Trouble with Kings (13 page)

Jason lay down on the pile of cloaks, his breathing loud in the quiet cottage.

No one spoke. The tall man stooped to lay another cloak over Jason, who had been bandaged with ripped lengths from a cotton shirt. The tall man straightened up. I caught an appraising glance from dark eyes, then he vanished through the door.

More voices outside. Consultation, it sounded like. Someone came back in; I heard the muted clink of chain mail as he knelt at the fire. A creak, the door closed.

Warmth from the fire reached me, bringing lassitude. I had almost drifted into sleep when the door opened. Cold air rushed in, followed by footsteps.

A voice said, low, “Water?”

“Steaming,” responded another in the same accent that Jaim and Jewel used.

“Good enough for now. Let’s get the healer’s brew into them.”

Brew? My eyes closed. Very soon I smelled the wonderful, healing, summery aroma of steeped listerblossom.

“Here. Drink.”

That long, bony face, the dark eyes and hair, firelit from the side—they were vaguely familiar. I remembered previous half-wakings when that same voice had issued that same command.

“No sleepweed,” I protested.

A brief smile. “No.”

An arm supported me, and a metal cup pressed against my lower lip. I drank the brew without pausing for breath. Then the arm withdrew and I lay down again.

“What happened?” I whispered. “Jason said it was thieves.”

“An ambush,” was the quiet reply. “Twelve against two seemed appropriate odds. An understandable error.”

The man moved away, and I closed my eyes.

Woke when I couldn’t breathe. I was shivering in spite of the warm air. The fire leaped and glowed. I moved toward it, felt its scorch on my face. The heat helped my shivering abate, so I crouched into a ball as close to the fire as I could, but soon I was much too hot, and so I moved away—and collided with that tall, dark-haired man.

“Lie down. Sleep,” he said, moving aside.

“I’m hot.”

“You’ve a slight fever. Too much sleepweed, too little food, and a chill. Lie down. I’ll steep more healer leaf. You should shake it off by morning.”

I looked at the scrunched blanket with its damp spots, and shuddered. The man had set the water pot on the hot stones near the fire. He then reached over my head. Fabric had been festooned above us to dry.

The man pulled it down—another of those heavy wool army cloaks.

“Here. This one is dry. Remove that gown and wrap up in the cloak. You will only stay chilled in those wet clothes.”

I flushed as I looked Jason’s way. He was utterly oblivious, his breathing slow and deep.

The man said in a quiet voice that didn’t quite mask his amusement, “He won’t waken and I’ll go outside. Make it quick.”

He opened the door and vanished. I wrestled my way out of what had once been a beautiful walking gown. Jason never moved—I watched him the entire time—as I wrapped myself in the woolen cloak, which was warm from the fire. It smelled absurdly of singed wool.

I spread my gown on the hearth, aghast at the mud and moss making it clot in wads. I scraped at the worst spots, knowing that I could never put it on again so dirty, and then stared down in horror as the fabric, so delicate, ripped like spider webs before a broom.

The door creaked open. I retreated to my spot. The dark-haired man came in and knelt before the fire. He checked the water pot and cast leaves into it. Again the wonderful smell of listerblossoms filled the air. I lay there looking up at the raindrops glistening on his hair and on his dark green long tunic. Firelight gleamed along the complicated pattern of his blackweave riding boots, and on the hilt of a knife at his belt. Who was he? His manner, some of his gestures, betrayed the sort of control that aristocrats get trained into them from birth. But he was dressed as an armsman.

“The steeped leaf is ready.” His voice was a low rumble.

When I handed the cup back, there was movement beyond his arm. Jason sat up, his eyes bright with fever.

The man turned his way and wordlessly held out another cup. Jason took it one-handed, drank it, and lay down again.

I did as well.

My slumbers were uneasy, full of strange dreams of fire, and knives, and Garian’s cruel laughter.

I woke to whispers. “…didn’t eat for the two days previous. She has a mild fever, not nearly as bad as yours. Nothing that a couple good meals won’t set to rights. But you—”

“I’ll live.”

“You won’t if you try to ride. You lost too much blood.”

“We’ll see.” That was Jason, sounding impatient. “I know I can’t defend myself. We’ll wait on Brissot.”

“Good.”

The next time I woke, people moved around me. The fever had turned into a head cold, otherwise I felt fine. Weak light filtered in from small windows in the four walls, the shutters wide. There was no glass in them; cool, pine-scented air drifted down in a slow breeze.

The voices ceased, footsteps clunked and clattered on the warped floorboards. The door creaked.

I smelled food.

Pulling the cloak close, I sat up to find Jason sitting across from me, leaning against the wooden chest. He still wore his muddy trousers and boots, but had someone else’s shirt on. It was much too large for him; at the unlaced neck I glimpsed that long chain, now cleaned of bloodstains, and fresh bandages. His hair hung tangled in his face and down onto his breast.

Why did I laugh at his sorry, bedraggled appearance? Because ridiculousness made a repellent situation more bearable.

With his good hand he lifted a beat-up metal cup in a mocking salute. “At least I’m not blue,” he observed, then coughed.

I looked down at my cloak and long, waving mud-streaked tangles of honey-colored hair. Blue? I poked one hand out. Oh. It was mottled and blotched with blue dye—from my gown, which had been intended only for civilized wear, after which careful hands would have put it through a cleaning frame.

“Were there a mirror we’d crack it.” My voice was hoarse.

Jason turned his head toward the fire. He lifted his chin in the direction of the metal pot from the night before. Next to it was my ruined gown. “Markham is bringing extra gear.”

I reached down, wadded up the gown and pitched it into the fire. Whoosh! A smell of scorched fabric, and it was soon gone.

I tucked the cloak more securely about me, and poured out steeped leaf. Then turned my attention to a pair of covered stoneware pots.

“Soup in one. Bread in the other.”

I helped myself to the soup once I’d drunk the steeped leaf, since I saw no other dishes. The bread had a portion missing. It was still warm, having been baked in the ceramic pot. I helped myself.

“Can I get you something?” I asked, seeing Jason just sitting there.

“Ate.” He coughed again.

“Then I will finish the steeped leaf. It’s lukewarm anyway.”

He gave a brief nod.

I sat back on my blanket, curling my legs under me, and sipped slowly. The taste, the warmth, faint as it was, felt wonderful.

When I was done I opened my eyes and set aside the cup.

Jason was watching me. “Markham corroborates that you did in fact pull me from the fire.”

I shivered as the memory flooded back.

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “And so? More helpful hints about my cowardice?”

He said nothing.

“I take your accusation of squeamishness as a compliment. I see no disgrace in finding oneself unable to hack apart one’s fellow being. Nor in finding disgusting and reprehensible the kind of life wherein that is an everyday activity.”

“Including self-defense?”

I remembered my short, intense (and totally ineffectual) wishes that I had had the skills of one of my adventurous ancestors. “No. I was shortsighted there.” And, lest he think I was admitting defeat, I added, “Had I had the remotest idea that my life would be enlivened by all this violent effort to get hold of my inheritance, I would have forgone my studies of music in favor of all the sword-swinging and knife-throwing I could cram into a day.”

“Music. You mentioned that before. That’s what you do?”

“Is that so astonishing?”

Slight lift of his good shoulder. I read dismissal in that gesture, as though music was a foreign concept to be defined some day in the far future.

“Trying to pick apart from Garian’s discourse what was truth and what was lies.” He looked at the fire again.

“Garian,” I repeated.

“I can’t decide whether he’s two steps ahead of me or two behind.”

“What does that mean?”

The diffuse blue gaze returned to me, but he did not answer.

Puzzled, unnerved, mostly weary, I flopped down, my back to him, and listened to the rain on the roof.

Chapter Twelve

When I woke again, it was to the rumble of thunder. A flash of lightning had broken into my dreams. Rain roared on the roof of the cottage. A thin stream of water ran down inside the far wall, but at least it found another hole to run out of and our floor was not awash.

I sat up and sneezed. My head now felt stuffed with cotton. My throat was scratchy; I’d been breathing through my mouth.

The fire crackled, giving off welcome light and heat. Jason sat in the same place as before. Papers rested near his good hand, and a quill and ink.

He pointed with his chin behind me.

Neatly folded clothing lay to hand: a stout black linen shirt, and one of those heavy green woolen battle tunics. Under that was a handkerchief—a besorcelled one, I discovered, as I touched it. It had that same tingly feel as cleaning frames.

I buried my face in it gratefully, snorting and snuffling.

When I looked back, Jason’s attention was on his papers. He too had one of the handkerchiefs. He set down his quill, picked up the handkerchief, coughed, snorted and then resumed his work.

I was embarrassed at the notion of asking him to turn around, for what if he refused? Or made some devastating comment? Despite having grown up with a brother, I was modest—private, in fact, and even under extreme circumstances such as these I did not want to change my clothes in sight of a man I not only did not know, but actively disliked.

Not that there was any hint of expectation, of desire, of the awareness of physical proximity from Jason Szinzar. In short there was nothing remotely romantic, flirtatious or even friendly in my present situation.

Jason’s pen scratched steadily across his paper.

Though I’d exchanged the usual adolescent kisses and explorations, I’d come to distrust flirtation, wherein ambition was all too often masked by the sweet words of so-called love.

Since those days I had confined my definition of love to the strictly familial. Always, balanced against the romantic songs and the sights of flirting couples at balls was the knowledge of my mother’s short, dismal life. Now, to me
she
embodied cowardice—not that I had ever spoken the words aloud.

So here I was alone with an enemy—the circumstances uncertain—and yet I had to dress.

I hesitated. Looked again. Jason was busy and I did not want to call his attention to me.

So I turned my back, pulled the clothes under the cloak and wrestled them on over my chemise and drawers, which I knew were grimy and as blue-smeared as my flesh, but at least they were dry. The shirt and tunic were so large that it was actually no difficulty.

When at last I shook out the folds, the battle tunic thumped straight down to the tops of my feet, forming an odd sort of gown above my walking slippers, which—mud caked and mossy—were still on my feet.

The laces on the shirt began well below my collarbones; ball gowns scooped only a fraction lower. I pulled the laces as tight as I could and tied them into a secure knot, though when I bent, an edge of my grubby blue-stained chemise peeked absurdly out. The shirt was also vastly outsize. I had to roll the cuffs back several times to free my fingertips, but I did not care. It was warm.

When I looked over, I saw Jason’s gaze on me. He did not hide his amusement. “If Markham were any bigger, those clothes would fall right off you.”

“Contrary.” I sounded like a goose honking. So I dropped a dainty curtsey. “They are much too tight.”

He gave me a sardonic half-smile, coughed hard into his handkerchief, and turned his attention back to his papers.

There was more steeped leaf, soup and bread. While Jason worked his way through his papers, I had a quiet meal. The only sounds were the fire, the rain, and our coughing and snuffling. Jason’s cold, I noted with sour triumph, was far worse than mine.

When I was done eating, I felt for the first time that I might actually stay awake. I looked around the cottage, which provided little to view beyond warped planking and mossy patches. The thundering rain outside made venturing beyond the door a prospect of limited appeal.

So I sat down and fingered the worst tangles from my hair, then braided it. As I worked, I covertly studied my enemy, wondering what I ought to do, for I knew what would come next. He would go forward with the plans to extort my inheritance from my brother. Balanced against that I had only one small comfort: he did not intend to use it to fund an invasion of Lygiera.

Or, that was what he’d said. A lie? I could not remember him lying to me. None of the Szinzars had lied, whatever else one could say of their motivations. Unlike Garian, who in retrospect had enjoyed spinning out falsehoods just to see me believe them without question.

A stray memory recurred: Jason flicking my cheek with his finger, and saying,
You asked for it
.

Asked
for “it”? Asked for what, a smashing fall from a horse? That was as close to a lie as he’d come, for I had never
asked
for pain and trouble! Did it mean he thought I deserved such a fall? But his tone had not been gloating, as Garian’s had been. It had been more of a warning.

“Question?”

Belatedly I realized I was still staring at him. No, actually glaring. So I said, “You told me when I woke up in Garian’s that I’d ‘asked for it’. What did you mean?”

His brows lifted. “Neither of us expected you to climb down the trees and ride off at the gallop in the middle of the night. Put Garian in quite a rage, by the way.” He smiled, obviously enjoying the remembered spectacle.