Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers

by Mercedes Lackey

  “They think you’re going to start a holy war any second, she‘enedra,” Kethry said, finally.

  “Good,” her partner replied, folding her arms, leaning back against the wall beside their table, and continuing to watch the room with icy, hooded eyes. “I hope this act of mine gets us prompt service; I’m about to eat the candle.”

  “Now, now, I thought you were being princely.”

  “I am—but I’m a hungry prince.”

  At just that moment, a serving wench, shaking in her shoes, brought their orders. Tarma looked at the cutlery, sniffed disdainfully, and drew the smaller of her daggers, cutting neat bits with it and eating them off the point. After a look of her own at the state of the implements they’d been given, Kethry rather wished the part she was playing allowed her to do the same.

  They were nearly finished when the innkeeper himself, sidling carefully around Tarma, came to stand obsequiously at Kethry’s elbow. She allowed him to wait a moment before deigning to notice his presence. This was in keeping with the rest of the parts they were playing—

  For although they had arrived in dusty, well-worn traveling leathers—Tarma’s being all-too-plainly armor, Kethry’s bearing no hint of her mage-status—they were now dressed in silks. Kethry wore a knee-length robe, of an exotic cut and a deep green, and breeches of a deeper green; Tarma wore Shin‘a’in-style wrapped jacket, shirt, and breeches—in black. With them, she wore a black sweatband of matching silk confining her short-cropped hair, and a wrapped sash holding her two daggers of differing sizes, a black silk baldric for the sword that she had left in the room above, and black quilted silk boots. Her choice of outfitting had stirred uneasy feelings in Kethry, but Tarma had pointed out with irrefutable logic that if the Captain was to hear of two strangers in Petras, and have that outfit described to her, she would know who those strangers were. And she would know by the sable hue that Tarma was expecting her Captain to be in trouble—possibly in need of avenging.

  Their clothing was clearly the most costly (and certainly the most outre) in the room, and this was (dubious eating utensils notwithstanding) not an inexpensive inn. They wanted their presence to be known and commented on; they wanted word to spread. Ideally it would spread to Idra, wherever she was; if not, to the ear of the King.

  “My lady,” the innkeeper said, in tones both frightened and fawning, tones that made Kethry long for their old friend Hadell of the Broken Sword, or plain, genial Oskar of the Bottomless Barrel. “My lady, there is a gentleman who wishes to speak with you.”

  “So?” she raised an elegant eyebrow. “On what subject?”

  “He did not confide in me, my lady, but—he wears the livery of the King.”

  “Does he, then? Well, I’ll hear him out—if you have somewhere a bit more—private—than this.”

  “Of a certainty, if my lady would follow—” He bowed, and groveled, and at length brought them to a small but comfortably appointed chamber, equipped with one table, four chairs, and a door that shut quite firmly. He bowed himself out; wine appeared, in cleaner vessels than they had been favored with before this, and finally, the visitor himself.

  Kethry chose to receive him seated; Tarma stood, leaning against the wall with her arms folded, in the shadows at her right hand. Their visitor gave the Shin‘a’in a fairly nervous glance before accosting Kethry.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  Kethry was having a hard time keeping from laughing herself sick. The right corner of Tarma’s mouth kept twitching, sure sign that she was holding herself in only by the exertion of a formidable amount of willpower. This liveried fop was precisely the degree of lackey they had hoped to lure in; personal servant to the King, and probably a minor noble himself. He was languishing, and vapid, and quite thoroughly full of himself. His absurd court dress of pale yellow and green with the scarlet and gold badge of the King’s Household on the right shoulder was exceedingly expensive as well as in appallingly bad taste. There was more than a little trace of a more careful toilette than Kethry ever bothered with in his appearance. His carefully pointed mouse-brown mustaches alone must have taken him an hour to tease into shape.

  “My lord wishes to know the identity of two such—fascinating—strangers to our realm,” he said, when he’d completed his oozing over Kethry’s hand. “And what brings them here.”

  “I shall answer the second question first, my lord,” Kethry replied, with just a hint of cool hau teur. “What brings us, is trade, purely and simply. But not just any trade, I do assure you; no, what we have are the mounts of princes, princes of the Shin‘a’in—and we intend them to grace the stables of the princes of other realms. The horses we have brought are princes and princesses themselves—as I am certain you are aware.”

  “Word—had reached my noble lord that your beasts were extraordinary—”

  “They are creatures whose like no one here has ever seen. It is only through my friendship with the noble Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin, the Tale’sedrin of Tale‘sedrin, that I was able to obtain them.”

  His glance lit again upon Tarma, who was still standing in the shadows behind Kethry. She moved forward into the light, inclined her head graciously at the sound of her name, and said in Shin‘a’in, “I also happen to be the only Tale‘sedrin other than you, but we won’t go into that, will we?”

  “My companion tells me she is pleased to make the acquaintance of so goodly a gentleman,” Kethry said smoothly, as Tarma allowed the shadows to obscure her again. “As for myself, I am Kethryveris, scion of House Pheregul of Mournedealth, a House of ancient and honorable lineage.”

  From the blankness of his gaze, Kethry knew he’d never even heard of Mournedealth, much less her House—which, so far as she was concerned; was all to the good.

  “A House of renown, indeed,” he said, covering his ignorance. “Then, let me now tender my lord’s words. I come from King Raschar himself.” He paused, to allow Kethry to voice the expected murmurs of amazement and gratification. “He heard of your wondrous beasts, and wishes to have his Master of Horse view them himself—more than view them, if what rumor says of them is even half the truth. And since you prove to be more than merely common merchants, he would like to tender you an invitation to extend your visit to Petras in his Court, that he may learn of you, and you of him.”

  “And you may end up in the bastard’s bed, if he likes your looks,” murmured Tarma from the darkness.

  “Tell your lord that we are gratified—and that we shall await his Master of Horse with eagerness, and will be more than pleased to take advantage of the hospitality of his Court.”

  More smooth nonsense was exchanged, and finally the man bowed himself out.

  They waited, holding their breaths, until they were certain he was out of earshot—then collapsed into each other’s arms, helpless with stifled laughter.

  “Goddess! ‘Tale’sedrin of Tale‘sedrin’ indeed! That great booby didn’t even know it was a clan name and not a title!” Tarma choked. “Isda so’tre- koth! You know what my people say, don’t you? ‘Proud is the Clanchief. Prideful is the Clanchief of a two-member clan!’ ”

  “Laid it on good and thick, didn’t I?” Kethry replied, wiping tears out of her eyes. “Goddess bless, I didn’t know I had that much manure in me!”

  “Oh, you could have fertilized half a farm, ‘my la-dy,’ ” Tarma gasped, imitating his obsequious bow. “Bright Star-Eyed! Here—” she handed Kethry one of the goblets and poured it full of wine, then took a second for herself. “We’d better get ourselves under control if we’re going to get from here to our room without giving the game away.”

  “You’re right,” Kethry said, taking a long sip, and exerting control to sober herself. “There’s more at stake than just this little game.”

  “Hai‘she’li. This is just the tail of the beastie. We’re going to have to get into its lair to see if it’s a grasscat or a treehare—and if it’s got Idra in its mouth.”

  “And I just realiz
ed something,” Kethry told her, all thought of laughter gone. “We know the new King’s name, but we don’t know which of the brothers he is. And that could make a deal of difference.”

  “Indeed, ves‘tacha,” Tarma replied, her eyes gone brooding in truth. “In very deed.”

  At dawn Tarma relieved Warrl of his watch on the horses, and amused herself by first going through a few sword drills, then working them, much to the titillation of the gawkers. Toward noon, Kethry (who had been playing the aristo, rising late, and demanding breakfast in bed) put in her appearance. With her was a pale stranger, as expensively dressed as their visitor of the previous evening, but in much better taste. He, too, wore the badge of the King’s Household on his right shoulder. By his walk Tarma would have known him for a horseman. By the clothing and the badge, she knew him for the Master of the King’s Horse.

  And by the appreciation in his eyes, Tarma knew him for a man who knew his business. She heaved a mental sigh of relief at that; she’d half feared he might turn out to be as big a booby as the courtier of the night before. It would have cut her to the heart to sell these lovelies to an ignoramus—but if she refused to sell, they’d lose their cover story.

  She had been taking the horses out of the corral, one at a time, and working them in a smaller pen. Most of them she did work on a lunge—there were only a handful among the thirty she could work loose, the way she had the chestnut. She had a particularly skittish young buckskin gelding out when Kethry and her escort arrived, one she needed to devote most of her attention to. So after taking a few mental notes on the man, she went back to work.

  He spent a long time looking over the herd as a whole, and all in complete silence.

  :This is a good one, mindmate,: Warrl said, from his resting place under the horse trough. : He smells of soap and leather, not perfume. And there’s no fear in him, nor on him.:

  “Kathal, dester‘edre,” she told the buckskin, who kept wanting to break into a canter. “What else can you pick up from him?”

  : Lots of horse-scent, and not a trace of horse-fear.:

  “For‘shava.”

  After a time the Master of Horse left his post at the corral, and took up a nearly identical stance at the fence of the pen where she was working the buckskin. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, appraisingly. He was older than she’d first thought. Medium height, dark eyes, dark hair, beard and mustache—his complexion would be very white if not for his suntan—muscles in his shoulders that made his tunic leather stretch when he moved. His sole vanity seemed to be a set of matching silver jewelry: fillet, torque, bracelets, all inset with a single moonstone apiece. He leaned comfortably on the fence, missing nothing she did. Finally, he spoke to Kethry, who was standing at his side, dressed for the day in a cleaner and far more expensive set of the leathers she’d worn to ride in yesterday. Sewen had not spared the Company coffers when it had come time to outfit them for their ruse.

  “I understood that your companion was working the horses yesterday without a lunge....”

  “Only a few of the horses are schooled enough to work that way at the moment,” Kehry said smoothly, “although eventually all of them could be trained so. Do you wish to see her work one of them now?”

  “If you would both be so kind.”

  Kethry leaned over the fence. “You heard him, she‘enedra; is Master Flutterby there ready to pause?”

  The buckskin was obeying now, having tried to fret himself into a froth. Tarma halted him, then gave him a quick rubdown, and led him out. This time she called up a gentle dappled gelding—one she was rather glad hadn’t been chosen by a Sunhawk. He was so good natured—he really wasn’t suited to a battlefield, but he was so earnest he’d have broken his heart or a leg trying to do what was asked of him.

  She didn’t even bother to take him into the pen; she worked him in the open, then mounted him bareback, and put him through a bit of easy dres sage. When she slid off, the Horsemaster approached; she kept one hand on the dapple’s neck and watched as he examined the animal almost exactly as she would have. The dapple, curious, craned his head around and whuffed the man’s hair as he ran his hands gently down the horse’s legs, rear, then front, then picked up a forefoot. At that, the man grinned —a most unexpected expression on so solemn a face—and held out his hand for the dapple to smell, then rubbed his nose, gently.

  “Lady,” he spoke directly to Tarma, though he must have been told she didn’t speak the language—a courtesy as delicate as any she’d ever been given, “I would cheerfully sell the Palace to purchase these horses. For once, rumor has understated fact.”

  “I think he’s rather well hooked, she‘enedra,” Kethry said, pretending to translate. “How is he as a horseman? Can you feel happy letting them go to his care?”

  Tarma gave that slight bow of respect to him, and allowed a hint of a smile to cross her face. “I’m pleased, Warrl’s pleased, and have a look at Dust, if you would.”

  The dapple’s eyes were half-closed in pleasure as the Horsemaster continued to scratch under his loose halter.

  “I think it’s safe to say that they’ll be in good hands. See if you can wangle a deal with him that will include me as a temporary trainer; that will give us another excuse to linger.”

  “My companion is gratified by your praise, my lord,” Kethry said to him, “and impressed with your knowledge; she says she believes she could not find one to whose care she would be more willing to entrust her beasts.”

  Again, that unexpected smile. “Then, if you would care to return with me, I believe we can agree to something mutually pleasing. Since you will be selling into the King’s household, there will be no merchant taxes. And I think—” He gave the dapple’s forehead a last scratch. “—I think perhaps that I shall keep this one out of his Majesty’s sight. I have my pick of the King’s stables, but only after he has taken his choice. It is a pity a mount this intelligent is also so beautiful.”

  “Do you suppose you can come up with a distractor, Tarma?”

  “Do I? I think so!” She led the dapple back into the pen, and walked into the center of the herd to bring out the one horse of the lot that was mostly show and little substance—a lovely gelding with a coat of gold, a mane and tail of molten silver, and without a jot of brains in that beautiful head. Fortunately, he was reasonably even of temper as well as being utterly gentle, or there’d have been no handling him.

  He’d been included in the lot sent to the Sunhawks although if he’d had a bit less in the way of good looks he’d have been counted a cull. Tarma had gotten the notion that Idra might like a parade-mount, and had asked her people to be on the look-out for a truly impressive beast of good temper; for parade, brains didn’t matter. You couldn’t have told his beauty though, except by his lines and the way he carried himself. That was because he was filthy from rolling in the dust—which he insisted on doing when any opportunity presented itself.

  Tarma went to work on him with brushes, as he sighed and leaned into the strokes. He was dreadfully vain, and he loved being groomed. Tarma almost suspected him of dust-rolling on purpose, just so he’d get groomed more often. As the silver and gold began to emerge from under the dirt, the Horsemaster exclaimed in surprise. When Tarma was done, and paraded the horse before him, he smacked his fist into his palm in glee.

  “By the gods! One look at him and his Majesty won’t give a bean for the gray! I thank you, my ladies,” he bowed slightly to both Kethry and her partner, “and let us conclude this business as quickly as may be! I won’t be easy until these beauties are safely in the Royal Stables.”

  As he and Kethry returned the way they had come, Tarma turned the gold loose in the stockade—where he promptly went to his knees and wallowed in the dirt.

  “You,” she laughed at him, “are hopeless!”

  By twilight they were installed, bag and baggage, in the Palace, in one of the suites reserved for minor foreign dignitaries.

  It had all happened so fast that Tar
ma was still looking a little bemused. Kethry, who knew just how quickly high-ranking courtiers could get things accomplished when they wanted to exert themselves, had been a bit less surprised.

  She and the Master of Horse had concluded their bargain in fairly short order—and to her satisfaction, it had been at his suggestion that Tarma was retained for continued training. No sooner had a price been settled on and a writ made out to a reputable goldsmith, than a stream of thirty grooms and stable hands had been sent to walk the horses from the corral at the stockyard to the Royal Stables, each horse to have its own handler. The Horsemaster was taking no chances on accident or injury.

  When Kethry returned to the inn, there were already three porters waiting for her orders, all in the Royal livery. They were none too sure of themselves ; Tarma (still in her barbarian persona) had refused them entrance to the suite, and was guarding the door as much with her scowl as her drawn sword.

  They allowed the porters to carry away most of their belongings, the ones that didn’t matter, like some of that elaborate clothing. Tarma’s armor and weaponry (including a few nasty little surprises she definitely did not want anyone to know about), Need, their trail gear, and the few physical supplies Kethry needed for her magecraft they brought themselves, in sealed saddlebags. They rode Hellsbane and Ironheart; Kethry had no intention of chancing accidents with a trained battlemare. “Accidents” involving a Shin‘a’in warsteed generally ended up in broken bones—and not the horse’s.