Tyrant Trouble (Mudflat Magic) (15 page)

“Why
indeed? Not of old age, one must guess.”

“Are
you saying Kovat would kill his own brother? But Nance, why? And if Erlan
thought so, why would his daughter want to marry Tarvik?”

“What
Erlan thinks and what Alakar wants are of no matter to Kovat. If Erlan arranged
a different marriage for Alakar, her husband could be a threat to Kovat,
especially if Erlan picked a strong ally of his own. I think Erlan has no
friend willing to become an enemy of Kovat, otherwise he would have refused
Kovat's arrangement of the betrothal.”

I
frowned into the lamp's glare, trying to sort out the customs of these people.
“What about Alakar and Tarvik? Didn't they choose each other?”

“Do
what?” Nance sat up straight, amazed. “Do you think Kovat asked them? No. He
arranged what he thought was best for himself and his son.”

“That's
archaic, not to mention wicked.”

“Wicked?
How else, then, are marriages arranged?”

“By
the people who intend to marry, of course.”

“Do
you mean to tell me your family has not promised you to anyone, Stargazer?”
Nance cried.

Oh,
lordy, as though the aunts couldn't make enough bad choices for themselves.

“Tell
me this. Why do Kovat and Erlan want each other's lands so much?”

“For
grazing, of course. We have a river that never freezes, while Erlan's rivers
turn to ice and for a while each winter, snow buries his land. He brings his
flocks to winter down here. And in late spring, when our grasslands begin to
dry out, our flocks must cross Erlan's borders to reach summer pastures. If
Kovat does not send warriors to escort the shepherds, somehow animals disappear
along the way.”

“Summer
pasture? What is that?”

“The
lower pastures go brown in summer. The flocks must be driven up into the
foothills to find grass. It is one reason Kovat fights the other rulers. We
need to search constantly for new and better grazing.” Nance yawned. “If we do
not sleep now, I will fall asleep at the games.”

I
held up my hand and Nance froze.

She
heard it too, a soft rustle, a footstep. In the courtyard. No one entered our
courtyard without first knocking and being admitted by the guard. We stared at
each other, unsure what to do. All right, this wasn't my city and the chance of
housebreakers was nonexistent, as far as I knew. Standing slowly, trying to
keep silent, I held out my hand to her to follow as I crept toward the doorway.
We left the door half open at night to let in air, so I curled my fingers
around the stone edge and peered out.

“Would
Tarvik command the guards to open the gate?” I whispered to Nance.

She
shook her head. “Never has.”

The
courtyard was brighter than our room, the pile of embers in the center casting
a low red glow, and the sky was so filled with stars and moon, their faint
light touched the shadows. There could be someone or no one standing in the
dark, moving along a wall. We both stood silent, listening. All I heard was the
two of us breathing.

“Tarvik?”
Nance said.

With
a guard at the gate, there was really nothing that could harm us, right, and so
I stepped out into the yard, started to turn slowly to stare at every shadow,
but I got only as far as the gate.

“It's
open, the gate is open,” I told Nance.

“I
closed it and shot the bolt,” Nance said.

And
even if she forgot, the guard would close it. A flash of reflection near the
embers caught my eye. I crouched down, reached out, saw it was nothing more
than a popped ember, and then saw the odd brushing of earth, the imprint of a
pointed boot at the fire's edge.

Not
the guard, they all wore heavy boots with round or square toes. About now my
instinct was to run back in the chamber, bolt the door and hide under a pile of
sheepskins, but if I did, I'd spend the night quaking, right? So I turned off
my brain and ran to the gateway, stared out, saw nothing, looked to the side
where the guard always stood, saw nobody, heard a low rustle of sound, looked
down.

Our
friendly neighborhood guard lay stretched out on the ground, face down, not
moving. Calling for Nance to help, I squatted down by him and rolled him over.

“Too
much mead,” Nance sputtered.

Leaning
over him, I held his face between my hands and sniffed. “He hasn't been
drinking.”

“Then
what's the matter with him?”

Hot
sticky on my hand, damn, I carefully turned his head, couldn't see in the dark
but I could feel the wound at the side of his head, a slight bump and a trickle
of blood. After sending Nance for a rag and a mug of water, I tried to check
him for any other injuries. I didn't expect to find any and didn't, so I hoped
it meant I could move him, as though I'd know. Sometime in the past I should
have sat in at one of those first aid lectures at the Neighborhood Center,
obviously. All I had to go on was a guess. When Nance returned, we pulled him
to the wall and sat him up. With the wet cloth I dabbed at the bloody spot.

He
moaned.

“I'll
shout,” Nance said. “The guards up at the castle will hear.”

“Don't.”

He
was coming round, his eyes fluttering.

We
saw this guy daily and he always smiled, except when Kovat was in town, never
gave us any bother, stacked wood when we needed more, delivered to the gate whatever
we asked for. If I could box him up and ship him home, what a terrific addition
he'd be to my house.

“Why
not?” Nance asked.

“What
if your uncle thinks what you did, that he drank too much?”

She
didn't have to answer. We both knew really bad things would happen to a guard
who slept on duty. So we brushed him off, washed him up a bit, and when he came
round, gave him water.

When
his brain woke up, he looked terrified.

“Somebody
hit you,” I said, crouched down next to him, hanging on to the mug of water for
him. “Did you see who it was?”

He
started to shake his head. I bet that hurt, because then he whispered, “No. I
don't remember seeing anyone.”

“Okay,
he snuck up on you. You're gonna have a lump on your head.”

“I
am fine.”

Shaking,
wide-eyed, heart probably racing. So fine, in fact, he teetered on the edge of
dying of fear and it wasn't his assailant he feared.

“Sure
you are. Listen, we aren't going to tell anyone. You don't need to, either.”

He
looked at me for several slow minutes, then took the mug from me, his rough
fingers brushing mine, and gulped the remaining water.

He
whispered, “Thank you, lady,” and we both knew he wasn't thanking me for the
water.

A
glance at his boots took care of my other question. Like I thought, they were
square across the toes. It was easy to guess who had knocked out the guard and
entered our courtyard. Had he stood outside to listen to us? Had we said
anything? I really hoped he'd gone off bored silly.

“Don't
joke about death,” Nance said as we walked back across the yard toward our
door.

“He
isn't death.”

“How
can you be sure?”

Did
I believe in Death with a capital D? A hooded skeleton carrying a scythe? Oh
come on, of course not, but she had a point. He fit the role, had the look,
exhibited all the warm charm, plus he'd attacked our guard and managed to
silently climb high enough on the wall to reach over and push back the bolt.

CHAPTER
9

The
games. Raised platforms edged an empty field that was about double the size of
a high school football field. Some of the platforms had canopies with banners
flying from the posts that supported them. In their shade were long benches on
different levels, like bleachers.

On
the centermost platform was a raised stand with a draped seat for Kovat,
putting him higher than everyone else. Steps led from the field up to the
platform, each step edged with poles topped with banners. At the base of the
stairs and a bit to the side stretched the scruffy dog I had seen in the
castle. As always, he lay with head on paws, ignoring everyone.

“Who
or what is that dog?” I asked Nance.

She
smiled, before forcing her face back to its solemn temple expression. She
murmured softly, although I doubted anyone could hear us over the crowd noise. “An
old pet of Kovat's. Useless, but he is fond of it.”

“I
haven't seen any other dogs.”

“The
hunting dogs are kept in a kennel.”

Nance
and I sat on a bench to the right of Kovat, and Erlan and his wife and daughter
were on his left. Behind them stood a row of servants and at the back of the
platform stood a row of guards. Bleachers on the side platforms were filled
with the banquet guests.

“Who
are they?” I whispered to Nance.

We
leaned toward each other, trying to remain unnoticed with our scarves pulled
forward, but that was impossible, seated as we were beside Kovat.

She
whispered, “That row, those men are all captains of Erlan's army. The one in
green on the far platform is Wenslaven, son of Wensel, who rules the land
adjacent to Erlan's city and the three with him are his sons. I rather think
the youngest one hoped to be promised to Alakar. He asked to be in the games,
but Kovat refused him. An insult, truly.”

“What's
your gossip connection, girlfriend?”

She
dimpled and whispered back, “Lor hears it from the guards. Just watch. I have
seen Alakar twice glance at him.”

“That's
terrible,” I said, thinking Alakar should marry whom she pleased.

Nance
replied, “It will be if Kovat sees her rolling her eyes at the son of
Wenslaven.”

The
games that followed equaled the chaos of the banquet. Watched by gaudy
spectators and stuck with grand and lengthy toasts plus the background babble
of the crowd, combatants managed to pass most of the day standing in knots
arguing the rules, which made me homesick for Saturday afternoons in front of
the TV. Was this their version of a time-out?

The
contestants were young men from both armies, and also sons of captains and a
few others whose relationships to Erlan and Kovat were complicated. Nance tried
to explain marriages, alliances, chosen heirs, and so forth, until my head
ached. Or maybe the headache was from trying to keep my lashes down while I
searched the seating area. With head ducked and half-turned, this maneuver made
me cross-eyed.

Nance
hissed, “What are you doing?”

“He's
behind Ober,” I whispered, took another quick glance, saw the hooded head
swivel away.

We
were both doing this furtive watch thing and me thinking maybe I should just
stand up and wave to the bastard. I might have, except Kovat was between us and
I didn't think he would be amused.

“Who's
behind who?” Nance asked.

“Ober's
Deathwalker critter. He keeps watching us.”

Nance
paled and whispered, “Stop that! Do not look at him again.”

When
Kovat nodded at us, Nance and I removed our scarves and stood up in our temple
robes. As usual, Nance had wound up my hair with ribbons and gold threads. As
usual, my hair was already slipping out, a few messy strands hanging in my
face. We chanted over the bowed heads of the contestants, promising that the
Daughter of the Sun would insure victory to the most courageous.

A
chill wind whipped our robes and pulled loose another strand of my hair. As I
turned to gather up my scarf and sit back down, I found myself meeting Ober's
stare. She looked away.

I
turned to hide my face from her and whispered to Nance, “Whenever I look in
that direction, Ober is watching us.”

“I
think its you she watches. I wish I knew why.”

The
men on the field formed themselves into teams and were identified by colored
arm bands or ribbons tied to belts, same old same old, a playground method. Not
that there was anything playground about the games.

These
guys played for blood. Occasionally the groups broke, the crowd roared and opponents
from the two armies challenged each other to a variety of weird confrontations
I could not figure out, despite Nance's explanations.

What
occurred was this. Either one on one or group against group, moving, sometimes
on foot and sometimes on horse, all carrying similar weapons or all barehanded,
they threw themselves at each other. The purpose eluded me. It was, I think,
clear to the onlookers because they roared in unison, both cheers and insults.
A bit like a soccer game or even football, with weapons added, except there
were no goals and no one was actually trying to move in any direction on the
field.

Men
fell from their horses, crashing to the field with their spears caught in each
other's leather tunics, ripping off metal discs and probably bits of flesh.
They rained blows on each other with the flats of their swords and clutched
each other with bare hands.

I
did realize that the combatants who spent the least amount of time lying on the
ground drew the greatest approval. I am not as stupid as all that, but why
these men chose to throw themselves at each other's fists and swords was what
defeated my understanding.

When
I murmured my confusion to Nance, she asked, “Do they not play games in your
land?”

“Games,
yes, but the players don't try to kill each other.”

“What
do they kill?”

“They
kick balls around, not each other.”

“Why
would anyone kick a ball? What sort of game is that?”

Okay,
let's not even think about explaining baseball.

The
combatants on the field paused to take turns mounting the steps to our platform
to stand below Kovat. He gave short announcements of their names and
accomplishments and handed them small gold medals. The participants all had
ugly wounds, winners as well as losers.

Tarvik
stood facing an opponent, his feet wide apart, his hips a bit forward and his
shoulders back, his arms hanging loose at his sides, his fingers only slightly
curled, his chin up. He wore a leather tunic and a leather war helmet that
covered his head but not his face, and high boots, but his arms and knees were
exposed.