The High King's Tomb (5 page)

Karigan did not know much Rhovan, but she caught the gist of the discussion. Rhovanny was a far more conservative country in regard to its beliefs and customs, and a woman’s place in society, than Sacoridia. The women might toil in the fields, bear endless children, or manage a husband’s lands and household while he attended to “business” elsewhere, but it was rare for a woman to own a business, and unheard of for a woman to serve the king in a uniformed capacity, as Karigan did. Women bearing swords were considered immodest; those who admitted to such aspirations were regarded as ill of mind, and were treated as such.

Rhovanny tolerated the larger role women played in Sacoridian society. It had to if it wanted to participate in commercial and political endeavors with its neighbor. Rhovanny also knew Sacoridia’s history: women, and even children, had taken up arms during the Long War to defend the decimated country from the legions of Mornhavon the Black when so many of the menfolk had been slain on the field of battle. It had widened the role of women forever after, and though women could choose to continue on in traditional roles or to operate businesses or to serve the monarchy in many capacities, those who chose to carry swords remained in the minority.

Rhovans were polite about Sacoridia’s perceived oddities, but they didn’t necessarily like them or approve of them. Styles certainly did not, and Karigan was sure the absence of a chaperone placed her in the category of “loose women” as defined by Rhovan culture. She wondered what Styles would think if he saw her in uniform with her saber girded at her side. She smiled at the image that came to mind, and thought that this was going to be an interesting afternoon.

The carriage rumbled over cobblestones off Sacor City’s main thoroughfare, the Winding Way, onto Gryphon Street, one of the city’s more artistic districts. Here bookbinders and jewelers practiced their crafts, and sculptors and painters exhibited their work, hoping to attract the attention of wealthy patrons. Music wafted from an open, top story window, floating down to the street below. Fine harp music it was, music of the heavens, followed by a clamorous clash of strings and a wail.

“It is rubbish! Everything I compose! Absolute rubbish!”

Karigan winced at the anguish in the harpist’s voice. The music had sounded nice to her.

Gryphon Street was lined with bookshops and the workshops of luthiers, tailors, weavers, and potters; pubs, tobacco shops, and the occasional fortune-teller. It was also said that no less than forty poets lived in rooms above the shops. Karigan could not verify this, for she did not follow the trends in poetry.

A man leaned in the doorway of his music shop playing a jaunty tune on a pipe for passersby while two men beside him argued philosophy.

The scents of spicy foods drifted into the street from tiny eateries and mingled. There was a growing population from the Under Kingdoms now residing in the city, bringing with them the sounds of their ringing accents and the flavors of their exotic foods.

The horses skittered around an oblivious fellow who crossed the street with his nose in a book. A man and woman, gaudily dressed and painted, juggled rings and balls for a collection of youngsters and their parents.

The colors, smells, and sounds of Gryphon Street were an enlivening feast for one who had been spending far too much time on castle grounds. Mara was right: it was good to get out and see something different. When Mara was well enough, Karigan vowed to bring her here to Gryphon Street, and maybe to other parts of the city as well. There was so much to see, but it seemed like she never had the time. Until today.

Along the way, Braymer spoke little. Perhaps he was shy, or maybe just content to absorb his surroundings, looking from side to side as the carriage rolled down the street. Karigan supposed that if she were playing more the part of a lady, she’d engage him in some meaningless conversation, or flirt, or
something.
She just didn’t feel like making the effort.

Presently the carriage pulled up to a bright storefront under the sign of the teapot and cup.

“Ah, this is the place,” Braymer said, an expression of delight on his face. “Mistress Lampala’s Tea Room. I understand it is very good.”

Fortunately, when one was in “lady mode,” the gentlemen were quite willing to assist one in disembarking from the carriage. They even opened doors!

Karigan teetered on the uneven cobblestones. “Ridiculous shoes,” she murmured to herself. Only Braymer and Styles prevented her from falling face-first into horse droppings. No wonder some perceived women as weak—it was the clothes!

She had to admit that the solicitous attention was nice. She rarely received such courtesy when in uniform.

The tea room was dark after the bright sunshine on the street, the sound muted. There were eight tables inside, mostly occupied by couples. One young woman sat alone by a window scrawling furiously on a sheaf of papers, crossing out most of what she had just written with dramatic sweeps of her pen, and pausing only to sip from her teacup. One of Gryphon Street’s forty poets?

The aroma of delicious baked treats drifted in the air, mixing with something more exotic.
Kauv.
Kauv was a hot, bitter drink imported from the Cloud Islands that was all the rage among the nobles.

The tea room was not the fancy, formal place Karigan feared it might be, the type of place where noble matrons nibbled on sweet dainties and gossiped the afternoon away. Rather, it catered to the artistic denizens of the neighborhood, as well as a healthy mix of everyone else, from the common laborer to a pair of stylish aristocrats.

Just as Karigan’s feet began to go completely numb in the bloody shoes, a voluptuous woman burst from a back room, seeming to suck in the energy from all those around her.

“Hello, hello, my dears,” she said.

This would be Mistress Lampala no doubt,
Karigan thought.

“Be seated, be seated.” She swept them to an open table, Styles scowling all the way.

Judging from Mistress Lampala’s accent and deep bronze skin, she hailed from the Cloud Islands, a likely connection that allowed her to serve kauv in her tea room. Not only did the beans that made kauv grow on the islands, but so did sugarcane, and in Karigan’s opinion, one needed lots of sugar to make kauv palatable, otherwise it tasted rather like burned bark. It was a winning situation for Mistress Lampala who charged an exorbitant price for both, but currency was of no consequence to the wealthy Coyle family, and Braymer ensured there was plenty of kauv, sugar, cream, and sweet treats to go around.

Braymer smiled tentatively at Karigan while she sipped her kauv, but seemed unable to find anything to say. Styles sighed with a roll of his eyes and said something in Rhovan to his ward who straightened his posture and cleared his throat, and then said in a stiff, formal way, “You are very lovely.”

Karigan nearly spewed her kauv, but swallowed hastily, only to have it scald the back of her throat and induce a most unladylike fit of coughing. “Thank you,” she rasped, more amused than flattered. The deadpan way in which he had delivered his compliment made it obvious he had practiced the words many times in front of a mirror.

Styles rolled his eyes again.

“What have I done wrong?” Braymer asked, his forehead crinkled.

Styles spoke quietly to Braymer again in Rhovan, and the young man reddened. “I…I am sorry. I am recently come from the monastery, and I find this awkward.”

Karigan raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Monastery?”

“Yes. My elder brother, you see, was to take over the business from my father, but he, alas, disgraced the family by running off with a harlot and getting her with child.”

Styles groaned and dropped his face into his hands.

“What have I said now?” Braymer asked, clearly bewildered.

“The lady! An indelicate subject—the family embarrassment.”

Karigan’s mouth twitched as she fought laughter.

Braymer glanced from Styles to Karigan. “M–my apologies. You see? I was given to the monastery at a very young age, and I’ve not been outside for many years and certainly…certainly not among,” and here he whispered, “young women.” He blushed madly. “Silence was the rule of the monastery. We spoke only in prayer, and now I do not know what to say.”

Awkward was an understatement. To save Braymer further embarrassment, Karigan decided she’d better redirect the conversation. “Perhaps you could tell me about your life at the monastery.”

Styles brightened and nodded.

Braymer, seeing his approval, smiled in delight. “Of course.” What started as an initially interesting description of the daily life and rituals of the monks in the service to the goddess Aeryon turned into an endless torrent of one-sided conversation. It was as if his years of silence had been uncorked and all the words bottled inside cascaded out.

The torrent lasted all the way from Mistress Lampala’s to the Sacor City War Museum. Karigan hoped the change of venue would dam the constant stream, but it only seemed to open a whole new freshet. Apparently both the monastery and the Coyles owned vast libraries, and Braymer had done his share of reading about Sacoridia and its wars.

Karigan drifted away from Braymer, who seemed not to notice, he was so engrossed in a display of heraldic emblems. The stone exhibition hall had high vaulted ceilings and a marble floor causing Braymer’s voice to echo to all corners. If he said anything of importance, she would hear it. At this point, she didn’t care what Styles thought of her, and he seemed to have given up on his ward himself, after a few interjected instructions about polite conversation went unheeded.

The museum covered the war history of Sacoridia but was devoted largely to arms and armor. There were racks and racks of spears and swords, and numerous suits of armor stood stiffly along the walls. Frankly, she had seen better specimens in the castle. Until, that is, the armor had magically come to life and the king ordered it locked away. She had noticed of late, however, that some of the suits were slowly repopulating the castle corridors, which had seemed strangely empty without them.

Glass cases contained more fragile items, such as documents and bits of uniforms, with cards labeled in hard to read cramped script. She gave up trying to decipher the writing and gazed at the objects with only cursory interest.

Among the artifacts that did interest her were those the museum claimed had belonged to the Arcosian Empire, which tried to crush and enslave Sacoridia a thousand years ago. There were some fragile scraps of parchment with faded, foreign script on them, some rusted weapons and bits of twisted metal that looked like articulated pieces that had once fit together. The label could only tell her:
Metal pieces excavated on shore of Ullem Bay, believed to have originated in Arcosia.

There was a belt of silver links embossed with gold, pitted and discolored, with a lion’s head on the buckle. Here the label was more explanatory:
Officer’s belt, elite Lion Regiment, Arcosian Empire.

Karigan had traveled to the time of the Long War and saw some of the empire’s forces firsthand. One of her ancestors, in fact, had hailed from Arcosia, a brutal man intent on subjugating the Sacoridians who had, in the end, betrayed Mornhavon to stop the war and suffering. It was difficult to believe that all that remained of the Arcosian occupation were these few rusted artifacts. Considering the alternative, she supposed it was a good thing.

She glanced Braymer’s way and caught Styles yawning while his ward examined some shields mounted on the wall. There were a few other visitors poking about, gazing into cases, and an attendant making sure no one touched anything.

Karigan slipped into a side hall, hoping to find a more interesting display, only to come face-to-face with King Zachary, his bared sword held high.

K
arigan’s compressed lungs emitted only a squeak upon the menacing sight. She backed away, her hand on her heaving chest.

There was a soft chuckle beside her, and she whirled to find a red-coated attendant there.

“Lifelike, isn’t he?” he asked.

Karigan swallowed hard and looked upon the king again, feeling rather stupid. It was a wax figure made to look like the king. The effect was hauntingly realistic, from the silver fillet crowning its head of amber hair to the sword it gripped, a replica of the king’s own.

The figure was part of a tableau with banners hanging on the wall behind it, and the traitor Lord-Governor Tomastine Mirwell kneeling at the block, a basket ready to receive his head. Mirwell was as Karigan remembered him on that day, an old, crusty man with a bear pelt draped over his shoulders, who had needed the aid of servants to hobble onto the platform to meet his end. Certainly a piteous sight that was, perhaps, even worse punishment for such a proud man than the execution itself had been.

The figure of the king was attired in black, just as the real king had been the day of the execution. It had been a terrible thing to witness, and she knew it had lain heavily on King Zachary for a long time. As far as Karigan was concerned, old Mirwell got what he deserved. He had nearly succeeded in handing over the kingdom to Zachary’s villainous brother, Prince Amilton. Unfortunately, some of their conspirators were still at large, concealing themselves well enough to evade king’s law.

“Originally the artists set up the scene for just after decapitation,” the attendant said, “but too many people had not the stomach for it. Too realistic.”

Karigan gave him a sidelong look. He sounded disappointed.

He moved off to chat with a couple gazing at other figures in the hall. She turned her attention back to the “king,” and shuddered. His expression was wrong. He looked crazed, when all she could remember from that day was resolve. And remorse. Gazing more closely, she noted other inaccuracies. His chest and shoulders, for instance, were not the breadth to which she was accustomed, and his hips—

When she caught the direction in which that line of thought was heading, she silently cursed herself and tore her gaze away from the wax figure, forcing herself to look at the other tableaux. There were likenesses of other kings and queens, various heroic knights and warriors from Sacoridia’s past, and a pair of aristocrats dueling for a lady’s favor. There was no way of knowing if these visages were accurate, since she had never met those whom the figures represented, with the exception of the first high king, Jonaeus.

He sat on a thronelike chair, sunshine streaming on him from an arched window above. Though the label claimed this was King Jonaeus, the figure was all wrong. It certainly looked kingly with its crown and strong features, but it wasn’t at all as she remembered. King Jonaeus had been a grizzled, wearied warrior with gray in his beard. Even the clothing was inaccurate. She couldn’t imagine him having access to finely tailored silks, a luxury unheard of during the time of the Long War. In life, he was a man of hard leathers, coarse wool, and iron. There was no way the artists could have known his true appearance, she reminded herself, the way she had. They could only make guesses and create a representation.

She shrugged and was about to move on to the next tableau when glass shattered and someone screamed. Startled, she grabbed her skirts and hurried out to the main hall as fast as her daintily-shod feet would carry her. A surprising sight greeted her. A man wearing a black silk mask stood in the center of the hall fending off attendants and museum patrons with a rapier. In his other hand he held a document taken from a smashed case.

“Priceless!” an attendant sobbed. “Please, I beg of you! Please don’t take it.”

No one else moved. Ladies clung to their escorts, faces pale. Gentlemen stood frozen as if a spell had been worked upon them. Braymer looked his usual bewildered self, but was silent for once, with Styles bravely splayed in front of his young ward.

“Priceless to you maybe,” the masked man told the attendant, “but eminently useful to me.” Then to the rest he added, “My apologies for interrupting your afternoon. Good day.” And he saluted them with his sword.

Braggart,
Karigan thought with distaste. She sighed. If no one else was going to do anything to stop him, perhaps as a representative of the king she should.

“Halt!” she cried after him as he turned to flee. “In the name of the king!”

Everyone stared at her in surprise, including the thief, whose eyes sparkled behind his mask.

“You are breaking king’s law,” Karigan said. The thief took two steps toward her and halted. She felt his eyes look her up and down in crude fashion. She blushed.

And he laughed. “Yes, and what do
you
plan to do about it, my lady? Certainly nothing to muss that hair so nicely arranged on your head.”

“Oh, good heavens,” she murmured in disgust. She grabbed her skirts and bustled to the nearest wall of weaponry. She yanked a sword from its mount.

“Y–you’re not supposed to t–touch the artifacts,” the attendant cried, fretting at his handkerchief. She glared at him, stifling further argument.

The masked man laughed. “I feel so threatened.”

Karigan rolled her eyes. Grabbing a bunch of skirt with her left hand, she started toward the braggart with the sword held before her. Braymer suddenly came to life and darted to her side, clutching her arm.

“Mistress Karigan, what are you doing? Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from this villain, I’ll—”

She yanked her arm loose and brushed him aside. He fell back several steps, perhaps not expecting her strength. The thief watched with apparent interest.

Though Arms Master Drent had trained her thoroughly in all manner of fighting techniques and scenarios, she had never fought in a dress. She was hoping it would not come to an actual fight.

“Leave the document and go,” Karigan said. “That artifact belongs to the people of Sacoridia.”

“And you will stop me, my lady?” There was much amusement in the thief’s voice, and an upturn to his lips suggested a smile.

Karigan sighed. “If I must.” She shifted the sword in her grip. It was a longsword, much heavier than what she was used to.

“Perhaps you should return to your needlework, my lady.” He turned dismissively and started to stride away, but Karigan shoved the blade between his legs and tripped him. Quick as a cat he rolled and was on his feet again. He tucked the document into his frock coat and gazed at her, this time without the smile.

“Mistress Karigan, is it?” Steel tinged his voice. “You would do well not to anger me.”

“I wouldn’t anger you if you’d simply return the document and leave.”

“And how would that be worth my time?”

“It might be worth your life.”

“That’s a very unladylike threat.”

“And this is the only needlework I know.” She raised the sword to eye level.

The thief barked out a laugh. “You are an intriguing lady, Mistress Karigan. Now let’s dispense with this nonsense, shall we? I’ll be on my—”

Karigan engaged him and their quick exchange of blows rang throughout the expansive halls of the museum. In retrospect, she realized she had done it again; had gotten herself into a fight when she could have just as easily pretended to be helpless and let the thief make off with the document. It was the responsibility of the constabulary, really. She always seemed to act first and think later, a dangerous failing on her part. In this first exchange, the thief revealed his rapier wasn’t just a pretty ornament he wore at his side—he knew how to use it. He was no ordinary thief, this masked man, and she might be in for more than she bargained for.

But she wasn’t helpless, and she hated standing around when she might be able to prevent a treasured artifact from being stolen, and in full daylight no less. And she had to admit, it was a bit of a response to Braymer and Styles, and their conservative Rhovan ways. Let them see what a Sacoridian woman was capable of.

“I see you have practiced your needlework,” the thief said. “A little.”

Karigan scowled.

“Tut, tut, don’t frown,” he said. “It ruins your pretty face.”

Karigan closed in again, and he met her blow for blow, his sword work elegant and nimble compared to her own which was made ponderous by the weight of the longsword. She had to use it two-handed, which left her skirts dragging about her feet and seriously hampering her footwork. He glided about, his other hand set on his hip, his back held erect, his bearing aristocratic.

Karigan thrust, and he slipped aside. Her sword hissed at his neck, and he danced away. The smirk on his face revealed he thought it all a great joke. She brought the sword down in what should have been a crushing blow, but he flitted out of the way. Blow after blow was casually deflected, and when she threw herself into one particularly powerful thrust, he simply stepped aside. Her center of gravity was thrown forward and she had to hurry her feet back under her before she fell on her face.

Her lungs strained against the corset for breath. Sweat trickled down her neck and temples. The thief remained cool and impeccable, awaiting her next move. It infuriated her.

She whirled and their blades clanged together and slid hilt to hilt. They were very close, almost nose to nose. She could look right into his light gray eyes.

“I’m enjoying this dance,” he said in a silken whisper, “and I think you are, too.”

Karigan shoved him away with a growl. For a moment their hilt guards caught and she thought she might be able to tear his sword from his hands, but he deftly untangled it and backed away.

He shrugged off her blows one by one, she growing increasingly weary and light-headed because of the corset. She stepped on the hem of her dress and nearly bowled right over.

Their fight carried them out of the main exhibition hall into the wing with the wax figures. She was struggling now, struggling to remain standing, struggling to breathe, struggling just to lift the sword, which seemed to gain pounds with every blow he parried.

They locked together again.

“So enjoyable,” he said, “to dance with a lovely woman. I wonder if you would be this feisty in my bed.”

She jerked her knee up between his legs, but her skirts foiled the blow. He broke away, chuckling at her. She swung wildly, but he turned aside, the momentum of her blade chopping off Lord Mirwell’s head. It plopped neatly into its receiving basket.

The thief hooted. “Well done!”

Karigan rounded on him, her breathing harsh now. Some hair had come lose from a comb and hung in an annoying strand down the middle of her face. She stared at him, puffing, the sword valiantly held before her in hands trembling from fatigue.

With one swift blow he knocked it from her grasp and sent it clattering across the marble floor. She fell to her knees, too robbed of breath to do anything else. She was going to burn the damnable corset the first chance she got. If the thief didn’t kill her first.

The tip of his rapier flashed to the hollow of her throat. It pricked her skin as she swallowed, warm blood trickling down her chest.

The thief smiled, his gaze intent. “Ladies should not play with swords. The steel type, anyway.” He lowered the rapier tip to the top lace of her bodice and toyed with it. “But you’ve provided me with a most interesting diversion.”

Karigan wanted to tell him a thing or two that would burn his ears from the inside out, but she hadn’t the breath to speak.

“Thank the gods!” someone shouted from without. “The constables have finally arrived!”

Karigan had forgotten about all the others, and so had the thief, so immersed in their swordplay had they been.

“Time to go,” he said. With a flick of his wrist he sliced the lace of her bodice, then wrapped the chain of her necklace around the blade and yanked it from her neck. “To remember you by,” he explained. He unwound the necklace from the rapier and dropped it into his pocket.

Karigan grabbed at her gaping bodice. “You—you—” But she had so many things to say, they bottled up in her throat.

The thief backed toward the end of the exhibit hall at the sound of approaching feet. He paused and tugged off a velvet glove that matched the deep wine color of his frock coat. He kissed it and tossed it to the floor before her. “For you to remember
me
by.”

“You—you—
you
.” The venom in her voice made him wince, then grin broadly. He hopped onto the arm of King Jonaeus’ throne.

Karigan pulled off one of her useless shoes and threw it at him. She missed, knocking off King Jonaeus’ crown instead.

Armed constables rushed into the hall. “Stop, thief!”

“Good day,” he said, and he climbed up onto the casement of the window above King Jonaeus, kicked out the window, and vanished, but not before another well-aimed shoe clobbered him in the head.

“Ow!” came his cry from the street below. “That hurt, my lady!”

“Y
ou clobbered him in the head?” Mara asked incredulously.

“I was angry.”