Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (6 page)

“The last time we let one of our charges keep something private, we were taken captive and almost killed.” Even Dhulyn could hear the dryness in her tone. “I’ll admit it’s hard to see how these princesses could be involved in the disappearance of our two Brothers, but this marriage
was
contracted for before they vanished,” Dhulyn said. “We cannot rule them out entirely, not just yet.” She looked up at her Partner. “What of the other one? It seems she may be in need of sympathy and comfort, considering the role she’s about to take on, especially if, as the young cousin implied, she leaves love behind her.”

“What makes you suggest I was thinking of comforting her?”

Dhulyn looked at her Partner sideways, trying not to smile. “You’re always thinking of comforting
someone
.”

“That’s because
you
never need any.” Parno pressed his shoulder against hers, and Dhulyn answered his pressure with her own.

“You’re all right then, being back here in your old School? I wonder how I would feel, to be back in the mountains with Nerysa.” The tone was light, but Dhulyn felt the reality of Parno’s concern under it.

“This was my home for many years, after I thought I would never have a home again,” she said, knowing that Parno would understand. “But watching these youngsters, here where I used to be one,” she shrugged. “It only makes me feel old.”

“Old? You?” Parno spoke almost loudly enough for the man at the wheel to hear. “You’ll never be old, my heart. Now me, I was
born
ancient.”

“If it were not for the cover it gives you to enter Menoin without questions, I would tell the Princess Cleona to find another ship.”

Parno took his eyes away from the apprentices practicing signals—some close together, others as far apart as the narrow-beamed ship would allow—and eyed Dorian with interest. The irritation present in the man’s words was not noticeable in either tone or facial expression. At least, not that Parno could see. Dhulyn, of course, knew her Schooler much better, which was not to say that the man had no secrets. From what Dhulyn had told him, the first time Dorian had spoken to her, in the hold of the slave ship he’d rescued her from, it had been in her own language, the tongue of the Espadryni, known to the rest of the world as the Red Horsemen. Dorian had used that language only once more, on the day Dhulyn had passed from being a youngster apprentice to a Mercenary Brother. She had never asked her Schooler how he knew the language of a dead Tribe, and Dorian had never explained.

“Princess causing trouble, is she?” Parno said now. “Well, isn’t ‘passenger’ another word for ‘trouble’?”

“She is holding herself very stiff, very aloof, showing smiles only to the young cousin. Did I tell you Princess Cleona pretended at first not to know me?” Dorian said. He grinned at Parno, who couldn’t help shaking his own head and smiling back. Who could possibly see Dorian the Black Traveler and not know him again? “But when she saw that I was content to let that be, in no hurry to claim an acquaintance, she deigned to recognize me and introduce me to her young cousin.” He flicked his eyes toward where the two women were approaching with Dhulyn in close attendance behind them. “Watch how she calls me ‘Captain’ to make it less obvious that she is distancing herself from me in my capacity as Mercenary Schooler.”

Parno hid his grin and came to his feet as the princesses approached.

“Captain, seeing all your pupils thus occupied puts me in mind that neither my cousin nor myself have had weapons practice in some days. May we have partners from among your students?”

Parno was not surprised when Dorian’s smile stiffened. The man was a Mercenary Schooler, first and foremost. To carry passengers as a cover for a secret mission was one thing—to have them spar with his youngsters was another. Parno had counted eleven apprentices when he and Dhulyn had come aboard the day before. Three were young women—two obviously sisters—one a man almost Parno’s own age, and of the seven younger men remaining, only two were not yet old enough to shave. The day before he had seen them drilling as a group—the Drunken Soldier
Shora
. From what Parno had seen, all eleven were more or less at the same stage of their Schooling—and therefore using white blades, not the dull, blackened practice swords.

“As your bodyguard, Princess Cleona, I must suggest that you do not spar with any of the apprentices.”

The princess lifted her eyebrows and blinked. “I saw them yesterday when we came aboard. They appear skilled enough to me,” she said in a tone that seemed to decide the matter. Her voice was rich and full, but Parno had yet to hear her speak with any real emotion. Was what Dhulyn suspected true? Had she left a love behind her, and did she show only her duty face to the world?

“They
are
just skilled enough to kill you,” agreed Dorian. “But not quite skilled enough to avoid killing you. To be sure there are no accidents, you must have opponents much more experienced than these.”

“And if we use staffs or wooden blades?”

“Princess, if you think you cannot be killed with a quarterstaff or a practice blade, then you are definitely not sparring with any of my apprentices.”

“What about one of you bodyguards? Surely
you
must be sufficiently skilled.” There.
There
was some emotion. Princess Alaria had the same rich voice as her cousin, but it was spoiled by an undertone of impatience.

Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye over their heads. Parno was careful to keep his own face from registering anything. She raised her right eyebrow and shrugged.
Shall I do it
? she was asking. Parno blinked twice.
Go ahead
.

“I will spar at staffs with Princess Cleona,” Dhulyn said.

“Excellent,” the princess said. “And Alaria can fight the winner.”

But the younger woman was shaking her head. “Anyone who can best you at the staff, Cousin, will have no difficulty besting me. Make mine an archery contest, and I’ll agree.” Now Parno thought he detected a little eagerness in Alaria’s voice.

Dhulyn was already dressed for combat in her loose linen trousers and vest quilted with patches of brightly colored cloth, bits of fur, lace, and ribbons, but Princess Cleona had some preparation to make. She began by lifting off the headdress she wore against the sun, revealing her golden hair tightly braided and clubbed to the back of her neck. Next came the waist harness bearing her knife and belt pouch, then her jewelry, and finally the princess toed off her bright green half boots. In the absence of boat shoes, bare feet would give her the best purchase on the deck.

“Is there any part of the body you do not want bruised?” Dhulyn hefted the staff Dorian tossed to her and took her grip, right hand in the center, left hand halfway between that and the end of the staff.

For the first time Princess Cleona looked uncertain. If there had not been so many people already gathering to watch, Parno would have wagered the princess would have made some excuse to back out. But give the woman her due, she narrowed her eyes and took up her stance.

“Face, hands, shoulders,” she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “Everything else will be covered by the wedding garments.”

Cleona knew her way around a quarterstaff, that much was obvious. It was a common enough weapon for nobles to be taught, even where it was not the custom for women to become soldiers. That was not the case in Arderon, if Parno remembered his tutor’s lessons correctly. Two or three generations back there had been an uprising of the then predominantly male army, put down only with great difficulty—and help from the Mercenary Brotherhood—by the then Tarkina. None of that ruler’s successors had made such a simple mistake again. Now more than half of all the soldiery in Arderon, including guard troops, was female.

Dhulyn and the Princess Cleona circled each other, looking for openings. The
Black Traveler
was moving smoothly, at least compared to what she and Parno had experienced on the Long Ocean, but it was obvious from the way Princess Cleona swayed and shifted her feet that she didn’t have her sea legs quite yet.

Parno was beginning to regret that he hadn’t opted to do this himself. There were two paths for Dhulyn to choose between. Deal with the princess quickly and cleanly—much harder to do when the object was to leave her uninjured and alive—or draw out the match to make the woman feel as though she was considered a worthy opponent. The latter was certainly the diplomatic pathway—but when it came to her Mercenary skills, Dhulyn was rarely diplomatic.

The princess struck first, a feint to the knee followed by a blow aimed at the head, which Dhulyn neatly parried with as small a movement as the staffs allowed. His Partner showed no excessive speed or knowledge, Parno noted as the bout progressed, matching herself carefully to the princess’ abilities. Parno began to breathe more easily; it seemed Dhulyn would after all remember that she was a bodyguard—and whose body she was guarding.

Another exchange of blows, much faster this time, and Princess Cleona’s lips began to curve into a smile. Out of the corner of his eye Parno saw Dorian purse his lips and give his head a tiny shake, and he almost smiled himself, thoroughly understanding. The princess had forgotten where she was, and who she was fighting. That kind of confidence would lose her the match.

Dhulyn blocked a sudden jab to her ribs with the shod end of the staff and tapped the princess on the left side of her leg, just above the knee. Parno glanced at Dorian, but from the sparkle in the Schooler’s eye, he’d caught it, all right. Had Dhulyn struck the knee itself with that much force, she would have broken it. As it was, she had badly bruised the muscle of the princess’ thigh, and at any moment—there, the leg almost gave under her. Dhulyn stepped back, holding her staff across her body.

“I think you have pulled a muscle, Princess,” she said, speaking slowly and with great clarity. “Further exercise may cause more serious damage.”

Eyes wide, Princess Cleona looked from Dhulyn’s staff to where her own hand had gone instinctively to her leg. She gave Dhulyn the minutest of nods. “Yes, you are right, thank you,” she said. She handed her staff to one of her own servants and accepted Parno’s hand to guide her to the nearest seat, a small bench that ran along under the ship’s port rail.

“Will you rest, Dhulyn Wolfshead, or shall Alaria fetch her bow?”

“I can rest while the Princess Alaria fetches her bow and my Partner fetches mine.”

“We shall have a simple target, first,” Dorian suggested when Alaria returned carrying with her one of the shorter southern bows, useful for shooting from the back of a horse. The one Parno had fetched out of Dhulyn’s large pack was much the same type, only made to be broken down into pieces for storage and traveling. Dhulyn nodded in satisfaction when she saw it.

“Perfect, my soul. The longbow would not have been an even match.”

“There is no better bow than the horse bow of Arderon,” Princess Alaria said.

“For mounted shooting, certainly,” Dorian said. “But the longbow has its place as well. Mercenary Brothers are Schooled in five types of bow.”

“Five? I know of only three types,” Princess Cleona said from her seat by the rail.

“Nor will you learn of any others from me,” Dorian said, softening his words with a bow.

“I am not counting crossbows,” the princess said.

“Nor am I.” Dorian smiled and turned to Dhulyn and the younger princess. “You know the target, my Brother,” he said to Dhulyn. “Will you explain?”

Dhulyn looked up from the last metal fastening of her bow and stood. “Do you see where the forward mast has been painted white,” she said to Princess Alaria and waited for the girl’s nod. “We’ll each have three shots at that. If we make all three,” Dhulyn glanced sideways at Dorian, “things will become more interesting.”

A tossed coin landed Ships and decided that Alaria would shoot first. Parno watched the girl carefully and saw that, like her older cousin, she had been well-trained. She knew enough to allow for windage, and she had evidently shot from horseback enough to accommodate herself to the swaying motion of the ship. She held the first shot too long—Parno thought at any moment to see her wrist tremble—but the arrow went smoothly into the white. Now that she had the range, the second and third shots went more quickly. All three were well-centered, and all struck within the space that could be covered by a large man’s hand.

Alaria smiled as she stepped back, the first relaxed smile Parno had seen from her.

Dhulyn, face carefully impassive, stepped into position, slipped two arrows into the back of her belt and held the third in her right hand as she rolled her shoulders. At Dorian’s nod she lifted her bow and took her first shot, reached behind her and took the second, reached once more and took the third. Her arrows appeared above Alaria’s, in a precise vertical line, each three finger widths apart from the others.

Alaria looked from the target to Dhulyn and back again. “You did not say what grouping you wanted,” she said. Parno wasn’t sure he could hear a tremor in her voice, but she had stopped smiling.