Sing the Four Quarters

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Annice woke with a start, jerking out of a dream where she'd fallen in the middle of River Road, her legs unable to hold her weight. With the thunder of hooves against the hard-packed earth filling the world around her, she'd only been able to desperately try to roll clear. Trained to recall her dreams and use them for inspiration, she shoved this one aside. There's a limit to art imitating life.

As she lifted her head, Pjerin shifted behind her, flexing the arm she'd been resting against.

"Welcome back," he said quietly.

Yawning, Annice heaved herself awkwardly to her feet, rubbing the imprint of the stone step out of her butt. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough for my legs to go numb." He shook them out and pushed himself upright against the wall, wincing as a thousand points of pain danced from ankles to hips.

"You could've moved me."

He gestured around the narrow stairwell and asked, "Where? Look, don't worry about it," he went on, trying to pound some feeling back into his calves. "It was more important that you sleep. How are you feeling?"

"Better," she admitted. The baby stirred as though it, too, were just waking. She smiled and traced the motion with her fingertips. "I think everything's all right."

"Good." Leaning against the wall, Pjerin realized he sounded abrupt and wondered if he should tell her how frightened he'd been that she was going to lose the baby. No, he decided. That's over. Time to move on. "So," he asked instead, "what now?"

Annice sighed. "I have to use the privy."

Pjerin managed to stop himself before the of course you do left his mouth. "So do I."

Together they turned and stared at the dark curve of wall at the foot of the stairs.

Annice, being closer, reached out and laid her hand flat on the cool stone.

"Do you think it's safe to leave?"

She shrugged, then realized he probably couldn't see her, and said, "I don't know. Even if the guards aren't around, people are going to notice a pair of traders going out the Bard's Door."

"Perhaps it's time we stopped being traders." He spoke lightly, not intending to start another argument. To his astonishment, she agreed, turned, and started up the stairs. "Where are you going?" he demanded as she squeezed past.

"If we're not going to be traders," Annice explained, pausing just above him, "we have to be something else. Sometimes—like now, in First Quarter, when most of the bards are out Walking—a bard will have to Sing more than one Quarter during a service. When that happens, they leave extra robes in the gallery behind the balconies." She started climbing again.

He caught her arm. "We're going to be bards?"

She threw a smile back over her shoulder. "Why not? They're looking for traders."

Mouth pressed to a thin line, Pjerin let her go and returned to working on his legs. He'd been able to see her face clearly as she passed, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were gleaming, and she'd obviously forgotten the lesson the guards had taught them. They weren't on an adventure destined to last for only six verses and five choruses, they were fighting to stay alive. The sooner she remembered that, the better chance all three of them would have.

Annice stepped off the stairs, sliding her boots along the floor to muffle her footsteps. The angle of the light slanting through the carved stone screen that separated the gallery from the chamber told her it was nearly sunset. She'd have to hurry. Bards by no means Sang every service but they couldn't risk the chance of discovery.

Water came up empty, so she circled around to her right toward air.

If only Pjerin would realize that there's more to staying

safe than putting his head down and charging for Ohrid. She'd hoped the chase scene they'd played out with the guards had taught him that, but, obviously, from his comments, it hadn't.

There were no robes in air. Silently pleading with the baby to stop bouncing on her bladder, Annice hurried around to earth and practically threw herself at the hanging brown fabric. The robe could've been made for her and her condition although, from the lingering scent of sandalwood, she suspected it belonged to Tymon, the head of the Hall in Vidor. He was short and fat and unwilling to carry an ounce more than his own weight.

She was certain of it when she reached fire and found a second robe, identical but for the color. Although he Sang all four quarters, a necessity if he was going to run the Hall, Tymon had apparently not Sung one of either air or water at the last service he'd done. The third quarter he had Sung, would've been the robe he wore home.

Fighting the urge to step out onto the balcony and try to Sing the altar candles alight, Annice walked as quickly as she could for the stairs, feeling suddenly hollow.

I need to be a bard again, if only for a little while. I miss it all so much. I miss Singing. I miss recall. She rubbed a bit of robe against her cheek. I hate wearing robes and I even miss them. At the top of the stairs she looked around the curve, past water, toward air. And I really miss Stasya. Before, when they'd been apart, there'd always been the kigh to link them together. I hope she's okay.

Which was when she realized.

Pjerin heard the noise from the top of the stairs and whirled around, his hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger. He squinted up into the fading light and could just barely make out a familiar silhouette. "Annice?"

She started toward him, but her movements were so stiff that he raced up to meet her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"They've got Stasya. I have to go back."

He caught hold of her shoulders and turned her, unresisting, to face him. The stricken look on her face closed a fist around his heart. "Who's got Stasya?" he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Tears spilling unheeded down her cheeks, Annice had to swallow hard to find her voice. "The guards," she said at last, "called out, There they are! There they are, Pjerin. Stasya was the only one who knew we were together. Getting you out of that dungeon was treason and she helped and now she's going to die. I have to stop it."

"How?" When she shook her head blindly and tried to pull away, he tightened his grip and repeated the question. "How, Annice? By surrendering yourself and the baby to that same death? Listen to me, the only chance she has is if we prove my innocence and I need you to do that. Stasya needs you to do that."

"What if she's already dead?"

"Then going back won't do her any good." Her head snapped up and she glared at him. "You shit!"

"That's better," he nodded approvingly. "Be angry. Be angry at me. Be angry at them. But don't give into despair."

She rubbed at her cheeks with the palm of her free hand and remembered the Due of Ohrid had made six attempts to get free during the long trip from Ohrid to Elbasan. Six attempts surrounded by a troop of guards and a bard who could find him wherever he ran. "If she's dead, I'm going to Sing His Majesty a song that will bring the palace down around his ears." Pjerin released her. "Witnessed," he said softly.

Pavel i'Gituska woke with the memory of music in his ears. Pleasant music, pretty music, music a man could sleep to. He stretched, scratched, and went out into the evening to check his rented corral. Business hadn't exactly been brisk and he still had five of the eight-mule string he'd come to Vidor with.

He frowned and counted again.

There were only four mules in the corral.

A shriek of outrage had begun to form when he caught sight of the purse hanging off an upright. It wasn't very full, but that didn't end up mattering as the coins it held were silver.

Pavel looked down at the two half-anchors and the double-hawser gleaming on his palm and quite sincerely hoped that his unknown customers would be happy with the mare they'd so drastically overpaid him for.

Annice came out from behind the bush designated as the privy and stared in astonishment. A couple of hours out of Vidor, they'd camped at a spot she remembered vaguely from a fledgling Walk; near where a small stream dropped off a series of stone shelves and rested for a moment in a deep hollow in the rock. Last night, the water had been cold enough to bite at the throat and it wasn't hard to believe that the reflected moonlight was a tracery of frost.

"Are you out of your mind?" she gasped.

Pjerin sucked air through his teeth as he turned and the water lapped higher on his body. "I hate being dirty."

"But you're fond of frostbite?"

His grimace didn't even pretend to be a smile. "You lowlanders don't know what cold water is," he growled and ducked under.

Annice almost screamed in sympathy then reluctantly raised a hand to her own limp tangle of hair. "All things being enclosed," she muttered the hand dropping to her belly, "it's a good thing I've got an excuse not to be in there with him."

She watched appreciatively as he surfaced, muscles rigid, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, hair flung up in an ebony/crystal arc spraying water across the pond. "Very nice," she said as he waded with dignified haste toward the shore, "but wasn't that bigger the last time I saw it?"

Pjerin glanced down. "Shut up," he snarled.

Lips curved but obediently closed, Annice pulled a cloak up off the pack and handed it to him with exaggerated solicitude.

"I thought I'd let the sun dry me off."

"It's barely up," she pointed out. "And so's…"

"Annice!"

"Sorry. I'll get some food ready and we can move on." With plenty of dry deadfall around, she had a small, very hot fire going in minutes, and water nearly boiling in their squat iron trailpot shortly after.

Pjerin was dressed and had the packs ready to load by the time the oatmeal was done. "You put raisins in it."

She nodded and carefully unwrapped her horn spoon.

"Stasya says that oatmeal without raisins is called a hot grain mash and you feed it to hor…" Her mouth worked, but the last syllable wouldn't come out. All at once, she wasn't hungry. She set the bowl aside.

Pjerin put it back into her hands, wrapping her fingers around the wooden curve and holding them there until they gripped on their own. "You have to eat."

"I don't want to."

"Tough. The baby hasn't made that choice."

"You don't understand. I forgot. I hadn't thought of it all morning."

"As you said, the sun's barely up."

"What about last night? We were alone. We could've tried to find out what was going on. All we did was sleep."

"Annice, you were barely in command of yourself last night, you couldn't have Commanded me, and you certainly didn't have the energy to begin to untangle the mess in my head."

"But…"

"No buts." He pushed wet hair off his face. "You can't think about injustice all the time."

Annice lifted her head, nearly choking on the lump in her throat, and met his eyes. "Can't you?" she asked pointedly.

They sat like that for a long moment.

"Eat your oatmeal," the Due of Ohrid told her at last.

"Ya said ya wouldn't want her fer days yet." The owner of the livery stable squinted up at Otik as he mounted. "Ya shouldn't oughta just take her out like that. Not without warnin' me."

Otik sighed, settled in the saddle, and threw the man a purse. "Look, she's my horse, I can take her when I want her. The full sum we agreed on is in there."

A quick weighing on the palm brought a gap-tooth smile. "But ya said ya wouldn't want her fer days and…"

"Never mind what I said!" Otik snapped. "I'm taking her now!" He yanked the mare around, put his legs to her, and trotted her out of the livery yard.

The stable owner shrugged and pocketed the purse. "Can't say as I didn't try to tell 'im."

Otik had grown up in Vidor. In order to head due east—and Ohrid was due east—there was only one way out of town. A few questions in the right places and a gull or two changing hands had elicited the information that a man and a woman and a mule had passed that way early the previous evening. The woman had been quite pregnant. The man, taller than average, broad shouldered, and dark haired.

"Good lookin' mule, too, yer honor."

A muscle jumped in Otik's cheek. "I don't care about the unenclosed mule!"

Given the woman's condition, they wouldn't be traveling very fast—or very far in the dark. He knew the road and had a good idea of where they must've spent the night. It was mid-morning when he turned his horse off the track, dismounted, and saw he'd guessed correctly.

"Probably pulled out just after sunrise," he muttered. "And likely heading for Turnu. The bard'll know of it, even if the due doesn't." A day's travel from Vidor in good weather, Turnu was the last village of any size heading east. If they needed any supplies, or even one last chance to sleep in a bed, they'd stop at Turnu.

Back on the track, Otik pushed his horse into a canter. Fields and trees rolled by on either side with gratifying speed; he'd be on them long before they could reach the village. His free hand slipped down to pat the crossbow hanging from his saddle.

The mare stumbled.

Otik catapulted headfirst over her shoulder, landed, and rolled dangerously close to still moving hooves. Impact jolted the reins from his hands and, through bones driven into dirt, he felt her jog away. He lay there for a moment, taking inventory, then slowly got to his feet blinking away multicolored flashes of light. All things being enclosed, he was lucky nothing had broken, although the arm he'd landed on would be black and blue and too stiff to use very shortly.

Swearing under his breath, a habit he'd gotten into when he'd made captain, he limped down the track to where his horse had stopped to pull at the new grass, weight resting off her left foreleg. The moment he saw her stance, he knew what he would find when he lifted the hoof.

The shoe had been loose when he'd left her at the stable upon arriving at Vidor and he had given explicit instructions that it was to be immediately taken care of. Running his fingers over the cracked horn, for the shoe had not cast cleanly, Otik added a snarled opinion of the stable owner's lineage to his stream of profanity.

He had no choice. He'd have to walk the horse back to Vidor and have a farrier repair the damage.

"A reprieve," he muttered, catching up the reins, "nothing more. Tomorrow, they are mine."

"I want you to Walk directly to Ohrid by way of Marienka. Act in no way that would draw suspicion on yourself but don't delay. I need you as my eyes at that pass as soon as possible."

Stasya stepped off the stern deck of the rivcrboat and onto the dock at Vidor, exhausted but pleased with herself. Although "as soon as possible" was not a speed often traveled by bards, she'd used the season to her advantage; moving quickly upriver as King Theron had commanded without alerting possible enemies. That she'd done it with everyone from Elbasan to Vidor watching, made it a particularly bardic solution.

She'd have enjoyed her accomplishment more, however, if every note hadn't been tinted with worry for Annice.

"You've a right powerful Song there," the pilot told her as his family swarmed over the boat. "Be a good omen fer the season, first boat travelin' so fast." He spat into the water. "River willin'."

"River willing," Stasya echoed, spitting carefully just beyond the reach of a lingering kigh. The last thing she needed was to have the ritual thrown back into her face. Her voice rasped against the sides of her throat and her head throbbed with the echoes of her Singing. She'd spent almost every waking moment of the last four days ensuring that the huge, square sail remained full and would no doubt spend the next four regretting such prolonged contact with the kigh.

The Riverfolk traveled downstream with the currents from the mountains and upstream with the winds that blew inland off the sea. Although the kigh might not fill another sail all season, after the breakup of the ice the symbolic first boat was always Sung upriver. Only the kigh could hope to move even the nearly flat-bottomed riverboats against the First Quarter currents. Stasya had seen no reason why she couldn't be that bard and the captain had agreed.

She rescued her instrument case from an overeager teenager and let the congratulations of the gathering crowd wash over her. First boat attracted a lot of attention. Although she wouldn't be able to leave until after the blessing and the celebration that followed, it had still been a much faster trip than walking River Road.

Passed from one set of admiring hands to another, Stasya soaked up the goodwill of the crowd, but even while she wished she would surrender to the moment, she found herself scanning the surrounding faces for the familiar curve of Annice's smile. Which was ridiculous. If Annice was in Vidor—a possibility not entirely removed from the Circle for all she'd left some days before—she'd have—they'd have, for the due would be close by her side—no reason to be hanging about the docks. Connected by the kigh for as long as they'd known each other, Stasya hated this sudden separation. It was one thing when she knew Annice was safe and secure back at Bardic Hall and another thing entirely with her pregnant and wandering Shkoder. With, she added silently, struggling to control her expression, His Grace, the unenclosed Due of Ohrid. The urge to write a scathing song about the man that would last for centuries was intense.

She had no idea how she was going to manage the next month and a half of ignorance and couldn't understand how His Majesty had turned his back for ten years. That was, however, not the only question the king had avoided answering before he dismissed her.

"The captain will contact you through the kigh the moment we've constructed a plan, so there's no need for you to waste the limited time we have waiting around here. Given that the actual traitors believe their plot has succeeded, you should be in no danger until the Cemandian army arrives. Before you arrive, we'll have come up with a reason for you to be there and then a reason for me to follow with an escort of guards." His Majesty's expression had been grim. "If you've managed to discover the identity of the traitor, I'll hold a Judgment and ensure the keep is in loyal hands. If not, we'll face the army together."

His Majesty obviously had more faith than she did in what a king, a troop of guards, and a bard could hope to accomplish facing an army.

With a noncommittal smile and ears tuned to catch any comments directed specifically at her, Stasya let the celebration sweep her into her appointed role, all the while wondering just how the king intended to get to Ohrid with his guard without attracting the kind of attention he'd commanded her to avoid.

"Suppose," the Bardic Captain said thoughtfully, turning from the window where she'd been watching a team of gardeners pack up their tools for the day, "you went to Ohrid to accept the allegiance oath of the new due." Theron looked up from the maps spread out over his desk. On the topmost map, the border that split the ancient mountains between Shkoder and Cemandia had been thickly traced in red. The pass at Ohrid appeared to have been circled in blood. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you acknowledge that Pjerin a'Stasiek made a valid point when he accused the crown of failing in its obligations to the principalities, Majesty." Liene stepped forward, the soles of her boots crushing the plush nap of the carpet. They'd discarded a score of ideas since Stasya had left for Vidor, but she was certain this one would work. "If you go to Ohrid rather than have the due come to you, you'll be showing a willingness to break the isolation."

"And strengthening the ties between Ohrid and the crown," the king mused, tapping a fingernail against the smooth curve of the ivory button closing his vest. "A logical and politically astute move, seeing as the last due committed treason and we'd like to prevent that from happening again."

Liene nodded. "It would also be seen by your people as a way of showing the Cemandians you intend to hold the border."

Theron almost smiled. "Makes so much sense, even the Cemandians should have no trouble believing it.

And I'd be a tempting enough bait that we'll be able to schedule the arrival of the invading army."

"Bait, Majesty?"

"If they hold their attack until I'm in the keep on my alleged diplomatic mission, they have the chance to not only enter Shkoder through an undefended pass—thanks to the traitor they think we don't know about—but also to remove Shkoder's king. Queen Jirina's no fool, she'll see the opportunity and she'll take it."

Liene frowned as she considered the implications. "Your Majesty, we can't put you in that kind of danger."

"Captain," Theron spread his hands, "we don't have any choice."

"But, Majesty, suppose the traitor is still unidentified when you arrive? It would only make sense for this person to kill you before the invasion actually occurs. You'll have no idea of the direction of the threat, so you'll be unable to defend yourself. The army will pour through the pass unopposed and down over Shkoder with your head on a pike before them."

"Could happen," Theron admitted. "All things being enclosed."

Liene took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Although she was only twelve years older than the king, there were days—and this was one of them—when she felt those years stretch to at least a century. Squaring her shoulders, she twitched the edge of her tunic straight. "Your pardon, Majesty, but you can't go to

Ohrid."

"Captain, I'm going." He sat back in his chair, the tooled leather creaking under his shifting weight, his jaw set in an obstinate line the captain had seen on both his father and his youngest sister. "I'm going for a number of reasons. When the traitor is found, only I can pass Judgment. It's the law. I alone can carry the weight of that death." Something in his tone said that this particular weight wouldn't add much to the burden he already carried. "Now, if the traitor hasn't been found before I arrive, you're probably right and he or she will be unable to resist trying to kill me. My presence there will force the culprit into betraying himself, and that is, after all, what we want."

"He can betray himself right out of the Circle, Majesty, but it won't do us any good if you're dead."

"Then I'll just have to stay alive." His face and voice grew grim. "But, essentially, I'm going to Ohrid because Cemandia made this a personal battle when they set me up to remove Pjerin a'Stasiek from their way."

Liene knew it wouldn't do any good to remind him that kings seldom had the luxury of indulging in personal vengeance. Finding the traitor before the Cemandian army arrived was the only way to avoid a war they couldn't hope to win. Tempting the Cemandians with the King of Shkoder ensured they'd attack on Shkoder's schedule. Theron's presence in the keep was the best way to prod the traitor into betrayal.

The king traveling to Ohrid to take the oath of Gerek a'Pjerin was a perfectly believable way to set the whole plan in motion. She wished she'd never thought of it.

She could just see herself explaining to the new queen, as she hurriedly armed the country, how it was her father had died confronting a Cemandian invasion he knew was going to occur backed up by nothing more than a diplomatic entourage. I'm getting too old for this shit.

Then she realized they'd missed considering one vital component of the whole convoluted mess.

"What of the due, Majesty? The guard hasn't found him yet. Suppose they don't? Suppose Pjerin a'Stasiek arrives in Ohrid before you do? He could destroy the entire plan."

"As I understand it, he has to remain close to Annice to stay undetected by the kigh and she won't be moving very quickly in her condition. Even if Captain Luci and her troop prove themselves completely inept, I doubt that they'll arrive before Stasya. If Stasya makes herself visible, Annice will contact her, and Stasya will explain what's going on. Simple."

"Simple, Majesty? The due has an even greater personal stake in this than you do. If I read him correctly, he's as likely to single-handedly storm the keep as listen to anything either Annice or Stasya have to say."

Theron shook his head. "He won't jeopardize his chance to get his hands around the throat of the person who did this to him."

"And what of that person?" Well aware she was getting nowhere with her arguments, the captain felt she had to keep trying; for duty's sake if nothing else. "I need the due to find out who that is?"

"He may know by the time he arrives," Theron pointed out thoughtfully. "He is traveling with a bard, remember. Once Stasya explains, I think he's politically astute enough to work with me on this. And if he isn't, Annice is."

"Are you willing to risk your life on the possibility that Annice can control him?"

Was he? Theron thought about it. Thought about a fourteen-year-old who'd thrown away everything—family, privilege, responsibility—to follow her own desire. "I think," he said slowly, "he's met his match in Annice," And but for Annice, his hands curled into fists, this whole problem could have been solved ten years ago,

"… join with Prince Rajmund, Heir of Cemandia."

Annice's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "I will not."

It took Theron a moment to find his voice in the face of such bald denial and he fought to sound reasonable. "It won't happen immediately. You'll be betrothed first, the actually joining won't happen until you're both eighteen. This arrangement is for the good of Shkoder…"

"But what about me?" Annice broke in, reaching forward and grabbing his sleeve. "You know I want to be a bard. You know I do, Theron. I've just got to get permission from His Majesty."

"He won't give it and you're living in a dream world if you think he will, Annice. It's time to grow up." He pulled his arm free and squared his shoulders. "You have a responsibility to the royal family, a responsibility to the country."

She stared up at him in confusion. "I always thought you understood how much being a bard means to me and that if His Majesty wouldn't give permission, then, when he died, you would."

If she believed that, Theron knew it was because he'd given her reason. But that was before the Cemandian ambassador had come to him—to him because the king had no interest in anything but his own mortality and the lingering death that had been moving slowly closer to him for almost a full quarter. Theron, tired of waiting for power, had grasped the opportunity.

Annice paced the length of her solar and back, her shoes slapping a staccato beat against the tiles. "You have to speak to His Majesty for me, Theron. You're the Heir, he'll listen to you."

She read the answer off his face and took a slow step away from him, eyes locked on his. "Father didn't arrange this, did he? You did." Her expression changed from confusion to betrayal. "This isn't for the country! This is for you! I'm not stupid, Theron, and I had the same tutors you did! You don't even see me in this!"

Too close to the truth. The healers said the king was dying, but he'd been dying for too long, and if Theron wanted to strengthen his position, his youngest sister was the only card he had to play. "Nees, you've got to understand…"

"Oh, I understand." Her chin lifted defiantly, "Let me tell you something, Your Royal Highness, my life isn't a prize you can trade for the chance to be taken seriously!"

He forgot his reasoned arguments of how this joining, this family link, would give them a chance to bridge the gap growing between their two cultures, to build a permanent peace with Cemandia now that the much larger country had begun to press against their border. Forgot the arguments that might have made her see there was more to it than his own personal agenda. "Don't fight me on this, Annice, because you can't win." The words were forced out through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. "Remember, in a very short time I will be your king."

Her face flushed as she stomped to the door and threw it open, waiting pointedly beside it for him to leave. "Well, you're not king yet!

"Majesty?"

Theron shook off the memories. It had been a long time since he'd played that scene through.

"Majesty? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He tugged on a vest button, pulling at the indigo brocade, and exhaled noisily. "I was just thinking of how different things would be if I'd handled Annice better. If I'd actually taken the time to explain why I wanted her to join with Prince Rajmund."

In all the years since he'd taken the throne, in all the years the captain had stood as one of the throne's primary advisers, this was the first time the king had ever been willing to discuss that bit of family history. She smothered a sigh. The time was long past to set the recall straight. "Your pardon, Majesty, but Annice and Prince Rajmund would never have been joined, regardless of the reasons, or the benefits, or any political maneuvering."

Both the royal brows rose. "Because you wanted her for Bardic Hall?"

"Because she was qualified for Bardic Hall, Majesty. Queen Jirina would never have allowed her son to be joined to someone who Sings the kigh. You know how the Cemandians feel about that. Their version of the Circle holds neither kigh nor bards.

"But Annice wasn't a bard…"

"She was born with the ability, Majesty. We only trained it."

Theron swore as his vest button twisted off in his fingers. "But the Cemandian ambassador came to me!" he protested.

"And was horrified when he discovered what he'd very nearly done. And was called home. And was, if I recall correctly, executed for daring to suggest the Heir to the royal house of Cemandia join with someone who Sings the kigh."

"The Cemandian ambassador is still after a similar joining."

"Neither of your daughters Sing the kigh, Majesty. You can be certain he's checked."

"It's been ten years," Theron growled. "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Liene closed her eyes for an instant, weighed the potential for disaster, and decided. "Because you wouldn't listen, Majesty. Just the same way she wouldn't listen. It's taken the threat of war to force you to look beyond your personal—and, she added silently, highly inflated—sense of injustice."

His expression unreadable, although the tips of his ears were red, the king made no answer for a long moment. The captain began to fear she'd misjudged the timing. Bloody fool thing for a percussionist to do.

Finally, without looking up, he said, "Do you believe in destiny, Captain."

She bowed. "I'm a bard, Majesty. Destiny is my stock in trade. Why?"

"It seems as though there's been an incredible series of events to bring us to this moment." He turned the button over and over in his fingers. "Including the difficulty between my sister and myself."

"Could as easily be coincidence, Majesty." She bowed again. "Also a bard's stock in trade."

Theron looked dubious. "I've always considered myself above both."

"I can't say as I'm surprised, Majesty." It had been a long day and Liene felt she was entitled. "So does Annice."

"Annice." Pjerin had reached the end of his limited supply of patience. "Recall, if you would, that we're trying to be forgettable."

"You're the one who said I needed a bath. That," she jerked her thumb back toward the village, "was our last chance at hot water."

"And a good chance at being remembered if the guards are behind us."

"The guards still think we're in Vidor."

"You don't know that."

Annice smiled across the mule at him. "They've got horses, Pjerin. If they were after us, don't you think they'd have caught us by now?"

He jerked the mule to a stop. "Do you want to go back?" he asked, spitting the words out through clenched teeth.

"Too late." A nudge in the ribs got the mule moving again. "If we suddenly reappear now that we've wandered past, they'll definitely remember us.

Pjerin brushed his hair back off his face with a barely under control sweep of his hand. "Then maybe we could look for a campsite before it gets dark?"

"A sheltered campsite." Annice glanced up at the horizon to horizon blanket of gray-green cloud. "It looks like it's going to storm." She squinted into the gathering shadows. "We'd better hurry."

Pjerin only ground his teeth and continued to scan both sides of the road. He was well aware it was going to storm and that sleeping rough would be harder on Annice than on him. He felt obliged to lessen her discomfort as much as possible. Which irritated him right out of the Circle. She wasn't an easy person to be considerate of.

A rectangle of darkness loomed up suddenly out of the dusk.

He frowned. Although there were walls on the narrow ends, the sides were open to the night. It didn't look like any kind of building he knew. "What is it?"

Annice leaned awkwardly forward and peered around the barrier of the mule. "Flax shed. This is a big linen-producing area. It's mostly just a roof to keep the rain off while they're hackling. There won't be anything in it right now, but there should be water nearby and possibly a fire pit so they don't have to depend on the weather for drying the stalks after retting."

"Are you sure?"

Her eyes narrowed at his tone. "Yes. I'm sure."

"Good." Pjerin began turning off the track.

"I don't think so." It was a young man's voice, rough edged but not unfriendly.

Pjerin glared at Annice.

She shrugged.

Together they turned and looked back the way they'd come.

There were three of them. Although none of them were very big, they moved with an aggressive cockiness that suggested no one had better mention it. They wore breeches with ridiculously wide legs, a style gone out of fashion with the young toughs of the cities but apparently still popular in the country, and all three heads of hair had been clubbed up into greased topknots. One of them had the beginnings of a scruffy beard; the other two might not have been old enough to manage even that.

"Where did they come from?" Pjerin growled.

"They followed us from the village. I saw them hanging around outside the alehouse." Her chin rose as he swiveled around to stare incredulously at her. "I guess I forgot to mention it."

Pjerin opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn't think of anything to say. Well, that wasn't quite true; he could think of several things to say but they'd all take time and would have to wait.

"Throw us the lead rope." The suggestion came from the bearded young man and was the same voice that had hailed them initially. He stood a little in front of his companions, obviously in charge. "We'll have a look-see through your packs, pick out a few trinkets, and no one will get hurt."

Annice smiled sweetly at the trio. "Go away, we'll forget we ever saw you, and no one will get hurt."

All three of them looked confused for a moment, then their spokesman shook his head and flicked a dagger down from a wrist sheath.

Increasing darkness made it difficult to focus on a single pair of eyes, so Annice opened her mouth to Sing. Perhaps she could get the kigh to open a large, deep hole in the road under their feet.

"Annice." Pjerin's fingers closed around her wrist like a vise. "I'll handle it."

"But…"

He shoved the lead rope into her hand. "I said," he snarled, "I'll handle it."

He moved back up the track, hands carefully out from the long dagger hanging sheathed at his side. An opportunity to actually do something, to hit back at the unenclosed chaos his life had become, was an opportunity not to be missed.

The three looked smaller in comparison, Annice realized; smaller, younger, less dangerous. But there were three of them. And one of them had a blade ready.

"Should've kept her quiet," the leader said genially, flashing broken teeth. "Now, we'll have to cut you."

Pjerin returned his smile. "You've got to the count of three to run."

They looked at each other and laughed.

They were still laughing at three.

They weren't laughing at four; had anyone still been counting.

Breathing heavily and pressing the edges of a shallow slice across his forearm together, Pjerin returned to where Annice waited.

Watching as two of their attackers limped into the night, dragging their moaning leader back toward the village, Annice had to admit she was impressed. To herself. She had no intention of admitting it aloud.

"Feel better?" she asked as Pjerin took hold of the rope and began to lead the mule off the road.

He flashed a grin back over his shoulder. "Much better. Thank you."

"I'll have a look at that arm when we get settled."

"It's nothing."

"Your nose is bleeding."

"It'll stop."

Shaking her head she stepped over a muddy ditch as they left the track, heading for the flax shed. Please, she begged the life nestled under her heart, be a girl.