Dagger's Edge (Shadow series) (16 page)

Jael bolted upright in her bed, pushing the covers off her face. For a moment she shivered in the dark room, her arms clasping her knees tightly against her chest. She slid out of bed and pushed another log onto the fire, then crawled shivering back into bed. She pulled the pouch containing Shadow’s puzzle from its hiding place and clasped it like a talisman.

When she slept, this time there were no dreams.

^V

“This one looks much better,” Jael admitted.

“I think you’re right.” Urien smiled as he gazed around the empty room. He stepped to the window and looked out. “The neighborhood appears much superior to the southern house we looked at.” He glanced upward. “But that gargoyle—”

“Well, you could have it taken down,” Jael grinned.

“It’s so hideous, I may just keep it there,” Urien said, smiling back. “That way, when I invite guests to the house, I can ask them how they like it and watch them squirm for an answer.”

Jael chuckled at the image, wondering if Numan had perhaps had the same idea. Grandmother Celene was fond of just such tricks.

“Are you ready for some dinner?” Urien suggested. “I hope this time we can dine on something more appealing than boiled greens.”

“Today I can eat whatever I want,” Jael said. “And I could eat anything in Allanmere
except
boiled potherbs.”

Urien took her to the Basilisk’s Eye, an almost decadently luxurious inn in the Noble District. Jael wondered if Urien knew that the small private supper alcoves were a notorious trysting place for nobles wanting to avoid public scrutiny of their liaisons. Thinking about it, Jael decided that Urien probably knew—and probably knew that
she
knew.

Because most nobles dining at the Eye wanted privacy in the alcoves, their meal was served all at once, rather than in courses, so that the servers wouldn’t be ducking in and out. Jael was a little intimidated by the sheer quantity of dishes, and even more so when she realized what they were being served: golden blacktail roe; a delicate soup of sawback fin; simmered and seasoned roundshells, together with their liquor; bite-size morsels of daggertooth, stewed in a spicy sauce; pincer-claws baked in butter, and much more—the list was dizzying, and Jael found herself calculating the probable cost preservation-spelling these delicacies and ferrying them
up
the Brightwater. Jael shuddered to herself and thought that she did
not
want to know what Urien was paying for this dinner.

Although wine had, of course, been brought with the meal, Urien did not press any on Jael, for which Jael was duly grateful. Instead he gave the servant a small cake of the Calidwyn black tea to brew, joining Jael in a cup of the fragrant liquid.

“I see you are growing to share my addiction to Calidwyn’s tea,” he smiled. “Perhaps I will have to send for some to trade in Allanmere after all.”

He scooped up a small spoonful of blacktail roe on a thin sliver of toasted bread and fed it to Jael.

“Do you like it?”

Jael nodded and swallowed.

“We don’t get seafood too often,” she said. “Not much is ferried up the Brightwater this far.”

“Did you know,” Urien said, taking Jael’s hand and smiling, “that many of the fruits of the sea are thought to be aphrodisiacs?”

“I’d heard that, yes,” Jael said. She grinned. “I think the sea merchants try to spread that rumor to raise the prices.”

“That may be.” Still holding Jael’s hand, Urien dipped her finger into the bowl of blacktail roe, scooping up some of the tiny golden orbs. Urien’s eyes twinkled as he raised Jael’s hand and closed his lips around her fingertip, sensuously licking the roe from her skin. He released her hand and smiled. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

Jael fought down her unease. There were four guards outside the door, two of Urien’s and two of hers. Urien was only flirting; there was no harm in that. She was still in control of the situation. The thought relaxed her immediately, and she smiled.

“Then I believe I’ll have a little more,” Jael said, spooning herself another helping of the daggertooth.

“You like spicy food?” Urien asked, pouring her another cup of tea.

“Sometimes,” Jael said smoothly. “In the right company.”

Urien pulled a small bottle out of his wallet and set it on the table.

“Did you like the Bluebright?” he asked, his tone gently daring her.

“If my mother finds out you’ve been giving me this stuff, after she told you to wait until it was tested,” Jael told him, “she’d have the City Guard confiscate every drop you’ve got until it
is
tested. And she’d lock me in my room for twice as long.”

Urien raised one eyebrow.

“Are you going to tell her?”

Jael reached across the table and pulled the stopper out of the bottle of Bluebright. This was exciting, the way Shadow must feel when she made a successful theft.

“Not if you’ll pour,” she said.

Urien took a small pouch from his wallet and removed two lumps of sugar. He carefully dripped a little Bluebright on each lump and took one, raising an eyebrow at Jael. Jael popped the other lump of sugar into her mouth.

This time she was expecting the burst of heat and the following coolness, and the delicious languor that spread through her. She was unprepared, however, when Urien took her hand again and kissed her palm, then the inside of her wrist, for the sudden flush of warmth that followed his touch. His lips slid up her forearm, his tongue touching her skin, and Jael gasped as her skin came alive in flashes of heat and cold.

Urien released her arm then, and Jael shivered, amazed at the unfamiliar, trembling disappointment she felt. Urien leaned closer, but paused long enough for Jael to signal her reluctance if she wished. Jael leaned to meet him halfway.

Jael’s heart pounded hard and joyfully, and she could have shouted were it not for Urien’s lips on hers. Oh, she’d been so afraid she’d never feel this, this wonderful burning in her blood that stippled her skin with gooseflesh and seemed to melt her bones. She shivered and tangled her fingers in Urien’s hair as he nibbled at the side of her neck, and his hand slid under her tunic, cool against the skin of her back. She must have stiffened slightly, however, for Urien released her after a last lingering kiss, his eyes warm.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “This is better left for another time and place.”

Jael could have groaned with disappointment, but a part of her was relieved. She sat up straight, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Perhaps you’d care to go riding with me in a day or two,” Urien suggested. “If the weather is pleasant, we could take dinner with us.”

“I’d like that,” Jael said quickly.

“Then we’ll plan for two days from now, midmorning again,” Urien said. “In the meantime, the carriage can take us around the market once. The air will clear our heads.”

“Or our noses,” Jael muttered to herself as they left. Midweek was tanning day at the Leather Guild, and a south wind was blowing.

“This was a poor idea,” Urien admitted later as he and Jael wiped tears from their eyes.

“Well, it did clear my head,” Jael admitted. “Just as well, too. I really should go to sword practice this afternoon.”

Urien ordered the carriage back to the castle, and by the time they arrived, the noxious smell and the late summer breeze together had wiped most of the Bluebright languor from Jael’s head. Urien helped Jael out of the carriage, but politely declined Jael’s invitation to come in. The guards who had accompanied Jael appeared relieved; riding on the outside of the carriage, they had been more exposed to the tanning odors and seemed more than ready to abandon their posts.

Because Jael had canceled her morning lessons, Larissa was not present, and Rabin was nowhere to be found. Irritated, Jael changed into her old clothes and trudged down to the practice field anyway; at least she could practice her dagger throwing alone, and work on that new kick Larissa had shown her the day before she went to the Heartwood.

To her surprise, Jael found Donya in the practice field, working on a new lunge with one of the wooden practice posts. She stopped, however, as soon as Jael appeared.

“Good afternoon,” Donya panted, apparently as surprised as Jael herself. “Rabin isn’t here. Since you’d canceled your lesson, I gave him the afternoon free. He said something about seeing to your sword.”

“He was commissioning a lighter one,” Jael said. “It’s probably finished by now.”

“Ah.” Donya wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her wrist. “I noticed you were wearing that dagger last night at supper.” She nodded at the sheath at Jael’s hip.

Jael drew the dagger to show Donya the strange light blade.

“Aunt Shadow gave it to me,” she said awkwardly. “She said—uh—”

“Farryn gave her that,” Donya finished. “Yes, I know. I’m surprised she gave you one, though. She loves those daggers. Then again, she’s like that—she’d give you the last copper in her purse at the same time as she was stealing your under-things. Well, come here and have a look. I wanted a last swing with this, and then I was going to leave it in your room.”

Donya had laid a long, cloth-wrapped bundle on a bench at the edge of the practice field. Jael watched as Donya unfolded the cloth to reveal an ornately tooled scabbard. Donya drew the sword, and Jael’s eyes widened at the sight of the same pale metal from which her dagger was made.

“Did Farryn give you that, too?” Jael asked amazedly. “I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“No, Chyrie gave it to me,” Donya said, a little sadly. “It wasn’t long after I met Farryn. It belonged to one of his ancestors. I only got to use it once, against the giant daggertooth I told you about. After Farryn left, I put it away for years. I thought if anyone saw it, they’d ask questions, and I didn’t want to think about it—well, you understand. Here, try it.”

Jael took the sword. The hilt was rather long for her—no wonder, if it had been made for a six-fingered hand—and the blade, too, was a little longer than Rabin had recommended.

As soon as the hilt was in her hand, however, Jael felt the same lightness, the same
aliveness,
that she had felt when she had held the dagger. It felt friendly to her hand, familiar. Even the strange light length of it felt right.

“Go on, take a cut,” Donya said, gesturing to the much-hacked practice pole. “But don’t cut straight down, edge-on. To take advantage of that slight curve in the blade, come down at an angle and pull
in
—well, like this.”

She stood behind Jael and clasped her hands over her daughter’s.

“Loosen your grip a little and don’t pull the tip down so far. That’s right, right shoulder to left hip, down and
in.
No, bend your left elbow up more and don’t stiffen your wrist. Got it?”

“I think so,” Jael said doubtfully. What Donya had told her was much different from what Rabin had taught her.

“Go on, then,” Donya said encouragingly. “But have some respect for that blade; it’s sharp enough to shave the fuzz off a butterfly’s wing. Don’t worry, you can’t hurt the sword or the practice pole; just don’t chop off your own foot.”

Jael took a deep breath and faced the practice pole squarely, focusing the way Rabin had told her. For maximum cut, she’d strike
there
—

“Uh-uh,” Donya said, breaking Jael’s concentration. “By this time your enemy’s cut you in half.”

“But Rabin says I’ve got to calculate—” Jael protested.

“Calculate when someone isn’t swinging a sword at your head,” Donya said roughly. “Otherwise, get in a good cut
anywhere
to give you time to think. This sword does half the work for you. Now turn back around and cut, don’t calculate.”

Jael waited only until she was sure that Donya was well out of the way; then she turned. The sword seemed to carry her arm on its own, guiding her through the sweep. She unconsciously braced herself for the jar of the sword against the weather-hardened wood; then she overbalanced and almost fell as the top of the pole fell severed to the ground. Barely, she steadied herself, then dropped the sword as if the hilt burned her.

Donya stepped over and ran her finger over the truncated top of the practice pole.

“Not bad,” she admitted. “You didn’t pull in enough, but with that sword, I suppose you don’t need to. That was a good cut. Now pick up your sword and wipe and sheathe it. You
never
drop your sword, especially on dirt.”

Jael picked up the sword and started to wipe it on her tunic; then she thought of the edge of that blade and reconsidered, wiping the blade very carefully with one of the soft leather scraps left in the practice yard for that very purpose. Then the importance of what Donya had said struck her.

“My
sword?” Jael said in a small voice.

“As I said, I haven’t used the thing in years,” Donya said, her voice a little rough. “Besides, the damned thing’s so light I never had much use for it anyway. No good for my style of swordplay.”

“But Chyrie gave it to you,” Jael protested.

“Who can say?” Donya shrugged, grinning a little sadly. “She probably meant it for you all along.” Donya shook her head firmly. “Practice with it, but I don’t think I need to tell you that you never practice against a person with that blade.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Jael said, awed. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“I know you won’t neglect it,” Donya said sternly. “That blade deserves a fine warrior to wield it. I know you’ll work hard to become that fine warrior. But don’t wear that thing into town.”

“Because people would ask questions?” Jael asked.

“That, too,” Donya admitted. “But that’s not what I meant. There’s a lot of duel-happy young lordlings in town, and when they see you wearing a sword, that’s something of a challenge to them. So don’t wear the sword in town until you’re prepared to use it.”

“Yes, Mother,” Jael said. Just the thought of someone swinging a sword at
her
was terrifying. She glanced at the practice pole, and the severed piece gave her a little jolt of satisfaction. Someday—not now, but someday—she’d give those “duel-happy young lordlings” a reason to show respect for Jaellyn the Cursed.

She took the sword back to her room, dagger practice forgotten. She sat on her bed, admiring the dagger and the sword, plucking hairs from her head one after the other to test and retest the deadly sharp edges. Both blades were amazing in their workmanship; squint as she might, Jael could not make out any trace of the fold lines. Hadn’t Mother said something about some of the Kresh molding stone and metal with their minds?