The Quartered Sea (33 page)

"Yes, it was." She seemed older than he remembered, and she had her grandfather's way of locking her gaze on the eyes of those she spoke to. Her eyelashes were clumped together, as though she'd been weeping. "I will be sending the bonus I promised the
Starfarer's
crew to their families. Would the Bardic Hall like to pass on Benedikt's to his parents, or will I send it directly from my hand?"

"As Your Majesty wishes."

"Then I will send it directly from my hand. From what I know of Benedikt's family," Jelena added bitterly, "it will ease their grief to know he was owed a great deal by the queen."

Confused, Kovar shook his head. "I don't believe you owe him a great deal, Majesty."

"You're wrong, Bardic Captain. I owe everyone on that ship a great deal." Her gaze released him and she turned away. "Benedikt most of all."

He couldn't bring himself to say,
So you admit I was right
. It had to come from her, from the queen, freely and unprovoked. He watched her walk away, her arm tucked in the consort's and her head near Otavas' shoulder, and he silently cursed her for a foolish, stubborn child.

Dark brows rose from behind a strip of scarlet silk. "As flattered as I am at your opinion of my stamina, I'm old enough to have been his grandfather. In that respect, my appreciation was purely aesthetic."

When Evicka looked up, Karlene spread her hands. "Hey, mine, too."

"You're both so limited," she told them reproachfully, maneuvering her chair over the threshold and through the narrow door. "Did I ever tell you what Benedikt did to me on the way to the Broken Islands. We'd just left the harbor…"

As the other two headed back to Bardic Hall, reminiscing, Karlene leaned back against the cool stone of the Center and looked up at the stars. After having Sung a surprisingly poignant earth, Kovar had left the building ahead of the other three quarters. Now, with Tadeus and Evicka gone, she was alone.

The four stars the bards called Night's Quarters were rising over the Palace. Karlene wondered if Benedikt had been able to see them that last night before the storm. Although she'd been the one to discover his talent and bring him to the Bardic Hall where he belonged, she hadn't known him well. It seemed no one had, and that upset her almost as much as his loss.

"Karlene? Can I talk to you?"

"You're asking?" She didn't have to see Bannon standing in the shadows, or even recognize his voice. He was, after all, the only person in Shkoder who could sneak up on a bard. Then she frowned. They weren't exactly friends, but she knew the ex-assassin better than most, and he'd sounded honestly in need. Regretting her flippancy, she stepped over to a bench and sat. "Here?"

"Here's fine."

He dropped down onto the other end of the bench and sat silently staring into the darkness. There wasn't light enough to see his expression, but Karlene would've sworn his silhouette looked awkward. Ex-Imperial assassins were never awkward. "Is there something wrong with Vree?"

"What?" Bannon jerked then shook his head. "No. She's fine. Seems to be getting the hang of that whole motherhood thing." He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "His Highness told me you were the one who found out about Benedikt." Another breath. "I need to know exactly what was said."

"Why?" When he turned to look at her, her eyes had adjusted enough to see one emotion after another cross his face, and the pain they revealed made her speak without thinking. "Bannon, were you in love with Benedikt?"

She thought he'd look away, but he didn't.

"I don't know. He was an irritating, arrogant, insecure little pissant. And too pretty. Way too pretty. I'm really not fond of that soft pouty look. And he was young."

"I never even touched him, but I can't stop thinking about him. And it was irritating the slaughtering shit out of me. And now he's dead." He leaned toward her, eyes locked on hers. "I don't believe he's dead. Shouldn't I feel differently if he's dead?"

To her astonishment, he let her hand lie for a full three heartbeats before tossing it off. "Tell me what the kigh told you."

So she did.

When she finished, he exhaled loudly, as though he'd been holding his breath the entire time and said hoarsely in Imperial, "Slaughtering, stupid, gods-abandoned idiot. You don't slaughtering Sing to a storm, you batten down and ride it out. You know what the worst of it is?" he added, switching back to Shkoden. "He's dead, and I'm never going to slaughtering know."

He rose fluidly to his feet; all awkwardness gone, all predator again. "If any of this makes it into a song, I will kill you."

Imperial assassins didn't bother making elaborate threats.

Karlene watched him stalk off into the shadows and sighed. The others would be wondering what had happened to her. They'd spend the night singing and sharing memories, a steady stream of kigh coming and going from the bards out Walking. The night would become their touchstone, their mutual recall of one of their number, of Benedikt.

Hopefully there'd be enough of them that they could piece together a true song in spite of how little each of them seemed to know. They'd be like the kigh who'd brought the news of his death across the sea, she realized.

Sorrow diffused.

Chapter Ten

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IT had been raining for five days, a constant gray deluge so pervasive that it turned the air to water and made it hard to remember a time when the world had been dry. After spending the first day in camp, the Kohunlich-xaan had ordered her caravan back onto the causeway.

"If I'm going to be damp and miserable," she declared tightly, pulling her shift away from her body between two tinted fingernails, "I'm going to be damp, miserable, and moving closer to Atixlan."

At the xaan's order, four karjen had fought the downpour and replaced the roof on the wagontop shelter. The stretched canvas wasn't exactly waterproof but neither had the tents been. Xaan Mijandra sat under a second sheet of canvas draped down from the center of the first, Shecquai curled up on her lap looking distinctly put out, the two of them as far from the sides as it was possible to be. The high priest, Hueru, and Benedikt shifted around to avoid the leaks and endured an occasional gust of rain in through the gauze sides. There
were
canvas sides, but the weather remained so hot no one would have survived their use.

The running of House Kohunlich continued. As far as Benedikt could tell, the only difference the rain made was in the disposition of those who climbed up onto the wagon with information for the xaan.

Those who pulled and those who pushed no longer talked or laughed or sang. Although the ground drained quickly and the hard-packed causeway remained essentially firm underfoot, they had to fight the rain for every breath. It pounded heads down. It rolled shoulders forward. It added not discomfort but misery. The junior priests who would not remove their robes of office and strip down to shifts suffered the most. After the caravan had stopped for a second time rather than run over a priest pulled down by the wet weight of her robes, the xaan ordered all four to the last position on the rear poles.

"If I can't order the priesthood into sensible clothing, I can at least see to it that they won't inconvenience the rest of us when they fall."

"I can't do that, peerless one. As priests of Xaantalicta, even junior priests, they have the obligation to be identifiable."

"Then stop complaining."

The wagons were some distance apart, but the small two-wheeled carts and members of the xaan's household with braids enough to avoid a place at the shafts filled the space. Fallen priests, Benedikt realized, would have to be nimble to regain their feet before something or someone ran them over. "Perhaps we should wait until the rain stops, peerless one."

"I don't wish to wait." She fed a bit of meat to the dog who gulped it down and began digging through her robe in search of more.

Benedikt touched his tongue to his lip and the not-quite-healed reminder of the back of Hueru's hand. No doubt, one or two of those walking would help the fallen. They were priests, after all. They were in no real danger.

The wagon lurched forward.

"Sing for me, Benedikt." Lifting Shecquai to rub the top of his head against her cheek, the xaan sighed. "Give me something to think about besides this unending rain."

"It rained in the dark of Xaantalicta," Yayan Quanez murmured behind her gauze. "With such a sign, we should have expected it to rain until she smiles on us again."

"Is your name Benedikt?" the xaan snapped, glaring at the high priest. "When I want your opinion, as meaningless as it is, I'll ask for it."

"Your pardon, peerless one."

This weather is enough to make even a high unhappy
, Benedikt reminded himself, a little taken aback by the venom in Xaan Mijandra's tone. Quickly examining and discarding over half of the Petayan songs he knew, he finally settled on the improbable journey of a farmer trying to get his
kuskis
to market.

The final disastrous verse—involving the
kuskis
, two members of the city guard, three pitchforks, and a goose—evoked an actual smile from the xaan.

Basking in her approval, Benedikt took a long drink of lukewarm water, then, at the xaan's command, started in on the rest of the songs he'd been learning from the members of her household.

It seemed that every waking moment he hadn't actually been with Xaan Mijandra, someone had been singing at him. Although no one with more than three braids had been involved, he'd had no privacy and very little sleep since joining the caravan. Every evening, he thanked all the gods in the Circle that he ate in the same tent as the xaan, albeit some distance away. On his own, he'd have missed every meal. Even taking a piss had gained him an anthem, another lullaby, and a rhyming explanation of why a banana was better than a man that he decided his current audience probably wouldn't appreciate. He only wished he'd had time to actually talk to some of these people; they came to him, they sang, they left. He knew no one's name that he hadn't overheard, nor anything about them.