The Star Scroll Page 2

  In one corner of the room a pair of merchants haggled pleasantly over their meal, swatches of silk on the table between them. A young man wooed a pretty girl nearby, their lunch forgotten as he whispered in her ear and sent her into gales of laughter. Near the door sat five soldiers, four men and a middle-aged woman, all dressed in light harness but without swords, according to the law here. They wore the solid red tunics and the white candle badge of Prince Velden of Grib.

  “Meath?” Pol asked softly. “What are they doing at Graypearl?”

  “Who?” he glanced around. “Oh, them. The Gribain ambassador got in this morning. Something about arranging silk trade.”

  “But there’s been a treaty forever that says all silk goes through Radzyn.”

  “Well, they can try to convince Lleyn, can’t they? But I don’t think they’ll get anywhere. I wouldn’t be too worried for your uncle’s revenues—or your own,” he finished teasingly.

  Pol bristled. “Dorval can do as it likes with its silks—”

  “As long as the Desert sees the profits?” Meath laughed, then held up a placating hand as blue-green eyes began to flash. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  “I was talking about treaties and the law, not profits,” Pol said sternly.

  “I think you’ll find such things are flexible when it comes to making money.”

  “Not since my father’s been High Prince,” he stated. “The law is the law, and he sees to it that laws are obeyed.”

  “Well, it’s all beyond a simple Sunrunner like me, your grace,” Meath said, barely controlling another smile.

  Giamo arrived with a tray, and set before them two huge plates of food, a tankard of ale for Meath, and a Fironese crystal goblet filled with a clear, pale pink liquid that frothed gently with golden bubbles. Pol took a sip under his host’s watchful eye, and smiled in delight. “Wonderful! What is it?”

  “My own brewing,” Giamo answered, pleased. “The most delicate and refined of ciders, barely blushing.”

  “It tastes just like spring itself,” Pol said. “And I’m honored by the goblet it’s served in.”

  “The honor is my wife’s,” Giamo replied with a bow. “It’s not every woman can say that so important a lord has eaten at her table and sipped from her most treasured possession.”

  “If she’s not too busy, then perhaps I can visit her in the kitchen and thank her.”

  “After you’ve finished your meal in peace,” Giamo grinned. “My good wife Willa could talk the tail off a dragon.”

  Sunrunner and prince dug into the food. The healthy appetites of a growing boy and a large, active man required seconds; Meath requested a third piling of meat and flaky bread, and Pol was sincerely sorry that he was too full to do likewise. He lingered over a dish of berries in honey glaze and sipped at his cider, wondering if he might persuade Giamo to part with a bottle as a gift for his mother, who adored fine wines.

  The pearl-fishers had gone, replaced by a trio of shipwrights come to enjoy a few tankards of ale. The young man and the girl were now being teased by the two silk merchants; Pol grinned to himself as the couple blushed. In a few years that would be him over there, enjoying the company of a charming lady. But he was in no hurry.

  Replete at last, Meath leaned back with tankard in hand, ready for conversation again. “You didn’t say if there was anything in the shops you liked well enough to buy.”

  “Well . . . the green silk slippers were pretty, and that comb of pearl shell. But Prince Chadric told me that a man should never buy a gift for a lady unless he takes one look at it and can see her wearing it or using it.”

  The Sunrunner laughed. “An excellent policy—and doubtless the reason Audrite always looks so lovely.”

  “You might try his advice out on that new maid in the west wing,” Pol said, his eyes at their widest and most innocent. “I hear you haven’t had much luck so far.”

  Meath spluttered on a swallow of ale. “How did you know about—”

  Pol only laughed.

  Willa, Giamo’s wife, emerged from her kitchen then, wiping her hands on her apron and obviously intending to gather compliments from her exalted guest. The merchants had risen to leave, still arguing amiably over their silk. The young girl squealed, “Oh, Rialt, you’re terrible!” in response to some sally of her companion’s; the shipwrights laughed in response and raised their cups to him. All was warm good cheer—until one of the soldiers suddenly shoved his chair back and sprang to his feet, growling a difference of opinion that turned every head in the room. Meath saw the glint of steel and rose, his substantial frame instinctively placed between the soldiers and Pol. The merchants, caught between their table and the angry Gribains by the door, sent a look of frantic appeal to the Sunrunner, and he nodded reassurance.

  “Here, now,” Meath said casually. “You can settle this outside, can’t you?”

  Usually his height, his breadth of shoulder, and his rings made his point. But these were seasoned troopers, angry and resentful of any interference, even that of a faradhi. The bearded one who seemed to have started the quarrel snarled, “It’s no concern of yours, Sunrunner.”

  “Put the knife away,” Meath replied, his voice less pleasant now. The merchants were trying to slip past, silk swatches rustling in their clenched hands, and the girl had shrunk back in her chair.

  Willa marched forward, hands on hips. “How dare you threaten the peace of this inn?” she demanded. “And in the presence of—”

  Meath interrupted before she could identify Pol. “Get out of here before you make a very serious mistake, my friends.”

  The woman—their captain judging by the braid at her throat—drew her own knife. “You have a loud and offensive mouth, faradhi. And you are mistaken in using that tone to members of Prince Velden’s own guard.”

  The bearded man brought up his knife in obvious threat, sunlight through the windows striking silver off the blade, and the innkeeper’s wife shrieked a protest. The merchants tried to vanish behind a couple of chairs. And the knife sped through an abrupt silence toward Meath’s chest.

  “No!” a young voice cried. Meath rocked easily out of the knife’s path as a fountain of Sunrunner’s Fire rose from the middle of the soldiers’ table. They yelled and leaped back, and in that precious moment of their startlement Meath surged toward them. He slammed two into the wall and shoved the woman at the terrified merchants. Rialt shook off his girlfriend’s clutching hand, jumped to his feet, and launched himself at the bearded soldier. The three shipwrights, bulky muscles barely covered by thin shirts, hastily downed the last of their ale before leaping up to join the fight.

  By brawl’s end, Meath had a sore jaw and a shallow slit in his arm. Neither deterred him from overturning a table on top of the Gribain who was foolish enough not to stay where Rialt had kicked him. Two of the shipwrights were holding a second soldier so Rialt could take whatever punches he liked; Willa was engaged in tying up the unconscious woman with knotted napkins. The fourth soldier had gone headfirst into the brick hearth; the fifth sprawled on the floor, and the shipwright seated casually on the Gribain’s spine looked up with a grin at Meath.

  “Many thanks for the entertainment, my lord Sunrunner! I haven’t had so much fun since I worked over to the other port!”

  “My pleasure,” Meath answered, and looked around for Pol. The boy was administering ale to the white-faced girl. He was unhurt, and Meath felt relief shake his knees just a little. He didn’t want to consider what he would have told Sioned if her son had been injured.

  Giamo puffed up the cellar stairs and gave a shocked cry. Meath patted his shoulder.

  “All taken care of. But I’m afraid we’ve made a shambles of your room.” He glanced down as capable hands went to work on his wounded arm. “It’s nothing,” he told Willa.

  “Nothing?” She snorted and tied off the bandage she had made with strips torn from her apron. “Nothing that could have been deaths in my house, that’s what nothing! Now, you find out
who these ruffians are and what they’re about while I find some good strong wine to restore the blood you’ve lost.”

  Meath was about to protest that it was only a scratch—then remembered the glorious wine Prince Lleyn had treated him to at this very inn last autumn. He nodded enthusiastic approval and Willa snorted once more.

  There were more casualties among the furniture and plates than among the people involved. Rialt would have a sore shoulder for a few days, and the merchants’ dignity had been more bruised than their backsides. Meath righted an overturned chair, tested it for soundness, and pointed to the Gribain commander, who sat on the floor with her hands bound behind her. “Have a seat,” he invited.

  Sullenly and awkwardly, she obeyed. Her red tunic was a little darker along one shoulder, but Meath judged the wound to be superficial. Of her companions, three would have very bad headaches and the other would not be walking entirely upright for a while. After assuring himself of their relative good health, Meath stood before their captain with arms folded, unimpressed by her arrogant demand to be released on the instant.

  “Captain,” he told her, “I don’t care if you stand guard outside Prince Velden’s own bedchamber while he favors his wife with his attentions. You know the law here.”

  “It was a private matter between me and my men,” she snapped. “You have no right—”

  “I have the right of any man or woman to make sure the law is obeyed. I want several things, and I want them now: your name, those of your men, and the reason for this outrage against Prince Lleyn’s peace. And then you may make your apologies as well as restitution to those you’ve offended here today.”

  “Apologies!” She sucked in a breath and glared at him.

  Meath glanced down as Pol plucked at his sleeve. “What is it?”

  “I’ve sent Giamo to fetch the patrol. They should be here soon.”

  “Good thinking. Thanks.” The boy looked a little pale, but seemed in perfect control of himself. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. But I don’t think this was any simple disagreement,” he added thoughtfully. “In fact, I’m sure the one with the beard started it on purpose.”

  Meath was almost afraid to find out why. Neither was he looking forward to an explanation about Pol’s conjuring of Fire. Meath and Eolie had never shown him how. Perhaps Sioned had before Pol left Stronghold, but somehow Meath doubted it. Pol would have told him.

  The faradhi looked down into clear eyes. “Why would he start a fight?” he asked quietly.

  “Because he wanted to kill me.” Pol shrugged. “Rialt kept him from throwing his second knife. You were busy with the others and didn’t see. But he wasn’t aiming at you the first time, either. He was after me.”

  It wasn’t natural for a fourteen-year-old to speak so calmly about such things. Meath started to put an arm around his shoulders, but Pol slid away and went to the cellar door, where Willa had just appeared with clay mugs of wine. Pol appropriated one and took a long swallow, then helped her serve the rest. Meath downed the contents of his mug in two gulps and then approached the man who lay trapped and unconscious beneath the overturned table.

  He was unremarkable in every way—height, weight, coloring, features—and that very plainness signaled danger. Who would notice this man, but for the uniform and the beard? Yet both were too easy to identify, and Meath could not help but wonder about them. Even if Velden of Grib had had a compelling reason to kill Pol, Meath couldn’t believe anyone was stupid enough to send an assassin dressed in the colors of his own princedom—unless he counted on everyone’s assuming that no one would be that stupid. Intricate schemes made Meath’s head ache. And he could just hear himself accusing a ruling prince of attempted murder. It was much easier to absolve Velden of complicity and decide that the uniform was borrowed protection, gaining the assassin access to Graypearl as part of the Gribain suite, with chance placing the soldiers here at the inn at the same time as Pol.

  Besides, there was the beard—a disguise that could be discarded almost as easily as the uniform. Meath crouched down to peer at the man’s face.

  “What are you looking for?” Pol asked over his shoulder.

  “I’m not sure,” Meath admitted. “I don’t think he’s had his beard very long. It’s uneven and hasn’t grown long enough to trim neatly. And that place on his chin is practically bald.”

  The boy knelt and fingered the beard. When he met the Sunrunner’s eyes, his own were haunted. “Merida,” he whispered.

  “Impossible. They were all but wiped out the year you were born. Walvis got them at the Battle of Tiglath.”

  “Merida,” Pol repeated stubbornly. “The scar’s on his chin in just the right place. They’re trained assassins. And who else would want to kill me?”

  Meath heard reaction beginning at last as Pol’s voice rose slightly, and he pulled the boy to his feet. He snagged another cup of wine from the tray on the table and gave it to Pol after seating him firmly in a chair.

  Rohan had sent his son to Dorval for its safety, with the understanding that Meath, Sioned’s friend since their student days at Goddess Keep, would act as bodyguard whenever the boy was not in the immediate confines of Graypearl. Meath’s hands shook as he thought about what might have happened here today.

  Pol’s color and poise had come back. He complimented the merchants and shipwrights on their fighting skills, speaking as easily as if this had been a simple tavern brawl, not an attempt to kill him. But Lleyn’s carefree squire had vanished, replaced by a young man who now knew how much his death was worth. Rohan and Sioned would find that their son had taken a very long step toward manhood in the space of a few moments. Pol’s identity known by now, as he thanked Rialt for his quickness the low bow he received seemed to embarrass him. This reassured Meath for reasons he did not immediately understand.

  The patrol arrived and Meath was glad to hand over the prisoners to their keeping. They would be brought before Prince Lleyn; he looked grimly forward to hearing the Merida explain himself.

  “I’m sorry about the damage,” Pol was saying to Giamo. “And your goblet was broken. I’ll find a replacement for it at the Rialla, I promise.”

  “My goblet?” Willa exclaimed. “Great Goddess watch over us, what’s a foolish goblet? If your Sunrunner hadn’t called Fire and startled them so much, more than my goblet and a few sticks of furniture would have been broken!”

  Pol did not correct her impression that the Fire had been of Meath’s making. “Well, just the same, you’ll get another Fironese crystal when I return this autumn.”

  One of the merchants cleared his throat. “Well-spoken, your grace. But I differ with good Willa here. It was your shout that distracted them and probably saved me a bloodletting—if not my life. It may be the duty of a prince to be brave, but courage always deserves a reward.”

  “We know you’d not accept anything for yourself,” said his companion. “But come to our warehouses when you’ve time and choose whatever you fancy would suit your lady mother’s famous beauty.”

  Pol began a protest, but Meath interrupted smoothly, “You’re very generous, and on High Princess Sioned’s behalf, we accept.” Refusal would have offended, and Pol did not yet know enough about being a prince to understand that. It was in the nature of most people to believe that highborns were special, braver and better than ordinary folk. They must be trusted to govern the princedoms and holdings, and if they were not better, then what hope was there? A tribute of fine silk would symbolize the belief as surely as Willa would find justification of it in her new goblet. Pol’s instincts had guided him correctly there, even if he did not yet understand that he did something far more important than provide restitution for something broken.

  But he did know enough to take Meath’s lead. “Thank you. My mother will be very grateful. Will you be at Waes this year to see her wearing your silk?”

  “Dragons couldn’t keep us away, your grace.” The pair swept him elegant bows, and Pol smiled. Only Meat
h saw the brief flash of amusement in the blue-green eyes.

  Later, on the ride back to Graypearl, Meath held his tongue and wondered how to explain this to Prince Lleyn. The events themselves were straightforward enough, but he worried about the Merida and the calling of Fire. Halfway up the hill he glanced over at Pol and said, “You know, there were probably easier ways of saving yourself the expense of buying a present for your mother.”

  “Is that the tale you’re going to tell her?”

  “I just might. But what I’m really thinking about is your little display of Fire. Oh, I’m not complaining, mind. They were startled and thus didn’t fight well. And you didn’t even leave a burn scar on the table,” he approved.

  “Maybe Lady Andrade will give me my first ring,” Pol replied lightly.

  “And maybe you’d better tell me who taught you how to do that,” Meath said, unsmiling.

  “No one. I just—I needed to distract them, and it seemed the best way.”

  Meath stared between his horse’s ears at the road ahead. “You’ve the heritage on both sides, so I guess it’s not surprising that you gave in to your instincts.” He reined in beneath a shade tree, and Pol did the same. Meath looked the boy full in the face, holding his gaze with deliberate intent. “Do I have to tell you how dangerous your instincts can be, my prince?”

  The use of title rather than name made Pol gulp. But he could not look away from Meath’s eyes. The Sunrunner speculated on how long he would be able to influence Pol this way. It was something all faradh’im learned from Lady Andrade during training, this absolute concentration that captured another as surely as a dragon could spear a sheep or a deer with a single look. Holding Pol’s gaze, it occurred to him that despite their coloring the boy’s eyes had nothing of the sea. There was sunlit Desert sky in them, limitless blue like his father’s eyes; there were emeralds, too, bright as the one his mother wore on her finger, the color of moonlight through a leaf. But not the sea, not for this son of the Desert.