Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (62 page)

Serra Diora Maria di'Marano had already been promised to the
Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi of the Terrean of Oerta in return
for his pledged support of Alesso di'Marente at the Festival of the
Sun. And she had been promised, with the very reluctant approval of her
father, by Alesso di'Marente; for without his approval, Garrardi had
vowed to withdraw not only his support, but his silence.

A dangerous game, that. But well-played.

28th of Morel, 427
AA 
Averalaan,
Avantari

"This was the third attempt on Ser Valedan di'Leonne's life in
less than three weeks!"

"We're well aware of that."

"How is it that, in three weeks, your security has been so
poor that not once, not twice, but thrice, the boy's life has been
endangered?"

Commander Sivari had a headache that would not go away. The
portly, loud, and theatrically enraged Annagarian seated—if the up and
down, back and forth motion could be dignified with the word—before him
had been in his office for no less than three quarters of an hour,
sweat-draped vermilion silks flouncing about as he gesticulated.

It was a pity, the commander thought idly, that weapon skill
and endurance faded with age, but the ability to sit behind a desk and
write out commands did not. The desk was a front line that he had grown
to loathe over the years.

"… and we demand justice!"

Prattle. Frothing. Abuse.

"The Imperial Court accepted us as hostages—you've accepted
the responsibility for our safety and our well-being. Are you
listening?"

It was a pity. Most of the Annagarians that Sivari had met
were a quiet and controlled bunch; people who preferred a silken,
understated threat to a blather of incoherent babble. That type of
Annagarian, he could deal with. Besides which, Ser Oscari was cerdan,
not hostage; guard, not valuable noble.

"Don't just sit there, Valedan, speak up for yourself!" The
large man pushed the younger one forward in his seat.

Unfortunately, the young man wasn't expecting the blow, and
righted himself only by flattening his palms against the surface of
Sivari's desk. Sivari's crowded desk.

"No. Don't touch them. I'll tend to them later." He tried to
smile, but his face was too stiff from maintaining a studied, neutral
expression through the older man's babble. "Ser Oscari, if you wouldn't
mind?"

"Wouldn't mind what?"

"Wouldn't mind leaving us to speak."

"Leave? Why should I? No one's tried to kill the boy when an
Annagarian's been around—or hadn't you noticed that?"

"That's not true, Oscari," the boy interjected, his voice a
study in quiet deference. "Serra Alina was there the third time."

"Serra Alina is a woman. I am a clansman!" The older man shook
his head and rolled his eyes. "You see?" he said, jabbing the air in
front of the Commander. "This is what comes of sending a boy too young
to the North! He forgets himself! He forgets our customs!"

"The customs of the Valley," Commander Sivari said quietly,
"are not the customs of the rest of the Dominion." Besides which, he
had thrice had occasion to speak with Serra Alina, and she had a temper
which, while cool and polite and perfectly hidden beneath a composed
and elegant exterior, exposed Oscari's for the bluster that it was.

Ser Oscari di'Vanera drew himself up to his full height. "And
just what," he said, "do you mean by that?"

Or perhaps it was just the merchants. "Ser Oscari," the
Commander said, "I mean that you are cerdan, not Tor or Tyr. It is your
job, and your right, to protect your clan. Of which," he added, his
voice a trifle chillier, "Ser Valedan is not a member."

"We're all Annagarian here," the large man said, although the
wind was out of his sails.

For the life of him, Sivari could not understand what Ser
Fillipo di'Callesta—brother to the reigning Tyr'agnate—valued in the
extremely annoying Oscari. But Oscari was of Fillipo's retinue. "Yes,
you are all Annagarian. I do not dispute that. But you have been in my
office for nearly an hour, and I have had no further details, no better
description, from young Valedan here." He raised a hand as Oscari began
to spout anew. "Ser Valedan. This is a matter not for the Kings'
Swords, but the
Kings' Diplomats. Please. Ser Oscari."

He began the mental countdown, starting at thirty and not at
the customary three. When he reached the two-second mark, Oscari
finished whatever it was he was saying and stomped out of the office,
threatening Sivari with some ailment, and the wrath of the Tyr'agnate's
brother, neither of which Sivari found particularly worrisome.

"Does the man never shut up?" he asked.

"No," was the quiet reply.

Commander Sivari smiled. "Ser Valedan di'Leonne, you must
forgive my poor manners. I am not happy with the breach in our
security."

The boy nodded seriously; it was hard for Sivari to remember
that he was seventeen years of age. Oh, he was the right size for it,
he certainly had the build and the face—but he lacked experience, and
it showed.

"But, Ser Valedan, we find it unusual that in the first two
incidents, the assassin was a conjured creature. Do you understand what
this is?",

"A demon."

"We are aware that you are from the clan Leonne."

At this the boy nodded. Sivari was well aware that his
mother—what was her name?—filled his head with nonsense about the Great
Tyr, but the boy seemed to have survived such nonsense intact.

"We do not wish to start an incident with the Dominion."

"No, sir."

"Can you think of any clan that would benefit from your death,
either directly or indirectly?"

"No, sir. But Alina says that if I die, the Tyr'agar would
have to respond by killing all of you." His expression was quite
pained. "I mean, all of the hostages in the Tor Leonne."

"Which, if it did not start a war, would certainly damage
relations and trade between the Dominion and the Empire. Who would most
gain by it?"

"I don't know."

"Valedan, that isn't a good enough answer. The first time,
maybe. The second time, barely. But this is the third attempt. Two of
the Kings' Swords were killed, and four injured. Do you understand? The
time for ignorance has passed." The Lord of the Compact was riding the
Kings' Commander, in language that had grown increasingly chill.

"Oh, indeed it has," someone said.

Commander Sivari looked up. Standing with his back against the
closed door was Devon ATerafin, his dark hair silvered slightly with
passing time, his face a set study of utter neutrality. Sivari knew
better than to ask how he had come; Devon was uncanny in his ability to
move… quietly. "What is it?"

"You won't like it."

"When you deliver the news, I never do. What is it?"

Devon turned to the young man who was seated in front of
Commander Sivari's desk. He fell to one knee before him, bowing his
head in the Southern style. "I bring you word," he said, as the
dark-haired young man seemed to shrink back slightly, "from the Tor
Leonne.

"The Tyr'agar is dead. The members of the clan Leonne who
resided within the Tor are dead; not even the daughters or the wives
were spared. Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne, you are the clan now." He
paused, and then lifted his head. No Averalaan winter was as cold as
the ATerafin's expression. "You are a fortunate young man," he said
softly, the words more of a threat than a statement. "You will stay in
the Arannan Halls. There is an armed guard, and two shadows, who will
be at your side constantly from this moment on. You will accept the
company of a mage of our choice, and you will accept the company of a
bard that Senniel sees fit to appoint. You will follow the orders of
those attendants and guards that we assign—while you remain in
Averalaan
Aramarelas
— in all things. Is that clear?"

The young man paled. "My father—my father is dead?"

Sivari closed his eyes a moment. "ATerafin," he said, lifting
a hand. "The boy has had his shock. The rest can wait."

"No, Commander Sivari, it can't." He walked over to where
Valedan sat. "Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne, the merchants of Terafin have
just arrived home from their journey to Raverra. They were detained in
the Tor Leonne for seven days.

"During those seven days, the Imperial hostages were
slaughtered in the public square. Not even a child survived." His jaw
tightened, if that were possible. Ser Valedan di'Leonne stared up at
him, his eyes a blackness of shock, of a man who has heard so much, so
quickly, that he refused to understand any more of it. "If the enemies
of your clan have not succeeded in their past assassination attempts,
they will now be aided by most of The Ten.

"Come. I will escort you back to your quarters."

"Kalakar! Kalakar!"

A young man she didn't immediately recognize came tearing
across the green. She frowned as he stopped, chest heaving. He was one
of the servants, not the soldiers. The frown deepened. The servants
were chosen for their ability to live up to the expectation of other
noble Houses. Running, arms flapping, feet kicking up clods of loose
dirt nearest the flower beds, this young man looked anything but able.

"I believe," The Kalakar said dryly to her companion "that's
me he's shouting for."

"I believe," her companion said, smiling ruefully, "that
you're right." He rose gracefully and set his glass upon the edge of
the demiwall. "It was really far too quiet a day." Verrus Korama was as
unlike Ellora as day to night; he was slender, almost sylvan; she was
heavily boned and built. His temper was mercurial, yet superficial;
hers was slow to wake, but when it did, it left its scars, both in her
memory and in the memory of anyone who witnessed it. Where she was
prone to execution, he was prone to mercy; where she was given to dry,
earthy humor, he was almost too proper for a military man. He was the
only one she knew who didn't drink.

And if she had to choose one man out of the entire regiment to
save, it would be Korama.

"Whoa, there," The Kalakar said, as the boy stumbled to a
halt. "Take a breath, and take a rest."

The fair-haired servant flushed. "Vernon Loris said you were
to have this."

She frowned. Korama stood. Vernon did not use civilians as
messengers where a military man would do. "Be quick, then." She held
out a ringed hand, and the child— or so he seemed in height and
manner—immediately placed a curled scroll into it. The weight gone, he
collapsed to his knees, breathing a little too quickly. The grass was
tall enough and dry enough to protect his clothing from dirt, which was
just as well; the formidable woman in charge of the servants' laundry
and uniforms bullied even The Kalakar on occasion. And the boy was
wearing white and gold. Household, and at that, inner House.

"You didn't tell your staff where you could be found, did
you?" Korama spoke quietly against the breeze.