The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (31 page)

And yet, hadn’t she wanted someone exactly like this? Well, the old Gypsy proverb advised, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” She could not have designed a better partner than T’fyrr, for they were alike enough for joy and different enough for exploration.

And, oh, doesn’t that open up a number of possibilities? One can just imagine . . .

She fiercely shoved that little voice back into its corner.
One thing at a time,
she told it.
We’ll take one thing at a time, and the most important comes first. We must deal with the High King and finish the task we have begun, assuming it can be finished.

T’fyrr was all ready when she emerged, and he had cleaned up the room and put the bed into the wall, too. Perhaps he felt as uncomfortable with that particular piece of furniture so blatantly on display as she was.

Of course he is. He’s feeling what I’m feeling, which will ensure that he feels the same! Oh, what a bother! No more polite and discreet lies just to salve his feelings! If we disagree on something, one of us will have to find a way to persuade the other, or the bad feelings will chafe between us until we are half-distracted!

They went downstairs together, to find that they were so early this morning that they were, by the standards of Freehold, still up late. The sun was just rising and the last-shift dance group performing its final number. So Tyladen would still be awake; not a bad thing, since she wanted first to speak with him. She was quite prepared to wake him, if she needed to.

Not that she was sure when he ever slept. The Deliambrens didn’t seem to have the same sleep needs as humans did; she thought, perhaps, that he slept in the mid-morning hours, perhaps a little in the afternoon, but never for more than two or three hours at a time.

Of course they don’t need to sleep the way we do. They don’t have to sleep deeply enough for dreaming. They express their dreams and nightmares in their clothing.

Tyladen
was
still awake, but looked a bit surprised to have both of them strolling into his office together, and at that early hour. Nightingale shut the door firmly and put her back to it as T’fyrr leaned against the wall, giving him the advantage of looking
down
at the Deliambren.

“First of all, Lyrebird was attacked yesterday. She was hurt, and so was I, in trying to help her.” His face was without expression, but Nightingale knew that every word was carefully chosen. “You might take note of the bruises, if you should happen to doubt my word.”

Nightingale had sent word down at the same time that she had ordered the food that she was indisposed; presumably, Tyladen had found a substitute singer for last night. He just nodded, mobile face solemn for a change. Then again, there wasn’t much he could respond to, yet.

And he didn’t know that they were together, in more than one sense.

“We have reason to believe that the attack was more of an attempt to gain control over
me
than because she got in the way of some gang or other,” T’fyrr continued. “In fact, we believe that the same person who was behind the other two attacks on me here was behind the one on her.”

“That makes sense,” Tyladen said cautiously, looking from Nightingale’s face to T’fyrr’s, as if he was trying to put a number of disparate bits of information together and not coming up with much. “Perhaps she ought to quit her position here, then, and move to the Palace? She doesn’t precisely need to work here anymore, and surely you have
—
”

T’fyrr deliberately leaned over and placed both taloned hands on Tyladen’s desk, scoring the surface. “Enough of the nonsense, Tyladen! We both know
why
I come here! It’s not because I’m savoring the nightlife, nor because I happen to enjoy this lady’s playing! We both know that I would
still
have to come here even if the lady moved into my suite at the Palace, so that I could continue to report to you! I’m your little Palace spy, Tyladen, an unpaid spy at that, and it’s about time you and Harperus began giving me a bit more protection! And you might as well start offering that same protection—no,
more
protection—to Lyrebird!”

Tyladen didn’t bat an eye; he simply put on a skeptical expression and said, “I can’t see any good reason why
—
”

“Because,” Nightingale interrupted him, “my name isn’t Lyrebird. It’s Nightingale—Nightingale of the Free Bards and the
Getan
Gypsies. And I’ve been working here on behalf of the Deliambrens
without
any support since I arrived.”

For the first time in her life, Nightingale actually saw expressions of shock, dismay and surprise pass across a Deliambren face. And for the first time in her life, she saw one caught at a loss for words. Tyladen sat in his chair with his mouth half-open; his lips twitched, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out.

It would be funny, if the situation weren’t so serious. He looked exactly like a stunned catfish.

Nightingale sat down gracefully. “Now,” she said sweetly. “About that protection?”

T’fyrr smiled. “For both of us,” he added, coming to stand behind her and putting both his taloned hands on her shoulders.

Tyladen just sat and stared at them both.

###

They returned to the Palace with a double Mintak guard; twins, or so it was said. They certainly looked like twins, insofar as a human could tell. Since this pair had been known to break up fights with their bare hands and now were armed with very impressive axes in their belts, Nightingale doubted that there would be any more ambushes today.

In fact, their path was remarkably clear of interference. Even peddlers found reasons to take their pushcarts out of the way.

As they walked steadily toward the Palace, her street-children slipped up to her one and two at a time, pretending to beg, but in actuality making certain that
she
was all right and gleefully recounting their own parts in the melee. It made her a little sick to realize that they had seen it as normal, quite in keeping with life on the streets. Perhaps a bit more fun than most of the violent situations they witnessed or were a part of in the course of a month or so. She slipped each of them an extra couple of pennies for diligence and quick thinking; she would have given them more, but that would leave all of them open to robbery or worse. No street-urchin dared carry more than a couple of pennies on his person, and very few of them had a safe place to cache money.

I can give them more, later. I can double their “wages.” I can see to it that they can come to the kitchen door of Freehold and be fed, and have it taken out of
my
wages.

When they neared the Palace, T’fyrr took off into the air, much to the astonishment of the passers-by, leaving Nightingale to go on to the Bronze Gate with her double Mintak guard flanking her. Their presence raised an eyebrow from the gate guard, but one of the Mintaks grunted and said to him, “Been some trouble for Freeholders. People roughing up folks as works for us, callin’ ’em Fuzzy-lovers. Boss wants his investment protected.”

The gate guard nodded at that and waved her through; the inexplicable had been explained in terms he could understand. Nightingale passed inside and the two Mintaks went back across the street, took up a station in a nearby cafe that catered to the servants of those who came and went through the Bronze Gate, and set out a tiny portable Sires and Barons game between them. They would be there when she came out again, and they
might
even hear or be told something useful while they were there.

Now all she had to worry about were the dangers
inside
the Palace.
About which I can do nothing. Hopefully, Tyladen or Harperus has something that can protect me.

T’fyrr landed beside her in a flurry of wing feathers, as she traversed the stone-paved path between two regimented beds of fragrant flowers. With her practiced eye, she knew by his careful landing that he was still in some pain; his wingbeats were not as deep, and he landed on both feet, rather than one.

The flowers in these formal gardens weren’t anything she recognized, but then, the High King’s gardeners had access to flowers found nowhere else inside the Twenty Kingdoms, and their breeding programs could make even familiar blooms unrecognizable. She allowed herself to be distracted from her concerns for a moment by their beauty and their perfume, but she couldn’t be distracted for long.

Among the major concerns, there were some minor ones. Nothing that really mattered in either the long or the short run, but somehow they nagged at her.

One was strictly personal, and a cause for some embarrassment. Would there be gossip about them? It was certainly possible. It would be the second time that T’fyrr had remained out of the Palace all night, and both times (if anyone was keeping track) he had been at Freehold, in her room. She found herself blushing at the notion of what people might be thinking, which rather surprised her. After all, hadn’t she been willing to move into his suite and live there?

But that was different . . .

Oh, certainly. With a preadolescent boy to act as chaperon, it was different. Indeed. She blushed even more.

This is ridiculous! I’m a Gypsy, a Free Bard; people have been saying things about me for as long as I’ve been alive, and I didn’t care! I laughed at them!

She managed to get her blushes under control before they reached their goal, by dint of much self-scolding. Which, in itself, was ridiculous . . .

But when they arrived at the Palace itself and entered the huge, self-opening doors, they found the place as chaotic as an overturned beehive.

The great hall at the main doors was full of courtiers and servants and everyone in between, all of them chattering, and all of them upset. People of all stations were standing together in tight little groups, rigid with apprehension, or rushing about—apparently with no clear destination in mind. Pages ran hither and yon on urgent errands, their eyes wide and faces pale. All that Nightingale could pick up was fear; fear and excitement, and all that those emotions engendered.

What’s been happening?
She and T’fyrr stood just inside the door, and no one noticed them, which in itself was nothing short of astonishing.

T’fyrr solved the entire question by reaching out and intercepting one of the page boys as he ran past. The boy felt the talons close on his shoulder and stopped dead, with a little squeak of surprise.

“What is going on here?” T’fyrr rumbled down at his captive. “What has happened since yesterday? Why is there all this commotion?”

The page stared at him with wide blue eyes and stuffed his fist into his mouth as he blinked up at them. He wasn’t very old, no more than seven or eight—and very sheltered. One of Nightingale’s street-urchins would have replied already and been well on his way. T’fyrr waited patiently. Finally the boy got up enough courage to speak.

“It’s the D-Deliambren, S-sire!” he stammered, then seemed to get stuck, staring up into the Haspur’s raptorial eyes exactly like a mouse waiting for the hawk to strike.

“What about the Deliambren?” T’fyrr asked with a little less patience. “I haven’t been here, I’ve just come in. What
about
the Deliambren?”

“H-he’s—he’s been attacked!” the boy blurted. “He’s hurt, they say badly, they say someone tried to kill him!” Then as T’fyrr’s grip loosened with shock, the page pulled away and ran off again.

T’fyrr’s shock didn’t last past that moment; he knew where Harperus’ suite was, and may the Lady help anyone who got between him and his destination. He headed off in that direction with a purposeful stride that Nightingale had to match by running. Her mind flitted from thought to thought, infected a little by all the fear around her.
Attacked? By who? Is he really hurt badly? Is he—oh Dear Lady, not dead, surely!
The idea of Old Owl dead—no, it was not to be thought of, surely not he, not with all of his Deliambren devices to protect him? He had outlived her grandfather with no sign of old age, how
could
he be dead?

But how could he have been attacked? How could anyone have gotten in to him, past his devices, to attack him?

They ran past rank after rank of statuary, taking the quickest path to the Deliambren suite. Past animals, past famous generals, past mermaids—up the stairs to the fourth floor and past guildsmen, past famous Bards, past farmers—
oh dear, there
is
one with his favorite piggy at his feet!
she thought distractedly—past the Allies of the Twenty Kingdoms
—

And there was the door to Harperus’ suite,
now
guarded by a pair of the King’s personal bodyguards, who let T’fyrr and herself past without so much as a challenge. T’fyrr flung himself inside immediately. But she stopped at the door and caught the attention of one of the guards, one she thought she recognized from the King’s suite. “What happened?’ she asked shortly . . . He looked down into her eyes, his own as flat and expressionless as blued steel. Finally he opened his thin, grim lips and answered.

“Someone broke in here last night while Envoy Harperus was with the High King. They—there was more than one—were ransacking the suite when the Envoy came in and found them still there. His devices had stunned and captured one of them, and the others were trying to get him free. When the Envoy surprised them, they clubbed him and fled. The Envoy is still unconscious. The High King has put his own personal servants in place here, since the Envoy’s assigned servants have disappeared and might even have been in collusion with his attackers.”

“We have the one the device caught in custody,” the other guard said at last. “The Envoy regained consciousness long enough to tell us what had happened, how to free the man, and to ask for Sire T’fyrr, and then collapsed again.”

She might have thought she was imagining a faint tone of disapproval that T’fyrr had not been here when Harperus asked for him, except that she sensed the disapproval as well as heard it. She simply nodded with dignity, and said, “Sire T’fyrr and I were attacked by nine armed men in the city last night. We were some time in being tended to and unable to send word to the Palace. It seems that someone would like to harm the High King’s foreign allies.”