Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (2 page)

           
"We should go," she said
abruptly, as Niall took her into his chamber. Protocol required they keep
separate apartments, and so they did—even had they wed, it would have been the
same—but more often they spent the nights in his. "We should go to visit
Liam before we are old and gray."

           
Niall bent to greet the black-masked
silver wolf who got up from his place in the huge draperied tester bed to lean
against one thigh-booted, royal leg. Their brief communion was intensely
private, intensely singular, but Deirdre was used to it. No one came between a
warrior and his lir, not even the woman he loved.

           
Serri, his greeting complete, went
back to the bed.

           
Niall smiled, brushed back a lock of
hair from his brow and looked at Deirdre in amusement. "The gray begins
already, meijha—perhaps we should leave for Erinn tomorrow."

           
"Ah, ye skilfin, you're no more
gray than I am!" But she put a hand to her heavy braid as if to reassure
herself she bore no tainted strands. " 'Tis serious I am, Niall—how many
times must Liam invite us? And I his own sister?"

           
"And still a princess of Erinn."
Niall stopped abruptly as he shut the heavy door behind her. "Ah, Deirdre,
will you forgive me for that? You deserve to be a queen."

           
Astonished, she stared up at him.
One slim hand was locked in his plain brown doublet. "Niall . . ."
Slowly she shook her head. "Ah, no—d'ye think 'tis what I want? No, no, my
love—'tis nothing to me, I swear, this thing of titles." Her mouth
flattened, then twisted scornfully. "Queen of Homana, indeed. Well, I say
let Gisella keep it—'tis all she has. I have you."

           
"Not so much, I think," he
said mildly, but bent his head to kiss her.

           
A knock at the door intruded.
"My lord? My lord Mujhar? Taggart, my lord ... are you there?"

           
Niall sighed. "A moment,"
he promised her, and went to open the door. "Aye, Taggart, I am. What is
it?"

           
Taggart was a slim, wiry man of
fifty, clad in Homanan colors: black tunic with a red rampant lion stitched
over his left breast. His trews were also black, with a gilt-buckled red
leather belt cinching his waist. Graying hair was trimmed neatly against his
head. He bowed briefly.

           
"My lord—it is the
princes."

           
Niall looked past the man to the
empty corridor- "Oh? Where?"

           
Taggart was clearly uncomfortable.
"My lord—not here. That is why I am here." He paused. "Because
they are not."

           
The Mujhar's tawny brows rose a
trifle. "Taggart, what are you trying to tell me? And make haste—my bath
is getting cold."

           
Taggart bowed again, eloquent
apology. "My lord, I—well—" He paused. "They are missing."

           
"Missing?" Niall smiled
indulgently. "For the moment, perhaps, but I am sure they are here
somewhere. You might try the stables; Brennan has a new stallion. Or the
guardroom, if Hart has coin enough left for a fortune-game." He shrugged
negligently, patently unconcerned by the temporary disappearance of his three
sons. "And only the gods know what Corin may have suggested as an
afternoon's diversion."

           
"Or Keely," Deirdre added
dryly.

           
"My lord, no," Taggart
said plainly. "I have looked in all those places. They are not here. They
are not in Homana-Mujhar."

           
Deirdre came up to Niall's left
side, where he could see her clearly; it was a habit she encouraged in everyone
so he would not be embarrassed unduly or caught off-guard. "They knew
about the banquet," she said, though it sounded more question than
statement. "I know they did; Brennan remarked on it. He said he did not
think much of Einar, or Einar's cousin, Reynald." She nodded, frowning a
little. " 'Tis what he said, did Brennan—about the Caledonese
princes."

           
Niall heaved a weary sigh of
distracted annoyance and scratched at the scars in his right cheek. "Well,
if Brennan remarked on it, then it took Hart to persuade him to leave so soon
before a banquet. And Hart, likely, was talked into it by Corin. Oh,
gods—" he cast a long-suffered glance at the ceiling, "—when you saw
fit to bless me with three sons, you might have given me proper ones. Ones who
know how to respect their jehan's wishes."

           
He shook his head. "How is it I
have raised three rebels? I was never particularly rebellious, myself."

           
Deirdre laughed. "Were you not,
my lord? But I think you must have been, because I'm seeing you in all of them.
Though more, I'll own, in Brennan than in the others."

           
"He is the first-born,"
Niall said absently. "And he knows he will be Mujhar after me; it makes a
difference."

           
"Keely probably knows where
they are," Deirdre suggested, somewhat pointedly.

           
Niall cast her a disgusted glance.
"For all we know, Keely might have encouraged their defection. She is as
bad as any of them. There are times I think she is more a warrior than even
myself."

           
"Shall I ask her, my
lord?" Taggart inquired.

           
Niall waved the suggestion away.
"No, no—Keely would never say. If Corin is involved, she'll say nothing
simply to protect him, even if she had nothing to do with it. Even, I think, if
I asked her," He shook his head, frowning again. "Brennan knows
better. Hart and Corin may not, but he does."

           
"Aye," Deirdre said
gently, "but he protects Hart and Corin now just as he did when they were
children. D'ye think he'd be stopping simply because they're grown?"

           
"Are they?" Niall's tone
was sour. He did not wait for her answer, but turned to Taggart. "You may
go. I attach no blame to you. It is not your fault if the Mujhar cannot control
his own unruly sons."

           
Taggart, smiling, bowed and took his
leave. Niall shut the door and turned back to face Deirdre once more.

           
"Well, then, what is there to
do? There will be three empty chairs where there are supposed to be princes,
and Einar will undoubtedly consider it a snub."

           
"Oh, Einar!" Deirdre's
tone clearly signified her opinion of the Caledonese heir. "I'll set Maeve
next to him, and he'll not be noticing absent princes. And I'll put Keely on
the other side." Her widening smile was suspiciously devious. "Caught
between those two, he'll not be knowing what has become of him."

           
"Oh, gods," Niall begged,
"save me from a woman who dearly loves intrigue." And then, abruptly,
he began to smile. "Einar will never recover."

           
"No," Deirdre agreed
contentedly. " Tis why I'll be doing it."

           
"Still—" Niall moved past
her to the nearest chair and dropped into it, propping his booted feet up on a
table that bore a decanter of wine and two goblets, "—they might have
picked a better night to play truant. I do want that trade alliance. And I did
want Brennan to handle as much of the negotiation as he could. He needs the
practice."

           
"Brennan knows enough of
negotiations." Deirdre poured him wine, passed him the goblet. "He is
a mature, responsible man, Niall, not a boy. Save your disgust for
Conn
's bad tempers, or Hart's gambling debts, or
Keely's waywardness—but give none of it to Brennan. He's not deserving of
it."

           
"Come here." He sipped
from his goblet as she came to perch on the arm of his wooden chair. "Tell
me what you are deserving of."

           
"Your love," she answered
promptly. "Am I not generous with mine? And I have given you a lovely
daughter."

           
"Maeve is lovely," Niall
agreed immediately, paternal pride rearing its head, "And sweet-tempered,
and soft-spoken, and eager to please ... all the things Keely most decidedly is
not."

           
"And do you love her the less
for it?"

           
Niall, smiling, shook his head.
"She is a proud, strong woman, Cheysuli to the bone. . . ." He
grinned at Deirdre, slipping into the Erinnish lilt. "And I'd be wanting
her no other way."

           
"And the boys?" Deirdre's
green eyes, across the rim of her silver goblet, were demurely downcast, but
Niall knew her far too well.

           
"Aye, and I know what you are
trying to tell me, meijha—that I should want them no different, either. Mostly,
I do not. But there are times. . . ."

           
"Times," she said.
"Like now? The bathwater, I'm sure, is cold, and yet you sit here and
drink your wine. You are no better than your sons, my lord Mujhar."

           
"But you see, I am Mujhar. The
banquet must wait for me." His fingers were in the lacings of her gown.
"The banquet must wait for us both."

           
Deirdre smothered a giggle. She was,
she thought, too old for giggles now. "And your sons?" she asked.
"What about your sons?"

           
"At this particular moment, I
am less concerned with my sons than with the knots you have tied in your laces.
Have you taken up celibacy?"

           
The giggle broke free of her throat.
"No. Very definitely, no." She reached down, took his belt-knife from
its sheath, presented it to him hilt-first. "My lord Mujhar, must I be
plainer still?"

           
Niall, smiling, accepted the knife
and deftly cut the first lace. "The banquet," he said calmly,
"will be indefinitely delayed."

           
Deirdre sat very still. "To
make certain your sons will be present, of course."

           
"Of course," he agreed
equably, and cut the second knot.

           
The tavern was one of Mujhara's
finest. It lay in High Street, where business catered to the aristocracy of Homana:
where boys with brooms swept the cobbles six times a day and poured water on
the puddles of urine left by horses, sweeping again, so customers did not have
to concern themselves with the condition of their boots.

           
The Rampant Lion was clean,
well-lighted, well-run, and enjoyed an excellent reputation, faring well even
among stiff competition.

           
Rhiannon had not expected to get
the job as wine-girl at The Lion. But she had paid six copper pennies for a bath
two days before she applied, pinned up her hair in the way she had seen ladies
do, and put on the cleanest dress she owned. Carefully, she had told the tavern-keeper
in her best accent that she was of good family, but lacked means; was there a
place for a young woman who needed to earn a living in a respectable
establishment?

           
She was delighted when her looks and
well-practiced refinement won her the position, and she worked very hard to
keep it. She was born of poor people; she had thought to spend her years in
poverty and whoredom. But the gods had blessed her with cream-fair skin, thick
black hair and wide black eyes, and a form that would win any man's regard.

           
It did not fail her now. She passed
easily among the tables, serving the fine wines The Rampant Lion specialized
in. The Falian white, considered by many to be the finest vintage available,
sold best. But the sweet Caledonese red and the rich, dark vintage of Ellas did
nearly as well. The ales and lagers found fewer throats; Homanan nobles had a
taste for wine, rarely imbibing lesser brews, and almost never the common
liquors, such as usca. It was considered too harsh among the nobles, who
boasted more refined tastes.

           
Nonetheless, it was usca Rhiannon
was instructed to bring to a rectangular table of polished hardwood near the
wide-boiled trunk of the roof-tree in the middle of the common room. She set
the 'stoneware jug in the precise center of the table, put down the pottery
cups without the crude clacking sound heard in most taverns, where the
wine-girls knew no better, and watched as the three young men poured-the
blue-glazed cups quite full.

           
It was obvious, from the way they
drank it down, usca was no stranger to their throats.

           
She curtsied as gracefully as she
knew how, hoping for a generous tip. They could afford it, she knew; she had an
eye for wealth. These three young lords dressed less ostentatiously than many
others in the common room, clothed in subdued if rich velvet and soft-worked
leather, but there was gold around their necks as well as in their ears. At
least, in one ear. On them all, only the left bore ornamentation,

           
They were all fine looking men, she
thought; the gods had blessed them with good bones and fine, clean lines in
their handsome faces, accentuated by strong, straight noses and well-defined
mouths. All men, she thought, if young still, lacking the hardening that years
and experience would bring them- Rhiannon's taste ran to men, not pretty boys;
these three were aesthetically satisfying as well as highborn, and more than
comfortable in the belt-purse.

           
One, however, was clearly Cheysuli.
Though he was the first shapechanger Rhiannon had ever seen, she knew.

           
She had heard stories about them;
how they slept with animals instead of women and so could shift their shapes,
not being wholly human. A man could tell them by their color and their gold;
Cheysuli were uniformly black-haired, dark-skinned, and their eyes, as his,
were always a clear, uncanny yellow.

           
But where was his animal?

           
Rhiannon looked carefully, searching
discreetly for the beast that was his other self. But the only thing visible
beneath the table were their legs. Six of them, altogether, all knee-booted and
thigh-muscled under taut, soft leather breeches of excellent cut and quality. '

           
She glanced up, frowning, and saw
his eyes on her.

           
Rhiannon sucked in a startled
breath. Yellow was not enough, she decided; not nearly enough to describe
Cheysuli eyes. They were yellow, aye, and odd enough in that, but there was
something about them that made her back away a step, clutching her linen apron.

           
He looked at her, and she froze,
unable to take a step.

           
"Aye?" he asked, when she
continued staring.

           
A human voice. No growl. No bark. No
whine.

           
Transfixed, Rhiannon did not answer.

           
"Aye?" he asked again, and
the slanted black brows drew down.

           
He was, she thought, a demon, all
black and bronze and yellow.

           
"Are you a lackwit,
Brennan?" one of the others asked.

           
"She works for more than kind
words and copper pennies." Almost absently, he rattled dice and
rune-sticks in a wooden casket. A heavy sapphire signet ring glistened on one
long finger. He had the hands of an artist, she thought; the hands of a musician.

           
"Of course." The
shapechanger reached into his belt-purse and took out a silver piece. Without
looking, he offered Rhiannon the coin.

           
When she did not take it, he looked
at her again, turning away from the sticks and dice the other threw. The silver
was quite bright against the dark flesh of his fingers.

           
"I think," drawled the man
with the casket, "she has only just seen her first Cheysuli." He
grinned and looked up at her. "Let alone three at once,"

           
Three? Rhiannon looked at him
quickly. He was black-haired, aye, and his skin was as sun-bronzed as the
shapechanger's, but his eyes were decidedly blue. Very blue; the sort of blue
that put her in mind of spring, and the richness of the sky. They made her
think of love, his eyes; so did the smile he smiled.

           
Disconcerted, she looked away from
him as well. To the third, where she knew herself safe at last. He was all
Homanan, obviously, with tawny blond hair and dark blue eyes; his skin was
Homanan fair. And when he looked at her it was not to frown as the shapechanger
did, or to smile an invitation as the second one did; no, none of those things.
When he looked at her it was to look at her, to find out what she wanted.

           
Well, what did she want?

           
Rhiannon put up her chin.
"Aye," she agreed plainly. "I've not seen a shapechanger
before."

           
"Cheysuli," The
shapechanger put the coin on the table, where it glinted against polished wood.
"Not 'shapechanger,' meijhana . . unless you mean to insult us."

           
There it was again us. She frowned,
flicked a glance at the blue-eyed man with the fortune-game, looked quickly
away as his smiled slowly widened. And the fair-haired man merely laughed.

           
"So much for believing the
Homanans trust us," he said. "Well, Brennan, how does it feel to have
a woman afraid of you, instead of trying to keep your favor for more than a
single night?"

           
"Cruel, cruel, Corin," the
man with the casket drawled, and yet his smile belied the words. "You will
have me thinking you are jealous of your oldest rujholli.'"

           
Rhiannon thought the fair-haired
man—Corin, the other had called him—was her age, which made him all of twenty.
The other two, she was certain, were older yet, by at least a year. The
shapechanger looked at her. "Are you afraid of me?"

           
Rhiannon swallowed. "Aye."

           
Somehow, she had hurt him. She saw
it quite clearly, and instantly. There was little change in his expression, but
the eyes were eloquent. Such an eloquent, eerie yellow,

           
"Well," he said, after a
moment's thoughtful silence, "perhaps you would do well to serve the other
tables, and send some other girl to us."

           
Oh, gods, if that were to happen,
she would lose her place for certain! "No," she said quickly.
"No, I—I'll serve you." She nodded in the direction of the jug.
"You have your usca now. You won't be needing more."

           
"Will we not?" Tawny Corin
smiled and lifted his pottery cup. "You judge us too quickly,
meijhana."

           
There it was again, the strange,
foreign word. Shapechanger? Rhiannon thought it likely. No doubt when they were
together, they spoke in growls and barks.

           
"Brennan frightens the girl,
and now Corin flirts with her." The third young noble laughed. "What
is left over for me?"

           
Yellow-eyed Brennan looked up at
Rhiannon. "Do you wager?" he asked calmly, without the trace of a
smile. And yet she saw one clearly in his eyes; it was meant for the man with
the fortune-game. "Say aye, and you will make Hart's evening
complete."

           
"No, no," the
other—Hart—demurred. "You leave out what comes after, when a lady is
involved."

           
That Rhiannon understood plainly
enough. Shapechangers they might be, but obviously it was not true they only
lay with beasts. She knew desire when she saw it, as well as the prelude to it.

           
"No, I don't wager," she
told them curtly. "Not even with silver pennies." And she went away,
leaving the coin upon the table.

           
As one, they looked at the spurned
gratuity. In the light from hanging lanterns, the silver royal gleamed.

           
"Well," said the one
called Hart, "I wonder if she would come back for it if she knew what it
was worth. Silver penny indeed!"

           
As he made as if to pick it up,
Brennan hid it beneath one palm. "Wager with your own coin," he said
grimly. "Or have you none left?"

           
"None left," Hart said
cheerfully. "A run of bad fortune." As if on cue, one of the
rune-sticks rolled.

           
Corin's snort was eloquently
condescending. "Only bad fortune because I was the better man when you
tried to beat me this afternoon." He picked up the stick and dropped it
back into the casket. "Which means Brennan and I must pay for the
usca."

           
"You can," Brennan told
him. "I came here because I knew better than to let you two go out alone,
not because I wanted to go drinking."

           
"And yet you are." Hart
indicated Brennan's full cup, "Hardly water, rujho—I can smell it from
here."

           
Corin smiled. Brennan merely
shrugged. "All men make sacrifices."

           
"And you more than most?"
Corin demanded. "Oh, aye—when you will have Homana!"

           
Brennan sighed; it was an old bone
of contention.

           
"You will have Atvia."

           
"And I, Solinde."
Cheerfully, Hart scooped the dice and sticks back into the wooden casket.
"Three princes, we, with glory yet to come in addition to fine titles. But
I think, right now, I could do with less glory and more wealth." He eyed
the silver royal. "Are you certain you want the girt to have it, after
what she said?"

           
"I want the girl to have
it," Brennan agreed. "And if you so much as try to take it when I am
not looking, I will cut a finger off."

           
"If you are not looking, how
will you know?"

           
"Because I would tell
him." Corin shrugged as Hart scowled darkly at him. "What would you
expect?"

           
"A little support, rujho."

           
"Brennan is your twin,
not
I.
Look to him for support." Corin downed
more usca.

           
Hart's scowl deepened. "Why do
you resent it, Corin? You have a twin in Keely."

           
"Who says I resent it?"
Corin retorted. And then, grimly, "Keely is a girl. We are close, aye, as
close as you and Brennan—but she is still a girl. It makes a difference, rojho."

           
"Keely is a woman,"
Brennan corrected absently.