Court Duel (26 page)

As I watched, images flitted through my mind of little Ara,
the girl I'd met last year who talked so cheerily of twoing.
And of Oria, and of the summer dances on our hills; and I
realized, at last, how emotion-parched I was and how ignorant
of the mysteries of love.

I had seen ardency in men's eyes, but I had never felt it
myself. As I watched, isolated but unable to turn away, I
suddenly wished that I could feel it. No, I
did
feel
it, I realized. I did have the same feeling, only I had masked
it before as restlessness, or as the exhortation to action, or
as anger. And I thought how wonderful it would be to see that
spark now, in the right pair of eyes.

Looking away from the dancers, I glanced around the
room—straight into Flauvic's coin-glinting gaze. He
continued to stare straight at me across the width of the
ballroom, those large eyes half closed, and a pensive smile on
his perfect lips.

After a moment he started toward me at a deliberate
pace.

And my first reaction was to panic.

I suppressed the urge to retreat, bolstering myself with the
observation that he would never be so obvious as to touch me in
public.

As if he read my mind his smile widened, just slightly, and
when he was near enough to speak he bowed, hand on heart, and
said, "I make you my compliments, Meliara. A remarkable
achievement."

I did not ask what he meant.

For a time we stood there, watching the others, as the
dancers wound about the floor in intersecting circles that drew
imperceptibly tighter.

"Do you think your dances will become a fad again?" he
asked, still watching.

"Depends who asks for them to be played—if anyone
does," I said with a shrug. "You always could," I added.
"Guaranteed, the latest rage."

He laughed, one thin, well-made hand rising in the fencer's
salute for a hit. Then he stepped close, still without touching
me, but I could smell the clean, astringent scent he used in
his hair. "I wish," he murmured, "that you had been granted the
right tutor."

Tutor in what?
I was not about to ask.

And then he was on his way, bowing here, smiling there, a
careless flick of the hand to a third. Moments later he was
gone.

Though few had seen him go, his leaving seemed to constitute
a kind of subtle signal, for slowly, as white wore on, my
guests slipped away, many of them in pairs. Elenet left with
the Orbanith family, all but her laughing.

The Renselaeuses came all three to thank me formally for a
splendid—memorable—evening, and then departed in a
group.

After they left, I felt tiredness pressing on my shoulders
and eyelids; and though I stood there, back straight and smile
steady on my aching face, I longed for my bed.

The lake blue light of morning was just paling the eastern
windows when the last guests departed and I stepped wearily up
to my rooms.

They were lit, and steaming listerblossom tea awaited. A
surge of gratitude rose in me as I wondered how many times Mora
had summoned fresh tea that I might come back to this.

I sank down onto my cushions, wondering if I'd be able to
get up again to undress and climb into my bed. My hand
clattered the cup and saucer as I poured—and then froze
when I heard a slight noise come from my bedroom.

I froze, not breathing.

The tapestry stirred, and then, looking two steps from
death, Azmus came forward and sank down onto his knees a pace
away from me.

"They're going to war," he wheezed. "The Merindars. They're
going to march on Remalna-city as soon as the last of their
hirelings arrive."

TWENTY

I HEARD AZMUS'S WORDS, BUT AS YET THEY MADE NO sense.

So I held out my cup of tea. He took it carefully into his
trembling fingers and downed it almost at one gulp. Then he
gasped and blinked, and his eyes were noticeably clearer,
though nothing could banish the bruiselike smudges under
them.

"Now," I prompted, pouring more tea for him. "Tell me
again."

"The Merindars," he said. "Forgive me, my lady. I have not
left the saddle for nearly two days. Six horses—" He
paused to drink. "I dared not entrust a message to anyone. Six
horses I ran near to death, but I am here. After days and days
of incremental progress and extrapolation by inference, I had
luck at last and chanced to position myself to overhear a
conversation between the Duke of Grumareth's valet and a scout
from Denlieff. The Marquise of Merindar, the Duke, and three of
their supporters are all ranged at the border. Over the last
several months, 'volunteers' have poured into two of the
southern garrisons. Those volunteers are mercenaries—at
least the Marquise thinks they are mercenaries. They are
soldiers from Denlieff."

"And they're going to march on us here?"

He nodded. "Taking each town as they come. But that is not
all."

"Wait. Do the Renselaeuses know? I can't believe they
haven't been investigating any of this."

"I don't know how much they know," he said. "I did see some
of their equerries, the ones I recognized, but of course I
never spoke to them, as you desired my investigations to remain
secret."

He paused to drink again. His voice was a little stronger
now. "You must realize the Renselaeus equerries are constrained
by the past. In the countryside, there are those who are slow
to trust them because of the ambivalent role that Shevraeth was
forced to play under Galdran. I might therefore have access to
better information." He smiled faintly, despite cracked lips,
then he slurped down more tea. "So, to conclude, they probably
know about the pending attack. That kind of thing is hard to
hide if you know what you are looking for. But there is a
further threat that no one knows, I'm sure, because I happened
upon it only by accident."

"Speak," I said, gripping my hands together.

"Wagons of supplies," he said, fighting back a huge yawn
that suddenly assailed him. "Had to hide in one. Supposed to be
paving stone for road-building, and there was some, but only a
thin layer. Under it—I know the smell—cut and
stacked kinthus."

"Kinthits?"
I repeated. "They're harvesting kinthus
as, what, pay for the mercenaries?"

He shook his head, smiling bleakly. "You have never traveled
beyond our borders, my lady. You have no idea how precious our
rare woods are, for they
are
rare. Nowhere on this
world is there anything like our colorwoods, especially the
golden. What I overheard is that the Merindars and their allies
have granted permission for the hired forces to take a given
amount of colorwoods from Orbanith, Dharcarad—and
Tlanth—in trade for military aid."

"But—the kinthus. Are they going to plant it?" I tried
to get my tired mind to comprehend what I was hearing.

He shook his head, his face blanching again. "No. They will
burn it."

Shock rang through my head as though someone had struck it.
"Burn," I repeated stupidly. "Burn kinthus? In the woods? Then
they must want to
kill
the Hill Folk! Is that it?"

"Easiest way to get the wood unmolested," he said.

I glanced up, to find Mora standing, still as a statue, just
inside the servants' door. "My riding gear," I said to her.
"And send someone to have the fastest and freshest mount
saddled and ready. Please." To Azmus I said, "You've got to go
over to the Royal Wing and tell Shevraeth. Tell him everything.
Either him or the Prince and Princess. Only they can get an
army raised here to meet those mercenaries."

"What are you going to do?" Azmus murmured, rising slowly to
his feet.

I was already tearing at my laces, beyond considering the
proprieties. "To warn the Hill Folk, of course," I said. "There
is no one who knows how to find them as quickly as I do."

I dressed with reckless speed, tearing costly cloth and
flinging jewels to the floor of my room like so many seed
husks. As I dressed, Mora and a palace runner—who had
suddenly appeared—discussed the best route I ought to
take. No pretense of secrecy. We all had to work for the good
of Remalna—of the Hill Folk. We all agreed that Orbanith
was where I ought to go, for that was where the mountains
jutted east. They both felt that the dangers of riding the
river road were not as pressing as the need for speed. Also I'd
be able to hire fresh horses at inns known to both; they told
me their names, repeating them so I would remember.

Then I threw together a saddlebag of money and clothing, and
departed, to find the horse I'd ordered waiting on the steps of
the Residence Wing, held by a worried-looking stablehand. I
knew without speaking that somehow the word was spreading
through the palace—at least among the servants.

The bells of first-gold began ringing just as my horse
dashed past the last houses of Remalna-city. Soft rain cooled
my face, and the bracing wind helped revive me. I bent my head
low and urged my mount to stretch into a canter so fast it
seemed we flew over the road.

As we splashed westward, I scanned ahead. If I saw any more
than two riders, or anyone the least suspicious looking, I'd
ride alongside the road, much as it slowed me. Though I had
asked for a short saddle-sword, it was almost mere decoration.
I knew how little I could defend myself against trained
soldiers.

Occasionally the rain lifted briefly, enough to enable me to
see ahead when I topped the gentle rises that undulated along
the road. And after a time I realized that though no suspicious
riders were approaching, for I had passed nothing but farmers
and artisans going into the city, I was matching the pace of a
single rider some distance before me. Twice, three times, I
spotted the lone figure, cresting a hill just as I did. No
bright colors of livery, only an anonymous dark cloak.

A messenger from Flauvic? Who else could it be? For Azmus
would have reached the Royal Wing to speak his story just as I
set out. No one sent by the Renselaeuses could possibly be
ahead of me.

Of course the rider could be on some perfectly honest
business affair that had nothing to do with the terrible threat
of warfare looming like thunderclouds over the land. This
thought comforted me for a hill or two, until a brief ray of
light slanting down from between some clouds bathed the rider
in light, striking a cold gleam off a steel helm.

Merchants' runners did not wear helms. A messenger,
then.

I rode on, squinting ahead despite a sudden downpour that
severely limited visibility. It also slowed my horse. Despite
the paved road, the deep puddles interfered with speed and made
the ride more of an effort. When bells rang over the hills,
indicating the change from gold to green, both my horse and I
were weary.

The plan had been for me to halt at the Farjoon Anchor. My
drooping horse could stop, I decided, though whether or not I
did would depend on what the rider ahead did.

Presently I crested a hill. Spread below me in a little
valley was the village I'd been told to look for. I scanned the
road ahead and saw the mysterious rider splash up the narrow
lane into the village, disappearing among the small cluster of
houses.

My mount trotted slowly down the hill and into the village.
The inn was a long, low building in the center, with an anchor
painted on its swinging sign. I hunched into my wet cloak,
though no one could possibly recognize me, and slid off my
steaming mount as stablehands ran to the bridle. "Fresh horse,"
I said, surprised at how husky my voice came out—and when
my feet hit the mud, the world seemed to spin for a moment.

Before I ate or drank I had to find out who that rider was.
I stepped into the common room, scanning the few people seated
on cushions at the low, rough tables. They all had gray, brown,
or blue cloaks hung behind them, or hats. No dark cloaks or
helms. So I wandered farther inside and encountered a young
woman about my age.

"Hot punch? Stew?" she offered, wiping her hands on her
apron.

"My companion came in just ahead of me. Wearing a helm.
Where—"

"Oh! The other runner? Wanted a private room. Third down,
that hall," she said cheerily. "What'll I bring you?"

"I'll order in a moment." The savory aroma of stew had woken
my insides fiercely, and I realized that I had not eaten a bite
the entire day before.

As I trod down the hall, I made and discarded plausible
excuses. When I reached the tapestry I decided against speaking
at all. I'd just take a quick peek, and if the livery was
Merindar, then I'd have to hire someone to ride back and warn
the Renselaeuses.

I pulled my soggy cloak up around my eyes, stuck out my
gloved finger, and poked gently at the edge of the
tapestry.

Remember the surmise I recorded on my arrival at the
Residence that day in early spring—that if anyone were to
know everyone's business, it would be the servants?

I glanced inside in time to see a pale, familiar face jerk
up.

And for a long, amazing moment, there we were, Meliara and
Shevraeth, mud-spattered and wet, just like last year, looking
at one another in silence. Then I snatched my hand back, now
thoroughly embarrassed, and spun around intending retreat. But
I moved too fast for my tired head and fell against the wall,
as once again the world lurched around me.

I heard the faint metallic
ching
of chain mail, and
suddenly he was there, his hand gripping my arm. Without
speaking, he drew me inside the bare little parlor and pointed
silently at a straw-stuffed cushion. My legs folded abruptly,
and I plopped down.

"Azmus—" I croaked. "How could you—I sent
him—"

"Drink." Shevraeth put a mug into my hands. "Then we can
talk."

Obediently I took a sip, felt sweet coffee burn its way
pleasantly down my throat and push back the fog threatening to
enfold my brain. I took a longer draught, then sighed.