Trickster's Choice (22 page)

Lokeij whistled. “Make the king’s warriors vanish if they come … what a deceitful turtledove you are.”

Aly smiled at the sky. “Oh, don’t,” she replied in the tones of a flirtatious court lady. “Stop, I insist. Your flattery makes me blush.”

“Have we the warriors?” asked Chenaol slowly.

Lokeij cleared his throat. When the other raka looked at him, he raised his eyebrows. They nodded. The old hostler turned his eyes on Aly. “There are some fighters up here, waiting,” he explained. “In the villages. Over the last three years they have come, young men and women, nearly sixty in all, to train and to wait. The elders will be happy the time has come to put them to use. They hunt, they fight, and they flirt with their daughters and sons.” He smiled. “They are also very good at riding, scouting, shooting, and building walls. They have their own mounts, and can live in the open air.”

“The crows will help,” said a voice from nearby. Nawat had come up soundlessly to stand near a boulder. “We will teach your fighters as we taught Aly.”

Aly didn’t even see Ulasim leave his place, the man was so fast. He jammed Nawat against the boulder and put a knife to his throat. Nawat twisted, an arm moving. Ulasim went down on his knees. He bent over, gasping, dead white under his coppery skin. Nawat jumped five feet in the air to the top of his boulder. Two long strides took him across the rocks; a short jump put him on a tree branch over Aly’s head.

Chenaol went to Ulasim. “What did you do?” she demanded. “If you’ve killed him …”

Nawat smiled at her from his leafy refuge. “I only pecked him with my fingers. He was rude to try to cut me. I will help Aly do whatever she must. He should know that.”

All three raka stared at the young fletcher. “What
are
you?” demanded Lokeij. “You aren’t raka.”

“Isn’t he?” Aly asked lazily, watching Ulasim and Chenaol through her lowered lashes. “What is he, then? Luarin?”

Ulasim straightened with a grimace. He patted Chenaol on the shoulder, reassuring her that he wasn’t stabbed, then stared at Nawat. Ignoring him, Nawat picked something off the tree trunk, eyed it, then ate it. His eyebrows shot up. He looked around, found a twig and broke it off, and used it to root in a crevice of the tree bark.

Ulasim wiped a hand over dry lips and crouched a little, holding the spot in his side where Nawat had struck him. “Not luarin,” he said at last, wonder in his eyes and voice. “But not raka, either.”

“Does it matter, if I give your warriors the secrets of the crows?” asked Nawat. He brought his twig close to his face. A grub squirmed on the end of it. He popped it into his mouth and thrust his twig under a new piece of bark. “We have a wager with the Bright One, too, the god of tricks,” the crow-man explained as he wriggled his twig. “To help Aly, we must help the nestlings. Surely it makes no difference what I am. You humans worry about proper names too much.”

Chenaol looked at Aly. “Do you vouch for him?”

“Why not ask your god?” Aly demanded in return. “The crows were his idea.”

Ulasim rubbed his side. “Things were simpler in Rajmuat,” he complained. “Nawat, tonight you’ll meet with Fesgao and me in the guard barracks. We must work out patrol schedules and decide how your crows will communicate with our fighters. And come down out of that tree. You’re making my neck hurt, and your eating habits make my belly squirm.”

Nawat jumped to the ground, then found a rock to sit on. “No more knives?” he asked Ulasim.

“No more pecking?” Ulasim retorted.

Nawat looked at Aly. “I cannot teach the raka as we taught you. We will sort that out.”

“I leave it in your capable hands,” Aly told him with a smile. She looked at the raka conspirators. “Any other royal spies in the household?”

“Just Hasui, and she’s in the kitchen under my eye,” Chenaol replied with a firm nod. “I prefer not to kill her, if it can be helped.”

“No, don’t,” Aly said. “It’ll leave you short-handed in the kitchen. For another, we can send the wrong information through Hasui and Veron to their masters. Knowing who is your spy can be quite useful.” She scratched her head, reviewing all the things they had discussed. There were plenty of factors to keep in mind, and she wanted to make sure that they had covered the most important ones. She had always expected her first job as a spy to be a simple matter of watching targets and sending reports on their behavior. Da would never thrust a green spy into a political swamp like this one for her first assignment. She grinned. She would have a tale to tell him when she went home!

Ulasim was staring at her. “What?” she asked.

“Where did you learn to think this way?” the raka asked slowly. “We would have killed Hasui outright if Chenaol had not said she would be controlled in the kitchen. Killing Veron would break no one’s heart. He’s too fond of whipping raka to get them to move. We never would think to make the spies pass on bad information. And it never occurred to us that a castle might be a trap.”

“Oh, the god fiddled with my mind,” she replied wickedly. “They’re fond of doing things like that. You never know what they’ll get up to.”

“I do not believe you,” Ulasim replied, an amused glint in his dark eyes. “No god ever needs to know such tiny things. Who are your people?”

“Tortallans,” Aly informed him. “Merchants. Harmless. Unless you count my mother, who was a Player. What of Prince Bronau’s people?” she asked, changing the subject. “Are any of them more than they seem to be?”

The raka looked at one another and shook their heads. “They just got here,” Chenaol reminded Aly.

Aly yawned. “I’ll have a look around, then. Perhaps Her Grace will excuse me from pouring the wine tonight. You might want to keep a constant watch on them, too. After all, they might find the weapons hidden in the storerooms under the stable.”

Lokeij cursed eloquently. “You can’t know about them! I’ve got the stables watched all the time!”

“I didn’t know until now,” Aly replied easily, enjoying the joke she had just played on the old man. She ignored Lokeij’s muttered curse, though she stored it in her memory as a useful one to know. “It’s a central location, after all, and the raka linger there all the time.”

Ulasim whistled softly. “Our friend picked well when he picked you.”

Just don’t get used to me, Aly thought at she smiled at him. I don’t mean to be here after the autumn equinox.

Chenaol looked at the sun. “I’d best get back,” she told them. “Those lazy wenches will slack on the cooking if I’m not there.” She set off among the rocks. Ulasim murmured quietly to Lokeij, then stood aside as the old man mounted his horse as nimbly as a boy. Aly looked around for Nawat—he was nowhere to be seen. Like any crow, he seemed to have the ability to come and go unnoticed, something that didn’t involve magic, only animal craft.

At last Ulasim was alone with Aly. “Tomorrow I will send Visda to you. She and her dogs will graze her herd with yours every day after this. She will tell no one what you do once you have settled the flock. This way, should you need to leave your post, she can look after the goats as well.”

Aly nodded. “Good idea. I thank you.”

“Also, what are your preferred weapons?” he wanted to know. “Can you use any, O child of merchants?”

Aly raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t believe what I told you of my family. I’m hurt. Maybe even crushed.” Ulasim was unmoved. She delayed by reminding him, “It’s my life if I’m caught with weapons, you know that. Slave owners don’t arm slaves.” She wasn’t sure if it was wise to let anyone know of her skill with knives.

“Then you must not be caught,” Ulasim replied coolly. “Have you been to the shrine between the stable and the wall?”

Aly shook her head.

“The flagstone before the altar can be lifted. What shall we leave there for you?” He smiled thinly.

Aly nibbled her lower lip. It would be nice to have more blades than just the stolen one hidden in her bedroll. She’d always teased her father when he complained about the magic that alerted the king and queen of people carrying hidden weapons. She had liked telling him that he sounded like a child without his favorite blanket. Now she understood his feeling of vulnerability. Like Aly, he could fight hand to hand at need, but daggers were what he loved. He’d taught that love to her. “Daggers?” she asked. “Good ones, as flat as may be, with sleeve and leg sheaths? They would be a blessing.”

“Merchants,” Ulasim remarked drily, referring to her false background again. “Yes, of course I believe you. I must, mustn’t I? You
are
Kyprioth’s chosen, so the truth drips from your tongue like honey from the comb.”

“Again you are suspicious,” Aly told the raka, shaking her head in sorrow. “You wound me so deeply.” She liked Ulasim. He was smart.

“I can see that,” retorted Ulasim. “Daggers we shall provide you, under the flagstone tonight.” Aly relaxed, looking at the clouds again, but the raka was not finished. “And since you are so busy watching the plotters who creep up behind us, I will assign a guard to you. Someone who won’t look out of place with the goats.” His voice was firm, his eyes direct as Aly sat up and groaned a protest. Ulasim said firmly, “At the very least he can run your errands.”

Aly sighed. “What about a girl?” she asked, “or a woman? Less conspicuous and less likely to stir up gossip.”

Ulasim stiffened. Aly made a face at him. “Sarai told me your women fought together with the men in the raka armies,” she said patiently. “It seems reasonable to guess that the raka who aren’t under the luarin eye continue to train their women to fight. I can understand your not wanting folk to know. This way, the luarin think the number of raka who might give them trouble is half of your actual force. But
I’m
not going to tell, and a female won’t be noticed as much as a man.”

“I will see to it,” he said. He started to go, then turned back to face Aly. His dark eyes were puzzled. “I suppose I must trust the god’s opinion of you, but you still worry me. He is a trickster, when all is said and done.”

“But I’m not,” Aly assured him, the picture of earnest youth. “Why, I’m just as true and honest as dirt. And I’m even more charming than dirt.”

Ulasim winced. “Thank you for describing yourself in such unforgettable terms,” he said. “I see you and the god are well matched.”

Aly watched him go. Ulasim is their general, she decided, thinking about the roles each raka played. Lokeij is in charge of communications and storage for weapons and supplies. Fesgao must be their war leader, used to straightforward combat. And Chenaol …

She plucked a grass stem. She supposed every army needed a chief cook who was quick with her knives, but surely there was more to Chenaol than that. Did she command the women of the raka? What could she do that the men could not?

Aly’s memory showed her an image of Chenaol talking to the merchants who stopped by Tanair from time to time. She was accepting boxes from them, boxes that Aly had seen open in the kitchen: knives. No one questioned a raka cook in the purchase of knives. And it would be easier to smuggle longer blades to a cook than a man-at-arms watched by a luarin superior. Aly smiled. Chenaol was the raka armorer. That was why Ulasim has said “we” when he talked of giving me knives, she thought. He may plant them, but he’ll get them from Chenaol.

Truly this was a fine morning, Aly reflected as she stretched and thought. Now she had human allies and their resources. With Bronau in residence and the king’s disfavor, the Balitangs’ luarin and raka alike had an excuse to strengthen their defenses. Any of them who had been waiting for “someday” to come would know that day was nearly upon them. They would be razor-sharp, with no need for Aly to sharpen them, and, unlike the crows, they would understand that Bronau might serve as a lightning rod to draw the king’s wrath.

Aly gnawed a grass stem. The raka and the crows were prepared for attack by armed fighters both from within and without. However, they still could not withstand a strong magical attack. Somehow they would have to produce a mage.

Once again Aly brought the goats in early. After they were safely penned, she waved to Nawat, who was fletching arrows near the archery butts, and entered the keep in search of the duchess. She found the lady in the small bedchamber where Petranne, Elsren, and their nursemaid slept, giving her son a bath while the maid toweled his sister dry.

Aly bowed. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said.

Winnamine looked up at her. Her hair had escaped its severe domed style to curl around her face and neck. Her indigo linen gown was water-spotted, and she was flicking drops of water into her gleefully squealing boy’s face.

“Pembery,” she said to the maid, “would you get some more drying cloths? I fear both Elsren and I will need them.”

The maid curtsied. “At once, Your Grace,” she murmured. She wrapped Petranne in a cocoon of cloths and trotted from the room.

“Your Grace, Hasui, one of the kitchen slaves, will take my place as wine pourer tonight,” Aly murmured in Kyprish. Neither Elsren nor Petranne spoke it very well, though Dove, Sarai, and their parents did. “There are some things I must do in your service. And I will need to report to you and His Grace later, once the prince has retired.”

Winnamine’s eyes sharpened. “You will be careful?” she asked, keeping her voice low as she, too, spoke in Kyprish. “You will take no risks that might endanger us?” Unconsciously she grasped Elsren’s hand in hers.

“Your Grace, no one will even know what I did,” Aly assured her.

“Mama, why are you talking that way?” demanded Petranne from her corner by the fire. “Only raka talk that way.”

“But the raka are our people, too, dear,” Winnamine told her daughter. “We honor them by learning their tongue. They were here long before our ancestors came.”

“But Aly isn’t raka,” the girl pointed out. “She’s luarin.”

“She honors our raka friends, too,” Winnamine said, absently soaping Elsren’s back.

Aly bowed and left the watery room. She had no interest in explaining the language of conquest to a four-year-old, and knowing Petranne from the journey to Tanair, she was aware that the girl would stick to the subject until the end of time if not muzzled.