Inda (40 page)

 

 

 

The next two interviews were harder, because he had no defenses.

In the morning Tanrid showed up, in full dress, knife in his wrinkle-free sash, and not just an everyday knife, but his grandfather’s gold-handled knife, with the fine wing-markings along the haft, and his boots polished. All he was missing were wrist guards and mail coat and shield, which were never worn unless one was riding to battle. Even so he looked too large for the cell to Inda’s aching eyes; Inda’s fever had returned, because he could not eat and was too angry and frightened and grief-wrung by turns to sleep well.

“Talk,” Tanrid said, his arms crossed, his strong right hand resting lightly over the left elbow in a way Inda knew well.

Inda’s voice was going hoarse again, but he managed to get it all out. This time, when he recounted Dogpiss’ talk with the Sierlaef, his brother narrowed his eyes and looked quite angry. “I thought so,” he said. “The whole thing stinks. It was a damned setup, but I can’t figure out why. I will,” he promised, jabbing a finger toward Inda. “For my own honor, and yours. In the meantime, you have to uphold our honor and stick it out before the academy.”

“But I didn’t do anything. You don’t believe me?”

“Of course I do,” Tanrid retorted. “You are not, as some are saying, a liar. Never were. And no one has dared to say it to my face, either. I caught Kepri-Davan Tvei out, and he wouldn’t tell me to my face that you were a liar and coward—he tried to worm out of it. Is he a rabbit? His brother isn’t. Anyway, I gave him a prime thrashing out behind your barracks, and not one of your scrubs snitched, though half were watching on the sneak.”

Inda said, “Does Whipstick believe me?”

“He will. He’s waiting to find out what you tell me.”

Inda opened a listless hand, swallowing with difficulty. His throat was raw again. Not that he cared. He couldn’t eat anyway. What he longed for was sleep, and no dreams with Dogpiss falling, falling. “So if you believe me, then you see why I won’t go out there and take that beating.”

“No,” Tanrid said brutally, “I don’t. You have to stick it out, just like I said. Look, I know you told the truth and that Smartlip lied as well, and won’t I thump him when I do catch him out. Right now he’s sticking as close to the masters as a turd in straw. But see, Inda. You can’t stand out against the Sierandael, or even worse, force our father to do so on your behalf, which is really against the king. It’s riding too close to treason. Far too close. It’s not fair, and it’s not the truth, but they hold the power, not you. We find our own ways of getting justice, so long as the House retains honor. You have to go through with it, just like others have before, and no doubt someone else will next month, next year.”

Inda shook his head. “I won’t.”

Tanrid took a step toward him, mouth thin, eyes dangerous. “It’s our honor at stake.”

“Honor,” Inda croaked, “requires me to stand to the truth. Dogpiss
died.
” He gulped on a sob. “And it was not. My. Fault. I. Will. Not. Take. The. Blame.”

Tanrid raised his hand to strike Inda, but he looked down at Inda trembling there, his upper lip long, his eyes bruised, not from violence but by fever and grief and sleeplessness. He was a pitiful object, scrawny, dirty, obviously sick, but there was no sign of cowardice in that face, or of guile, just conviction, as total as it was hopeless.

And so Tanrid lowered his hand, and even wiped it on his tunic, and then, because he didn’t know what to say, he did something he hadn’t done since Inda was two, before his brother had been given to him to train: he ruffled his head, scratching a little behind his ear, like you do to a favorite puppy, an awkward, wordless caress that made Inda’s lips quiver. Tanrid felt his own throat constrict, and so he left.

The last interview was when the fever had worsened, and for a long time Inda thought he’d dreamed it. The night before he was either to give in and take a punishment he did not deserve, or to have his life ruined, maybe his father’s as well, he woke up to find a hand touching his brow, and Sponge was there.

“Hadand found a way to get me in,” Sponge breathed. “She thought—we thought—it might be better if you weren’t alone.”

Inda rolled over, his head pounding. Sponge touched his hot brow and drew his breath in. “Your brother said you might be sick, and asked the Sierlaef to get a message to Hadand—”

“The Sierlaef?”

“Yes. Mark you, he has not said anything to me. He wouldn’t. But he let Hadand know, even asked her to do something for you if she could. She thinks, just because he’s hiding out—he won’t talk about what happened to anyone—that he feels terrible about Dogpiss. That he never meant anything of the sort to happen. So anyway she arranged for me to be here. With this. Here, drink. You’ll sleep.”

Inda didn’t care what it was. He sipped something pungent that smelled like flowers, that wiped cotton-softness through the pain behind his eyes. He whispered, “I told the truth.”

“I know. We all know. But no one dares to speak. Yet. I promise you, Inda, on my honor, on my soul, you will get justice.” The voice was so soft Inda almost thought he dreamed it, except there was a deep tone, almost an adult note, a note of truth, that caught Inda’s fleeting attention and held it, just for a moment. And then he sank back, and Sponge’s arms closed round him, and held him, in compassionate, loving silence while he slept.

 

 

 

Just before dawn the Sierandael was considerably surprised to hear the clatter of galloping horses echoing up the walls. He was, though he would never admit it, tense enough about the Algara-Vayir affair (really, why was that boy so stubborn? So stupid? What did he possibly think he could win?) that he was already dressed by the time his personal Runner arrived.

He admitted the man, who smacked his fist against his chest in absent salute, his eyes wide as he said, “It’s Jarend-Adaluin of Choraed Elgaer.”

“Impossible.”

The man opened his hands. “He’s here, with an Honor Guard.”

The Sierandael frowned. “The fastest messenger would have taken two weeks, and then a two weeks’ hard ride back.” He did not say that he had had Runners on watch along all the southern roads to find out just who would have seen fit to apprise Algara-Vayir, outside of the official royal Runner who had not even been sent yet. Shoving aside that knowledge—and the memory of his Runners coming back empty-handed—he said, “Where is he? Seeking audience with me?”

“No, he’s closeted with the king.”

And so he was.

Tlennen-Sieraec had been on watch, as much as a king can be on watch during his days of ceaseless activity, ever since he had sent a message to Jened Sindan about what had happened via the magic locket.

Captain Sindan had been only a couple days’ ride from Tenthen Castle, for he was, on the king’s orders, painstakingly investigating the spectacular near-failure at Marlovar Bridge.

Sindan had ridden straight to Tenthen to bring back Jarend-Adaluin himself, using not the regular roads that bounded provincial lands, but the narrow unmarked Runner trails that ran through them.

Now the three men faced one another in the king’s study, two weary from almost ceaselessly riding day and night, one from stress. The king bade them both sit, and for once Jened Sindan relaxed his own rigid rule when in anyone’s presence but the king’s. He was too tired to stand, but he avoided the two great wingback chairs and chose the hassock farthest from the fire.

In a very few words, the king told the Adaluin what had happened.

The Adaluin’s mouth tightened at the end. Not anger so much as pain. “No, Inda won’t back down. He’d go up against the wall first.”

“No one doubts his courage,” the king said, moving to the window overlooking the parade ground and the academy beyond.

The Adaluin held out his hands. “Then what do I do? My choice appears to lie between ordering him to be flogged before the academy for something he swears on the honor of our House he did not do, or riding up to your throne and throwing down a war-pennant in Indevan’s name.”

In other words, either he betrayed the trust of his son or his oath to the king.

The Adaluin sat back in one of the great winged chairs, facing the king, who remained at the window, the side of his face highlighted with the blue colors of impending sunrise. Inda’s father pressed his lips together. First the betrayal of the plan at Marlovar Bridge, and now this business with Indevan. It was perhaps too easy, too convenient, to assume some mysterious form of treachery on the part of the Sierandael, whom he’d loathed ever since their academy days. The Adaluin’s memory of the king’s brother was of a shifty-eyed rat of a scrub, but that scrub had grown into a competent leader, an excellent trainer, and his loyalty to his brother was undoubted, a loyalty returned by the king.

The possibility of treachery against House Algara-Vayir was not treason. Accusing the Royal Shield Arm without proof was.

The king paced to the fire and back to the window again. “In a sense, the warded threat of war with the Venn has done us ill. We are not a people accustomed to peace. There are signs of internal strife, of frustrated expectations, that must be investigated, and shall be. For now, we must consider what is to be done with your boy.”

The Adaluin realized that the political repercussions he’d foreseen on the long ride were, somehow, already echoing through the kingdom.

“Young Indevan will not compromise,” the king said. “And I cannot see my way clear toward using my authority to force him. And without proof either way I cannot act.” The king paused, still staring out the window.

The other two paused as well, seeing in the unforgiving morning light the pain deepening the lines in the king’s face. The Sierlaef obviously knew more than he was telling, but three times the king had tried to get him to talk, to no avail. The implied lack of trust hurt worse than any of the other troubling news of late.

The Adaluin sighed and sat back. “From what you say, there is no clear trail of events, not unless someone can prove that those two boys lie.”

“But we cannot. Headmaster Brath and my brother both have interviewed everyone concerned. There are two conflicting stories. Whichever way I decide, the political strife realigns, perhaps worsens.” The king turned away from the window. “During the past week I’ve had far too many Runners demanding justice be done, or I had better give my reasons why I did not believe the two boys standing against Indevan, for then they can claim their Houses have been dishonored.”

The Adaluin remembered their academy days, how Kethadrend Kepri-Davan had veered between bootlicking the royal sons and complaining bitterly behind their heads about Vayir privileges. Of course Kepri-Davan would use this incident as an excuse to try to gain political advantage.

“I see.” The Adaluin sighed, his hands flexing. “Either I act, and worsen your strife, or I accept dishonor.”

Tlennen turned to the dark-haired man sitting on the hassock opposite the fire, rain dripping off his clothes and pooling on the floor. “Jened?”

Captain Sindan said, “I believe there is a third way. But it will be difficult for you both.”

Both men turned toward him.

“Tlennen,” he said to the king. “Your part is easiest. You will say nothing at all.”

The king’s brows rose faintly. “There are enough anomalies in the various stories to cause questions among those who are not sided with the Kepri-Davans and their ambitions for a rise in rank by whatever means. Perhaps a complete silence could be quite effective. If . . . ?”

Sindan turned to the Adaluin. “If your son vanishes, without trail or trace, if you do not see him, or know where he has gone.”

“I will agree,” said the king, “only if you will contrive that he be put in a place of safety. The boy is not at fault.”

Sindan struck his fist against his chest. “That I promise.”

They both turned to Jarend-Adaluin, who showed nothing of the pain those words gave him. In his long life he had learned to accept pain. He looked down at his hands, and then up. “Very well,” he said. “When must it be done?”

“Today.” And, “Now.”

PART TWO

Chapter One

A
S the merchant brig
Pim Ryala
drifted down the long Lindeth Harbor toward Lookout Point, the girl the ship was named for hitched up her skirts and thumped her skinny butt onto the taffrail. Two middies joined her, knowing the beck of command from the owner’s daughter when they saw it.

Ryala Pim nodded at the taller mid, a swarthy Idayagan. “Heyo, Fass. Whatcha got there?” She examined the second mid, a compact boy with a thatch of rust-tinged light hair and the slanty blue eyes found all over the southern hemisphere on either continent.

Fassun said, “Heyo. Testhy’s new, just come off snooze-watch. Captain hired him down south. Testhy, Ryala Pim.”

Testhy made a creditable bow.

Ryala snorted. “So you southerners think you know something about sailing the strait?”

Testhy sucked his lip. That kind of challenge from another mid, or a ship’s brat, he knew instantly how to answer—and where—but this was the owner’s daughter.

So he shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Ryala and Fassun exchanged looks of qualified approval. A hotheaded answer might mean a hothead on watch. Mama Pim was fluent about keeping contented ships, which was why the Pim family usually got the best pick at harbor hiring.

“So what’d ya sling at us this time?” Fass asked, leaning on the taffrail next to her.

“Just three for you and one for
Pim Olla
. You get two rats and a likely-seeming carpenter’s mate.” Ryala felt her guts lurch—which was why she never actually sailed in any of her mother’s little fleet. “We also saw us a prime Delf topman, but he turned out to be related to the Gams.” Another look exchanged.

Testhy, goaded, said, “I suppose that means something. I mean, I’ve heard of the Delfin Islands, but what’s a Gam?”