She lifted her foot to step onto the pond’s embankment, when something jarred her, as if alien memories were being rammed into her mind.
. . . Crossing a court square blossoming with flowers in the sunshine that God poured from the heavens. The plash of fountains ornamented with fantastical creatures lent the square music. Framing the square were the buildings of the Empire’s might—the exchequer, the protectionist, lords of the nation, the God House. The buildings were both all at once precise and forbidding in their architecture, and yet uplifting.
Peacocks strutted across the square with their tail feathers fanned. Persons of refined sensibilities lingered in the square chatting and walking slowly, followed by slaves bearing sun shades. Alessandros looked upon the scene with great contentment and would himself have liked to linger, but the Emperor had summoned him and—and—
“Karigan?” Someone jostled her.
“Hunh?”
“Are you all right?” Lady Estora asked.
“I—” Karigan gazed at her, stunned. “What? Where was I?”
Estora looked her up and down. “Far away I dare say, though you haven’t moved an inch. I thought you had turned into a statue for a moment.”
Karigan’s arm, her left arm, was numb. She rubbed it, trying to bring life into it again.
“I just had a memory. No, that’s not quite right. I don’t remember it as
my
memory.”
“How very strange. A daydream, perhaps?” Estora smiled kindly at her befuddledness.
“No. Yes. I guess that must be it. It has to be.”
An awkward silence fell between them until Estora asked, “Have you time for a chat? It’s a lovely day.”
The bell down in the city rang out. That would make it eleven hour.
“The king!” Karigan said. “I’ve been summoned. I can’t stay.”
Lady Estora nodded in understanding. “No, you must not keep the king waiting.”
Karigan was sorry she couldn’t join Estora, for her additional duties had left her little time to visit with her. It had been ages since last they sat and chatted. But the lady was right—she couldn’t keep the king waiting.
She sprinted down garden paths past courtiers who glared at her for disrupting their tranquil, leisurely walks, her footsteps bringing her to a skidding halt outside the king’s study, where two Weapons stood on duty. She straightened her shortcoat and cleared her throat.
“The king wished to see me,” she said.
“He’s meeting with someone at the moment,” said Erin, one of the Weapons, “but I don’t think he’ll object if you enter.”
Erin opened the door for her. “Thank you,” she murmured, and breathlessly entered the world of King Zachary.
The study was bright with golden light showering through the windows onto vibrant handwoven carpets and light oak furnishings. The walls were hung with scenes of mountains and the ocean. Others were hunting scenes.
The king sat behind a massive desk with a light marble surface. A few books and documents cluttered it. Behind him, from floor to ceiling, were shelves of books interspersed with a curious collection of seashells, rounded cobblestones, and a mariner’s spyglass.
The king’s study, Karigan decided, differed little from her father’s. Opulent, but not overbearing. Stately, but not uncomfortable, and definitely suggestive of a masculine presence.
The king sat back in his oversized armchair, his hands folded across his lap. His features lightened slightly when she entered. Was he pleased to see her? It was hard to say, for he was in the midst of a conversation with a visitor.
Karigan stood discreetly back, but when Old Brexley, an elderly white Hillander terrier, waddled over to her to sniff her boots, she knelt to scratch him behind his ear. Was that a fleeting smile of approval the king cast her way?
She started to rise, but Old Brexley plopped down on her foot and showed her his belly. Knowing a hint when she saw one, she rubbed his belly and was rewarded with his terrier grin. The old boy was named after a famous crusty general who had won many a battle for Clan Hillander during the Clan Wars. The terrier was often seen trailing the king around the castle grounds.
It took some moments for Karigan to register who the king’s visitor was. She was a tall, imperious woman richly draped in dyed summer silks with fine pearl buttons, and ornamented with silvery thread details. Gems flashed on her fingers as she gestured. Her name was Celesta Suttley, chief of Clan Suttley, a merchanting clan that dealt primarily in tobacco.
Karigan frowned. Clan G’ladheon and Clan Suttley had clashed on more than a few occasions, to the point her father had acquitted himself of doing any business with them due to their underhanded dealings.
“It is an insignificant corner of Huradesh,” Celesta Suttley said, “but the soil and climate there are favorable to tobacco growing. With your approval, and a promise of exclusive trading rights, we will establish a foothold in that territory that can only enhance commerce in Sacoridia.”
“This remote corner of Huradesh,” the king said, “what is it called?”
“Bioordi, Highness. The people there are mostly nomads.”
Bells of alarm clanged in Karigan’s head. Bioordi was not as insignificant as Celesta was making it out to be. That it was prime tobacco country, she had no doubt, but the people there also originated some of the finest dyes in the textile trade, and most of the more ordinary ones as well.
If Clan Suttley received exclusive trading rights there, it would effectively cut off other merchants, like her father, from that dye. They’d be forced to trade with Clan Suttley, at whatever price Suttley demanded, strangling textile and dye merchants financially. To some, it would be so disastrous they’d be put out of business, and send ripples of misfortune across other trades, ultimately hurting the common folk who purchased dyed goods.
Meanwhile, the powerful merchants guild would be up in arms, and none too happy with the king and likely withdrawing their support from him. No good would come of it, except for Clan Suttley, of course, which would be buried in unimaginable wealth.
Karigan rose, ignoring Old Brexley’s whine.
“My clerks have drawn up some documents,” Celesta continued, “outlining my proposed venture. Exclusive trade rights in Bioordi would not prevent other tobacco merchants from establishing themselves elsewhere in Huradesh.” With a bow, she set the rolled documents on the king’s desk.
Karigan emitted a strangled noise. Certainly Celesta’s proposal was no threat to
tobacco
merchants. What about all the others who relied on those dyes?
“Karigan,” the king said, “have you something to say?”
Celesta Suttley turned, and when she recognized Karigan, a mocking smile played on her lips. “Well, well, well. So this is where Clan G’ladheon’s wayward sub-chief ran off to.” The smile turned particularly cutting. “Oh, I nearly forgot—you gave up all that, didn’t you? I hear Stevic was quite upset. From the talk, you’d think you had committed the worst kind of betrayal.”
A storm brewed within Karigan, and she thought up a few choice words to spit in the clan chief’s face, but conscious of the king’s presence, and of her position and all it represented, she restrained herself, but just barely.
Celesta’s expression grew smug as she detected Karigan’s fury, with a simultaneous understanding of why Karigan dare not respond in kind.
“Such a fine shade of green you’re wearing,” Celesta continued. “I wonder where your father found the dye.”
Karigan narrowed her eyes. Celesta knew full well where it had come from: Bioordi. She was just trying to provoke her in front of the king. No doubt she thought Karigan no more than a flunky, just another servant without any standing in the king’s eyes. Well, Celesta was in for a surprise.
At least, she hoped so.
She stepped past the merchant and bowed before the king. “Excellency, may I have a private word with you?” It was actually asking a lot, but she hoped he trusted her enough, respected her enough, to grant her wish.
A little puzzled, he nodded. “Of course.” When Celesta did not move, he gestured at the door. “If you would, Chief, please step out into the corridor.”
Karigan could have jumped up and down and yelled in victory at the darkening expression on Celesta’s face. She was fuming so much, Karigan envisioned black smoke roiling out her ears.
After Celesta exited and the door shut after her, King Zachary said, “I trust this is a merchanting issue you wish to bring up?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Is there some feud between your clans? If so, you know I cannot show favoritism, and you must not use your access to me for your clan’s profit.”
Karigan was disappointed he thought she would misuse her position in such a way. “I admit there is little love between Suttley and G’ladheon. I also admit I am interested in the well being of my clan, and at this moment I am taking advantage of my access to you.” When he did not comment, she took a deep breath and continued. “However, this proposal of Clan Suttley’s would not only endanger my clan’s ability to contribute to commerce in Sacoridia, but every textile merchant in the country. It would have widespread effects across the provinces, and here’s why.”
The king listened intently as she explained, and when she finished, he rubbed his chin. “Truth be told, I had never heard much of Bioordi before today, but you have quite enlightened me, and I will now pay closer attention to trade in Huradesh. I am wary of granting exclusive rights in any case, and your words have sealed it.”
Suddenly he smiled and it was like the sun emerging from behind clouds. “I am very pleased with your intervention in the matter. Never hesitate to speak up if you have advice that may guide me.”
Karigan’s mind was awhirl from the trust implied by his words.
Old Brexley, tired of being ignored, let out a long whining yawn, and nudged her leg with his nose. She bent to pat him.
“Seems the old boy has taken a liking to you,” the king said with a laugh. “He’s a choosy bugger, but he’s got good taste.”
Karigan’s hand froze atop Old Brexley’s head. The king had caught her off guard and she dared not speak or move, or even breathe at all, lest she spill out something of her true feelings. Maybe his words meant nothing at all, then again . . .
The moment of danger passed as the king shifted in his chair. He seemed to sink into himself. “I appreciate your counsel, and it reminds me of why I miss Laren.” He paused, and added almost as an afterthought, “She won’t talk to me, plead as I might at her door.”
Karigan hadn’t known he’d done this, but it only served to elevate her regard of him even higher.
“Perhaps I’ll call upon you more often,” he said. His smile was genuine.
Karigan thought her own responsibilities heavy to bear with Captain Mapstone out of commission, but it was nothing compared to what the king must endure, and on his own. The captain had offered him support, as only a good friend could. The king’s responsibility was one of a country and a people, and the thought of it humbled Karigan.
A light tapping came on the door.
“Come,” the king said.
The chief administrator, Weldon Spurlock, entered. He bowed meekly. “I’ve some documents requiring your seal, Excellency.”
“One moment, please.” The king stood and picked up a handful of letters. He rounded the desk and handed them to Karigan. “Here are the messages I require to go out this afternoon. All but one are going to lord-governors. Urge your Riders to make all haste. The other is a less significant message to the mayor of Childrey.”
Karigan bowed. Before she could leave, the king placed his hand on her shoulder.
“You did well today,” he said, “and I look forward to hearing more of your input.”
His smile was warm, and his words soft. Or was Karigan’s mind wishfully playing it up? They gazed at one another for what must have been but mere seconds, yet seemed like much more. She didn’t want his hand to leave her shoulder.
Weldon Spurlock coughed, and Karigan stepped away from the king. With another bow, she dashed from the study and out into the garden, confusion and fear knotting her heart more than ever.
Outside the stable, Karigan watched Harry ride off on a long journey to Arey Province. She had sent off all the king’s messages, all but the letter to the mayor of Childrey, because there were no other Riders left to take it. The only Riders left in residence were her and Mara, and Ephram who had managed to break his ankle this morning on a loose floorboard in the stable.
This is not necessarily a bad thing.
Here was her opportunity to escape the castle grounds, to flee all the responsibilities, the ghosts, and the problems that had been cropping up of late. She would carry on her duty as an ordinary Green Rider and return to the freedom of the road, with the wind in her hair and a fast horse beneath her. No doubt Condor would be just as eager as she to run.
She’d also escape proximity to the king, to ride away from the complex feelings he stirred in her.
“I don’t see any other choice,” Mara said glumly when Karigan caught up with her outside the castle entrance. “You’re up to this?”
Karigan flexed her arm. Where once this would have caused intense pain, there was now only the slightest twinge. “I’m more than ready.”
Mara sighed. “Rats. Wish you had said otherwise so
I
could take the message.”
“What? And leave me to the wolves?”
Mara smiled. “Have a good ride, and think of me in that meeting with the stablehands again.”
Humming, Karigan hurried back toward barracks to prepare for her message errand.
On her way off castle grounds, a ragged-looking sergeant of the regular militia urged his weary horse beneath the portcullis and toward the main castle entrance. With passing curiosity, she wondered what business drove him, but with the road and freedom of the ride ahead of her, she did not dwell on it.