Trickster's Choice (39 page)

Aly opened her eyes. She lay on her pallet in the great hall. Looking at the torch that still burned to light any late comings and goings on the main stair, she saw that it was the middle of the night, with a few more hours to go until dawn. A fresh torch set by the stairs always burned out just before sunrise.

Someone nearby snored. Aly heard a dog’s claws scratch on the stone flags as their owner dreamed of hunting. Farther off she heard a rustle of mice.

She stared into the dark. Da was coming to Rajmuat, she realized. He would track her to the slave pens, then to the Balitangs’ town house, then to Lombyn. It might take him weeks. He could not use his Kyprish agents. He would have to question people without seeming to question them. He would be looking for a girl with hair, not one shaved bald, but sooner or later he would find Aly and want to take her home.

She’d go, of course. She hoped he could wait till the equinox, so that her bet would be done with. And then she’d return to the safety of Pirate’s Swoop. If all went as it was supposed to, Da would then let her do field work.

And what happens to the Balitangs then? she asked herself. What happens to the raka?

She wouldn’t think of that. Da needed her. Mother missed her. And there were her brothers, her grandparents, and her adoptive family. She could see them once the Balitangs were safe, if she didn’t go home with Da right away. There was an idea.

Back to sleep. The only result she would have from worrying about it now was daytime exhaustion from lack of a proper night’s rest. Da would come when he came.

If you’re to lie to a god, and sometimes it’s fair useful, do it with the truth. They smell lies on two-leggers, or they see it, or whatever it is they do. But if all you’re telling them is whatever part of your lie that’s truthful, they’ll accept it. The gods don’t see what’s always in our minds. Mayhap they’d go mad if they knew everything we think as we think it—I know I would. Besides, mortals were granted the right to make our own choices when we were shaped. So if a god’s got no reason to be suspicious, he won’t enter your mind to find that you’ve only spoken half the story.

—Daine Sarrasri, daughter of the Gallan goddess The Green Lady and the hunt god Weiryn, to her fifteen-year-old adopted niece, Aly, during a discussion of the Immortals’ War

T
he first group of outland raka had been gone three days when another came in. They, too, would not leave until after they had seen Sarai. Five days later a third group arrived at Inti. This one was the largest yet, a regular caravan from the coast that masked its real purpose by carrying sealskins, whale oil, shell buttons, salt, beads, and dried seaweed to trade.

To support their story of coming to Inti on business, Sarai sent a villager for her father and Ulasim, who could ride to Inti and do business for the family. She told her companions they would spend the night in the village, since she had so far met only half of the caravan’s members. Their group took supper with the newcomers and introduced them to Mequen and Ulasim when they arrived with their guards.

In a gesture of goodwill, Inti’s headman gave up his home to the Balitangs for the night. Inside at last, Aly set the pallet they’d found for her at the foot of the large bed shared by Sarai and Dove. Exhausted by watchfulness among a crowd of unknown raka and by a secret but thorough search of their wagons and gear, Aly plunged into sleep as soon as her eyes closed.

Kyprioth awaited her in the glowing form he’d used to show her King Oron’s death.

“What now?” Aly demanded crossly. “I have enough on my plate at the moment, without you dragging me all over the mortal realms.”

“You will be glad to know this by the time we are done, my dear,” the god informed her. “It is the pivot on which all else turns. I’ve yet to meet a spy who didn’t want all the information he—or she—could stand.”

“You could at least pretend to be sorry you bothered me,” Aly grumbled as the god passed a glowing arm firmly around her waist.

“And deprive you of whining?” he asked as they shot through the roof of the house, into the open sky beyond. “I
have
noticed how careful you are not to complain to those you serve. I thought it only fair to let you berate me a little.”

“That wasn’t berating you,” Aly said darkly, even as she savored their passage over velvety land and watched the brilliant stars overhead. “When I berate you, you’ll know it.” She sighed dramatically. “Not that you’ll care.”

“I won’t,” Kyprioth replied as they soared over the Azure Sea. Far below, a long, sinuous form arched up along the water, scattering it in diamond drops in the starlight. Kyprioth crooned a greeting to the whale, who called back as its tail popped free of the water, then passed into it again. “Though I know that I will prize the way you phrase yourself. I am certain that you will be more than eloquent at the art of berating.”

Aly replied with a rude invitation not commonly offered to a god, startling a peal of laughter from Kyprioth. “Whatever else I may say of you, and I’m sure there will be plenty, at least you have a sense of humor,” she added.

“I
am
a trickster,” he replied in a modest tone.

Gods, Aly thought. They always insist on having the last word.

All too soon the journey was over. They settled into the king’s bedroom in the palace at Rajmuat. The curtains over the terrace doors were drawn against the night air, cooler here above the harbor. The chamber was dark except for one small lamp by the door to the outer room and another by the door to what looked like the privy. Servants slept on pallets all around the room, ready to jump up to do the king’s bidding if he needed anything in the night. On the bed King Hazarin slept alone, pouting even in his dreams. He labored to breathe, releasing the occasional snore.

“He ate richly tonight,” Kyprioth observed in a tone of mild interest. “Venison in wine sauce, pork with a pineapple and honey gravy, buffalo coconut curry, sticky coconut peanut rice with currants and almonds, five different wines from the Eastern Lands …”

“He
always
eats like that?” Aly wanted to know, awed.

“The richer, the better,” replied Kyprioth. “He insists on at least five coconut dishes at every meal, though healers keep telling him a lighter diet would be better. It’s really a toss-up as to what kills him first, his heart or an apoplexy of the brain. Actually, I have a bit of a wager on with my cousin the Graveyard Hag about that.”

He went quiet. Hazarin bolted upright in bed, his eyes open and staring as he fought to breathe. His plump hands went to his head. He uttered a strangled noise loud enough to wake two of the sleepers around him. As they struggled to their feet, Hazarin fell back on his pillows, eyes wide. He stared blankly upward as his hands flopped down. He gaped endlessly as the anxious servants felt his throat and his wrists. The woman who held his wrist looked at the man who touched the big veins in Hazarin’s throat. The man shook his head, then cocked his head to put his ear over Hazarin’s open mouth.

The woman turned to look at the other sleepers. “Wake up, you fools!” she snapped, her voice low and cutting. “Something’s happened to the king!”

Blankets flew as the sleepers roused in a panic. Within moments they had silently lit more lamps. One man thrust a blanket under the edge of the main door, to keep the light from showing outside. Aly understood what was going on. These were the acts of people who might die if anything questionable took place in the room where the king slept. They all gathered around Hazarin, some making the star-shaped sign against evil when they saw the king’s face.

“He’s dead,” the man who had listened for the king’s breath told his fellows. “I don’t know why, but he is.”

“We must call a healer,” said a young maid. As she turned toward the door, one of the men grabbed her arm.

“Idiot!” he snapped, keeping his voice low. “What if it’s poison? Who will be blamed? He was fine when he rose from supper, fine when he came to bed—”

“He mentioned a headache,” interrupted the woman who’d been the first to wake.

“Not a headache bad enough to call the healer,” retorted the man who had stopped the younger maid. “Now he’s dead. If it’s poison …”

“They’ll say it was one of us,” murmured someone else. “They always do.”

None of them said another word. Silently they collected their belongings and fled through a door to the servants’ stair hidden behind a tapestry. The last to leave blew out the lamps.

“They’ll have gone to ground in the city by dawn,” Kyprioth remarked to Aly. “And they’ll escape Rajmuat by noon, if they have any sense. Stay here. I have a wager to collect from the Graveyard Hag. I told her it was folly to bet on a Rittevon king actually having a heart.”

“Wait,” Aly said. The god bent his glowing head down to listen. “Why don’t you tell those poor people his death was natural? That they can’t be blamed?”

“I could, if you want them to return and be tortured anyway. The new regents will want to make sure his death was accidental. Healers make mistakes, after all. Actually, since I’m in a good mood …” He touched a finger to Aly’s forehead, sending a small shock through her. “Find the king’s healer. Tell her this would be a good time to catch a ship for Carthak.” Then he vanished.

The magic he had placed on Aly told her where to find the healer on duty. The woman slept in a nearby chamber. Aly tried to grab her by the shoulder and shake her, but her hand passed through the healer’s flesh.

“Excuse me,” she said.

The healer twitched.

“Excuse me,”
Aly said loudly into the healer’s ear. The woman sat up with a yelp, passing through Aly.

The healer glanced around.

“Right here,” Aly told her. “Don’t I glow, or something?”

The healer gasped. “I meant no offense, Goddess—”

“I’m not a goddess,” Aly interrupted. The gods hated it when someone who wasn’t a god took the title. “I’m a messenger. King Hazarin just died. I think it was ap—ap … that thing where blood vessels in the brain explode.”

“Apoplexy,” muttered the healer, scrambling out of bed. “If I warned him once …”

“He’s beyond warning now,” Aly informed her. “Perhaps this would be a good time to leave the country. Before they find him.”

“I must warn his servants,” protested the healer, going to her door. “We’ll all be questioned, to ensure he wasn’t poisoned.”

“His servants are warned,” Aly said flatly. The healer turned and stared at her. “They’re leaving right now, and they didn’t think to tell you. Grab your essentials and run.”

As the woman scrambled to pack, Aly returned to the dead man’s bedroom. Kyprioth was still absent, but Hazarin’s ghost sat by his former body, smiling. She could tell it was the king: he looked as if someone had painted his complete portrait on sheer cloth, except that no painter would have done a picture of Hazarin in his nightgown.

“You’re very cheerful for a man who’s dead,” Aly remarked.

The ghost looked at her. “But I’m well out of it,” he explained. “All the plotting, never knowing who’s a friend and who isn’t, wondering if the food I eat is poisoned or if someone’s buying grim spells to use against me. It’s done. Are you the Black God?”

“No,” Aly replied, “I’m a mortal. The god I—” She hesitated, not wanting to say it, but she had to give
some
explanation. “The god I serve brought me here, to see what happens.”

Hazarin shook his head. “It’s a bad business, meddling with gods,” he told Aly wisely.

“I know,” Aly said ruefully. “If it helps, you died a natural death. That’s what my god said, anyway.”

“I would have died of something,” Hazarin replied. “Really, I suppose I signed my death warrant the day I made Dunevon my heir, with my sister Imajane and her husband as regents, should I die before Dunevon came of age. My spies told me this afternoon that Imajane’s looking for death spells. This was a much better way to go, and probably everyone will think she had me killed anyway.” He grinned at the thought.

“You don’t sound upset,” Aly remarked. “If
my
half sister looked to have me killed, I’d be
very
upset.”

“Not at all,” Hazarin replied. “We weren’t raised to
like
one another. My father thought that if we did, we’d band together and get rid of him.”

“It doesn’t sound like a happy way to live,” Aly murmured.

“Now you know why I’m glad to be out of it,” Hazarin told her. “It’s—” Abruptly he stood and bowed at the door. Aly glanced at it over her shoulder and turned. A tall shape, robed and hooded, made all of shadows, was standing there. “I am ready to follow you, Great One,” Hazarin told the shadow that was the Black God. “This girl says she’s mortal.”

Though Aly couldn’t really see much of the god’s form in the dark room, she was convinced he looked her way. She didn’t want to die with so much left unfinished. This god could take her now if he wished to do so. Trembling, Aly knelt. She felt a warm, comforting pressure on her shoulder, as if someone had squeezed it. When she looked up, Hazarin’s ghost and the god were gone, leaving behind the shell of Hazarin’s body.

Time passed. Kyprioth finally returned at dawn with a glowing chess set. He and Aly played until a guard, concerned by the lack of activity in the royal bedchamber, cautiously opened the door. He cried the alarm. As Kyprioth and Aly watched, people came and went. Other guards were called to search for the missing servants and healer.

At last another healer arrived, a blond, cross-looking man. He was rumpled, as if they had dragged him from bed to see to the dead king. He was just finishing his examination when the icy princess Imajane and her husband, Rubinyan, arrived. Like the healer, they looked as if they had rushed to pull on their elegant clothes.

“Well?” demanded Imajane sharply, her blond head high. “Was it poison?”

“It was the poison of rich gravies, fatty meats, and too much cursed coconut, as he was warned time after time, Your Highness,” retorted the healer. “He died of apoplexy. Don’t think you can torture another answer out of me, if you please. Not only am I the head of the guild, but he was not my charge. The healer who had him in care is gone. Fled, I should imagine.”