Part 6

Bron Wynngarde leaned against the counter of the apothecary's that earned his living. Business had been brisk recently, what with the bizarre murders around the Silver City; folk from all over the place were coming to buy talismans, potions, dried flower petals (very expensive, those), even tiny mirrors (all the average citizen could afford)--whatever they thought would ward off evil. The talk, the whispers really, in the back alleys, behind closed doors, was of a man who could leap walls in a single bound, who could walk in your shadow without you noticing, who could even slip into a dark corner, a shadowed dead-end alleyway, and reappear elsewhere in the blink of an eye. A man... Or maybe something else.

Bron Wynngarde didn't fear these things, for he had seen and learned much in his years. There were bizarre creatures out in the wilds, aye, surely--those odd things in the Spring Lands; and closer to home you had the unicorns and the wolfen. But he had proven himself a master to them. And he knew every threat that man could bring. No, he didn't fear these stories and legends. There were other things that worried him. For instance, people coming into his shop.

The two that entered now, setting off the little metal wind chime he had suspended over the door (Light, but how he jumped every time it rang!), didn't seem anything special on first inspection. True, the girl had blond hair, not a usual thing at all in these lands, but there were always strangenesses to behold. One of Bron Wynngarde's own chingawas hung quite a bit lower than the other, the left one specifically. That was odd, true, but worth commenting on? Probably not. So with the girl's hair. The fact that it was a boy and a girl together--also not worth noticing. They looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, which was about the age the young folk would start noticing each other; in a few years they'd probably be married, maybe even to each other. And of course an apothecary's shop sold certain somethings, things to keep illicit trysts from bearing illicit fruit, if you would. That was probably what these two were here for. The boy, with his dark hair and driving eyes, he was clearly setting the pace; the girl seemed particularly fidgety--looking about distrustfully, as if anything might leap out of the shadows and attack her. Maybe that evil guy who had killed the innkeeper's wife.

Now they were under the threshold; now they were within his door. When they were outside he could fear them all he wanted; but now they were under his roof, and Bron Wynngarde knew he could take them. He was tall and imposing, a long-healed knife wound had left a vicious-looking scar down the left side of his face (thankfully he had not lost the eye), and more of his bulk was muscle than most people expected. Besides, it was his shop. These two didn't know about the countermeasures he'd planted. No one did. Or, at least, anyone who learned about them, never lived to tell others.

"My good sir, my good mistress," he said. "Welcome. Lorden Taylor at your service."

"Hello, master Taylor," said the boy. It would have been appropriate for him to state his name at this point, so that they might conduct their business no longer strangers, but he remained silent, as did his lady.

Well, stranger things had happened. Perhaps these two were just security-conscious. "What can I do for you two this good day?"

"Yes," said the boy, leaning in, "I was wondering if you had anything that would allow my lover and I to retain some... Peace of mind."

Bron was impressed with the boy's composure--he didn't flinch or blush when he said that. Neither, for that matter, did the girl show any sign of embarrassment, though she was still rather pale and wide-eyed. Which, Bron admitted, was fairly normal when young women met him for the first time.

"I believe I can accommodate you," said Bron, turning to the shelves behind him. "Was there anything particular you had in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," said the boy breezily. "Nothing that would leave red, I suppose. And nothing visible under the moon, you understand. We, ah..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She likes the open air."

Bron's hand found the hidden tripwires beneath the second shelf. Slowly, without moving any other part of his body, he turned his head. The boy was leaning forward, his elbows on the counter, his face totally absent of the humor in his voice. One of his hands, his left, clasped his right forearm innocuously--well, one had to do something with that hand. The other arm stood almost straight up, and his two smallest fingers were curled back, leaving only pointer and middle finger erect.

The boy's eyes were calm.

"Hail and well met, bladesman," said Bron.

"Hail," said the boy.

"I've heard rumors," said Bron. "One of our number, that left Pelanha and went to the Silver City, to compete in the Trials. You'd be he, I suppose."

"The same," said the boy.

Bron released the tripwires. He gave the boy the two-fingered salute of the Night Blades--right elbow at chest level, arm straight up. "Bron Wynngarde."

"Marcus Demitri," said Marcus.

"Hail," said Bron again. Then, "Your Highness."

Princess Gabriele nodded. "Master Wynngarde." No wonder she had been nervous. She must have known coming in.

"I have to say, boy," Bron said, "if this is official business, I don't know why you couldn't accomplish the matter yourself. I wasn't there for your training--I been here nigh on ten years now--but I heard stories. Said you're the best there ever was."

Marcus's face took a sardonic grimace. "They would say that about me. No, I've come on behest of the Queen."

"Really," said Bron with undisguised delight. "The Queen Herself stoops to our level. We'll add that name to the Golden Tablet. Who's the mark?"

Marcus spoke before Gabriele could protest. "No mark. Instead, we're curious."

"Aye. About what?"

"I'm sure you've heard the tales," said Marcus. "An innkeeper's wife. A jeweler's wife."

"Aye," said Bron. "Those."

"Any ideas?" Marcus said.

"Not as I've heard," Bron said. "Same old chatter. Old wives. You know the way."

"Well I do," Marcus said. "One day it's a rogue fenrir, next it's the Savior come back. And on the third it's both at once."

"Don't forget Loduur Himself, take flesh an' walk the earth," Bron said.

Marcus made a humorless laugh. "Aye, that too."

"They've talked," said Bron. "Everyone talks. The pubs, the inns, the markets, it's all ye hear about. But not of it's worth repeating."

"If ye hear anything that is worth repeating..." Marcus said. "Pass it on, if ye please? And to the others of our brethren as well, both give and take."

"Aye, I will," said Bron, agreeing to spread the word. "Ye've a message drop?"

"No, not yet," Marcus said. "'least, none we could all get to. I can't exactly waltz out of the Palace on a whim."

"Well, I could always waltz in," Bron laughed.

Princess Gabriele laughed too. "I'm sure the guardsmen would love that." She was thinking in particular of his face, villainously scarred as it was; it was almost certain they'd toss him out on his badanck if he asked for an audience with anybody, much less the First Lance to the Princess-Heir.

Bron fixed her with a dark gaze. "I wasn't plannin' on letting them catch me, your Highness."

Her mirth sunk like blood from a wound. Strangely, her First Lance interceded. "Please, bladesman. She's new to our ways."

"I see," said Bron, filing that tidbit away for future reference. "I apologize, my lady." This Night Blade seemed to be getting awfully close to his charge. It was something to look out for.

"Oh," said Marcus. "There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"What can I do ye, bladesman?"

Marcus leaned over the counter again. "About ten years ago... My father died." Again his poise impressed Bron, whatever vestigial emotions this had left him were entirely absent from his face. "He was a strong man--it was my mother's constitution we always minded--but he was also a Summer, in the deeps of the Winterlands."

"Ye suspect foul play," said Bron.

"I want to see if I can figure out who did it," said Marcus.

"And apply a certain amount of righteous justice," Bron asked.

Marcus didn't answer.

"And Her Highness approves of this?" Bron said.

"Her Highness," said Marcus with cold certainty, "was not present for this conversation."

Bron's eyebrows went up. "Is that a fact now?"

"Perhaps," said Princess Gabriele, "more to say that she'd rather pretend she wasn't present for it. My First Lance has made up his mind and he will not be dissuaded." She looked away as she said this, crossing her arms.

Bron Wynngarde made another mental note for himself. "Well, if it's the names ye want, I'll see if I can find 'em. I make no guarantees, ye understand--it's been ten years, and you were but a lad at the time--but if it c'n be done by a one such as we, then done it'll be. If they were Palace servants, it'll be a bit easier; they keep papers on their folk, you know. Matter of fact if you could get me in to see them, it'd make my job much easier."

"I'll see what I can do," Marcus said.

"In your debt, bladesman," said Bron.

"As I in yours," said Marcus, giving the ritual response. "Where's your drop?"

"Couple blocks down," said Bron, "a section of plate stone that fell out of the tanner's shop."

"Leave messages there if anything reaches you," said Marcus. "I'll find some way to come out and check it. Shouldn't be too hard to slip the guards if necessary."

"Aye, probably not," said Bron, smiling. Princess Gabriele frowned at this assessment of her father's security.

"You'll pass the word on," Marcus said.

"Aye, that I will," said Bron. "In the meanwhile, can I interest you in anything? I've some marvelous poisons straight from Brinccatera that'll add a little bite to your blade."

"No, thank you," said Marcus, "but I'll be sure to look you up if we have to deal with anyone discreetly."

This time Princess Gabriele did not laugh. Perhaps she had realized that they were serious.

"Oh," said Bron. "If we find this fellow, do you want us to take him?"

Marcus thought for a moment. "No," he said finally, "I do not. Just pass on his identity and location and we'll take him ourselves."

"Why so interested?" Bron said. "'twouldn't be right for a First Lance to bloody his hands all up."

"Yes," said Marcus, "but I'm not sure you can take him."

Bron laughed. "Oh, an' I suppose you can?"

"More likely than you," Marcus said.

"Kyrei's Light, boy! You've got some-- Some-- Hahahahaha! 'More likely'n not, ' he says, hahaha! Why, boy! What've you got that we haven't?"

He heard rustling behind him and spun. It was only a packet of contraceptives on the shelf behind him, a cloth bag containing sword-sheathes made out of pig intestine. But it didn't fall. Instead, it drifted up into the air, and then over the counter, and finally into Marcus Demitri's outstretched hand.

Bron stared, aghast.

"That's what I thought," Marcus said. "Bladesman, believe me, I would not deprive you of an honorable mark. But I'd also rather not see you laid out dead."

"Kyrei's Light," Bron whispered. "Magic."

"Aye, that it is," said Marcus. He tossed two copper coins onto the counter.

"Gaa! What is-- Wait. You actually wanted those?" said Bron.

Marcus guided Princess Gabriele out the door. "And not a copper more, you thieving... Thief!" he yelled. "Why, if I set the Guardsmen on you it'd... It'd serve you right!"

The door slammed shut in a tinkle of metal chimes. Bron heard the pointing and the laughter outside.

He smiled to himself. Quite a man, that young Marcus Demitri. Catching a phantom-man, making First Lance, and now it appeared he'd made a jangéa out of the Princess. He'd spread the word around; oh, certainly he would.

"Why did you get those," Catheryne said. Her face was still red. A more public exit she could not have imagined, and with Jordan holding those... Those things, to boot. With a woman on his arm, the conclusion every bystander had drawn was obvious. "It's not like you'll need them."

"No," said Jordan, "but Moya Tilmitt might, if he wants to perfect his divination spell." It had worked last night, but not particularly well. And one always needed raw material to test on.

"Yes, but, then we'd... have to get someone to use those," she said.

"I'm sure we could manage that," he said.

She felt something twitching in her face. "That's... Jordan, you are the most unbelievable person I have ever met. You actually want to give those to somebody and say, 'Here, take these, but give them back when you're done'?"

"If you're squeamish, you don't have to touch them," he said mildly.

The image of herself gingerly holding one of those sheaths--wet, dangling, limp--flashed through her head. She felt clawing nausea. "Jordan, I think conversation should be kept to an absolute minimum today until after I have had a chance to eat my lunch!"

"As Your Majesty commands," he said.

Moya Tilmitt was scarcely more appreciative. "Jordan..." he said. "I... Really don't think that's appropriate." Thank Kyrei. Catheryne had been starting to believe she might be the only sane person left in the Silver City. "We can't exactly ask for them back when they've been... Used."

"Well, then, you could use them," Jordan said. "And then try the spell again."

Moya Tilmitt's eyebrows went up, and he seemed to be actually considering this option. "No," he said finally, "I don't... Think the spell would work on... On myself." Nonetheless, he had considered it, a thought that filled Catheryne with despair.

"Well, then, what am I going to do with these," Jordan growled, waving the packet of sword-sheathes. "I wouldn't've wasted two coppers on them if I'd known."

"Two coppers?" Moya Tilmitt said. "That was pretty cheap. At some places they cost five."

"Why don't you just use them," Catheryne suggested.

Jordan snorted. "Sure. Precisely. I'll use them. And today rain will fall." Rain was a thing that had not ever happened in recorded history, except in the Spring Lands, which was why people used that expression in that way.

"Jordan, that does seem unduly pessimistic," said Moya Tilmitt. "I'm sure someone in this palace would care to lie with you."

"About as likely as someone in this palace lying with you," Jordan retorted.

"I beg your pardon!" Moya Tilmitt drew himself up. "I resent that statement! Why, no small number of women in this palace have suggested to me that they might find me attractive! Just the other day, some--"

"Then you take them," Jordan snapped, holding out the packet.

"I-- I--" said Moya Tilmitt. Then his face fell and he stared at the floor.

"Look, I'll take them," Catheryne snapped, fed up with their bickering. "I'll burn them or something at the soonest opportunity."

"You owe me two coppers," Jordan said.

"Oh!" she said, and hit him in the face with them.

And it was in this manner that she still had the packet of five sheathes stuffed into an inner pocket of her dress when night came and it was time for her to visit one of the noble houses. She only realized it as she was hunched at her desk, tapping an invitation against her teeth (a dreadful waste of paper; she stopped once she realized she was doing it). She was facing a dilemma.

Mistress Hester Stelmarine had, of course, sent an invitation. It was the only proper thing to do for a young woman who had just arrived home from a finishing school--after all, who better to show off one's new manners to than the princess herself? And Catheryne would have gladly gone, if not for the other invitation that had arrived, the one she was currently tapping against her teeth.

The name on the front said "Master Paitr Domenicos."

There was no denying that she wanted to see him again. He was handsome, he was... Well, he was handsome. There was no denying that. And he was friendly, too--with people like Jordan around, she needed as much of that as possible. And... Well, she wanted to see him again. He made her knees weak in a way no one ever had.

But that left Davina alone, which she felt bad about. Davina was her best friend and they hadn't seen each other in close to a year. It wasn't that she didn't want to go visit with her; it was that she wanted to visit with Master Domenicos... More.

Then she had a brilliant idea.

"Master Demitri," she called. "Have the stables ready two identical carriages--not the normal royal one, but the lesser ones for the ministers or something. They will depart at the same time."

"Who'll be in them?"

"You and I, of course."

"Why two?"

"Why, so we can go to different places, of course."

"I don't understand."

"I have decided that, tonight, I will accept invitations to two noble houses, not just one. One carriage shall carry me to one of them, and the other shall take you to the other."

"Where does yours take you," he asked.

"To the Domenicos estate," she said.

"And mine?"

"To Mistress Stelmarine's, of course," she said, smiling.

He said nothing for a long moment, and she was beginning to wonder what was going on when she realized that, actually, he was in shock. It was simply that he would not let his mouth drop open and his eyes bug out like any civilized person.

"My lady, I refuse," he said.

"Nonsense," she said, "it's a perfect idea. Anyone who's watching the stables will see two minister's coaches leaving, but not my royal coach. They'll assume I'm not visiting anyone. Or, if they follow the two actual coaches, they'll assume I'm visiting with Mistress Hester, because if a minister were to visit with either of those two houses, of course it would be with the Domenicoses. No one will ever know where I've gone, unless Master Paitr spreads the word himself. Which I may allow him to. That'll teach them."

"My lady, I refuse," he said.

"Why so," she asked. "Mistress Hester is a perfectly lovely person, I should think you'd welcome the chance to spend time with someone actually civilized. You might learn a thing or two from her about what it means to be a friend."

"My lady, I refuse," he said.

She turned to him. "Master Demitri, I am your princess and the heir to the throne. Do not make me order you."

His eyes were steel. "I make you order me."

She heaved a theatrical sigh. "Fine... Master Demitri, I order you to do what I have told you to. Take the second carriage and visit with Mistress Hester in my stead."

His glare would have frozen the sun. "If something happens to you while I am not there, I will repeat this conversation to your father, word for word, and we will see what he says to you then."

She glared at him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Master Demitri," he said, "have the stables ready two identical carriages not the normal royal one but the lesser ones for the ministers or something they will depart at the same time who'll be in them you and I of course why--"

"All right thank you very much," she gritted. "Ask the maids to come in. It's time for me to get dressed."

"Enjoy that," he snarled, and slammed out.

"I will!" she shouted.

When they did, she discovered the package--she was taking off her dress when the weight of it brushed against her skin, and she suddenly remembered it was there. For a second she felt hot slashes of panic--what would they say? The Princess-Heir, with sheathes in her dress! My my!--until she realized that she could drop the dress right there and no one would notice; they wouldn't pay it any attention, much less anything under it. But what about after she left, when they came back to clean up? They'd pick up the dress; they'd see. And she couldn't hide it anywhere in the room; they might likewise find it. The only answer, then, was to take it with her.

The package rode high on the front of her hip and, though she could tell no one would see it--no one did, not even Jordan--she still felt terribly exposed.

"Your Majesty," said Jordan as they prepared to mount into their separate coaches. "I must protest one more time. I cannot in good conscience let you attempt this... This thing... Without warning you that I think it is dangerous and a bad idea."

"I appreciate your concern," she said, "and I thank you for it. But Mistress Hester is one of my closest friends, and I feel I owe her something. Besides, Master Domenicos has spent a good deal of time in the Spring Lands; if something should happen, I think he will be sufficient."

Inside the coach she had to keep herself from bouncing up and down. I'm going to see him I'm going to see him!

Mistress Hester Stelmarine, for obvious reasons, was quite surprised at the guest--singular, not plural--who arrived on her doorstep, but she hid it well. "Why, Master Demitri! What brings you here? And without a princess holding your leash." From another mouth this might have been offensive, but Hester Stelmarine delivered it with such a bright smile that Jordan saw there was no reason--or point--in being insulted.

"My mistress bade me come here," he said. "She is... Visiting with another, at present, but wished that I should come and express her regrets that she could not on this night spend time with you."

Mistress Hester laughed and rolled her eyes. "So formal. Well, come in, come in!"

The inside of the house was well-lit and cheerful, which Jordan found himself contrasting with the Daravon residence. This house was in pastels--light greens and pinks and sky blues and pale yellows--and gave a pleasing effect. Hester Stelmarine herself was dressed in pleasing turquoises and beiges, a fairly old-fashioned gown in lace and frills that nonetheless flattered her wider figure. Her parents, presumably the Lord and Lady Stelmarine, were standing off to one side with wide eyes, clearly having been expecting the princess.

"I shouldn't stay long," said Jordan. "Her Highness is..." Well, probably best not to say where she was. "Without my protection, and if something should happen to her--"

"Oh, don't worry so much," said Mistress Hester, laughing. "She's probably with that chap, uh, what's his name, Paitr Domino? Domenici? Delmoria? Well, whatever his name is. He'd just come back from the Border Wars, isn't that right? I'm sure he's an able swordsman then, or he'd've come back in a box."

"That is exactly what Her Majesty said," Jordan said.

"Then we're both either clearly very smart or clearly very stupid," said Mistress Hester pleasantly. "Well, don't just stand there, come in! I've been dying to meet the person who's taking up all of Catheryne's time."

"Her Majesty's time?" Jordan said.

"Well, yes," said Mistress Hester, "the fighting, the exercise, the campaigns--I can't believe you've actually got her up and moving about, I must say, Master Demitri--I mean, neither of us were exactly the athletic type, as I'm sure you can see--" She laughed. "--but I was getting worried about her. She'd start to show it, just as surely as I have, and it'd ruin her once she realized. Now it won't happen at all. You have my applause, Master Demitri."

"Yes, but fat lot of good it'll do if someone sneaks up on her while she's talking to Paitr Domenicos," Jordan said.

"True," said Mistress Hester, "but if you've done all you can, then you've done all you can. You're not Kyrei, Master Demitri, you don't see everything."

Jordan stared at her. It was such a foreign concept to him that he wasn't sure he even understood it. Of course he had to see everything. How else was he going to prevent another disaster?

Her father spoke. "Hester... I don't mean to be a nag, but... Is this wise? You know what he is."

"And what is that, Father," she replied.

"A Night Blade," said her mother. "And... And one of those Gifty people."

"Oh," said Hester, "that's true." She turned to him. "You aren't planning on murdering us while we sleep, are you? Or cursing us with crossed eyes with the rest of our lives?"

"The first one only Her Highness could command me to do," Jordan said. "I leave it up to you to decide whether she would. As to the second, I don't know how. If such a curse does exist, my teacher hasn't taught it to me yet."

"Oh," said Hester, "that's too bad, I thought it might actually be rather funny. Does Catheryne know?" she asked hopefully.

"Hester," said her father. "I don't think you're being serious about this. This man is dangerous, and yet you blithely invite him into our house?"

"Papa, you know Catheryne," said Mistress Hester. "She would never put her trust in anyone bad like that."

"Yes," said her father, "but people can be deceived."

"Yes, and that's what I'm here for," said Mistress Hester pleasantly. "Come in, Master Demitri, and sit down." Without waiting for his answer she went down the hallway, clearly expecting them to follow.

"I don't think we're going to win this," said her mother to her father.

"Is this a common occurrence," Jordan asked them.

"Not all that often," said her father. "Or, if you look at it another way, far too often." He sighed. "Well. May we offer you the hospitality of the household?"

When Paitr Domenicos opened the door, the first thing he said was, "That's not safe."

"What isn't?" Catheryne asked lightly.

"For you to be out in public without your man Marcus," said Paitr. "What if something should happen to you?"

"Why, you'd protect me, of course," Catheryne said lightly.

Paitr rolled his eyes. "Fat chance of that. He's a much better swordsman than I am, I can see that. If it came down to me, I have to say, I wouldn't be able to guarantee your public safety, your Highness."

"Well, then," she said. "All the more reason for you to invite me in."

His eyebrows jumped and he grinned.

His parents bade them polite greetings and appropriate formalities, and then retreated, leaving the two of them at, not a giant feasting table like at the Daravon residence, but something much smaller. She was glad she had not brought Jordan; it would have been uncomfortably cramped with the three of them. In a glass vase on the table was a rose made of silk, but so realistic-looking that at first she stared.

"So, where is your minder, anyhow," Paitr asked.

"I sent him away," she said, giggling. "I-- Do you know Mistress Hester Stelmarine? Ah, yes. She's an old friend of mine. She returned from the Helenes Miine Finishing School only a few days ago, and I had meant to visit with her tonight. So I sent--" Jordan, she almost said. "Master Demitri there instead."

"I see," said Paitr. "And... Why did you not go to her then?"

"Because... An invitation arrived that I couldn't refuse," she said, giggling.

The light in his eyes changed, and with a sudden burst of objective clarity she realized just how forward she was being--from a verbal standpoint she was practically throwing herself at him, even as she sat demurely in her chair opposite him, her face tilted modestly downward, giving him her silver-blue eyes through her banks of hair. And she could see his face--she could see it ever so clearly--and she knew intrigued he was.

Then it died and he laughed and said, "You flatter me, your Highness, to find me so unrefusable. But I'm sure you see handsome men every day."

"Well, yes, that's true," she said, feeling the weights and pressures of sudden self-consciousness, like a second skin all around her. "But you cannot deny that you are more handsome than most."

He dismissed it with a wave. "An accident, surely. It could have been me, it could have been anyone."

"It could have," she said. "But it wasn't anyone. It was you."

He tried to smile that one off as well, but her intensity was hard to deny. "I... Suppose so."

There was a bit of an awkward silence while they fumbled over salads and forks. Catheryne seized her goblet and took a gulp of wine--it was more potent than she'd expected.

"So... They tell me you've got some special gift or something," he said finally.

Oh. That. "Yeah, that's what they tell me too," she said, hoping for a lighter tone.

"It's not..." He finally looked up. "It's not dangerous, is it?"

Oh. That. "Paitr... No, it's not dangerous. Well--yes, it is, that's why I'm learning to control it. But that's the point. I have learned to control it. I'm not going to burn this house down around your ears or anything."

"Well, I hope not, the house is made of stone," he said, smiling. Smiling a little too much.

"Look, Paitr. Do you remember the first time you held a sword? I'm sure your father or your teacher or whoever told you, 'Be careful, you could hurt somebody with that. And you probably did hurt somebody with it, eventually, if only by accident. Why? Because you were learning.