture. True, the Otherworlder had managed to bring them the crystal that enhanced Prinivere’s fading magic, but he had nearly died in the process and had made innumerable mistakes along the way. Including cannibalism. Ialin still found the crime unforgivable and wondered how his friends managed to work so comfortably with a murderer. Other renegades had killed, when necessary, but they had never struck down innocents. The realization that Collins had slaughtered, butchered, and eaten a sweet elderly woman whose only crime was that she happened to have a rabbit switch-form sent a shudder through Ialin.
“Cold?” the female guard asked as she led Ialin up the spiraling staircase.
Though that was not the case, thanks to his racing metabolism, Ialin had no better explanation for his shivering. “A bit. That draft howling down the stairway bothers me every time I come. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now.”
One of the men grumbled, “Never noticed it, myself.”
“Really?” said a third, the only other woman. “It creeps into my bones, even when the hearth’s going and it’s warm air washing over me.”
That started a casual discussion that Ialin appreciated, as it allowed him to fall back into silence. Slow plans frustrated him, especially with his switch time approaching. He would certainly find Zylas downstairs in the dungeon, yet he dared not even look in that direction yet. He allowed the group to usher him upward, past the kitchen/artisan level, past the dining hall/ library level, and to the third landing. Ialin naturally turned south; but one of the guards opened the left-hand, northern door and gestured for him to enter the meeting room.
It was not standard procedure. Ialin swallowed his discomfort and forced a tense smile, concentrating on the need to hide his concern. Nothing this day had proceeded in its regular fashion, and that seemed to have more to do with the king’s paranoia than any specific suspicions about him.
Ialin stepped around the guards to peek inside the small room, its only furniture a scarred wooden table surrounded by chairs. A colorful tapestry of patternless design filled most of one wall. Another wall supported a narrowing window that overlooked the courtyards, thin enough at its innermost dimension to thwart anything larger than an insect. From experience, Ialin knew he could wriggle through it in switch-form, and that gave him a guilty sense of security. If all else failed, at least he could escape, though it would mean abandoning his companions. A silver flagon of wine and three matching goblets sat on a lace napkin in the middle of the table. Two doors led out of opposite walls: the one he had entered by and another headed deeper into the castle to servant’s quarters and more guest rooms.
Ialin froze on the lintel, uncertain and wondering if he faced another test. “Excuse me, but my ‘usual quarters’ are the other way.” He made a motion toward the south door.
The familiar woman took Ialin’s arm again and ushered him inside the meeting room with an apologetic look. “The chamberlain will be with you shortly.”
The chamberlain? Ialin’s heart skipped a beat, shaken by the idea of facing a chief officer in the king’s household. Assuming she meant Jarvid, the chamberlain who oversaw the visiting merchants, Eshwyn had a close, long-term relationship with him. The renegade agents hidden among the servants managed only spotty information when it came to the specifics of conversations and personal interactions. Ialin would have to play things carefully and mostly by ear. He steeled his resolve, lifting his chin, and guessed at the best response. “Don’t I even get a chance to settle in first?”
The woman laughed. “Don’t you ever get tired of questioning the inscrutable motives of royals, Eshwyn?”
Ialin appreciated the reminder. It never hurt to remember that the upper echelons of the king’s staff, and his family’s personal assistants and aides, mostly consisted of trusted aunts, uncles, and cousins. Terrin relied on those few nonswitchers who could enter the rooms on the top two floors for everything from tidying up to strategizing. “I’m just hoping Jarvid gets tired of meeting with rumpled, exhausted, travel-filthy merchants after just this one time.”
Ialin knew the actual business of trading and negotiation would occur in the courtroom, in the presence of nobles, litigants, diplomats, and whoever else had come to deal with the kingdom. Few were accorded the honor of meeting directly with any official before the proceedings. Likely, this was to be a friendly conference, only tangentially related to trading; and that realization only heightened Ialin’s discomfort. Bartering he understood. He dreaded the thought of exchanging pleasantries with a stranger while feigning an extensive friendship.
The guard loosed another salvo of laughter. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Anything you want?”
Prinivere’s mind reading would be nice. “No. Thank you.” Eshwyn had a known penchant for gruff, sometimes crude, humor, so Ialin added sarcastically, “Who needs a warm bath or a nap on clean linens when he can sit in rock-hard, ass-pinching chairs?”
The woman raised her brows, but a few of the men smiled this time. They all exited, closing the door behind them.
For the first time, Ialin allowed himself to pace in a swift, short oval, dispelling some of the pent up energy he had held in check for too long. He glanced down at formal pantaloons that hid a carefully manufactured scar on his right ankle. Road dust had settled into the cuffs, further marring silks that already had a tear at the knee. It was the best garb he could find in Vernon’s cottage, castoffs from some wealthy baron or merchant who could afford not to bother patching his clothing. Or, perhaps, a servant, tailor, or washerwoman had swiped the garment from a man with enough wealth not to notice one item missing, then donated it to the rebels’ cause. It was even possible that someone of means had taken refuge with Vernon, leaving the silks in exchange for something less noticeable so that another could use them in future operations. Vernon had a kind heart that attracted strays and runaways of many stripes. His home had become a sanctuary, scouted by most of the durithrin, the wild folk. Fugitives had a way of disappearing once they reached Vernon, but even the constabularies rarely bothered him. They, or a loved one, might one day need his help.
When the door handle creaked, Ialin stiffened, pretending to stare out the window at the brightening sky and its vast array of puffy clouds etched against azure. Then, the door wrenched open to reveal Jarvid flanked by two elite guardsmen. The king’s second cousin bore little resemblance to him. Aqua and white satin, tailored for the burly forms of the king and his brother, hung loose on Jarvid’s slender frame. Unlike them, he wore n
o beard over his wide, dimpled chin. His cheekbones perched higher, and his cheeks were chapped and windburned. He had the same keen, brown eyes, however; and their classic wheaten ringlets fell around his ears, held in place with perfumed oil. He gave Ialin a friendly smile and made a gesture of greeting before the door had fully closed.
Ialin bowed, waiting for the other man to speak first. He knew little of the intricacies of court protocol but enough to treat a king’s chamberlain with utmost respect. Caught off guard, Aisa squabbled to maintain her position on his shoulder.
“Good morn upon you, Eshwyn.”
“Good morn upon you, too, sir,” Ialin returned, completing his bow. Aisa grabbed his ear to steady herself. Sharp edges of rock-hard beak ground into sensitive flesh with an agony that made him gasp. For an instant, he thought she had bitten a chunk from his ear. Then she released her hold and the pain dropped to a dull throbbing.
“Sir?” Jarvid examined Ialin quizzically. “You know titles are unnecessary among old friends.”
Ialin bit off a groan. The conversation had not even started, and he had already made his first mistake. He covered as best as he could. “Nothing else seems the same today. Last visit, Frida and I walked freely to the castle and crawled into a waiting bed. This time, we found ourselves surrounded like prisoners. Forgive me if I’m not sure exactly which protocols have changed.”
Jarvid waved Ialin to a seat, grinning. “Ah, so you noticed our heightened security.”
“Five guards close enough to look up my backside and tell me what I had for dinner?” Ialin accepted the proffered chair. “I noticed.”
Jarvid huffed out a laugh and took the seat across from Ialin. The guards stationed themselves silently, still standing, at either hand.
Aisa reached over and, before Ialin could stop her, snipped off the top button of his shirt. He snatched for it as his collar flopped open, and she rewarded him with a sharp nip. Macaws found adornments difficult to resist, and discomfort seemed to have a negative affect on Aisa’s overlap. Ialin swore, then turned an apologetic look toward the chamberlain. “I lose more buttons that way.”
The Lost Dragons of Barakhai Page 20
