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“No need,” he said, “to bring your gear. We’ll be sleeping in the stables.”

She had to turn around and go back, of course. She dared not tell him she had the book. He already knows you are educated as a mathematici, she told herself as she slunk along, hoping no one would notice her. But it was quiet in the stables. The Dragons were either upstairs, taking their ease, or elsewhere, on guard or out in the city. But what if Wolfhere simply took the book away from her? There would be nothing she could do to stop him or to get it back, once it was out of her hands.Advertisement

Next to their horses was an empty stall, well padded with straw. Manfred and Wolfhere had left their gear here, neatly stowed, leaving room for them to sleep. She heaped straw up, shoved the saddlebags underneath, frowned. Too obvious. Could not help but reach inside the leather bag and feel the cold smooth grain of the leather binding, the raised letters along the spine. She traced the letters, reading them with her fingers, and felt like the dry wings of a moth the parchment and paper leaves of the three books bound inside the cover.

“What happened to Sturm and his company?” asked a deep voice. “They never came in from patrol.”

“You didn’t hear that part? They stayed outside the walls to escort the two wounded Eagles and a deacon conveying a holy relic to a place of safety.”

“No, I didn’t hear.” This spoken a bit peevishly. “I was just coming up. Unlike you, I fought a few Eika in this melee and had a bit of cleaning up to do.”

The other man snorted. “You mean you let a few get some blows past your guard. I’m as clean as a saint, and the more likely to be blessed by Our Lady with a willing helpmeet for my efforts.”

“Hah! These Gentish women are as friendly as wild boars. Do you think he’ll pursue the pretty young Eagle?”

It took her a heartbeat to realize that they spoke of her.

“What? After arguing with the old master? I think not.”

“How can you say so? He plucked the young Villam heiress unbruised from the vine, and that after she was betrothed and her father had warned him off twice.”

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She saw, faintly, their shadows drawn on the wall by the weak light shining through the stable doors.

“Nay, lad, you’ve come from outside the world of the court and don’t know its ways yet. What is said and what is done can be two different things. What the heiress and old Villam wanted was marriage to the prince, but King Henry can never allow the prince to marry. It makes the boy look legitimate, does it not? So words were said in public and a betrothal sworn to another family, and the girl got what she wanted and, so they say, a child to boot that was born after her marriage to another man.”

“And the prince? Did he get what he wanted?”

“Who can say?” replied the other man, who had the higher voice and the more confidence. “The prince does what his father the king tells him to do. I doubt he minded that engagement.”

“He did look,” blustered the first speaker. “At the young Eagle. She’s a fetching piece, all bright and warm. Why shouldn’t he pursue it? I didn’t like the way the old master spoke to him.”

“Nor did I. There is no better man than our prince.”

The other grunted angry agreement.

“But there is a world outside the Dragons, lad, which is easy enough to forget as a young hatchling like you. And harder work it is to know the rules for those battles than for the ones we fight against King Henry’s enemies. So. Listen to what I say. Never anger an Eagle. Never sleep with a woman if the price, in whatever coin, is higher than what the pleasure was worth. Now. In payment for those words of advice you can oil my harness tonight while I go out hunting wild boars.”

“Oil your harness!”

The other man moved. Liath shrank against the wall, tight in a corner, one hand still on the book, and thought hard of shadows and silence and invisibility. The two Dragons walked past the stall without noticing her, the younger man still complaining.

A moment later she heard Wolfhere calling her name. She shoved the saddlebags under straw and set her saddle and bedroll over them, then hurried out. Manfred had returned; his cloak was wet but the rest of him was reasonably dry. He actually smiled, seeing her. Conscious of his gaze, embarrassed by it, she picked at her hair, sure there must be straw caught in it. If only Hanna were here with her. If only she were sure Hanna was still alive.

“There you are,” said Wolfhere. “Mayor Werner asks us to sit down with him at this night’s feast. He honors us—or has no new and better guests to entertain.” pqdm.com