King's Shield (52 page)

The scout waved a hand. “Tomorrow is agreed.”

The two mages placed their hands together in the way Evred and Inda had seen Signi do, only with far less grace. In fact, it seemed that the short one, who had begun nervous and trembling, was now smiling with a faint smugness. But as soon as the two men-at-arms closed in behind them, they all vanished, the air briefly stirring.

Rat Cassad nearly cracked his jaws on a yawn. “So that’s a diplomatic parley! If it was a meeting between battle grounds I’d call it stalling.”

The scout stood up and, using great care, pulled the heavy Montrei-Vayir House tabard up over his head.

“Tau said diplomats can spin talks out forever when they have to,” Inda said doubtfully as he rubbed his ears vigorously, then began to affix the earrings again. “But you’d think they’d want peace right away.”

“Unless—” Evred frowned as he extended his arm for the scout to lay the tabard over it. So much of what he’d seen struck him as odd, though he couldn’t define why.

The scout thought the frown was for him. “I tried not to, but I sweated these up something fierce,” he said in a low, apologetic voice, indicating the damp, wrinkled linen shirt.

Distracted, Evred dealt with the easiest thing first. “It’s hot enough to boil broth in here.” He indicated the sodden shirt. “Just give the clothes over to Kened after you change. Thank you. You did well.”

The others echoed the praise as the blushing scout hustled out to go bore his mates, in strictest confidence, about his day as king.

“Unless they’re stalling for time,” Rat finished Evred’s comment, and stretched his hands over his head. His back cracked as he kicked the door shut behind the scout.

“Thought the mage would know more of our language,” Noddy said from his place in the corner. “Heh. Why not Sartoran? Isn’t that supposed to be the court language for everyone who has courts?”

“If he’s the right mage.” Rat rubbed at his neck.

Evred turned. “Why do you say that?”

Rat waved a lazy hand. “Said the magic words mighty slow and stiff. Reminded me of a pigtail with the lances, instead of a dragoon.”

Evred so hated the idea of magical powers that could, at a mysterious word or two, spy, transform, even kill, he had not considered that aspect.
I want magic to be difficult to perform.

Inda smacked his hand against the table. “We better find out. I’m going to ask Signi.”

“Vedrid?” Evred opened the door. “Please request the dag to join us here.”

Signi’s color was high, as though she’d been out in the summer sun when Vedrid brought her into the hot, stuffy room. Her cast-off child’s smock and worn riding trousers were neat and fresh: she’d clearly had access to some kind of magic while in that archive. Well, they all knew the tower was full of some sort of Morvende magic.

Signi’s earnest gaze sought Inda’s first, then moved swiftly to the king’s. Seeing no threat there, she glanced at the tabard hanging over his arm. Her sandy brows lifted, then met, puckering her brow.

“What is it?” Inda asked.

She stretched out a forefinger, but did not quite touch the crimson cloth so beautifully woven. “The tablet-pattern,” she whispered. “In the weave. It is the same as our formal house robes.”

Inda’s indifference was mirrored in all the others’ faces. “Signi, if anything I ask trespasses on the truce we’ve had between us, you have only to say.”

Evred’s muscles tightened against the now familiar resentment. Inda’s words were entirely just.

“You have a question for me, then?” Signi asked, and made that peace sign—without the smugness of that young mage.

“You know Dag Erkric, right?”

“I do.”

“Is he big and tall, maybe forty? Hair as yellow as Rat’s there? Carrot nose?”

“No.” She pressed her hands together tightly, then dropped them to her sides. “He is very tall. Very lean. His hair is thin, but silver. He is old.”

Evred turned to Rat. “You were right. It’s a ruse.” His mouth thinned. “Do we look like fools?”

Signi made the peace gesture again. “You are all very young. And you know nothing of magic.”

Evred said, “So the dag knows who we are.”

She opened her hands. “I believe so.”

“That means he’s been here spying on us.”

Her color faded. “Yes. So I believe. I felt his traces on our arrival.”

Evred’s gaze was unwavering. “Is he spying on us right now?”

“No.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Because I just finished completing wards.”

“To aid us?”

“That was not my intent.”

To the surprise of some there, Evred’s expression eased. “Because he has broken his vows not to interfere in military matters?”

“Yes.”

Evred turned away at last, his slow outward breath a hiss between his teeth. Then, “Hawkeye. Give that magic token to someone. Tell him to chuck it down the nearest steam vent.” He pointed out the window, toward the great square between the castle and the city, underneath which lay the massive cavern that served as the baths for everyone in Ala Larkadhe.

Hawkeye, who as the castle commander had taken charge of the token, said, “I’ll do it.” Like his cousin, he hated magic and would take great pleasure in seeing to this order himself.

There was a quiet double knock at the door. When Kened appeared, Evred handed off the tunic.

“So what now?” Rat asked, shutting the door again.

Inda said, “If they are stalling for time, there is a reason.” He thumped his fist on the table. “It’s those winds. I keep feeling we’re late. I don’t know if it’s—”

His thoughts splintered, like they so often did, two and three separate ideas skittering away. The others looked at him. Waiting.

He smacked his hands down, the sting in his palms oddly steadying. For two heartbeats. “Hawkeye. Noddy. Take your dragoons, start up the pass as soon as you can. Yes! We’ve got Cherry-Stripe and Cama heading for the cliffs above the top, that’s good. You go too, and between the four of you, hold it until the rest of us can get there.”

Hawkeye twitched his brows up as Noddy held up three fingers. “We’ve got six wings. Against
how
many?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Inda said impatiently. “I need fast, not numbers, and six wings will move uphill faster than sixty wings. If we had ’em. You get there first is all I ask. Hold it. The moment we know we’ve got Buck and Ola-Vayir to guard our backs, the rest of us will be right on your heels.”

Everyone began talking at once.

Signi touched Inda’s hand. Distracted by too much going on at once, he cast her a quick, impatient glance—and her expression caught his attention entirely.

“I must speak to you,” she murmured.

Without a thought Inda opened the door, followed her out, and shut it, leaving the others all talking. Except for Evred, who watched after them in tight-lipped silence.

 

 

 

The pair of would-be dags arrived at the Destination aboard the
Cormorant
. They looked hot, tired, weary as they surrendered their transfer tokens into Erkric’s out-held hand, and then shed the heavy blue robes gratefully into the arms of orderlies. Durasnir had ordered steamed milk for them, but a glance at those shiny crimson faces and he beckoned for the stone jug. They drank down the cold water in greedy gasps as an orderly ran to apprise the prince.

While they’d waited for the parley to end, Dag Erkric had twice vanished from the ship, each time returning tense and curt. Whether from anger or worry, Durasnir could not tell, and Erkric did not give him a report. Instead, he restlessly studied the dispatches as they arrived and were brought in by the ensigns on duty.

The prince’s quick step approached down the compan ionway. He flung the door open into the command cabin. “How went the ruse?”

The two scouts made their royal obeisance.

“We kept them there through the day. There were two redheads,” the shorter one reported. “Judging from the motions of the others, the one posing as scribe was the king, and the one dressed as king a lackey.”

Rajnir spread his hands. “You were right,” he said to Erkric, whose smile held no vestige of humor. “He was stupid enough to fall for the ruse!” Back to the scouts, “Why didn’t you kill him?”

Despite the balmy summer air, Durasnir sustained an inward chill as cold as the water in the stone jugs that were suspended on chains to drag deep in the low ocean currents.

Erkric tutted. “The parley was made under a truce flag, my prince. They believed Coast Scout Greba to be me, remember. Consider how the Marlovans would react to their king being killed under truce by Prince Rajnir’s chief dag.” And when Rajnir scowled, Erkric said in a low, soothing voice, “Then consider this, my prince. How it would be if they came here under truce and killed
you
? Do you think Fleet Commander Durasnir here would ever stop until he had exacted retribution? Are we not enjoined to pacify their kingdom once we take it?”

Rajnir’s lips parted, his light eyes widened. “Oh.” He whirled, walked to the open scuttle, and breathed deeply of the warm salt air. “Oh. I didn’t think! So much to think about—I can’t remember—”

“So much depends upon our plans,” Erkric interjected smoothly, in the voice of a beloved tutor. “Scouts. Was Indevan Algara-Vayir among those at the parley?”

The two turned to one another for a moment, and read uncertainty in each other’s countenance. “They denied him, of course,” Greba said. “But that room was so dark. They had the windows blocked. And everyone but the scribe and the false king wore those gray coats.”

The taller scout spoke up. “We were told that the pirate is short, scar-faced, and wears golden hoops with rubies on them. I couldn’t see the face on the shortest one, but I heard him snoring on his feet. No earrings visible. It was too dark to see if his ears were pierced.”

Rajnir waved his hands. “No matter, no matter. The snorer had to be a lackey, no commander would fall asleep in a parley. This is good, isn’t it?” His anxious blue eyes turned to Durasnir. “Is it not?”

“It seems we have gained a day for Hilda Commander Talkar,” Durasnir replied.

“Good! I like good news. So far we haven’t had any. Are they
still
fighting those women in the castle?” Rajnir smacked the door open. “When he’s back, send Henga directly to me before you put him in the prison ship.” He slammed the cabin door behind him.

Erkric stared after the prince, exasperated. But then no one knew, must not find out, that Ala Larkadhe had in a single night been warded. No dag could transfer in, and the tracers were deflected by what appeared to be Morvende magic.

It was possible that he had inadvertently tripped an ancient protection ward. He hoped so. But the burden of not being able to see the enemy, of not knowing whose magic forced him out of the shaping battle, was thinning his hold on his temper. He could not lose his temper; a weary, sour glint of humor accompanied the thought,
I cannot lose my temper because I am not a prince.

Unworthy, unworthy.

Erkric was irritated afresh at the narrow-eyed suspicion in Durasnir’s face. It must be because Durasnir’s favored Drenga captain, Byoren Henga, had been assigned to the invasion, which placed him under the Hilda chain of command, outside of the reach of the Oneli. “I will investigate the attack on the castle,” he said. “Since I must return to the camp to supervise the dags.”

Durasnir signed acknowledgment.

Erkric turned to the coast scouts. “You are restored to your regular duties until tomorrow. With the Fleet Commander’s permission, we will meet before you are to transfer to Ala Larkadhe, and we will discuss the details of tomorrow’s plan.”

The scouts made their obeisances. Dag Erkric performed a respectful salute to Durasnir, who returned it with the particular care of a deeply angry man—a detail that escaped the customarily perceptive Erkric, who picked up his own papers, and walked out.

Durasnir turned to his scouts. The rank Coast Scout had changed in meaning over the centuries. Once the title had been used by charters, but charting had developed into its own branch of service. Coast Scout was now a neutral rank meaning spy. Coast Scouts wore whatever costume would permit them to pass unnoticed, and they scouted people as well as places.

Durasnir said, “You will have liberty for the remainder of the day. In addition to whatever orders Dag Erkric sees fit to give you tomorrow, I would like you to observe closely. I want to know if Indevan Algara-Vayir is there,” Durasnir said.

Chapter Nine

INDA shut the door and followed Signi into the office. Vedrid sat on a chair against the inner wall, sewing silver piping to the edge of rich crimson fabric. Inda paused, distracted. “Isn’t that the one I saw Tau working on?”

Vedrid’s needle flashed. “Since he is under orders, I’m finishing it.”

Awkwardly, Inda asked, “Is that for me?”

Vedrid smiled. “As Harskialdna, you’ll wear Montrei-Vayir colors.”

Inda waved impatiently. “I know that. I guess I thought I’d be making it myself.”

“When?” Vedrid laughed soundlessly.

Inda gave a rueful snort. “Don’t know. Don’t seem to have a masthead watch anymore.” He followed Signi from the office out onto the landing. She shut the office door with both hands, leaned over the stone balcony, touching the bunch of grapes carved into the edge before the rail started down the spiral stairway. No one below: the Runners had partitioned this area off from the crowded castle, reserving it for the commanders.

She turned around. “I am going to leave, Inda. But there are things I must tell you first.”

Inda’s eyes widened with dismay. His quick sorrow and hurt, so true, so unhidden, made her eyes sting. She leaned into him, bringing the scent of the fresh mountain herbs among which she’d been recently walking. He was damp from being overheated; his own scent was dear to her.