Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  It was during the third song that two quiet figures came out onto the balcony. The man I recognized as the one who had handed me his horse’s reins that night an age ago. He set down a lamp and sat in a wicker chair nearby. His wife brought me more steep, then took her place in another chair.

  The man said, “Are you well enough to discuss plans, my lady?”

  “Of course.” I sat up straight. “I’m in your debt. What can I do?”

  He cast a glance at his wife, who said quietly, “Master Kepruid remembers the stable hand from the palace who was supposed to do for Drith. He has said nothing about our story of the dropped reins and the need to hire a horse to chase a mare who has made the trip into the city every month for six years. And he won’t, if you can promise you won’t carry your war into the city.”

  “Carry my war,” I repeated, feeling a cold wash of unpleasantness through me. “It—it isn’t my war.”

  “Yours and the Count of Tlanth’s,” the man said. “We understand that much.”

  “Then…you are content under Galdran Merindar?” I asked.

  “Am I?” the man said. “I am content enough. The merchants in the city buy goods from our village, and I receive my portion of their profits for arranging the selling, which covers our taxes. The farm does well enough to keep us fed. If the taxes do not rise too steeply again, we will manage. I cannot answer for others.”

  The mother said, “Rumor has it your war is intended to protect the Covenant, but the king insists it was you who was going to break it. Rumor also has it you and your brother said you were going to war for the betterment of Remalna.”

  “It’s true, I assure you,” I said. “I mean, about our going to war for the Covenant. The king intends to break it—we have proof of that. And we do want to help the kingdom.”

  “Perhaps it is true.” The mother gave me a serious look. “But you must consider our position. Too many of us remember what life was like on the coast during the Pirate Wars. No matter who holds a port, or a point, it is our lands, and houses, that get burned, our food taken for supplies, our youths killed. And sometimes not just the youths. We could have a better king, but not at the cost of our towns and farms being laid waste by contending armies.”

  These words, so quietly spoken, astounded me. I thought of my entire life, devoted to a future in which I would fight for the freedom of such people as these. Was it all a waste?

  “And if he does raise the taxes again? I know he has four times in the last ten years.”

  “Then we will manage somehow.” The man shook his head. “Mayhap the day will come when war is necessary, but we want to put that day off as long as we can; for when it does come, it will not be so lightly recovered from. Can you see that?”

  I thought of the fighting so far. Who had died while trying to rescue me? Those people would never see the sun set again.

  “Yes. I do see it.”

  They watched me anxiously. The woman leaned forward and patted my hand. “As he says, we do not speak for everyone.”

  But the message was clear enough. And I could see the justice of it. For had I not taken these people’s mare without a thought to the consequences? Just so could I envision an army trampling Ara’s garden, their minds filled with thoughts of victory, their hearts certain they were in the right.

  “Then how do we address the wrongs?” I asked, and was ashamed at the quiver in my voice.

  “That I do not know,” the man said. “I concern myself with what is mine, and I try to help my neighbors. The greater questions—justice, law, and the rights and obligations of power—those seem to be the domain of you nobles. You have the money, and the training, and the centuries of authority.”

  Unbidden, Shevraeth’s voice returned to mind, that last conversation before the journey into Remalna, You might contemplate during your measures of leisure what the purpose of a permanent court serves…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.

  I sighed. “And at least three of the said aristocrats are busy looking for me. Maybe it’s time I was on my way.”

  There was no mistaking the relief in their faces.

  “I did the best I could with your clothes, but they did not survive washing,” the woman said. “However, Ara has an old gown laid by. It’s a very nice one, but she no longer fits into it.”

  “Anything,” I said. “And I don’t mind wearing my old clothes. A hole or two won’t hurt me. Actually, I’m used to them.”

  She laughed. “I very much fear they disintegrated, or the tunic did, anyway. The trousers I bade Ara bury out in the turned field, for I knew there’d be no bringing those bloodstains out.” She got to her feet. “Does Ara’s music distress you anymore?”

  “It never did,” I said in surprise. “I like it very much.”

  She gave me an odd, slightly troubled glance, then took my empty mug and led the way to the little room I’d been sleeping in.

  oOo

  The next morning Ara seemed resigned about my leaving. She reminded me of my promise three times, then offered to brush out my hair for me. I agreed, sipping the last cup of their healing steep and wondering how far I’d get.

  When she was done she flexed her fingers and stood aside, gazing at me admiringly. “Knee-length hair! Not even Lady Tamara Chamadis—you know, daughter of the Countess of Turlee—has hair that long.”

  “I haven’t cut it since my mother was killed. Swore I wouldn’t until—well, she was avenged,” I finished rather lamely, thinking of my conversation with her parents, who still had not told me their names, nor permitted their son or other dependents anywhere in my presence.

  “Well, don’t even then. It’s the prettiest color in the world—not just brown, but brown and red and gold and wheat. Like the colorwoods!”

  “My brother’s is the same color.” I figured that hair, at least, was a safe-enough topic. Pulling mine from long habit into separate strands, I braided it tightly as Ara chattered about the hair colors of her friends.

  She opened a trunk and pulled out folded lengths of material. “Mother thought this one might fit. Put it on!”

  I’d had my first real bath early that morning; I went to the bathhouse with Ara, wearing her mother’s cloak, and no one had seen us. As I reached for the underdress, I realized how very reluctant I was to leave. Ara’s parents wanted me gone. I needed to get home. But there was a strong part of me that would have been happy to sit in their garden and listen to music.

  “It’s a bit long, but you can kirtle it up.” Ara studied me critically.

  The underdress was white linen, embroidered at the voluminous sleeves, the neck, and the hem with tiny crimson birds and flowers. The overdress was next, with a heavy skirt of robin’s-egg blue, then the bodice, which laced up to a square neck that was old-fashioned but pleasing.

  “There. ‘Tis beautiful! Hoo, I’ve never had that small a waist, even when I was Luz’s age.” Using both hands, she brought out a long, narrow mirror and set it on the trunk, tipping it back.

  I hardly recognized the person staring back at me. She seemed much older than I was used to: a bony face, wide blue eyes that—I realized—matched the skirt of the gown. To myself I looked scrawny, with a wary gaze, but Ara sighed with happy sentimentality. “You are so graceful, like a bird. And beautiful!”

  “Now, that I’m not,” I said, half laughing and half exasperated.

  “Well, not in the way of Lady Tamara, whose eyelashes are famous, and whose features get poems written on them, according to Emis. But it’s the way your face changes…” She flipped her hands up.

  I laughed again, feeling foolish. I realized that no one had commented on my appearance since I was small; I simply was. I certainly had not glanced into a mirror for many seasons, and what clothing I had was chosen for freedom of wear, and for warmth.

  She whistled in surprise. “Don’t say—have you no flirts
?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “Never have.”

  “Well.” I could see her struggling not to think the less of me. “I’ve had them since I turned fifteen. Master Kepruid’s son is just one! Makes the dances ever so much more fun.” She shrugged and grinned again. “Mama doesn’t want me twoing before my Flower Day, at the least. And in truth, her rule is not so hard, for it’s nacky having lots of flirts. Emis thinks she’s more popular than I am, with those cousins and all, but—”

  The door hanging flapped open, and Ara blinked in surprise. I found myself reaching for a weapon at my belt, and of course there was none.

  But no enemy came in, only a gangling boy about my height. His round cheeks were flushed with exertion. Staring at me with frank curiosity, he said, “They’re searching cross-country from the river east…Daro says that his brother in the Guard told them they found palace livery in the river.”

  Ara bit her lip. “We’re more south than east.”

  “But it’s close enough that I’d better go. Thank you, Luz,” I said.

  The boy grinned. “I better lope, or Mama’ll have my hide. But I won’t tweet, oak-vow!” He slapped his forearm and touched his brow, then he dashed out again.

  I sighed. “If I can have one more thing—a hat—I do swear I’ll repay you somehow, someday.”

  Ara giggled as she dived into the trunk; I realized then that I had been using her room. “I don’t have an extra hat, for I’ve only begun to wear them, but you can take this.” She held out a long fringed scarf with dancing animals and birds embroidered on it. “You look young enough to wear a kerchief. But don’t tie it under your chin. Behind, like we do.” With quick fingers, she fixed the scarf.

  Ara’s mother came in then, and her relief to find me dressed and ready to go was plain. “I don’t think we have any shoes to fit you,” she said.

  “That’s all right. I’m used to being barefoot, and in much colder weather than this.”

  They seemed surprised, but neither of them spoke as we walked out. It was the first time I had seen any of the house besides the bedroom. I glanced with great curiosity over a landing into a big central room with two stories of doors leading off it. In the center was a round ceramic stove tiled in colorful patterns—a very old house, then. Built before stoves with vents to rooms were built, but after the Hill Folk gave Remalna the Fire Spell; for people used to put their Fire Sticks in such rounded stoves, thinking the heat would go out in a circle.

  We went down a narrow flight of stairs. The mother glanced quickly down two clean, shiny-floored hallways before gesturing me into a tiny storeroom. “My cousin, who does all the kitchen work, mustn’t see you. He’s a fine young man, but gabby. So all that steep has been for my feigned illness.” She smiled wryly. “Here is some food—”

  “Mama, that’s an old basket,” Ara protested. “Why don’t you give her one of Sepik’s nice ones?”

  The mother hesitated, looking at me.

  I said firmly, “Not if Sepik, whoever that is, makes baskets with a distinctive pattern. The old one will suit me much better.”

  I was handed a basket covered with a worn cloth. The weight of the basket was promising.

  “Can I walk her to the hidey-path?” Ara asked.

  “No. You are already late for your chores. I am going to take a walk for my health. Not a word more.”

  Ara pressed her lips together, winked at me, then fled.

  I followed the mother through a side door. We walked down through the garden and beneath a pleasant copse of spreading trees. The land sloped away toward a stream, which wound its way through a tangle of growth. Through this a narrow footpath paralleled the stream.

  She did not speak as we walked. I concentrated on keeping up with her brisk pace. My ankle, I was glad to find, only ached dully, and the skirt kept twigs and brush from touching my still-sensitive skin. I didn’t know how I’d feel later, but thus far I was doing well enough to get off the farm with the haste they seemed to think necessary.

  “Here’s our border.” We stepped off the path, and she parted the hanging leaves of a willow to point at rounded hills with an ancient stone wall crossing them. It was low and worn, tall enough to keep sheep in. “If you cross that way, you’ll catch up with the path leading to Ruka-at-Nimm, which is a good-sized village. It’s also well south of the Akaeriki road, which is the main road east.”

  “I’ll take it from here. The closer I get to the mountains, the faster I know how to cross the terrain. I’m grateful to your family.”

  She pressed her lips together, looking very much like her daughter. “There are some who talk revolution, and wistfully, too. Sepik, who makes the baskets, is one. But my man comes from a line of scribes, and most of them were killed in the Pirate Wars—none of them knew aught of fighting. He’s more pacifist than some.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  She half reached out her hand, and I took it and clasped it. With a brief curtsey she turned and disappeared down the trail.

  I wasted no time lingering but splashed down through the stream with my blue skirts held high; I toiled up the other side, crossed over the stone wall, and was on my way.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I kept walking until my ankle ached, then I stopped under a tree to eat. I hoped when I got to a more wooded area I might find a fallen branch that would serve as a cane. Meantime, at each of the two trickling spring streams I’d crossed, I paused long enough to drink and to soak my foot in the shocking cold water. The numbness helped.

  My picnic was a quiet one, there in the shade of an old oak. I listened to birds chasing through the long grasses and distant hedgerows, and cast a glance upward at the benign blue sky. It was hard to believe right then that a great search was going on just for me.

  I ate only one bread stuffed with cheese and herbs, and one fruit tart, leaving all the rest for later. I wanted the food to last as long as possible—as if the sense of peace that I’d gotten from Ara’s family might disappear along with their food.

  Late in the afternoon I limped my way down the last leg of the path, which joined up with a stone-paved road. My heart thumped when the road began to fill with travelers in either direction. I kept my pace steady and slow, relieved that none of them were warriors. Hoping this was a sign that the search had already passed this area, I fell in behind an ox-drawn cart full of early vegetables. Occasionally horses trotted up from behind. I resisted the urge to look behind me, and I made myself wait until they drew abreast. Each time it was only ordinary folk who rode by.

  The traffic increased when I reached the village, and when I walked into the market square I found a large crowd gathered at one end. I stood uncertainly, wondering whether I ought to leave or discover what the crowd was gathered for.

  They parted abruptly, and two warriors in brown and green rode side by side straight at me. Dropping my gaze to my dusty feet, I pressed back with the rest of the people, and listened with intense relief as their horses cantered by without pausing.

  The decision as to whether I should try to find out what was going on was settled when the crowd surged forward, and a man called from behind, “Hi, there! Molk! What’s toward?”

  “Search,” a tall, bearded man roared. Around me people muttered questions and comments as he added, “That countess causing all the problems up-mountain. Milord Commander Debegri has taken over the search, and he thinks she might end up this far east.”

  “Reward?” came a woman’s shrill voice from the left.

  “Promised sixty in pure gold.”

  “Where from?” someone else shouted. “If it’s Debegri, I wouldn’t count no gold ‘less I had it in hand, and then I’d test it.”

  This caused a brief, loud uproar of reaction, then the bearded man bellowed, “The king! Sixty for information that proves true. Double that for a body. Preferably alive, though they don’t say by how much.”

  Some laughed, but there was an undertone of shock from others.

  Then:
“What’s she look like, and is she with anyone?”

  “Might be on a brown mare. Filthy clothes, looks like a human rat, apparently. No hat. Dressed like a dockside beggar.”

  “That’s some help.” Another woman laughed. “I take it we look for whiskers and a long tail?”

  “Short, scrawny, brown hair, long—very long. Blue eyes. Bandaged left leg, got caught in a steel trap. Probably limping if not mounted.”

  Limping. I wondered if any of the people pressed around me had been watching me walk.

  Time to move on. Now. I took a step sideways, then backward, easing my way out of the crowd. I didn’t hear all of the next shouted question, but the answer was clear enough: “Commander Debegri said that if anyone is caught harboring or aiding the fugitive, it means death.”

  One step, two: I turned and walked away, forcing myself to keep an even pace, as my heart thumped like a drum right under my ears.

  oOo

  I couldn’t get away from that village fast enough.

  On my way in I’d turned over various plans in my mind, mostly false tales about stolen money and a desperately ill relative, meant to get me a free bed (or a corner in a barn), for it was increasingly apparent that rain was on the way. Now I abandoned those, glad I had spoken to no one. When the rain started I clutched my basket to me and tried to look like I had somewhere to go, because it seemed to me that passersby glanced at me curiously.

  As soon as I could find a side road I turned down it, and then an even smaller one than that, scarcely more than a cow path. That brought me unexpected aid; as the sun was setting, I spotted an outbuilding on what seemed to be a good-sized farm. A cautious scouting proved it to be empty of anyone but a number of chickens. They put up a squawk and murmled fretfully when I first walked in, but after I settled on some piled straw, they ignored me.

  By the last of the light I ate some food and repacked my basket, then I arranged the straw into a pile, curled up, and fell asleep to the steady beat of rain on the metal roof.