Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers (15 page)

“By the gods! One look at
him
and his Majesty won't give a bean for the gray! I thank you, my ladies,” he bowed slightly to both Kethry and her partner, “and let us conclude this business as quickly as may be! I won't be easy until these beauties are safely in the Royal Stables.”

As he and Kethry returned the way they had come, Tarma turned the gold loose in the stockade—where he promptly went to his knees and wallowed in the dirt.

“You,” she laughed at him, “are hopeless!”

 

By twilight they were installed, bag and baggage, in the Palace, in one of the suites reserved for minor foreign dignitaries.

It had all happened so fast that Tarma was still looking a little bemused. Kethry, who knew just how quickly high-ranking courtiers could get things accomplished when they wanted to exert themselves, had been a bit less surprised.

She and the Master of Horse had concluded their bargain in fairly short order—and to her satisfaction, it had been at
his
suggestion that Tarma was retained for continued training. No sooner had a price been settled on and a writ made out to a reputable goldsmith, than a stream of thirty grooms and stable hands had been sent to walk the horses from the corral at the stockyard to the Royal Stables, each horse to have its own handler. The Horsemaster was taking no chances on accident or injury.

When Kethry returned to the inn, there were already three porters waiting for her orders, all in the Royal livery. They were none too sure of themselves ; Tarma (still in her barbarian persona) had refused them entrance to the suite, and was guarding the door as much with her scowl as her drawn sword.

They allowed the porters to carry away most of their belongings, the ones that didn't matter, like some of that elaborate clothing. Tarma's armor and weaponry (including a few nasty little surprises she definitely did not want anyone to know about), Need, their trail gear, and the few physical supplies Kethry needed for her magecraft they brought themselves, in sealed saddlebags. They rode Hellsbane and Ironheart; Kethry had no intention of chancing accidents with a trained battlemare. “Accidents” involving a Shin‘a'in warsteed generally ended up in broken bones—and
not
the horse's.

More obsequious servants met them once the mares were safely stabled, and again, Kethry made it plain to the stable crew that
only
Tarma was to handle their personal horses. To enforce that, they left Warrl with the mounts, provided with his own stall between the ones supplied to the two mares. One look at the
kyree
was all it took to convince the stablehands that they did
not
wish to rouse the beast's ire. That was where Tarma and Kethry left their
real
gear, the things they would truly need if they had to cut and run, and between Warrl and the horses, it would be worth a person's life to touch it.

But as they crossed the threshold of the Palace, a curious chill had settled over Kethry, a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. Her good humor and faint amusement had vanished. The Palace seemed built of secrets—dark secrets. Their mission suddenly took on an ominous feeling.

The suite, consisting of a private bathing room, two bedrooms, and an outer public room, all opulently furnished in dark wood and amber velvet, had been a good indication that their putative status was fairly high. The two personal servants assigned to them, in addition to the regular staff, had told them that they ranked somewhere in the “minor envoy” range. This was close to perfect: Kethry would be able to move about the Court fairly freely.

Now Tarma was immersed to her neck in a hot bath; Kethry had already had hers, and was dressing in her most impressive outfit, for there would be a formal reception for them in an hour.

Tarma did not look at all relaxed. Kethry didn't blame her; she'd been increasingly uneasy herself.

“There was no sign of Gray in the stables, and I looked for him,” Tarma called abruptly from the bathing room. Gray was Idra's gelding; a palfrey, and not the Shin‘a'in stallion she rode on campaign. “No sign of Hawk tack, either. It's like she's been long gone, or was never here at all.”

Kethry heard splashing as her partner stood; and shortly thereafter the Shin‘a'in emerged from the bathing room with a huge towel wrapped about herself. They'd turned down an offer of bath attendants ; after one look at Tarma's arsenal, the attendants had seemed just as glad.

“If she's been here, we should find out about it tonight. Especially after the wine begins to flow. Do I look impressive, or seducible?” Kethry glided into Tarma's room, and turned so that her partner could survey her from all angles.

“Impressive,” Tarma judged, vigorously toweling her hair.

“Good; I don't want to have to slap Royal fingers and get strung up for my pains.”

Kethry's loose robes were of dark amber silk, about three shades darker than her hair, and high-necked, bound at the waist with a silk-and-gold cord. At her throat she wore a cabochon piece of amber the size of an egg; she had confined her hair into a severe knot, only allowing two decorous tendrils in front of her ears. The robes had full, scalloped-edged sleeves that were bound with gold thread. She looked beautiful, and incredibly dignified.

Tarma was dressing in a more elaborate version of her black silk outfit, this one piped at every seam and hem with silver; she had a silver mesh belt instead of a silk sash, and a silver fillet with a black moonstone instead of a headband confining her midnight hair.

“You look fairly impressive, yourself.”

“I don't like the feel of this place, I'll tell you that now,” Tarma replied bluntly. “I've got my Kal‘enedral chainmail on under my shirt, and I'm bloody well armed to the teeth. I'm going to stay that way until we're out of here.”

Kethry rubbed her neck, nervously. “You, too?”

“Me, too.”

“You know the drill—”

“You talk and mingle, I lurk behind you. If I hear anything interesting, I cough twice, and we get somewhere where we can discuss it.”

All their good humor had vanished into the shadows of the Palace, and all that was left them was foreboding.

“I don't suppose that Need ...”

“Not a hint. Just the same as back at Hawksnest. Which could mean about anything; most likely is that the Captain is out of the edge of her range.”

“I hope you're right,” Tarma sighed. “Well, shall we get on with it?”

Closing the door on the dubious shelter of their suite, they moved, side by side, deeper into the web of intrigue.

P
erfume, wine, and wire-tight nerves. Musk, hot wax, and dying flowers. The air in the Great Hall was so thick with scent that Tarma felt overpowered by all the warring odors. The butter-colored marble of the very walls and floor seemed warm rather than cool. Lighted candles were everywhere, from massed groupings of thin tapers to pillars as thick as Tarma's wrist. The pale polished marble reflected the light until the Great Hall glowed, fully as bright as daylight. The hundreds of jewels, the softly gleaming gold on brow and neck and arm, the winking golden bullion weighing down hems sparkled like a panoply of stars.

It was not precisely
noisy
here—but the murmuring of dozens, hundreds of conversations, the underlying current of the music of a score of minstrels, the sound of twenty pairs of feet weaving through an intricate dance—the combination added up to an effect as dizzying as the light, heat or scent.

Carved wooden doors along one wall opened up onto a courtyard garden, also illuminated for the evening—but by magic, not candles. But few moved to take advantage of the quiet and cool garden—not when the real power in this land was
here.

If power had possessed a scent, it would have overwhelmed all the others in the hall. The scarlet-and-gold-clad man lounging on the gilded wooden throne at the far end of the Great Hall was young, younger than Tarma, but very obviously the sole agent of control here. No matter what they were doing, nearly everyone in this room kept one eye on him at all times; if he leaned forward the better to listen to one of the minstrels, all conversation hushed—if he nodded to a lady, peacock-bright gal lants thronged about her. But if he smiled upon her, even her escort deserted her, not to return until their monarch's interest wandered elsewhere.

He was not particularly imposing, physically. Brown hair, brown eyes; medium build; long, lantern-jawed face with a hard mouth and eyebrows like ruler-drawn lines over his eyes—his was not the body of a warrior, but not the body of a weakling, either.

Then he looks at you,
Tarma thought,
and you see the predator, the king of his territory, the strongest beast of the pack. And you want to crawl to him on your belly and present your throat in submission.

: Unless,:
the thin tendril of Warrl's mind-voice insinuated itself into her preoccupation,
:just unless you happen to be a pair of rogue bitches like yourself and your sister. You bow to your chosen packleader, and no one else. And you never grovel.:

The brilliantly-bedecked courtiers weren't entirely certain how to treat Kethry and her black-clad shadow—probably because the King himself hadn't been all that certain. Wherever they walked, conversation faltered and died. There was veiled fright in the courtiers'
eyes—real
fright. Tarma wondered if she hadn't overdone her act a bit.

On the other hand, King Raschar had kept his hands off the sorceress. It
had
looked for a moment as if he was considering chancing her “protector‘s” wrath—but one look into Tarma's coldly impassive eyes, (eyes, she'd often been told, that marked her as a born killer) seemed to make him decide that it might not be worth it.

Tarma would have laid money down on the odds she knew exactly what he was thinking when he gave her that measuring look. He could well have reckoned that she might be barbarian enough to act if she took offense—and quick enough to do him harm before his guards could do anything about her. Maybe even quick enough to kill him.

Tarma nodded to herself. Warrl wasn't far wrong.

If this was highborn life, Tarma was just as glad she'd been born a Shin‘a'in nomad. The candlelight that winked from exquisite jewels also reflected from hollow, hungry eyes; voices were shrill with artificial gaiety. There was no peace to be found here, and no real enjoyment. Just a never-ending round of competition, competition in which the smallest of gestures took on worlds of meaning, and in which they, as unknown elements, were a very disturbing pair of unexpected variables.

The only members of this gathering that seemed to be enjoying themselves in any way were a scant handful of folks, who, by the look of them, were not important enough to worry the power-players; a few courting couples, some elderly nobles and merchants—and a pair of men over in one corner, conversing quietly in the shadows, garbed so as to seem almost shadows themselves, who stood together with winecups in hand. They were well out of the swirl of the main action, ignored for the most part by the players of this frenetic game. When one of the two shifted, the one wearing the darkest clothing, Tarma caught a good look at the face and recognized him for the Horsemaster. He had donned that impassive mask he'd worn when he first looked the horses over, and he was dressed more for comfort than to impress. Like Tarma he was dressed mainly in black—in his case, with touches of scarlet. His only ornaments were the silver-and-moonstone pieces he'd worn earlier.

The other man was all in gray, and Tarma could not manage to catch a glimpse of his face. Whoever he was, Tarma was beginning to wish she was with him and the Horsemaster. She was already tired to the teeth of this reception.

Although Tarma usually enjoyed warmth, the air in the Great Hall was stiflingly hot even to her. As she watched the men out of the corner of her eye, they evidently decided the same, for they began moving in the direction of one of the doors that led out into the gardens. As they began to walk, Tarma saw with a start that the second man limped markedly.

“Keth, d‘you see our friend from this afternoon?” she said in a conversational tone. “Will you lay me odds that the fellow with him is that Archivist?”

“I don't think I'd care to; I believe that you'd win.” Kethry nodded to one of the suddenly-tongue-tied courtiers as they passed, the very essence of gracious calm. The man nodded back, but his eyes were fixed on Tarma. “Care for a breath of fresh air?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

They made their own way across the room, without hurrying, and not directly—simply drifting gradually as the ebb and flow of the crowd permitted. They stopped once to accept fresh wine from a servant, and again to exchange words with one of the few nobles (a frail, alert-eyed old woman swathed in white fur) who didn't seem terrified of them. It seemed to take forever, and was rather like treading the measures of an intricate dance. But eventually they reached the open door with its carvings and panels of bronze, and escaped into the cool duskiness of the illuminated gardens.