Sasharia En Garde (35 page)

No, much as she longed for it, escape right now would be a
bad move. She longed to get away and find Sasha, but she would not risk others.

Besides. She remembered the glimpse of white hair in the
courtyard below and remembered what Ananda had said about Jehan. She had to
talk to him.

o0o

Jehan longed to be standing on the captain’s deck of the
Zathdar
. He longed to be asleep on the
Dolphin
.

He longed to be anywhere but here.

But there was no leaving, and certainly no sleep. He bathed,
dressed, and drank the hot steeped listerblossom brought to him by servants
familiar with his tastes. That at least reduced the headache, at least.

He dressed, making certain his magic-transfer notecase went
directly from the pile of dirty clothes into his new, because the moment he
left, someone—probably Chas—would be searching his things.

Standard, all of it. Meanwhile his father awaited him for
lunch. After that everyone would be expecting him to fuss over his clothes, so
he had to find the energy to give them what they expected.

The lunch was being served on the shaded private balcony
overlooking the back garden, where stooped backs worked among the roses and
other flowers, busy trimming, weeding, sprucing up. Some of the flowers looked
withered. There’d been no rain here for almost three days now, and dust rose
everywhere, shimmering light brown in the dazzling sunlight, settling to the
distantly heard dismay of sweepers, dusters, cleaners.

“Welcome back, my boy,” Canardan greeted him.

“Thank you, Father.” Jehan bowed.

They sat down to eat, and Jehan faced his father’s searching
gaze. “Tell me about the games,” the king said.

“Shambles.” Jehan broke a biscuit fresh from the oven. “We
had four outsiders join at the last moment, who took all the prizes they
competed for. Then they vanished before the awards.”

Canardan rubbed his jaw as Jehan dug into his meal. “What
happened to Damedran?”

“Thumped repeatedly. But that did not prevent him from
riding in the relay even so.”

“And still he lost?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they, any idea?”

Jehan had thought this aspect out very carefully. “I know
one of them from my training days in the west. He recognized me. Came up beside
me when I was going down to visit my yacht, said something about assessment.
Said word is out west, Norsunder will be moving against the world soon. Said we
should be better trained in defense tactics.”

There it was, the truth.

Canardan waved a hand impatiently. “Every court is yipping
about Norsunder. I did it myself when I pressed the guilds to up their tax
share to me.”

“You hold that view despite these warnings?”

“What warnings? It’s all rumor, innuendo, nonsense. Excuses
for other plans. If Norsunder’s mages do start sniffing around, we have Zhavic
and Perran to ward ’em. Last I heard, no one has actually seen the Norsundrian
army for years, except down there at the southern base, which concerns itself
with Sartor and its environs. I want Locan Jora back. We need it. They
interfere with Colendi trade, causing me to spend time and energy with these
constant negotiations. That’s enough to worry about.” His voice sharpened,
warning that he would no longer listen, only demand.

Jehan deferred yet again, hating himself, the situation, and
the entire world. But as usual, hid it. “I had commissioned a gift for the
queen. Magister Zhavic told me she vanished. What does that mean, vanished?”

“I don’t know myself. One morning she wasn’t in her rooms,
and no one had seen her depart.”

“Magic?”

“Could be, though Zhavic went over her chambers himself, and
insisted he found no traces of transfer. But then the magic
would . . .” He waved his hand. “Dissipate? Sounds like fog, not
spells. Anyway, the residue of major transfers only lingers for a time, they
all say. And we don’t know when she left. She stayed in her rooms, never came
out except to walk in the gardens.”

Jehan nodded, satisfied that the queen had gone of her own
free will, however mysteriously, and had not been conveniently dispatched. Now
that there was a potential queen around.

Speaking of whom, it was time to mention her. “When do I
meet Princess Atanial?”

“Officially, at the ball. But if you like I can invite her
to supper. She has nothing else to do. I caught her, I might add, having made
straight for those fools around that troublemaker Kreki Eban. Who is sitting
down in the lockup right now, with the rest of them, awaiting my pleasure.”

“What is your pleasure?” Jehan asked.

“That they all drop dead. But they won’t. I don’t know what
to do about them. I can’t figure out if I should hope someone runs a rescue
raid so I have an excuse to kill them all, or if I should make them disappear.
But whether there was dirty work or not, you can be certain rumor would smear
me. As usual. So they sit there. And Atanial up here. None of them making
trouble.” Canardan grinned.

“I am to understand you summoned me here to meet her?”

“To talk to her.” The king threw up his hands. “You like
women. You chase women. They must like you, or you wouldn’t catch them. Atanial
is likable, but too old for you to chase. Talk to her instead. Ask about her
daughter. What she looks like, what she’s been taught. Where she might be. I
want that daughter here, and I want you to court her.”

“Court her?” Jehan repeated, aghast.

“Court and marry. Zhavalieshin name and ours twined, very
romantic and might just settle down this curse-blasted kingdom.”

The headache was back, worse than before. “What if she won’t
have me?”

“Of course she will,” his father countered. “You have
success with all these artists, surely you can romance her. You’re handsome,
you’re rich, you’ve got a title. If she’s romantic, you give up your artists
for a little while. If she’s sensible, you don’t even have to do that.”

From a certain point of view, it sounded reasonable. Kings
and queens negotiated just such marriages all the time. But Jehan never felt
farther from his father’s view of the world than at this moment.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked, thumbs at his temples.

“No, but if the pirate’s got her, Randart will soon take
care of that. If not, the mages will track her down on land.”

“What if she won’t cooperate?” Jehan asked.

Father and son eyed one another, striving to understand—and
to convince the other.

Was that irony in his Jehan’s voice? Canardan eyed his son,
then shrugged. Imagination. Maybe the boy hesitated for his usual stupid
reasons. She might not be pretty, or more important, might not like art.
“She’ll cooperate.”

They both knew he’d use persuasion, and then threat.

The rest of the lunch was about details—the ball, taxes,
decisions. Jehan perceived with a sinking heart that Canardan did not expect
any intelligent response. He probably did not want it. He only wanted
acquiescence, and that Jehan gave him with his usual air of absence.

Seeing it, his father relaxed. When Canardan was finished,
he rose. It was time to get on with his busy day, and for his son to carry out
his assigned tasks.

Jehan crossed the long halls to his seldom-used rooms, now
filled with people patiently awaiting him: the two tailors, a model his height
and build, a dozen apprentices standing ready with swatches of cloth, and
servants hovering at the back.

Jehan submitted silently to their ministrations, his
thoughts extremely bitter. They stayed that way until evening, by which time
his head ached like a hammer on metal.

So he was in no real mood of appreciation when he sat down
to dinner with his father and his prisoner, Princess Atanial, who was tall,
built on slighter lines than her daughter, though not by much. They had the
same magnificent build. They also had the same light hair and the same light
eyes, though there the resemblance ended. Sasha, Jehan thought, was a real
blend of her parents’ features, Math’s distinctive bones made beautiful by Atanial’s
spun-sugar prettiness.

He hated her laugh.

“So
nice
it is to
meet you
at last
.” She giggled. It
really was a giggle. “You
do
have
white hair. Not light blond, or what we call
platinum
, it’s so white it’s blue.” And the trilling giggle again.

“All the morvende are like that.” Canardan didn’t seem to
mind the laugh. “You should see a room full of ’em. Like snow statues.”

The princess leaned forward and pressed Jehan’s fingers.
“Oh, but don’t think I don’t count you as handsome. Woo-hoo-hoo! Why, the girls
must simply
swoon
over you.”

He tried not to show his wince.

“But I’m told all the Merindars are as handsome as your
father.”

He braced himself—and there came the laugh.

How could his father possibly admire this woman? But he was
staring at her with a peculiar bemusement Jehan had never seen in his face
before.

The signal for the servants at least quieted the laugh as
food was handed round and everyone ate. Atanial plopped her elbows on the table
the same way her daughter did. This breach of manners lessened his irritation
enough to make her voice bearable.

Just as well, for she chattered through the entire dinner,
running on about masquerades, the castle, music, Math, and ending with, “So
what will your costume be, dear?”

Dear? “Not much I can be.” He felt measurably better now
that he’d eaten.

She chuckled, a soft, even attractive sound that suddenly
shifted to the piercing giggle. Jehan’s nerves fired. Was it possible she was
faking that horrible laugh?

He fought back the tiredness settling like cloud-blankets
over his thoughts now that the headache had receded, and forced himself to pay
attention. “Not many famous morvende in sunsider history.”

“Sunsider? Oh! You mean we who live in the sun and not in
your caves. Woo hoo! But you could wear a wig. Some sort of disguise along with
your mask—”

And put that idea in everyone’s mind? He marshaled the last
of his energy and waved a languid hand. “Loathe disguises in any form. Any mask
I wear must be a work of art.”

“Oh, I
see
.” She
trilled coyly. “
Art
, yes. I think
your father told me you are sensitive to all forms of art. That must be your
morvende heritage.” And the laugh again.

What a stupid remark! Yet Math had admired his wife’s
brains, and Sasha thought highly of her mother.

If so, why?

His interest sharpened. Seeing his father gazing at her with
a slight furrow between his brows, Jehan said, “Does your daughter like
masquerades?”

“My daughter?” Princess Atanial looked around as if a
daughter were hiding behind the chandelier or under the table. “Oh yes. That
is, she does love a good romp. When in the mood. Though she is not much one for
costume. They do so rip and tear so easily. Hee-hee-hee!”

“In the mood?” Jehan persisted, after his father made a
motion with his hand, waggling the fingers.
More,
more
.

“Well. You know,” Atanial said airily, looking at the light
through her glass. “Not angry. Or sullen. She does have her very good days, and
on those, she can be as sweet as roses, and for longer than many give her
credit for. Why, are you interested in my darling Sasha? Oh, you young men,
always with the young, but I’m only an ugly old woman, and I don’t count. I
know, it’s the way of life.” A bosom-heaving sigh.

Canardan sat back, gazing at her in perplexity. Jehan winced
when she trilled again. “Oh no.” He forced a smile. “Quite the opposite, I
assure you. It’s only your beauty that has me hoping your daughter might be a
candle to your sun.”

He felt a pang of self-loathing, knowing how false he
sounded.

She twiddled her fingers at him demurely. “Go along, then.
Beautiful indeed! They do say that poor Sasha inherited her father’s looks, but
we who love her think her beautiful, and as for that terrible Kickpail epithet,
well, it’s simply not true. Quite unkind, put about by jealous minds.”

“Kickpail?” both men repeated at the same time.

Atanial looked skyward. “Oh dear.
Don’t
tell me you hadn’t heard about everyone calling her Clumsy
Kickpail. Naughty me! But how was I supposed to know? I assure you the stories
about how ungainly she is are quite exaggerated. Quite. She only broke that
table once, and it was already old and ready to fly to pieces at a touch. As
for those windows, why, that can happen to anyone. And it’s not true she flung
the serving maid through one. Stupid girl tripped all on her own, not moving
out of the way fast enough.” Atanial thumped her elbows back onto the table,
chin resting on her laced fingers. “When my daughter has a sword in her hand,
it’s art to watch her. Though it’s better not to watch when her temper is, ah,
somewhat peppery. But that’s true of anyone. An-ee-one!” She blinked rapidly.

Jehan was stunned. A more false word picture of the Sasha he
knew could scarcely be found—except for the sword.
The single true observation reported to my father
. Surely Atanial
had to be playing some sort of game, right under Canardan’s nose.

“Oh, I do so hope I can introduce the two of you.” Atanial
gave a coy little bat to Jehan’s sleeve. “I can give you some little teentsy
hints on how best not to set off, that is, how to please her the most. She is
the best company if you don’t anger—ah, when in her wonderful social mood.”

Jehan was sure of it now, Atanial was lying. To what effect?
His father made a surreptitious encouraging motion.

Jehan turned back to Atanial. “Teentsy hints like?”

“Never talk about flowers with her. She hates the sight of
them for some reason. Oh, and rain. It puts her in such a dour mood. That’s
natural, isn’t it? Everybody hates rain. She also hates snow, hot weather and
wind. Horses. She despises their smell, and their noises. Talking about any
other woman will miff her, oooh, the tiniest bit. She’s been so sheltered, she
never really learned social graces. We were on the run for so many years, and
then she had to adjust to another world at the most awkward age, and the awkwardness,
I fear . . . Her family loves her dearly, and we don’t count any
of these faults against her thousands of good qualities.” Atanial sighed,
looking up again. “But oh, I must admit to the teeniest bit of jealousy myself!
That’s the way of it. When a young woman enters the conversation, if not the
room, the old woman is quite forgotten. I must get used to it, I suppose.”