His eyes were so open and friendly that she caught herself gesturing to a chair before she’d really considered it. Jak dragged the chair over beside hers and sat, leaning forward to brace his arms on his knees.
“You are all right, then?” he asked. “No aftermath jitters, no fiery wish for revenge now that you’ve had time to reflect?”
Sandry smiled. “None at all. Such men are their own worst enemy.”
“You certainly deserve better,” Jak replied. “A man of culture and refinement. Someone who can make you laugh.”
“But I don’t want to be married,” Sandry pointed out reasonably. “I’m happy being single.”
“But think of the freedom you’d have as a married woman!” protested Jak. “You can ride wherever you like—within limits, of course. There’s crime everywhere. But on your own lands you’d be safe. You’d have your lord’s purse to draw on, his lands and castles and jewels to add to your own, an important place at court…what?” he demanded as Sandry gave way to giggles. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m not interested in any of those things, Jak,” she explained when she could speak. “I know other girls are, but I have all I need when it comes to wealth, and if I were as poor as a Mire mouse, I would be able to earn my way with my loom and my needles. With Uncle Vedris I am important at court. You’re sweet, truly you are, but you don’t know me in the least.”
Jak looked down. “And I suppose that gardener, that boy, does?” he asked quietly.
“Briar?” Sandry cried, shocked. “You think I prefer—please! He’s my brother!”
“I hadn’t noted the family resemblance,” Jak said.
“Well, it’s there,” Sandry replied. “I would no more kiss Briar than…oh, please! It’s just too grotesque to even think about!”
Jak grinned at her. “Well, that’s a relief, at least.” He must have heard the genuine disgust in Sandry’s voice. “Look, just forget what I said,” he continued. “We can still be friends?”
“Yes, of course,” Sandry told him, offering her hand. Jak clasped it with a smile, then left her alone.
He’s sweet, she thought. If I wanted a husband…
Suddenly she saw Shan’s face in her mind’s eye: the easy smile, the wicked twinkle in his eyes, the firm, smiling mouth.
Nonsense, she told herself strictly. “I don’t want a husband. Any husband.” She said it aloud, in the hope that it would sound more real that way.
She shook her head with a sigh and put all of the dinner things back on the tray. She opened the door, then fetched the tray and set it in the hall. With that chore taken care of, she closed and locked her bedroom door. Gudruny and her children had their own door to their bedroom, which meant Sandry could have a good night’s sleep without one more interruption, from anyone. I’ll write to Uncle and set a date for my return home, she told herself, taking out paper and pen. After that, I know I’ll sleep well.
11
The 4th day of Rose Moon, 1043 K. F.
Sablaliz Palace to
Clehamat Landreg, Namorn
Three days later, at the Sablaliz Palace, just twenty miles from the Landreg estates, Ishabal Ladyhammer found the empress in her morning room, watching the sun rise. Berenene, wearing only a light nightgown and a frothy lace wrap, read over reports as she ate a light breakfast. Her cup of the fashionable drink called chocolate cooled as she read and reread one report in particular, drumming the fingers of her free hand on the table. She only looked up from her reading when the door opened and Ishabal, dressed for the day, came in with a sheaf of papers in her hand.
“Have you seen the reports from Clehamat Landreg?” Berenene wanted to know. “Shall I ring for more chocolate?”
“You know that I cannot abide the stuff, Imperial Majesty,” replied Ishabal. At Berenene’s nod she slid into the seat across from the empress. “I have already breakfasted. And yes, I have read the reports from Landreg. They are fascinating.”
“Fascinating, my foot,” Berenene said crisply. “I want fer Holm and fer Haugh to know I am displeased. If they haven’t learned that no one may nibble the apples in my garden until I have had my taste, they must be made to understand it.”
“Fer Holm and fer Haugh are ruined, Imperial Majesty,” Ishabal said gently. “Ruined men are desperate.”
“Can you believe it?” Berenene asked, shaking the papers that she held. “She undid their clothes. And then she undid everything else they had with stitches in it. That had better not happen to me, Ishabal.”
“Charms against such magics are easy enough to make,” said the mage. “Surely these men have been punished enough. The heiress escaped. How could we improve upon such humiliation as she gave them? They were forced to run naked to Pofkim, where the good people sent them on their way with pitchforks and laughter.”
Berenene looked at her chief counselor from under raised brows. “My empire, my garden. They tried to take what is mine,” she repeated patiently. “The laughter of villagers is not punishment enough for poaching my property. I prefer the sight of such bold and brawny fellows on their knees before me, thank you all the same.”
She glanced at the report again. “I am also disappointed at the lack of information about my cousin’s new ‘secretary.’ Really, the girl might have chosen him to infuriate me. First she is accosted by a madman—whose life Daja saved back in Kugisko. Then she hires this Zhegorz, as her secretary—or so our spies tell us. Except that her secretary spends his hours magically protected by Trisana and Briar, so our spies know nothing of what they are doing. Zhegorz spends precious little time writing, certainly. And now I am told that we have no history of the man before Daja met him in Kugisko, because the hospital where he was locked up burned to the ground, including its records! All we know is that he came to Dancruan sometime last summer and that he lived on begging and charity. Oh, yes, and that all who knew him swore he was mad—those who were not mad themselves!” She dropped the papers on her table. “I can’t justify taking agents off important security work to concentrate on someone appearing to be a madman in need of magical help, but there’s no denying it, Isha.” Berenene drummed well-manicured nails on the tablecloth. “I dislike mysteries, and peculiarities are like an itch I cannot scratch.”