The Eunuch's Heir (20 page)

Lyssa, Faedre and her acolytes, and Esfandiyar were soon installed in the few nearby berths—displacing the captain and first officer—passing his door nearest the ladder as he lay on his bunk, hoping to adjust. When Melody went by, her glance fell upon him, and he fancied he saw a hint of compassion there, but contempt easily overwhelmed it. Deishima’s leaf-strewing slave couldn’t be always with her here, so she wore sandals with thick leather heels. Each step released the scent of the same leaves, pressed someplace beneath her soles.

At last, the sailors above began calling out to one another, and the great ship set into motion. Lyssa and the others must
have gone above to watch, but Wolfram’s rebellious stomach kept him still. To see the dockside slip away would only bring to mind the growing distance between himself and dry land.

A rustle at the door announced the visitor, even before her quiet knock.

Wolfram raised his head to find Deishima’s shrouded form regarding him from the tilted doorway. “What is it?” She did not answer, and he let his head sink back to the pillow. “Well, come in if you want. I can’t promise I’ll be good company.”

She entered, hesitated, then slid the door shut behind her before lifting the veil over her face. For a time, she looked anywhere but at him, glancing in particular back toward the door.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“I am not to allow men to see my face, and yet you have already seen me, so I think this is no harm.” She took a step nearer. “And yet I am unsure.”

“As you say, I’ve already seen you—touched you, even—and you seem to be fine.” He attempted a grin and let it go.

Coming closer, Deishima glanced to the window over his head, nodding once, very slightly, her hands pressed together. “I am not to wear my bracelets here, Prince Wolfram, in case I should need to defend myself. If this frightens you, I may go.”

He fumbled under the bed and found the handle of the drawer there, pulling it open. Inside were the few things he brought with him, including the painted eye patch Dawsiir had given him. Wolfram studied the wide-open eye depicted on it.

“Yes, you should wear that, Highness Wolfram.”

He flickered a glance toward her again, fingering the leather patch as he studied her downturned head. The veil revealed the top of a row of dark braids lying flat to her head. She looked more like a penitent child than a sorceress of any form, and he lay the patch upon his chest. “You can’t make me worse off than I am.”

Again the slight nod. “We two are like leopards stalking,
each afraid of the other.” She raised her head then, her hands still pressed tightly together to convince him of her faith. “I have not come to make you worse, Highness Wolfram, but better, if I am able and you will allow it.”

He slipped the patch into his shirt in case he needed it later. “How?”

“In order to learn the Ashwadi, it is necessary to first learn to be still and to know your limbs and organs. I think this may be of help to you.”

“You’re going to teach me Ashwadi?”

Quickly she shook her head. “The Ashwadi is reserved to women only, but I think there is not harm if you learn the stillness. If you are willing.”

“I know how to sit still, and I know my own body already.”

“If you already know such control, Prince Wolfram, then you have no need.” She raised her chin a little more but did not quite meet his eyes.

“Control?” He laughed derisively. “I think you know better than that.”

“Is it your wish that I should teach you?”

“I should warn you that I’m a notoriously bad student.”

Something that might have been the beginning of a smile touched her face. She settled herself alongside the bunk, full robes rippling out all around her, a dark braid tip peeping out from beneath. “It may be helpful if you can sit, as I do.”

Wolfram sat up, arranging himself cross-legged as she had done. He waited a moment for his protesting stomach to accept the new position. “Now?”

“Now we shall breathe.”

Wolfram laughed, then shook himself. “Sorry. Yes, we’ll breathe.” He took a deep breath and let it out loudly, then another, watching her face.

Deishima did not change her expression, her own breathing deep, but nearly imperceptible. It was the rhythm she had been using last night. Her dark eyes focused on a spot someplace beyond his navel, beyond the ship itself it seemed. Wolfram stifled his urge to wave a hand before her face and
instead, let himself try to match her breathing. As he had last night, he found the rhythm. It was long, almost like sleep itself. After a few minutes, he thought he could feel each breath coming and going, reaching out from his chest into his shoulders and hips, down into his legs and feet, and all the way out to his hands. When it reached into his head, the slight throbbing at his temples eased into the same rhythm, quiet and calm, approaching the serenity he had witnessed in her.

The ship groaned as it began tacking on the long escape from the bay, turning toward Lochalyn, and Deishima’s gaze grew suddenly focused. She looked to the window, then flicked the veil over her face. “I am to be going; they will soon return.”

Startled, Wolfram let out a last long breath, and stammered, “Sure, yes.”

Deishima rose smoothly, fluttering her white garments back into place. “When you feel that your body is not in control, breathe this way.” She took quick steps for the door, then her covered head turned back to him. “I will return to teach you again, if you wish it, Highness Wolfram.”

“It does give me something to do.”

“Very well.” The door whispered back into the wall, and she was gone.

The corridor had been lit with glass-enclosed candles, and the little window showed stars now, with a fading orange glow. Something gnawed at Wolfram’s innards, and he frowned, rubbing an absent hand against his belly. Then he laughed. Unbelievably, he felt hungry.

THE NIGHT
before they reached port, Wolfram felt well enough to prowl the decks and empty his own bucket. Deishima’s breathing techniques had made definite improvement, but he had not yet mastered control the way she claimed was possible. Still, he was on his feet, and had managed to keep some food down over the trip. Thank the Lady they would be on land again the next night. Although the length and breadth of the ship made it by far the largest Wolfram had ever heard tell of, the deck was crowded with crates heaped between the masts. Bundled-up sailors and servants slept there as well, tucked up against the rails, while their fellows on night duty listened for the navigator’s whistled commands. A grate of wood showed the dimly lit hold below and the cages of birds with the horses beyond, nickering and stamping from their long captivity. He could only imagine what the tiger must be feeling, and it brought a chill to his spine. The horses reminded him that Dawsiir was aboard someplace. Now that Wolfram could hold his own against his stomach, he decided to go looking.

Leaving the bucket by the ladder to his berth, Wolfram picked his way around the ropes and sleeping men and found another ladder down. He’d just ducked into the hold when a hand caught him, a hushed Hemijrani voice urging him back up the rungs. Catching a glimpse of Dawsiir’s agitated face, Wolfram did as he was bid, then rounded on the man. “I was just coming to see you.” He pointed to himself, then Dawsiir.

Shaking his head furiously and gesturing, Dawsiir immediately began a long narrative in his own tongue. Wolfram gathered he had heard something, something vital about himself, but couldn’t get farther than that. Sighing, he waved Dawsiir to silence and thought.

“You heard something?” He cupped his ear with a hand to indicate listening, and was rewarded with a vigorous nod.

Dawsiir began to speak again, then stopped, taking a breath to steady himself. He pointed to Wolfram, then held up both hands, crossed at the wrists as if bound.

Frowning, Wolfram repeated the gesture. “Someone wants to bind me? To imprison me?”

Another nod, the paired wrists shaken emphatically.

“Where did you hear this? From whom?” Getting ahead of himself, Wolfram gritted his teeth and broke the question down. “Where?” He pointed to one end of the ship, then the other, shrugging his confusion.

Dawsiir indicated the bow, and down. He held his two cupped hands together, raising them to the sky, then bringing them down as if toward the ground.

Wolfram grinned his understanding. Back on the first day aboard, Faedre and Esfandiyar created a makeshift temple someplace in the bow. Since then, they had held their rituals, dawn and night, with Melody and Deishima in attendance. He turned and started in that direction, but Dawsiir caught him again, and as quickly let go, shaking his head, and murmuring fiercely.

“They’re still down there?” The reply made no sense, except to establish that he shouldn’t go. “If so, all the better.” He set out again firmly, and Dawsiir followed.

Descending into the darkness, Wolfram took a moment to let his eyes adjust and moved, his back bent to avoid bumping his head, toward the bow. They descended again at Dawsiir’s reluctant direction, then the Hemijrani grabbed Wolfram’s shoulder and immediately released him. At the end of the narrow corridor a thin, flickering light showed beneath a door. They crept a few feet closer, and crouched to listen.

From within, hushed voices argued in Hemijrani for a moment before an exasperated Melody burst in, “You know I can’t understand you!”

“Many pardons,” Esfandiyar said immediately. “I become excited and cannot recall manners.”

“We are merely reiterating our points, Melody.” Faedre’s lilting voice entered the conversation.

“Do you never give up?” Melody asked. “Find somebody else!”

“Indeed, Highness, we would surely wish to comply,” Esfandiyar said—and Wolfram could picture his ingratiating smile—“but it is not for us to determine the needs of the Two, and if your brother will not submit himself—”

“My brother’s in Drynnlynd, and you know it.”

“Indeed, yes, and therefore we are forced to accept a lesser tie to yourself, and his birth stars are most auspicious.”

“He’s a bastard, in every possible sense of the word. Nor is he worthy of the Two.”

Wolfram winced and swallowed hard. Dawsiir, not comprehending anything, peered at him in the dark, and did not return the grin intended to reassure him.

“Of course you are correct, Melody,” Faedre purred, “and if it should come to his complete refusal, then we will find a substitute, and pray that the Two will accept a man not of your blood.”

“I do not think, Holy Mother,” Esfandiyar began, even more hesitantly, “that any sacrifice could serve to make such a substitution palatable to the Two, in particular not to Ayel, in whose service I humbly make my offerings.”

“You are a literalist, Holy Father,” Faedre replied, gently mocking.

“I am not knowing that word you employ.”

“It means you take everything too seriously,” Melody cut in. “It means you can’t understand that some of your stories are just stories.”

A strained silence ensued, and Faedre let out a tiny sigh.

“I—” Melody began, then went on peevishly, “Forgive me, Holy Father, you know that I am new to the teachings
of the Two. It’s hard for me to accept everything you say, especially to believe what will happen to me.”

“I understand, of course,” he said quickly.

“I am glad the two of you are beginning to understand each other,” Faedre said. “Naturally, we all hope that this goes smoothly and that no substitution is necessary.”

“I wish we could have stayed in Hemijrai a little longer,” Melody complained.

“Sometimes, the Two require us to undergo difficulties in their service,” Esfandiyar said. “They know that this has forced us to change and hurry, and it will be truly a mark of our worthiness should we succeed in spite of these difficulties.”

“Indeed,” Melody replied, and Wolfram hid a snicker beneath his breath. Converted she might be, but unchanged.

“It may not be so difficult as you think,” Faedre offered. “Tell them, Deishima.”

Another pause, then a high rush of words: “He has been very receptive to my teaching, Holy Ones, though this has been a first step only, and a small one. His mind is truly quite clear if it can be reached, and I believe that these lessons have begun to do so.”

Wolfram jerked away, knocking his head against the wall, as the claws of anger snatched hold of him.

The gathering inside the room fell silent, and Dawsiir, crouched beside him, stiffened, shifting his weight ever so carefully to make ready to run.

“I hate ships,” Melody said suddenly. “They’re so noisy.”

“We will be on ground again tomorrow,” Faedre reassured her.

“Thank the Lady!” she blurted, then giggled. “I mean, thank the Two! Sorry, I’m just getting tired.”

“All this talk has taken far too long, Melody, you must be exhausted. Soon will come the day that you feel nothing but power. In the meantime, we should conclude the service.” Faedre began speaking in Hemijrani again, with Melody’s voice carefully repeating the words.

Tapping Wolfram’s arm, Dawsiir pointed back the way
they had come. Reluctantly, Wolfram nodded, and followed him back down the dark corridors to the deck covered with slumbering forms. The pair hunkered down beside a wrapped mound of crates while Wolfram considered his next move. They were planning to use him somehow; it sounded like a sacrifice—one that Deishima’s compassionate teaching was preparing him for—but why would Melody go along with it? She didn’t have a death wish; if anything, she was longing for some exploit to boost her own fame past her brother’s. Maybe she thought this would be it.

The ship rolled with a series of waves, and nausea touched Wolfram’s stomach. He grimaced, then shut his eyes, preparing his mind the way Deishima had taught him. Abruptly, his eyes popped open again, and a prickling began at the back of his skull.
Deishima.
He should have known she’d never teach him this skill without some devious thing in mind.

The ship rolled again, and Wolfram considered what harm there could be in using what he had been taught. He gave in, and started the special breathing she had taught him; he needed to be well for whatever lay ahead. Melody at the least would know he had no intention of heading home, so before they went ashore, these conspirators must try to get him in their power. Lyssa would no doubt hover nearby, if she guessed what was in his mind. He needed a plan to lose them all, and a way to put some distance between himself and Lyssa. Beside him in the darkness, Dawsiir made an inquiring noise, and Wolfram’s plan began to form.

“You and me,” he said, pointing to each in turn, then held up two fingers close together, “we’re friends, we can look out for each other.”

The gesture made sense to Dawsiir if the words did not, and he nodded sharply.

“Will you escape with me?” Again, the gesture of togetherness, coupled with the extension of his hand to imply the distance.

Dawsiir hesitated, glancing to his countrymen about him, then back to Wolfram. He nodded more slowly this time, adding a few words in Hemijrani.

Reaching out, Wolfram took from Dawsiir’s belt the roll of parchment with his note of free passage. He led the way down to his own berth, and found a pen and a bit of ink nearly dried. On the back of the parchment, he sketched a map, drawing a crude picture of the ship at dock so Dawsiir could follow him. In gestures and symbols, he showed a route to a Woodman’s circle where they might meet, just far enough from town that they might arrive unnoticed. Last, he drew a pair of horses, and a man with them—pointing to Dawsiir.

The Hemijrani watched this process, nodding his comprehension of the map, then exclaiming softly at the sketch of the horses. His brow furrowed, and he conveyed his apprehension.

Wolfram nodded, and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll distract them, so you can take the horses.” He pointed to himself and mimed a group of people looking dismayed and angry. “While they’re watching me, you take the horses and go quietly.”

Wolfram put out his hand and clasped the other’s darker one. They shared a grin as Dawsiir tucked the map back into his belt, then ducked silently out the door back to his place. Wolfram had no idea what the Hemijrani might be thinking of this enterprise, but they’d have time enough to learn each other’s language on whatever adventure came next. Shutting his eyes, Wolfram imagined the pair of them becoming notorious highwaymen or hiring out to guard caravans crossing the southern desert. These visions accompanied him to sleep.

WOLFRAM ATE
a light dinner in his room as the ship was made fast to the dock. He’d only just finished when a strong knock sounded on his door. Lyssa pushed her way in without waiting and frowned. “You’re well, I trust?”

“I suppose so—after all, I’m nearly home, right?” Wolfram pulled open the drawer beneath his berth and stuck his few possessions into a sack—pen and ink, spare clothing, scraps of
parchment with bits of verse Deishima had dictated to focus his thoughts. The boar-hunting knife he had somehow managed to keep was thrust beneath his belt, while the bear claw necklace hung upon his chest.

She regarded him sourly, arms crossed. “I know they’ll be happy to have you back—that’s the only thing that keeps me going. I didn’t even have time to send off a letter to my brother, so it’ll be a nice surprise for him.”

“Perfect,” Wolfram replied. He followed her up the ladder, where the planks were already being placed to meet the wooden dock below. If the tide had been out, this large a ship would have had to anchor off and send them all ashore in smaller boats. Wolfram thanked the Lady that he needn’t endure that, anyhow.

Shouldering a waiting pack, Lyssa struck out for the nearest plank, her sword slapping at her hip. “Come on, we’ve four days of travel to get home.”

Wolfram, spotting the livestock being unloaded farther along, followed more slowly, considering what he could do to create some confusion, covering his own escape as well as Dawsiir’s. The plank they were approaching was the nearest to town—very handy for his purposes. If he could stall a little while, the animals would already be onshore.

“Highness Wolfram!” Esfandiyar hurried up from the bow. “Indeed you will accompany us to your city, yes?” The gold teeth flashed in a nervous smile.

Behind the priest, the rest of the holy party gathered, Deishima covered head to toe once again, while Melody wore veils that framed the antipathy on her face. Beneath the veils, she wore a new gown of local style. Wondering if she had reconsidered her conversion, Wolfram offered her a smile, and saw her eyes and lips narrow in response, though she met his gaze.

“I think Mistress Lyssa planned for us to travel alone.”

Servants carrying some of Esfandiyar’s crates appeared, blocking the plank as they struggled with the heavy load. Beyond them lay the dock and the dirty port town, so unlike what they’d left behind. Esfandiyar said something
else, but Wolfram focused again on the two men. The crate they carried should have been taken over the side by block and tackle, or down one of the wider planks. Faedre, too, was in his path now, smiling her most seductive. She raised her hands, and Wolfram instinctively looked away. He felt for the eye patch he still carried in his shirt.

“We don’t have time for this,” Lyssa snapped, her arm falling just short of pushing them out of the way. “There are many people in Lochdale awaiting our return.”

“Indeed, Ambassador, indeed I am sure that there are.” He rubbed his hands together, looking to Faedre for assistance.

“Wouldn’t you rather ride home upon the finest steeds, and at the head of such a parade as we can provide?” she purred. “Your people would stand in awe of you, would they not?”

Wolfram’s gaze fell upon Melody and Deishima. His—cousin, was the right word, though it still did not come easily—stood with her fists clenched at her sides, a sullen participant in whatever they wanted from him. Beside her, Deishima’s tiny figure seemed to waver, her dark eyes searching the deck, braceleted hands clinking beneath her drapery. She darted a glance up to him and quickly looked away.