Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers Read online

  “Well, this explains one thing about that sour old bastard,” Tarma muttered under her breath, while Kethry counted doors.

  “Seven, eight—who? What?”

  “Jadrek. Why he’s such a meddlar-face. Man’s obviously got bones as stiff as I’m going to have in a few years. Living in this section must make him as creaky as a pair of new boots.”

  “Ten—never thought of that. Remind me to stay on the right side of Royal displeasure. This should be it.”

  Kethry stopped at a wooden door set into the corridor wall, a door no different from any of the others, and knocked softly.

  Tarma listened as hard as she could; heard limping footsteps; then the door creaked open a crack, showing a line of light at its edge—

  She rammed her shoulder into it without giving Jadrek a chance to see who was on the other side of it, and shoved it open before the Archivist had time to react. Kethry was less than half a step behind her. They were inside and had the door shut tightly behind them before Jadrek had a chance to go from shock to outrage at their intrusion.

  Tarma put her back to the rough wood of the door and braced herself against it; no half-cripple like Jadrek was going to be able to move her away from the door until she was good and ready. The rest was up to Kethry’s silver tongue.

  Jadrek glared, his whole attitude one of affronted dignity, but did not call for help or gibber in helpless anger as Tarma had half expected. Instead every word he spoke was forceful, but deadly cold, controlled—and quiet.

  “What, pray, is this supposed to mean?” The gray eyes were shadowed with considerable pain at the moment; Tarma hoped it was not because of something she’d done to him in getting the door open. “I have come to expect a certain amount of cavalier treatment, but not in my own quarters!”

  “My lord—” Kethry began.

  “I,” he said bitterly, “am no one’s lord. You may abandon that pretense.”

  Kethry sighed. “Jadrek, I humbly beg your pardon, but we were trying to find a way to speak with you without drawing undue attention. If you want us to leave this moment, we will—but dammitall, we are trying to find out what’s become of our Captain, and you seem to be the only source of reliable information!”

  He raised one eyebrow in surprise at her outspokenness, and looked at her steadily. “And you might well be the instrument of my execution for treason.”

  Tarma whistled softly through her teeth, causing both of their heads to swivel in her direction. “That bad, is it?”

  His jaw tightened, but he did not answer.

  “Believe or not, I’ve got an answer for you. Look, I would assume you are probably the most well-read man in this city; that’s what the Captain seemed to think,” Kethry continued. “Do you know what a kyree is?”

  He nodded warily.

  “Do you know what it means to be mindmated to one?”

  “A little. I also know that they are reputedly incapable of lying mind-to-mind—”

  At Kethry’s hand signal, Tarma stood away from the door, crossed the room at a sprint and flung open the casement window that looked out over the stableyard. She had seen Jadrek at this window the night before, which was how she and Kethry had figured out which set of rooms was his. Warrl was ready, in the yard below; Tarma could see him bulking dark in the thin moonlight. Before Jadrek could react to Tarma’s sudden movement, Warrl launched himself through the open window and landed lightly in the middle of the rather small room. It seemed that much smaller for his being there.

  The kyree looked at Jadrek—seemed to look through him—his eyes glowing like topaz in the sun. Then he bowed his head once in respect to the Archivist, and mindspoke to all three of them.

  :I am Warrl. We are Captain Idra’s friends; we want to help her, but we cannot if we do not know what has happened to her. Wise One, you are one of the few honest men in this place. Will you not help us?:

  Jadrek stared at the kyree, his jaw slack with astonishment. “But—but—”

  : You wonder how I can speak with you, and how I managed to remain concealed. I have certain small powers of magic,: the kyree said, nearly grinning. : You may have heard that the barbarian brought her herd dog with her. I chose to appear somewhat smaller than I am; the stablehands think me a rather large wolf-dog cross.:

  The Archivist reached for the back of a chair beside him to steady himself. He was pale, and there was marked confusion in his eyes. “I—please, ladies, sit down, or as a gentleman, I cannot—and I feel the need of something other than my legs to support me—”

  There were only two chairs in the room; Tarma solved the problem of who was to take them by sinking cross-legged to the floor. Warrl curled behind her as a kind of backrest, which made the room look much less crowded. While Kethry took the second chair and Jadrek the one he had obviously (by the book on the table beside it) vacated at their knock, Tarma took a quick, assessing look around her.

  There were old, threadbare hangings on most of the stone walls, probably put up in a rather futile attempt to ward off the damp chill. There was a small fire on the hearth to her right, probably for the same reason. Beside the hearth was a chair—or rather, a small bench with a back to it—with shabby brown cushions. This was the seat Jadrek had resumed, his own brown robes blending with the cushions. Beside this chair stood a table with a single lamp, a book that seemed to have been put down rather hastily, and a half-empty wineglass. Across from this was a second, identical seat. To Tarma’s left stood a set of shelves, full of books, odd bits of rock and pieces of statuary, and things not readily identifiable in the poor light. At the sight of the books, Tarma felt a long-suppressed desire to get one of them in her hands; she hadn’t had a good read in months, and her soul thirsted for the new knowledge contained within those dusty volumes.

  In the wall with the bookcase was another door, presumably to Jadrek’s bedchamber. In the wall directly opposite the one they had entered was the window.

  Pretty barren place. This time Tarma was thinking directly at the kyree.

  :He has less—far less—respect than he deserves,: Warrl said with some heat. This man has knowledge many would die for, and he is looked upon as some kind of fool!:

  “I ... had rather be considered a fool,” Jadrek said slowly.

  The kyree raised his head off his paws sharply, and looked at the man in total astonishment. :You hear me?:

  “Yes—wasn’t I supposed to?”

  Tarma and the kyree exchanged a measured glance, and did not answer him directly. “Why would you rather be considered a fool?” Tarma asked, after a moment of consideration.

  “Because a fool hears a great deal—and a fool is not worth killing.”

  “I think,” Kethry said, leaning forward, “you had better begin at the beginning.”

  Some hours later they had a full picture, and it was not a pleasant one.

  “So the story is that Stefansen intended some unspecified harm to his brother, and when caught, fled. In actuality, Tindel and I overheard some things that made us think Raschar might be considering assuring that there would be no other male claimants to the throne and we warned Stefansen.”

  “Where did he go?” Kethry asked.

  “I don’t know; I don’t want to know. The less I know, the less I can betray.” His eyes had gone shadowy and full of secrets.

  “Good point. All right, what then?”

  “Have you had a good look around you?”

  “Raschar’s pretty free with his money,” Tarma observed.

  “Freer than you think; he supports most of the hangers-on here. He’s also indulging in some expensive habits. Tran dust, it’s said. Certainly some very expensive liquors, dainties, and ladies.”

  “Nice lad. Where’s the money coming from?”

  Jadrek sighed. “That’s the main reason why I—and my father before me—are not in favor. King Destillion began taxing the peasantry and the merchant class far too heavily to my mind about twenty years ago; Raschar is continuing the tradition.
About half of our peasants have been turned into serfs; more follow every year. Opposing that was a point Stefansen agreed with me on—and one of the reasons why Destillion intended to cut him out of the succession.”

  “But didn’t?” Kethry asked.

  Jadrek shook his head. “Not for lack of trying, but the priests kept him from doing so.”

  “Idra,” Tarma reminded them.

  “She saw what Raschar was doing, and began to think that despite Stefansen’s habit of hopping into bed with anything that wiggled its hips at him, he might well have been a better choice after all. He certainly had more understanding of the peasantry and how the kingdom’s strength depends on them.” Jadrek almost managed a smile. “Granted, he spent a great deal of time with them, and pretty much with rowdies, but I’m not certain now that his experience with the rougher classes was a bad thing. Well, Idra wanted an excuse to go after him—I unearthed the old story of the Sword that Sings. Raschar has one chink in his armor; he’s desperate to prove he’s the rightful monarch. Idra took Raschar the old Archive books and got permission to look for the Sword. Then—she vanished.”

  The fire crackled while they absorbed this. “But she’d intended to go after Stefansen?” Kethry asked, finally.

  Jadrek nodded. “It might well be that she decided to just go, before Raschar could change his mind—”

  Tarma finished the sentence. “But you aren’t entirely certain that something didn’t happen to her. Or that something didn’t happen right after she set out.”

  He nodded unhappily, twisting his hands together in his lap. “She would have said good-bye. We’ve been good friends for a long time. We used to exchange letters as often as her commissions permitted. I ... saw the world through her eyes....”

  There was a flash of longing in his face, there for only a instant, then shuttered down. But it made Tarma wonder what it must be like, to have dreams of adventuring—and be confined to the body of a half-lame scholar.

  She stood up, suddenly uncomfortable with the insight. The tiny room felt far, far too confining. “Jadrek, we’ll talk with you more, later. Right now you’ve given us plenty to think on.”

  “You’ll try and find out what’s happened to her?” He started to stand, but Kethry gently pushed him back down into his chair as Tarma turned abruptly, not wanting to see any more of this man’s pain. She turned the latch silently, cracked the door open and checked for watchers in the corridor beyond.

  “Looks clear—” Kethry and Warrl slipped out ahead of her, and Tarma glanced back over her shoulder soberly. The Archivist was watching them from his chair, and there was a peculiar, painful mixture of hope and fear on his face. “Jadrek, that was why we came here in the first place. And be warned—if anything has happened to Idra, there might not be a town here once the Hawks find out about it.”

  And with that she followed her partner back into the corridor.

  Seven

  Jadrek tried to return to his book, but it was fairly obvious that he was going to be unable to concentrate on the page in front of him. He finally gave up and sat staring at the flickering shadows on the farther wall. His left shoulder ached abominably; it had been wrenched when the door had been jerked out of his hands. This would be a night for a double-dose of medicine, or he’d never get to sleep.

  Sleep would not have come easily, anyway—not after this evening’s conversation. Tindel had been after him for the past several days to talk to the women, but Jadrek had been reluctant and suspicious; now Tindel would probably refrain from saying “I told you so” only by a strong exercise of will.

  What did decide me, anyway? he wondered, trying to find a comfortable position as he rubbed his aching shoulder, the dull throb interfering with his train of thought. Was it the presence of the kyree? No, I don’t think so; I think I had made up my mind before they brought him in. I think it was the pretty one that made up my mind—Kethry. She’s honest in a way I don’t think could be counterfeited. I can’t read the Shin‘a’in, but if you know what to look for, Kethry’s an open book.

  He sighed. And let’s not be fooling ourselves; it’s the first time in years that a pretty woman looked at you with anything but contempt, Jadrek. You’re as susceptible to that as the next man. More....

  He resolutely killed half-wisps of wistful might-be’s and daydreams, and got up to find his medicines.

  Tarma left Warrl watching the Archivist’s door from the corridor, just in case. His positioning was not nearly as good as she’d have wished; in order to keep out of sight he’d had to lair-up in a table nook some distance away from Jadrek’s rooms, and not in direct line of sight. Still, it would have to do. She had some serious misgivings about the Archivist’s safety, especially if it should prove that he was being watched.

  Creeping along the corridors with every sense alert was unnervingly like being back with the Hawks on a scouting mission. Kethry had hesitantly and reluctantly tendered the notion of using her powers to spy out the situation ahead of them; Tarma had vetoed the idea to her partner’s obvious relief. If there was any kind of mage-talented spy keeping an eye on Jadrek, use of magic would not only put alerts on the Archivist but on them as well. Their own senses must be enough. But it was tense work; Tarma was sweating before they made it to the relative safety of the guesting section.

  They slipped their more ornate outfits back on in the shelter of the same alcove where they’d doffed them, and continued on their way. Now was the likeliest time for them to be caught, but they got back to their rooms without a sign that they had been noticed—or so Tarma thought.

  She was rather rudely disabused of that notion as soon as they opened the door to their suite.

  Moonlight poured down through one of the windows in the right-hand wall of the outer room, making a silver puddle on a square of the pale marble floor. As Tarma closed the door and locked it, she caught movement in that moonlight out of the corner of her eye. She jerked her head around and pulled a dagger with the hand not still on the latch in the automatically defensive reaction to seeing motion where none should be. The moonlight shivered and wavered, sending erratic reflections across the room, and acting altogether unlike natural light.

  Tarma snatched her other hand away from the latch, and whirled away from the door she had just locked. Her entire body tingled, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet—with an energy she was intimately familiar with.

  The only time she ever felt like this was when her teachers were about to manifest physically, for over the years she had grown as sensitive to the energies of the Star-Eyed as Kethry was to mage-energies. But the spirit-Kal‘enedral, her teachers, never came to her when she was within four walls—and doubly never when she was in walls that were as alien to them as this palace was.

  She sheathed her blade—little good it would do against magic and spirits—set sweating palms against the cool wood of the door. She stared dumbfounded at the evidence of all she’d been told being violated—the shadow and moonlight was hardening into a man-shaped figure; flowing before her eyes into the form of a Shin‘a’in garbed and armed in black, and veiled. Only the Kal‘enedral wore black and only the spirit-Kal’enedral went veiled—and here, where no one knew that, it was wildly unlikely that this could be an illusion, even if there were such a thing as a mage skilled enough to counterfeit the Warrior’s powers well enough to fool a living Kal‘enedral.

  And there was another check—her partner, who had, over the years, seen Tarma’s teachers manifesting at least a score of times. Beside her, Kethry stared and smothered a gasp with the back of her hand. Tarma didn’t think it likely that any illusion could deceive the mage for long.

  To top it all, this was not just any Shin‘a’in, not just any spirit-Kal‘enedral; for as the features became recognizable (what could be seen above his veil) Tarma knew him to be no less than the chief of all her teachers!

  He seemed to be fighting against something; his form wavered in and out of visibility as he held out fran
tic, empty hands to her, and he seemed to be laboring to speak.

  Kethry stared at the spirit-Kal‘enedral in absolute shock. This—this could not be happening!

  But it was, and there was no mistaking the flavor of the energy the spirit brought with him. This was a true leshya‘e Kal’enedral, and he was violating every precept to manifest here and now, within sight of non-Shin‘a’in. Which could only mean that he was sent directly by Tarma’s own aspect of the four-faced Goddess, the Warrior.

  Then she saw with mage-sight the veil of sickly white power that was encasing him like a filthy web, keeping him from full manifestation.

  “There‘s—Goddess, there’s a counterspell—” Kethry started out of her entrancement. “It’s preventing any magic from entering this room! He can’t manifest! I—I have to break it, or—”

  “Don‘t!” Tarma hissed, catching her hands as she brought them up. “You break a counterspell and they’ll know one of us is a mage!”

  Kethry turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of the Kal‘enedral struggling vainly against the evil power containing him. Tarma turned back to her teacher to see that he had given up the effort to speak—and she saw that his hands were moving, in the same Shin’a‘in hand-signs she had taught Kethry and her scouts.

  “Keth—his hands—”

  As Kethry’s eyes were again drawn to the leshya‘e’s figure, Tarma read his message.

  Death-danger, she read, and Assassins. Wise one.

  “Warrior! It’s Jadrek—he’s going to be killed!” She reached behind her for the door, certain that they were never going to make it to Judrek’s rooms in time.

  But Warrl had been watching her thoughts, probably alerted through the bond they shared to her agitation.

  :Mindmate, I go!: rang through her head.

  At the same moment, as if he had heard the kyree’s reply the leshya‘e Kal’enedral made a motion of triumph, and dissolved back into moonlight and shadow.