Changer of Days (21 page)

There was still something she wasn’t telling him, but they followed the throngs to a small square. Anghara’s attention was drawn to a striped black and white awning, beneath which sat a young man, garbed and turbaned in demure white. Wax tablets, steel styluses, ink bottles and other paraphernalia of his trade were laid out neatly on the ground beside him.

The language of Tath was no more than a variation of Roisinani, a different accent, a few different words. The language of Tath, however, was not what Anghara used. If the young scribe had been surprised to be addressed in high court Roisinani here in the heart of Tath’s power, he was too well schooled, to reveal it—and responded in the same language. Anghara was impressed by the young man’s self-possession, and so, almost against his will, was Kieran.

“I need a letter written, which will need skill and discretion,” Anghara said.

“We may not reveal what we write at another’s behest. That is guild law everywhere,” the young man said gravely, giving an oblique acknowledgment that he knew she was a stranger in his city. “Your coin buys my silence about whatever you choose to entrust to me.”

“What is your fee?”

“Six
sessi
. For matters of import…” he coughed delicately, hiding his mouth behind his hand, but his eyes were eloquent enough above it. “For matters of import—a price is negotiable.”

“Ten,” said Anghara, “if you will also arrange to have it delivered.”

“To what address?”

“The White Palace.”

The young man coughed again into his palm. “That is a matter of grave import indeed. For this…fifteen
sessi.
”

“Eleven,” Anghara said.

The young man’s eyes had kindled. “Thirteen, my lady?”

“Twelve,” said Anghara, “and a half.”

He considered this for a moment and then bowed to her from the waist without getting up. “Twelve and a half,” he acceded. “We can have privacy within my tent, if you so desire.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” said Anghara.

“Where did you learn to haggle in a manner Borre of Shaymir might have envied?” Kieran hissed at Anghara as she turned to follow the scribe into the black and white striped tent beyond the awning. “And where do you plan to get these twelve and a half
sessi,
whatever they are, from?”

“Kheldrin gave many gifts,” said Anghara, smiling at him.

“Khelsies haggle?” Kieran murmured. “By Kerun’s Horns, they become more human every time I look. Am I allowed to know what will be in this letter?”

Her eyes were sparkling with the delight of the game. “Come inside and listen.”

It was Kieran’s role to worry about the young queen who showed no sign of taking a thought for her own safety, and his time as a leader of men had taught him to weigh risks with deliberation. But he was also young enough, and reckless enough, to enjoy putting Anghara’s scheme into action. The missive written by the young scribe—who, with admirable self-control, had shown no reaction to what he was being asked to set down—had been sealed with the royal seal hanging from al’Tamar’s
say’yin,
and dispatched, with careful instructions, by a street runner summoned by the scribe. Kieran had, of course, been right—Anghara didn’t have the coinage to pay for the service she had received. What she did have was Kheldrini silver. While it wasn’t legal tender, barter was a matter of course and the scribe quietly and efficiently produced a small set of scales, weighed the offering, and gave her the equivalent in Algiran
sessi
. Made profligate by an odd sense of excitement, Anghara tendered fifteen
sessi
to the scribe rather than the agreed sum; if the man noticed, he made no sign, merely bowing with grace and courtesy as the money vanished into a fold of his garment. They left him then, to find something to eat in the crowded marketplace, and wait for the hour Anghara’s letter had appointed.

A wizened old woman, resembling one of the noisy little monkeys of their past painful acquaintance, grabbed at Anghara’s hand as she walked past. “Two
sessi?
” she cackled, fawning up at her shamelessly. “Two
sessi,
and I’ll tell you your fortune. A kind-faced young lady like you with such a handsome lad by your side—you’ll want to know what’s in store for you, duckling…”

Anghara pulled her hand away, gently. “No, thank you, mother. Perhaps another time.”

As Kieran edged past, the crone snatched his hand instead, turning the palm up before he could shake her loose. Irritated, for Anghara had already taken a step or two away and was in danger of being swallowed up by the crowd, Kieran tried to pull his hand back. “Have done,” he said. “I don’t need…”

“I see suffering,” the old woman murmured, seemingly tranced, her eyes cast down and wide open, unblinking. “I see partings, pain, a great love almost lost…and battles gained…and then…and then a crown.”

Kieran snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned. The old woman, apparently having forgotten this fortune was supposed to be worth two
sessi,
had turned to wander off, muttering about crowns, hurt and hard choices. Kieran stared after her for a long moment, his eyes hard with suspicion and something that was almost fear; and then he started abruptly, turning to rake the crowds in search of Anghara.

“So she did snag you,” Anghara said, taking a bite out of a peach she had bought at a nearby stall with her new-gained currency, licking at the juices which ran down her chin. “You didn’t even pay her fee. That wasn’t very gallant, Kieran. What did she say?”

“Some old rubbish,” Kieran said. Too quickly. But the peach was proving to be a successful diversion, and Anghara was looking around, laughing.

“I hope there’s a fountain somewhere close by, or else we had better go back to the canals—I won’t be able to touch another thing until I’ve washed my hands.”

“Do you know what passes for a han here?” Kieran asked. “Perhaps the best thing would be to find somewhere to hole up until sundown—and you could get cleaned up properly.”

“There’s got to be an inn somewhere off the canals; I’ll have to find somewhere to change,” said Anghara, who carried a pack containing all her Kheldrini
an’sen’thar
finery—just as she had done once before on a homecoming. Kieran called to mind the ill-fated King’s Inn in Calabra and its consequences, and his notion of finding an inn was roundly and speedily dismissed. He had no wish to have Anghara—or himself—find out what the dungeons of
this
palace looked like from the inside.

“We’ll think about that later,” he said. “Let’s keep moving for now.”

It proved to be a long day, heavy with summer. They ate iced cream, a southern concoction neither had tried before, while watching a ship flying the sea-serpent banner of the Mabin Islands dock in the harbor in the long, golden southern afternoon. The galley was bristling with grimly efficient armed men, the sun glancing off lances and body armor.

“Are there pirates in these waters?” Kieran asked, bemused at the sight.

“For that ship there might be,” Anghara said. “Its cargo is probably pearls from Mabin, for the king.”

“You should have detoured,” said Kieran, teasing. “Gone to Mabin, picked up a shipload of pearls in exchange for all that Kheldrini silver and presented yourself at the palace gates. I’m sure you wouldn’t have been refused entry.”

“They’re worth a king’s ransom, those pearls,” Anghara said. “I might yet have that in common with them before this night is over.”

She seemed to be having second thoughts, and, ironically, it was now Kieran who defended her plan. Anghara allowed herself to be persuaded. They left the harbor eventually, finding a quiet inn just off the main wharf, where a handful of coins bought careful silence from the landlord and a jug of cheap but remarkably good wine. They nursed it between them for a while, then Kieran remained at the table while Anghara slipped off to change into garb more appropriate for a royal visit. Anyone glancing at him would have thought him utterly relaxed, his long legs stretched out before him and his eyelids drooping; but beneath those half-closed eyelids he was warily watching the door through which Anghara had left, uneasy at allowing her away by herself. Only when she emerged again, wrapped carefully in her dark cloak, did an unspoken tension leave his shoulders, and he leaned back against the wall.

“Everything all right?” he murmured.

She tossed a bundle on the seat beside him and sat down. “No problems. Is it time?”

“Still early. But sunset is near. We can stay here for a while longer, and then we’d better start making our way to the palace lake.” His eyes flickered. “If there’s anyone there to meet us.”

“There will be,” said Anghara, her voice thoughtful but nonetheless ringing with conviction. Her faith might have lapsed for a moment or two, but now, close to the consummation of her plan, it was back, burning stronger than ever.

“I only hope there won’t be more than we bargained for.”

“He’s a soldier, like you,” Anghara said. “If he undertakes to do something, knight’s honor will ensure he sees it accomplished according to his given word. Isn’t that what you would do?”

“I’m not a prince,” Kieran said.

A crown, the old crone had said, and the memory broke into his voice, brought a sudden tension into his words. He gazed at Anghara helplessly, caught up in the honeyed trap of his love for a woman who would be queen.
I never wanted this. I wasn’t born to claim royalty.

But he couldn’t ask her to lay it aside—not after he had fought and schemed to seize it back for her. He could either stay with her—as simply another of her captains and generals, a leader of her armies—or run, seek his fortune alone in the lands beyond the mountains, of which he knew no more than myth, fable and tangled travellers’ tales.

A crown. He could take a third path. He could declare himself, tell her of his feelings…ah, had things been different, he would have married her and taken joy in it—but she was royal, would be queen on the oldest throne in their world, and that carried responsibilities of its own. Queens did not—could not—marry for love.

But he pushed those thoughts away. Now was not the time; he needed all his focus and concentration upon the task at hand. Despite Anghara’s confidence, there was a great deal of danger; Kieran was far from sure a soldier’s honor would prevail over a prince’s sense of expediency. Whatever else he might be, Favrin was still Duerin’s son—and Kieran knew Anghara would never have contemplated doing what she was about to do with Duerin Rashin.

The light was deep gold outside, the afternoon almost over. Kieran swallowed the last dregs of wine in his cup and rose. “It’s time we were moving.”

Sunset caught them in the city, with lamplighters passing from lamp to lamp in the main thoroughfares and yellow light from open windows spilling out onto the canals. They sometimes heard music as they passed beneath, or a delicate laugh, a murmur of conversation somewhere above. A woman dressed in scarlet waved in their direction with a feathered fan from a balcony. Kieran froze, waiting for someone to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder—but the footsteps, when they came, were light and joyous, and a young man, wearing an elaborate half-mask beneath a floppy hat adorned with more feathers, pushed past him and hurried toward the balcony. Kieran let out a shaky breath. “Nobody here could possibly know our identity—at least, not yet,” he said softly. “Still…I wish I could get rid of the feeling that everyone is play-acting and knows exactly who you are.”

“What time is it?” Anghara asked doggedly. Kieran realized she hadn’t even seen the painted woman wave from above, and the young gentleman hurrying past had left no more impression than a ghost. Anghara had an assignation with destiny that night—other dalliances were invisible in the light of her own.

“We’ll be there on the appointed hour,” Kieran said, almost laughing. “Don’t be so keen to walk into this web; I’m still far from certain you’ll be able to walk out of it with impunity.”

The scribe had assisted when Anghara planned her assignation—she had wanted to make it on the main quay, to wait for Favrin’s boat and escort out in the open, but Kieran hadn’t liked the idea and the scribe, unexpectedly, had concurred. There was another quay, he told them, to the west of the palace lake—more discreet. A postern quay, he’d called it, hiding what Kieran was sure had been a smile behind his delicate cough and the concealing gesture of his narrow brown hand. This was the place where Anghara’s letter had told Favrin his visitor would be waiting an hour after sunset. Now, as they approached, Anghara in the lead and Kieran a step behind with blade loosened in the scabbard, they could see a boat. Two men waited aboard—a slope-shouldered oarsman, and another, face shadowed beneath a hat similar to that gracing the young nobleman they had encountered outside the bawdyhouse. Favrin’s emissary wore a heavily brocaded robe over ruby-colored doublet and hose, and from the shadows cast by the improbable hat, his hair gleamed in long golden curls in the light of a single torch affixed to the boats prow.

“But they dress well, these southerners,” Anghara said softly, while she and Kieran were still out of earshot. “I heard they liked peacocks in their gardens; I’m beginning to understand why.”

But Kieran had seen past the obvious. “That blade he is wearing is no prop,” he said. “The velvets and brocades—it’s all show; remember, we’ve been fighting these men in southern Roisinan since…since you and I sat discussing their tactics in Feor’s schoolroom. They’ve taught us many things, not least that they are to be respected. Danger is all the more perilous when you’re lulled into believing it doesn’t exist. Careful—he’s coming ashore; the hood.”

Anghara reached out and pulled the hood of her cloak forward over her face. The man had stepped out of the boat and stood waiting as they approached, features shadowed by the brim of his velvet hat.

“I am Moran.” He offered first greeting as they came to within a few paces and stopped. “I am Prince Favrin’s chamberlain. You are the one seeking him under the royal seal of Roisinan?”

Kieran nodded in silence.