Sasharia En Garde (25 page)

They were long practiced at deception. Jehan inspected the
high-bred horses reserved for those in command, and the scrappy redhead, who
looked like so many others in this part of the world so close to Sarendan where
red hair was quite common, busily swept out the stalls.

When they knew they wouldn’t be overheard, Owl said, “She’s
all right. Other than mad as fire.”

Jehan nodded. “I know. What troubles me more at the moment
is Lesi Valleg, who I discovered is on the sick list. The official report is
that she tripped, but Elkin tells me one of Damedran’s boys got her drunk while
on duty and stretched a cord across the bottom two stairs when she ran down.”

Owl winced. “What for? I thought he’d outgrown the
bullying.”

“He stopped doing it for fun. This one might be to a
purpose. Its happening right before the games is too suspicious to be accident.
So the question is, what purpose?” Jehan shook his head. “Never mind that. What
about Devlaen Eban?”

“He’s on his way back to his cousin’s new hideout, with the
mages who wouldn’t swear the allegiance oath. Promises to relay the messages to
the mages, asking them to shadow Perran and Zhavic.”

“And Elva?”

Owl said, “Devlaen told her the news about their mother
being held prisoner. That sobered her enough to get her to agree to keep her
mouth shut. I think she will. She’s stubborn but honest. I left her in line at
the hiring office, as she turned down my offer to join our crew. Her parting
words to me were that she wanted to get to sea and forget all of us.”

Jehan shook his head. “I really stumbled there.”

“Maybe.” Owl pinched his nose. “But not as badly as I did.”

“We can’t slip like that again.”

They watched past one another’s shoulders as they talked,
but now they looked around to make extra certain. The stable was empty.

Jehan said, “Back to the games. Damedran’s going to sweep
all the categories, that much we can predict. What I wonder is if that connects
with the rumored order for more weaponry from abroad? The war games ordered for
autumn, including a castle siege, expensive as that is. And the requisitions
for increased supplies for the guard in spring. Separately, these orders seem a
little odd, but not extraordinarily so. Together, they add up to very odd
indeed. Has Randart set the time for his invasion at last?”

Owl watched him as he moved dust around on the ground. He’d
known Jehan for years, and was used to living life at a run. This was the
prince’s method of thinking aloud.

Jehan turned his way, his chin lifting. He’d reached a
decision. “We have to intercept that weapons shipment. Get Aslo down to the
harbor master’s to underbid the others for the ships being hired to deliver the
weapons. I don’t care how much he has to scant his profit. I’ll make up the
shortfall. It’s to be a sober merchant ship hired into that fleet.”

Owl grinned. Their success depended on being able to pick
the right battleground, and with one of their own ships sailing with the
weapons consignment and relaying the position, they’d be able to do just that.

“I’ll send a message to Tharlif to signal for a good-sized
fleet to intercept that shipment. It won’t stop an invasion if Randart really
plans one, but at least it will hold him up.”

Owl nodded. “You want me back on board the
Zathdar
?”

“No, let Robin take command. She’s ready. You need to stay
on that yacht. The most important piece of the puzzle is on it right now. The
fewer who know who Sasharia is the better, and no one but us must know where
she is.” He ran his hand over the flanks of a dappled gray mare, and absently
held out his fingers to be lipped. “Tell the
Jumping Bug
and
Mulekick
to make targets for Randart to chase, one off Aloca and one here. I want him
busy all over the seas, chasing us and not other independents. Keep the navy
busy and scattered as long as possible.”

“And you?”

Jehan sighed. “I’m going to have to face the fire.”

Owl grinned. “Orders for Kazdi to pass on to the Randarts?”

“Oh, let me see. This time it ought to be a painter. She’s
even more beautiful than my balladeer, and I promised to see her rendition of
Lasva Sky Child being crowned queen of Colend. But I
swear
to be back by the start of the games.”

Jehan left to be seen out in the practice field staring at
clouds instead of watching the boys practice staff fighting. He waited until
he’d spotted War Commander Randart scowling contemptuously down at him from the
command tower, and drifted away.

I couldn’t see anything, and all I smelled was dust, old
wool, and mold. Presently the cart stopped jolting, and the sensations changed
to a kind of wallowing.

Angry as the situation made me, the moment I realized I was
being lowered into a boat I stopped kicking. I didn’t want to end up being
dropped into the drink, and if I nailed Owl in the beezer, he might not be any
speed demon about fishing me back out. Ending my life at the bottom of the
harbor did not fit into my evolving career plans.

I will say the pirate—that is, the prince—well, anyway, his
guys were careful, despite my having gotten in a couple of solid kicks early on
in the abduction. The journey in the rowboat was accomplished in complete
silence. I had no idea who was doing the oar work. Likewise the horrifying lift
via boom up onto the deck was also silent.

Then people picked me up again and put me on a bunk.

But did they untie me? No. I was left in that sweltering
cocoon for what seemed about ten centuries.

First I lay there thinking. Remembering. Lingering over
every affront, until gradually the justified anger cooled into question, which
in turn begat more questions, until I fell into a nasty sort of hot, smothered
sleep.

I woke with the welcome sensation of the bonds easing.

With an inarticulate roar of rage, I fought my way out of
the quilt—to discover I was alone, in a cabin I did not recognize. I blinked
against the light of a lantern as I gulped in sweet, cool, fresh air. Someone
had thoughtfully opened beautifully made leaded glass windows. Actual windows,
not just scuttles.

Even the smell of brine seemed sweet compared to the old
mold of that quilt.

Someone had set the lantern on a hook inside the door, which
was carved out of redwood in a theme of galloping horses.

I rolled off the bunk, lunged to the door, and found it
locked.

I lunged back and in another surge of rage gathered up that
quilt and stuffed it out one of the windows. It took some effort, but finally I
heard the satisfying splash, and for a short time I stood there on the redwood
decking of the small but elegant cabin, breathing hard and watching the quilt
float on the night-black sea.

Gradually the bubble holding it up diminished and the
quilting soaked up enough water to sink. The last I saw of it was a pale blue
corner and then it was gone.

As if released from its ghostly grip, I turned around to
take in a cabin obviously designed and made for someone with extreme wealth.
Carved wood in themes of running horses, entwined leaves, and artsy lilies, the
lines enhanced with inlaid threads of gold.

The cabin’s shape indicated that once again, I was in the
bow. A tiny table had been fitted into the pointy end, within reach of the
bunks angled inward on either side. On this little table someone had set a
small porcelain tray with a silver pot all bedewed with moisture. A glass sat
next to it.

My tongue felt like a sponge left out in the Gobi Desert,
and I pounced, drinking down water until I was breathless. I continued my
survey more slowly, looking for possible means of escape.

Built-in drawers with gold handles had been fitted below
each bunk, the handles fashioned in the shape of two lilies with entwined
stems. A shelf containing handmade books and old scrolls tied with ribbon had
been built above one bunk. Affixed over the opposite bunk, a hand-drawn and
colored map of the world, every river cobalt blue, paler blue for small lakes,
different shades of green representing the predominant trees in forests,
different browns for types of land. Cities indicated by highly stylized
drawings of small or large towns, walled cities with walls, open ones with main
roads done in gold.

It was a breathtaking work of art. I clambered up on the
bunk to examine the map more closely. It was so beautiful I almost missed the
sound of the cabin door opening behind me.

I whirled around as Jehan ducked slightly and entered,
carrying a tray. “Like the map?”

When I was sixteen I might have yelled,
No!
Or tried to tear it up. My adult version of the correct
etiquette for an abductee was to say, as rudely as possible, “From whom did you
steal it?”

“My father.” He flicked down a larger table from the wall, a
table so cunningly worked into the bulkhead I’d missed it. He set the tray
carefully down as he added, “He stole it from his relatives when he was booted
out of Remalna after a family fight and sent here to the military school under
strict orders to never return. You’ll find Remalna northwest of where the
Mardgar drains into the Sartoran Sea. Where the gold crown is drawn in.”

I glanced at the map, and found the tiny kingdom, far
smaller than Khanerenth. Marking it indeed was a crown, a typical piece of
Merindar arrogance.

“Go ahead.” He leaned against the opposite bulkhead. I
noticed he was dressed in dark colors, a linen shirt dyed dark blue, black
sash, and trousers. “Get ’em out.”

“Get what out?”

“All the insults you’ve piled up. You’ve got to have thought
up some good ones. Let’s hear them.”

“Then what, you can laugh from your oh-so-superior
position?” I snapped, eyeing the tray. My appetite had woken like a cage of
roaring lions. I considered for about one second the moral satisfaction of
flinging that tray at him, but figured he’d just duck, like the total and
complete stinker he was, and there’d be all that lovely food wasted.

Because it
was
lovely—a tomato soup sprinkled with fresh basil, some kind of incredibly savory
cheese making it creamy, and bits of the very good rice this world grows. Next
to it fresh bread, with pats of the honey-butter popular all over the kingdom.
A spray of purple grapes, a perfectly sliced peach, and a silver urn containing
hot chocolate joined a crystal decanter full of wine in making a feast for a
king.

I glared at Zathdar. No, Jehan. Those were Zathdar’s blue
eyes watching me, but the long, fine white hair was unfamiliar. A diamond
glinted in one ear. The laces in his shirt were braided silk, with tiny gold
leaves fastening the ends.

I was staring. And the cabin seemed suddenly quite small. So
I turned my attention back to the food.

“Go ahead,” he invited.

“There are too many dishes,” I said, scowling.

“Well, I haven’t eaten all day, either. If it helps, feel
free to fling my share out the window after Owl’s mother’s quilt.”

Unwillingly I had to laugh. “All right. You win. That much,
anyway. Sit down.”

The table exactly fitted the space between the two bunks, on
which we sat opposite one another.

I’d only had that single bite in the Gold Inn, so I set to
with enthusiasm. Two goblets of wine plus the meal later, I sat back, trying to
decide if I had enough appetite to assay the chocolate.

Neither of us had spoken, though I was very aware of him
sitting an arm’s reach away, the play of his hands on the goblet, pouring wine,
picking up bread and cheese, homely tasks all, but executed with grace. He ate
neatly, with far better manners than I suspected I displayed. But I’d been
catching meals on the run for years, usually with a book in one hand.

I frowned at my goblet. Was what I felt the same as my
mother had felt all those years ago, when this man’s father no doubt ate
intimate dinners with her while my own father was busy tending to kingly business
for my ailing grandfather?

I looked up. Jehan regarded me steadily over his cup of
wine.

I said, crossly, “I suppose you dye your eyelashes and
brows?”

“No. Darker shade than my father’s, as it happens,” he
replied in an easy tone, as though he fielded this nosy question every day.
“For some reason most half-morvende have dark brows and lashes. The ones with
white lashes come from families who have lived over a thousand years
underground. Some of the more recent family lines have color here.” He indicated
a thin stripe at the top of his head. “Almost always black. Sometimes red or
yellow or brown. A lot of ’em get rid of it by magic,” he added. “If it comes
in stripes.”

A short pause ensued, during which I was hyper-aware of the
soft plash of water against the hull of the vessel, of the flicker of the flame
in the lantern, and its golden reflection made manifold by the glass sectioning
inside the burnished copper frame. I breathed in the rich fragrance of the
chocolate, and set my goblet down.

A phosphorescent tingle sparked along my nerves. I gripped
my hands in my lap.

“I apologize for the, ah, summary invitation aboard my
yacht,” Jehan continued, in the same conversational tone. “I’ll end it when I
can.”

I looked up, the flare of anger back. “You mean when you
will.”

“No one outside of a dozen people know who I am.” He lifted
a shoulder in a slight, apologetic shrug. “Except the Ebans, now. And you.”

“What did you do to Elva?”

“Nothing. Owl tried to recruit her. She refused. Last he
saw, she was trying to find another ship to sign onto.”

“Devli?”

“On his way to his mage tutors, wherever they’re hiding.”

I twisted my fingers. “That might even be true. But if it
is, why am
I
not asked to keep
silent, and set free to go on my way?”

“Because . . .” He looked away, out the
window into the darkness, then back at me. “Because too many people see you as
a tool necessary to grip control of the kingdom.”