Sasharia En Garde (24 page)

“I think I see.”

“Everything is confused,” the queen said seriously. “I would
say that Zhavic, having thrown in with the king, has gradually shifted
allegiance, but he is still dedicated to the kingdom. Despite Canardan’s
earnest wish, even his orders, none of the mages really exert themselves to
harm the others. There’s always some magical reason why the ‘traitor’ mages
cannot be extirpated, as the war commander often demands. Magister Glathan’s
death was—”

“I know. Randart’s example of how to do it properly. All
right, I think I see my duty. I think. Anyway, with Sasha out there in the
world, I must stay. But again, thank you.”

Ananda lifted a hand. “The gift is not mine, only the
thought. I will leave you with terrible trouble, I know, but I was never
capable of addressing it. However, I beseech you to trust Canardan’s son,
though it appears there is much against him. He’s also Feraeth’s son, and she
is convinced he walks the knife-edge between seeming and truth, but to a
purpose, and his purpose is good.”

“I will remember that.” Atanial wondered if she could
believe it.

“Fare you well,” Ananda said softly, and she left as
silently as she had come.

Atanial lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The next day
there might be a hue and cry, but more likely Canardan would suppress news of
the queen’s disappearance as much as he could. She would vanish from history as
quietly as she’d lived.

Atanial let her breath trickle slowly out. So what about her
own history? So far, she hadn’t done all that well. But she was here again, and
so she had a second chance.

Plan, then? For now, be a model “guest,” make friends with
everyone in sight, be visible, friendly, keep talking to people in hopes they
would talk to her and about her, so that Randart, at least, would have
difficulty making her disappear. Learn whatever she could.

And wait to meet this Prince Jehan on whom so much seemed to
depend.

o0o

At the far end of the castle lay the senior barracks of
the Ellir Academy, near the tower above the very top of Market Street. Across
from Market Street was the famous brewery. The barracks thus lay at the other
end of the row of buildings from all the masters and guards.

It was the place every cadet yearned to live in. By the time
you’d attained that pinnacle, though, you had also become aware that there was
hierarchy not only in the academy, but among the seniors.

So it was Damedran Randart, the academy commander’s son,
whose particular group got all the beds down the window side that overlooked
the top of Market Street, the brewery, and the harbor beyond. The rules stated
that beds were first come first served, but those not part of Damedran’s inner
circle who had arrived for the senior year weeks before Damedran had either
discovered a taste for the dusty view overlooking the practice courts inside
the academy, or they suffered a lot of accidents that the masters didn’t seem
to notice.

And so, when Damedran came back from seeing his father, he
found his friends sitting at the open windows, idly watching Market Street
below.

He paused in the doorway, his splendid shoulders set off in
the brown tunic (his being tailored, not taken off the piles down in Supply),
his long, glossy black hair worn loose instead of clipped back according to
regs, but who was going to complain?

He waited impatiently, wondering why they were all staring
out at Market Street when he was back, especially as they’d been begging him to
find out the final word about the games. “Market Street on fire?”

Gratifying, how they whirled around, a couple of them even
snapping to attention. He wasn’t a king yet, and they were already thinking of
him like one. Good. Maybe Uncle Dannath would stop jawing at him,
Think like a king!

Red, his chief lieutenant, dashed back the pale red hair
that made the origin of his nickname obvious. “The sheep managed to waylay a
pickpocket or thief.”

Damedran’s huge cousin Wolfie said in his deep growl,
“Least, we’re pretty sure it was the sheep.” He raised a huge paw to his unruly
black hair, which he wore neatly clipped back. Wolfie did not stand on
privilege. He was mainly interested in fights out behind the stable.
“Sheep-white hair. Not many o’ those in uniform brown.”

“None of ’em wear their hair long,” Red said. “Has to be the
sheep. Only I thought he rode off to Sartor?”

“He rode in this morning.” Damedran was uninterested in
Prince Jehan, except when he was in trouble. “I’m amazed he managed to waylay a
single thief. It must have taken at least thirty of his followers.” As the
others laughed, he strode into the barracks, nodded at two of the boys, who
leaped up and sped to the doors at either end, shutting them and setting their
backs to the wood.

The room now being secure, he got right to the subject that
interested them all the most. “My father said it’s the king’s own order. There
won’t be any yacht runs.”

“Whyyyyyyyy?” That was Bowsprit Lanarg, who was the best of
all the seniors at skiff running.

Damedran saw disappointment to varying degrees in all their
faces, except for Wolfie’s. Wolfie just liked fighting. End of subject.

Damedran himself hated anything to do with the ocean. Too
much work, and anyway, kings didn’t go out on the water. But he had to sound
like he cared. “It’s because of the pirate Zathdar. They think he’s got the old
princess’s daughter, and so my uncle has been ordered to take the fleet and
wipe ’em out.”

“Even Prince Math’s girl?”

Damedran snorted a laugh. “Orders are to take her, but hey,
if she gets in the way of someone’s sword, problem ended—” As soon as the words
were out he saw they were a mistake.

Not all his followers knew the secret plans. Definitely not
Ban Kender, who was his only genuine aristocrat follower. Ban’s family had been
deposed when Locan Jora took over the western portion of the kingdom.
Handle him like a thoroughbred plains
runner,
his father had told him in private.
That whole family, they’re romantic. To them we’re heroic though
outnumbered, fighting for ancient rights. See you don’t disabuse ’em of that
notion.

“They’d kill her?” Ban said, sure enough. And the rest
(except for Wolfie, who never changed expression) reflected his dismay. “She
sounded as gallant as any ballad heroine.”

The others muttered in agreement.

They’d all heard the gossip about the mysterious appearance
of Princess Atanial’s daughter at the ancient tower, followed a day or two
later by the princess herself, at the home of the ex-palace steward.

Damedran said quickly, offhand, “You heard about her fighting
skill, but you didn’t hear about her screaming orders at the criminals who
brought her out of the other world. Last thing anyone heard was her yelling
about them forgetting to bow, and where was her coach-and-six, and did anyone
take her father’s jewels?”

Damedran watched Ban, relieved at his faint expression of
disgust. The others muttered about swagger—idiots—who did she think she was,
anyway? Damedran didn’t listen to any of them. Ban’s opinion was important,
maybe almost as important as his own. Weird, when Ban never strutted.

“We don’t need that kind of trouble,” Ban said at last. “Not
right now.”

Damedran nodded, and the others exchanged looks. They
weren’t supposed to talk about the secret plans to retake Jora, but they all
knew. That was one of the good things about being in with the war commander’s
nephew.

Damedran was amazed that his lie actually worked. Then he
got another idea. “No, we sure don’t. Cowards, those Zhavalieshins. Skipping
out and leaving us with the Siamis trouble, and now that things are settled,
dancing back and expecting us all to bow down to them.”

The boys expressed loud disgust. Then Bowsprit, who always
had one eye on the weather and the other on the sea whenever he could, hooked a
thumb toward the window. “Why is the sheep’s yacht warping out?”

“He can’t be going anywhere.” Damedran snorted. “My uncle
made it clear enough even to him he has to stay put. He’s supposed to preside
at the games.”

As he spoke, he and the others moved to the windows. All
minor boat traffic beyond the royal pier had cleared the way so Prince Jehan’s
beautiful yacht could be rowed out a ways from the dock.

They didn’t have to warp far. The tide had reached flood and
the wind had begun to shift as well, judging from the lower layer of clouds
coming in under the high wispy ones. In silence they watched the exquisitely
cut curved mainsail drop and sheet home. It filled, the craft gathered speed,
then the sail was brailed up again. The anchor dropped, and the yacht rocked
elegantly out in the roads, isolated east of the fleet ships.

“Well, he certainly won’t get to sit on it to watch us
compete in the harbor,” Damedran said, and Bowsprit groaned. “Maybe Uncle
Dannath ordered him to anchor out in the trade roads in case the pirate tries
to grab him on shore.”

Wolfie said, “Or maybe the sheep is so afraid of the pirate
that he gave the orders before the water games were cancelled.”

Hoots of derision met this suggestion.

Damedran waved a dismissive hand. “Or maybe my uncle is
commandeering it for his pirate hunt. The
important
thing is, the games are now confined to ground, and we’re going to win, right?”

The boys cheered. Damedran regarded them in satisfaction.
The plans were all set, his father had said. Beginning with his win in every
competition this year, the songs about them all winter, and on the rising tide
of his reputation, his leading all the young aristocrats in galloping over the
hills to liberate Locan Jora in spring. He’d be the hero who reunited the
country . . . while Prince Jehan did what? Probably sat around
watching some pretty girl paint daisies.

With this prospect in mind, he laughed, triumphant, happy,
burning with anticipation. As the bell clanged for the midday break’s end, and
the beginning of afternoon practice, he led the way out at a run.

The others stampeded after. Or most of them did.

Ban followed more slowly. He was thinking hard until he
noticed Bowsprit also lingering, his pointy nose pressed against the window.
After one last glance out at that beautiful yacht, Bowsprit said, “How I’d love
to crew it, just once. I don’t care what stupid orders the sheep gives.”

Ban grimaced. Truth was, he hated that “sheep” business. It
didn’t seem respectful. But his father had said,
If our regaining your mother’s family lands from those ruinous Jorans
means putting up with Merindar boot heels all over custom for a time, then we
put up.

Bowsprit poked his arm. “And you wouldn’t care if it was a
fish scow. What’s wrong?”

“I just now remembered. The other night, when I had leave,
it was the night my mother’s friend’s son arrived in town. He’s a patrol
leader. Wounded at that old castle the mages talk about. Samdan was invalided
home. Got there right before supper, and at the time I was annoyed that he
interrupted. I was afraid we wouldn’t eat and I’d have to report back hungry—”
Ban noticed Bowsprit’s impatience at all that explanation, and got to the
point. “This fellow was there when Prince Math’s daughter came to the old
castle. I really wasn’t listening, but I heard some of it. How the pirate wounded
him, how she was easily as hot with a blade. They thought she was a fellow at
first, because she’s tall and really fast.”

“You mean, she wasn’t a coward?”

Ban closed his eyes. “No. She did faint, or almost faint,
but that was after the fight. She did some kind of healer’s spell on one of the
pirate’s people, who got a cut on the arm, and there was poison on the knife.”

“How about the coach-and-six?” Bowsprit asked.

“Well, that might have been later. But she sure didn’t do it
at the castle. Samdan said she came out into the court, picked up a blade, and
she and the pirate whacked their way through the prince’s patrol. Then she
healed the boy, who my sister says was probably Devli Eban. She didn’t try to
kill anyone, either. Just like the pirate. Then they were gone by magic
transfer.”

“Who’s Devli Eban?”

“Son of the palace steward during Prince Math’s days. He was
a mage student with my sister, though he’s out now. Price on his head and
everything, for being resistance.”

“Oh.” They reached the door, and Bowsprit paused. They could
hear the thunder of the others’ boots diminishing down the stairs below. No one
else was around. They were all racing to the practice courts. “So your cousin’s
friend’s father, or whatever, was wounded. Maybe he didn’t hear everything.”

“Said he was two spear-lengths from them.”

Both considered in silence, each remembering times when
Damedran’s version of the truth hadn’t quite matched with what they’d
understood. But did it do you any good to point such things out? Not when the liar
is the son of the academy commander, and the nephew of the kingdom’s war
commander. And, rumor had it—but never when Damedran was around—that if
anything happened to Prince Jehan, the king was looking his way for a possible
heir.

Bowsprit knocked Ban in the arm again. “Let’s go.”

In silence they followed the others, each thinking without
coming to any conclusions. Sometimes it was better not to say what you thought,
and other times it was useless even to think.

o0o

Jehan paused as the two sober-faced boys passed him on
their way to the quarter-staff court.

He was certain they were two of Damedran Randart’s
followers, though he only recognized tall, dark-haired Ban Kender. But he’d
been watching the games, and how the academy had been changing under the Randarts’
command, for years.

He waited until they’d rounded the stone archway between
command and the barracks, and followed, but instead of turning toward the
courts, he continued across the parade ground to the stable, his expression so
thoughtful that Owl, who was dressed in stable homespun and lurking around on
the watch, pursed his lips.