Free Court Duel by Sherwood Smith Page A

rapidly across a paper.
    He glanced up inquiringly. His hair seemed damp, but it
    wasn't muddy, and his clothing looked miraculously dry.
    I gritted my teeth, crossed my arms, and advanced on him, my
    cold-numbed lips poonched out below what I knew was a ferocious
    glare.
    Obviously on the verge of laughter, he raised his quill to
    stop me. "As the winner," he murmured, "I choose the time and
    place."
    "You cheated," I said, glad enough to have the embarrassment
    postponed.
    "If you had waited, I would have shown you that shortcut,"
    he retorted humorously.
    "It was a trick," I snarled. "And as for your wager, I might
    as well get it over now."
    He sat back, eyeing me. "Wet as you are—and you have
    to be cold—it'd feel like kissing a fish. We will address
    this another time. Sit down and have some cider. It's hot, just
    brought in. May I request your opinion of that?" He picked up a
    folded paper and tossed it in my direction. He added, with a
    faint smile, "Next time you'll have to remember to bring extra
    gear."
    "How come you're not all soggy?" I asked as I set aside my
    sodden hat and waterlogged riding gloves.
    He indicated the black cloak, which was slung over a candle
    sconce on the wall, and the hat and gloves resting on a side
    table. "Water-resistant spells. Expensive, but eminently
    worthwhile."
    "That's what we need in Remalna," I said, kneeling on the
    cushions opposite him and pouring out spicy-smelling cider into
    a porcelain cup painted with that same leaf-and-blossom theme.
    "A wizard."
    Shevraeth laid his pen down. "I don't know," he said. "A
    magician is not like a tree that bears fruit for all who want
    it and demands nothing in return. A wizard is human and will
    have his or her own goals."
    "And a way of getting them that we couldn't very well stand
    against," I said. "All right. No wizard. But I shall get me one
    of those cloaks." I drank some of the cider, which was
    delicious, and while its warmth worked its way down my innards,
    I turned to the letter he'd handed me.
    The exquisite handwriting was immediately familiar—a
    letter from the Marquise of Merindar. Under my sodden clothing
    my heart thumped in alarm. Addressed to their Highnesses the
    Prince and Princess of Renselaeus, the letter went on at
    length, thanking them for their generous hospitality during her
    period of grief, and then, in the most polite language, stating
    that its writer must reluctantly return to her home and family,
    and take up the threads of her life once again. And it was
    signed, in a very elaborate script, Arthal Merindar.
    I looked up, to find Shevraeth's gaze on me. "What do you
    think?"
    "What am I supposed to think?" I asked slowly, wondering if
    his question was some kind of a trap. "The Marquise is going
    back to Merindar, and blather blather blather about her nice
    year at Athanarel."
    "Wants to go back," he said, still mildly. "Do you see a
    message there?"
    "It's not addressed to me," I muttered, hunching up in
    defense.
    "Ostensibly it's addressed to my parents," he said. "Look
    closely."
    I bent over the letter again. At first my conflicting
    emotions made the letters swim before my eyes, but I forced
    myself to look again—and to remember my own letter, now
    hidden in one of my trunks. Then I made a discovery.
    "The signature is different from the rest of the writing,
    which means she must have used a scribe—" I thought
    rapidly. "Ah. She
didn't
write this herself. Is that a
    kind of oblique insult?"
    "Well, one may assume she intended this to be read by other
    eyes."
    Like my letter, I realized. Which meant...
    "And since the signature is so different, she wanted it
    obvious. Yes, I see that," I said, my words slow, my mind
    winging from thought to thought. Did this mean that Shevraeth
hadn't
spied on me after all—that the Marquise
    had sent that letter knowing he'd find out?
    My gaze was still on the fine scribal hand, but my thoughts
    ranged back through winter. Of course Bran would have told