Trickster's Choice (26 page)

It was almost noon when they reached the village of Inti, astride the road that cut down through cliffs and waterfalls to reach the western coast of Lombyn. Inti itself was set on a mound of raised earth. To Aly it was the second most dangerous point on the Tanair lands, a less obvious route into Balitang territory. Ulasim had assured her that his people were aware of the problem. The road was watched. Inti’s villagers kept messenger doves to carry word of an enemy’s approach to the castle. There was also a large flock of crows in the trees around Inti and the road west. They bawled wary greetings to Aly and Nawat, then reported normal activity.

At Inti even Bronau could not ignore the rakas’ behavior. The villagers stopped whatever they did to look on in silence as the headman and elders came to greet their company.

I suppose I should be grateful they don’t have signs up proclaiming, Welcome to the One Who Is Promised, Aly told herself. She made a mental note to ask Ulasim and Chenaol how many noble luarin knew of the prophecy.

The raka remained silent as the duchess gave half of the contents of Aly’s basket to the village midwife, then followed the village headman to his home. There the headman and the elders offered the nobles herbal tea, coconut custard, sticky rice, rice flour cakes, cassava melon slices, and banana fritters on woven grass platters. They ate seated on the headman’s broad porch as the townspeople looked on.

Aly knelt just behind the duchess and Sarai, within earshot as Bronau sipped his tea and quickly set the cup down. “Murky stuff,” he whispered to Sarai in Common, his eyes dancing merrily. “Do you suppose they scooped it from a swamp? Perhaps we’d best check for slugs and salamanders. They eat anything that doesn’t eat them first, these wild folk.”

Aly doubted that he even realized he was insulting their hosts; he was simply bent on flirting with Sarai. To her credit, she kept her eyes down as a blush mantled her golden brown cheeks. Let Bronau think the blush was maidenly confusion. Aly, seeing the girl’s trembling hands, knew it for rage. She glanced at the raka elders. From the flashing eyes of three of them, she knew they understood Common as well as their own language.

I need hand signals, she thought, putting it on her mental list of things to do. In case I have to tell the family things without speaking aloud. Right now she wished she could ask Sarai to steer the prince away from his present line of chatter. She was wondering if she would have to spill tea on the man when Dove said, “Your Highness, perhaps these elders would like to hear news from Rajmuat?”

With everyone’s attention now on him, Bronau was happy to perform the role of the great man for the townspeople. He patronized them, explaining the most obvious things, but at least he was no longer making fun of their hospitality. I love that girl, Aly thought, passing the banana fritters to Dove. The younger girl met her eyes. Her mouth twitched slightly in a tucked-away smile.

The visit ended with an exchange of politenesses between the duchess and the village elders. The Inti raka stood in silence as the nobles mounted up and rode on their way.

“That was odd, don’t you think?” Bronau asked Winnamine as they left Inti behind. “Did you see how they stared? Surely they’ve seen luarin nobility before. And they weren’t chattering as they always do, in that dreadful language of theirs.”

“We are still a novelty here,” Winnamine replied, her face and eyes serene, with no hint of any emotion but pleasant interest. “Remember, these are highlanders. They hardly ever see
anyone
new, let alone of the luarin. Really, my dear, the tea and the food were perfectly safe. We all took our share. You insulted them by not taking any.”

“I would have insulted my belly even more,” Bronau said with a grin. “Just because I keep pigs doesn’t mean I eat their slop.”

A chill rolled off the raka among their men-at-arms. Bronau had not even tried to keep his voice down.

“For our sake, Bronau, will you be gracious to them?” Winnamine asked playfully, resting a light hand on the man’s sleeve. “We have to live with these people for the time being.”

Bronau took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “For you I will risk it, Winna. But don’t be so resigned. Once I return to the capital, I will use all my influence to bring you back to civilization.” He turned to Sarai. “After all, the young men don’t know what they’re missing while you are here.”

As they rode on, Nawat drew closer to Aly. “Raka aren’t pigs,” he murmured. She wondered if Falthin had told him to speak quietly, or if Nawat sensed that it was a bad idea to be overheard. “Why does he speak of them that way?” the crow-man wanted to know. “They are humans, just like he is.”

“I don’t think he sees them as just like him,” Aly explained.

“He is foolish, then,” said Nawat. “There are more raka than Bronaus.”

They rode on to Pohon, on the north side of the plateau. Once again the farmers stood up from their work to watch them pass. Aly, sharpening her Sight, noted that the closer they rode to the village, the more farmers had weapons close at hand in the fields. She also noticed that the men-at-arms had closed ranks and moved up to ride two deep on either side of the column, enclosing it on three sides. They entered forested land beyond the fields, until they came to Pohon. These villagers were different from those of Inti, except for the mute attention they gave Dove and Sarai. They accepted the duchess’s medicines without thanks. Their eyes were hostile when they looked at the men-at-arms, sullen as they regarded the prince, the duchess, Aly, and the luarin maid. Aly wondered if they remembered that their precious Lady was half luarin.

In the confusion of greeting the elders, Aly asked Winnamine to excuse her, implying that something she had eaten had not set well in her belly. When the duchess looked at her with the tiniest of frowns, Aly raised an eyebrow. Winnamine’s eyes crinkled with mirth, then she gravely nodded her permission.

Carrying her cloth bag and the empty medicine basket, Aly slipped into the shadows along the sides of a village house and put on the disguise she had packed into it: a beige head scarf such as farm women wore, tied at the nape of her neck, and a jar of brown skin tint, made of sap, that she could wipe off quickly. She smeared it on her face, arms, hands, and the tops of her feet where the leggings did not cover the bare skin. At the last moment she remembered the back of her neck, a mistake her father told her was often the death of spies. She hoisted the empty potion basket onto one shoulder as the raka women did, and sauntered through the area between the houses. Nearly everyone was gathered before the headman’s porch, where the nobility sat. Aly walked away from them.

Somewhere around Pohon there was a mage. Aly hoped it would be here, within the palisade walls. She kept her head down as she ambled along the beaten paths that were streets and walkways, keeping an eye open for any house that was decorated with the colors of a raka mage: red and purple braids, and green threads strung like spiderwebs in small wooden circles. People might visit a mage in her house for the treatment of their illnesses, or the mage could be elsewhere, helping a woman in labor while the midwife sat with the dignitaries at the headman’s residence. If the mage was away, Aly’s Sight would show her where the mage could be found.

She did see magic. Its white fire gleamed everywhere, in signs written on doors, windows, ladders, and wells, on the sides of jars and baskets, scratched in garden dirt. She didn’t know what they were for; the raka used very different signs from the eastern mages. From experience Aly could guess at their meanings and file in her memory the signs that obviously were for house blessing, disease, or fire prevention.

When she reached the rear wall without Seeing even a hint of a mage, Aly chewed her lip. She had prowled all over Pohon without luck. She had to return to the duchess’s party. Certainly she didn’t want to get left behind. Her disguise wouldn’t stand up to close inspection. The raka’s hate for the luarin was a nearly solid thing. It discouraged plans to stay the night.

She turned. Three raka men and two raka women blocked her path.

“So what is it?” asked one woman, a dark, feline creature who radiated contempt. “You thought raka are so stupid they wouldn’t notice a stranger prowling our village?”

“What are you nosing about for?” demanded one of the men. “Plots, weapons, treachery?”

“Or just something to steal?” asked the biggest man. “As if you luarin left us anything of worth.”

Aly crossed her arms to hide her movements as she freed her wrist knives. “Actually, I’d meant to talk to you about that,” she said cheerfully. “I thought I’d make a list, tell you what I need …” She lunged right, clearing that side of her attackers’ line. They charged her and halted, clear of the two blades she now held like the expert she was, one pointed out, one pointed back. She waited, her feet well placed, her balance perfect. It was important that she be careful. Killing one of these people would create more ill will for her and the Balitangs.

The big man came at her, tossing a long knife from one hand to the other like a market-day tough. Aly darted in, knocked the knife flying while it was between his hamlike hands, and jammed the edge of one of her blades up under his chin. His eyes flicked left. Aly snapped out a side kick that forced the man sneaking up on her to stumble away, protecting his bruised arm. On both feet again, she hooked the big man’s legs and yanked his feet from under him, dumping him onto his back. She jumped and landed on his belly with both knees, knocking the wind from his lungs.

A woman threw herself on top of Aly, who rolled away. The woman hit the big man instead, slamming the breath from her own lungs. Aly jumped to her feet and waited, her eyes on one of the men and the other woman. They closed in on her, blades out.

A knife cut the air between the two advancing raka to strike the earth just ahead of them, quivering, planted in the dirt. As the man looked back to find the thrower, Junai advanced, slowly turning her weapon hand over hand. When she passed the two on the ground, she smacked the woman on a kidney with her staff, drawing a yelp of pain. Junai kicked the man in the ankle, her boot slamming a sensitive bunch of muscle. The man swore. The woman facing Aly backed away from Junai, hands raised. The third man, trying to get around her, went down face-first, Nawat on his back.

“Don’t kill him,” Aly told Nawat quickly, not sure what the crow-man would do. “Let him breathe.” She looked at Junai. “Are you going to scold me now? I was handling things myself.”

“How did you do it, back there?” Junai inquired, brows raised. “No magic, no smoke or mist, you were just gone. And I wasn’t born yesterday.”

The woman who held up her hands looked at Junai, then Aly. “She’s
that
one? But she’s luarin!”

“Don’t talk to me, talk to the god,” Junai replied casually. “That is, if you think you’ll like the way he answers. All of you, memorize her face. Don’t let this happen again.” She looked at Aly and sighed. “They’re getting ready to leave.”

Aly tore off the head cloth and began to rub the sap off her bare skin.

“How did you leave?” Nawat wanted to know. “Even
I
lost you until I heard the village dogs bark about a fight.”

Aly shrugged, finding clean spots on the cloth to take off each patch of color. “That’s what I do,” she told him. “That’s why I’m here.” She resheathed her knives, then picked up the basket she had dropped.

“Do you speak only dog, or the language of all animals?”

“All animals,” Nawat replied. “Is that good?”

“It could be,” Aly replied. Passing the two on the ground—the woman who lay, both hands pressed to her kidney, the man clutching his ankle—she stopped and smiled. “It was ever so lovely to meet you,” she said politely. “Let’s do it again. Don’t let me see that cheap brawler’s trick a second time,” she added, nudging the man with her foot. “Any decent fighter will take you when you don’t have hold of your weapon.”

She tucked her disguise into her cloth bag, stowed it in her basket, which had been tossed aside in the fight, and walked back to the horses. By the time she and Nawat reached them, and Junai faded to wherever Junai kept herself, the nobles had said farewell to the Pohon elders. Only when they had ridden out of the village did Aly relax and review how she had done. Not so well, she decided. She was rusty. She had used too many flashy moves of her own. She needed to practice more.

As they turned toward home, Nawat fell back. He was on foot now, the wood and arrow shafts he had collected in the villages bundled and strapped to his horse’s back.

Dove joined Aly. “Did you see how they were, in the villages?” Dove asked, keeping her voice low. “The prince wasn’t even
trying
to be discreet at Inti. No wonder the raka hate us.”

“Us?” Aly repeated.

Dove looked sideways at Aly. “The luarin. We stole their country, killed most of their nobles, put thousands in near slavery, and made the rest complete slaves. I’d hate us, in their place.”

“But you’re not the same,” Aly pointed out. “You and Sarai are half raka.”

“Some villagers in Pohon saw the luarin half before the raka half,” retorted Dove. “I noticed, even if you didn’t.”

“Oh, I got a good idea of it,” Aly murmured.

Sarai let out a cascade of laughter. The prince smiled. Clearly he’d said something to amuse her.

“She’s half in love with him,” Dove said, her eyes on the man who rode between her sister and stepmother. “They’d do more than talk if the duchess left them alone.”

“Only half in love?” To Aly it seemed as if Sarai was head over heels.

“She can’t forget his money problems,” Dove commented. “I’m not helping. Whenever she starts to gush I mention his debts. And she’s no fool. She knows she has no fortune, just some land. So why does he court her? She’s forgotten all about the boy from Matebo House who made up to her in Rajmuat. It used to be I couldn’t get her to shut up about him. But Bronau pours on the honey, and Sarai goes all gooey-eyed.”

Aly saw it then, as clearly as if she’d read Bronau’s plans in one of his hidden letters. “Dove, Prince Hazarin is next in line for the throne, isn’t he? Then who’s after him—Princess Imajane?”