The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 49

She meant it. Even if he hadn't seen her face, he would have known it; he could hear it in her words, in the casual certainty that lay beneath the surface of her youthful voice. Exasperation turned to something else as he met her gaze.

"You don't want me to kill them."

The Ospreys were a team. A difficult team, yes; too difficult for the regulars to either train or control. They stood apart, keenly aware of the things in their temperaments that made them different. Unique. He'd found them. He'd put them together, giving to the Kings' Justice the one or two that served as example of behavior that even the Ospreys would not tolerate. He beat them into a unit that he could direct, control, manipulate.

And care for, truth be told, although it wasn't what he'd intended so many years ago, standing in front of The Kalakar's desk with intensity written all over his face. His first real battle.

They had no family, most of these men and women. With Alexis, he had given them a home, and they looked to each other. Half of them were survivors of the Southern wars, and they knew firsthand, full well, what the Anna-garians were capable of. Those scars he could not mask, could not a.s.suage; they lay against the heart like a brand that even blood could not quench. And blood had been spilled in the attempt.

Who was it? Who was it who planned to go against his express orders into the common to slaughter the Annagar-ians they could find there, huddled amidst the merchant ma.s.ses? Fiara was safely behind a locked door, but she was not the only one capable of such an act. h.e.l.ls, she wasn't even close.

But she also wasn't the type of person who could welcome Kiriel di'Ashaf. Not because Kiriel came from the South; no one in the company believed that. Oh, her color was right for it, and her height; her face had the right lines. But she was born to the blade, and no women were trained in Annagar. No women, that is, with hands as uncallused as Kiriel's and a back so unbent by labor. No, Kiriel was the mystery woman-and Fiara disliked mystery. Because if you kept your mysteries that closely guarded, it meant you didn't trust her-and if you didn't trust her, she didn't owe you anything.

Who? Who would include this misfit among the misfits? Who would try to make her feel at home, and test her mettle so thoroughly, at the same time? Test. Test...

"Duarte?"

"Learn," he said, as she interrupted the abrupt turn of his thoughts, "to use ranks, Kiriel. I am Primus Duarte. You are Sentrus Kiriel."

"Yes, Primus Duarte."

She was incapable of the sarcasm that any other such tone would have conveyed. "I'm sorry. I

was musing. No, I do not wish you to kill them." He paused. "Kiriel, I wish to ask you a question.

I wish you to answer it truthfully."

She nodded, her eyes guarded, always guarded.

"Why did you come to me with this information?"

"Because," she replied, her brow rippling the perfect lines of her skin as she frowned, "I am to

serve you."

"Yes?"

"Your orders were clear. You did not wish us to take action for the crimes of the Southerners

against this House."

"And you did not agree with my decision." She frowned again. "No."

"Why? Answer honestly," he told her. As if she would do anything else.

"Because," she said hesitantly, "it makes us look weak."

"Weak?"

"They do this to your people, and you do nothing. They will know that you do nothing, and they

will not fear to do it again."

"Understood." Well understood, he'd heard the argument so many times. "Which means you agree that something should be done."

"Yes."

"Then why did you come to me?"

"Because," she said, speaking even more slowly, "I serve you."

"That's all?" She nodded.

"Look, Kiriel, you must have hoped to gain something." She stared at him blankly.

"You came here to tell me this. You betray the confidence of people you've given your word to.

You must have hoped to gain something. My confidence? My trust?""They are your people, Duarte. Yours. They betray you." Her eyes grew oddly wide, flickering as if Duarte was watching a struggle to draw a curtain beneath their surface. In the shadows, her face looked leaner, longer; a hint of the feral made him stiffen. "You must do something, or you will appear weak. If you are weak, you will no longer rule. Do you not understand this? "If you wish it, I will kill them."

"No," he said. "I do not wish it. Leave here" and do not speak of this to anyone else."

She nodded, and saluted, fist across chest, cool eyes shuttered. He had a momentary vision of

chilling clarity; he saw her, this one time, for what she was. And he thought that this slender, naive young woman would coolly and calmly torture a small child to death if he but requested it. Would, and could.

"And while you're out, find Alexis and tell her I want to speak with her. Now."

Cook found her.

He wasn't a cook; in fact, he was probably the worst cook in the unit. He was taller than she was,

and much wider, his hair was lighter, although dark enough by Northern standards, and he wore a beard that fringed his round jaw. Sun and wind had worn lines into the sides of his face, near his eyes and mouth; he smiled, and as age caught up with him, you could see the smile linger there pleasantly.

He even smiled at her.

"Mind if I sit?"

She shrugged, moody; he shrugged, good-natured, and sat beside her on the demiwall, huffing

slightly as he pulled his legs up and over the ledge. The garden, what there was of it in an estate as small as this, spread out before them in a carefully manicured sea of colors. Here and there, when the sea breeze was brisk, the whole bent and blended as if it were alive.

Which, he thought ruefully, it was. She heard his sigh, and looked up sharply.

"Just thinking," he said as he stared, "that I can even be stupid without speaking."

Sullen, she turned her gaze back to the grounds.

"Kiriel."

She said nothing, but he knew she was listening; she had ears like no one he'd ever met.

"You've been here over two weeks now."

She gave him no help at all. But he didn't mind; he'd seen this many times before.

"We've all done things we're not proud of. We've all seen things we'd forget in a minute if we

could. Never works that way. We aren't the easiest to like, but you aren't either."

That caught a smile, but the smile was a grim one, turning on edge into something a bit too chilly to be friendly. Not what he'd hoped for, but it'd do. For now.

"We don't know what you want from us. Most of us wanted the regiment-and the Ospreys.

Most of us were chosen by Duarte." "Primus Duarte."

He chuckled. "We don't stand on ceremony here. But sure, if it makes you easier, Primus Duarte."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Laugh. What have I done to amuse you?"

"Nothing really. I laugh because I'm happy enough, it's a nice day, I have pleasant company, I'm

enjoying life." She frowned. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Pardon?"

"Why are you really laughing?"

"I'm really laughing," he said carefully, although he didn't move, "because none of the Ospreys

would have corrected me. Duarte's a Primus, but he's a Duarte first; that's what we call him."

"But he told me he wanted to be called Primus Duarte."

"Sure. And I'd like to be called 'Your Majesty.' " He laughed again. "Kiriel, I don't understand

you. I've seen every one of the Ospreys get into the drill ring and work you over with every dirty

trick in the book. I know them; they haven't held anything back since you broke Corin's ribs. "Not a single trick slips past. You've got a temper that'd usually get you knocked flat at least a couple of times, but you can't be riled to fight. Auralis hasn't managed you, and he's still up to every other Osprey in the company, Duarte included.

"Outside of the circle, though-outside of the circle it's like you don't know anything. How can you know so much about fighting-about cheating-and so little about everything else?" "So little?" Her brows were so high they almost disappeared into her hairline. "You think I know so little?"

"Well, you aren't exactly the Kings' own Magi." Her lips grew thin and pale. "I don't understand any of you," she said at last, and the words were almost guttural. He saw her face as she turned fully toward him; he froze. "You think that the little games you play in the circle are 'cheating'; you think them clever. They aren't. They aren't even close.

"If I were stupid enough-if I had ever been stupid enough-to fall prey to any of them, I'd be decorating the foot of a throne in the-"

She snarled, swallowing the rest of the words, the rest of the unguarded anger. Her shadow moved almost before she did. Armed, armored, hampered by boots and weighted belt, she was in the flower beds and then across the green, moving so quickly and so surely, Cook had no time to react. No time to call her back, if that's what he wanted to do. No time to be afraid.

Afraid?

Well, yes. He was afraid of her.

And why? Because she knew how to kill? They all did.

Climbing down from the demiwall, he walked away, keeping a brisk pace until the damaged flower bed was well out of sight. The Ospreys were always at the top of the gardener's trouble list, and he didn't want to compound their reputation by actually being at the scene of a crime.

But as he walked, he gave himself a strong mental shake. She was cold and distant and peculiar, but she was an Osprey-and that meant, in the end, that she needed a place to belong. At least, it did to Cook.