Trickster's Choice (6 page)

He caught Aly’s eye and smiled, his face lighting with humor and tremendous charm. “I know. I’m scarcely attired for the weather.”

Aly gave him a sidelong glance, that of a woman who likes what she sees. He probably saw that look all the time and surely expected it. He smirked at her.

“It’s not for me to say, my lord prince,” Aly murmured. The relationship between Tortall and the Isles had always been unsteady. She would get a measure of this man now so that she could add to her father’s notes about him when she returned. Their people seldom got the chance to talk to one of the most powerful men in the Copper Isles.

Bronau’s eyebrows came together with an almost audible snap. “Come here, girl,” he said, beckoning.

Aly obeyed. There was little danger that he might try anything improper. Under slave etiquette, another man’s slaves were to be left alone, unless the master or the slave involved indicated otherwise.

The prince gripped Aly’s chin with his hand and inspected her face. “Not a drop of raka blood in you, is there?” he asked, curious.

“No, my lord prince,” murmured Aly, keeping her eyes down.

Bronau released her. “I don’t like the precedent, keeping luarin slaves. It gives the raka ideas. See here—if these raka dogs bother you, don’t hesitate to tell Duke Mequen,” he told Aly sternly. “He looks out for the slave women, and you can’t trust the raka to behave themselves unless they know there’s a whip close to hand.”

“My lord prince is too kind,” Aly said, bowing once again. Bronau obviously didn’t know that Chenaol, who could juggle razor-sharp cleavers with ease, had discouraged most problems of that sort. “If you will excuse me, I will bring some refreshment to you,” she murmured.

Bronau nodded and settled into his chair, watching the embers in the nearest brazier. Aly fetched the pitcher of wine and the tray of fruit, cakes, and cheese the cook had put together to the sitting room. As she set the tray where Bronau could reach it, then poured him a glass of wine, she made sure that nothing in her manner told him that she was interested in giving him more than food and drink. It wouldn’t take more than the right look and the right smile with this man. She would be in his lap with his hand under her tunic before she could sneeze. Chenaol was right: Bronau had a flirt’s air. When Aly got home, she’d suggest to Da that they try one of their female agents with him. Bronau might tell far more than was prudent to a pretty, listening ear.

Once he was served, she left him. She fetched a mop and set to work cleaning up the water the guests had tracked onto the marble floor of the hall. She was nearly finished when Ulasim raced down the steps from the family quarters. He slowed when he approached the azure sitting room, straightened his tunic, then went in to the prince. Both men emerged a moment later, to climb upstairs.

Aly watched them go. She’d give much to know what Bronau told the Balitangs. He’d said “royal business”—was that code for problems with the king? It could be. Oron was insane. Most of Rittevon House was these days. Aly’s own mother had been forced to kill a Rittevon princess years before, when that lady started to kill people with an axe. The present Isles king was her uncle, a fearful and unstable man who turned on favored courtiers overnight.

Eavesdropping was not an option. If she were observed anywhere but at her post by the door, she would be questioned. Instead she finished mopping the floor. Later she would see what she could learn to take home to her da.

The next day the duke and duchess summoned the household to the hall where they held parties. It was the first time that Aly had seen any of the Balitang family but her master and mistress. Chenaol named them for Aly. The proud, brown-skinned girls, imperious sixteen-year-old Saraiyu and small, intense, twelve-year-old Dovasary, were the daughters of the duke’s first marriage, to a raka noblewoman. His two full-luarin children, a four-year-old girl, Petranne, and three-year-old Elsren who was still awkward on his short, rounded legs, were by Duchess Winnamine. Other relatives who lived in the house were present, cousins who served Winnamine as ladies-in-waiting, a great-aunt, and the duke’s uncle.

Duchess Winnamine sat on the dais, her elegant hands neatly clasped in her bronze velvet lap. Her brown eyes were only slightly accented with kohl, her brown hair dressed in curls that were tied up, then threaded through a velvet net on her head. Her sharp, straight nose and neatly curved mouth gave evidence of a strong will. She wore pearl drops in her ears, a gold chain around her neck, and only three rings, which was restraint in jewelry for an Islander. Many wore rings on every finger and several earrings, men and women alike.

Duke Mequen rose to his feet as the last to enter closed the doors behind them. He was about five feet ten inches tall, with the solid build of a man who rode a great deal but spent little time practicing weapons skills. His dark eyes were set under perfectly curved brows and framed by laugh lines. His nose was broad and straight, his mouth wide, his chin square. He wore his dark hair clipped short to draw attention away from the fact that it was retreating from his forehead. He was somberly dressed luarin-fashion in a black linen tunic over a silvery shirt and gray hose, with a ruby-hilted dagger at his waist, a signet ring on the index finger of his left hand, and a gold hoop ring in one ear. Aly liked the look of him. She already knew from his servants that he was a fair man, if unconventional in the way he ran his home and chose his wives. Now she could also see that he was well mannered and thoughtful, always nice traits to find in a noble.

Slowly his people quieted. Mequen looked them over, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors,” he said, his deep voice clear throughout the room. “His Majesty is no longer confident about my loyalty. He has invited me to prove it with expensive presents. While he evaluates these presents, my family and I are invited to visit our estates on Lombyn Island, where we must stay until he feels better about us.”

Shock raced through the people like a physical thing. Some of their families, free and slave, had worked for the Balitangs for generations. Because the duke was uninterested in court intrigues, they had believed the king would never turn on him.

“This breaks our hearts,” Mequen said, his sorrow plain on his face and in his voice. “We are forced to sell lands and slaves to give the king the reassurances he requires. And those we can take with us are dreadfully few. Our Lombyn holdings, the inheritance of Duchess Sarugani”—the mother of his older daughters—“are small.” He glanced at his steward. “Our chief sources of income are not gold and gems but sheep, goats, and rabbits. We cannot live there as we are accustomed to do. We cannot feed you all.”

By now some of the women were crying. Husbands wrapped their arms around their wives. Children clung to their parents.

The duchess rose. “We will do our best to see you are cared for,” she said, her calm voice flowing over them. “Our friends have asked to hire or purchase many of you. We will separate no families. We will sell you to no one known to treat his people badly. As soon as provision has been made, you will be told. It will be soon. We must be on our way in just a week.”

The duke took up the explanation. “Should no one we trust offer for your service, we have sent for a matcher, one with connections and the magical Gift to see what your aptitudes may be. He will examine you and obtain new places for you. That begins today.” Mequen let out a deep sigh. “Some of you will come with us. Many of you already know who you are. For the rest, tell the steward if you desire to stay with us. But remember, we go to a rougher way of life, far from any town. We will have few amenities, less food. The highlands are colder than our jungles, the land inhospitable. Think it over.” He paused, then nodded. “May the gods bless you. May they grant us all voyages to safe harbors.”

Chenaol shook her head, her mouth in a tight line. “It’s back to the slave brokers for you, Aly girl, unless the matcher sees you have special skills.”

“And you?” Aly asked, not worried in the least. She needed just two more nights to complete her picks. Once she was rid of her metal collar, she could bid farewell to the Balitangs and the Isles alike.

“I stay with Lady Sarai and Lady Dove,” Chenaol replied. “Forever.” She left the room with the other departing servants, a short, round raka woman dressed luarin-fashion in an orange gown.

A curious way to put it, Aly thought as she mingled with the servants. Not “with the duke” or “with the family,” only with the two daughters of the first duchess. The raka duchess.

The longer Aly stayed here, the more she saw how frayed the relations between the full-blooded luarin and the full-blooded raka were. A push from the right people might throw the entire country into civil war. That was news worth taking home. Too often in the past the Copper Isles had meddled in Tortallan affairs. Perhaps its rulers needed something to keep them busy.

The next morning the slave matcher summoned all those who had not found other homes as yet. Most were the less skilled workers—hostlers, lower-ranking footmen and maids, slaves whom the carpenter and the smith would not need in the north, and Aly. After the family’s friends and well-wishers had made their selections, over forty slaves remained.

“How does this work?” Aly whispered to the boy who carried messages for the house as they lined up before the matcher. “I never heard of it before.”

The boy wasn’t surprised. Everyone knew Aly was fresh-caught out of Tortall. They never thought to wonder how she spoke Kyprish, the language of the islands, so well. “He looks at ya,” he whispered. “He’s got the magical Gift and all. He’s looked at the owners that hire through ’im, too, so he can match folks that go good together. Not that we’ll have much luck, us not having skills. ’Less he sees a talent. Sometimes they can, the Gifted matchers, anyways.”

Ulasim led them into the grand hall. People had come and gone over the last day to remove paintings, tapestries, and candelabra for sale. All that remained were the tables and chairs. They would be carried off in the morning.

Ulasim lined the slaves against the wall, his brown eyes alert for any sign of misbehavior. The matcher stood next to chairs occupied by Duke Mequen and Duchess Winnamine, waiting. He was a plump black man in typical raka garb: a wraparound jacket and sarong, both made of serviceable tan linen. He shaved his head but grew a tuft of beard, which he stroked as he talked to the Balitangs. Now Mequen nodded to him. The slave matcher started at the far end of the line.

Aly watched from under her lashes. After he had bathed each slave in the pale orange fire of his magical Gift, the matcher conferred with Mequen and Winnamine. Slowly he worked his way through the slaves until he was closer to Aly. She measured his Gift. He was powerful enough to notice her magical Sight. Doubtless he would try to do something with her because of it.

She had the Sight from her father, but its force was her mother’s legacy; magic ran strong in Alanna’s family. George used his Sight to tell when he was being lied to or when someone held out on him. Sometimes he could also recognize one who would be his friend or his enemy. It was different for Aly. Her sight enabled her to see immediately whether the person she looked at had magic or godhood; whether that person was ill, pregnant, or lying. It also revealed the presence of poison in water or food. All she had to do was concentrate on how she wished to see something. Her power made it possible for her to clearly discern the tiniest of details, things invisible to the normal eye, or to see far into the distance. A new master might value it for as long as she stayed with him or her. Aly was unimpressed by her skill. She would have preferred to have the all-purpose Gift wielded by her mother and her brother Thom.

The matcher had come to Aly’s neighbor. She closed her eyes against the glare of his Gift as the man weighed the young slave. Finished, he addressed Mequen and Winnamine. “I’ll keep him with the others, see if he can be trained. I’ll send your percentage of his final sale when it’s made.”

“Very well,” Winnamine said. “We’ve heard good things about your training school.”

“It’s to my advantage to treat them well,” the matcher replied. “It always pays off.” The messenger left. Finally the matcher came to Aly. “Look up into my eyes, girl,” he said, his melodic voice kind. “This won’t hurt.”

Aly met his gaze. The slightest hint of orange fire grew around his hands. Then the matcher hiccuped. “What?” he began to say.

Something changed. Inside his round frame Aly saw another body, compact, lean, wiry. Under his face lay another: square, the strong chin covered in a short beard, a brief nose broad at the tip, sparkling dark eyes, and short hair. This was
not
an internal aspect of the matcher; this was something else.

Well, well, Aly thought, amazed. I have a god.

Gold light spread from the matcher’s body, flaring out around him like a sun. The Balitangs stepped back, shielding their eyes against the light with their hands. Vast, bell-like tones that sounded vaguely like speech rang out, the effect so powerful that Mequen and Winnamine dropped to their knees.

Aly felt no urge to kneel, nor did that light hurt her eyes as it did those of her owners. She gazed at the being who had come to occupy the matcher’s body and leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Hello, there.” A crisp, light voice, not the matcher’s, came from the man’s lips. “I apologize that we weren’t able to meet earlier. I hope your journey here wasn’t too harrowing.”

“It was delightful,” Aly said with her best nice-girl smile. “All lovely and serene, like sleeping on lilies, only without the bees in my nose. You spoke to me in my dream.”

“I did,” the god said, averting his eyes in a falsely modest way. “You’ll get more. I don’t want you to get homesick.”

“But that’s so
thoughtful,
”Aly said innocently. “I’d thank you, but I just don’t have the words. Until I find some, you might tell me just who you are supposed to be. Won’t that be lovely?”

“Dear, you’re being deliberately obtuse,” the god inside the matcher teased. “You know a god when you see one. You may call me Kyprioth.”