The innkeep came out, talking loudly with Teriyan, and Teriyan unstopped a barrel for the man to have a taste. Satisfied that the horses were well, Sofy climbed back up to the driver's board.
“Over there,” Jaryd murmured, nodding toward the opposing inn's verandah. “That's Dysmon Frayne. Younger brother of Lord Frayne. They have a property not far from Nyvar Holding. I've played lagand against him. His son was good in the youngsters’ contests.”
Sofy saw a tall, thin man with close-cropped hair. He was speaking with a Torovan merchant, colourful and long-haired, his broad hat in one hand. A young lady appeared from the inn's interior. Sofy seemed to stiffen.
“What?” Jaryd asked.
“Nothing,” said Sofy after a moment, relaxing a little. “I thought for a moment it was someone I knew.”
“Who would you know out here?”
“Um…” Sofy thought for a moment, “Maryel Tasys, Elynda Iryani, Pyta Paramys, Rosarya Pelyn and Alonya Redyk. Oh, and Emylie Arastyn, of course. All were in Baen-Tar. Maryel I know returned to Algery three months ago. She's certainly here. Elynda I'm not sure about, though I'd guess she's returned just for this wedding, since it's her brother. And of course Emylie will be here.”
“Ladies-in-waiting,” said Jaryd, understanding. This was Sofy's life in Baen-Tar. Many of the lords sent daughters to Baen-Tar in search of education, sophistication and, of course, husbands. While Jaryd knew many of Tyree and Lenayin's future rulers through play on the lagand field, Sofy knew many of their prospective wives through embroidery, scripture, dance and language classes. “You might have said so before we set out.”
“I've far less chance of being recognised than you have,” Sofy snorted, adjusting the cloth tied beneath her chin.
“Which is why you were holding your breath just now.”
Sofy gave him an annoyed look. “I was not. Or maybe just a little. You can never be entirely sure.” She looked up and down the street at passers-by and flags hanging from windows. A cart squeezed past their own, hooves clattering. “All this fuss for a wedding,” she mused.
It seemed an odd thing for Sofy to say-she'd seen far grander weddings than this one. Then Jaryd realised. “Your own will be a lot fussier,” he said.
“I know.” Sofy seemed to gaze at nothing for a moment. Jaryd had never really thought about it before. Men got married, and unmarried girls became wives. Wives obeyed their husbands, and the natural order continued. He'd never…well, he'd never even considered looking at it from a woman's perspective. Especially not from the perspective of a woman who disliked her prospective husband, even though she'd never actually met him. She hated what he stood for, and what her marriage would be in aid of. War against the Saalshen Bacosh. It reduced her to a tool in other people's plans. A pawn.
It seemed unfair. She had no say in her own life, and her fates were mapped out for the interests of others. For the first time, Jaryd felt something toward a woman that he'd never expected to feel. He empathised.
“Maybe he'll be a good man,” he offered, uncertainly. “Regent Arrosh's heir.”
Sofy shrugged. “Perhaps.” And said nothing more. That was most unlike her usual bubbly, cheerful self. Jaryd didn't like that. Strangely, it seemed he'd come to enjoy Sofy's good humour. Her sunshine kept him buoyant when all he saw were dark clouds. He clasped her arm briefly. It was forward of him. Should her royal minders have been present, it would surely have earned him a loud rebuke. But Sofy looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
The innkeep accepted one barrel of ale of the four they carried, he and Teriyan lifting it from the back with some attempted help from Sofy. Jaryd remained in the back, wrapped in a cloak and feigning illness. They drove on, avoiding the fancier inns where nobility were quartered who might perchance recognise one or another of their party, and found accommodation at a cramped little place down an alley.
Teriyan took the cart and horses to see if he could find separate stable lodging, while Sofy and Jaryd carried their bags up several winding, narrow flights of stairs. The room was small, with two beds and enough space on the floor for a third. A crate made for a step up to windows that could be ducked through, and onto a small terrace amidst the sloping roof tiles, with a view of the little lane. Jaryd thought the place inadequate, considering what he'd been accustomed to when staying in Algery. Sofy, on the other hand, seemed intrigued, especially with the terrace and its view.
“Sasha would love this!” she said, gazing about. “When she was little she used to climb on the palace roof sometimes. She says she's still a good climber, I'm sure she'll get to use it in Petrodor. I think she could get from one side of this city to the other without touching the ground.”
That gave Jaryd an idea.
A tile gave way beneath Jaryd's boot, clattered down the roof and broke with a crack in the middle of the street below. Jaryd pressed himself flat atop the apex, repressing a curse between gritted teeth. Voices from the inn rose in drunken pleasure, and from the sound of boots thundering on the verandah, it seemed the dancing had taken to the streets. No one noticed a falling tile.
Jaryd continued carefully. There was less light than he'd hoped up on the rooftops and the overlapping shelves of loose tiles were treacherous.
He climbed a new slope, trod lightly across a terrace, past a table and chairs, beneath some washing, and up onto the tiles again. Ahead and below was the inn. It looked no different from the rest of the undulating rooftops, but Sofy and Teriyan had counted streets and strides, making certain he knew exactly where it was. Jaryd was now glad they had, despite his protestations at the time. He knew Algery well, but he'd never seen it from this perspective before, and certainly not at night. Now if he could just find the right room.
Sofy had helped there too. She had followed inn staff down to the river with their baskets of laundry, posing as a water carrier herself, and had simply started conversations. Before long, she'd known not only which inn and room lodged Master Wyndal Arastyn, but what he'd had for lunch, which serving girl's backside cousin Dylis Arastyn had pinched, and all about the appalling table manners of Lady Arastyn. Sofy had seemed quite cheerful in her espionage. Jaryd had suggested that perhaps treachery came to royals naturally. Sofy had laughed.
Jaryd skirted a courtyard, paused briefly beneath a window, then climbed across to the terrace he'd selected as his target. There was no table here, no chairs, no washing line. Thick curtains were pulled behind the diamond-shaped glass panels. He crept forward and put an ear to the glass, but he could hear nothing. He waited, listening to the music and laughter down on the street. Wyndal would almost certainly be downstairs with the other nobles, but he had to be sure. He waited.
Finally satisfied, Jaryd pulled his gloves from a jacket pocket. One he pulled onto his right hand, and into the other he inserted the hilt of his knife. Thus muffled, he selected a glass pane near the door handle and broke it with a sharp blow. Pieces fell, and clattered, but would surely attract no more attention than the falling tile had. He reached his gloved hand in and pulled the door open enough to slip in and peer past the curtains. The room was bare and small, with a single lamp burning on a small table.
Jaryd eased the terrace door closed and pushed back the curtains. He would have to hide under the bed until Wyndal returned, in case servants came to attend to the lamp. But first, he pulled his sword and practised a few swings, testing his reach within the small room. Better to focus on that, than wonder at the reception Wyndal might grant him. Better to think on that, than any confrontation with family. With family came thoughts of his younger brother Tarryn. Wyndal was clearly not as angry at Tarryn's death as Jaryd was, or he'd have killed his host family by now…or died trying. Or escaped, to plot revenge in the wilds like Jaryd himself. Wyndal was still here. He'd always been a thinker, though. Jaryd lowered his blade with a last, grim look around. Perhaps he should not pass judgment too quickly. Perhaps Wyndal was plotting something.
The door opened. Jaryd stared, frozen in place-there was no time to slide beneath the bed, it happened too fast. Just as quickly, he found himself staring down the snubbed muzzle of a loaded crossbow, cocked and ready to fire. The crossbowman entered the room, muzzle aimed unwaveringly at Jaryd's chest. Behind him, in the doorway, stood another man. He was young, with blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair. He would have been very handsome indeed, were it not for the horrific sword scar that caved in his right cheekbone, and took a slice from the bridge of his nose.
“You,” Jaryd snarled.
Rhyst Angyvar smiled coldly. “You really are just as stupid as everyone always said, aren't you, Jaryd?”
It was a Varansday. Alexanda Rochel hated Varansdays. Varansday morning in particular, which required him to be out of bed at an ungodly hour, to dress up in his dukely best and walk the short distance across the house grounds to the Cochindel Temple for service. Worse, a light rain was falling and a chill wind blew from the north.
“Really, Alexanda,” said Varona at his elbow, “we needn't walk. We could have taken the carriage.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Alexanda, his polished boots scraping on the garden path. “Ridiculous to mount up just to cross a stream. Hurry up, boy!” he growled at the servants behind them, struggling to keep umbrellas above the heads of their duke and duchess. “If I have to keep ducking your blasted contraption, I'll be sitting all service with a crook neck!”
Ahead of them walked a contingent of twelve Pazira Guard, dry enough beneath wide hats and coats over armour. Behind walked Bryanne, with several earls’ daughters huddling beneath their own umbrellas, and trying not to get grass stains on the hems of their good gowns. Behind them, three earls and their wives, including Varona's brother Redolcho. Trustworthy men, of families interwoven with the Rochels for many centuries, and a long history of friendly relations in trade, war and marriage. These, Alexanda invited for company at the house. The others, especially those from foreign provinces, he was becoming thoroughly sick of.
“The gardens do look lovely in the rain, Varona,” called Tiscea, Redolcho's wife.
“Oh, don't they just?” said Varona. The green lawns were lush and wet, and the green trees dripped, and the carefully rowed flower gardens seemed to drink in the moisture and glow with pleasure. “There is so much that is beautiful around Cochindel. So much that I have been unable to see.” With a sharp glance at her husband.
“Quit your griping, woman,” Alexanda retorted. “Isn't it just like a woman to admire the beautiful garden, and never a thought for the high walls and guards that protect it from ruin.”
“I'd swear you thought we were all about to be assassinated,” Varona replied, eyeing the armed escort to their front. At the rear of their little column, a similar number of armed men made a line. “Have your negotiations been going poorly, my love?” Alexanda grunted. “Perhaps your rough tongue could be moderated by a woman's softer tones?”
“I try to secure safety and prosperity for Pazira,” said Alexanda. “Not bargain a better price for a Xaldian carpet.”
“Really, Alexanda,” Varona sniffed. She withdrew her hand from the crook of his elbow. Alexanda reclaimed it and replaced it on his arm. He gave it a firm squeeze, whatever his gruff expression. Varona sighed. After twenty-six years of marriage, one learned to recognise an apology when offered, however fleeting it might appear to others. She gave him a thoughtful look. “You look so much nicer when you brush your hair properly. It no longer sticks out like a squirrel's tail.”
“Thank you, dearest,” said Alexanda. “How nice of you to notice.” Varona smiled, and gave his arm a squeeze.
The eastern gate was overgrown with ivy and manned by a small guardpost atop the wall. Several more guards withdrew metal braces from the wall and pushed the gate open with a heavy squeal. Alexanda wondered for the dozenth time if these walls were really fooling anyone. The Pazira House defences deterred petty criminals and unprofessional assassins, nothing more. Like everything in Petrodor, it was a game of appearances.
Some of the village folk waved and called greeting as the column walked by. Varona waved back, and nudged Alexanda on the arm. He waved too. The villagers seemed to like that and called traditional Varansday blessings in their broad eastern accents. Most were peasants, but there were some local smallholders too. Some dukes refused to allow nonnobility to hold title, but Alexanda did. If a common peasant could make enough coin to buy his own plot, then he was clearly a good farmer and should be rewarded. In the Bacosh, of course, such notions would cost a man his head.
“I'm so proud to be married to a duke who is so well loved,” Varona remarked with a smile as they passed.
“That there are so few who are is proof alone that the world is full of fools,” he replied. “These people are the source of all a ruler's wealth, and all his power too, if war should come. Treat them well, and they shall grant him the world. Treat them poorly, and nothing shall save him when the troubles come. It's the simplest equation in the world, yet so many lack the faculties to grasp it.”
“Oh, Alexanda, you also treat them well because you like to make people happy. Don't you?”
“A luxury,” said Alexanda dismissively.
“Alexanda Rochel, you can't fool me. You're not half as hardhearted as you like people to think you are.”
Alexanda spared his wife a small, wry smile. “If you say so, dearest.”