Dragon Blood h-2 Page 4

  I shrugged and sat on the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the elegantly carved posts. "You're right. But when the king killed Erdrick, I don't think he realized just how much power the name Hurog still holds on the heart of Shavig. Politically, it is smarter to have Beckram proved a traitor and executed than to have someone kill him. Besides, then the punishment would fit the crime. My uncle forced the king to back down for Beckram's sake—a charge of treason would humiliate Beckram equally." I slouched a little, sliding down the bed, and Tisala casually pulled away from me.

  "Though Jakoven failed with you, you are hardly the only person the king could torture a confession out of. I need to get word to him. Do you know if Beckram is in Estian now?" I asked. I didn't keep an eye on my cousin's travels. Iftahar was much nearer to Estian than Hurog was, and Beckram went to Estian on a monthly basis.

  "No," she whispered. "I don't know. Do you think Jakoven took others to make them accuse Beckram?"

  I had been thinking about it from the angle of containing the threat toward my cousin, but, prompted by her question, I realized that anyone Jakoven had taken was likely to have been at least an acquaintance and probably a friend of Tisala's.

  I sat forward and Tisala jerked back from me. When she realized what she had done, she flushed with embarrassment—but she didn't relax.

  I'd fought side by side with Tisala. The thought of what it would take to make her flinch from anyone made me want to hit something. I wanted to say something to comfort her—but the closed look on her face told me she wouldn't talk about it.

  "Do you think Jakoven has taken someone else?" she asked again.

  "That depends upon what he really wants," I said finally. "If he's really trying to break Alizon's support, he'll go after the lower born first. Build up cases against the nobles from the confessions he gets from the ones he can attack with impunity."

  "What do you mean 'if'?" she asked.

  "I told you," I said. "On the run the way he is, Alizon's no threat to the king now. He has no access to his wealth or lands—both of which have been padding the king's purse nicely. Alizon might have had a chance four years ago, if Kariarn had been a little more successful in his attempt to take over Oranstone—and if Alizon weren't illegitimate. When Alizon's caught, Jakoven will make a fool of him and confine him somewhere convenient—like the asylum next to the king's younger brother, Kellen—where Alizon will die from choking on his dinner some night after everyone has forgotten about him. Jakoven's too smart to make a martyr out of his half brother either by a long trial or by killing him."

  "So what do you think King Jakoven is doing?" asked Tisala after a moment. I thought she sounded bleak—had she really thought Alizon had a chance of oversetting his brother?

  "I think Jakoven's moving against my cousin," I said. "Though he's taken quite a risk in doing it."

  "What do you mean?" Tisala wasn't sitting up quite so straight anymore, and her face had gone from pale to gray. She tried to lean back against the headboard of the bed, but desisted as soon as her raw back touched the wood. I could have moved away and allowed her to lie back comfortably, but I didn't want her to feel as though I was making allowances for her fear. I hadn't done anything to her—she just had to force herself to remember that.

  "Taking you could have precipitated a scandal," I said. "Even with your father disowning you, you are a highborn lady—and as such entitled to a certain amount of respect to your person. The Tallvenish are very protective of their aristocratic womenfolk, and it is the Tallvenish who are the heart of Jakoven's seat upon the throne."

  "Not that protective," she protested. "They wouldn't change their allegiance over a woman—especially not an Oranstonian who fights like a man."

  I raised my eyebrows at the bitterness in her words and I wondered how uncomfortable she'd found life in Estian after the freedoms her father had allowed her.

  "You're right," I said, "at least in that most of them wouldn't have run to your rescue. But it would be as bad for him as if he were caught having relations with one of his hunting dogs. They would lose all respect for him, and that would be dangerous. My cousin's downfall must be important to him in order for him to risk being found out."

  "So he won't stop with me," she said. "And he probably didn't start with me, either."

  She sounded a little frantic, and I wondered if there were a man in particular she was worried about.

  I shrugged. "I don't know. It would take more than the word of a peasant or merchant to give King Jakoven a clear shot at Beckram. Someone that everyone knows is one of Alizon's supporters. Have you been missing anyone who fits that bill?

  She shook her head. "No—not when I was taken. I don't know about now."

  I shifted forward slowly, to give her time to control her initial recoil, and put a gentle hand against her shoulder. "There's nothing you can do from your sickbed. Rest."

  She held still under my touch, but made no move to lie back until I got off the bed.

  "Do you need help?" I asked, letting my hand drop casually to my side. "I know what your back must be feeling like."

  "No," she said. She hesitated for a moment, then sank back beneath the woven blankets and turned painfully onto her side to take pressure off her back and sore rib. "I can't think," she muttered.

  "Don't panic," I said. I'd been healed by Oreg a couple of times, too: I knew how it felt to have exhaustion pull my consciousness away from me. "It's just the magic."

  Her lips curved up as her eyes closed. "They call you a wizard—the Shavig Wizard, as if there were no other mages to come out of Shavig—or Hurog, for that matter. Did you really pull Hurog apart with your power?"

  "No," I answered. With my soul, perhaps, mine and Oreg's, but not my magic. "Rumor exaggerates. Oreg's our wizard here. On a good day I can light the fire in the hearth." I was a bit better than that, or had been before Oreg decided last month that I needed to learn to use my own magic rather than Hurog's to power my spells.

  The smile fell away from her lips and she struggled up on her elbows and forced her eyes open. "I shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice slurring the words. "It's too dangerous."

  "What would have been dangerous," I said, "would have been not knowing that Jakoven was moving against my family. For that you are welcome to stay here until you grow old and rot." My words eased her and she allowed me to pull the covers over her again. I waited until her breathing slowed before I touched her cheek.

  She wasn't objectively beautiful—she had her father's hawklike nose for one thing. On her father it was distinguished. On her it was … intimidating. Her face was all angles except for her slightly slanted eyes and overlarge mouth. She was too tall as well, and not in the slim-fragile manner of most tall women. Instead, she was lithe yet muscular, stronger, I daresay, than many men.

  To me she was glorious, even battered as she was. For the past four years I had measured every woman I met against her, to their detriment. Now she was here, in my bed.

  Tisala progressed rapidly from invalid to cranky and bored. Sympathetic, I brought out a chessboard to help her pass the time.

  "My father taught me," she said apologetically as I stared at the board as if that would explain how she beat me faster than Oreg ever had.

  I gave her an annoyed look, sat back on my chair, and shook my head. "You never apologize for winning, that just increases your opponent's humiliation."

  A slow smile crossed her face. "I know."

  I shook my head again. "No. When you win, you want to crush your opponent, not just humiliate him. A humiliated opponent just gets vicious, a crushed opponent crawls off and never bothers you again. Watch."

  I took a deep breath, then hit the table with sudden violence, scattering hapless chess pieces on the floor. "Hah!" I bellowed. "Do you call that a game! My grandmother's dog played better on its deathbed. Fifteen moves! Teach you to believe it when someone claims to play a little chess!" I subsided slowly.

  Tisala had flinched at m
y first move, but it had been reflex only, and even when I loomed over her, she was relaxed in her chair. It had taken me weeks to get my father's warhorse to trust me that much—but Tisala had only been abused for a short time.

  "Subtle, Hurog, subtle like a battle-ax," she said. "My father taught me better manners than that—but I suppose we must take into consideration that you are a Shavig barbarian and given to fits and starts."

  I collapsed back into my chair and put my hand over my heart as if she had wounded me.

  She'd been here for five days and looked much better than she had at first. Her left hand was healing well. Though it would never be as strong as it had been, she'd be able to hold a shield or use a bow with it.

  Giving up my pose, I reset the board, having to scramble under the bed to find the dark rook, and we started again. This time I was playing for death. Lunch came and went, and the early shadows of the shorter winter days necessitated the lighting of candles before the game was over. I beat her this time, but I'd had to work at it.

  "Hah!" I bellowed, hitting the table, and she laughed.

  Better than the healing of her body was the easing of her spirit. She hadn't talked about what had happened to her, and I hadn't pushed. I knew from experience that some wounds heal best in silence. Later, when the experience wasn't so fresh, I'd press her on what had happened, and in the meantime I worked on helping in other ways. She didn't even flinch at my aggressive gloating.

  When she quit laughing, she said, "Not that I don't appreciate the game, but don't you have other duties here that call for your attention?"

  I picked up the scattered pieces from the floor again, and said, "The harvest's in and stored. My aunt needs no help keeping the Guard busy. I could help lay the floor in the main hall, but it's not necessary."

  As I set the pieces back in their case, I asked her something that had been bothering me. "What were you about in Estian? I thought your so-public fight with Haverness was staged, but I've never figured out the reason for it. What did your exile to Estian accomplish?"

  "What was it supposed to accomplish?" she asked.

  I scowled at her. "No one who plays chess like you would do such a stupid thing without reason."

  "How was it stupid?" she asked. "I fought with my father. He tried to tell me how to think, and when I refused to agree with him, I was asked to leave—I think he believed that would make me give in. So I left."

  "And went to Estian," I said.

  "Where else?"

  I laughed. "That might work with Tallvenish folk, my lady. But I've seen how your father dotes upon you. Like me, he might understand that Alizon's rebellion hasn't a chance of succeeding, but he'd never toss you out for that. What took you to Estian?"

  She was silent, but it was a challenging silence. I'd grown up with a sister who couldn't speak and communicated by expression. Figure it out yourself, Tisala's folded arms and superior expression said.

  What makes Tisala unusual enough that Alizon's cause would pull her to Estian? I wondered.

  I smiled at last, getting it. "A man, even a man of high rank, whose support of Alizon became common knowledge would be taken in for treason."

  She smiled back, but didn't say anything.

  "But a highborn woman would be safe because of Tallvenish custom—at least you should have been. They would need a single woman—otherwise her husband would be expected to stop her. But to what purpose … " I stared at her and she stared back blandly.

  This woman, something whispered deep inside my heart, this woman is for me.

  The bruises on her face were yellow and green. She was too thin, making her nose stand out even more. She wore one of my oldest robes and one of the pieces of chicken we'd eaten at lunch had left a greasy spot on the material over her arm. And none of it mattered at all.

  "Perhaps," I speculated, hoping she hadn't read what I was thinking in my face. "Perhaps there is a nobleman who would like to see Jakoven fall. Maybe this nobleman has money to support Alizon, perhaps it is information, or even just a message. Perhaps he wants to be completely anonymous. If there were someone who could be trusted to pass things on, an anonymous servant or even a street child could be sent to this supporter of Alizon—if people knew who he—or rather she was."

  She raised her eyebrows. "Truly you have an active imagination, Ward."

  "Accurate, too," I said. "How did you contact Alizon?"

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. When she spoke, she said, "I'm not a fish to rise to your bait. Suffice it to say that your casting is in the right area and we'll leave it at that."

  But it wasn't so easy to leave the information I'd gotten from Tisala alone. Jakoven was moving against Beckram, my cousin—my responsibility. The king's gambit with Tisala had failed, but he had many other arrows in his quiver.

  Over the next few weeks as the first snows left the mountains white and frosted the air, I pondered Jakoven's next move. But the only thing I settled upon was that it would be disastrous to wait for Jakoven to play his own game. I'd have to make a move of my own.

  "I'm going to Estian," I said over supper.

  The guardsmen ate in their quarters, but there was enough tile done in the great hall that my family took our meals there, my family and our guest. Tisala had been mobile enough to take the stairs for the last week, so she'd begun to join us for meals. We sat close to the great fireplace that tried to make up for the open doorway, where soon the great doors would hang. The armorer's first attempt at hinges had been beautiful, but not strong enough to hold the doors, so he was trying again.

  "Estian? You are mad," said Oreg with conviction, though not disapproval—more as if he were delighted with the discovery. He'd finished eating and was settled back watching the rest of us.

  I grinned at him.

  My aunt Stala, seated next to him, shook her head—but I think it was at Oreg and not at me. She was my captain of the guards and my mother's baseborn sister, a Tallvenish woman who'd taken her destiny in her own hands and shook the world. She bore the scars of those battles gracefully and there was not a man in the Blue Guard who would not die willingly for her, including me.

  "You forced me to stay here," said my brother, "by following me to the capital every time I tried to go, threatening to expose yourself to the possibility that he would decide to enforce his own writ and have you caged in his zoo for unwanted nobles—"

  Tosten had been intent on supporting Alizon—something I'd determined was both dangerous and useless. But Tosten was still young and hotheaded; he'd been very close to both of the twins, and Erdrick's death had hit him hard.

  "Unwanted crazy nobles," I murmured, taking a bite of stew and relishing the taste of fresh carrots. By the end of winter we'd be out of vegetables. I glanced at Tisala and she sent me a strained smile in return. She obviously agreed with Tosten.

  "Unwanted crazy nobles," Tosten snapped with a wave of his hand. "Now you want to hie off and see what Jakoven's been up to? You might do well to remember that the last Hurog who stuck his nose in Jakoven's business got his throat slit."

  "He killed Erdrick," I acknowledged. "And now he's after Beckram. I need to find out what's going on, before we end up with Beckram dead as well."

  Tosten's fists came down and made the table jump. "And you can look after Beckram's business so much better than he can?"

  It wasn't the words that got to me, it was the tone of voice that implied simultaneously that Beckram was competent and I was an idiot.

  I bit back several things that would have been unforgivable—foremost was reminding everyone that it was Beckram's affair with the queen that killed his twin, Erdrick. I took hold of my temper and told them the truth as I saw it. "I am Hurogmeten, guardian of Hurog. Beckram is of Hurog blood and thus under my protection. If I cannot or will not protect my own—I am nothing."

  "That attitude would surprise the two other Hurogmetens that I've known," said my aunt dryly, referring to my father and grandfather.

  "Meten means
guardian, and Ward is Hurogmeten," said Oreg before taking a bite of bread.

  "What can you do that Beckram can't?" protested Tosten. "I say warn Uncle Duraugh and Beckram and let them deal with it." But the heat was gone from Tosten's voice. He knew all of Hurog's old songs and stories better than I did. He knew the duties of the Hurogmeten. If Oreg's firsthand experience had robbed the old lays of veracity, it hadn't robbed the ideal of its power.

  "I need to have a better feeling for what's going on in court," I explained. "Jakoven's abduction of Tisala is just the start. Something ugly is about to happen, and I'm afraid Hurog is going to be caught up in the middle of it."

  "Who are you taking with you?" asked Aunt Stala, and the matter was settled.

  We planned the trip over the last of the meal, and if Tosten didn't eat much, he didn't protest again, either. We had just stood up to let the kitchen staff clear the dishes from the table when we heard the clatter of racing hooves.

  The armsman who ran in was white-faced. "My lord," he said. "There's royal troops riding in."

  My mouth went dry. Were they here after Tisala? Thoughts flew through my head. But I'd decided after I heard Tisala's story that it wasn't likely that Jakoven would come after her here—too many people to silence with too little gain. He wouldn't want anyone knowing he'd tortured Tisala.

  That left only one answer that would send a royal troop: the writ.

  Should I run? Oreg would take me—but that would leave Hurog and those who belonged to her vulnerable—and my family open to charges of treason. My uncle couldn't prove he hadn't helped me, could he? Nor could Beckram, if that was truly whom the king was after.

  We could fight. It would start a civil war. Shavig would fall behind us. Oranstone might as well—but they had to worry about the Vorsag invading again as they had four years ago. Except …

  I shook my head as I dismissed the thought of civil war. It might have happened if the king had attacked us next year instead of this. Today, Hurog would fall in a day, and presented with that accomplishment, Shavig would moan and groan, but ultimately submit to Jakoven's hand.