Sasharia En Garde (18 page)

Atanial said abruptly, “Bringing us back to Canardan’s boy.
Is he good to you, at least?”

“Jehan’s not really a boy. Though everyone thinks of him as
one. It’s that white morvende hair, the dreamy manner, the boyish preoccupation
with fashion. He does have a tendency to veer off and follow bards if they sing
well enough, I hear, or artists if they’re pretty and paint well, but yes, he’s
always been kind to me.”

“Then I won’t hate him. But if I can find a way to defeat
Canary, I will.”

The queen paused, staring ahead. “Canardan’s got the castle
on double watches. Everyone,
everyone
,
knows you are back. And that you are here. So you have become a royal guest.
Which is why you are in the royal-guest wing here, though no one at all sleeps
in any of the rooms either side of you, and the tower is guarded at all the
stairways. It’s also warded, I believe.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

The queen rose. Her voice was soft and dreamy. “He’s going
to offer you everything. Including my life. He would keep that promise.”

She drifted to the door.

“Ananda, wait,” Atanial whispered, not daring to raise her
voice.

But the queen had had her say. She vanished, and by the time
Atanial had wrestled out of the covers, run to the door and cautiously eased it
open, no one was in sight.

Atanial wandered back to the bed. That was weird, that was
definitely weird. She sensed the woman had more to say, but if so, why not say
it?

Because she thinks I
might buy Canary’s line. Even at the price of her life
.

It was jolting, uncomfortable, and if looked at a certain
way, kind of insulting, but Atanial would not let herself go there. She herself
had misjudged the queen in the past, so she had to accept without rancor that
that was a two-way street.

Atanial threw herself on the bed, knowing she should arm
herself with sleep, but that seemed impossible. She wiggled her toes. Her feet
did feel a lot better, thanks to the salve they’d given her after that first
marvelous bath.

She could get up and look around, except if she lit a lamp
in order to check Queen Ananda’s words, who might be watching?

Remember, you are a
prisoner
.

She dozed eventually, but that thought was still with her
when she woke. Pearly blue early morning light pooled on the spectacular rug in
several shades of green and gold with highly stylized flowers interwoven.

Atanial threw back the coverlet and padded to the wardrobe.
Her feet no longer hurt. The wardrobe was almost as large as the bedroom, into
which someone had brought quite a number of trunks.

Canary had had an entire day to set up this pretty prison
before he’d closed his trap on the Ebans. She needed to remember that, too.

But, she thought happily when she threw back the first trunk
and saw the gorgeous silk inside, there was no reason she needn’t take any
armaments offered her.

It was a stylishly gowned Atanial, her hair pinned up with pearls,
who received the runner come to invite her to breakfast with the king, as he
had every day.

It was time to face the enemy guns.

“Please, tell him I’d be delighted. Or better, why don’t you
escort me? Though I remember the castle fairly well, I don’t know which rooms
he uses.”

The young man blushed as he bowed.

Atanial placed her hand confidingly on his arm and tripped
along the hall. She mentally counted up all the armsmen she saw, sure there
were some out of sight.

Prisoner
, she
thought, at the same moment Canary glimpsed her floating down the big marble
stairway to the terrace where he had the servants set up a breakfast. Nothing
private. Not that there was any privacy when every single pair of ears was
cocked in this direction, and every pair of eyes jostling to catch a glimpse of
the famed princess. Let them see a kingly welcome.

With covert appreciation he noted that only her face had
aged, but its lines were those of intelligence, of laughter, of hard-won
experience. Her hair was the same sun-lit yellow as the old days, and her body
under that blue silken stuff formed the same strong, enticing curves that had
caught his eye when they were all much younger.

He forced his gaze away and smiled, and she smiled, and he
indicated the table, beautifully laid out with the best gold-edged porcelain,
the best golden utensils, a crystal vase with fresh-picked rose buds.

She sat, arranging her skirts.

He waited for the silent servitors to set out the platters
of hot food. Then he waved them away.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Lovely! So catch me up on the news.” She tipped her head
and charmed him by plopping her elbows on the table.

“Local news?” he asked, with some irony.

“Oh, no. World news. What have I missed?”

“You missed a couple of brushes with Norsunder.” He poured
out perfectly steeped Sartoran tea for her, and then himself. “All the mages
are yammering about a real strike one of these days. But they’ve been yammering
for the past decade, and nothing has happened yet.”

“That sounds nasty.” She cradled the fine porcelain cup in
her fingers, sipped, and smiled over the gold rim of the cup. “Tell me
something nice. What is the news in Sartor?”

“From what I’ve heard, Shontande Lirendi is busy courting
the young queen.”

“If I knew that Carlael of Colend had a son, I had
forgotten. I hope he is not as mad as his father,” Atanial said.

“No. Not in the least. He is also a throwback to Matthias
the Magnificent.” Canardan added sardonically, “Even my cloud-brained son
noticed, when I sent him west to Alsais to get some diplomatic experience. Said
every female within riding range is in love with him, and half the men as well.
Certainly every princess of eligible age seems to be waiting for him to throw
the rose, which leaves the rest, like my boy, out in the cold.”

“If he’s that beautiful, what are his chances with the queen
of Sartor?”

“Well, no one knows. But there’s been some diplomatic
fluttering about the fact that she’d never leave Sartor, and he’d never leave
Colend, so the only solution is those two combining kingdoms into one of the
biggest empires this world has ever known, even in the old empire days.”

Atanial whistled as she set down the cup and lavishly piled
crispy-edged oatcakes onto her plate.

“But there are those who don’t think anything will come of
it.” He helped himself, and for a short time there was no sound but the distant
chatter of birds as they ate. Then he lifted his fork, watching appreciatively
as she got a second helping. “You still have a splendid appetite, I see.”

“Of course,” she said equably. “When the food is as good as
this. And when I’ve gone without as many meals as I have.” She gave him a
mocking salute with her teacup.

He grinned. “Tell me about your girl. She a good eater as
well?”

“Yes.” Atanial added honey-butter to her oatcakes.

“That’s not exactly informative.”

“No.” She helped herself to some sliced peaches.

“Will you at least listen to my suggestion?”

“Talk away. It’s your palace, and your invitation.” She made
a wry gesture indicating herself there on the chair in her splendid gown, and
gave him a lovely smile. “We’ll call it an invitation, since you’ve been nice
enough to include a scented walk-in bath and trunks of clothes and a fine room
in your durance vile.”

“Now, Atanial,” he chided. “I’d rather have you as an ally.
Much rather.”

“In what plans?”

“Recover Khanerenth’s past glories.” He lifted his hand,
taking in the palace. “That’s it without embroidery. We’re a sinking ship.
Trade disrupted, neighboring kingdoms call the prices, and they don’t cut us
any deals. Threat of war with Norsunder. Chwahirsland has Shnit Sonscarna back
on the throne, which has been no good news to anyone.”

“I hadn’t known he was gone.”

“Oh, for a while. But he came back.”

She remembered the horrible reports of the king of the
Chwahir. Now
that
was a truly evil
king, no ifs, ands, or buts.

But he wasn’t the issue. Khanerenth was. “Recovering lost
glories sounds nice, but what does that mean? Past artistic achievements? Past
trade agreements? Surely not lands that have been settled by treaty.”

“Negotiating with bad governments, trouble—” He held up a
hand. “I know you’re about to come at me with some remark about my governing,
but you don’t actually know anything except gossip from the Ebans. You can sit
in on my interviews, talk to my treasury steward, and make up your own mind. At
least I’ve held on. Locan Jora, the others northwards, they keep changing kings
like foot warriors change their socks.”

“That can’t be good.” She ran her fingertip round the gold
edging on her cup. “So what do you want from me?”

“An introduction to your daughter. Just an introduction. Let
her meet my boy. See if they suit. Good diplomacy, join the families, promote
peace. Heal the problems here.”

Atanial laughed. “How can I arrange that when I am in your
castle, surrounded by half a wing of good-looking young men and women
brandishing spears?”

“But you are free to go any time.” He opened his hands. “Go
and find her, with my good will.”

I woke up feeling sticky and hot. The ship wallowed like
an old tub. There was no wind. Yet I heard a curious scraping sound, too
rhythmic to be weather.

I got up, grumpily wishing that they hadn’t seen fit to give
me this fancy cabin with a (sweltering) bunk, when a hammock would have been so
much airier. Second, I wished I’d warmed up before the swashbuckling of the day
before. And how did I get
that
many
bruises? I didn’t remember taking any of those hits, but they sure ached now.

I peered out of the scuttle. Sun dazzle splashed off the
water with eye-watering brightness. There was no hint of a breeze.

A party of tired-looking sailors sat on the deck under the
shade of a slack sail, honing the weapons. There were two or three kids about
twelve or thirteen aboard. They had been hidden below during the fighting, on
Zathdar’s orders, so they too seemed grumpy as they carried polished, sharpened
weapons to the weapons locker and then brought another to each crew member
holding a whetting stone. When I remembered how much drinking had gone on the
night before, I suspected headaches were also part of the general malaise.

With a total lack of energy I straightened the bunk. I
couldn’t complain about a generous gesture—

My thoughts fled like frightened birds when I opened the
cupboard below my bunk to get out a change of clothes and saw my gear bag had
been moved.

Could that have been the ship? No, it couldn’t. I’d tucked
it just so. And it hadn’t moved during that storm early in our journey.

While I was down in the wardroom, someone had come in and
searched my stuff.

Elva was already gone from the cabin. I was alone. I yanked
out the bag, ripped it open, and unfolded the exquisite embroidered coverlet.
There were my things: my Earth clothes and sandals; a carved wooden box
containing the jewels Mother and I had carried through the Gate; a child’s
simple flute (called a
recorder
on
Earth) that my father had given me, but hadn’t had time to teach me to play;
and plainest, but by far the most important, a seashell wrapped in homespun
cloth. Just the sort of memento a child would carry, Magister Glathan and my
father had decided when they prepared this magical token, and taught me the
spells . . .

It was there. It was safe. I wrapped it back up and replaced
the things, then replaced the bag.

Nothing was gone, but there remained the fact that someone
on board this ship had nosed through my stuff.

I left the cabin, grimacing as the glare and heat hit me.
The heavy summer air was thick with the scents of brine and wet wood,
half-dried canvas, and sweaty people. I dodged around the work party and wandered
to the shrouds, the heavy ropes attaching the foremast to the hull. These thick
ropes smelled of sea and hemp and oils. The round wooden deadeyes showed the
effect of wind and weather, but beneath, the stroke of adze remained.

I held onto two of the shrouds, staring down at the water
plashing gently against the side of the hull as I mentally reviewed the night
before. Who had been at the wardroom table with me? I could pretty much
remember them all, mostly by images of flushed faces as they deprogrammed, like
after any kind of sudden big event, whether an earthquake or a big competition.
Zathdar had been in the wardroom all the time I was there. Same with Owl and
Robin. Okay. So . . .now what I had to consider was why I
suspected Zathdar first.

Movement at my side broke my concentration. Elva held out
some toasted bread with melted cheese. “Hungry?” she asked.

I took it with a word of thanks, and she put her hands
through the squares made by the shrouds and the horizontal ratlines, leaning
her forehead against the twisted ropes. “I know better than to down that punch.
I should have drunk the crew’s ale,” she said sourly. “He gave them the best.
Ellir Gold.”

“Well, if they’re going to raid, why not the best? I take it
then you didn’t notice who came and went during the party?”

She gave me a glance of quick concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone went through my belongings last night.”

She didn’t ask how I knew. She looked away, her shoulders
tight, and I said, in blank surprise, “Devlaen?”

She shrugged, her face pink with embarrassment and guilt.
“He was gone for a while, and he seemed, oh, like a scolded pup, when he came
back.”

I let my breath out. So that’s why Elva had looked so
miserable last night. “I didn’t think it of him.”

“I suspect his magisters ordered him to. He says they think
you have some kind of magical knowledge that you aren’t telling anyone.” Her
tone expressed disbelief and disinterest. She was a navigator, knew nothing of
magic, and cared less. “You suspected Zathdar,” she added with faint triumph.