Queen of Demons (78 page)

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Authors: David Drake

BOOK: Queen of Demons
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Four fully equipped Blood Eagles stood politely out of earshot. They kept an eye on the surroundings in general, but particularly on the group at the pergola. Sharina supposed she and her companions were dignitaries being guarded from attacks like the one Admiral Nitker had made, though how could four ordinary humans think they were going to protect men like these?
She giggled. “I'm sorry, Hanno,” she said. “I'm still—”
“Recovering” wasn't the right word. “I'm still just so happy to be free that I'm not paying attention to things the way I ought to be.”
“I guess you did that all right the times it mattered, missie,” the big hunter said. He cleared his throat. “Thing is, me and Unarc don't belong here, though I guess we'll stay for the partying tonight.”
The bald hunter nodded violently, though he didn't turn his head toward the others. Now that Sharina was in a palace, she supposed she'd reverted in Unarc's mind to being a woman.
“You're going back to Bight?” she said. “Of course. I'll help you in any way I can, replacing your boat and the rest of your kit certainly. And anything else you'd like. You saved my life, both of you.”
Sharina wasn't sure how she went about getting actual money in her present circumstances, but she'd find a way.
That
she was sure of.
Hanno cleared his throat and looked away. He pushed his index finger into the soil for no better reason than why Unarc was polishing stone flowers with his toe.
“To tell the truth, missie,” the big hunter said awkwardly, “we figured we'd try someplace different. It's not like either of us liked the Monkeys, you see, but it just didn't seem like Bight would be the same without them. We thought maybe Sirimat instead. There's ivorywood trees there, the ape says.”
Zahag dropped from the arch with a grace that belied his size. He joined the group in a four-limbed, sideways shuffle. Hanno stood and moved aside to make room for him.
“In big slabs, ivorywood's worth more than real teeth are,” the ape said, looking at the ground also. “That's because the trees eat animals, and they're just as willing to swallow woodcutters as they are baby apes that haven't learned to keep clear.”
Zahag parted the hair on his thighs with two fingers of each hand, apparently searching for fleas. “I thought maybe I'd go along with them, chief,” he mumbled. “To show them around, you know.”
Cashel stood and walked forward to squat in front of
Zahag. “That's a good idea,” he said. “And if you did that, maybe you'd get to see your own band again.”
“I might,” Zahag said, nodding. He looked worriedly at Cashel. “It's not that I want to leave
you,
chief. There'll never be another chief like you!”
“Oh, I guess Master Hanno might have another idea about that,” Cashel said. He chuckled, but Sharina noticed the sudden throatiness that entered the sound. “And I'd say he might be right, though we'll never know.”
“You got that right,” Hanno said, looking toward the horizon. “We'll never know.”
Cashel squeezed the ape on both shoulders. “Tell your family that Cashel or-Kenset was honored to have you in his band,” he said. “And if I ever learn somebody's caught you and means to sell you like a sheep again, well …”
Cashel didn't have the imagination or the need to complete the threat in graphic terms. He got up and moved back beside Sharina, though he didn't sit. His fingers caressed the quarterstaff leaning against the latticework frame of the pergola.
One of the iron ferrules had vanished when Cashel broke Sharina's imprisonment, though the flash had only scorched the hickory. The first thing Cashel had done on their return was to have the Blood Eagles' farrier replace the missing cap.
“Well, we'll get on,” Hanno said. “My credit with the outfitters is good, but if there's anything they can't handle, maybe we'll come to you, missie.”
He nodded toward two extremely young maids in fringed and colored tunics. They'd appeared while Sharina and her companions were talking. The maids shifted their weight nervously from one sandaled foot to the other, exactly like children in need of a latrine.
“Guess they'd like to speak with you,” Hanno said. He dipped his head in what was closer to a bow than a nod.
“Honored to have met you, Master Cashel,” the big
hunter went on. “The missie's got the most impressive friends I ever thought to meet.”
“She was lucky to have friends as good as you and Master Unarc when she needed them,” Cashel said. His voice was unusually deep and rasping. “And I guess you know that I'll give you any help I can. Ever.”
The hunters and Zahag walked away, talking among themselves. Unarc's voice drifted back to the pergola: “ … but I tell you, what
wouldn't
people pay to see it?”
The maids watched to make sure that the trio wasn't returning. Then they hopped forward, curtsied, and almost in unison began, “Lady Sharina—”
They stopped, looking at each other in horror. They were very nervous.
“You first,” Sharina said, pointing to the maid on the right. She didn't like palaces and she particularly didn't like palace protocol.
She grinned. Though it wasn't so long ago that she'd been in places that she liked even less. Her hand found Cashel's and squeezed it.
“There's to be a sacrifice of thanksgiving for Prince Garric's recovery, lady,” the maid blurted in a singsong. “He's gotten up and wants to thank the Gods first thing. He'd like you and …”
She looked at Cashel and froze.
“Lord
Cashel
!” the other maid hissed. Cashel winced.
“Lord Cashel and all his other friends to join him in the procession,” the girl racketed on, “and
we're
the ones who found you!”
Cashel led Sharina from the pergola. “You'd best go with them and put on the kind of clothes they'll want you in,” he said. “I'll find Tenoctris—I know where she is. We'll be along.”
He touched her hand again. Turning aside, he muttered, “I guess I've got more to thank the Gods for than anybody else.”
Cashel walked off, moving faster than he usually did.
“I don't know that you do, my friend,” Sharina whispered.
To the maids she said, “Will you lead me to my apartments, then, mistresses?”
Giggling in delight, the girls skipped off down the flagstone walk.
 
 
“Excuse me, Mistress Ilna?” said an attendant with pale skin and hair the texture of raw silk, standing at her elbow. He was one of the clerks who'd been on duty at the palace entrance when Ilna and her party arrived. This afternoon she'd thought he was simply hurrying past.
“Yes?” she said sharply. She was in a bad mood, but there didn't seem to be much she could do about it.
Robilard and Lord Hosten were talking with Attaper, Waldron, and a score of earnest younger men in one of the side rooms of the hall. Ilna was welcome—there or anywhere else in the palace, Garric had made clear as he went off to have his bandages changed before leading a procession to one of the temples for a sacrifice.
The talk was of no interest to Ilna, and the room was packed like a sheepfold in winter, so she'd stayed in the main hall instead. There was nothing for her to do here either.
“There's a man outside the hall asking you to come out to him, mistress,” the attendant said. His cautious respect showed that he was experienced at intruding on people who might not be in the best of moods, and who had the power to give their anger concrete expression. “He says he's not a beggar, and I thought I should pass the message …”
“If he wants to see me, why doesn't he—” Ilna began. She remembered the reception hall's stepped entrance; and realized a number of things at the same time.
“Ah,” she said. “No, Master Cerix isn't a beggar. In fact, you owe your life to him, sir.”
Ilna started for the entrance. Over her shoulder she added, “Which you may think is more valuable than I do!”
That wasn't fair, though perhaps the attendant would be a little slower to assume that a cripple was a beggar. Besides, even when she was in a better mood Ilna had never set much store by fairness.
Cerix was in his chair at the edge of the pavement before the reception hall. The porticoes around it were crowded by hawkers and spectators getting out of the bright sun. Without someone to protect him, the crippled wizard would be repeatedly kicked and buffeted by people who weren't paying attention—which meant most people, in Ilna's experience.
“Thank you, mistress,” Cerix said. “I—”
A man with coarsely woven scarves draped over his arm stepped between them. The fabric had been painted—of all things!—with what was supposed to be a picture of Prince Garric.
“Here you go, mistress!” the man said in a voice better suited to shouting across the crowded plaza. “The true likeness of the savior of Valles!”
Ilna's face went rigid. Without speaking, she took three short cords from her sleeve and began knotting them.
“Or perhaps you'd like the Lady Liane, the savior's—” the hawker said. Ilna drew the cords tight in front of him.
“Let's go somewhere with fewer people in it,” she said to Cerix. Guards stepped aside as she wheeled the wizard's chair from the public area of the palace into the gardens reserved for residents of the compound. Behind them the hawker stood with glazed eyes, methodically picking his wares into a pile of oakum.
Ilna turned into a semicircular grotto where water fountained from the urns of bronze nymphs. The tendrils of weeping willows formed a screen for those sitting on the stone benches—or in the present case, sitting and squatting respectively beside the stone benches.
“I wanted to say good-bye to you, mistress,” Cerix said. He looked drawn, but his clothing didn't smell of the drug he'd used in the past. “There's no reason for me
to stay here, so I'm going back to the Garden. Halphemos will be waiting there and, well …”
He patted his stumps with a wry smile.
Ilna didn't speak for a moment. “Ah,” she said at last. “I can see why you'd want to do that, Master Cerix, but …”
She grimaced. “I'm scarcely the person to tell others how to live their lives, am I?” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you before you … ?”
“No, no,” Cerix said. “Though if you'd tell the others for me I'd appreciate it. I'd tell them myself, but they're busy.”
He smiled. “And besides, they wouldn't understand.”
Ilna nodded. “I've learned to expect that about most people and most things,” she said. She stood. “Can I at least move you somewhere?”
Cerix looked around. “No, this will do very well,” he said. “It's particularly fitting, in fact.”
“Yes, I can see it might be,” Ilna said. “In that case, I'll leave you to your business. Remember me to Halphemos, if you would. Though I suppose he'll have more than enough to occupy him in what he'll think is paradise.”
“Halphemos won't have forgotten you, mistress,” the wizard said. “Nor will I.”
Ilna brushed through the willow fronds. There was soft
plop
behind her. She turned. Cerix's wheeled chair remained in the grotto, but the only thing on it was a peach blossom of remarkable size.
She stared at the bloom for a moment, then picked it up and tucked the twig behind her ear. She smiled. What would the people in Barca's Hamlet think?
An attendant was leading Baron Robilard toward her. “Ah, mistress!” he called. “The procession is about to set out for the temple of the Lady of the Boundaries. We've been invited to join Prince Garric at the high altar. May I escort you?”
“I'll go there with you, but I think I'll watch with the crowd, Baron,” Ilna said. She gave him her arm. “I have
a great deal of experience at looking down on other people. I like myself better when I'm looking up at them instead.”
 
 
When Cashel realized that Tenoctris hadn't heard him coming up the path, he tapped one of the wooden pillars. Half a dozen towhees flashed their russet sides as they flew into the bushes.
“What?” said Tenoctris, looking up from the game board. She'd been concentrating so completely that she hadn't seen Cashel standing directly across from her. “Oh, Cashel. Is everything all right?”
Tenoctris had chosen to live in a storage building at one end of a long open shelter used for outdoor parties. A table under the shelter now held the game set she and Cashel had found when they'd returned to the queen's mansion the day before.

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