Banner of the Damned (39 page)

Ivandred ran out, whistling to his trumpeter. He was in the midst of issuing his orders when Davaud arrived, panting.

Ivandred said briefly, “Ride north. Intercept.”

Davaud fought for breath. Elsewhere in the camp, Thias was ordering everyone about. The servants obeyed, then paused as their own counts, countesses, barons and baronesses called out conflicting orders according to their own ideas, for they did not like their own servants given commands by Thias Altan. It would set a dangerous precedent at court.

Servants stood in disorder, faces turning from side to side as the courtiers assumed manners of elaborate politeness and vied for primacy, some still convinced that they should proceed to Alarcansa, and others that they should guard the road.

In contrast, Ivandred said three or four things in his home language, and the Marloven tents snapped to, the horses’ shoes were checked, weapons stashed, bows slung.

“I’m riding with you,” Davaud said.

“We will ride fast,” Ivandred warned. “And we have only our own remounts.”

“I can borrow a mount from someone who has fast horses,” Davaud said, thinking regretfully of his hips. But he could see Hatahra’s face. Whatever the cost, he had to be there. And so he would be.

He left behind his servants, baggage, and that stupid shield he wouldn’t have known how to use. They rode out, unnoticed by Thias—who was arguing with the Duke of Gaszin, the Countess of Isqua, and several barons about which way was most efficient to surround the royal
palace—and unnoticed by the servants, cooks, and stable hands buzzing about like bees over their half-cooked breakfast in the shambles of their camp.

By morning, Torsu had worked herself into resentful anger. Why was a rabbity hum like Nereith trusted in the princess’s secret presence, and not someone who actually had brains—and art?

They don’t need my art if Princess Lasthavais is hiding, of course
, Torsu reasoned. But she knew when she’d been south-gated, and it rankled.

When she happened to see Kivic at breakfast, and he happened to look her way, it was instinct to whisper, “She’s back—and I didn’t even know it. What’s more, that bird-wit Nereith did. Can you imagine?”

Kivic grimaced sympathetically, his eyes wide and smiling with promise. “Come along, tell me all about it.”

“I can’t. I have to get to the queen’s rooms. It’s lace day.”

“Too bad. You’d get a laugh out of the chirps I’m hearing from the stable hands. Here, I’ll come with you. Wait till you hear about the near fight between Altan and Sentis’s hummers.”

“Fight? What about?” she asked as Kivic fell in step beside her.

“Oh, they’re all in an uproar. Seems half the court is stringing out along the roads, all hoping to watch the play—er, I mean the war.” He grinned. “Here, let’s take the longer route, through the old gardens. Then you can cut back and not be seen.”

Torsu agreed. She certainly did not want to be seen, and so she paced beside him as he retailed gossip in a joking voice. He led the way behind the new ducal wing to the old juniper garden, as yet untouched, as it hid all the unsightly construction that was only carried on when court was absent.

When he was done, he asked casually, “Where would Nereith be now?”

“Asleep, of course, since she had night duty.”

“Perfect.” He halted under the shadows of a great, spreading juniper. His hands slid up Torsu’s shoulders to her neck, and he smiled down into her face. “And here’s a lovely thought to hold to: she’ll never bother you again.”

Torsu looked up in surprise as his hands stroked her throat, his thumbs brushing over the pulse above her collarbones. She opened her mouth to ask why, but no sound came out. With faint regret, and a real sense of
gratitude for the pleasure she’d given him, he made her death both clean and quick, then laid her gently down, rolling her body under the deep green branches far enough that the scent of broken needles and resin made him sneeze.

Then he loped back to his room to report. Jurac would have to move
now
.

Getting the princess out could not be done by magic, as the entire palace was warded against transfer.

Kivic had already ascertained that Lasthavais drank caffeo, and he knew whom, from the kitchens, to relay false messages to and whom to commandeer. Things were agreeably chaotic already as servants ran to and fro packing traveling baskets for courtiers who had taken a sudden notion to ride east.

Kivic slid in, got his caffeo, and it was easy enough to find an isolated corner so he could slip powdered sleepweed into the porcelain pot. He hailed a passing page. The armed heralds weren’t even there any more—the queen herself had sent them the day before to guard her consort on his ride east.

“Here, Nereith said that this is to go to the princess’s suite,” he said.

The girl rolled her eyes. “But she isn’t here.”

Kivic smiled his charming smile and shrugged. “Orders.”

The girl sighed, giving an irritated shake of her shoulders, but she took the tray. Everything had gone crazy, it seemed, but she was obedient, and so she carried the tray upstairs, and scratched at the princess’s outer door. And to her surprise the door opened and Poppy, the princess’s page, appeared. She looked down at the tray, hesitating.

“Nereith sent it,” said the palace page.

With a shrug Poppy bore the tray inside, then closed and locked the door. She brought it to Lasthavais’s inner parlor, where the princess was immersed in the book about Ivandred’s ancestor.

“Caffeo, from Nereith,” Poppy said, when she looked up.

“I didn’t order it, but now that I smell it, it seems a good idea,” Lasva said, smiling. “Thank you.”

She took a sip. Was the chocolate not quite sweetened? It had a bitter edge. She poured the cup back and swirled the pot around, poured more, and drank that. A little better, though some of that taste remained. Enough so that the desire for it went away after one cup.

But one cup was enough. The handsomely written words on the page flickered and swam, and a huge yawn forced her jaw open.

She rose. The sound of her moving brought Poppy running. “I think I will retire,” Lasva said. “You needn’t wait. Is that the bell for the Hour of Spice? Go, have your meal, and on your way back, please ask my sister’s people if there is any news.”

Poppy curtseyed, delighted to be ordered to listen to whispers. She locked the door and sped downstairs, not realizing until much later that her mistress’s thoughtfulness had saved her life.

Kivic used a heavy dose of sleepweed on the four remaining of the upstairs dressers, via cups of caffeo with distilled liquor to mask the taste. Three of them were glad enough to break duty rules and take a refresher. One, though, lectured Kivic on daring to approach her during duty, and with liquor in the caffeo—she could smell it! Still smiling his cheery smile he cut her remonstrance short, strangling her with a lot less finesse than he’d used on Torsu. He did not enjoy being lectured by these Colendi fools he would never see again.

As he’d done with the previous three, he dragged her body to one of the brocade-covered tables that lined the halls, and left it underneath. The others would waken to considerable surprise and aching heads. This one would have to be found.

Kivic climbed over one of the balconies in the empty consort suite and made his way to Lasthavais’s chambers. The windows were unlocked, open to the air. He found no more servants. As well. There would be no chance of getting them to drink sleep potions, and he hadn’t looked forward to killing little Poppy or some other young page, all of whom were both friendly and harmless.

The princess lay on her bed alone, deeply asleep.

He looked down at her face. He had never been this close to her. Even in sleep the curve of her lips was entrancing, her coloring warm, her brow intelligent. What would be her reaction if she opened her eyes?

It was strange. He was alone with the princess half the continent seemed to want—more, if the news about the Marloven fellow was true. He ran his hands lightly over her peachy-rose gown, exquisitely stitched in a floating, gleaming fabric unheard of in Chwahirsland, where the women dressed sturdily against the ever-present cold. Her curves, after all, were just female curves. The pleasure in touching her was too mild to be termed pleasure; for that to ignite, there must be the pleasure of her response. Interesting.

But not interesting enough to linger. So he searched her with quick
efficiency for hidden pockets and transfer tokens, or magical scrollcases. Nothing. She had expected to be alone.

Beautiful she was, supposedly with will to match wit to wit. What would her life be like with Jurac Sonscarna and his somber moods?

Kivic laughed soundlessly, located the wardrobe, and pulled out a summer cloak with which he wrapped her up.

Then he trod to the doors to unlatch the locks, and there were two of Jurac’s men, wearing lamentably ill-fitting House servant garb that Kivic had smuggled out the previous week.

They took up station, watching in all directions, and there was Jurac himself. He alone did not wear servant garb, but there was no one to see him as he looked around appreciatively, and then at Kivic’s open-handed gesture went to claim his bride.

She never even stirred as Jurac picked her up. In silence he stood holding her against him, at last, at last, the subtle scent in her hair making him almost dizzy.

“Let’s go.” he said to the waiting men.

FIVE
O
F
A B
LACK
C
OAT

D

istant bells rang the midday hour as Kaidas and his little troop stopped for something to eat. The stable hand went to scout fresh mounts. Stupid with too many nights of shorted sleep and then one night with no sleep at all, Kaidas sat over his wine-fish and lemon-touched butter beans as he tried to force his tired mind to examine the reasons for his increasing uneasiness, that sense he was too late.

Why did his mind keep circling round that conversation with Carola in the baroness’s bedroom? If he could recapture the chain of logic—Jurac—courtship—the possibility that Chwahir had slipped over the passes one by one while everyone was paying attention to the outer two passes….

What if Jurac was already
in
Colend? If half the court was busy galloping east toward Alarcansa, and the rest were turning their faces westward in expectation of an attack from two fronts…

“Here’s your caffeo, my lord,” said his valet.

Kaidas drank it off, his eyes stinging against the scald on his tongue. Good. He gasped, fighting the pain. At least it cleared his head.

Assuming Jurac wanted Lasva, and not the city, then he wouldn’t need an army. All he needed were a few people, who would wait—

“North.”

Two of the men said, “What?”

Neas came stomping in, a wide grin slashed across his sun-browned face. “Horses ready, your grace. Royal city isn’t far now.”

Kaidas realized he’d given voice to his thought. He shook his head. “We either waste time talking, or we go north and sit on the quickest road to the middle pass, and intercept him going either to the city, or from it, if he’s already been there.”
And just waiting for Lasva to arrive home from Sartor.

Neas crashed his mighty fist onto the massive oaken table, making all the dishes jump. “Let’s go!” the man roared.

They ran out. The rain was steadily increasing.
Good
, Kaidas thought, veering between weariness and exhilaration as he mounted up.
If it slows us up, it will slow the Chwahir, will it not?

Jurac had never actually carried anyone before. It seemed to take forever to get out of the palace, not because they’d be seen. Royal privacy was absolute, which was why I’d only seen the back garden behind the royal suite—the very route Jurac was taking—after the senior scribe had gained permission for our Fifteen test.

So the problem for the Chwahir was not being seen, but the slowness of Jurac’s progress, as he had to stop frequently and rest.