It was Tol’s turn to listen. Valaran spun a fantastic story of dynastic marriages, palace politics, suicide, murder, and madness. Tol found it appalling, but Val recounted it with great verve, even pride. She spoke of the assassination of Emperor Pakin II, providing much more detailed insight than Tol had previously heard.
“A courtier, Lord Bathastan, and three subverted servants slew Pakin II in front of the entire court. They stabbed him with daggers.”
“What happened to the assassins?”
“Tortured. Killed.” She said it as calmly as Tol might have said, “Hungry. Ate dinner.”
Conversation lagged. Valaran leaned down to close the satchel at her feet. Her long hair fell forward, sunlight giving the brown mass a red sheen. Sitting up, she regarded him thoughtfully.
“What do you want-?” they both began in unison. Laughing, Valaran gestured for Tol to speak first.
“What would you most like to do?” he asked.
“See the city,” she replied immediately.
That puzzled him. “But you live here.”
“I’m never allowed outside the palace grounds. Oh, when I was two my mother took me to a healer in the Old City, but I don’t remember it.”
Tol was astonished. “You’ve left the Inner City only once? How old are you?”
She feigned offense. “Rude question! Or it would be if I were one of the empty-headed lackwits in the Consorts’ Circle. They’d faint at such impertinence. I’m seventeen years and two months old. What about you?”
“Country folk don’t reckon time as closely as city people do, but I think I’m over eighteen now-maybe nineteen.”
An idea came to him of a sudden, and he jumped to his feet. “Valaran, let me take you outside! I’ve been wanting to see some of the city myself.”
She regarded him skeptically. “You don’t know your way about. We’ll be like two blind kender with our hands in each other’s pockets.”
“My men, the Juramona foot guards, are quartered by the canal somewhere. I’ll tell Lord Enkian I’m going down there to visit them.”
Valaran stood slowly, green eyes shining. “Aren’t you afraid? I’m forbidden to go out without my father’s permission. We’ll be punished if we’re caught.”
“A warrior does not fear reprisals, only failure,” he said gravely. This made her chuckle, the rich sound bringing a grin to his face.
They concocted a plan. Although prohibited from leaving the Inner City, Valaran had a fair amount of freedom otherwise. Her father would not miss her if she went out after supper. Tol would meet her at sunset, by the palace kitchens. He was sure Kiya and Miya would help him smuggle her out.
Valaran shook his hand like a comrade, then hurried back to the palace to prepare for her illicit foray. Tol waited a bit, then left the Font of the Blue Phoenix, nightmares and magical immunity forgotten.
The Dom-shu sisters were not disposed to be helpful.
When Tol arrived at the kitchens after making excuses to Lord Enkian-who, frankly, cared not a whit if he left-he found Miya and Kiya chafing to get out in the city themselves. The idea that one sister should stay behind so Valaran could masquerade as her was flatly rejected.
“Why should we do this for a stranger?” grumbled Miya.
“You’d be doing it for me,” Tol said, annoyed. “I ask little of you. Can’t one of you oblige me in this?”
They wrangled awhile, then the sisters agreed to gamble for the right to go with Tol and Valaran. He imagined they would match for it, or do evens-odd, but instead Kiya found four big butcher knives and leaned a chopping block against the wall as a target.
“Nearest each corner wins,” said Kiya. Miya agreed with a grunt.
Holding the iron point between her thumb and forefinger, Kiya hurled one knife after another at the block. Her throws were formidable; each knife came within a finger’s width of its intended corner. Miya frowned and worked the big blades free. Standing beside her sister, she gripped the knives by their oily wooden handles rather than the blades. Her first three throws were no better than Kiya’s, but the last imbedded in the very peak of the chopping block’s upper right corner. Miya whooped in triumph.
“Don’t fret, sister,” she said. “While you’re here, get the palace cooks to teach you how to make real food instead of dragon-bait!”
Kiya responded with a pungent metaphor, so Tol stepped between them. “My thanks, Kiya,” he said, giving her a brotherly hug. “I owe you a favor.”
The Dom-shu slipped on the sandals Tol had insisted they wear in the capital, then stole outside. In moments Valaran arrived. She wore a dark blue hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe.
Immediately, Kiya noted a snag in their plans, saying, “She’s tiny; she’ll never pass for me.”
Valaran was more than a head shorter than the lofty tribal women.
“I have it!” Miya said, smacking a fist into her palm. “Husband, get on the other side of her!”
Tol winced at being labeled the mate of the Dom-shu, but he stood on Val’s right while Miya flanked her left. At Miya’s command, they grasped Valaran’s elbows and hoisted her up.
“Light as a bird,” declared Miya.
Valaran vowed they were crushing her arms, but Tol said, “Be easy. We just have to get past the guards.”
“But I have no feet!”
It was true. The hem of Valaran’s cloak now floated above the ground, and no legs or feet were visible below it.
“The dark will hide that,” Tol said, and the three of them bid farewell to Kiya.
They headed down the lane to the south gate. As it was used only by victualers and tradesfolk, the guards there were surprised when the trio appeared before them. The guards’ poleaxes clashed together, barring the way.
“Who goes there?” snapped the sergeant of the guard.
“Tol of Juramona and his wives.”
The soldier held up a shielded candle. Yellow light fell on their three faces. Valaran did not arouse suspicion by trying to avert her face.
“I know you, sir,” said the guard. “You command the footmen of Lord Enkian, do you not?”
“That’s right,” said Tol. Valaran didn’t weigh much, hut the burden was starting to tell. His arm quivered with the strain and he fought to keep his voice normal. “I’m heading down to the canal district to visit my men. I have Lord Enkian’s permission.”
“Ah, you’re a Rider of the Horde, sir, you don’t need to prove anything to us!” They withdrew their arms, and let Tol and the women pass. “But tell us some time how you bested Lord Morthur, will you, sir?”
“Surely,” Tol said, flattered. “I shall.”
They moved away from the gate, careful not to seem too eager. Out of sight of the friendly guards, they set Valaran on her feet.
“You’re becoming known,” said Miya. She looked back in the direction of the gate. “I should have asked them for money.”
Tol opened his mouth to protest such dishonorable behavior, but Valaran pulled at his hand. “Let’s go! I want to see everything!”
The road descended a steep hill, curving slightly to the right. Valaran threw back her cloak to free her arms. She started to lower her hood, but Tol stopped her.
“No sense announcing who you are,” he warned. He cautioned Miya to refer to their companion only as Val.
Valaran had studied a map of the city and she announced this avenue was called Bran’s Way. It was lined on both sides by two-story warehouses-brick at ground level, timber above. Here were kept all the stores for the Inner City, as well as tribute and trade from every corner of the empire. Torches burned on iron stanchions outside the door of each warehouse, and well-armed watchmen stood guard, each with a halberd on one shoulder and a brass alarm bell in his hand.
