Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (4 page)

           
"Brennan!" Hart called.
"The knife—"

           
"—did little damage!"
Brennan shouted back. "Look to yourself, rujho."

           
Hart did, neatly avoiding a sword
swung perilously close to his right hand. He immediately jammed the threatened
hand against his ribs and kicked out with a booted foot. He stripped the sword
from the enemy's grip.

           
Corin, outnumbered rather more
quickly than he had imagined, dragged himself out from under a senseless
Caledonese and slashed weakly at the closest yellow-clad leg he could find. The
blade bit into the leather boot sluggishly, doing little damage, but it caught
the attention of the wearer. Swearing in indecipherable Caledonese, the
guardsman stomped down on
Conn
's bared wrist and knocked the knife from his hand.

           
Pain shot the length of Corin's arm.
"Ku'reshin,” he cried, outraged, "let me up—"

           
Just as outraged by Corin's attempt
to stab through leather to his leg, the guardsman merely put more weight on the
trapped limb.

           
Corin let out a string of Cheysuli
obscenities, then—too proud to lose but not too proud to ask for help—he
shouted for his brothers.

           
When neither answered, he realized
abruptly they had their own battles to fight and he was solely responsible for
his. It was not a pleasing thought; he had grown accustomed to shouting for one
or the other of his brothers, if not both, whenever necessary. Now, unhappily,
Corin came to the disturbing realization that occasionally there was no one to
rely on save himself.

           
"By all the gods of
Homana," he muttered to the floor so close to his face, "why did we
leave the lir in Homana-Mujhar?"

           
The guardsman glared down at him.
"What are you saying, Homanan? Begging my mercy already?"

           
Corin, sprawled belly-down with the
trapped wrist stretched out in front of him, twisted his head to look up.

           
"Mercy?" Astonished, he
gaped at the Caledonese. "I will give you mercy—" Abruptly, putting
the aching wrist out of his head entirely, Corin lurched up and locked his left
arm around the heavy leather boot. Before the guardsman could retreat, Corin
had ripped open his knee with a savage bite.

           
The Caledonese let out a howl of
shock and pain and stumbled back, freeing the wrist, and nearly ripped Corin's
teeth from his mouth. Corin, kneeling as he flexed his swelling wrist, was
privately amazed at his success.

           
Then a hand came down, caught his
russet velvet doublet and jerked him to his feet. "You cannot win battles
on the floor," Hart said mildly.

           
"I won that one." Corin
grinned at the cursing Caledonese. And then he stopped grinning, because the
man with the bitten knee lunged past Corin and upended Hart entirely. "
Ku'reshtin,” Corin cried, and flung himself on the enemy.

           
Hart, squashed beneath both of them,
tried ineffectively to wriggle free. At last he resorted to swearing at the
enemy and his brother. "Corin—get—off—"

           
"I am trying . . ." Corin
scrambled backward awkwardly, planting a knee against Hart's left thigh, and
dragged the Caledonese with him. Hart, wheezing, sat up slowly and clasped
tender ribs.

           
The tavern door, so very close to
Hart, slammed open.

           
He winced instinctively, hunched his
shoulders and hugged his ribs even harder. Boots thudded against the hardpacked
floor and swords rattled out of sheaths. Hart, catching a glimpse of crimson
silk and leather-and-mail, felt the beating of his heart abruptly stop.

           
He squinted up at the men hesitantly,
then closed his eyes. Aye. It was the Royal Mujharan Guard. Part of it, anyway.

           
"Jehan will have our heads for
this," he commented in cheerful resignation, and smiled innocently at the
nearest of his father's men-at-arms.

           
Brennan, consumed with gaining a
victory over a Caledonese who simply would not go down, felt the lance shaft across
his throat. Gently it pressed, so gently, warning him subtly, but firmly enough
to threaten the fragility of his windpipe.

           
Slowly, Brennan let his hands drop
back to his sides.

           
In pleased surprise he watched his
opponent stagger, straighten, collapse onto the floor. The Prince of Homana
nodded, smiled, turned slowly within the cage of the lance to face his new
opponent. Abruptly he froze. Leaping out of the crimson tunic over the
leather-and-mail was a black Homanan lion, rampant: his father's royal crest.
It matched perfectly the black-etched lion in Brennan's ruby signet ring.

           
The Homanan guardsman recognized his
prisoner at the same time. The lance fell away. "My lord!"

           
Corin, as yet unaware of the new
arrivals, scrambled out from beneath two now-prone Caledonese guardsmen.

           
His face was smeared with blood, but
his eyes were suspiciously bright. He grinned, delighted. And then, as he stood
up, the grin slipped away.

           
Brennan faced a guardsman in the
Mujhar's black-and-scarlet livery. Hart, looking none too pleased with affairs,
leaned against a table and clasped his ribs. His handsome face was bruised, and
one eye—the right—was plainly swelling and would soon turn black.

           
Corin looked at his brothers. He
looked at the sudden stillness in the tavern. He looked at the four Mujharan
guardsmen flanking him. And then he sighed and sat down on a wine-stained bench
to cradle his injured wrist.

           
Reynald of Caledon strode stiffly
through the center of the common room, stepping over the downed bodies of his
royal escort and kicking aside fragments of broken crockery. His foreign face
was set in an expression of distaste, irritation and arrogance; his dismay at
the results of the fight was evident even as he tried to hide it.

           
He drew himself up before the
Mujharan guardsman who had set the lance shaft at Brennan's throat. Pointedly,
he ignored Brennan altogether. "Your name?" he demanded.

           
"Dion," the guardsman
answered. "Captain of this contingent of the Royal Mujharan Guard."

           
Reynald's dark brown eyes narrowed.
"The Mujhar's men?"

           
"Part of his personal
guard," Dion answered. "Attached to the palace itself."

           
The foreign prince nodded. "I
am Reynald, cousin to Prince Einar of
Caledon
," he said flatly. "I wish to
press charges against these three Homanans—I want you to see to it they are put
in chains and locked away until justice can be levied. I intend to ask the
Mujhar himself to hear my testimony."

           
"My lord, it is your privilege
to do so," Dion said quietly. "But may I suggest you
reconsider—"

           
"No, you may not, and I will
not," Reynald answered. "I came here with my escort to enjoy an
evening's entertainment in what I was told was a fine establishment."

           
He cast a withering glance around
The Rampant Lion. "These men intruded, provoking a fight, and I demand
reparation for this affront to my honor, and that of my cousin. Prince
Einar."

           
"Oh, is Einar here?"
Brennan asked lightly. "I did not see him."

           
Reynald glared. "Because he is
not present means nothing. You have injured my honor, and—as I am a member of
the Caledonese party here to celebrate the Mujhar's reign—what insults me also
insults my lord prince."

           
"Your pardon, my lord." It
was Hart's turn. "But I fail to see how you were injured in any way. You
let your escort do your fighting for you."

           
"Aye," Corin interposed
before Reynald could answer. "You and Brennan could have settled it
between you, but you provoked a fight. You gave the order to attack." He
paused. "I think. It was in Caledonese, but it did serve to make your
escort attack whatever it was you said."

           
Color blazed in Reynald's saturnine
face. "I was required to protect myself. This man meant to provoke me."
His outflung hand indicated Brennan.

           
"My lord?" Dion looked at
Brennan.

           
Brennan opened his mouth, but
Reynald spoke before he could. " 'My lord,' " he mimicked, glaring at
Dion. "You give him more honor than you give me."

           
"Aye," Dion answered smoothly;
it was easy to see his opinion of the Caledonese lordling, regardless of his
neutral expression and tone. "I mean you no disrespect, my lord, but this
man will one day be my king."

           
Reynald shut his mouth with a snap.
He looked sharply from Dion to Brennan. "King," he echoed. There was,
suddenly, the faintest trace of doubt in his tone.

           
"One day," Brennan agreed.
"Not for a long time yet; my father the Mujhar is, thank the gods, a
spectacularly , healthy man." The faintest of twitches jerked the corner of
his mouth; he was purposely underplaying his hand, which served to make it all
the more devastatingly effective

           
Reynald looked first at Hart, then
at Corin. And all of a sudden the color drained out of his face. "Obram
save me," he whispered, "you are all the Mujhar's sons. I remember,
now—"

           
"You remember, now." Hart
grinned. "A bit slow, are you, Reynald? We met only yesterday, did we not?
In the Great Hall before the Lion Throne?"

           
"Where you wished our father
the Mujhar best wishes for continued health." Corin pointedly emphasized
their link to royalty. Reynald was the sort of man to understand such
arrogance, having his own fair share of it.

           
"Chains, I think he said,"
Brennan told Dion. "Did you bring any with you?"

           
"No, my lord. Should I fetch
some?" Clearly, the captain was enjoying Reynald's discomfiture.

           
Hart felt his ribs.
"Enough," he said. "I think Reynald sees our point. And I think
it is time we returned to Homana-Mujhar, before our jehan sends men out looking
for us." He stopped short and looked at Dion. "Who did send
you?"

           
"I did." Rhiannon stepped
forward. The linen apron still bore bloodstains, now darkening, and her hand
was wrapped in a clean cloth. "It was my fault this nonsense began. I
thought I should be the one to stop it, so I ran to the palace and fetched
them." She looked at Brennan.

           
Her eyes lingered a moment on the
earring in his left ear, now exposed by hair pushed away from his face.
"I—I was ungrateful before," she said in a low voice. "You did
this for me." She wiggled fingers showing at the edges of the cloth
wrapping. "I didn't want you to get hurt, any of you." Her eyes
touched briefly on Hart and Corin, but moved back to Brennan almost
immediately.

           
Hart laughed. Corin's mouth twisted
wryly.

           
Brennan smiled slowly. "Then
you have my thanks," he said, and looked at Reynald. "I think we have
arrived at an impasse, my Caledonese lordling. You may, of course, press
charges—we did extinguish most of your royal escort, three to ten—" he
grinned, "—but perhaps we may simply let bygones be bygones, and meet over
the banquet you and your cousin Prince Einar are supposed to host in my
father's honor tonight." Brennan paused. "And if we do not go now, we
shall be quite late."

           
Reynold looked at the remains of his
royal escort.

           
Several of the men were clearly
unconscious. Others were merely stunned, beginning only now to pull their wits
back together. Two were on their feet, unwounded; they scowled sullenly at
their fallen comrades.

           
Their lord, in his wine-stained
silks and velvets, summoned what dignity he could muster. "Come," he
ordered the two men still on their feet, and immediately departed the tavern.

           
Corin watched him go, then turned
back to Hart. "What about the others?"

           
Hart grinned his lopsided, charming
grin. "He is nephew to the King of
Caledon
, rujho, and cousin to Prince Einar. It is
not for him to concern himself with men wounded in his defense.”

           
"Ah." Corin, duly
enlightened, nodded.

           
Brennan sighed and untied his
belt-purse. He handed it over to the tavern-keeper. "For the
damages," And then he worked a ring from one of his fingers. It was not
the ruby signet of his rank, but a smaller sapphire set in silver. When it was
free of his finger, he put it into Rhiannon's hands. "To replace the
'silver penny.' " He smiled warmly. "You see," he said, "Cheysuli
are not so bad."

           
She stared after him as he preceded
his brothers out of The Rampant Lion. And then she kissed the ring.

           
The Mujhar, stepping into one of the
soft gray-dyed kneeboots, looked up sharply as Taggart finished speaking.
"They did what?"

           
Taggart's face was very stiff. He
repeated his final statement. "They destroyed most of Reynald's escort, my
lord."

           
" 'Destroyed’? " Niall
straightened as a body-servant knelt to adjust the droop of soft leather.
"Is anyone dead?" '

           
"Not so far as we can tell, my
lord. It appears several of the Caledonese are wounded, but none
seriously."

           
Taggart folded his hands behind his
back and waited.

           
Niall stood stock still in the
center of the antechamber that held most of the clothing suitable for a Mujhar.
He preferred the soft leather jerkin and leggings of the Cheysuli, but all too
often he was forced to wear Homanan apparel. Tonight was such a night.

           
"My lord . . ." The
body-servant held up the other boot.

           
Niall glanced down, frowning in
distraction. "Ah. Aye."

           
He accepted the boot and pulled it
on, then waited as it was properly adjusted. "All three of them?" he
asked.

           
Taggart nodded.

           
"Even Brennan," Niall
murmured. "Oh, curse them for fools, all of them. I do not need this
tonight—most of all tonight." He waved the body-servant away and paced
across the room to the doorway opening into his bedchamber. Serri was, yet
again, asleep on the bed.

           
"My lord, Dion reported that it
did not appear to be entirely the fault of the princes. And if my lord Reynald
truly did provoke them, there must have been good reason."

           
"Reason, perhaps, but not good
reason," Niall said grimly. He shook his head, still bare of its heavy
circlet, and swung back. "I cannot believe Brennan took part in this
idiocy. It is not like him. Hart and Corin, aye—they would hardly balk at a
fight, regardless of provocation—but Brennan?"

           
Deirdre swept into the room from
another entrance,

           
"My lord Mujhar, your
favoritism is showing."

           
"Is it?" Niall absently
admired the rich blue gown that fit her slender body so snugly. Her
brass-bright hair was twisted up on her head in a knot secured with thick pins
of silver wire, and she wore yet another of his gifts, a silver chain crusted
with diamonds and dark blue sapphires. It glittered against her throat. "Aye,
well . . . even you must admit it is unlike Brennan."

           
"What have they done, your
sons?" Deirdre smoothed the fit of his black doublet, quilted with jet and
seed pearls.

           
"They have torn up a tavern—one
of the better ones, I might add—and accounted for multiple casualties,"
Niall answered. "In short, they may have permanently destroyed any hope
for a renewal of the trade alliance between Homana and
Caledon
."

           
"Have they, then?" She
patted the silver chain of office that stretched from shoulder to shoulder,
each wide link cleverly fashioned into a rampant lion. A remarkable distance
from shoulder to shoulder; privately, Deirdre smiled.

           
"You do not seem to
understand." Niall moved away from her to face Taggart again. "Where
are they now?"

           
"In your private solar, my
lord." Taggart paused. "I think they knew you would wish to say
something to them. They went there on Prince Brennan's suggestion."

           
"Wise Brennan," Niall
remarked darkly. "Aye, I wish to say something to them. Go and fetch them,
Taggart. Fetch them now."

           
Taggart was clearly surprised.
"Here, my lord?"

           
"Here."

           
"Aye, my lord." A bow, and
he was gone.

           
"Niall," Deirdre said
uneasily, "what it is you are meaning to say to them?"

           
"Whatever comes out of my mouth
at the moment."

           
He took her arm and escorted her
into yet a third chamber, a private withdrawing room.

           
"You will be giving them a
chance, then." But she did not sound at all convinced.

           
Niall indicated she was to sit down
in one of the X-legged chairs. "Promise me, meijha, you will leave the
punishment to me."

           
"In other words, you are
wanting me to be silent." She scowled at him as she sat down, but it
lacked the determination to have much of the desired affect. " Tis for you
to do, then," she agreed. "They are your sons, not mine." And
she folded her hands primly in her lap.