Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (24 page)

           
She backed away a step, edging
toward the mare. "If I took this ... if I took this with me and sent men
back to murder you—"

           
"—you would be executed."
He moved too swiftly for her, catching her hands in his own. "Aye, lady,
wastrel son that I am, I am also the Prince of Solinde."

           
She laughed. She laughed so hard she
cried, and then thrust the seal at him. "Take it! Take it! Without the
other two it is nothing. Even in my hands!"

           
"Lady—"

           
But she was free of him, shedding
his hands easily as she leaped for the mare and scrambled into the saddle.

           
Curtained by hair, there was little
of her face he could see. But he heard her words all too clearly.

           
"Hart, Prince of Solinde, know
you that battle has been joined!"

           
And before he could speak, she was
gone.

           
Oil braziers burned in every comer
of the room, casting a pall of clean bright light that obliterated the shadows
of early evening. It glittered off the silver and crystal wine decanter, off
the fine-mesh ceremonial mail shirt showing at hem and sleeves of his rich blue
Solindish overtunic, off the polished silver plate that conjured his
reflection: black hair, still damp from the bath, starting to curt against his
shoulders; bright blue eyes in an angular face of burnished bronze, not even
remotely Solindish; and a somewhat rueful set to the mouth as he pushed hair
aside and studied the swelling on his forehead. The pattern of the tree bark
was impressed in his flesh.

           
Hart sighed, turned from the plate
and faced the man who waited so quietly, so patiently, by the table near the
fireplace. "I will survive," he said mildly as he saw the man's
expression. "I promise."

           
The pale brown eyes watching him
narrowed minutely, fanning outward a webwork of tiny creases. Tarron, regent of
Solinde by authority of Niall the Mujhar, was not a man who gave up his thoughts
without careful deliberation. But neither was the newly arrived Prince of
Solinde ignorant in the ways of reading men, even lifelong politicians; Hart
had learned to discern the inner man in dozens of dicing games.

           
Tarron inclined his head slightly.
"As you say, my lord—surely you would know better than I."

           
Surely I should . . . Hart agreed
inwardly. As surely as I know my head is likely to fall off.

           
Rael, settled on his oaken perch in
a corner of the royal chambers, remained eloquently silent. Hart ignored him
altogether and smiled blandly at the regent, hoping to turn Tarron's irritation
into good humor. His abrupt arrival in lir-shape had ruffled feathers other
than his own, figuratively speaking; Tarron, he felt, was displeased more by
the lack of pageantry associated with the arrival than by the sudden usurpation
of his own authority. Hart knew a messenger from Homana must have arrived
before him, if only to prepare Tarron, because his father would have seen to
it.

           
Jehan would know better than to
spring me on Solinde—or on Tarron—unannounced. Hart's smile widened to a
crooked grin of wry humor as he recalled what the girl had named him. But I
wonder what the regent thinks now that the wastrel son has arrived? He gestured
toward the polished table and two padded chairs. "Sit you down,
regent," Hart suggested, and did so himself.

           
What Tarron thought of his lord's
wastrel son remained unspoken as he seated himself at the table and accepted
the wine Hart poured. The regent's ascetic face was smooth and serene again, a
polite, politic mask. He was older than the Mujhar himself. Hart knew, having
served as councillor to Donal before Niall's ascension and Tarron's subsequent
appointment to Solinde. He was well experienced in dealing with men of all ranks
and races. Even Cheysuli.

           
"Is all to your liking, my
lord?" Tarron inquired.

           
Hart laughed, amused by his
attitude. They faced one another like two men in a fortune-game, seated across
the table with nothing at all to bind them together save a royal command. They
did not play with dice, they did not wager, but the game was surely on.
"Aye, and how not? Since my somewhat unusual arrival less than two hours
ago, I have been bathed, clothed, fed, examined by a chirurgeon, and ensconced
within royal apartments as luxurious as my own in Homana-Mujhar." A
gesture encompassed the chambers. "The servants have been so thick around
me I can scarce move my elbows for fear of blacking an eye or knocking loose a
tooth. Only now am I given room to breathe, and I find myself attended by no
less than the Mujhar's regent himself, when I would do well enough on my
own." His mouth twisted wryly. "If I said no, you would have it all
done over again, and that I could not bear."

           
Tarron did not smile. "You are
the Prince of Solinde."

           
Hart laughed aloud. "Aye. But
even you must know my reputation; it is what puts me here instead of Homana-Mujhar."
He leaned forward, looming across the table. "I am Hart, the second son,
the wastrel son, who spends his gold and wits in taverns, dicing his life away,
I am the man responsible for setting the Midden aflame, though unintentionally,
and for killing thirty-two people—men, women, children. And I am punished for
it: I am sent to rule Solinde." He sat back again, all humor banished,
flopping against the chair. "But where does that leave Solinde, regent?
Where does it leave you?"

           
Tarron did not hesitate. "It
leaves me in fear for the future of this realm," he said quietly. "It
leaves me wondering if the Mujhar's prejudice interferes with his intellect.
And most certainly, in these past two hours, I have seen nothing in you that
assuages my fear, and everything that leaves me wondering how I can possibly do
what my lord has commanded, and teach a hopeless reprobate how to govern."
He paused. "Even a royal one."

           
Hart stared at him a long, rigid
moment. He had expected anything but censure from the man; Tarron was too
well-versed in the delicacy of politics and the exigencies of rank to ever be
so blunt and risk his entire career.

           
But Hart knew better than to believe
he had misheard, asking to have them repeated; the words had been explicitly
distinct, displaying neither malice nor bitterness, only heartfelt sincerity.

           
That kind of honesty was a thing
Cheysuli honored.

           
But Hart was more than Cheysuli. He
was also Prince of Solinde.

           
"Ku'reshtin," he said
without heat, more surprised than offended. "Is this how you spoke to
Donal?"

           
"Your grandsire never required
it," Tarron answered quietly.

           
Hart gazed at him thoughtfully. The regent
wore understated clothing of plain, unrelieved black, as if to downplay the
importance of his rank. His dark brown hair was graying at the temples and
brushed back from a face almost stark in its severity of expression, but it was
derived of sharp bones rather than of nature. And yet Hart sensed little or no
humor in the regent; he wondered if Tarron recalled the follies of his own
youth.

           
Unless there were no follies. He
sighed a little and tapped fingertips against the wood of the table. "No
doubt you feel I deserve it; perhaps I do. Perhaps this is why my jehan sent me
to you. Perhaps I am to develop some sense of guilt for past indiscretions,
merely by seeing the condemnation in your eyes." Hart sat up and pushed
the chair back to rise, scraping wooden legs against marble floor. "And
perhaps I will, one day—but not just yet."

           
Belatedly Tarron rose as Hart moved
to open the door. "My lord—where are you going?"

           
"Out," Hart said
succinctly. "The urge for a game is upon me, and the sweet perfume of a
smoky tavern."

           
"My lord—"

           
Rael, Hart summoned, ignoring the
regent's protest; the hawk flew out of the open casement even as Hart walked
out of the room.

           
He went out of the palace and into
the bailey, following blurted directions he had asked of a Solindish servant.
Lestra's royal palace was enough like Homana-Mujhar that he had no difficulty
finding the bailey and hence the guardroom; when he paused by several off-duty
soldiers lounging by the entrance, he saw they assessed him indifferently, not
knowing who he was.

           
Anonymity suited him well enough, at
least for the moment.

           
"I am looking for a game,"
he told them, tapping his heavy belt-purse significantly. "Not
here—undoubtedly your captains prohibit wagering within the castle walls—but elsewhere.
In the city. Can you suggest a tavern?"

           
They were Solindish, not Homanan,
for their woolen tunics were indigo banded with silver braid, not the crimson
and black livery of the Homanan Guard. Four pairs of eyes reassessed him,
noting the richness of silken overtunic, the glitter of costly mail, the
quality of leather trews, silver-buckled belt, polished kneeboots. To them,
Hart knew, he was an enigma: a Homanan garbed Solindish. It altered their
responses.

           
And if they knew I was Cheysuli? He
smiled; Rael had perched himself on the roof of the guardroom.

           
"Homanan tavern, or
Solindish?" one of the soldiers asked in accented Homanan.

           
Hart shrugged. "Does it
matter?"

           
The Solindishman, red-headed and
green-eyed, showed his teeth briefly in a humorless smile. "It matters.
Lestra is a Solindish city, for all the Mujhar might have it otherwise; the
Homanans cluster together like chicks about a hen."

           
"Avoiding the fox, no
doubt." Hart smiled benignly and spread upturned hands. "By all
means, let it be a Solindish tavern. Wagering has a tongue all its own."

           
The four men exchanged glances,
murmuring among themselves in low-pitched voices. Finally the spokesman
shrugged and looked back at Hart. "The White Swan," he said.
"Not so far from here. Do you require escort?"

           
"Is it customary?" Hart
asked evenly. "Without one, is a Homanan likely to be accosted?"

           
Again they exchanged glances. The
red-haired man smiled. "In the shadows, one man is very much like
another."

           
Hart grinned back. "A chance I
might have to take . . . but I know a little Solindish. Perhaps this phrase
might be enough?" And, though the accent was horrendous, he told them, in
their own tongue: "A Cheysuli never walks alone."

           
On their benches, they straightened.
"Cheysuli—" blurted one, staring. Two of his comrades muttered in
Solindish; amidst the mostly alien words Hart heard his own name twice. The
fourth man, the redhead, slowly rose and faced him. They were of a like height
and similar build, though the shapes of their faces and coloring was entirely
different.

           
"My lord," the redhead
said formally, "word of your arrival has been given out. But I think we
expected another sort of man. The animals ... all the gold—" He broke off,
shrugging awkwardly. "There are stories, my lord."

           
Hart laughed, "My things were
misplaced earlier today. Fine as it is, Solindish clothing is somewhat more
elaborate than Cheysuli leathers." He tapped his left arm. "Beneath
all this silk and mail and linen lies the gold you refer to. As for my
lir—" he gestured "—Rael is always with me."

           
All four craned their heads and saw
the hawk, little more than a silvered shape upon the edge of the roof.

           
The redhead looked back. "Shall
we escort you, my lord?"

           
"No, Rael is escort enough.
Simply give me directions to The White Swan."

           
"You might do better at another
tavern, my lord."

           
"A tavern catering to the
chicks clustered around the hen?" Hart grinned as the other man reddened,
"The White Swan, soldier."

           
He was given explicit directions,
and a warning.

           
"The White Swan is a supremely
Solindish place, my lord," the redhead told him. His discomfort was quite
plain. "You may not find the welcome to your taste."

           
Hart grinned. "I am Cheysuli,
soldier; even in Homana, even sixty years after the ending of the royal purge
that nearly destroyed us, we know the taste of hatred and prejudice. But I have
learned that where a man may not be welcomed, his wealth always is."

           
After a moment, the Solindishman
smiled. "Aye. The custom is no different in Solinde."

           
Hart thanked him, saluted him, left
the palace entirely and entered Lestra proper with a winged shadow overhead.

           
The White Swan was, he thought, one
of the finest taverns he had ever entered, certainty as nicely appointed as
Mujhara's own Rampant Lion. Good wax candles in clay saucers stood on every
table, lighting food or play.

           
The beamwork of the ceiling was
higher than most, which pleased Hart immensely. Cheysuli height often resulted
in the need for constant ducking, for Homanans were almost uniformly shorter,
and built taverns accordingly.