Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (74 page)

He heard the splash of the first heat hitting the water almost to a man, and he felt the whole of his body stiffen, although the noise was lost quickly to the cheering, whistling, and jeering of the crowd itself, speaking with so many tongues, so many voices, so many purposes that language and meaning were almost lost.

He swept the boardwalk in a great semicircle, flattened himself to the side as a merchant's wagon, with its suspiciously Southern draft horses, muscled its way through the crowd by implied threat of trampling. Not that the horses themselves were likely to be such a menace, but they were restive and ill-pleased at their surroundings, and they had the advantage of height and size to add to their perceived threat.

He wandered there, to the wagon, where the merchant was setting up. Two large, dark-haired men barred his way with gleaming crescent swords. They would have looked down upon him, but he was of a height with the taller of the two, and not in the mood to underplay height for the sake of peace.

Besides which, these men were clearly from the Dominion and not likely to look kindly upon any peaceful overtures.

"Eh, Patris," the merchant said, standing and wiping his hands on the red-and-white silks that covered his body from head to toe. "Have you come to sample the wares of a simple merchant?"

"Simple? You are too modest," Devon replied dryly. He meant it: No merchant found their way here,
late
, on a day like today and made a space for themselves—without death or the threat of death, and he had seen neither—by being simple. And the merchant, for his affected joviality and his large, unassuming proportions, did not look like the sort of man who arranged favor by the simple expedience of popularity.

There was something about this man that was familiar.

He cursed himself, because he did not know
why
. Devon ATerafin had no false modesty: he was one of the best members the Astari had ever produced or trained. And he had no false pride: He
had been
one of the best.

Now, his memory splintered and fragmented by the death-throes of a demon, he didn't know why the man was familiar: was he spy? Assassin? Friend? Had he been used by Devon in some fashion in the past, or had he been warned against him?

Or had he been somehow essential to the plans of the
Kialli
who had died at the thrust of a dagger? For it was the shadow memories of the creature that drove him now. He shook himself.

The merchant laughed. "Heat," he said.

"Spice, rather," Devon replied neutrally, as what little breeze there was stirred the scents of a few—a very few—open jars. "Your wares are potent."

"And expensive," the man agreed with a deep, dry smile. "But you are attired like a man who is destined to be a customer."

Meaning, of course, that he knew enough about cloth and cut on sight to know money when he saw it. "We are not without such niceties on the isle."

"Oh-ho, and you a man of the isle! Come, then; no doubt, you recognize the finest of wares, and I have them in abundance. No simple bay leaves, no basil and cloves, no sweet greenery here."

"Pedro," one of the two guards said.

The merchant froze, half-word already formed on his lips. "What?"

Speaking in fluent, bass heavy Torra, the guard said, "The second heat is stepping out onto the boardwalk."

"What of it," the merchant replied, in Torra that was arid as the deserts. "I am on the trail of money, you fool, and I'm not to be interrupted. Tell me only if something interesting happens." He frowned. Added quickly, "Or if that Northerner—Eneric, I think—is losing. You're paid to watch my money after all."

With a smile that was all teeth and little eye, he turned back to Devon. "Pedro di'Jardanno at your service, Patris."

"Devon ATerafin," Devon replied. "I am the second to Patris Larkasir, a man whose name—if you are so well renowned—you must have heard."

The merchant's smile dimmed; Devon doubted that it would ever gutter entirely, it was so patently nailed to his face. "That would be—"

"Yes. The lord who oversees the traders' commission, among other offices."

"Well, sir, you can see—"

"Your fine wares, yes. Please."

Something here
, he thought.
Something
. He tensed as the merchant's hands disappeared from view, relaxed as two stoppered flasks were brought forward in the shade of the wagon's awning. But in that moment, between tension and its uneasy death, revelation. Not here, the death. Not here.

He turned as the cries and shouts of the crowd grew louder. The second group of men was approaching the seawall.

It was much past dawn when she woke, but it might as well have been midnight; the shadows were strong. Strong as this, and what woke her was the sensation that she couldn't
breathe
. She woke gasping and flailing. She woke to Avandar's face. It was the only thing about the room that was familiar; his face, and the lamp he carried. Where he'd gotten the lamp from, she wasn't certain; magelights were far more common in the castle itself than lamps and what lamps there were weren't idly picked up and carried off. But he was Avandar. He was good at some things.

She was already sitting, but that didn't last long; she lost all feeling in her legs and sort of slid down, down, down, until her face was in her knees and the world was white, thin silk.

He waited impassively, having learned over time that touching her in any way was not acceptable; there were dreams she had to struggle out of on her own.

"Jewel?"

She shook her head, trying to find enough air to speak with. "It's bad," she said at last, doubled over, into the bed itself.

You could always count on Avandar to have good hearing. It was rarely useful, but you could always count on it.

"It's daylight," he said. "The Challenge has already started."

"Can we stop it?" Gods, this was humiliating. But at least the satin was smooth against her cracked lips. She turned her head to the side, so that she could see Avandar's midriff, robed and covered as it was.

"No."

"We need Meralonne," she said then.

"Out of the question, Jewel. Devon made it clear—and Dantallon made it
quite
clear—that the mage is not to be disturbed."

"We need him," she said again.

"If rumors are true, he's going to be far less useful than you are now."

"Help me up."

He was silent. And still.

"Avandar, we're going to fail if we don't get to Meralonne. Help me up!"

Without another word—although she had to admit that his strongest disapproval was reserved for his silences—he put both hands under her armpits and hauled her into a more-or-less sitting position. She was still wearing the clothing she'd come in, thank Kalliaris, although her feet were bare. She lifted her arms to slide them round his neck for support, but they tingled and ached enough that they wouldn't quite connect at the hands. She was one step up from dead weight.

"Where are we going?"

"How the Hells should I know? You're the man who notices everything—take me to where Meralonne APhaniel is. Now."

Valedan heard the cries of time cross the ocean from mainland to isle as if they were a sentence. He had first learned to count in Weston.

She had taught him that, the Serra.

The Princess had taught him to speak. It seemed natural to him then, to be surrounded by women—even if the women were strange and harsh and not at all the graceful, hidden creatures of his father's harem, not the beauties for which the harem was famous.

But he could remember, if he tried, a time before Weston; a time when the language of foreigners was the buzzing of malignant, demonic spell. Even after he'd lost that fear, he could hear it as taunt, as control that he could not wrest away from the speaker.

He felt that now, as he stood.

Felt it as Sivari touched his shoulder, wordlessly, and pointed to the boardwalk and the grim-faced, sun-darkening officials. He did not wear armor, not this day, and he knew that he was being asked to strip down to what he might swim in—but he did not wish to surrender any of his clothing to the sun.

Because, of course, he did not wish to be exposed.

"Valedan kai di'Leonne." he heard a man say. the pronunciation hard and workmanlike.

The Third Heat began to form up. a line of fifteen men.

"Valedan?" A small voice—a foreign voice—said.

He looked down and met the eyes of his too-red, too-young witness. Forced himself to smile. "Yes?"

"I think they've called you twice now."

He didn't bother to add that there were only three calls.

"I can—I can hold your stuff for you. I won't let anyone else touch it."

That wasn't the duty of a witness, but the offer calmed him. "I'd be honored," he said gratefully. Because he knew, in so saying, he would also confer honor. The boy seemed unnaturally proud of his position, whatever it meant. Witness.

And he could take the time—quickly, quickly—to add to this boy's joy. Because he had indirectly added to his sorrow. Balance. He ungirded himself of sword, and handed the weapon to Aidan, who managed, just barely, to look as if its weight were insignificant.

Stepping up to the line, he pulled himself free of his tunic, his underclothing, his boots. And then he turned, because he couldn't help it, to see Eneric. The Northerner smiled broadly, as if the gravity of the situation were entirely foisted upon him and none of it his own making. He stepped out of line, while the officiants were not looking, and for one moment. Valedan thought he was going to piss in the ocean.

He was shocked.

- The other Northerner in the heat laughed, and that drew attention; Eneric stepped back into the fold as if he had never left it. "Get ready," the officiant rumbled. He lifted the Kings' flag.

Kallandras saw them line up, and he almost called Valedan back. But the boy wouldn't come; that much was clear. He had found nothing, seen nothing, that indicated the presence of an assassin, and the one he most feared to meet, he knew for fact was not present on these grounds.

But he knew that Devon ATerafin had not found the death he feared either. And they had very, very little time.

The second heat straggled in from isle to mainland, and then, spinning and using the seawall as a launch, propelled themselves back, back to the beginning of their quest for recognition in this challenge: the boardwalk itself.

At the far end, the third heat was preparing itself for the waters; a breeze was toying with them, but it was a weak one.

"A fair day," the merchant said, "for such a task as this."

He nodded, force of habit strong enough to carry him when inclination failed. They were too late. He knew they would be too late.

They had set a dragon at the door of Meralonne's secluded room, but Avandar Gallais didn't recognize her. Old, silvered, her skin wreathed in lines, she seemed frailty defined—and perhaps she was, in some other dream or delirium, some life that wasn't this one.

Age and a certain irascibility could destroy elegance and grace, and certainly it destroyed the patina of power by which so many men made their name. But it did not daunt the mage Sigurne Mellifas, born a commoner, bred a commoner, and raised half a childhood to be victim. She had risen above too much to fall back to it, and age was not the indignity that a gentler life might have made it.

Still, she looked mildly surprised as the would-be visitor appeared, carried in the arms of her domicis like so much dead weight. It forestalled some of her grimness, and removed the edge from the set of her lips.

"I should tell you," she said softly, "that Member APhaniel is in no fit condition to see anyone."

"Except that I'm not either?"

She smiled rarely; she smiled now. "He is fitful; he wakes seldom, and when he wakes, we
must
use that time to feed him."

"Understood," Jewel said, forcing what strength she could find into her voice. It wasn't much. "But I'm Jewel ATerafin," she continued.

"The Terafin adviser. We've met."

"Then you understand that when I say I must speak to Meralonne or a man will die, I mean it, and know it for fact."

"And if you speak to him," Sigurne replied, "do you know for fact that a man
won't
die?"

"We can never know that for fact, but—"

"Jewel," Avandar said, interrupting her. "She speaks of Member APhaniel."

"Oh."

Sigurne frowned, but the frown was mild. "I will see if he wakes," she said reluctantly. "Follow me."

They did, or rather, Avandar did; Jewel came by default since he apparently had no intention of putting her down.

The magi was not awake. He was not asleep either; he was in that fitful, restless state a sick man hovers in. neither here nor there. Sigurne had folded her arms across her slender chest, which was comment enough in itself, but fell just short of order: She knew who Jewel ATerafin was/She knew what she did. She knew Meralonne well enough to know that this particular visitor could not be protected against.

"Meralonne," Jewel said, struggling with her voice. Struggling to sit up. Again, only marginally louder, "Meralonne." She looked up at the underside of Avandar's chin. "Put me down," she said.

"Let me wake him."

"You know the rules, Avandar. Put me down."

He did, upon the edge of the sick man's bed, crossing his chest with his arms in a brooding parody—an accidental one. Jewel was certain—of Sigurne Mellifas' pose.

She touched his face.

His eyes snapped open at once.

"NO!" she said, and it
was
loud. "It's
me
, Meralonne. It's Jewel!"

Nothing changed but the sense of imminent death. His eyes were wide. "What… brings you… here? This is not a… safe place for a… young woman to be."

His hand was on her wrist.

She swallowed. Jewel ATerafin hated to be touched, and especially not like this: the fevered grip of an insanely strong man was very difficult to break. She endured. Had to. "It's Valedan," she said softly. "They're hunting him."

He started to rise. Fell back.