Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (14 page)

He had left her in Lenayin, whilst she remained embroiled in her homeland's squabbles, to come to Petrodor, leaving the brewing war in the north. That had come to rebellion. She'd come to forgive him his absence for she knew that his loyalties to the Nasi-Keth were as inseparable to him as her love for Lenayin was to her. Now, however, she occasionally wondered if he regretted the decision himself.

“We have the name of a vessel en route from Ameryn,” said Kessligh. “It should arrive shortly. There's a large weapons shipment aboard. We're going to stop it.”

“You think this will win support from Gerrold and Alaine?” Sasha asked warily.

Kessligh shrugged. “I can't control that, their people will either follow me or not. We'll stop that weapons shipment because it's what we need to do. It's what I came to Petrodor to do.”

“But you want me to take a leading role?”

Kessligh gazed at her for a moment then smiled. “It would help,” he admitted. “The tradition here is that the uma's deeds reflect well on the uman. If I'm to build a following, it'll take a little more than a few bruises to some thick-skulled swordsmen in a training session.”

“Leading Lenayin's first rebellion in a century and defeating the Hadryn armoured cavalry in battle isn't enough?” Sasha asked, edgily.

“To these people, Lenayin's a long way away.”

Sasha snorted. “I'll help,” she said. “I don't want to see this war any more than you do. But there's something you should know first.” She looked at Errollyn.

Errollyn told Kessligh about Randel Ragini. Kessligh made a face and
squinted off toward the ocean horizon. “Rhillian is too clever for her own good,” he said. “A sailor told me once that he'd known men who were brilliant at tying knots. But the real trick, he said, was to know
when
to tie them, and which knot went with which situation. Rhillian's tying her clever knots all over the city, but all she makes is a tangled rope.”

“The question is why Ragini?” said Sasha. “Is she trying to break up the Steiner alliance from within?”

Kessligh looked at Errollyn warily. “I rode all the way to Lenayin,” Errollyn said, “against Rhillian's wishes, to fight in a battle she said was none of my business. She no longer includes me in her plans.”

“Kessligh…” Sasha took a deep breath. “I have a contact. A potential contact, right at the highest level of Family Steiner.”

Kessligh shook his head. “It's too dangerous. And it's been fourteen years, you've no idea how she's changed…”

“Look, everyone says information is power, right?” Kessligh looked decidedly reluctant, but did not argue the point. “How stupid would we be, to have such an important contact and not use it at all? Just one piece of information! Marya's possibly the nicest person I've ever known, she wouldn't hurt a beetle! Maybe she doesn't even
know
half of what her new family does. Surely we should at least try?”

J
ARYD HAD NEVER SEEN A TRADITIONAL
L
ENAYIN WEDDING BEFORE
. The main road before the Steltsyn Star was a mass of dancing, cheering, feasting people. The inn's tables had been arrayed in a rough circle across the road, and serving boys and girls ran back and forth, hauling trays of roast meat, vegetable raal, breads, wines, fruits and cheeses. Musicians played and drums thundered as the sun disappeared behind the far valley ridge and the bonfire at the centre of the circle was finally lit, to the delight and shouting of all.

Jaryd sat on a far railing of the inn's verandah, eating from a tin plate, a cup resting on a nearby post. There were more people present than he'd ever seen in Baerlyn before. Half of neighbouring Yule had arrived in town with the bride, to accompany her to her husband's home, and her new life. This entire celebration had already been performed yesterday in Yule, as the village had sent off their girl. This was the welcoming ceremony, and it had been going since the bride's arrival in midafternoon.

Jaryd saw Lynette arrive, plunging into the crowd to where Teriyan was in animated conversation with friends. Teriyan handed off his cup, picked up his daughter and spun her around. They looked so happy as they danced through the firelit crowd, talking and laughing all the while. Jaryd swallowed a mouthful, and looked somewhere else.

Suddenly there was a pretty girl standing close, directly beneath the railing to his side. She had light brown, curly hair and wore the plain dress of a village girl…yet decorated in the Goeren-yai style, beads and braids in her hair, a knotted red sash about her waist, rings on her fingers and bangles on her wrists. She curtseyed prettily.

“Master Jaryd,” she said demurely, “I would be most honoured should you choose to dance with me.”

Jaryd stared down at her. In Algery, they'd had rude names for girls who asked men to dance. Here in the villages, women were more forward. She
was
very pretty, no more than sixteen, he reckoned. He recalled many pretty girls, from that other life. When he'd asked them to dance, they'd rarely refused. When he'd asked them to do other things as well, they'd rarely refused that, either.

“I'm sorry,” he told the girl. “I no longer dance.”

The verandah rail shook and a hand reached onto his plate and stole a piece of cheese. “Why are you even here?” Lynette asked him around that mouthful. Her red hair was all tangled from her ride into town, and she smelled of horses. “I mean, why come to a wedding if you're just going to sit here away from everyone and look morose?”

“Jaegar told me at training I should come,” Jaryd said stonily. “Jaegar is village headman, I do what he tells me.”

“Pity he didn't tell you to have some fun too.”

Jaryd ground his teeth and did not reply. She'd never had a brother murdered in cold blood, and she had precious little respect for his grief. It was an effort not to strike her.

“Have you welcomed the bride yet?”

“No.”

“You should. I'm sure she's heard all about Jaryd Nyvar. She'll be expecting a greeting and good wishes. That's what Sasha and Kessligh always did.”

“Aye, well, they're not here now, are they?”

Lynette sighed. “I so wish Sasha was here now, she loves weddings.”

“She does?” It didn't sound like the Sashandra Lenayin Jaryd knew.

“So long as it's not her own,” Lynette added with a grin. “But, oh yes, she loves traditional weddings. If she were here she'd be feasting and dancing, and telling all the boys how handsome they looked. She could be such a tease sometimes.”

Jaryd exhaled hard. “I wish I'd had the chance to come to know Sashandra a little better,” he conceded. Sometimes he envied Lynette and Andreyis that. The entire village, in fact. “She's a remarkable warrior, and she won a great victory at Ymoth. Kessligh himself could not have done better.”

Lynette shrugged, chewing on her cheese. “She's Kessligh's uma, after all. But the most remarkable thing about Sasha is how she became brilliant while still managing to be such a pain in the arse.”

Jaryd looked at her. He almost smiled. Lynette put a hand on his arm. “You're nice when you smile,” she told him. “Hold on, I have to go and talk to the
other
most morose-looking man in Baerlyn for a while. I'll be back.”

She jumped off the rail and slid through the crowd. The other man was, of course, Andreyis. Jaryd spotted him on the far side of the bonfire, sitting with two other lads, drinking and looking gloomy. Becoming a warrior didn't change all things, then. He could grow his hair long, get tattoos if he wanted, and move away from home as he pleased, but Andreyis remained
awkward and ill at ease, with girls in particular. Except Lynette…but she was more like a sister to him, complete with name calling and hair pulling.

Jaryd almost felt sorry for the lad. He missed Sasha, that much was obvious. Perhaps he'd even fancied her a little…and what lonely, awkward young man wouldn't have? But she'd been more like a sister too, and so dominantly, ferociously overbearing that the poor boy must have known from the start he had no chance…

Neither did Andreyis have many good friends among young Baerlyn men. Lynette conceded that Sasha had first grown to like Andreyis precisely because he
wasn't
one of those arrogant, rude little boys whose ears, knees, ribs, backsides and finally skulls Sasha had had to box to gain some respect…and some fear. Jaryd did not know letters, but he knew young men as he knew swords and horses. They'd have resented Andreyis his friendship with someone who had humiliated them. They'd have resented him further his friendship with Kessligh. It was remarkable that a friendship with the greatest warrior in Lenayin could actually make someone
less
popular…but Lenayin was like that. Men who gained respect by becoming friends with the powerful were mistrusted. Men should gain respect by gathering honour for themselves.

Some men in colourful Torovan dress were walking up the main road, talking with Parrachik and skirting the children playing games at the edge of the bonfire's glare. Parrachik was an unremarkable man to look at—bald and slim, he wore only a knife at his belt and smiled when local men would taunt him for his lack. A Torovan like the merchants who so often called on him, he'd arrived in Baerlyn fifteen years ago and adopted the local customs sparingly yet for all his success, he wore little finery.

He led his Torovan guests now to the feast, where they looked on with curiosity. Wine was pressed upon them and soon they were talking and laughing with rowdy locals, Parrachik providing translation where local accent or general noise proved too great for the traders’ Lenay. Soon the merchants were clapping along to the rhythm with the rest of them, and being invited to dance by local Baerlyn women, all eagerly accepted.

Lynette was dragging at Andreyis's arm, trying to get him to the dance, but Andreyis was resisting. Jaryd pushed himself off the balcony railing with a thud of boots on the deck…and nearly missed the second thud on the wall behind. He turned, frowning, thinking someone had thrown something. Instead, he saw a crossbow bolt protruding from the wall.

He dove flat, but no further shot came. Then he scrambled for the inn's doorway and crouched there, staring up at the opposing row of rooftops, bright and dancing in the glare of the bonfire. There was a flash of movement…or was it merely a shadow? No one had noticed his little commotion, one
more flailing, dancing man at a wedding was hardly an event. If he yelled warning to them, none would hear.

Besides, warning of what? They were not in danger. The assassin was after him. Maybe, the cold thought occurred to him, as he edged back into the cover of the doorway, one of the locals had arranged it. Maybe they felt his presence threatened Baerlyn's relations with the lords. Or maybe Great Lord Arastyn had partisans, or at least paid help here in Baerlyn. If he shouted warning, he would only advertise that their attempt had failed, and perhaps invite a second or third attack. No, he had to capture the assassin himself. Only then could he know what he was dealing with.

He strode through the inn, adjusting his swordbelt where it had twisted in his dive. Through the main room, stripped of chairs and tables, Jaryd found the side exit and pushed out into the paved lane to the stables. Then he ran back toward the road, where the fringe of the crowd milled across the lane's mouth hoping any waiting crossbowman on the surrounding roofs would have far too brief a sighting to take a shot. He ran fast, hand on his sword hilt, to keep his legs free, taking a wide route through the crowd. He skidded between two men, hurdling a running child, collided with the arm of a lady, her drink spilling.

Then he was down a narrow lane between two houses, unscathed and, as far as he knew, untargeted. He hurdled a fence between the houses and took shelter beneath the rear verandah roof. Crouched against a wall, he drew his sword and listened. He heard only the raucous music and laughter of the wedding. He moved as lightly as he could across the verandah planks, pausing with a wince each time one began to squeak. He stopped and listened again.

Nothing. Then a muffled slide overhead. A creak. Two thumps. Then nothing. Jaryd reached to his belt and drew a throwing knife. Reversed it with a flip, catching the blade, his sword now in his left hand. Someone jumped from the verandah roof, thumped into the grassy yard and rolled, pausing to retrieve a fallen crossbow.

“You missed,” Jaryd told the crossbowman. The figure spun in shock. Jaryd threw the knife and took him in the thigh. The man yelled, dropping the crossbow again, and fell, clutching his leg. Jaryd stepped from the balcony and walked to him, sword ready, his grip tightening. This must be one of those who had schemed to kill Tarryn. This, he had waited for for a long time.

More movement from the gloom of orchard trees in the neighbouring yard. Jaryd's eyes widened as he saw the questing muzzle of a crossbow through the branches. He threw himself flat. Frustratingly, the crossbowman held his fire. Jaryd rolled desperately for the fallen man, holding him as a shield. The bowman emerged from the orchard and cursed, darting one way, then the other,
seeking a shot over the fence. Jaryd rose, his hostage sobbing and holding his leg. A rush of footsteps from behind told him a third man was coming.