Climate of Change (47 page)

“Craft.”

He jumped. It was the child, in her nightclothes, standing by his bed. “Baroness, you should not be here.”

She ignored that. “Are you sure you don't have a niece?”

“Sons only,” he said.

She sighed. “I don't understand why my dream went wrong. But you will do.” She climbed into bed with him.

“Baroness!” he protested, appalled.

“Call me Tula. Put your arm around me.” She nestled close, as for sleep.

What could he say to her, that would not trespass on things no child was supposed to know? “Tula, you cannot be with a strange man! It would destroy your reputation.”

“My reputation for being weird? Why do you think I made Father bring you to me?”

“
You
made him do it? Tula, I'm a hostage, not a companion.”

“That, too,” she agreed. “Now hold me, so I can sleep.”

“Tula—”

“Be quiet, or I'll kiss you.”

He started to laugh, weakly. Then she lurched forward and pressed her face into his, kissing him with surprising authority before withdrawing. She felt almost like a woman.

Was this a test of some kind? Were hidden servants watching? Well, he was at their mercy anyway. He put one arm around the girl, and let
her snuggle close. She evidently wanted the comfort of an adult, and perhaps was accustomed to requiring a servant to do it. It seemed that her father was not the type, and where was her mother?

He closed his eyes, and slept surprisingly readily. It was oddly pleasant being close to this odd child. Could he have had a daughter or niece like this, had things been otherwise?

“She's coming!”

That jolted him awake. It was dawn, and Tula was sitting up. “She is?” he asked foggily. Who was “she”?

“Yes. I knew she would.”

“Then perhaps you should get ready to meet her.”

“I will.” She bounced out of bed and ran to her own room.

That gave him a chance to see to his own morning details. He discovered a fresh robe on a chair beside the bed, so evidently a servant had been here in the night, seen them asleep embraced, and made no outcry. Which suggested that he had not trespassed in a way that could have gotten him summarily beheaded. Even the most innocent sleep, as this was, could have been lethal, otherwise.

Tula reappeared, freshly garbed, her hair neatly done. She was like a little princess. “This way,” she said, excited. “We have to eat first.”

Servants made them a meal for two. “Grape juice,” Tula said. “Father won't let me have real wine. And poppy-seed bread.”

“Poppy-seed!” Craft exclaimed. “This is humor?”

“No. It makes me feel giddy and I like it. I am less bored when I eat it.”

Small wonder. Poppy seeds could be mind-bending, even hallucinogenic. But probably most of that was denatured by the baking process, so the effect was mostly imaginary.

He joined her in eating the bread. It was good enough. But soon he did feel slightly light-headed. Was it his imagination?

Again he wondered: was he being tested? Odd things kept happening.

Then Tula led him down to the presentation chamber, where Tuho awaited them. “She is now being admitted,” he said.

Soon their visitor was ushered into the room, as the soldiers who
had guarded her faded back. Only when he saw her did Craft remember: Tula had predicted that his sister would come. “Rebel!” he exclaimed.

She hurried to him and hugged him. “You are safe!” she said, relieved.

“Of course he is safe,” Tula said. “I guarded him all night.” She shot an imperious glare at her father.

Tuho looked abashed. “I wasn't really going to cast him into the dungeon,” he protested. But his manner hinted that there could have been such a plan, foiled by the intercession of the child. Tula evidently had a fair notion what was what. So it had not been just her need for adult comfort that put her into Craft's bed and in close physical contact. She had stopped the men from coming for Craft after she was safely asleep.

“I made sure.” Tula turned to Rebel. “You're pretty.”

Indeed she was. Her fair hair and pale eyes made her stand out among ordinary women, and she had dressed to accentuate her female qualities. At age twenty-seven she was a stunning figure of a woman, and knew it. “Thank you.” She did not seem to find it remarkable that a child was present and participating.

“What is your business here, Baroness?” Tuho asked Rebel, according her a title of honor that was barely technically accurate. Hero was the baron; his siblings were only relatives. Tuho's manner was controlled, but Craft knew he was taking in the qualities of body and bearing that Rebel was displaying. No man could do otherwise.

“I come to plead for the release of my brother. He is a family man; his wife and children need him.” As she spoke she breathed a bit more deeply than she needed to, and angled her head prettily. She was exploiting her sex appeal. Her words were only a portion of the case she was making.

“Prince Craft is hostage for the safety of his troops,” Tuho said. “They have been spared slaughter. They have been fed and watered. He must remain for ransom.”

“Fed with poppy-seed bread!” she snapped.

“It is what we have to spare. It will make their condition more comfortable.”

She evidently decided to let that pass. Any bread was better than
none, and this was better than what they had been eating. “It has been a bad year. We don't have a lot for ransom.”

“Then we shall be obliged to wait for a good year.”

“But his family!” she protested.

“That is not my concern. I need resources for my own troops, and a fair ransom should help.”

Rebel seemed about ready to cry. This was of course artifice, but just might be effective. “What can I do?”

“You can marry Father,” Tula said.

All three adults were startled. “That is not the nature of this negotiation,” Tuho informed his daughter.

“Yes it is,” Tula insisted. “I saw it in my dream. That she would come here and marry you. You need a wife and she's pretty.”

As if that was all there was to it. But the baroness was after all a child.

“I will consider it,” Tuho said.

Rebel saw that her calculated physical appeal had gone too far. “You don't want me. I'm barren.” She smiled with a tinge of bitterness. “A barren baroness.”

“You can't be,” Tula said. “Somebody has to have a daughter. I saw her in my dream.”

Rebel shrugged. “It wasn't me.” She turned back to Tuho. “I must return to my people. Maybe we can raise a sufficient ransom.”

“I think not. You will remain here while I consider.”

“You want a mistress, not a wife,” Rebel flared. “I would not be suitable for either, unwilling.”

“We shall see.”

Rebel turned to go. Guards reappeared, blocking her way. She had been taken hostage too.

“She would not be good,” Craft said, trying to save the situation. “She has a mind of her own.”

Tuho's eyes narrowed. “How would you see it, Baroness, if your brother were put to the torture, pending your cooperation?”

“Don't threaten her, Father,” Tula said. “She'll kill you. You can win her if you do it right.”

The man eyed his daughter as if taking her seriously. “Is she worth winning?”

“Yes.”

Tuho spread his hands. “I bow to my daughter's wisdom. Remain as my guest.”

“But I do have to remain, regardless of my preference?” Rebel asked, unpleased.

The baron nodded.

So it was that Rebel moved in with Craft and Tula. She had tried to rescue him, and gotten herself captured too. She seemed to accept it, but Craft knew that Tuho's life would be in peril if he got close to her.

“Father is not a bad man,” Tula said. “He does what he thinks he has to do. When you marry him, the ransom will be forgiven and you will be free to go home on occasion.”

“
If
I marry him,” Rebel said tightly.

“He's already smitten with you. He'd take you to bed today, if you let him.”

“How nice to know,” Rebel said wryly.

“You will like him, when you get to know him.”

“You hope. Are you looking for a replacement mother?”

Now the girl seemed pensive. “Not exactly.”

Rebel zeroed in. “
What
, exactly?”

“I want to be with Allele.”

“Who?”

“She dreamed I had a daughter,” Craft said, misspeaking.

“Not you, exactly,” Tula said. “But somebody.”

“Who is the mother of this Allele?” Rebel asked alertly.

The child struggled. “Nel. . . Nell—”

“Crenelle?”

“Yes! And—”

“Hero?”

“No.”

“Keeper?”

“Yes!”

Rebel glanced at Craft. “If you die, Crenelle will marry Keeper, and maybe have that daughter. That's Tula's vision.”

“But she's my age, almost,” Tula said.

“Let's change the subject,” Rebel said. “If I am to marry your father, I need to know more about you. What interests you, Tula?”

“Big stories. But we're out of new ones. That's why I eat the poppy seed. It keeps me from being bored.”

Rebel considered only briefly. “We Alani have stories. Do you know of King Arthur?”

“No.”

“Then let's get comfortable, and I'll tell you.”

“Let me get some food,” Tula said.

A servant appeared, and the girl gave the order: bread, jam, mead. Soon they were all seated on the bed, eating poppy-seed bread and drinking mildly alcoholic mead, and Rebel started in on the major Alan legend of King Arthur and his Round Table.

“Round?” Tula asked.

“Round. Because the king had many nobles, and they were all supposed to be even, and they could quarrel about which of them deserved to sit most royally, so they made the table round so that no one could sit above or below anyone else. It was a wonderful compromise.”

“Oh,” Tula agreed, fascinated.

“The story really begins when young Arthur pulled the sword from the stone.”

Tula laughed. “Swords don't live in stones!”

“Yes, it was unusual. The sword had been plunged into the stone by the prior king, who said that the man who drew it out would be the next king. Everyone tried, but no one could do it. It was really wedged in tightly. Until Arthur, who was just a servant in a noble's estate, tried it. And the sword came out readily.”

“That's crazy! Unless he was very strong.”

“He wasn't. There's a different version, where Arthur was noble, destined to be king, but others weren't sure he had the discipline or power to handle it. He needed a persuasive sword. So the Lady of the Lake gave him her sword.”

“Who?”

“Well, he never saw her. It was just this delicate hand emerging from the water, holding the sword. He took it, and after that others knew he deserved to be king.”

“Ridiculous!” Tula said. “Tell me more.”

Rebel did, evidently appreciating the audience. Craft appreciated it on two levels: it was a great old story, long told among Alani, and it was distracting the child from whatever other mischief she might otherwise come up with. It was also nice to see Rebel enjoying herself. For once she wasn't establishing her militant independence, but relaxing. That made her prettier than ever. Maybe the intoxicating bread and mead had something to do with it. Yet again Craft wondered exactly what was going on.

At length Rebel called a halt. “We have to sleep,” she said diplomatically.

“That is unfortunate,” Tuho said.

Rebel and Craft jumped; they had not known he was there. But Tula seemed unsurprised. “Can I stay up late, Father, to hear more?” she asked.

“No. You do need your sleep. Princess Rebel will be here tomorrow.”

“I'm no princess,” Rebel protested. “Not even a baroness.”

“Yes you are,” Tula said.

“Honorary title,” Craft murmured, to stifle Rebel's rebellion.

“Which of us gets to sleep with her tonight?” Tula asked with a half-knowing smile.

Again, Tuho seemed to take her seriously. “She will choose.”

Rebel considered. Craft knew what was in her mind: which one of the two could she better impress, and thus gain power over, in one night?

She decided. “Tula. Tonight.”

Tuho was surely disappointed, but he accepted it with grace. It was evident that he already understood that Rebel had to be won her way. “There will be other nights.”

“Perhaps,” Rebel agreed.

She was definitely considering.

Tuho departed. “You will,” Tula said confidently.

“Which?” Rebel asked.

“First a night, then marriage.”

“How can you know?”

“I remember, from my dream.”

Rebel glanced at Craft. “Should I?”

“Do you want to?”

“The night? Yes, it could be fun. But I don't like marrying under duress.”

“You would never do that.”

She nodded. “I will decide. I will probably do it for the right price.”

“He'll meet it,” Tula said. “He'll do anything for you.”

“And this is what you want, Tula?”

Now the girl considered. “It will happen. Is that enough?”

“No.”

“I thought you wanted it, Tula,” Craft said, surprised.

“I do, if it's right.” The child faced Rebel. “Will you leave your family?”

“No,” Rebel said. “I will always be close to my family. Your father will have to accept that.”

“Then it's right,” Tula concluded.

“It's right?” Craft asked.

“I will join your family. That's what I want. Even if Allele's not there. I will be the only girl.”

“So nice to have that settled,” Rebel said with an irony Craft hoped escaped the child.