Sasharia En Garde (47 page)

Jehan sat down as Canardan walked around the desk, stooped,
and picked up the pen. “I don’t know where she went. Maybe back to her world,
as Zhavic insisted the token was a World Gate one. Maybe she had a transfer
spell for this world over it, and went straight to the tower, and then out.
Perran, who is there, might not have even seen her. At least he hasn’t been
here to report anything untoward at the tower. I hope that’s the case.”

Jehan rubbed his jaw. “Is it a problem to have her here?”

“No. Yes. Everything is a problem,” Canardan said angrily.

Jehan’s neck tightened. Was his father, at last, going to
admit to the secret plans for the spring invasion?

For weeks Jehan had wrestled inwardly about that
question—whether it would be better or worse to be told. Either way was going
to mean endless trouble, but he had finally decided that if his father kept it
secret, it was because the king truly knew that breaking the treaty with Locan
Jora was wrong. Whatever excuses would subsequently be offered.

If the king had talked himself into speaking openly about it
before Jehan, that brought its own troubles. An invasion of what was legally if
not historically another country was royal treachery on a scale that could only
be dealt with by a king. Like Math. Otherwise the kingdom would be plunged into
the sort of bloody civil war that had happened far too often over Khanerenth’s
long history.

And none of Jehan’s own intensely loyal, dedicated, brave,
smart, risk-taking and innovative followers knew about the invasion, except for
Owl. He couldn’t tell them until he knew for certain it was true.

“. . . so you see, though I know what it’s
like to be young—and I loved assignations as much as the next young man, when I
was your age—I need you to stay here. You can grace various occasions,
especially those given by foreigners with their constant spies, when my time
demands I be elsewhere. We have too many problems. I cannot risk angering the
least of the ambassadors or envoys by avoiding their social foolishness, and
with winter coming, there will be even more of it.”

Jehan signified assent. A runner entered and bowed. “War
Commander Randart rode into the stable, your majesty. Requests an immediate
interview.”

Canardan lifted a hand and she dashed out.

“Let’s not say anything about this, shall we?” Canardan
murmured, picking up the fake letter and tossing it onto the fire. “I’m certain
that Randart has enough on his mind, and we understand one another, do we not?”

Jehan bowed. “I’m certain he will wish to keep his interview
private.”

Canardan was on the verge of acknowledging the truth of
this, then he paused, regarding his son with a puzzled frown. Duty. The boy did
seem to be slightly less wool-minded than usual. Was it possible he was waking
up to his responsibilities?

“Stay,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. “Zhavic sent
me a report. There was trouble with the fleet, and the pirate apparently got
away. Whatever Randart has to say, you may as well hear it.”

The war commander reached them moments later, a tall, husky
man whose strong arms strained against the sleeves of his sturdy brown
cotton-wool tunic. He scorned velvet. The tunic was also unmarked as any
warrior’s, except for the silver crown stitched over the golden cup—the device
of the king’s own man. He didn’t need to wear rank markers, because in his own
view, his rank was the highest in the kingdom, above mere dukes. Except of
course for the king himself.

Randart’s face hardened even more than usual when he saw who
sat with the king. He hesitated, and Jehan knew that the war commander was
waiting for the king to dismiss his son like an errant lap dog.

“Your report?” Canardan asked, with the smiling irony that
signaled to Jehan his father was quite aware of Randart’s attitude.

Randart clawed his shaggy, gray-streaked hair back, a rare,
entirely human gesture. Both father and son recognized how upset Randart had
been by his defeat. “The pirate tangled the merchants with my naval ships,
under cover of smoke screen. I’d captured one of the Eban brats, and was in the
middle of questioning her when the attack commenced. The pirates boarded my
flagship, a merchant, and got her away while my own guard and the sailors ran
around getting in the way of one another’s blades. The smoke did not help. In
short, a disaster.”

He dropped a sheaf of papers onto the king’s desk. “Here are
the details, if you want them, on the top report. The rest are my brother’s
reports on guard and academy matters.”

Canardan did not even glance at the papers. “Why did you
make a flagship of a merchant? Did they know naval maneuvers?”

“No. I intended to train them into a fighting fleet.”

“In a matter of weeks? I thought our navy trained for
longer. Well, never mind, I can appreciate your thinking, but it might be
better in the future to set up your flag on the fastest ship.”

Randart saluted, lips tight.

“I take it Zathdar himself was present?”

“Description of the leader of the rescue party fits, but I
did not see him myself.”

Canardan frowned. “Yet you say this happened aboard your
flagship. Where were you?”

“Buried underneath an enormous sail which apparently fell
due to fires in the upper masts. The pirates kept up a steady barrage of fire
arrows. By the time I cut my way out, the pirates were gone, with my prisoner.”

Canardan sighed. “And so we have it to do again.”

Randart hesitated, looked at the vacant blue eyes of the
idiot son, and shut his teeth. His subsequent discoveries and surmises would
wait until he could be alone with the king. It made him angry enough to have to
admit to defeat before the Fool. But he deemed it just retribution.

Except, what did the sheep know? Prompted by the sudden,
unpleasant conviction that the king had told the sheep about the invasion, he
tested, saying, “So as for the future—”

The king waved a hand. “All that can wait. I can see from
the mud you’ve been riding all day. Go get something to eat. Get some rest. I
can read through the reports while you do those things.”

Randart stood up. “I’ll give the orders for the execution.
We can do that at noon tomorrow, before I—”

“Execution?” Canardan repeated.

“Of course. The traitor guardsmen. Silvag, and I forget the
other’s name. If we put crossbolts through them, that should solve your
civilian-trial problem—”

Canardan was just irritated enough with Randart to resent
this summary disposition of his time. “Not tomorrow. I have three interviews,
two of those with envoys. Nothing is more awkward than executions, especially
when you’re trying to smooth things over. It can wait.”

Randart had been considering whether or not to tell Canardan
about the report and his theory on Atanial’s missing daughter. Telling the king
would have eased some of the bitterness of his defeat. On the other hand,
nailing that girl down first would go even further in removing the bitterness
of defeat.

Then there was the matter of Canardan’s wavering.

Maybe it would be better to secure her first, and . . .

And see.

Smiling with grim anticipation, Randart withdrew.

Bored and hot, the two guards on patrol rode at an idle
pace along the established perimeter. You didn’t question orders, you just
obeyed, but there wasn’t much chance of action guarding a bunch of old people,
half of whom were in jail.

Atanial watched them from the shade of an ancient, gnarled
willow. Through its hanging green curtain, still in the late-summer air, she
peered after the patrol, timing them as she waited for the cover of darkness.

She was tired and hungry and thirsty, despite having had a
long drink at the last stream. She knew she’d be a lot worse off if she had to
let the horse go. That might happen. It’s difficult to hide a horse.

So far, she was all right. The animal stood patiently in the
shade with her, tail twitching. When at last the shadows fused into darkness,
she decided to move after the next patrol. It came right on time, roughly an
hour after the last round. She waited until the pair had safely ridden by, then
tied the reins of her horse loosely to a low branch, pulled out the feedbag,
filled it, and put it on the horse.

This took longer than she’d thought it would, as she and the
horse were unfamiliar with one another. The movements were also unfamiliar.

When she was done, she took off running with her head low.
She zipped across the road and over a gentle hill toward the Silvags’ orchard.
She was thinking of cover, but she almost ran Lark down, out picking peaches
now that the sun was gone.

They both gasped, Lark almost dropping her basket. The girl
poised to flee.

Atanial whispered, “It’s me, Sun—er, Atanial.”

Lark whistled. “You better leave, your highness, before my
mother—”

“Before your mother what?” Plir Silvag rounded an old peach
tree, a basket on her arm. She was only a silhouette in the deepening gloom,
but Atanial saw the tension in her movements. “Who are you? You can’t be—”

“Sun. Atanial. Whatever—”

“Get. Out.”

Atanial sighed, the inner vision of water, food, a bath
vanishing. “Please. Just listen to me.”

“Last time I listened to you, my husband got taken. He may
even be dead for all I know—”

“He’s not.”

“So you say—”

“He’s not. Tam would have told me. They’re all safe. The
king won’t do anything to them because he agreed to hold a trial.”

“She’s right,” Lark said. “Tam said so. So did my cousin in
the stable.”

“You hold your tongue.”

“Ma, Tam keeps telling us—”

“He’ll say anything,” Plir retorted. “To protect that little
traitor Marka.”

Atanial winced. How sickening civil war was, the conflict
and division from regions right down to the personal level.

Plir’s basket whisked against her skirt, a scratchy sound,
as she shifted it. “All right. I’ll listen. But if that patrol catches you,
I’ll just stand by and watch. I’m not losing my home too.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise. I spied on the patrol all day,
and I know when they’ll come round again. I promise to be long gone before they
do.”

“Speak, then.”

“First, I’m sorry about your husband, and I know they got
Folgothan too.”

“He couldn’t run,” Plir Silvag said bitterly. “Because
someone
stabbed him in the leg. And my
husband wouldn’t just leave him.”

“Is Haxin all right?” Atanial remembered the name of the
ferret-faced fellow.

“He is,” Lark spoke up. “But Kenda—his daughter, my age,
well, Kenda was dismissed from the service. She just got promoted to signal
flag officer on
Adamant
. But the war
commander turfed her out. On account of her dad.”

“They went over the mountain back to Locan Jora, where his
cousins live,” Plir said.

“Oh no.” Atanial hadn’t meant it to slip out, but both the
Silvags exclaimed, “What?” Their voices were hoarse with the effort to keep
from yelling.

“That’s why I came. Word is, the king plans an invasion of
Locan Jora in the spring. No, no, please don’t talk. I promised you I’d speak
my piece and be gone, so let me speak it. I know you don’t want any fighting,
not with friends and cousins and so forth over there. I don’t either. You saw
what happened when I took up the sword. One fight, and Folgothan got hurt and
arrested. Even small wounds can have bad consequences.”

Lark and Plir gave similar short nods.

“So what I want to do is gather all the women, those who
have family in the military. The military have to follow orders, I understand
that. And we can’t do much against trained fighters, not alone. But what if we
were a great number? What if, just imagine it, we had half the kingdom raised,
all peaceful, no swords among us, and we begged the king not to invade?”

Plir went very still. Atanial scarcely breathed.

“Randart would cut us down without compunction,” Plir
stated.

“But Canardan won’t. He’d hate even the suggestion. I don’t
have a lot to say in his favor, but I know he wouldn’t do that.”

Plir shifted the basket again. “Yes, we’ve heard a lot about
you and Canardan.”

Atanial sighed. “My prison was a beautiful suite. He gave me
clothes, and he even gave me jewels.”
And
how many times am I going to have this conversation? With every single woman,
no doubt
. “He wanted everyone seeing me in those clothes and jewels. He
wanted people to see me dancing at that masquerade, because he knew what people
would think.”

“Queen Ananda’s servants swore you and he were not lovers,”
Plir said unexpectedly. “But he could have forced them to say that before he
pensioned them off.” She turned away. “I have to think.”

Atanial backed up a step or two. “I said I’d be going. I’ll
be gathering at Ivory Mountain,” she added deliberately and walked away, her
heart thumping hard.

The stars were just emerging, weak glimmers overhead. It was
close timing, but she heard no sound of hoof beats on the still air.

She mistook four trees for her willow and had to backtrack
to the road before she found the right one. Freezing into place under its
sheltering curtain, she watched the riders amble into view, each carrying a
bobbing lantern.

Their noise smothered the quiet, steady munch of the horse.
Atanial leaned against the animal’s neck, arms pressed across her front. She
knew she was going to face that same conversation every time she tried to build
her protest march.

Or maybe she wouldn’t after all, if some angry woman
reported her.

No self-pity. She would simply go until she either had her
peace marchers a la the sixties, or she was caught.
At least
, she thought, trying for humor,
if Canardan catches me again I’ll get another soak in that wonderful
tub.