fought father, and you fought your minders and the holy scholars, and then you fought with Alythia, and then Kessligh and Krystoff taught you swordwork, and then after Krystoff died you fought against the Cherrovan…' She grasped Sasha's arms, lightly. 'You have to stop judging people, Sasha! You did it with Damon, and you do it still with father and Koenyg… and if you keep on doing it, you'll find nothing but conflict your entire life!'
'And you have to stop assuming that everyone is gentle and kind until proven otherwise,' Sasha retorted. 'You're a good-natured person, Sofy, and evil people will take advantage of that if you let them. I've seen the real world. I've lived out there in it, and I've seen what people do to each other. If you truly believe that good tailors and a knowledge of artwork can excuse a man of crimes that heinous, then you're just another pampered, ignorant little palace girl.'
Sofy stared at her, eyes wide. And swallowed hard, fighting back emotion. 'Well, that's mature,' she huffed. 'When someone doesn't agree with you, just call them names, as if that solves anything. And you're supposed to be older than me.' She turned to sweep away with her nose in the air, pausing briefly to give Sasha's person a disdainful look. 'And seriously, Sasha… put something decent on. Even the tolerance of Baen-Tar Verenthanes has its limits, you know.'
Sasha watched her leave, broodingly. Alythia gave Sasha a smug look and put a comforting hand on Sofy's shoulder, welcoming her back into the fold as they moved off. Duke Stefhan bowed, mockingly, and followed. Sasha looked about with hands on hips, searching for something she could throw.
Across by the nearest furnace, a Goeren-yai blacksmith dipped a red-hot horseshoe into a bucket of water, which hissed. His arms were huge, rippling with muscle beneath entwining tattoos. He looked at Sasha, beneath long, tangled, sweaty hair. And looked her up and down, lingeringly.
'Don't worry, lassie,' he said. 'Those clothes look plenty fine by me.' And winked at her, cheerfully. Sasha gave him a reproachful look. The blacksmith chortled, withdrew his horseshoe, and resumed hammering. Sasha sighed in exasperation… Goeren-yai men were such idiots, sometimes. Rude, cheerful, irreverent, fearless idiots. And she nearly laughed. Spirits, how she loved them. She stretched, wincingly, for the man's benefit. He grinned, still hammering, evidently with only one eye on his work.
Sasha walked to stroke Peg's nose, an apology for taking so long. 'This is why I like horses,' she told him tiredly, feeding him a piece of fruit from her pocket. 'Relationships are so simple, so uncomplicated.' Peg seemed far more interested in the snack than her conversation. 'I mean, I know you don't like me.'
Peg snorted, and thrust his nose into her hands, searching for more food. Nudged at her pockets, breathing great, horse-smelling breaths all over her. Sasha smiled, and hugged him.
Thirteen
It was cold in the library. Sash sat on her stool before the wide, wood desk, and wrapped herself more tightly with her cloak. The lamp on the table flickered a wan light upon the page before her and a coal brazier gave some warmth to her back. Across the surroundings benches, several figures sat hunched, likewise with braziers and lamps – all men, some scribbling on parchment with a quill tip.
At either end of the vast floor, shelves lay dark and gloomy, groaning beneath their weight of parchment. Books were more trouble than they were worth, she'd often thought in her youth. Only living with Kessligh, scrolling through ancient serrin writings during long evenings before a crackling log fire, had she discovered their wonders.
'It was a female who came before the court, and she wore a sword at her hack like a man, and did move and speak with the authority of a man. Her eyes were a demon blue, and all her soldiers wore a most ungodly aspect. '
Before her lay the writings of a Torovan archivist who had lived in the Larosa court two centuries before. Here lay an eyewitness account of the Larosa court following the disappearance of King Leyvaan's Bacosh army in the hills and forests of Saalshen, and the subsequent occupation of the three Bacosh provinces now known as the Saalshen Bacosh by the serrin.
'The demon said her name was Maldereld, and that by her hand and others were King Leyvaan and his entire force of twenty thousand slain. Lord Sharis was enraged, and would have struck the demon down where she stood.'
Why he did not, the text did not say. Perhaps it had something to do with most of the Larosa army having been killed with Leyvaan the Fool, Sasha thought sourly. Larosa had been defenceless, at Saalshen's mercy. Why the serrin had only occupied the three closest of the nine Bacosh provinces, she did not know. They could have spread further and made an empire. But then, maybe that was human thinking. The serrin had little interest in empires. The Saalshen Bacosh now made a wall, behind which Saalshen had been protected for two centuries since.
Echoing footsteps made her turn, with a reach for her sword hung across the chairback. A shadowed figure with one arm in a sling emerged from the doorway, and paused, scanning the room. Sasha straightened, pushing back her hood so that the lamp lit her face… the figure looked her way, then came quickly over between the tables.
Closer, the face resolved itself as Jaryd's, his expression urgent. 'M'Lady,' he whispered, 'please come quickly. I ride on Prince Damon's business.'
'Ride?' Sasha frowned… Jaryd did appear to be dressed for riding. 'Ride where?'
'Please come, I'll explain on the way.' And he leaned closer to whisper in her ear. 'It concerns the Udalyn, M'Lady.'
Sasha stared at him. Then she got up and blew out her lamp. She followed Jaryd between the tables, ignoring the cloaked, hooded stares of men at their tables.
Outside in the cold night, it was only a short walk to the stables. Torches gave the road a dim, patchy light, with the odd, passing shadow of another walker.
'M'Lady,' said Jaryd, 'I looked all over! Why were you not at the Rathynal feast with everyone else?'
'To avoid 'everyone else',' Sasha said shortly. 'They'd have made me wear a dress, for one thing.'
Jaryd gave her a bemused look. 'Would that be so terrible?'
'Would you wear one?' Sasha retorted. Jaryd blinked. 'There you are. Should you even be walking around?'
'It's my arm that's broken, M'Lady, not my leg,' Jaryd said testily. 'I dislike sitting still.'
'I felt the same, once. Then I discovered books.'
Jaryd made a face. 'Books are no friends of mine. Princess Sofy was missing you,' he added. 'She fears you're avoiding her.'
That hurt. Sasha gazed at the lighted windows of a streetside building, biting her lip. She saw so little of Sofy. But… 'I'm not avoiding her, I'm avoiding her new friends. I don't want to kill any of them. Or rather, I think I do want to kill some of them. But not in front of Sofy.'
'You have my sympathies there,' Jaryd said darkly. 'That lot need a good belting. But the ladies love them.'
'It's difficult enough to defend your gender, most of the time,' Sasha told him wryly. 'I'll not even try to defend mine. What's your urgency?'
'There is a rumour of refugees,' said Jaryd in a low voice, with a cautious glance about the gloomy street.
Sasha stared at him. 'Refugees from the valley? How has word come?'
'We don't know, M'Lady. We think they were seen upon the road. It seems a messenger was sent to Prince Koenyg at speed and now he has deployed men of Ranash and Banneryd upon the Baen-Tar perimeter this night.'
'And now he sends loyal Verenthanes out to intercept,' Sasha muttered. 'You said 'we.' Is Damon…?'
'Prince Damon has quietly asked some of the Falcon Guard, M'Lady,' Jaryd murmured. 'We feel we might find the refugees first if they arrive tonight, yet Prince Damon is required at the feast, and the usual routes through which one might move a person undetected into the city are watched by Prince Koenyg's spies…'
'Damon intends to smuggle a Udalyn into the city?' Damon, undermining Koenyg's authority beneath his very
