Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (27 page)

           
Tarron grasped the arms of his chair
and thrust himself out of it stiffly. "You lost the Third Seal?"

           
"In return for my life, I
allowed Dar to keep it," Hart explained again. He shrugged. "One ring
is as good as another. Have a duplicate made; it will serve as well."

           
"Will it?" Tarron's face
was red, though the color slowly faded to white. He sat down again, but the
motion lacked anything akin to grace. The regent stared blindly at Hart.
"You have no conception of what you have done."

           
Hart sighed. He was restless,
wanting little more than to go out of the palace and into the city again,
leaving behind the responsibilities Tan-on intended him to assume. Hands on
hips, he faced the regent in Tarron's private council chamber. "What I
have done? Aye, I think I do. I think—“

           
Tarron did not wait for him to
finish. "I think you have placed all my work in jeopardy . . . possibly
even the entire succession." He shook his head in disbelief.

           
"The Mujhar warned me—he said
you required watching until you learned the importance of your role. But I
thought surely he exaggerated—" He shut his eyes. "By the gods, you
have given over the Third Seal into the hands of those who would wrest this
throne from your father . . . from those who would gladly see you dead so they
can crown their own candidate Prince of Solinde. . . ."

           
"Tarron—"

           
"Be silent!" The regent
sat upright in the chair and glared at Hart, who gazed back in astonishment.
"Hold your tongue, my lord, while I try to think of a way to make certain
you may keep the head that wags it!"

           
Hart scowled. "May I remind
you—"

           
"May I remind you?" Tarron
snapped. Then, more quietly, "Listen to me, my lord, and perhaps you will
see that I am less concerned for your rank and personal pleasure than for your
life."

           
After a moment. Hart nodded and sat
down in the nearest chair. "I will listen."

           
Tarron sighed a little. "To put
it as succinctly as possible: you understand, of course, that Solinde is an
occupied land in vassalage to your father. All judgments concerning the welfare
of this realm are made by him, and him alone, although he encourages and acts
on advice from me as well as other Homanans he has placed to administer the
governing of Solinde."

           
"Of course."

           
The regent nodded. "It is a
necessary practice that documents requiring triple seals—the Trey of
Solinde—must be sent to Mujhara for the Mujhar's acknowledgment. For all the
days of his rule, Niall the Mujhar has held the First and Third Seals of
Solinde, while I held the Second. Nothing in Solindish law can be done without
the Trey, the complete Trey. No orders can be carried out, no armies paid, no
judgments rendered to the petitioners who gather at court for such things.
Without the Trey, the wheel stops turning." Tarron drew in a calming
breath.

           
"He gave you the Third Seal so
that you could have an active role in governing the realm that one day you will
rule absolutely, with no fealty paid to Homana."

           
Hart sat upright. "Do you mean
he intends to give me sole responsibility? But—I thought I would rule in his
name . . ." He frowned. "I thought things would continue mostly as
they are."

           
The regent's smile was bleak.
"How many times has he told you Solinde would one day be yours?"

           
Hart shrugged. "As long as I
can remember, but—"

           
"But nothing," Tarron said
flatly. "On the day of his death, you will become king in your own right.
Solinde will be yours, my lord. Yours. To do with as you will."

           
Hart snorted inelegantly. "And
if I choose to give it back to the Solindish?"

           
"So be it." To his credit,
Tarron did not flinch. "Although you may have done that already."

           
Hart grunted skepticism.
"How?"

           
"You gave over the ring, my
lord. The seal. And into the hands of one of the men most likely to order your
death."

           
Hart shook his head. "Dar had
the chance last night. He let me live."

           
“Because while the lady delays her
decision, he has no power. Only promised power—whatever man she weds becomes
Consort, and a son by him on Lisa will be named Prince of Solinde. Power, my
lord, is often gained through marriage. Or through children,"

           
Hart grunted. "That I know well
enough. Of five children, my jehan betrothed two of us before we were ever born."

           
"And you, my lord?"

           
Hart grinned. "A free man,
Tarron, with no marital obligations."

           
Tarron did not match his humor.
"If the lady weds before you are fully accepted, she provides a threat to
your security."

           
"If she weds Dar."

           
“If she weds any man, although she
will not wed 'any man.' She is too highly born. Too close to the old Solindish
line of succession; her grandmother's mother was youngest sister to Bellam, the
last king of Solinde." Tarron tapped his hand on the chair arm. "Dar
is only one of several Solindish lords who desire to wed the lady, although it
is said he has a better chance than most. He is young, handsome, wealthy—and
dedicated to Solindish rule."

           
Hart scowled at the regent. "I
know the solution as well as you, Tarron. You intend to tell me that I should
wed her, if only to keep her out of Solindish hands."

           
"I intend to tell you no such
thing," Tarron retorted.

           
"For all I know, you may prefer
a Cheysuli woman. So long as the lady weds no man, your path is safe. We watch
her very closely, my lord—more closely than she likes. And she shows no signs
of choosing any man."

           
"But she is aware of what it
could mean to Solinde?"

           
"Very aware," Tarron said
grimly. "My lord, tread gently. I have seen the lady ... I understand very
well how a man could lose his head over her. But if you press her for anything,
anything at all, she will bolt. And, most likely, she will bolt to the closest
den."

           
"Dar's." Hart nodded
thoughtfully. "An interesting position, regent. If I pursue her, she
bolts. If I ignore her, she may simply go to the same den more slowly." He
smiled. "What would you propose?"

           
Tarron's voice was steady. "I
would propose that you get the ring back from Dar, my lord, before he puts it
to use. With it, he stands a better chance of winning the lady. With it and Lisa,
your time in Solinde is done."

           
Hart swore beneath his breath. He
was of no mind to wed, not even for the sake of a realm. Let Brennan make the
sacrifice with Aileen of Erinn, and Keely with the girl's brother, Sean. His
choice would be his own, and the timing of it.

           
The Third Seal— Abruptly he
brightened. "There is a way I might be able to get it back, and without
bloodshed. But it will require something from you."

           
Tarron did not hesitate.
"Anything, my lord."

           
Hart smiled warmly. "Change my
Homanan gold for Solindish."

           
"My lord," the servant
said, "the messenger will speak only to you, though he sends this with
me."

           
Hart, more concerned with the dice
he tossed across the table than the messenger's intentions, glanced only
absently at the speaker. But his interest sharpened as he saw the palace
servant carried the saddlepacks lost to Lisa. He rose at once and took them
from the man, relieved he could finally trade borrowed Solindish clothing for
familiar Cheysuli leathers. "Have him come up at once."

           
The man bowed yet again. "My
lord, he waits outside, in the bailey. He says he may not leave the gift
intended for Hart of Homana, nor bring it into the palace."

           
Hart, digging leathers out of the
packs, looked at the servant in distracted surprise. "A gift?"

           
"Aye, my lord."

           
He shrugged and resumed his search.
"Well, then, I shall go down and tend to this gift. Tell the messenger I
am coming."

           
"Aye, my lord." The
servant departed at once.

           
Hart found the leathers he wanted
and dumped the packs across the table, scattering dice. Quickly he stripped out
of his borrowed finery and into leggings and jerkin, buckling on a wide leather
belt tooled with runic glyphs.

           
The buckle was heavy gold set with
lapis; the knife he retrieved from the Solindish belt and slid it home in the Cheysuli
sheath. Bare-armed at last, his race was plain to see.

           
No more doubts from Dar or his ilk,
he thought in satisfaction. Now, lir, shall we go?

           
We go, Rael agreed, and lifted from
the perch.

           
The gift was nothing at all a
messenger might bring inside the palace, being a tall chestnut stallion with
four white stockings and flaxen mane and tail, who eyed Hart with intense
interest as he came into the bailey. At the stallion's head stood a man in
blue-and-white livery, the royal colors of Solinde.

           
Though he was not the expert in
horseflesh Brennan was, Hart nonetheless knew well enough the stallion was
magnificent. The chestnut's height was impressive, as was his conditioning; a
deep chest, long shoulders and strong legs bespoke his stamina. Fox-red ears
tipped inward toward one another, and his brown eyes were large and
intelligent. He stood quietly enough, but there was a quivering expectancy
about him that told Hart he required a rider who was alert to equine tricks.

           
Another way to attempt my death?
Hart smiled as Rael drifted down to perch upon the bailey wall. Quietly he
approached the stallion and gently caught his head with both hands, cupping
nose and jaw. The firm flesh quivered at once; the stallion lifted his upper
lip to display awesome teeth as he tried to catch an unwary finger.

           
"Shansu," Hart said
quietly. "You and I will settle our differences another time; for now, you
will leave my fingers intact." He nodded to the messenger. "I am Hart
of Homana, now the Prince of Solinde."

           
The man's face was a polite mask,
though his tone was civil enough. "My lord, I am given no title other than
your name. It is my lady's contention that there is no other than your name. It
is my lady's contention that there is no Prince of Solinde."

           
"The Lady Lisa is
stubborn." Hart laughed.

           
The man ignored that. "The Lady
Lisa sends to say this stallion cannot replace the one you lost, but will
nonetheless provide a means of transportation. She acknowledges her part in the
loss of your mount, and repays the debt freely." He held out the reins
perfunctorily.

           
Hart accepted them, automatically
stroking the firm layers of muscle lying beneath the flesh of the stallion's
underjaw. "Tell the lady I am honored by her gift, if not by her refusal
to acknowledge my Solindish title." He did not really care if she chose to
ignore his status, but it was all a part of the game. "And tell the lady I
will one day claim her forfeit."

           
"My lord, I will." Lisa's
messenger fell back as Hart swung up into the saddle. The gear was Solindish
and unfamiliar, but he found it not uncomfortable. The stallion bunched massive
hindquarters and essayed a single sidestep, then relaxed beneath Hart's
quieting touch.

           
He grinned down at the messenger.
"You may tell the lady I am pleased indeed."

           
"Aye, my lord."

           
Hart signaled and one of the stable
lads came running.

           
"Have word sent to the regent
that I am about the business we discussed. I may return very late." And
then he summoned Rael and rode out of the double gates.

           
Rael's dubiousness became patently
clear as Hart reined in before The White Swan. Are you certain? the hawk
inquired.

           
Quite, Hart answered. If Dar is not
here, I will look for him elsewhere. But he must be found, and the seal won
back.

           
There are other ways, lir.

           
And do you suggest I turn thief?
Hart asked wryly. Worse, yet, murderer?

           
No. I suggest you think about what
you intend to do.

           
Hart laughed and jumped off the
stallion. I intend to take you inside with me, and enter into a game. What
other thinking need I do?

           
Rael's tone was resigned. More than
that, I think.

           
Hart tied off the stallion and
waited for Rael to settle upon his forearm. The hawk was large, too large; it
was not a comfortable position, but an impressive one—for the moment, precisely
what he wanted. Once inside, Rael would find another perch.

           
The stallion snorted and shook his
head, clattering brass appointments. The setting sun glinted off the metal, flashing
in Hart's eyes. He turned away and thrust open the door.

           
He had not expected a welcome and
did not receive one. Casual glances turned into frozen stares, and once again
he heard the cacophony of the common room die into expectant silence. A single
word through the link loosed Rael into the room, and the great hawk lifted to
stir the air against staring faces. He flew to the rooftree and perched himself
upon it, shedding a single black-edged feather.

           
"Dar," Hart said only.

           
As one, the faces turned from him to
stare at the man who walked out of the shadows into the candlelight.

           
Standing, he was at least as tall as
Hart, though his quilted Solindish doublet and padded trews hid much of such
things as true weight, frame, strength. Hart's snug Cheysuli leathers did not.

           
Dar carried a silver goblet in one
negligent hand. On his forefinger Hart saw the heavy ring he himself had lost
but three nights before. Dar smiled faintly, and it was not without its share
of honest amusement taken at no one's expense, least of all at Hart's.

           
"I thought you might be
back." He waved a hand at the nearest table. The patrons deserted it at
once.

           
Hart jerked his belt-purse loose and
held it up in the light. "Solindish gold," he said pointedly.
"Red Solindish gold."

           
Dar grinned, "Bezat, my lord?
Or did you find the stakes too high?"

           
Hart crossed the room and hooked a
stool free. "Bezat," he agreed calmly. "You had your chance at
my life, and accepted payment in its place. This time we play for gold."

           
"Until I have won all of yours,
and then you will wager something else." Dar sat down. "I know your
kind, Cheysuli. You live for the wager, the risk—everything else is too
tame." He slapped the flat of his hand down upon the table. "Oma! The
bowl!"

           
She brought it at once and thumped
it down on the table. Hart grinned at her and was rewarded, as he expected,
with a muttered Solindish curse between small Solindish teeth.

           
Dar laughed, ordering a jug of wine
and a cup for Hart. "She is all sting and no venom. Be assured, if you
want her, you have only to win my gold. Oma goes with the man who has the
most.”

           
Hart busied himself with stirring
the contents of the bowl. "My taste runs to fair-haired women."

           
Dar looked at him sharply, but
Hart's face gave nothing away. He placed his own belt-purse on the table.

           
"My taste runs to women,
period. I have no preferences."

           
"None?" Hart smiled
blandly. "But then, a man who aspires to wed the Lady Lisa might not even
see the others."

           
Dar did not smile. "You have learned
well in three days, my lord."

           
“To survive in Solinde, I have
to." Hart pushed the bowl in Dar's direction. "Stir them?—or shall
I?"

           
Tight-mouthed, Dar stirred, and Hart
drew the first stone for him.

           
They played the hours away, burning
the candle down to a stub. Red Solindish gold changed hands many times, making
one man a pauper, another wealthy, and then went the other way with the draw of
a single rune-stone.

           
Blank bezats held no threat for
Hart, who had weathered the first high-stakes game and felt the others far too
tame. But he would not risk himself again.

           
When at last he and Dar stared at
one another across a pile of stones—red-eyed, dry-mouthed, stiff from hunched
postures—no man could be called a victor. Each shared equally in the wealth.

           
Dar scraped his stool back.
"Enough, shapechanger. The cock will crow within an hour, and my bed
beckons me."

           
"One more time," Hart said
intently. "Once more, Dar."

           
The Solindishman shook his head.
"I have wasted enough time for now—"

           
"Then I will see to it there is
no waste." Hart shoved his pile of gold forward. "All of it, on but a
single game."

           
Dar looked at the gold thoughtfully.
Then he shrugged, dismissing it. "Not worth the effort,"

           
"Wait—" Hart rose.
"If we made it worth the effort?"

           
Brown eyes narrowed. "With
what? You will not risk your Cheysuli gold; you have said so." He looked
across the room at Rael, still perched on a limb of the roof-tree. "Unless
you mean to put up your hawk."

           
Hart was incredulous that Dar could
even think it.

           
And then he laughed, realizing the
man could not possibly know what the hawk was to him. "No," he said
clearly, and thrust his left hand into the air. "Sooner this than my
lir."

           
Dar shrugged. "Then again I
must say, what have you to offer?"

           
Hart looked down at his right hand.
On his finger glittered the heavy sapphire signet ring of his Homanan rank.
Quickly he stripped it off and tossed it into the pile of coins.
"This."

           
A light came up in Dar's brown eyes.
It was not the ring so much. Hart knew, but the sudden desire for higher
stakes, high stakes; they both of them lived to walk the edge of the blade.

           
"More," Dar said quietly.

           
Hart laughed. "You do not have
nearly enough to match it. The wager would be no wager."

           
Dar's eyes narrowed. "Try
me," he said. "I will match in worth whatever you have to
wager."

           
Hart assessed him a moment. Then,
smiling, he said,

           
"A horse."

           
Dar shrugged. "I breed the
finest horseflesh in Solinde. It would be difficult to offer me better than I
have."

           
"Judge him for yourself. He is
tied just outside."

           
The Solindishman's mouth twitched in
amusement. "So prepared to lose . . . well enough, let us judge the worth
of this horse."