Damedran almost ran out, signaling to Ban as he did. Ban waved at the next cadet down, and they soon assembled in the courtyard.
“Bar Larsca Valley,” Damedran said. “Right back where we started out!”
“Unless she’s at the other end,” Ban put in. “You know, at the mountains.”
“Why would anyone go to the mountains?” Red asked.
Damedran ignored them. “Or she went to Tser Mearsies. But why would she go there?”
“Escape us,” Ban said dryly.
“Not in Bar Larsca.” Damedran shook his head, thinking of Castle Cheslan sitting at the southeast end of the valley. “Anyone would tell her about the siege game. You’d think. So maybe she did go to Tser Mearsies after all.”
“And leave her ma behind?” Red put in.
They all looked thoughtful at that, turning to Red with expressions very close to respect. Red blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t. Leave my ma. If—” If I knew she was a prisoner of the king. He might get himself into trouble if he said any more, and so he flapped his hands out from his sides, looking skyward.
Damedran was done with the conversation anyway. “Back to the garrison. New mounts, and we’re on the road. Remember, we’re at least a week behind her.”
They returned to the servants, who had been holding the reins of the horses all this time. They remounted and rode sedately out, remembering the order not to call attention to themselves.
One they reached the open road, they could loosen the reins and gallop with the wind.
They reached the garrison at the same time as Owl reached the inn. He walked up to where Mistress Innkeeper was polishing the counter, her expression distracted. The common room was empty except for a table of drunks at one corner, with whom Master Innkeeper was obviously trying to reason. In the kitchen a pair of young teens were busy frosting pastries. Both glanced at Owl, then went back to work, obviously losing interest.
Owl felt the inward tingle of magic—an answer from Jehan.
He laid a silver coin on the counter. “I was told that your relations sent a letter via a young woman, tall, wheat-colored hair probably in braids. I would like to know where she went, if you remember?”
The woman glanced from the coin to Owl’s face, her jaw tight, her hands thrust into her apron pockets. “Couldn’t rightly say,” she finally replied.
Owl sighed. “I may as well get a room, then. Send word to the stable I’ll pay for a bran mash for the mount. Name’s Owl.”
He sat in a corner, looking about. The man was dealing with the drunks, the woman had vanished, the teenagers were busy in the kitchen, talking and working.
He pulled out the golden case, found a rolled paper on which Jehan had written:
I know nothing about Damedran and some mission. Will try to find out. I don’t like this coincidence.
Owl turned over the paper, took from his pouch his drawing chalk, wrote, I’m at the inn. They say they know nothing. Do you really want me riding on, weeks behind the last sign of her?
He put the note in the case, sent it, stowed the case, and then ate supper while one of the teens brought in his gear from the stable and carried it upstairs.
He’d expected an answer right away, but none came. One never knew when Jehan could get the freedom to visit his rooms.
At sundown four young musicians came in, bearing instruments. Mistress Innkeeper opened all the windows and set lamps on each sill. The music drifted out onto the streets and before long the place was filled with custom, drinking, eating, dancing, singing, talking. Owl sat in isolation, too tired to care when the dancers, maneuvering for space, bumped him with hip or elbow. When he caught himself falling asleep right there in the chair, he trod upstairs to the third floor and down the hall to where someone had chalk-marked “Owl” on the door.
The door shut out most of the noise. Someone had lit a lamp, which cast weak light on a bed, a small table with his saddlebag directly below it, a window opened to the cool night air below the slanting beams of the roof.
He pulled the gold case out and removed the tiny scrap of paper on which Jehan had written in careful letters that betrayed not haste but a long period of reflection:
Return to Vadnais.
Though he suspected Jehan was bitter with disappointment for several good reasons, Owl sighed with relief and fell into bed.
His mood was as sunny as the weather the next morning. After a long sleep, a long soak in the bath and a long breakfast, he slung his gear over his shoulder, paid his shot and sauntered out to the stable to retrieve his mount and start the journey south. This time he needn’t hurry.
He was smiling to himself, mentally planning a route that would include as many good inns as possible, when he noticed the head stableman watching him in an uncertain way. A stealthy way, even.
Owl checked shoes, saddle, feedbag, then mounted up, and couldn’t resist a single glance back. The man shook his head slightly and turned away.
“What is it,” Owl said, suspecting he would hate whatever he was about to hear.
The man turned around again, this time scanning in both directions. But all the stablehands were busy, out of earshot. He stepped to Owl’s stirrup. “The mistress is a good one, few better. But she does like a gold coin, and she also is partial to a young, handsome face.”
“What?” Owl knew this could not possibly refer to him, as he had offered no one gold, he was no longer young and had never been handsome.
“Boys in cadet gear here yesterday.” The man looked around. “Girl told me they offered six golds for information, and for Mistress to keep quiet. But no one saw fit to pay me.”
At that subtle hint, Owl dug into his pouch. “Guards?” Damedran? Here?
A nod, then the man leaned up and muttered, “Lookin’ for a tall woman. Light hair. Named Lasva. Carried a letter from Master’s cousin at an inn downriver. Girl in the kitchen overheard it all.”
Owl gaped. Damedran Randart had been here. Not at the garrison, on some fool army task.
There was only one explanation for him being here. He was hunting Sasharia. What had happened? Owl could have sworn Randart had no suspicions when he left the Dolphin. Well, of course not, or he would have used that force to take her.
The man sneaked another look around. “I’d swear that boy on point was a Randart. To say no more, a certain relation o’ his being one of the reasons I no longer serve in the guard,” he added sourly.
Owl handed down a fistful of silver coinage, which was the highest worth he carried. “She say where she was going?”
Another look. “Mistress drew her a map to go west cross-country. They said west of Colend. But she asked about Larsca territory. And when she rode out, she didn’t turn west or north, but right down the south road.”
Owl slapped the rest of his silver into the man’s hand. “Thank you,” he murmured. “And…I’d not mention this conversation.”
The man gave him a wry smile. “I never even saw you.”
Owl paused once, again at a corner where he couldn’t be seen, and wrote a fast note to Jehan. Without waiting for an answer he started galloping down the south road.
Chapter Nineteen
“Lasva, there’s a couple of lookers here to see you,” one of the younger girls said to me, eyes wide with interest and curiosity. Probably the moreso since I hadn’t been among those going off for long walks in the woods during those evenings, or dancing until past midnight.
“For me?”
My first thought was Jehan.
I scoffed at myself. How would he possibly know where I was, after all these weeks? And second, more to the point, if he was here, they wouldn’t say “a couple of lookers”, not with that white hair, and the inevitable outriders and hoopla. They’d be going nutso over the sudden appearance of a royal prince.
So I shrugged, hefted my bag as I’d been heading toward the stable anyway. Probably someone who wanted to hire me for my great reach. Like for apple picking or something.
&n
bsp; When I reached the stable yard, two of the younger of my dorm mates were flirting with a pair of teenage guys. The one with the red hair was flirting back. I couldn’t hear the words over the noise in the yard, what with horses coming and going, shouts of workers, conversations everywhere as our former olive-picking mates began their departures. The redhead laughed, leaned down, tugged teasingly at one of the girls’ braids, to get his hand slapped away with a pretense of anger. The other one, cuter by far, was tall, with a long, serious face and thick waving brown hair worn clipped back. Both wore ill-fitting summer tunics over their shirts, and brown riding trousers tucked into blackweave riding boots much like the military wear. They each had swords at their saddles and knives at their belts.
I walked up. “Looking for me?” I asked, relieved I didn’t know them.
The dark-haired one regarded me with an expression impossible to interpret, but the redhead wiggled his brows. “Oh, I do hope you are Lasva.”
The girls laughed, and the shorter, blond one (the biggest flirt in our dorm) cast me a mirthful glance. “Good luck winning a kiss out of Lasva! She’s far too picky. You’re better off with me.”
“If they’re hiring for kissing, you are the expert. But if it’s apple picking,” I said, making a show of looking down on her, “you’re hopeless.”
The girls and the redhead laughed. The other boy leaned forward to pat his horse’s neck, as the animal was restless, ears flicking, weight shifting from one leg to the other, head tossing. His hand was big, strong and callused across the palm.
“Apple picking?” The redheaded guy pretended surprise. “How ever did you know?”
“Because I’ve already worked a week over the quota on account of my size,” I retorted. “What did they give you at the front, a name of all the tall ones who don’t spend their time chasing after kisses?”
“Hey! I was a good presser,” the blonde protested.
“Yeah. When Tavan was around,” her friend retorted, rolling her eyes.
“Am I as handsome as Tavan?” The redhead smoothed back his tousled hair.
“No.” All three of us women shook our heads.
Both of the guys laughed this time.
The redhead said to me, “Well, will you come apple picking?”
“Is it really apples? How amazing is that?” I said.
“How…amazing…is what?” The dark-haired one looked puzzled.
The blonde said, “She talks funny. But she’s a sailor.” As if that explained everything.
“We have an orchard.” The redhead waved a hand in a vague circle. “Actually, several fruits and things.”
I shrugged. “How long and where? I do have somewhere to be.”
“Oh,” asked the redhead. “Where is that?”
The dark-haired one sent him a frown, but the redhead shrugged.
“Tser Mearsies.” I gave them one of my lies, surprised a little that they would ask.
“This won’t take long. Not a large orchard.” The redhead grinned.
“All right.” I shrugged, thinking that the fewer of those jewels I had to use on my journeys, the less attention I garnered. And anyway my father might need them back. “Let me get my mount.”
The blonde grinned at me. “We’ll keep them occupied. Take your time.”
As I trod to the stable, the teasing, flirting and laughter promptly took up behind me.
I found my mare. She was fresh and ready to go, her head tossing, eyes alert, nostrils flaring. The stablehands had already saddled her, and my sword was intact, so all I had to do was tie on my gear and lead her out.
The short time I’d been gone, several more of the younger girls had gathered round. As I led my mare up, I was informed by the girls that my escorts were named Red and Ban.
“Call me Lasva.” I mounted up. My riding muscles twinged. Weird, how quickly you lose it if you don’t use it.
Everyone exchanged farewells and the fellows led the way out of the place I’d spent so pleasant a stay. My earnings jingled with satisfying weight in my little belt pouch.
We proceeded at a walking pace toward the crossroads on the other side of the hill from the farm. They did not angle toward the big main road, rutted from all those wagon runs to and from the duke’s row of farms and orchards, but toward a smaller side road. We cut through all the traffic of wagons, riders and walkers. The boys had fallen silent. I was fine with that. I was wondering how I could get to a map without raising any questions—which meant lying. Which, of course, promptly threw right back at me all the self-righteous yap I’d given to Jehan about his lies.
Of course my cause is good, I instantly told myself.
But I could hear him insisting he wanted my dad back. If so, why didn’t he just come out and say so, as Prince Jehan—why the purple pirate secret identity? Could it be for the same reasons I was lying? But he was a prince! Princes had power.
Or did he? On the yacht, Randart sure hadn’t behaved like…
I sighed sharply, causing my mare to sidle.
The boys looked over at me, Ban concerned, Red confused. “Anything wrong? Uh, Lasva?”
“No. Just, next time someone tells me something, I’m going to listen,” I said with fake cheer. “Instead of boring myself afterward with trying to imagine what they would have said.”
Now both looked confused. I sighed again and looked around. While I’d been arguing with myself for the thousandth time, we’d gradually left the other travelers behind. We were completely alone on a road that had narrowed to something little wider than a worn footpath. “Where are the others?”
Ban said with a tight expression, “Others?”
“Hirelings.” I motioned upward, as if picking an apple from a tree. “You cannot tell me I’m the only one hired from that place. I could name you at least a dozen who were faster and better than I. Taller too.” I meant the last as a joke, and belatedly Red laughed, but it was a strangled sort of laugh, and Ban’s smile was more of a wince.
I stopped my mare. “Um, what’s going on here?” I asked. “You two look like you swallowed glass. There’s nobody else around—”
I was interrupted by the thud of horse hooves from beyond a rocky outcropping.
From the other side of the scree, five guys in cadet brown emerged, followed by two more guys with a string of horses. The first rider was familiar—hawk nose a lot like my own, generous, curving lips, black eyes, long glossy black hair—
“Damedran Randart?” I squeaked.
His mouth dropped open. “How did you know that?”
I swung my horse around. “All I know is,” I ripped my sword free, “I am not going anywhere with a Randart!”
I whapped the mare’s sides. Her muscles bunched. She was very ready for a run.
The others closed round me, their faces determined.
None of them were armed. Yet. I whirled around in the saddle, swung my sword so fast it hummed. Whizz—snap—whoosh! I cut through the reins on three of their mounts. The horses panicked, and the boys couldn’t control them.
That was enough to win me a gap in their circle. I gave the mare the knees again. She, rested for weeks, loved the opportunity to gallop and took off like a rocket. I bent low over her head, bushes whipped past—
A darkish blur thundered up on one side. A flash of silver—Damedran Randart brought his sword down toward me.
I slewed, whipped my blade up. I was already off-balance. I had never fought on horseback and feared my block would be weak, so I rose up in the stirrups the better to brace against his killing blow.
Which was a feint. Damedran snapped his blade to a low flat thrust under my thigh. He flexed his wrist, and whoop! I tumbled right off the horse.
Only my martial arts training in falling saved me from breaking at least an arm, if not my neck. I tucked under, rolled over what felt like 345,679 jagged boulders, and momentum propelled me to my feet. My sword had vanished when I first fell, so I shifted into kenpo mode. When Damedran flung himself down from
his horse, I whipped up a foot, kicked his blade clean out of his hand, followed up with a whirl and a sidekick to the knee, and he yelped, falling right in Ban’s path.
I ran.
Got about three steps before two big, brawny boys came at me, arms out. No swords. I feinted toward one, and when his hands jerked up to block, I gave him a nasty palm-heel strike to the solar plexus, blocked a reach from the other and snapped another side-sweep to the knee. He went down first, the other whooping for breath as he stumbled after me.
I whirled, dashed two steps—then two strong hands closed on my shoulders. I twisted, used an elbow strike.
A teenage-male whoof blew in my ear. I grabbed his arm to swing him into his partner—but he planted his feet, and his heavier weight caused me to stumble.
And so the sixth one caught me round the waist. I twisted my hip in order to shift him off-balance, but he gave a grunt and lifted me off the ground. We both fell, he landing on top of me. Crunch. Thud. Three more muscle-bound teenage-boy bodies piled on in a first-class scrimmage heap, with me at the bottom.
Now it was my turn to struggle for breath.
The dogpile shifted, and the boys scrambled up. Two or three hands grasped at my arms, knees thumped on my back and legs. Though I squirmed and struggled my mightiest, the fight was lost, and determined fingers twisted my hands behind me.
I heard a breathless, “What do I use? What do I use?”
“Who has the rope?” I recognized that voice as Red’s. “Nobody brought any? You idiots, we knew we had to—”
“No rope!” The low voice was Damedran’s, equally breathless. “Rope is for criminals. You have your sash?”
“We wore belts, remember?” That voice I didn’t recognize. It cracked on the word “remember”.
“Here. Use your handkerchief. It’s besorcelled, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Let me do it. I don’t want her hurt.”
I was struggling with all my might while this conversation went on, not that it did me any good. My hands were effectively bound. Damedran kept pausing to check the knots with shaking fingers.
Twice a Prince: Sasharia En Garde Book 2 Page 16
