Hunting Page 2

  The equipage was plain and serviceable, but the horse itself was the finest she'd ever seen. Black with one white sock, more than eighteen hands high and close to perfect in form. A stallion, which was chancy for a riding animal, but this beauty looked to have been trained out of any immediate displays of temperament. Ash found herself rechecking his points in the hope of spotting some narrowness of the shoulders or splaying of hooves. As if aware of the inspection, the stallion curved his fine, muscular neck, stepping smartly.

  The Rhoi's mount probably didn't show better than this, and Ash reached out involuntarily to offer her hand. The stallion condescended to whuffle at her skin, ears pricking back and forth, obviously excited by the too-near presence of the crowd.

  The Landhold unbuckled a saddlebag, and slid her wrapped books inside instead of returning them as asked. "Much as Arth here would like a run, I've no wish to spend what's left of the morning chasing you down."

  It had been too much to hope that he was stupid, but maybe he could be talked out of this impulse.

  "I'm not going with you," Ash said, bluntly, and followed his glance to the Watchman, who wasn't quite close enough to hear what they were saying, but was gazing at them in obvious interest. "Find yourself another seruilis."

  "I don't recall offering you a choice," the Landhold said pleasantly. He mounted, splits in his robe's skirt showing it was designed for riding, and held a hand down to her, bronzed fingers parted. His bangs flopped into his eyes, spoiling the authority of the gesture.

  Looking at the outstretched hand, Ash made a face. Well, she'd just have to run off later rather than sooner. After she'd ridden this extremely magnificent piece of horseflesh and stolen her books back.

  Wishing she had her knives, Ash handed the man her bag, gripped the saddle and sprang up behind him. He passed her bag back, waited till she'd taken a light hold of his robe, and then nudged the stallion into motion.

  The black had an easy gait, but giving in never did Ash's temper a great deal of good, and she spent her energy on glowering at the Landhold's back and being annoyed at his height as he negotiated the press of people, skirted a nightsoil wagon, and oriented on the towering statue of Luin which rose out of the River Milk. But by the time they joined the flow of morning traffic on the Great River Road Ash had recovered her equilibrium, turning her mind seriously to the possibility of making use of the man, or giving up on her books and running.

  She made a quick survey – from the side valleys and heavily planted slopes of Westgard to the abrupt, fern-bedecked rise of Eastwall – seeing nothing unusual in the city packed between the two mountains. Luin's stone face, carved with careful ambiguity to match a god's dual aspect, offered no guidance.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  The Landhold turned his head, but didn't slacken the stallion's swift walk. "To the palace."

  "Why?"

  "I told you. I need a seruilis."

  "And I told you, I'm not going to be your seruilis. I've better things to do with my time." Ash wasn't in the mood to mince words.

  "There are some who might consider it an honour to serve me in that capacity." He sounded amused, not offended.

  "Well, why don't you go give them the opportunity? And stop lying to me, while you're at it. Seruilisi, in case someone never explained the concept to you, are supposed to be the children of Luinsel learning the duties of their parents. Why are you really taking me with you?"

  "I've thrashed men, in my time, for calling me a liar," he said, still in the same pleasant tone.

  "Then that should give you some idea of just how tiresome a seruilis I'd be," Ash said reasonably. "Think of the energy you'd save if you had a seruilis happy to let you fib all day just to avoid being beaten up by someone twice his size." Part of this response was her grief and anger resurfacing, but only part. Most of the rest was calculated risk, with a fraction of enjoyment at saying outrageous things. "Anyway, I'm going to run off the first opportunity I get," she informed him.

  "Why?" He wasn't the slightest bit perturbed, guiding the stallion expertly through the bustle of the city's busiest road.

  "The Landsmeet's a viper pit. And as I said, I've better things to do with my time than playing your servant."

  "Revenging your aunt?"

  She supposed that was a natural conclusion. "Yes."

  "From what the Captain said of her, she didn't strike me as the kind of person who would wish her nephew to burden himself with the cost of vengeance."

  Ash didn't reply immediately, not wanting the tears in her eyes to be obvious in her voice. He was wrong, besides. Genevieve had had a highly complicated attitude toward the question of taking life. For all that her guardian had never believed that she could balance the debts of her past, she had refused to be paralysed by the fear of damnation. It was Ash who would hesitate at the thought of killing, no matter how necessary it felt.

  "Genevieve would expect me to not charge in headlong, but do my best to prevent further murders. Which is beside the point. If you need a seruilis, go commandeer someone suitable for the role from the Kinsel."

  "But none of the Kinsel I've encountered were raised by a herbalist," he said, matching her earlier tone of implacable reason. "Nor would a book of herbalist lore be their first choice of objects to take with them when being precipitately evicted."

  "So you want a herbalist, not a seruilis."

  "I want an ally whose skill with herbs is not generally known, and who has every reason to not align himself with the killer. Someone with no connection to the Landsmeet."

  That had the tang of truth, which made it harder to simply reject the idea. "You think the person behind the killings is among the Luinsel?"

  "Perhaps. It seems clumsy and obvious, but this could be a precursor to an attack on a much-scrutinised target. A friend asked me to aid the Guard in their investigation because I have Estarrel blood which, if nothing else, allows me to confirm that the same person brought about all the deaths. Consider me a source of information, and an opportunity to hunt for the motive for all this."

  It was true that Ash had few immediate routes of investigation, though there would be many eager to aid her in finding Genevieve's murderer. Estarrel blood was a surprise – he meant he was related to the family of the Aremish Rhoi, descendents of the Sun and the World.

  "If I stick around, do I have to bow and scrape to you?"

  "What a burden that would be. In public. For the sake of verisimilitude, if nothing else."

  If he had hoped to stump her with the word, he was in for a disappointment. It was one that Genevieve had used often when Ash had first come to her. And there was the rub. This new deception may well compromise the old, and the Landsmeet was not the safest place for Ash to be.

  "What would being your seruilis involve?"

  "Running my errands, attending to my equipage, serving me at table, doing whatever else I require of you. Attending the Mern and listening for anything useful."

  "I'm not likely to be very good at it," she said cautiously, summoning up vague childhood memories of harried seruilisi running to and fro and enjoying themselves very little indeed. "They'll think you strange to have a seruilis like me."

  "You will learn to be good at it," he said, in an uncompromising tone of voice. "And 'they' seem to think anyone not born to this Rhoimarch strange."

  "Is there someone you suspect?"

  "Nothing beyond complete guesswork. You?"

  "Not yet. If you hit me I will hit you back."

  "I doubt it. I do have limits to my patience. And I am, as you pointed out, somewhat larger than you. No, you will act as my seruilis and you will do your job well in order to increase your chance for revenge. If you please me, I will teach you swordplay, though you are late come to the art."

  The man obviously considered that a high treat, and Ash wondered whether to tell him she couldn't be less interested. Knives were her weapons.

  "Are you any good?"

  Her exaggeratedly dubious t
one only made him laugh. "Stop trying to provoke me, boy. What's your full name?"

  "Ash Lenthard. What's yours?"

  "Rion Thornaster, Visel of Pembury."

  Visel meant he was the lowest rank of the Luinsel, with just enough property to drink from the Well of the Heart and be judged on his worth as a steward of the land, one of the Luinsel who strove to keep a Balance between the needs of Luin's children and Luin's own health. But it was the man's name that gave Ash pause. Thornaster, one of the foreigners behind the Rhoi's review of Montmoth's laws, and focus of far too much attention to be comfortable.

  They had reached the mid-section of the river, where water tinted white by powdered rock thundered down from the ridge called Luin's Table. Since the bridges around the Bowl – the circular pool at the fall's base – were the busiest part of the city, Ash kept her silence as Thornaster crossed the Milk and headed beneath the natural stone arch which guarded the climb to the Deirhoi District. The stallion briefly shifted from a walk to a trot, and Ash firmed her grip on the man's robe, thinking through the complications of deception. She had changed a great deal, but her pretence would be put to the greatest test if she stayed with this man.

  "Where did you live before you came to your aunt?" Thornaster asked, oblivious to the hurdles she faced.

  "Khantar."

  "Which part, Ash Lenthard? Don't be obtuse."

  "I lived in the third house from the west end of the main street of the village of Cadoken in the shire of Meeps in north-west Khantar. It rained every second day and we saw the sun for a good ten hours every year. It smelled of mud and rot." Ash had never been out of the Rhoimarch of Montmoth in her life, but Genevieve had brought Cadoken to life for her. Ash had long since cherished a heartfelt desire never to go there. "I was only nine when I left," she added.

  "How old are you now?"

  "Seventeen. Almost." Twenty-one in a few weeks, but no one would ever believe that to look at her. Not without beginning to wonder at her beardless cheeks and slight build. "Where's Pembury?"

  "Southwest of Crown of Stars."

  Crown of Stars was the capital of Aremal, a sprawling Rhoimarch on the far side of Montmoth's neighbour's neighbour. When pieces of the shattered moon, Yurefaer, had rained down on Luin, it had been at Crown of Stars that two of the gods – Luin and the new Sun, Astenar – had manifested to still the trembling in Luin's depths and clear the skies. When the worst had passed, the two gods had lingered to leave behind three children who had become the rulers of the great Rhoimarches – Aremal, Firuvar and, on the far side of Luin, Araslea. The Estarrel line descended from the child Astenar had born to Luin.

  Montmoth – like Ash – had issues with the god who had become the Sun, but the link to Astenar had certainly benefited Aremal, which remained the most powerful and stable Rhoimarch of the region. Montmoth's old Rhoi had sent the current one there for some form of advanced schooling, and he'd stayed away for almost two years, until his father had died unexpectedly at the end of autumn.

  Arun Nemator had returned in time to be judged, however, and brought this Thornaster back with him. Someone who would be the focus of a lot of attention among the pale grey towers of the palace in the centre of the sheltered Deirhoi Valley. It would be a gamble for Ash to show her face there, but not truly a great one, surely. Eight years had passed, and there were few who had actually known her.

  "What's Pembury like?" she asked, needing to distract herself.

  "Hilly."

  "You're a real wordsmith. You should consider a career as a player."

  "And you would make a remarkable diplomat, Ash. I shall recommend you. Now close your mouth and, if you cannot master your tongue, say nothing."

  Ash snorted, but kept quiet as they followed the hedge-lined side road to the Inner Stables. The stallion came to a restless halt and Ash hopped lightly to the ground, watching Thornaster as he dismounted. This was the second time someone new had arrived just as her world had turned sideways. But Ash was no longer a child and did not feel any need to confide in this foreign Landhold. He was not Genevieve. He plainly saw her as a potential spy, with useful herbal knowledge, but if he led her to Genevieve's killer she would owe him her thanks. Until then, she would play the part he had assigned her, would even make a game of it.

  And consider her own opinions on vengeance.

  Chapter Three

  The Inner Stables, which housed the most important Luinsels' horses, was all bustle and dash with an underlay of dust and dung. The foreign Visel took her books out of the saddlebag, handed the reins to the nearest stableboy and, with barely a glance to see if Ash was following, headed into the palace.

  For a short time Ash tried to imitate the easy glide of his walk, but couldn't quite manage it. Genevieve had coached her on how to walk, talk, look at people, hold her hands, eat and laugh and do a host of things which subtly led people to see her as male, but she had not been able to alter her bone structure. Giving up the attempt, Ash's attention was caught by the group of the people they were passing.

  An angular, bony man in lead pretended to flick some speck of dirt from the sleeve of his dusky purple coat, then raised stony eyes at the last moment and greeted Thornaster with the merest fraction of a nod as he swept past, a half-dozen followers and attendants trailing in his wake all taking their cue from their master.

  Schooling her face not to reveal her sudden interest, Ash took in the surreptitious glances over shoulders, the guardsman whose mouth turned down suddenly, the woman who checked at the sight of Thornaster and developed a sudden interest in her hands, while her companion blushed and preened. Fascinating. Thornaster was certainly not popular among the Landsmeet, few reacting with pleasure at the sight of him striding along. Not terribly surprising, given all the rumours of his influence over the Rhoi, and their plans to remake Montmoth in Aremal's image, but she hadn't expected people to show their feelings so openly.

  Preoccupied, it was possible the Visel didn't even notice.

  Thornaster opened their way, finally, into an equally surprising apartment. Unless there was a considerable space shortage, these small rooms were an insult to a man of his rank, let alone a good friend of the Rhoi. A desk and brazier barely fit in the first. The other contained only a couple of chests, a pair of narrow side tables, and a bed that lacked even bed curtains to cover the ceiling-scraping frame. Her own room, in Genevieve's house, hadn't been much smaller.

  A cloth covered the wall at the foot of the bed, and the Visel tied this back to reveal an alcove about three feet deep and a little less than a body-length long. A couple of leather bags were piled down one end. These he lifted out and replaced with three blankets from one of the chests.

  "Do all seruilisi sleep on the floor?" Ash asked, eyeing these arrangements dubiously.

  "Seruilisi sleep wherever is convenient to their masters," Thornaster replied. He picked up one of the bed's two pillows and dropped it on the blankets, then added one of Ash's books to the pile. "You don't have a Khanteck accent."

  "I can do one, if you really want me to," she retorted, with her best imitation of Genevieve's slightly lilting turn of phrase. "I've not forgotten how to speak. Genevieve liked to use Khanteck about the house." It was becoming slightly easier to say her benefactress' name. There was still a catch in her throat each time she formed the word, but not as noticeable. "How do you know the tongue?"

  "It helps to be conversant when you're in my position," he replied absently, turning through the pages of her book of tales.

  His position as Visel, or as a relative of the Rhoi of Aremal? The Rhoimarches of Northern Arabaya had once shared a common language, which had evolved into distinct dialects, but Khantar was not part of that group, or a neighbour of Aremal. Perhaps because it lay on the major land route to Firuvar, and sent out so many traders?

  "This is a very valuable book," Thornaster told her, looking up from an illustration of a makki cat. "Extremely old, in remarkable condition. A teaching text in the Old Tongue and Kh
anteck both."

  "I know," Ash replied, shortly. Genevieve had brought it from Khantar, like the Herbal. Turning away to hide the tears once again springing to her eyes, she headed for the single, rather poky window. The little table before it was dusty. "Don't you have any servants?" she asked crossly. "You're a funny sort of Luinsel."

  "I'm travelling light," the man replied, neither angry nor amused now. A little wry, perhaps.

  "You've been in Luinhall for months. That's not travelling. No wonder they don't want to greet you." The tears were being obstinate, threatening to spill no matter how she worked to keep them back.

  "Greet me?" Thornaster echoed, understandably a little lost.

  "The people in the corridor. Wondering if they should be polite or snub you, not knowing if you're even really a Visel. You should collect two or three retainers to impress people with your importance."

  "Well, you could say I've made a start. For now, stay here while I go speak with Arun."

  He moved to the door, but didn't leave. Ash could feel him looking at her stiff, unhappy figure, but for the moment couldn't summon a stalwart display.

  "There's no shame in mourning, lad," he added. "Honour your dead."

  Ash waited till the door in the next room had opened and closed, then, with a choking gasp, dropped to her knees and, for the second time that day, wept till she was ill and empty, numb beyond action. She was not given to tears, but she had failed Genevieve, who had most particular reasons to postpone death as long as possible.

  Thornaster's prolonged absence gave Ash the space to recover, and then to search his belongings. Two rapiers, two sabres, and the weapon he'd been wearing, which seemed to be some compromise between rapier and sabre. Two long daggers, and some smaller blades, but no revelations, though there was a locked box, heavy and flat, which might give her more information if she could find the key. That done, she leaned against one post of his bed and decided whether or not to be there when he came back.

  What chance that anyone would look at a wiry and sun-browned boy and recognise a sallow slip of a girl thought to have died eight years ago? Cutting off her unsatisfactory braids had made an enormous difference, with her short brown hair lifting in a near-curl, but the pointed shape of her face had not changed. Still, her features were not particularly unusual, and Genevieve had taught her to school the individuality from her expression.