Sasharia En Garde (31 page)

Concentrate!
I
began to sauté the mixture, frowning down at the gently sizzling ingredients as
I sniffed the scent.

Canary. What was happening to Mom?
Canary wouldn’t throw her into a dungeon. That wouldn’t be the action
of a supposed good guy—

That inward tug again, something important, some connection
I was missing. Canary, my mother. That wasn’t it, though it was related.

Boots clattered back and forth across the deck a few inches
above my head. I stirred the ingredients, glaring down at them while Kaelande
fashioned perfect crepes with what seemed like preternatural speed, his arm
jostling mine, his breath a soft whistle on a plaintive series of three or four
notes. No one disturbed us. Every so often Kaelande wiped something on my
apron, and even splashed me once or twice, and I remembered I was drunk. I
flicked a few drops to my face for artistic verisimilitude, catching a brief
grin from Kaelande.

I turned my thoughts inward, considering Canary and my mom,
what she’d told me over the years. All the little incidents added up to this:
he tried to get her on his side.

Closer, closer
.
Okay, there was some insight here, instinct insisted.

So keep thinking. Canary was attractive. He was attracted to
Mom. He hadn’t been faking it. Her so-called free-love hippie days had taught
her the difference. He liked her, was attracted . . . needed to
be the good guy . . .

Why is this important?
Argh!
I stirred vigorously. Instinct was poinking and prodding at me now.
But why? I wished I had not drunk that wine.

All right, think it
through again.
Canary, pretending to be the good guy. Canary, attracted to
my mother. Wanting her on his side, and so he used her attraction. Heck, he
used his own attraction. He used his looks, his charm, said what people wanted
to hear, did everything he could to try to get people to buy into his plans,
and see him as the good guy . . .
Almost there
—

Canary and Mom. And here I was with his son. Who was doing
his best to get me to buy into his plans. Meanwhile lying to everyone. Even his
pirates didn’t know the truth about him.

So the question now
is, how much is he lying to me?

That was it. I grimaced down at the golden onions in my
shallow pan. That was a nasty one.
So
face it.
How much is Jehan Jervaes Merindar using my own attraction—and his
to me—to seduce me if not into his bed, into his plans?

“It looks like it’s done,” Kaelande whispered.

I started. I’d been standing there with the wooden spatula
in the air, and hastily gave the mixture a guilty stir. Luckily the flame had
been too low for it to burn.

He took the pan, dashed an even portion of the mixture onto
each crepe, wrapped them with nimble fingers, laid out the crepes on plates
(lined up along a narrow board that folded down, so he could do six at once),
poured in the filling, rolled the crepes, and added a spray of the tiny grapes.
“Can you serve?”

I grinned. “I can’t cook, but boy howdy can I serve.” As his
eyes widened, I stashed the plates up my arm in classic waitress carry, hooked
four wine goblets with the fingers of the other hand, and with my thumb grabbed
up the square wine bottle.

He saluted wryly and I eased my way up and onto the deck,
steadying myself against the rail. I was acutely aware of myself in the
clothing of a man I didn’t know before yesterday. Here I was, Sasharia
Zhavalieshin, pretending to be a cook, and all to support the false role of
someone who might be an enemy.

How long was I going to go along with his changing stories,
I wondered, leaning my hip against the carving of laughing dolphins running
along the rail.

Until he kisses me?
And then what?

I cannot tell you how much I hated the thought that he had
it all planned, that the dangerous evening would end with the hero prince
grabbing the dashing princess for love’s triumphant kiss—

He wouldn’t. Would he?

I glared down at the plates on my arm and remembered what I
was supposed to be doing. At my current rate of travel the food would be
congealed into a nasty mess before I even reached the cabin.

The deck was full of big men moving about with either covert
or overt purpose, none paying the drunken cook the least heed after a
disinterested glance. Dannath Randart vanished into the cabin I’d used, but my
stuff was gone, the gear bag over the side (the green tunic inside it as
ballast), the mementos and coins stashed in Zel’s things.

I descended the few broad steps into the cabin. Jehan and
Damedran sat with their heads together at the table, Jehan writing things down
as they talked in quick, low voices.

Damedran’s wary body language, his reluctant agreements to
Jehan’s softly murmured questions, were easing as he sipped at the mug of
listerblossom.

Zel lounged on the bed like an odalisque, playing with
half-circles of myriad colors. A step toward her and the half-circles resolved
into open fans, laid like rare flowers against the splendid barbarity of my
Zhavalieshin coverlet. Some of the fans were made of lace and thin streamers of
ribbon, others a kind of rice paper, gilt in exquisite patterns, and painted.
Subtle fragrances arose, carried on the gentle breeze from the open stern
windows.

She glanced up at me, then over her shoulder, pursing her
lips.

I set the wine bottle on the table, the glasses next to it.

Jehan was saying, oh so persuasively, “. . . completely
rethink the infighting—”

“But Master Grescheg wins every competition with Obrin and
those fellows from Alsais—”

“Competition. Perhaps there is a difference between
hand-to-hand grappling for a medal and fighting in the street? Think about
today. That tall fellow broke competition rules, didn’t he?”

“He did. I didn’t call ’em on it because it seemed
cowardice—”

“We all saw that, and it testifies to your credit. But
consider this. Would you have him at your back in the street? Or if Norsunder
rode over the border in force?”

“Norsunder?” Damedran looked doubtful.

I’d backed up to listen, the plates still stacked on my arm.

“It could happen. You won’t remember the Siamis days. It was
just before you were born. Did anyone tell you about how frightened people
were? The talk of Detlev, Siamis’s uncle? We don’t know much about him, except
that those who held his leash are far worse. And if they find a way to cross
into the world . . .”

“Yes,” Damedran cut in, his brow a scowl line. “I would want
them at my back in any kind of fight. The grappling, and the archery. Nobody
could beat that little runt. Not even our best master.”

The voices had risen slightly, one with the slightly nasal
intonations of late adolescence, gruff with dislike and distrust, the other
more tenor, controlled, with that faint humor.

Jehan’s trying to win
Damedran. What role is he playing now?

“And you saw how he shot. The Marloven bow drill is tedious,
that I grant, however the form is unbeaten throughout the world, and you saw
the evidence today . . .”

Under how many layers was the truth buried? I stared down at
Zel’s fans, each a treasure. She must have seen my admiration in my face, for
she smiled proudly. Then a glance past me. Her smile vanished. She lay back in
a languishing pose.

Boot heels rang on the deck, and the voices stopped. Focus
shifted as Dannath Randart filled the doorway to the cabin. He took us all in
with a single glance, frowning when he spied the paper before Jehan. He sat,
abruptly reaching for it. His hand stopped partway, and Jehan offered it to him
with a courteous air.

Randart glanced at it for about five seconds, as I
approached the table.

Randart slewed around, watching as I dealt the plates in my
very best serving manner. The narrow-eyed suspicion tightening his eyes eased a
fraction more each time I snuck a peek at him. By the time I finished playing
sommelier with the wine, complete down to the pouring flick of the wrist, he
had clearly filed me in the “servant” category, and thereafter ignored me.

The silence stretched into tension, which made distinct the
soft slapping of the water against the hull, the creak of wood, the click and
ting of silver utensils on porcelain plates. The three ate, the boy and the
prince waiting for the war commander to speak.

The power of the moment lay with him, though it was not his
ship, but the men up on the deck obeyed him and only him.

Right now the Randarts
are the only ones here not faking a role.

Finally Randart leaned forward and tapped the paper. “What’s
this?”

Jehan said, “My suggestions for new training. Old training
to be adapted to new. We all think our own experience best. Why not try what I
learned out west? Combine it with what we have here in the east.”

“We can’t do worse, Uncle. I saw that today,” Damedran put
in, surly and defensive.

Dannath Randart’s slack-lidded eyes flicked from nephew to
royal heir and back again. Impossible to tell whether the silence meant
surrender or threat. Maybe he didn’t know himself. He opened his palm toward
Damedran. “Very well. Do what you like. I have to take ship tomorrow. I have
pirates to find and destroy.” He picked up his fork, then shot a glowering
assessment at Zel. Ahah, he was reassessing her status. Would she be invited to
eat? There was that extra plate, congealing fast.

She lay curled up on the bed, the two gold-framed lanterns
making a fiery aureole of her wispy ringlets. She uncoiled her feet and stood,
drifting in a deliberately provocative, swaying walk, to lean against Jehan’s
chair, one of her hands playing with one of her fans, twirling it, swirling it
idly.

“Sit down and eat, my dear,” Jehan invited, pointing to the
fourth plate. “It’s getting cold. And you know how Lasva threatens to go back
to Colend if we do not treat her food with respect.”

“I’m not hungry now,” Zel said in a crooning voice. She
smiled up at me. “The Colendi are forgiving, I know. I will paint you a fan,
Lasva.”

“Yiss. Iz gud,” I sounded more like a TV Russian spy than a
TV Frenchwoman, I realized too late.

Randart’s face crimped in disgust. He said nothing, though.
Just dug in, rapidly finishing his crepe.

No one spoke as they devoured the meal—Damedran
surreptitiously helping himself to the fourth plate. For a time the only sounds
were those of the ship and of the rising wind, the water.

Once I moved into view to pour more wine. Jehan mouthed the
words
thank you
, though he kept his
gaze unswervingly on his guests. At his side Zel leaned, one finger twining in
his hair in a way that made my insides squeeze, so I looked away. The uncle ignored
me as if the wine poured itself.

When his plate was clean he stood. “I have ordered the mages
to make you another gold message box, your highness. Do try not to lose it.
I’ll return now, and send a message to your father. If you discover anything
you wish to tell me before morning, I can be found in the command tower before
we depart on the morning tide.”

He marched out, his boots thumping up the stairs to the
deck, where he gave an abrupt command.

That caused the force of brown tunics to line up and climb
down into the boats, a kind of reverse-play of their arrival. I wondered if
they’d
gotten any dinner before the
summons to make this trip. From the mutters of some of them and the black looks
sent their commander’s way, it didn’t seem likely.

The crew doused the yacht’s deck lights. The ship faded to
darkness, except for the golden glow in the cabin, and faint light from the
hatchway and the galley beyond.

Jehan moved to the rail to watch them begin to toil their
long way back to the harbor through an increasingly choppy sea. Zel and her
husband joined him on one side, the two of them holding hands, whispering and
occasionally laughing, the relieved laughter of danger passed by. Owl drifted up
on Kaelande’s other side.

The other two crew were at their posts, one on the mast, one
at the helm.

Since Jehan had no one at his left I joined him, peering out
to sea as I absently pulled off the knit cap, and yanked free that horrible
thing binding my hair so tightly. As there were no lights, I figured we had to
be invisible from the boats by now. Even starlight was gone, covered by thick
clouds.

The husband and wife moved off, talking in low voices. The
last I heard was Zel offering to help dunk the dishes and tidy the galley.

Owl vanished down the hatchway, yawning.

Randart’s lights were nearly diminished behind the rising
waves when a long purple branch of lightning split the sky, and rain struck
with breathtaking suddenness, on us, on the sea, and on the departing rowboats.

We were drenched in moments, but behind us lay warmth, food,
shelter. The commander and his force had a very long row ahead of them.

“Perfect end to a disastrous day,” Jehan said.

Lightning flared again, reflecting in his eyes so they shone
like sapphire, and burnished his hair to silver. He smiled straight into my
eyes, and laughed.

I smiled back as my hair streamed into the wind—forgetting
Mom, and Canary, and roles, and lies, and all the distresses of the day. For
that moment I was proud and triumphant and caught by Jehan’s gaze, so brilliant
in the flare of lightning, and I laughed, too.

I laughed until his hands caught me by the shoulders, and
rain glittered on his eyelashes as soft lips met mine, warm and tasting of
sweet wine, and then my thoughts unribboned, my muscles unlaced, and I couldn’t
think at all, at all.

“Prince Jehan did what?” King
Canardan exclaimed.

Magister Zhavic, one of the king’s mages, stroked his gray
beard, making sure his voice was detached. Disinterested. Academic. “After the
academy cadets finished the midsummer games, His Highness Prince Jehan had
himself rowed out to his yacht. In the middle of the harbor. He’d had it moved
out there earlier. No one knew why.”