Fires of Aggar (23 page)

“There seems to be a very interesting, but uneasy truce between the two factions,” Brit mused. “They draw tacit lines in fair tents or commons’ rooms. Sometimes the blue cloaks will get all surly and belligerent. Then the City Guards back down.”

“But somehow…” Sparrow drawled with a hint of malicious delight, “the Guards seem to get the last word. They’re polite and duly subordinate to a fault, just not particularly believable.”

“Leave agreeably, but make sure the bad taste lingers behind, ehh?” Gwyn couldn’t help smiling herself. That tactic certainly seemed to fit the style of the man she’d met so briefly today. Then abruptly, Gwyn found herself shifting thoughts, “There’s something else to remember.”

Both Sparrow and Brit looked up expectantly.

“This is Khirlan. The Steward’s Swords may purposely try to resemble the Clan members — it would make them more effective infiltrating the Clan’s Plateau, wouldn’t it? And yet by sheer looks, they wouldn’t be well-liked by many of the local folk at all.”

Brit pursed her lips sullenly, but she had to admit the plausibility of that idea. “Recruit the best fighters with the most suspicious backgrounds — the mixed parental heritage of Clan and Ramains’ folk is usually hard to live with in these parts. Yet create a separate corp with an honor code of its own and you’d certainly have something to bind them together. You’re right too — it would keep them aloof from the City Guards. And children with at least one parent from the Clan might have access to knowledge — verbal descriptions or… or some information about the Clan’s Plateau. That could be an aid to the Dracoon.”

“Their mixed blood might bind them not just to each other, but to the Dracoon as well,” Sparrow murmured, glancing at each woman in turn. “She has that same mixed heritage, remember. Might explain why they’d follow her — even against the fire weapons.”

“It would make them vulnerable to Clan spies both inside the city and out.” Gwyn ground her teeth in muted frustration. The pieces were insistent. “But there’s got to be someone close to the Dracoon — or to the Steward — someone working against Khirlan in aiding the Clan. Everything suggests they’re part of the Steward’s own corp. I wonder — did you just say this Steward’s Book was written by the Steward’s Scribes?”

Sparrow and Brit nodded.

“Who wants to wager that at least one of those scribes also has access to what’s written and sealed into the Dracoon’s reports?”

“No wagering about it,” Brit scoffed the nonsense aside. “It’d be more odd, if they didn’t.”

“I see…,” Sparrow began slowly. “Hand-writing can be forged with enough practice. It’s tampering with the seals they’d have trouble disguising from Churv’s people. But these scribes would be the ones to dip the scrolls and date the shell varnish. They’d be able to alter the reports any way they’d like, before sealing them and sending them on to Churv.”

“Obviously,” Brit shifted tiredly on the bed’s edge, “this Dracoon’s Court is sorely broken in loyalties. Where precisely the lines of deceit are drawn though? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Only the Dracoon knows that!” Gwyn grieved, in exasperation.

“But if she knew, would we be here?” Sparrow asked pointedly.

“I meant she can say which of her militia are slow in obeying orders or which survived a Clan’s ambush once too often and in suspiciously good health. At least,” Gwyn sighed, “I hope she can — or this will never begin to unravel without hurting the innocent!”

“There’s one thing more you should know.” Brit met Gwyn’s gaze steadily. “Llinolae’s Palace was crafted not just from stone, but from bedrock.”

“Mae n’Pour!”

“Most of the city walls and central buildings are made from it too.”

“Suddenly the lack of interest the Council has shown in Llinolae becomes very reasonable,” Gwyn saw. “Amarin barely stir through most rock and less still in stuff that’s never even been marred by fossils! I doubt the Council Seers can ever decipher anything closeted away like that.”

“I know they can’t!” Brit spat.

“It would also explain why she’s arranged the governing duties to frequently take her out of the city.”

“Now that — I hadn’t thought of,” Brit granted, in grudging surprise. “Accepting you’re right, Gwyn, what else could it tell us about her?”

“That she’s been trained by someone extraordinary!” Sparrow exclaimed promptly. “Not only is her Blue Sight powerful enough to reach across the stars to the home world, but she obviously has an extra trick or two for dealing with stone!”

“I wonder…,” Brit mused, “how much exposure to others’ amarin is needed, before mere rock begins to—”

“More likely,” Gwyn interrupted, suddenly realizing, “it wasn’t Llinolae’s mentor whose instructions were so extraordinary, but her own interpretation of those lessons because of the environment!”

“And so the bedrock suddenly became a friend for her, instead of foe!” Brit gasped. Sparrow looked at them both in confusion, not following their logic at all this time. “Don’t you see? The rock would conceal her Gift from the courtiers — give her a safe place to experiment in. When she was her very youngest, it probably insulated others from the usual accidents and illusionary tricks that flag the Blue Sight’s presence. As she grew, it would have given her hiding places — practice spaces to try new skills, make mistakes without others discovering her abilities! And as for the Palace itself — well it is a palace! It’s been home for generations of dracoons and friends. It’s not like some claustrophobic tomb that could stifle her Sight and suffocate her breath! The accumulated amarin of all those ages, in the fixtures and furnitures — in the cloth and wood and the general clutter of sheer living! Those would always be present to reassure her through her Sight.”

“Dear Mother!” Sparrow breathed in pure astonishment. “No Blue Sight has ever had freedom such as that. There’s no telling what she’s become capable of!”

“Aye, but more,” Brit rejoined eagerly. “Those stone walls would still dampen the clamoring amarin of every one — of every living thing! The incessant distractions would be muted.”

“Like the Seers’ Baths at the Council’s Keep?” Sparrow ventured. “A sort of retreat?”

“Precisely,” Brit grinned.

“It also might give her the time and ability to develop other skills,” Gwyn mused with a crooked grin. “Such as strategy and warfare, perhaps?”

“Or diplomacy?” The old healer nodded in satisfaction. “The public persona she’s developed is amazing, Gwyn. She’s got the district’s people solidly behind her every effort. Despite the Steward’s liberties, despite the Clan’s terrorizing raids, despite their fire weapons — despite it all, the folk believe in her! In Llinolae, Heir of Mha’del and annointed Dracoon of Khirlan! They believe she will find their peace for them. Some how… some way, they believe she’ll do it.”

“From sheer charisma?” Sparrow was awed, barely comprehending just how impressive a Blue Sight projecting such personal confidence might seem.

“It may be more than that,” Gwyn amended. “We don’t know the extent of her powers or skills.”

“Aye.” A tantalizing shiver ran down Brit’s spine. “Through their Seers, the Council has formed Firecaps, settled earthquakes, foreseen and forestalled disasters.”

“She isn’t a Seer,” Sparrow murmured.

“No,” Gwyn acknowledged. “But she has a strong Gift and an even stronger personal commitment to serve her people. We don’t know what her limitations are — or aren’t.”

With a speculative squint, Brit added, “Might be that her enemies literally begin to quake at the mere sight of her.”

“Or that they should?” Gwyn quipped. The glance she exchanged with Brit belied their humor, however. Gwyn sighed then, returning to priorities with a shake of her head. “I need to get in to see her. There has to be a way to weave through all the protocol and past that damned Steward to meet her! Too much can happen in four or five days. I’ve got to get to her sooner!”

“So ride in the races, day after tomorrow.” Brit and Gwyn turned to Sparrow in puzzlement at her abrupt change of subject. “I’m serious. Take Cinder in and win the stupid race. The winner is awarded the City Crest for a tenmoon and the plaque is presented personally by — who? The Dracoon!”

Gwyn looked suspicious. Brit began to smile and tried to rub the thing from her face, but it stubbornly came back as a chuckle. Sparrow shrugged matter-of-factly, directing Gwyn back to her shadowmate. And the Niachero found a grin of her own.

“It couldn’t be that simple… could it?”

Brit opened her palms with a hearty laugh.

“Marshals!” Sparrow scoffed, folding her arms and shaking her head at them as if they were barely two seasons old. “The lot of you are impossible! Too much imagination and…”

“Not enough common sense!” Brit finished, still laughing. “She has that right sometimes, you know?”

“Aye!” Gwyn assented whole-heartedly. “She certainly does.”

The next day Gwyn spent a quiet morning secluded in her Palace room, seemingly to recover from a night of carousing — which was normal enough for any Feast visitor. She made her brief, obligatory appearance at the mid-day meal of officers and honored guests; she noted nearly everyone there was blue-cloaked. The few merchants who weren’t, however, avoided her like a plague carrier.

Finding that Brit’s summation was true didn’t make her feel much better; there weren’t any women among the Swords. There were no women among the merchants either, at least none in attendance. Uneasily, Gwyn realized she’d never been in a room this crowded and yet peopled entirely by men.

Somehow she didn’t think she was likely to forget the experience. It had not been pleasant.

The wary sense of tension from the dining hall continued to follow her as she left for the fairs. This time Gwyn exited by way of the usual corridors instead of her window; predictable patterns could get one hurt.

She didn’t like her new phantom at all, however. She knew the tingling brush along the nape of her neck had nothing to do with the fly-away bits of her short braid, and it had everything to do with that peripheral shadow in her vision. Yet try as she might, Gwyn couldn’t get a clear view of the man. She proceeded cautiously through the rest of the day. In some ways she was relieved to know her opponent was so obviously skilled. At least now she wouldn’t underestimate him — or the perversity of the Fates! It had been her misfortune in the past to run headlong into bungling pursuers, simply because ignorance was so damned unpredictable.

Gwyn found she was taking an uneasy comfort from the knives in her vambraces. Still — when she found her instincts again and again prompting her to unsheathed her sword, she abandoned all pretense of casual enjoyment of the Feasts. She folded her cloak back over her left shoulder to free her sword arm and openly began to avoid the narrower streets.

It seemed to her that this watcher who trailed her exuded a distaste that bordered upon hate. It was then she suddenly realized the rules had been altered in this game. Sometime during her absence last night, she had graduated from the lowly position of a suspicious visitor to the dangerous status of an outright threat. She didn’t like that, but she’d be a fool to ignore her impressions, and she knew it.

The other unsettling fact, which finally registered as she worked her way through the crowds, was the people’s lack of caution in dealing with her. With her sword near drawn and teeth near bared, the folk should have been much more anxious when she approached their booths. But the vendors’ eagerness to serve her seemed no different from their attentions to others.

Gwyn felt her skin darken anxiously. No doubt, she could be abducted before a dozen witnesses here, and few would give it any notice.

But as she studied the townsfolk more closely, Gwyn began to see they weren’t quite so unprepared for trouble as one might imagine. The city dwellers were the most heavily armed. There were stout poles, decorative pins that could double as stiletto knives, glass daggers and dirks on each belt — the list was endless. The ingenious arrangements spoke of long practice, and Gwyn cracked a wry grin; she doubted the knives on her own wrists went unnoticed.

The visiting crowd was less well-armed, but after some consideration Gwyn decided that they were better defended than her first glance had assessed. Again carving tools, shepherding poles, and belt knives were more common than not. And very few of the strangers wandered alone within these city walls. Pairs were infrequent as well. It appeared that small groups of four and five were judged to be safer.

Everything she saw, underlined all that Brit and Sparrow had said of the Steward’s rule — these people lived with a constant fear. And it didn’t come from the threats beyond their city walls.

Gwyn scowled and headed for the outer encampments. She suddenly wanted more of the evening air than the streets could offer.

On the way, she tried a few meandering tricks without much success at losing her watcher. She hadn’t expected to really. She had rather hoped to seem as if she were merely following cautious habits. Her sense was that there was still only one fellow, and she didn’t want him tempted by any grandiose illusions into trying something stupid in an alley.

Towards her goal of actually meeting with the Dracoon, Gwyn made a careful round of inspection in the livestock pens. She saw nothing which seemed remotely capable of defeating Cinder in a flat-out race. But as Gwyn went along to find her own mares, she was still uncertain of the race’s outcome. The quality of her horses was blatantly evident to her — as it would be to others. That made it very likely the real challenge would come in the form of sabotage… especially if the Steward’s Swords were wary of her meeting their Dracoon.

I’m getting in over my head, Gwyn realized begrudgingly.

She had nothing concrete to tell the Royal Family, yet she was already a marked target. Brit and Sparrow were not going to find answers as quickly as she needed them. That left her two immediate options — retreat to Churv with phantom stories or find help closer in.

“Evenin’ to you, Marshal.”

Gwyn paused in her tracks as a young man rose from his shadowy seat among the saddle bins. He palmed a short staff with a wicked hook and point at its end, stepping into the light respectfully so that she could identify him.