Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (67 page)

"Go, then," the Lord of the Compact said.

The chill in the air was evident in the magi's wake, but he went. Jewel wondered what it would be like, to have Duvari's power.

Daine was waiting for her beneath the arched stone ceilings of the untraveled wing. The isolation robbed him of height and age; he seemed younger than Jewel thought possible as he walked back and forth, staring at his reflection in the shine of the polished wood beneath his feet. His hands, she saw, were locked behind his back.
That
one, that wasn't hers.

He looked up as they approached; the door hadn't been enough to catch his attention.

"Well?" he asked, as Jewel approached him.

"It'll wait," she said. That was all.

But he fell in line at once, no further questions asked.

The Terafin had never seemed this comfortable with Alowan, or he with her. She wondered why.

Avandar was seething. Quietly, of course; he wouldn't dare reprimand her in public. But she knew that she'd stepped over a very thick line when she'd reached out and slapped the only other ATerafin in the room, and she was already beginning—albeit a little—to regret it. Avandar's stare was sharper and harder than a dagger's edge, and far more persistent. Because, of course, part of his job was to protect her from making gaffes like that one. Gaffes which, she was certain, no patriciate-born woman—or man, for that matter— would ever make.

You can take the girl out of the street…

"What'd you do?" Daine whispered as Devon and Duvari pulled slightly ahead and their heads met a moment in an exchange of information that seemed far too stiff to be called conversation.

She almost laughed. "What makes you so certain I did anything?"

"The invisible daggers you-know-who is launching into your back."

"Oh. Those." She shrugged. "Nothing much." The chill in the air grew increasingly thick. She sighed; stopped short. "I want to ask you something."

He stilled at once; tone of voice, probably. "What?"

"Were you in Averalaan seventeen years ago?"

"I think so," he said quietly. "But I don't remember much. Why?"

She started to say something sarcastic, and then looked at his face. Hard to remember how many years separated them. "It made me," she said softly. "It made me everything I am." She closed her eyes and the shadows took her vision, opening them again almost immediately. The smell of ancient soil, rotting timber, worn and cracked stone, lingered in the air like a vision.

"Your parents might have told you about the Henden of the year 410."

He paled then but said nothing.

"Well, it's back."

"Jewel, this is not the place," Avandar said coolly.

"It's the only place," she shot back. "And it's your job to see that we're not heard."

"There is the matter of legality," he replied. "You may recall what the penalty is for using unauthorized magic in
Avantari
."

"I'll keep it short. They need me to tell them if everything they see is what it seems to be. Because, of course, I see differently."

"I thought your talent was a secret?"

"It's an open secret. Not a good thing, but something I don't have much control over. I live with it."

"It's been worth three attempts on her life in the past seven years as the information has filtered out," Avandar offered. "But please, continue.

She ignored his interruption; Daine couldn't. "Three attempts on your life?"

"Did they succeed?"

"Well—uh, obviously not."

"Good. Forget about them. Politics demand no less."

He stared at her for a minute. Stared past her shoulder to where Avandar stood like a bouncer, waiting for someone—anyone— to make a wrong move. "This is worse than that."

"Of course, it's worse than that." Jewel ran a hand through hair that, no matter what was done with it short of shearing, fell into her eyes. "I—I'm not going to make the decision for you because I can't calculate the risk. How much damage can a healer take without dying?"

Daine's face shuttered at once, and then she remembered that hers wasn't the only life he'd been exposed to—merely the most recent. "A lot." he said at last. "I can't lose my head, but short of that—
if
I'm given the time, the place and the food—almost anything. Time's important, though."

"You've tested this."

"No."

"Fair enough. Are you willing to?"

"What she means to say—"

"I know what she's trying to say," Daine said, before Avandar could finish. "Why me? I can't see—."

"You can touch 'em. I don't know how the healer's talent works. Hells, I barely understand how the seer's talent works, and I've
got
that one. But I think you can tell if a person's—uh, not quite what they should be—just the same way you can tell they've got a disease."

"As long as you don't expect me to cure it," he replied.

She'd remember those words later—she knew it the minute she heard them. "'Never mind," she said sharply, some fear forcing the words to form.

"What do you mean never mind?"

"We don't need you."

"Look, Jay—if you're talking about demons—"

"That is
quite enough
," Avandar said.

"—-and if you're talking about that Henden, that's what you're talking about—"

"Daine, Jewel, I must insist—"

"—then you've asked me about it for a very good reason. You can't just change your mind in the middle of the question!"

"I can change my mind any damned time I please," she replied, shorter than she'd intended to be.

"No, you can't, not about this—"

"Avandar Gallais," another voice said, one that tickled Jewel's ear, but fell short of the rest of Daine's sentence, "you've been granted royal dispensation to use your magics appropriately; shut them up."

It was Duvari's voice. If one of her den hadn't been questioning her authority, she was certain she'd have died of shock. As it was…

"I will assume by that," the domicis said softly, "that you mean 'protect them from eavesdroppers.' "

"Very well," Duvari replied, his voice as friendly as falling stone, "you may assume that. But
do it
."

He did not recognize the woman who came by the side of the ATerafin; he did not recognize either of the older men—both dark-haired, both far too deliberate in their movements and the way they casually scanned the crowd to be anything other than dangerous— either. He did not recognize the man who was probably about his own age, but he
did
recognize the symbol that man wore: Two palms, face up, in a platinum field. Gold hands, and somewhat stylized, but it didn't matter—the healer-born were known, loved, and perhaps feared a little for their power of refusal, in any kingdom, any country. Even in the South, where they rarely announced their presence by such obvious emblem.

He bowed; he bowed to all of them, mindful of the need now for manners and decorum. It was hard to remember that need when his only company was Commander Sivari and the Ospreys.

"My apologies, Tyr'agar," the ATerafin said, bowing quite low, "but we have need, at the moment, of your indulgence."

"Of course," Valedan replied. "Is there a problem? I've heard that the contest will not begin until after the sun's height."

"Rumor, in the rare instance, is correct. Please summon your men."

He nodded, turned, and made a brief statement to Commander Sivari.

The man to Devon ATerafin's right leaned over and spoke a few words.

"Ah, apologies, Tyr'agar. We do not wish to speak to the men you have on duty; we wish to speak to
all
of your men."

"All of them? But they are not all available—"

"All of them. I believe that you are currently protected by the Ospreys. Ask Primus Duarte—is that his name?—to gather them. Tell him that any man who is not here for this inspection will no longer have access to the grounds upon which the Championship is contested."

"But the—"

"We will wait," the unknown man said softly. "We have need of the magi before we start."

"Carlo," Ser Anton said softly. "Be still."

"What game are they playing?" Carlo said in return. It was not a reply, but it was as much of a reply as the young man was capable of. Indeed these words, or a variant thereof, had been the only words he'd been capable of for the past two hours, and they wore thin indeed, even though Ser Anton's thoughts had not been dissimilar.

"I imagine they will let us know shortly," the swordmaster replied.

"That's what you said an hour ago."

Ser Anton could almost hear Andaro cringe, although he knew he wouldn't actually see it should he turn around. "Carlo," he said softly. Too softly.

Happily, Carlo was impatient, but he was not suicidal. He managed, for five minutes, to be silent. In this, as in most things, timing was everything.

The day proceeded poorly; Ser Anton was mildly concerned. Had he not known that the Imperials had in fact sent out guards— in force—to every party in the arena, he would have been actively worried. He felt some fear that they might discover what they were seeking.

No—fear was too strong a word, and he was Southern enough to correct himself although there was no one to hear the half-formed thought. He was
concerned
.

Still, there were reasons why one did not choose to threaten a master of his skill; he acknowledged this truth with both pride and a twinge of weariness.

"Ser Anton," a familiar voice said. He shifted both gaze and stance and offered a correct, if somewhat stiff, bow to the Princess of the Blood.

"ACormaris," he said. Wisewoman. Still, for all her claim of wisdom, she had about her none of the Voyani trappings, none of the sense of their deep mystery, their hidden certainties. This was wisdom as the Lord might have it, not the Lady—but there were few indeed, even among the Radann, who granted the aspect of great wisdom to the Lord.

"Forgive us for this intrusion and forgive us for the delay in the test. We have had a complaint laid by an authority that it is not within our power to ignore. It seems that the lives and the safety of the athletes and their witnesses are at risk, and we have undertaken the responsibility of guaranteeing their safety." She paused, offering him the edge of a smile. "We will request that your students, yourself, and those who form your following, present themselves, momentarily, for inspection by three of our experts."

"And if they refuse?"

"Then they will be refused entry into the test."

"Impossible."

"Unavoidable." She shifted slightly, bending at the knee, taking on a stance that—were it not for the lack of a weapon—he might have recognized immediately. "We will tender apology and possibly compensation should your students feel it necessary to refuse."

"And how will we be certain that your… inspections… do no harm?"

She met his gaze, but she did not parry the blow. Instead, to his chagrin, she sidestepped it and struck home. "That is beneath you, Ser Anton."

He raised a brow, surprised at the sternness of her chosen tone. Surprised by it, amused by it, but set off-balance for a moment. There were no Southern swordsmen who could throw him off his game. And perhaps, had she been a man, she might not have succeeded. His weakness, not hers, and like any good opponent, she exploited it.

Even if unaware of its existence. He bowed, and this bow was fluid, all grace; no sign of age marred it. "It was," he replied soft-

ly, "as you say. You will forgive me, but we did not realize that you wished to see our entire retinue."

It was her turn to frown. "I apologize. Word was sent—"

"It was not sent directly to me; it was intercepted by one of my students." Carlo, of course; it had to be Carlo. "And the messenger's Torra was poor. Sadly, Carlo's Weston is poorer."

"We act in haste," she said, "But not with the greatest organization. This is the first time in the history of Challenge—" He lifted a hand to correct the sentence that she had not, quite, finished; she smiled ruefully. "The first time since the inner city difficulties one hundred and sixty-three years ago, then. I spoke for brevity's sake."

"And I interrupted for form's sake. The point is yours, ACormaris. If I cannot assemble the retinue, what penalty will we be required to pay?"

"No penalty—but those members of your retinue that are not assembled and witnessed will not be granted passage into the arenas or the palace for the duration of the Challenge."

"I see."

"We still have the spectators to witness and to pass," she said softly. "We can return."

"We will be assembled," he said. "I assume that free passage is being granted?"

"To enter, yes, at the moment. To leave…"

He raised a brow.

The smile left her face. "The charges and the complaint are serious. We will not ignore them, and no amnesty, should the guilty party be found, will be granted."

He heard the fall of the sword in her words, and he smiled.

He smiled.

Goldwork, in the heat of a day such as this, was not the choice of any sane man. That was work for either apprentices or the rainy season, although it was perfectly acceptable to acquire one's wares when the merchants traveled. Gold worked at the hands of a maker was exceptionally rare, and the makers worked as they pleased; no man or woman had the right—or the lack of sense—to tell a maker otherwise.

And yet.

In the courtyard sheltered to the west by the outer wall of the Hall of Wise Counsel, beneath awnings and tents set up for just that purpose, the makers worked.

And what they produced was not, in fact, art; it was craft, pure and simple; craft of a kind that the most humble goldsmith's apprentice would not boast of. Indeed, it might have been less insulting, and less politically unwise, to assemble such an army of apprentices.

But for one thing: the makers made their home on the isle of
Averalaan Aramarelas
, and the makers did not make an error. Not one. Even in this, the most simple and unseemly of tasks, they were lost to the world; the gold mattered, the simple molds mattered; the cooling mattered—and each thing in turn, end over end, was repeated beneath the open sky.