Sasharia En Garde (48 page)

She’d just mounted up when a furtive step caused her to
whirl around.

“It’s me. Lark. Ma sent me. I’ll show you who’s important.
She’s going to stay here and spread the word.”

Atanial’s eyelids burned with grateful tears. She wiped her
eyes, then helped Lark up onto the horse’s back. She mounted, and they vanished
into the night, Lark pointing the way.

o0o

Mindful of his promise, Jehan agreed to attend a ball that
evening, freeing up his father for his private interview with Randart.

Attending a ball was not exactly torture. In fact, one of
the duchesses had brought a daughter, newly arrived home from Colend, who was
bright, beautiful, witty, and fun to dance with.

A year ago he would have lingered and found a way to visit
her again. But now he discovered there was just no spark. Her trenchant
observations on the shortcomings of last season’s plays in Colend made him want
to take Sasha to Alsais to see how she liked Colendi theater. Though the
duchess’s daughter employed all her arts to attract, Jehan did not really
notice her tiny waist, or her exquisite sense of style in gown and hair. The
image that compelled him most came from memory, a tall woman with a swinging
stride and hawk’s beak nose, her braids dancing around her shoulders, her grin
rakish and not the least coy.

After two or three dances, the duchess’s daughter sensed his
indifference to her arts of attraction. Her laughter gradually lilted less and
became a lot more wry. At the end of a long night of waltzing and scintillating
talk on the subject of art, he gracefully saluted her hand, expressing a
friendly wish they would meet again to continue their conversation.

Presently she left with her mother, saying, “Conversation is
all he means. I think there’s someone else.”

“Nonsense.” The duchess snorted. “He’s notoriously
cloud-brained. You’ll have to work harder to catch his attention.”

The daughter did not argue. She never did. But mentally she
resolved to return to Colend, and when she came back again to Khanerenth she
would be married. Next time he saw her, this Prince Jehan—who
wasn’t
cloud-brained, by the way—would
probably want to introduce his wife.

As for Jehan, he was glad to drop wearily into bed at last.
Too tired to plan much beyond avoiding Randart the next day, he slid into
slumber in the last watch before dawn.

And woke with Kazdi at his bedside, holding a tray of
aromatic coffee. “Randart rode out after the sun came up.”

Jehan sipped, burned his lips and tongue, and sighed. “Any
idea where?”

“Bar Larsca Valley. The guards were joking about the siege
site, and how Randart can’t seem to stay away from the game.”

Jehan frowned. “Riding off the morning after arriving? There
has to be something else.”

Kazdi shrugged. He never even tried to understand Randart,
much less out-think him. That was the prince’s job. His job was to try to
deflect Chas and other spies.

“He’s suspicious.”

“Of us?” Kazdi’s voice cracked on the word
us
, but Jehan didn’t smile, and Kazdi
was too anxious to blush.

“I don’t know,” Jehan said finally. “Let’s accept that as a
given and go from there.”

The rest of the academy and the guards finally joined
Damedran and the academy cadets at Cheslan Castle.

By then the senior cadets had a camp set up at the site the
baron had designated with planted flags, a stretch of land recently harvested.
In the fields beyond the campsite, the work of harvest went on as the newly
arrived cadets finished helping set up the permanent camp.

Damedran, as senior cadet, accompanied his father to the
castle for the first meeting with the baron. It was a meeting of surpassing
tedium, but Damedran didn’t care, at first, his mood was a happy blend of
anticipation and triumph. After weeks and weeks of stony looks and avoidance,
Lesi Valleg had finally spoken to him. It was short and gruff—about watch
assignments—but that was far better than being scowled at.

As the baron and Orthan Randart settled what the army could
and could not do with the castle, outbuildings and grounds, Damedran thought
about Lesi.

He loved war games, he loved commanding and, well, some said
Lesi had ears like open clam shells and buckteeth, but he’d liked her ever
since they were little. She was tough, smart, and no one in the entire academy
shot better than she did.

She was also the leader of the cadets who didn’t like him,
Damedran knew. When he was younger, that was the perfect excuse for scrapping
whenever there was an opportunity. But this year thrashing them had gotten less
fun, somehow. He much preferred things when the seniors were all together as a
unit. With him at the top, of course.

It was especially clear after this boring ride that having
the senior class divided was no good. When half weren’t talking to the other
half, opportunities for some great practical jokes and some well-earned and
entirely fair swank in front of the younger brats went right by.

What was it the sheep had said? Prince Jehan, he reminded
himself. They’d have to be unified if Norsunder attacked. And, much as he’d
love to believe how tough they were, he and his gang, the midsummer games had
sure proved
that
wrong.

Reminded of that mysterious nine-year-old boy, Damedran
shrugged inwardly. Rumors had been flying around since the games disaster, most
insisting that boy was really the son of the hated Siamis of Norsunder, who had
commanded two wars in the previous decade. Either his son or the son of the far
worse villain, Detlev, about whom the stories were amazing and chilling.

But Damedran scoffed at such gassing. Even if those
enigmatic villains, who commanded vast armies and had their eyes set on world
conquering, had children, wouldn’t those children be busy in some hidden lair
learning whatever it was you learned for world conquering, and not wandering
around shooting in stupid contests like the yearly games in Khanerenth?

That much he said out loud when the others brought up the
games and rumors. But alone at night, thinking and, well, go ahead and admit
it. Worrying. He couldn’t help wonder about what Wolfie had said after that
fight. And that amazing training.

“All right then, that covers it, Orthan. We’re done. I look
forward to watching, heh heh.”

“I hope we’ll show you something worth seeing.”

The men stood, breaking Damedran’s reverie. He was glad to
be interrupted.

Orthan Randart started out, pleased with his son’s quiet,
even agreeable demeanor, unlike his accustomed slouch and scowl. Not realizing
that Damedran had not heard a single word spoken, Orthan rubbed his hands as
they descended the main stairway and clattered through the old hall to the
front gate, their heels ringing loudly, their mail and gear jingling. On either
side of them, servants were busy taking down and rolling tapestries, or
carrying off heavy, carved chairs with gold inlay, the style of three
generations previous. Windows were being removed, leaving the castle a bare
shell, suitable for a satisfactory siege game.

“It’s good to deal with one who understands the military,”
Orthan said. “Here’s the boundaries, here’s the rules, point, point, point, and
we’re done. Civs, they argue about every piece of porcelain, every bush,
yowling, ‘But what if?’ until your head aches, and then they’ve got their hands
out. The king’s purse might be deep, but it’s not a bottomless pit. As they
ought to be the first to know, they argue so much about taxes. Heh. Looks like
we’ve got everyone in at last.”

They had passed through the courtyard to see dust hanging in
the air above the meadow where they had set up camp. The swarms of youth in
brown had been obscured entirely by strings of horses, wagons, and a mass of
warriors moving about with various duties, a few casting glances skyward at the
gathering clouds. The smell of horse and human, of cooking food, hit them with
a similar sense of sharp anticipation.

As they got closer, the mass became identifiable as discrete
patrols, each with a task. Most talked, laughed, and joked with the geniality
that father and son associated with the commencement of a massive war game, the
prospect of fun not only for a day or a week, but for an extended period.

Orthan veered to search for the newly arrived captains.
Damedran lagged, hoping to slip away to his own crowd to find out how much was
finished, and what practical jokes might be possible.

Then a bugle’s exciting challenge ripped the air from a
distance: the king’s signal, but blown once.

“It’s the war commander. Riding at the gallop!”

Heads turned, voices sharpened, and that enormous crowd of
people—everyone at different chores—parted like the waters of a great river.
Down the cleared, trampled grass rode Randart at the head of an honor guard of
six.

Damedran’s first reaction was the old excitement. That’s
what command did for you, it parted the way better than magic ever could.

Orthan laughed at his son’s avid expression. “Dannath does
so love scattering us like chickens in a fowl yard. Always has.”

Damedran looked up skeptically. “Uncle Dannath? He doesn’t
love anything. Except work.”

Orthan shook his head, watching the riders rein to a halt.
They were immediately surrounded by officers, to fade back again when Randart
waved a gloved hand, obviously giving some order, after which he disappeared
into the command tent, two of his guard taking up position at the flap. “He
loves power,” Orthan murmured.

Damedran grinned. “And we don’t?”

Orthan grinned back. “I like my power circumscribed. I
wouldn’t take a crown if it fell in the dust at my feet. Too much work. Think
about it. I was upstairs watching my old cadet friend, Trevan Hazhan, now the
Baron Cheslan. He was with Dannath and me and the king in the academy. The king
handed out titles as he’d promised. We got ours. But are we ever
at
our castle?”

Damedran’s lips parted. It was true. He was technically heir
to a barony now, but that title had never seemed real. He’d only been in the
castle for a few brief visits since he was eight, and old enough for the
academy. Wolfie’s mother helped Damedran’s mother govern it, and Damedran had
gradually grown accustomed to the idea that Wolfie would inherit. Because
he
was going to have a much higher rank.

“Would you leave the academy if you could? Go live in the
castle?” Damedran asked his father. “I know Uncle Dannath wouldn’t. He’d hate
that, being stuck inland at some poking-small castle. He’s used to being the
king’s right hand.”

Orthan chuckled, muttering under his breath.

Damedran thought he heard the words—
he’s used to being king
—but wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Wasn’t
sure he could even ask. Anyway they were nearly at the command tent, and Uncle
Dannath appeared at the flap, beckoning impatiently.

The jumble of belongings, maps, papers, swords wooden and
real, had been thrust into the far corner of the tent, the folding camp table
swept bare. Randart looked up at his brother and nephew, his eyes red-rimmed
with tiredness and road dust. “Report.”

“Just now finishing up with Trevan. Everything laid out, all
in order. First thing—”

Randart waved his gloved hand. “You see to the logistics,
Orthan. Where are the other wings?”

“Probably on the road. I haven’t had any scouts, but we just
got here ourselves,” Orthan replied.

Randart nodded once, staring down at the list Orthan had
laid on the empty table. It was apparent that he was preoccupied, that he
didn’t see it.

The silence in the tent seemed to sharpen the sounds from
outside: horses’ hooves clopping, shouted exchanges, the thrump of marching
feet on the cobblestone road, wagons creaking, grunts and laughs and curses as
barrels and baskets and boxes were unloaded at the cook tent an arrow shot
away.

After a long pause, during which Damedran tried not to
fidget or to look a question at his father, Randart said abruptly, “We’ll ride
the perimeter.” And strode out, leaving father and son to follow.

As Randart barked orders for three saddled horses to be
brought at once, Damedran sighed. More interminable talk about logistics, had
to be. He longed to get back to the cadets’ side of the camp.

He turned his attention that way and caught sight of
shoulder-length ruddy curls. Lesi. Talking to Ban! What were they talking
about? Lesi lifted a saddle and turned, her gaze meeting his. Her expression
changed to the remote one he hated.

“Damedran.”

The sharp tone whirled him around. His uncle gave him an
impatient look, and Damedran loped to close the distance between himself and
the two men.

The war commander glared at the senior cadets, then mounted
up. They rode out, again everyone backing out of the way, no matter what they
were doing.

On the way out of the camp, Orthan talked about the baron’s
dispositions. Randart and Damedran only appeared to be listening.

As soon as they reached an area Randart deemed beyond
earshot of the first perimeter sentries, Randart cut him off with an abrupt
gesture. “No one can hear us. And no one is to know what we three discuss.
Orthan, you are to be commended for your excellent attention to detail. I have
had a chance to think over what you flagged, and I have the same suspicion as
you do. That female with the firebird banner who fumbled onto the military road
is probably Atanial’s missing daughter. It would explain why the pirate Zathdar
never tried to ransom her, or use her as a threat or lever in any way. She got
free of him, then was, I believe, briefly held by the prince. Escaped him, too,
which argues she knows magic.”

“What?” Damedran demanded. “Princess Atanial’s daughter?”

“I think so. The descriptions are very brief, but what we do
have all seems to fit. It’s that banner, mostly.” Randart snapped his fingers.
“There is another matter. Increasingly I find that reports are indicating
unexplained lags in messages or messages not being delivered at all. Anomalies
between what was sent and what was received. I believe we have moles in our own
information relay, and possibly traitors in important places or close to
important people. It will be my immediate job to investigate the most flagrant
of these. In the meantime.” Randart turned in the saddle to face Damedran. “You
are to pick six of your most loyal cadets, and the strongest, and track down
the Zhavalieshin girl.” He pulled from his pouch a much-folded paper and handed
it to Damedran. “Here’s the best description we have.”