Hunting (6 page)

"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 ingrained 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.

"I should have known. I'm glad I
decided not to murder you in your sleep."

"Do you suppose you could?"

"Anything's possible."

He laughed. "Unlikely, boy! And, I
might point out, you have no weapon."

"You've a round dozen lying about."

"But you didn't take any of them."

"You checked!" Nice to know he wasn't
quite as confident as he pretended.

"How could I not, when at least four
people warned me that you would rob and kill me at the first
opportunity?"

"I've bigger game in mind," she said,
remembering her purpose. Would Genevieve still live if she slept
lighter? If Ash had taken better care? "Tell me everything you know
about the murders."

"Mph. After you've fetched me
breakfast." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood
up.

Naked. Very naked.

"How exactly am I supposed to help you
dress?" Ash asked, while he stretched long limbs, unperturbed by
her presence. Odd how he looked even taller without clothing. Lean
without being skinny, muscle sliding cleanly beneath a smooth
surface.

"Just hand me clothes." He turned
around, looking out the window. There was an interesting scar down
the back of one of his thighs, a long jagged depression that only a
very deep wound would have left. It stood out pale against his
light brown skin, but the rest of him was unmarred, the only
variation a burnished copper tint wherever he had been kissed by
the sun.

Dress this? Look at this? Every
morning?

"Which clothes, then?"

"Use your initiative."

Ash made a face at his back and opened
one of the chests. Having already picked through them, she knew
there was little variation from what he'd been wearing when they'd
met. Thin shirts, loose trousers, short tunics and creamy robes
decorated with near-invisible embroidery.

"You really need me to do this? Every
day?"

"I don't need you to do this, Ash. But
you will do it all the same."

She handed him a shirt. "You want me to
cut your meat up into little pieces too?"

"I want you to be quiet for now. I have
some matters to think over."

She lapsed into silence, passing over
boots and socks before heading behind her curtain to get dressed
herself, warily listening to him move about the other room. Perhaps
the rumours were true and he really wasn't a Visel. He was as
self-assured as any Luinsel, true, but so tolerant of her insults
and jibes that she was uncertain of his authority.

Emerging from her niche, she watched
him pour water from the jug into a bowl. "Do you want anything in
particular for breakfast?" she asked.

"Something hot," he replied, picking up
a fine blade honed for shaving.

Ash left, wondering why he used a
blade. Luinsels – anyone with a bit of money – could afford
murmitti to take care of excess hair. He was oddly contradictory,
this Visel Thornaster.

And annoying. When she returned he was
frowning over a letter, and said: "I won't need you for the rest of
the day," without glancing up.

It was possible Thornaster was testing
her ability to be quiet on direct command, but there were limits to
Ash's willingness to play servant. If he wasn't going to provide
her with information, he wasn't going to be much use. Another
postponement and she would have to conclude that he didn't intend
to tell her anything of worth.

Vaguely disappointed in the man, Ash
spent the rest of the morning making a thorough exploration of the
palace, and trying to work around the hurdle to gossip posed by her
newfound infamy. By the time she presented herself at the Mern, she
had set a definite limit to how many days she would invest into
searching out motives in the palace.

Having no wish to enhance her
reputation as a sneak, she didn't linger by the door, despite the
wall of cold shoulders that greeted her. Frog was absent, a minor
blow to Ash's hopes for the day. If she tried to start a
conversation with anyone here, they would snub her.

Not willing to give up entirely, but
resigned to a slow campaign, she seated herself to one side.
Carlyon came in just as the distant palace bell marked the end of
the first full-measure of the afternoon. The first seruilis looked
around at them all, the only one to meet her eyes even
momentarily.

"Frog's out for the day," he announced.
"Vendarri, you can take seniors in Balance. Marriston, you'll be
doing signal drill with the younger group. The second session will
be mock combat. Go. Not you, Lenthard."

The seruilisi clattered out, leaving
her to face a youth who needed only forty years, fifty pounds and a
river of alcohol to make him the image of her nightmares.

Carlyon walked out, so she ran her
fingers through her short hair, and had herself well in hand before
he returned. No more missteps.

"Read," he said, dropping a square of
vellum into her lap. For a moment she just sat blankly, and her
good intentions suffered a setback when she looked up to see his
expression. So he thought she had lied, did he? Thought her
illiterate and stupidly boastful. She folded out the animal skin,
saw that it was the common tongue, and read:

"On this day, twenty-third of the month
of Tempere in the fourth year of Malaster's reign, came into the
world Arun Ridel, child of Malaster and Lisenna. Long may he live,
by the grace of the Star and the World." An old proclamation. She
handed it back to him, as expressionless as he.