“Sounds like they took him without a fight,” Byorn said grimly. “Considering our boy's state of mind, I'd say they had him trapped from the beginning. Otherwise he'd surely have died fighting.”
“Like I said,” Teriyan said. “A trap.” His stare was fixed hard on Sofy, his arms folded. “And so I'll ask again, Your Highness…how did they know, do you think?”
“You're accusing me?” Sofy stared at him. “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have known where Wyndal was!”
“Haven't seen him yet,” Teriyan said flatly.
Sofy felt a surge of fury. “I am a princess of Lenayin!” she said hotly. “And you'll not take that tone with me!”
“I'm a warrior of Baerlyn,” Teriyan retorted, “and a Goeren-yai, and I'll take that tone with whomever I damn well choose. Think, girlie. I'm not accusing you of treachery, I'm suggesting someone's been playing you like a reed pipe. Think for a moment. Who might that be?”
“Listen here,” Sofy retorted, trying desperately to gather her wits. Attempting to pull rank had been stupid, the kind of mistake a naive noble might make-how many times had Sasha told her that it never worked in Lenayin? “I might not be able to fight with a sword, but I know things that you'll never know. I know people, and I know maids and servants, and I know when people trust me and when they're lying to me. And I'm telling you, Wyndal is here! He was staying in that room, and the servants had seen him there!”
“There's more ways to skin a rabbit than that,” said Ryssin. “You ask them and they tell you what they think is true. But what if someone was fooling them?”
Sofy stared at him. Somewhere deep in her stomach, a little knot began to twist.
“Look, who bloody well cares?” Byorn said in exasperation, smacking one big fist into his other hand. “All we need to know is where's Jaryd now? He's got only nobles defending him, we can take those chicken-legs any day…we get him out, and…”
“Kill another bunch of Tyree nobility?” Teriyan retorted. “Aye, there's a fine plan. That'll make the king right happy with us, he'll probably order Koenyg to wipe Baerlyn off the royal maps!”
“Then what are we going to do, just let them have him? We were well within our rights to come here, we weren't attempting to hurt anyone, we were trying to rescue Jaryd's brother from treachery…”
“And you're going to stand out in front of Prince Koenyg's cavalry charge in the Baerlyn Valley and argue that when they're all thundering down on you?” Teriyan asked.
“Koenyg!” Sofy exclaimed, horrified, as it occurred to her. “Oh dear gods.” The men all looked at her. “Don't you see?” she told them. “It could only have been Koenyg. He knows I know all the servants, he knows that's where I get all my information from.”
“What, here in Algery?” Teriyan asked, frowning.
“No, in Baen-Tar! He must have…must have planted a rumour, or…” She put a hand to her forehead, staring hopelessly at a wall. She felt so stupid, and so ashamed. Maybe she'd even got Jaryd killed…or would do when Great Lord Arastyn was finished with him. She wanted to cry.
“Now hang on a moment,” Teriyan cautioned, “all your information can't be wrong. I mean, someone did try to kill Jaryd in Baerlyn, and you rode to tell him of that plan.”
“Yes, but they can have different sources,” Sofy replied in a small voice, a hand to her mouth. “It's possible that tale was real, while the other was false. Perhaps the plan to kill him came from some other lord, someone not involved in this plan.”
Teriyan frowned at her for a moment longer. “What is this plan?”
“Koenyg hears about me asking questions, knows I'm concerned for Jaryd, and plants the story about Wyndal where he knows I'll find it,” Sofy said quietly. “He knows I'll ride to Baerlyn, since a princess has no men of her own to command. Maybe that was why it was so easy to get away. He knows I'll tell Jaryd, and Jaryd will come here. All Arastyn need do is make sure Wyndal's room is watched and guarded, and wait for Jaryd to climb through the window.”
There was silence in the room. “Well let's not leap to anything hasty,” Ryssin cautioned finally. “We don't know that's what's happened.”
“You don't know Koenyg like I do,” said Sofy “Not many people can fool me in this kind of thing. But he could.”
“You're saying there was no plan to kill Wyndal?” Byorn ventured. “Koenyg just made it up?”
“To lure Jaryd here,” said Sofy, with a sad nod. “And let the Tyree lords put him on trial.”
“Worked,” Ryssin said glumly.
“I wouldn't jump to that conclusion either,” Teriyan warned. “The one about Wyndal being safe. No reason Koenyg wouldn't plant a true story, it works just the same.”
Sofy banged her fist against her thigh in frustration. “I'm getting really, really sick and tired of that brother of mine. What are we going to do?”
Sofy pressed through the crowd that lined Algery's main road. She wore a colourful headscarf and held a small bundle of blue ralama flowers, traditional for wedding celebrations. Men on horses were riding up the road now, bedecked in their finest, swords swinging at their belts. Heralds lofted great banners, while the women of each house rode behind on painted carts, horses’ bridles dangling with colourful decoration and jangling with bells.
At intervals along the road sat soldiers astride. Falcon Guards, Teriyan had noted. It was surprising to see them here, but only a little-the wedding, like so many other manoeuvres of late in Tyree, was an attempt by Great Lord Arastyn and his allies to patch over past differences, and pretend that certain controversial events had never happened. Well, they had, and Teriyan's idea was to exploit the fact.
Sofy edged through the crowd, smiling sweetly and clutching her flowers. Nearly everyone here was a Verenthane; the only Goeren-yai she'd seen were Falcon Guard, or craftsmen and traders here for business. All cheered and applauded the passing nobles, in a scene that not long ago, Sofy might have found delightful. Now, she repressed a frown as she walked. Didn't they know what this wedding was in aid of? Didn't they care what their great lord had done to gain his present position? Or were they merely relieved to see life return to normal once more? This procession, of course, was still a day before the wedding itself, but it was tradition to gather at the temple and ask the gods for blessings.
She finally reached the corner where the road turned into the main square before the temple. A Falcon Guard lieutenant sat tall astride his horse, surveying the crowd with a hand conspicuously near his sword belt. Between him and her, Sofy saw only a wall of people. She took a deep breath and began shoving through, apologising all the way.
“Excuse me, sir?” she called to the lieutenant on his horse, thinking that wiser than just tugging on his pants leg. She'd seen what armoured cavalry did to people who grabbed them from the ground in battle. The man did not hear her over the cheers and the thunder of drums from the temple square. She risked a touch on his leg and the lieutenant spared her a disdainful glance. “Excuse me, sir, I have a problem, can you help me?”
The man resumed his surveillance of the road. For a moment, Sofy thought he was just going to ignore her. But then, he swung from the saddle. Sofy took a further step from the crowd to stand beside him-only she could have made such an approach. Teriyan or another man could never have come close enough.
“Hello, Lieutenant Hamys,” said Sofy, close by his shoulder. “Do you recognise me?” Lieutenant Hamys looked at her properly for the first time. He was a young man, noble born, one of the Falcon Guard's best warriors. He was not especially handsome, with a grim disposition. Now he startled with recognition. “Do not exclaim,” Sofy said firmly, her voice well-obscured beneath the noise on the road, “do not bow, do not kiss my hand or do anything to give me away, or I swear I'll kick you in the balls.”
Hamys blinked. Astonished, perhaps, to hear the delicate Princess Sofy use such language. Well, she was somewhat astonished herself. “Aye,” he said then, nodding slowly. He forced his face back into its
previous disinterest. “Aye, what's the problem, then?”
“Great Lord Arastyn has Jaryd Nyvar hostage,” said Sofy. A long, flat stare from Hamys, directed at the crowd and the passing horsemen. No one paid them much attention. “He heard his brother Wyndal's life was in danger, so he came, but it seems that was a trick to capture him. We do not know where Arastyn might be holding him. Might you know, by some chance?”
Hamys said nothing for a long moment, his lip twisting wryly as he thought. A grimace, not a smile. Sofy could guess at his thoughts. The Falcon Guard had all received the king's pardon for riding in the rebellion. Jaryd had been their commander then, in name at least. Their true commander, Captain Tyrun, had been killed in the battle of Ymoth. Many Falcon Guard had also died. Teriyan had been there, and Byorn. So had Sofy, and though she had not fought, she'd tended the wounded until her hands and dress were red with their blood. Hamys remembered. Hamys had seen her and knew her face. But having received the king's pardon, he was sworn to make no more trouble, least of all on the behalf of Jaryd Nyvar.
“Can ask,” Hamys said finally. “You know the Taryst Market square?”
“No,” said Sofy, “but I can find it easily enough.” There weren't more than two or three market squares in Algery, it couldn't be hard.
“There's a tavern on the corner called The Cavalryman. Good place. I'll send someone there by midafternoon if I find out.”
“Thank you,” Sofy said with feeling. “Thank you very much, Lieutenant.”
“Welcome,” said Hamys, with a faint smile. He remounted and Sofy stepped back to the crowd, turning to push her way through. When she glanced back, Hamys was signalling to another mounted man nearby.
Sofy turned down a narrow side road. There, loitering in an alley mouth, she found Teriyan. “An inn called The Cavalryman,” she told him. “Taryst Market square. And don't be a boneheaded man and refuse to ask for directions, yes?” She left without waiting for a reply as they'd agreed it was better that they split up.
Halfway across the town square, Sofy began to suspect she was being followed. She stepped through the crowds as briskly as she could, as bassyrn drums thundered about the temple steps, where a cordon of cavalry held back the townsfolk. As she spared glances toward the temple, she thought she could see a figure behind her, always at about the same distance. Her heart thumped, and she wondered if she dared walk down the narrower road alone.
Food stalls were doing a roaring trade about the square's perimeter, and she stopped at one for a handful of roasted nuts. The seller pointed the way to Tarys Market square, warning that it would be empty right now. Sofy nodded, giving a coin from her belt purse (exposed, as theft was rare in Lenayin) and looked about. She saw no one obvious, just a throng of people, most with their backs turned, more interested in the lords and ladies dismounting before the temple. There was a flash of fire there, and gasps from the crowd. Fire-breathers, no doubt. Above them all walked a man on stilts…surely a travelling lowlands troupe, no Lenay man would sully his dignity for jest.
For a moment, Sofy hesitated, dry-mouthed. Should she wait here for a little, for the safety of crowds? Hamys surely couldn't find out Jaryd's location that quickly? But then, perhaps he could. What if a messenger arrived at The Cavalryman and found no one there?
She took a deep breath, and strode past a stall selling roast duck wings and another baking potatoes in raal, and turned down the narrow, cobbled road to which the stall owner had pointed. She walked fast, her boots echoing. The lane ahead was dark despite the sunny day, and she could not resist a short glance over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be following. She considered ducking into a narrower alley to see if someone did indeed come down after her…but what would she do if he saw her? What could a girl who could not fight do, face to face with such a man?
The lane twisted several times at cross streets, and then she entered Taryst Market square. It was not so large, perhaps fifty strides from one end to the other, and utterly deserted, save for a prowling cat.
On the corner to the left, an inn with a sign in Kytan, Tyree's predominant tongue after Lenay. She couldn't read it, but it was accompanied by a picture of a man on a horse. The Cavalryman, surely. Sofy approached, looking furtively around…and wondered what in the world an eighteen-year-old girl, alone, could have for business in an inn. She thought furiously, but as she pushed in the doors, had thought of nothing.
Astonishingly, the inn was half full. Not of locals, but of Goeren-yai, mostly men, but a few women too. They sat at their tables and drank ale and talked loudly. Several younger boys were with them…and one girl, no more than six, sitting with her parents. Sofy smiled, suddenly realising why Hamys had sent her here. A big wedding attracted Goeren-yai traders and craftsmen from all over, but most would rather find an inn and down a tankard or two than attend a wedding parade. The Verenthane townsfolk were all aflutter, but the rural Goeren-yai couldn't have given rat's arse.
“Will you have a drink, lassie?” asked the innkeep behind his bar-a Verenthane with a big moustache, looking quite pleased to have customers on such a day. Sofy was for a moment astonished…a drink? For a young woman, in a Verenthane city? But then she realised-he thought she was Goeren-yai too.
“I'll have your lightest ale, thank you,” she said.
“Oh aye,” said the innkeep, unstopping a barrel and holding a mug under the stream that poured out. “We do that nice here, with some lemon water for the ladies.”
Sofy paid for her mug and took a seat by a window, near three men, a woman and a young girl. She'd hoped to be ignored, but amongst Goeren-yai, that wasn't always likely.
“You waiting for your pa then, lass?” one of the men boomed, loud enough for the whole inn to hear. As if it were everyone's business.
“Aye,” said Sofy, with a conscious effort to remove the Baen-Tar education from her speech. “We brought ale from Eyud. We're headed back this afternoon, Pa's just asking after other business, for the next time he comes down this way.”
“We're leatherworkers from Malry,” another man added. “All the lords and ladies riding into town today on their pretty horses, we were up to late evening yesterday making the final touches on the bridles.”
“Eyud's a long way to bring a pretty girl on a trading trip,” said the woman, eyeing her curiously. Something about her expression made Sofy nervous. Like she suspected something. “Do you not have any brothers, then?”
“Three,” said Sofy. “But one's not well, and the other's just recently married, and Myklas…he's too lazy and Pa always spoils him.” It sounded right to the group, they nodded and smiled knowingly. She was becoming a good liar. It nearly worried her.
“So,” said the woman, slyly, “your pa has a man lined up for you? Is that why he really brought you all this way, to meet some boy?”
Expectant looks from all present. Sofy smiled coyly, and sipped at her ale. “He's not a boy,” she replied finally.
“Ah!” said everyone, in unison. There were footsteps on the verandah, and the inn's doors swung open. Sofy looked, and her heart nearly stopped. Noblemen entered the inn, Verenthanes with a dashing cut to their shirts and jackets, swords prominent at their hips.
One scanned the room, saw Sofy and pointed. He and two others marched over. Behind them, more gathered in the doorway. At the table to Sofy's side, the Goeren-yai men turned to look. “That's the one,” said the leading man. “That's the one who was asking nosy questions down by the river. My maid pointed her out to me in the square, she swears it's the same girl.”
Sofy sat frozen. She'd thought she'd been so careful! But there were spies everywhere, and all through the crowds. Of course there would be! There were no great lords in Lenayin as paranoid as Great Lord Arastyn right now.
“You, girl, up,” said another man, gruffly. “My lord will want to speak with you.”
“Hey,” said a Goeren-yai man from the neighbouring table. “You watch how you speak to the girl. She's Goeren-yai, and she ain't your se
rvant.”
The noble pointed a black-gloved finger at the leatherworker. “You, shut it,” he said, dangerously. “This is our town, you yokels are here on the lord's forbearance. You'll mind your business and do what you're told.”
“Hey, friend,” said the second leatherworker, “I paid my way here.” He rose to his feet. The other Goeren-yais followed. “I don't need any lord's forbearance, I work hard for my coin and I'll come and go as I please.” The woman collected her daughter and pulled her aside, wary but not afraid. She grasped Sofy's arm, and Sofy got up and edged backward.
“This is Algery, you peasant!” the noble spat. “This is Verenthane land!”
“This here's Lenayin, you pissant, and I'm a Lenay.” About the inn, other Goeren-yai men were rising to their feet. In the doorway, the remaining nobles were coming forward to face the threat. It looked to Sofy an even fight.
“This here is your girl?” the noble demanded, pointing at Sofy.
“Aye,” the leatherworker lied, tossing long hair from his face. “What's it to you?”
“Then you're under arrest too!”
“Arrest!” Several Goeren-yai men laughed. “You've got no more power to arrest someone than I've got power to flap my arms and fly to Saalshen!”
“Aye, well you're about to learn differently,” fumed the noble. “Girl! You're coming with us!”
“Over my dead body,” said another man, from a different table entirely. All were armed. Goeren-yai men always were.
“Then we'll come back and get her later,” the noble suggested, with a dark, nasty smile. “With cavalry. We'll see how you like that, you stupid pagan goatfucker.”
The first leatherworker didn't bother drawing his sword, he simply punched the noble in the face. With a roar the two sides leapt at each other, barehanded, and the face-off disintegrated into a brawling mass of flying fists. Tables collapsed, chairs were picked up and hurled, bodies went crashing and wrestling to the floor. A Goeren-yai tried to throw a townsman through a window, missed, and crashed him headfirst into the wall instead. Another townsman dropped a Goeren-yai out cold with an impressive left, only to be crash-tackled into the bar by his companion.
Petrodor atobas-2 Page 37
