Part 30 (2/2)

The Wolfshead had her heel hooked on the sill of the window cas.e.m.e.nt, and was leaning over, stretching out the long muscles in the back of her leg. The older woman looked over her shoulder, lowered her heel to the floor, and straightened to her full height.

Heart still pounding from her run up the stairs, breath still coming short, Mar took one look at the Wolfshead's face and flung herself into the Mercenary's arms.

”Dhulyn, I'm so sorry,” Mar said, sobbing out the words. ”This is all my fault.”

Mar felt the Wolfshead relax, ever so slightly. The muscled arms came up, and the long-fingered hands took Mar by the shoulders and held her away.

”Sun and Moon, Lady Mar.” The words were kind, but the tone, and the face when Mar had courage to look up at it, were cool and closed. ”Don't make yourself so important, child,” the Wolfshead continued. ”You didn't make the Jaldeans insane, and you didn't make Lok-iKol rebel against his Tarkin.”

”But you and the Lionsmane-”

”We're still whole and hearty, no harm done; in fact the contrary, if our help to the Tarkin has come in time.”

”But I betrayed you.” Mar wiped her face with her sleeve. ”Please, let me explain. You must forgive me.”

”Tchah. There's nothing to forgive. How could you betray us? It's not as though we're Brothers.”

Mar swallowed with difficulty, the Wolfshead's face blurring as she blinked away tears. Finally, she nodded, and, keeping her eyes lowered, left the room.

”I would like to live, Lionsmane. What can I do?”

”Don't wait.” At the boy's raised eyebrows, Parno added.

”You give me a reason not to kill you.” give me a reason not to kill you.”

Nineteen.

MAR AND GUN HAD been given beds in the same large underground chamber that housed the Tarkin and his family, though screens had been brought in to give some semblance of privacy. Mar opened her pack and took out her writing supplies, laying pens, inks, and parchments carefully on the small table that sat under the largest of the chamber's lamps. Her hands trembled, and she took a deep breath as she steadied the carefully stoppered gla.s.s bottle of black ink. Mindful of her reception at Tenebro House, only Mar's determination to confront Dhulyn Wolfshead had distracted her from her dread of meeting with Zelianora of Berdana.

As it was, she'd almost knocked the Tarkina down as she rushed, blind with tears, across the inner courtyard of Mercenary House. The Tarkina had given Mar a fierce hug, kissed her forehead, and dried Mar's tears with her own neck scarf, making Mar blow her nose as if she was no older than little Zak-eZak who even now was pus.h.i.+ng a small wooden horse across the chamber's uneven floor. Mar had been so astonished at the Tarkina's behavior, that any uneasiness she might have felt had disappeared entirely, and she realized that she felt more at ease with the Tarkina of Imrion than she ever had with her own family in Tenebro House, or even with the Weavers in Navra.

It wasn't the same kind of comfort as sleeping snug and safe between Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane, but comfort it was.

”I hear you are lettered and have worked as a clerk,” Zelianora Tarkina had said, once Mar's eyes were dry. ”Will you help me with the children? This is so hard for Bet-oTeb, her tutors and friends gone. If I could re-establish in some small way her regular routine . . .”

”Perhaps you'd prefer-Gundaron is a Scholar . . .”

Zelianora Tarkina had waved this away, linking her arm through Mar's and leading her inside. ”With respect to the Libraries and their teachings, we had Scholars in Berdana as well, and undoubtedly the time will come for economics and the philosophy of history. At the moment, however, I'd be happy if Bet could add and subtract.”

So while the Tarkina had sent the guard to find her daughter, Mar had gone down into the chamber to set up her cla.s.sroom. Mar picked up the better of her two wooden pens, tested the seat of the steel nib, and set it aside for Bet-oTeb's use. For herself she applied her penknife to an uncut quill. She thought about the two giggling sisters in Tenebro House and suppressed a smile. The idea that she was about to begin teaching the future Tarkin of Imrion the basics of accounting was giving Mar an unexpected sense of satisfaction.

She could almost forget the cold lump of wretchedness that sat under her heart. She'd thought she'd been alone and miserable in Tenebro House, but that was nothing compared to what she felt now. Was it possible to be more more miserable because you miserable because you weren't weren't alone? What was she going to do about Gun? Was she even sure of what she felt? alone? What was she going to do about Gun? Was she even sure of what she felt?

Suddenly Mar remembered Lan-eLan, and that woman's kindness to her. Where was Lan now? Mar hadn't even thought to ask Dal if the older Tenebro woman was safe and well. Mar blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to flow. She was always leaving her friends behind. Sarita in Navra, Lan-eLan in Tenebro House. Even Dhulyn Wolfshead.

”I'm sc.u.m,” she whispered.

”Nonsense.” The Tarkina's gentle voice startled her, the slight Berdanan accent giving a musical lift to the word. ”I've known women like the Wolfshead, she'll forgive you.”

Mar felt the heat rise to her face.

”Maybe,” Mar said, lining up the edges of her parchment squares. ”If she thought she had something to forgive.”

Zelianora took the parchments and set them to one side, sat down beside Mar in the chair that Mar had drawn up for Bet-oTeb. The Tarkina just sat, quietly waiting, and somehow this loosened the knot in Mar's throat, allowing her to draw in a deep, ragged breath.

”The Wolfshead said that I hadn't betrayed her, that I couldn't because, well, because I wasn't her Brother.”

”And that doesn't help, because you feel that you did.”

”Yes.”

Zelianora reached across the small s.p.a.ce that separated their two chairs and laid her fingers, the signet of the Tarkina twinkling in the light of the lamp, on top of Mar's clenched hands. ”She is right. You can only be betrayed by someone you trust. In that pure sense, a Mercenary can only be betrayed by another of their Brothers, because she would never give her trust to anyone else.”

”That's what I thought she meant.” Mar hung her head so as not to meet the Tarkina's eye. Zelianora hadn't seemed like one of those lecturing grown-ups who pointed out the obvious as though it was wisdom's best pearl. She twisted her mouth to one side. Must come from being a parent.

”We have a saying in my homeland: 'there is more than sand in the desert.' Dhulyn Wolfshead may tell you she is not angry with you, and it could be so. It could be herself she is angry with, and in her strict honor, she refuses to be angry with you.” Zelianora lifted her hand and sat back in her chair. ”But I don't believe it. I was one of those watching, and I saw her face when she told us you were with Dal-eDal. The Wolfshead was happier to know you safe with him than she should have been, seeing you are no Brother of hers. Somehow during that journey through the mountains I have heard of, she grew to trust you. It's hard to sleep with someone you don't trust.”

”We only lay together for warmth.”

”Lie down together, yes. Even with your arms about one another, with certainty. Even guards traveling with prisoners have been known to do this, when it was their duty to return alive. But sleep? With the prisoner unbound? No, my dear.” Zelianora shook her head, and Mar glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. ”Mercenary Brothers would never have fallen asleep in the arms of someone they did not trust.”

”So I did betray her, and she knows it.” Mar took another deep breath. ”Why do I feel better?”

”Well, it seems you are are important to her, after all. And since she important to her, after all. And since she is is angry with you, whether she believes it or not, it will be possible for her to forgive you.” The Tarkina stood. ”If we all live long enough.” angry with you, whether she believes it or not, it will be possible for her to forgive you.” The Tarkina stood. ”If we all live long enough.”

Mar stood up, too, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. ”Then we'll just have to live long enough.”

Gundaron selected another waxed strand of cotton and held it up into the shaft of sunlight that hung, warm and bright, from an opening high in the wall across from his bench. He threaded it through the finest curved bone needle in the sewing kit Alkoryn Pantherclaw had given him. These weren't the best bookbinding tools he'd ever seen, but he'd been taught at his Valdomar Library to make use of materials at hand when a book needed to be mended. He'd no idea where this quant.i.ty of paper, cut and folded to table-volume size, had come from, but no one here in Mercenary House had the knowledge or skill to turn the paper into a proper book. And Alkoryn wanted one to make a portable set of maps. This was good useful work, Gun knew, tapping together the first bundle of sheets . . . only not needed, or important, or even wanted particularly urgently. Except as a way to keep him out from underfoot, while the real work was done. Now that he'd told them what he knew, given them his warning, there wouldn't be anywhere he was really needed, or wanted. Not after what he'd done.

He sighed, letting his hands fall into his lap, the pages slipping from slack fingers. Neither he nor Mar was considered physically dangerous to anyone here, that was obvious enough from the way they were treated, but he didn't miss the point that they'd been put into the one chamber that was, for the sake of the Tarkina, constantly guarded. So he and Mar could be watched at the same time, with no wasted effort.

Zelianora Tarkina had been pleasant to Mar, asking for her help with tutoring the Tarkin-to-be, but with him the Berdanan princess was distantly polite, like an upper Scholar whose cla.s.ses you were not yet a part of.

Gun told himself he was happy that Mar was being accepted more easily. After all, she'd only been tricked and lured into a mistake in judgment-a mistake, what's more, she'd set out immediately to correct as soon as she had learned of it. It was obvious to everyone, even to himself, finally, that what he'd done was far worse. He hadn't set out to betray or destroy anyone, but he'd ended up betraying and destroying everyone.

Even himself. There was no doubt in his own mind who was to blame. How many times had he been told while still in his Library not to become too focused, too narrow in his methods and his theories? Too sure of himself and his abilities? To do his best to keep the greater whole always in view? In his zeal to track down the ancient Shpadrajha, and connect them with the modern Espadryni, he'd done a good job of forgetting that particular lesson, and making himself an easy tool for-he s.h.i.+vered. For Beslyn-Tor. For the Green Shadow.

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