Oathbreaker

Six

Perfume, wine, and wire-tight nerves. Musk, hot wax, and dying flowers. The air in the Great Hall was so thick with scent that Tarma felt overpowered by all the Warrlng odors. The butter-colored marble of the very walls and floor seemed warm rather than cool. Lighted candles were everywhere, from massed groupings of thin tapers to pillars as thick as Tarma's wrist. The pale polished marble reflected the light until the Great Hall glowed, fully as bright as daylight. The hundreds of jewels, the softly gleaming gold on brow and neck and arm, the winking golden bullion weighing down hems sparkled like a panoply of stars.

It was not precisely noisy here -- but the murmuring of dozens, hundreds of conversations, the underlying current of the music of a score of minstrels, the sound of twenty pairs of feet weaving through an intricate dance -- the combination added up to an effect as dizzying as the light, heat or scent.

Carved wooden doors along one wall opened up onto a courtyard garden, also illuminated for the evening -- but by magic, not candles. But few moved to take advantage of the quiet and cool garden -- not when the real power in this land was here.

If power had possessed a scent, it would have overwhelmed all the others in the hall. The scarlet-and-gold-clad man lounging on the gilded wooden throne at the far end of the Great Hall was young, younger than Tarma, but very obviously the sole agent of control here. No matter what they were doing, nearly everyone in this room kept one eye on him at all times; if he leaned forward the better to listen to one of the minstrels, all conversation hushed -- if he nodded to a lady, peacock-bright gallants thronged about her. But if he smiled upon her, even her escort deserted her, not to return until their monarch's interest wandered elsewhere.

He was not particularly imposing, physically. Brown hair, brown eyes; medium build; long, lantern-jawed face with a hard mouth and eye-brows like ruler-drawn lines over his eyes -- his was not the body of a Warrior, but not the body of a weakling, either.

Then he looks at you, Tarma thought, and you see the predator, the king of his territory, the strongest beast of the pack. And you want to crawl to him on your belly and present your throat in submission.

:Unless,: the thin tendril of Warrl's mind-voice insinuated itself into her preoccupation, :Just unless you happen to be a pair of rogue bitches like yourself and your sister. You bow to your chosen packleader, and no one else. And you never grovel.:

The brilliantly-bedecked courtiers weren't entirely certain how to treat Kethry and her black-clad shadow -- probably because the King himself hadn't been all that certain. Wherever they walked, conversation faltered and died. There was veiled fright in the courtiers' eyes-real fright. Tarma wondered if she hadn't overdone her act a bit.

On the other hand. King Raschar had kept his hands off the sorceress. It had looked for a moment as if he was considering chancing her "protector's" wrath -- but one look into Tarma's coldly impassive eyes, (eyes, she'd often been told, that marked her as a born killer) seemed to make him decide that it might not be worth it.

Tarma would have laid money down on the odds she knew exactly what he was thinking when he gave her that measuring look. He could well have reckoned that she might be barbarian enough to act if she took ofrense -- and quick enough to do him harm before his guards could do anything about her. Maybe even quick enough to kill him. :The predator recognizes another of his kind.:

Tarma nodded to herself. Warrl wasn't far wrong. If this was highborn life, Tarma was just as glad she'd been born a Shin'a'in nomad. The candlelight that winked from exquisite jewels also reflected from hollow, hungry eyes; voices were shrill with artificial gaiety. There was no peace to be found here, and no real enjoyment. Just a never-ending round of competition, competition in which the smallest of gestures took on worlds of meaning, and in which they, as unknown elements, were a very disturbing pair of unexpected variables.

The only members of this gathering that seemed to be enjoying themselves in any way were a scant handful of folks, who, by the look of them, were not important enough to worry the power-players; a few courting couples, some elderly nobles and merchants -- and a pair of men over in one corner, conversing quietly in the shadows, garbed so as to seem almost shadows themselves, who stood to-gether with winecups in hand. They were well out of the swirl of the main action, ignored for the most part by the players of this frenetic game. When one of the two shifted, the one wearing the darkest clothing, Tarma caught a good look at the face and recognized him for the Horsemaster. He had donned that impassive mask he'd worn when he first looked the horses over, and he was dressed more for comfort than to impress. Like Tarma he was dressed mainly in black -- in his case, with touches of scarlet. His only ornaments were the silver-and-moon-stone pieces he'd worn earlier.

The other man was all in gray, and Tarma could not manage to catch a glimpse of his face. Whoever he was, Tarma was beginning to wish she was with him and the Horsemaster. She was already tired to the teeth of this reception.

Although Tarma usually enjoyed warmth, the air in the Great Hall was stiflingly hot even to her. As she watched the men out of the corner of her eye, they evidently decided the same, for they began moving in the direction of one of the doors that led out into the gardens. As they began to walk, Tarma saw with a start that the second man limped markedly.

"Keth, d'you see our friend from this afternoon?" she said in a conversational tone. "Will you lay me odds that the fellow with him is that Archivist?"

"I don't think I'd care to; I believe that you'd win." Kethry nodded to one of the suddenly-tongue-tied courtiers as they passed, the very essence of gracious calm. The man nodded back, but his eyes were fixed on Tarma. "Care for a breath of fresh air?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

They made their own way across the room, without hurrying, and not directly -- simply drifting gradually as the ebb and flow of the crowd permitted. They stopped once to accept fresh wine from a servant, and again to exchange words with one of the few nobles (a frail, alert-eyed old woman swathed in white fur) who didn't seem terrified of them. It seemed to take forever, and was rather like treading the measures of an intricate dance. But eventually they reached the open door with its carvings and panels of bronze, and escaped into the cool duskiness of the illuminated gardens.

Tarma had been prepared to fade into the shadows and stalk until she found their quarry, but the two men were in plain sight beside one of the mage-light decorated fountains. They were clearly silhouetted against the sparkling, blue-glowing waters. The Archivist was seated on a white marble bench, holding his winecup in both hands: the Horsemaster stood beside him, leaning over to speak to him with one booted foot on the stone slab, his own cup dangling perilously from loose fingers.

The partners strolled unhurriedly to the fountain, pretending that Kethry was admiring it. The Horsemaster saw them approaching; as Tarma watched, his mouth tightened, and he made a little negating motion with his free hand to his companion as the two women came within earshot.

But when they continued to close, he suddenly became resignedly affable. Placing his cup on the stone bench, he prepared to approach them.

"My Lady Kethryveris, I would not have recognized you," he said, leaving his associate's side, taking her hand in his, and bowing over it. "You surprise me; I would have thought you could not be more attractive than you were this afternoon. I trust the gathering pleases you?"

A ... remarkable assemblage," Kethry replied, allowing a hint of irony to creep into her voice. "But I do not believe anyone introduced me to your friend-?"

"Then you must allow me to rectify the mistake at once." He led her around the bench, Tarma following silently as if she truly was Kethry's shadow, so that they faced the man seated there. The fountain pattered behind them, masking their conversation from anyone outside their immediate vicinity.

"Lady Kethryveris, may I present Jadrek, the Rethwellan Archivist."

For some reason Tarma liked this man even more than she had the Horsemaster, liked him immediately. The mage-light behind them lit his features clearly. He was a man of middle years, sandy hair going slightly to silver, his face was thin and ascetic and his forehead broad. His gray eyes held an echo of pain, and there were answering lines of pain about his generous mouth. That was an odd mouth; it looked as if it had been made expressly to smile, widely and often, but something had caused it to set in an expression of permanent cynicism. His gray tunic and breeches were of soft moleskin, and it almost seemed to Tarma that he wore them with the intent to fade into the background of wherever he might be.

This is a man the Clans would hold in high esteem -- in the greatest of honor. There is wisdom in him, as well as learning. So why is he unregarded and ignored here? No matter what Idra said -- I find it hard to understand people who do not honor wisdom when they see it.

"I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Jadrek," Kethry said, softly and sweetly, as she gave him her hand. "I am more pleased because I had heard good things of you from Captain Idra."

Tarma felt for the hilts of her knives as inconspicuously as she could, as both men jerked as if they'd been shot. This had not been part of the plans she and Kethry had discussed earlier!

The Archivist recovered first. "Are you then something other than you seem, Lady Kethryveris, that you call the Lady Idra 'Captain'?"

Kethry smiled, as Tarma loosened the knife hidden in her sleeve and wished she could get at the one at the nape of her neck without giving herself away.

Damn -- I can't get them both -- Keth, what the hell are you doing?

"In no way," her partner replied smoothly. "I am all that I claim to be. I simply have not claimed all that I am. We hoped to find the lady here, but strangely enough, we've seen no sign other."

Keth -- Tarma thought, waiting for one or both of the men to make some kind of move, -- you bloody idiot'. I hope you have a reason for this.

The Horsemaster continued to stare in taut wariness, and Tarma had a suspicion that he, too, had a blade concealed somewhere about him. Maybe in his boot? The Archivist was eyeing them with suspicion, but also as if he was trying to recall something.

"You ... could be the chief mage of the Sunhawks. You seem to match the description," he said finally, then turned slightly to stare at Tarma. "And that would make you the ... Scoutmaster? Tindel, these may well be two of Idra's fighters; they certainly correspond with what I've been told."

The Horsemaster pondered them, and Tarma noted a very slight relaxation of his muscles. "Might be ... might be," he replied, "But there are ways to make certain. Why does Idra ride Gray rather than her warhorse when not in battle?" He spoke directly to Tarma, who gave up pretending not to understand him.

"Because Black enjoys using his teeth," she said, enjoying his start of shock at her harsh voice, "and if he can't take a piece out of anything else, he'll go for his rider's legs. She's tried kicking him from here to Valdemar for it, and still hasn't broken him of it. So she never rides him except in a fight. And if you know about Black, you'll also know that we almost lost him in the last campaign; he took a crossbow bolt and went down with Idra on his back, but he was just too damned mean to die. Now you tell me one; why won't she let me give her a Shin'a'in saddlebred to ride when she's not on Black?"

"Because she won't start negotiations with clients on a bad footing by being better-mounted than they are," the Archivist said quietly.

"I taught her that," the Horsemaster added. "I told her that the day she first rode out of here on her own, and wanted to take the best-looking horse in the stable. When she rode out, it was on a Karsite cob that had been rough-trained to fight; it was as ugly as a mud brick. When did she lose it?"

"Uh -- long before we joined; I think when she was in Randel's Raiders," Kethry replied to the lightning-quick question after a bit of thought.

"I think perhaps we have verified each other as genuine?" Tindel asked with a twisted smile. Jadrek continued to watch them; measuringly, and warily still.

"Has Idra been here?" Kethry countered.

"Yes; been, and gone again."

"Keth, we both know there's something going on around here that nobody's talking about." Tarma glanced at the two men, and Tindel nodded slightly. "If we don't want to raise questions we'd rather not answer, I think we'd better either rejoin the rest of the world, or drift around the garden, then retire.'

"Your instincts are correct; as strangers you're automatically under observation. It's safe enough to mention Idra, so long as you don't call her 'Captain,' " Tindel offered. "But I should warn you that we two are not entirely in good odor with His Majesty -- Jadrek in particular. I might be in better case after tomorrow, when he sees those horses. Nevertheless it won't do you any good to be seen with us. I think you might do well to check with other information sources before you come to one of us again."

Tarma looked him squarely in the eyes, trying to read him. Every bit of experience she had told her he was telling the truth -- and that now that the approach had been made, it would take a deal of courting before they would confide anything. She looked down at Jadrek; if eyes were the "windows of the soul" his had the storm shutters up. He had identified them; that didn't mean he trusted them. Finally she nodded. "We'll do that."

* * *

"Gods!" Tindel swore softly. "Of all the rabbit-brained-women!" He didn't pace, but by the clenching of his hand on his goblet, Jadrek knew that he badly wanted to. "If anybody had been close enough to hear her -- "

"If they're what they say they are, they wouldn't have pulled this with anyone close enough to hear them," Jadrek retorted, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as his left knee shot a spasm of pain up his leg. "On the other hand, if they aren't, they might well have wanted witnesses."

"If, if, if -- Jadrek -- " Tindel's face was stormy.

"I still haven't made up my mind about them," the Archivist interrupted his friend. "If they are Idra's friends, they're going about this intelligently. If they're Raschar's creatures, they're being very canny. They could be either. We haven't seen or heard of the pretty one so much as lighting a candle, but if she's really Idra's prime mage, she wouldn't. Char surely knows as much about the Hawks as we do, and having two women, one of them Shin'a'in Swordsworn, show up here after Idra's gone off into the unknown, must certainly have alerted his suspicions. If the other did something proving herself to be a mage, he wouldn't be suspicious anymore, he'd be certain."

"So what do we do?"

Jadrek smiled wearily at his only friend. "We do what we've been doing all along. We wait and watch. We see what they do. Then -- maybe -- we recruit them to our side."

Tindel snorted. "And meanwhile, Idra ..."

"Idra is either perfectly safe -- or beyond help. And in either case, nothing we do or don't do in the next few days is going to make any difference at all."

* * *

"Next time just stop my heart, why don't you?"

Tarma asked crossly when they reached their suite. She shut the door tightly behind them and set her back against it, slumping weak-kneed at having safely attained their haven.

"I acted on a hunch. I'm sorry." Kethry paused for a fraction of a second, then headed for her bedroom, the soft soles of her shoes making scarcely a sound on the marble floor. Her partner followed, staggering just slightly as she pushed off from the door.

"You could have gotten us killed," Tarma continued, following the mage into the gilded splendor of her bedroom. Kethry turned; Tarma took a good look at her partner's utterly still and sober expression, then sighed. "Na, forget I yelled. I'm a wool-brain. There were signs you were reading that I couldn't see, is that it?"

Kethry nodded, eyes dark with thought. "I can't even tell you exactly what it was," she said apologetically.

"Never mind," Tarma replied, reversing a chair to sit straddle-legged on it with her arms folded over the back and her head resting on her arms, forcing her tense shoulder muscles to relax. "It's like trail-reading for me; I don't even think about it anymore. First question; can you find other sources?"

"Maybe. Some of the older nobles, like that old lady who talked to us; the ones who weren't afraid of you. Most older courtiers love to talk, have seen everything and nobody will listen to them. So -- " Kethry shrugged, then glided over to the bed, slipping out of the amber robe and draping it over another chair that stood next to it. Fire and candle light glinted from her hair and softened the hard muscles other body. " -- I use a little kindness, risk being bored, and maybe learn a lot."

"I guess I'll stick to the original plan then; work the horses, play that I don't understand the local tongue, and keep my ears open," Tarma wasn't sure anymore that this was such a good plan, certainly not as certain as she had been when they first rode in. This place seemed full of invisible pitfalls.

"One other thing; there's more than a handful of mages around here, and I don't dare use my powers much. If I do, they'll know me for what I am. Some of them felt pretty strong, and none of them were in mage-robes."

"Is that a good sign, or a bad?"

"I don't know." Kethry unpinned her hair and shook it loose, then slipped on a wisp of shift -- supplied by their host -- and climbed into her bed. The mattress sighed under her weight, as she settled under the blankets in the middle: then she sat up, gazing forlornly at her partner. She looked like a child in the enormous expanse of featherbed -- and she looked uncomfortable and unhappy as well.

Tarma knew that lost expression. This place was far too like the luxurious abode of Wethes Gold-marchant, the man to whom Kethry's brother had sold her when she was barely nubile.

Kethry plainly didn't want to be left alone in here. They also didn't dare share the bed without arousing very unwelcome gossip. But there was a third solution.

"I don't trust our host any farther than I could toss Ironheart," she said, standing up abruptly, and shoving the chair away with a grating across the stone floor. "And I'm bloody damned barbarian enough that nothing I do is going to surprise people, provided it's weird and warlike."

With that, she stalked into her bedroom, stripped the velvet coverlet, featherbed and downy blankets from the bedstead, and wrestled the lot into Kethry's room, cursing under her breath the whole time.

"Tarma! What -- "

"I''m bedding down in here; at the foot of your bed so the servants don't gossip. They've been watching me bodyguard you all day, so this isn't going to be out of character."

She stripped to the skin, glad enough to be out of those over-fine garments, and pulled on a worn-out pair of breeches and another of those flimsy shifts, tossing her clothes on the chair next to Kethry's.

"But you don't have to make yourself miserable!" Kethry protested feebly, her gratitude for Tarma's company overpowering her misgivings.

"Great good gods, this is a damn sight better than the tent." Tarma laughed, and laid her weapons, dagger and sword, both unsheathed, on the floor next to the mattress. "Besides, when the servants come in to wake us up, I'll rise with steel in hand.

That ought to give 'em something to talk about and distract them from who we were associating with last night. And -- "

"And?"

"Well, I don't entirely trust Raschar's good sense if his lust's involved; for all we know, he's got hidden passages in the walls that would let him in here when I'm not around. Hmm?"

"A good point" Kethry conceded with such relief that it was obvious to Tarma that she had been thinking something along the same lines. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

Tarma tried her improvised bed, and found it better than she'd expected. "Best doss I've had in my life," she replied, wriggling luxuriously into the soft blankets, and grinning. "You'd better find out what happened to Idra pretty quick, she'enedra. Otherwise, I may not want to leave."

Kethry sighed, reached up for the sconce beside her, and blew out the candle, leaving the room in darkness.

The following day Tarma managed to frighten the maids half to death, rising from the pile of bedding on the floor with sword in hand at the first sound of anyone stirring. The younger of the two fainted dead away at the sight of her. The other squeaked and ran for the door. They didn't see that maid again, so Tarma figured she had refused to go back into their suite; defying any and all punishments.

The other girl vanished as soon as Kethry revived her, and they didn't see her again, either, so she probably had done the same. The next servants to enter the suite were a pair of haglike old crones with faces fit to frighten fish out of water; they attended to the cleaning and picking up of the suite, and took themselves out again with an admirable efficiency and haste. That was more like what Tarma wanted out of servants; the giggly girls fussing about drove her to distraction at the best of times, and now -- well, now she wasn't going to take anything or anyone at face value. Those giggly girls were probably spies -- maybe more.

Kethry heaved a sigh or two of relief when they saw the last of the new set of servitors.

Hell, she's an old campaigner; she knows it, too.

Gods, I hate this place.

After wolfing down some bread and fruit from the over-generous breakfast the second set of servants had brought, Tarma headed off to oversee the further training of the horses, concentrating on the gold and the dapple. The gold she wanted schooled enough that he wouldn't cause his rider any problems; the dapple she wanted trained to the limits of his understanding. She hoped that might sweeten the Horsemaster's attitude toward them.

She kept her ears open -- and as she'd hoped, the stable folk were fairly free with their tongues while they thought she couldn't understand them. Besides several unflattering comments about her own looks, she managed to pick up that Idra had gone off rather abruptly, but that her disappearance had not been entirely unexpected. Her name was coupled on more than one occasion with the words "that wild-goose quest." She learned little more than that.

Of the other brother. Prince Stefansen, she learned a bit more. He'd run off on his brother's coronation day. And he'd done something worse than just run, according to rumor, though what it was, no one really seemed to know. Whatever, it had been enough to goad the new king into declaring him an outlaw.

If Raschar caught him, his head was forfeit.

And that was fair interesting indeed. And was more than Tarma had expected to leam.

"That doesn't much surprise me, given what I've heard" Kethry remarked that evening, when they settled into their suite after another one of those stifling evening gatherings. This one had been only a little less formal than their reception. It seemed this sort of thing took place every night -- and attendance was expected, even of visitors. "I'd gathered something like that from Countess Lyris. It was about the only useful thing to come out of this evening."

"I think I may die of the boredom, provided the perfume doesn't kill me off first," Tarma yawned. She was sprawled on the floor of Kethry's room on her featherbed (which the maids had not dared move.) Her eyes were sleepy; her posture wasn't. Kethry knew from years of partnering her that no one and nothing would move inside or near the suite without her knowing it. She was operating on sentry reflexes, and it showed in a subtle tenseness of her muscles.

"The perfume may; I don't think boredom is going to be a problem," Kethry replied slowly. She leaned back into the pillows heaped at the head of the bed, and combed her hair while she spoke in tones hardly louder than a whisper. The candle-light from the sconce in the headboard behind her made a kind of amber aura around her head. "There is one hell of a lot more going on here than meets the eye. This is what I've gotten so far: when Idra got here, she supported Raschar over Stefansen. The whole idea was that Stefansen was going to be allowed to exile himself off to one of the estates and indulge himself in whatever way he wanted. Presumably he was going to fade away into quiet debauchery. Raschar was crowned -- and suddenly Stefansen was gone, with a price on his head. Nobody knows where he went, but the best guess is north."

Tarma looked a good deal more alert at that, and leaned up against the bedside, propping her head on her hands. "Oh, really? And what came of the original plan? Especially if Stefansen had agreed to it?"

Kethry shrugged, and frowned. It was a puzzle, and one that left a prickle between her shoulder-blades, as if someone were aiming a weapon for that spot. "No one seems to know. No one knows what it was Stefansen did to warrant a death sentence. But Raschar was -- and is, still, according to one of my sources -- very nervous about proving that he is the rightful claimant to the throne. There's a tale that the Royal Line used to have a sword in Raschar's grandfather's time that was able to choose the rightful heir -- or the best king, the stories aren't very clear on the subject, at least not the ones I heard. It was stolen forty or fifty years ago. Idra apparently volunteered to see if she could find it for Raschar, the assumption being that the sword would pick him. They say he was very eager for her to find it -- and at the moment everyone seems convinced that she took off to go looking for it."

Tarma shook her head, slowly. Her mouth was twisted a little in a skeptical frown. "That doesn't sound much like the Captain to me. Sure, she might well say she was going off looking for it, but to really do it? Personally? Alone? When the Hawks are waiting for her to join them and it's nearly fighting season? And why not rope in one of Raschar's tame mages to help smell out the magic? It's not likely."

"Not bloody likely," Kethry agreed. "I could see it as an excuse to get back to us, but not anything else."

"Have you made any moves at old Jadrek?"

Kethry sighed. Jadrek had been exceptionally hard to get at. For a lame man, he could vanish with remarkable dexterity. "I'm courting him, cautiously. He doesn't seem to trust anyone except Tindel. I did find out why neither Raschar nor his father cared for Jadrek or his. The hereditary Archivists or Rethwellan both suffered from an overdose of honesty."

"Let's not get abstruse, shall we?"

Kethry grinned. This part, at least, did have a certain ironic humor to it. "Both Jadrek and his father before him insisted on putting events in the Archives exactly as they happened, instead of tailoring them to suit the monarch's sensibilities."

"So what's to stop the King from having the Archives altered at his pleasure?"

"They can't," Kethry replied, still amused in spite of her feelings that they were both treading an invisible knife edge of danger. "The Archive books are bespelled. They have to be kept up to date, or, and I quote, 'something nasty happens.' The Archives, once written in, are protected magically and can't be altered, and Raschar doesn't have a mage knowledgeable enough to break the spell. Once something is in the Archives, it's there forever."

Tarma choked on a laugh, and stuffed the back of her hand into her mouth to keep it from being overheard in the corridor outside. They had infrequent eavesdroppers out there. "Who was responsible for this little pickle?"

"One of the first Kings -- predictably called 'the Honest' -- he was also an Adept of the Leverand school, so he could easily enforce his honesty. I gather he wasn't terribly popular; I also gather that he didn't much care."

Tarma made a wry face. "Hair shirts and dry bread?"

"And weekly fasts --with the whole of his Court included. But this isn't getting us anywhere -- "

Tarma nodded, and buried one hand in her short hair, leaning her head on it. "Too true. Ideas?"

Kethry sighed, and shook her head. "Not a one. You?"

To her mild surprise, Tarma nodded thought -- fully, biting her lip. "Maybe. Just maybe. But try the indirect approach first. My way is either going to earn us our information or scare the bird into cover so deep we'll never get him to fly."

"Him?"

Again Tarma nodded. "Uh-huh. Jadrek."

* * *

Three days later, with not much more information than they'd gotten in the first two days, Tarma decided it was time to try her plan.

It involved a fair amount of risk; although they planned to be as careful as they could, they were undoubtedly going to be seen at some point or other, since skulking about would raise suspicions. Tarma only hoped that no one would guess that their goal was Jadrek's rooms.

She waited for a long while with her ear pressed up against the edge of the door, listening to the sounds of servants and guests out in the hall. The hour following the mandatory evening gathering was a busy one; the nightlife of the Court of Rethwellan continued sometimes until dawn, and the hour of dismissal was followed by what Kethry called "the hour of scurrying" as nobles and notables found their own various entertainments.

Finally -- "It's been quiet for a while now," Tarma said, when the last of the footsteps had faded and the last giggling servant departed. "I think this is a lull. Let's head out before we get another influx of dicers or something."

As usual, Kethry sailed through the door first, with Tarma her sinister shadow. There was no one in the gilded hallway, Tarma was pleased to note. In fact, at least half the polished bronze lamps were out, indicating that there would be no major entertainments tonight in this end of the Palace.

I hope Warrrs ready to come out of hiding, Tarma thought to herself, a little worriedly. This whole notion of mine rests on him.

:Must you think of me as if I couldn't hear you?:

Warrl snapped in exasperation. :Qf course I'm ready. Just get the old savant's window open and I'll be in through it before you can blink.:

Sorry, Tarma replied sheepishly. I keep forgetting --damnit, Furface, I'm still not used to mind-talking with youl It's just not something Shin'a'in do.

Warrl did not answer at once. :l know,: he said finally. :And I shouldn't eavesdrop, but it's the mind-mate bond. I sometimes have to force myself not to listen to you. We've got so much in common; you're Kal'enedral and I'm neuter and we're both fighters. You know-there are times when I wonder if your Lady might not take me along with you in the end -- I think I'd like that.:

Tarma was astonished; so surprised that she stopped dead for a moment. You -- you would? Really?

:Not if you start acting like a fool about it: he snapped, jolting her back to sense. :Great Homed Moon -- will you keep your mind on your work?:

To traverse the guests' section they wore clothing that suggested they might be paying a social call; but once they got into the plainer hallways of the quarters belonging to those who were not quite nobility, but not exactly servants -- like the Archivist and the Master of Horse -- they stepped into a granite-walled alcove long enough to strip off their outer garments to reveal their well-worn traveling leathers. In the dim light of the infrequent candles they looked enough like servants that Tarma hoped no one would look at them too carefully. They covered their hair with scarves, and folded their clothing into bulky bundles; they carried those bundles conspicuously, so that they were unlikely (Tarma hoped) to be levied into some task or other as extra hands.

The corridor had changed. Gone were the soft, heavy hangings, the frequent lanterns. The passage here was bare stone, polished granite, floor and wall, and the lighting was by cheap clay lanterns or cheaper tallow candles placed in holders along the walls at long intervals. It was chilly here, and damp, and the tallow candles smoked.

"Well, this explains one thing about that sour old bastard," Tarma muttered under her breath, while Kethry counted doors.

"Seven, eight -- who? What?"

"Jadrek. Why he's such a meddlar-face. Man's obviously got bones as stiff as I'm going to have in a few years. Living in this section must make him as creaky as a pair of new boots."

"Ten -- never thought of that. Remind me to stay on the right side of Royal displeasure. This should be it."

Kethry stopped at a wooden door set into the corridor wall, a door no different from any of the others, and knocked softly.

Tarma listened as hard as she could; heard limping footsteps; then the door creaked open a crack, showing a line of light at its edge --

She rammed her shoulder into it without giving Jadrek a chance to see who was on the other side of it, and shoved it open before the Archivist had time to react. Kethry was less than half a step behind her. They were inside and had the door shut tightly behind them before Jadrek had a chance to go from shock to outrage at their intrusion.

Tarma put her back to the rough wood of the door and braced herself against it; no half-cripple like Jadrek was going to be able to move her away from the door until she was good and ready. The rest was up to Kethry's silver tongue.

Jadrek glared, his whole attitude one of affronted dignity, but did not call for help or gibber in helpless anger as Tarma had half expected. Instead every word he spoke was forceful, but deadly cold, controlled -- and quiet.

"What, pray, is this supposed to mean?" The gray eyes were shadowed with considerable pain at the moment; Tarma hoped it was not because of something she'd done to him in getting the door open. "I have come to expect a certain amount of cavalier treatment, but not in my own quarters!"

"My lord -- " Kethry began.

"I," he said bitterly, "am no one's lord. You may abandon that pretense."

Kethry sighed. "Jadrek, I humbly beg your pardon, but we were trying to find a way to speak with you without drawing undue attention. If you want us to leave this moment, we will -- but damnitall, we are trying to find out what's become of our Captain, and you seem to be the only source of reliable information!"

He raised one eyebrow in surprise at her outspokenness, and looked at her steadily. "And you might well be the instrument of my execution for treason."

Tarma whistled softly through her teeth, causing both of their heads to swivel in her direction. "That bad, is it?"

His jaw tightened, but he did not answer.

"Believe or not, I've got an answer for you. Look, I would assume you are probably the most well-read man in this city; that's what the Captain seemed to think," Kethry continued. "Do you know what a kyree is?"

He nodded warily.

"Do you know what it means to be mindmated to one?"

"A little. I also know that they are reputedly incapable of lying mind-to-mind -- "

At Kethry's hand signal, Tarma stood away from the door, crossed the room at a sprint and flung open the casement window that looked out over the stableyard. She had seen Jadrek at this window the night before, which was how she and Kethry had figured out which set of rooms was his. Warrl was ready, in the yard below; Tarma could see him bulking dark in the thin moonlight. Before Jadrek could react to Tarma's sudden movement, Warrl launched himself through the open window and landed lightly in the middle of the rather small room. It seemed that much smaller for his being there.

The kyree looked at Jadrek -- seemed to look through him-his eyes glowing like topaz in the sun. Then he bowed his head once in respect to the Archivist, and mindspoke to all three of them.

:I am Warrl. We are Captain Idra's friends; we want to kelp her, but we cannot if we do not know what has happened to her. Wise One, you are one of the few honest men in this place. Will you not help MS?:

Jadrek stared at the kyree, his jaw slack with astonishment. "But -- but -- "

:You wonder how I can speak with you, and how I managed to remain concealed. I have certain small powers of magic,: the kyree said, nearly grinning. :You may have heard that the barbarian brought her herd dog with her. I chose to appear somewhat smaller than I am; the stahlehands think me a rather large wolf-dog cross.:

The Archivist reached for the back of a chair beside him to steady himself. He was pale, and there was marked confusion in his eyes. "I-please, ladies, sit down, or as a gentleman, I cannot -- and I feel the need of something other than my legs to support me -- "

There were only two chairs in the room; Tarma solved the problem of who was to take them by sinking cross-legged to the floor. Warrl curled behind her as a kind of backrest, which made the room look much less crowded. While Kethry took the second chair and Jadrek the one he had obviously (by the book on the table beside it) vacated at their knock, Tarma took a quick, assessing look around her.

There were old, threadbare hangings on most of the stone walls, probably put up in a rather futile attempt to ward off the damp chill. There was a small fire on the hearth to her right, probably for the same reason. Beside the hearth was a chair -- or rather, a small bench with a back to it -- with shabby brown cushions. This was the seat Jadrek had resumed, his own brown robes blending with the cushions. Beside this chair stood a table with a single lamp, a book that seemed to have been put down rather hastily, and a half-empty wineglass. Across from this was a second, identical seat; To Tarma's left stood a set of shelves, full of books, odd bits of rock and pieces of statuary, and things not readily identifiable in the poor light. At the sight of the books, Tarma felt a long-suppressed desire to get one of them in her hands; she hadn't had a good read in months, and her soul thirsted for the new knowledge contained within those dusty volumes.

In the wall with the bookcase was another door, presumably to Jadrek's bedchamber. In the wall directly opposite the one they had entered was the window.

Pretty barren place. This time Tarma was thinking directly at the kyree.

:He has less -- far less -- respect than he deserves,:

Warrl said with some heat. :This man has knowledge many would die for, and he is looked upon as some kind of fool.:

"I ... had rather be considered a fool," Jadrek said slowly.

The kyree raised his head off his paws sharply, and looked at the man in total astonishment. :You hear me?:

"Yes -- wasn't I supposed to?"

Tarma and the kyree exchanged a measured glance, and did not answer him directly. "Why would you rather be considered a fool?" Tarma asked, after a moment of consideration.

"Because a fool hears a great deal -- and a fool is not worth killing."

"I think," Kethry said, leaning forward, "you had better begin at the beginning."

Some hours later they had a full picture, and it was not a pleasant one.

"So the story is that Stefansen intended some unspecified harm to his brother, and when caught, fled. In actuality, Tindel and I overheard some things that made us think Raschar might be considering assuring that there would be no other male claimants to the throne and we warned Stefansen."

"Where did he go?" Kethry asked.

"I don't know, I don't want to know. The less I know, the less I can betray." His eyes had gone shadowy and full of secrets.

"Good point. All right, what then?"

"Have you had a good look around you?"

"Raschar's pretty free with his money," Tarma observed.

"Freer than you think; he supports most of the hangers-on here. He's also indulging in some expensive habits. Tran dust, it's said. Certainly some very expensive liquors, dainties, and ladies."

"Nice lad. Where's the money coming from?"

Jadrek sighed. "That's the main reason why I -- and my father before me -- are not in favor. King Destillion began taxing the peasantry and the merchant class far too heavily to my mind about twenty years ago; Raschar is continuing the tradition. About half of our peasants have been turned into serfs; more follow every year. Opposing that was a point Stefansen agreed with me on -- and one of the reasons why Destillion intended to cut him out of the succession."

"But didn't?" Kethry asked.

Jadrek shook his head. "Not for lack of trying, but the priests kept him from doing so."

"Idra," Tarma reminded them.

"She saw what Raschar was doing, and began to think that despite Stefansen's habit of hopping into bed with anything that wiggled its hips at him, he might well have been a better choice after all. He certainly had more understanding of the peasantry and how the kingdom's strength depends on them." Jadrek almost managed a smile. "Granted, he spent a great deal of time with them, and pretty much with rowdies, but I'm not certain now that his experience with the rougher classes was a bad thing. Well, Idra wanted an excuse to go after him -- I unearthed the old story of the Sword that Sings. Raschar has one chink in his armor; he's desperate to prove he's the rightful monarch. Idra took Raschar the old Archive books and got permission to look for the Sword. Then -- she vanished."

The fire crackled while they absorbed this. "But she'd intended to go after Stefansen?" Kethry asked, finally.

Jadrek nodded. "It might well be that she decided to just go, before Raschar could change his mind -- "

Tarma finished the sentence. "But you aren't entirely certain that something didn't happen to her. Or that something didn't happen right after she set out."

He nodded unhappily, twisting his hands together in his lap. "She would have said goodbye. We've been good friends for a long time. We used to exchange letters as often as her commissions permitted. I... saw the world through her eyes...."

There was a flash of longing in his face, there for only a instant, then shuttered down. But it made Tarma wonder what it must be like, to have dreams of adventuring -- and be confined to the body of a half-lame scholar.

She stood up, suddenly uncomfortable with the insight. The tiny room felt far, far too confining. "Jadrek, we'll talk with you more, later. Right now you've given us plenty to think on."

"You'll try and find out what's happened to her?" He started to stand, but Kethry gently pushed him back down into his chair as Tarma turned abruptly, not wanting to see any more of this man's pain. She turned the latch silently, cracked the door open and checked for watchers in the corridor beyond.

"Looks clear -- " Kethry and Warrl slipped out ahead of her, and Tarma glanced back over her shoulder soberly. The Archivist was watching them from his chair, and there was a peculiar, painful mixture of hope and fear on his face. "Jadrek, that was why we came here in the first place. And be warned -- if anything has happened to Idra, there might not be a town here once the Hawks find out about it."

And with that she followed her partner back into the corridor.