Fire in the Blood, page 15
Dumuzi’s nostrils flared as he sighed again, and shook his head. “Thank you very much, saer,” he said, in a way that made Dahl suspect he hadn’t answered the question at all. Putting it aside for the moment, he gave the door a stiff slam, then crept into the front parlor and crouched down behind a screen, Brin’s codes open on his lap.
One leg had started to fall asleep by the time the maid finally finished and left. He unfolded himself stiffly and hurried back upstairs to find Farideh, dry and dressed and propped up in the bed, her wet hair braided and the blankets folded down.
“I thought you’d left,” she said.
“Of course not. There are Sharrans in the palace, remember?” He pulled a chair closer to the bed. “What are we dealing with? A servant? A guard?”
“A noblewoman, I think,” Farideh said.
Dahl frowned. “You’re positive she’s a Sharran.”
“There isn’t any mistaking it.” Farideh blew out a breath. “You could get into the palace. You could just give Raedra a note. I’ll write it even—I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Getting into the royal palace isn’t simple,” Dahl said.
“Neither are you,” Farideh said. “So think of something.”
Dahl considered. “They’re starting to make arrangements for the crown prince’s funeral. There’s vendors and servants coming and going. I might be able to slip in with them. Where were the doorjacks quartered?”
“Upstairs,” Farideh said. “Why?”
“We’re going to hope they left some livery behind.” He gave her the torn receipt and took a scribe’s kit from his satchel. “Here—write the note. I’ll see if they have what I need.”
There was only a tabard with the Crownsilver’s crest, kicked under the neatly made bed. Dahl hoped his own breeches wouldn’t draw too much attention against the fine—if rumpled—uniform. He folded it neatly as he could and slipped it into the satchel. Downstairs, Farideh was fanning the drying ink with one hand.
“Can I leave these here with you?” Dahl asked, holding up Brin’s documents. “I’ll be back for them, assuming I’m not thrown in the dungeon.”
She nodded at the small table beside the bed. “I expect I’m not supposed to ask what they are. ‘Nothing interesting,’ right?”
“You want to read them, you’ll have to make them into Common first,” Dahl said. He paused. “Did Brin ever bring anyone here? Someone who might have been a contact?”
She shook her head, and handed over the note for the princess. “You and Vescaras are the only Harper folks I’ve seen. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Several somethings,” Dahl said. “Beginning with the fact that Brin has fled the city.”
“He’ll be all right,” Farideh said. She smoothed her hands over the blankets in a nervous way.
“They’ll all be all right,” Dahl said. Except for Farideh. “That maid’s not coming back, is she?”
“Doubtful. She spent half of the time explaining why she shouldn’t have come this-s t-time.” Her lips pressed white as another tremor took hold of her.
“Lie down,” Dahl said. Watching Gods, he thought, you can’t just leave her here—fevers and kidnappers and gods knew what next. “Is there someone else in the city? Someone who could come and sit with you?” Farideh gave him a dark look that not even Dahl could misread. “Lorcan?” he tried. “Could you call Lorcan down?”
She sighed and shut her eyes. “He shows up when he feels like it. You can leave me by myself, you know. Especially if you’re coming right back for those uninteresting documents.”
“Kidnappers,” Dahl reminded her.
“Sharran in the palace,” she returned, eyes still shut. “Stop arguing with me and go.”
Dahl scowled at her. “When I come back and you’re not here because those kidnappers took advantage of the fact you haven’t got so much as a doorguard and figured you’re close enough to being Havilar for their empoyer, I am not rescuing you.”
“No one asked you to,” Farideh pointed out. “And if you don’t go soon, I will not come rescue you when Shadovar teleport into the palace right on top of you.”
You cannot leave her here, Dahl thought. Not hardly able to walk. Not without a guard of some kind …
“Do you know if Mehen was expecting someone called Kepeshkmolik Dumuzi?” he asked.
“Another dragonborn? Not that I know of. What did he look like?”
“Dark gray scales. Bit skinny.”
“Oh,” Farideh said. “Maybe. I mean, he has a type.” She bit her lip. “Mehen would have said something. He’d have to have. Did … this Dumuzi say anything … about why?”
“No,” Dahl said. “But he’s definitely not a kidnapper, and I don’t get the feeling … You don’t have a dragonborn brother or something right?”
Farideh snorted, as if he’d made a joke. “No,” she said, noting his confusion again. “I am almost positive I don’t.”
Dahl smiled. “I would bet you a silver piece you do. Maybe you don’t want to think about your father and some lonely dragonborn lady but—”
“Dahl,” Farideh said. “Mehen doesn’t sleep with women. So he doesn’t get eggs on them. Keep your coin. He’s not my brother.”
“Oh.” Several memories, snippets of knowledge seemed to reorder themselves at that revelation, as if Dahl had just realized he’d been looking at the world with his head thrown back. “ ‘He has a type,’ ” he said, and cursed under his breath.
“Don’t feel bad,” Farideh said. “Most humans don’t notice. Like they don’t notice Sharrans—”
“Watching Gods, all right! I’m leaving!”
Dahl hurried from the tallhouse, annoyed and worried and embarrassed all at once. You’re going to have to come back, he thought. You can’t leave her like that. He scanned the Promenade from the steps.
Kepeshkmolik Dumuzi stood in the lee of the building opposite the tallhouse, an adventurer’s club all shut up in the early hours. He was counting coins in one scaly hand. Kepeshkmolik or not, Dahl thought, he could take a little pay.
“Well met, again,” Dahl said, coming to stand beside him. He held up a silver piece. “If you wouldn’t mind watching from the doorstep for an hour or two, you can consider that favor discharged.”
THE SERVANTS HANGING the new banners had to stand on a pair of precarious ladders to reach the anchors, handing down the purple and gold and red gonfalons celebrating the marriage of an Obarskyr and hauling up the gray-and-purple blazon of the fallen crown prince.
Because he’s dead, Raedra told herself, watching the second gonfalon drawn up the wall of the Royal Court’s public entrance. Your father is dead. You will never see him again.
It didn’t bring the flood of tears it should have—there was only an empty, hollow feeling in her chest, as if someone had plucked out something vital and forgotten to replace it. As if she still had to find the thing that fit into the hole she had there so that she could realize her father’s death had happened.
She shook her head and turned from the changing decorations. Either you’re cold or you’re mad, she told herself. But at least it isn’t both.
King Foril came to stand beside her, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, and trailed by a gaggle of courtiers—and Ganrahast. These days, always Ganrahast. The Royal Magician considered her stonily. She made a polite curtsy to her grandfather—he reached out and took her hand in his gnarled one, squeezing her tight. “My dear, my dear,” he said, his voice thick. He leaned against her as he considered the banners.
“They were Emvar’s,” he said, his grief echoing through the words, as if it had made Foril into a cavern, another empty thing. “They said we should make others. But these … these will do. Irvel would have appreciated the honor—he always loved his uncle. Always.”
“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” she said.
“Child, I’m the one who should be sorry.” He squeezed her hand down to the bone. “They told me I shouldn’t go to war—‘let your son go instead, he is nearly king.’ ” He shook his head. “I don’t think Irvel ever understood what it was that war brings upon a man. I have been a long time hiding from it, shifting alliances, twisting borders. And don’t give me that ‘Your Majesty’ business, not now.”
“Granddad,” Raedra said softly, too softly, she hoped, for the courtiers to hear. Among them, her erstwhile granduncle-in-law, Lord Turin Huntcrown and her soon-to-be granduncle-in-law, Lord Pheonard Crownsilver, Helindra’s younger brother. Two men before whom she did not want to show weakness of any stripe. “It’s just protocol.”
“It’s a travesty at a time like this, cheeky bird,” he said, and Raedra smiled at the old nickname. “Have you been to see your brother?”
“This morning,” Raedra said. And it had not driven the tears from her either. The bandaged man lying in the bed, tended by healers and clerics, fed and washed and made to piss through what means, Raedra didn’t dare ask for her brother’s own privacy—well, that was Baerovus, and yet it was not. “I will go again after I sit with mother. She was sleeping when I went earlier.”
Foril patted her arm. “It’s good, how you see to your family. How you understand …” He trailed off, looking up at the banners. “These were my brother’s. I never thought I would grieve the way I did that day. Such a fool, such a fool.”
Raedra hugged the king of Cormyr as he’d wished, as if he were just her grandfather, and didn’t care what the watching nobles thought. “You should rest, Granddad.”
He sighed. “I have to hear grievances from the nobility now,” he said. “It’s not all silks and polish and hunts, being king.” He gave her a stern look. “Being queen, either. How is … Aubrin?”
He’d nearly said Emvar, she was sure of it. Raedra smiled sadly, remembering the addled tiefling’s words and wishing she could slap sense into Aubrin. “Most grieved. He’s gone to the Crownsilvers’ country home, to recover himself.” She shot Pheonard a steely look. “Isn’t that right?”
His hazel eyes flicked nervously to Foril. “I hadn’t heard, Your Highness.”
“Whatever for?” Foril asked. “He should be here. He should be with you.”
“We grieve in our own ways … I must go,” she told Foril. “Please excuse me, Your Majesty. Your Lordships.” Ganrahast met her eye, and she nodded at him. Whatever his faults, he was more loyal than anyone to her grandfather, and would keep the vultures at bay.
“None of that, cheeky bird.” Foril kissed her forehead. “Go and see if your ladies can make you laugh.”
Raedra curtsied again, but she stayed where she was, watching her grandfather walk away, trailed by sycophantic noblemen. Ganrahast paused, watching Raedra.
“Where are your guards, Highness?” he asked.
“I’m sure they’re around,” Raedra said.
“Raedra,” the Royal Magician said sternly. “Now, more than ever, you need to keep close to your guards. We’ve lost one Obarskyr too many this tenday, and two more …” He trailed off. “War Wizard Barcastle is watching you this afternoon. Should you need anything, simply ask for her. Go draft some guards from the shrine and have them escort you back to the palace, please.”
Raedra said nothing, but once Ganrahast had turned to follow Foril, she passed the long hall hung with mourning banners and entered the Shrine of the Four Swords as directed.
Another banner hung from the center of the circular room. Over benches pushed together and draped in black cloth, her father’s ceremonial armor lay, in place of his body. A dozen nobles stood around the display, sniffling and weeping into their handkerchiefs, and crowding the close space. Several stopped Raedra to give their condolences, and she had to fight her way through them to the guard station off the center room.
Four Purple Dragons stood guard over the four Swords of State and the makeshift shrine to the fallen crown prince. One, a grizzled fellow on the edge of retirement, saluted as Raedra entered. His comrades followed suit.
“I need an escort back to the palace. Or a sword to carry,” Raedra added dryly. “Your choice, lionar.” The Purple Dragon regarded her gravely. The next shift was coming, another Purple Dragon explained, could she wait a few songs until then? Raedra settled herself on a bench and accepted a mug of mulled wine from the guards.
The Four Swords of State rested on a simple wooden stand, out of the way while mourners paid their respects to the fallen crown prince. Ansrivarr, the Blade of Memory, the greatsword taken up by the first king of Cormyr. Symylazarr, the Font of Honor, on which all oaths of fealty to the Dragon Throne were sworn. Rissar, the Wedding Blade, on which she and Lindon had sworn their vows.
And Orbyn, the Edge of Justice.
Raedra eyed the keen edge of the long sword, the blade of kings. The blade that had slain Thauglorimorgorus, the Purple Dragon, the Black Doom of the Forest Country. The blade that had slain Lindon Huntcrown.
Some mornings, when Raedra woke too early, she would come down to the Shrine of the Four Swords and sit quietly across from Orbyn’s plinth. She never visited Lindon’s grave, but here she could grieve a little without anyone asking her what she was thinking.
At Orbyn’s side, the jewel-studded hilt of Rissar winked merrily in the flickering lights, as if it were laughing at her. Normally, it rested in its own antechamber, off to the right of Orbyn’s, and Raedra didn’t have to look at the short sword or consider whether she had broken the vows she spoke over it, whether Rissar had failed her and Cormyr by failing to catch the falseness of her wedding. Whether Lindon’s death had been the curse or the blessing of the Wedding Blade.
“Highness?” A Purple Dragon, a hard-faced younger woman, leaned over her. “The new watch is here. Shall we return you to your quarters?”
They walked from the Royal Court and back to the royal palace, passing servants and nobles and guards and war wizards—some sniffling, some red-eyed, some sobbing openly and wantonly. Raedra stared ahead, still hollow, still empty of tears.
Your father is dead, she thought again. Your brother lies, a broken vessel. He may never wake. They may never take those banners down.
Her heart ached, as if she were trying to squeeze the tears from a stone.
When Lindon died, she’d been just as hollow, just as hard. But that time she’d spilled all her tears out at the beginning—the moment she knew she’d lost him. She’d huddled in the dark of his room and wept and wept and wept without ever making a sound. Streams and streams of tears, a river of snot, a most unladylike mourning, all into the folds of her nightdress. Perhaps she’d poured all her tears out that night, because when Lindon had finally died, she had only sat, calm and quiet, and after, everyone said her heart must be made of ice.
And now they’ll say it all again, she thought, reaching her rooms. Maybe they were right. The Purple Dragons stationed themselves just inside the door.
A flurry of maids and jacks darted throughout the rooms—carrying bright arrangements of flowers away, folding up her cheerful summer dresses and hanging new-made mourning in their place. Hiding every sign that this month had been meant to be a joyous one in the House of Obarskyr. Raedra eyed the dark red roses on the table beside the windowsill, and wondered how they’d ever come by enough to look suitably somber. The shade was far from in favor, with Shar’s dark empire ever on the horizon.
“Oh!” one of the maids squeaked, spotting her. “Oh, Your Highness!” Every maid in the room froze, deer before a lioness—every maid but Nell.
“Your Highness,” her lady’s maid said, curtsying deeply. “You have my—nay, you have all of our deepest condolences. The crown prince was dear to all of the Forest Kingdom, but dearest to his family and there is none within Suzail who would gainsay that.”
“Thank you,” Raedra said. Every maid’s eye was rubbed red and puffy. “Your kind words are a balm.”
“You also have our deepest apologies—we’d intended to be finished before you returned. We never meant to have the room in such disarray—”
“It’s quite all right,” Raedra said. “If my father’s death and my brother’s current state aren’t enough to relax protocol, what is?” She smiled wanly, and the little squeaky maid—Everly? Eveline?—burst into fresh tears. Nell guided Raedra into one of the chairs near the window, and offered to send one of the jacks for warmed wine and honeyed bread, and another for her retinue.
Raedra thanked her—the woman’s nervous energy set her on edge. Something to do, some way to help would ease that, even if Raedra wanted nothing to eat and no one to talk to. She wondered, distantly, if Varauna had wept, and imagined her first applying the paint to make it look as if she had, most delicately, and then imagined her weeping as messily and thoroughly as a mourner in a play—beating her breast and tearing her hair, all dramatics.
Raedra’s mother had wept that way—though only once the doors were closed, and before Ganrahast had brought her the means to sleep through the night. The Royal Magician had offered Raedra the same potion, but she’d turned it down. The idea of not being able to rouse if someone should come hunting for her … well, that was where too many of her nightmares began.
The wine and bread came, carried in by a jack in sore need of a comb and a press for his tabard. She didn’t comment on it—if Foril called her ‘cheeky bird’ in front of courtiers, and the maids could clean while she sat and watched, then Raedra wasn’t about to dress down a mourning fellow who hadn’t pressed his tabard right.
“Thank you,” she said, as he set the tray on the table beside her.
“Of course, Your Highness,” he said. He lingered a moment too long, and Raedra looked up to see him pull a folded note from under his tabard. “This came for you as well. It seemed very urgent.”
Raedra took the note, frowning at him. “Are you new?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said.
“In the future,” Raedra said, unfolding the letter, “when some noble hands you a note for me and tells you it’s urgent, it isn’t. It’s an ill-advised attempt at a love note or some other nonsense. If it’s urgent, they will hand it to …”
