Sasharia en Garde Read online

  Zathdar regarded me with that puzzled look. I did not want to talk about my dad to a pirate. So what was the previous subject? Oh yeah, apostrophes. “Even when you love the stories, when you read a lot, sometimes certain, oh, what we call in English ‘tropes’ tend to show up over and over. I guess some writers read them when young, and think they have to use the same ones. Like the flyspecks in names.”

  Zathdar nodded, to my surprise. “The same can be said for ballads, and certain types of music. Yet we listen even so, past the familiar, for whatever it is that draws us.” He tilted his head. “Sounds like Devli and Elva are almost ready.” He got to his feet, and as I followed him into the bigger chamber, he smiled back at me. “The search perimeter won’t have reached this far yet but that assurance will become less trustworthy as time passes.”

  “Ready.” Devlaen pounded in, lugging a knapsack full of jutting corners. Magic books, obviously.

  “Ready.” Elva appeared from the other direction, a bag over her shoulder. She held an armload of clothing, which she thrust at me.

  Since they were all standing there, I slipped the voluminous shirt over my T-shirt, and pulled on a wide-waisted coarse-woven riding skirt, hiding my jeans. The skirt promptly tried to fall off.

  Zathdar’s mouth quirked as he undid the Day-Glo green sash and handed it to me. The silk was warm from his touch. “And this makes me less noticeable?”

  All three nodded, Zathdar’s smile broadening.

  I sighed, then tied the skirt up as best I could. “Ready.”

  Devlaen led the way down a short tunnel to what smelled like a stable annex—the clean smell of fresh hay mixed with horse. Again, childhood memories hit me straight in the heart.

  Elva glanced at my head, then shrugged. I didn’t have to look down to see that my braids were fuzzier than ever. Apparently many braids were exotic but acceptable here too, even scruffy braids, for she did not speak, only beckoned for me to follow.

  The sun was just about to set when we rode out, Devlaen trying to arrange his bulky pack of books on the back of a skittish young mare, Elva watching in all directions. Zathdar seemed content to glance around once, but I remembered that comment about search perimeters. It surprised me that pirates, or rather privateers, talked about search perimeters. I thought their action was confined to water, which you didn’t have to search, since there were no convenient mountains, trees, or castles to hide behind.

  No, I thought, watching the fringes on his bandana swing gently with the even pace of his horse. Don’t get paranoid because the guy is competent. Competent is good when it saves your sorry butt. Besides, privateers had to train somewhere, and maybe it was as easy on land as at sea. One thing for sure, he was ready for action. He carried a cavalry sword across his back and the rapier in a saddle sheath.

  Elva wore her weapon, which whapped against her leg at every step of her mount. Devlaen seemed to be entirely occupied with his bag of books, and while I had my gear bag clutched to me, it didn’t contain any weaponry.

  We emerged from the hillside opening into spring-green leafing trees, similar to beech, and I was stunned by the purity of the color. In L.A. you did not breathe such champagne air, or see such color, unless it has rained for a couple of days—something that happens rarely enough in Southern California that it’s always a headline news item.

  In the distance, on the opposite side of the river valley, a hamlet lay charmingly terraced up the sides of the rocky canyon. Some of the single-story houses were whitewashed, some colored a warm shade, like honey-butter. No people in sight. Bad sign? Good sign?

  “Where to?” Zathdar asked Devlaen and Elva.

  Devli opened his mouth, then looked confused. “I guess Cousin Nad’s is out.”

  “Away,” Elva said shortly, and pushed her mount ahead of us all, so that she was in the lead.

  “My flagship is anchored right here at the mouth of the river.” Zathdar pointed downward in one direction. We were as yet too high to see the river.

  “We need to get away.” Elva sounded a little desperate. It was clear she had no ideas, either, except that she didn’t like his.

  We rode single file, as the path was narrow, bendy, and the shrubs and trees grew close. I grimaced down at my mount’s bony neck, and busied my fingers with untangling the coarse mane hair. Smells, sights, even sounds bombarded me, bringing up memories I thought I’d forgotten. I didn’t know which hurt worse, the happy ones or the bad ones.

  Zathdar had fallen behind me, going last. When I turned in my saddle, I found him studying me. “So what can you tell us from your own perspective?” he asked, voice lifted so the others could hear. “A summary will do. We know you were small when you left this world.”

  His slightly tilted head, the faint sympathetic smile, made me aware that I’d tightened up from neck to knees. “Right.” I tried for an easy tone. It was a perfectly legit question. “What I remember is King Canary. Uh, that’s a joke we came up with, me and my mom, though he hardly looks like any small yellow bird. Do any of you know him by sight?”

  “No,” Elva said from the front. She frowned back at us frequently.

  Devlaen grimaced. “From a distance. In parades.”

  Zathdar just gestured, his palm turned up, which I interpreted as an invitation to go on.

  “Well, he’s tall, with reddish hair. Eyes a real bright blue. I remember his smile. My mother says he’s handsome, but all I remember is that big smile, and how tall he was. Things at the castle were fun. Then the old king—my grandfather, that is. He finally died. I don’t remember him much at all—”

  I was descending into the personal memories I’d wanted to avoid, and so I shook my head. “He died, as I said. Next thing I knew we were traveling. Then we were on the run. The grownups didn’t tell me much, just that we had to be very quiet, and careful. We hid in a forest, we hid on a smuggling ship. My father got us to that old castle. I remembered some of it, though it was at night, during a heavy storm. He sent us through the Gate. Said he’d come for us. Never did.”

  I paused when we reached a forked path. Elva scowled, running her fingers along her scabbard. She was clearly tense with indecision.

  Zathdar said, “Keep to the right, is my suggestion.”

  “I agree. Left looks like it goes back toward the old castle.” Devlaen turned around in his saddle. “That all?” he asked me.

  “That’s what I remember. Here’s the basics of what I know. My mother said Canary began flirting with her as soon as my father brought her over from Earth. Dad was sent to Earth to see other worlds and gain perspective, since he was a second child. Canary had urged him to do that. Mom and I think now that he, Canary I mean, thought Dad would never come back.”

  “Magister Glathan thought so, too.” Devli nodded slowly.

  We’d reached another branch of the trail. Elva cast a quick look back. Devli shrugged in non-answer.

  Zathdar said pleasantly, “Left-hand trail goes down to the river. I feel obliged to remind you that if War Commander Randart is anywhere behind us, his searchers will find that cave retreat by morning. If not sooner.”

  Elva sent a darkling look at her brother, who said defensively, “How was I to know our rescue party would turn into a war party?”

  Elva muttered, “Hold my spot on ship defense, that I can do. Not against the king’s entire army.”

  “Let’s go left, sis.” Devli gave an anxious look at the mountaintops.

  I could have pointed out that Randart’s searchers wouldn’t be stupid enough to make silhouettes if they were really up there, but kept quiet, and Elva reluctantly headed to the left.

  “Would you continue?” Zathdar asked me. “You had gotten to King Canardan and your mother and father.”

  I shrugged. My story wasn’t all that exciting. Maybe he thought my natter was better than sullen silence from up front. “Dad didn’t die on Earth. Nor did he carve out a new kingdom, or whatever it was Canary thought he’d do. Along the way on his journey throu
gh California, he met my mom, at a Renaissance Faire. Um, never mind what a Renaissance is. Just think of it as people dressed up in costumes. Mom didn’t know he was a prince. She was a hippie activist because it was romantic and exciting and seemed destined to make the world better. Anyway, they became friends. Same sense of humor. Then they fell in love, and he wanted to marry her. So he sprang the prince business on her and said that getting married over here in this world would make her being a princess more official in the eyes of the people of Khanerenth than a marriage back on Earth.”

  A distant shout rang through the woods. Zathdar’s hand smacked to his blade. He twisted in his saddle, alert as a greyhound, while Elva was still looking around saying, “What was that? Where?”

  A voice answered from much closer—a little kid. “We’re still berrying, Papa!” and another even younger voice added, “Our baskets are almost full!”

  I stayed quiet until we’d rounded the bluff away from the unseen berry pickers, then looked back uncertainly.

  Zathdar made a polite gesture to continue.

  “Mom didn’t know anything about being a princess except what we get in stories, but she loved him, and the idea of adventure. So they came here. She loved Khanarenth, and people seemed to like her. Canary made a big fuss over her, like I said. She thought it was harmless flirtation. Cracked jokes, hand kissing, never carried it beyond public gatherings. And my Aunt Ananda, my father’s sister, didn’t seem to mind even though she’d very recently married Canary. Though Mom said she was a couple tacos short on her combination plate—”

  “What?” three voices asked, right in a row. At least they were listening, I thought, laughing to myself.

  “Oops. Uh, Aunt Ananda wasn’t very worldly, which didn’t seem to bode well for a future queen. And Dad and Mom were really popular, even though Dad wasn’t all that much more worldly, for he’d been studying magic for years. To support his older sister when she ruled.”

  Elva hesitated again.

  Devli slewed around to give me an inquiring look as his sister scowled down into the river valley.

  Zathdar’s expression was impossible to interpret as he checked the horizon constantly. I don’t want to say he was inscrutable—he didn’t do Sinister and Mysterious—but his smile was just a pleasant smile, with no clue to his thoughts.

  Elva clucked to her horse, and we moved.

  “I’m almost done,” I said into the heavy silence. “Everything seemed fine to Mom. But she says, what does an L.A. hippie chick know about royal politics? Anyway. When the old king died, Canary stepped forward to rule in my aunt’s name because she’d gone crazy from grief over her father. Canary sicced the army onto us, claiming my dad had somehow managed to commit high treason. Isn’t that the usual charge usurper kings throw at the good guys?”

  Devli spread his hands. “I don’t know. I’d just been born.”

  “My ma says it’s traditional,” Elva called from the front.

  “Don’t ask me,” Zathdar said when I glanced his way. “The charge I worry about is piracy, even though I am actually a privateer.”

  “Okay. So War Commander Randart was apparently Canary’s old friend from his youth.” Three nods confirmed that. “He’d suddenly been promoted to commander in chief of the military.” More nods. “He sent what seemed like a zillion soldiers to chase us.”

  Elva made a spitting motion over her shoulder. I remembered that pretending to spit was a lot like cussing. Actual spitting was worse than any of the sexual cusswords you hear all around you on Earth.

  “Oh yeah. At some point someone told Dad that Canary claimed my father had ruined my aunt’s wits with his magery, so he could get the throne to himself. I do remember that, because it was right before he took us to the castle and put us through the World Gate. I guess that was the high treason. Until recently there was no further contact. Nada.”

  Devli’s mount stumbled on a rock half-buried in the dusty path, causing Elva’s to whicker and sidle. She bent to soothe the animal, and Zathdar said, “What about the magic your father taught you?”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  The privateer lifted a hand. “Anything of use? By which I mean, to find your father?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know much about magic, but it does seem that spell you used in the castle courtyard was not parlor illusion.”

  “It is a strong spell, that much I know. Papa wanted to teach me more, but we were always on the run. Maybe he thought I could use that one.” I waited for someone to call me a liar. Because I was lying, at least partly.

  It was true I was not even remotely properly trained. It was not true that I knew only that spell. I knew another powerful spell, one a beginner ought not to have been taught, but Papa had been desperate. And so, though I had yet to discover if he even lived, I kept the promise I’d made to him before Mom and I fell through the Gate away from him. I would keep that secret.

  Devlaen sighed. Zathdar returned his attention to the path, which switchbacked down the side of a grassy slope into a forest-covered little vale. Elva, who seemed the least interested in questions of magic, was digging through her pack, and emerged triumphantly, holding a roundish shape wrapped in a length of clean linen.

  “Bread. Anyone hungry?”

  “Yes,” I exclaimed as my guts growled a hallelujah chorus.

  Elva split the bread into four equal portions, passed it down the row, and we ate as we rode.

  Chapter Six

  Sun Zhavalieshin crossed the continent of North America, landing with the rest of the red-eye passengers in LAX on a hazy morning.

  She’d had plenty of time to plan out her strategy, since she couldn’t sleep. First, a cab. Second, the small mailbox place she and Sasha had agreed on years before, a couple miles from the airport. Nothing much changed in Westchester, along Sepulveda. The constant roar of planes overhead kept the area from becoming too hip and thus redesigned every couple of years, unlike some of the other communities so close to the beaches.

  The mailbox place was still there. Sun asked the cabbie to wait, got out in her rumpled suit, and ran inside. Her fingers shook as she rattled the lock. She wrenched it open and sorted through the accumulation of trash mail and ads. There, behind her own postcard with the Omni Hotel info, was a postcard with Sasha’s latest work and apartment addresses, dated two weeks before. They had faithfully mailed their changes each time they moved, just as promised, in case their cell phones broke, in case email didn’t work . . . They knew it really meant that in case one of them vanished without a trace, there’d always be a starting place for a search.

  She gave the cabbie Sasha’s apartment address and sat back, eyes closed. The meter was ticking up ridiculously, but she didn’t care. Either she would soon go out of the country or out of the world. Whichever it turned out to be, she had to use up these dollars.

  The new apartment was in Venice. With the meter still ticking, she climbed out, immediately spotting Sasha’s old rattletrap of a car. Sun paused on the doorstep long enough to straighten her linen suit and touch a hand to her hair, upswept as always. She knocked.

  No answer, but she could hear the thump-thump-thump of a stereo inside. So she rapped with the metal clasp of her purse, and this time the door was opened by a tall, pretty-faced young man with a carefully tended three-day stubble. His leer turned to confusion when he looked up from Sun’s bosom to her raised eyebrows. “Yah?”

  “I am Sasha’s mother. Is she here?”

  Dougie wavered. His first instinct was to slam the door, but then he thought the woman might call the cops, and the place reeked of weed.

  The woman cleared her throat. Dougie’s single remaining brain cell fumbled its way back to the present. “Naw. But you can look around if you want.” He opened the door, pointed toward Sasha’s bedroom, and cranked up his death metal so she wouldn’t grill him with stupid questions.

  She marched inside the room and Dougie forgot her as he lit up another joint.


  Sun shut the door against the noise and marijuana smoke, and looked around. Absolutely nothing recognizable except that silly water bed. Sun opened the closet, where a few clothes hung.

  Below the clothes, two pairs of shoes sat side by side. Otherwise the closet was empty—no gear bag.

  No gear bag.

  Sasha never went anywhere without that bag.

  Sun spotted Sasha’s car keys lying on the bare desktop. She grabbed them up, drew in a deep breath, and opened the door. The noise almost blasted her back inside, but she hustled to the front door, glad the lout seemed as determined to ignore her as she wanted to ignore him. There was no use in asking him anything. She wouldn’t trust whatever he said.

  She stepped out, closed the door, and breathed again.

  After she paid off the waiting cabbie, she got into Sasha’s car. First, a search. No gear bag. The car smelled of Sasha’s favorite herbal shampoo, a scent that made Sun’s eyes tear, but she had to keep moving.

  All right. Wherever Sasha was, she’d managed to take her gear bag with her.

  So it was time to follow.

  Sun drove the car to the long-term storage facility in West L.A. that she hadn’t opened in years. She’d driven by once or twice, always meaning to get rid of the past and start over. But she’d never made it inside.

  Now was different. Math was no longer the issue. Sasha was. Sun parked Sasha’s car in the last slot and walked inside, her heart thumping an anxious drum roll.

  From the thin chain she wore around her neck, she took the key she’d carried for all these long years, and found the storage locker. It wasn’t very big.

  Nobody else was in the place, not in the middle of a working day. She crouched down, glad she’d kept herself in shape, and opened the lock. There lay the outfit she was wearing the day they blasted through the Gate back to Los Angeles.

  She took it out and buried her face in the soft, hand-woven cotton-linen from another world. It smelled a little musty, but faint, oh-so faint, remained a trace of the queensblossom rinse she’d always loved to use on her hair, and even fainter, a trace of Math’s musky, male sweat, left from that last desperate clinging hug and kiss.