It seemed unfair. She had no say in her own life, and her fates were mapped out for the interests of others. For the first time, Jaryd felt something toward a woman that he'd never expected to feel. He empathised.
“Maybe he'll be a good man,” he offered, uncertainly. “Regent Arrosh's heir.”
Sofy shrugged. “Perhaps.” And said nothing more. That was most unlike her usual bubbly, cheerful self. Jaryd didn't like that. Strangely, it seemed he'd come to enjoy Sofy's good humour. Her sunshine kept him buoyant when all he saw were dark clouds. He clasped her arm briefly. It was forward of him. Should her royal minders have been present, it would surely have earned him a loud rebuke. But Sofy looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
The innkeep accepted one barrel of ale of the four they carried, he and Teriyan lifting it from the back with some attempted help from Sofy. Jaryd remained in the back, wrapped in a cloak and feigning illness. They drove on, avoiding the fancier inns where nobility were quartered who might perchance recognise one or another of their party, and found accommodation at a cramped little place down an alley.
Teriyan took the cart and horses to see if he could find separate stable lodging, while Sofy and Jaryd carried their bags up several winding, narrow flights of stairs. The room was small, with two beds and enough space on the floor for a third. A crate made for a step up to windows that could be ducked through, and onto a small terrace amidst the sloping roof tiles, with a view of the little lane. Jaryd thought the place inadequate, considering what he'd been accustomed to when staying in Algery. Sofy, on the other hand, seemed intrigued, especially with the terrace and its view.
“Sasha would love this!” she said, gazing about. “When she was little she used to climb on the palace roof sometimes. She says she's still a good climber, I'm sure she'll get to use it in Petrodor. I think she could get from one side of this city to the other without touching the ground.”
That gave Jaryd an idea.
A tile gave way beneath Jaryd's boot, clattered down the roof and broke with a crack in the middle of the street below. Jaryd pressed himself flat atop the apex, repressing a curse between gritted teeth. Voices from the inn rose in drunken pleasure, and from the sound of boots thundering on the verandah, it seemed the dancing had taken to the streets. No one noticed a falling tile.
Jaryd continued carefully. There was less light than he'd hoped up on the rooftops and the overlapping shelves of loose tiles were treacherous.
He climbed a new slope, trod lightly across a terrace, past a table and chairs, beneath some washing, and up onto the tiles again. Ahead and below was the inn. It looked no different from the rest of the undulating rooftops, but Sofy and Teriyan had counted streets and strides, making certain he knew exactly where it was. Jaryd was now glad they had, despite his protestations at the time. He knew Algery well, but he'd never seen it from this perspective before, and certainly not at night. Now if he could just find the right room.
Sofy had helped there too. She had followed inn staff down to the river with their baskets of laundry, posing as a water carrier herself, and had simply started conversations. Before long, she'd known not only which inn and room lodged Master Wyndal Arastyn, but what he'd had for lunch, which serving girl's backside cousin Dylis Arastyn had pinched, and all about the appalling table manners of Lady Arastyn. Sofy had seemed quite cheerful in her espionage. Jaryd had suggested that perhaps treachery came to royals naturally. Sofy had laughed.
Jaryd skirted a courtyard, paused briefly beneath a window, then climbed across to the terrace he'd selected as his target. There was no table here, no chairs, no washing line. Thick curtains were pulled behind the diamond-shaped glass panels. He crept forward and put an ear to the glass, but he could hear nothing. He waited, listening to the music and laughter down on the street. Wyndal would almost certainly be downstairs with the other nobles, but he had to be sure. He waited.
Finally satisfied, Jaryd pulled his gloves from a jacket pocket. One he pulled onto his right hand, and into the other he inserted the hilt of his knife. Thus muffled, he selected a glass pane near the door handle and broke it with a sharp blow. Pieces fell, and clattered, but would surely attract no more attention than the falling tile had. He reached his gloved hand in and pulled the door open enough to slip in and peer past the curtains. The room was bare and small, with a single lamp burning on a small table.
Jaryd eased the terrace door closed and pushed back the curtains. He would have to hide under the bed until Wyndal returned, in case servants came to attend to the lamp. But first, he pulled his sword and practised a few swings, testing his reach within the small room. Better to focus on that, than wonder at the reception Wyndal might grant him. Better to think on that, than any confrontation with family. With family came thoughts of his younger brother Tarryn. Wyndal was clearly not as angry at Tarryn's death as Jaryd was, or he'd have killed his host family by now…or died trying. Or escaped, to plot revenge in the wilds like Jaryd himself. Wyndal was still here. He'd always been a thinker, though. Jaryd lowered his blade with a last, grim look around. Perhaps he should not pass judgment too quickly. Perhaps Wyndal was plotting something.
The door opened. Jaryd stared, frozen in place-there was no time to slide beneath the bed, it happened too fast. Just as quickly, he found himself staring down the snubbed muzzle of a loaded crossbow, cocked and ready to fire. The crossbowman entered the room, muzzle aimed unwaveringly at Jaryd's chest. Behind him, in the doorway, stood another man. He was young, with blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair. He would have been very handsome indeed, were it not for the horrific sword scar that caved in his right cheekbone, and took a slice from the bridge of his nose.
“You,” Jaryd snarled.
Rhyst Angyvar smiled coldly. “You really are just as stupid as everyone always said, aren't you, Jaryd?”
It was a Varansday. Alexanda Rochel hated Varansdays. Varansday morning in particular, which required him to be out of bed at an ungodly hour, to dress up in his dukely best and walk the short distance across the house grounds to the Cochindel Temple for service. Worse, a light rain was falling and a chill wind blew from the north.
“Really, Alexanda,” said Varona at his elbow, “we needn't walk. We could have taken the carriage.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Alexanda, his polished boots scraping on the garden path. “Ridiculous to mount up just to cross a stream. Hurry up, boy!” he growled at the servants behind them, struggling to keep umbrellas above the heads of their duke and duchess. “If I have to keep ducking your blasted contraption, I'll be sitting all service with a crook neck!”
Ahead of them walked a contingent of twelve Pazira Guard, dry enough beneath wide hats and coats over armour. Behind walked Bryanne, with several earls’ daughters huddling beneath their own umbrellas, and trying not to get grass stains on the hems of their good gowns. Behind them, three earls and their wives, including Varona's brother Redolcho. Trustworthy men, of families interwoven with the Rochels for many centuries, and a long history of friendly relations in trade, war and marriage. These, Alexanda invited for company at the house. The others, especially those from foreign provinces, he was becoming thoroughly sick of.