David Drake - Mistress of the Catacombs

“I’d thought—” said Chalcus; and stopped himself, for they both knew what he’d thought. There was nothing to be gained by going over that ground. “I’ll tell the chancellor—or would you care to, mistress? That one”—a quick nod toward the closed conference room—“says he’s transferring properties to Lady Merota, which she’ll be visiting to take stock.”

“A reasonable plan,” Ilna said calmly. “I’ll let you talk to Royhas. I’ve found that people don’t listen to me unless…”

She smiled, an expression as grim as a set of manacles. “Until, I should say,” she continued, “I force them to.”

She glanced down at the pattern her fingers had just tied in the twine. She picked it out again. “And on a good day,” she said, “I don’t like to do that.”

“Aye, I’ll do that,” said Chalcus. He rose as though about to summon Merota; again he paused, and said, “The coasts of Tisamur are much like what you’ll find anywhere in the Isles. Fishing villages, coasting ports; a little more clannish and reserved than Shengy, say, but not in a bad way. Donelle’s the only real city, and maybe Brange on the north coast. Inland…”

Chalcus’ left index finger stroked the place the horn hilt of his incurved sword would ride if he were wearing it. “Inland,” he said, “away from the river valleys…there’s stories that come out.”

He laughed, but the sound wasn’t wholly convincing. “There’s stories everywhere,” he said, “stories about the place I grew up even, and they’re mostly as empty as the foam on a jack of ale.”

“But sometimes the stories are true,” Ilna said, completing the thought Chalcus was skirting.

“Aye, that’s been my experience,” he said, grateful for the interjection. “I know nothing about Moon Wisdom, dearest, but in the hills of Tisamur they’re said to worship many things besides the Great Gods. It may be that Moon Wisdom is one of those, come down to the coasts and the cities.”

Ilna’s eyes narrowed slightly. She’d seen Chalcus face wizards with no more fear than he’d have shown for so many swordsmen…but for all his profane irreligion, he feared the Gods.

“I see,” she said aloud. “I gather the plan is that we travel as Merota’s servants?”

“Aye, if you’re willing,” Chalcus said, clearly more comfortable with the change of subject.

“And why wouldn’t I be willing?” Ilna snapped. “I’m not too good for any honest work!”

She heard the outrage in her voice, paused, and gave Chalcus a wry smile. “Sorry,” she said. “With so much in the world to be upset over, that was a foolish concern. Even for me on what seems to be a foolish day. And if you’d asked me were I willing to have a servant, then you’d have gotten a different answer.”

She stood. “I’ll see to packing,” she said. “My own clothing won’t take long, but Lady Merota bos-Roriman will no doubt have greater requirements.”

“Dear one?” Chalcus said, saw her face harden, and went on, “Mistress Ilna, then. A question before we part, if you please: why did you agree so easily?”

Ilna quirked a smile. “Why am I not worried about the danger to Merota?” she asked. “I am, Master Chalcus; I’m very much afraid.”

The smile faded. “But I saw a thing in a dead man’s eyes just now, and I’m more afraid of that.”

She stretched out an arm in summons. Merota, bubbling with excitement, came racing toward her two protectors.

“Because if that vision comes to pass,” Ilna said quietly, “there’ll be no safety, for a child or for anyone, in all this world.”

Sharina heard a shout from the king sleeping in the inner room of the suite. She got to her feet without stumbling and took the lighted candle from the alcove which shaded its gleam to a soft glow fanning across the floor. She was still half-asleep, but an innkeeper’s daughter learns to cope with crises in the darkness.

She pushed through the curtain of carved wooden beads across the doorway connecting to the master bedroom. Garric—Carus—thrashed on the bed, wrestling with the feather-stuffed mattress. His face was contorted. As Sharina entered he shouted again in wordless fury.

“Carus!” Sharina said, wondering if the guards could overhear them. There were Blood Eagles in the corridor and in the grounds below Garric’s second-story living quarters, she didn’t want them bursting in. She couldn’t guess what Carus might say in his nightmare. “Your majesty!”

The wall above the cherrywood wainscotting was frescoed with images showing the march of the seasons in the countryside. It was part of the room’s original decorations, though workmen had repaired the fallen plaster when Prince Garric chose the suite for himself.

Ordinarily the scenes were cheerful if a little idealized to someone who knew the realities of peasant life. The painted snow lay on the ground at the turn of the year; real snow drove down, with intervals of sleet which locked the stubble beneath a coat of ice that hooves couldn’t chip away. The painted dancers at the harvest festival were bright-eyed instead of logy with fatigue and beer. And in the painted world, the animals were clean, even the oxen who’d just come in from the field. Regardless, Garric and Sharina both had found them a pleasant reminder of a world they’d never be a part of again.

The candle had sunk to a blue glow about the wick as Sharina moved. Now it flared and guttered, distorting the frieze into presences worse than shadow. Almost Sharina could feel tendrils reaching for her from the spaces beyond the plastered wall.

Almost, or possibly…

“Carus!” she said. She dropped the candle onto the brass bedside tale and grasped the king’s wrist with her strong right hand. “Wake up!”

Carus lunged upward like a dolphin jumping, awake and seated upright in bed in the same instant. He gripped Sharina as though she were a spar he’d caught while drowning. His eyes were wide, and his jaws were set in a rictus of fury.

His breath slowed. “Thank you, milady,” he said in a husky whisper. His arms released her; his fingers had bruised her forearm when he’d twisted in her grasp.

He grinned faintly. “Call Tenoctris in while I get some clothes on, will you? Or I can—”

“No,” said Sharina, leaving the candle as she padded back through the anteroom where she’d been sleeping. She picked up a light cape and draped it over her tunic before she opened the door to the corridor.

The Blood Eagles on guard had heard, all right; several had drawn their swords. All looked tense, though two kept their eyes on the corridor in either direction while the others waited for Sharina to explain the reason for the cries.

“The prince had a bad dream,” Sharina said curtly. “One of you bring Tenoctris to us, please. She’s in the—”

“Chaigon, go get her,” said the officer in a breastplate with silvered engravings. A rangy swordsman padded off at a quick pace toward the adjacent suite where Tenoctris slept tonight. In deference to the sleep of those they protected, the Blood Eagles on interior guard wore soft-soled sandals rather than hobnailed boots.

“We know where the wizard is, princess,” the officer said, polite but not afraid for doing a thing quickly instead of waiting for needless elaboration.

“Yes, I see,” Sharina agreed. She turned back into the suite, saying over her shoulder, “Send her through immediately when she arrives. If you please.”

Carus had pulled on an outer tunic and the high boots he’d added to Garric’s wardrobe. As Sharina entered, the king was wrapping the double tongue of his sword belt around the belt proper. He saw her eye it.

“No, I don’t think I’ll be using a sword tonight,” he said with a smile of embarrassment. “But I decided that I liked the weight of it to…”