‘Anything’s better than just sitting still,’ Kalten said.
‘Somehow I was almost sure you’d feel that way about it,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘We’re little more than prisoners here,’ Empress Chacole declared, waving her hand at the luxurious furnishings of the women’s Palace. Chacole was a ripe-figured Cynesgan lady in her thirties. Her tone was one of only idle discontent, but her eyes were hard and shrewd as she looked at Elysoun.
Elysoun shrugged. ‘I’ve never had any trouble coming and going as I choose.’
‘That’s because you’re a Valesian,’ Empress Torellia told her with just a touch of resentment. ‘They make allowances for you that they don’t make for the rest of us. I don’t think it’s very fair.’
Elysoun shrugged again. ‘Fair or not, it’s the custom.’
‘Why should you have more freedom than the rest of us?’
‘Because I have a more active social life.’
‘Aren’t there enough men in the Women’s Palace for you?’
‘Don’t be catty, Torellia. You’re not old enough to make it convincing.’ Elysoun looked appraisingly at the Arjuni Empress. Torellia was a slender girl in her mid-twenties, and, like all Arjuni women, she was quite subservient. Chacole was obviously taking advantage of that.
‘You don’t see anybody restricting Cieronna’s movements,’ Chacole said.
‘Cieronna’s the first wife,’ Elysoun replied, ‘and she’s the oldest. We should respect her age if nothing else.’
‘I will not be a servant to an ageing Tamul hag!’ Chacole flared.
‘She doesn’t want you as a servant, Chacole,’ Elysoun told her. ‘She already has more servants than she can count—unless Liatris has thinned them out some more. All Cieronna really wants is a fancier crown than the rest of us have and the right to walk in front of us in formal processions. It doesn’t take much to make her happy. She’s not the brightest person in Matherion.’
Torellia giggled.
‘Here comes Gahennas,’ Chacole hissed.
The jug-eared Tegan Empress, covered to the chin in scratchy wool, approached them with a disapproving expression, an expression that came over her face every time she so much as looked at the barely dressed Elysoun. ‘Ladies,’ she greeted them with a stiff little nod.
‘Join us, Gahennas,’ Chacole invited. ‘We’re discussing politics.’
Gahennas’ bulging eyes brightened. Tegans lived and breathed politics.
‘Chacole and Torellia want to get up a petition to our husband,’ Elysoun said. She raised her arms and yawned deeply, stretching back and literally thrusting her bare breasts at Gahennas. Gahennas quickly averted her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, ladies,’ Elysoun apologized. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘How do you find enough hours in the day?’ Gahennas asked spitefully.
‘It’s only a matter of scheduling, Gahennas,’ Elysoun shrugged. ‘You can get all sorts of things accomplished if you budget your time. Why don’t we just drop it, dear? You don’t approve of me, and I don’t really care. We’ll never understand each other, so why waste our time trying?’
‘You can go anywhere in the imperial compound you want to, can’t you, Elysoun?’ Chacole asked rather tentatively.
Elysoun feigned another yawn to conceal her smile. Chacole had finally gotten to the point. Elysoun had wondered how long it was going to take. ‘I can come and go more or less as I choose,’ she replied. ‘I guess all the spies got tired of trying to keep up with me.’
‘Do you suppose I could ask a favor of you?’
‘Of course, dear. What do you need?’
‘Cieronna doesn’t like me, and her spies follow me everywhere I go. I’m involved in something at the moment I’d rather she didn’t find out about.’
‘Why Chacole, are you saying that you’ve finally decided to go a little further afield for entertainment?’
The Cynesgan Empress gave her a blank stare, obviously missing her point.
‘Oh, come now, dear,’ Elysoun said slyly. ‘We all have our little private amusements here inside the Women’s Palace—even Gahennas here.’
‘I most certainly do not!’ the Tegan protested.
‘Oh, really, Gahennas? I’ve seen that new page-boy of yours. He’s absolutely luscious. Who’s your new lover, Chacole? Some husky young lieutenant in the Guards? Did you want me to smuggle him into the palace for you?’
‘It’s nothing like that, Elysoun.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Elysoun agreed with heavy sarcasm. ‘All right, Chacole. I’ll carry your love-notes for you—if you’re really sure you trust me that close to him. But why go so far afield, sister dear? Gahennas has this lovely young page-boy, and I’m sure she’s trained him very well—haven’t you, Gahennas?’ She raised one mocking eyebrow. ‘Tell me, dear,’ she added, ‘was he a virgin?—Before you got your hands on him, I mean?’
Gahennas fled with Elysoun’s mocking laughter following after her.
24
‘It’s supposed to be two words,’ Kalten insisted that afternoon some miles outside Vigayo. ‘Ram’s. Horn. Two words.’
‘It’s a password, Sir Kalten,’ Talen tried to explain. ‘“Ramshorn”. Like that.’
‘What do you say, Sparhawk?’ Kalten asked his friend. ‘Is it one word or two?’ The three of them had just finished piling rocks in a rough approximation of a grave at the side of the trail, and Talen and Kalten were arguing about the crude marker the boy had prepared.
‘What difference does it make?’ Sparhawk shrugged.
‘If it’s spelled wrong, Berit might not recognize it when he rides by,’ Talen said.
‘He’ll recognize it,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘Berit’s quick. Just don’t disturb the arrangement of those yellow rocks on the top of the grave.’
‘Are you sure Khalad will understand what those rocks mean?’ Talen asked skeptically.
‘Your father would have,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and I’m sure he taught Khalad all the usual signals.’
‘I still say it’s supposed to be two words,’ Kalten insisted.
‘Bevier,’ Sparhawk called.
The Cyrinic Knight walked back to the imitation grave with an enquiring expression.
‘These two are arguing about how to spell “ramshorn”,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘You’re the scholar. You settle it.’
‘I say he spelled it wrong,’ Kalten said truculently. ‘It’s supposed to be two words, isn’t it?’
‘Ah...’ Bevier said evasively, ‘there are two schools of thought on that.’
‘Why don’t you tell them about it as we ride along?’ Mirtai suggested.
Sparhawk looked at Xanetia. ‘Don’t,’ he warned her quietly.
‘What wouldst thou not have me do, Anakha?’ she asked innocently.
‘Don’t laugh. Don’t even smile. You’ll only make it worse.’
It may or may not have been three weeks later. Patriarch Bergsten had given up on trying to keep track of actual time. Instead he glared in sullen theological discontent at the mudwalled city of Cynestra and at the disgustingly young and well-conditioned person coming toward him. Bergsten believed in an orderly world, and violations of order made him nervous.
She was very tall and she had golden skin and night-dark hair, she was also extremely pretty and superbly muscled. She emerged from the main gate of Cynestra under a flag of truce, running easily out to meet them. She stopped some distance to their front, and Bergsten, Sir Heldin, Daiya, and Neran, their Tamul translator, rode forward to confer with her. She spoke at some length with Neran.
‘Keep your eyes where they belong, Heldin,’ Bergsten muttered.
‘I was just—’
‘I know what you were doing. Stop it.’ Bergsten paused. ‘I wonder why they sent a woman.’
Neran, a slender Tamul who had been sent along by Ambassador Fontan, returned. ‘She’s Atana Maris,’ he told them. ‘Commander of the Atan garrison here in Cynestra.’
‘A woman?’ Bergsten was startled.