Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (65 page)

He was new to the court. A fourth son, to be sure—but cousin
to the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi. His older brother, the third
son, had been recalled two years ago to the Dominion. Mauro had been
sent in his stead. There were rumors, of course; when a man was as
comely as Mauro, there would always be rumors. To his credit, Mauro
di'Garrardi paid them no heed, either to affirm or deny.

"Take the title," Ser Mauro said, bending gracefully, but
slowly, at the knee. "But remember that it is just that. Tyr'agar." He
had four cerdan, one of whom accompanied him at all times in the course
of a normal day. There were to be no more normal days. He gestured, and
they joined him.

Ser Kyro di'Lorenza was the oldest man in the group. He
brought a hand to a frosted beard and then dropped it again. Looked
down at the white silk that pulled slightly across the pale back of his
wife, the one woman who had come with him into this foreign exile, this
other court. Helena. "I do not like it," he said, speaking for the
first time. "But I will abide my word, Ser Fillipo."

"What word is this?" Valedan said, speaking softly where
sharpness was called for.

"Have you read Serra Alina's report, Ser Valedan?"

"No."

"Then you will not understand the covenant. But both Ser
Fillipo and I have agreed to… abide by the decision of the foreigners.
We live at their whim, instead of dying like men at our own.

"These knees," he added gruffly, motioning with a frown to his
son—his adult son, Ser Gregori, who should have known better, "are not
what they used to be. They haven't bent much, these past twelve years.
Not much at all."

"And we don't have our swords," Ser Kyro added. "This oath,
this acknowledgment—it means nothing without swords."

"No," Ser Fillipo said, turning his head to the side, that he
might see Ser Kyro. "It means more. We are under the open sky, Kyro,
and the Lord watches."

"The Lord watches warriors," was the truculent reply. But the
old man nodded to himself, and then, knees against the stone, he smiled
grimly and raised his face to look upon a man a third his age, if that.
"Tyr'agar."

"Duarte."

Duarte AKalakar was just this side of being able to control
the mutinous rage that had spread through the ranks of the Ospreys. The
effort cost him, though; it always did. Fiara was calling for blood,
and if he hadn't had use of the detention chambers, he was certain that
Annagarian blood—even Annagarians gone native—would be thickening the
waters of the bay. If only it were just Fiara. "What?" He looked up,
and froze as he met the wide darkness of black eyes.

Kiriel.

He had two guards posted outside of his doors; he always did.
Only one person got through those doors without being announced, and it
certainly wasn't Kiriel.

He rose, slipping into a defensive posture as he took his
place within the flat rings that had been etched—by his own power
combined with that of Alexis—into the stone floor. "What," he asked
carefully, "are my guards doing?"

"Guarding the door," she replied.

"And they saw fit to let you pass?"

"They didn't see me."

She was always like this, a mixture of the cunning and the
blunt that never quite fit. He didn't relax, but only because he found
it impossible to relax around her. "You told me that you weren't a
mage."

"I'm not a mage." She swallowed. "The Kalakar said that our
pasts were not at issue."

She didn't ask me
, he thought, but he
didn't say it. "Why did you feel it necessary to come to me
unannounced?" The circle beneath his feet grew cool to his magical
sight.

"Because I wasn't certain of your guards."

"Pardon?"

"I wasn't certain of your guards."

"I see." He took a deep breath, waited a moment, realized that
she intended to keep him waiting, and frowned. "Continue."

"Some of the Ospreys are planning to stage a demonstration in
the merchant common tonight." She met his eyes, and hers were
unblinking, unnerving because they did not swerve or dip or change.

"Where did you hear this?"

"I can't tell you," she replied softly.

In everything, she was infuriating. "Kiriel, you've come here
to essentially betray the confidence of the Ospreys who've planned
this… excursion. You've come in person instead of leaving the
traditional note beneath the door. You've interrupted me, by methods
which you will not explain, and having done so, have given me news
which I needed—and did not want—to hear. If you're trying to be
ingratiating, you're failing miserably—and if you're trying to be
helpful, you will give me the names of the ringleaders."

"No," Kiriel said quietly, "I won't. They bound me by my word."

"They… bound… you… by… your… word."

"Yes."

"Kiriel—"

"I can kill them, if you'd like."

She meant it. Even if he hadn't seen her face, he would have
known it; he could hear it in her words, in the casual certainty that
lay beneath the surface of her youthful voice. Exasperation turned to
something else as he met her gaze.

"You don't want me to kill them."

The Ospreys were a team. A difficult team, yes; too difficult
for the regulars to either train or control. They stood apart, keenly
aware of the things in their temperaments that made them different.
Unique. He'd found them. He'd put them together, giving to the Kings'
Justice the one or two that served as example of behavior that even the
Ospreys would not tolerate. He beat them into a unit that he could
direct, control, manipulate.

And care for, truth be told, although it wasn't what he'd
intended so many years ago, standing in front of The Kalakar's desk
with intensity written all over his face. His first real battle.

They had no family, most of these men and women. With Alexis,
he had given them a home, and they looked to each other. Half of them
were survivors of the Southern wars, and they knew firsthand, full
well, what the Annagarians were capable of. Those scars he could not
mask, could not assuage; they lay against the heart like a brand that
even blood could not quench. And blood had been spilled in the attempt.

Who was it? Who was it who planned to go against his express
orders into the common to slaughter the Annagarians they could find
there, huddled amidst the merchant masses? Fiara was safely behind a
locked door, but she was not the only one capable of such an act.
Hells, she wasn't even close.

But she also wasn't the type of person who could welcome
Kiriel di'Ashaf. Not because Kiriel came from the South; no one in the
company believed that. Oh, her color was right for it, and her height;
her face had the right lines. But she was born to the blade, and no
women were trained in Annagar. No women, that is, with hands as
uncallused as Kiriel's and a back so unbent by labor. No, Kiriel was
the mystery woman—and Fiara disliked mystery. Because if you kept your
mysteries that closely guarded, it meant you didn't trust her—and if
you didn't trust her, she didn't owe you anything.

Who? Who would include this misfit among the misfits? Who
would try to make her feel at home, and test her mettle so thoroughly,
at the same time? Test. Test…

"Duarte?"

"Learn," he said, as she interrupted the abrupt turn of his
thoughts, "to use ranks, Kiriel. I am Primus Duarte. You are Sentrus
Kiriel."

"Yes, Primus Duarte."

She was incapable of the sarcasm that any other such tone
would have conveyed. "I'm sorry. I was musing. No, I do not wish you to
kill them." He paused. "Kiriel, I wish to ask you a question. I wish
you to answer it truthfully."

She nodded, her eyes guarded, always guarded.

"Why did you come to me with this information?"

"Because," she replied, her brow rippling the perfect lines of
her skin as she frowned, "I am to serve you."

"Yes?"

"Your orders were clear. You did not wish us to take action
for the crimes of the Southerners against this House."

"And you did not agree with my decision."

She frowned again. "No."

"Why? Answer honestly," he told her. As if she would do
anything else.

"Because," she said hesitantly, "it makes us look weak."

"Weak?"

"They do this to your people, and you do nothing. They will
know that you do nothing, and they will not fear to do it again."

"Understood." Well understood, he'd heard the argument so many
times. "Which means you agree that something should be done."

"Yes."

"Then why did you come to me?"

"Because," she said, speaking even more slowly, "I serve you."

"That's all?"

She nodded.

"Look, Kiriel, you must have hoped to gain something."

She stared at him blankly.

"You came here to tell me this. You betray the confidence of
people you've given your word to. You must have hoped to gain
something. My confidence? My trust?"

"They are your people, Duarte.
Yours
.
They betray you." Her eyes grew oddly wide, flickering as if Duarte was
watching a struggle to draw a curtain beneath their surface. In the
shadows, her face looked leaner, longer; a hint of the feral made him
stiffen. "You must do something, or you will appear weak. If you are
weak, you will no longer rule. Do you not understand this?

"If you wish it, I will kill them."

"No," he said. "I do not wish it. Leave here, and do not speak
of this to anyone else."

She nodded, and saluted, fist across chest, cool eyes
shuttered. He had a momentary vision of chilling clarity; he saw her,
this one time, for what she was. And he thought that this slender,
naive young woman would coolly and calmly torture a small child to
death if he but requested it. Would, and could.

"And while you're out, find Alexis and tell her I want to
speak with her. Now."

Cook found her.

He wasn't a cook; in fact, he was probably the worst cook in
the unit. He was taller than she was, and much wider, his hair was
lighter, although dark enough by Northern standards, and he wore a
beard that fringed his round jaw. Sun and wind had worn lines into the
sides of his face, near his eyes and mouth; he smiled, and as age
caught up with him, you could see the smile linger there pleasantly.

He even smiled at her.

"Mind if I sit?"

She shrugged, moody; he shrugged, good-natured, and sat beside
her on the demiwall, huffing slightly as he pulled his legs up and over
the ledge. The garden, what there was of it in an estate as small as
this, spread out before them in a carefully manicured sea of colors.
Here and there, when the sea breeze was brisk, the whole bent and
blended as if it were alive.

Which, he thought ruefully, it was. She heard his sigh, and
looked up sharply.

"Just thinking," he said as he stared, "that I can even be
stupid without speaking."

Sullen, she turned her gaze back to the grounds.