Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (82 page)

I told them
, he thought, fingering the slender dagger that was as much a part of him as the multiple rings that adorned his fingers, the ostentatious display. In honesty, he had been wrong. Ser Anton di'Guivera had proved himself worthy of their trust, dedicated to their goal.

Cortano di'Alexes had foreseen that much: that his hatred would prove far greater than his title. Pedro himself had not seen that. Ser Anton's reputation was obviously greater than the man himself, and that amused Pedro. Very little amused him these days.

The conversation between the two men angered him.

He was a vain man in his fashion, but not without cause; he knew that it was not wise to anger him. and wished at times that his role was a more public one: if it were, people would understand the risk they took when they interfered with his plans.

But no matter.

He served the true Lord, the
known
Lord, in his fashion, and when the time came, his role would be known. In the streets beneath these streets, when the City was brought, once again, to light.

Watching the two men. Carlo and Andaro, the seeds of the final contingency plan had been planted, and as he walked, as he returned in leisure to the lights and the lovely noise, they began to sink roots, to grow deep. To carry the analogy, and he had a great love of such things, he knew that that plan would bear fruit if all others failed, and indeed, it pleased him, for there was a rough justice in it.

The Imperials had robbed him of his first victory, and the Imperials had robbed him of the
Kialli
who would have lined the marathon's route, thus robbing him of the easiest access. But the third attempt—that was betrayal, pure and simple. Had it not been for the interference of Carlo di'Jevre, Valedan kai di'Leonne would be dead.

Pedro forgot little. And forgave nothing.

The names of the Lady's chosen were the foundations of his early life. From the moment that the
Kovaschaü
masters had opened their doors to him, had anointed him with the grail and the star in a labyrinth under a city that was old as time, he had heard what they heard: The Lady's voice, chiming the deaths she desired.

What he had not heard, what no man but the brother granted the responsibility for the death could hear, was the name of the man who hired the brother. The name was not spoken; it was taken, taken by consensual touch. Many were the men who refused that touch—and the service—for what it represented: Intimacy. Invasion.

Kallandras did not, therefore, know who summoned the
Kovaschaü
. But he knew the names. No one who spent time in this court could not.
Jewel ATerafin
.

He dressed for the revelry and he dressed for the night; the flash of color that was his overcoat could be easily discarded, as could the large boots. Salla, the lute by which he had earned his title, was not so easy a thing to set aside; for that reason he did not carry her, although he had chosen to take that risk at the height of the sea's challenge. He had not always been honest with himself in his youth; he could be honest now. He had preserved that lute through every battle, every bardic challenge, every contest. She had been Sioban's gift, and although he had felt disdain for it then, the music had already trapped him.

Such were people; they either died or grew to love their cages.

He was halfway across the palace when he found Mirialyn, and she carried the news: Jewel ATerafin had disappeared from the healerie. There was no evidence of a struggle, but a dagger had been thrown into the headboard of the bed she'd been in. They were searching for her, assuming that she had somehow managed to flee.

It would not be easy to kill the seer-born.

But if one knew that's what she was, it wouldn't be impossible either. He bowed to Mirialyn; she said nothing. Her way of wishing him well.

Bruce Allen
. The Eagle. Of course.

"Miri," he said softly, before she could move away.

"Yes?"

"Where does Commander Allen currently reside?"

"I think—if you must know—he's staying with Sioban."

There were so very few things in the world that surprised him. This did; he would not have thought to find Allen there. But the fact that his brother knew to look for Jewel ATerafin in the healerie implied much about the man who wished her dead. He knew his victims well.

"My thanks," the master bard acknowledged.

With Sioban.

"Sioban,"
he said, into the wind, into the silence that the bardic voice could penetrate without breaking.

Silence returned; the unnatural silence that gathered around words of power.

"Kallandras? This had better be important."

"Are you with Commander Allen?"

The pause was awkward, but there. He relaxed. Until she spoke again.
"No. He's off with the Flight."

The Flight. The three together.
"Where?"

"Why?"

Cursing did nothing but alleviate irritation; Kallandras rarely used it.
"Sioban."

"
Avantari
,"
she said at last.
"Hall of Wise Counsel, in the East Chamber of Resolution."

Which meant, of course, that The Kalakar and The Berriliya were fighting.
"Thank you,"
he said.

"Your Ospreys tried to have the boy killed!" The Hawk's voice was taken to the heights of the profoundly simple room, there to echo and swoop. "Did you think the rest of us wouldn't hear the truth?"

"The boy made no complaint, formal or otherwise—which means it's none of your gods-cursed business. Or have you so few of your own men that you've nothing better to do than spy on mine?" The flats of her palms slapped the top of the fine grain, emphasizing the fall of her own reflection across the room's single table. It was polished, this table, and heavier than ten good men; it didn't even rock at the force of the blow.

Commander Bruce Allen was certain it had seen worse.

"No, Kalakar. I find little joy in the escapades of your men, and no desire to learn more of them. But this was brought to my attention by an external source, and I was forced to answer it. You've made no attempts to discipline the Ospreys."

Silence. Ellora's lips were white. "It always comes down to the Ospreys, doesn't it?" she said tersely.

"Not particularly. Your men were always a discipline problem. The lack of enforced discipline caused friction for myself and my Verruses. I do not wish to see that difficulty reimposed when we take our armies to war. There have been few border actions, and it has been twelve years since we've seen battle. Many of the men we've recruited during the Challenge are unformed— and I will not see them turned into the chaos that
you
call an army!"

"Devran," Bruce Allen said, raising a hand. "The Ospreys were used by
the
army."

"They were also formed out of the men who would otherwise have faced the Kings' Justice—and died doing so. But I understand their use; they are devoid of any moral sense or purpose and they make a fine weapon against an enemy more like them than the Kings' men."

"Yes," Ellora said starkly. "They do. They protect your boys. They keep their hands clean, so they can pretend they've fought the 'better' war."

"Ellora." the Commander said. "They keep the hands of
all
of our armies clean, most of yours included."

Silence.

"And the discipline they face has always been legendary and severe."

She shrugged. "I won't—before we've even entered the field— be told how to form my units. They operate under the rules of the Kings' Justice—"

"Barely!"

"And they fight to the death where they have to."

"They fight," The Berriliya said, and Bruce Allen knew they were coming to the core of an argument that would haunt them all, again and again, over the course of the war, "for
you
. Not for the Kings, and not for their Justice; not for the Empire. They fight for Commander
Ellora
. They don't even give a damn that a House name follows the rank."

"And should they?"

Both the Kestrel and the Hawk were bent over the table now, straining across its length as if to reach each other. Commander Allen stood between them, consciously aware of two things. That he admired the woman and the man immensely; that the woman did, indeed, drive an army with the force of her personality, both giving—iconically, of course—and demanding devotion and loyalty. Legend: That if she was on the field, she did not leave any of her own, fallen or dead, for the enemy. Truth: She didn't.

The man was a military man: stiffer, and without the personal charm, the rough openness, that The Kalakar offered. He left the dead when the cost of bringing them in would be
more
dead, and he expected his men to see the value of that exchange. Most did. The Berriliya's men were loyal to The Berriliya—partly because of their competition with The Kalakar's. He held them, he demanded their respect but not their love or filial devotion. And of the two. it was Devran whose mind was quicker; he could make the coolest of decisions without the pain or the anger that came with surrendering the lives of his soldiers. Thus, in the end, he fought the less costly war. And yet…

Together, when they weren't actively trying to have the other removed or disciplined, they formed an army that had both head and heart, that reacted intelligently and instinctively, they were a team.

And they were a team that responded to
his
command because, in the end, he could see where they could not.

There were two great windows in the room; two, open to darkness and the muted sounds of the night.

Instinct made him fall to the ground an instant before the window shattered.

Crossbow. A simple weapon, elegant and easily carried when the target was on flat ground. No such weapon had been used against the ATerafin, but she had escaped unscathed.

Kallandras saw the light from a tall window give his brother's face the grace of gentle glow. It made him beautiful, and the master bard hesitated for just that second; the bow was trained. The
Kovaschaü
—and he struggled, now, to think of him as that, as that and not more—lifted a hand, pressed it flat against the pane.

Held the bow.

Glass shattered.

Quarrel flew.

And wind nudged it, wind nudged it a hair's breadth off its perfect course.

There were three people in that room; gender ceased to matter. They were the heart of the Kings' army; a good choice of deaths. Kallandras froze a moment, staring at the mild consternation, the lift of brow, the compression of lip across a brother's face. This was not one of the younger brothers.

No point in conversation; there wouldn't be any.

He armed himself.

On a bad day, he could arm himself completely silently; he could draw metal against metal as if it were feather against skin. Power was not the reason he killed; he had no desire to make another suffer by forcing them to witness the death he was about to grant them.

But there were other desires.

On rare days, he lied to himself, and that angered him in the here and the now, his brother yards away.