Glasswrights' Progress (27 page)

“Listen to me, Crestman! Listen! You made one choice – a choice to live. You can make that decision again. You have the power. You can bide your time, and find the right place. You can leave the Little Army, maybe even deal it a death blow as you go. You can. I
know
you can.”

She felt his strength tremble down his arms, the brute force that had propelled him past his fellows to the rank of captain. He yanked his hands free, grasped her shoulders as if he would push her away. Then, before she even realized what was happening, he lowered his face to hers. His lips were hot on her own, and she caught her breath in surprise.

She tried to pull back, but he gripped her too tightly. She stiffened her fingers, pushed against his chest. Before she could push him away, though, before she could escape, she heard hoofbeats on the grass behind her. Crestman must have heard them as well, for he leaped back as if he had been stung, as if Rani had dashed ice water in his face.

Gasping, Rani looked up to identify her rescuer. Her gratitude, though, turned to horror as she saw the richly caparisoned horse, as she made out the rider, sitting high in his saddle. She edged away from Crestman, scarcely thinking to brush the back of her hand across her swollen lips.

“Greetings, Ranita Glasswright. Hail and well met, you traitorous wench.”

Rani felt Crestman stiffen beside her, but she barely realized that his grip was on her arm as he turned to the horseman. “Bashi,” she whispered, in the brilliant sunlight beside the ashes of the bonfire.

 

 

Chapter 9

 

 

Sin Hazar waved away his bodyguards as he stepped into his guest apartments. The king leaned against the ornately carved stone doorway, tilting his head to get a better look at the mirror across the room. “The swan looks good on you, Bashanorandi.”

The prince started like a rabbit, and he barely managed to strangle his squawk of surprise. His face bore the desperate expression of a squire caught testing his master's sword. Just before the youth managed to paint a swaggering leer on his face, Sin Hazar could read his childish pleasure that the king had called him by his full name.

Really! Felicianda might have been occupied with trying to steal the southern throne while she was in Morenia, but she could have spared a
little
time to make sure that her brat was presentable! The boy was easier to twist than Briantan leather. Sin Hazar stood to his full height and moved into the chamber, watching the boy swallow nervously and lick his lips.

“My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“The swelling should go down in a few days.”

“Oh, it's not bad, Your Majesty. I expected more pain.”

That was not what the priest had reported to Sin Hazar after tattooing the young prince. The religious said that Bashanorandi had flinched from the needle, whining and ultimately requiring a second application of stipple-leaf. Did the foolish boy think that the priest would not report to the king after the operation? Or did that southern bastard expect his flattery to win out, regardless of the truth? Had Bashanorandi believed that the king of all Amanthia could be so easily manipulated?

“Let's see.” Sin Hazar strode across the room, taking a grim pleasure in the clap of his boot-heels against the smooth wooden floor. He pinched Bashi's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting the boy's head to better catch the light. The priest
had
 done a good job – enough of a swan's wing to mark the boy, but not so much as to overtake his face. Sin Hazar had given strict instructions not to make the tattoo too large. There were enough superstitious Amanthians who continued to equate expansive tattoos with power in a caste.

Of course, Sin Hazar had worked those superstitions to his own advantage. His peoples' false beliefs had led the king to have a second wing tattooed on his face, spreading his swan marking across his eyes like a mask. He had explained away the additional tattoo by proclaiming it a royal prerogative, and he'd made sure that the work coincided with his coronation, years before. There was no way to measure the value of a second swan's wing, but it couldn't hurt. No, it certainly could not hurt.

“Stop pressing it,” Sin Hazar ordered his nephew. “You'll only irritate the skin more.” Even though he could not mask the note of exasperation in his voice, he was pleased to see his nephew's hand plummet to his side. Good. At least the boy was willing to listen to reason, even if he failed to show the sense of a newborn coney. Sin Hazar forced himself to jest, “We'd hate for our court to say that we marred you, boy. We'd hate to be accused of ruining your handsome face.”

He hadn't meant anything by the words as he said them; he'd actually intended to put the boy at his ease. The statement, though, made Bashanorandi tense as if spiders scurried across his flesh. He swallowed hard and his eyes darted to the king's in the mirror. Sin Hazar remembered the conversation that his guard had reported, the fight between Bashanorandi and that cursed Touched girl.

What was her quaint phrase? That the boy was kneeling close enough.… Well, the image was vivid, if not quite true. Sin Hazar had other playthings; he hardly needed the attentions of an unschooled boy.

Nevertheless, what
would
it take to manipulate the prince? What would it take to make Felicianda's boy do his bidding? Certainly, Bashanorandi had been eager enough to pursue royal favor – he'd practically wet himself at the opportunity to gain his swan tattoo.

Sin Hazar could not resist the urge to press a little harder. He stepped behind Bashanorandi, trapping the youth between his own broad chest and the mirror. “Of course, your new-marked face is the least of your attributes, hmmm? Your mission to the Swancastle served you well. You've tightened your muscles, sitting on your horse.” The king raised his hand to Bashanorandi's neck, catching the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed gently, caressing the boy as he would one of his wolfhounds. With his other hand, he traced his nephew's silken sleeve, feeling the rigid forearm, pretending to measure the wrists that had reined in royal stallions.

Sin Hazar held fast to Bashanorandi's gaze in the mirror, quirking an eyebrow at the heated flush on the youth's face. “We would let you stray from our keep more often,” Sin Hazar purred, almost ruining the effect by laughing at the boy's discomfiture, “if we could always be assured of such beneficial results.”

“No, Your Majesty!” The boy's throat bobbed at Sin Hazar's dangerous grin. “I mean, I did not stray! I did as you asked! I retrieved Davin and brought him back to court, along with the division of the Little Army. And Ranita Glasswright and Mair, too! I did not –”

“Relax, cousin.” The boy leaped like a flushed quail as Sin Hazar leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “We were not accusing you. You have served us very well, so far.” Sin Hazar paused for a moment and then dropped the royal plural. “I expect you to do more in the future.”

Even if Sin Hazar had not kept his hand on the boy's neck, he would have sensed Bashanorandi's leaping pulse. The youth tensed as if each muscle longed to carry him from the chamber; his breath came in short, desperate gasps. If Sin Hazar
had
been inclined to collect attentions from a boy, he had to admit that Bashanorandi's pathetic terror might have been intriguing. The boy ruined it all, though, by swallowing hard and lowering his gaze from the mirror. When he spoke, Sin Hazar could barely hear him, even though they stood cheek to cheek. “Th – that would please me, Sire.”

Sire.… The boy might be frightened, might have felt forced to defend his manhood to the Touched wench, but he was willing to offer up that very bond he found so distasteful. Ah, Felicianda.… How could a girl of such headstrong pride have whelped such a pitiful specimen? Still, knowing that he could control Bashanorandi through shame at his admission, if nothing else, Sin Hazar permitted himself a malevolent smile. He settled one finger against the fresh swan tattoo that reddened his nephew's face, pressing hard enough that he was certain to cause the boy some pain. “Well. We'll see what arises. Now, if you're well enough, perhaps you'll do me the honor of accompanying me.”

“Certainly, Sire!” Bashanorandi's smile was like a kicked dog's eager whimper. “Where are we going? Off to see the Little Army?”

“I think not,” Sin Hazar replied wryly. “First snow has started, and I see no reason to tour a filthy, stinking camp.” He turned on his heel, fully aware that he had not answered the boy's question. That was fine. Let Bashanorandi wait. Let him wonder. Let him trail behind his king, trying to remember not to raise questing fingers to the silvery wing that spread across his cheek.

Sin Hazar accepted his guards' salutes as he strode through the hallways, letting Bashanorandi trail behind. The king took pleasure in his long stride. He had decided that his next meeting would best take place in the stone chamber, deep beneath the palace stronghold. After all, that was where Sin Hazar's maps were kept, and all the markers of his armies. That was where the traitors from the south would best appreciate his might.

As expected, Al-Marai was waiting for him, beside the detailed battle map. The general held out an ermine-lined robe for his king, and Sin Hazar let his brother settle the garment about his shoulders. Yes, the stone chamber would be icy as a grave for the next several months. Still, the rich fur served two purposes – it kept the draft from creeping down Sin Hazar's neck, and it reminded Bashanorandi of Amanthia's wealth. The boy crossed his arms over his chest, surreptitiously rubbing his hands against his sleeves in an attempt to generate some warmth.

Sin Hazar pretended to be interested in the map, circling about the miniature pieces, fingering one of the boats that appeared to be en route to the east. Only when Bashanorandi had begun to study the map as well did Sin Hazar draw back, crossing to the tall, carved chair at the top of the board. Best that he face his prisoners in comfort.

He was pleased to see that Bashanorandi moved to stand beside him, taking up a squire's position without being ordered. The boy tried to keep out of reach, but he watched Sin Hazar with the nervous eyes of a ground squirrel. The king resisted the urge to reach out one hand, to trace a seam on the boy's leggings.
That
would create chaos, he was certain.

Sin Hazar settled for nodding toward Al-Marai. “Bring in the prisoners.”

The lion transmitted the order to the guards at the door, and then he unsheathed his massive curved sword. With his beard curling across his chest and his gaze turned to stone, he made a terrifying barrier to the map-room. The arriving prisoners eyed Al-Marai warily, edging into the room like unbroken colts. They were so intent on the obvious threat of the unsheathed sword that neither immediately noticed Sin Hazar.

The king cleared his throat. “Lady Ranita. Lady Mair.”

Both girls started, whirling to face the king. Sin Hazar saw the instant that they took in Bashanorandi, the scant moment it took for each to label the boy a traitor. Ranita Glasswright spared some attention for the map as well, measuring the troop placements as if she would report them to that southern upstart of a king.

The girls were bedraggled. Both sported dark circles under their eyes, as if they had not slept in weeks, and Ranita favored her leg as she crossed the stone chamber. Ink tracery around their eyes mimicked fading sun tattoos.

Sin Hazar had issued precise orders when Bashanorandi dragged the girls back to his city. Ranita and Mair still wore the boys' clothes they had at the Swancastle. Their jerkins and leggings had been none too clean to begin with, and the uniforms certainly had not been bettered by a night spent in the royal dungeons. The garments were pulled out of shape by the iron chains around the girls' waists, the manacles that cut into their wrists and the loops that linked their ankles. Sin Hazar may have been made a fool of once, but he was not going to give these miserable wenches a chance to escape again.

Ranita Glasswright shot a single glance at her companion before she began to berate the king of all Amanthia. “Your Majesty, we expected better hospitality than these chains, in your storied castle.”

“We are not accustomed to letting traitors roam our hallways free.”

“Bashanorandi stands beside you, and he bears no chains.”

“Our cousin is not a traitor, Lady Ranita. Not by the laws of Amanthia.”

“Likewise, Lady Mair and I cannot be traitors to Amanthia. We are not subject to her laws. We are sworn to the house of Ben-Jair, and we demand that you return us to King Halaravilli at once!”

“Brave words for a captured spy!”

“Spy!” The girl was shocked.

“Aye. What other reason could you have had to leave our fine accommodations here in Amanth? Why else would you seek out our secret military encampment, study a division of our prize soldiers training with one of our greatest military advisors? You clearly plotted your escape from our hospitality with the goal of learning our military secrets. It would not surprise us to learn that that was the underhanded goal of your embassy in the first place.”

“Embassy!” Ranita exclaimed. “Your Majesty, we offered no
embassy
. We were abducted and brought to Amanthia against our wills. Once imprisoned here, we did as any loyal Morenians would. We tried to flee for our homes.”

“We did not give you leave to flee.”

“Precisely! Your Majesty, you refused to treat us fairly! You refused to let us even walk in the garden, much less pen a missive to King Halaravilli!”

“We permitted you to attend a feast, didn't we?”

Ranita's response was an immediate blush. Sin Hazar swallowed his amusement. These youngsters were so full of passion. The king leaned forward in his chair, pointing a finger at the girl. “We attempted to honor you, Ranita Glasswright. We sat you at our left hand, and we ordered our servants to feed you the finest morsels from our table.” Remarkable! The girl was actually writhing in her chains! He had thought her made of sterner stuff. Sin Hazar lowered his voice and addressed her as if they were alone in the chamber. “I danced with you, Ranita Glasswright. I touched the folds of your balkareen –”