Sasharia En Garde (50 page)

The work was mostly a lot of reaching overhead, as I was
tall. I did my picking as far from the others as I could, carrying on long
mental conversations—okay, arguments—with Jehan, justifying the distrust I’d
felt so strongly that I wouldn’t listen to him.

But I couldn’t quite get past knowing how very much I’d hate
it if he’d refused to listen to me.

So then I’d try to distract myself by watching the others.
That was much more entertaining than my bleak thoughts. I observed the girls
noticing the boys who ogled the girls as we carried our bucket loads down to be
washed and pressed. Big guys mostly handled the presses, which is why the more
flirtatious girls were really enthusiastic about filling their buckets in order
to make the trip down the hill. In fact, I am pretty certain that our work
boss, a tough grandmotherly woman, deliberately put the cutest guy on the first
press, tall, buff, with long curling reddish gold hair and a wickedly
flirtatious manner. He
always
had a
crowd around him, after fast, enthusiastic picking.

As soon as the sun went down, we were off work. After dinner
there was equipment to ready for the next day, then we were pretty much on our
own. Every night people who had learned some sort of instrument (some good,
some not so, but they could all more or less follow a tune) and the singers got
up some sort of concert or dance, and tired as we were, we found energy for
dancing.

So did I get a romance going?

Either I tell the truth or toss this thing in the fire.

Easy answer first. Tavan, the cute guy, took no notice of
me. He seemed to prefer the shorter girls. But there were other guys, nice
ones, cute ones, who seemed to like my looks as much as I liked theirs.

Did I flirt? Jokes and comments, yeah. The easy stuff. But
ardent eyes, the narrowed gaze of interest, personal questions, that subtle
shift from general interest to individual—whenever I sensed those things, I
found somewhere else to be. My favorite retreat was the women’s baths, a long
room with a hot spring diverted to run through, carrying endless clean water in
a natural Jacuzzi. Wow, did that feel good.

Anyway, back to the guys. Why didn’t I respond? I’ll get
there in a sec.

At the end of the first week, which was all I owed as a
traveler, the work boss called me over and asked me if I’d put in a second week
as the crop was ripening fast, and I’d be paid. They didn’t have enough tall
women.

I thought, why not? I was having fun. I didn’t feel any hurry,
except a vague sense of unease when occasional bits of gossip radiated out from
Vadnais’s royal castle. When my mother’s name came up, the rumors were all
about how the king and Princess Atanial were constantly giving parties and
balls. Sifting that, I figured my mother was at least safe. She’d been guarding
herself a lot longer than I had been guarding me, after all.

In fact, there is one conversation I’ll report. We were all
sitting on the plain plank porch outside our dorm, the evening cool but still,
the air faintly blue everywhere but the forest, which was a vast black
silhouette. Insects chirruped peacefully, and in the distance a couple of the
horses whinnied at one another.

They’d passed out letters brought in by a runner, and
someone mentioned the king and Princess Atanial.

One woman said, “So is she gonna marry him? I mean, she must
be after him.”

“She’s a prisoner,” I said, but under my breath.

The woman next to me, who was sewing a hole in the armpit of
her shirt, glanced over. “She is?”

“Ribbons for chains. But she can’t leave. Remember whose
wife she is,” I said quickly, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. I’d gotten into
the habit of carrying out those arguments under my breath while picking.

A thoughtful silence settled, and one of the younger women,
sitting on the ground leaning against the rail, murmured slowly, “I never
thought about it before, but what does a princess
do
?” At the laughs and expressions of scorn, she added hastily, “I
know! Balls, gowns, flirt with princes. But, is that it?”

“Practice to be queens?” said the sewing woman. “You would
have to know how to read, for example.”

The younger woman stirred at this sarcasm, so I said
hastily, “I never thought about it, either, but you’re watched all the time, I
expect. Everyone wants a piece of you. I don’t mean that necessarily in a good
way.”

“‘Piece of you’,” the sewer repeated. “A strange way to put
it. Yet it seems right, from anything I’ve ever heard.”

The younger one laughed. “You can’t be serious. How much
work is going to a ball?”

They broke into chattering groups, but at least the subject
of Princess Atanial was forgotten.

So now the subject I’ve been avoiding. The real reason I
didn’t flirt was because of Jehan.

After those mental arguments I worked hard to shove him out
of my mind. But if memory didn’t intrude, occasional bits of gossip brought him
right back to the forefront of my attention.

I worked so hard to forget him that one afternoon I
accidentally broke a branch by yanking too hard, but luckily the olives on it
were all ripe and I hastily stripped them off and stowed them in my bucket.

I took my three-quarters-filled bucket away so I wouldn’t
hear the chatter about Prince Jehan and the Sartoran ambassador’s beautiful
cousin dancing all night in some marble hall. I didn’t care about his flirts,
no, not me. He could double-talk anyone he wanted, yessiree-Bob.

Despite my determined efforts Not To Think About Him, I
always ended up in those long, exasperating imagined arguments with him. They
were exasperating because I didn’t know the truth. So when I was mad at him, I
imagined him admitting to being a liar, traitor, and all the rest of it, lower
than the lowest slug . . . and I’d think, why fool yourself? You
were a total IDIOT to have dusted out without finding out the truth.

But how was I to find out the truth while his prisoner and
surrounded by his people?

No, I had to stick to my plan. Find my father. Dump the
entire mess into his lap. He’d know what to do about Prince Jehan Jervaes
Merindar.

I wished—oh, you have no idea how hard I wished—that I
hadn’t kissed Jehan.

Because my subconscious, who is about as stubborn as a
corral full of hungry mules, didn’t care about politics, promises, power,
princes or princesses. Her needs were direct. Despite how hard I fought during
the day, every night when I had to surrender to her realm she adored pressing
the backtrack button over and over to replay in my dreams every moment of that
sweet, breathlessly intense, absolutely glorious experience.

Me:
Subconscious,
please don’t do that.

Her:
I want that one.

Me:
You’re being a
total cow. I mean, anybody with half a brain does not mistake lust for love.

Her:
I want that one.

Me:
He’s a liar. He
cheats his own father! He says what he wants me to hear, just like dear old
dad.

Her:
Oooookay, you
wanna be like that? Just wait for your dreams tonight, sucker.

Despite the fact that in this culture, as long as you have
not married with the ring ceremony, it’s expected you’ll shop around before
finding a mate, I couldn’t head for the sweet-smelling shadowy glades where
insects softly chirruped and autumn leaves rustled, to enjoy some recreational
kissy-face with one of the nice, cute, pleasant young men I met there, who had
no possible interest in politics or power or any of the rest of it, only in me.
Because my subconscious promised stubbornly that if I did, I’d have about as
much fun as kissing a fence post.

There I was, almost three weeks later, when the last of the
olive crop was pretty much down and we were doing a second run for gleanings.

I was a day from finishing the job, so I put in some time
that morning asking easy questions here and there about the main landmarks that
would lead me to Ivory Mountain.

We were about to break for the midday meal when the entire
camp was surprised by new arrivals.

We Got Males.

Once they were actually on the road, Damedran and his
princess-hunting posse enjoyed the ride. The second morning, as they relaxed
around the campfire in their bedrolls while the two servants saw to the horses
and cooking, they gloatingly counted up the toilsome chores they
weren’t
doing, unlike the other senior
cadets.

When breakfast was ready they climbed out of their bedrolls,
and after the servants cleaned up, they took to horse. Through the remainder of
the day’s ride, they wondered aloud from time to time what their own group was
doing right at that moment, but Damedran and Ban both noticed that once you
were actually out of sight of the game, most of the fun was gone. You had to be
there.

Adjusting to what they were missing was a whole lot easier
when they remembered that they had the king’s sigil. They could change horses
whenever they wanted, and could eat anywhere they wanted, what they wanted, and
that included drink. And no one made a peep. The shot would be sent back to
Vadnais to be paid by Uncle Dannath’s paymaster.

Ban Kender and Bowsprit Lanarg hadn’t much liked being
pulled from the war game, but that was because Damedran hadn’t told them why
until Castle Cheslan was far behind them. Their first reaction to
We’re going to intercept Princess Atanial’s
daughter
was surprise. Then both of them thought philosophically of the
fact that success meant early promotion. Their families counted on their doing
well in the military, and if finding and escorting a princess’s daughter to the
royal city got them made patrol leaders way ahead of the other seniors, well,
see the tears?

Except for one bump, the good mood lasted until they reached
the outskirts of Zhavlir a few days later. The bump happened midway through the
ride, when they reached Barlir and visited an inn. There they were, with no
glowering captains, masters, or war-commanding uncles to order them around.
They didn’t have to spend, or account for, a copper dunket of their own. And
the dark ale here was famed throughout the army. What a perfect opportunity to
get snockered!

. . . except they had to ride the next day.

Well, all right, so you learn something about how unfun it
is to get drunk anywhere but at home, and not with duty the next day.

After that never-too-soon-forgotten ride, things went right
back to first rank. Even the weather cooperated, turning from cold with
occasional bands of rain to a stretch of sunny, warm days.

The moment finally came when they cleared the last hill
above Zhavlir and saw the fine, smooth military road curving gently down
between hedgerows toward the city gates.

Damedran cleared his throat. “Getting sick?” Red asked.

“No.” Damedran did not look at any of them. Of his six
companions, Ban, Red and Bowsprit rode close. The others had formed in a row
behind, and could only hear the murmur of voices ahead. Behind them rode the
two servants with the equipment packed on the remounts, talking quietly to one
another; they didn’t even try to listen in on the toff cadets.

Damedran said quickly, “Our orders are, we grab her, and
report to my uncle. Then we take her back to him, wherever he is.”

Red shrugged. “Sounds easy to me.”

Bowsprit turned to Ban, who sent him a grimace.

Ban eyed Damedran. Something was wrong. “We’re not taking her
to the king?”

“No.”

Bowsprit whistled.

Damedran flushed. “My uncle is the war commander. He’s the
king’s voice, his right hand—”

“This isn’t a military matter,” Ban cut in. “It’s a royal
one. Why aren’t we taking her straight to the king? Or at least contacting
him?”

Damedran snarled, “Shut up. Just shut up. You want to be
reported for insubordination? In case you have forgotten,
I
am patrol captain for this mission, and it’s
I
who has the communication relay.” He dug the gold case out of the
pouch at his belt and brandished it.

Ban’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he faced
forward.

Bowsprit sent Damedran one last, unhappy glance, then he too
faced resolutely forward.

Red jerked his good shoulder up in agreement. When the three
behind started in with variations on “What did he say? We can’t hear!” he
explained in a few terse words.

Two of them shrugged. They were used to Damedran’s ways. But
the third burst out, “I don’t like this.”

Ban drawled over his shoulder, “
Lord Damedran Randart
is the
patrol
leader
. Oh, I beg your pardon. Patrol
captain
.
Haven’t you heard?
He
has the
communication relay.
He
can snitch, I
mean,
report
, us for insubordination.
Just for asking honest questions.”

“Shut up, Ban.”

Ban lifted his voice. “But we’re not to think. We are here
as muscle. Our next order will probably be to beat her up. That doesn’t take
any thinking. Six of us! Six and no thinking allowed—”

“
Shut up, Ban!
”

“Is that an order,
Lord
High Patrol Captain?
”

Damedran burned with fury, and his fists bunched. He longed
to fling himself on Ban and pound his face into the dirt. But they weren’t
behind the stable where cadet fights were carried out with friends on watch.
They were here, they were supposedly on their first mission as men, and not
cadets.

First mission. As men.

He groaned, remembering his uncle’s softly uttered threat,
and his anger doused like water on flames. “
My
uncle
ordered this secret mission. Want to know what he said when I dared
one single question?”

Instantly sobered, Ban shook his head. He’d only seen the
war commander lose his temper once, but he’d seen the results of it many times.
Not only terrible floggings before the entire assembled academy and garrison,
but he’d heard of people vanishing altogether.