Sasharia En Garde (32 page)

“Probably in hopes of a breeze. If it’s been half as beastly
hot in Ellir as it’s been here. Even my son,” he added wryly, “is not too
dreamy to overlook this weather.”

The stars shone in the rain-washed midnight sky over the
royal palace in Vadnais, but the palace room was still too warm. Magister
Zhavic resisted the temptation to wipe his sleeve over his damp forehead, and
got to the important part of his report. “When he heard that the prince had
gone out into the harbor for the night, War Commander Randart rowed out with a
force into the harbor after him.”

Canardan sighed, his gaze straying to the pile of papers
waiting on his desk. “Randart’s orders are to set sail at dawn, in pursuit of
that curst pirate Zathdar. What’s he doing chasing after my son? Did he decide
to commandeer Jehan’s yacht? Or maybe he’s taking Jehan out to help catch the
pirate?”

“The war commander did not see fit to inform us. He departed
without a word to anyone, and was subsequently seen rowing back again, without
the prince, just before I transferred myself here to report. They might be
docking right now. If the threatened storm did not slow them up. He did not
have the prince with him. I made certain of that before I left.” He lifted his
left hand, on which lay the magical transfer token, bespelled for a trip to the
royal palace and back again to Ellir Harbor.

The king’s attention flicked from the brassy token to the
tall, lean, gray-haired man sitting before him. “You have no idea what Randart
was after, then?”

“There is speculation, of course. But the war commander did
not inform us directly. All I can tell you is that he took his nephew with him,
along with half a company from the garrison.”

The king regarded the mage with brooding question. Magister
Zhavic sat squarely on his chair, his face stiff, gaze diffuse. But Canardan,
used to listening for clues, heard the subtle satisfaction emphasizing certain
words. Zhavic was
gloating
. “All
right, let’s hear the speculation.”

“According to Patrol Leader Hathmad, the war commander and
his force rowed out to the prince’s yacht to make a search.”

“A search? For what?” The king leaned forward. “My son’s art
collection?” Despite the joke, the king did not smile.

“They weren’t told, just ordered to search for anomalies.
The captain of the war commander’s honor guard seemed to have private orders, but
the others weren’t given those orders.”

“What did they find on this search?”

“Nothing. The prince had gone to his yacht to get one of
his, ah, female artists to paint a fan for her majesty. The entire force
overheard that.”

Huh! If Randart was still in the process of rowing back yet
Zhavic had this fresh report, that meant one of those men—probably this patrol
leader—was a paid informer to the mages. Canardan was not surprised at that so
much as at the fact that Zhavic was in such a hurry to tattle on Randart that
he revealed the existence of the spy.

“Female artist?” Canardan repeated. Could that possibly be
the reason behind the search? There was only one missing female of
import—Sasharia Zhavalieshin, daughter of Princess Atanial, whom Canardan had
closely guarded up in the tower, ostensibly as a cherished guest.

But if her daughter, who had been captured by the pirate
Zathdar at last report, was at large, and War Commander Randart was searching
for her, surely,
surely
, the war
commander would report that to his king. Wouldn’t he?

“What did this female artist look like?” Canardan asked.
“Tall? Frizzy hair? Hawk-nosed?”

“Small, short red hair, very attractive. Perhaps Colendi.
The only other female on board was the cook. She was quite tall. Hathmad didn’t
remember her hair, so it must have been unremarkable. She was also drunk,
covered with flour and wine, so they couldn’t really see her features.”

Hathmad was the spy, then. Canardan repeated the name to
himself to commit it to memory. He frowned. “I could have sworn last year Jehan
treated me to a meal prepared by a Colendi master cook named
Kial . . . Kaer . . . ah, I don’t remember his
name, but in any case this was a man. I can understand that a Colendi master
cook might get tired of sitting around on a yacht that sees its owner once or
twice a year. Did Hathmad observe the cook working?”

“Said she prepared an exquisite meal and served it like an
experienced steward.”

“Which the cook has to be, on a yacht that small. Very well,
we’ll set aside the fan artist and the cook. Randart certainly seems to have.
Go on with the report. Does anyone have any worthwhile speculation on why the
war commander had them searching for anomalies on my son’s yacht in the middle
of the night?” Canardan rubbed his jaw, wondering if Randart was ruminating on
heirs again. Maybe it was time to send Damedran on a long, long journey, to
learn diplomacy or observe armies or whatever.

“Something having to do with the prince having arrested or
almost arrested or attempting to arrest, a cutpurse, as near as I can tell.
There was very little information to be found out about that. Everyone wanted
to talk about the games and those mysterious youths who carried every single
prize away from our cadets.”

“Yes, just what we needed. Another mystery,” Canardan said
with heavy irony.

He turned his gaze back to the papers, but he didn’t see
them. Magisters Zhavic and Perran, the king’s mages, both hated the war
commander and his brother—a feeling that was mutual. None had any use for the
others, which suited Canardan fine. You don’t want your military leaders and
your strongest mages allied.

The cost was that they spent a lot of time that ought to
have been dedicated to his own concerns trying to prove the others false.
Canardan knew that Randart was behind recent whispers that the king “should”
disinherit Jehan and put his nephew in his place. He blamed himself for
speaking aloud in extreme exasperation once, when Jehan had done something
particularly fog-headed.

However, the idea had obviously stuck, and Canardan didn’t
like that. Damedran was a military man’s ideal candidate for royal heir:
handsome, strong, tough, and courageous. He was also ignorant and bull-headed.
His knowledge of trade, of diplomacy, and of all the other aspects of kingship
that his father and uncle scorned was even sketchier than Jehan’s.

Bothering the king the most? These sporadic secret missions,
as though Randart had caught wind of actual treason. Not that chasing a
cutpurse was treason. Neither was chasing a cutpurse any reason to take half a
company of handpicked guards out for a tedious harbor trip, after a long day
spent in the broiling sun. Nor was it a reason to institute a covert search,
his target no one less than the crown prince.

Canardan rubbed his eyes. His own ambivalence gave him
pause. A part of him
wanted
Jehan to
be conniving behind his back. That would mean the boy had his brains after all,
and his ambition. Jehan when small had shown a distressing tendency to mimic
his mother’s impossible ideals, which was one of the reasons Canardan had sent
him west to get some sense knocked into him as well as some training. The other
reason had been to protect Jehan somewhat when Canardan had parted with his
mother.

Jehan had had plenty of time to get used to that. He’d
returned beautifully trained, obedient, cooperative . . . but
without ambition.

If Jehan was really conniving, hey, that showed the
rudiments of ambition! But why not on his father’s side?

Canardan scowled at the papers, still not seeing them.
Unlike his own monster of a father (until the old man was killed by Canardan’s
siblings, who were both far worse) he gave Jehan a free hand. Unlimited money.
Rank. Even some responsibility—as long as he followed orders. And Jehan did
follow orders . . . when he remembered them.

No, Randart had to be inventing shadows to jump at. He’d
always had a suspicious nature, which had saved Canardan many times in the
past.

Still. Taking Damedran out to the yacht? That was very odd.

Canardan returned his attention to Zhavic. “I want someone
trusted on the flagship. Reporting every day.”

Zhavic bowed in his chair. “It shall be done.”

“Meanwhile, you return to searching for Atanial’s daughter.
I can’t do anything until I have her. The old castle with the World Gate is
warded, isn’t it?”

“Perran is there himself. No one can possibly transfer
between worlds without our knowing immediately.” Zhavic hesitated, then made a
tentative gesture upward, toward the tower above them. “You are content with
matters here?”

“You mean Princess Atanial?” Canardan grinned wryly,
thinking,
You mean her magical tokens
.
“Oh, I think so. Carry on.” He twiddled his fingers in dismissal.

The mage rose, bowed, murmured and transferred by magic,
leaving a puff of displaced air to rattle the papers still gripped in
Canardan’s hand.

o0o

So exactly where was the missing tall, wild-haired,
hawk-nosed daughter of Princess Atanial?

I was standing on the yacht in Jehan’s arms while we lit up
the sky with a supernova kiss.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

The thing about sensory firestorms is, there’s that rock of
common sense sitting somewhere in the center of all the heat. Or so it is with
me. Because when I came up for air, the rock was right there inside me with all
its insistent weight, and I gasped, nearly choking on rain, and pushed Jehan
away.

“Sasharia?” he asked.

Lightning crackled, striking the sea not far away. He held
his hands out to me, but when I braced myself to resist, he dropped them to his
sides.

In the glow from the cabin door, his light blue eyes looked
black, his expression lengthening from passion to puzzlement. “What’s wrong?”

I looked at the fine strands of white hair lying across his
brow. Tenderness made the insides of my arms ache to hold him, and my fingers
twitched, wanting to smooth back his hair, which (I had discovered) was as soft
as a bunny’s fur, only long. I clenched my hands behind my back, wishing the
lightning would do me a big favor and strike me now. “I hate
Fatal Attraction
movies,” I snarled.

Of course that made no sense to him whatsoever.

I shook my own wet mop impatiently out of my face, but did
not move, despite the lightning and thunder, and the stinging needles of rain.
The thunder had rumbled away like boulders falling across the sky to the edge
of the world. “I was going to make a joke about sleeping with the enemy and
being stupid, but it’s not funny, is it?”

“Enemy?” He stepped back, his chin jerking up as if I’d
slapped him.

“Oh, Jehan, I didn’t mean that. I mean I did, but not—oh, I
don’t know what I mean.” I gave a strangled excuse for a laugh and tried
desperately to smooth a horrible moment over with a joke. “So what’s your place
in”—
my life?
—“Great Events? Did some
mysterious mage cast a Shadow of Destiny on you when you were little? Or some
weird prophesy turn up with your name in it in reference to a Path of Fate?”

“Fate? Destiny?” he repeated.

The words had come out in English, and I remembered Mom
telling me years ago they didn’t have any such concepts. Nor did they talk
about luck, either bad or good.

My “joke” was about as funny as mud, but I kept trying to
turn the most serious conversation of my life into light banter because if you
laugh you can’t get hurt, right? “I mean do you have a life membership in the
Villains’ Guild? Now would be the time to zip it from your wallet and get
started with the har har har.”

“Villains?” He looked skyward. “How can you think that,
Sasharia? What have I done? What have I not done?”

Lightning. Thunder. Neither of us moved. We stared at one
another, as if anger and passion and desperate questions could reach past
locked gazes into skulls and decode the thoughts there. But though people
walked in the world who could do that, neither of us had been born with that
particular gift. Or curse.

“Call me Sasha.” I knew it was inane, and that I was acting
like an idiot. But I so wanted to hear him say my name. Just once more. Because
I was going to stick to my guns, and leave as soon as I could.

“Sasha.” He said my name on an outgoing breath, which sent
shivers all through my nerves. “Why won’t you let me explain the pirate
disguise?”

The rain squall ended abruptly, a wave of slanting gray
diminishing over the sea, leaving us standing under the dripping sails on the
wet deck. I fought to keep my voice steady. “You. Are. Your father’s. Son.”

His eyes closed. Then opened. “Didn’t you listen to anything
I’ve told you?”

“Oh, I listened. Heard everything you said. Which was,
mostly, everything I want to hear. Just as your father talked to my mother
twenty years ago your time, using every smile, every charm at his command.”

He gripped the rail with both hands, and looked at me over
his shoulder. “You’re never going to trust me, are you? No matter what I do.
What I say. Because of who my father is.”

“Let’s skip right past the fact that you lied to me about
who you really are, when we first met. Privateer or pirate, you are attacking
your own side. Your lying to Randart I have no problem with. But you’re also
lying to your dad. I know you don’t want anybody killed, but for whose good?
Here’s the real question: what would you do with your dad if you won some kind
of battle against him? Put him on trial for his life, or stab him in the back?”

“Neither.” Jehan faced the sea and let his breath out
slowly. “But you won’t believe me even on that. Will you.” It was a statement,
not a question.

“So how do you propose to take away the kingdom? Last I
heard he was decades away from a convenient death of frail old age.”

“That’s not for me to decide, it’s for Math,” Jehan said.
“Don’t you see? I am on your father’s side. I want Prince Mathias back on his
throne. I want the kingdom reunited. Everything I do is to keep Randart on the
hop, keep my father busy, which will make it all easier when Math does return.
If Math returns, then maybe my father will listen to sense. There doesn’t have
to be any killing.”