Dark Haven (14 page)

“Thanks. I never tune well when I’m in a hurry.”

“What’s the rush?” Carroway set his lute aside as he rummaged through his pack.

“Couldn’t help it. I was making fairly good time, actually, until I stopped to pick up a meat pie on the way here. I caught a snatch of a conversation, and it’s got me worried.”

Helki had an excellent sense for intrigue, as good perhaps.even as Carroway’s own. “So… what did you hear?”

“I didn’t know either of the two by name, although I’ve seen them at court. One of the men was dark‐featured, like he might be from the border near Nargi. Had an outlands accent, too. The other one had red hair and looked like a Borderlander. Anyhow, the dark man wasn’t comfortable at all with the vayash moru who’ve been at court lately.”

Carroway frowned. “There’ve always been vayash moru in Margolan’s court. That’s not new.”

“But there are more now. They come often. And they don’t just stay toward the back anymore.

Used some pretty ugly language. Blood‐suckers, child‐eaters, that kind of thing.”

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“We get the picture,” Carroway said with distaste.

“Well, his companion, the redhead, said that it was just more of the other strange goings on since we got a mage for a king. The redhead seemed even more steamed up about getting a queen from Isencroft. Said we didn’t need the burden of taking on Isencroft’s troubles when we were hard‐pressed to feed our own people.”

“And whose fault is that?” Macaria chimed in. “No one but Jared’s.”

Helki raised his hands in truce. “Don’t shoot the messenger! I’m just reporting, not taking sides.”

“Go on,” Carroway said. Macaria scowled and folded her arms.

“The redhead went on to say that if we weren’t careful, next we’d be getting Isencroft’s Oracles and the. rest of their Chenne‐worshippers. He was going on about the Sisterhood, how with a Summoner on the throne they’d have their ‘shadowy claws’ on Margolan. The dark man said it was almost enough to make him think about heading for Principality. But the redhead said, ‘It isn’t settled yet. Don’t count us out.’”

Carroway frowned. “I don’t like the way that sounds.”

“Neither did I. But just then, they got up and left.”

“What do you think it means?” Macaria asked.

Carroway hesitated. “I doubt that we’ve caught up with everyone who benefited when Jared was in power. Jared couldn’t have done as much damage as he did without help.”

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“What about something as simple as jealousy?” Helki ventured. “I mean, ambitious fathers like to marry their daughters as high as

they can. Maybe a couple of them have their noses out of joint because a foreign queen means no royal in‐law for them, and no clout.”

“What worries me the most is the idea that ‘it’ isn’t settled yet,” Carroway said. “What do they mean by ‘it’? Do they mean Tris being king, or the marriage to Kiara, or accepting Kiara as queen?”

“And do they mean that it just hasn’t happened yet and sometimes life changes plans, or did they have something more hands‐on in mind?” Macaria added.

“You’re playing for Eadoin tonight, Carroway,” said Helki. “You’re clever enough to find out what she knows.”

Carroway brushed back an errant lock of jet‐black hair. “Don’t underestimate her. No one ever gets free information out of Lady Eadoin.”

Macaria gave him a wicked smile. “We expect you to come back with the story—even if you have to sacrifice your body to her advances.”

It was Carroway’s turn to roll his eyes. “Really, Lady Eadoin has always been the soul of propriety. You’re going to start talk.”

“There’s been talk about you and the court ladies for years, my dear.” Macaria dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. “If even half of it is true, you’ve been a busy boy.”

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“I make it a rule never to talk about my patrons,” said Carroway, “much, anyhow.”

Helki laughed. “You don’t have to. They talk. And while you’re the most gifted musician in Margolan, those good looks of yours have gotten you some patronesses who weren’t just interested in your music.”

“And to think, I’ve been spurning advances like that for years.” Macaria clearly enjoyed Carroway’s discomfort. “Then again, you had no way of knowing you’d end up court bard. Some of those widowed noblewomen could have provided quite a comfortable home,” she teased, placing exaggerated emphasis on the word “comfortable.” ‘ .

“Enough,” Carroway said. He did have a reputation. Older women appreciated the presence of a handsome young man, and without family or fortune to rely upon, he had played to the vanity of prospective wealthy patronesses. He’d meant to keep it as harmless flirtation. But he had underestimated one of them. It was an old scandal. Macaria and Helki were too new to court to know the whole story, and Carroway was not inclined to bring it up.

“More to the point,” Carroway said, “we’ve got to keep an eye out for trouble. Tris and Harrtuck have enough to worry about—we might just hear something important.”

“Maybe it is just jealousy.” Macaria said. “We’ve seen Kiara. She’s beautiful, she’s foreign, and she handles a sword better than most men.” She spread her palms up to the sky. “What’s not to hate?”

“You forgot—she has a small amount of magic in her own right,” Carroway said.

“Which means that the next heir to the throne is certain to be a mage as well,” Helki finished.

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Carroway shrugged. “Kiara doesn’t have the kind of power Tris does—it’s mostly scrying and such. Her magic is very specific, and it was directly related to protecting the crown of Isencroft.”

“Does it transfer to the crown of Margolan?”

“Who knows?”

“So anyone who is uncomfortable with a mage‐king has a long time to wait.” Helki leaned back in his chair.

“Unless they decide to do something about it,” Macaria said.

Carroway met their eyes. “We need to get the Troupe together. Find Bandele, Paiva, and Tad-hge. We need their ears. Tris has his hands full with Curane and cleaning up the rest of the mess Jared left.”

“How about the Goddess purists?” Helki asked. “The ones who are afraid that the Oracles and the Sisterhood are going to swoop down and take over?” Carroway grimaced. “Yet another reason to worry.”

The door to the kitchen opened. Bian, the head of the kitchen staff, entered bearing a tray with a pot of hot tea, a generous length of sausage, a hearty wedge of cheese, and a bowl of fruit.

“Thank you.” Macaria slapped back Helki’s hand playfully as he reached for an apple. “That’s very kind of you.”

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Bian’s hands were gnarled from work and marked with the burns of stray cinders. Her face bore witness to the trials she had survived— marks from the pox, a not‐quite‐straight nose from a drunken husband, the lines of age and worry. But her back was straight, her eyes sparkled, and she grinned.

“I’ve been feeding this one here,” she said with a wave toward Carroway, “since he was just a slip of a boy. Can’t stop now. Besides, we like your music—when you play.” She gave a side‐long look at Carroway. “Sorry. Just catching up on court gossip,” Bian nodded, setting out the food on a small table. “You mean, like the talk about the new queen.” She gathered up the serving tray and limped toward the door.

“Bian, what have yo.u heard?” asked Macaria.

The old woman turned. “Well, first off, you’d be surprised what people say around me and the girls. Like we’re doorposts with no ears. ‘Just the serving wenches’ they think. Some of the ladies at court are most put out not to be considered to wed the king.”

Bian had worked in Shekerishet’s kitchen all of her life. Carroway remembered stealing down to the kitchen at night with Tris, sometimes to avail themselves of a snack, but more often to find the ingredients for a poultice to bind up a wound that Jared had inflicted. Jared’s temper had been well known among the serving staff. Worse were the elder prince’s lusts. No young woman who came to serve in the palace remained a virgin long when Jared was around. His taste for rape ran to brutality, which had only gotten worse when he had the crown. Bian’s daughter had been one of his victims, a pretty young girl who had disappeared after being summoned to bring a flask of wine for Jared.

“What are they saying, Bian?”

Bian leaned against one of the heavy serving tables. ” What they’re saying about the queen is what any young girl says when a man doesn’t ask for her hand. It won’t be what they say, but what they don’t say. They’ll be sweet as pie to her face, and then set her up to embarrass herself 120

at social occasions.” Bian wiped her hand on her apron. “Such things aren’t so important when it’s just the village girls at the tavern. Seems like it might be a bit more important for the queen.”

Carroway looked from Macaria to Helki. “Eadoin,” they said. Bian chuckled.

“Aye, if you be getting Lady Eadoin on the queen’s side, then you improve your chances.” Bian looked at Carroway. “Couldn’t help overhearing what Helki said about those two men.

If they’re the ones I’m thinking of, the dark‐haired one is Lord Guarov’s son. I’ve seen him with the redhead, outside by the sheds late at night. Can’t think of a good reason for a highborn to be out there, can you? The redhead works for him. I’d watch those two, if I were you.”

“Thank you, Bian.” Macaria said. “Can you please keep an ear out for us?” .

“Aye, that I can. Been watching over Prince Martris since he was a lad. No reason to stop looking out for him now, though kings don’t usually need help from the likes of me.”

Carroway kissed one of Bian’s gnarled hands. “You’ve mothered both Tris and me for as long as I can remember. Don’t stop now. I think our king is going to need all the friends he has to keep Margolan together.”

“By the Childe, you may be right. But take my advice. Don’t be trustin’ everyone in the palace.

There’s some that take their pay from elsewhere.”

“What do you mean?” Helki asked. Bian shook her head.

“That’s all I can say about that. Now I’ve got meat pies to bake for supper.” She grinned. “I make 121

them better when I’ve got music to bake by.”

Carroway laughed. “All right, you’ve made your point. We need to get down to business. Thank you, Bian.”

“Mind what I’ve told you, but don’t say I said so.” Bian bustled toward the kitchen.

“What do you think she meant by that last comment, about ‘taking their pay from elsewhere?’”

Macaria gave Carroway a good‐natured swat on the arm. “Spies, m’friend. Every palace has ‘em, like rats.”

“I thought we’d already figured out who the spies were,” Helki said, setting up his music. “We know Lord Dravan reports back to the King Bricen’s brother‐in‐law, King Harrol in Dhasson. And by the time we figure out who the Nargi spies are, they turn up dead—guess they don’t bring back enough good information.”

“Lady Casset is from King Staden’s family in Principality,” Carroway mused. “She’s always been the conduit for information there. And Count Suphie has so many business dealings with Eastmark that he might as well be their court herald.”

“And we figured Dame Nuray and her coterie as the ears for Trevath ages ago,” Helki said.

“Anyone who wants to feed Trevath information goes straight to her.”

“So who’s left?” Macaria wondered aloud.

Carroway tipped back in his chair against the fireplace. “Curane, for one,” he said. “He’s got to 122

have someone feeding him information. It could be Guarov.”

“And Isencroft,” Helki said. “There’s got to be an Isencroft spy somewhere.”

Macaria raised an eyebrow. “Do they need one? I mean, after the wedding, King Donelan will be father‐in‐law to King Martris.”

Helki jabbed her in the shoulder. “King or no king, did you ever see a mother who didn’t set spies on her daughter?”

“Kiara’s mother’s been dead for years,” Car‐roway mused. “But every kingdom has spies. Just part of doing business.”

“Maybe Jared eliminated Isencroft’s spy and Donelan hasn’t put someone else back in.”

“Or maybe,” Helki said quietly, “the person is so good that he’s under our nose and we don’t know.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“Why are we worried about an Isencroft spy anyhow?” Helki asked. “I mean, they’ve got a stake in making this all work out.”

“I didn’t say we needed to be worried about it,” Carroway said thoughtfully, “but on the other hand, it’s nice to know where all the players are when the stakes are high.”

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“So how do we find this‐spy?” Macaria asked, plucking absently at her lute. “We can hardly go asking door to door.”

“We watch,” Carroway said. He picked up his lyre. “Now let’s play some music before Bian takes back our food.”

That evening, Carroway reclined in the carriage as he watched the countryside slip past. The horses were keeping a good pace; it would

take less than a candlemark for him to reach Brightmoor, Lady Eadoin’s manor house. He straightened the ruby silk collar of his tunic and picked at the fine sleeves that billowed to his cuffs. His mood was off. His thoughts still strayed to spies and conspiracies.

Keep this up and you won’t be on the favored guest list.

The carriage crunched over dry leaves and fallen twigs. Despite his mood, he looked forward to seeing Lady Eadoin. As a girl, Eadoin had been the prettiest at court. When her beloved husband died young, Eadoin had contracted for her lands to provide produce for the palace, which settled her husband’s debts and permitted her to maintain a gracious lifestyle. Sidestepping marriage proposals, Eadoin opened Brightmoor to Margolan’s bards and artists, poets, and scholars. She hosted fabulous parties and held frequent salons for the young nobility not yet come of age.

Balls and hunting parties, holiday feasts and lavish galas—Eadoin’s festivities always featured the newest music, the latest fashions, the most beautiful young ladies, and the most handsome eligible young men.

As the years passed and the young nobility grew to love her as a mother, mentor, and icon, her genius became clear. When the young nobles came into their inheritances and their own grand estates, it would be their patronage upon which Eadoin would rely in her old age.