A mutter from those watching.
“Let us consider,” Mahieran went on. “First that this man, as Duke Marrakai and I were both convinced from Duke Verrakai’s words, did poison the horses of Prince Camwyn and Aris Marrakai, and thereby imperil their lives. He was guilty of treason, and for that alone would have been condemned in a trial to shameful death. Second, that since he was not really Pedraig the groom, but a Verrakai in Pedraig’s body, his life was already forfeit under the Order of Attainder. Third, that he was no doubt conspiring to assassinate our king on the very day of his coronation by poisoning his horse—and perhaps others—the very same way he had done with the prince and young Marrakai’s horses.”
Mahieran looked around; the peers and palace guards were nodding.
“So that Duke Verrakai having killed this traitor is no crime, but a service to the Crown. She used magery to kill him, that is true, and killing by magery is against our laws—but suppose she had pierced his body with a poisoned blade? Killing with poison is also a crime—but is there anyone here who thinks if she had done that she would deserve death for so dispatching an enemy of the Crown and people of Tsaia?” Heads shook, the murmur rose.
“So I say, it is unfortunate that circumstances forced her to use magery, but if she had not, we would face worse problems. If this Verrakai had taken another body—if she had not been able to shield—at least partially—Duke Marrakai—if she had not been so determined to find and dispatch this villain that she ordered me around like one of her soldiers—” His glance at Dorrin was almost mischievous. “Then our king might be dead, and the realm in chaos worse than frightened horses loose in the palace court.” He turned to the king and bent his knee. “I ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai, my liege.”
“And I—And I as well—” Other dukes chimed in, all but Marrakai who lay still on the pavement. Mahieran turned to Kirgan Marrakai.
“Will you answer for your father, Kirgan?”
“I—” The young man looked at Dorrin. “My lord Duke, I mistook you, and what I saw. My pardon, my lord.” And to the king he said, “My liege, I also ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai.”
“Kneel,” the king said. Dorrin knelt on the rough stone; she felt one of her stockings rip. The king drew his sword and put the tip at her throat as she looked up at him. “For that you have done this thing, your life is forfeit.” Then he laid the flat of it on her head. “But for that you have done this thing in our service, and by it have served the Crown and People of the realm well, I pardon you, Dorrin Duke Verrakai, and if the gods would punish you, let the punishment fall on me, as your lord and king. Now rise.”
Dorrin rose; someone in the rear of the throng clapped, but it died away; the matter was too serious for applause.
“And we still,” the king said, “have a procession to ride. But we will see each horse unsaddled and examined.”
Under the king’s saddlecloth, Dorrin saw a brown lump, thumb-sized, just where the king’s weight would break it. With the king’s permission, she lifted it away by magery, and then ran her hand over the stallion’s satiny back. “It is unbroken; it can have done no harm, and there is no irritation to indicate he did anything else.”
All the Marrakai mounts had the same, but only two other horses, both Marrakai-bred.
By then Duke Marrakai had awakened, complaining of nausea and a severe pain in his head; the palace physicians insisted he must be carried in and put to bed.
“You must ride with us, Dorrin,” the king said.
“I have no proper mount—these horses are all—” Fancy and useless were the terms that came to mind, that she must not use.
“Take my father’s,” Kirgan Marrakai said. “He would offer it, if he were here.”
“I need my boots,” Dorrin said, as she looked down at her torn stocking. But someone had already run to the palace, and before she could get to the doors, the tiring maids were there with her boots, her silver spurs, and the proper cape.
She rode out the gate near the head of the procession, side by side with Duke Mahieran and behind the prince, through streets strewn with flowers and good-luck charms, to the cheers of the crowd.
Acknowledgments
Many people have contributed to the rebirth of the Paksenarrion universe, and this book in particular, and it’s impossible to thank all of them separately, though they deserve it. David Watson and others in the fencing group helped especially by working through various fight scenes as well as with research. David Stevens, director of the St. David’s Parish Choirs, has deepened my understanding of fiction through his comments on musical structure, besides saving my sanity after a bad day at the computer by insisting that I pay attention to a different form of creativity. George Cardozo solved a plot problem for me; Carol Cardozo contributed several good suggestions. Ellen McLean, my first outside reader for the original Paks books, continues to be a perceptive and supportive (but also critical) reader. Husband Richard and son Michael continue to tolerate (and even enjoy) the chaos that surrounds a writer in full spate, bringing me chocolate and learning to cook their own dinners.
Even with this help, however, this book and those to come would not exist without the support of the Paksenarrion fan base, who kept asking for more, my agent, Joshua Bilmes, and the support of my first editor, Betsy Mitchell, who bought and then edited Sheepfarmer’s Daughter for Baen, and is now back with me in this storyuniverse.