The Lion of Senet (17 page)

“I wish it was me instead of Kirsh going to join the Queen’s Guard.”

His ears burning with embarrassment, Dirk looked away as soon as he had uttered the words. He felt incredibly foolish for making such an admission and could not imagine what had possessed him to blurt out such a stupid thing.

Alenor stopped and turned to look at him. He risked a glance, expecting ridicule. But she wasn’t laughing at him. She stood there in the center of the empty observatory, a small, fragile figure wearing nothing but a simple white nightgown and an invisible cloak of solemn dignity.

“Dirk, I wish you were going to be in my guard, too.” Then she smiled. “I’d make you my Lord Marshal.”

“Kirsh will be the Lord Marshal of Dhevyn one day, Alenor. Anyone can see that.”

“Kirsh will be a hero, Dirk. He’ll do great deeds, and kill pirates and defend my kingdom and they’ll sing about him for generations to come. But if I ever need a tactician, I’ve a feeling you’d be the better choice.”

Dirk smiled. “Even if you meant that, Alenor, what difference would it make? It’s not like either of us has a choice in the matter, is it?”

Chapter 26

Marqel the Magnificent was not feeling particularly magnificent this morning. She was stiff and sore from the performance last night and hadn’t slept well, either. It had been quite awhile since she had risked that particular act, and she really wasn’t prepared for it.

It was all the fault of those brats from the castle. Originally, Kalleen had scheduled her performance for much later in the evening when the Prince of Senet might be in the audience, although Kalleen predicted that it was much more likely the sons of the noble families would view their act first. She’d instructed them about what to look for, so they would know the highborn when they saw them. They would be better dressed than most, and cleaner, she anticipated. Antonov’s sons would probably be the best dressed of all. As Kalleen had delivered her lecture to them around the campfire last night, Marqel had almost bitten through her bottom lip to prevent giving away her secret.

“We watched the parade, Kalleen,” Lanatyne had reminded her. “We know what they look like.”

Kirshov and his friends had turned up much earlier than expected, so Kalleen had cut Vonril’s juggling act short and moved Marqel up. She’d had barely enough warning to get changed and she was on, with no warm-up, not even a moment to stretch, before she was hurling herself around a stage that was really too small for such a potentially dangerous act.

Still, the act had gone well, and best of all, her memories of yesterday had proved true. Kirsh had smiled at her again, the same way he had at the pool. She had even managed to keep back a few of the coins from the purse he handed her, before Kalleen got her grubby paws on it, and he had promised to speak to his father about getting them an invitation to perform in Senet. Kalleen had been so pleased about that, she barely even glanced at the purse.

Marqel turned stiffly on the narrow bunk in the wagon she shared with Lanatyne, smiling to herself. Prince Kirshov seemed thoroughly enchanted by her skill. He seemed thoroughly enchanted by her.

There had to be a way she could use that to her advantage.

The girl beside him with the superior air and suspicious frown was, she knew, the Princess Alenor. Queen Rainan’s only child, and heir to the throne of Dhevyn. What a tiny, insipid little thing she turned out to be. The other two boys were the sons of the Duke of Elcast and the Governor, Tovin Rill. One of them was supposed to be very bright, she’d heard rumored in the town. Not that it really mattered. The only one that mattered was Kirshov, and he had been right at the front of the stage, clapping harder than anyone else, his eyes alight with excitement as he watched her perform. Somehow, that made the aches and pains worthwhile.

“Get up, you lazy slut! Kalleen wants her breakfast.”

She turned to find Lanatyne standing over her. The young woman’s face was red and puffy, and she had a wonderful shiner blooming around her left eye. Marqel pushed herself up onto one elbow and stared at her curiously. “What happened to you?”

“Some stupid pig thought my services were free last night.”

Marquel bit back a smile. Poor Lanatyne. She’d been an acrobat once, before she’d broken her ankle in a nasty fall. She still walked with a slight limp.

“Why did you bother to go at all? You knew you weren’t going to get paid.”

“A Shadowdancer was sent to find unmarried women. Apparently, the numbers weren’t even. You’re lucky they didn’t spot you.”

“I’m too young.”

“Take enough of that Milk of the Goddess shit, Marqel, and there’s no such thing. You’ll rut anything that moves when you’re drunk on it. Still,” Lanatyne reached under her kirtle and produced a small dagger, “I got this as a souvenir.”

Marqel gasped. The scabbard was gold and the hilt was set with a line of emeralds. When she withdrew the blade, it sparkled brilliantly, cut from a single vein of crystal. She’d heard about diamond-bladed weapons but had never thought to see one. They were extremely rare and restricted to the Senetian nobility, as a rule. It must have been worth a fortune.

“He gave you
that
?”

“Course he didn’t
give
it to me, you silly bitch. I stole it. Actually, it wasn’t from the one who did this,” she winced, pointing to the black eye. “It was from some other chap. He’d been with one of them Shadowdancers, I think, and after she was done with him, she just left him there. Must have been his first time, I think. He was scratching at himself like he had the worst dose of lice you’ve ever seen.”

“Goddess! You didn’t catch anything from him, did you?”

“I never laid with him, stupid. I just waited till he was dead to the world with a stupid grin on his face, sleeping it off in the woods like a baby with a belly full of mother’s milk. Had a bright red jacket on, he did, like a bloody great signal fire. I mean, what else could I do?”

“You’d better hide it.”

Lanatyne nodded and slipped the dagger back under the pallet of the other bunk. Marqel wasn’t referring to being caught by the authorities with such a valuable item, although she could imagine the blade’s owner would be rather peeved by its loss. They both knew Kalleen would skin Lanatyne alive if she thought the young woman was holding out on her.

“Come on, you’d better get moving. Kalleen’s in a good mood at the moment, but it won’t last if you’re late with her tea.”

“Why don’t you get it, then?”

“’Cause I’m tired. Unlike some people around here, I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“You think
I
did?” Marqel grumbled as she swung her legs to the floor. “With all that drumming and panting and squealing and moaning going on?”

“Well, it wasn’t me that was moaning. I wasn’t getting paid for that.”

“You only moan if you’re getting paid?” she asked.

“Let me give you a tip, Marqel. The amount of noise you make is in direct proportion to the amount they’re paying you to make it.”

“They mustn’t pay you much, then,” she chuckled. She spoke from experience. Lanatyne often brought her clients back to the wagon while Marqel was trying to sleep.

Lanatyne cuffed her under the ear for her cheek. “You’re a smart-mouthed little brat, you know that? It’s going to get you into trouble someday.”

“It gets me into trouble now,” Marqel shrugged, stretching gingerly in the close confines of the covered wagon. “Did you want some tea, too?”

Lanatyne sank down onto her bunk and smiled wearily. “That’d be lovely, thanks.”

“Then get it yourself,” she replied, ducking the hairbrush that Lanatyne hurled at her as she nimbly fled the wagon.

The common looked like a battlefield when Marqel emerged into the early morning sunlight. The remnants of last night’s festivities lay scattered over the field, along with more than a few sleeping bodies—too drunk, or perhaps too drugged, to make it back to their homes. The smaller sun had set and the second sun was shining brightly, casting long shadows over the burned-out framework of the wicker suns that loomed forlorn and forgotten on the damp grass. There was no trace of the men burned at the stake. Perhaps someone had taken their bones during the night. Or maybe they were there among the ashes, burned down to nothing in the heat of the ceremonial flames. Marqel barely glanced at them, turning her attention to the Keep instead.

What’s it like up there?
she wondered.
Are they up and about
yet? Are they being served breakfast on silver platters by groveling
servants? Is Kirshov awake?

No, he would be still abed
. The nobility could sleep late if they wished. Getting up at dawn was a privilege of the lower classes.

She turned at the sound of someone crashing through the trees near the edge of the common. A young man stumbled into the light, blinking stupidly, as if he had no idea where he was. He wore a well-cut red jacket over stained leather trousers and one very expensive boot. There was no sign of the other one. She smiled, thinking this must be Lanatyne’s unsuspecting victim. His face was streaked with several lines of dried blood and his shirt was torn. The young man ran his fingers through his dark curly hair, then stumbled and pitched forward onto his face.

Marqel waited for a moment, wondering what he would do next. The young man lifted his head and tried to rise, then collapsed back onto the damp turf. He rolled onto his back with a groan, then hurriedly sat and proceeded to throw up everything he had eaten for the past week.

Serves him right,
Marqel thought unsympathetically, as she turned toward the cook fire.

“Please ... help me ...”

She hesitated, wondering if she should ignore the pitiful plea. A part of her warned her to just keep walking. Another part of her was figuring out how much she could earn for aiding him. He looked vaguely familiar and was obviously rich, although if Lanatyne had been over him, he was unlikely to have any coin on him, or anything else of value, for that matter.

“Help you? How?”

“The Keep. Help me get back to the ... up there ...”

Marqel glanced in the direction of his pointing finger and smiled. “Oh,
that
Keep, you mean?”

“I’ll see you’re rewarded.”

That was enough for Marqel. She walked over to where he was sitting on the grass and helped him to stand. He leaned against her heavily as he put his arm over her shoulder and they began to hobble across the common. The foot missing the boot looked swollen, and he couldn’t put any weight on it. His silk shirt was shredded and there were deep scratches scoring his chest. He stank of vomit.

“You had an interesting night, didn’t you?”

He grunted something in reply.

“My name’s Marqel. What’s yours?”

“Rees.”

“Just Rees?”

“Rees Provin ... Can we stop for a moment?”

Marqel halted. He balanced his hand on her shoulder and took several deep breaths. Rees was sweating profusely and obviously in a great deal of pain. Whether it was from his swollen ankle or a hangover from the drug he had taken last night, she could not tell.

“Rees Provin, eh? The duke’s son?”

He nodded, then winced. Apparently nodding was not a good idea in his present condition. She smiled encouragingly, already calculating her reward. It should be enough to get her out of trouble with Kalleen for not fetching her breakfast.

“I’m ready now,” he told her, bracing himself against her. They started off again toward the Keep, struggling as the ground sloped up to the base of the high stone wall. When they reached the steps cut into the hill, Rees had to hop from step to step. He was panting heavily as they made their way upward.

They were almost to the gate when someone on the wall spotted them and cried out a warning to whoever was manning the gate. The postern gate flew open and two of the duke’s guards ran down to aid them. They pushed Marqel out of the way and took Rees’s weight between them, then hurried him up the steps, calling for help. Marqel followed determinedly behind. She had been promised a reward and she didn’t plan to let his lordship out of her sight until she got it.

When they reached the gate, Rees was taken through and the guards tried to close it in her face. She ducked under the gateman’s arm and slipped inside. Rees was already halfway across the courtyard. A tall, stern-looking woman in a long blue dress hurried down the steps of the main building with a cry of alarm, and began issuing orders to fetch water and someone called Master Helgin. Marqel began to panic. Her payment was slipping away from her, and fast.

“Hey! You promised me a reward if I helped you!”

Everyone in the courtyard stopped and stared at her. She realized how out of place she must look in her short shift, her bare legs tanned from hours under the twin suns, traveling from island to island, the rope tattoo visible for all to see. Her fair hair was loose and she had not bothered to brush it in her haste to avoid Lanatyne’s missile. Amid all these oh-so-proper castle folk, she realized she must look like an escaped slave.

“She’s right, Mother. I did promise,” Rees said, leaning for support against the guards who had helped him up the steps.

The duchess stared disapprovingly at Marqel for a moment, then beckoned a thin man forward. “Balonan, see the child gets a reward. And find her something decent to wear. She shouldn’t be out in public dressed like that.”

“Of course, my lady,” Balonan said, with a short bow.

That duty taken care of, the Duchess of Elcast turned back to her son as if Marqel no longer existed. Balonan crossed the yard and eyed her suspiciously.

“Come along, then,” he said, obviously displeased by the duty thrust upon him. “I suppose you want food, too?”

“Money will do just fine, friend,” Marqel told him, anxious to be gone from this place.

“Money, eh? Mercenary little thing, aren’t you?”

“Just trying to earn a living, friend.”

“My name is Seneschal Balonan, you impudent wretch, and I am not your friend.”

“Then give me my reward and I’ll be gone,” she suggested.

Balonan reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a small purse. Before he could open it, Marqel snatched it from his hand.

“Don’t bother to count it, this’ll do. Thanks.”

She bolted for the gate and was gone from the castle before the startled Seneschal had a chance to object.