Sasharia En Garde (22 page)

As soon as the boy was gone, the war commander shut the door
and set his back against it. “News?”

“Nothing.” Orthan indicated the darkened window, which
overlooked the harbor. Tiny lights bobbed slowly on the water, lanterns legally
required on bows, sterns and foremasts. “Nothing.”

“As expected. Well, continue mustering the fleet, except for
those at Aloca. I’m going out in force. What’s the status of the games?”

“Officially or confidentially?” And when his brother
shrugged, Orthan smiled. “Officially, everything is in order. Ready to begin.
If the prince does show up. As for our business, Damedran will take every
prize.”

Randart thought of his huge, husky nephew, but did not
smile. “What about archery? Is he at the top there?” On the war commander’s
orders, Orthan had been drilling his son with extra lessons, but though
Damedran was a brute with sword, stick, and grappling, he couldn’t seem to get
the eye for superlative shooting.

“He’ll win,” Orthan said.

“He’s finally good enough to best the Valleg girl?”

“No. But it seems she suffered a broken arm. Won’t be
competing in the games.”

Randart frowned. “He didn’t—”

“No, no, absolutely not. He knows better now, he really
does. No, apparently she was offered a drink or two celebrating someone’s Name
Day, while on stable duty. She tripped over . . . her own feet.
Damedran handsomely offered to cover for her—gave the watch commander an
excuse. Officially there’s no disgrace, and unofficially she’s in his debt.”

Randart smiled at last, thinking,
Now that is the thinking of a good future king.

His brother saw that smile, and knew what it meant, but they
did not say the word “king” out loud.

Instead they turned their attention to logistical
concerns—guard rotations, patrol of the harbor, searchers covert and overt as
ships continued to come in, though they didn’t have much hope of nabbing
Zathdar in the act.

The last errand runner left the room. When they were safely
private, War Commander Randart said to his brother, “Here’s the truth. I don’t
really want to catch the pirate lurking around the harbor. I’ve been given a
free hand to take the entire fleet, and I mean to sweep the whole sea of all
suspicious ships. ‘Suspicious’ defined as those crewed by names well known on
resistance rosters. Zathdar has far too many allies out on the waters. Some
judicious slaughter might be salutary to the entire maritime world. At the end
of that, if I find the pirate, fine. I’ll consider it a job well done.”

Orthan grimaced at that mention of judicious slaughter, but
he had learned never to interfere with his brother, who was, after all, the
king’s right arm. Orthan himself was only a headmaster and garrison commander,
positions he felt far more comfortable filling. Training boys and running a
garrison, he could do. Judicious slaughter?

But Dannath Randart did not see his brother’s grimace. He
was too busy sorting through the reports on Orthan’s desk, reading the
headings, then re-sorting them in his own priority order.

When he was done, he said, “So patrols as normal, no
assiduous searches. I want the best men rested and ready for the launch of the
entire fleet. We’ll form a pincer between here and Aloca. We’ll gather them all
together and get rid of them.”

His mood had improved by the time he downed the potato
pancakes a sleepy cook had put together. He swallowed his coffee and withdrew
into the command suite to catch some rest, waking at the dawn bells.

He’d been through the baths and was pulling on a clean
uniform when a runner reported, “Prince Jehan has arrived.”

In the commander’s office the brothers exchanged brief
glances, and then War Commander Randart said easily, as befitted the prince’s
best advocate in the kingdom, “Request his highness to honor us with his
presence, if that is his royal desire. Or we could join him wherever he wishes,
to go over the king’s orders.”

The cadet vanished.

A short time later there was the sheep, the nickname
ostensibly chosen for his white hair. War Commander Randart knew his brother
liked the prince, despite his fashionably tailored brown velvet war tunic that
had never seen any semblance of war, that long white morvende hair hanging down
his back, and a diamond in his ear. Popular Jehan was, but he was also more a
fop than a commander. Why couldn’t Orthan see that?

Orthan sighed. He wanted his son to be king, but he didn’t
want anything bad to happen to the prince. Somehow . . . somehow,
he hoped, it would all work out. Until then, no use in worrying. Dannath would
have his way no matter what.

“What color would you call that?” Jehan asked, indicating
the pale shade of the ocean.

“Blue,” Randart said with obvious patience. “Your highness,
forgive me but it might be better if you don’t . . . visit
civilians . . . when we’re under orders.”

“She sings,” Jehan explained.

Orthan restacked already neat papers, keeping his face
hidden. The runner cadet in the corner watched, his eyes wide.

“Have you ever heard Faleth ballad-style?” Jehan continued,
head to one side. “It seems to have its roots in Ancient Sartoran—”

“Very well, very well, perhaps another time, your highness?”
Orthan soothed, eyeing the war commander uneasily.

Orthan completely misunderstood his brother. The king
persisted in believing Jehan might one day wake up and exhibit even a faint
interest in the requirements of a future king. The king believed it, Orthan
hoped for it in a vague way—and Randart watched for it.

If he discovered any hint of competence in Prince Sheep,
Dannath Randart would arrange for a fatal accident. He really did not want to
have to do that. Not in a kingdom where every single person who wasn’t plotting
was busy gossiping. Far better the king suffer one more disappointment, and get
so angry he took care of the heir problem all by himself. And there would be a
trained heir, at the top of the academy, loyal, strong, handsome: Damedran
Randart.

“We can talk about ballads later.” The war commander pitched
his voice to be heard by the cadet runners on duty outside the office. He was
very careful to present himself as the devoted friend and supporter to the
prince. For the benefit of all those listening ears, he added in a gentle,
coaxing voice, “But your highness, the king has requested me to convey his
wishes to you. Now, about the games . . .”

Everything according to plan.

The ship’s boy rowed me to the main pier, which was very
long, with small boats coming and going to drop off or pick up people whose
ships couldn’t afford closer-in anchorage fees. This meant a hefty hike ahead
of me.

The two sailors at the bows tied us on, and the ship’s boy
touched my arm. I stared in surprise at his crimson face as he mutely held out
a bag that chinked promisingly.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Collection took up by the crew.” He blushed even more, if
that was humanly possible.

I took pity on him and climbed out, confining myself to a
little wave, and I began to duck and sidestep my way through all the busy
people on the pier.

The long pier led me past the capital ships pulled alongside.
One had to be the navy’s flagship. I kept my head low, scarcely looking at it,
though no one paid me the least heed. But I felt as if eyes crawled over me
like bugs as I hustled past its length.

I slowed a little when passing Prince Jehan’s yacht. Every line
of it evoked the power and arrogance of princes, to the exquisite carving of
laughing dolphins all round the rail. This work of art rocked at the best
docking spot in the entire harbor. Yet it was obviously empty of any royal butt
sitting in its gorgeous cabin. Its crew looked bored as they polished the
gleaming wood and re-flemished their pristine ropes.

Near the end of the pier the crowd thickened. A few steps
more and I’d reach the quay at last. I was finally on my own.

Everywhere I looked walked, patrolled, and lounged
brown-clad warriors. Even the ones whose hands held pastries or drink carried a
full complement of weaponry.

I didn’t know if they were on guard, or about to embark in
the navy ships I could see anchored in neat rows along the inner bay, or on
leave for the academy games. I didn’t want to find out because it was certain
to be the hard way.

I gave myself a mental shakedown as I trod down the last few
warped wooden boards of the long pier, stumping a little in an effort to get my
land balance back. A good look around made it clear that civilian sailors dress
in every imaginable style, tending toward the loud when on shore looking for
fun. The career doesn’t select for the delicate and dainty, so there were
plenty of women of my size around.

The one thing that I feared might catch attention was my
gear bag. Though I’d rolled it to be as small as possible, the faint sheen of
its plastic weave could draw the eye of anyone searching for the unusual, and
so I stopped at the very first vendor selling baskets and paid what I suspect
was a thumpingly dishonest price for a scratchy, loosely woven affair that I
soon hated, but it did its job by successfully hiding the gear bag stuffed into
its depths.

This purchase also used up most of the coins in the bag.
Either the basket maker was an outright thief or I’d been given enough to cover
a day or two’s meals. But that made sense. Sailors would figure a day or so on
land, and then one hires out for one’s next voyage.

Or maybe the Purple-and-orange Pirate would give me some
more of his ill-gotten gains when he met me at the Gold to tell me the local
news. Did I want handouts? No. I would cash in some of my gems, or work my way
along the road. But I was curious about what he might bring.

For now, I’d just enjoy the market street, which wound in a
kind of slightly skewed crescent along the foot of the rocky ridge. Ellir
Harbor, overlooked by the combination academy and garrison, was a jumble of old
stone buildings and jerry-rigged tents and claptrap houses with doors and
window sills painted with bright colors.

The stone buildings housed the long-term businesses, most
sea-related. The rest was seasonal trade, set up in colorful stalls and tents
between the dilapidated buildings. These people raised half the market noise
with their singing and shouting as they waved brightly dyed pennons and sent
enticing smells to lure the crowds who made up the other half of the noise,
strolling, talking, looking, laughing, flirting, eating, drinking, and
shopping.

Once chasing. “Thief!” someone cried and the shout rose
around me, spreading from voice to voice.

Moments later the hapless pickpocket slammed to the stone
street, straddled by a pair of brown-tunicked warriors. The hapless thief’s
tousled head bumped the stone a yard from my feet. Who would be that stupid, or
that desperate, to try thievery right under the view of that intimidating
castle, with a million guards in every direction?

I never saw the culprit’s face. A crowd of guards
immediately surrounded him or her, and muscled the miscreant away presumably to
some lockup. I’d hastily backed away, looking down as I tried to be
unobtrusive, but the guards paid no attention to the surrounding crowd except
in a general sense, making sure there was no threat.

They went in one direction and I in the other, thinking
along a new path. What kind of courts did they have, and jails, and sentences?
I’d asked my mother a few questions over the years, but Canardan’s versions of
social government might be different from the Zhavalieshins’.

It was my growling stomach that shifted my attention from
the general scene to the specific. I found the moneychangers directly below the
gates to the castle, which ought to dissuade all but the most foolhardy and
reckless of thieves. There were several to choose from. I drifted along until I
spotted a moneychanger where not only coinage was being changed, but valuables
of various sorts, including gemstones.

For the first time in all those years, I pulled out one of
the more modest gems from the box and brought it to that tent, where a short,
thin, stylishly dressed young woman about my age seemed to be handling stones
of all kinds. I laid it down, my fake story all ready.

She squinted briefly at it. “Colendi cut, what we call the
deep-water sapphire.” She named a price.

I’d already noticed that though bargaining took place in
many of the market stalls, here there appeared to be a standard price for
pretty much everything. Not wanting to call attention to myself in any way, I
agreed. She counted out three twelve-sided gold coins, fashioned after Sartoran
coins, and eleven silver six-siders, then a handful of thin hammered coppers.

I stuffed them all into the bag the ship’s boy had given me,
and returned to my shopping. Now to see what this money was actually worth.

The sun was directly overhead when I finished buying a good
pair of shoes, cotton-lined greenweave that the cobbler adjusted to fit my feet
exactly. I traded in the worn old mocs, which would be recycled.

Hunger forced me up the street toward the Gold Inn, a large
building whose merrymakers’ noise eddied out through open windows and doors.
The first smells that reached my nose were baking cornbread and braised onions.

My stomach growled as I passed inside a cavernous space
obviously decorated by sailors—deck prisms in the walls, the heavy, pointed
glass gleaming with refracted colors, which banished indoor gloom. Old helm
wheels high up, bulkheads curving between the alcoves, booths divided off by
fences made of worn oars. The chairs round the smaller tables were all cut from
barrels and cushioned with old sailcloth.

The heavy, heady scent of fresh-brewed beer underlay the
scent of brick-oven baked chicken pies, and bread, and some kind of
pepper-and-garlic savory fish chowder. I sat at a long plank table on which
cadets and sailors had carved initials and witty sayings in at least three
alphabets. A party of weavers took up most of the table, well into a
celebration for newlyweds, judging from the toasts.