Twice a Prince: Sasharia En Garde Book 2 Read online

  Satisfied that the mare, at least, would sleep in a good mood, I retreated up to my hammock, and despite the singing, rhythmic stomping, roars of laughter from below, and the sounds of people breathing, sighing, rustling around in the attic around me, I dropped into sleep.

  The next day, I began my long journey toward Ivory Mountain, where I hoped to find my father.

  Chapter Four

  The lookouts on the towers at the royal castle in Vadnais sent runners below to announce that the prince was arriving.

  More correctly, the dust from the road was spotted by the guards on the walls just about the same time two outriders appeared on foam-flecked horses.

  By the time Jehan and his honor guard trotted tiredly through the outer gates and up the streets to the castle, the brown and silver banner indicating the Crown Prince in Residence hung below the king’s banner, limp in the humid air.

  A small army of stablehands waited to take the drooping animals in hand as the guards dismounted, everyone weary from the grueling pace the prince had kept. (Why did they volunteer for honor-guard duty? Hadn’t everyone said he always stopped at every inn to get drunk and flirt with the prettiest girls around?) But no one was more weary than Jehan, who hadn’t let himself sleep more than a couple of hours at a stretch for several days.

  His mood was vile. Not because he was hot and tired, but because he had tried to outrun his thoughts. He knew better. But the chattering voice in his head had kept pace right with him, whispering all the things he should have said to Sasha to convince her, leaving him with the even more depressing retort: Doesn’t matter. She wouldn’t have believed anything I said.

  That was the worst of it. She didn’t trust him, didn’t believe him. He’d never cared what anyone thought before. There were six people who knew his secret identity—well, nine, with Sasha and the Ebans—but somehow, in a matter of days, Sasha’s opinion had come to matter the most.

  Canardan, glancing out of one of the windows above the military courtyard, was shocked at the grim tension in Jehan’s face. He sent a runner to bring his son upstairs at once, and so Jehan appeared in his private room not long after, bowing his head in salute, his tangled white hair imprinted with the dust of the road.

  “Jehan?” Canardan said, puzzled. He’d never seen his son this—this angry, no, this present. His mood altered to uneasy question.

  “You summoned me, Father.”

  “You seem to have ridden as if all Norsunder was on your heels. What did Zhavic say to you?”

  Jehan blinked, seemed to gather himself, then his face smoothed into a semblance of his customary lack of discernable expression, despite the dust smudges. “A party. I must get to my tailor. I would not dishonor your guest by appearing in last winter’s masquerade costume.”

  Canary was relieved, and irritated. “So you nearly ran the horses to death to get to your tailor?”

  “We changed mounts at dawn. Had a race the last way, but it began to get hot,” Jehan said, with his usual maddening habit of answering someone else’s question, and not the one his father had asked. “The horses were all right, hot but not blown,” Jehan added, and Canary nodded. That was true enough.

  So Jehan wasn’t angry, only overheated from the summer sun. Probably had an aching head. Canardan had had enough of those of late, and not just from the weather. “Well, get yourself some fresh clothes. Eat. I want your report on what happened at the games.”

  Jehan bowed and left, determined to get a grip on his mood before he faced his father again. He could see questions there.

  As soon as he was gone, Canardan turned to his chief valet, a slight man of indeterminate age who went unnoticed by all who did not know him. The other servants, who did, were afraid of him. “Chas. Make certain he and the princess do not meet. Unless I am there to witness it.”

  Chas did not speak, only bowed, and effaced himself, smiling as soon as he was alone. He seldom spoke, but when he did, the other servants listened, for they never knew when it was his will or the king’s being expressed. Either way, whatever they said or did was sure to reach royal ears.

  While Jehan was taking a cool bath, Atanial moved from the upper reaches of the castle to her own rooms. She’d heard the horns, and watched from the window at the staircase as the boys assigned to banner duty put up the prince’s flag in the place she used to see Math’s hanging.

  She went out onto the nearest balcony that overlooked the courtyard, but all she’d seen was dust and milling horses and military people, with stablehands dashing about in between. Once she thought she caught sight of white hair gleaming in the sunlight, but almost immediately the figure vanished below.

  She crossed back to her room and summoned her maid. “If the prince has a free moment, I would very much like to offer him some refreshments.”

  “If it pleases you, your highness,” the girl said nervously. “I can ask permission.”

  Atanial smiled. “Whenever the king wishes.”

  Interesting. So Canary didn’t want them meeting on their own, then. But what did that mean?

  Now, for the first time, Atanial looked forward to the ball whose preparations had thrown the entire castle into a state of madness.

  She went to the window, looking down into the garden court.

  All the servants had brought in relatives to help clean and decorate the ballroom with the summer blooms raided from gardens outside the city. The air smelled day and night of baking, and everywhere one encountered the sounds of brooms wisping, the squeak of vigorous polishing, the slosh of windows being washed. The one time she ventured into the anteroom to the great chambers, a horde of little girls leaped to their feet, flowers drifting into piles on the floor, half-fashioned garlands dropping, as they stared at her in dismay. She retreated rapidly.

  She moved to the balcony again. In all this craziness I bet I could slip away.

  Okay. Then what?

  Trouble for all the servants, that’s what. And maybe threats against those in the dungeon or wherever Kreki and the others were stashed. Meanwhile, exactly what would she be doing, other than lurking around the countryside?

  No, much as she longed for it, escape right now would be a bad move. She longed to get away and find Sasha, but she would not risk others.

  Besides. She remembered the glimpse of white hair in the courtyard below and remembered what Ananda had said about Jehan.

  Jehan longed to be standing on the captain’s deck of the Zathdar. He longed to be asleep on the Dolphin.

  He longed to be anywhere but here.

  But there was no leaving, and certainly no sleep. He bathed, dressed, drank the hot steeped listerblossom brought to him by servants familiar with his tastes. That at least reduced the headache.

  He dressed, making certain his magic-transfer notecase went directly from the pile of dirty clothes into his new, because the moment he left, someone—probably Chas—would be searching his things.

  Standard, all of it. Meanwhile his father awaited him for lunch. After that everyone would be expecting him to fuss over his clothes, so he had to find the energy to give them what they expected.

  The lunch was being served on the shaded private balcony overlooking the back garden, where stooped backs worked among the roses and other flowers, busy trimming, weeding, sprucing up. Some of the flowers looked withered. There’d been no rain here for almost three days now, and dust rose everywhere, shimmering light brown in the dazzling sunlight, settling to the distantly heard dismay of sweepers, dusters, cleaners.

  “Welcome back, my boy,” Canardan greeted him.

  “Thank you, Father.” Jehan bowed.

  They sat down to eat, and Jehan faced his father’s searching gaze. “Tell me about the games,” the king said.

  “Shambles.” Jehan broke a biscuit fresh from the oven. “We had four outsiders join at the last moment, who took all the prizes they competed for. Then they vanished before the awards.”

  Canardan rubbed his jaw as Jehan dug into his meal. �
�What happened to Damedran?”

  “Thumped repeatedly. But that did not prevent him from riding in the relay even so.”

  “And still he lost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they, any idea?”

  Jehan had thought this aspect out very carefully. “I know one of them from my training days in the west. He recognized me. Came up beside me when I was going down to visit my yacht, said something about assessment. Said word is out west, Norsunder will be moving against the world soon. Said we should be better trained in defense tactics.”

  There it was, the truth.

  Canardan waved a hand impatiently. “Every court is yipping about Norsunder. I did it myself when I pressed the guilds to up their tax share to me.”

  “You hold that view despite these warnings?”

  “What warnings? It’s all rumor, innuendo, nonsense. Excuses for other plans. If Norsunder’s mages do start sniffing around, we have Zhavic and Perran to ward ’em. Last I heard, no one has actually seen the Norsundrian army except down there at the southern base, which concerns itself with Sartor and its environs. I want Locan Jora back. We need it. They interfere with Colendi trade, causing me to spend time and energy with these constant negotiations. That’s enough to worry about.” His voice sharpened, warning that he would no longer listen, only demand.

  Jehan deferred yet again, hating himself, the situation, and the entire world. But as usual, hid it. “I had commissioned a gift for the queen. Magister Zhavic told me she vanished. What does that mean, vanished?”

  “I don’t know myself. One morning she wasn’t in her rooms, and no one had seen her depart.”

  “Magic?”

  “Could be, though Zhavic went over her chambers himself, and insisted he found no traces of transfer. But then the magic would…” He waved his hand. “Dissipate? Sounds like fog, not spells. Anyway, the residue of major transfers only lingers for a time, they all say. And we don’t know when she left. She stayed in her rooms, never came out except to walk in the gardens.”

  Jehan nodded, satisfied that the queen had gone of her own free will, however mysteriously, and had not been conveniently dispatched. Now that there was a potential queen around.

  Speaking of whom, it was time to mention her. “When do I meet Princess Atanial?”

  “Officially, at the ball. But if you like I can invite her to supper. She has nothing else to do. I caught her, I might add, having made straight for those fools around that troublemaker Kreki Eban. Who is sitting down in the lockup right now, with the rest of them, awaiting my pleasure.”

  “What is your pleasure?” Jehan asked.

  “That they all drop dead. But they won’t. I don’t know what to do about them. I can’t figure out if I should hope someone runs a rescue raid so I have an excuse to kill them all, or if I should make them disappear. But whether there was dirty work or not, you can be certain rumor would smear me. As usual. So they sit there. And Atanial up here. None of them making trouble.” Canardan grinned.

  “I am to understand you summoned me here to meet her?”

  “To talk to her.” The king threw up his hands. “You like women. You chase women. They must like you, or you wouldn’t catch them. Atanial is likable, but too old for you to chase. Talk to her instead. Ask about her daughter. What she looks like, what she’s been taught. Where she might be. I want that daughter here, and I want you to court her.”

  “Court her?” Jehan repeated, aghast.

  “Court and marry. Zhavalieshin name and ours twined, very romantic and might just settle down this curse-blasted kingdom.”

  Jehan felt the headache looming. “What if she won’t have me?”

  “Of course she will,” his father countered. “You have success with all these artists, surely you can romance her. You’re handsome, you’re rich, you’ve got a title. If she’s romantic, you give up your artists for a little while. If she’s sensible, you don’t even have to do that.”

  From a certain point of view, it sounded reasonable. Kings and queens negotiated just such marriages all the time. But Jehan never felt farther from his father’s view of the world than at this moment.

  “Do you know where she is?” he asked, thumbs at his temples.

  “No, but if the pirate’s got her, Randart will soon take care of that. If not, the mages will track her down on land.”

  “What if she won’t cooperate?” Jehan asked.

  Was that irony in his voice? Canardan eyed his son, then shrugged. Imagination. Maybe the boy hesitated for his usual stupid reasons. She might not be pretty, or more important, might not like art. “She’ll cooperate.”

  They both knew he’d use persuasion, and then threat.

  The rest of the lunch was about details—the ball, taxes, decisions. Canardan did not expect any intelligent response. He probably did not want it. He only wanted acquiescence, and that Jehan gave him with his usual air of absence.

  Seeing it, his father relaxed. When Canardan was finished, he rose. It was time to get on with his busy day, and for his son to carry out his assigned tasks.

  Jehan crossed the long halls to his seldom-used rooms, now filled with people patiently awaiting him: the two tailors, a model his height and build, a dozen apprentices standing ready with swatches of cloth, and servants hovering at the back.

  Jehan submitted silently to their ministrations, his thoughts extremely bitter. They stayed that way until evening, by which time his head ached like a hammer on metal.

  So he was in no real mood of appreciation when he sat down to dinner with his father and his prisoner, Princess Atanial, who was tall, built on slighter lines than her daughter, though not by much. They had the same light hair and the same light eyes, though there the resemblance ended. Sasha, Jehan thought, was a real blend of her parents’ features, Math’s distinctive bones made beautiful by Atanial’s spun-sugar prettiness.

  He hated her laugh.

  “So nice it is to meet you at last.” She giggled. It really was a giggle. “You do have white hair. Not light blond, or what we call platinum, it’s so white it’s blue.” And the trilling giggle again.

  “All the morvende are like that.” Canardan didn’t seem to mind the laugh. “You should see a room full of ’em. Like snow statues.”

  The princess leaned forward and pressed Jehan’s fingers. “Oh, but don’t think I don’t count you as handsome. Woo-hoo-hoo! Why, the girls must simply swoon over you.”

  He tried not to show his wince.

  “But I’m told all the Merindars are as handsome as your father.”

  He braced himself—and there came the laugh.

  How could his father possibly admire this woman? But he was staring at her with a peculiar bemusement Jehan had never seen in his face before.

  The signal for the servants at least quieted the laugh as food was handed round and everyone ate. Atanial plopped her elbows on the table the same way her daughter did. This breach of manners lessened his irritation enough to make her voice bearable.

  Just as well, for she chattered through the entire dinner, running on about masquerades, the castle, music, Math, and ending with, “So what will your costume be, dear?”

  Dear? “Not much I can be.” He felt measurably better now that he’d eaten.

  She chuckled, a soft, even attractive sound that suddenly shifted to the piercing giggle. Jehan’s nerves fired. Was it possible she was faking that horrible laugh?

  He fought back the tiredness settling like cloud-blankets over his thoughts now that the headache had receded, and forced himself to pay attention. “Not many famous morvende in sunsider history.”

  “Sunsider? Oh! You mean we who live in the sun and not in your caves. Woo hoo! But you could wear a wig. Some sort of disguise along with your mask—”

  And put that idea in everyone’s mind? He marshaled the last of his energy and waved a languid hand. “Loathe disguises in any form. Any mask I wear must be a work of art.”

  “Oh, I see.” She tri
lled coyly. “Art, yes. I think your father told me you are sensitive to all forms of art. That must be your morvende heritage.” And the laugh again.

  What a stupid remark! Yet Math had admired his wife’s brains, and Sasha thought highly of her mother.

  If so, why?

  His interest sharpened. Seeing his father gazing at her with a slight furrow between his brows, Jehan said, “Does your daughter like masquerades?”

  “My daughter?” Princess Atanial looked around as if a daughter were hiding behind the chandelier or under the table. “Oh yes. That is, she does love a good romp. When in the mood. Though she is not much one for costume. They do so rip and tear so easily. Hee-hee-hee!”

  “In the mood?” Jehan persisted, after his father made a motion with his hand, waggling the fingers. More, more.

  “Well. You know,” Atanial said airily, looking at the light through her glass. “Not angry. Or sullen. She does have her very good days, and on those, she can be as sweet as roses, and for longer than many give her credit for. Why, are you interested in my darling Sasha? Oh, you young men, always with the young, but I’m only an ugly old woman, and I don’t count. I know, it’s the way of life.” A bosom-heaving sigh.

  Canardan sat back, gazing at her in perplexity. Jehan winced when she trilled again. “Oh no.” He forced a smile. “Quite the opposite, I assure you. It’s only your beauty that has me hoping your daughter might be a candle to your sun.”

  He felt a pang of self-loathing, knowing how false he sounded.

  She twiddled her fingers at him demurely. “Go along, then. Beautiful indeed! They do say that poor Sasha inherited her father’s looks, but we who love her think her beautiful, and as for that terrible Kickpail epithet, well, it’s simply not true. Quite unkind, put about by jealous minds.”

  “Kickpail?” both men repeated at the same time.

  Atanial looked skyward. “Oh dear. Don’t tell me you hadn’t heard about everyone calling her Clumsy Kickpail. Naughty me! But how was I supposed to know? I assure you the stories about how ungainly she is are quite exaggerated. Quite. She only broke that table once, and it was already old and ready to fly to pieces at a touch. As for those windows, why, that can happen to anyone. And it’s not true she flung the serving maid through one. Stupid girl tripped all on her own, not moving out of the way fast enough.” Atanial thumped her elbows back onto the table, chin resting on her laced fingers. “When my daughter has a sword in her hand, it’s art to watch her. Though it’s better not to watch when her temper is, ah, somewhat peppery. But that’s true of anyone. An-ee-one!” She blinked rapidly.