Sasharia En Garde (65 page)

“Jehan!” I yelped. When he turned around, I saw that he’d managed
to dig up a pair of deck trousers of purple and yellow stripes. “You are not,
not,
not
going out into the city in
those.”

“No.” He strode back into the bedroom and preened, then
began tying his hair up in a rose and violet bandana with green fringes. “But I
am wearing it on board the
Zathdar
.”

“What?”

He gave me his old, ironic grin. “Zathdar the pirate has to
sail again.”

“Today? Now? I thought we’d . . .” I waved my
hand around the room. “Have some time to ourselves.”

He flicked one of those magic communication boxes, which was
lying on the desk. “I told you Owl rejoined my fleet. And Elva Eban’s the new
navigator, by the way. He just wrote. He’s found Bragail of the
Skate
. Says he not only turned corsair,
which doesn’t surprise me. But that far too many of the very ones among
Randart’s old captains that I found had skipped out of Ellir are now poised in
time-honored Khanerenth fashion to turn to piracy, aided by that slimy Chas,
with half my father’s personal treasury. It’s time to do something about them,
don’t you think?”

“But—”

“So it’ll be crowded in the captain’s cabin. Won’t that be
cozier?” He wiggled his brows. “Get rid of those papers. You’re done.”

“You mean you want me to join you? In the dead of winter,
chasing a slimy Randart captain and probably his entire fleet and that stinker
Chas, all turned pirate?” I yelled, for he’d vanished inside the wardrobe.
“What kind of a wedding trip is that?”

He reappeared. “In the dead of winter.”

He tossed my winter mocs onto the bedding.

“Chasing pirates led by a slimy Randart captain.”

He pitched my sturdy shirt and riding trousers into my lap.

“And desperate duels on heaving decks. For truth, justice
and honor.”

Next came my sword.

“Against sinister villains. Winning fabulous treasures. You
know you want to,” he cooed.

And I do!

Sasharia En Garde

Sherwood Smith

Book View Café 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-546-5
Copyright © 2015 Sherwood Smith

First published: Samhain Publishing, 2009, as
Once a Princess
and
Twice a Prince

Cover illustration © 2015 by The Cabil

Production Team:

Cover Design: The Cabil

Copy Editor: James Hetley

Proofreader: James Hetley

Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Digital edition: 20150803vnm

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

Sherwood Smith was a teacher for twenty years, teaching history, literature, drama, and dance. She writes science fiction and fantasy for adults and young readers.

To learn more about Sherwood Smith, please visit

http://www.sherwoodsmith.net/

Send an email to Sherwood at [email protected] or join her LiveJournal group to join in the fun with other readers at

http://community.livejournal.com/athanarel/profile

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Sample Chapter

Sherwood Smith

www.bookviewcafe.com

Book View Café Edition
March 10, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-497-0
Copyright © 2008 Sherwood Smith

I woke up.

My head ached before I even tried moving it. I decided not
to try. Some experiments just aren’t worth the effort. Even breathing hurt.

So I closed my eyes and drifted, hoping for a dream to slip
into. Then the squeak of a door and footsteps banished the possibility of
sleep.

I turned my head—yes, it did hurt worse to move—and almost
panicked at the fact that I couldn’t see anything until I remembered that my
eyes were still closed.

Oh.

That’s how bad the headache was.

Eyelids up, then. An old woman looked down at me, her hair
hidden under a kerchief, her countenance anxious. When our eyes met, relief
eased her brow.

“Ah. So glad you have rejoined the living, child. Don’t
worry none. My husband’s gone away straight to them’t should know, and you’ll
be taken care of proper.”

I tried to talk, but it came out a groan. So I tried again,
making an effort not to move my head.

“Thank you . . .” Ho! It worked! Though only
at a whisper. I added, “Don’t know who ‘them’ is . . . but if
you think ‘they’ should know . . . I won’t argue.” It took some
time to get that out, and though I was trying to be reasonable, the poor woman
was looking more anxious by the moment. “Uh, what happened?” I finished.

“You do not remember?”

“No.” Could be this headache . . .
Where am I?
I thought—or tried to
think—but the process was like trying to chase fireflies in a fog, only it
hurt. “Uh.” I made another discovery. “I know it’s going to sound somewhat
scattered, but I can’t seem to place who I am, either.”

“Those knots on your head would account for it,” she said in
a soft, soothing voice. “I’ve heard o’ that. Don’t worry none. Your memory will
return.”

“Must have been some tiff.” I struggled for humor.

“He found you face down on the south road, my husband did.
You fell off a horse, hit your head against a stone.”

I winced, trying again to remember, but the hammer inside my
skull increased its frenetic banging. She straightened up. “Enough chatter.
What you need is sleep.”

My eyelids, by then, weighed about as much as a brace of
draught horses, and I gladly complied.

o0o

When I woke again, it was to noise. Lots of noise. Boot
heels, clanking, and the old woman’s voice. “She’s in here. I beg you, Your Highness,
not to make too much noise. She’s fearsome done.”

(I’m a she. Good. I’d just as soon be, I decided.)

“I’ve bade her sleep.” On that, the door creaked open again.
“’Twas so good of your highness to come yourself. We hardly expected such an
honor.”

A man walked in, flanked by liveried men in violet, blue,
and gold. He was tall—his head nearly brushed the low plank ceiling. Red,
wind-tousled hair lay on his shoulders, and hazel-green eyes looked down on me
from a bony face. He threw back a fold of a green cloak, put his head to one
side, and smiled at me.

“And so we are reunited,” he said.

“Glad someone seems to know me.” He bent to hear me,
frowning slightly. “I wish I could say the same, but . . .” I
ran out of breath again.

“She’s lost her memory,” the old woman said.

The man glanced her way. A diamond glimmered in one of his
ears, a singularly beautiful gem. Was it familiar? How did I know it was a
diamond?

That many thoughts made me dizzy, and the hammer plonked my
skull again. “Uhn,” I commented.

The man gave me a quizzical look and turned around. The
breeze from his long cloak sent cool, horse-scented air over my face. Horse.
How did I know that?

“You will be suitably rewarded,” the young man said to the
woman.

He gestured to one of the silent liveried men, who were
about his same age—late twenties, say—both big, well armed. One handed the
woman a clinking pouch.

The fine woolen cloak moved, the lining gleamed blue as a
long hand gestured toward me. The second liveried man stepped close, a tall
blond fellow. He paused, looking perplexed, then bent and slid one arm beneath
my shoulders, the other under my knees, and lifted me up.

Aches tweaked all over me, and I tried not to groan, because
I could see that he was trying to be careful.

“P’raps she ought not to be moved yet,” the old woman said
anxiously. “We can tend her.”

“Ah, but this is your room and she has displaced you, has
she not?” the red-haired man responded. And, smiling, “You may be sure she will
receive the best of care at the castle.”

“Perhaps a wagon?” The old woman’s voice was uncertain.

“But I would worry. Poor little Cousin Flian.” The man
smiled on everyone. “I’ll feel better to have her safely home.” He stepped near
enough so that I could smell the scent in his hair, a subtle perfume that muted
the aroma of horse and sweat and mail-coat that was under my nose now. “Kardier
here will ride gently.”