“Under normal circumstances, you would not, your highness,” he said, bowing out of politeness, rather than respect, Adrina was quite sure. “But these are hardly normal circumstances.”
“Is there something afoot of which I am unaware?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“I speak of the absence of the High Prince, your highness.”
“My husband is not absent, Lord Foxtalon. He’s upstairs.”
“In a coma on the brink of death, if one listens to the rumors, my lady.”
“Perhaps, if one didn’t listen to rumors, one would have nothing about which one needs to be concerned,” she suggested.
Foxtalon was not amused. “You are treating this like it’s a joke, my lady.”
“Not at all,” she said, rising to her feet. Darvad made to follow her, but she signaled him to stay put. Foxtalon was a weak man, if one in a position of some influence. He lived only because he’d had the wit to change sides at the last minute in the brief conflict following the death of the last High Prince over a decade ago. But he was an easy man to flatter. Sometimes, it was easier to let men like him think they were more important than they really deserved to be.
Adrina walked down the steps until she was standing before him, and then she held out her arm. “Let’s walk while we talk,” she suggested.
Looking a little bemused, Foxtalon fell into step beside Adrina as they did a turn of the great hall. Once they were out of earshot of Darvad, who remained standing loyally behind the throne, she slipped her arm through Foxtalon’s and whispered, “How widespread is this rumor, do you think?”
“It’s everywhere, your highness.”
She sighed with relief. “Thank the gods.”
Foxtalon faltered for a moment. “Excuse me?”
“We were worried nobody would believe such a preposterous tale.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Can I tell you something in confidence, Lord Foxtalon, and ask you to keep the secret on your honor as a Warlord of Hythria?”
“Of course.”
“Damin is . . . on a mission for the demon child,” she confided, choosing her words carefully. If Foxtalon marched straight from here to the Sorcerers’ Collective to verify her story with the Harshini, who couldn’t lie, even if they wanted to, she had to make sure he was asking the right questions.
“What mission?” He sounded skeptical at best.
“I don’t know,” she answered in all honesty. “I just know the demon child needs him to do something for her, and he has answered her call.”
“Nobody has seen or heard of R’shiel té Ortyn for a decade,” Foxtalon reminded her.
“You and I haven’t seen her,” she agreed. “But Damin is honored by the gods. He’s met more than one of them in person. His dealings with the demon child do not usually involve me.”
“So you’re saying Damin Wolfblade is off gallivanting about with the demon child? What about the man who lies unconscious upstairs, your highness?”
“Jeck,” she said with a sigh.
“Pardon?”
“His name is Jeck. Sweet man. Wouldn’t harm a fly. Dumb as a bag of hair. Gaffen found him in Yarnarrow when he was in Karien last year. Couldn’t believe his eyes. The man could be Damin’s twin.”
Foxtalon didn’t appear to be buying a word of her outrageous tale. “You’re telling me the unconscious man currently ensconced in the High Prince’s bed being tended by the Harshini, and visited every day by his children, is an imposter?”
“I’m sure you understand now why I asked for your oath.”
“But that’s . . . that’s . . .”
“I agree,” Adrina sighed. “It is far from an ideal solution to our predicament, but R’shiel was adamant we not reveal Damin’s involvement in her . . . well, whatever it is she’s up to. And it wasn’t like we could just teach poor Jeck a few names and pertinent facts. The man doesn’t speak a word of Hythrun. A coma seemed like the best solution. I mean . . . if Damin’s not back by the end of summer, how do I explain to my little sister that her brother-in-law, the High Prince, is not prepared to give her away at her wedding because he can’t speak the required words at the ceremony?”
Foxtalon took a moment to process that. He was starting to come around, she could see. Dropping Rakaia’s name helped. He wouldn’t believe she was doing anything to protect Hythria, but he’d happily believe anything she said when it implied she might be doing something for a member of her own Fardohnyan family.
“So the wedding is still going ahead?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it?”
“Your sister is not here, your highness. My sp— . . . informants tell me she has come no closer to Greenharbour than Warrinhaven.”
“My sister requested a break in her journey, my lord, to prepare herself for her arrival. She is young and not used to long-distance travel. Why would my husband not allow her to have it?”
They had reached the end of the hall. Adrina had, ever so subtly, led him to the door as they talked.
“Well, yes, I suppose . . .”
She smiled at him, turning her full, wide-eyed charm on the hapless warlord. “I knew you’d understand, Lord Foxtalon. Damin will not forget your discretion when he returns.”
Foxtalon glanced at the door and realized he was being dismissed. Before he could start objecting, Adrina leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “You are a true Hythrun, my lord. I now see what Damin means when he speaks of your honor and your intelligence. Please remember me to your lovely wife and your charming daughters when you return to Pentamor.”
“Um . . . yes . . . of course, your highness.”
Adrina tapped on the door. A moment later the ponderously large double doors swung inward, opened by the guards on the other side.
Not quick-witted enough to find a polite reason to stay, Foxtalon bowed, much more respectfully this time, and left the hall.
“Close it,” she ordered the guards. “I’ll send word when I’m ready to receive the next petitioner.”
The guards did as she bid. Adrina turned and strode back toward the throne.
Darvad stepped down to meet her. “What did you tell him?”
“That Damin is off gallivanting about in parts unknown with the demon child on some divine mission I know nothing about and the man upstairs is a Karien imposter named Jeck.”
“Why Karien?”
“Because he doesn’t speak Hythrun. That’s why he’s pretending to be in a coma.”
“Clever. Inspired, even.”
“I swore him to secrecy on his honor as a Warlord.”
“Which means we’ve got an hour, maybe less, before it’s all over the city.”
She smiled. “Will it take that long?”
“Probably not,” he chuckled. “Marla would be proud of you.”
“Let’s not get carried away now,” she said, picking up her skirts so she could climb the dais and resume Damin’s throne. “Who’s next?”
“A delegation from the Weavers’ Guild. I believe they want Damin to declare a public holiday.”
“For what?”
“To celebrate their contribution to our city.”
“They can’t do that without shutting the aforementioned city down while they get drunk on a heady mix of cheap beer and their own importance?”
Darvad shrugged. “Apparently not.”
“Send them in,” she said, smoothing her skirts as she resumed her seat. Darvad was almost at the bottom of the steps before added, “Oh, and before I forget. We need to get the wedding plans under way. People are wondering why Rakaia is not here yet. Can you send Kiam a message and tell him it’s time to bring her home?”
“To Greenharbour you mean?”
“Yes,” she said, a little surprised. “Of course.”
“Sorry . . . but you said home.”
“This is my home, Darvad.”
He smiled. “My apologies for thinking anything else, my lady.”
He turned and marched the length of the long hall, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Adrina closed her eyes for a moment, hoping Rakaia was not going to be the trouble she feared . . .
. . . And wondering how Foxtalon had known the children were visiting their father every day. He had a spy in the palace, obviously. Perhaps more than one.
So too, it would be safe to assume, did every other Warlord in Hythria.
The thought of a palace riddled with spies didn’t bother her as much as it would bother Darvad when she told him. Adrina had grown up in the Talabar Royal Harem. She was used to dealing with spies, the key to which, she had learned at a very young age, was being aware the spies were all around you in the first place.
Chapter
37
THERE WAS NO avoiding the fact that the King of Fardohnya was in town. Bordertown was full of Fardohnyan sailors, and although the king deigned to grant the mayor an audience on board, he did not leave his ship. Rakaia and Mica walked through the markets listening to the gossip swirl around them as the good people of Bordertown speculated on why the king had not yet left his ship while it was being resupplied. Rakaia could have told them the reason had she not been too afraid to speak and be identified as Fardohnyan, too.
It was simple, really. Her father was a king and he wasn’t going to tolerate being formally welcomed to a foreign country by any lesser personage.
A mayor simply didn’t make the grade.
Hand in hand with Mica, Rakaia followed the minstrel with her face shaded by the hood of her cloak as he led her through the crowded markets, following the directions he claimed one of the court’esa at the inn had given him. They’d been at the inn for two days now, long enough to earn some coin and for Mica to befriend some of the working court’esa, which he seemed to do wherever they went. Women were drawn to Mica. There was an innocence about him that for some reason whores, in particular, found almost irresistible.
They were lucky to have found any rooms at all. With a foreign king docked at the wharves, there was almost nothing to be had. Mica sang for their room, entrancing the innkeep and everyone in the taproom. He sang a song about being lost in a desert and dying of thirst. Rakaia thought it an odd choice until she realized everybody in the taproom had ordered another drink by the time he finished the song. The innkeep noticed it too. He assured the minstrel and his young wife they could stay as long as they liked, if his songs continued to have the same effect on business.
Mica had only asked for one room and their meals in payment, and to be allowed to pass around a basket for donations after his performance. Rakaia didn’t make an issue of their sleeping arrangements. Even if it didn’t reinforce the notion she was his wife, she figured he was still afraid of the nightmares and wanted to keep her close.
“This is it,” he said, pointing to a low, grubby, foul-smelling tent tucked in between a furrier selling rabbit skins and another selling rounds of hard cheese that didn’t seem to smell much better than the herb-woman’s tent.
“Are you sure?”
“This where Elliene said she gets her hair dye.”
Rakaia frowned. She wasn’t sure she like the idea of permanently changing her hair color. Particularly not on the advice of a whore whose hair was the color and texture of used stable straw. “You know Elliene’s not a real court’esa, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s just a whore. They call them court’esa in Medalon, because they don’t understand the difference between a whore and a proper court’esa.”
“Court’esa do naughty things to people for money. So do whores. What’s so different about that?”
“Naughty things?” She had a bad feeling Mica wasn’t trying to be funny.
“You know what I mean.”
“Gods!” she said. “You’re actually blushing!”
He looked away, embarrassed. “I am not.”
Rakaia stared at him for a moment, as it dawned on her Mica had probably never been with a woman in his life. Her smile died as she realized how embarrassed he must be to admit such a thing. He was at least the same age as she was, if not a year or two older. Where had he grown up for such a thing to happen—or not happen, in his case?
As was the custom in most civilized societies, she had been trained since the age of sixteen by specialist, highly trained court’esa—slaves who taught her languages, etiquette, and all manner of useful skills both in and out of the bedchamber. She found it almost inconceivable that a young man like Mica had somehow sailed through life without making love to anybody, woman or man. “I’m sorry, Mica. I didn’t realize.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She let the subject drop. He pushed back the tent flap and bent down to enter the tent. Rakaia followed, squinting in the darkness once Mica let the tent flap drop back into place. She pushed back the hood of her cape and glanced around. The interior reeked with such an overwhelming mixture of aromas that her eyes began to water. As she wiped her eyes, she spied an old woman sitting in the corner, cross-legged on the ground. Rakaia wasn’t sure if the woman didn’t get up to greet them because she was comfortable, or just wasn’t physically capable of it.
“Knocked her up, have you?” the old woman asked Mica, eyeing them both with a jaded expression.
“No! Of course not,” Mica exclaimed, when he realized she was asking if they had come for an abortifacient. “My wife wants to change the color of her hair, that’s all.”
“Your wife?” The herb-woman cackled in amusement. “Damn, boy, you married a long way up, didn’t you? Shade?”
“Excuse me?”
“What shade . . . what color do you want? Red? Black? Dark brown? Blond?”
“Blond,” Mica said, before Rakaia got the chance to offer her opinion.
The woman nodded and poked around in the baskets surrounding her on the ground. After a moment she tossed a small, cloth-wrapped pouch at Mica. He caught it and studied the pouch for a moment before looking up. “What is it?
“Ashes of burnt vine, the chaff of barley nodes, licorice wood, and sowbread.”
Mica handed Rakaia the pouch. Somewhat dubious, she looked down at the old woman for instructions, not sure what a bit of ash and some old bread was supposed to do. “What do I do with it?”
“Wash your hair with it,” the old woman said. “Boil the chaff and the sowbread in water. Then mix in the other ingredients. Let it cool down and sit for a few hours. Once it’s cool, you can drain off the liquid and wash your hair with it . . . the liquid that is, not the sowbread mash. You should go quite a few shades lighter than you are now. Don’t leave it on too long, though. With your complexion you’ll look ridiculous if you go too light.”
“How much do we owe you?” Mica asked.
“Ten rivets,” the woman said.
Rakaia had never had to deal with money until she met Mica, so she had no real notion if ten rivets was a good or a bad price for hair dye. Mica didn’t seem bothered, however. For once he didn’t try to settle his debt with a song, just counted out the coins Rakaia had collected during his performances at the inn and handed them over without argument.
The woman snatched them from his outstretched hand. “You need to learn to haggle, lad,” she advised. “I’d have let you have it for half that much, if you’d bothered to try.”
“Give half of it back then,” Rakaia suggested.
The old woman chuckled at the very notion. “I don’t think so, deary. Tell you what, though, I’ll throw something else in for you.” She scrabbled around through the baskets for a moment and then tossed another packet to Rakaia.
She caught it and lifted the small packet to her nose. Rakaia sniffed the minty aroma, recognizing it immediately for what it was.
“What is it?”
“Your lady knows,” the old woman said with a smug grin. “Proper court’esa trained, she is.”
Rakaia wondered how the old woman could tell, just from watching her sniff a pack of herbs.
“Pennyroyal,” she said. “Mixed with wild carrot.”
“See. She knows.”
“What it’s for?”
To stop me getting pregnant, Rakaia almost said, but she decided against it. If she said anything like that, Mica might ask how she was going to get pregnant and then this whole charade about being his wife would fall apart. “It’s to help me. With my monthly cycle.”
Despite the dimness of the tent, she could see Mica blushing. She turned to the herb-woman. “Thank you for this. And the dye.”
“No need to thank me. You’ve paid dearly for the privilege.”
“Come on, Mica. Let’s go.”
Looking a little bemused, Mica let Rakaia push him through the tent flap before he could ask any foolish questions. Once outside, blinking in the bright sunshine, Rakaia pulled up the hood of her cloak to shade her face, in case she ran into to someone who might recognize her—more than a possibility with Hablet’s ship docked at the Bordertown wharves.
They had only gone a few steps when her worst fears were realized. Their way was blocked by a couple of large Fardohnyan sailors and an officer from the king’s personal guard.
“Are you the minstrel?” the officer asked in Fardohnyan.
Mica looked at them blankly.
“Are you the minstrel?” the officer repeated, this time in Medalonian.
Mica nodded warily. “Who wants to know?”
Beside him, Rakaia’s guts were turning to water with fear. She kept her head down, shadowed by the hood of her cape, praying the officer had never seen her before and would not recognize her now. She didn’t know him, and given how many daughters the king of Fardohnya owned, it was unlikely he knew what even a quarter of them looked like, but the risk was still there.
“The king of Fardohnya wants you to perform for him and his family tonight,” the officer said. “The resupply is taking longer than anticipated, and the young prince is bored. Word about town is that you’re quite good for a tavern brawler. You’ll get paid. Bring your dancing girl with you.”
“She’s not a dancing girl,” Mica said. “She’s my wife.”
“Bring her anyway,” the officer said. “Be at the ship at sundown.” The man stepped a little closer. “Don’t make me come and find you, lad.”
The Lyre Thief Page 26
