Tyrant Trouble (Mudflat Magic) (4 page)

After
he did a sharp turn on his heel and strode out, leaving me alone in the tent, I
wandered over to the table to pick through the food. There were berries and
cheese and hunks of whole grain bread and some really dark, bitter beer in a
flask. By now I was so hungry, I decided to trust in the beer to defeat the
bacteria.

I
waited in the tent until a woman entered, dressed much as the male slave,
carrying a bowl of water. She, too, was weighted with ankle bands and a chain.
She was the first woman I had seen in the camp.

Quickly
I asked, “Who are you?”

Her
face closed in what honestly resembled fear and I said, “You're good! Hey, are
there hidden cameras? You folks making a film?”

She
would not speak, stuck with the mute bit, and I gave up for the night. I
dropped my pack by the table and pulled out my toothbrush. When I poured water
from a flask into a bowl and managed to wash a bit, she looked startled.

“I
don't suppose there are showers around here?”

No,
but wow, she pointed to this big old crock thing that apparently served as a
toilet and I remembered another reason why I hated camping.

My
shorts and shirt had dried from my excursions into the stream, but were badly
stained with mud and berry juice.

“I
can sleep in these, can't make them any worse,” I said, hoping talk about
clothing was harmless enough to earn a reply. I even added a smile.

Keeping
her gaze lowered, she pointed at the mound of blankets and sheepskins in the
corner, then left, backing out as the other slave actor had done.

The
room filled up with shadows as the sunlight filtering through the tent faded
into night. I was too weary to worry any longer about running away. Tomorrow,
when I knew my captor better, I would figure this out. And when I got back to
town, I planned on throwing a hissy fit in the middle of the store that sold me
my useless cellphone.

Now
I dropped down on the blankets. Beneath my fingers I felt the tight curls of
sheep's wool, not the best smelling bed, but it was soft.

Unable
to sleep, I stared up into the darkening tent and wished I'd never left the
city, wished I'd remembered country air is unhealthy. Wished I knew a quick and
permanent way to avoid Darryl. Why me? I muttered over and over to myself, like
a chant, because counting sheep while lying on a dusty sheepskin is not at all
conducive to sleep.

Through
my weary stupor I heard Prince return to the tent. He moved around slowly,
walking softly, dropping something on the floor. There was a rattle of metal on
wood as though he set a mug on the table. And then his footsteps approached me.

I
kept my eyes closed, hoping if he saw me sleeping he would be satisfied I was
settled for the night and would go away. I heard his breath as he leaned over
me and I stopped breathing.

He
dropped down on the bedding beside me, and although he was not actually
touching me, I felt the near heat of his body, felt his breath on my face as he
leaned close to me. If I had to, I could probably do a little street fighting
but in the end he was a lot stronger so my best bet was to figure out which
would work with this one, insults or flattery? I tried to remain silent but
must have made some small noise.

Far
from friends, alone with a guy whose intentions I did not want to think about,
my indrawn breath of frustration was loud enough for him to hear. His hard hand
clamped over my mouth.

“Cry
out and my guards will rush in to slay you,” he whispered.

Perhaps
remembering the bite I had given him earlier, he removed his hand. I opened my
eyes and stared into his face, which was much too close to mine. In the
darkness I could see his light eyes.

Okay,
I'd go for distraction first. “Why should men obey a boy?”

“I
am not a boy. I am nineteen years, which is as old as you, I think.”

The
fear in the slaves' faces had looked awfully convincing and that worried me.
And knowing Goldilocks was three years younger than me did not exactly fill me
with confidence because it meant he had a whole lot of teen hormones pushing
him.

Before
I lost my courage, I said, “Go on then, kill me, sweetie, because that's the
only way you're going to score.”

He
sighed, he actually sighed, and sounded weary of my arguments. Was he
regretting that he hadn't just left me in the stream?

“I
am not going to harm you, Stargazer.”

Okay,
he was stripped to the waist but he'd kept his pants on so maybe I was being
unfair to judge him. But why lie down next to me, why not sleep across the tent
from me?

As
though he read my mind, he said, “I feel safer with you beside me than across
the tent.”

He
pressed a weight across my throat and from its hard cold touch I knew it was
the blade of his broadsword. He settled down beside me, not quite touching me
but close enough that I could feel his body heat, saying in a low voice I could
barely hear, “If you try to escape, I will cut off your head. Now go to sleep.”

“Pleasant
dreams to you, too, fella.”

Sure,
he was joking about the beheading thing, but what if his hand slipped? What if I
rolled over too quickly? An accident could leave me just as dead.

I
lay motionless with the sword across my neck, wondering what I dared do. Was I
to spend the rest of this insane fiasco sleeping beneath a sword?

He
wasn't noisy, I'll say this for him. His sleep breathing was closer to low
humming than snoring. When he moved slightly, I drew in my breath. If he rolled
over in his sleep, would his sword slit my throat? How was I supposed to sleep?
I turned my head to peer at him through the shadows and whispered, “Could you
move the sword?”

He
continued to snore softly. As my sight adjusted to the night, I saw the outline
of his head. In sleep his face was smooth planes, free of expression and very
young, short thick white lashes pressed above the line of cheekbone, his wide
mouth open. His face rolled slightly away from me and his pale hair fell back
from his ear. Something glittered. I focused on the shine until I could see its
shape. In his earlobe he wore a small gold ring.

A
pity I had never read his horoscope so I could better judge what to expect of
him and how to maneuver around his whims. Now I was more puzzled by the sword
on my neck.

Moving
very slowly and carefully, I edged upward, steadying the sword with my hand so
it would not shift. The blade was wide and heavy, and damn, sharpened on both
edges. It was definitely capable of doing really messy things to my windpipe. I
knew even in his sleep he grasped the hilt.

When
I had moved until the blade rested across my shoulders instead of my neck, I
stopped, afraid to move more. With the weight off my throat, I could sort of
think, and all my thoughts turned to the same question. Now that I had marched
myself into an impossible situation, how was I supposed to get out?

My
mind grew as heavy as his sword and without meaning to, I fell asleep.

In
the morning when I woke he was gone. Another silent woman in slave costume
brought me food and water. I washed and changed into my clean shirt and stuffed
the dirty one in my backpack. As I was picking through the unappetizing food,
sleep-buddy returned to the tent, scooped up my backpack from the floor,
grabbed my wrist, and, without a word or even a look at me, dragged me outside
to toss me on his horse.

He
jumped up behind me, kicked his heels into the horse's sides and we sped out of
the camp. The guys who were playing guards were unhappy, with deep scowls and
stage whisper muttering.

I
had heard the angry voices outside the tent before Prince Whatsit returned from
wherever he'd gone, brushed aside the tent flap and stomped toward me.

The
guard called Artur, who seemed to be in charge, had argued that he wanted
several of his men to ride with us. The prince had hissed at him, sounding
rather like an angry cat, threatening the man with dreadful punishments. I did
not understand why these grown men were putting up with the kid. Had they drawn
lots for casting and he'd lucked out, got to play spoiled ruler?

We
crashed through the trees following a stream bed until we were beyond sight and
hearing of the camp. Then he pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk.
Banner shook his head and made odd snorting noises, as did the guy.

Mumbling
more to himself than to me, he said, “How dare he speak to me that way. I will
have him broken. I will put up with him no longer. I am a man now and within my
rights. I will give orders to suit my wishes without some stupid guard forever
stopping me.”

“Game's
over,” I said. “Or not. But there's no point trying to impress me.”

His
fingers grasped my shoulder and he shook me, as though I were the offending
guard, saying, “I am their ruler's son, do you understand?”

“Yes,
I get that. You're Prince Charming or whatever, which means daddy is a king.
That's easy. So where to now?”

“My
father is a warlord, not a king. My name is Tarvik. My father's line goes back
seven generations. The first son of the line of Kovat is always known as the
Garnet Prince.”

“Weird,
I mean, not like Shakespeare, not Dungeons and Dragons, oh! Surely I am wrong
here, but let me ask. All those blonds, are you supposed to be Vikings? If you
are, I don't think you've quite got the costumes right.”

“My
father is Kovat the Slayer, the greatest warlord in all the lands.”

CHAPTER
3

“Love
the names,” I said.

A
night of sleeping under a sword had cured me of any hope of winning by
intimidation. Flattery was the way to go, maybe toss in flirtation though I
wasn't yet sure how far to go with that. The kid was nineteen, raging whatsit
age. And he thought I was nineteen. Wasn't that sweet and aren't teenagers blind?
If I explained I was legal drinking age and he wasn't, would that make him
contrite or angry?

“I
don't know if he'll let me keep you.”

“But
you said I was your slave,” I pointed out.

“To
make you hush up, girl. No, my father won't want you as a slave. I have another
idea, but if he doesn't like it, he might separate your head from your
shoulders.”

“What
unpleasant hobbies you folks have, “ I muttered, then tried for a joke. “Are
you hoping he will let you do the beheading?”

“You
deserve it for biting my hand.”

As
he was obviously one of those people who wake up cranky, I decided to shut up.

We
rode through the day, stopping occasionally to rest and eat the food he carried
in a pouch tied to his belt. His mood improved, though I did not know whether
that was due to the passing of the day or my charming company.

This
sounds all downside, but it had an upside. Not a chance in Hell Darryl would
consider hiking through a forest in his fancy suit and polished shoes. And
right now, this odd prince guy seemed considerably safer company. He chatted to
me as though we were friends, pointing out landmarks and telling me their
names, and, as long as I occasionally nodded, he remained cheerful.

“Do
you see that far mountain, girl? My father's lands stretch beyond it. His city
is ahead of us, in the direction of sunset. Do you live in a city? Is it large?
You cannot be a shepherd's daughter if you do not eat mutton. What do you eat?
Yes, I remember, I saw what you left on the table. You eat fruit and cheese and
bread but not mutton. Do you like nuts? I have some with me.”

The
only time he was completely silent was when he ate. He would slide off the
horse, lift me down, and then reach into his pouch. Whatever he pulled out he
divided in half, handing half to me. He did not offer me that truly disgusting
dried mutton but he shared the rest. I wondered if it was really beef jerky,
not that I ate that, either. He carried a flask of the dark bitter beer and called
it mead, now there's a good medieval word, and several times we stopped by
streams and were able to dip out water.

He
chattered nonstop, asking how I liked this or that, until we settled
cross-legged on the grass. Then he bent over his hands and stared at his food
the whole while he ate, as though he expected it to disappear if unguarded. He
was rather fun to watch.

“Do
you really not know how to cook?” he asked once, when we were seated on a
fallen log sharing nuts and dried berries from his supply.

“Do
you?” I replied.

“Yes,
certainly. Or I would sometimes have to eat my food raw.”

The
thought of raw meat was too nauseating to discuss and so I said, “I thought
your slaves did the cooking.”

“Slaves?
Sometimes. But no one can depend on them and there are times when it is safer
to cook my own food.”

“Use
a pinch of poison for flavoring, would they?”

He
nodded yes.

Gosh,
I'd meant it as a joke.

“But
then why keep slaves? Or are they like pawns, the first line?” I pictured a
neat row of game losers serving as a line of blockers, first to deflect paint
balls.

He
frowned, lines deepening between his eyebrows. He said slowly, “In battle we
can either take prisoners or we can kill everyone. That would be worse,
wouldn't it?”

“My
chess skills aren't much, but don't pawns get set to the side of the board
after they're captured?”

“Is
that another name for slaves?”

Damn,
I spent a couple of evenings a week working with teenagers at the Center and
this was supposed to be a time out, so I didn't bother answering.

Sometimes
we walked, leading the horse, when the path wound between boulders. I preferred
walking on my own feet to riding across the valleys at full gallop. When we
walked, Tarvik kept hold of my hand. His hands were square, strong, and he
folded his fingers around mine. Annoying, but not worth arguing about. He was
cheerful and pleasant, but still, he was a sword-carrying guy.