Sasharia En Garde (55 page)

The king lifted his shoulders. “Probably true, but if so, it
does attest to his high standards for officer behavior.”

Jehan let that pass. “I don’t think his eyes are the most
discerning. The recent fiasco with the fleet is proof enough of that. Another
proof is how late the orders to ride were given, as if no one was aware of the
advance of the season. A war game so close to winter? Let me ride out and
observe. I promise I will have an assessment as good as anything Randart can
give. And I can have them all back in their garrisons before the first snow.”

The king set down his knife and fork and regarded his son,
who gazed back with unblinking intensity.

Finally Canardan said, slowly, “I want them where they are.”

“Why?”

The king’s brows furrowed, a quick, irritated reaction.
“Because Dannath wants them there. Because—we can move them in any direction if
need arises.”

“What need do you foresee?”

The king hesitated, then shook his head. “I think we are
better discussing this matter when Dannath returns. With his report. We can
make decisions much easier when we hear his evaluation.”

And Jehan knew he’d lost.

It was not a surprise. Dannath Randart and Canardan Merindar
had been friends since their teens, their ambitions marching in parallel. Too
far in parallel—Randart having his eye on kingship, if not for himself, for his
family. But it was clear that only events would convince Canardan of that.
Certainly not his son’s talk. Until now Canardan saw only unstinting hard work
and unswerving loyalty in his oldest friend, plus a conveniently unflinching
ability to make problems go away.

Sharp regret tightened Jehan. He made one more attempt to
part on terms of mutual good will. “Let me ride to the academy, then, and
consult with Orthan Randart about reorganizing the cadet lessons next spring.”

“That, too, can wait on Dannath’s return. I know you want to
put in some of what you were taught out west, and I do like the idea of some of
it. But we cannot plan without Dannath’s assessment of their skills. The games
were a fluke, we decided. Our cadets got too complacent. Dannath is convinced
our training is not at fault.”

“Let me ride to the coast, then, and inspect the harbors
before winter sets in.”

The king shook his head. “Despite the defeat of the fleet,
you know as well as I that Randart is familiar with shore defense. And he has
adequate captains in place.” The king gave an easy laugh. He was back on
familiar ground. “You have enough flirts right here, you don’t need to be
riding around your old haunts, and I don’t want to risk any gossip about
possible princesses.”

“I won’t meet any women.”

His father shrugged, his brow furrowing impatiently. “Stay
here.”
Under my eye
. “Those potential
princesses are right here in Vadnais.”

Jehan laid down his knife and fork. “There is only one
princess for me. Permit me to ride out and find Sasharia Zhavalieshin.”

This time Canardan’s laugh was genuine. “If I thought you
could do that, you could go with my good will.”

Jehan was about to say
But
I can.
Risk everything on a throw and gamble that he could meet his father
halfway, as he so badly wanted to do, despite experience, despite reason.

Then the king leaned forward. “You did. Didn’t you? Randart
boarded the
Dolphin
a few weeks ago.
Before he went out to hunt that pirate. He thought you had that girl, for some
reason. Did you?”

Jehan’s heartbeat raced. “Yes.”

Canardan shook his head slowly. “I didn’t believe it. I
still half don’t. Randart was so sure you were plotting treason. But I figured
even if you had her—and I didn’t believe it—you were going to bring her to me.
A surprise. Show me you were doing your job. Which was it?”

Images flitted through Jehan’s mind, faster than words.
Between one thump of his heart and the next he remembered Randart’s
disappointment—and heard the import behind his father’s question. He was not
asking Jehan’s reason. He was saying
Are
you for me or against me?
There was no compromise.

Taking Sasha to free Prince Math would be seen as treason,
because
there was no compromise
.

The shadow of Randart stood squarely between father and son.
As always, as always.

And so, hating himself, sick with regret, Jehan said,
“Bringing her to you as a surprise.”

His father relaxed. “Knew it. I don’t mind saying Randart
was disappointed. She slipped away, eh?”

“Yes.”

The king’s amusement was back. “And you think you could get
her now? No, no, let Randart do the dirty work. He’s good at it. He
likes
it. Let him bring her here, and
you can soothe her ruffled feathers and be the hero. You two marry in spring,
everyone smiles, the problems are all solved.”

Jehan bowed, low, and left.

He ran back up to his rooms and changed out of his
embroidered velvet, pulling on his sturdiest riding gear. He paused and stared
down at the gold case in his hand, knowing the next communication in it would
be from his father. The temptation to leave it behind was severe. But his road
had been laid down as well, the first time he put on a disguise and attacked
one of Randart’s strongholds.

He opened the case, took out his last transfer token, tossed
it up in the air, and caught it with his fingers. Looked across the room at
Kazdi, who stood with his shoulders against the closed door.

“Ride out as fast as you can to the resistance mages. Tell
Magister Wesec it’s time to move her mages into place. There’s no more hiding.
And if Nadathan and Devli Eban want to help, they’re in.”

Kazdi bowed, his scrawny neck-knuckle bobbing as he
swallowed. His bony teenage face was the last thing Jehan saw before the
transfer magic wrenched him out of time and space.

The sudden jingle of gear and clatter of many boot steps
caused Mirnic Kender to straighten up from the row of buckets she was checking
for diminishment of the cleaning spell.

From the siege-camp command tent an arrow shot away, and a
stampede of aides and cadets hustled through the opening, dispersing in all
directions. She watched them shrug, make gestures of helplessness, and shake
heads at the flood of questions. She waited.

Then the cadet on mess duty to the command tent showed up,
whistling softly. Mirnic bent over her buckets, making motions with her hands
as the boy was met by one of his friends, also on cook detail for the day.

“What was that all about?” the cadet next to her asked the
other boy.

“War Commander got one of those magical messages. Told us to
wait, opened it, read it, then sent us out on the double. Said something about
the king, and he had to answer at once, and he’d be out in a moment, but he did
not want distractions.”

“Huh. Was he angry?”

“No. Here’s what’s weird. Most were standing around the map,
see, chattering about the siege, and I was collecting the coffee cups. So
really I was the only one watching him—couldn’t decide if I should touch his
cup or not. I mean, if he was done. You know how he gets—”

“Never mind his coffee!”

“Well, so I was watching, see? He grinned. Like this.”

Mirnic forced herself not to look. Sure enough the other boy
let out his breath in a long whoosh. “I’ve only seen that grin once. Pret-ty
nasty.”

“Yeah. If you want to know what I
think . . .”

No
, Mirnic
thought.
I don’t
.

She slipped away without either boy paying her the least
attention, and sped to the tent she shared with the single other mage student
permitted on the run. Her tent mate was asleep—they traded day and night
duty—so Mirnic made sure she made no sound as she knelt at her bunk and wrote:

R. received note, said
from king. Sent everyone out of tent right after
.

She folded it, put it into her case, and sent it to Magister
Zhavic, and then sped back to her duty at the cook tent. As she’d expected, no
one noticed she’d been gone.

And far away at the harbor, Magister Zhavic read the note,
and checked the log of message reports from Vadnais. No messages had been
logged either way between the king and the war commander at all that morning.
Unless there was an emergency, they always communicated at night, messages duly
reported by the journeymages on duty at the royal castle.

Zhavic smiled his own nasty smile.

Time for a talk with the king.

o0o

So there I was, no breakfast in me, riding on my mare with
my hands tied behind me, surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys who either rode
in sulky, nervous or gloomy silence, or else clumped together, arguing in
fierce whispers.

At least three times I heard Damedran growl versions of “His
orders are to take her there and meet him. Shut up! Just shut up! Or if he
doesn’t kill you, I will!”

Red shifted his bad mood from Damedran to their lack of
food. He got into a short argument with one of the other boys, which made it
clear that he’d expected better planning from the others while he and Ban
nipped those tunics off someone’s clothesline and scouted around my former
place of employment.

I think they might have started another fight had not one of
the servants spoken up to say that he had a loaf of journey bread that he’d
bought the morning before, just in case.

When we reached a chuckling stream with a fall rushing over
a grass-covered rocky hillock, Ban said, “If we don’t stop here for at least
some water, you’ll have to shoot me for mutiny. Your bow is right there at your
saddle. Here’s my back,” he added, quite unfairly.

Damedran jerked the reins of his horse, who tossed his head
up and almost sat down on his haunches. Damedran flung himself out of the
saddle, and the horse stood shivering.

My head panged from hunger and thirst, my shoulders and arms
ached, and the sight of that frightened horse snapped my temper. “Someone”—I
swung my leg over and jumped from my horse—“has anger-management issues.”

“Huh?” Red exclaimed.

Ban mouthed the words
anger
management?

I glanced meaningfully at Damedran’s horse, and my
irritation faded when I saw him soothing the animal, stroking its nose and
murmuring, his forehead leaning against the long, sweaty neck.

He wasn’t a complete stinker. But there was the matter of my
growling stomach and my aching arms and oh yes. His uncle.

I said kind of generally, to the air, “Every world is
different. And places on a single world are different. Where I have been living
there are what we call
people skills
.”

Damedran leaned against his horse, but from the stiffness of
his shoulders I sensed he was listening. Red made no pretense. He stared at me,
mouth open.

I went on as genially as possible, “For example, death
threats whenever someone asks a question. That would constitute
bad
people skills. Telling people
why
something is being done, well, that
would rank as
good
people skills.”

Six pairs of eyes swung from me to Damedran and back again.
Red snickered, then looked up at the sky as though seeking the Winged Victory
of Samothrace.

Ban’s face had gone ruddy from his effort not to laugh. He
mumbled, “Garik, I’ll help with the journey bread.”

A couple of the boys led the horses in two strings to the
stream while avoiding looking my way.

Damedran and Red stalked ten or twelve paces in the other
direction, facing away and arguing in fierce undertones. Behind some flowering
shrubs, Ban and the boy named Garik alternated between growls and whispers.

Ban: “I thought princesses were supposed to act toff. Wear
silk. Scream orders so they don’t have to get their slippers dusty.”

Garik: “I thought they were supposed to be delicate. She’s
nearly as big as Red. Makes Lesi Valleg look scrawny, and wee-yoo, can she
fight!”

“Sh. Sh!”

Whisper, whisper.

Ban: “. . . if we don’t follow orders?”

Garik: “I don’t even want to think about it. Here. That’s
her share. You take it over there.”

“Coward.”

“Yep. And?” Garik retorted promptly and cheerfully.

While all this was going on, I’d spotted a broad rock near
the base of the hillock and sat down, since I couldn’t run with my hands tied
behind my back. Ban rounded the shrubs and came toward me, carrying in both
hands what looked like nut-bread, each serving put on a broad, slightly waxy
leaf—natural dishes, plucked from the shrub nearby.

He bent and set my share next to me.

“Do I get a feedbag?” I asked.

He had avoided my eyes, but the question startled him, and
when he glanced up, I shrugged my shoulders and wiggled my fingers behind me.
His face reddened, and he turned Damedran’s way.

The Randart heir and Red were still arguing fiercely. “—when
we get to Castle Ambais, where my uncle is supposed to meet us,” Damedran
snarled. “I’ll ask him right out.”

Ban whistled sharply, and they whirled around, hands going
to their weapons. They relaxed their hands, but their faces stayed tense.

“How’s she going to eat?”

“Will it make you feel better if I promise not to try to
make a bolt during lunch?” I asked. “Which is also my breakfast, I might add.
And probably my last meal as well. I’d really like to enjoy it.”

“Stop. Saying that,” Damedran muttered, pulling his knife
out with a faint ringing
zing
.

“Don’t cut that kerchief,” Red warned. “We don’t have
another.”

“The knots are all pulled hard,” Damedran snapped over his
shoulder.

“That’s because my fingers were going numb.” I shrugged.
“Had to try to loosen the fabric, though it meant the knots tightened.”

A couple of slices and my hands were free, and full of pins
and needles. I wrung and flexed them, rubbing them up and down my thighs. When
I could grasp again, I wolfed down my share of the journey bread. It was dense,
made with about six different kinds of nuts, raisins, and a hint of spices.