Sing the Four Quarters (30 page)

A sudden cramp threw her head back and it slammed into Pjerin's chest. The noise she made was more from fear than pain.

"Annice?"

She could feel his breath warm against the top of her head as he bent over her and she swatted ineffectually at his hands until he caught her wrists.

"Annice, calm down and tell me what's wrong."

There was a note of command in his voice she'd never heard before and a strength that had nothing to do with ego. She caught her breath on another cramp and then, to her horror, burst into tears. "The b… baby…"

"Open the door." He started to rise. "We're getting you to a healer."

"No!" She pulled him back down and fought for control. "Just let me rest."

"Are you sure?" He didn't sound like he believed her.

She didn't believe herself, but if they went to a healer now everything would be lost.
Baby, I'm sorry
. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Yes, I'm sure."

Pjcrin settled back down on the step, sliding his arms out of his pack straps but leaving it behind him. He
had
to trust that Annice knew her body. Gently, he pulled her back into the circle of his arms. "All right. Rest."

She sniffed again but didn't pull away. After a moment, she let her head fall into the curve of his shoulder and sucked in a long shuddering breath as a third cramp twisted the muscles of her lower back.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for his free hand to come up and stroke her hair. "I'm sorry I got you into this," he murmured.

"Me, too." Her heart had slowed a little so that it wasn't slamming so frighteningly hard against her ribs. "When we catch up with whoever's responsible, you owe me a piece of them."

He smiled and brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair up off her forehead. "Agreed."

"A pregnant woman cannot just disappear, Corporal."

The corporal kept her eyes locked on a point just over the captain's shoulder. "The man with Her Highness was a trader, he must have contacts in the city."

"The man with who?"

"Uh, I mean the bard, Captain." The corporal could feel the blood burning in her ears, and knew they were an embarrassingly brilliant red.

The captain snorted. "Remember that. She made her choice a long time ago."

"Yes, Captain."

"Well, don't just stand there. You know what section of the city you're supposed to be searching."

"Yes, Captain." The corporal spun on her heel and hurried from the room, the warning verses from the "Princess-Bard"

echoing in her head. She didn't really believe His Majesty would execute his sister for treason. Not really. But she'd taken her squad the long way around the market just in case.

The captain, fully aware of where the sympathies of most of her troop lay, watched her go and sighed deeply. Not for the first time, she wished she could share the private orders His Majesty had given her.

"
Don't listen to anything they say and tell them, when you catch them, that
all
is forgiven
."

"You look like you've had pleasanter duties."

She started and snapped her attention back to the here and now. "Otik. What are you doing here?"

"I'm on leave," Otik explained coming into the room. "I've family in Vidor." He sauntered over to the table she was using as a desk and peered down at the maps of the city spread across it. "Nicely done. Must be bard work."

"They are." She folded her arms as he bent over and began tracing the streets with one finger. He wore civilian clothes like he was still in uniform.
And moves like he's got a poker up his butt
. "I meant, what are you doing
here
!"

"A troop of King's Guard rides into Vidor and I'm not supposed to be curious why?" Otik snorted. "Please, Luci, you'd have checked it out, too."

"Yeah, I guess." But she admitted it grudgingly. Self-interest had motivated too many of Captain Otik's previous actions and he was now clawing his way toward commander with what she considered a disgusting amount of ass kissing. If there was a way to get in good with the brass, he headed straight for it. On the other hand, as he'd likely make commander some day, she couldn't afford to alienate him too badly.
More's the pity
.

"So." He pushed the maps aside and perched on the corner of the table. "What are
you
doing here?"

Unfortunately, there wasn't any reason not to tell him. "We're looking for His Majesty's sister, the bard. It seems she's committed bodily treason."

Otik blinked. "What?"

"She got knocked up. His Majesty found out and we've been sent to bring her and the proud daddy back to the bosom of her family. As long as you're around, you might as well make yourself useful." Luci reached over and picked up a piece of paper closely covered with cramped writing. "They were spotted this afternoon."

"Your penmanship stinks," Otik muttered, scanning the description around the blots of black ink. Then he read it again.

He'd started it a third time when Luci plucked it out of his hand.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain," she said pointedly, "I have work to do."

"Yes, yes, of course. Good hunting, Captain."

He's onto something
, she thought as he strode out the door.
Fortunately, I don't give a shit what it is
.

It's impossible. He's dead
. Unaware of anything around him, Otik kept turning the description around in his mind, fitting pieces of it into memory, trying to understand what could possibly be going on.

The Due of Ohrid was executed, it was witnessed. It happened.

So why did the trader with His Majesty's sister appear to be the same man?

Coincidence
? He brushed past a friend of his mother's without seeing her or hearing her speak. No.
He's too
unenclosed distinctive looking for it to be coincidence. It's him. I know it's him. I gave him that black eye he's still
wearing the shadow of
.

As impossible as it seemed, the Due of Ohrid had escaped, with the king's sister, the Princess-Bard, and was, it appeared, the father of her child.

All at once, it wasn't so impossible that the due had escaped.

"Bards!" Otik spat out the word. They were nothing but trouble. He understood completely why King Theron had kept the truth from Captain Luci.
His own sister, caught up in treason, selling her country to Cemandia for a tumble
. It made him sick to think of it. Obviously, His Majesty was hoping to recapture the pair of them with no one the wiser.

King Theron would be very pleased with whoever cleaned up this little mess for him. Very pleased.

Otik smiled. He had two advantages that Luci and her troop didn't. He knew where the fugitives were heading—Ohrid and the border—and he knew that as the due was already technically dead, there was no need to go to the trouble of bringing him back alive.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Annice woke with a start, jerking out of a dream where she'd fallen in the middle of River Road, her legs unable to hold her weight. With the thunder of hooves against the hard-packed earth filling the world around her, she'd only been able to desperately try to roll clear. Trained to recall her dreams and use them for inspiration, she shoved this one aside.
There's a limit to art imitating life
.

As she lifted her head, Pjerin shifted behind her, flexing the arm she'd been resting against.

"Welcome back," he said quietly.

Yawning, Annice heaved herself awkwardly to her feet, rubbing the imprint of the stone step out of her butt. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough for my legs to go numb." He shook them out and pushed himself upright against the wall, wincing as a thousand points of pain danced from ankles to hips.

"You could've moved me."

He gestured around the narrow stairwell and asked, "Where? Look, don't worry about it," he went on, trying to pound some feeling back into his calves. "It was more important that you sleep. How are you feeling?"

"Better," she admitted. The baby stirred as though it, too, were just waking. She smiled and traced the motion with her fingertips. "I think everything's all right."

"Good." Leaning against the wall, Pjerin realized he sounded abrupt and wondered if he should tell her how frightened he'd been that she was going to lose the baby.
No
, he decided.
That's over. Time to move on
. "So," he asked instead,

"what now?"

Annice sighed. "I have to use the privy."

Pjerin managed to stop himself before the
of course you do
left his mouth. "So do I."

Together they turned and stared at the dark curve of wall at the foot of the stairs.

Annice, being closer, reached out and laid her hand flat on the cool stone.

"Do you think it's safe to leave?"

She shrugged, then realized he probably couldn't see her, and said, "I don't know. Even if the guards aren't around, people are going to notice a pair of traders going out the Bard's Door."

"Perhaps it's time we stopped being traders." He spoke lightly, not intending to start another argument. To his astonishment, she agreed, turned, and started up the stairs. "Where are you going?" he demanded as she squeezed past.

"If we're not going to be traders," Annice explained, pausing just above him, "we have to be something else.

Sometimes—like now, in First Quarter, when most of the bards are out Walking—a bard will have to Sing more than one Quarter during a service. When that happens, they leave extra robes in the gallery behind the balconies." She started climbing again.

He caught her arm. "We're going to be bards?"

She threw a smile back over her shoulder. "Why not? They're looking for traders."

Mouth pressed to a thin line, Pjerin let her go and returned to working on his legs. He'd been able to see her face clearly as she passed, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were gleaming, and she'd obviously forgotten the lesson the guards had taught them. They weren't on an adventure destined to last for only six verses and five choruses, they were fighting to stay alive. The sooner she remembered that, the better chance all three of them would have.

Annice stepped off the stairs, sliding her boots along the floor to muffle her footsteps. The angle of the light slanting through the carved stone screen that separated the gallery from the chamber told her it was nearly sunset. She'd have to hurry. Bards by no means Sang every service but they couldn't risk the chance of discovery.

Water came up empty, so she circled around to her right toward air.

If only Pjerin would realize that there's more to staying

safe than putting his head down and charging for Ohrid
. She'd hoped the chase scene they'd played out with the guards had taught him that, but, obviously, from his comments, it hadn't.

There were no robes in air. Silently pleading with the baby to stop bouncing on her bladder, Annice hurried around to earth and practically threw herself at the hanging brown fabric. The robe could've been made for her and her condition although, from the lingering scent of sandalwood, she suspected it belonged to Tymon, the head of the Hall in Vidor.

He was short and fat and unwilling to carry an ounce more than his own weight.

She was certain of it when she reached fire and found a second robe, identical but for the color. Although he Sang all four quarters, a necessity if he was going to run the Hall, Tymon had apparently not Sung one of either air or water at the last service he'd done. The third quarter he
had
Sung, would've been the robe he wore home.

Fighting the urge to step out onto the balcony and try to Sing the altar candles alight, Annice walked as quickly as she could for the stairs, feeling suddenly hollow.

I
need to be a bard again, if only for a little while. I miss it all so much. I miss Singing. I miss recall
. She rubbed a bit of robe against her cheek. I
hate wearing robes and I even miss them
. At the top of the stairs she looked around the curve, past water, toward air.
And I really miss Stasya
. Before, when they'd been apart, there'd always been the kigh to link them together. I
hope she's okay
.

Which was when she realized.

Pjerin heard the noise from the top of the stairs and whirled around, his hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger. He squinted up into the fading light and could just barely make out a familiar silhouette. "Annice?"

She started toward him, but her movements were so stiff that he raced up to meet her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"They've got Stasya. I have to go back."

He caught hold of her shoulders and turned her, unresisting, to face him. The stricken look on her face closed a fist around his heart. "Who's got Stasya?" he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Tears spilling unheeded down her cheeks, Annice had to swallow hard to find her voice. "The guards," she said at last,

"called out,
There they are
! There
they
are, Pjerin. Stasya was the only one who knew we were together. Getting you out of that dungeon was treason and she helped and now she's going to die. I have to stop it."

"How?" When she shook her head blindly and tried to pull away, he tightened his grip and repeated the question.

"How, Annice? By surrendering yourself and the baby to that same death? Listen to me, the only chance she has is if we prove my innocence and I need you to do that. Stasya
needs
you to do that."

"What if she's already dead?"

"Then going back won't do her any good." Her head snapped up and she glared at him. "You shit!"

"That's better," he nodded approvingly. "Be angry. Be angry at me. Be angry at them. But don't give into despair."

She rubbed at her cheeks with the palm of her free hand and remembered the Due of Ohrid had made six attempts to get free during the long trip from Ohrid to Elbasan. Six attempts surrounded by a troop of guards and a bard who could find him wherever he ran. "If she's dead, I'm going to Sing His Majesty a song that will bring the palace down around his ears." Pjerin released her. "Witnessed," he said softly.