Green Rider (45 page)

Karigan stiffened again, anger prickling inside. "Sire, for one thing, I don't know exactly how you get your information except from people who risk their lives to deliver it to you. By chance, I was one of those people. Yes, a schoolgirl. Yes, a merchant's daughter. My life was threatened, I was held captive, and I went through a lot to get here. I am tired of being treated like some criminal for doing my best for Sacoridia.

"I might suggest, Excellency, that you leave behind your stone walls and see those whom you rule. Take a look at your realm. The North Road is in terrible condition. How do you expect healthy commerce up north when merchant trains can hardly make it down the road? And what about the outlaws who attack caravans, homesteads, and the village of North?

"Take a look at the people who live in the borderlands in fear of groundmites, not to mention any strange creatures that might come from Blackveil Forest. The eagle, Soft-feather, told me to tell you there is a breach in the D'Yer Wall. Your people, Excellency, are crying out for protection from you, and fewer taxes, and—" Karigan stopped and swallowed. Speaking her mind to Dean Geyer was one thing, but speaking it to a king was another. The dean could suspend her, but the king could do much worse.

Zachary laughed.
He laughed
! Finder sat up and barked. A light ignited in the king's eyes. "Many people hate me and my policies," he said. "It is refreshing to hear a new voice, though. You will make a fine Green Rider."

"I'm not—“

"Dismissed."

"But—"

"Dismissed until tomorrow night's ball. I expect you to be there. In fact, I command it."

Karigan opened her mouth to protest again, but the firm hand of a Weapon on her shoulder prompted her to clamp her mouth shut. She stood up on shaky legs and bowed awkwardly, but she wasn't sure the king even knew she was still there. He continued to stroke Finder's back, his thoughts haunting some faraway place.

Karigan left the throne room as fast as possible without running. When she cleared the huge double doors, she brushed into some crusty old man wearing a bear pelt. She mumbled an apology, and rushed away, intent on leaving the king far behind.

Karigan burst into her room, and caught Captain Mapstone in mid-pace. "Finally," the older woman said. "Tell me what happened."

Exhausted by her afternoon with the king, Karigan dropped down on her bed and groaned.

"I see I won't get anything from you until you're nourished with some food and drink." She tracked down the food herself, bringing it to Karigan faster than anyone else could have.

Between mouthfuls of pastry and sausage washed down with cold cider, Karigan told all that transpired in the throne room. By the time she finished, the captain was pacing again.

"Tell me again what you said to the king about his policies."

Karigan heaved a tired sigh and repeated that part of the story. Captain Mapstone paused, her expression bemused. She rubbed her chin, and smiling, said, "You told him to… You told him to…" Tickled by the thought of some common girl standing up to the king, she fell into convulsive laughter.

Karigan scowled. It wasn't unlike the king's own response, and one she hardly expected from Captain Map-stone.

Captain Mapstone wiped tears from her eyes. "You've got spunk, girl. I wouldn't be surprised if you made it to Sacor City in one piece on pure spunk alone." She scraped the chair out from under the table and dropped wearily into it. Her expression turned stern again, yet her eyes still danced in amusement. "I haven't laughed like that in a hundred years. And don't you let on to the others that I did either." She sighed. "It wouldn't fit their image of me."

Karigan crossed her arms. "I don't find it particularly funny."

Captain Mapstone gazed at her levelly. "Considering the king didn't lop your head off himself, you shouldn't complain. I'm not sure I comprehend his behavior either, though I've known him since he was a boy. I was certain he would want to hear more from you. Why play Intrigue?"

"Does this mean I can go home now?"

Captain Mapstone shook her head. "The king expects you to attend the ball tomorrow evening. That's another curious thing. Why invite you?"

Karigan glowered. "I don't care. I just want to get out of these green clothes and go home. I've done enough here. You can't hold me here against my will."

The captain's face grew unreadable. "There are a few things you must understand, Karigan. First of all, you are not being held here. At least, not anymore. The king requested that you attend his ball—quite an honor and one that few Green Riders experience. Secondly, you carried F'ryan Coblebay's message here in a way no Green Rider will ever forget. We may not understand why such a message, seemingly unimportant, was so pursued by the Mir-wellians and the Shadow Man, but it doesn't lessen your deed. Thirdly, we would like you to stay with us for a while so we can understand the Wild Ride." Then she added very quietly, "And you've the brooch."

Karigan stood up, the wooden floor groaning beneath her feet. She peered out the window. The last rays of sun caressed the pasture where Mel was out banging on a bucket of grain to lure the horses in for the night. "I don't care about the brooch. You can keep it."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. It has accepted you."

Karigan turned on the captain. "Everyone keeps referring to me as a Green Rider. I am not a Green Rider and I don't want to be a Green Rider. I just want to go home. My father probably assumes I'm dead by now."

"I dispatched a Rider upon your arrival to inform him otherwise." Captain Mapstone rubbed her neck scar. "Whether you act as a Green Rider or not is up to you, but I'll warn you now, that you will always hear the rhythm of hoofbeats in your dreams." She stood brusquely to her feet. "I recommend you appear at the king's ball as a Green Rider. Then, Karigan G'ladheon, you may go home as you will." Without another word, she left.

Karigan looked out the window with a sigh. She would never get home at this rate, and things were only getting worse rather than better. She caught some movement near a tree about a hundred paces from her window. Weapon, she thought, but F'ryan Coblebay looked back at her, his features pained. Without movement, or the flick of an eyelash, he disappeared.

F'ryan Coblebay's message had been delivered. Why did his ghost still follow her?

MIRWELL

Let go of my arm." Mirwell batted Beryl's hands away. Normally he would enjoy her touch, but not now, and not here at the entrance to King Zachary's throne chamber. Imagine that Greenie nearly knocking him over as if he were no more than a common servant! They had no respect for their betters. "I can make it on my own two feet," he grumbled to his aide. It was bad enough having to lean on her for support all the way from the courtyard, down the long castle corridors, until they finally reached the great oak doors of the firebrand and crescent moon.

The herald was bearing the standard of Mirwell down the runner, announcing in high-pitched tones the arrival of Lord-Governor Tomastine II.

Mirwell laughed gruffly.

"What is it, my lord?" Beryl asked, stoic as ever.

"Look to the king, my dear. Either my vision has deteriorated greatly, or for the first time since His Excellency's ascension to the throne, the bit—" He swallowed suddenly and amended, "Captain Mapstone isn't by his side in my presence." Mirwell glanced at the Weapons by the door to assess whether or not they had caught his near indiscretion, but they stood mute and glassy-eyed like wax figures in a diorama at the Sacor City War Museum. "Unnatural," he muttered.

Beryl cast questioning eyes on him.

"The captain," he said, "do you see her?"

"No, my lord. Your eyes haven't failed you."

"I thought not! Can't get around as well as I used to, but I can see as well as any old owl."

A shrill trumpet blast was their cue to make their way down the runner to the king's throne.

Mirwell straightened his shoulders despite a back that protested after days of arduous travel, and cleared his throat. "Now remember," he whispered to Beryl, "keep just a pace behind me, no slower, no faster. We'll make it look natural, right? Make him wait some." Mirwell adjusted the bear pelt on his shoulders, which he wore for state occasions no matter what the heat. It reminded all that he, Tomastine II, though he be old, was still the same man, the strong man, who with only a dagger, had slain a bear that would have killed a lesser man.

Mirwell made his way down the runner, slow and deliberately, as if carrying his weight with great dignity. He ignored the gravelly pain in his knee that intensified with each step, and he concealed the limp as best he could. The effort, combined with the heavy pelt, caused sweat to trickle down his temples.

Beryl, true to his command, remained precisely a pace behind him. He imagined her shoulders thrown back, the erectness of her spine, and the tilt of her chin all communicating:
I am of Mirwell and I serve with pride
. The very thought made his heart swell and a tear fill his eye, the same way the Arms Parade did on his birthday—Mirwell's own provincial holiday. Oh, there were few sights so exhilarating as hundreds of columns of soldiers and horsemen with shining helms, marching and riding in precise formation down Mirwellton's main thoroughfare.

The herald stood at attention catty-corner to the king's throne, trumpet tucked under one arm, and the Mirwell banner supported on its ceremonial pike leaning against the other. Mirwell noted, with some surprise, a chair recently vacated, and a game of Intrigue set before the king.

"Your Excellency." He touched his forehead and strained his back in a deep bow.

"Welcome, War Hammer." The king used the traditional greeting and Mirwell was pleased. "Won't you be seated? It will be easier for us to speak eye to eye."

"As you wish." It wasn't true, of course. Mirwell would have to crane his neck to look at the king up on his dais, but it was better than having his knee suddenly buckle beneath him and send him sprawling on the floor. He suspected Zachary was well aware of his infirmity, whether he learned it from that mind-reading woman Mapstone, or deducted it from his own keen observations was another question, but the king's craftiness impressed Mirwell. The excuse allowed him to rest while retaining his dignity.

The two exchanged the usual civilities: weather, travel, health, the state of the province. Zachary's dog jumped from his lap and sniffed the hem of Mirwell's bear pelt. It wheezed, then rejoined its master. It was beyond Mirwell how these little terriers had been such a menace to the groundmites during the Long War. He doubted they could even tree a bear, or retrieve a duck from a pond, but they probably had their uses.

"My aide, Major Spencer," Mirwell said in introduction. He could almost feel the heat of her presence through the back of his chair. "She is new since last we met. Old Haryo at long last met his soldier's final rest." A good solid friend, Haryo. And more loyal than a dog. Mirwell had seen to it that his friend had received a most impressive funeral.