He gave his head a shake. The prospect of Mathias walking back in suddenly had ceased to worry him a few years ago. Now it was back.
Canardan turned in his chair, as if physical movement could shake certain other more uncomfortable memories, and he frowned at the mage, who was studying his hands. Underneath all this hinting and innuendo about Randart’s secret plans lay the old question again. Why did the mages really want to find Mathias? The mages always seemed to have their own plans, which may or may not quite be the same as his. Mathias had been raised to magic knowledge, not to military. Maybe they thought if he returned, mages would gain the political ascendance that Randart thwarted with vigilant energy.
A tap at the door caused Canardan to lean forward. “Enter.”
The page stepped inside. “Prince Jehan is not in the castle.”
Chas appeared directly behind him, face slick with sweat.
The king locked his jaw hard against a surge of rage. He twiddled his fingers in dismissal, and the page ducked round Chas, obviously relieved at being able to escape.
Chas walked in and gave the mage a poisonous look. But the king did not dismiss Magister Zhavic.
So Chas said, “He’s gone. So is that boy he kept as personal servant. And—”
“There’s always an ‘and’, these days,” Canardan murmured, waggling his fingers again. “Yes, get on with it.”
“Certain among the guard are missing as well, all without leave.”
Canardan smacked his hands down on the desk, stood, and dropped back into his chair. This time he swept everything except the inkwell off the desk in one angry motion. Papers hissed to a snowdrift on the floor as he pulled a small communication note from inside the desk, and wrote:
Jehan, where are you and what are you doing?
He shoved the paper inside the magic box and tapped out Jehan’s signal.
No one spoke, or moved, until the king twitched. He’d received a magical signal, which meant an answer had arrived. He pulled out and read a paper, then tossed it onto the desk, the inscription toward them. “What d’you make of that?” he asked, grinning.
They leaned forward and read:
I am here to rescue Sasharia Zhavalieshin from Dannath Randart.
“My son might be an idiot, but he’s a romantic idiot,” Canardan said, almost buoyant with relief. He’d feared treachery. He couldn’t even bear to think about that. Here was the real answer, even if it wasn’t quite reasonable. But Jehan had always been like his mother, romantic and idealistic. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me. Maybe more romantic that way. Wait. He did tell me the other day that he wanted to find her…and yes, I told him to sit tight. Well, well. Maybe he’s not such an idiot after all. At least, not when it comes to romance.”
Laughing, he bent over the paper, crossed out the former words and wrote below, in small letters: So who has her?
And the answer came back: No one, right now.
Canardan did not show that response to Zhavic or Chas, who tried to sneak peeks at those upside down letters, but the king kept using the same scrap of paper, as did the prince, the writings tinier and tinier.
And if I order you to come home? Saying that I will deal with Randart as I see fit?
This time the wait was longer. The king was aware of his own breathing sounding loud and harsh, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears as he stared down at his thumb prints on the gleaming golden box.
Zing! An answer. Jehan’s print was small, the letters carefully formed. I have to do what is right. I don’t think you can protect her from Randart. I think I can.
The king sighed, ripping the paper into tiny bits. Then he got up from behind the desk. The other two wheeled to face him as he paced the few steps to the fireplace and cast the note into the fire. But he kept his back to the two men as he sorted his reactions. Some relief, much exasperation. Jehan was a romantic, but it seemed he’d chosen to grow up at last. And typical of sons, with terrible timing and headlong foolishness.
Canardan sat down at the desk, pulled out another note, and wrote: Dannath, whether you have the girl or not, return to the siege. He shoved it into the case and tapped out Randart’s pattern.
Silence again, the mage and the spy standing, the king neither speaking nor looking their way as he waited for an answer. Again there was a wait. Then:
With all respect, sire, are you not losing sight of an advantage? Permit me to secure then bring to you this objective. You can then decide what to do from a position of strength.
Canardan sat back. Another day—yesterday—before the mage came, before the note from his son, he might have shrugged and accepted that. As he always had in the past. But. He stared down at the piece of paper and Randart’s strong, assured handwriting. Despite their long friendship, despite the reasonable wording, the implied service, the truth was, Dannath Randart had refused an order.
Canardan tapped his fingers on the magic box. His first impulse was to demand that Dannath return at once and face him. But even if he said he was riding back, how many of those damned transfer tokens did he possess? Unless he was directly under Canardan’s eye, he could go anywhere in an eyeblink, do anything, while saying he was on his way back.
Canardan swung round, glaring at the fire. Did he distrust Dannath, after all these years?
Tap, tap, tap.
Randart had made no mention of Ivory Mountain. If he did capture that wretched girl and promptly ride either for the siege or for the royal city, Canardan would know everything was as it should be. Least said, the better.
The king looked up at the waiting men. “Have my guard saddle up. Say nothing of the destination, only that the king wishes to ride on inspection.” His smile was unpleasant. “We’re riding for Ivory Mountain, but as yet only the three of us know that. It will be interesting to see who else shows up, eh?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
War Commander Randart counted out his paces. Fifty…a hundred. Still no answer.
Relief. If the king was going to answer, he would have by now. Why had he suddenly took it into his head to interfere at this moment, when matters were the busiest? But wasn’t it always that way? You are presented with a crisis of events, and that’s when one and all choose to interrupt.
Randart looked out through the tower window at the rain, already receding eastward. Rain. Another disruption. If Damedran hadn’t managed to reach one of the military roads, he was no doubt bogged down on some civilian mud track, and that would slow him down.
Randart threw his gold case with a clatter onto the desk, then remembered he was at Ambais. This was a loyal garrison, but they were not used to his ways, and he didn’t want to have to shoot someone who touched his things.
So he picked up the case again, thrust it into his pouch and began pacing, glaring periodically out the window at the courtyard as if he could mentally pull Damedran and those boys in by force of will.
Elsewhere in the castle he could hear the orderly march of events—sentries at their duty, some noise from the mess hall at the bottom of the stone stairway. This was an old fortress, small, inconvenient, but easy to defend and tough to attack. Not that he expected an attack.
Pace, pace, glance out the window. Was that a speck on the road? More than one speck?
He wrenched open the ill-fitting glass, which was befogged with steam. Cold air blew in drops of rain as he peered down the gentle slope below the castle. Sharp disappointment. Yes, two riders galloping up the military road.
Not Damedran, only the trackers he’d sent out to meet the boys and reinforce them for the last leg of their journey. He’d known Damedran would be disgusted with any reinforcement on his first mission, especially a successful mission. Randart would have been at his age as well. But this vile female was far too important for any prudent commander to consider mere boyish emotions.
He resisted the impulse to run downstairs to the court—as if hearing the trackers’ bad news that little measure faster would make much difference.
Instead he sat, forcing himself to review the pile of reports he’d thrust into the dispatch bag before riding away from the siege, until the sound of footsteps caused him to look up.
His trackers dashed in, muddy to the waist. “War Commander, they were intercepted.”
Fury flared through Randart. He kept his lips tight for one breath. Two. “Report.”
The older, more experienced tracker said, “We are reasonably sure we located their trail. Valgan here rode back down it to make certain, and said it definitely led to the farm where the cadets had tracked the target. We even found the place they had to have ambushed the target.” Faint question infused the man’s face and voice on the word “target”. Randart had not told them who the target was, only that Damedran had been sent to this specific olive farm belonging to the local duke in order to arrest a traitor.
“Looked like a pretty good fight,” he added, obviously hoping to provoke some information. “At least, as far as we could tell, as the rain was already beginning to obliterate the tracks.”
He paused. When Randart did not respond, he shrugged and went on. “There was another ambush say half a watch’s ride from here, twice as many hoof prints. They all rode northwest, cross-country.”
“Where did the ambushers come from, could you tell?”
“Their prints began at the military road,” was the answer.
Military road? Who could possibly have betrayed him? Who even knew where he was? Not the king. Not even Orthan. Only Damedran—
Randart jammed the reports back into the dispatch bag. “You two. Ride ahead, find their trail. Get a communication box from your commander, Valgan, and report the signal to me before you depart. I am going to follow you with my entire force. So you had better ride at the gallop.”
Damedran did not know what to think.
Jehan, the sheep who had quite suddenly changed into a wolf, did not ask for parole, nor did he bind up his prisoners. In fact, he said nothing at all about who would ride where, he didn’t even take their weapons.
And so Damedran rode next to him, silent at first as they put in a gallop. His knee throbbed where the princess had kicked him, but he could ignore that. He could wait. You don’t gallop horses for long unless you have a lot of posting houses or garrisons with ready mounts. Well, the garrisons did, but the prince seemed to be avoiding them.
They galloped on the flat, smooth, well-maintained military road, and once their trail was thus thoroughly obliterated, they took a side trail over a hard-packed road, one of Jehan’s people being detailed to smooth their tracks after them. Then they slowed, walking the horses until they’d cooled, and stopping at a trickling stream to water them.
Jehan squinted at the western sky above the mountaintops. The sun’s limb was sinking behind a uniformly dense gray bar of cloud that covered the entire western horizon, the upper edge of which was lit with fiery oranges and reds and yellows, colors that warmed the sky and echoed in the vanguard of cloud patches overhead. It was a spectacular sunset, but it meant heavy rain on the way.
Red snickered. “They’ll be up to their armpits in mud at the siege,” he muttered.
“Wonder who’s got the night run?” Bowsprit whispered back. “They may’s well take boats.”
The boys’ laughter was subdued, all the clearer because Prince Jehan’s men—all of them wearing warrior brown, but not a one known by sight to Damedran—worked in silence, switching gear to the remounts.
A last ochre ray of sun shone on Jehan’s white hair, making him easy to pick out from the others. Damedran waited until Jehan was done talking with one of the men, who promptly rode up the trail and vanished into the woods.
The last of the sun disappeared. The warm sunset colors bleached to cold grays and blues as a wind rose, rustling through the grasses and moaning through the distant trees.
“I don’t understand,” Damedran said, when at last Jehan turned his way. The words seemed to wring from somewhere inside his chest. “I thought—I thought—”
“That I was a sheep,” Jehan said with a quick grin.
Damedran’s face burned.
Jehan raised a hand. “Don’t fret. I wanted you to think that. I needed you to think that. But the time for lies and disguises is over.”
Damedran’s lips parted. He didn’t want to say I don’t understand again, though that was what he was thinking. It sounded, well, too sheeplike.
So what he did say was, “What disguises?”
“Zathdar the pirate being one. Besides the Fool your uncle really wanted me to be.”
“Zathdar?” Damedran squeaked. He’d thought he’d had enough shocks lately. Not true, obviously. “You? But—” His mind flitted from memory to memory, then formed a question in the way that best fit his experience. “I can see how you can ride like that. Leaping horses. They do that in the west, at their academy, don’t they?”
“By the time you’re twelve. With your hands tied, by the time you’re fifteen.”
Damedran whistled soundlessly. “But they don’t teach anything about the sea. I know they don’t. Do they?”
“You’re right,” Jehan said gravely.
“Yet you have to have learned something about the sea. I mean, all the stories about Zathdar. You know ships. How did that happen?”
“Not by design. Imagine me, sent away as a small boy to Marloven Hess’s military academy. Mathias thinks we need new ideas. Really, he wants to get me away from the corruption in our own academy, which, to attest to your uncle’s credit, was largely gone within ten years. My father wanted me to go for different reasons. So I went west, leaving behind everyone at home who I believed were living happy lives. The letters slowed down. Then came the bad news, like my mother and father parting. My mother invited me to move to Sartor with her, but I liked my life, so I stayed.”
Damedran nodded. He would have stayed too.
“Life there was good at first, but then it turned dangerous, when a good king was assassinated, and a very bad regent took his place. More news came. My father had married Princess Ananda. Not that that was bad, it just made my life seem unmoored. The old king died, and my father became king, and then the real bad news started coming.”
Damedran looked subdued, but he was listening.
“The morvende have access to certain kinds of magic that delays aging for a time. I used that while I tried to reassemble the pieces of my life, but the news just got worse. Princess Atanial vanished, along with the child I never met. So I took ship for a few years to consider what to do, and ended up as a privateer on the other side of the world. When my father summoned me home, I found myself constantly surrounded by your uncle’s men for my protection, but they wouldn’t let me go anywhere without permission. I had Zathdar’s fleet to break your uncle’s increasing hold over the kingdom, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything as Prince Jehan.”
Damedran frowned in perplexity.
Jehan wondered if he should let the boy have time to think, but it felt so good to tell the truth. “When you’re away and come back, you see differences not apparent to people at home who experienced the changes more gradually. Khanerenth is full of restrictive laws. Rumors. Strife. Killings. I dedicate my life to restoring things to the way I knew Prince Math would have wanted.”
Damedran flushed again. “So I’m the sheep. That’s what you mean. But you’re not saying it. I take orders and don’t think. It’s why Lesi Valleg hates me,” he added, looking like the miserable boy he really was.
“We both had to take orders and not think. Or not appear to think.” Jehan gestured, now exhilarated. Whatever happened next, he had told the truth. “The crisis came this summer when I discovered the rumors of invasion were a little too detailed to seem just rumor.”
Damedran’s chin jerked up. “You know about that?”
“I have suspected ever since my pirates intercepted a weapons shipment. Think, Damedran. Past the promise of glory, rank and land. That invasion would break the treaty. People on
both sides of the mountains will get killed. Those plains clans of Locan Jora are not going to let their land be overrun without a vicious fight. But I don’t think anyone can stand up to the king and Randart except Prince Mathias.”
“Prince Mathias? How? I don’t understand.”
“I have reason to believe that Sasharia knows where her father is, and is on her way to free him. We’re going as backup.”
“But you let her escape! Did she tell you all that?”
Jehan smiled. “No. She’s doing her valiant best to protect her father the only way she knows how. But you forget,” he said gently, indicating they mount up, “who my mother is. Though I did not move to Sartor’s morvende geliath with her, I never lost contact.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Valiant best. That’s what he said, but I sure did not feel valiant. Does anyone ever feel valiant—bold—intrepid—I am courageous, ha ha! Well, not Yours T, anyway. I felt sulky, depressed, angry and worried by turns. Not to mention hungry and tired, for though I had earned plenty of money, and had my jewels besides, there was nowhere to spend any of it.
My trail was the straightest line to Ivory Mountain, which is not an area boasting a lot of population. I saw why when I reached the hills below the mountain: narrow trails slanting steeply upward, past waterfalls and rushing whitewater streams hidden but recognizable from their roar. Thick forest surrounded me, layers of complicated, deep green, leafy shrubs and trees. Sunlight penetrated in dapples and shafts of hazy gold. When the sunlight was strongest, sparkles of light danced on the water and gleamed in the pearl drops of moisture hanging from the edges of the leaves. When the sun vanished, I found myself abruptly closed in uniformly greenish blue shadow, guided mostly by sounds rather than by vision: unseen birds, quick thrashings of animals dashing through the underbrush, and always the trickle, drip, roar, chuckle and hiss of water. I was soon hungry, but never did I go thirsty. The water was sweet and cold, and even my mare (who did have her feedbag, and I mentally thanked Jehan several times a day for that) seemed to perk up despite my rotten mood.