Treason's Shore (49 page)

Signi tried to speak, but her lips had cracked again, and she tasted blood. Even with the blanket of herbs, darts of pain reached her, faint warnings of what was to come when the herbal effect wore away.

“What is next?” she whispered finally.

“Frin of Loc House sent this salve by Brun Durasnir.” Valda picked up an open shell on which something pungent glistened. She leaned over the bath and began to anoint Signi’s remaining wounds, which, now clean of the crust of infection, bled sluggishly. The salve was cool and soothing.

“You must vanish,” Valda said. “No more magic at all. Not the smallest spell, so that Erkric will never again be able to trace you. You will rest and heal. When you can hold a book and pen, I will rely on you to help me with my search through magical archives. I cannot do it alone, and still monitor Erkric’s movements.”

Signi’s brow eased slightly: she had something to do.

“When you are sufficiently healed, then this ship must vanish. You must land and hide.”

“Where?”

“I suggest you take advantage of my wards and go back to your Inda. But Signi, it is only for a time.”

Another blow. It took all Signi’s strength to speak. “The plan. Sartor. It still holds?”

“Correct. We have not given up our plan. If we can get Sartor to listen, our gift might go a long way toward redeeming the Venn in the eyes of the world. Erkric still has his spy wards around the Destinations we use to transfer to Sartor, but as soon as we can deflect him, we will attend to those. And then send you the signal, the milkweed again.”

“Where will you be?”

“I plan to keep him so busy that you will be able to go to Sartor unmolested.” She leaned down and kissed Signi’s bruised, scraped brow.

Signi summoned the strength for one last question. “How can. You keep. Erkric busy?”

“I have several plans. You are going to help, as I said. While you are healing, you will be going through the ancient records I stored in these chests.” Valda reached behind the tub and touched two heavy wooden chests, so old the carving was worn and blurry. “You are going to find me the spells to break Erkric’s control over Rajnir’s mind.”

The relentless flood of memory reached high tide when Inda rode through the gates of Ala Larkadhe. Everywhere he looked reminded him so vividly, so viscerally, of Noddy and Hawkeye busy with tasks, of Buck striding back and forth, whole and laughing, it was like seeing ghosts. He knew they were not ghosts in the sense that others talked about and he’d seen so briefly once. These were memory ghosts, ones he carried with him, who came alive in dreams.

Inda tried to wall the flood of memories and ghosts by concentrating on the cold stone of the new garrison, the smells of baking pan bread and simmering cabbage rolls, the long, vowelly Iascan accent punctuated by the quick, sibilant Marlovan. But those things, too, were reminders of his previous stay.

Then Beaver Yvana-Vayir came bounding out to greet him, his distinctive square chin, his dashing smile so strong a reminder of Hawkeye that Inda grimaced.

Beaver rushed into words. They’d been sweeping, cleaning, repairing, and practicing for days, so that the King’s Voice would be impressed. Beaver had been there a year—at New Year’s his brother would ride north and they’d switch, and he’d be a Jarl . . . what Badger had said . . . what Cama said on his last visit . . .

Inda defeated the memories enough to take in the people standing stiffly on their best behavior while Beaver chattered on and on, mixing in questions and comments with his report. They looked and sounded anxious for approval.

So he looked around to find things to approve.

Everything appeared as expected. Inda saw all the signs that Beaver was a careful commander, doing the best he could despite the lack of funds. The faces surrounding Inda seemed content enough, yet by the end of the tour of inspection, Inda had a headache, and there was still a banquet to get through.

Get through it he did, mostly by just lifting the wine cup and pretending to drink. He didn’t like heavy wine at any time, but when his head ached, the smell made his gut churn.

He knew he’d have to make a speech. Gradually he became aware that they wanted a story from the battle at Andahi Pass. Not the entire thing, he realized as unsubtle hints were dropped, before or after looks sent Beaver’s way. They wanted the story of Hawkeye’s Charge, which Inda had not actually seen.

But he knew enough of what had happened to describe it in the terms people loved to hear, full of honor, glory, courage in the face of certain defeat. And at the end, Hawkeye dying with the words “Sing me” on his lips, following which they all stood and sang the new version of “Yvana Ride Thunder,” the younger men drumming on the table with such verve the dishes jumped and clattered.

Then at last it was over. Beaver staggered off, muzzy with drink and singing with several of his riding mates. Inda longed for bed, but he had one more duty. He sat there wishing he could just send one of the Runners, except he had promised Evred he’d see to it himself. And they were riding out at dawn.

So if it was going to be done, it had to be now.

He got up and wound his way through the departing guests to the side of old Tdiran-Randviar, the tough old woman who commanded the women defending the towers and walls of Ala Larkadhe.

“Inda.” Her voice was like a crow’s squawk, her tone wry but not disapproving. “You did that well. Almost would believe you were there.”

“I did see the end of it,” he said, which was almost true. “Tdiran-Randviar, Evred wants me to visit Fala, Hawkeye’s mate. See with my own eyes how she’s doing.” Inda hoped the woman would say Fala was well and living far away—anything so he wouldn’t have to go.

But Tdiran’s chin jerked up, a gesture of approval. “He’s a fine boy, Evred is. Like his father. Those young hounds, Badger and Beaver, have their mother’s nature, so Fala’s doing all right. You’ll find her tucked up just beyond the north wall, at the apiary.”

Apiary. Bees—Gand—the academy. Inda shook away the reminder, resigning himself to a long walk, or else the trouble of getting a horse saddled up and prepared. He opted for the walk, hoping the night air, cold as it was, would clear his head somewhat.

He gestured to the Runner on duty and, guiding himself by the flickering wall torches, trod the narrow streets until he reached the north wall, and then, with a salute to the men and women above, he and his Runner walked through the gate. For a time the only sound was the crunch of ground beneath his and Twin Tvei’s steps.

Inda sniffed the air as he walked, senses on alert. Maybe it was just being alone for the first time in so long—alone, that is, except for his Runner. But he felt he was being watched.

He checked his surroundings carefully. Now he was thoroughly awake. The steep rising land revealed nothing in the time it took to sink the city walls behind a rocky hill, and to spot the round cottage belonging to the city’s beekeeper. A huge yard with a small, domed construct of some sort made indistinct shadows; as Inda crossed to the door, he realized that the beehives shared their space with a kiln.

That gave him just enough time to suspect what he was to find when the door opened, the light from inside silhouetting a short, stocky male figure. “Who’s without?”

“Inda-Harskialdna,” Inda said. Strange, how he still felt odd saying his rank, like he’d taken it from someone, no, more like he pretended to be something he wasn’t. “I was sent by Evred-Harvaldar.”

The light made a halo around the bright hair of a tall, thin woman in Marlovan robes and trousers. “Come within,” she said and smiled in welcome, from behind the stocky man.

Fala was probably ten years older than Inda, round of face and pale of eyes and hair, characterized by a dimpled smile that had once been merry, but was now more pensive. “Welcome, Harskialdna-Dal.” She used his Marlovan title, but spoke in Iascan.

“Inda is all right,” he mumbled, wondering what else to say. He had a wallet of gold pieces, but Evred had been specific:
Only if she seems to need it. Don’t insult her if she’s found a new life
. “Um, Evred wanted me to ask how you were.”

She smiled again. “How very like him. Here, come within. Would you like some mulled wine to chase the cold away?” Then her eyes narrowed as she observed the tense brow and faint wince of a pounding headache. “No, maybe listerblossom steep?”

“If you have some,” Inda said gratefully as he took in the round room, which was fitted up with an odd mixture of northern furniture and Marlovan low tables and mats.

“I have plenty,” she said, not telling him that she’d kept a supply against Hawkeye’s heavy drinking during the days when Dannor, Hawkeye’s wife, had lived among them. Those days were gone forever. “In case the bees take against me in jealousy.”

She indicated the mats. Inda sat down. The man also sat down; he neither spoke nor smiled. His skin was nut-brown, his thin hair dark, reminding Inda strongly of Jeje, which made him feel even more off balance. The man was probably old Iascan—oh, of course. Olaran, this far north.

Fala filled the silence with cheery chatter. She introduced her new mate, Kaz the beekeeper, talked about bees and pottery, said that Beaver was always sending over delicacies, as times had been lean for everyone.

Presently Fala brought the steep and Inda gulped it down, ignoring the burn to mouth and nose. “Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “Thanks.”

Fala made a gesture of sympathy. “We heard you were coming. Some think you’re coming up with fire and sword, others to change all the commanders about.”

Inda waved a hand wearily. “No, nothing like that. I’m supposed to ride around and look tough. Evred and Cama think that’ll keep the peace. Idea being, we’ve had enough war.”

The words were out before he remembered that Kaz was not a Marlovan, then he shrugged internally. Wasn’t like “keeping the peace” was any military secret.

Fala laughed. They talked a little more about riding, winter, and how nasty the pass could be if it iced up. Then Inda rose to take his leave, Fala charged him with a greeting to Ndand-Jarlan, and he and Twin Tvei left.

But not alone. They were aware of being followed within ten steps. The Runner had hand to sword and Inda to the hilts in his sleeves as they turned.

“A moment.” The voice was unfamiliar, the accent the slow Iascan of the north.

Inda paused, Twin Tvei taking up a stance at Inda’s left, a little behind.

The light from the window outlined a short, stocky figure. “Kaz?” Inda asked, as the man stopped a couple paces away.

“You came just to ask about her,” Kaz said, after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Your king sent you. To ask about her.”

“Yes.” Inda reminded himself he was the King’s Voice, and he was here to make peace. He had to remember not to slurp his soup so the locals wouldn’t despise him and through him all Marlovans. So if a local wanted to stand here while the night got colder and tell Inda what he’d just been doing, well, that seemed to be part of the orders, to listen.

Kaz shook his head, then stepped a little closer. Twin Tvei’s right hand already gripped his sword. His left drifted to his sash near the hilt of his knife, and Inda, arms crossed, had his knife hilts in a throwing grip, but Kaz’s head was bent, his gaze on the ground that he couldn’t see.

Finally he looked up. “We didn’t want you,” he said. “You Marlovans. But you’re here. And some think the old king was far worse. Idayago, I mean. Tried to annex Olara, same as you people. But wouldn’t rebuild the Nob after the first pirate attack, in the early days.”

Inda was not sure what to say in answer to yet another statement of what they both knew, so he just said, “Yes.”

Kaz let out his breath in a sharp hiss. “You’re going to keep the peace, you say. Some rumors say you’ll rebuild the two harbors.”

“That’s right,” Inda stated, still patient.

Kaz snorted again. “Elbow Jink. Ambush forming. They’ll take you from above.” And in a low, swift voice, “Some might say I’m a traitor, because Zek na Zek is Olaran. But I don’t like him. Never did. He’s a bad leader, worse than Mardric ever was, and he’d make a worse king, him or his mates.”

Kaz marched back to the apiary.

Inda started back, mentally calling up his memory of the Andahi Pass, studied so intently before the battle. He remembered Elbow Jink as one of the first tight twists on the narrowing road, a day or two up the pass from Ala Larkadhe. Sheer cliffs on either side.

He and his men had already relaxed their guard while riding, seldom donning uncomfortable helms, shields hung at the sides of their saddles instead of strapped on their arms.

An attack from above was unlikely to kill them all unless the Resistance had gained an army of expert shots and all were crowding up there along the cliffs, but all it would take would be one very good shot to nail Inda.

“Damn,” he said, and Twin Tvei opened his hand in agreement.