Recognizing a dismissal, Stasya bowed. Her hand was on the door when the king's voice stopped her.
"I'm going to want you to go to Ohrid, but we'll speak again before you leave. This deception must be closely planned if it's to work."
Annice woke, aware something was wrong but unable for the moment to determine what. Where am I? The rocking motion suggested riverboat, then the cart hit a bump and she remembered.
"Heard they had terrible trouble with mice over Fourth Quarter," Bartek the carter confided, slipping the two gulls they'd settled on for the fare into his pocket. "I got oats, barley, spring wheat, and some corn. Just so much extra here, but if I get it to market in Vidor by the new moon, I figure I can make a killing. Climb on board, make yourself comfortable. You both look like you could use some shut-eye."
With the sacks of seed grain molded to her aching back, Annice fell asleep before the cart was out of Riverton.
Now she was awake and she wanted to know why. The baby was quiet. Nothing hurt. The sun poured heat over her like molten gold.
The sun.
Directly overhead.
Noon.
She opened her eyes and looked for Pjerin.
He was sitting rigidly upright against the side of the cart, one leg raised, his forearm resting across his knee. The shirt that Stasya had found for him was a bit small and with the fabric pulled tight across his chest, Annice could see each shallow breath. There were hollows in his cheeks that hadn't been there in Third Quarter and the bruising around his eye made him seem achingly fragile. She had the strangest desire to go over to him and let him rest his head on her shoulder while she stroked the long fall of dark hair.
Out of the Circle with that! I refuse to get maternal about him.
His other hand worked against the bag of corn beside him, grinding the kernels together.
The grinding was the sound that had woken her.
Reaching out one arm, she poked him in the calf of his outstretched leg—all she could touch without moving. "Hey. You're alive."
Violet eyes found hers, dark with anger, not pain.
"And I'm going to stay alive." It was more a threat than a promise. "And when we find out who did this to me, I'm going to make them wish they'd never been born."
CHAPTER TEN
"Traders in the pass!"
The voice drifted down from the high watchtower, echoing off the stone of the mountain and sounding remote but clear in the lower bailey.
Olina shook her head at Gerek's questioning glance. "That's only first warning. You've time to finish your practice." When he was old enough to learn the sword, she'd hire an arms master—as her father had done for her and Pjerin's for him—but the Dues of Ohrid trained with the mountain bow from the time they could walk, the bow growing taller as they did.
The boy sighed and set another arrow to the string.
"Traders at the wall!"
If Gerek squinted, he could just make out the tiny figure waving from the top of the wall-tower. Responding to the cry, the men and women of the keep began to make their way toward the gate. Gerek turned and looked hopefully up at his aunt.
"If you hit the target with this last arrow, you can come with me to meet them," she promised.
Brow furrowed with concentration, Gerek pulled and released. Although the target wasn't far, it was at the edge of his range and the arrow wobbled a little in flight. Perhaps pushed on by the intensity of the violet stare locked onto it, it managed to just reach the lower edge of the bundle of straw.
"It hit! It hit! And it stayed" he added, just in case his aunt hadn't noticed.
"That's very well done, Gerek." Olina smiled down at the boy. "I'm very proud of you."
Gerek preened. "I'm gonna shoot like my papa. My papa can hit anything."
"Your papa is dead, Gerek." She'd tried being gentle, she'd tried discussing it with him—she'd finally given up and merely repeated the bald statement as often as she was given cause.
His lower lip jutted out and Gerek prepared to do battle.
"No." Her hand chopped off his protest before it began. "I am not going to argue with you. Your father is dead. You are now the due. Gather up your arrows, and put your equipment away. You should be finished long before the traders reach the gate." He hesitated, obviously still considering a defense of his absent father. "Or would you rather not see the traders at all?"
The threat worked where reason stood no chance. Olina watched the boy run to the target and wondered how much longer she was going to have to put up with his nonsense. The boy isn't quite five, surely he'll soon forget.
With the First Quarter rains over and the roads passable—Or what stands for roads in this unenclosed part of the world…—Olina expected a courier from the king with the official notification of the Judgment. Not that she needed to be told what had happened; the part of the plan that removed the stewardship of the pass from her nephew's hands was foolproof. The penalty for treason was death and she knew that Pjerin would rather die than throw himself on anyone's mercy. Therefore, Pjerin was dead.
But if the child won't believe me, maybe he'll believe the king.
She smiled and stretched in the sun like a cat. Gerek had been repeating to everyone his version of Pjerin's last words. "They made a mistake. The king will make everything better and then my papa will come back." He had half the village and most of the keep partially convinced as not even those who personally found their due somewhat arrogant and overbearing had wanted to believe the evidence they'd heard. When that piping cry changed to a howl of "The king killed my papa!", neither His Majesty nor the thought of Shkoder rule would be very popular in Ohrid.
Gerek bounced out of the armory and raced toward the gate of the keep, short legs pumping. "Come on, Aunty Olina! Come on!"
Still smiling, she followed the boy to the gate.
"You want to set up a what outside the village?"
"A fair, gracious lady." The portly trader swept off his hat and managed to actually bow more-or-less from the waist. He spoke the local dialect with a Cemandia accent. "Why, we asked ourselves, should we travel to distant foreign cities to sell our wares when there is a market eager to buy just over the border."
Eager? Olina snorted silently. Try slavering. The villagers seldom reaped any benefit of the scanty trade that traveled through the pass; sheep and timber being in abundance on both sides. The pass itself was their only worthwhile commodity, and Pjerin, the fool, had refused to take advantage of it. Nor would he have allowed so many Cemandians to remain so near the keep but would have insisted they move on and provided an escort to see that they did.
"We have strong markets in Cemandia for both fleece and timber," the trader continued as though reading her mind. "And I have a client who has interest in strong mountain rams for cross-breeding purposes."
"My nephew was recently executed for conspiring with a Cemandia trader. He planned to allow a Cemandian army through the pass."
The trader blanched and his hand rose to trace the sign of the Circle over his heart as the small crowd of villagers began to mutter. "War, gracious lady, is so bad for business. I assure you, we have no ulterior motive but profit."
It was impossible not to believe he was sincere. "If you wish only to trade in peace," Olina raised her voice so that those watching would hear and pass it on, "I will bring the matter up with my due." Her fingers closed around Gerek's narrow shoulder. "Shall we let them have their fair?" she asked him.
He looked up at her, brightly colored caravans reflecting in wide eyes. "What's a fair?"