The Queen's Gambit (19 page)

Instead, he saw the man standing before Sir Kedrien and Lord Nejel at the rear of the room. Goddal was nodding to what the officers were saying.

When Talmor came up, Sir Kedrien, as bleak and as angry as Talmor had ever seen him, scowled. “About time,” he said curtly.

Talmor saluted woodenly. “Sir Talmor reporting as ordered.”

Goddal squinted at him. Grizzled and worn, with the scars of a veteran, the sergeant's head came only to Talmor's shoulder, and most of his teeth were missing, but he was as fierce as a gamecock with a reputation of being the toughest sergeant in the force.

“You!” he said sharply. “Make your report, and be quick about it.”

Talmor spoke succinctly and well, omitting no detail of what he'd observed, heard, and done. Sir Kedrien listened stone-faced while Lord Nejel grew round-eyed with astonishment. Sleek and privileged, with wavy blond hair and an air of fashion despite his rust-colored hauberk and green cloak, Nejel was reputed to be fair and just with all his men. Sometimes he overlooked minor transgressions, and he was
considered something of a devil with a lance on the jousting field. Talmor took heart from his presence. With Nejel present, perhaps he would not be blamed after all.

“A gate to the king's private garden was found unlocked,” Sir Kedrien said harshly, his eyes boring into Talmor. “Did you know of this?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you not a sentry, assigned to watch that stretch of wall?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then it's your responsibility. Why was that gate unlocked?”

Fighting his anger, Talmor swallowed hard. Despite what Sir Kedrien said, the gates weren't his responsibility, and he didn't even rank high enough to be allowed off the wall to patrol the grounds. Sir Kedrien knew that, and this grilling was unjustified.

“Sir Talmor! I asked you why that gate was unlocked.”

Pulling Lady Pheresa's dagger from his belt, Talmor unwrapped the dainty weapon, still smeared with dried blood, and held it out. “It belongs to the lady, sir. If you look at the tip, you can see that it's newly bent.”

Sir Kedrien scowled. “What has this to do with—”

But Lord Nejel examined the dagger. “By Thod! Are you suggesting the lady picked the lock?”

“It's possible, my lord.”

“Extraordinary.”

Sir Kedrien glared at him, then shifted his gaze back to Talmor. “Do you presume to blame your dereliction of duty on the lady, sir?”

“No, sir.”

“Then state the truth. Quickly!”

Talmor drew a swift breath. “The truth is that I don't know why the gate was unlocked, unless the lady picked it. Why she would do so, I cannot guess. Why she was outside the walls, I do not know. I did not see her exit, and—”

“No, you did not,” Sir Kedrien said, breaking in. “The
gatekeeper admits he took a bribe from the lady at dawn and allowed her to exit. Saw you any of this?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you asleep?”

“No, sir. The fog—”

“No excuses! You—”

“Kedrien,” Nejel said in gentle protest. “Have done.”

Sir Kedrien turned on him, red-faced. “Yes, my lord. If you coddle him, he'll lie readily.”

Nejel looked at him calmly. “I do not expect this man to lie, but hysterical accusations will avail nothing.”

Tight-lipped, Sir Kedrien walked a short distance away and stood, visibly fuming. Nejel swung his gaze back to Talmor and gave him a little smile. “Now, Sir Talmor. Let us see what we can sort out. How thick was the fog this morning?”

“It started rolling in shortly before dawn,” Talmor replied. “At daybreak, it was waist-high or more and thick enough to keep visibility down to an arm's length at its worst.”

Lord Nejel nodded. “Atop the wall, you'd not see much of the ground, then.”

“No, my lord.”

“No. We found the lady's tracks along the base of the wall. She was clever enough to know a sentry couldn't see her at that angle.”

Talmor frowned, his glance shifting momentarily to Sir Kedrien before he snapped his gaze back to the officer in front of him. “Interesting, my lord.”

“You told Sir Pem that she said a Sebein attacked her. Did she say anything else?”

“No, my lord.”

Sighing, Nejel clasped his hands behind his back and scuffed his boot back and forth. “This is a most peculiar business. The lady is not in the habit of slipping outside the walls. Indeed, I believe she's kept herself mostly indoors since her return, as is proper for her circumstances. Why should she go to the king's garden by such a foolhardy route? And why was a Sebein lying in wait for her when she tried to return? I do
not like it, Sir Talmor. It smacks of a trap. Somehow, the lady was lured out into danger.”

Frowning, Talmor wrestled a moment with his conscience then said, hesitantly, “There's something else, my lord.”

“Ah, yes. I thought there must be.”

Talmor glanced cautiously Sir Kedrien's way, and told himself he was a fool. “She was spell hit at the end of the struggle.”

Nejel's eyes popped. “What? What say you?”

“Aye, my lord. I saw little of what happened. By the time I reached her, she was unconscious, and the Sebein was attempting to carry her off. I dealt with him swiftly, of course.”

“Pity you didn't leave him alive,” Nejel said. “We could have questioned him.”

Talmor dropped his gaze. He'd struck hard and efficiently, the way he would have attacked a rock adder.

“The assassin didn't attempt magic against
you
, I suppose?” Lord Nejel asked.

Talmor's gaze snapped up. He was aware of Sir Kedrien listening intently. “No, my lord.”

“And this—er—spell,” Nejel said. “Are you certain it struck the lady?”

“I saw her fall in midstep as though struck from behind. The air smelled burned around her, and her swoon seemed most—”

“I see,” Nejel said uncomfortably. He glanced at Sergeant Goddal, who scowled and spat on the floor.

“So you know about things like that, do you?” the sergeant asked.

Talmor forced himself to face Goddal's suspicious eyes. “Magic has a stink to it, sir. It reeks in the air, afterwards.”

“So it does, but not all the young pups these days know that. You an uplander?”

“I've served north of here.”

“Aye, at Durl. That don't answer my question. You're mighty shifty about where you come from, Talmor. What—”

“Never mind all that, sergeant,” Nejel broke in impatiently. “Let's stick to the point. A highborn lady very dear to this
court and land has been grievously attacked and injured within sight of the palace walls. The king's spies are already at work unraveling whatever plot was laid to harm her, but the guards are responsible for making sure no Sebein has slipped inside the palace itself. There's been too much laxness, and no more will be permitted.”

“Aye, my lord,” Goddal said stiffly.

Nejel looked Talmor over. “You're to be commended for saving the lady's life. Well done.”

Talmor saluted. “Thank you, my lord.”

Dismissed, he headed outside to find something to eat, but Sir Kedrien caught up with him.

“Wait!” he ordered.

Warily, Talmor faced him, wondering if he'd finally proven his worth to this man.

Sir Kedrien's eyes remained harsh and unfriendly. “What meant you by all that nonsense about magic and spells?”

“Nothing, save that the lady should be tended with special—”

“Her well-being is not your concern! You'll say no more about this to anyone. Is that clear?”

“But—”

“I suppose it amuses you to spread slander about the king's niece.”

“No! I—”

“She's been no victim of magic,” Sir Kedrien insisted, red-faced. “You're not to say that she is. The Lady of the Miracle is not to be besmirched with such rumors.”

Angrily Talmor opened his mouth, but Sir Kedrien raised his hand.

“You have your orders. If I hear anything of this matter spread among the barracks, I'll have your head on a trencher. Am I clear?”

Seething at Sir Kedrien's unfairness, Talmor held himself at stiff attention. “Aye, sir. Very clear.”

“And don't expect a reward from the king—or the lady—for your actions today.”

“No, sir.”

Scowling, Sir Kedrien strode away, leaving Talmor boiling with resentment. In that quick exchange, Sir Kedrien had managed to cheapen Talmor's actions and motivations. Did he never leave off his suspicions and fears, Talmor wondered.

Muttering to himself, Talmor walked on.

Pheresa came awake with a sudden jolt of awareness. She sat up with a muffled cry, only to be pushed down by gentle hands.

Voices murmured soothingly to her: “You're safe, my lady. Safe now. Be easy.”

Bewildered, Pheresa turned her head to find Oola smiling at her. She realized she was lying in her bed, propped up on a vast quantity of pillows, wearing a pretty bedgown, her hair brushed and shining loose on her shoulders. It was night, for shadows filled her chamber beyond the circle of lamplight. She did not understand what had happened or how she came to be here. The last thing she remembered was fighting for her life against Kolahl, so how . . . was the argument with the king, the ambush by the Sebein in the woods, her flight . . . was it all yet another nightmare?

Pressing her hands to her face, she began to weep, unable to bear such uncertainty. She felt as though she must be going mad.

“My lady, hush. Do not cry. My lady, please.” Oola pulled
her hands away and wiped away her tears. “Here, sit up and look around you. You're with friends, my sweet. Safe and sound again. And you have a special visitor who wants very much to see you smile.”

Pheresa blinked, her eyes a little dazzled by the light. The air felt warm, almost stuffy, and she realized there must be several people standing around her bed, people she could not see for the shadows.

“I don't understand,” she said weakly. “I thought I was—”

She broke off and frowned, while Oola stroked her brow. Then the woman glanced up and moved back from the bed with a curtsy.

Another figure emerged from the shadows. He sat down on the chair Oola had vacated, and Pheresa saw that it was Verence himself, smiling down at her.

Her frown deepened, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. They'd quarreled. He hated her. He'd said such terrible things.

“Dear child,” the king said softly, taking her cold, slender hand in his large one. “What a fright you have given all of us. Promise you will take no more foolish risks with your life.”

“Majesty,” she said, her voice trembling.

He smoothed back a strand of her hair. “Oh, yes, I was angry, but that is past. Take none of it to heart, for the king would not have you distressed this way. I care for you as though you were my own child.”

She stared at him, drinking in his words, his forgiveness. Her fingers tightened on his, and he smiled. Timidly she smiled back. “Then it all happened?” she asked him timidly. “ 'Twas no dream, there in the garden?”

“No dream, I regret to say.”

She began to cry. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!”

“Hush your tears,” he said kindly, lifting her chin to make her look at him. “You are infinitely precious, and I had nearly forgotten that. Never again must you encounter danger. 'Tis a protector you need.”

“But if I'm to leave court, I do not need—”

His finger crossed her lips to silence her. He shook his
head, and the jewels in his crown flashed fire. “Speak no more of that. It pleases me to keep you nearby. You will remain at court, and you will have a protector.”

She dropped her gaze. “I thank your majesty.”

“Have you a champion in mind?”

In silence she shook her head.

“Then I shall order a tourney to be held, with the victor to take the position. Provided he's suitable, and the look of him pleases you, sweet lady.”

Hardly able to believe her ears, she smiled. Somehow, despite the disaster in the garden, Verence was kind again, himself again. She dared not question such a swift change of heart too closely, and was so glad, she longed to throw her arms about his neck and laugh.

Verence chuckled at her expression and glanced around at the others. “Ah, that has caught her fancy,” he said in satisfaction.

A man in physician's robes came forward. “Perhaps enough excitement for now, majesty.”

Verence stood up. “As soon as you've fully recovered,” he said to Pheresa, “the tourney will be held.”

“And will your majesty preside over the event?” she pleaded. “Will your majesty choose a proper warrior for me from among the victors?”

The king hesitated with a frown. Pheresa held her breath, and not a sound came from anyone in the room. A rueful look stole into Verence's eyes. He shook his finger at her, his mouth twisting half between amusement and annoyance.

“How can I resist the entreaty in those pretty eyes? Very well, I agree to your wheedling. And afterwards, there will be feasting and a ball. Does that please you, child?”

Her eyes were shining now. Clapping her hands, she smiled up at him with the full charm of love, admiration, and gratitude. “Indeed it does, sire. Your majesty is too kind.”

“And you have the wiles of a vixlet.” He cleared his throat. “Sleep now, and grow well quickly. I cannot bear to see you ill.”

He departed, and most of the people in the room followed.
Pheresa lay quietly on her pillows, pleased and radiant while Oola fussed over her, bringing her a tray with coddled eggs and steaming broth to tempt her appetite, chattering about the gifts various courtiers had brought.

“You can look at them tomorrow if you feel up to it,” she said.

“But I am not sick,” Pheresa protested, shoving her tray aside. “I don't know why I swooned, except I was so frightened.”

“Being attacked by a fiend is enough to frighten anyone out of their wits,” Oola said, plumping her pillows fiercely. “Now you lie down and get your rest. You've had a nasty shock, and the physician says you're to make no exertion until you're stronger.”

“But I—” Pheresa frowned, as more memory returned to her. “Did Kolahl harm me in some way? I thought he stabbed me from behind. It hurt so much, then I fell.”

Oola looked frightened a moment before she pinned a big smile to her lips. “Nay, child. You suffered no wounds, no cuts. What fancies you speak! Now here's something the physician wants you to drink.”

Pheresa twisted her head away from the cup of nasty black liquid. “No potions. I don't want it!”

“Be a lamb and drink it down. You'll not get better until you do.”

She was tempted to hurl the cup away, but at last she swallowed part of it. The foul taste made her shudder and gasp. At once she felt her eyelids grow heavy and knew she'd been drugged.

She glared at Oola. “I don't want to sleep. I have to know what—”

The door opened to her room and a slight, solitary figure came through the shadows to her bedside. Believing it to be another physician, she opened her mouth to protest this free coming and going through her private apartments.

But when the newcomer stepped into the light, she saw that it was Cardinal Theloi.

Surprised and displeased, she gripped the coverlet, struggling to hold her heavy lids open. “You!” she whispered.

He made no immediate answer and instead gestured dismissal at both Oola and the physician. They obeyed without hesitation or protest.

The door shut behind them, leaving Pheresa alone with this man who was her enemy.

He studied her dispassionately, his falcon's eyes cold and keen. “So you have persuaded the king to end his deep mourning,” he said quietly, his voice precise. “The realm owes you a tremendous debt, my lady.”

She smothered a yawn, fighting the sleep that crept over her. Her head felt so heavy. It was so hard to stay focused on the cardinal's face. Had he just complimented her, she wondered. It seemed that he had, but she mistrusted her hearing. She murmured something indistinct.

Theloi bent over her. “You have survived and eluded more snares than I believed possible, but I'll catch you yet, my lady.”

Her eyes drifted shut despite her efforts to hold them open. “No,” she whispered in defiance.

His fingers brushed her cheek. “The game is not yet over. I have infinite patience, as you will learn.”

Her lips parted, but she heard no more of his soft-spoken threats. She slept.

Lutel came running into the sluice room, where Talmor was shaving his jaws with a blade of finely honed bronze. Despite the tiny windows set high along the walls on all sides, the place tended to be dark and damp, smelling of mildewed toweling, wet tunics left hung up to dry, and the harsh lard soap that either sat in soggy lumps in puddles of water on the washing table or else were dried hard and fast to whatever surface they'd been left on. A handful of other knights and servants moved groggily about in the early-morning light. In the far corner, Sir Carlemon was pomading his hair with a loudly scented hair oil imported from Thod knew where while his
squire held up a small, square looking glass to aid him. Talmor grimaced and tried not to breathe more than he had to. He'd smelled fish oil more appealing than Carlemon's pomades. And before breakfast, it was particularly foul.

“Sir Talmor! Sir Talmor!” Lutel called out excitedly. Despite orders, he was running, heedless of the men who cursed him or of the slick spots on the wet floor that sent him slipping and careening. Somehow he kept his balance, long skinny arms flailing, evaded the irritable swat of Sir Pem, suffering this morning from ale-head, and came panting up to Talmor with his freckled face aglow. “I've news, sir! Ye'll never guess it, no matter how clever ye be.”

Talmor wiped the remaining bits of lather from his face and decided his mustache was trimmed enough. Putting away his blade, he gave the boy an indulgent look. “More news of the tourney?”

Lutel's face fell. “Ah, damne, ye've heard already.”

“Nay, I haven't,” Talmor said, relenting with a laugh. He clapped the boy on his thin shoulder. No matter how much food they poured into Lutel, the boy never fattened. “Hand me my tunic and speak your news.”

Lutel obeyed happily. “There's five more knights arrived in the night to enter the lists. Aye, and one's the champion of his hold.”

“Is it Sir Nuin?” Carlemon asked, wiping his hands clean and tossing the towel aside.

Lutel shook his head, and Talmor gave him a sharp nudge with his elbow. “Answer the man properly, boy.”

“Nay, sir. I heard not that name.”

Carlemon grunted, eased on his tunic, and strolled out. By now Talmor was dressed. Leaving Lutel to gather up his kit, he stepped outside into fresh golden air, already growing warm after a cool dawn. They wheeled away from the privy line and headed for the hall to eat.

Talmor said idly, “Five more makes a total of how many entrants? Forty?”

Lutel was bouncing awkwardly with every step. He wore new leggings, a secondhand gift from Pears, and they were
too long and too wide for his skinny legs. “Most like there be more than that now, sir. The lists have been opened to guardsmen, and I thought ye'd want to know—”

Talmor stopped in his tracks and met the boy's dancing eyes with grave intensity. “Is this the truth?” he demanded. “No lies or foolery?”

Lutel pointed at the line already forming outside the guardhouse. “It were just announced, sir. I ran to tell ye.”

“Thod's bones,” Talmor said. He smiled and gave the boy a nod. “Well done!”

Leaving Lutel behind, he hurried over to join the line, and although he tried to act casual, he could not conceal the pulse of excitement hammering through his veins. A chance to win the post of Lady Pheresa's protector. The very thought of it set his mind racing. His weapons were in good order, thanks to Pears's diligence. He'd grown rusty with lance work. His duties, lately doubled with assignments to shifts on both sentry work and grounds patrol, left him little spare time for practice on the jousting field, but he'd correct that. There were three days left before the tourney opened, hectic days for guardsmen, for the palace and town had swelled with visitors, including combatants and spectators, and more people continued to arrive.

Talmor frowned, mentally weighing the problem of whether he should stand the cost of fitting his charger with new shoes or purchase a tourney shield. The latter would be expensive, especially with prices inflated for the tourney and fair. He supposed he could use his palace-issue shield, although it was a bit short to thwart a lance. Better to see his horse decently shod, for in a joust a stumble could see him dead.