“So we need an ally with at least a small force of soldiers.” She thought. “But who? You’ve said we don’t know who to trust.”
“We must make trust—we must find an ally who wants to bargain with us. And we must do something bold to find that ally. Hendon has no doubt filled the roads to Brenland and Settland with spies and assassins. I do not doubt he has people in the courts of all the March Kingdoms as well, probably under the guise of being emissaries from the court of the infant prince.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Beware your own anger, Highness. But I think we must make a move Hendon does not suspect. As I said, I doubt any of your fellow rulers will do something for you out of the good of their hearts.
“Syan is our best hope, I think. To begin with, King Enander has no love for Summerfield Court , going back to the days when Lindon Tolly, the old duke, was trying to marry his sister to your father. When your father chose your mother instead, Lindon was so determined to build a link to the throne of the March Kingdoms that he snubbed one of King Enander’s own nephews and married his sister Ethna to your father’s younger brother, Hardis...”
Briony shook her head. “Gods give us strength, you remember more of this family lore than I do.”
Shaso gave her a stern look. “This is not ‘family lore,’ as you know very well—this is the stuff of alliances...and betrayals.” He frowned, thinking. “In any case, Enander of Syan might be sympathetic to your cause—he has never quite forgiven the Tollys—but he will exact a price.”
“A price? What sort of price? By the gods, does the Treaty of Coldgray Moor mean nothing? Anglin saved them all, and Syan and the others promised they would always come to our aid.” She bit back several unladylike words: Shaso had heard her worst while training her, but she felt shy about cursing in front of Effir dan-Mozan. “Besides, until we take Southmarch back we have nothing to give these greedy people...”
“Enander of Syan is not particularly greedy, but that treaty is centuries old, however much it is revered in the March Kingdoms. It could be he will settle for gold when we have your throne back, but I believe he also has a marriageable son, who is said to be a goodly man...”
“So I must sell myself to get my throne back?” She felt so hot in the face that she pushed herself back from the brazier. “I might as well marry Ludis Drakava!”
“I think you would find the Syannese prince a much more pleasant husband, but let us hope there is some other way.” Shaso frowned, then nodded. “In fact, if you will excuse us, Highness, perhaps Effir and I can begin inquiries in Syan. Whatever we do, it should be soon.”
Briony stood, angry and miserable but struggling not to show it. “I will marry to save my family’s throne, of course... if it is the only way.”
“I understand, Highness.” Shaso looked at her with what could almost pass for fatherly fondness, if she had not known the old man to avoid it like an itching rash. “I will not sell your freedom if I can avoid it, having fought so hard in my life to keep my own.”
Sad and confused, Briony had more than her usual small share of the sweet wine that Idite and the others liked so much. As a result, when she woke in the dark her head was heavy and it took long moments to make sense of where she was, much less what was going on.
One of the younger girls, wrapped head to toe in a blanket so that she looked like a desert nomad, was standing in the doorway.
“Mistress Idite, there are men at the gate, demanding to be let in!” she cried. “Your husband the Dan-Mozan, he is arguing with them, but they say they will break it down if he does not let them in!”
“By the Great Mother, who are they? Robbers?” Idite, although obviously frightened, was keeping her voice almost as level as she did during their evenings of storytelling.
The girl in the doorway swayed. “They say they are Baron Iomer’s men. They say we are harboring a dangerous fugitive!”
Briony, who had just clambered out of bed, went wobbly in the knees and almost tumbled to the floor. A fugitive—who else could that be but herself? And Shaso, too, she remembered. He would still be called a murderer.
“Dress, girls—all of you.” Idite raised her voice in an attempt to quiet the frightened murmuring. “We must be prepared for trouble, and at the very least we must be decently dressed if strangers burst in.”
Briony was not so much concerned with being decent as being able to defend herself. She hesitated for only a moment before pulling on the loose tunic and breeches borrowed from Effir’s nephew, then grabbed the one pair of practical shoes Idite had given her, leather slippers that would at least allow her to run or fight if she had to. She tucked her Yisti knives into the cloth belt of the tunic and then pulled her robe around herself to hide the male clothing and the knives, giving herself at least a chance to blend in with the other women.
As the sound of raised, angry voices came echoing through the house, Briony saw that Idite intended to keep the women hidden in the hopes that everything would be happily resolved without them ever having to come into contact with the baron’s men. Briony was not willing to passively await her doom. The women’s chambers had few exits, and if things turned bad she would be trapped like a rat in a barrel.
She pushed past young Fanu, who grabbed ineffectually at her arm as Briony stepped out into the corridor.
“Come back!” Idite shouted. “Br...Lady!”
As she ran toward the front of the hadar, Briony silently thanked Idite for having the good sense not to call out her name. The hallways were full of clamorous voices and flickering light, and for a dizzying moment it was as though she had stumbled into some eddy of time, as if she had circled back to the terrible night in the residence when Kendrick had been murdered.
She staggered a little as she reached the main chamber, stopping to steady herself on the doorframe. The smoke was thick here and the voices louder, men’s harsh voices arguing. She peered into the weirdly crowded chamber and saw at least a dozen men in armor were shoving and shouting at perhaps half that number of Effir dan-Mozan’s robed servants, bellowing at them as though they could force the men to understand an unfamiliar language by sheer force. Several robed bodies already lay on the floor at the soldiers’ feet.
As Briony stared in horror, trying to see if one of them was Shaso, an armor-clad man kicked over a brazier, scattering burning coals everywhere. The barefooted servants shrieked and capered to avoid them even as they cringed from the soldiers’ weapons.
“If you won’t talk,” shouted one bearded soldier, “we’ll burn out this entire nest of traitors!” He stooped and lifted a torch that had been smoldering on an expensive carpet and held it to one of the wall-hangings. The servants moaned and wailed as the flames shimmered up the ancient hanging and began licking at the wooden rafters.
Briony was digging beneath her robe for her knife, although she had no idea what she could do, when someone grabbed the belt of her robe and yanked her away from the door, back into the corridor.
Her heart plunged—trapped! Caught without even a weapon ready to fight back! But it was not another of the baron’s soldiers.
“What are you doing?” hissed Effir’s nephew Talibo. “I have looked everywhere for you! Why did you leave the women’s quarters?” He grabbed at her arm before she could answer and began to drag her away down the hallway toward the back of the house.