Trickster's Choice (15 page)

It was the kind of thinking that always gave her mother headaches, a way of looking at several different possibilities for each situation. To Aly and her father it was a fine game, but Aly had learned early on that Mother hated it. That was a shame, because it was far more interesting that anything her mother might play at on horseback.

Still turning possibilities over in her mind, Aly drifted through the gate into the outer courtyard. A glance at the stables revealed that a lamp burned in the chief hostler’s quarters. Why wasn’t Lokeij out with his boys, among the group in the inner courtyard? The old raka was a sociable man, much given to telling fireside stories until moonrise.

Aly padded into the stables. They were empty but for the horses, who drowsed as she passed. Silently Aly walked into the one-story addition that housed the tack room, the stable boys’ dormitory, and the chief hostler’s quarters. She kept to the wall, where there was less chance she would step on a loose board. The murmur of voices from Lokeij’s room was too low for her to make out what was said. Aly hesitated, then shrugged and opened the old man’s door.

Lokeij, the cook Chenaol, the man-at-arms Fesgao, and the head footman Ulasim all sat inside. They had the look of old friends having a nice evening’s chat, complete with drinks and a bowl of dried fruit and nuts to share. Aly blinked. All four were pure raka. She had known before that it was unusual to have so many pure-blood raka in the best positions in a luarin household. Only now, seeing them, did she realize that all four main servants here at Tanair were purebloods. Was that a nod to the older girls’ heritage, or was it something more? Perhaps it was both, she thought.

“Good evening,” she said with a smile. “This looks cozy.”

Lokeij grinned at her, his dark eyes, framed by multiple wrinkles, twinkling with amusement. “Surely old friends may sit and talk when their work is done.”

“Old friends who number two free servants, a slave, and a man-at-arms, all seated together?” Aly crouched by the door and wrapped her arms around her knees, curious to see what she might learn. “You’re very relaxed in your standards for company.”

“Why do I not think you are here for a drink?” Fesgao asked, pointing to the pitcher and a wooden cup.

Aly smiled crookedly. “I’d as soon gulp down a mouthful of fire,” she replied.

Chenaol laughed and slapped her knee. “You won’t get to like it if you won’t drink it,” she told Aly.

“But I’d like the use of my tongue until I die,” retorted Aly. “I think it would eat away at the tongue of anyone who isn’t raka.”

“So then, curious Aly, why are you here?” Ulasim wanted to know.

Aly looked at each dark face, wondering if she was getting herself into trouble. She sighed. She needed some real answers, and she had to start somewhere. She had a feeling that these four people were more important to this household than their positions seemed to be. “Just who
was
Duchess Sarugani to the raka?”

“That is a question we will not answer,” Fesgao replied. “Why do you ask?”

Then you just answered it, Aly thought. She was
very
important to you and yours. “I like gossip about my betters,” she replied blithely. “And I was spooked by all those people watching us. Do they line the roads and sea lanes for every family that goes into exile?”

“Who knows why country raka act as they do?” asked Chenaol with a shrug. “Most of the time they laze, hunt, and fish. The household of an exiled duke—a Rittevon duke—was a show for them.”

Ulasim leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. “Duchess Sarugani was of the lesser raka nobility,” he told Aly, his eyes sharp on her face. “No raka ever married so high before. It stands to reason that people would take interest in her and her daughters.”

Aly got to her feet, wincing as muscles she hadn’t used in some time protested the change in position. Goat herding had not been so much work the last time she had tried it. “Oh. I didn’t think of that,” she said lightly. “It looked to me as if there was some big mystery about it all.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Fesgao remarked, his dark eyes unreadable.

Aly rolled her eyes. Why did everyone say that to her? “People always forget the
rest
of the saying,” she complained. “‘And satisfaction brought it back.’” She looked at the pitcher of arak. “Though if that’s all you mean to drink, I doubt I’ll come to be curious with you very often.”

Their chuckles followed her out into the stable. Aly whistled a tune softly as she passed the sleeping horses. The raka had gracefully turned her questions aside, but they weren’t good at facing down open queries. What they had said about the first duchess was true, but it was only part of a larger truth. From the way they had avoided her gaze, and from the stiffness of their movements, Aly was almost certain that Sarugani had not been minor raka nobility at all. Plans to do away with entire noble houses were usually flawed, as her readings of history had taught her. There were always second and third cousins tucked away in corners, waiting for the right time to announce they were of the supposedly dead house. Or those cousins neglected to wait and died as the result of a premature announcement. Had she money to wager, Aly would bet it all that Sarugani was the daughter of old, powerful raka nobility, probably even a very well hidden seed of the royal line. If that were so, then Sarai and Dove were doubly royal, raka as well as luarin. If
that
were true, if the mad king ever learned of it, no Balitang would be left alive.

The four raka whom she had just left seemed much friendlier since they’d left Rajmuat. During the long journey here she had overheard slaves and servants alike wonder why servants of Chenaol’s and Ulasim’s rank and qualifications had chosen the Balitangs’ exile. Lokeij, of course, had been too old to sell, for all his skill as an hostler. And here they were, teamed with a real soldier who was also a pure-blood raka. Fesgao’s quiet competence and leadership had impressed her during the bandit episode. Seeing these four together had crystallized things for Aly, giving her a working theory as to why these people had remained with Mequen and his family. They were guarding the hidden treasure that was Sarugani’s daughters. If trouble came, Aly would have their help to protect two of the children, at least.

She stepped into the courtyard and frowned. She had forgotten another very important question. She would ask it at another time, though. Too many questions might make the four raka conspirators think Aly was an unhealthy person to keep around.

As she walked into the keep, she heard children crying, “Aly, Aly!” Elsren and Petranne, who had been seated at the foot of the main stairway, hurled themselves at her. Dove and Sarai came in their wake, more sedate, but with the same eagerness in their eyes.

“A story!” clamored Elsren. “Mama said you might tell us a story if we were good and we were!”

“Please,”
begged Petranne.

“The duchess didn’t actually
say
Aly would tell you a story,” Sarai reminded her. “She said to ask Aly,
if
Aly wasn’t too tired. Aly looks pretty tired to me.” She turned her brown eyes on Aly, who saw wistfulness in them.

Petranne, who had hugged Aly enthusiastically, drew back, plucking coarse hairs from the front of her gown. “You smell of goats,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She was very much the finicky young noblewoman.

“I don’t care!” Elsren cried. “
Please,
a story?”

Aly looked at the four young Balitangs and told herself that if she was to keep them alive, she ought to get to know them. “Actually, I’d like a story of my own,” she said, towing the younger children to a bench against the wall. “And then one for you.”

“And then bedtime,” Dove told Petranne and Elsren. “Aly rises very early now.”

“What story did
you
want to hear?” asked Sarai. She settled on the floor gracefully, tucking her bronze-colored skirts around her long legs. Aly could see how Sarai would attract boys. Apart from her connection to the royal family, she was lovely in a sensual way, her nose long and curved, her upper lip a perfect arch over a full lower lip, her skin a creamy shade of golden brown. Her eyes were large with frivolously long lashes, tucked under delicate eyebrows. She wore her shining dark hair combed smoothly back and coiled into a knot of braids from which curled locks dangled. Hers was a face of passion and sensuality, one that promised a happy, if maddening, time for any male who took her interest.

Elsren and Petranne curled up on either side of the bench with Aly, leaning against her as they pleaded with their eyes. Dove found a stool and set it next to Sarai, folding her hands neatly in her lap once she was seated.

“Well, it doesn’t really have to be a story,” Aly said, putting an arm around each of the younger children. “I was just curious about a god somebody mentioned to me—Ky—Kyprioth. Do you know anything about him?”

The older girls traded wary looks. Finally Dove said, “I don’t see how it could hurt. He’s one of the old raka gods. He’s the sea god here, except maybe to the luarin. The raka say he used to be the patron god of the Isles.”

“Some people say that he played one trick too many on Mithros,” Sarai added. “He is a trickster god. The Isles deserved one in those days, with all the clans fighting, and every island against its neighbors. You can see why people might think a trickster was running it all.”

“The Mithran priests say that all the fighting among the raka weakened Kyprioth’s power, so when the invaders came from the east, Mithros and the Great Goddess came with them, and threw Kyprioth from his throne,” Dove told Aly. “The raka believe he’ll regain his throne one day, and return the rulership of the Isles to the raka.”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Sarai, curious. “I never heard anyone say anything about his return.”

“That’s because you attract attention,” Dove informed her older sister. “I go out of my way
not
to attract it, so I hear more things. People forget I’m there.”

“Oh.” Sarai shrugged. “I hate being quiet. It’s so very boring.”

Aly, shaking her head at Sarai’s indifference to what she might learn this way, saw that Dove was shaking her head as well. For a moment their eyes met—hazel slave’s and brown-black noble’s—in perfect understanding.

Then Petranne yanked Aly’s sleeve. “Now a story?” she asked, her voice teetering toward a whine.

The moment gone, Aly searched her memory for a tale. The information about Kyprioth she would consider later, in a quiet moment of her own.

“Once in a kingdom far away, a girl with a knack for handling horses came to a large fair held in the capital of Galla,” she began.

“Will the Lioness be in this one?” asked Sarai eagerly. “Will there be battles?”

Dove kicked her sister gently. Petranne scowled and said, “Hush!”

Aly waited until Sarai was quiet again, then continued. “As I was saying, she came to the fair seeking work… .”

Frasrlund, on the Vassa River, Tortall’s northwestern border

As soon as Aly’s eyes closed, a vision presented itself, very different from those times when the crows taught her their language. This was one of Kyprioth’s “letters from home” dreams, like the one in which she’d seen her father talk to her mother, with Lord Imrah’s note in his pocket.

Now she rode high in the air, seeing the landscape below like a shadowy map. The place looked familiar. It was Frasrlund, Tortall’s northern harbor city, an island at the mouth of the powerful Vassa River. In more peaceful times she had visited it often, though never with such a good view of the place.

The skies were dark, but the night was lit with torches, their flames driven nearly flat by a hard wind out of the east. Cities of torches lighting thousands of tents lay over hilly land on both sides of the Vassa. Torches burned also on the ramparts of the city, isolated from the armies by the tumbling river.

Frasrlund had been under siege by King Maggur of Scanra since the previous year. Now the Tortallans had driven Maggur’s army back across the Vassa. The flags on the southern side of the river were Tortallan, those on the northern side Scanran. So the city was yet to be freed completely. That would come when Maggur either no longer held the northern throne or else signed a treaty promising to leave Frasrlund to Tortall. Until then the Tortallan army could not retreat. The minute troops were moved away from Frasrlund, the Scanrans would swarm over the river again, to encircle the prize and try to starve its people into surrender.

Stalemate, Aly thought, shaking her head. They can’t drive us off, and we can’t leave the city to them. Splendid. Mother must be bored out of her mind.

Thinking of her mother, Aly suddenly found herself inside a large canvas tent, lit by oil lamps and warmed by charcoal braziers. Alanna the Lioness sat at a rude camp table, writing reports.

Men clamored outside. Alanna grabbed the longsword that rested on her table and swept the blade from its sheath. Aly clenched ghostly fists in worry. She couldn’t see how an enemy might get so close to the tents that housed the army’s commanders, but there was no sense in Mother taking chances. Immortals, mages, or spies might well get near enough to do real damage here.

Alanna reached for her shield, then spun to face the door. The flap burst open and a tall man with black hair and a black, trimmed beard entered in a swirl of wind and cold air. Aly recognized King Jonathan, as her mother did. Alanna dropped her shield and knelt, placing her sword at her side.

King Jonathan IV, co-ruler of Tortall with his queen, Thayet, bent and scooped his old friend up into his arms. “Alanna, I’m so sorry,” he said as he hugged her. “Is there any news yet?”

Alanna stepped back from him, confusion on her too-honest face. “News of what?”

“Myles hasn’t been able to find a trace of her in Corus,” the king said, pulling off his riding gloves. He investigated the contents of a steaming pitcher and poured its warm cider into a cup. “I’ve got the Bazhir looking around,” the king added, “but we’ve had to be discreet.” He drank and poured the cup full again. “Gods help us if our enemies find out she’s missing.”