27: HUNTING THE WHITE HIND

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Darzin D’Mon got what he deserved

“Seriously?” Kihrin threw Janel a flat glare. “You’re stopping there? Nina’s right; you are a monster.”

Janel just laughed as she reached for her water. “But I’m so parched.” She saluted him with the glass. “Anyway, at least I can laugh about it now. I didn’t find it funny at the time.”

“Wait,” Ninavis said. “I thought—” She shook her head in pure wonderment. “Is there any noble this side of the Dragonspires whose ear that bastard wasn’t whispering in?”

Qown shook his head. “Not really.”

“The Duke of Marakor?” Kihrin offered.

“There hasn’t been a Duke of Marakor since the Lonezh Hellmarch,” Janel said. “And no one on Quur’s High Council—you know, the one owned by the Royal Houses?—seems to be in a real rush to replace him for some reason.”

Kihrin shook his head. “So that’s what Mithros meant when he said he didn’t think you’d have much success warning Duke Xun. Because of Relos Var.”

“Maybe,” Janel said. “But there is another possible explanation.”

“Oh?”

Janel shrugged. “Duke Xun’s a fool, without the wisdom to realize standing outside during a storm results in getting wet?”

“Ah,” Kihrin said. “So no thudajé for him, then?”

“It’s hard to hold thudajé for someone when you think a horse would do a better job.” Janel raised a finger. “Not a fireblood. A horse.”

“Now I really want to hear how your meeting went.”

Qown cleared his throat. “Except it’s my turn.”

Kihrin leaned against the counter. “Right. Sorry.”

Qown’s Turn. The Green, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.

“Ah, now that’s some nice metal,” Mare Dorna said as she counted out the coins into her hand.

Brother Qown blinked at her. She’d been counting a different coin purse earlier. This purse matched the bodice of a woman with whom Dorna had left earlier.

“That’s not—” Brother Qown paused and cleared his throat. “She gave you a gift?”

Dorna’s grin was best described as lascivious. “She appreciated my lesson.”

“What lesson would she have paid—?” Brother Qown held up a hand. “Never mind. Please forget I asked. I’m quite sure I don’t want to know.”¹

She cackled at him.

Ninavis left the priest in Dorna’s care like a stray puppy returned home, before returning to help the Red Spears with their contests. Sir Baramon had vanished to renew his own contacts within the tournament circuit, and Janel continued to prance as the Black Knight. That left Brother Qown alone with Dorna, who roamed the tournament, treating it as a movable feast, a banquet of larceny, liquor, and lust to feed her considerable appetites.

Brother Qown sometimes thought she performed her antics to shock him.

A low, appreciative whistle from Dorna drew his attention back to her. Brother Qown followed her stare. Predictably, she was ogling a woman passing on a sky bridge.

If the Joratese liked to compare themselves to horses, then the subject of Dorna’s attention was a white stallion. Not that coloring called “gray,” which looks white only when full grown, but true white. The sort of white where the foal usually dies. This woman displayed a whiteness of skin and hair anathema to sunlight, stretched thin to translucence over a ripe body. She dressed like royalty, not following the Jorat fashions but dressing as men do in the Capital. She sported a tight, high-necked, gray silk misha over silvery velvet kef pants, tucked into high boots. Diamonds sparkled against her lustrous agolé like snowflakes falling at winter’s twilight. The soldiers who walked with her, as an honor guard, seemed more than capable of ensuring no one could do more than look and envy.²

Then she turned her head, and Brother Qown saw her face.

“Dorna!” Brother Qown grabbed the old woman by the arm. “Dorna, it’s the Doltari woman from Mereina. That’s Senera!”

“Oh? Well, nobody told me she was smuggling all the damn melons in the garden under her bodice.”³ Dorna finished tucking her purse away. “I never got a good look at her last time.”

“She dressed less scandalously last time.”

“She’s dressed like a stallion, but I wouldn’t call it a scandal.”

Brother Qown craned his neck to stare after the witch. “We have to follow her.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Dorna handed her mug to a man next to her. “Hold this, would you?” She grabbed Brother Qown’s arm and dragged him from the stands.

Brother Qown would have never been able to follow Senera on his own. He had no idea how to get from the tournament stands to those labyrinthine skyways where they’d seen the woman pass. Fortunately, Dorna knew Atrine as if she were born here (which, for all Brother Qown knew, might have been the case) with all its shortcuts and back-alley skypaths.

Senera, for her part, proved easy to track. Her white hair glowed like a beacon in the distance. Just when Brother Qown thought they’d lost her, they would catch a glimpse of agolé or her soldier escorts and be on the trail once more.

Brother Qown yelped as Dorna pulled him back behind a corner. He realized the problem right away: he’d been so intent on following Senera he’d stopped paying attention to where she’d led them.

The Markreev of Stavira’s compound.

He swallowed as he saw Stavira soldiers in red and gold patrolling the grounds. Nobody looked alert. The soldiers seemed more interested in the cheering crowds, jealous of a tournament they couldn’t attend. But Brother Qown felt certain they would become vigilant immediately should the need arise.

Dorna tugged on Brother Qown’s sleeve. Senera was approaching the main azhock. To Qown’s surprise, a Malkoessian noble waited to greet her: Sir Oreth, no less.

Sir Oreth greeted Senera warmly. Brother Qown suspected Relos Var had wasted little time putting Sir Oreth in touch with Senera; they had clearly met before.

“There’s no guards around back,” Dorna whispered.

“Dorna, it’s not safe. We should go back and tell Count Janel.”

“Wait for it…”

Across the compound, a Stavira knight returned from his turn at the lists. His armor looked disheveled. A giant faux bird wing at his shoulder had broken, dragging across his fireblood’s back.

Then the saddle’s girth strap broke.

The knight, already top-heavy, did what one might expect in these circumstances: he fell. Brother Qown assumed the fireblood cried for help from those nearby. The guards came running.

Mare Dorna moved.

Brother Qown didn’t dare protest lest he draw the guard’s attention.

In the confusion, Dorna found a spot for them behind the main azhock Senera and Sir Oreth had entered, behind haystacks and rice wine barrels. She leaned in toward the tent, intending to eavesdrop, and waved for Brother Qown to do likewise. He did, praying to Selanol they wouldn’t be discovered.

“I can’t hear anything,” Mare Dorna whispered. “Can you?”

Brother Qown listened. The knight who’d lost his saddle (how had Dorna accomplished that?) didn’t seem worse for wear, judging by the quality and heat of his cursing. The guards began returning to their posts. He heard nothing from inside the azhock itself.

“Maybe they’re, uh, you know—” He blushed.

“That makes noise too, priest,” Mare Dorna admonished.

“Maybe they’re sneaking up on the eavesdroppers,” Senera suggested from behind them.

Brother Qown turned.

Senera and Sir Oreth both stood there. Sir Oreth had his sword drawn, as did the half dozen soldiers behind them. Sir Oreth was staring at Mare Dorna with a murderous expression.

Senera smiled. “We have a lot to talk about. Won’t you both come inside?”