Sing the Four Quarters (32 page)

"Could happen," Theron admitted. "All things being enclosed."

Liene took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Although she was only twelve years older than the king, there were days

—and this was one of them—when she felt those years stretch to at least a century. Squaring her shoulders, she twitched the edge of her tunic straight. "Your pardon, Majesty, but you can't go to Ohrid."

"Captain, I'm going." He sat back in his chair, the tooled leather creaking under his shifting weight, his jaw set in an obstinate line the captain had seen on both his father and his youngest sister. "I'm going for a number of reasons. When the traitor is found, only I can pass Judgment. It's the law. I alone can carry the weight of that death." Something in his tone said that this particular weight wouldn't add much to the burden he already carried. "Now, if the traitor
hasn't
been found before I arrive, you're probably right and he or she will be unable to resist trying to kill me. My presence there will force the culprit into betraying himself, and that is, after all, what we want."

"He can betray himself right out of the Circle, Majesty, but it won't do us any good if you're dead."

"Then I'll just have to stay alive." His face and voice grew grim. "But, essentially, I'm going to Ohrid because Cemandia made this a personal battle when they set
me
up to remove Pjerin a'Stasiek from their way."

Liene knew it wouldn't do any good to remind him that kings seldom had the luxury of indulging in personal vengeance. Finding the traitor before the Cemandian army arrived was the only way to avoid a war they couldn't hope to win. Tempting the Cemandians with the King of Shkoder ensured they'd attack on Shkoder's schedule. Theron's presence in the keep was the best way to prod the traitor into betrayal.

The king traveling to Ohrid to take the oath of Gerek a'Pjerin was a perfectly believable way to set the whole plan in motion. She wished she'd never thought of it.

She could just see herself explaining to the new queen, as she hurriedly armed the country, how it was her father had died confronting a Cemandian invasion he knew was going to occur backed up by nothing more than a diplomatic entourage.
I'm getting too old for this shit
.

Then she realized they'd missed considering one vital component of the whole convoluted mess.

"What of the due, Majesty? The guard hasn't found him yet. Suppose they don't? Suppose Pjerin a'Stasiek arrives in Ohrid before you do? He could destroy the entire plan."

"As I understand it, he has to remain close to Annice to stay undetected by the kigh and she won't be moving very quickly in her condition. Even if Captain Luci and her troop prove themselves completely inept, I doubt that they'll arrive before Stasya. If Stasya makes herself visible, Annice will contact her, and Stasya will explain what's going on.

Simple."

"Simple, Majesty? The due has an even greater personal stake in this than you do. If I read him correctly, he's as likely to single-handedly storm the keep as listen to anything either Annice or Stasya have to say."

Theron shook his head. "He won't jeopardize his chance to get his hands around the throat of the person who did this to him."

"And what of that person?" Well aware she was getting nowhere with her arguments, the captain felt she had to keep trying; for duty's sake if nothing else. "I need the due to find out who that is?"

"He may know by the time he arrives," Theron pointed out thoughtfully. "He is traveling with a bard, remember. Once Stasya explains, I think he's politically astute enough to work with me on this. And if he isn't, Annice is."

"Are you willing to risk your life on the possibility that Annice can control him?"

Was he? Theron thought about it. Thought about a fourteen-year-old who'd thrown away everything—family, privilege, responsibility—to follow her own desire. "I think," he said slowly, "he's met his match in Annice,"
And but
for Annice
, his hands curled into fists,
this whole problem could have been solved ten years ago
,

"… join with Prince Rajmund, Heir of Cemandia."

Annice's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "I will not."

It took Theron a moment to find his voice in the face of such bald denial and he fought to sound reasonable. "It won't happen immediately. You'll be betrothed first, the actually joining won't happen until you're both eighteen. This arrangement is for the good of Shkoder…"

"But what about me?" Annice broke in, reaching forward and grabbing his sleeve. "You know I want to be a bard.

You
know
I do, Theron. I've just got to get permission from His Majesty."

"He won't give it and you're living in a dream world if you think he will, Annice. It's time to grow up." He pulled his arm free and squared his shoulders. "You have a responsibility to the royal family, a responsibility to the country."

She stared up at him in confusion. "I always thought you understood how much being a bard means to me and that if His Majesty wouldn't give permission, then, when he died, you would."

If she believed that, Theron knew it was because he'd given her reason. But that was before the Cemandian ambassador had come to him—to him because the king had no interest in anything but his own mortality and the lingering death that had been moving slowly closer to him for almost a full quarter. Theron, tired of waiting for power, had grasped the opportunity.

Annice paced the length of her solar and back, her shoes slapping a staccato beat against the tiles. "You have to speak to His Majesty for me, Theron. You're the Heir, he'll listen to you."

She read the answer off his face and took a slow step away from him, eyes locked on his. "Father didn't arrange this, did he? You did." Her expression changed from confusion to betrayal. "This isn't for the country! This is for you! I'm not stupid, Theron, and I had the same tutors you did! You don't even see
me
in this!"

Too close to the truth. The healers said the king was dying, but he'd been dying for too long, and if Theron wanted to strengthen his position, his youngest sister was the only card he had to play. "Nees, you've got to understand…"

"Oh, I understand." Her chin lifted defiantly, "Let me tell you something, Your Royal Highness, my life isn't a prize you can trade for the chance to be taken seriously!"

He forgot his reasoned arguments of how this joining, this family link, would give them a chance to bridge the gap growing between their two cultures, to build a permanent peace with Cemandia now that the much larger country had begun to press against their border. Forgot the arguments that might have made her see there was more to it than his own personal agenda. "Don't fight me on this, Annice, because you can't win." The words were forced out through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. "Remember, in a very short time I will be your king."

Her face flushed as she stomped to the door and threw it open, waiting pointedly beside it for him to leave. "Well, you're not king yet!

"Majesty?"

Theron shook off the memories. It had been a long time since he'd played that scene through.

"Majesty? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He tugged on a vest button, pulling at the indigo brocade, and exhaled noisily. "I was just thinking of how different things would be if I'd handled Annice better. If I'd actually taken the time to explain why I wanted her to join with Prince Rajmund."

In all the years since he'd taken the throne, in all the years the captain had stood as one of the throne's primary advisers, this was the first time the king had ever been willing to discuss that bit of family history. She smothered a sigh. The time was long past to set the recall straight. "Your pardon, Majesty, but Annice and Prince Rajmund would never have been joined, regardless of the reasons, or the benefits, or any political maneuvering."

Both the royal brows rose. "Because you wanted her for Bardic Hall?"

"Because she was qualified for Bardic Hall, Majesty. Queen Jirina would never have allowed her son to be joined to someone who Sings the kigh. You know how the Cemandians feel about that. Their version of the Circle holds neither kigh nor bards.

"But Annice wasn't a bard…"

"She was born with the ability, Majesty. We only trained it."

Theron swore as his vest button twisted off in his fingers. "But the Cemandian ambassador came to me!" he protested.

"And was horrified when he discovered what he'd very nearly done. And was called home. And was, if I recall correctly, executed for daring to suggest the Heir to the royal house of Cemandia join with someone who Sings the kigh."

"The Cemandian ambassador is still after a similar joining."

"Neither of your daughters Sing the kigh, Majesty. You can be certain he's checked."

"It's been ten years," Theron growled. "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Liene closed her eyes for an instant, weighed the potential for disaster, and decided. "Because you wouldn't listen, Majesty. Just the same way
she
wouldn't listen. It's taken the threat of war to force you to look beyond your personal

—
and
, she added silently,
highly inflated
—sense of injustice."

His expression unreadable, although the tips of his ears were red, the king made no answer for a long moment. The captain began to fear she'd misjudged the timing.
Bloody fool thing for a percussionist to do
.

Finally, without looking up, he said, "Do you believe in destiny, Captain."

She bowed. "I'm a bard, Majesty. Destiny is my stock in trade. Why?"

"It seems as though there's been an incredible series of events to bring us to this moment." He turned the button over and over in his fingers. "Including the difficulty between my sister and myself."

"Could as easily be coincidence, Majesty." She bowed again. "Also a bard's stock in trade."

Theron looked dubious. "I've always considered myself above both."

"I can't say as I'm surprised, Majesty." It had been a long day and Liene felt she was entitled. "So does Annice."

"Annice." Pjerin had reached the end of his limited supply of patience. "Recall, if you would, that we're trying to be forgettable."

"You're the one who said I needed a bath. That," she jerked her thumb back toward the village, "was our last chance at hot water."

"And a good chance at being remembered if the guards are behind us."

"The guards still think we're in Vidor."

"You don't know that."

Annice smiled across the mule at him. "They've got horses, Pjerin. If they were after us, don't you think they'd have caught us by now?"

He jerked the mule to a stop. "Do you want to go back?" he asked, spitting the words out through clenched teeth.

"Too late." A nudge in the ribs got the mule moving again. "If we suddenly reappear now that we've wandered past, they'll definitely remember us.

Pjerin brushed his hair back off his face with a barely under control sweep of his hand. "Then maybe we could look for a campsite before it gets dark?"

"A sheltered campsite." Annice glanced up at the horizon to horizon blanket of gray-green cloud. "It looks like it's going to storm." She squinted into the gathering shadows. "We'd better hurry."

Pjerin only ground his teeth and continued to scan both sides of the road. He was well aware it was going to storm and that sleeping rough would be harder on Annice than on him. He felt obliged to lessen her discomfort as much as possible. Which irritated him right out of the Circle. She wasn't an easy person to be considerate of.

A rectangle of darkness loomed up suddenly out of the dusk.

He frowned. Although there were walls on the narrow ends, the sides were open to the night. It didn't look like any kind of building he knew. "What is it?"

Annice leaned awkwardly forward and peered around the barrier of the mule. "Flax shed. This is a big linen-producing area. It's mostly just a roof to keep the rain off while they're hackling. There won't be anything in it right now, but there should be water nearby and possibly a fire pit so they don't have to depend on the weather for drying the stalks after retting."

"Are you sure?"

Her eyes narrowed at his tone. "Yes. I'm sure."

"Good." Pjerin began turning off the track.

"I don't think so." It was a young man's voice, rough edged but not unfriendly.

Pjerin glared at Annice.

She shrugged.

Together they turned and looked back the way they'd come.

There were three of them. Although none of them were very big, they moved with an aggressive cockiness that suggested no one had better mention it. They wore breeches with ridiculously wide legs, a style gone out of fashion with the young toughs of the cities but apparently still popular in the country, and all three heads of hair had been clubbed up into greased topknots. One of them had the beginnings of a scruffy beard; the other two might not have been old enough to manage even that.

"Where did they come from?" Pjerin growled.

"They followed us from the village. I saw them hanging around outside the alehouse." Her chin rose as he swiveled around to stare incredulously at her. "I guess I forgot to mention it."

Pjerin opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn't think of anything to say. Well, that wasn't quite true; he could think of several things to say but they'd all take time and would have to wait.

"Throw us the lead rope." The suggestion came from the bearded young man and was the same voice that had hailed them initially. He stood a little in front of his companions, obviously in charge. "We'll have a look-see through your packs, pick out a few trinkets, and no one will get hurt."

Annice smiled sweetly at the trio. "Go away, we'll forget we ever saw you, and no one will get hurt."

All three of them looked confused for a moment, then their spokesman shook his head and flicked a dagger down from a wrist sheath.

Increasing darkness made it difficult to focus on a single pair of eyes, so Annice opened her mouth to Sing. Perhaps she could get the kigh to open a large, deep hole in the road under their feet.