Lhind the Spy by Sherwood Smith
Go-west. We-go-southwest.
I thought about this, and when next I caught her eye as she scanned high, low, in all directions, I asked, “So he will not chase us, is that what you are saying?”
Her expression tightened again, but she brought her chin down in a short nod and pointed stiff fingers to the western heights, purple in the hazy sun.
I knew she was dangerous, and I did not want to seem to be baiting her, but I struggled mentally as the day wore on. When we stopped to water the horses and change the saddles to the remounts, something she did as easily as if they were featherbeds, I said, “I have a question.”
She thrust our water flasks into my hands and pointed to the stream we’d stopped beside. I obediently went to shake the stale drops out and sink the flasks down deeply enough not to catch stray bits of old grass floating along the surface.
I lugged them back, and she bent down to dribble water between the dry lips of the prisoner. He cursed her, but drank. She had let him lie where he fell, his wrists and ankles still bound; when she reached to pick him up again, he stiffened and did his best to fight.
She smacked him open-handed. He fell down, the bruised side of his head turned up, thin bits of dried blood darkening his red hair. It was a miracle he hadn’t cracked his head. He must have had a fierce headache, but he still cursed her when she hauled him up by his armpits and then with a grunt flung him over the saddle again, and lashed him to the stirrups.
I hung the flasks to the saddles and, at a gesture from her, scrambled up onto the new horse. It took a moment or two to adjust myself to this horse’s mind and manner, especially as I was sore in all those muscles I had learned to use so recently.
So I was silent as we started down the road toward a wickerwork of barren trees, the hills of the border striped with long golden shadows as the sun began dropping westward.
When I glanced Oflan’s way, she opened her palm, fingers curled: Question?
She could read lips, but the line between her brows suggested to me for the first time that she might have as bad a headache as the prisoner, or very nearly. She showed no signs of it, except that she moved with the care of someone conserving strength.
I knew enough hand-sign by now. Go-against-orders?
No. A definite shake of her head. Outside-orders. And after a time, in which the only sounds were raucous birds quarreling in the tall treetops to the right and the chuckle of a small waterfall in the stream by the road, she signed, Betray-no-oath.
Surprised, I forgot my intention and exclaimed, “You made an oath to Prince Geric?”
“Hey, you canker-blown maggots,” the prisoner called in Faran. “You have made the last mistake of your lives.”
Oflan had been keeping him in her vision; her lip curled. Then she winced, thumbing her temples. Yes, she had a headache. She signed, He-duke-Thann. My-oath-to-Thann.
She clearly thought that explained everything, but questions bloomed so fast in my mind I felt like they’d fly out my ears. My hair lifted in reaction, and I sucked in a breath to smooth it again, with no luck. All my bad experiences with Geric (admittedly in part caused by my robbing him, but still!) came out in pent-up outrage. “Surely you don’t trust him?”
“What’s that you’re saying?” the prisoner snarled.
We ignored him as I wrestled with the idea, then came enlightenment. Thann-your-home, I signed. You-loyal-home?
I was quite proud of what I thought a profound insight. The idea of home was as novel as the concept of loyalty. But my question only caused her to look away, her jaw so tight I could see a vein ticking in her neck, and she repeated the signs for oath and Thann, slapping the backs of her fingers against her palm for emphasis.
I knew I was missing something here, but now was not the time to explore that, any more than it was for me to indulge in slandering Prince Geric as he so richly deserved. We had enough to deal with right before us.
SIX
We camped at sundown. She might not have heard our prisoner cursing and insulting us, but she must have got the gist of what he was saying as she loosened the ties to his stirrups, because once again she let him slide off and fall to the ground with a splat.
She gave him water but said as I fetched the fresh food, He-lives. Enough.
Good thinking. Maybe he’d be less trouble on an empty belly. But even so, I soon discovered that, tired as I was, when you have a prisoner, you have to set up guard duty. We divided the night between us, but even so it seemed the longest night in the history of the world.
When dawn finally arrived, it brought low clouds. As Oflan took care of the animals I looked at my filthy clothes, and snapped my tail and hair in a mostly futile effort to rid myself of grit.
Oflan and I shared out the cold, stale bread and cheese, our every bite watched by the prisoner. She allowed him two mouthfuls of water. His one unswollen eye was red and angry, but he made only a perfunctory resistance as Oflan threw him onto a horse and we mounted up.
We’d chosen a spot out of the wind, under what would have been the shelter of a spreading oak if the oak had had any leaves. We’d reached a plateau of low, undulating hills that stretched upward toward the mountains into which Rajanas’s capital, Imbradi, had been built.
The rising wind was cold and wet, the low clouds promising sleet. I braced myself for a miserable ride—and then heard thundering hooves coming at us from over the next rise.
I shouted—of course, Oflan couldn’t hear me—but she was already making sure her weapons were at hand, as the horses’ ears twitched forward.
There was nowhere for us to go. We slowed our horses as over the rise trotted a patrol in the blue of the Alezand Guard.
“There they are!” a voice—speaking Allendi—carried on the wind.
At a sign from the leader, the patrol split efficiently to circle us.
Oflan flung her reins under her knee and drew weapons as we were surrounded, but when the captain, a hard-faced young man with a hawk nose and big ears, bawled out in Allendi, “Halt! Put down your weapons!” I waved at Oflan, pointing frantically at them, shouting in Elras, the most widely used tongue in the empire: “They are real Blues, they are real Blues!”
She sheathed her weapons at once.
I rehearsed the quickest words, but then surprise turned to dismay when the captain said curtly, his throat knuckle bobbing, “Disarm and bind the prisoners.” And then, eyeing our prisoner, in a different voice, “Your captain and wing?”
“Thieves,” he croaked. “Those two are murderers and thieves.”
“No we’re not,” I yelled, and bit back the absurd impulse to add, Well, she’s not a thief, anyway. “He’s a Faran mercenary.”
The Allendi captain eyed me. Then our prisoner. Then Oflan, surrounded by a circle of armed and ready Blues, and sighed. “A Hrethan, a Gray Wolf, and . . . whatever you are.” His voice soured when he came to the prisoner. “We’re here to investigate the attacks on the border by persons unknown, wearing our garb.” And then a really mean look Oflan’s way. “We thought they were the Gray Wolves in disguise.”
He waved a hand. “Bind them all. Someone above me will sort them out.”
They searched Oflan, took away her weapons, and then tied her hands. She endured this with a tight face and angry eyes. “All right, get back on the horse.”
When she didn’t respond, the searcher drew in breath to shout, but I said, “She’s deaf.”
“Oh.” He grimaced. “I don’t know hand-sign.” He stepped in front of Oflan, pointed at the horse and saddle, saying loudly and exaggeratedly, “Get. Up.”
She mounted easily—a step and vault—as if her hands hadn’t been bound. I could see how impressed the Blues were by how several circled in close, as if she were about to pull out an invisible sword and attack them all.
As for me, the searcher assigned to me was a young woman around my own age (whatever that might be), who eyed my grimy clothes with a crimp of disgust in her upper lip. I lifted my hair, cl
So I mounted, taking care that my bag of thief tools stayed flat under my thigh; the long fluttering panels of my drape helped.
We set out at a fast pace, which didn’t abate until we spotted the city beyond the next hill. Before we got much farther we encountered another patrol. A pause for a quick exchange (followed by all heads turning to give us a crown-to-heel scan), to refresh the animals, and we were off again.
When we reached the city gates, we were waved through, again with all eyes taking us in as we passed up the clean, winding streets. On either side close-built houses of stone or brick looked ready for winter, the window boxes gone, and thick square-paned glass in the windows under those steeply slanted roofs.
As before, the street widened until it gave onto a park, at the other end of which was Rajanas’ marble palace. Oflan rode with her chin high, the only sign of emotion a little red under her strongly etched cheekbones. Her ash-pale hair bounced softly at each hoof beat.
We rode around to the back of the palace. Somebody had obviously gone ahead, because armed guards awaited us in the courtyard. Stable hands ran out to take charge of the sweaty horses as our patrol dismounted. Tired horses plodded one way, tired patrollers another. Accompanied by Captain Big Ears and this new set of guards, we were taken in the back way of the palace I remembered so well, though I’d spent less than half a day in it all told.
Here again were the whitewashed walls and clay tile floors. I listened to the tramp of feet and the heavy breathings around me, fighting the instinct to run. Mentally making a wager whether we were headed for the toff floors or the dungeon, I sidled glances around for possible escape routes.
This city was not nearly high enough for me to try my transformation, but that was only the newest of my tricks. I was plenty good at climbing and running. Indeed, that was how I’d made my first escape after Geric had taken this city from the inside.
Recollecting this bolstered my never-very-strong courage as our escort clattered their way up some broad stairs and herded us into a plain chamber, where military types stood in a circle around a figure in black and spring green.
The circle opened, revealing Rajanas himself, pale eyes in a brown face framed by long black hair, a thin mustache his only affectation. It framed a sardonic mouth that quirked appreciatively when he saw me.
“And so we meet again, thief,” he said, but not nastily. In fact, I think he was trying not to laugh at my grimy self and bare feet.
But all traces of humor vanished, and there was the Rajanas I remembered when he took in Oflan. “A Gray Wolf,” he drawled.
Her eyes narrowed.
I said, “I don’t know if she can read lips in Allendi.”
Rajanas glanced my way, brows lifted. Then he frowned at his hands and tentatively signed Name. Go—then something I couldn’t understand, and he shook his head and dropped his hands.
To me he said, “I knew a little hand-sign when I was small, but I taught it to Hlanan on the galley so we could talk without being overheard, and we made up our own words. Now I can’t remember which were genuine and which ours.” He gave Oflan a grim look, then said to me, “So you’ve joined the Gray Wolves, is that it? Are they the ones running up and down the border, setting fires and attacking harvest barns, dressed as my Blues?”
“No!” I yelped. “You got one of those in your prison. We stopped one of the attacks, and grabbed him to find out who they were. That was after we rode here to tell you about the coming attack.”
The words “coming attack” caused them all to stiffen to alertness, hands going to sword hilts as if Dhes-Andis and his minions were about to crash in through the window.
I’d rehearsed what to say. Out it all came in a stream, with several stops and back-fills because I remembered that Rajanas knew nothing about Maita or what had happened to that terrible book.
He listened without interrupting or even betraying much reaction, until I got to, “And Geric married the Duchess of Thann, I don’t know why, but she must have done it to get the book, but now he’s in command of the Gray Wolves.”
On the word “duchess” his brows shot upward again. “Very interesting. Very.”
“And he’s on his way, right now. With Hlanan.”
“With Hlanan? As a hostage?”
“Not sure.” I wrung my hands, remembered that Rajanas knew who Hlanan really was, and so I stuck my hands in my armpits. “The thing I am sure is, Hlanan wants to get a look at the Pass himself.”
“Ah. Assuming this is not one of your embroideries, he’s riding in the guise of a hostage. That sounds more like Hlanan,” Rajanas said with a grim smile.
Then he addressed one of the waiting equerries. “Find me an interpreter.” And when the equerry had saluted and vanished through the door, Rajanas said to me, “I expect you can communicate with her, but you’ll recollect the last time I saw you was after you’d managed to set fire to several pirate ships—and that was after revealing that you were in mental communication with Dhes-Andis. And that was after you’d made it plain that lying had been your first defense during a life on the run. At this point in our acquaintance I’m hesitant to mount a defensive strategy based on your word. Especially with an army in the Pass, at best waiting for spring and at worst, waiting for who knows what signal. Which conceivably could be conveyed through you.”
Annoyance flared through me. But at least he was telling me instead of throwing me in a dungeon. So I said, “I guess I can’t convince you I hate Dhes-Andis worse than poison, and if he begged and pleaded for me to accept the empress’s crown, I would run to another continent.”
Rajanas snorted.
I sighed. “If you’re not going to throw me behind bars, might I visit that splendid bath of yours?”
The grim line of his mouth eased. “You certainly may. Take your time. I have two prisoners to interrogate, beginning with the one you so thoughtfully brought us.” He nicked his chin at Oflan and said to the waiting guards, “Bring her down to the garrison when she’s done.”
Before I’d drawn three breaths I was being led in one direction and Oflan taken in another, with such haste that I had a feeling Rajanas did not want me talking in sign to her. As a muscular servant in sky blue and black livery led me up the marble staircase, I remembered his “you so thoughtfully.” That was mighty ambiguous. Did he really think that that red-haired prisoner was our disguised mercenary?
I had to fight the impulse to turn right around and yell that I could have made up a better story than that! I grumped to myself on the long walk, but my bad mood vanished when I reached the wonderful bath I’d seen on my first visit, an enormous pool heated by magic, in a tiled room of blue and gold and brown. One thing for sure, rich people really understood comfort, I thought happily as I wriggled free of my clothes and dived in.
I swam to the end where the fountain continually poured fresh water in. Soap of various kinds waited in little dishes. I helped myself, thoroughly enjoying a good scrub.
At length, curiosity about what was happening impelled me to climb out. In the far room I found a towel waiting and spied a cleaning frame. I put my clothes through it, and so dirty was the outfit that the cleaning magic flared in green-blue sparkles all over the peach silk.
I fluffed my hair and tail until they were barely damp, rubbed my fuzz until it was soft and fluffy again, then shrugged into my drape. I put through the stolen shoes, which didn’t look much better after being cleaned, they were so old and worn, and Oflan’s stockings. I put my thief tools into one of my hidden pockets, picked up the shoes and socks, and opened the door.
The tall steward waited directly outside. Threat? Not threat? He led me down the hall to a small chamber, where waited a tray of fruit tar
Taking that as a hopeful sign, I said to the silent steward, “Are you hungry? You may as well join me.”
He gave his head a shake. “I don’t eat on duty,” he said.
Duty. A reminder I was under guard. It didn’t seem I was going to get anything out of him, so I concentrated on my meal.
I was choosing between a last plum-cake and a berry-tartlet when Rajanas appeared as abruptly as he’d gone off, still trailing equerries. “Done?” he asked me, and without waiting for an answer, said, “Good. Let’s ride.”
The words were an invitation, but the tone was an order that everybody obeyed, perforce sweeping me along.
Rajanas whirled around so fast his long hair swung between his shoulder blades. He’d found time to change out of those sky-blue silk clothes into the sturdy black I was used to seeing him in. His battle tunic hit the doorjamb, then with a long stride he shot out the door, issuing a stream of orders as he walked.
I trotted to catch up—accidentally leaving the shoes and stockings along with the empty plate. At three points I spotted possible escape routes, but my sense of danger was far outweighed by curiosity. And the danger didn’t feel personal.
“Where’s Oflan?” I asked, when the last equerry bolted down a passageway with her new orders. “Not in your dungeon, I hope.”
“Riding with us.” Rajanas cast a glance my way. “Your red-haired friend is staying behind in the dungeon. Needless to say, his story contradicts everything the two of you said. Giving me three potential liars.”
“I’m not lying,” I said hotly. Then saw in his compressed lips the urge to laugh. “I know, I know, so says the liar,” I added hastily, rolling my eyes. “You can save the speeches.”
“First time your lies have caught up with you?”
“I never stayed anywhere long enough for it to matter,” I said, glowering.