Hunting Page 4

  "Pelandis."

  Only child of Decsel Pelandis, he wore black and white, along with a jittery, permanently miserable look.

  "Gibrace."

  Slightly shortsighted, she would guess, from the way he peered at her. A washed-out sort of boy, mousy and mild, but he reminded her of one of her Huntsmen, Melar, who they used as bait when it was necessary. He looked a complete pushover, but was deadly with a close-quarters knife. She wouldn't be surprised to find that Gibrace, in dark green and red-brown, was much the same.

  "Nemator."

  The Veirhoi. Like the first seruilis he wore stark black embroidered with gold in the shield of his brother, the only device she would see among the seruilisi's garb. Gold-topped, violet-eyed, and the youngest boy in the room, his eyes were both serious and cautious, but he looked at her without any hostility. Ash thought about bowing, but all seruilisi were, theoretically, equal, so she just smiled slightly, as she had for the others and turned back to the first seruilis.

  "Carlyon."

  Ash recoiled. Almost comically, just managing to control herself so that a leap backward became no more than an exaggerated flinch. It was such a disproportionate response that for a moment they simply goggled at her.

  Then Marriston said: "Looks like he's mistaken you for your father, Carlyon," and laughed as the other seruilisi murmured in disapproval at the comment and Ash both.

  The first seruilis did not respond immediately, then, the neutrality gone from his eyes, said: "I am told you will not be instructed in sword with us. Why is that?"

  The mood of the room now entirely against her, Ash slapped herself mentally, told herself that this was not the Decsel, not Eward Carlyon. But it was hard to ignore the resemblance, so obvious now, despite the first seruilis' slim youth and undissipated vitality. And she did not know quite how to be, because this was her stepson.

  "I've never held a sword, Ser." Unable to apologise, she would simply speak as if her misstep hadn't happened.

  "You have no weapons at all?"

  "I've never been instructed, Ser," she replied, cursing the damnable irony of his identity and hers, retaining an air of quiet obedience through sheer force of will, and refusing to let any more of her true emotions skip haphazard across her face.

  Someone whispered behind her, probably Marriston and his cronies. Damn, she was losing. It wasn't critical to make any friends in the Mern – the Kinsel were far from the only source of palace gossip – but she had no desire to endure a campaign of persecution. Beyond tedious, and it would hinder her investigation.

  "Listening at doors is poor behaviour on the part of a seruilis," Carlyon commented, placing the worst possible light on her entrance. "It breaches our code of conduct. Breaches of the Code of the Mern are punishable by five strokes of the switch."

  Beginning to dislike him heartily, Ash kept her features under control. He might set a precedent to make her into the group's whipping boy, but she would not give them further reason.

  "Come now, Carlyon," interrupted Vicardie, and she recognised his voice as the one who had been parodying the gutter seruilis. "Can you breach the Code if you don't know it? And, before you make the obvious answer, he's hardly had a chance to learn it."

  The pair must be friends, because the stony chill in Carlyon's eyes faded. "Well, Frog, you may spend the rest of the afternoon ensuring that he knows its every sub rule."

  There was a disappointed murmur behind her, but Vicardie took charge of Ash and led her from the room without incident.

  "Thank you, Ser," she said, as they passed beyond the range of the others' hearing. "That was kindly done."

  "Oh, call me Frog," he said, shrugging off her thanks. "Everyone does. And you're Ash?"

  "Yes."

  "Did Visel Thornaster truly find you covered in blood? I've heard a hundred different rumours today, none of them particularly likely."

  "No. Just...without a place to be."

  "And so Thornaster has dropped you in the Mern? On the same day as your – as you lost someone? Harsh. Do you want to postpone this lesson? I could meet you tomorrow morning, when you've had a little more time to adjust."

  "I–" She blinked. "I guess I'd rather think about this than my aunt right now anyway."

  "Well, if you're sure. Here we go." He veered into a small room filled with an oddment of things like cups, books and banners. Questing through a pile of books, he pulled out a slim volume with a cry of satisfaction.

  "Right!" said Frog, striking a proclamatory pose. "Rule number one!"

  "I can read, you know," Ash said, mildly.

  "Can you? That'll make things easier. But if Carlyon said I was to teach you, then it means I'm to teach you and be certain you can recite the entire thing back to me before we're done. So you just hush. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! Rule number one..."

  Since there were no chairs Ash sat down on the floor and watched as Frog strode dramatically about the room, making a game of reading an unsurprising list of prohibitions. The rule against carrying weapons without the Master's leave was an irritant, but she could improvise something in a pinch.

  When he'd finally exhausted the book, Frog dropped it on one of the piles, and gave her a sympathetic grin. "Got all that?"

  Ash obligingly began to recount everything he had read her, earning a look of open admiration.

  "Wonderful! You're one of those people who don't forget, are you? Well, you're certainly nothing like the fumble-footed street urchin we'd been expecting. I suppose we'll have you medicking us all within a week, and wonder what we ever did without you."

  "Medicking? Oh, no – unless it was to do with horses, I didn't pay much attention to my aunt's trade. I've been earning my keep as a stable hand."

  "I guess that means you can at least ride, which will save a lot of lessons. No chance you're a deadly master of the sword, I suppose? That really would set the cat among the pigeons."

  "There's not much call for deadly masters of the sword in the Commons. Can I ask why you're called Frog?" He did look just a little like one, with his skinny arms and legs, but not so much it deserved a nickname.

  "Frog-shaped birthmark," he said briefly, and Ash wondered if, despite his apparent acceptance of it, he disliked the name.

  "What are the unofficial rules?"

  "What unofficial rules?" Frog asked, folding his long-limbed body down onto the floor beside her.

  "There are always unofficial rules. The ones that change from year to year along with people, the ones which are constant but not things which are written down."

  "I guess it would help if you avoided a few things. Let's see, there's standard stuff, like never gossiping about what you hear in the Mern with your kin. 'The Mern is not a breeding ground for espionage'," he added, in a deepened voice.

  "No tattle-tales," Ash said, nodding.

  "Always pass on messages, no matter what personal reasons you may have for not doing so. Don't, for your life's sake, go disturbing the Master in his office for anything other than official business or an emergency. Don't start fights. That's an important one. If we're caught scrapping, there's hell to pay."

  "Have I offended Carlyon very badly?" she asked.

  "Well, acting like he was the Black Carlyon himself wasn't the best start I've seen. But you needn't worry. Lauren isn't one to put grudges over duty. He won't be granting you any favours, I'd suspect, but you'll not find yourself on scrub duty for no reason at all."

  "Lauren," Ash said, mostly to herself. She looked down at her hands. Lauren Carlyon was Eward Carlyon's youngest son.

  "Ash, do you have some particular problem with the Carlyon family? If you do, don't even think of pursuing it. You won't achieve anything more than getting yourself banned from the Mern." There was more than a hint of steel in Frog's voice. It sounded so out-of-place she blinked up at him. He could look remarkably severe, this clownish Kinsel. Vicardie was the family name of the Setsel of Bychester. She wondered which of his sons Frog was.

  "Ash?"r />
  Which particular should she start with? The forced marriage? Astenar's inexplicable failure to reject the bond? Or her hastily staged suicide? The whole tale of how she'd run away from herself and become someone she liked better?

  "No," Ash said, decisively. "I don't have any problems with the Carlyons. The name caught me off-guard."

  "Well, you'd do well to get over it, then. Whatever Lauren's family might be, he's solid, and you'd get nowhere in a war with him."

  "Believe me, Frog," she said, standing up. "I have no wish to start any wars. The only person I hold any grudge toward is the one who brought about my eviction, and I don't think that was a Carlyon." She hoped it wasn't a Carlyon.

  A bell sounded, deep and hollow.

  "That's the signal to return to our respective Luinsel," Frog told her, scrambling to his feet. "Be back in the common room a decem after noon tomorrow, when Carlyon gives us the day's tasks. Don't be late, and remember what I said."

  Ash detoured to the kitchens on the way back, frowning as she realised how difficult the distinctive clothing of a seruilis were going to make wandering about. And how easy it would be to identify her by her colours. That held her back from simply wandering into the kitchens, as she might have done if she had not her new "master's" name to worry about. Instead she took hold of a harassed-looking boy, greasy and well fed. "Do you know a woman by the name of Mirramar?" she asked.

  The boy nodded.

  "Good. Go find her and tell her that Ash is here and would like to speak to her."

  The boy pulled free and disappeared inside the kitchens without responding, and Ash loitered, hoping he would do as she asked, her stomach pinching her painfully.

  "It is you!" A woman some years Ash's senior had appeared, wiping floury hands on her apron. Pleasant features and tight blonde braids wound close to a round skull. "Stars, look at how you're dressed! You...Ash, are you Thornaster's gutter seruilis?"

  "I see I've become notorious."

  "Ash, you little wretch, what's happened? How did you come here?" Mirramar, who had treated Ash with exasperated indulgence since Ash had befriended her brother Larkin, gave her an admonitory shake. "However did you get involved with Visel Thornaster?"

  "Genevieve's dead, Mimms," Ash said, and looked away to avoid witnessing Mirramar's shock. She had cried enough. "I'm going to find her killer. Thornaster will be useful to me, because he's involved in the investigation. I need you to get a message to Lark. Just tell him to 'look up'. He'll know what I want him to do. I can't myself. I think I'll be stuck hopping to Thornaster's tune a while yet."

  The cook's head rose, eyes fierce, and she nodded. "Save a piece of the scut for me and I'll do anything you want, Ash. Genevieve, murdered! How could Astenar allow such a thing? It goes against all justice!"

  Ash had never found much justice with the gods. She preferred to rely on careful planning.

  "Mirramar, you might consider pretending you don't know me that well. I'll be winning a few enemies along the path I'm taking."

  "You will if you try to train Luinsel and Kinsel to your rein like you did my Lark and his friends," Mirramar said. "They won't be quite so simple to twist around."

  "People are basically the same, whatever their rank," Ash replied, shrugging. "Do you have any food in the pockets of that apron?" she added, hopefully. Mirramar's one weakness was people she judged underfed. "I haven't had a chance to eat since yesterday and I'm not sure of the protocol for seruilisi and supper yet."

  Mirramar narrowed her eyes, but only said: "Wait here," and returned with a bowl of sliced meat and roasted root vegetables. The smell of it made Ash's stomach pinch, and she ate with grim concentration.

  "The idea of you as a seruilis!" Mirramar said. "You'll have them baying for your blood before the week's out, or I don't know you. You'd best not try any of your silly jokes on Visel Thornaster!"

  "Tell me about Thornaster," Ash said. "He seems a strange sort."

  "Strange! He is everything that's–!" Mirramar's mouth closed with a snap, and Ash made sure not to look too entertained. Well, it was probably a good thing that her new Luinsel wasn't universally unpopular.

  "What's the story behind his quarters?" she asked, ignoring the flush that touched Mirramar's cheeks. "Does a Visel only rate a cupboard? And it looks like the palace servants don't ever venture near."

  "When Rhoi Arun returned with his two friends, they brought no servants or guards with them, and Visel Thornaster was dressed very plainly. The Seneschal thought he was a servant, belonging to Setsel Hawkmarten. No-one had any idea that he was Luinsel until after the rooms had been allocated and he'd been given what the Seneschal thought very generous indeed for a guardsman. He'd almost given him a bunk in the barracks, which would have been disastrous."

  Ash snorted. "One look at that stallion of his and they would have known better. But why didn't they move him? Once the mistake was discovered?"

  "Oh, well, old Marail would have to take offence at his own error – Simeel said that it was as if he thought Visel Thornaster had dressed so quiet deliberately, just so Marail could mistake his rank. He vowed not to move the Visel unless Thornaster or the Rhoi actually requested the move. And neither of them has. Not including the rooms on the cleaning roster is just spite. They say he cleans them himself."

  "I'd say he doesn't clean them at all. I wonder what game the man's playing? Has he lost the Rhoi's favour?" Ash wiped her bowl with a last chunk of sweet potato.

  "Now, how would I know? There are no rumours that he and the Rhoi are anything but the firmest of friends. They spend a deal of time together, with Setsel Hawkmarten, but it's not as if I eavesdrop on their conversation."

  "I suppose I'd better go fix the room situation," Ash told her, handing the bowl back. "If you'll point me in the direction of cleaning gear I'm allowed to use. This seruilis business isn't going to be much fun. Tell Larkin not to worry, Mimms?"

  "I will. You take care, Ash Lenthard."

  Thornaster hadn't returned when Ash let herself into his rooms, so she filled the last of the afternoon with cleaning, an unformidable matter of ridding the place of dust, then mopping the floor thoroughly.

  The palace had been built over one of Montmoth's many hot springs, so there was plenty of warm, if oddly-smelling water to be had for the asking. And after all was clean except Ash, there were privies just a short way down the hall, and a sluicing room which could be used for washing, once a fresh bucket of hot water had been carried up and the door secured with the mop. The steam-filled luxuries of the central baths were something she could not risk, but she preferred to be clean.

  All that was left to do was remember to fill the water jug, and arrange a newly-obtained bedroll on the floor of her cupboard, which would keep the stone floor's chill out of her bones far better than a couple of blankets.

  Sunset, and still no capricious Visel. Ash did not want to sit in this room and let herself think. Not about Genevieve, and certainly not about Lauren Carlyon and the moment of recognition before she'd learned his name. She would suffer enough for that later, when the nightmares came.

  The sky had faded enough to see the brightest of the gods. Both moons were rising: dull, shattered Yurefaer, a blot of purple hidden by spirals of rock and dust; bright Cuinefaer, bringer of visions. Cruel Comfort. Ash had never been able to tell which of her dreams were guidance given by the pale moon: hers were all equally bad.

  Lighting the lamps, Ash set about looking for more to do. Thornaster's boots proved better for polish, but most of his gear was in good order. She decided not to risk trying to break into his lockbox – the velvety feel of the lock suggested there was more to the thing than a simple mechanism, and she had no idea when he would show up. Eventually she began to read through the Herbal. Her studies had always been more dutiful than devoted, and she could hardly claim to know the whole of it by heart.

  But Ash's mind would not stay on the dry recitation of ills and ailments, of plants and their uses, and the book's ing
rained scent kept reminding her of blood, pulling her thoughts toward the unbearable prospect of Genevieve's funeral. So Ash turned to the storybook and read her favourites, though she could recount every one of these tales without effort. They were all from the time of the Shattering, when Karaelsur's jealousy of the burning moon had nearly led to the destruction of both Yurefaer and Luin, and the most powerful of the far gods had stripped Karaelsur of sunhood, and raised Astenar up instead.

  Still the Visel did not come.

  Ash was accustomed to unbinding her breasts when she slept, but while her new tabards were usefully unrevealing, it would be odd of her to sleep in one. She'd just have to put up with the discomfort of wearing the chest band beneath her nightshirt.

  Thornaster represented the greatest danger to her masquerade. Presuming he had no inclination to attack the boy he thought she was, living in close quarters still offered too many chances for discovery. But right now there were older enemies to fear.

  Climbing beneath her blankets, Ash closed her eyes and grimly waited for sleep.

  Chapter Six

  The same nightmare, over and again. Past and present troubles linked so that Ash dreamed of being bound in a darkness that stank of blood and rot, aware of someone standing over her. She broke out of every dream, shuddering in the shadowed alcove, and lay moving hands and feet to prove they were free. Was that what it would be like to be damned? Thornaster was lucky that she was not inclined to wake screaming.

  Finally an edge of light crept around the heavy tapestry curtain. Dawn. Bare feet flinching from the cold stone floor, she stepped out of her alcove and discovered Thornaster tangled in blankets down one side of the bed, an arm tossed above his head. She took another step forward and his eyes opened, not even looking mazed.

  "Let me guess," she said, irritated. "You sleep like a cat and wake the instant anyone moves about."

  "Something like that," Thornaster replied, and sat up. He looked appealingly boyish for a moment; his hair tumbled over his eyes. Then he flicked it back, a habitual, unconscious gesture, and turned into someone older, with a face made for arrogance.