Trickster's Choice (31 page)

“I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace,” Aly told him softly.

Mequen nodded. “Gurhart swears by his own blood there are no other assassins among his people,” Mequen continued, his dark eyes weary as he gazed at Aly. “He says he knew nothing of the assassins’ true purpose in taking work with his caravan. Some of his people had vanished, so he was forced to hire these. I think we must assume those who disappeared while they were in Dimari were killed by the assassins, so that Gurhart would be forced to take them on.”

Aly nodded. It was what she had expected they would hear. Hauling goods out to the back of beyond was not a trip anyone enjoyed. The road was hard and its dangers were greater than the coastal routes. Gurhart would have leaped at the chance to replace his missing people, and assumed the vanished workers had simply decided not to go to Tanair.

The duke’s voice, husky with exhaustion, hardened. “What I find interesting, god’s messenger, is that you did not warn us that danger was on the way. Instead, as far as my wife or I could learn from Ulasim or Fesgao,
you
observed the newcomers with the caravan and viewed them as a danger. It argues, you see, that the god has placed you here not as his oracle, but as his warrior.”

“Oh, no, Your Grace,” Aly said, gleaming with innocence. “I’d break a nail on one of those dreadful swords. I just have a memory for faces. Maybe I saw one of the assassins back in Rajmuat. Well, he’d no right to be with a Lombyn caravan, had he? Unless he was up to no good, of course. I said as much to Lokeij, who thought it worth passing along.”

“And that is another thing,” said the duke. “How is it that I find my chief defenders here in the keep are servants and off-duty men-at-arms, not Veron and the men on watch? It was perfectly obvious that Ulasim and Fesgao were in command here, and that they consulted you. I will have the truth now, if you please.”

Behind her mask of wide-eyed harmlessness, Aly cursed. She had walked head-on into his next hard question. She thought fast. “I only noticed something odd, as I said,” she lied. “And I wasn’t sure of Veron, being a royal spy and all. He was carefully watched, I assure you. We made certain he sent no reports to the Crown after he reached Tanair. As for using the servants, it stands to reason that anyone Veron picks for regular night duty is probably someone loyal to him alone, willing to admit Crown servants with orders against Your Grace.

“That those men are mostly the pure-luarin men-at-arms is not a factor?” Mequen wanted to know.

Aly sighed to herself. Why couldn’t this man have been stupid? Instead she replied, “Your Grace would have to inquire of Ulasim and Fesgao. Perhaps the ones with raka blood look up to Your Grace for marrying a raka the first time around.”

“And producing half-raka daughters in the Rittevon royal line?” asked the duke very quietly.

Aly looked down and twiddled her thumbs. He was in possession of far too much of the whole picture for her comfort. “Your Grace’s servants are devoted,” she said.

Mequen scowled. “Are you incapable of giving a straight answer?” he demanded.

Aly grinned at him. “Not always, Your Grace,” she replied impishly.

Mequen drummed his fingers on his leg. “We would be dead tonight were it not for you people of our household,” he said at last. “Be sure I will not forget it.” His gaze hardened. “
Any
of it, Aly.”

She scratched her head. “You know, Your Grace, this will go so much easier for everyone if you accept the god’s gifts without question,” she reminded him. “Take it from me, you’ll just give yourself headaches this way.”

Mequen smiled. “So I will. I suppose inquiring into your origins comes under the heading of questioning the god’s gifts.”

Aly bowed her head meekly. “Oh, undoubtedly, Your Grace.”

“Very well. You are dismissed—with my thanks.”

Aly was about to open the door when she thought of something else. She faced the duke. “Your Grace also owes thanks to Lady Saraiyu,” she said, not sure if she was overstepping her bounds.

“She will have her sword lessons again, if that is what concerns you,” replied Mequen. “After tonight, I think your Tortallan king is wiser than we are, to allow women to take up arms. Sleep well.”

A noble maiden must convey dignity and chastity without appearing to think about either one. Let common-born girls tussle in the hay with their loutish swains. The future of your family’s bloodline and your future lord’s bloodline should be your greatest concern. Let no man but one of your family embrace you. Let no man but your betrothed kiss any more than your fingertips; let your betrothed kiss you only on fingers, cheek, or forehead, lest he think you unchaste. And never allow yourself to be alone with a man, to safeguard the precious jewel of your reputation. No well-born maiden ever suffered from keeping her suitors at arm’s length. Your chastity will make you a prize to your future husband’s house and an honor to your own.

—From
Advice to Young Noblewomen,

by Lady Fronia of Whitehall (in Maren),
given to Aly on her twelfth birthday by her godsmother, Queen Thayet

T
o be on the safe side, Aly suggested to Ulasim that he might want to question Gurhart, to see if he told the head footman the same story he had given to the duke. She looked on as Ulasim and Fesgao interrogated the man using truthdrops. Gurhart’s answers were the same as those he’d given Mequen. It was just a safety measure, but Aly was determined not to be overconfident again. She had been virtually sure of Gurhart’s innocence. He was too terrified to lie, and he should have been. Anyone but Mequen would have confiscated all Gurhart owned and demanded lives as well. Here in the Isles, the duke didn’t even need to have the executions approved by a royal court, as he would in Tortall. On his own lands in the Isles, the luarin noble had the rights of a king. Bronau would have demanded everything, but with Sarai to plead with him for clemency, he gave way.

Aly also made sure to be on hand as Veron, Fesgao, and the men searched the caravan board by board. As she had expected, they had found nothing in the assassins’ gear to indicate who had hired them. As professionals, they had stripped themselves of anything personal before they joined Gurhart on Lombyn.

Returning to the castle after the search, Aly was joined by old Lokeij. He looked none the worse for his late evening. He was teasing her for her yawns as they wandered into the inner courtyard. There one of the corporals put the off-duty armsmen through sword drills. Today their numbers included Sarai, paired off with Fesgao, and the duchess, who was learning the beginning drills under the corporal’s instruction.

“Is she not beautiful?” asked Lokeij softly as he watched Sarai parry and disengage with catlike grace. “Like Gunapi—”

“The Sunrose, the goddess, I know,” Aly interrupted, watching the girl and her partner. “If she doesn’t keep her guard up, she’ll be skewered by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Lokeij looked up at Aly with a frown. “You know so much about it, I suppose.”

Aly opened her mouth to say she knew plenty about swordplay, then closed it. Finally she said, “I watched lots of armsmen practicing. I even saw the Lioness fight.”

“Who?” asked Lokeij.

Aly stared at the little man. Who had not heard of her mother? “The King’s Champion of Tortall,” she informed him. “The first female knight in over a century. The Lady Alanna of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau.”

Lokeij shrugged. “A luarin,” he said dismissively. “I only pay attention to them when it’s a matter of survival or of protecting my lady’s girls.” He rubbed a hand over his bristled chin thoughtfully. “So she’s good, this Lioness?”

“She’s never lost a fight as King’s Champion!” Aly said, offended by Lokeij’s disinterest. This was her
mother,
a lady acknowledged by all to be poetry with a sword in her hand. She looked at Sarai just as Fesgao sent the girl’s sword flying into the air. “Your Sunrose has a way to go to beat Alanna the Lioness.”

She walked on to the castle, feeling wistful. She’d never had to say more than her mother’s name to describe her before. She was truly away from home, to say “Lioness” and not have every person within hearing turn to listen.
This
is a terrible time to find that I miss her, Aly thought, picking up her step. There’s nothing I can do about it until autumn.

To shake off her mood Aly went to Chenaol and begged for chores. She was setting the dais table when Sarai walked into the great hall from outside, straggle-haired and sweat-soaked. She massaged her sword wrist wearily. Aly guessed that Sarai hadn’t practiced as much as she’d meant to since her last official lesson.

She was about to call out a suggestion that Sarai wrap her arm in hot, damp towels when Bronau emerged from the study near the staircase. He halted Sarai with a touch on the shoulder and murmured in her ear. Sarai looked up into his face, startled, then glanced around with the look of someone checking for her parents. Aly knew that look very well, having often used it herself. She held perfectly still. With the afternoon’s light fading, the dais was in shadow, and so was she.

Sarai nodded and whispered to the prince. Then she continued her climb up the stairs, while Bronau retreated into the study and closed the door.

It had been open before, Aly realized. The prince had been sitting in there, waiting for Sarai to return.

Once the table was set, Aly returned to the kitchen and took Chenaol aside. “Let Hasui pour,” she murmured to the cook. “I have things to do.”

Chenaol nodded and beckoned to Hasui. Aly left to wash up.

She ate in the shadows at the foot of the stair, her supper cheese and venison slices jammed into a cut roll. All seemed normal on the dais. Bronau, seated between Winnamine and Sarai, plied the duchess with his usual easy flow of conversation and compliments. He seemed to ignore Sarai next to him.

Sarai, too, tried to pretend interest in Dove, seated next to her, and in her food, but she wasn’t good at it. A blush mantled her cheeks. She had put a jeweled chain as a band around her forehead, with a citrine droplet dangling at its center. Citrines glinted from her earlobes. Her pale yellow silk dress had a neckline properly meant for court dinners, not country ones. A gold chain with a large gold-tinted pearl drew attention to the shadow between her breasts.

Aly shook her head. If ever a girl was dressed for an assignation, it was Sarai. Aly could have taught her a thing or two about sneaking away to meet a man. Everyone in the room suspected, particularly her parents. She couldn’t wait to see how the girl would get away from her family.

Getting to her feet at the end of the meal, Sarai stumbled, bumping into Bronau. He fell sideways against Winnamine as the duchess raised her wine cup to her lips. Wine spilled down the front of Winnamine’s rose-colored gown.

As servants, Bronau, and Mequen scrambled to help the duchess, Sarai quietly ducked out through the servants’ door behind the dais. Aly had guessed that would be her way out. She entered the passage through another door under the shadow of the stair. On this level the hall passed around the outer wall, allowing servants to bring dishes or messages to the dais without being seen by everyone in the room. The servants’ stairs to the upper floors also ended here. The ground floor level had two exits, one directly into the kitchen, one to the outdoor area where Nawat had brought down the pair of would-be assassins.

To the left of the outside door lay the ladies’ garden, a small green oasis with a fountain, flowers, and trees tucked between the castle and keep walls, in a spot that drew sunlight every day. Its edges were planted with pines and ferns, which made it seem like part of a forest. The plants also gave Aly cover to hide in as Sarai arranged herself on the broad lip of the fountain. With the approach of night the garden was deep in shadow. The only light came from torches on a walkway on the outer curtain wall. In these conditions Aly got so close to Sarai that she could hear the girl’s dress rustle as she fidgeted. Aly settled down to wait.

The musical part of the evening’s entertainment in the great hall had begun when Bronau came down the flagstone path. “Sarai, my dear.” His voice was warm and soft, intimate.

Sarai’s dress whispered as she got to her feet. “Your Highness, good evening.”

Bronau chuckled. He kissed Sarai’s hand and sat on the lip of the fountain, pulling her down beside him. “That was very clever. I’m not sure Winna will thank you, but I don’t believe anyone noticed you left in all the excitement.”

“You said you had something important and private to discuss,” Sarai pointed out shyly.

“But I am distracted by the music of your voice, those lovely eyes, the sweet curve of your lips …”

Aly couldn’t see, but she didn’t need to. Sarai’s quiet gasp, cut off abruptly, and the rustle of silk, painted a clear picture of a kiss. Oh, dear me, Aly thought, shaking her head. Making up to your host’s daughter—bad prince! Now, why do you suppose he’s doing it on the sly? He’s not married, and her parents are his friends. He could probably get permission from His Grace to court Sarai.

“My lord prince!” Sarai was definitely flustered. “It’s so improper!”

“I know. I apologize.” Bronau’s voice was a little hoarse. “My feelings carried me away. To watch you ride, to see you among your devoted subjects, like a true queen—none of Oron’s wives were as graceful or as gracious as you. Don’t look so alarmed. No one can hear us.”

“But you talk something like treason, Your Highness,” Sarai warned gently. “I am no queen, only the daughter of a disgraced nobleman.”

“But if I asked you to be queen of my heart?”

Aly crinkled her nose with distaste. She had sighed over speeches like that one in the stories she had read and the romantic ballads she had heard. In real life they sounded tawdry. He was a prince of the realm, nearly twenty years older than Sarai. How could he talk like a minstrel performing for ladies in a bower? Did he think Sarai had no brains or honor?

“Your Highness, why have you not asked my father’s permission to address me in such terms?” Sarai asked. Her voice was small but firm. “He is your friend. So is my stepmother. For that matter, you used to court Winna.”