Sasharia En Garde (9 page)

She lay on the cot under the blanket, clapped the globe out
and fell asleep, waking suddenly when men’s voices brought her sitting up in
alarm. She pressed her hands over her mouth, then remembered the illusory wall.
She could hear anyone in the passage outside, but if she made noise, they’d
hear her.

“. . . not much of a secret, if you ask me,”
came an unfamiliar tenor voice.

“More of a shortcut.” That deep, slightly husky voice was
familiar, a voice from nightmares. It belonged to Dannath Randart, Canary’s
right-hand slimebag. “But the king said, add it to the patrol sites. It and the
main stairway through that old refectory are the only way to the Destination
chamber, and he seems to think someone is using magic to come or go.”

“All right. But what are we watching for?”

Two sets of footsteps started down the narrow tower stairs,
and Sun knew the voices would soon fade. She hesitated, then eased the curtain
back and plunged through the icy illusory wall. She tiptoed barefoot to the
stairs, grimacing at the feel of cold slimy moss.

“Anyone. Anyone at all. But the king mentioned females.”

“Commander? We were all shifted from badly needed coastal
patrol to watch a castle for . . . women?”

Sun followed down two, three more steps.
Come on, Randart, you know you want to tell
him
, she urged mentally.

“Yes,” War Commander Randart said shortly as he reached the
arched tower door. “And if any appear, bring them straight to the king. To no
one else. No matter who they are. No matter what they say.”

The creak of the heavy door caused Sun to crouch on her step
and peer around the angled stairs. A shaft of early morning sunlight outlined
Randart’s tall, broad-shouldered form. Except for looking older and even
tougher, he hadn’t changed much. His shaggy dark hair was graying, his hard
face lined. The other man was also tall and broad, as you’d expect from the
king’s own men-at-arms. Younger than Randart, though.

He thrust the door open and morning light lanced halfway up the
stairs, stopping just short of her toes. The men thumped the door shut behind
them and the poised bar
thocked
into
place.

Sun slipped back upstairs to the secret room. She ripped the
tarnished silver stitching from the brown tunic, and the bits of rotted red
silk. Mentally she heard Math’s laughing voice.
Livery was supposed to be gold. Silver and gold. But for a long time
they couldn’t get the dyes to match, and so the runners and warriors were
galloping around in pumpkin orange, rust, even pink and yellow, if the sun
changed the dye. Not exactly impressive! Finally they settled on brown
.

They were still wearing brown, she’d seen. But with the
Merindar cup over the heart, and not the firebird of the Zhavalieshins.

She packed her things together, dug underneath the folded
clothes, and brought up the rapier she’d laid in the chest that last night.

Her hands were calm as she pulled the baldric over her
shoulder and shifted the sword to her hip. She undid the knife from under her
trousers and strapped it on outside. The little knife came next, tucked
sideways into her sash the way Math had taught her so long ago.

She knew who the enemy was now, and where to go. But first
she had to get out of the castle without being seen.

After a quick listen at the false door, back she trod down
to the tower door that led to the courtyard adjacent to the stable. From the
courtyard outside came the muted clatter of horse hooves. Ah, that would be
Randart’s departure. The watch had changed, and the patrols were just beginning.
Now was the time to slip out, before the newcomers had discovered all the blind
spots and had deployed watchers to cover them.

And hopefully before they’d had their morning coffee and
were awake.

As she eased the door open, she smiled, remembering her discovery
so long ago that this world had coffee. Proof that the humans here were indeed
from Earth—coffee and chocolate. Her smile was a little sad. She could remember
thinking,
What can go wrong, if a world
is beautiful and has magic, coffee and chocolate?

Answer: it also has humans, with all the familiar greed,
ambition, and intent. Ah well.

Courtyard. Open. With no better route out of the castle, she
eased along the inner wall, watching the sentry walk opposite. So far, no one
in view along those crenellations. Randart had probably concentrated the guards
around the Destination tower on the other side of the courtyard, inside as well
as out.

She slunk farther along the wall, one hand on her sword to
keep it from scraping the stone. A flicker in her peripheral vision made her
duck behind a hay cart tucked in the corner next to the stable door.

She crouched down and peered between the hay mound and the
cart’s seat up at the opposite wall, along which walked two guards carrying
spears, one of the men wolfing down a bread-and-cheese sandwich, his spear
tucked in the crook of his arm. From their shuffling gait and their desultory
conversation, she figured they’d just been woken up. The real go-getters were
probably searching more methodically inside.

Good. Her job now was to keep it that way.

As soon as they passed beyond the lower tower, she slipped
around the cart and into the stable. The animals paid little attention. Heads
bobbed in the loose boxes as stable hands rubbed down the mounts that had
galloped in that morning. She ghost-footed past. Some of the horses twitched
ears at her, and one snorted, but the stable hands were too occupied to pay
attention.

She found another door adjacent to a tack room, and sneaked
out. The long early morning shadows stretched westward, with two silhouetted
guards standing at either end of the wall. The road leading up to the stable
entrance bisected a broad grassy expanse, no cover whatsoever.

So she hugged the wall until she reached the north side,
with its rough terrain overgrown with weeds and brush. None of it had been
cleared away for decades.

Picking her way with care over the rough, rocky ground—she
did not want to rustle the shrubs—she eased away from the castle until she
reached the shelter of a stand of young maples on a ridge. Now hidden from the
castle’s walls by their thick canopy, she slipped onto a narrow animal path and
hurried downhill to the stream that fed the castle’s water supply, and thence
along the stream until the castle slid out of sight.

The stream zigzagged steadily downhill. She paused to drink
from the cold, clear water from time to time, then clambered awkwardly parallel
to the stream, toiling uphill when the ground rose.

Her stomach roiled with hunger by the time she reached flat
ground. But no convenient fruit trees grew in the middle of that blossoming
forest of mostly cedar, maple, with chestnut trees here and there. The season
was early summer, from the look of the bright green growth and the heady sweet
smell of bloom. Birds twittered, cheeped and warbled everywhere, hidden by the
green canopy overhead. No nuts would fall for months.

At least she’d stumbled upon an old road, shaded by massive
oak and maples. Here the air was considerably cooler, and she was no longer
being scratched by shrubs, all of which seemed to grow prickly leaves. She
stretched out her legs, forcing herself up to a rapid march. The plain brown
tunic would mark her as a runner. If she came upon any of Canary’s men, she
would lie like a rug about being a messenger, and hope that old names and
castles matched up with present owners.

The sun glinted high overhead when her ears registered a
sound that didn’t belong in the rustle of a midday forest landscape. Math had
told her,
Don’t try to identify every
sound and sight, only those that don’t belong.

Instinct got the message first. When her mind caught up with
the Danger Flag, she discovered both sword and knife in hand. She hefted them,
regretting the two years since her last fencing lesson, and faced the three
scruffy highwaymen.

Two feints from either side and she knew they were used to
working together, though they moved slowly, their strokes perfunctory instead
of precise. She’d instinctively turned her back to an enormous thornberry tree,
so the three could not surround her. They stayed well out of one another’s
range as they tried to close in from either side.

She used her old backup tricks: kicked dirt up into the face
of the first, lunged at the second, and while he was shifting his weight to
block and the third side-stepped to back him up, she whirled and cut low. Her
point stabbed the knee of the third guy, who’d shifted to back up his pal.

He let out a howl as his partner slashed down at her. She
flourished her blade into a spiraling downward block, turning the strike toward
the ground.

By then Dirtface had recovered, and switched his sword from
one hand to the other. The angle of his wrists, the set of his shoulders,
caught at memory. She flicked a look at his face. About her own age, heavy
chin, big jug-handle ears—

“I know you,” she exclaimed, backing up, her point hovering
midway between the two on their feet.

The pair also halted, Dirtface squinting.

“You were one of Math’s men.” She waved her sword for
emphasis. “Robbing people?”

Dirtface gaped. “Your—your highness?” He turned to the
others. “That accent. It’s her highness. Princess Atanial!”

Atanial! The name Sun hadn’t heard for fifteen years, the
last time being spoken by Math, just before kissing her goodbye.
Atan—bright sun—my darling
. With his
kiss warm on her lips, he’d pushed her through the World Gate.

“Hoo.” The second one looked away guiltily.

“Still in . . . practice,” the third
whispered, voice tight with pain. He sat in the dirt, hands pressed to his knee
as blood seeped nastily between his fingers.

She flung down her sword, heedless of the others holding
their weapons. “Let me look at that knee. It felt like my point went in too
far.”

“Oh yes. Oh yes,” the man muttered, teeth clenched.

“Well, what are you idiots doing holding people up? Math
must be dead or he’d die of shame.”

Three variations of upset and dismay faced her.

Dirtface, he of the ears, said, “We never heard he was dead.
But he isn’t here, either.”

The second man, the leanest one, with a thin ferret face,
had been silent a while. He jerked his thumb at his taller companion. “Ye
recognized them ears. Didn’t ya?”

Sun laughed. “Yes. I don’t suppose you fellows have anything
to eat?”

Dirtface had pulled a length of mostly clean cloth from the
pouch at his sash, which he handed down to her. She helped the man she’d
wounded to shove up his trouser leg, and she bound his knee snugly.

Dirtface nodded approval when she was done. “If we did, we’d
be eatin’ and not robbin’.”

Sun laughed again, winning rueful smiles from the others.
“So here we are. Four middle-aged folks starving in the middle of the forest.
Three running from the law one way and one running from the law the other, I
guess? Come on, let’s at least find a stream. I badly need information.” She
added wryly, “And to rest my bones.”

The two helped their companion up, and they made their way
off the road to the river, which ran more or less parallel. They washed faces
and hands, and the wounded man soaked his leg in the water, then rebound the
bandage. They sat on the grass, Sun with shoes and socks off. She hadn’t walked
so far in ages. Her feet hurt. It felt wonderful to soak them in the cold
stream.

She kicked her toes in and out of the sparkling water,
sensing that the armsmen—former armsmen—were uneasy. “I arrived in Khanerenth
last night. My daughter is here, apparently in the company of some pirate.”

Dirtface pursed his lips. “If it’s Zathdar, she’ll be held
for ransom from the king. If someone else, no telling what’s going on.”

“What can you tell me about this Zathdar?”

Dirtface shrugged. The second man said, “Rumor from the
coast has it he attacks the king’s fleet. Keeps ’em in a stir. Messin’ up
trade. Randart has a prince’s fortune on his head as bounty. But no one can
catch him. They can’t find his lair.”

“I mean to find my daughter, lair or no lair.” Sun smacked
her hands on her knees. “First I need to know a few things. Like, what year is
it? What is the last you heard about Math? And—forgive me—but why are you
robbing people?”

Dirtface looked at the others, who all deferred to him. “The
year is ’54. No word of the prince for ten years, now. And we took to the road
because there is no other way to fill our bellies.”

“Of course the times don’t match up,” she murmured. “I
should have known that. But what’s this about no way to earn a living?”

“The King.” Dirtface made a spitting motion to the side. “He
threw us out of the castle guard. Said lay down arms and disperse or he’d hang
us all, meaning Prince Math’s guard, man and woman. Some found work. Others
found closed doors and threats.
We
got the doors and threats. Not even a stable would take us.”

“It’s them ears, see,” put in the second man, with a thumb
toward Dirtface. “Everyone knows the Silvag family. Personal guards to
Zhavalieshins for time out of mind. Big ears, every one.”

“True.” The third man winced. “And we don’t know anything
but sword and horse.”

“What about teaching at that war school?” Sun asked. “Though
I remember it was mostly maritime, still—”

“Closed in ’34.” Silvag lifted a shoulder.

“Opened again after the Siamis War,” the second one said.
“But Commander Randart made certain none of
us
can poke a nose near the place.”

Siamis War? Who or what or where was that? Obviously she had
some history to catch up on. But that could come later. “All right, then answer
me this. Do you know where Steward Eban lives?”