Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (48 page)

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sasha said in Lenay. “I'm lost. Stop. I make it policy never to talk arts with serrin, especially not in Saalsi. My head will burst.”

“Really?” said Rhillian, now back in Torovan, all bemused innocence. “I wasn't even speaking dialect.”

“And of course you're terrible with languages,” Sasha added, exasperated.

“Absolutely awful.” It was an old joke. And by serrin standards, not so untrue. “Sasha, every serrin man I've heard remark on the issue thinks you're gorgeous. I'd be absolutely astonished if Errollyn felt differently.”

“And you serrin spend lots of time sitting around talking about whom you'd like to bed?” Sasha asked incredulously.

“Every spare moment. Sasha.” Rhillian straightened and looked her very firmly in the eye. “As your friend. You live a very dangerous life. I'm delighted that you've survived this far. Time may be short for all of us. Take the man to bed. I assure you, it's worth the effort.”

Sasha stared a moment longer. And her mouth dropped open as she realised the implication. “You…you mean…you and Errollyn have…?”

Rhillian outright laughed, a pleasant, warm sound. “Oh, and that surprises you? We're serrin! We have no morals, Sasha, and when we die, we're all going straight to the hells!” Sasha wanted to reprimand her that she really shouldn't joke about such things, but her mouth would not cooperate. “I have thirty-eight summers, Sasha, I've bedded rather a lot of men. I recommend it. Errollyn in particular.”

“But you hate each other!” Sasha burst out.

Rhillian laughed again…and nearly lost control of her bowl of soup. She saved it just in time. “Oh no,” she sighed. “Not at all. I…look,” and she held up her free hand helplessly, “I can't explain it, it's just a serrin thing. I don't hate Errollyn. I'll never hate Errollyn.”

“Because he's serrin?”

“No, that would be prejudice, you shan't trap me that easily.” Very amused. “Are you really sure you want to go down this path with me? We could be here until sundown.”

“No, right, forget it,” Sasha said sarcastically. “Sanity before curiosity.”

“Just trust me. On serrin matters at least, I'm quite sure I know what I'm talking about. I hope I haven't made you jealous. I'm quite certain I don't intend to marry him.”

Sasha saw the amusement on Rhillian's face at that prospect. She had to laugh. “No. Bloody hells. It just seems that everyone's having sex except me.”

“And who's fault is that?” Rhillian retorted expansively. “Take the man to bed, Sasha!”

Sasha sighed in disbelief and shook her head. She didn't know
what
she felt, or whether she'd take the advice. Everything was so complicated. She envied the serrin. In some things, they were endlessly complicated. But in others, the simple pleasures, they were so attractively simple.

“You know,” she said, “I once thought Errollyn was the strangest serrin I'd ever met. But now I think it's probably you.”

Rhillian smiled, not at all offended. “Well, you're
easily
the strangest human I've ever met,” she returned playfully. “I suppose we're even.”

T
HE FIELDS BESIDE THE ROAD INTO
A
LGERY
were barren after the harvest, and men pulled ploughs behind teams of oxen to loosen the soil. The cart rattled over pavings, here on the gentle downslope into town.

Jaryd sat behind the driver's board in the covered cart, and peered past Teriyan and Sofy's shoulders. The road was so familiar. Ahead, past rows of fruit trees, the winding Hathys River ran between walled banks before the city. A stone bridge crossed where the river met the road.

Along the riverbank, Algery rose in a swarm of stone buildings, haphazard tiled roofs and narrow alleys. A great arch at the end of the bridge marked the entrance to the city, whereafter the road vanished beneath the roofs. He knew, however, that it headed toward the grand temple spires that soared from the city's heart. Beyond and to either side of the city rose the enclosing hills of the Algery Valley. Downstream, another quarter-day's ride, lay Pyrlata, and the Nyvar residence…now the property of Family Arastyn.

“Oh, it's so pretty!” Sofy opined, predictably. Tyree's capital did look pretty, Jaryd had to concede, however poor his mood for noticing such things. It helped that the sun was shining, the sky blue streaked with white, and the green orchards made lovely patterns in the midafternoon light against the rowed poplars and pines. “Here, what's this building?”

Jaryd saw where she was pointing, to a small domed roof on the riverbank, upstream of the bridge. “That's the skywatcher. Dastry Urelvyn built it. He was the father of Lord Urelvyn. He was Verenthane, but followed the old astrology; he built the dome to watch the skies at night. He had the star charts painted all across the ceiling and watched through his windows as they moved.”

As the road wound down to the bridge, traffic passed them on the way up. Sofy made no effort to conceal herself as carts passed, or farmers walked the roadside tending to orchards. A Goeren-yai farm driver, his daughter and a nephew on their way into town two days before a big wedding attracted little attention, and very few people this far from Baen-Tar had any idea what the Lenay royal family actually looked like. Sofy had seen some of the likenesses which sold in town squares on market day and laughed. Dressed in
plain travelling clothes with a cloth tied over her hair she was in little danger of being taken for a princess.

“Oh I wish I'd found more time to travel,” Sofy said wistfully as they approached the bridge. “Only now that I'm about to leave Lenayin forever do I have a chance to see what my land actually looks like.”

“This is just a city,” said Teriyan, unimpressed. He did not look particularly comfortable on the driving board, his long knees sticking out, his hands grasping the unfamiliar reins. “Your actual
land
looks somewhat different.”

“Oh tosh,” Sofy snorted. “I've seen plenty of beautiful land lately, now it's time to see a city. You know what I mean.”

Teriyan had tied his hair back in a knot in the style of the eastern Goeren-yai of Tyree. Long red hair was common enough, but there was still a chance of recognition—many men of Tyree had ridden to the Udalyn Valley, although fewer from the cities and towns. There was always a chance of coming across a recent comrade-in-arms, particularly amidst the crowds that promised in Algery.

Encounters with travellers on the road had informed them of the wedding in Algery, on exactly the day that Aeryl Daery had said. Galandry No-Name, once Nyvar, was to be wed to Family Iryani, close allies of Family Arastyn. It was the last, loose end of the Nyvar Family, the elder sister Dalya already wed, and the brother Wyndal adopted into Family Arastyn itself. And it was the best chance for access to Wyndal, in a big crowd for a big occasion, away from the private defences of the Arastyn Residence, aware of threats upon their house. Whether Wyndal would cooperate or not was another question entirely.

They rattled across the bridge, beneath the arch and into Algery with a loud clatter of hooves and rattling wheels. The road was busy with people, and colourful flags hung from windows above the way. People were carrying baskets of vegetables, rolling barrels of ale, or hauling legs of lamb or pork.

After slow going on the crowded road, they emerged into the square opposite the temple. Jaryd stared, suppressing a shiver. He recalled the services, walking at his father's side up the broad steps behind the priests. He'd liked the dressing up and the showing off. The services had been a bore, but he'd liked feeling important. Like a fool, he'd believed it his gods-given entitlement.

Now, the top step about the temple door was decorated with a small pavilion, garnished with blue ralama flowers and green poplar boughs. Flags and colours hung about the square—the colours of Arastyn House, red and blue, in four opposing squares…and the other, green and white, he supposed must be Iryani. Truthfully, he'd never cared enough to recall.

He gave Teriyan directions around the square's central fountain, into a
narrower street. Near the opposite side of the city (for Algery was not large like Baen-Tar) they found the inn they were looking for and pulled the horses up outside.

“Wait here,” said Teriyan, leaping from the cart. Sofy got down to see to the horses, something she fancied she knew a little about now. It seemed to Jaryd that she found delight in being useful. It was a quality much unlooked for in a princess. Jaryd stayed where he was and watched the inn across the road. In the narrow gap between buildings, he could glimpse open fields beyond and a lane that would lead to the stables. This was the quarter for inns, all on the city perimeter, where stables had lots of space and carts laden with fodder, and lords coming from the western valley would not have to pass through town before finding their destination.

The innkeep came out, talking loudly with Teriyan, and Teriyan unstopped a barrel for the man to have a taste. Satisfied that the horses were well, Sofy climbed back up to the driver's board.

“Over there,” Jaryd murmured, nodding toward the opposing inn's verandah. “That's Dysmon Frayne. Younger brother of Lord Frayne. They have a property not far from Nyvar Holding. I've played lagand against him. His son was good in the youngsters’ contests.”

Sofy saw a tall, thin man with close-cropped hair. He was speaking with a Torovan merchant, colourful and long-haired, his broad hat in one hand. A young lady appeared from the inn's interior. Sofy seemed to stiffen.

“What?” Jaryd asked.

“Nothing,” said Sofy after a moment, relaxing a little. “I thought for a moment it was someone I knew.”

“Who would you know out here?”

“Um…” Sofy thought for a moment, “Maryel Tasys, Elynda Iryani, Pyta Paramys, Rosarya Pelyn and Alonya Redyk. Oh, and Emylie Arastyn, of course. All were in Baen-Tar. Maryel I know returned to Algery three months ago. She's certainly here. Elynda I'm not sure about, though I'd guess she's returned just for this wedding, since it's her brother. And of course Emylie will be here.”

“Ladies-in-waiting,” said Jaryd, understanding. This was Sofy's life in Baen-Tar. Many of the lords sent daughters to Baen-Tar in search of education, sophistication and, of course, husbands. While Jaryd knew many of Tyree and Lenayin's future rulers through play on the lagand field, Sofy knew many of their prospective wives through embroidery, scripture, dance and language classes. “You might have said so before we set out.”

“I've far less chance of being recognised than you have,” Sofy snorted, adjusting the cloth tied beneath her chin.

“Which is why you were holding your breath just now.”

Sofy gave him an annoyed look. “I was not. Or maybe just a little. You can never be entirely sure.” She looked up and down the street at passers-by and flags hanging from windows. A cart squeezed past their own, hooves clattering. “All this fuss for a wedding,” she mused.

It seemed an odd thing for Sofy to say—she'd seen far grander weddings than this one. Then Jaryd realised. “Your own will be a lot fussier,” he said.

“I know.” Sofy seemed to gaze at nothing for a moment. Jaryd had never really thought about it before. Men got married, and unmarried girls became wives. Wives obeyed their husbands, and the natural order continued. He'd never…well, he'd never even considered looking at it from a woman's perspective. Especially not from the perspective of a woman who disliked her prospective husband, even though she'd never actually met him. She hated what he stood for, and what her marriage would be in aid of. War against the Saalshen Bacosh. It reduced her to a tool in other people's plans. A pawn.

It seemed unfair. She had no say in her own life, and her fates were mapped out for the interests of others. For the first time, Jaryd felt something toward a woman that he'd never expected to feel. He empathised.

“Maybe he'll be a good man,” he offered, uncertainly. “Regent Arrosh's heir.”

Sofy shrugged. “Perhaps.” And said nothing more. That was most unlike her usual bubbly, cheerful self. Jaryd didn't like that. Strangely, it seemed he'd come to enjoy Sofy's good humour. Her sunshine kept him buoyant when all he saw were dark clouds. He clasped her arm briefly. It was forward of him. Should her royal minders have been present, it would surely have earned him a loud rebuke. But Sofy looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.

The innkeep accepted one barrel of ale of the four they carried, he and Teriyan lifting it from the back with some attempted help from Sofy. Jaryd remained in the back, wrapped in a cloak and feigning illness. They drove on, avoiding the fancier inns where nobility were quartered who might perchance recognise one or another of their party, and found accommodation at a cramped little place down an alley.

Teriyan took the cart and horses to see if he could find separate stable lodging, while Sofy and Jaryd carried their bags up several winding, narrow flights of stairs. The room was small, with two beds and enough space on the floor for a third. A crate made for a step up to windows that could be ducked through, and onto a small terrace amidst the sloping roof tiles, with a view of the little lane. Jaryd thought the place inadequate, considering what he'd been accustomed to when staying in Algery. Sofy, on the other hand, seemed intrigued, especially with the terrace and its view.