Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  “Ready?” His voice was the same as always—or almost the same.

  I tipped my head back to look at his face, instantly suspicious. Despite his compressed lips he was clearly on the verge of laughter.

  I longed with all my heart to swing my stick right at his head. My fingers gripped…and his palm turned subtly; I knew a block readying when I saw one. The strong possibility that anything I attempted would lead directly to an ignominious defeat did not improve my mood at all, but I dropped the stick and wiped my hand down the side of my rumpled tunic.

  Vowing I’d see that smile wiped off his cursed face, I said shortly, “Let’s get it over with.”

  He put his hands on my waist and boosted me up onto the horse—and I couldn’t help but notice it didn’t take all that much effort.

  All right, defeat so far, I thought as I winced and gritted my way through arranging my leg much as it had been on the previous ride. All I have to do is catch him in a single unwary moment…He mounted behind me and we started off, while I indulged myself with the image of grabbing that stick and conking him right across his smiling face.

  oOo

  The less said about that morning’s ride, the better. I would have been uncomfortable even if I’d been riding with Branaric, for my leg ached steadily from the jarring of the horse’s gait. To be riding along in the clasp of an enemy lowered my spirits the more.

  We only had one conversation, right at the start, when he apologized for the discomfort of the ride and reminded me that there would be a carriage—and reasonable comfort—before the day was gone.

  I said, in as surly a tone as possible, “You might have thought of that before we left. I mean, since no one asked my opinion on the matter.”

  “It was purely an impulse of disinterested benevolence that precipitated our departure,” he responded equably—as if I’d been as polite as one of his simpering Court ladies.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that it seemed very likely that your brother and his adherents were going to mount another rescue attempt, and this time there was no chance of our being taken by surprise.”

  He paused, letting me figure that out. He meant the king’s warriors would have killed everyone, or else taken them all prisoner, and he had forestalled such a thing. Why he should want to prevent this opportunity to defeat all our people at once didn’t make sense to me; I kept quiet.

  He went on, “Since the king requires a report on our progress, and as it seemed expedient to remove you, I decided to combine the two. It appears to have worked, at least for a time.”

  That meant he’d stalled Branaric—with what? Threats against my life if our people tried anything? The thought made me wild with anger, with a determination to escape so strong that for a time it took all my self-control not to fling myself from that horse and run, bad ankle or no.

  For at last I faced the real truth: that by my own carelessness, I might very well have graveled our entire cause. I knew my brother. Branaric would not risk my life—and this man seemed to have figured that much out.

  The marquis made a couple other attempts at conversation, but I ignored him. I have to confess that, for a short time, hot tears of rage and self-loathing stung my eyes and dripped down my face. I didn’t trust my voice; the only consolation I had for my eroding self-respect was that my face couldn’t be seen.

  When the tears had dried at last, and I had taken a surreptitious swipe at my nose and eyes with my sleeve, I gritted my teeth and turned my thoughts to escape.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sun was directly overhead and mercilessly hot when we reached the Akaeriki River. What ought to have been a cool early-spring day—as it probably was, high in our mountains—felt like the middle of summer, and my entire body protested by turning into one giant itch. Even my braid, gritty and damp, felt repellent.

  In addition to everything else, not long after the village bells all over the valley merrily rang the changeover from gold to green, my stomach started rumbling with hunger.

  It was a relief when we reached the village of Lumm. We did not go into it but rode on the outskirts. When the great magebuilt bridge came into view I felt Shevraeth’s arm tighten as he looked this way and that.

  On a grassy sward directly opposite the approach to the bridge a plain carriage waited with no markings on its sides, the wheels and lower portions muddy. The only sign that this might not be some inn’s rental equipment were the five high-bred horses waiting nearby, long lines attached to their bits. A boy wearing the garb of a stable hand sat on a large rock holding the horses’ lines; nearby a footman and a driver, both in unmarked clothing but wearing servants’ hats, stood conversing in between sips from hip flagons. Steady traffic, mostly merchants, passed by, but no one gave them more than a cursory glance.

  The gray threaded through a caravan of laden carts. As soon as the waiting servants saw us, the flagons were hastily stowed, the horse boy leaped to his feet, and all three bowed low.

  “Hitch them up,” said Shevraeth.

  The boy sprang to the horses’ mouths and the driver to the waiting harnesses as the footman moved to the stirrup of the gray.

  With a minimum of fuss Shevraeth dismounted, pulled me down, and deposited me in the carriage on a seat strewn with pillows. Then he shut the door and walked away.

  By then the driver was on her box, and the horse boy was finishing the last of the harnesses, helped by the footman. Levering myself up on the seat, I watched through the window as the footman hastily transferred all the gear on the gray to the last waiting horse. Shevraeth swung into the saddle, then leaned down to address a few words to the footman. The gray was led out of sight, and without any warning the carriage gave a great jolt and we started off.

  Not one of the passersby showed the least interest in the proceedings. I wondered if had missed yet another chance at escape, but if I did yell for help, who knew what the partisanship of the Lumm merchants was? I might very well have gotten my mouth gagged for my pains.

  This did not help my spirits any, for now that the immediate discomforts had eased, the remaining ache in my joints and the flush in my skin meant that I was sick. How could I effect an escape when I had as much spunk as a pot of over-boiled noodles?

  I lay down on the pillows, and before long the warmth and swaying of the carriage sent me off to sleep.

  oOo

  When I woke the air was hot and stuffy, and I was immediately aware of being shut up in a small painted-canvas box. At least the carriage had stopped. I struggled up, wincing against a thumping great headache as the door opened.

  There was Shevraeth, holding his hand out. I took it, making a sour face. At least, I thought as I recognized an innyard, he looks as wind tousled and muddy as I must.

  But there was no fanfare, no groups of gawking commoners and servants. He picked me up and carried me through a side door, and thence into a small parlor that overlooked the innyard. Seated on plain hemp-stuffed pillows, I peered out at the stable boy and driver busily changing the horses. The long shadows of late afternoon obscured everything; a cheap time-candle in a corner sconce marked the time as green-three.

  Sounds at the door. An inn servant entered, carrying a tray laden with steaming dishes. As she set them out I studied her face, wondering if I could get a chance to talk to her alone—if she might help another female, one being held prisoner?

  “Coffee?” Shevraeth said.

  I looked up, and I swear there was comprehension in those gray eyes.

  “Coffee?” I repeated blankly.

  “A drinkable blend, from the aroma.” He tossed his hat and riding gloves onto the cushion beside him and leaned forward to pour a brown stream of liquid into two waiting mugs. “A miraculous drink. One of the decided benefits of our world-hopping mages,” he said.

  “Mages.” I repeated that as well, trying to marshal my thoughts, which wanted to scamper, like frightened mice, in six different directions.

  “Coffee.
Horses.” A careless wave toward the innyard. “Chocolate. Kinthus. Laimun. Several of the luxuries that are not native to our world, brought here from others.”

  I could count the times we’d managed to get hold of coffee, and I hadn’t cared for its bitterness. But as I watched, honey and cream were spooned into the dark beverage, and when I did take a cautious sip, it was delicious. With the taste came warmth, a sense almost of well-being. For a short time I was content to sit, with my eyes closed, and savor the drink.

  The welcome smell of braised potatoes and clear soup caused me to open my eyes.

  “You had probably better not eat much more than that.” Shevraeth indicated the dishes. “We have a long ride ahead of us tonight, and you wouldn’t want to regret your first good meal in days.”

  In weeks, I thought as I picked up a spoon, but I didn’t say it out loud—it felt disloyal somehow.

  Then the sense of what he’d said sank in, and I almost lost my appetite again. “How long to the capital?”

  “We will arrive sometime tomorrow morning,” he said.

  I grimaced down at my soup, then braced myself up, thinking that I’d better eat, hungry or not, for I’d need my strength. “What is Galdran like?” I asked, adding sourly, “Besides being a tyrant, a coward, and a Covenant breaker?”

  Shevraeth sat with his mug in his hands. He hadn’t eaten much, but he was on his second cup of the coffee. “This is the third time you’ve brought that up,” he said. “How do you know he intends to break the Covenant?”

  “We have proof.” I saw his eyes narrow, and I added in my hardest voice, “And don’t waste your breath threatening me about getting it, because you won’t. You really think I’d tell you what and where it is, only to have it destroyed? We may not be doing so well, but it seems my brother and I and our little untrained army are the only hope the Hill Folk have.”

  The marquis was silent for a long pause, during which my anger slowly evaporated, leaving me feeling more uncomfortable by the moment. By refusing to tell him, I was implying that he, too, wanted to break the Covenant.

  Well, doesn’t he?—if he’s allied with Galdran!

  “To your question,” the marquis said, setting his cup down, “‘what is Galdran like?’ By that I take it you mean, what kind of treatment can you expect from the king? If you take the time to consider the circumstances outside of your mountain life, you might be able to answer that for yourself.” Despite the mild humor, the light, drawling voice managed somehow to sting. “The king has been in the midst of trade negotiations with Denlieff for over a year. You have cost him time and money that were better applied elsewhere. And a civil war never enhances the credit of the government in the eyes of visiting diplomats from the Queen Yustnesveas of Sartor, who does not look for causes so much as signs of slack control that interferes with other kingdoms.”

  I dropped my spoon in the empty soup bowl. “So if he cracks down even harder on the people, it’s all our fault, is that it?”

  “You might contemplate, during your measures of leisure,” he said, “what the purpose of a permanent court serves, besides to squander the gold earned by the sweat of the peasants’ brows. And consider this: The only reason you and your brother have not been in Athanarel all along is because the king considered you too harmless to bother keeping an eye on.” And with a polite gesture: “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  I was ensconced again in the carriage with my pillows and aching leg for company, and we resumed journeying.

  The effect of the coffee was to banish sleep. Restless, angry with myself, angrier with my companion and with the cruel happenstance that had brought me to this pass, I turned my thoughts once again to escape.

  Clouds gathered and darkness fell very swiftly. When I could no longer see clearly, I hauled myself up and felt my way to the door. The only plan I could think of was to open the door, tumble out, and hopefully lose myself in the darkness. This would work only if no one was riding beside the carriage, watching.

  A quick peek—a longer look—no one in sight.

  I eased myself down onto the floor and then opened the door a crack, peering back. I was about to fling the door wider when the carriage lurched around a curve and the door almost jerked out of my hand. I half fell against the doorway, caught myself, and a moment later heard a galloping horse come up from behind the carriage.

  I didn’t look to see who was on it, but slammed the door shut and climbed onto the seat.

  And composed myself for sleep.

  I knew I’d need it.

  oOo

  Noises and the dancing flickers and shadows of torchlight woke me once. The coach was still. I sat up, heard voices, lay down again. The headache had returned, the fever—my constant companion for several days—high again. I closed my eyes and dropped into a tangle of nasty dreams.

  When I woke, sunlight was streaming in the window. I sat up, feeling soggy and hot, but forgot my discomfort when I saw two armed and helmed warriors in the brown and green of Galdran’s army. I spotted two more through the other window. At some point during the night we’d picked up an escort.

  Was this Shevraeth’s attempt to bolster his prestige in front of the king? I was glad he hadn’t deemed me worth impressing; the trip had been awful enough, but to have had to be stuck riding cross-country in the center of a pompous military formation would have been even more humiliating.

  Another glimpse through the window revealed we were passing buildings, and occasional knots of people and traffic, all drawn along the sides of the road to let us pass. Curious faces watched the cavalcade.

  We had to be in Remalna-city. The idea made my stomach cramp up. Very soon they’d haul me out to my fate. I had to do my best not to disgrace our people.

  I turned my thoughts to my appearance. There was nothing to be done about it, I thought dismally as I stared down at my clothes. Old, worn, bag-kneed woolen trousers, their dun color scarcely discernible for the splotches of mud and dried gore on the left side. One scuffed, worn old moc and one filthy bare foot. Bran’s old brown tunic that Julen had tried to brush the mud from was a mess, and my braid, which had come undone, dangled like a thigh-length rattail. Hoping for the best, I spat on the underside of my tunic hem and scrubbed my face; the gritty feel did not bode well for success.

  So I gave up. There was nothing for it but to keep my chin high, my demeanor as proud as possible; for after all, I had nothing to be ashamed of—outside of being caught in the first place. Our cause was right, those nasty cracks about mountain rabble and harmlessness notwithstanding.

  I folded my arms across my front, ignoring the twinges and aches in my leg, tried to steady my breathing, and glared out the window. It appeared we were drawing nearer to Athanarel, the royal palace, for the buildings were fewer and what I did see was grand, designed to impress as well as please the eye. Despite my disinclination, I was impressed. Ordered gardens, flower-banked canals, well-dressed people walked about between long-windowed three-story buildings with deeply slanted, tile-patterned roofs. A sweet carillon rang the change from gold to green: It was noon.

  The carriage swept through a wrought-iron gate. I caught a glimpse of a high wall with sentries visible on it. Then we rolled down a tree-lined avenue to a huge flagged court before the biggest building I had ever seen: five stories at least, columned archways going up at least three stories across the front, everything built of fine marble.

  The coach slowed. Then the door opened.

  “Countess,” someone unfamiliar said.

  Feeling hot and cold at once, I slid from my pillow seat to the floor of the carriage and pushed my left leg carefully out, followed by my right. Then, sitting in the doorway, I tipped my head back as two enormous warriors reached down and took hold of my arms, one each. Positioned between them in a tight grip—they weren’t cruel, but they did take most of my weight—I could make a pretense of walking.

  Two rows of guards closed around us, all of whom seemed to have bee
n selected for their height and breadth. To make me look ridiculous? I thought, and forced my chin up proudly.

  Remember, you are Meliara Astiar of Tlanth, your mother was descended from the greatest of Remalna’s royal families, and you’re about to face a tyrant and a thief, I told myself firmly. Whatever happened, whatever I said, might very well get carried to Branaric. I owed it to the people at home not to rug-crawl to this villain.

  So I exhorted myself as we progressed up a broad, sweeping marble stair. Two tall, ancient doors of carved wood were flung open by flunkies in livery more fabulous than anything anyone in Tlanth—of high degree or low—had ever worn in my lifetime, and klunk-klunk-klunk, the rhythmic rap of boot heels rang on the marble floor of a great hall. High carved beams supported a distant ceiling. Windows filled with colored glass were set under the roof, and beneath them hung flags—some new, some ancient. Under the flags, scattered along the perimeter of the marble floor, stood an uncountable number of people bedecked in silks and jewels. They stared at me in silence.

  At some unseen signal the long line of guards around me stopped and their spears thudded to the floor with a noise that sounded like doom.

  Then a tall figure with a long black cloak walked past us, plumed and coroneted helm carried in his gloved right hand. I didn’t recognize the Marquis of Shevraeth; somewhere along the way he’d gotten rid of his anonymous clothing and was now clad in a long dark blue battle tunic, Remalna’s crowned sun stitched on its breast. At his side hung his sword; his hair was braided. He passed by without so much as a glance at me. His eyes were slack lidded, his expression bored as he fought a yawn.