The Still (55 page)

Genard seized the reins. “Turn here. Don’t you know the way?”

“You distract me.” We threaded through Potseller’s Way, the narrowest of alleys, to the Shoemakers’ Steps. A few shoppers dressed in Tantroth’s black roamed the walkway.

Anavar prodded his mare, came abreast. “Buy something large, sir.”

“Are you daft?”

“Best if we have some business, rather than riding to no purpose.”

“We’ve no time for—”

“He’s right, m’lord. Something not too heavy. Boots, perhaps, wrapped in cloth.”

“Daft.” Grumbling, I stopped at a stall, waited shivering in my saddle, while Anavar and Genard selected cheap boots I wouldn’t wear at my own burial. Overhead, a flash, and a crack of thunder.

A hand squeezed my leg; I gasped, almost hurled myself from the saddle in terror.

“Move yourselves!” Fostrow, his voice hoarse. He’d acquired a large sack, slung over his shoulder. His helmet and sword were nowhere to be seen. “Why do you dawdle?”

I hissed, “They buy boots.” It seemed too much to explain. “We won’t be long. Where’s your breastplate?”

He’d turned his back, and was drifting off. “Under this foul robe. Hurry.”

Finally, the transaction complete, Genard hoisted himself and his sack into the saddle. “On, m’lord, but slowly. We’re looking at wares.”

“Half the stalls are closed,” I growled. “What’s to look at?”

Genard’s brow wrinkled. “When Master Griswold let me wander the market, stalls were packed with goods and buyers, no matter the weather. Was it not so, in your recall?”

I took stock of the forlorn market. “Not many customers but for the soldiers,” I admitted.

“They say a number of your townsmen fled, when our sails were seen.” Anavar, hunched against the increasing rain. “Homes deserted, ours for the taking.”

“Ours?”

He had the grace to blush. “Sorry, sir.”

From around the corner, coarse oaths. A gang of rough-dressed youths appeared, their voices raucous. One carried a jug slopping dark wine.

Genard nudged my rib. “Trouble. Look down.”

“Why?” I wasn’t about to skulk about my own market to avoid such rabble.

“Don’t catch their—”

Too late.

“You stare, churl?” The oldest, a stocky boy of eighteen, caught my reins. Water dripped from his matted hair. “Would you share our jug?”

My hand crept under my cloak to my dagger, but Genard’s fingers caught my wrist.

“Answer us!”

“Leave him, Farath, you strike him dumb.”

“A fine saddle, Bosat, and a good mount.” Farath’s eye roved. “Stolen, I’ll wager, from our dead of the battle.”

“Let go my rein.” I’d have sounded more authoritative, had I not sneezed.

Farath sneered, “Hah. What if I shout, ‘He has my horse’?”

A cold voice, behind me. “Then you’d lie.” Anavar drew tight his black cloak, stared down at the intruder. “What business have you here?”

Farath’s mouth turned ugly; his glance flicked to Bosat. “And if I ask the same?”

“I am Anavar of Kalb, page to Lord Treak who serves Lord Tantroth.” He lashed his mount forward. “Take your hand from my servant’s horse!”

Genard’s grip tightened. “Head down,” he whispered. Seething, I obeyed.

Farath took a step back, but his fingers kept hold of my bridle. “What if we dump you in a ditch, Eiberian?”

Anavar’s sword whipped clear. “Were not enough boys of Stryx hanged in the square, a month past? Would you join them?”

“Come away, Farath.” Bosat tugged at his companion.

“Together, we’d down him!”

“The Eiberians would post a reward, and some would claim it. Come
on!”
Grumbling, muttering curses, Farath allowed himself to be persuaded. With sneers, the youths retreated.

Anavar sheathed his sword. “Come along.” Without a look back, he led the way from the square.

I contained myself until we turned the corner to safety. “Your servant? How dare you!”

“Thank me. I saved your life.”

“Faugh. From the likes of them I need no protection. I was about to—”

“Make a scene, attract guards, be noticed. And get yourself taken.” The boy’s tone was sharp.

I frowned, but had no answer.

Anavar looked about uncertainly.

“I know the way, m’lord. Let me guide the reins.” The downpour came harder as Genard led.

I sat shivering. After a time I asked, “What boys were hanged?”

Anavar shifted in his saddle. “They threw rocks.”

“Tell on.” My tone was curt.

“At our guards. Tantroth was angered. It happened too often, and when some were caught, he made an example.”

“Tough louts like those you chased?”

Anavar’s face was set at the stalls, so I couldn’t see. “Younger. Urchins.”

My fingers gripped the pommel, squeezed as if it were Tantroth’s neck. “How many?”

“Five.” At last Anavar turned to face me, his eyes bleak. “Their bodies hung a week, while birds had at them. Sir, I was appalled; many were, even within Tantroth’s ranks. We wouldn’t—”

“Hold your tongue.” My voice was a rasp. I hated Tantroth, his folk, the Eiberian I’d befriended.

“It wasn’t my doing,” he said stubbornly. “Even Lord Treak was dismayed.”

I withdrew into myself, brooding, until Genard nudged me from behind. “Is that not the dwelling, m’lord?” He pointed.

I peered. “Yes.”

“Now what?”

I beckoned to Anavar. “What say that you knock at Vessa’s door and demand audience?”

The boy looked dubious. “Has he guards?”

“Servants, no more. Unless your people put guards over him.”

He studied the doorway. “If they’re of Stryx, I’m safe; few know me. But if one of Lord Treak’s troop sees me ...”

For all Rust’s warnings, we hadn’t gone so far as to figure how I would gain entry. All depended on the situation we found. I said, “Genard, knock at the door. Say your master would have word with the Speaker.”

“My master Elryc?” He gaped.

“Your master Anavar.”

“But he’s not ... ahh, I understand. What if they’re Eiberian and recognize his name?”

“Run, I suppose.” I shrugged. “I can’t think.”

Fostrow trudged past, in his disreputable robe. “Don’t loiter about,” he growled, to the muddy earth. “Go to the door, or move on.”

I grimaced. “Imps and demons gnaw him.” I swung off my saddle. “I’ll go myself. Anavar, stay near. If the Duke’s men take me, intervene and do your best. If Eiberians pass by, lie low. From them I should be safe; they won’t recognize me.”

“This is madness.” He licked his lips.

“Is it not?” I stalked across the road, rapped at the door.

It swung open, and a face peered at me. “Yes?”

“I seek Vessa.”

His eyes probed my ill-fitting clothes, my ragged cloak. “Come three days hence, at the eleventh hour, when—”

“I bring word for his ears only.”

“You?” In his tone, contempt.

“Aye, sir.” I made my fingers twist at my cloak, as would a humble churl. “From a lord.”

“Who?”

“Rustin son of Llewelyn.”

It silenced him, as well it might. Then, “Wait.”

I stood sweating in the hall, ruing my folly. In a few moments the doorkeeper reappeared. “Come.”

Vessa, Speaker of the City, sat at a plain wooden table, an unfinished meal set aside. His wrinkled face bore distaste. “Yes?”

“Sire, he said for your ears only.” I tried to look stubborn.

“Very well.” To the servant, “Leave us.”

In a moment we were alone, the thick chamber door closed. Vessa drummed the table. “Rustin is outlaw, vassal to the fugitive Prince.”

“Rustin is loyal to his King, and no man’s vassal.” I threw off my cloak, spoke as to an equal.

“Lord of Nature!” He half rose, glanced to the window, lowered his voice. “What lunacy brings you here? Out, this instant!”

“I seek your vote in Council.”

“Would you have me cast down for our converse? Mar spoke true; you
are
addled. Out!”

“Don’t be swayed by my garb.” I fingered my jerkin. “Our troop is in the hills. We’ve men, and horse. Arms.”

“A gift from Raeth of Cumber; tell me something I
don’t
know. No, don’t bother. Guard! Help!”

His quavering voice didn’t carry far. I lunged across the table, seized his throat. “Hush, old fool, lest you destroy yourself!”

He gaped. Oh, how proud Rustin would be, to see me assault the man whose favor I sought. I released him, awkwardly smoothed his shirt. “Think, Lord Vessa. How long will you keep your office, when Tantroth or Mar hold both city and castle? What need will they have of you?”

“Mar promised—” He bit it off. Again, he looked to the window. “To Margenthar, I could explain your visit. If Tantroth discovers I’ve had Rodrigo in my chamber, that’s another matter. He’s not known for kindness.”

My smile was grim. “True, he’s not. Would you give him Stryx, and Caledon?”

“The choice isn’t mine.”

“But it is.” I drew myself up, all too conscious of my shabby apparel. “Mine is the Still of Caledon. I need but the crown to wield it.”

“And the sense of a sheep.” Unimpressed, he shook his head. “Mar is experienced in war, and diplomacy. Besides, you haven’t the Vessels; Mar seized them. Without the Still, you can do nothing for the realm.”

I studied him, fighting a hopeless despair. At last I threw caution to the winds. “Has Mar paid you?”

“Bah. Insults, again? If he had, would I tell you?”

“What if I paid more?”

His look was one of cold disdain. “You seek to buy my favor? I am Vessa, not a tradesman!”

For an endless time, I held his eyes.

He licked his lips. “How much?”

Outside, a commotion, “Run, boy of Stryx! Get thee hence!” It sounded like Anavar. Perhaps Genard had provoked him beyond bearing. Or perhaps it was a warning meant for me, but my goal was within my grasp.

“If I knew what my uncle—”

The door flew open. “Offer him all your treasure, false Prince!” Chain armor the guard wore, over black garb.

Instantly I lunged past Vessa, flung open the window, launched myself outward.

Hands grasped my waist, hauled me back.

Outside, no sign of Anavar or Fostrow. Across the road, Genard danced from foot to foot in a veritable frenzy.

I spun, broke loose from the restraining hands, whipped out my blade. “Die!”

The room was full of men. One bore a short club. He flung it at my head. A blaze of lights. Blinded, reeling, I lunged with my dagger. Strong hands seized my wrist, wrested the blade from my grasp.

In a moment my hands were bound.

“Thank you, thank you!” Vessa gabbled. “The rogue burst in, waved his knife at my throat, and I could do nothing. I cried for help; ask my servant!”

“You cried out, yet your man went about his work? Do you train your servants so?” The captain spat. “Guard this old buffoon, until my lord Tantroth speaks his fate.”

“Let me go!” I twisted my wrists, to no avail.

“Take this boy to Tantroth. He’s impatient to see the Princeling.” The captain’s lips curled in a sneer. “Can six of you guard a bound youngsire?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then bring up the horses.”

Half a dozen of Tantroth’s troops assembled in the road. Two helped me mount a russet mare, holding the reins beyond my reach.

A familiar voice. “You see? I told you he’d come!” Among the soldiers, my bondsman Garst pranced with excitement

I made my look stony, beyond contempt.

“I told you!”

My captors urged their mounts into a slow trot, and I was borne with them. I debated leaping from the saddle, but I might only break a leg for my pains. I touched my tender scalp, winced from the pain it brought.

“Where are you taking me?”

The lieutenant disdained to answer, but the rider at my side said, “To the keep, to await Lord Tantroth’s pleasure.” We clattered over damp cobblestones toward the square of crossed roads, where sat most of the city’s alehouses.

“Hold, sir!” A cloaked rider hurried to overtake us. “Hold!”

The lieutenant raised a hand, and our troop slowed.

The young courier said, “My lord Tantroth bids you ride by the shore road, that none may observe the former Prince. And send to the keep all who know of his capture.”

“Who may you be?”

The rider drew himself up. “Anavar, first son of the Earl of Kalb, serving his lordship at the keep. Have any townsmen seen your captive, sir?”

The lieutenant looked about. “Not on this street.”

“Could you cover his face? I suppose not. Hurry to the shore, sir, lest he be observed.”

With an oath, the lieutenant grabbed the reins of my mount. “Back, lads.” We cantered back the way we’d gone. I tried to catch Anavar’s eye, but he rode in front, at the lieutenant’s side. We turned onto the shore road, where it turned at the southern edge of town. Ahead, between us and the keep, Tantroth’s black-sailed fleet lay moored.

A peasant boy played by the roadside, hopping over a fallen branch. As we passed he thrust the branch between the forelegs of the lieutenant’s steed.

“Get away, you—” A guardsmen raised his whip, spurred at the boy.

As the lieutenant’s horse stumbled, Anavar threw the Eiberian from his saddle. Letting go my reins, the man fell heavily, rolled over once, and was still.

Behind me, a shout. “Beware, it’s an—aiyee!”

I whirled; Fostrow wrenched his blade from a guard’s gut, whirled to slash at another. As the man fell in a spray of blood, Fostrow seized the reins of his mount, caught one foot in the stirrup, stood hopping as the horse skittered.

Genard ducked under a blow, raced to my side, swarmed up my leg, mounted himself behind me. “The reins, the reins!” His voice was shrill in my ear.

I reached forward, but my bound wrists were too clumsy. Anavar sidestepped his mount, caught my dangling reins, handed them to Genard.

“Geeah!” Genard’s heels galvanized my mare as he hauled her about. “Lie low, m’lord!” Together we leaned over the frightened mare’s neck and swept through the confusion.

Helpless, I clutched the pommel and looked backward to the melee. Fostrow wasn’t yet in his saddle. The last two guards bore down upon him, but one was in the way of the other. Anavar raced to their struggle.