The Bonemender's Choice

by Holly Bennett

  “What?” she demanded irritably. “You travel south, no? To Chênier, to Blanchette?”

  It was Gabrielle who answered. “That’s right. Probably we will stay a couple of days in Chênier with my family before traveling on to the coast together.”

  “I know these places. Big. Busy. Not like this piddle town. I do better there than carry ale and empty piss pots.”

  Her shoulders rippled in that elaborate eloquent shrug, hands rising to complete the gesture and eyebrows lifting to pull her almond eyes into wide round innocence. “I travel with you, is all I ask. Is all right?”

  “You’re more than welcome.” Gabrielle again, with a warm smile that hid her relief. Derkh didn’t feel relieved, not at all. He was thrilled to have Yolenka travel with him. His worry was that she would not come back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BLANCHETTE WAS A BUSY TRADE PORT and market town, smaller than the royal city of Chênier but more varied and lively. Tristan, when he became regent of the area, took to it immediately, reveling in the noisy docks crowded with trade ships and fishing boats, enjoying the contrast between the rough jumble of lodging-houses, shops, taverns and warehouses dockside and the spacious landscaped manors of the rich merchants and noblemen in the upper town. Beyond them all was the endless Gray Sea, an ever-changing dance of light and wind and water, and on the horizon the just-visible crescent edge of Crow Island.

  Almost as soon as his visitors had arrived, Tristan had offered them a tour of the town. Only Justine and Dominic, who knew Blanchette well, and Solange, who was tired from the journey, had turned him down.

  “Here’s one coming in now.” Tristan pointed, leaning far over the railing to get the best view of the ship that had just billowed into sight. A local merchant had been prevailed upon to offer up the balcony that opened out from his second-story office in a warehouse across from the docks, so that the visitors could enjoy a high and private look at the harbor. “When the wind is contrary, they have to row through the straits between the mainland and Crow Island,” Tristan said, “but this one is under full sail. You’ll get to see them drop the rigging as they approach the harbor.”

  He hadn’t lost his sense of childlike wonder, thought Gabrielle, regent though he was. Tristan was clearly enjoying the sight as much as his son Jerome, who perched on his shoulders. As for Derkh, he was like a questing hound, senses alert, nostrils flared to any new scent. He straightened now, craning his neck.

  “Tristan—what are those ships at the far end of the pier?” Half again as big as the coastal traders docked beside them, two great double-masted ships hunkered out in the deepest water. With their sleek lines, thrusting bowsprits and long yardpoles raking back into the sky as though bent in a gale, they stood out from the boxy Basin ships like falcons among pigeons.

  “Is Tarzine ships!” Yolenka spoke out. Her proud face filled with eagerness. “I will speak to them. I leave you now.” She had clattered down the stairs and emerged into the street below before anyone could stop her.

  “Yolenka, be careful!” Derkh shouted down to her. “Those men are—” He was cut off by an impatient wave and a quick grin over her shoulder.

  The little group watched Yolenka’s progress down the pier. Twice men approached her, only to back off hastily.

  “Your friend appears well able to handle Blanchette’s seamen,” observed Tristan. “I wonder what she said to those poor fellows.”

  “Probably nothing you’d want your children to hear,” Derkh admitted, and Matthieu sniggered.

  His sister said nothing, but her eyes never left the small figure stalking toward the foreign ships. She’s formidable, Madeleine thought, savoring the syllables as they sounded in her head. That’s exactly the word. And she wondered what it would be like to face the world with such brash self-confidence.

  Féolan was still thinking about the ships. “Are they welcome here, given the raids you told us about?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Tarzine traders have always been treated with some suspicion, and they are watched now more carefully than ever. But these men are honest—well, I don’t know that they are honest, but they are just traders, not pirates. And the very nobles who mutter about their presence here are the ones who clamor for Tarzine rugs and silks. So our merchants are ill-inclined to turn them away.”

  Yolenka’s boasts about her country’s artistry had been nothing but the truth. The rug in Gabrielle’s chamber in Chênier was of Tarzine make, and by lamp or firelight the colors were so rich they seemed to glow with a life of their own.

  “Don’t forget the demand for Tarzine jewelry,” she said now. “Did you notice the necklace Yolenka is wearing? It’s stunning. The filigree work has an almost Elvish look to it, but that bold bronze centerplate is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  Derkh felt himself flush with pride and pleasure, but everyone was still looking out to sea and it passed unnoticed. Only Féolan’s gaze rested on Derkh—but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “MATTHIEU, HURRY UP! You’re like an old man falling asleep over his gaming dice.” Only he was not asleep, Madeleine knew. He was hunched over the chiggers board like a predatory beast.

  Not so long ago, Matthieu had been easy to beat. He was long on impulse and short on patience, going always for the flamboyant but obvious move. All you had to do to block him was think. But that had changed. Matthieu had discovered the value of strategy and learned to slow down long enough to use it. But he had never taken this long at a turn. Madeleine had the uneasy feeling she had missed something.

  Evening had waned into night, and with the younger children tucked into bed most of the rest of the family had gathered in what Uncle Tristan called “the sunroom.” It wasn’t sunny now, but Madeleine loved the way you could peek up through the big window set into the roof and see the summer stars. This had been her favorite room, she remembered, back when she had been little and lived here instead of in Chênier.

  Suddenly Matthieu’s taut face relaxed into a triumphant grin. “I knew it was there somewhere!” He picked up his gray marble lead dog (for he was the hunter this round, to Madeleine’s prey), o’erhopped three hounds to land on a reverse square, summoned the two-square falcon token he had pulled earlier and saved, and landed neatly on the stag. The game was over.

  “I missed that completely,” admitted Madeleine, chagrinned. “Nice win, Matthieu.” Still she felt rather sulky as she gathered up the pieces. It was lucky for him she was an adult now and had to play the part, otherwise she might be tempted to do something childish and spiteful, as their mother called it.

  Matthieu’s hand reached out to stop her work. “Play again, Maddy,” he begged.

  “I don’t really feel like it, Matthieu, it’s late and—”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Mama’s been eyeing me across the room, and only the fact that we’re playing nicely together has kept her from sending me off to bed. As soon as she sees we’re done...”

  Madeleine was ready for bed herself, but it wasn’t often Matthieu got to stay up. Madeleine had not forgotten how it rankled to be excluded from the fun. Not that there’s much fun to be had, she thought, eying the adults reading, knitting and chatting around her.

  She righted the red stag and moved the fox back to its starting position.

  “Quick then, before they notice.”

  JUSTINE HAD, IN FACT, noticed. She did not miss much when it came to her children. She looked at the two heads bent in conspiracy so close together—one capped with tousled brown hair, the other a startling glory of bright, tumbling curls—and smiled. It was nice to see them getting along for a change, too nice to interrupt.

  Of her three children, only Madeleine’s coloring took after her grandfather’s, King Jerome DesChênes of Verdeau. But in her, it was as if Jerome’s rust and wire turned to gold and silk. Madeleine’s soft curls were a true strawberry blond—what Jerome had rather poetically called “roses and sunshine.”

  Madeleine straightened up, and in the lamplight h
er features looked older, more defined. Justine caught a sudden glimpse of her daughter at fifteen or sixteen—a young beauty with round sky-blue eyes and hair every young man who gazed upon her would wish to touch. I should lock her up right now, she thought and gave a false little titter as if to convince herself she was only joking.

  DOMINIC HAD JUST raised an inquiring eyebrow at his wife when the door was opened by one of Tristan’s men.

  “Excuse me, sire. There is a messenger from Maquard. Urgent.”

  “Bring him in, man!” Tristan, who had been to all appearances asleep and snoring on Rosalie’s lap, was wide-awake and on his feet. He strode across the room to meet the messenger as he entered.

  “A Tarzine ship was spotted yesterday by a fisherman, sire. We’ve been watching her, and she’s put in just around the point from Maquard Bay, secret-like. I left before anything more happened, but everything points to a raid. They’ll have the dinghies in the water by now, I warrant.”

  “Good. I hope they do!” said Tristan with grim satisfaction. “Look how bold they have grown, Dominic, attacking within spitting distance of Blanchette itself.”

  Ten years ago, Maquard had been a tiny fishing village nestled just east of Blanchette. But as warehouse space in Blanchette became more crowded and more dear, merchants trading from and with Gamier looked to nearby Maquard for cheaper storage space. Maquard’s harbor was neither as deep nor as large as Blanchette’s, but it was adequate for the smaller traders, and in recent years Maquard had grown into a small market town in its own right. It would be a rich target for pirates.

  “This is our chance to see our lads in action,” announced Tristan. “The message has gone to the garrison?” he asked in the same breath.

  The messenger nodded. “As you commanded.” Tristan had installed garrisons at key points along the Verdeau coast and had provided two fast well-trained horses to designated messengers at every significant coastal settlement.

  “Good. Let’s see then, how these Tarzines manage against soldiers instead of farmers and fishermen.” He looked at Dominic.

  “You coming?”

  His brother grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  As if struck simultaneously by the same thought, the two men turned to their alarmed wives.

  “Tristan, you don’t have to go!” said Rosalie. Her arms circled her swelling belly. “That’s what the soldiers are for. You have children who depend on you now.”

  “So do they, Rosie girl. So do they.” The childish excitement gone, Tristan was quietly sober now. He knelt in front of Rosalie and rested his hands over hers. “You know how I feel about leaders who hide behind their men. I’ll be careful, that I promise you—but I intend to see these pirates well and truly routed tonight.”

  Féolan cleared his throat. Gabrielle, taken up in the drama unfolding before her, had all but forgotten him. Now, she realized, she had one more to worry about. He smiled apologetically.

  “I think I’d better go to keep an eye on your brother,” he said. “You know he has a tendency to get carried away.”

  The room was suddenly filled with purpose. “Then let’s get ready,” said Tristan simply. “We ride back with this man, here, as soon as may be. Meet in front of the stables.”

  He turned to his guard. “See that our horses are prepared and that this fellow has a fresh one. We’ll ride with the garrison if we’re in time, or follow if we’re not.”

  The room emptied, leaving Madeleine and Matthieu forgotten at the games table.

  THEY STARED at each other over the chiggers board. Madeleine watched Matthieu’s expression change from blank shock to urgency, as though a fire had been kindled under his skin.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Where?” asked Madeleine. He couldn’t mean bed, not with his eyes lit up like a First-Month fire.

  “To see the battle! Maddy, it’s only to Maquard, just down the road. It’s perfect!”

  “Don’t be daft. They’d never let you.”

  “Maddy, listen.” Matthieu was in an agony of impatience. “We’ll just wait till they’re gone, take our horses and follow them. They’ll never know we’re there.”

  Madeleine was shaking her head before he was halfway done.

  “Matthieu, stop right now. No. The answer is no. This isn’t players fooling at fighting—it’s real. It’s dangerous. We’d be in the way and—oh, I’m not even going to argue it. It’s just ridiculous.”

  Matthieu’s face darkened and his jaw jutted out. She hadn’t dissuaded him; she had goaded him on.

  “You’re afraid,” he said. “You’re afraid of everything now! You won’t even risk getting your gown dirty. But I’m going, with or without you. I won’t get in the way—I’m just going to find a safe place away from the battle and watch my dad and Tristan kick those pirates into the ocean. You can stay home and be a little lady and never have an adventure ever again, for all I care.”

  He jumped up from the table, scattering the chiggers pieces, and leaned his face close to her. “And if you rat on me, Maddy, I swear by the dark gods—I will never trust you or be your friend again!” And with that he headed for the door.

  Madeleine watched him go, trying to pull The Right Thing to Do from the confused tangle of thoughts in her head. She couldn’t let Matthieu go riding off into the night alone; that was clear. He probably wouldn’t even remember the way. She would have to tell Justine and stop him.

  And never have an adventure again. The words hit her like a slap. It was the little fear that whispered to her sometimes at night—that under the pretty clothes and elegant dinners, adult life was essentially dull. And in spite of herself, she imagined the thrill of what Matthieu had proposed—the two of them, riding down a dark road together, witnessing the triumphant defense of the Verdeau Coast.

  “Matthieu, wait,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DRESSED IN HIS CUSTOMARY BLACK, Turga had little fear of being spotted as he eased himself out of the fighting and began to climb the hill overlooking the beach. Only the gold gleaming at his neck and wrist might betray him in the moonlight. He had affected his dark attire, so at odds with the taste of most of his countrymen, to stand out from the common rank and file and proclaim his authority. Tonight, though, he was content to blend in.

  The slope was sandy, crumbling under his boots, and he was compelled to sheath his sword and grasp with both hands at the tough clumps of sedge and dune-vetch to pull himself up.

  The climb was hardly worth the bother. Turga had hoped that from a high vantage he would have a better sense of the momentum of battle. But although the moon lit up the open ocean like a beacon, it only glanced at the riotous struggle beyond the hill in stingy fitful glimpses. Impossible to say who had the upper hand.

  He had, perhaps, grown a little too bold, venturing so close to Blanchette. Still, it had been a free ride up to now and only a matter of time before even these soft Krylians mounted some kind of defense. A spirited defense, he had to admit, both swifter and more ferocious than he could have predicted.

  Well, it was good for his men to face trained warriors for a change—kept them sharp. He would let them fight a while longer, and then move them back to the ship before too many were lost. When victory was in doubt, it was always better to retreat in strength. In a rout, they would be slaughtered trying to launch the dinghies.

  He allowed his eyes to roam over the battle one last time before turning to make his way down. He did not intend to be cut off from his own ship. In fact, he would walk along the ridge of hill a little farther, descend well away from the melee and sound the retreat from the water’s edge.

  A rustle, nearly at his left hand, brought him to a halt. Keen eyes narrowed to slits swept the dark landscape before resting on the large clump of shrubbery before him. One tawny hand slid to his sword-hilt while the other drifted out to finger a thorny spray of foliage.

  Doubtless it was just some night creature, made restless by his presence. But Turga had not become w
arlord of land and sea by turning his back on potential enemies. He pulled his sword and thrust aside an armful of prickly branches.

  IT WAS HER dream all over again. As Matthieu shrank back against her, Madeleine stared, frozen, at the pirate towering over her. Backlit by the moon, he was a dark silhouette—all but the flash of teeth as he grinned at the two children huddled behind the furze bush.

  But his teeth aren’t rotten, she thought, her mind looping into nonsense. His teeth aren’t rotten, so this can’t be a dream!

  Matthieu gave a sudden heave and was on his feet, groping at his side for his hunting knife. “C’mon, Madeleine, he’s not that big!” he shouted. “We can—”

  The man was not so big, perhaps, but he had the speed and power of a mountain cat. Matthieu was disarmed, pinned against the pirate’s side and a hair away from disembowelment before Madeleine was fully standing.

  “Leave him alone!” She shrieked at the man in fear and rage, but at the sharp gesture of his sword she fell silent. He nodded approvingly, stepped back a pace and stared at her. The white teeth flashed again, and he spoke now, a deep bass voice pitched quiet and calm, the words a blur of meaningless sound.

  The gestures were clear enough. He backed Matthieu up against his sister at sword point, rummaged in his coat and produced a length of rope. The smell of tar rose to Madeleine’s nostrils as rough sticky fibers bit into her wrist. He trussed their hands together, Matthieu’s behind his back, Madeleine’s in front, and Madeleine understood that any struggle on her part would wrench cruelly at her brother’s arm sockets. Then the pirate’s fingers closed like a smith’s vice around Madeleine’s upper arm. A gleaming sword tip came to rest, first under her chin and then under Matthieu’s. They didn’t need to understand the man’s muttered words to understand the threat.

  And then they were dragged off, across the ridge of the hill and down toward the beach. They had to scurry crablike to make it down the hill with their hands joined, and the pirate gave them no time to place their feet but simply hauled them along, yanking them upright when they stumbled, the hard fingers biting into Madeleine’s arm if she faltered.