by Tanya Huff
Alone, Olina looked down into her laced fingers. Pjerin was dead. She remembered the day Stasiek had brought him home; she’d been fourteen and just becoming aware of her power, he’d been three and willing to follow her like a puppy. She’d gone away, to Marienka, to Vidor, to Elbasan, and when she’d returned he’d become a beautiful young man, realizing the family potential. She remembered taking him to her bed when his father died, that year the only time his guard was ever lowered far enough for her to get past it.
Pjerin was officially dead.
It made little difference; she’d essentially buried him when the guard had taken him away.
Actually, at the moment, she had more interest in the messages Damek i’Kofryna was carrying into Ohrid. Fortunately, she had a way to find out what they were.
* * * *
“I bet you’re glad you’re inside.”
Damek turned, wiping drops of rain off his face. A server had led him to an upper room in the original part of the keep and he was sitting with his elbows on the wide stone sill, staring out at the storm pounding the valley. “I do prefer being dry,” he said neutrally, studying the young man in his doorway.
Albek stepped forward, fist held out. “Simion i’Magda.” His accent was pure Shkoder, educated but not noble. “Traveler, trader.”
Standing, Damek touched the other man’s fist lightly with his. “Damek i’Kofryna. King’s Messenger.”
“I know.” Albek smiled broadly. “I saw you come out of your audience with the new duc’s great-aunt. She’s one terrifying lady, isn’t she?”
“Not exactly terrifying,” Damek protested. But something in his visitor’s voice made him add, “Although she’s a bit like a serrated blade, isn’t she?”
“Well put!” Laughing, Albek sat on one end of the windowseat, making it the most natural thing in the world for Damek to sit beside him. “I hear you’re heading for Cemandia tomorrow.”
The messenger nodded.
* * * *
“… has a message for Shkoder’s ambassador to take to Her Majesty, Queen Jirina. His Majesty, King Theron, and so on and so on, regrets to inform her that not only have his people apprehended a spy—the unfortunate Leksik—but that her ambassador is, for the time being, under house arrest. He’s requesting an immediate response.”
“Well, he’s likely to get one, isn’t he?” Olina turned from the window. She’d been contemplating the city that would rise to cover the valley when Shkoder and Cemandia were one. The city she would control. “Will the army be ready to move when His Majesty’s messenger arrives?”
The Cemandian frowned as he worked out times and distances. “It’ll already be moving.”
“Will they kill him?”
“Do you care?”
“No.” Ice-blue eyes glittered. “I wondered.”
“Probably not. The ambassador from Shkoder has been under house arrest since the pass opened. Damek i’Kofryna will be company for her.”
“And after?”
Albek smiled. “We’ll all be one big happy country.”
“So we will.” Olina crossed the room and dropped gracefully into a chair, long legs stretched out and booted feet crossed at the ankle. “How nice.”
Recognizing her expression, Albek felt his pulse begin to race. A serrated blade. If the initial thrust doesn’t kill you, removing it will. His Majesty’s messenger has a way with description. He took a step forward.
“Don’t presume, Simion. If I want you, I’ll tell you. Interest isn’t always invitation.” She smiled up at him, well aware of his reaction. “As it happens, I’m expecting someone. I’m taking your advice and appointing a new steward.”
* * * *
Lukas a’Tynek had been marking time since the fire that had destroyed his house and killed his only child. When Hanicka, his partner, left him and returned to live with her mother, Lukas flicked his fingers out in the sign against the kigh and bid her good riddance. It was her blood that had forced their child out of the Circle, not his. No one had ever been able to Sing the kigh in the entire history of his family and no one ever would be. His family knew what belonged in the Circle and what didn’t.
Unlike Pjerin a’Stasiek, the sixth Duc of Ohrid. The dead Duc of Ohrid.
“The coward gave me no chance to defend myself. Couldn’t be a hero, so he took it out on me.” Lukas repeated the whispered insinuations that drifted through the village and made them his own.
Then the coward was found to be a traitor as well and his hatred of the duc made Lukas more than happy to witness. While he personally had no objection to a Cemandian presence in Ohrid—was, in fact, pro-Cemandia if only because Cemandia was anti-kigh—he had even less objection to the arrogant Pjerin a’Stasiek going to the block.
“You told them what kind of a person he was, but they wouldn’t listen.”
He didn’t know who said it to him first It didn’t matter. “I told you what kind of a person he was,” he pronounced grimly. “But you wouldn’t listen.”
Some of them began to listen.
Now, he’d been called to the keep.
After hanging his dripping cloak on the hook indicated by a less than approving server, he combed his fingers through his beard and tried to make himself presentable. He looked forward to the meeting with equal parts anticipation and dread. The Lady Olina preferred younger men. He was five years her junior. While he fit no other observed preference, why else would she have sent for him?
Olina knew what he was thinking the moment he walked into the room. She could read it in his strut, in the set of his shoulders, in the self-conscious color that burned on each cheek above the damp mat of beard and she hid a smile. She would’ve laughed aloud except that since the fire, she’d put a considerable effort into shaping him as her tool.
Over half the villagers now looked to this man—this selfish, superstitious, sublimely self-motivated man—as a leader because he had been the only one who’d seen disaster coming. She would use that. That the remaining villagers despised him for the very qualities she found useful, well, she would use that, too.
It amused her that he was beginning to sweat.
“The seventh duc needs a steward,” she said abruptly, leaning back in the huge, ornately carved chair and crossing her legs. “I’ve decided to give you the position.”
“Steward, Lady?”
“Yes.”
“B—but …”
Olina tapped one finger slowly against the broad wooden armrest and watched, eyes narrowed, as he struggled to change his expectations.
“I, uh, I would be honored, Lady.”
“Good. You will take your orders from me.”
“But the duc …”
“Is a child.” She was pleased to see him flinch at her tone. “In return for absolute power under me, you will give me absolute power over you. Is that clear?”
Absolute power. He weighed the price, although she had no doubt of how he would respond. “Yes, Lady.” She wouldn’t have made the offer had she thought he’d answer otherwise. He’d take anything she could hand out for the chance to lord it over everyone else.
“Bohdan is well enough to acquaint you with your day to day responsibilities. Listen to him. You will move into his old suite in the keep. You will be accorded the same rights and privileges he was. That’s all.”
“Yes, Lady. Thank you, Lady.”
He’d have no opportunity to really abuse the position; she planned on keeping him too busy for that.
Under normal circumstances, a man so easily manipulated placed in a position of authority would find no one to follow him. Fortunately, Olina had seen to it that these were not normal circumstances. They might not follow him for long, but then, they wouldn’t have to.
If all went according to plan, and Olina saw no reason why it shouldn’t, the moment the situation stabilized her new steward would be easy enough to dispose of. Enough people hated him that she wouldn’t even have to do it herself.
* * * *
It had taken him eight days, but Otik knew he’d finally found the trail again. Branches scattered but with ends cut not broken—obviously a lean-to. He fanned his search from that point and found charred rocks that had lined a fire pit at the next night’s camp. The trail was days’ old, but it narrowed his search to a specific direction, and in the foothills there were a limited number of routes that could be safely taken with a very pregnant woman.
All three of them emerged in the same small valley.
* * * *
“You just went.”
“Well, I have to go again.”
Pjerin muttered expletives under his breath but pulled Milena to a stop. “All right, go on. We’ll wait for you here.”
Wondering when Pjerin and the mule had become a “we,” Annice hurried into the trees. Considering how often she had to squat, breeches had become more trouble than they were worth and she’d changed to the preferred clothing of expectant countrywomen—a full, calf-length, linen shift beneath a tabardlike wool overdress. Her body temperature seemed to have risen enough to make clogs comfortable in spite of the season, although she did slip on a pair of heavy wool socks at night. The outfit was so unlike anything Annice had ever worn, she figured that any guard still searching for them would walk right by her without a second glance.
With one hand pressed against a tree for support and the other against her belly in the hope that the pressure would still the sudden flurry of activity, Annice started … then stopped. “If you don’t mind!” she snapped at the kigh who had risen out of the ground practically under her raised skirts. “Go away!” It looked as disappointed as its features allowed but obediently sank back into the earth.
“What took you so long?” Pjerin demanded a few moments later as she made her way out of the bushes, viciously shoving the new growth aside.
“Kigh,” Annice snarled, kicking off her clogs and jamming them under the straps that secured her pack. “Every single time, I have to tell one or more of them to get lost. Why do they keep hanging around?”
“Your cheerful disposition?”
“Drop dead. What are we standing around for?”
“Second Quarter Festival,” Pjerin grunted. He flicked the lead rope at Milena who lifted her head from the new growth on the track and ambled forward.
Annice sighed and settled into a long, rocking stride that would hopefully lull the baby to sleep. She knew she was being a bitch, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. At least, I’ve stopped crying.
There had been a couple of days when everything had reminded her of Stasya—birdsong, bluebells, the stripped and scattered bones of a deer taken down by some large predator. A breeze would touch her cheek and she’d start to cry. Rain would dribble off her hair and run under her collar and she’d start to cry. Pjerin would ask if she was all right, and she’d start to cry.
As much as it annoyed her to admit it, Pjerin had been wonderful throughout. Terse and not exactly sensitive perhaps, but tolerant of her mood swings and quietly strong when she needed him to be.
Unfortunately, now she was feeling better, the old Pjerin had reappeared.
Watching movement of his muscles across the top of his back, flesh rippling under the rough homespun shirt he wore, she touched a ripple moving across her belly and wondered how much like its father her baby would be. You can have his looks, baby, but I’d really prefer my temperament. Then she smiled. All right. I’d really prefer Stasya’s temperament. Or even Jazep’s. Something a little less extreme. Prolonged exposure and training in observing the obvious had forced Annice to realize that she shared a distressing number of character traits with His Grace, the Duc of Ohrid.
It wasn’t an observation she planned on recalling to him.
“Hey!”
Jerked out of her thoughts, she stumbled and had to grab a pack strap for support. “What?”
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Pjerin looked dubious. “We should’ve followed that creek.”
“It wasn’t going anywhere. This way’s faster.”
“Not if we get lost.”
“Bards don’t.”
“Oh. I see. So the sun’s lost?”
Annice squinted at the sky. So the sun was a little more to the left than it should be. Big deal. The track they were following was taking them in roughly the right direction and they were moving a lot faster than they would forcing their way along an overgrown creek. She said as much to Pjerin. He glowered.
Suddenly the trees ended and they found themselves standing on a ridge, looking down into a broad valley. At the far end, they could see a cluster of tiny buildings, some cultivated land, and a half a dozen animals grazing in a meadow.
Annice began to pick her way carefully down to the valley floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pjerin demanded.
“The ridge gets steeper farther along.” The bottom of a run-off gully firmed into a path under her feet. “This looks like the best place to descend.”
“If we were going to descend.”
Annice, no longer flexible enough to twist, turned right around to face him. “Pjerin, there’s no way these people, whoever they are, are looking for either of us. Right?”
Against his better judgment, he growled agreement.
“And we could use some supplies. Right?”
“What about the guard?”
“What about the guard? They’re not already down there. We left nothing they could follow. And if I don’t get to talk to someone besides you, I’m going to push you off the next cliff we come to.”
They locked gazes and after a moment Pjerin smiled. “Good point,” he acknowledged. “Unfortunately, considering your condition, I can’t make the same plans.” Tugging Milena into movement, he gestured toward the valley with his free hand. “After you.”
Off the ridge, it quickly became obvious that the homestead was farther away than it appeared and it was late afternoon when they finally reached it. While one of two dogs remained guarding the small herd of long-haired goats, the other charged toward them, barking and snarling.
“Steady,” Pjerin said softly as the mule backed to the end of her lead rope, ears flat against her skull and whites showing all around both eyes. “Annice, don’t move.”
Annice shot him an incredulous glance. “Well, I’d actually planned on screaming and running for the hills.”
Pjerin ignored her, all his attention focused on the dog. A scar parting the thick tricolored fur along one heavy shoulder as well as the tattered remains of an ear, showed the animal willing to follow through on the snarled threats. His free hand dropped to the handle of his dagger. “Annice, move very slowly and take the lead rope.”
Impressed by the calming cadences of his voice, she stretched out her arm, inch by inch, until she could close her fingers around the taut line of twisted hemp. “Got it.”
A body length away, the dog stopped and danced stiff-legged on the spot, lips pulled up off its teeth, hackles raised, still barking.
Pjerin released his hold and swung his arm around in front of his body in a graceful arc, hand open, the movement as nonthreatening as he could make it. “It’s all right. We’re not here to harm anything of yours. Quiet …”
Eyes narrowed, ears flat, it crept forward.
“… that’s it. We don’t smell like trouble, do we? No.” He kept his weight on the balls of his feet, ready just in case. His hand held out at waist level, the dog barely had to lift its head to sniff his fingers. It backed up a step and began to bark again, the snarl not so prevalent.
“Safety! Come here!”
Caught in mid-bark, the dog’s ears went up, it spun around, plumed tail beating the air, and galloped toward the young woman advancing from the buildings.
Without turning, Pjerin reached behind him. Annice gave him the rope. “Very impressive,” she said.
He shrugged. “What do bards do when this ha
ppens?”
“Well, I once spent three hours in a tree until the family came home from picking berries. The mutt pissed on my pack and I made up a song about the trials of the road.”
“ ‘The Trials of the Road’? That’s yours? I like that song.”
Annice rolled her eyes at his tone. “You needn’t sound so surprised.”
“Hello.” With one hand resting lightly on Safety’s broad head, the young woman stopped a careful distance away. Her eyes widened slightly as she noted Annice’s condition, but her expression remained basically neutral. “You’re a long way off the beaten path.”
Aware that Pjerin awaited her lead, Annice weighed her options. They still had small items to trade, but they were no longer posing as traders. She knew there had to be other travelers with reason to be crossing this isolated valley, but she couldn’t remember either travelers or reasons. Her memory had grown worse as the baby had grown bigger and she wasn’t thrilled about it. Oh, out of the Circle with it! Taking a deep breath, she Sang the notes that made up her name.
When she finished, Pjerin appeared to be grinding his teeth and the young woman was smiling broadly.
“You’re bards! By the Circle, you’re bards!” She hurried forward, both hands outstretched.
Safety, taking its cue from its mistress, raced on ahead and leaped around them, barking wildly. Pjerin told it sternly to be still and, panting happily, the big dog sat on his foot.
“Oh, be welcome! Be welcome! Bards! Wait till Gregor hears! We haven’t seen anyone but each other for almost four full quarters!” She thrust her fist at Annice. “Adrie i’Marija.”
“Annice.” And added as she lightly touched the other woman’s fist with hers, “This is Jorin a’Gerek. He isn’t a bard, but he is responsible for the extra weight I’m carrying and decided not to let me Walk alone.”
“I should certainly hope not.” Adrie stepped back for a more thorough examination. “When are you due?”
“Around Second Quarter Festival.”
“So soon? You should …” An angry wail from the largest of the three buildings cut off the advice. “Oh, no, Mari’s awake. You can turn your mule out with the goats for the rest of the afternoon. The dogs will watch her. We bring everything in at night because of the wolves.” The wail became an insistent shriek. Adrie ran for the house. “Hush, baby, Mama’s coming.”
