Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Unfortunately, this elevated mood disappeared with the sun. For the light steadily grew more diffuse and lost its warmth, the shadows closed in, and a steady, drizzling rain began to fall. Faintly, in the distance, I heard bells tolling for blue-change, and even they sounded mournful. My various aches seemed to increase with the darkness, and once or twice when the tired horse stumbled, wrenching my left leg, I couldn’t help making noise, but I turned each into a muttered curse.

  My captor left the road before it was completely dark, and rode with a sense of sureness that indicated he knew the terrain. After a time we stopped in a secluded glade against a rocky palisade, under the sheltering branches of a great-grandfather oak. A short distance away a little stream plashed off the rocks and wound its way among the trees. The wind did not penetrate there, nor did much of the rain.

  In silence the man reined in his horse, dismounted, and lifted me down to a high grassy spot that was scarcely damp. In the gathering gloom he tended to his horse, which presently cropped at the grass. My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness; the flare of light from a Fire Stick, and the reddish flicker of a fire, startled me.

  At first I turned away, for the unsteady flame hurt my eyes, but after a time the prospect of warmth brought me around, and I started edging toward the fire.

  The man dropped what he was doing, and took a step toward me. “I can carry you,” he said.

  I waved him off. “I’ll do it myself,” I said shortly, thinking, Why be polite now? So I’ll be in a good mood when you dump me in Galdran’s dungeon?

  He hesitated. I ignored him and turned my attention to moving. He returned to whatever he had been doing. After a little experimenting, I found that it was easiest to sit backward, shift my weight to my palms, then shift my hips, dragging my left leg.

  Presently I reached the warmth of his fire, which was properly built in a ring of rocks. Using the tip of his rapier, he held out chunks of bread with cheese, toasting them. The smell made my mouth water.

  He divided the food into two portions, laying mine on a flat rock near my hand.

  Then he held up a camp kettle. “Want steep? Or water?”

  “Steep,” I said.

  He walked off toward the waterfall. I peered after him in the gloom, and made out the silhouette of the horse standing near the pool where the water fell. One chance of escape gone. I’d never get to the horse before he could stop me.

  With a small sense of relief, I turned my attention to the bread. I was suddenly ravenous, and even though the cheese was still hot, I wolfed my share down and licked my fingers to catch the last crumbs.

  By then the man had returned and set the kettle among the embers. Then he paused, picked up his share of the bread, and put it in front of me.

  “That’s yours,” I said.

  “You appear to need it more than I do.” He smiled. “Go ahead. I won’t starve,”

  I picked up the bread, feeling a weird sense of unreality: Did he expect me to be grateful? The situation was so strange I simply had to turn it into absurdity—it was either that or sink into fear and apprehension. “Well, does it matter if I starve?” I said. “Or do Galdran’s torturers require only plump victims for their arts?”

  The man had started to unload something from the saddlebag at his side, but he gave me that contemplative gaze again, his broad-brimmed black hat shadowing his eyes. “The situation has altered,” he said with care. “You must perceive how your value has changed.”

  His words, his tone—as if he expected an outbreak of hysterics—fired my indignation. Maybe my situation was desperate, and sooner than later I was going to be having nightmares about it—but not for the entertainment of some drawling Court-bred flunky.

  “He’ll try to use me against my brother,” I said in my flattest voice.

  “I rather suspect he will be successful. In the space of one day your brother and his adherents attacked our camp twice. It would appear they are not indifferent to your fate.”

  I remembered then that he had said something about an attack earlier, but I’d scarcely comprehended what he meant. “Do you know who was killed?” I asked quickly.

  The firelight played over his face. He watched me with a kind of narrow-eyed assessment impossible to interpret. “You know them all, don’t you,” he commented.

  “Of course I do,” I said. “You don’t know who—or you just won’t tell me, for some rock-headed reason?”

  He smiled. “Your determined bravado is a refreshment to the spirit. But if you know them all by name, then the loss of each is immeasurably greater. Why did you do it? Did you really think you could lead a few hundred ill-trained village people into war and expect anything but defeat?”

  I was about to give him a hot retort when I realized I’d be spoiling what little strategy we did have.

  But then he said wryly, “Or did you expect the rest of the kingdom to follow your heroic example and rise up against the king?”

  Which was exactly what we had expected.

  “So they sit like overfed fowl and watch Galdran Merindar break the Covenant by making secret pacts to sell our woods overseas?” I retorted instead.

  He paused in the act of reaching for the camp jug. “Break the Covenant? How do you know about that? I don’t recall you’ve ever been to Court.”

  Tell him about Azmus, and the intercepted letter, and have him send minions to make certain both disappeared? No chance. “I just know. That’s all you need to know. But even if it weren’t true, Debegri would still go up to take the county of Tlanth by force. Can’t any of you Court people see that if it happens to us, it can happen to you? Or are you too stupid?”

  “Possibly,” he said, still with that unruffled amusement. “It’s also possible your…somewhat misguided actions are inspired by misguided sources, shall we say?”

  “Say what you want.” I sniffed. “It’s not like I can duff off in a huff if you’re impolite.”

  He laughed softly, then shook his head. “I ought not to bait you. I apologize.”

  The implication seemed pretty clear: Soon enough I’d have a hard time of it. The prospect silenced me.

  He didn’t seem to notice as he brought out the jug and then poured two mugs of steaming water. A moment later he opened a little bag and brought out dried leaves, which he cast into one mug. Another bag provided leaves for the other mug. The wonderful scent of steep wafted through the air. I did not recognize the blend—or blends. Instinct made me sigh; then I realized I’d done it and wished I hadn’t.

  The man came around and set a cup down by my hand. “Are you very uncomfortable?”

  “Does it matter?” I said, and wrapped my chilled hands around the cup—which was not of the battered metal I’d expected, but very fine ceramic. Around the rim an artist had gilt a stylized braid of argan leaves.

  “Whether it does or not, you shall have a better conveyance on the morrow,” he said. “Drink your steep and rest. We shall continue our discourse when you have had some sleep.”

  I couldn’t resist one more crack. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  He smiled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My first duty was to escape. As I lay under the blanket the man had given me, I considered how I might get myself to where the horse stood without rousing its owner from his slumbers. Once I was on the animal’s back, it wouldn’t matter if the man woke up—in fact, it might be nice to see that Court-bred composure shattered as I rode away laughing.

  I drifted off while estimating steps from tree to shrub, and didn’t waken until the thud of horses’ hooves under my ear brought me to drowsy wakefulness.

  Waves of exhaustion ebbed and flowed over me as I watched in dreamy bemusement. The interrogator still sat in the same place, staring down into some kind of stone that cast a weird bluish light over his face and glowed in two bright pinpoints in his eyes. It was magic. A summons-stone. A rarity that made me wonder who he was—or whether we had vastly underestimated Galdran’s acce
ss to mage-wares. Beyond him the soft, steady plop-plop of raindrops on leaves tapped out a pleasant rhythm.

  I think I drifted again, because when I opened my eyes again it was to see a young equerry dismount from a hard-breathing charger and bow low. “My lord,” she said, holding out another blue-glowing stone.

  The man sat where he was, merely taking the stone as he said, “Your report.”

  “Baron Debegri has dispatched your orders about the carriage. It should be waiting at the Lumm-at-Akaeriki bridge by green-change tomorrow.”

  “And our friends from Tlanth?”

  “Are silent, my lord. Your message was sent under white flag, and Lord Jastra reported it was given into their hands. Nothing from that time until I left.”

  “Promising,” was the answer. “It seems likely we’ll resume our place in civilization well in advance of the Spring Festival, after all,” he finished, the Court drawl very pronounced. “Return. Request the baron to be so good as to carry on as ordered.”

  The equerry bowed again. She stifled a yawn as she threw herself into the saddle; she was soon out of the circle of firelight. I listened to the horse’s hoof beats diminish, questions blooming in my mind. As I struggled with them, I sank once more under the tide of slumber and didn’t waken until the lovely scent of steep worked its way into my dreams and banished them.

  I sat up, fighting against dizziness. Somewhere in the distance a single bell rang out the pattern for gold-candles and the beginning of another day.

  “Drink.”

  The cup was near to hand. I rose on one elbow and reached for it. Some sips later I felt immeasurably better. My eyesight cleared, and so did my head.

  I remembered the interlude during the night, and frowned across the fire at my companion. He looked exactly the same as ever—as if he’d sat up for a single time measure and not for an entire night. The plain hat, simply tied hair, ordinary clothing unmarked by any device; I squinted, trying to equate this tall, slim figure with that arrogant plume-helmed commander riding on the ridge above the last battle. But if he is who I think he is, they’re used to being up all night at their stupid Court parties, I thought grimly.

  “You seem to know who I am,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  His use of my own words the night before surprised me a little. Did he expect flattery? Supposedly those so-refined Court aristocrats lived on it as anyone else lives on bread and drink. I considered my answer, wanting to make certain it was not even remotely complimentary. “I’m exactly as unlikely to blab our secrets to an anonymous flunky as I am to a Court decoration with a reputation as a gambler and a fop,” I said finally.

  “‘Court decoration’?” he repeated, with a faint smile. The strengthening light of dawn revealed telltale marks under his eyes. So he was tired. I was obscurely glad.

  “Yes,” I said, pleased to expand on my insult. “My father’s term.”

  “You’ve never wished to meet a…Court decoration for yourself?”

  “No.” Then I added cheerily, “Well, maybe when I was a child.”

  The Marquis of Shevraeth, Galdran’s commander-in-chief, grinned. It was the first real grin I’d seen on his face, as if he were struggling to hold in laughter. Setting his cup down, he made a graceful half-bow from his seat on the other side of the fire and said, “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Meliara.”

  I sniffed.

  “And now that I’ve been thoroughly put in my place,” he said, “let us leave my way of life and proceed to yours. I take it your revolt is not engineered for the benefit of your fellow-nobles, or as an attempt to reestablish your mother’s blood claim through the Calahanras family. Wherefore is it, then?”

  In surprise, I said, “There ought to be no mystery obscuring our reasons. Did you not trouble to read the letter we sent to Galdran Merindar before he sent Debegri against us? It was addressed to the entire Court, and our reasons were stated as plainly as we could write them—and all our names signed to it.”

  “Assume that the letter was somehow suppressed,” he said dryly. “Can you summarize its message?”

  “Easy,” I said promptly. “We went to war on behalf of the Hill Folk, whose Covenant Galdran wants to break. But not only for them. We also want to better the lives of the people of Remalna: the ordinary folk who’ve been taxed into poverty, or driven from their farms, or sent into hastily constructed mines, all for Galdran’s personal glory. And I guess for the rest of yours as well, for whose money are you spending on those fabulous Court clothes you never wear twice? Your father still holds the Renselaeus principality—or has he ceded it to Galdran at last? Isn’t it, too, taxed and farmed to the bone so that you can outshine all the rest of those fools at Court?”

  All the humor had gone out of his face. He said, “Since the kind of rumor about Court life that you seem to regard as truth also depicts us as inveterate liars, I will not waste time attempting to defend or deny. Let us instead discuss your eventual goal. Supposing,” he said, reaching to pour more steep into my cup—as if we were in a drawing room, and not sitting outside in the chill dawn, in grimy clothes, on either side of a fire just as we were on either side of a war—”Supposing you were to defeat the king. What then? Kill all the nobles in Athanarel and set yourselves up as rustic king and queen?”

  I remembered father’s whisper as he lay dying: You can take Remalna, and you will be better rulers than any Merindar ever was.

  It had sounded fine then, but the thought of giving any hint of that to this blank-faced Court idler made me uncomfortable. I shook my head. “We didn’t want to kill anyone. Not even Galdran, until he sent Debegri to break the Covenant and take our lands. As for ruling, yes, we would, if no one else better came along. We were doing it not for ourselves but for the kingdom. Disbelieve it all you want, but there’s the truth of it.”

  “Finish your steep,” he said. “Before we find our way to a more comfortable conveyance, I am very much afraid we’re both in for a distasteful interlude.” He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a wad of bandage ticking and some green leaves.

  I sat up suddenly, winced, then stretched my hands over the bandage on my ankle, which (I dared a quick look) was filthy. “Oh no, you don’t.”

  “I promised Mistress Kylar. And if I don’t keep that promise, chances are you might lose that foot. So brace up. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Give me the stuff and let me do it,” I said. “I know how. I’ve helped patch up all our wounded.”

  “Here’s a knife. Let’s see how far you get in taking the old bandage off.” And he tossed a dagger across the fire. It spun through the air and landed hilt-deep in the ground next to my hand.

  “Chance throw,” I said snidely, suspecting that it hadn’t been. He said nothing, which confirmed my suspicions. So I turned my back in order to avoid seeing that bland gray gaze, and I yanked the knife free.

  At first I wanted to wipe it clean on my clothes, but a quick perusal of my person reminded me that I’d already been wearing grimy clothes before I’d walked into the trap, fallen full length in the mud, and spent two days lying in a tent. So I wiped the dagger on the grass, then slit the bindings on the bandage. Spots of brown that had leaked through and hardened on the outside of the bandage warned me that this was probably going to be the least favorite of all my life experiences so far.

  I gulped, held my breath, pulled the bandage quickly away. The keem leaves were all wrinkled and old. I started to pull the first one free, gasped, and was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden loud rushing in my ears.

  When it subsided, my companion was right next to me. The dagger was back in its sheath at his belt, and he handed me a length of wood that had fallen from a nearby tree. “Hang on,” he said briskly. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  I barely had time to take hold of the wood with both hands; then I felt warm water pour over my ankle. I didn’t squeak, or cry, or make any sound—but as soon as the newly picked kee
m leaves were on my torn flesh and the clean bandage was being wrapped quickly around and around, I clutched that wood tight and started cursing, not pausing except to draw breath.

  When it was done and he took the mess away to bury, I lay down and breathed deeply, doing my best to settle my boiling stomach.

  “All right,” he said, “that’s that. Now it’s time to go, if we’re to reach Lumm by green-change.” He whistled, and the dapple-gray trotted obediently up, head tossing.

  I ought to have been more observant about escape. Was there any chance of taking him by surprise now?

  First to see if I could even stand. As he went about the chore of resaddling the horse, I eased to my feet. I took my time at it, too, not just because my ankle was still protesting its recent rebandaging; I wanted to seem as decrepit as possible. My head felt weirdly light when I made it to my feet, and I had to hang on to a branch of the oak—my foot simply wouldn’t take any weight. As soon as I tried it, my middle turned to water and I groped for the branch again.

  That meant if I did try anything, it was going to have to be within reach of the horse. I watched as he lashed down the saddlebags, then rammed the rapier into the saddle sheath. There was already that knife at his belt. This did not look promising, I thought, remembering all the lessons on close fighting that Khesot had drilled into us: If your opponent is better armed and has the longer reach, then surprise is your only ally. And then you’d better hope he’s half-asleep. Well, the fellow had to be tired if he’d sat up all night, I reasoned as I glanced about me for any kind of weapon.

  The branch he’d handed me to hang on to was still lying at my feet. I stooped—cautiously—and snatched it up. Dropping one end, I discovered that it made a serviceable cane, and with its aid I hobbled my way a few paces, watching for any rocks or roots that might trip me.

  Then a step in the grass made me look up. The marquis was right in front of me, and he was a lot taller than he appeared when seated on the other side of a campfire. In one hand were the horse’s reins, and he held the other hand out in an offer to boost me up. His gloves were still at his belt, and I noticed again that his palm was crossed with calluses, indicating years of swordwork. I grimaced, reluctantly surrendering my image of the Court-bred fop who never lifted anything heavier than a fork.