The Red Wolf Conspiracy Part 7

Hercol's voice was uncertain. "There was one, a man I thought I knew, but that is hardly possible--" He shook his head, as if dispelling a bad dream. They had reached the edge of the firs. "Tell your father," he said. "And Thasha: tell him when he's alone, will you? Quite alone?"

Without Syrarys, she supposed he meant. Thasha promised she would.

Hercol smiled. "I nearly forgot--Ramachni sends his compliments."

"Ramachni!" Thasha gripped his arm. "Ramachni's back? How is he? Where has he been?" been?"

"Ask him yourself. He is waiting in your chamber."

Thasha was overjoyed. "Oh, Hercol! This is a good sign, isn't it?"

Again her teacher hesitated. "Ramachni is a friend like no other," he said, "but I would not call his visits a good sign. Let us say rather that he comes at need. Still, he was in a jolly mood tonight. He even wished to come out into the city, but I forbade it. His greeting could not have been as ... inconspicuous as my own."

"Inconspicuous!" Thasha laughed. "You tried to kill me!"

Hercol's smile faded at the word kill kill. "Walk straight home," he said. "Or run, if you wish. But don't look back at me. I shall visit when I can."

"What's happening, Hercol?"

"That question troubles my sleep, dear one. And I have no answer. Yet."

He found her hand in the darkness and squeezed it. Then he turned and vanished among the trees.

The old sentry at her garden gate bowed with the same flourish as two years ago. Thasha would have hugged him if she hadn't known what embarra.s.sment the man would suffer. Instead she hugged Jorl and Suzyt, the blue mastiffs who waddled down the marble stairs to greet her, whimpering with impatience at their arthritic hips. They were her oldest friends, and s...o...b..red magnificently to remind her of it. Laughing despite herself, she finally broke away from them and faced the house again.

In the doorway above her stood the Lady Syrarys. She was beautiful, in the lush Ulluprid Isles way of beauty: dark, smoldering eyes, full lips that seemed on the point of sharing some delicious secret, a cascade of straight black hair. She was half the admiral's age, or younger.

"There, darling," she said, as those gorgeous lips formed a smile. "Out of school for one hour and you're muddier than the dogs themselves. I won't kiss you until you've washed. Come in!"

"Is he really going to be an amba.s.sador?" said Thasha, who hadn't moved.

"My dear, he already is. He took the oath Thursday at His Supremacy's feet. You should have seen him, Thasha. Handsome as a king himself."

"Why didn't he tell tell me? Amba.s.sador to where?" me? Amba.s.sador to where?"

"To Simja--have you heard of it? Wedged between our Empire and the enemy's, imagine. They say Mzithrinis walk the streets in war-paint! We didn't tell you because the Emperor demanded strict secrecy."

"I wouldn't have told anyone!"

"But you said yourself the Sisters read your mail. Come in, come in! Nama will be calling us to table."

Thasha climbed the stairs and followed her into the big shadowy house, angry already. It was true that she'd complained of her letters arriving open and disordered. Syrarys had laughed and called her a worry-wart. But now she believed: now that those worries suited her purposes.

Thasha had no doubt what the consort's purposes amounted to. Syrarys meant to leave her behind, and wanted her to have as little time as possible to change her father's mind. And if I hadn't been dropping out? Would they have left without saying goodbye? And if I hadn't been dropping out? Would they have left without saying goodbye?

Never. She could never believe that of her father.

Watching Syrarys, she asked casually, "How soon do we sail?"

If the consort felt the least surprise, she hid it perfectly. "The Chathrand Chathrand should be here within a week, and sail just a few days later." should be here within a week, and sail just a few days later."

Thasha stopped dead. "The Chathrand! Chathrand! They're sending him to Simja on the They're sending him to Simja on the Chathrand?" Chathrand?"

"Didn't the Sisters tell you? Yes, they're finally treating your father with the respect he's earned. Quite the expedition, it's going to be. An honor guard's been a.s.sembled for your father. And Lady Lapadolma is sending her niece along to represent the Trading Family. You remember Pacu, of course?"

Thasha winced. Pacu Lapadolma was her former schoolmate. She had escaped the Lorg ten months ago by marrying a colonel in the Strike Cavalry two decades her senior. A fortnight later she was a widow: the colonel's stallion, maddened by wasps, kicked him in the chest; he died without a sound, apparently.

"Hasn't she remarried yet?" asked Thasha.

"Oh no," Syrarys answered, laughing. "There was talk of an engagement, a Duke Somebody of Sorhn, but then came proposals from the Earl of Ballytween and the owner of the Mangel Beerworks and the animal-trader Latzlo, who was so mad for Pacu that he sent her a bouquet of five hundred white roses and fifty weeping snow-larks, all trained to cry her name. Pacu didn't care for any of them--said they all looked alike."

"Of course they did."

"The suitors, dear, not the birds. Luckily her great-aunt stepped in. By the time Pacu gets back even Latzlo may have forgotten her."

"I'm going with you," said Thasha.

Syrarys laughed again, touching her arm. "You are the sweetest sweetest girl." girl."

Knowing very well that she was not, Thasha repeated: "I'm going."

"Poor Jorl and Suzyt. They'll have no one, then."

"Use any trick you like," said Thasha evenly, "but this time I'm going to win."

"Win? Trick? Oh, Thasha darling, we've no cause to start down that road. Come, I'll kiss you despite your dirt. My little Thashula." Thashula."

It was her babytalk-name, from long ago when they were close. Thasha considered it a low tactic. Nonetheless they pecked each other's cheeks.

Thasha said, "I won't cause trouble in Simja. I have grown up."

"How delightful. Is that a promise to stop throwing your cousins into hedges?"

"I didn't throw him! He fell!"

"Who wouldn't have, dear, after the thumping you gave him? Poor young man, the lasting damage was to his pride. Knocked silly by a girl who barely reached his shoulder. Come, your father is in the summerhouse. Let's surprise him."

Thasha followed her through den and dining room, and out into the rear gardens. Syrarys had not changed. Smooth, crafty, clever-tongued. Thasha had seen her argue a d.u.c.h.ess into tongue-tied rage, then walk off serenely to dance with her duke. In a city addicted to gossip she was an object of fascination. Everyone a.s.sumed she had a younger man, or probably several, hidden about the metropolis, for how could an old man satisfy a woman like that? "You can't kiss a medal on a wintry night, eh?" said a leering Lord Somebody, seated beside Thasha at a banquet. When he stepped away from the table she emptied a bottle of salad oil into his cus.h.i.+oned chair.

She had no great wish to defend Syrarys, but she would let no one cast shame on her father. He had been wounded so many times--five in battle, and once at least in love, when the wife he cherished died six days after giving birth to a daughter. Isiq's grief was so intense, his memories of his lost Clorisuela so many and sharp, that Thasha was astounded one day to hear him speak of her as "my motherless girl." Of course she had a mother--as permanently present as she was permanently lost.

Syrarys, for her part, scarcely needed defending. The consort glided among the ambushes and betrayals of high society as if born to them. Which was astounding, since she had come to Etherhorde just eight years ago in chains. Silver chains, maybe, but chains nonetheless.

Admiral Isiq had returned from the siege of Ibithraed to find her waiting in his chambers, along with a note scrawled in His Supremacy's childish hand: We send this woman full trained in arts of love, may she be unto you joy's elixir We send this woman full trained in arts of love, may she be unto you joy's elixir.

She was a pleasure-slave. Not officially, of course: slavery had by then gone out of fas.h.i.+on and was restricted to the Outer Isles and newly conquered territories, where the Empire's hardest labor was done. In the inner Empire, bonded servants had taken their place--or consorts, in the case of pleasure-slaves. By law such women were one's property, but Thasha had heard of them won and lost in gambling matches, or sent back to slave territories when their looks began to fade.

She was barely eight when Syrarys arrived. Still, she would never forget how the young woman looked at her father: not cringing like other servants, but quietly intrigued, as though he were a lock she might pick with skill and patience.

Eberzam detested slavery by any name, calling it "the gangrene of empires." But to refuse a gift from the Emperor was unthinkable, so Thasha's father took the only step that occurred to him. He kept Syrarys in the house for a plausible six weeks and then declared himself in love. He pet.i.tioned the crown at once for her citizens.h.i.+p, but surprisingly he was rebuffed. The second note from Castle Maag read: Wait one year one day Adml at that time if love yet flourish we shall raise this seedling to status propitiatory Wait one year one day Adml at that time if love yet flourish we shall raise this seedling to status propitiatory. What that could mean no one knew, but the admiral obeyed, and became a reluctant slave-keeper for the first time in his life.

That year Syrarys was effectively imprisoned in the family mansion, but the sentence did not seem to trouble her. She turned her attention to Thasha, embracing the little girl half as a mother, half as older sister. She taught her Ulluprid games and songs, and persuaded the cook to make the dishes of her childhood, which Thasha agreed were more sumptuous than the best Etherhorde fare. In turn Thasha helped to perfect her Arquali, which was strong but leaned too heavily on the slave school's vocabulary of seduction.

They were best friends. The admiral couldn't have been happier. Thasha barely noticed when he stopped visiting Syrarys' bedroom and installed her in his own.

At the end of the required year he wrote again to Castle Maag, declaring his love stronger than ever, and this time it was the simple truth. Days later, admiral and slave were summoned to the Ametrine Throne, where Syrarys knelt and was named Lady Syrarys, consort to Eberzam Isiq.

The city gasped. With the stroke of a pen the Emperor had changed Isiq's slave--mere property in the eyes of the law--into a member of the aristocracy. In the long history of the Magads' rule, nothing of the kind had been done. By granting Isiq this boon, the Emperor was raising him immensely on the ladder of power. And no one knew why.

So it was that the most beautiful slave in Arqual became its most mysterious Great Lady. And ceased, from one day to the next, to be Thasha's friend.

A blue fengas lamp blazed in the summerhouse--actually just a large gazebo with a liquor cabinet. Admiral Eberzam Isiq, Prosecutor of the Liberation of Chereste and the Rescue of Ormael, among other violences, sat reading in a wicker lounger, a blanket over his legs and nearly as many moths bouncing off his bright bald head as circling the lamp above. The startling thing was that he didn't notice. As Thasha drew near she saw a big moth crawl from her father's ear to the top of his scalp. He didn't move. One hand whisked irritably at the page where his eyes were trained; that was all.

"Prahba!" she said.

It was her private nickname: Prahba Prahba was "the old sailor n.o.body could kill," a storybook hero who conquered every sea, and even outran Death, when the specter chased him against the wind. The admiral jumped, scattering the moths and slamming several in his book. He twisted to look at Thasha. He made a wordless sound of joy. Then she was hugging him, half in his lap, scratching her face on his stubbled neck and giggling as if she were not sixteen but six, and he had never banished her to a school run by hags. was "the old sailor n.o.body could kill," a storybook hero who conquered every sea, and even outran Death, when the specter chased him against the wind. The admiral jumped, scattering the moths and slamming several in his book. He twisted to look at Thasha. He made a wordless sound of joy. Then she was hugging him, half in his lap, scratching her face on his stubbled neck and giggling as if she were not sixteen but six, and he had never banished her to a school run by hags.

"Thasha, my great girl!"

"I want to come with you."

"What? Oh, Thasha, morning star! What are you saying?"

His voice dry as coal. Two years had pa.s.sed, but it might have been ten. His jaw trembled more than before, and the sideburns that were all that remained of his hair had lost their color: they were milk-white. But his arms were still strong, his beard neat, and his blue eyes, when they ceased their wandering and settled on you, were piercing.

"You can't leave me here," she said. "I'll be no trouble in Simja, I promise."

The admiral shook his head. "Simja will be the trouble, not you. A motherless girl in that cesspit. Unmarried, unprotected."

"Silly fool," she said, kissing his forehead. This was going to be easier than she thought. "You protected the whole Empire. You can protect me."

"How long?"

Thasha sat back to look at him. His eyes were forlorn.

"And the s.h.i.+p," he wheezed. "Those animals."

"Prahba," she said seriously, "I have to tell you something quickly. I saw Hercol on the way back from the school--"

"Eberzam!" cried Syrarys, mounting the steps. "Look who I found at the garden gate!"

The admiral had started at the mention of Hercol, but now he smiled at his daughter. "You're the living image of your mother. And that reminds me ..." He took a small wooden box from the table and pa.s.sed it to Thasha. "Open it," he said.

Thasha opened the box. Coiled inside was an exquisite silver necklace. She lifted it out: each link was a tiny ocean creature: starfish, sea horse, octopus, eel. But they were all so finely and fluidly wrought that at arm's length one saw only a silver chain.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered.

"That was hers, your mother's," said Isiq. "She loved it very much, hardly ever took it off."

Thasha looked from her father to Syrarys, barely trusting herself to speak. "But you gave it--"

"He gave it to me, years ago," said Syrarys, "because he thought he had to. As if I needed him to prove his feelings! I only accepted it as a guardian--keeping it safe until you came of age. Which, as you've just finished saying, you have." She took the necklace and put it around Thasha's neck. "Breathtaking!" she said. "Well, Eberzam, perhaps you'll consent to wear a dinner jacket tonight? Nama has lost all patience with him, Thasha. Puffing on sapwort cigars in his dressing gown. Rambling the garden in his slippers."

Isiq's eyes twinkled as he looked from one to the other. "You see how I am persecuted. In my own home."

He tossed the blanket aside and swung to his feet: an old man's imitation of military quickness. Thasha almost took his arm, but his hand waved her gently away. He leaned on no one, yet.

Thasha greeted the servants in the kitchen--Nama especially she had missed--washed her hands and ran upstairs to her old bedroom. Nothing had changed: the short, plush bed, the candle on the dresser, the table with the mariner's clock. She closed the door behind her and turned the key.

"Ramachni!"

There was no reply.

"It's me, Thasha! Come out, the door is locked!"

Silence again. Thasha rushed to the table, lifted the clock, looked behind it. Nothing.

"Blast and d.a.m.n!" d.a.m.n!"

She had spent too long in the garden, and Ramachni had left. He was a great mage; he could travel between worlds; Hercol had even seen him call up storms. He had causes and struggles everywhere. Why had she expected him to wait while she dawdled below?

"You're not going to spring out at me, are you? Like Hercol?"

Although he sometimes looked like an ordinary man, Ramachni usually visited her in the form of a mink. A jet-black mink, slightly larger than a squirrel, and he was not above nipping her if her attention wandered during their studies.

But there was no black mink in her room tonight. He was gone, and might not reappear for days, weeks, years. She could not even blame Syrarys, for the simple reason that Syrarys did not know Ramachni existed. Feeling a perfect idiot, Thasha flopped down on the bed. And froze.

Words burned on her ceiling in a pale blue fire. They were magic beyond any doubt, and her heart thrilled, for Ramachni very rarely let her see his magic. Even now she had only an instant to enjoy it, for as soon as she read a word it flickered and died. It was like blowing out candles with her mind.

Welcome out of prison, Thasha Isiq! I do not say Welcome home Welcome home, for your notions of home are about to change, I think. Don't worry about missing me: I shall return before you know it. But Nama comes in and out of this room every minute, making sure it is ready for you, and I am tired of hiding under the dresser.

Hercol is quite correct, by the way: someone is prowling your garden. Your dogs swear to it. Jorl is so anxious he barely makes sense. When I ask about the intruder, he responds: "Little people in the earth! Little people in the earth!"

By prison you may think I mean the Lorg. Not at all! The prison you are escaping is a beautjful one: beautiful and terrible, lethal even, should you remain in it much longer. You shall miss it. Often you will long to retreat to it, to nestle in its warmth as you do now in that bed you've outgrown. Brave soul, you cannot. It is your childhood, this prison, and its door is locked behind you.