Selected for Sport Ch. 19

SfS ch19

Medulla Isles retaken.

Peace stipulation: betrothal with Inchotan. Agreed.

Courage; patience, my princess.

Alanna stared unfocussed across the bustle of the Sharim travelling camp shaking down for the evening, absorbing the message she had just decoded. Slowly she unclenched her jaw, watching the trader's porter who had signalled the words while he worked out the kinks in his body. Slowly he padded into the dusk around the traders' campfires, heading for the tents of his nominal employer. He was free to go.

Calm down, she told herself, teeth gritted.

The first two sentences had been in Kjell; news from her father's network. The last line in Tahlm'ese, and from Xanir.

Xanir, who had signed a betrothal with the Sianese Princess. Yet he still called Alanna his. Patted her on the head, told her to sit tight and wait. Again.

A faint fluttering inside her, and Alanna's hand lifted automatically to her belly, covering the tiny mound. The fear was new to her. Before, it had all been an scary but exciting adventure, this temporary exile from her home, sparring increasingly happily with Xanir, playing her role, flirting with the dangerous shadows and trying to make sense of them. When he had been in the palace, it had all seemed like a game. Then he had left. For war. Five months, only one night with him, and the fear had grown as the shadows deepened. That fear had exploded weeks ago, when he had repudiated her and sent her into the desert with the Limaq. The stakes were too high to play.

Gently she stroked her stomach, trying to contain the shaking anger driven by the fear. That wasn't nearly enough information.

It was becoming more and more difficult to sit here, waiting, cut off from all the inner workings of both the palace and the wider conflict. A sitting duck. But her husband -- former husband -- just told her to sit tight, keep safe, had promised to make this up to her once he had sorted out the peace in the South and rooted out the remaining vipers in the palace - the palace that was too dangerous for her now she was pregnant.

Was there no danger here? Sitting by the entrance to the wide, low women's tent, eyes unfocussed, Alanna stared to scan the faces turned her way for more news. Around the bowl of the oasis, the camp was setting up for another evening of horse races followed by poetry and singing around the fires; living with the desert tribes was fascinating, despite the loneliness of being a pariah. Maintaining dignity in the face of cold hatred was exhausting, although the shunning had become less overt in recent days. She had sensed something in the air, a subtle change in the attitude toward her, but hadn't been able to read it. She shivered.

Face after face after face, discussing horses, saddlery, the last embers of the uprising, weapons, horses, women, farts -- the evenings were her main opportunity to pick up extra news, although lip-reading the desert dialects was chancy at best. She often misread -- wait a minute.

One of the desert riders, the ghelber, had quietly been sharing the latest titbit with a fellow tribesman: rumour had it that Xanir Tahl had not been in Jaifa throughout the siege, traders from the Medulla Isles were claiming that he had been with the very first warships that had harried the Sianese fleet and then out-raced them to Jaifa to raise the siege.

And if the Tahl had been on those ships, then he must have ridden secretly from Jaifa to meet them on the Coast. Which would have taken him though the capital four months ago.

Both men glanced her way.

This was why. Alanna sat frozen, staring past them at the melee where hundreds of tribesmen were eagerly setting up lanes and betting stations for the races.

"The Great Tahl has almost finished stamping out the last embers of the uprising," said the second rider. Both were still facing her, as though she was no longer the most shameful object in camp, to be ignored at all costs. "Maybe he will return here with our Lord Sharim."

Alanna blinked.

"The traders also say that Alt Limaq confessed to his adultery in front of the whole crew," contested the first.

"Alt Limaq would have said anything to safeguard our Tahl. Or his child," countered the second.

Both looked at her again. The interminable tears beaded Alanna's eyes. That sounded like the Limaq she had known. Alanna squeezed them closed.

She had so hoped that he wasn't dead.

The hope had died when she had been permitted to accompany the family and prepare him for cremation, after Limaq's body had been returned here, to Lady Sharim. She shivered, eyes flickering left. Limaq's mother and unwed sisters were calling out greetings and luck to the tall, slender youth striding past. Alt Kurim, Sharim's youngest son and Limaq's brother, waved, smiling while he replied on his way to the evening races. Alanna no longer attempted to join in politely. The twelve-year old never looked at the woman who had brought his beloved older brother to betrayal.

Quietly she wiped the tears for her former bodyguard.

One of the warriors following behind the young lord murmured to his companion, "How much longer do we have to watch her weep?"

Alanna yanked her eyes away, heart burning. That was what she was used to.

They fell on a young chestnut colt suckling at his dam and she half smiled. The enthusiastic youngster was a miniature of her horse, Rigal, who had apparently been in great demand as stud throughout his year here. Her eyes lifted to seek out the sire, being led through the crowd at the far end of this bowl in the sand towards the starting ribbons of the riderless races; her lucrative dowery had followed her with the handover of responsibility. Her lips twitched. Rigal was, as usual, staring right back at her. Win, my friend, she urged him silently. Unnecessarily. Rigal won, every time they entered him. Unless they tried, as they had occasionally, to enter him with a rider -- very few of those had stayed in the saddle beyond the starting gates. A little smile lilted her mouth.

She blinked, a different part of her mind flaring awake as the face of one of the ghelbers milling behind Rigal sounded a warning deep inside her.

He was dressed as any of the thousand desert riders, negotiating heatedly with a group of the Huot mercenaries from beyond the North-West border. But his skin was incongruously smooth behind the salt-and pepper beard covering his jaw. The only males in camp aged between Kurim and old Tazar, the horsemaster, were twisted by old injuries. Plus, the mercenaries were a long way from home. Her eyes narrowed on the shapes made by the different mouths, expressions. Tonight, insisted the desert warrior. The Huon were arguing - they had ridden so far, wanted to rest and watch the races, but their employer was insisting that they continue now, as it had to be tonight.

She had seen that ghelber before. Somewhere.

Her well-trained mind began to sift through the records of faces, mentally erasing his headcloth and the short stubbly beard, instinct placing his sighting before her incarceration in the tower.

For an hour, Alanna remained motionless, frowning while absently taking her share of the meal provided for the women, a near-constant stream of visitors passing her to enter to petition the Lady Sharim, who was tribal ruler in her husband's absence -- part of why Alanna found the desert life so fascinating. The senseless, sexist rules that governed the capital gave way to strict practicality in this harsh environment.

Just as the sun was dropping below the horizon her brain idly interpreted the lips of a man watching the races, and a different alert shot up her spine.

"Are you sure it is not detectable in the ice cream?" Her hand froze on the spoon she was holding, the dessert half-way to her lips. The words were in Mohn Tahlm'ese, the dialect of the capital and its surrounding area; Alanna's eyes met those of the speaker across the width of the oasis. His flared, and he turned instantly into the crowd. Beyond him she caught a second sight of the familiar ghelber, riding up the east side of the dunes, alone apart from his mount. She recognised his nose in silhouette, and her breath caught.

She had seen him speaking to Beguine multiple times, back in the capital.

It had to be tonight.

What had? And what was in the ice-cream?

Sick to her stomach, Alanna carefully returned her spoon, grateful she hadn't yet eaten any. Her heart was beating like a drum as she watched the rider top the dune and disappear into the darkness. This was going too far.

Slowly she became aware that another small group of warriors were staring at her, she could feel the burn of their eyes. The chill of fear flooded her veins, anger spiralling with it.

A ringing challenge of a neigh snapped her head around, heart suddenly bursting into flame at the sight of her vicious chestnut stallion trying to unseat the stubborn, skilled desert rider equally determinedly trying to ride him down. Would they stop tormenting her horse. She was sick of letting them treat him like this. Something flared within her, and Alanna was on her feet, slinging the strap of a nearby water-bottle across her chest when a shrill whistle split the dusk. At her call the chestnut swung and charged towards her at a flat gallop, jumping the barrier at the racecourse edge to a great shout of the surrounding watchers, his rider clinging stubbornly to his saddle.

She was sick of letting them treat her like this.

One of the women's guards strode to her side, snapping, "Sit down! You are to remain quietly in your place."

And she would not permit danger to her child.

Fear-driven fury suddenly took the top of her head off. Alanna yanked free the ridiculously loose belt of the guard's sword, grabbing the weapon while she swept his feet out from under him. She leapt over his desperate roll away from the churning legs of her attacking warhorse to grab the mane of Rigal while he swept by, bouncing on her right leg bent almost horizontal to spring up sideways with the momentum and slam her left foot vertically up into the jaw of the dogged, semi-unseated rider peering down from the saddle.

Now he was unseated.

A second bounce, and she got a leg over, gritting her teeth to find the damn desert warrior was still clinging to the saddlehorn, foot in the left stirrup, other leg trailing. Skillful. Guilt churned her stomach even as she swept the flat of her sheathed blade down towards his temple, her heart lurching when she recognised Limaq's little brother. She hesitated.

"Tell your mother not to eat the ice cream," she snarled.

Startled eyes met hers and the boy's face whitened. "Did you?"

"No," she snapped. "Let go or I will knock you off."

Kurim grinned viciously and stabbed the dagger in his left hand into the leather behind her knee. "The sword is too big for you," echoed in her ears as he let go.

Alanna jerked to look over her shoulder and breathed more easily seeing the lithe figure roll to his feet in the wake of her horse, fingers flicking from lips to forehead in a respectful salute before he turned to sprint towards the women's tents. She pulled the dagger free and looked down at the gift. Something steadied inside her.

Heart lifting, Alanna blinked, looking ahead again, bent into the wind of Rigal's mad charge up the dune. Silently she thanked her father's Horsemaster for making horse and rider practise that move over and over and over until the guards she had practised with had all started to rub their jaws with a mournful expression whenever they had seen her.

She had pretended to limp whenever they had.

Alanna smiled, moist eyes hot, thinking of home. Back home. She would go home, where they would be safe -- Xanir could find her there, once all was safe. The raging fear evoked by the mention of poison began to ebb into a cold determination. She was not going to sit and wait any longer.

Shouts were sounding in their wake when they reached the summit of the dune. Looking back, Alanna could see the seethe of men and horses from the camp starting up after her. She turned back to tuck into the neck of her horse and snorted quietly. Rigal was fresh; she had memorised the maps, knew the waterholes. There was no way they were going to catch her on her own Westhaven stallion. And it was equally unlikely that they would guess her purpose.

Alanna squinted into the breeze towards the sunset, the point where Beguine's mystery contact had disappeared into the dusk.

She was feeling reckless, had burned her bridges. But overall, she was a Kjeldahl: knowledge was her power. Out of sight beyond the second line of dunes, Alanna nudged her horse down a sandy gully to the left on a bearing to trail Beguine's agent, watching the light breeze dust the hoofprints in their wake, battling a surging mixture of anger, panic and delight that seemed to be shivering through her veins. She had to be very careful.

Less than half an hour later, Alanna spotted a faint silhouette against the dying light topping a dune a little to the left of her bearing; the rider. He was now followed by the six dark figures of the Huon, they must have joined him outside the camp. Why so secretive? Glancing back, there was no sign of pursuit. Her heart was still thumping madly though; she was pretty sure the mercenaries would be checking for pursuit also, they wouldn't want an audience for whatever they were up to.

She couldn't afford for them to find her. But she would find out what was going on. After a suitable pause, Alanna nudged Rigal in the wake of Beguine's contact and dropped to a pace where they would not be noticed.

*

Two hours later, the riders dismounted atop a dune under the stars, and the ghelber led his tired horse down into a hollow beneath a craggy rock pillar, one of a series of looming monoliths that reared above the sea of sand in this region. Alanna was halted in the next hollow over, head invisible against the larger pillar behind her as she watched.

The six mercenaries melted into the shadows around the valley head, leading their horses. As one of them passed in front of the skyline, she noticed him unwrapping the short bow he carried over his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed and she slid from Rigal's back.

Both she and her horse had been taught how to stalk, how to be a ghost in any terrain. But it was different stalking men; warriors; potential assassins. Shivering, she motioned Rigal to stay, on guard, and crept forwards.

Down in the hollow which the ghelber had entered was a tent. One of the common four-men tents, non-descript, utilitarian, pitched with its back to the base of the rock column. Alanna lay buried in a hollow she had carefully burrowed in the shadows at the top of the dune, her voluminous suncloak protecting her from the covering of sand, watching through the spyhole of her propped hands the shadows dancing under the low light inside the canvas walls, frowning. There seemed to be too many silhouettes sifting through that tiny space. Wrong sizes. And one of them sounded -- wrong. The still night was punctuated by another of those queer, strangled growls. Not a sound she recognised, but something about the raw sound raised the hairs on Alanna's skin.

After an hour or so the ghelber emerged and strode up the dune again, convening with the group of mercenaries. Not long after that she froze into stillness at the stealthy footfalls approaching from her right, listening intently as the newcomer dug out and settled into a similar hide to her own, not five yards away. A soft curse in Huoni made her guess at the identity of her new neighbour, and she counted the slow, muted knocks of a crossbow being ratcheted to full readiness.

Ambush.

She was freezing in the cold sand, the sky beginning to grey behind her, when a second horse rode into the tiny camp from the opposite direction. She couldn't make out the figure dismounting stiffly, until lamplight from the lifted tent flap spilled across his face when he stooped to enter.

Bullseye.

"Has he still not spoken?" demanded Beguine.

"He says he doesn't know," The reply was muffled little by the cloth walls.

Alanna heard a snort and a rude word. "The Spymaster knows all -- and more; you are just not being persuasive enough. Give me the tongs."

Alanna's stomach lurched. Em Feliz. So that rumour had been true -- he hadn't been killed at Jaifa.. Her stomach clenched in revulsion. That noise. God knew what they were trying to torture out of Xanir's spymaster, but it wouldn't be good. Beguine was right, Em Feliz's knowledge was dangerous. She needed to get back to the Sharim, alert them.

Sickened, she listened, straining to hear further words, but they were strangely muffled as though buried. Then her eyes jerked up at the flicker of movement riding along the gully from which Beguine had arrived.

Her heart clenched. Even in the pale light, she knew that horse.

She knew his rider even better.

The damn tears sprang to her eyes as she stared across at the regally erect figure of Xanir, heart aching.

At sight of the small tent, her former husband halted, lifting his palm. The dozen warriors following him also halted, silently drawing blades. A hand signal and two separated to begin to circle up behind the dunes, one in each direction.

Alanna's blood fired urgently in her veins while fear jostled in her head: there were too many heads inside that tent. And archers up here. "It had to be tonight": Ambush.

Before she could react, that horrible, low groan wrenched through the air again. Xanir's head shot around towards the canvas walls, and with one vicious punch of his fist his small troop was galloping down upon the canvas walls.

A cut-off cry shrilled from behind the dune up which the further of Xanir's scouts had ridden, and even as the gurgling shriek sounded, a dozen riders burst out the darker grey and rode down on Xanir's attackers. Simultaneously, a seethe of alert warriors boiled out of the small tent, the collapsing sides revealing a large hollow underneath the rock pillar which the tent had concealed.

Alanna's eyes flickered to where, five yards to her right, one of the Huon mercenaries was lifting from under the canvas that concealed him, a quarrel from the crossbow in this hand punching through the face of Xanir's scout, scrambling up the dune towards them.

While the mercenary was facing away, Alanna whipped the gift from the Limaq's brother in a curving arch of a throw to slide deep up under his jaw. The Huon collapsed with a horrible gurgle, while Alanna shot from her own hiding place, running low, trailing her cloak, to grab his bow and arrows. And, with a disgusted shiver, wrench free his dark jacket, to wrap around and conceal her own light clothing. It was also warm. Horribly.

The sounds of ferocious combat were echoing up from hollow below them, and, lying flat below the skyline, ratcheting her stolen bow, she saw that Xanir and a small core of remaining warriors and warhorses had fought through to a sheltered corner with their backs to the pillar, but were slowly being eroded by the superior numbers of the ambush. While she watched, Xanir's stallion reared to strike one of many warriors encircling the Tahl, and simultaneously intercepted the quarrel meant for his rider.

Horrified, Alanna wrenched her attention up from the fight below. Another mercenary was on the opposite horizon, low enough to avoid being seen from below but not by her, winding his bow again after firing that arrow, peering down into the melee below. He tumbled backwards when her quarrel took him in the neck.