by Sharon Shinn
“No, but I’m starting to feel quite adventurous,” I said. “Maybe I could climb out a window at night and meet you in the back gardens.”
His shoulders started shaking with helpless merriment. I could feel my own laughter bubbling up, and I put a hand across my mouth to hold it back. “How intrepid of you!” he managed to whisper. “Next you will tell me you’ve taken up sword fighting and other dashing skills!”
“No, do you think I should?”
“They might come in handy if you’re going to be a spy,” he said. “You also might—”
A crashing noise from the hallway interrupted him. All the heads in the ballroom jerked in that direction as if pulled by a common cord. There was another crash, even louder, and the sound of shouting voices. Now a few members of the audience, mostly men, were on their feet; the poor actors had again stopped spouting their lines and stood helplessly on the stage, listening like everyone else.
I glanced from the door to Jordan’s face. His expression was both grim and apprehensive. “I don’t like that,” he said.
The shouts grew louder, then suddenly a seething mass of struggling bodies boiled through the ballroom door. Someone screamed; chairs overturned as more people leapt up. I was on my feet, my fists clenched and my body shaking. Because the room was so dim, it was hard to tell what was happening, but I thought I could see men in royal livery battling a group of desperate attackers.
Jordan’s men. And rebels bent on killing him.
The nobles in the audience began to shift and murmur in alarm, looking for somewhere safe to go, but fighters blocked the only visible door. In the dimness and the confusion, I almost didn’t see three small figures making their way to us from the front of the room, but then I realized Sorrell and her echoes had come to find the prince.
Sorrell touched Jordan’s arm and cried in a low voice, “This way! There’s a back exit.”
With one more glance at the furious battle, Jordan nodded, and Sorrell took off at a run. Her echoes were so close to her they must have been treading on her heels, and Jordan and I were only steps behind. She led us to a concealed door at the back of the ballroom, little more than a smooth seam in the ornate painted wall, and we slipped through in a swift, panting parade. When Sorrell shut the door behind us, we could still hear the sounds of raised voices and clashing weapons as the fight raged on.
“This way,” she said again and plunged down the hallway. We were in a narrow corridor, lit only sporadically with a few dim lanterns—a servant’s passageway, no doubt. “This leads to the kitchens—and a small parlor that my mother uses—and my father’s library, but—”
There was a sudden swell of sound as the door behind us burst back open and bodies tumbled through. Sorrell shrieked and we all began pelting faster down the hall. I tripped once, and Jordan grabbed my arm in an iron grip and hauled me along beside him. Dimly I was aware that two of his echoes were offering their own rough support to the echoes following me.
Behind us were more shouts, the clash of metal against metal, the sounds of bodies hitting the walls and floors. Jordan had said he traveled with a dozen men; how many did the rebels have? No doubt the governor had troops of his own nearby, but how quickly could they arrive? Would Jordan already be dead?
The back passageway abruptly fed into a main hallway, and Sorrell shoved open the first door we came to. As soon as we all rushed through, she slammed it shut. “There’s no lock,” she said in a breathless voice.
“Furniture,” Jordan snapped, spinning around to assess the options. This space was even darker than the ballroom, with faint light coming only from the dying embers of a banked fire and moonlight drifting through narrow windows too small for a man to crawl through. But we could make out the dense black silhouettes of wingback chairs and occasional tables, massive bookshelves lining each wall, even a large credenza in one corner.
Jordan had only taken two steps toward the credenza when the door flew open and more bodies poured in, still locked in noisy combat. Sorrell screamed again and I saw one man pause and throw her out into the corridor; her echoes stumbled after her. Jordan threw his arm around me and swept me across the room, as far from the door as possible. We took shelter behind a grouping of chairs and peered fearfully over the backs, trying to see who was fighting, who was winning, who was here to save us, and who was here to kill us.
Jordan had placed himself behind me and braced his arms against the chair on either side of me, so that any weapon would have to go through him to hurt me. His echoes similarly protected mine as they huddled behind their own chairs. I tried to squirm away, whispering furiously, “No! Protect yourself!” But he merely clenched his arms more tightly and shook his head.
“We will stand here and maybe die here, but I am not sacrificing you,” he answered.
The fighting slowed and seemed to stop, though I could hear moaning and gasping from men still on their feet and men fallen to the floor. From what I could make out, there were two people still standing just inside the door and a handful outside. None of them rushed over to make sure Jordan was unscathed, and my heart squeezed down with a painful pressure. These were not royal soldiers, then.
As if to prove it, one of them called out to comrades we couldn’t see through the doorway. “All right! What’s our situation?” His voice was smoother and more refined than I would have expected.
A voice came back, fainter and hoarser. “The hallway is ours! But we’re five men down—and the king’s soldiers are at every exit.”
“So we’re trapped.”
“Aye.”
The speaker turned his head to survey the room. In the chancy light, he couldn’t see much, but I saw him look directly at the arrangement of chairs where Jordan and I crouched in hiding. “But we’ve got the prince,” he said. “So we have a prize to negotiate.”
“Or to kill,” said the voice in the hallway.
“If he dies, so do we,” said the man in the room. “If he lives, we might very well live, too.”
I felt Jordan’s arms close around me again in a reassuring squeeze. There was a bit of hope after all.
For a moment, everyone was silent while the man in the room seemed to think things over. He appeared to be the leader of this ragtag group and, judging by his voice, he was a noble. Maybe I would even recognize him if I could see his face.
“All right,” he said again. “Somebody bring me some light. It’s time to talk to the prince.”
Jordan straightened and stepped away from the safety of the chair, though I clutched his arm to try to hold him back. “Let me stir up the fire,” Jordan said. “And there may be a candle or two in the room. I’ll see what I can find.”
The noble in the room laughed. “You’re a cool one,” he said.
“Civilized,” Jordan responded. I saw him grope along the hearth to find the shovel and poker, and a moment later his body was illuminated by a burst of light as the coals shifted and flared up. The shapes behind him looked like shadows created by the fire, but I knew they were his echoes. He glanced around quickly, located a branch of candles on a nearby table, and soon had several small flames sending a dancing illumination through the room.
“I’ll thank you to put that poker down,” the rebel said.
“I’ll thank you to sheathe your sword,” Jordan replied.
“Not likely.”
Jordan shrugged and kept the poker in his hand.
The rebel smiled and came deeper into the room. The man behind him followed closely, which was when I realized he had an echo. Definitely a noble. “So we find ourselves in an interesting position,” he said. “Let’s see if we can talk our way out of it.”
From the hallway came a low, piteous cry and a thumping sound. “How many of my men are dead?” Jordan asked. “How many wounded?”
The rebel snorted. “I haven’t counted. I don’t care.”
“Well, I care. Get the wounded out where they can receive attention and then we’ll talk.”
“You aren’t in a position to be dictating terms.”
Jordan just shrugged and dropped into a chair on the other side of the fire. My guess was that he was trying to draw attention away from me, in case the attackers hadn’t realized that I was also in the room. He laid his poker across his knees and regarded the other man in silence.
The rebel stared back for a long moment, during which we heard more moans and curses from the wounded men. “Fine,” he snapped, then he strode to the door. “Drag the injured off to be cared for!” he shouted.
There was a muffled commotion in the hall, and the sounds of bodies changing position and hurt men yelping and boots scraping along the floor. Through it all, Jordan sat patiently, motionlessly, and the rebel shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. When a call of “All clear!” came down the hall, the rebel faced Jordan again and snapped, “Satisfied?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Jordan answered, unruffled. “Now perhaps we can talk in peace.”
“Peace,” the other man sneered. “You’re a madman if you think there’s peace to be had in the Seven Jewels.”
“What is it you want?” Jordan asked.
“What I wanted was your death, but it looks like I might have to wait for that.”
“No, I meant in the larger sense. What is it you think my death will accomplish? What message are you trying to send to the king?”
The rebel came two steps closer. “That we don’t need a king. That we can govern ourselves better and more efficiently on our own. Stop trying to control the western provinces and just let us go!”
“I understand that a number of individuals feel as you do,” Jordan said, still calmly. “My concern is that you are in the minority. Have you put the issue before all the landowners? Have a majority agreed? If that is the case, I assure you, my father will listen. But if it is just a vocal few—”
The rebel clenched his hand on his sword and half raised it, as if it was taking all his willpower not to rush forward and stab it through Jordan’s heart. His echo lifted his own hand, but fortunately, it was empty. “It’s not just the nobles!” he exclaimed. “The merchants and the common men, they want to be free of the crown just as much as we do.”
Still holding the poker in one fist, Jordan spread his hands in a gesture of inclusiveness. “By all means. Put the vote to the entire population. Ask every man, woman, and child of the western provinces if they want to secede. Tally up the answers. If it is more than half the population, my father will listen.”
The other man stared at him uncertainly. “It can’t be that simple.”
“Of course it’s not that simple. Make sure they understand that any province not tied to Camarria will pay for its own roads and its own defenses, and its merchant ships will not be guarded by the royal navy. Its goods will not be protected by tariffs. It will have to use money minted by its own treasuries, since we certainly will not act as its banker—”
“It’s not about money and roads!” the rebel shouted, suddenly so angry that even in the bad lighting I could see the redness of his face. “It’s the way you and your damned father do whatever you want! Take whatever you want! Kill whoever you want! You think you’re above the law—you think you are the law—” His voice failed him and he turned away to hide his emotions.
That was when I guessed who this must be; perhaps Jordan had known it all along. “Your sister murdered my brother,” he said, his voice still utterly composed. “My father was enacting justice by executing your sister.”
Marguerite’s brother whirled around to face him again. “Then he can enact more justice when I kill you!”
“If you kill me, you will never leave this house alive,” Jordan said. “Two more dead, and what will have been solved?”
“The king will have suffered!”
“Believe me when I say he has already suffered more than you could imagine.”
“It’s not enough. It will never be enough.”
“Which one are you?” Jordan asked abruptly. “She has many brothers, does she not? What’s your name?”
He hesitated, as if not wanting to answer but unable to find a reason to refuse. “I’m Renner. The youngest.”
“And were you close to Marguerite? Were you one that she specially cared for?”
Renner hesitated again, but now I read surprise on his face. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“I was only curious. Something she said once made me think—” He paused, as if suddenly realizing he was broaching delicate subjects.
Renner came closer, his face now drawn into a pugnacious frown. “Made you think what?”
“I thought perhaps there was very little love between Marguerite and her siblings.”
Renner stared. “This doesn’t have anything to do with love,” he spit out. “You dishonored all of Orenza.”
“And how much dishonor do you think you will do to Orenza if you assassinate me tonight?”
There was a short, pregnant pause—and then, before I knew what was happening, Renner had rushed across the room with an inarticulate cry and jammed the tip of his sword against the heavy gold braid of Jordan’s jacket, right above his heart. His echo crowded behind him, his arm pointing toward the same spot on one of Jordan’s echoes. I thought my own heart would burst from terror, but Jordan merely looked up at him, utterly unmoving.
“Any more talk like that, and I swear I will run you through,” the other man hissed.
When Jordan didn’t reply, Renner stood there a moment, breathing heavily. Then he dropped his sword arm and strode back toward the door, his echo at his heels. “We’ll talk later,” he bit out. “I need to see to my men.” And he stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
I was left alone with Jordan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
For a second, Jordan and I stayed frozen where we were, then my whole body loosened with a sobbing gasp, and I fell to my knees behind the chair. I heard Jordan leap up and rush over, and suddenly he was kneeling beside me, pulling me into a reassuring embrace. Around us, the five echoes had also dropped to the floor and were seeking comfort in each other’s arms.
“No, no, you can’t fall apart now,” Jordan said, tilting my head up and planting a kiss on my cheek. “He’ll be back soon enough, and we’ll have to be prepared to engage again.”
“It’s just—I was so afraid—and you were so brave —”
He dropped to a sitting position, settled his back against the wall, and drew me against his chest. Never in my life had I felt so cherished and so safe.
Despite the fact that a band of armed rebels clustered thirty feet away, bent on murder.
“I don’t feel brave,” Jordan admitted. “But I don’t think he’ll have the nerve to kill me face-to-face. One of his paid men might do it, but Renner himself? I don’t think so. Especially not now when he can’t hope to escape. If I die, so does he, and he knows it.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Wait for him to realize he has no options and come begging for safe passage.”
“Will you grant it?”
He nodded. “I meant what I said. I don’t see how more deaths will help the situation. We need to figure out how to come to terms, not just keep avenging wrongs.” He thought that over, absentmindedly running a hand down the silky length of my hair. I was more pleased by the touch than I ever would have expected.
“It’s discouraging, though,” he said at last. “My father really thought the western nobles were interested in a new trade deal that he put together. So were they just stalling, waiting for the next chance to strike a blow?”
I lifted my head, even though that made Jordan still his hand. “No, they are interested,” I said. “Bentam and his friends. And they were angry that the governor of Orenza didn’t want to sign the agreement.”
Jordan cocked his head. “You mean there’s a schism in the rebel ranks?”
“Yes. Bentam and the others are worried that Lord Garvin might go rogue. They’ve been trying to
decide how to make him fall in line.”
Jordan leaned his head against the wall. “So this little stunt was all Garvin’s doing. Bentam wasn’t involved in it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And Bentam and his cronies will be furious if Renner murders me and ruins all prospects of a deal with the crown.”
“As I understand it, yes.”
“That’s worth knowing. It allows us to plant a little more discord among the rebels and strengthens our own hand—assuming we get out of this alive, which is by no means guaranteed!”
“You have so many people working against you!” I exclaimed. “Bentam and his friends—the governor of Orenza—the inquisitor—”
“Yes, our enemies do seem to be piling up,” Jordan agreed. “And since they don’t all appear to be working together, it’s hard to know where to feel safe and where to put our trust.”
“You can trust me,” I said timidly.
He laughed and tightened his arm so much I was momentarily crushed against his chest. “You! You’re the only person in this entire dreadful night that I have been happy to see with my whole heart! I trust you and I like you and I marvel at the way you’ve managed to create this entire—” He lifted his other hand to make a circle in the air. “This existence inside an impossibly narrow margin of life.”
“That’s what it feels like,” I said. “A secret life inside of someone else’s.”
“I’m going to set you free,” he said seriously. “I’m going to ride back to Camarria and tell my father about you.”
“But what can he—”
He raised his voice to talk over me. “And I’ll have him invite Elyssa to the palace. And once you’re there, he’ll tell her that you have achieved independence and that she must leave you behind.”
“She won’t agree.”
“She’ll have to. He’s the king. And he’ll send her away and you’ll stay behind in the palace and then—and then—well, we’ll see.”
I was breathing a little faster. “Maybe she would be willing to do it,” I said. “She hates her echoes. She’s always saying she wants to get rid of us.”
