Just before crossing the bridge over the White River, Aran pulled the wagon off the road and into the town’s west-bank inn yard, parking it under a shade tree. He immediately set to tending the horses. Mardans had arrived a few minutes earlier on horseback to reserve two rooms. Dinae had insisted that he discover where she could bathe, something she wanted even more than a pleasant night’s sleep.
Stretching and yawning, Dinae climbed from the wagon and sleepily entered the inn to look for Mardans. The room was empty of customers. She found him engaged in some good-natured haggling with a large, middle-aged woman behind a long wooden counter. The proprietor wore her long, graying hair wrapped in a large bun at the nape of her neck. A greasy apron covered a once-white blouse and a much-mended blue skirt. By habit, the combined innkeeper, cook, and barmaid wiped the counter before her with a damp cloth as she listened.
When he heard the door shut, Mardans turned toward Dinae. “Here she is in the flesh, Hena,” he said to the woman. “She has been on the road for a few days and wants to soak out the aches of some rough living. I’m afraid she’s not built for the road.”
“Speak for yourself, Mardans!” Dinae snarled, having heard every word. “I’ve traveled more miles and slept more nights in a tent than you have, by a long shot. But a lady likes to be clean.” She sniffed the air. “You might want to schedule a bath for yourself while you’re at it.”
Hena wore a grin that lit up her fatigued face. “She’s a right she-wolf, ain’t she?”
“What? You’re on her side now?” Mardans cried in mock exasperation. “Women!” He winked and handed her a silver pound coin. “That should cover what we need. Let me know if I owe you more when we leave tomorrow.” After receiving two keys, he gave one to Dinae, telling her he would bring in her trunk, and walked out the door.
“Come on, hon,” Hena said, jerking her head to show the way. “I’ll show you where our bathroom is. It’s got a lock and a crossbar, so it’ll be safe and private for a long soak if you want it.” They chatted like old friends as they started down a hallway toward the back of the building.
Mardans reentered a minute later, lugging Dinae’s trunk to her second-floor room. His own baggage comprised what he could stuff in his saddlebags, which he had slung over a shoulder. Aran would spend the night in the wagon, which was comfortable for one but not three.
After a quick wash in his own room, Mardans donned his soldier’s uniform and went in search of Lirens’ headquarters. Hena had informed him that the company had remained in Bridgeton to investigate the ambush, and she had learned that the owner of the town’s finest home, a descendant of one of its founders, had given the prince the run of his house. Scuttlebutt had it that Lirens had graciously accepted sleeping quarters in a guest room but spent most of his time at a command tent near the ambush site. That was where Mardans headed.
The leisurely ride took only about fifteen minutes. Sitting just above the road about a hundred yards from where Lirens’ company had been attacked, a white tent with Lirens’ personal standard atop its central pole held a commanding position over any approach from the road or river. At its entrance, two soldiers stood guard. A few dozen smaller tents lay in three straight rows in a field a furlong down the road, while a larger tent, a field hospital, loomed behind them, as far from the road's dust as possible.
Unsure of protocol, Mardans dismounted at the road below Lirens’ command tent, tying the horse’s reins to a nearby bush, and walked up to the guards. He nodded to them and said, “Sam Tinetta, reporting to the prince on my activities in Blayne.”
Before the guard could turn to pass the information on, Lirens shouted, “Let him in!” The guard hastily pulled back the flap, and Mardans thanked him as he passed.
“Mar—! Sam!” Lirens called, standing and giving his half-brother a quick hug and a slap on the back. “I trust everything went well!” At Mardans’ nod and quiet, “Yes, lord,” Lirens held up a finger and stepped to the door. “Gentlemen,” he said to the guards, “please post yourself at the road while Tinetta is here. His report is strictly confidential.” The men saluted and walked away.
The prince, wearing his military pants and boots and a white cotton shirt drenched in sweat, tied the flaps back to let in some air. He opened another flap in the rear, hoping for a breeze. “That’s better.” Turning back to Mardans, Lirens shrugged, “The guards will probably spread endless rumors about you and me and what was so important we had to talk about alone, but who cares? I don’t want to keep calling you ‘Sam Tinetta.’”
Mardans grunted. “I still don’t immediately respond to it myself.” He took a metal cup Lirens handed him, into which he had splashed some whiskey. He raised it toward the prince. “To brothers in arms.”
Lirens barked a laugh. “Yes! To brothers! I will definitely drink to that! But it’s a shame we cannot reveal you as our brother—not until we clear up this dagger mess. You got the wagon?”
“And the girl,” Mardans answered, nodding. “Everything happened in quick succession and with only a minor hitch. I had to pose as the king’s Inspector of Entertainments and knock a man senseless when he intruded on a necessary part of the getaway plan. Otherwise, all went well.”
“The king’s Inspector of Entertainments!” Lirens laughed, half-choking on his drink. “I suspect that was a spur-of-the-moment appointment?”
“Self-appointment, yes,” Mardans said, grinning. “I had to get into the theater to extract Dinae, but the place was shut tight until just before the performance. So, the title—along with my palace guard uniform, which I had in a saddlebag—opened doors for me.”
“Quick thinking!” his brother said. “Perhaps we should suggest such an officer to the king!”
“Maybe we can keep that between us,” Mardans said with a wink. “No use bothering the king with anything so minor.”
Lirens took another drink and sat behind his camp desk, setting the bottle on the tabletop between them. “You already know how to play the game, I see.”
“I’ve seen a lot of the world,” Mardans said, sighing and sitting down on the chair in front of the desk. “I may not have been at court, but you have to do a fair amount of politicking in any job. Anywhere there are bosses and underlings. So, everywhere. Sometimes the boss just doesn’t need to know the details, just that the job got done.”
“True,” the prince said, taking another sip. He frowned. “The work we do can get a little slippery at times. Best not dirty the good king’s hands. We are the shields that keep him safe and clean.” He looked reflective for a few moments before looking over at Mardans. “So, who’d you hit?”
Mardans snorted. “The stupid theater owner.” He drained his cup. “He refused to give Red’s back-wages to her, so I decided I needed to lift them from his strong box. If he had just visited his office at the show’s intermission when he was supposed to, no one would’ve been the wiser. No one would’ve gotten hurt. But he arrived early. I guess his date didn’t show or had to leave. Who knows? Anyway, I had no choice but to knock him out and slip away.”
“Did he see you?” Lirens asked, sitting up.
“No,” Mardans smirked. “His back was turned when I came from behind a curtain and hit him with an ashtray. He’ll survive.”
Lirens let out his breath in a rush. “Close one.”
“Yes, too close.” Mardans added another finger of whiskey to both their cups and sat back. “It was a good test for me, though. I may have to do similar things at the palace while I snoop around for the dagger and the thief. It was exhilarating—and terrifying.” He shuddered.
“And the next time, you’ll be doing it in a fat suit and tights!” Lirens roared, the liquor having done its work.
The mental image of it was so ridiculous that Mardans could not help but join him. Once the laughter died down, he asked, “What have you found out about the attack?”
Lirens rose and began pacing the length of the tent, trying to catch as much of the sporadic breeze as possible. “Not much. We captured more than a dozen of the ambushers, but they had nothing to say. Most of them are Leitani from the northern mountains and never learned our tongue. One of the lads knows Leitan fluently—because he is one—and even he could get nothing out of them.”
“Nothing?” Mardans asked, his shoulders slumping. “Not even a hint?”
Stopping beside the desk, the prince gave a slow shrug, grimacing. “Oh, they told us what happened, but nothing they said gets us anywhere. They said a Leitan man whom they didn’t know, with no tribal markings, came to them with a bag of coins in exchange for hiding at this spot on the river and shooting arrows at Taurani soldiers. To them, it was a fair trade.”
“How did they know when we were coming?” Mardans asked, perplexed. “The company’s orders came down late, and only a few people knew about the trip at all.”
“The same unknown Leitan rode into their camp upstream, told them to attack that night, and disappeared. They drifted their canoes down here and waited until we came blundering along. Does that tell you anything?”
“It hints that someone pretty close to the king, you, or me is part of the scheme,” Mardans answered. “It also suggests that whoever is behind this has money, an organized network, and a fair number of people to do his dirty work. And it tells me he isn’t afraid to rile the Leitani—in fact, he may want unrest since it will create confusion and distraction that will cover his ploys. As a bonus, he can ride to the rescue when it gets out of hand.”
“I knew you could figure things out!” the prince said, thumping the desktop.
“Don’t get too excited just yet, little brother,” Mardans cautioned. “These are just speculations based on a sneaking suspicion that this plot is more than a mere theft. I would much rather it be just a theft.” He finished what remained of his whiskey, setting his cup on the desktop. “The Jester will follow the leads to the dagger and keep his ears alert for any hints of treason along the way. That seems the most prudent course right now.”
Lirens nodded vigorously. “And I will keep an open eye for anyone close to me who may be working against us. If I find a traitor on my staff, he’ll rue the day he sold me out.” His scowl promised pain.
“May I give you some advice, Prince Lirens?” Mardans asked after a moment.
“Why so formal all the sudden?” the prince asked in return.
“I must ask you to do something that differs from your routine. What do you usually do when you return to the Palace from an excursion like this?”
“I go to my rooms and quickly bathe,” Lirens answered immediately. “Then I dress for court and report to Alfons—unless the news is urgent, then I report to him first, bath or no.”
“Do you do this every time?”
“Yes,” the prince affirmed, beginning to become impatient. “I’ve been doing this for years, ever since I was commissioned. Why?”
Mardans nodded. “You must do something different this time. Send a note to the king that I insisted you delay your report. Stay at an inn or a friend’s house, or go visit my mother and have a nice snack and a chat. Just do not enter your rooms. In fact, do not enter the palace until I can search your room.”
“Why all the subterfuge?” the prince asked, baffled.
Mardans looked his half-brother in the eye. “Because I think you are being framed.”
A note:
Unlike entertainment venues, inns in Margonne were inspected regularly by officers of the government. The Ankaran kings considered clean, comfortable inns to be conducive to trade, so inspectors graded them at least once a year. Hena’s inn had received the equivalent of a “B” for several years running. As one of the king’s inspectors complained:
The establishment’s food is plentiful and wholesome but so plain and uninspired that I ventured elsewhere for sustenance for subsequent meals. I recommended to the proprietress that her inn would likely receive the highest grade if she hired a cook, but she demurred, saying a cook’s wages would nullify her profits.
Mardans, Dinae, and Aran stayed only one night.