Hammer Of God (45 page)

She was frowning, uneasy. “Yes. Aside from that burn, Jones, you've not a mark on you. Which is more than I can say for that heathen Zandakar.”

“You've seen Zandakar already? So early?”

Ursa pulled a face. “You expected me to dilly-dally at home when the queen's sending me urgent messages at first light?”

Dexterity got up and crossed to his chamber window to stare down into the gardens below, where a solitary Rhian still walked. She'd been prowling the flowerbeds for nearly an hour now. Such a slight figure. So painfully alone. She was dressed yet again in her battered huntsman's leathers, as though she'd misplaced every last pretty gown.

“No.” He leaned against the wall beside the window. “I suppose not. He's all right too, is he?”

“Fine as figs,” said Ursa. “Aside from those scarlet welts I don't recall him having before you went to Icthia. You can tell me how he got them while I'm physicking your hand.”

He considered his scabby, crusted wound. Remembering Zandakar's searing blue fire, he shivered. “It's not so bad, Ursa. A dab of ointment should put me right.”

“A dab of ointment?” she echoed. “I see. Turned physick in your old age, have you, Jones?”

“No, but—”

“I think we'll leave it at no,” she snapped. “A dab of ointment. A soaking in tinctured hiffa leaf and some ointment and a bandage is what your hand needs, Jones, and then perhaps you'll be on the mend. You were a fool not to come to me with it last night.”

He shrugged. “Emperor Han's palanquin brought us directly back to the castle. It was too late to go traipsing to your cottage. I'm hardly dying. Don't make such a fuss.”

“Tcha,” she said, rummaging in her capacious physick bag. “I'll remind you of that next time you come bleating for a foot plaster. Now, about those welts…”

“Didn't Zandakar tell you?”

She snorted. “Would I be asking you if he had? He can play as dumb as a stone when the mood takes him, that young man.”

Instead of answering, he continued to stare down into the gardens where Rhian still prowled, and touched his fingertips to the thick glass. She was so far below him it was like stroking her hair.

I worry for her. I worry for Alasdair. His face last night, when she looked at Zandakar, near broke my heart.

“What are you sighing about now, Jones?” said Ursa.

“Nothing,” he replied, turning. Then added, seeing her raised eyebrows, “Well. Nothing I can help. Rhian and the king will just have to work things out themselves, I fear.”

She didn't pretend not to understand. “No marriage is easy, even when you're mad in love. And that's before you touch on small matters like invading armies and heathen witch-men and pride and disappointment and – and—” She sniffed, hard. “Other people.”

“Zandakar may love her, Ursa, but nothing will come of it. It can't.”

“Not even if she loves him? I'm not blind either, Jones. I've seen…the looks.”

“She loves the king,” he said stubbornly. “I'd stake my life on it, Ursa.”

“Oh, Jones. A woman can love more than once, and at the same time. Just like a man.”

“She loves the king,” he insisted. “And she would never betray the crown.”

“Did I say she would?” said Ursa. “But so long as Zandakar remains in Ethrea, he's a thorn in all our sides. He stirs up things best left unstirred. It's hard enough already, Alasdair has to defer to his wife. But when his wife's got a man in love with her who looks like Zandakar, well.” She sighed. “Let's just say there's more than one reason I'll be pleased when we've trounced those Mijaki heathen all the way back home.”

Gloomy, he stared at her. “You're assuming we'll beat them.”

“Yes, I am, Jones,” said Ursa. “We're not going to lose, we've God on our side. Now sit down, so I can tend your hand and you can tell me how Zandakar got those welts!”

As he perched once more on the edge of his bed, Ursa settled on the chamber's stool before him. Taking his hurt hand gently she lifted it, turning it towards the light from the window. After a closer examination than her earlier, cursory look, she glanced up, her eyes sharp. “How did you do this? And don't say you spilled hot lamp oil, Jones, because I've seen more lamp oil burns than you've strung puppets. No lamp oil did this.”

“If I explain,” he said, after a moment, “you must swear to tell no-one else.”

That earned him a scorching glare. “Dexterity Jones, if you think after all we've been through that I'm not to be trusted, well—”

“Oh, don't be silly, you know I don't think that. But I have to say it aloud. For my own sake, I have to say it.”

“All right, Jones,” she said slowly. “No need for a tizzy. I'll not repeat your words, you've my solemn physick's vow.”

Which she'd die before breaking. So he told her of the ugly scorpion knife and the blue fire and how Zandakar had wielded them both.

“You think that's why he's been sent to us?” said Ursa, when he was done. “Because he's got the power to fight his brother, fire with fire?”

“I think that's part of it, Ursa. It must be.”

She'd finished cleaning his wound with the stinging tincture. Now she dabbed it dry with a clean cloth. “Those welts on Zandakar aren't burn scars, Jones.”

Dexterity shook his head. “No.” Remembering, a shudder ran through him. The stone scorpion. Zandakar's screams. “I tell you, Ursa, after what I saw in Icthia – Zandakar's as strange as any Tzhung witch-man. After what I saw, I'm not even certain he's entirely human.”

“Not human?” said Ursa. “Nonsense!”

Leaning forward, he rested his good hand on her knee. “Ursa, I'm serious.”

“Yes,” she said, much more kindly. “I can see you are.” She reached for her jar of ointment. “So tell me the rest of it, and I'll decide for myself.”

It was a relief, unburdening himself of those terrifying memories. How a carved stone scorpion had come to life and stung Zandakar, and how he'd voided its poisons from his body and not died.

When he was finished, Ursa stared at him, a rolled-up linen bandage dangling unheeded from her fingers. “If I didn't know you for an honest, sober man, I'd call you a drunk liar, Jones.”

He shuddered again. “Oh, Ursa, it was dreadful. How is it possible? Stone creatures can't come to life!”

“And neither can men walk invisible through the streets, but you said that witch-man hid you in the wind,” she retorted. “And then there's you, isn't there? Willy-nilly bursting into flames. Convincing that priest Vortka to side with us. I wouldn't call that usual.” Swiftly she bandaged his hand, and pinned it secure. “There now. Keep it wrapped and don't get it wet. I'll look at it again the day after tomorrow.”

“All right. Ursa—”

“Jones, I don't know what to make of it. We'll just have to have faith, won't we, that whatever Zandakar is, whatever he can do, it's with God's blessing.”

“If that's the case, why do you still call him a heathen?”

She grimaced. “Because he is a heathen, Jones. But that's not to say he can't have his uses.”

Though he was so unsettled, and his hand pained him again, he laughed. “Oh, Ursa.”

Her lips twitched, but she repressed the smile and stood. “I've a colicky baby to visit. Tell Her Majesty you and Zandakar are fine, and I'll see her myself this afternoon. In the meantime, if that hand pains you out of the ordinary come find me at once.”

He kissed her cheek. “I will, Ursa. Thank you.”

They left his chamber together but then parted company, and he made his way down to the privy garden, and Rhian. She was standing in her favourite place at the edge of the castle grounds. From there it was possible to see all of Kingseat township and harbour, out across the restless ocean to the distant horizon. Hearing his approach, she turned. The scratched and salt-stained leathers she wore creaked, complaining.

“Morning, Your Majesty,” he greeted her. “Ursa's regrets, but she's seeing a sick baby that couldn't wait. I'm to tell you Zandakar's fine, and so am I.”

“Your burned hand?”

“Oh, it's more singed than burned,” he said, sounding far more cheerful than he felt. “Don't fret. I'll mend.”

Rhian's strained expression eased. “I'm pleased to hear it. How can I help you?”

“Majesty, I serve at your pleasure.”

She swung round to stare at the harbour and ocean again. “I fear there's precious little pleasure in it, Dexterity.”

She sounded brittle, and who could blame her? If they were still on the road he might have risked a comforting touch, but this was Kingseat, and she was the queen.

“How is His Majesty, this morning?”

She shrugged. “Well enough. He's arranging a council meeting at the moment. My husband's a prodigious organiser, Dexterity. His eye for detail surpasses that of my father, and I'd not thought ever to say such a thing.”

“Then it's a blessing we have him.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “It seems I'm surrounded by useful men.”

Behind her back, Dexterity pulled a face. Useful men who plague you, and chafe at your authority. But he didn't say it. The observation might be counted impertinent.

“For example, that Zandakar,” she continued. “Does he not daily prove to be a man of surprises?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said carefully. “God knew what he was doing when he sent Zandakar to us.”

“Did he? I wonder.”

Dexterity hesitated, then joined Rhian in staring at the sun-dappled harbour, where the official skiffs darted about their business.

“When you've a moment to think of it, you should ask Zandakar about protecting our port from Mijak,” he said. “When he and I were at the markets, he had some things to say.”

In profile, Rhian's face was pale, her expression remote. “Frightening things, I've no doubt.”

“Very. Although…perhaps there'll be no need.”

She glanced at him. “The armada?”

“As you say. It's likely our best hope.”

“If I can make it happen.”

“You sounded confident enough last night.”

“Did I?” she said, with another sideways glance. “You don't think I sounded…frightened?”

“Not at all,” he said, startled. “I was amazed by your courage and self-possession.”

“Really?” Her lips quirked in a very small, brief smile. “I was terrified.”

Dexterity realised then she didn't need a formal courtier wrapped up in protocol, she needed a shoulder to lean on. She needed her toymaker. “If that's true, Rhian, I'm amazed all over again. And I doubt I was the only one. I think the emperor was most impressed.”

“Han,” she said, and now her voice was much darker. “Like Sun-dao, a witch-man.”

He considered that. “A friend also, I think. His methods might be high-handed and his attitude arrogant beyond bearing, but he has helped us. And we need him.”

“More's the pity.” With a shallow sigh, she folded her arms. “So, Dexterity. Last night's tale of your Icthian adventures made for an exciting bed-time story…but I think now you should tell me the rest of what happened in Jatharuj.”

Oh dear. “Majesty? I don't—”

“Oh yes you do,” she retorted. “Don't play games, Mister Jones. Don't treat me like a fool.”

She was far from a fool. Not only was she her father's daughter, but the past long weeks had honed her instincts to a lethal edge.

He sighed. “It's true, I did leave out one detail of our adventure.”

“And why would you do that?” she said, rounding on him. “After all we've been through, why would you lie?”

“I didn't lie!” he protested. “I just didn't tell you everything. It's not my place to tell you.”

“Let me guess,” she said wryly. “It's Zandakar's?”

“Yes.”

She stared at the harbour again. “Then I suppose I should ask him.”

“That would be best,” he said, swallowing his relief.

Her sidelong glance this time was part irritation, part amusement. “I'd not attempt joining an acting troupe if I were you, Dexterity. Whatever you're feeling flies like a flag in your voice.”

He had to smile. “Hettie used to say the same thing. She used to say, ‘What a blessing you're an honest craftsman, my love. You couldn't hoodwink a customer if your life depended on it.’”

“Hettie…” Rhian sighed. “She said nothing beyond that you should go with Zandakar to Icthia?”

“Not a word.”

“That's a pity.”

“Yes,” he agreed, heartfelt. Then, after a moment added, “Rhian, did you think we'd betrayed you? Me and Zandakar?”

Hot colour flooded her cheeks. “If I say yes, will you despise me? Will you feel betrayed, that I could doubt your loyalty a second time?”

He felt a pain, deep in his chest. “Not despise, but I'll admit to disappointment.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't want to doubt you. Most of me didn't doubt you. But since the boys died I'm finding trust is something that's easily misplaced. If it's any consolation, I didn't doubt you for long.”

Because they were alone, he put his hand on her shoulder. “I will never betray you, Rhian.”

Smiling, she pressed her palm to his bearded cheek. “You know, Dexterity, I am so very sorry you lost your toy shop. When this is over we must arrange a new one for you.”

When this is over I'll be lucky if I'm not dead. But he didn't say it. Melancholy was too close to Rhian's surface, these days, for that kind of teasing.

He put a proper distance between them. “Zandakar won't betray you either, you know.”

“Does that mean you think he'll tell me what happened in Jatharuj?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, Rhian,” he said sadly. “He'd die for you without a second thought. Don't be a coy miss, and pretend not to know it.”

Her face went blank. “I don't—” She released a sharp breath. “I have never encouraged him. I'm the queen. I'm married.”

“It's not that simple. You danced into his heart long before we reached Linfoi.”

“I didn't! I was friendly, nothing more!”

“Sometimes it doesn't take more,” he said, still sad. “Hettie smiled at me once and I was lost to her forever.”

“I love Alasdair! Mister Jones, you're talking nonsense!”

He sighed. “Majesty, you're an uncommon young woman. You've a sharp intellect, amazing courage, you're strong and proud and generous and quite beautiful. Not yet at your majority, and look what you've achieved. I've no doubt Ethrea's history will name an age after you. Speaking for myself, I am humbled to know you. But that's not to say you don't need guiding now and then. In this matter, be guided.”