The Sworn (33 page)

He took Carina’s hand, forcing himself to smile and pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for a few candlemarks. “I want to see what kind of a celebration you and Carroway have cooked up.”

Carina smiled, although Jonmarc doubted she would forget to ask for details of his trip later, when they could speak in private. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that most of the village is here. We did our best to make sure there’s food enough for all of the refugees. Some of the
vyrkin
brought in additional deer, so there’s plenty of meat and an ample supply of blood for the
vayash moru
.”

Gabriel and Sakwi followed them into the large dining room. Candles glittered overhead in the large candelabras, and the torches along the walls banished the autumn chill. Carroway and Macaria had gathered the local musicians from the village pub and had obviously been rehearsing new material, because the crowd was clapping, dancing, and cheering. Carroway sat in the second row, unusual for the Margolan court’s master bard, who preferred the visibility of center stage. Then Jonmarc realized that in the second row, no one had a clear view of his left hand, or how nimbly his fingers moved across the lute’s strings. Carroway’s head was bowed in concentration, and his long, dark hair obscured his face, but once, Jonmarc caught a glimpse that told him whatever precision Carroway wrested from his healing hand was not painless.

“It’s the first time Macaria and I have gotten him to perform for more than a small audience in the pub,” Carina
whispered, as if she guessed his thoughts. “Although I’ve persuaded him to play for the refugees and he does quite well then. I think he’s more focused on their pain than his own when he plays while I’m healing. He might not have Macaria’s magic, but Lady Bright, he’s still the most talented musician I’ve ever heard.”

“And maybe the first bard to save a kingdom.” Jonmarc chuckled.

“Jonmarc!”

Jonmarc looked up to see Berry hurrying toward him. Although Carina had persuaded Berry to dress for the occasion, she looked more like the daughter of a well-to-do merchant than a princess. Berry’s auburn hair was loose, though it retained a wave from the tight braid that kept it out of her way as she helped Carina with the refugees. Her dress was in shades of orange and brown in keeping with the holiday, but devoid of the gemstones and pearls that glittered in the gowns Jonmarc had seen her wear in the palace.

“Carina made me dress up.” Berry gave a joking pout. “Do you have any idea how often I have to wear gowns like this back home? They’re heavy and hot and the corset hurts when I sit down.”

Carina laughed. “I promised your father I’d keep you in practice. What will he say if we return a hoyden instead of a princess?”

“He knows me. He won’t blame you. He could never keep Mother in hand, either. That was one of the things he loved about her.”

“You look beautiful,” Carina said, reaching out to plump one of Berry’s sleeves.

Berry gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “The only
thing this much cloth is good for is hiding my blades.” She shifted, just a bit, and the steel of a throwing knife glittered in the candlelight. The set of knives had been a gift from Carroway, who had taught her how to throw during the long nights the group had spent on the road fleeing Jared’s soldiers.

“Someday, you’re going to make a very interesting queen.” Jonmarc’s voice was serious, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Berry rolled her eyes. “I hope it’s not until I’m old. Old and gray and wrinkled. Maybe Father can be brought across by a
vayash moru
and live forever, and I’ll never have to suffer through those interminable Council of Nobles meetings.”

“From your lips to the Lady’s ear,” Carina murmured.

Just as quickly, Berry’s mood shifted as the musicians took up a popular dance tune. “That’s the song I asked Carroway to play for me! Got to go.” She blew an exaggerated kiss to Jonmarc and headed back through the crowd to find a place in the circle dance that was just forming. Jonmarc could see Laisren and Lisette among the couples who were dancing, and even Sister Taru had joined the circle. Riqua and many of her
vayash moru
“family” were present, as were most of Gabriel’s brood and Sior’s pack of
vyrkin
. Rafe and Uri stood near the far end of the room, deep in conversation. Jonmarc had been as surprised that Uri came to the feast as he was certain that Astasia would not deign to visit. But the fact that four of the Blood Council were in attendance was a positive sign, and Jonmarc was determined not to spoil the evening with concerns that could wait until morning.

Despite the plague, the resurgence of the Black Robes,
and the coming winter, spirits seemed high, and Jonmarc let out a long breath, aware of how tight his shoulders were, as if he was anticipating danger. He looked around the room. Carina and Carroway had done an excellent job organizing the feast. One table along the back of the room held an assortment of bread sculptures. There were intricate braids and bread formed in the shape of sheaves of wheat and corn shocks, to thank the Lady for the harvest thus far and petition for good weather to gather the remaining crops. He could smell spiced cider simmering on the hearth, and large dishes offered guests a bounty of fruit compotes, roasted squash, and potatoes, along with a roasted deer and plump baked chickens.

“How is the harvest going?” Gabriel had moved silently to stand beside Jonmarc.

“Very well, considering. Neirin keeps the harvest teams circulating from farm to farm, or to the vineyards, depending on who’s got crops ready to gather. Sior’s brought all the
vyrkin
who don’t have pups to care for to help, and with the assistance we’ve gotten from your brood and Riqua’s brood, we can harvest day and night, so we might stay a jump ahead of the rains this year.”

Gabriel nodded. “Some good luck is overdue. Between the wars in Margolan, the refugees, and the plague, we don’t need a poor harvest as well.”

“Even Maynard Linton’s caravan pitched in, since they’re effectively stranded here until the plague runs its course. They’ve been helping press the grapes and make mash for the ale, and lending a hand mending fences and fishing nets, that kind of thing.”

“Speaking of whom…” Gabriel said with a nod toward the crowd.

“Jonmarc, m’boy. Good to see you!” Maynard Linton was a short, round man whose coppery tan spoke of seasons spent out of doors. He bustled through the revelers with a wide grin on his face. “Damn fine celebration. Damn fine!” He clapped Jonmarc on the shoulder and gave Carina a kiss on the cheek.

“Glad you could make it, Maynard.” Jonmarc could not resist a grin. Maynard Linton had taught Jonmarc how to make his way on the river as a smuggler years ago, and they had maintained an on-again, off-again business relationship that profitably trod just this side of legality. When Jonmarc accepted the title of Lord of Dark Haven, he had extended an invitation for Linton’s caravan to winter with him. It was good business for both of them, since it supplied Linton with a safe place to rest off-season, and it gave Dark Haven’s village and
vayash moru
craftsmen and distillers a way to sell their wares to the Winter Kingdoms when the caravan headed south in the spring.

Linton snorted. “Make it? No place I’d rather be, what with the pox and the Black Robes loose. Did I tell you that when we go south next season, we’ll have a troupe of
vayash moru
performers? Carroway made some introductions, seeing as how you and Tris and ’Carina and he could all speak firsthand for the caravan and all. ’Course they can only perform at night, but that makes them a rare spectacle that commands a premium admission fee,” he said and chuckled.

“Which, of course, you’ll be sharing with the performers,” Gabriel finished with a pointed gaze.

“Of course, of course. Just good business to keep the performers happy. Wouldn’t do to make them famous and have them bribed away by another caravan,” Linton said hurriedly.

“Uh-huh. I’ve never known you to split profits with anyone less than sixty-forty.” Jonmarc folded his arms.

Linton rolled his eyes. “By the Whore! Must you give up all my secrets! Yes, yes, I agreed to a fifty-fifty split. Only keep it down, or the dancers and jugglers will demand a bigger percentage and you’ll drive me out of business.”

Linton’s outburst managed to make Gabriel chuckle. “You don’t think Carroway’s thought of that?”

Linton glanced toward the musicians with a look of horror that Jonmarc suspected was only partially falsified for their benefit. “You don’t really think—”

Jonmarc shrugged. “I learned a long time ago not to underestimate Carroway. Not after the first time I saw him throw a dagger and peg a slaver between the shoulders, anyhow.”

“Fie!” Linton made the sign of the Lady in warding. “Don’t even mention that word around me.” Linton’s former caravan had been attacked by slavers hired by Jared the Usurper to hunt for Tris Drayke. Tris and his friends had barely escaped with their lives, and Linton had needed two years to rebuild. “On the bright side, between the plague and new management in Margolan, the slavers seem to have gone out of business. For now.” He sobered. “ ’Course, it’s the Black Robes a body has to watch for now.”

Jonmarc and Gabriel exchanged glances. “What do you hear?” Jonmarc asked.

Linton dropped his voice, so their conversation did not carry. “There’s talk along the river that the Black Robes are behind the people who’ve been disappearing. Heard that in Nargi, they’re working with the Crone priests to hunt
vayash moru
. Dhasson’s never held with that sort of
thing, but can’t say that King Harrol will send his army out to stop it, either. Bad for business. Bad all the way around, if you ask me.” He shrugged. “Ah well, no need to talk shop when there’s ale to be drunk. Did I tell you that you give a damn fine party, Jonmarc? Damn fine.” And with that, Linton bustled away toward the barrels of ale.

“Did I mention that Maynard was quite open to the idea of helping the Ghost Carriage spirit
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
out of trouble spots?” Gabriel said. The musicians struck up a lively tune that had Carina tapping her toe and swaying to the music.

“Oh?”

“Says that being a legitimate business man is too stressful, and he wants to smuggle something to keep his hand in and his skills sharp.” Gabriel smiled, and his long eyeteeth showed, just a bit. “That’s part of the reason for the new
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
entertainers. Of course, Riqua and I have promised to make some introductions for him in return, introductions that will give him the stawar’s share of the Noorish rug market and some of the best Principality gemstones.”

“Of course.”

Carina had just tugged on Jonmarc’s hand to lead him to the dance floor when Neirin hurried in, scanning the crowd until he spotted them. By the look on the grounds manager’s face, there was trouble.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

Jonmarc spread his hands to indicate the crowded room. “There are several hundred people here to see me, or at least to drink my ale.”

“It’s Captain Gellyr. And he’s got a visitor with him from the palace.”

The sense of foreboding Jonmarc had managed to dispel returned, and his smile vanished. “Please handle the formalities for me,” he said to Carina, with a glance to Gabriel as well. “Let me see what’s going on.”

He followed Neirin to the manor’s entrance hall. Captain Gellyr was the commander of King Staden’s garrison at Jannistorp. Jonmarc’s previous interactions with the captain had been cordial, and Gellyr had been helpful in quelling unrest when a rogue
vayash moru
had violated the Truce, but it was highly unusual for him to show up unannounced at Dark Haven. Gellyr’s companion wore a traveling cloak, and at a glance, Jonmarc knew it for military issue. Boots, pants, and sword marked the other as a ranking officer, and Jonmarc felt any hope dim that this might be just a social call.

“Lord Vahanian.” Gellyr’s voice was friendly but businesslike. “Good feast to you.” Gellyr was a large man, taller than Jonmarc, and perhaps a decade older, with enough scars on his face and hands that it was clear his rank had been earned the hard way. Though he wore no armor this night, his blond hair was cut short for a helm, and his manner would have marked him as a soldier in any crowd. The man beside him stood stiffly, and though the entrance hall was warm, he had made no move to remove his cowl.

Jonmarc nodded warily. “And to you.” He shook Gellyr’s hand, mentally noting that since neither of them had drawn a blade, it was going well so far. “If it’s the Moon Feast that’s brought you to Dark Haven, you’re welcome to join us. There’s ale enough for all.”

Gellyr shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here on king’s business. May we speak to you in private?”

Jonmarc led them to Neirin’s office and lit the torches, then closed the door. “Now, what made Staden send you all the way out here on a festival night?”

Gellyr looked at his companion. “You’ll have to ask the general. I’m just the guide tonight.”

The man beside Gellyr lowered his cowl. He was a dark-haired man with intelligent, brown eyes and a hard line to his mouth. “So good to see you again,
Lord
Vahanian.” The venom in the man’s voice matched a deadly glint in his eyes.

“Gregor.” Jonmarc kept his hand away from his sword, but he was glad there was enough space between him and his guests to give him a chance to draw his blade if need be. “Don’t you have prisoners to bully?”