Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (8 page)

           
It was stiff, and very cold.
"Maeve, you know them. Corin resents the world, I think, for making him
third-born instead of first; Keely resents that she has no voice in her
disposition." He pulled her more closely to him, until a fold of her
skirts brushed against one knee, "You are free of a cradle-betrothal. You
are free of the responsibilities of helping to fulfill the prophecy. You are
free of the need to prove yourself able to live up to self-expectations. But
mostly, you are free to be yourself, which is what Keely wants more than
anything."

           
"She is herself!"

           
"No. Corin understands this
better than I—Keely and I do not agree on much, as you know—but I think Keely
desires to be more than cheysula, princess, jehana ... I think she wants to
know the freedom most men have, to be whatever they choose to be, and do what
they wish to do."

           
"You do not. You were
cradle-betrothed. By the gods, Brennan, you will marry Liam of Erinn's daughter
just as Keely will wed his son! How can she say you have more freedom than she
does? How can she resent me simply because I am not discontented by my place in
this life?"

           
Maeve pulled her hand out of his and
turned her back, skirts swirling. And then she swung around to face him once
again, brass-bright hair whipping in its loose net of gold wire and glittering
topaz gemstones. "Would she trade places with me, I wonder, in her desire
for contentment, if she knew she would be called the bastard daughter of the Mujhar
and his Erinnish whore?”

           
"Who calls you that?"
Brennan was abruptly on his feet. The tears that glittered briefly in Maeve's
eyes were enough to make him long to take his sword from its rack upon the
wall.

           
"No one. Everyone.” Maeve
gestured sharply with both hands, expressing helplessness. "No one to my
face, of course. They value their lives too much, knowing better than to say it
near members of the House of Homana. But—I have heard it. Muttered. Whispered.
 
Sometimes said quite clearly, when I go to
Market Square
."

           
"Maeve, you know he would wed
her if he could. You know he would make her Queen of Homana, and you legitimate.
And he will—when Gisella no longer lives."

           
"You speak of your mother,
Brennan."

           
“I speak of the half-breed Cheysuli
witch he married,” Brennan said plainly. "I speak of the madwoman who bore
him children, then tried to give them over to Strahan the Ihlini—and would
have, had jehan not caught her at it, preventing the travesty." He
shivered in distaste. "Gods—when I think of what I might have become had
she succeeded. . . ."

           
"Dead," she said hollowly.

           
"Or worse." Brennan wanted
to spit.

           
"Worse?" Maeve stared at
him. "What could be worse?"

           
"We would be made minions,” he
said flatly. "Minions of Strahan; of Asar-Suti, the Seker, who made and
dwells in darkness," He could not help-the instinctive movement of his
hand toward his knife. "He would cause us to be minions, Maeve, and to sit
as puppets upon our respective thrones, allowing Strahan to rule in our places.
To rule—and to destroy."

           
"Two days," Hart said
emphatically. "How much longer do you think I can last, mewed up in my
chamber like a disobedient child?"

           
Corin, seated cross-legged on the
floor of his chamber with Kiri in his lap, upside down so her belly could be
properly scratched, looked at his brother expressionlessly.

           
"For one, you are not in your
chamber, you are in mine—and I think the idea was that you were a disobedient
child."

           
"Aye, well, enough is
enough," Hart said crossly. "I think he has forgotten us. Surely he
could not expect us to remain night and day in our chambers."

           
"Sure he could," Corin
corrected. "I am no fonder of my chamber than you of yours, but there
appears to be no solution—" He stopped short. "I know that
expression, Hart—what are you thinking?"

           
Hart grinned. "That we are
Cheysuli warriors, and there is indeed a solution. That it is time we employed
it." He scratched idly at his sleeveless Cheysuli jerkin, dyed a soft amber
brown; the bound flesh beneath it itched. "That it is time I found a game
before I lose my wits."

           
"I thought you had no
money."

           
"There are the twenty-five
crowns you owe me."

           
Corin grimaced. "Aye, that
again." He waved a hand. "There, in the brass-bound casket—I think
there are twenty-five."

           
Hart crossed to a table. He tipped
the lid of the casket and nodded, eyebrows raised; there were considerably more
than twenty-five. Supple fingers dipped in, deftly counted out twenty-five
pieces of gold, tucked them into a leather belt-purse already tied at his right
hip. "Thank the gods for a thrifty rujholli"

           
"No more thrifty than the next
man," Corin retorted, scrubbing affectionately at Kin's belly fur.
"It is only that I avoid the games you thrive on."

           
"Aye, well . . . shall we go
find one?”

           
Corin's hand stopped moving.
"You are serious."

           
"Aye." Hart nodded.
"Shall we go?"

           
"Now?" Corin glanced out
the nearest casement and saw the sun was already down. "Our jehan has
expressly forbidden this sort of thing, Hart."

           
"Aye."

           
Corin studied him. "That does
not bother you in the least."

           
"Aye, it does. But not enough
to gainsay me." Hart grinned and patted the now-filled belt-purse.
"How will he know, rujho? We will go out like thieves and come back like
thieves. Only wealthier."

           
Corin scratched slowly at his jaw,
considering. "What of Brennan?"

           
"I asked." Hart shrugged.
"He swore, called me a fool and every other name he could think of,
Homanan and Old Tongue alike—and said he would leave us to our folly."

           
"Us." Corin scowled.
"He was so certain I would go?"

           
"Quite certain."

           
"Ku'reshtin," Corin
commented without heat. "Well, I think he has the right of it." He
let Kiri get out of his lap, then stood. "Where do we go, rujho? Not The
Rampant Lion again."

           
Hart laughed. "No, no, even I
am not so foolish. No, I think we should go to a different part of the city,
just to be safe in case our absence is discovered, and jehan sends the Guard
again." One finger caressed the heavy knife hilt at his left hip. "I
thought we might try the Midden."

           
"The Midden!" Corin,
aghast, stared at him. "That is hardly our part of Mujhara, Hart. The
Midden is infested with thieves, cutpurses, assassins. . . ." He shook his
head. "No wonder Brennan said you were a fool."

           
Hart grinned his lopsided grin.
"I did not precisely tell him that is where we are going."

           
Corin grunted. "The Midden is
dangerous."

           
"Aye, it is." Hart merely
continued to grin, and caressed his knife again.

           
After a moment, Corin's answering grin
banished the scowl. He nodded. "But let me shed these useless velvets,
rujho. If I go to the Midden with you, I go as a Cheysuli." He stopped
short of the nearest clothing trunk.

           
"You do intend to take
Rael."

           
"Of course. He is even now
perched on the curtain wall, awaiting our arrival"

           
Corin glanced at Kiri. For a moment
his eyes were oddly detached, as he went into the link. Then he sighed.

           
"Kiri says we are every bit the
fools Brennan claims, but she will come. If only to protect me from myself."

           
"Rael said something very similar,"
Hart reflected. The lir-gold gleamed on his arms. "Hurry, rujho. I need a
game."

           
Hart and Corin slipped down the
spiraling stairs in a tower near the back of Homana-Mujhar. The staircase was
only rarely used by any member of the family, being primarily intended for the
household staff; Hart was certain if they met anyone, they could bluff their
way past.

           
It might have worked, except
Corin—in the lead—ran smack into a shadow-shrouded body at the bottom, near the
door that would pass them out of the palace proper into the inner bailey.

           
Corin swore, fell back a step; Hart
bumped him and jostled him forward.

           
"I knew you would come this
way." Brennan's voice; he opened the door partway and let the diffused
light of bailey torches spill into the tower. Corin blinked. Kiri's eyes
reflected oddly in the distorted light. Sleeta was a plush velvet shadow in the
darkness, golden eyes staring fixedly at Hart and Corin.

           
"Are you here to try and
gainsay us?" Hart demanded. “Rufho—"

           
"No," Brennan said
clearly. "Have I ever been able to stop you before?"

           
"Once," Hart said.
"You tripped me; I hit my head and was knocked half senseless."

           
Corin snickered. Brennan nodded
reminiscently. "But I caught you off-guard then, and I have not been able
to do it since. We are too well-matched, now, in size and experience." He
peered out the door. "I think the way is clear."

           
"You are coming?" Corin
was patently astonished.

           
"Lir or no lir, I can trust
neither of you to look out for your welfare. Aye, I am coming."

           
"And if jehan catches us?"

           
"He will no doubt have us
executed," Brennan said lightly. "Now, where is it we are
going?"

           
Corin glanced over his shoulder to
Hart, who shrugged a little.

           
"Where?" Brennan asked
suspiciously.

           
"The Midden," Corin said.
Hastily, he added, "Hart's idea."

           
Brennan looked at his blue-eyed twin
in silence a moment. And then he said, very quietly, "You are even a
greater fool than I thought."

           
"I need a game," Hart
said. When Brennan only stared at him, he slipped past both brothers and
stalked outside, lir-gold agleam in the torchlight.

           
They went horseback to the edges of
the Midden, the border between lesser and greater Mujhara in attitude as well
as advantages. The mounts they left at a small livery, then went ahead on foot.
They walked the narrow, night-blackened streets like shadow-wraiths, moving
through the depths of the moonless night. Sleeta padded silently at Brennan's
side, only her great golden eyes betraying her presence. Rael was a faint
shimmering blur overhead; Kiri, quick, delicate Km, trotted at their backs.

           
Others moved in the darkness as
well, soft-footed, silent, silk-smooth; men well-versed in the art of deception
and subterfuge. No one spoke a word.

           
The cobbles under their boots were
muffled beneath layers of dirt and the remains of old droppings, packed into
the seams and hollows formed by rounded, time-worn bricks. The winding street
smelled of old ale, urine, the close confinement of people unused to washing. In
comers they heard scuttling and squeaking; occasionally the yowl of a torn cat
protecting his territory.

           
The dwellings themselves were all of
wood, set cheek-by-jowl in crooked comers and dogleg turnings. Candles glowed
here and there, a lantern, occasionally a torch.

           
But the night held dominance.

           
Corin twitched his wrist
experimentally. A shiver of anticipation coursed down his spine; he felt the
sting in his armpits. "Where do we go?" he asked quietly.

           
Hart shrugged. "A tavern—any
tavern. No place in particular."

           
"Well-planned," Brennan
muttered. "Jehan would be so proud."

           
"Perhaps we should have brought
Keely instead of you," Hart retorted. "The gods know she has more
willingness than you to explore the unknown."

           
"Perhaps you should have,"
Brennan agreed. "Then there would be four fools in place of three."

           
"Leave Keely out of it,"
Corin warned.

           
"She would have come,"
Hart said.

           
"Aye," Corin agreed.
"And then we would have to concern ourselves with how many rude-speaking
men she would be likely to cut, to teach them better manners."

           
"There," Hart said
abruptly, stopping short. "A tavern."

           
Corin and Brennan also stopped,
keeping to the shadows. "There?" Brennan asked in disbelief.

           
"Why not?" Hart returned.
"See you the sign-plate?"

           
The sign-plate in question dangled
crookedly from a length of leather thong. There was no wind; it did not creak
or spin or swing. It seemed to swallow what little light there was in the
street, and throw it back toward the three Cheysuli princes.

           
"I see it," Brennan agreed
grimly. "I think I can smell it, also."

           
" ‘The Pig in the Poke,' "
Corin read aloud. "How appropriate."

           
Brennan shook his head. "I am
not taking Sleeta in there."

           
"Then leave her outside to wait
with Kiri and Rael," Corin said. "They will be close enough if we
need them."

           
"Come," Hart said
impatiently, and stepped out to lead the way across the street.

           
Brennan brought him up short by
catching one bare arm. "Wait you, rujho—I think we would do well, before
we go, to agree to one thing."

           
"Aye, aye, what?" Hart's
impatience was manifest.

           
"That we leave our knives
sheathed," Brennan said clearly, catching Corin's eyes as well. "In
this sort of place, if we show steel we will likely have it fed to us."

           
"By the gods, Brennan, you will
have me thinking you are a woman instead of warrior!" Corin exclaimed in
disgust. "Have it fed to us, indeed—we are Cheysuli, Brennan."

           
"We are also in a part of
Mujhara where I doubt very much anyone will be much impressed by our rank or
race," Brennan answered grimly.

           
Hart sighed and glanced over at the
tavern. "I have no intention of showing steel, rujho—only enough gold to
buy my way into a game."

           
"And I am willing to wager the
game will be much different here than at The Rampant Lion."

           
"Wagering, are you?" Hart
grinned. "Come, rujho ... let us go in where your willingness to wager may
be translated into winning." Without waiting for an answer, he headed
across the street as the lir secreted themselves in the shadows.

           
The door caught on ridged dirt as
Hart pushed it open; pushing harder, he knocked it off the uneven floor. His
momentum carried it through to slam against the wooden wall, which served to
stop all conversation in the common room and fasten everyone's attention on the
new arrivals.