Lioness Rampant (2 page)

Faithful ignored her, curling up on the bed. Alanna made a face at him and reached for the copper pitcher filled with rinse water. Sunlight hit its side, dazzling her. Her blinded vision held an image:
A gem, blue-violet, the size of a silver noble piece, set into a disc of gold, its facets absorbing light, not reflecting it. Beyond it was snow, a blizzard's worth.

The picture faded when she blinked. She knew there was no sense in worrying about it. Sooner or later she would find out what it meant—she'd had the vision before. In the meantime, her bath was getting cold.

Coram knocked as she combed her hair. “I've eaten,” he called through the door. “I'll find out where your scholar lives, then have a bit of enjoyment. Do
us both a favor and stay out of trouble.”

“I can take care of myself,” she reminded him.

“That's what worries me.”

“Have fun,” Alanna called as his footsteps retreated, thinking,
Why is he worried?
She rarely sought trouble. Tonight she planned to avoid it entirely.

Downstairs, Faithful abandoned her for the kitchen. Alanna found a corner where she would have a good view of the rest of the common room. While the Wandering Bard seemed respectable, she'd been traveling long enough to know she could never be
too
prepared. Adjusting her sword—so she'd have room to draw it if necessary—she settled back to enjoy the meal.

Windfeld came over after she finished. “If there's anything you want, anything at all, you've only to ask,” he assured her, taking a chair at her invitation. “No service is too great for Myles of Olau's heir, not in a house of mine. He pays us well as his agents—a generous man, your father.”

Alanna smiled. “He's generous with everything.” Remembering what Windfeld had said earlier, she asked, “What's going on in Sarain?”

The innkeeper looked away. “She rips herself apart. The K'miri tribes hunt lowlanders through the
mountains, sometimes on the Southern Plain itself. The mountain-born come west in flocks, runnin' from the fightin'. The lowlanders are so busy slayin' the K'mir that they let all else go, even the harvest. Only when their belts could be tightened no more did the Warlord bring in paid soldiers and send the lowlanders back to their farms. The refugees talk of little but hunger and killin'. My wife's Saren—it breaks her heart, and no end in sight.” He forced a smile and added, “Enough of such doom-talk. What brings you here, my lady—if I can be so bold as to ask?”

“We're looking for a scholar,” Alanna explained. “Nahom Jendrai.”

“Another friend of your father's. He's well thought of, is Master Jendrai.”

“I need him to translate something.” Alanna reached inside her tunic to draw out a leather envelope. Carefully she opened it and unfolded its contents: a map of the Eastern Lands and the Inland Sea, charred at the left and top edges. Only natural landmarks—rivers and mountain ranges—were shown. A tiny star marked a spot in the Roof of the World, the great mountain range that cuts off the Eastern Lands from the rest of the world. Silvery
runes—the writing that brought her to Maren for a translation—formed a column on the right side. “This looks like the Old Ones' writing,” she explained. “Myles says the best translator is Nahom Jendrai of Berat.”

Windfeld touched the charred edges. “How did this happen, my lady? Do you know?”

Alanna ran her fingers over the map. “You know Coram and I've been living with the Bazhir?” Windfeld nodded. “Our headman, Halef Seif, was worried about a friend of his, a shaman living near Lake Tirragen. Coram and I went to see her.” She drew a breath. “Her village was having a bad winter, what with famine and cold. A wandering priest had convinced the people that if they ‘purified' themselves—if they killed their sorceress—his god would put food in their storehouses.”

“I've seen things like it. Folk aren't sensible when they're hungry.”

“Coram and I got there as they started to burn her. We stopped it and got her away, but … She was hurt too badly for me to fix it.” In answer to his questioning look, she explained, “I know some healing magic. Anyway, she died. The map was all she had. She asked us to take it back to Halef Seif.”

“And he sent it to Master Jendrai for readin'?” Windfeld asked.

Alanna shook her head. “He didn't want it. He gave it to me—said it was for me, not him.” She smiled wryly. “Halef Seif can be determined when he likes. He says he's happy with the Bloody Hawk—that's our tribe. Some of it didn't make sense, what he said, about destiny and quests. So here I am.”

Windfeld rose in answer to a yell for service. “You've come a long way for curiosity, my lady.”

Alanna grinned at him. “I didn't have anything more important to do.”

There was another yell; with a voice that shook the rafters, Windfeld bellowed, “Just hold on, Joss, you'll be served afore you go home!” He bowed to Alanna and went to help the barkeep.

A maid placed a glass of wine in front of Alanna. “
He
sent it t'you, my lady,” the girl explained, pointing to a man by the hearth. “He said I was t'tell you redheads must sit together for safety's sake, and he wonders if you might join him when this glass is done.” Leaning down, she whispered, “Not meanin' any disrespect, but if you don't want 'im,
I
do!”

Alanna looked at the man; he was toasting her. His eyes were blue-green in a tan, pockmarked face.
His hair was as copper as hers, clipped short. His nose had met several hard objects. A mustache framed his sensual mouth; his jaw was heavy. He was in excellent fighting condition: broad shoulders, powerful chest, hard waist, heavily muscled limbs. He dressed as she did, in shirt and breeches. She also saw he carried no weapons, not even a dagger. To a knight this was important: the only men who went weaponless were sorcerers, priests, fools—or those who didn't need them. In a violent world, few did
not
need to carry some kind of weapon.

He shouldn't be attractive, not with a broken nose and his face all scarred. From what, I wonder? Bad skin as a boy, perhaps. But he is attractive!
she thought nervously.
Why
is
he interested in me? I'm not as pretty as some of the other women here.

She raised her glass and drank, her eyes not leaving his.

From her arrival at court until she'd won her shield, few had known she was a female. Although Prince Jonathan had been her lover, he was also her friend and her knight-master; they hadn't needed the courting rituals Jon used with noble ladies. George Cooper, who also loved her, had flirted with Alanna sometimes; when he did it to the point of flustering
her, she'd simply ordered him to stop. Of the other men she knew, most couldn't forget her knighthood enough to indicate a romantic interest in her. Since the revelation of her real identity and sex, the young knight had lived among the Bazhir. To them she was the Woman Who Rides Like a Man, and sexless.

So, although she wanted to join this man, or to indicate she was interested, Alanna didn't know how. How did a lady flirt with a total stranger? Noblewomen showed interest with fluttered fan or dropped handkerchief. Bazhir women used their eyes over their veils. She had no fan or veil. Her handkerchief wouldn't be noticed if she dropped it here. And she didn't have the courage to walk over to his table and sit down.

She didn't know pleading filled her eyes. He grinned—a slow, white-toothed smile that made her insides turn over—and came to her.

“Liam,” he introduced himself, holding out a massive hand. “And you're Alanna the Lioness, from Tortall.” She returned his firm grip; Liam's palm was warm and callused, like her own. “May I join you?” he asked, his eyes dancing. Alanna nodded, and Liam sat. “In Berat long?” he wanted to know, as the maid brought more wine and fruit.

Alanna shook her head. “Not for longer than I can help.” She filled his glass. “I'd forgotten how noisy cities are. I've been with the Bazhir.”

“So I heard. It took some asking to find out what happened after you killed the Conté Duke.” He spoke with a peasant's broad vowels and nearly skipped
r
's.

She frowned. “You make it a habit to follow my doings?” She wasn't sure she liked the idea.

He nodded. “People like you change the world; a smart man keeps track of such folk. It was a great thing, killing your king's nephew and proving him a traitor. Duke Roger was a powerful man.”

Alanna looked away, feeling cold. “He deserved to die. He tried to murder the queen.”

“It bothers you still?”

Looking at him, Alanna saw understanding.
He knows,
she thought.
He knows about things like betrayal, and being afraid, and the looks on people's faces when they know you did something they thought impossible.
“Sometimes. Everyone admired him. It all happened at once: me finding what he planned; him revealing that I'm a girl in front of the court. I wanted to have time for people to get used to who I really am!

“Then I killed him. I don't even
like
killing. So I wonder, sometimes.”

“Don't fret.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He was rotten clean through—take my word for it.”

“You
knew
him?”

He nodded, his eyes a distant green. “We met—a long time ago.”

“How? Why did you hate him? I mean, it seems as if you hated him. Everyone
I
knew liked him, nearly everyone.” She sat up eagerly. “It isn't fair. You know everything about
me
.”

He chuckled, his eyes warming. “I'll tell you someday, kitten—if you're
very
good.” He smoothed his mustache.

She blushed. A cautious thought warned,
You'll be in trouble if you don't watch out! You don't know anything about him, and he's got you half into his arms!
She drew back. “You're flirting with me,” she told him sternly.

“Fun, isn't it?” he grinned.

“Who
are
you? What do you do?” Alanna wanted to know. “Fair's fair!”

She stopped, hearing a commotion at the door. A familiar voice caroled, “Such sights the Princes never did see/And they honor the Beggar to this very day!” She winced.

“That's my friend Coram,” she told Liam, rising. “If I don't stop him, he'll sing the verse with the merchants and the fishwives, and we'll all be in for it.”

Liam's grin flashed. “I know the song.” He kissed her hand. “You'll see me again—my word on it.”

With persuasion and bullying she got her boisterous man-at-arms to his chamber, where he collapsed on the bed. “Jendrai is back from his country house today,” he yawned. “He'll see us tomorrow evenin'.” Within seconds he was snoring.

Alanna let herself out of his room, planning to go to bed rather than look for the unsettling Liam again. She had unlocked her door when the innkeeper came up the stairs, rubbing his hands delightedly. Seeing her, he asked, “Be there anything else you need?”

“I'm fine,” she reassured him. Nodding toward the noisy common room downstairs, she added, “It sounds like you have more than enough to do.”

Windfeld beamed. “It's a good house tonight—a very good house. No surprise, with you and the Shang Dragon here.”

“The Shang Dragon?” She'd never had a chance to talk with one of the fabled Shang warriors. She'd always wanted to; now the gods had put her in the
same inn with the best of them. “He's here? Will you introduce me?”

Windfeld looked at her strangely. “I didn't think you needed introducin', not with you and him talkin' like you were.”

“Liam?”

“Liam Ironarm, the Dragon of Shang. He didn't tell you?” Alanna shook her head. “And you didn't know? He knows of you—he told me so this mornin'.”

“I don't know anyone in the Order of Shang,” she informed him. “They don't associate much with nobles or with the Bazhir.”

“Well, you seem to be on good enough terms with the Dragon,” the man said slyly. Alanna blushed a beet red and went into her room with a hasty “Good night.”

To give Windfeld and the Wandering Bard credit, it was not her bed or her room that kept her awake. The bed was comfortable; the walls were thick enough to muffle the common room's noise. At first it seemed as if little things kept her awake. First it was her cat, scratching on the door for admittance. Then it was the light of the full moon falling across her eyes, until she got up and drew the curtain across her window. Then she found the room stuffy. With a sigh she rose again
to open the window only a crack, because the weather was still raw.

She couldn't clear her mind of thought. Partly it was the excitement of having a chance at last to talk with a Shang warrior. What she knew of the legendary order of warriors she'd learned piecemeal. Warriors named after mythical beasts—unicorn, griffin, phoenix—were the best of their order: The Dragon was the best of the best. Each Shang warrior received an animal's name after passing an ordeal and then living in the world a year. She knew that Shang accepted boy and girl children, no older than seven years of age and as young as four, to study their hard way of life. They were required to master many kinds of weapons and, more interestingly, a number of barehand techniques of fighting.