ships, yet different, the shirt made like body singlets, but worn
with nothing over it. So it was revealing, ah . . .”
Amused despite herself, Sun wondered how Mr. Official Voice
was going to get around the sorts of personal details that no one ever seems to
like discussing in official reports to your superior, whatever world you are
on. Especially when the personal bits belonged to the likes of kings, queens,
and so forth.
The man cleared his throat and tried again in a tone utterly
devoid of human emotion. “Lankinar insists there was no male body in those
clothes, and most of the others now agree. They saw a man possibly because they
expected to see a man, possibly because she was tall, possibly because she
fought as well as the pirate.”
“Hawk nose, you say?” Canary let out a long breath.
“Damnation. They’re back. Or at least one of them.”
“Who, sire?”
“Never mind. Now, my last question. Where is my son? All of
you have been avoiding that question,” he added grimly, with a hint of the old
laughter Sun remembered. “Which is why I had to drop my own work to oversee
his. Is Jehan drunk in a tavern somewhere? Or holed up with some pretty minstrel
girl who caught his eye?”
“Uh, no, sire. Prince Jehan did detail the extra ridings to
us, you’ll remember.”
“Don’t excuse him. Tell me where he is.”
“He rode down to Sarendan. A sculptor. Famed, he said.
Wanted to pose for him. Present you with a marble bust as a surprise.”
Canary gave a bitter laugh, and Sun remembered him long ago
saying, My boy is too much like his
mother . His heels rang on the floor as he moved through the door. “Finish
the search, and send someone to remind Jehan that art, though no doubt
admirable, must wait on events . . .” Their voices faded.
Sun leaned against the moldy wall. Tall, many braids. Hawk nose . Sasha was here. She was alive. She
was also free, and had escaped Canary’s clutches, in spite of a fight.
All right, then. Food first. Sleep. Where to begin the
search? The brief reference to a pirate made no sense, but “the Eban brats”
did. Obviously Sasha was on her way to Steward Eban. And so thither go I.
Chapter Seven
One of the many euphemisms for chamber pot is ‘necessary.’
I can introduce the necessary topic once and then never again. It was a relief,
oh, what a relief, to be able to use the Waste Spell.
When I was ten and new to Earth, I had to learn about
toilets. Let me sum it all up in one word: yuk. The Waste Spell did
work—sometimes—as magical influence ebbed and flowed through the Gate. But
since using the spell involves saying the word at the same time you let go,
well, you can imagine how trustworthy that spell turned out to be on Earth.
We paused and drank from a stream, after which I used the
spell, celebrating inwardly at the notion of no more restroom hunts.
We rode on.
Conversation was tense and desultory, mostly between Elva
and her brother as they brangled about where to go. I was so tired I only
wanted to sleep, so I was content to follow, listen, and breathe in the fresh
air. Zathdar seemed busy keeping watch.
When it was too dark to travel, we camped in a small
clearing under a clump of low-hanging willow. When Elva and Devli began yet
another argument about whether or not they could risk a fire, Zathdar said,
“You have a Fire Stick, right?” And on their twin nods, “No one will search for
the same reason we’re camping. They can’t see to travel at night any better
than we can. As soon as we get these animals rubbed down, I’ll pace the
perimeter, make sure the fire isn’t visible.”
Elva pulled the packs off the horses before Devli and
Zathdar led the animals a few yards away to where a stream trickled. Elva took
a Fire Stick from her pack. She snapped it into flame and made a gesture that
would keep the flame low.
Presently Devli returned and sank down with a sigh. “Horses
are fine.”
Zathdar returned shortly after. “As I
with nothing over it. So it was revealing, ah . . .”
Amused despite herself, Sun wondered how Mr. Official Voice
was going to get around the sorts of personal details that no one ever seems to
like discussing in official reports to your superior, whatever world you are
on. Especially when the personal bits belonged to the likes of kings, queens,
and so forth.
The man cleared his throat and tried again in a tone utterly
devoid of human emotion. “Lankinar insists there was no male body in those
clothes, and most of the others now agree. They saw a man possibly because they
expected to see a man, possibly because she was tall, possibly because she
fought as well as the pirate.”
“Hawk nose, you say?” Canary let out a long breath.
“Damnation. They’re back. Or at least one of them.”
“Who, sire?”
“Never mind. Now, my last question. Where is my son? All of
you have been avoiding that question,” he added grimly, with a hint of the old
laughter Sun remembered. “Which is why I had to drop my own work to oversee
his. Is Jehan drunk in a tavern somewhere? Or holed up with some pretty minstrel
girl who caught his eye?”
“Uh, no, sire. Prince Jehan did detail the extra ridings to
us, you’ll remember.”
“Don’t excuse him. Tell me where he is.”
“He rode down to Sarendan. A sculptor. Famed, he said.
Wanted to pose for him. Present you with a marble bust as a surprise.”
Canary gave a bitter laugh, and Sun remembered him long ago
saying, My boy is too much like his
mother . His heels rang on the floor as he moved through the door. “Finish
the search, and send someone to remind Jehan that art, though no doubt
admirable, must wait on events . . .” Their voices faded.
Sun leaned against the moldy wall. Tall, many braids. Hawk nose . Sasha was here. She was alive. She
was also free, and had escaped Canary’s clutches, in spite of a fight.
All right, then. Food first. Sleep. Where to begin the
search? The brief reference to a pirate made no sense, but “the Eban brats”
did. Obviously Sasha was on her way to Steward Eban. And so thither go I.
Chapter Seven
One of the many euphemisms for chamber pot is ‘necessary.’
I can introduce the necessary topic once and then never again. It was a relief,
oh, what a relief, to be able to use the Waste Spell.
When I was ten and new to Earth, I had to learn about
toilets. Let me sum it all up in one word: yuk. The Waste Spell did
work—sometimes—as magical influence ebbed and flowed through the Gate. But
since using the spell involves saying the word at the same time you let go,
well, you can imagine how trustworthy that spell turned out to be on Earth.
We paused and drank from a stream, after which I used the
spell, celebrating inwardly at the notion of no more restroom hunts.
We rode on.
Conversation was tense and desultory, mostly between Elva
and her brother as they brangled about where to go. I was so tired I only
wanted to sleep, so I was content to follow, listen, and breathe in the fresh
air. Zathdar seemed busy keeping watch.
When it was too dark to travel, we camped in a small
clearing under a clump of low-hanging willow. When Elva and Devli began yet
another argument about whether or not they could risk a fire, Zathdar said,
“You have a Fire Stick, right?” And on their twin nods, “No one will search for
the same reason we’re camping. They can’t see to travel at night any better
than we can. As soon as we get these animals rubbed down, I’ll pace the
perimeter, make sure the fire isn’t visible.”
Elva pulled the packs off the horses before Devli and
Zathdar led the animals a few yards away to where a stream trickled. Elva took
a Fire Stick from her pack. She snapped it into flame and made a gesture that
would keep the flame low.
Presently Devli returned and sank down with a sigh. “Horses
are fine.”
Zathdar returned shortly after. “As I
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