Sing the Four Quarters

CHAPTER TEN

"Traders in the pass!"

The voice drifted down from the high watchtower, echoing off the stone of the mountain and sounding remote but clear in the lower bailey.

Olina shook her head at Gerek's questioning glance. "That's only first warning. You've time to finish your practice." When he was old enough to learn the sword, she'd hire an arms master—as her father had done for her and Pjerin's for him—but the Dues of Ohrid trained with the mountain bow from the time they could walk, the bow growing taller as they did.

The boy sighed and set another arrow to the string.

"Traders at the wall!"

If Gerek squinted, he could just make out the tiny figure waving from the top of the wall-tower. Responding to the cry, the men and women of the keep began to make their way toward the gate. Gerek turned and looked hopefully up at his aunt.

"If you hit the target with this last arrow, you can come with me to meet them," she promised.

Brow furrowed with concentration, Gerek pulled and released. Although the target wasn't far, it was at the edge of his range and the arrow wobbled a little in flight. Perhaps pushed on by the intensity of the violet stare locked onto it, it managed to just reach the lower edge of the bundle of straw.

"It hit! It hit! And it stayed" he added, just in case his aunt hadn't noticed.

"That's very well done, Gerek." Olina smiled down at the boy. "I'm very proud of you."

Gerek preened. "I'm gonna shoot like my papa. My papa can hit anything."

"Your papa is dead, Gerek." She'd tried being gentle, she'd tried discussing it with him—she'd finally given up and merely repeated the bald statement as often as she was given cause.

His lower lip jutted out and Gerek prepared to do battle.

"No." Her hand chopped off his protest before it began. "I am not going to argue with you. Your father is dead. You are now the due. Gather up your arrows, and put your equipment away. You should be finished long before the traders reach the gate." He hesitated, obviously still considering a defense of his absent father. "Or would you rather not see the traders at all?"

The threat worked where reason stood no chance. Olina watched the boy run to the target and wondered how much longer she was going to have to put up with his nonsense. The boy isn't quite five, surely he'll soon forget.

With the First Quarter rains over and the roads passable—Or what stands for roads in this unenclosed part of the world…—Olina expected a courier from the king with the official notification of the Judgment. Not that she needed to be told what had happened; the part of the plan that removed the stewardship of the pass from her nephew's hands was foolproof. The penalty for treason was death and she knew that Pjerin would rather die than throw himself on anyone's mercy. Therefore, Pjerin was dead.

But if the child won't believe me, maybe he'll believe the king.

She smiled and stretched in the sun like a cat. Gerek had been repeating to everyone his version of Pjerin's last words. "They made a mistake. The king will make everything better and then my papa will come back." He had half the village and most of the keep partially convinced as not even those who personally found their due somewhat arrogant and overbearing had wanted to believe the evidence they'd heard. When that piping cry changed to a howl of "The king killed my papa!", neither His Majesty nor the thought of Shkoder rule would be very popular in Ohrid.

Gerek bounced out of the armory and raced toward the gate of the keep, short legs pumping. "Come on, Aunty Olina! Come on!"

Still smiling, she followed the boy to the gate.

"You want to set up a what outside the village?"

"A fair, gracious lady." The portly trader swept off his hat and managed to actually bow more-or-less from the waist. He spoke the local dialect with a Cemandia accent. "Why, we asked ourselves, should we travel to distant foreign cities to sell our wares when there is a market eager to buy just over the border."

Eager? Olina snorted silently. Try slavering. The villagers seldom reaped any benefit of the scanty trade that traveled through the pass; sheep and timber being in abundance on both sides. The pass itself was their only worthwhile commodity, and Pjerin, the fool, had refused to take advantage of it. Nor would he have allowed so many Cemandians to remain so near the keep but would have insisted they move on and provided an escort to see that they did.

"We have strong markets in Cemandia for both fleece and timber," the trader continued as though reading her mind. "And I have a client who has interest in strong mountain rams for cross-breeding purposes."

"My nephew was recently executed for conspiring with a Cemandia trader. He planned to allow a Cemandian army through the pass."

The trader blanched and his hand rose to trace the sign of the Circle over his heart as the small crowd of villagers began to mutter. "War, gracious lady, is so bad for business. I assure you, we have no ulterior motive but profit."

It was impossible not to believe he was sincere. "If you wish only to trade in peace," Olina raised her voice so that those watching would hear and pass it on, "I will bring the matter up with my due." Her fingers closed around Gerek's narrow shoulder. "Shall we let them have their fair?" she asked him.

He looked up at her, brightly colored caravans reflecting in wide eyes. "What's a fair?"

"Like a market day, only better."

Gerek bounced. "Fairs are good," he declared.

The trader bowed again and produced from the pocket of a voluminous trouser leg a small crimson top which he presented with a flourish. "So we have your permission, Your Grace?"

"Yes." Gerek took the top quickly, before any of the adults standing around could decide he wasn't to have it. " 'Cause I am taking care of things till my papa comes back."

A slender man with short blond curls, who leaned negligently against one of the smaller wagons, smiled.

"… your due was accused by bards, was he, lady? We don't have much use for bards in Cemandia. Now you won't find finer pins than this anywhere…"

"… fine-looking young ram and I can give you a good price for him, too. Folk in Cemandia appreciate the work that's gone into breeding for him, let me tell you…"

"… save you an incredible amount of work, they will. I can't imagine no traders from Shkoder have brought them in. Well, never mind, I can beat their prices right out of the Circle…"

Olina walked slowly around the small fair, admiring the subtle—and occasionally less than subtle—working of Cemandian influence. She stopped for a moment to watch a fair young man keep half a dozen clubs in the air in a spinning cascade. His golden-blond curls gleamed in the afternoon sun and a breeze chased itself through the gilt. Below the pushed-up sleeves of his cotton shirt, the muscles of his forearms danced under the pale sheath of skin. As the small crowd gathered around him gazed open-mouthed at his skill, Olina dropped her eyes to the fit of his breeches.

"He's no more than a mountebank really." The portly trader stood suddenly by her side, wiping his jowls with a huge square of linen. "But we've found that a little free amusement makes people less willing to argue a price."

"He looks very…" Her brows dipped speculatively. "… coordinated."

"Yes. I suppose."

"When he's finished, could you tell him I'd like a private performance. Tonight. In the keep."

"He warned me that you'd eat me alive."

Olina laughed. "Maybe later." She stretched out her legs and crossed her feet at the ankles. "I like you with those short blond curls. It makes you look younger, more vulnerable."

Albek helped himself to a cup of beer. "Thank you." He wore a rough homespun vest over his wide-sleeved shirt and his manner echoed his clothing; his voice less polished, his speech less subtle. "Rumor says the king accused Pjerin of treason, sent a bard to condemn him, and a hundred guards to drag him away."

"There were twenty guards, but rumor got the essentials right. It was too much for poor old Bohdan. He's tottered off to his daughter's and taken to his bed."

"So the new due will need a new steward. Unless you intend to do the job yourself."

"Don't be ridiculous. I have someone suitably sympathetic to Cemandia in mind."

"You're certain Pjerin is dead?" Albek asked, leaning against the mantel.

"It probably happened some time ago, but you know what the roads are like at this time of the year. I'm expecting the official messengers to ride up any day now, covered in mud and glad to be done with it."

"I told you it would work."

"Yes, you did. Now, tell me why you've brought so many little friends with you across the border?"

"Two reasons." He turned a chair and sat straddling it, arms resting along the top of the back. "Albek always traveled alone so Simion does not. Albek was an aristocrat of traders, polished and urbane. These people are as far from that as I could stand traveling with. And…" He took a long pull on the cup and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "… as I had to check out the situation anyway, I thought I could use the opportunity to stir up a little sedition. Nothing overt, just a bit of Cemandia good, Shkoder bad."

Olina looked thoughtful. "So these traders work for you?"

"Not directly. But the Cemandian crown will be buying more fleece and timber than it really wants this year."

"The crown seems to be spending a lot of money on this considering the pass is open to them now."

Albek/Simion shrugged. "Wars are much more expensive and the longer they take to win, the more they cost. We have a saying in Cemandia that the word is not only mightier than the sword, but it's cheaper, too. By the time Her Majesty's army comes through that pass, I want the only resistance to come from parents who don't want their* children to join up."

"That might not be so difficult to accomplish." She told him how Gerek had unwittingly been adding to the Shkoder bad opinion. "By the time the child's finished, Pjerin will be a martyr to half of Ohrid."

"But Pjerin was anti-Cemandia."

"•Cemandia good, remember? We're looking for an emotional response." Olina slowly stood. "They were left so emotionally flayed by his betrayal that they're very open to suggestion and will only remember that Shkoder killed him."

"It sounds as though you've been busy."

"I may have dropped a word or two in the right ears."

He could feel her strength, the heat of her focus, from across the room. "And the other half?"

"Pjerin was going to sell them out. They hate him. If he was anti-Cemandia, they're for it."

"But he was going to sell them out to Cemandia."

"You're forgetting that in an emotional response rational thought has no place. If you can manage to invoke two or three conflicting emotional responses, rational thought has no chance. Those who aren't convinced to help the invasion will either be so confused that they won't hinder it or easy enough to remove." She reached up and pulled out the pins holding the weight of her hair. It cascaded down over her shoulders like a fall of night. "Come here."

He stood and wet lips gone suddenly dry. It was a long walk to her side and his past walked with him, murmuring in his ear, anxious for the release she could offer.

Strong fingers reached out and snaked through golden curls, pulling him forward over the last couple of feet. "It's time Cemandia showed me some return on my investment."

Later, much later, Olina took the edge of his ear in her teeth and murmured, "Many of them fear the bards, fear the Singing of the kigh."

He twisted under her grip, unable to remain still. "No one Sings the kigh in Cemandia."

"Yet another convincing reason to for them to switch allegiance." The nails of one hand scored the inside of his thigh. "Half of them already believe there are things that should not be allowed in the Circle. After all…" She smiled as he cried out. "… who knows what fell powers these bards can exert if they so desire."

"Annice, what are we doing here?"

"We're traders, remember?" She stepped over a small, foul-smelling pile she had no wish to investigate too closely and turned down a narrow street that led toward the center of town. "We're going to trade."

Pjerin grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. "We are not traders," he snarled after glancing around to make certain he wouldn't be overheard. "And we're going to Ohrid."

She glared at him until he removed his hand, then she asked, "If we aren't traders, what are we?"

"We're just telling people we're traders." His nostrils above the dark bristle of incipient mustache were pinched almost shut. The six days' travel up River Road, afraid to open his mouth for fear he'd be recognized and dragged back to Elbasan, had rubbed his nerves raw and he'd had as much as he was going to take. "I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not."

"And you think I'm not tired of it?" she demanded incredulously. "The bards have a corner in every inn along River Road. I could've slept warm and dry and well fed inside. Instead, because we're traders, I slept under a cart and worked at not being seen by people who might know me. I had to constantly keep reinforcing our story. I couldn't relax. I couldn't sing. I couldn't play."

Pjerin had no intention of dispensing sympathy. From the moment he'd faced Command in his own ancestral hall to the moment just past when they'd left the carter's yard, he'd been swept along by events beyond his control. It seemed he was as helpless to affect his destiny now as he had been when beaten and bound by the

King's Guard and there was nothing he hated more than feeling helpless. "At least," he spat, "you had a choice!"

"A choice?" Annice stared up at him in astonishment. "Oh, sure I had a choice; I could've chosen to let you die!" She spun away from him and started walking again, not caring at that moment whether he followed or not.

He watched her go, remembered the kigh, swore, and hurried to catch up. The worst of it was, he'd heard the genuine sorrow in her voice when she'd said she couldn't sing or play. "Annice? I'm sorry."

Oh, no, you're not. You're angry because you've got to depend on me, can't be His high-and-mighty Grace the Due of Ohrid standing alone on his mountaintop. Well, tough shit. Half-turning, she glared up at him. "If we don't act like traders, no one will believe we are traders. They'll start asking questions. Questions we don't want. Ohrid is on the other side of Vidor so, since we have to go through town anyway, we're going to get rid of some of the expensive luxury items we've been packing from Elbasan and pick up things that'll be of more value where we're going. If we make enough of a profit, we can pick up a pack mule."

Pjerin's glower shifted into astonishment. "A what?"

"Well, I personally would prefer a good-sized caravan," she said sarcastically, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the baby started to kick, "but as the whole idea is to disappear into the wilderness after Vidor, I'm willing to compromise."

"What's wrong with horses?"

Annice sighed dramatically and took a certain satisfaction from Pjerin's reaction to it. "I have walked from one end of this country to the other in all kinds of weather, carrying everything I needed on my back and in my voice. I'm willing to walk beside you to Ohrid carrying this baby, but I'll be unenclosed if I carry a pack as well. I realize," she held up a hand as he tried to interrupt, "that you'd rather gallop off in a cloud of dust, but you're stuck with me and I'm not putting this body, in this condition, on a horse. Even if we could afford one—let alone two—which we can't. While you're thinking about it, and realizing I'm right, I'm going to go find a privy."

He caught up to her again in four paces. She thought she could hear his teeth grinding.

"If you weren't carrying my child," he growled. "I'd take my chances with the kigh."

"Your child?" Annice turned to face him again. Their conversations traveling River Road had been nearly nonexistent; they'd never really been alone. The carter hadn't exactly been intrusive, but he'd always been a presence they'd had to account for. "Let me tell you something, Your Grace…" Almost biting her tongue with the effort, she broke off as a chattering cluster of teenagers pushed past them. Overhead, a pair of neighbors leaned out third-floor windows and discussed the weather. "Never mind. This isn't the place. But when we get on the road again and it's just you and I, we're going to have a little chat."

"I'll be looking forward to it."

"I wouldn't," she advised tightly.

How do you know about all this trading stuff?"

They were the first words he'd spoken to her in hours and, although he still sounded more annoyed than interested, Annice found she was actually glad he'd finally broken the silence. They might as well make an effort, if only a superficial one, to get along.

"Bards and traders often travel together for short distances," she told him as they circled around the perimeter of Vidor's smaller permanent market, trusting the babble of voices buying and selling to cover hers. They had almost everything they needed—their packs lighter by a considerable amount of trade goods and their purse heavier by a reasonable amount of coin—and as soon as she found some halfway decent jerky, they could get the mule and get out of town. "I can recall most of what I've been told over the… Oh, shit!"

Pjerin froze, his hand dropping to the hilt of the long, heavy dagger now hanging at his side. It wasn't a sword, but traders didn't carry swords and he wouldn't carry any of the twisted timber they called bows in the lowlands. "What is it?"

"Crier. There's a Bardic Hall in Vidor and there's always someone there who can Sing air. They've probably got your description from the captain and given it to him. Don't run." Her voice teetered on the edge of Command as he tensed for flight. "The last thing you want to do is attract attention."

"Fine." A muscle jumped in his jaw but he stood where he was. "What's the first thing I want to do?"

"Keep your head down and try not to look like yourself." Fingers wrapped around his, Annice guided him slowly between the two outside rows of stalls and toward the nearest exit from the square. It only took a moment for her to realize they weren't going to be away in time. Passing a meat pie vendor, she paused long enough to hand over a half-gull and shove one of two pies at Pjerin. "Eat this."

"I'm not hungry."

"You don't have to be, it'll distort your face."

Even with six days' growth of beard, clothes that didn't quite fit, and dirty hair clubbed back at the nape of his neck, Pjerin's looks attracted attention. It didn't help that a disproportionately high number of the crowd seemed to be Riverfolk and he towered over them.

Maybe we should've gone around Vidor. Hiding him out in plain sight is one thing, but maybe this was an unnecessary risk. Annice fought for calm as the baby reacted to the turmoil, twisting and pushing against the flesh that confined it. And it's a fine time to think of unnecessary risk now.

"Oy-yay! Oy-YAY!" The ambient noise of the market dropped slightly as the crier began. Trained at the Bardic Hal! in memory technique and voice projection, the criers kept the largely illiterate public informed and Annice had completely forgotten about their existence in Vidor.

How could I be so stupid? She couldn't hope to Command a crowd this large.

But the crier never mentioned the escaped Due of Ohrid.

"I don't understand," Annice muttered, tossing the remains of the pie at an emaciated orange cat.

"He must've already done it."

"No." She shook her head. "It should be called every day until you're caught."

Pjerin stepped aside as a burly server, his basket loaded with fernheads and frostpeas, pushed past them.

The mix of meat and pastry had congealed into a fist-sized lump just under his ribs. "A trap, then." It was the only answer. "To lull us into a false sense of security."

"Too complicated. Why would they bother when…" She frowned as she caught a floating scrap of conversation.

"Annice?"

Still frowning, she lifted a hand to silence him and cocked her head toward the babble of voices rising out of the center of the market.

Pjerin was getting more than a little tired of her imperious attitude. He opened his mouth to tell her so. He never got the chance.

"Wait here." Sliding out of her pack, she shoved it into his hands with enough force that he took a step backward between two tottering piles of willow baskets and could only watch, fuming, as she pushed her way into the crowd.

Although he never actually lost sight of her, by the time she returned a few moments later he'd worked an edge up on his temper. "You walk off on me again like that," he snarled, "and I won't be there when you get back."

Annice shot a glance at the basket seller. Deep in a spirited defense of his bottom-weave with a less than satisfied customer, he wasn't likely to overhear anything she said. Shoving her hair back off her face, she glared up at Pjerin. "Maybe you won't be. The fishmonger said a troop of King's Guard rode into Vidor about mid-morning."

Pjerin's fingers closed around the upper edge of Annice's pack with enough force to buckle the frame. "They must've been right behind us. We should've kept going!"

"No!" She took a step forward and winced as the baby objected to her vehemence by drumming its heels on her bladder. "They're looking for the escaped Due of Ohrid and we've spent the day convincing the city we're traders. I'm telling you, we're safe."

"Fine." His smile was tight. "Tell that to the six guards who've just come into the market."

"What?" She whirled around, careening off the surrounding stacks of baskets. Ignoring the muffled yell of protest from the basket seller, out of sight behind his dangerously swaying stock, she could see no farther than a cluster of people grouped around the egg seller's stall.

From his advantage of height, Pjerin had no difficulty following their progress. "Someone just sent the corporal to the fishmonger's."

Annice heaved her bulk up onto her toes. She thought she might be able to see the sun glinting off the upper edge of a helm, but she wasn't certain.

"Let's get out of here." Enough was enough, Pjerin reached forward and grabbed her shoulder. "Now!"

She shook him off. "The fishmonger never saw you."

"Then why is he pointing this way?"

Eyes wide, she turned to stare up into his face. "Are you sure?"

"No! I'm kidding! Center it, Annice! How could I be unsure about something like that!" This time when he grabbed her shoulder, he actually managed to get her moving. "I'll carry your pack, just go!"

Too late.

"There they are!"

The crowd, in the way of crowds, parted and Pjerin found himself staring down a wide and unobstructed aisle at the corporal. She was young, with a wide mouth and legs too long for her body. He could take her down, get her sword, sell his freedom dearly. They weren't taking him back to Elbasan. They'd have to kill him first.

A cascade of baskets broke the tableau.

And the crowd, in the way of crowds, closed in to see what was going on.

"This way!" Annice grabbed his arm and dragged him to the right. "There's an alley!"

Over the shrill shrieks of the basket seller and the swarm of rising speculation, they could hear the corporal demanding that they stop in the king's name. Although Annice was running as fast as she could, even laden with both packs, Pjerin reached the mouth of the alley first.

Not quite as wide as even Annice was tall, the cobbles of the market square cut off abruptly at its mouth. From wall to crumbling wall and as far as he could see down its length, the footing was a treacherous mix of churned mud and garbage. One of the clay pipes intended to carry rain from the roof to a cistern dribbled water into the mess and from the stench, it appeared that chamberpots were emptied out of upper windows more often than into the honey wagons. Pjerin doubted a rat could keep its footing.

"We can't go down there," he barked as Annice caught up, stopping her before she could step off the cobblestones. "We'll have to go around."

"Not us," Annice panted. "Them. Take them ages. Follow right behind me and stay close."

Holding her belly with both hands, she took a deep breath and Sang. Then she jogged forward, still Singing.

Pjerin stared in horror at the ground. It looked, just for a moment, as though she were moving over the bent backs of squat, earth-colored… things. And then it was just a path, displaced flies buzzing agitatedly above it. Not very wide and not very dry but infinitely preferable to the surrounding alley.

It formed beneath her as she advanced and stretched back behind her—as he watched, the solid ground farthest from her feet dissolved back into mud. Her reason for telling him to stay close all at once became obvious. Teeth clenched, he leaped forward and landed on the disintegrating edge of the path. He felt himself begin to sink, the stench of rot becoming infinitely worse as his boot heels broke through the thin greenish-gray crust. Leg muscles trembling with the effort, he somehow contrived to propel himself and both packs up onto solid footing, then, trying not to inhale, he hurried after Annice.

He reached the end of the alley one step behind her, and, well aware that he shouldn't, he turned and looked back the way they'd come just as the half dozen guards were arriving at the other end. It was the first really funny thing he could remember happening in over a quarter and he felt he deserved a moment to appreciate the variety of profanity that rose as three of them charged forward and sank almost to their knees.

Annice finished Singing the gratitude and clutched at a fold of Pjerin's jacket, suddenly dizzy. She wouldn't have made it down the alley if she hadn't been pulling strength from the earth, but now the kigh were gone, she wanted nothing so much as a chance to collapse. Unfortunately, she wasn't going to get that chance for a while. "Pjerin, come on." She tugged on the jacket. "We haven't gained that much time."

"I'm not so worried about them." Pjerin turned away as one of the three managed to struggle back to firm footing. "But your fishmonger said a troop of King's Guard rode into town. There're twenty-one guards in a troop." He was intimately familiar with the number. "Where are the rest of them?"

"Not here." At the moment, that was all Annice had the energy to worry about. Breathing heavily, she led the way through a maze of back streets and alleys, all of them damp and stinking of rot but none as bad as the first. Twice they narrowly missed being drenched with the contents of chamberpots and once skirted a shower coming straight from the source. The middle-aged man blew a kiss to Annice as she looked up and then another at Pjerin. At one point, a group of ragged children dogged their heels, screaming insults until a shrill voice from a shadowed doorway brought their game to a sullen stop.

Finally they reached a narrow opening between two buildings in better shape than most they'd been passing and Annice wedged herself into it. Pjerin had to slide out of his pack to follow.

"Watch for the dead cat," Annice hissed as, arms trembling, he set the packs down.

"Dead cats," he growled back, leaning sideways to see over her head, "are the least of our worries. Where are we?"

"One street away from the Center," she told him, moving enough for him to get a look at the slice of the city defined by the buildings tight on either side of them. In the near distance loomed the round bulk of the Center of Vidor, a nearly new and smaller copy of one in Elbasan. "I don't see any of the guards. Let's go."

"Wait a minute. Go where?"

"I can't run if they catch up to us again, Pjerin. We'll have to hide and slip out of town after dark."

He stared out at the wide, tree-lined boulevard that led to the Center. "I think we've gone past the possibility of hiding in plain sight," he said dryly.

"Don't worry." She reached behind her and gripped his forearm for an instant. "I know a place."

Because he had no better option, he picked up both packs, stepped over the dead cat, and followed her out onto the street. "Why," he asked, "am I not surprised?"

"Just stroll," she told him quietly as he fell into step beside her. "Act like we have every right in the world to be here."

"Are we still traders?"

"For the moment."

The Center loomed closer.

"There they are!"

There was no mistaking the source of the cry. As they started to run, Annice found herself wondering if guards were trained to achieve that particular doom-laden timbre or if it came with the uniform.

"They won't give us sanctuary!" Pjerin yelled as they pounded toward the Center.

Annice didn't have breath enough to answer.

They reached the curved wall of the building not very much ahead of the guards. As Annice began circling right, Pjerin shouted, "Where are you going?"

"Around!" she answered.

"No!" He headed for the double doors under the fire sigil. "Go through."

Annice turned and ran after him. They burst through the doors and into the round chamber, their pounding footsteps echoing under the high arch of the vaulted ceiling. A quartet of priests turned from the altar as they passed but weren't in time to stop them. By the time the following guards came through, they were at the water door and the priests had moved out and were ready to intercept. They were outside again with a little more time bought.

Annice spun to her left and Sang. A narrow door swung open where a moment before there'd been only stone.

"Wha…" Pjerin came to a dead stop.

"Bard's Door!" she gasped, grabbing his arm and dragging him forward. "Go on!"

He dove through the opening and she threw herself in behind, Singing it closed as she moved.

Tumbled together on the stairs, they heard shouted questions, pounding footsteps, and then, mercifully, silence.

Pjerin felt her weight fall against him and dropped her pack to grab for her. Together, they sank down to the stairs. "Annice! Are you all right?"

What a stupid question. She wanted to smack him. "I'm not… exactly in shape… for much running."

Half-cradling her against his body, he twisted around, wincing as his pack straps dug into still tender ribs. While they sat in semidarkness, the top of the stairs were lit by diffused sunlight. "What's up there?"

"Balconies, for Singing from. A gallery around. Not much else." Fingers trembling with the effort, she clawed at the buttons of her smock. The air in the narrow stairway was cooler than that outside but she could feel rivulets of sweat running down between her breasts. Elica had told her she could walk all she wanted, but she wasn't to overheat. Oh, baby, I'm sorry. I couldn't… there wasn't… don't…

A sudden cramp threw her head back and it slammed into Pjerin's chest. The noise she made was more from fear than pain.

"Annice?"

She could feel his breath warm against the top of her head as he bent over her and she swatted ineffectually at his hands until he caught her wrists.

"Annice, calm down and tell me what's wrong."

There was a note of command in his voice she'd never heard before and a strength that had nothing to do with ego. She caught her breath on another cramp and then, to her horror, burst into tears. "The b… baby…"

"Open the door." He started to rise. "We're getting you to a healer."

"No!" She pulled him back down and fought for control. "Just let me rest."

"Are you sure?" He didn't sound like he believed her.

She didn't believe herself, but if they went to a healer now everything would be lost. Baby, I'm sorry. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Yes, I'm sure."

Pjcrin settled back down on the step, sliding his arms out of his pack straps but leaving it behind him. He had to trust that Annice knew her body. Gently, he pulled her back into the circle of his arms. "All right. Rest."

She sniffed again but didn't pull away. After a moment, she let her head fall into the curve of his shoulder and sucked in a long shuddering breath as a third cramp twisted the muscles of her lower back.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for his free hand to come up and stroke her hair. "I'm sorry I got you into this," he murmured.

"Me, too." Her heart had slowed a little so that it wasn't slamming so frighteningly hard against her ribs. "When we catch up with whoever's responsible, you owe me a piece of them."

He smiled and brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair up off her forehead. "Agreed."

"A pregnant woman cannot just disappear, Corporal."

The corporal kept her eyes locked on a point just over the captain's shoulder. "The man with Her Highness was a trader, he must have contacts in the city."

"The man with who?"

"Uh, I mean the bard, Captain." The corporal could feel the blood burning in her ears, and knew they were an embarrassingly brilliant red.

The captain snorted. "Remember that. She made her choice a long time ago."

"Yes, Captain."

"Well, don't just stand there. You know what section of the city you're supposed to be searching."

"Yes, Captain." The corporal spun on her heel and hurried from the room, the warning verses from the "Princess-Bard" echoing in her head. She didn't really believe His Majesty would execute his sister for treason. Not really. But she'd taken her squad the long way around the market just in case.

The captain, fully aware of where the sympathies of most of her troop lay, watched her go and sighed deeply. Not for the first time, she wished she could share the private orders His Majesty had given her.

"Don't listen to anything they say and tell them, when you catch them, that all is forgiven."

"You look like you've had pleasanter duties."

She started and snapped her attention back to the here and now. "Otik. What are you doing here?"

"I'm on leave," Otik explained coming into the room. "I've family in Vidor." He sauntered over to the table she was using as a desk and peered down at the maps of the city spread across it. "Nicely done. Must be bard work."

"They are." She folded her arms as he bent over and began tracing the streets with one finger. He wore civilian clothes like he was still in uniform. And moves like he's got a poker up his butt. "I meant, what are you doing here!"

"A troop of King's Guard rides into Vidor and I'm not supposed to be curious why?" Otik snorted. "Please, Luci, you'd have checked it out, too."

"Yeah, I guess." But she admitted it grudgingly. Self-interest had motivated too many of Captain Otik's previous actions and he was now clawing his way toward commander with what she considered a disgusting amount of ass kissing. If there was a way to get in good with the brass, he headed straight for it. On the other hand, as he'd likely make commander some day, she couldn't afford to alienate him too badly. More's the pity.

"So." He pushed the maps aside and perched on the corner of the table. "What are you doing here?"

Unfortunately, there wasn't any reason not to tell him. "We're looking for His Majesty's sister, the bard. It seems she's committed bodily treason."

Otik blinked. "What?"

"She got knocked up. His Majesty found out and we've been sent to bring her and the proud daddy back to the bosom of her family. As long as you're around, you might as well make yourself useful." Luci reached over and picked up a piece of paper closely covered with cramped writing. "They were spotted this afternoon."

"Your penmanship stinks," Otik muttered, scanning the description around the blots of black ink. Then he read it again. He'd started it a third time when Luci plucked it out of his hand.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain," she said pointedly, "I have work to do."

"Yes, yes, of course. Good hunting, Captain."

He's onto something, she thought as he strode out the door. Fortunately, I don't give a shit what it is.

It's impossible. He's dead. Unaware of anything around him, Otik kept turning the description around in his mind, fitting pieces of it into memory, trying to understand what could possibly be going on.

The Due of Ohrid was executed, it was witnessed. It happened.

So why did the trader with His Majesty's sister appear to be the same man?

Coincidence? He brushed past a friend of his mother's without seeing her or hearing her speak. No. He's too unenclosed distinctive looking for it to be coincidence. It's him. I know it's him. I gave him that black eye he's still wearing the shadow of.

As impossible as it seemed, the Due of Ohrid had escaped, with the king's sister, the Princess-Bard, and was, it appeared, the father of her child.

All at once, it wasn't so impossible that the due had escaped.

"Bards!" Otik spat out the word. They were nothing but trouble. He understood completely why King Theron had kept the truth from Captain Luci. His own sister, caught up in treason, selling her country to Cemandia for a tumble. It made him sick to think of it. Obviously, His Majesty was hoping to recapture the pair of them with no one the wiser.

King Theron would be very pleased with whoever cleaned up this little mess for him. Very pleased.

Otik smiled. He had two advantages that Luci and her troop didn't. He knew where the fugitives were heading—Ohrid and the border—and he knew that as the due was already technically dead, there was no need to go to the trouble of bringing him back alive.