Glasswrights' Progress (14 page)

Now, Sin Hazar resisted the urge to turn to Al-Marai, to gloat over his success. Which of his lions had been successful in penetrating the Morenian court? Well, time enough to learn that. Even more intriguing was the question of why Bashanorandi had come north. He could just as easily have used the lions to consolidate power in Morenia, to build up his own loyal corps.

Sin Hazar ran through a handful of scenarios. Bashanorandi had come to stake a claim as the childless Sin Hazar's heir. He had come to plead for assistance in his internecine battle against Halaravilli, to beg reinforcements for his fledgling rebellion. He had come with battle plans and passwords, ready to betray his so-called brother.

Of course, there was no reason to trust a half-breed bastard. No reason to trust a boy whose mother and father had both been executed as traitors.

Not that Sin Hazar had any complaint against Felicianda's attempt to deliver the kingdom of Morenia to her ancestral home, to her family line. No – Sin Hazar's only concern was that his sister had
failed
. She had always been given to complicating things, Felicianda had been. No reason to ride in a straight line, she'd always thought, when a looping jaunt could be done instead.

Grinning ferally at Al-Marai, Sin Hazar nodded to his soldier. “I'll see them here.”

By the time the guard had led the trio into the stone chamber, Sin Hazar had taken a stand beside the detailed map. He lifted a token in his hand, a marker that represented ten horsemen. The piece moved easily between his fingers, over, under, over, under, soothing with its familiar feel. While Sin Hazar had initially planned on being engrossed in the map when his visitors entered the chamber, he decided at the last instant to scrutinize their approach.

He raised a jeweled finger toward his swan tattoo, as if he were smoothing away a momentary itch. The movement was not lost on the three southerners, all of whom obediently followed his pointing finger. He saw each of them acknowledge the silvery swan wings that spread across his cheeks. Sin Hazar remained focused on the boy, though. On his nephew.

Bashanorandi had not yet reached his full man's size. Certainly he had his mother's height, but at ... what was it? ... fifteen years of age? ... he had yet to fill out in his shoulders and across his chest. The boy wore Halaravilli's colors, although the livery looked like it had been slept in for a fortnight. Simple clothes, Sin Hazar noted. No velvet. No silk. As if Bashanorandi were nothing but a poor relation. Well, even that was not
quite
the truth, was it?

The Morenian crimson clashed with Bashanorandi's auburn hair. Ah, yes, the auburn hair that had also been the gift of his mother. That, and his blue eyes. The shape of the boy's face, though, was more delicate than Felicianda's had ever been. The boy's chin came to a point, and his eyes tilted up just the slightest bit. The vulpine expression made him look vulnerable. Legacy of his traitor father, Sin Hazar supposed.

Sin Hazar flicked his gaze across the boy's companions. Two girls. One, scrawny with the pinched look that came from a lifetime in the streets. She had one arm bound up in a sling, held awkwardly across her chest. The other girl was better-fed and lacked any outward sign of injury, but she was more ill-at-ease, looking about the stone chamber as if she expected guards to throw her in the dungeon at any moment. Neither of the pair looked worth a wasted heartbeat. The king turned his gaze back to Bashanorandi.

“Cousin.” He kept his voice low with the one word, not tinting it with a hint of welcome or distrust. He watched Bashanorandi register the two syllables, and confusion was apparent across the youth's face. Should he respond with a familial greeting to this man he'd never met? Should he reply as nobleman to royalty? As prince to king? Sin Hazar kept his eyes steady on the boy, purposely not giving him any sign of a proper resolution.

“Your Majesty.”

Excellent! Sin Hazar might have gloated, if he had not been so intent on keeping the boy off balance. So, Felicianda's bastard son would address him as a king, as a liege lord.
That
could make things simpler. “We trust that you had an easy journey to our court. If we had known of your intention to visit your mother's homeland, we would have prepared an escort from the harbor.”

“I – We did not know that we'd be coming until we'd already taken ship.” The boy paused, clearly waiting for Sin Hazar to say something. The king did not oblige. “We – that is, I, um, I wanted to see my homeland. I wanted to see my mother's country.”

“The times are rough for traveling, between the approaching winter and the rebels on the open seas. We trust that you encountered no difficulty?”

“No, Your Majesty. Your men protected us all along the way.”

“
Our
men?” Sin Hazar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a study of surprise. “Do you hear that, Al-Marai? This youth apparently believes that we dispatched our soldiers to the south.”

“Impossible, Your Majesty.” Al-Marai stepped forward without hesitation, settling a hand on the sword that swung at his waist, as if to remind the trio of southerners that they were deep in enemy territory. “Sire, if we were to send armed lions into another kingdom, we could be accused of unbridled aggression.”

“So.” Sin Hazar pinned the youth again with his own steely eyes, fully aware that the boy was struggling to take in his Uncle Al-Marai's broad chest, to comprehend the threat implied by the massive sword, by the brawny arms. Before Felicianda's bastard could speak, Sin Hazar purred, “Are you certain they were
our
men?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. That is, I thought.… The guards.… They came to me in the castle, posing as new members of the royal guard. They said they came from you.”

“They
said
.…” Sin Hazar let the second word trail off, weaving a rainbow of meaning into the single syllable. What would the boy do with
that
? Demand that the king acknowledge his own men? Question the reality that was before his very eyes, in the shape of the tattoos on the soldiers' faces?

“Yes. Er, I thought that you sent them because of my mother. Because of Queen Felicianda.”

“Ah, our poor lost sister, blessed be her name before all the Thousand Gods.” Sin Hazar made a religious sign across his chest and bit back a smile as the boy belatedly followed suit. Out of the corner of his eye, the king noted that neither of the girls saw fit to invoke a blessing on dear, dead Felicianda. “So. You claim to travel with our soldiers. And who are these delicate flowers that you bring with you?” Courtly language – neither of the girls bore the slightest resemblance to a blossom. Well, the shorter one might, the one with some meat on her bones – but at most she resembled the bloom of a thorn tree.

Bashanorandi seemed surprised by the king's compliment. “These flowers?” He cleared his throat and made a half-bow. “May I present to Your Majesty, um, Ranita Glasswright and Mair.”

Ranita Glasswright. Sin Hazar's spies had told him all about that one. She was the girl who had sent Felicianda's tottering plot crashing down, disclosing the conspiracy to the old king of Morenia. Fascinating, that Bashanorandi traveled with her, with the one he must blame for his orphaning. Interesting, as well, that he named her by her guild name, when she had apparently jumped about among castes like that Jair the southerners held in such high esteem.

And Mair. Sin Hazar had not heard her name before. The single syllable told him a great deal, though. She was one of the casteless, one of the ... Touched. It was odd enough that a prince would travel with such a girl. That he would obviously dislike her so intensely.… Well, this game just might prove entertaining enough for all the long winter nights.

King Sin Hazar inclined his head, first toward the guild brat, then toward the Touched wench. “My lady Ranita. My lady Mair.” He noticed his nephew stiffen at the honorifics. Ah. Anger could have many sources – Sin Hazar was willing to bet that Bashanorandi's was based in jealousy. The king of all Amanthia added, “We trust you'll find all to your liking as you stay in our court.”

Ranita Glasswright glanced at Mair, as if she were seeking permission to speak, but when she stepped forward, she held her head high. “We thank you for your hospitality, Your Majesty. Nevertheless, we would be most honored if you could return us to Morenia immediately. We will only require a small escort as we journey south, and that only until we reach your border.”

“What, my lady? You've scarcely arrived in our fair city. You must take some time to appreciate the riches of our northern realm.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty.” The guild refugee ducked her head in a charming, rustic bow. “We are honored by your promise of hospitality, but we must insist upon returning to King Halaravilli. We traveled here against our wills, Your Majesty, even at great personal pain to my companion, to Mair.”

Sin Hazar slitted his eyes as he glared at Bashanorandi. The boy might only be a bastard prince, but he should have better control over his subjects than
that
. How could he stand by and let this girl tell her tales? Even if they were
true
, a guildsman should have enough fear of a prince to keep her mouth shut.

Bashanorandi might have been thinking the same thing, but he held his tongue. Instead of replying, of defending himself, he glared at Mair. So. The guild-girl spoke, but the Touched wench was blamed. Fairly? Or because Bashanorandi hated her? So much fun Sin Hazar might have.… “Cousin? What say you to these accusations?”

“Please, um, Your Majesty. I brought Ranita and Mair here for their own safety. They had raised steel against me, against my men. Your men, that is. They knew that I rode willingly with your soldiers, Your Majesty, yet they sought to stop me. I had no choice but to bring them.”

“One
always
has a choice,” Sin Hazar purred, watching as his nephew took his meaning, as the boy blanched.

“If I had slain them,” Bashanorandi replied after a long pause, “then Hal would have chased after us with all the men at his disposal.”

Hal. How intriguing. The boy called his brother by a Touched name. Or a god. Or nothing more than a childhood nickname.… Sin Hazar almost smiled. His spies had brought him tales of the deep valley of hatred between the southern boys, hatred that could so easily be harnessed in support of Amanthia's cause. “And so you stole these ladies?”

“It was more like ... borrowing, Your Majesty.” The prince was earnest in his reply.

“And if we choose to kill them now?”

“Your Majesty?” Bashanorandi barely whispered the words.

“If we choose to execute them? If we choose to label them enemies. Traitors. Spies.”

“Then I would be forced to challenge Your Majesty to combat. These women are under my protection.”

Brave words, Sin Hazar thought. Brave words when the speaker was little more than a child, surrounded by well-fed, well-rested men-at-arms in a court leagues and leagues from so-called home. Perhaps there was more to this prince than Sin Hazar had thought at first. Perhaps Felicianda's whelp could be used wisely.

The king kept his steady gaze on the boy, knowing that his own dark eyes frightened men. Sin Hazar was blessed with the ability to delay blinking, a childhood skill well-harnessed against fighting men. The effect, he knew, was to make him seem like a cat, like a ferocious predator who could stare down an enemy for as long as that action took.

The boy stood up to the attention better than Sin Hazar had expected. For nearly a full minute he gazed at his uncle, and then he maneuvered his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword. When he spoke, his voice was deadly still. “Your Majesty, I came to you because you are my kin. I came because I believed the stories that I heard at my mother's knee. I expected you to welcome flesh and blood. If I was mistaken, then you should not hold that against my companions, against Ranita Glasswright and Mair.”

Sin Hazar startled all three of the southerners by clapping his hands loudly, again and again. “A fine speech, cousin! Fine words! You speak bravely.” Sin Hazar watched as his compliments lent steel to the boy's spine. “Your mother would be proud of you, son!” The endearment made the boy's eyes shoot toward Sin Hazar's face, searching the king's gaze for some inner meaning. Sin Hazar let his own features relax into a smile. “It must have been very hard getting the ladies here, to Amanthia, if they did not even understand the danger they were in down south. If they did not even know enough to protect themselves.”

“Your Majesty –” Ranita Glasswright leaped to the bait, eager to clarify the
record.

“We were speaking to our nephew, Lady Ranita.”

“But you weren't –”

“We were not addressing you.”

“Your Majesty –”

“Really, we don't know what insubordination Halaravilli suffers in his kingdom, but we can assure you that we do not permit guildsmen to tell us how to rule. In Amanthia it is customary to wait until your king has asked for your advice before you offer it.”

“You are not my king!”

“You are on our soil, in our castle, surrounded by our men at arms!” Sin Hazar let a little of his true rage leak into his words. The child was insufferable! Not only did she think that she knew better than her elders, but she somehow thought she had free license to say whatever came into her mind! Sin Hazar jutted his chin toward Al-Marai. “General, if this one speaks another word before we leave this chamber, you are to have her gagged, bound, and thrown into our dungeons.”

Ranita Glasswright drew breath to protest but clearly thought better of her rebellion when Al-Marai stepped forward with a simple bow, inclining his head and resting his hand on his sword. The king waited for a long moment, testing her, measuring her stupidity. When the brat remained silent for several heartbeats, Sin Hazar softened his gaze and permitted his nephew the scantest of smiles. “You have traveled long and hard. Let us offer you the meats of our table, cousin, and when you have filled your belly, a bed in our house.” The king set a hand on the boy's shoulder and felt the young flesh quiver, like a hound trembling beneath its master's touch.