Whipstick listened to the sound of her voice, as well as the sense of the words. Tdor had her back turned, and he knew her well enough by now to recognize from those tight, stiff shoulders that she did not want to talk.
“Your summation is good enough.” He added, “The prince wants us to stage one more harvest-time defense drill before the Riders leave. We can plan it in the morning. ”
“Very well,” was all the answer he got, then she ran upstairs, leaving him staring up at her braid swaying against her narrow back.
It was a day and a night later when Wafri returned.
Again the door was left slightly ajar. This time he was wearing scarlet, with extravagant sleeves thrown back over his shoulders and connected by a handsome gold chain. The false sleeves revealed a tunic embroidered with gold and scarlet, sashed with black. Beneath he wore long straight trousers of black embroidered down the sides with scarlet in the same pattern as that on the shirt.
Inda sat up, alert and tense. Wafri’s eyes were wide, the pupils enormous, gleaming with reflected light from the glowglobes overhead. “It is time to decide,” he said. “Either you choose freely to join me or I must persuade you.”
Inda said nothing.
Wafri drew in a hissing breath. “Every king adds his work to history, or he becomes nothing in the roll of time. I will add our freedom. My vision is attainable, and you will attain it. But the time is now.” He smiled, head tipped slightly, his hands out, rings of gold and ruby glittering.
“I won’t be forced to anyone’s will,” Inda said, and once he’d said it, his heartbeat drummed his blood through tense limbs.
With a chiding beckon Wafri summoned men through the doorway.
There were four big ones. No pretence, then, at a fair fight. Yet Inda tried. He leaped off the bed, twisting in the air. He took out one’s knee, sent another crowing for breath by a blow to the middle, and was rounding on the third when the fourth clubbed him with wood from behind.
He was not struck unconscious. Later he’d recognize the skilled precision of that blow and those that followed. Then the guards forced him to his feet, one on each arm. The other two struck their swagger-sticks to each elbow joint, and when the pain of those blows arched his back, a fist directly to his ribs folded him abruptly. The same ribs broken nine years ago, and now rebroken; he did not notice the subsequent blows to his face and gut.
Wafri called a cease. The point was lost if the victim was not aware of the proceedings.
“It’s your ribs?” he asked, but Inda could not answer, just hung there in the guards’ grip as blood dripped from his nose.
Wafri gestured for the men to free him, and Inda dropped so abruptly the side of his face caught on the wooden frame of the low bed, laying his cheek open as he tumbled flat on the floor.
“Put him on the bed,” Wafri ordered, and in accusation, “I don’t want anything broken—you know that.”
“Ribs weak, my lord,” was the stolid answer. “Didn’t hit him hard enough.”
“Go away. I am quite disturbed. I need him awake, and able to talk to me. Go away. All of you, and next time use the pain spots instead of pounding with your fists. Send Penros to me.”
And so Inda woke looking up at the intent face of the mage who had questioned him as Wafri said, “. . . only his ribs. Leave his face. He will keep one scar that is mine.”
Once again Inda was offered drink laced with kinthus, but this time he drank it down without hesitation, and presently the red glowing pain round his middle receded.
And, while he lay there, the mage slowly and softly intoned magic, over and over, until Inda drifted into light sleep, as, band by band, the hot wires of pain cooled and then faded. The cracked ribs were magic-bound, and then his middle bandaged. Beyond him Wafri kept vigil.
Inda woke briefly when the mage finished. Penros rose and staggered, his face drawn with exhaustion.
Wafri pressed his fingertips together. “When can I have him again? I require his full attention.”
“Give him at least a day. Two would be better,” the mage said hoarsely.
Inda slept.
Noren woke when a heel nudged hers in sleep. She snorted, sat up, discovered Whipstick beside her in her bed.
She grinned. Poked him.
He propped himself up on his elbows, hair in his face, eyes bleary. She picked up a lock of his hair from where it lay beside his elbow, then pulled her own braid around, idly comparing the similar shades of brown as he rubbed his eyes. But then he pulled his hair out of her hand, fumbled on the floor for his hair clasp, and fingered a horsetail up onto the back of his head.
“I must have been hot, eh?” Noren joked.
Whipstick grinned, and turned a shoulder toward her, where she saw fresh pink scratches. She chortled; they liked a tussle as part of sex. But usually Whipstick was awake and long gone before dawn.
He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “I was awake a long time thinking about Tdor,” he admitted. “Why is she so unhappy? We were as strong as we’ve ever been on the harvest drill yesterday. Stronger, with Branid still in the royal city, so he wasn’t interfering with the Riders on the attack.”
Noren sat up and shook out the coverlet, pausing to admire the owls in flight she’d embroidered along the edges. She’d discovered that stitch-work was relaxing at the end of a long day, and it looked so pretty when finished. While her finger traced the silken smoothness of her stitches over the owls’ outstretched wings, she considered, then said, “If I tell you what I think it is, you can’t say anything to her.”
Whipstick curled his lip. “Name one time I’ve been a blathermouth.”
She grinned briefly, then said, “It’s Inda.”
Whipstick’s eyes widened in surprise. “Inda? If she received a message—”
“No. It’s his Name Day. Every year she gets like that when it’s the time of his Name Day. It only lasts a week or so, then it’s gone. Till the next year.”
Whipstick drew in a slow breath, his brow furrowed as he thought back. “You’re right. I never noticed that.”
“She’ll be fine next week.”
Whipstick played absently with the end of Noren’s braid. “Maybe we should, I don’t know, see that she gets some time at the pleasure house, or something to take her mind off Inda? Though why she should worry about him like that—” He stopped.
Noren said gently, “The way you go all cold and hard and distant every summer, around the time your brother died?”
The faint shadows of bitterness that had tightened in his thin face at the word “brother” smoothed, and then he smiled reluctantly. “I didn’t think anyone saw that.”
“Oh, Whipstick, why do you think Tdor always suggested a field run or extra liberty for you? Things to keep you busy, to gallop those days past the faster?” She snorted. “Would you like it if she said in a scolding voice, ‘Whipstick, I think you should take your mood to the pleasure house’?”
“Tdor doesn’t scold. But I can see what you’re saying. Pity words and good advice would be worse. No, I’m mum.”
“Besides, she really isn’t one for the bawdy houses. Some aren’t, you have to know that. She goes once in a while, but she said no matter whom she tries, it takes forever to warm up, and then afterward she just feels sad.”
Whipstick shook his head, then got up and retrieved his clothes from where they’d tossed them the night before. “I never thought the Marth-Davans had one-person crazes like the Montrei-Vayirs.”
Noren waved. “Tdor is Tdor. It might not be Inda so much as the fact that Tdor isn’t one who can have sex without love. Right now she doesn’t love anybody but her memory of Inda. Until that changes, and in the way of things it probably will—she knows that, has even said it— what can we do but leave her be? She’ll be laughing again next week. You’ll see. And you’ll forget until next year.”
Whipstick paused in the act of shaking out his shirt. “Not if the prince and princess decide we should marry. We’ve not that many years until we reach twenty-five.”
Noren’s heart constricted.
If that happens, Tdor will give up hope of Inda coming back
. Then she shook away the bleakness. “Let’s get down to the baths and not borrow trouble. If you haven’t any work today, I certainly do—and Tdor will be wondering why we’re lolling about.”
Chapter Twenty-one
PRINCE Kavnarac of Bren arrived late at the Comet’s house and was ushered at once to the chair reserved for him. As always, his place was in the center of the gathering, which meant he had to rein his impatience.
He found music boring at the best of times. He could appreciate in a small way the Comet’s remarkable voice—it reminded him of water in the sunlight—but he did wish that the songs wouldn’t go on so long.
This time it was at least just the Comet singing, accompanied sometimes by the young fellow they called Angel— and Comet referred to as her Angelface—other times by a group of musicians in the background while Angel quietly tended to food and drink in place of a servant. Kavna noted how gracefully he managed the silver and crystal, never making a noise, never moving swiftly. He served unobtrusively, without marking any special deference to anyone whatever their rank.
A longer silence than usual after the soft knocking of knuckles on the chair arms clued him that the concert at last was over. The Comet rose from her seat, shook out her gown of rose and golden spangles, and was shortly surrounded by her admirers.
Good. Kavna rose, knowing that his bulk, if nothing else, would eventually draw Angel’s eye.
When Kavna saw the scan of Angel’s honey-gold eyes, he jerked his chin toward the alcove.
Angel continued at an unhurried pace around the room, taking away empty goblets, setting out plates of fresh fruit. He reached the alcove and stepped in without having drawn any attention; everyone else was gathered around Comet, voices rising and falling.
“She’ll keep them busy,” Angel said, sounding amused.
Kavna waited, but Angel said nothing more. This unusual fellow with the golden eyes and hair, dressed in severe black and white, did not court, defer, insinuate, or flatter.
Maybe the beautiful didn’t have to, Kavna thought with grim humor. Beauty was its own aristocracy, after all.
Kavna said, “Listen. Chim has been hinting around that you’re connected with Elgar the Fox.”
A tiny indrawn breath was the only reaction Angel made. Then he said, “And?”
“And, well, you’re probably aware of the conflict about taxes and patrol and harbor hiring and the rest of it.” He barely waited for a nod. “So some of my guards have family in the sea guilds. They patrol when off duty. Volunteer. Just today one of them brought me word that there’s some spy nosing about for information on Elgar the Fox. The harbor folk in turn apparently set a spy on him—they think he’s a Venn.”
“And?”
“And there was mention that one of our beached captains was going to kill him. They think they’re doing the right thing. But if the man really is a Venn spy—and I know we have at least the one, if not more—if he disappears, how much trouble will the Venn will bring on us?”
Angel looked out at the quiet city lights below them. “And you’re telling me because . . .”
“Because apparently no one wants to tell your compatriot in Fleet House about that young woman with the black brows who’s training half the beached hands. They think she’ll vanish if there’s trouble, so they want to make the trouble go away.”
“Tell me where,” Angel said, and Kavna did.
They left the alcove and Angel resumed arranging dishes as if the conversation had not happened.
Comet had been watching. She trilled, “Your Highness! Come settle this wager, do!”
Kavna resumed his court manner, dealt with the laughing courtiers who wanted his attention while trying to think up something to say to get that Angel moving.
But when he managed to break away, his remonstrance ready, it was to discover that Angel was gone.
Tau was, by then, halfway down the hill.
He had learned the general layout of the city, including the fact that there were areas it was not safe to walk unless one knew where one was going.
He made only one stop, to the cousin of his friend Kerrem, who was one of the new recruits under Jeje. Kerrem had begun bringing this young cousin to the practices, where her eagerness, her longing for adventure and action, reminded Tau painfully of Nugget. She often ran messages.
The family was at supper; he asked for her, and she was at the front door in moments.
“Your justice house,” Tau said. “I need to be taken there. Do you know where it is?”
Her face changed from eager to fearful.
“Prince Kavna himself sent me,” Tau murmured, with a glance over her head to where her family, so far unaware, were busy passing plates, talking, laughing.
She pulled the door shut behind her.
“Thess and Palnas don’t like what the captain’s going to do,” she whispered as they began to walk fast.
In the light of the street corner glowglobes, she was clearly terrified, glancing back many times, a quick movement that sent her brown braids smacking her skinny shoulders.
They sped down alleys and twice through yards—one stable, one wheelwright—to where the smell of brine permeated the air, the wood, the stone. No more glowglobes, not here in the ghost yards. Down a dark alley to a low house whose windows were mostly blocked so that only a chink of light escaped.
“It’s here they do their justice,” the girl whispered. “It’s the old sailors’ rest, you know, when we’re too old to ship out—”
“I know what a sailors’ rest is,” Tau said.
The house, made of rotting timber, was no better at blocking sounds than the windows coverings were the light; the angry voices, the sounds of violence caused the young girl to stop, her shoulders hunched. Poor little creature, Tau thought. Not like Nugget after all. Was that a good thing?