A Brother's Price

Chapter 3

The black, bitter cold snow tasted of soot, mud, and blood. Ren slowly levered herself up, spitting out the tainted snow, puzzled by the odd flickering shadows, the endless, shapeless roar that beat on her ears, the heat across her back. Why was she facedown in the slush-covered street? A loud crack made her turn, and she gaped at flames towering up into the night sky, consuming the broken timbers of a building. The theater! What had happened? She had been standing on the theater stairs a moment before – had it been just a moment? But surely it must have been longer

– the whole building was engulfed. Then realization struck her. The others were still inside. She opened her mouth to scream when the shape of a crumpled human finally found meaning in her mind. Her sister Halley lay at the top of the steps, half in the doorway. Ren tried to stand, but something was wrong with her legs. She struggled on anyhow in a haze of pain, crawling, frantic.

She had to get to Halley. Had to get Halley away from the fire. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not get closer. The doorway itself was on fire now, about to collapse in burning timbers onto her sister. Oh, merciful Mothers, let her save Halley!

Ren snapped awake, whimpering in fear, the smell of smoke thick under her nose. She sat up in alarm, instantly disoriented by the placement of the window, the low rough-timbered ceiling, and the plain lines of the furniture.

Oh. yes, the Whistler farm!

The events of the last few days must have triggered her old nightmare about the explosion at the theater.

On impulse, she had decided to visit the armory upriver at North Branch. It had been a leisurely six-day trip from Mayfair on the royal stern-wheeler, but they had arrived to find the armory plundered and set afire. As they were still docking, the flames reached the gunpowder room. Great flowering blooms of flame rose in the night with a sound that could be felt, a heat that seared the skin even at a hundred feet away.

The scorching heat, the thick black smoke, and the charred bodies curled into the fetal position. Old impressions of the theater explosion that had killed her elder sisters and Keifer joined with new. No wonder her old nightmares were resurfacing.

Her cold rage at her helplessness reawakened too. Without thought to Odelia’s and her own safety, Ren had led a pursuit of the escaping thieves from the armory back downriver. When the royal party found the thieves’ barge run aground, she ordered a landing against Raven’s advice. Stupidity at its highest order: going into unknown territory after an unknown force. Only Odelia’s amazing luck had kept her safe.

At least there wouldn’t be new nightmares to join the old one.

Dawn gleamed in the window, small noises indicated a house awakening to a normal day, and the smell of smoke vanished. Maybe, Ren rationalized, the stench had been the tail end of her nightmare.

She stretched, stiff after a night in a strange bed. and caught another whiff of smoke. She pulled the shoulder of her nightshirt to her nose and sniffed. Woodsmoke. No wonder she was dreaming about the fire. With a curse, she yanked the nightshirt over her head, wadded it into a ball, and was about to throw it across the room when she caught the smell of him. Ren buried her nose into it. Jerin. Beautiful, talented, sexy Jerin. She let the memories of him crowd out the nightmare. His sweet kisses. His warm skin. His long, silky hair. The delight he triggered in her body. The last made her giggle, hugging the shirt to her.

Oh, she must be insane-as insane as Odelia! Making love to a farmers’ son on the kitchen floor. Her mothers would die! His mothers would kill her!

Raven’s tap came at the door.

“Enter,” she called, trying to control her grin and failing.

“We are in a good mood.” Raven used the royal plural. The captain carried a steaming pail of water.

“We are.” Ren unrolled the nightshirt and carefully folded it, vowing to herself never to wash it. A farmers’ son, no matter how beautiful or talented, could never be prince consort. Last night, though, had been glorious, and stopping where they did made it all the more pure.

Raven lifted one eyebrow in question and poured the water into the washbasin bowl. “The Queens Justice rode in with the false dawn. They spent the last of yesterday sweeping the woods and the neighboring lands for five miles. A lot of tracks, many from us when we were searching for Odelia. No sign, though, of the guns or Odelia’s attackers. They’ll be combing them again today.”

“I didn’t expect any.” Ren stashed the folded nightshirt into her travel bags. “The thieves had since the night before last to tuck the guns away. The Whistlers found Odelia hours before we arrived, and we waited about an hour for Queens Justice to arrive. Odelia’s attackers would have been complete fools to wait around for a second chance.”

“So you think they’re gone?”

“Certainly it’s a far more comforting thought than the idea of them lurking behind every bush, looking for an open shot.” Ren splashed warm water onto her face.

“Bounder had a theory on why the attackers didn’t use pistols. She says that the Whistlers are notoriously rough on poachers. A shot fired would have brought them out in force, and no one in their right mind would want to take the Whistlers on.”

Water dripping from her chin, Ren looked at Raven. “Only locals would know about the Whistlers. She thinks one of the locals had a go at Odelia?”

“Heron Landing apparently has a good bit of river trash.” Raven named the nearest town, home of Bounder’s garrison, at least ten miles from the Whistlers’ farm. “Seasonal workers, outcasts, drifters, all of whom have been in the area long enough to learn about the Whistlers, and wouldn’t be above doing some dirty work for hire. It would fit the description of the riders Heria saw.”

Disposal tools. Did they even know who Odelia was? Or had they been told just to kill the red-haired woman on the roan mare? Considering her family’s reputation at meting out severe punishment for regicide, one could almost be sure that the hired thugs were kept ignorant.

Still, the ignorant disposal tools were human beings. They might have seen or heard something they weren’t supposed to. information they’d gladly trade for their lives.

“Is there a sheriff for Heron Landing?” Ren asked.

“Aye.”

“Have the sheriff round up all the trash. Check them for studded truncheons. Find out where they were yesterday. See if any of them heard of someone hiring for a killing. Have her use whatever means she needs to find us a lead.”

“Yes. Your Highness.” Raven gave a slight bow and left.

Ren dried her face, watching the door close behind the captain of her guard. Raven never called her

“Your Highness” in private, never bowed. Why the sudden change? Was this some subtle hint that Raven thought Ren was finally acting like a firstborn?

Jerin woke shortly after dawn as normal. He bathed quickly in the washbasin, brushed out his hair, braided it into one long braid, and pulled on his best shirt, a blue chambray that matched his eyes. After waking Doric and helping the ten-year-old brush out his hair and braid it, Jerin sent him out to gather eggs in the henhouse. Liam and baby Kai, Jerin gathered up and carried downstairs into the kitchen.

Corelle, Eva, and Kira had gotten up earlier to tend the stock. Heria had the cook fire built up for breakfast. Summer had organized the youngest sisters and they were carrying in pails of fresh milk for breakfast.

Jerin now put the many hands to work setting tables, fetching jars of clotted cream from the springhouse, opening crocks of blackberry jam and apple butter, cutting slices of yesterday’s leftover bread to toast, fetching a wheel of sharp white cheese and slicing it down, mashing cold potatoes to make potato pancakes, and boiling the fresh eggs. As there were guests for breakfast. Jerin had Heria fetch a leg of ham from the smoke shed. For the occasion of guests too, he brought out a crock of maple syrup. He had no more than opened it when every finger in the room seemed to gravitate toward it.

“No fingers!” He tapped Doric’s outstretched hands with his long mixing spoon. “Wait for it.”

There was a collective gasp of surprise. Jerin glanced up and noticed that every eye was focused on the door to the dining room. He turned and found Princess Ren leaning on the doorjamb, watching him with a slight smile on her lips. The memory of her kisses burned suddenly across his senses, and he looked down.

Heria, Blush, and Leia slid between him and the princess, the set of their shoulders pure defiance.

“Heria.” He turned her toward the cook fire. “The egg sandglass has run out. Get the eggs from the fire.

Blush, start the potato pancakes now, so they’ll be hot with the eggs. Leia, run out to the barns and let your sisters know that breakfast will be in ten minutes.”

“Jerin!” They protested in chorus, their eyes locked on the princess.

“Go!” he said kindly but firmly, giving each a small nudge.

They went to their appointed tasks, though it was clear where their attention remained.

“They don’t trust me.” Princess Ren came to the high cooking table that he worked at, and took a seat on the stool there. The black-haired captain took Ren’s place at the doorway; she seemed to view the kitchen full of knives and children with a mixture of anxiety and bemusement.

“Family history makes us leery.” Jerin scooped up baby Kai and slid him into a high chair battered by nearly three dozen babies. He tickled a pure baby giggle out of his brother and spoiled him with a spoon dipped in the maple syrup. Princess Ren watched him and he found himself watching back. Her eyes were deep green, deeper than her sister’s. Her red hair, like a flame, was spun from threads of red, orange, and gold. Her skin was creamy white and unblemished.

He found himself wishing they had taken that final step the night before. He blushed at the thought and looked away.

“What happened to make you leery? Your family lose a husband or a son?” Princess Ren asked.

“Well, actually, it ran the other way,” he admitted. “Our grandmothers kidnapped our grandfather during the War of the False Eldest. He had not come willingly.”

The princess reached out for the maple syrup and he tapped her fingers out of habit. She looked up at him, startled, while he stared at his spoon, horrified.

“Ummm, no fingers.” He dipped a spoon into the syrup and handed it to her.

She smiled at him and lapped the spoon with the tip of her tongue, making a show of licking it clean. It recalled her leaning over him, her tongue touching his bare skin. His body responded to the memory. His blush became a complete burn as she noticed his arousal in his trousers.

“It’s sweet.” she murmured, “but not as tasty as you.”

He felt tike flipping a towel over his head and hiding. He felt like running from the room in embarrassment. He felt like leading her upstairs and letting her use her tongue on him again. The last put shudders of desire through him.

He struggled to find a less intimate subject. “How is your sister?”

Amusement fled Princess Ren’s eyes. “She tried to get out of bed and failed. She nearly fainted when she stood up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ren frowned a moment, then shrugged. “I’m thankful she’s alive.”

Jerin finished slicing down the ham, his hands trembling so much he had trouble controlling the sharp knife. “So,” he said, trying not to seem as anxious as he felt, ‘“you’re going to be staying another night.”

The smile returned to Ren’s face. “If not more.”

He looked at her. wanting her, wondering how he was going to resist her.

“Riders!” came a call from one of the princess’s women, and the kitchen went still.

“It’s Eldest! It’s Eldest and the others!” Leia’s voice followed the call.

There was a general rush for the door to see their seven elder sisters return. Corelle, not surprisingly, ran to meet them, talking low and fast, making sure they heard her side of the story first. They had apparently already heard some version of the news. Their horses were lathered and blowing from a hard riding.

Their rifles sat in saddle holsters, instead of being wrapped well and strapped to the back of their saddles. Eldest gave Corelle a scathing look as she dismounted. She unholstered her rifle, saying, “See to the horses. We’ll talk later.” She threw her reins to Corelle and came on to the house.

Eldest looked first to Jerin. then scanned the children for the other boys. Seeing that the family’s greatest assets were safe, she locked gazes with Princess Ren.

“Your Highness,” Eldest said quietly, handing her rifle to Heria without a glance. “Welcome to the House of Whistler.”

“Thank you. Eldest Whistler.”

Heria ducked away to return the rifle to the gun rack. The other children stood, waiting for orders.

Eldest glanced about the kitchen at the food threatening to burn unattended. “Get breakfast on,” she stated. “We’ll wash up and eat, then talk.”

So this was what little Whistler girls grew up to look like, Ren mused, studying the recently returned elder sisters. If the Whistler family had been a motley crew during the War of the False Eldest, they had weeded out all the variants in the last two generations. Without exception, the Whistler clan was black-haired, blue-eyed, and good-looking. The military heritage that showed in the children as broad strokes became unmistakable in the women. Regulation short haircuts, clothes tailored along the lines of an infantry uniform, rifles in hand, and six-guns riding low in tied-down hip holsters. Beyond the outward appearances, there was the military precision to the way they rode in-handing exhausted horses, damp greatcoats, and weapons to younger sisters-and they settled wordlessly to the breakfast table smelling of horses and lye soap. Food was eaten in tense silence, broken occasionally by a younger sister trying to report a wrong or misadventure. Eldest Whistler silenced the girls with a look.

Unlike the night before, Jerin and the younger boys sat with the family instead of hiding in the kitchen.

Still, Jerin sat at other end of the table, at Eldest’s right hand, with the other boys well barricaded behind their sisters.

Eldest broke the silence, naming a town a day’s travel downriver of Heron Landing. “We were in Greenhaven last evening, when we heard that there had been an attack on the farm. No one knew any details, just that one of our little ones had ridden in for Queens Justice.”

“I went for Queens Justice,” Heria said, “because Corelle and the others weren’t here.”

“Heria!” Corelle cried as if stabbed. “We were just next door.”

“You were supposed to be here!” Heria snapped, to which the nine- and eight-year-olds added their backing.

“Hush.” Eldest Whistler quieted that family dispute with one look and a single even command. “We will talk about that later.”

Ren looked down at her plate to cover a bolt of jealousy. Command of a family came so easy for someone who held her position from her first breath, blessed with the name of Eldest. In their cradles, younger sisters were told, “Listen to Eldest-she’ll be Mother Elder when she’s grown.” even when the sisters were younger only by months or days. Ren wished she had that luxury in her own family, then, chiding herself for being small-hearted, wished instead that her elder sisters hadn’t been killed, making her Eldest over sisters well practiced at disagreeing with her. She had not, in fact, even been the natural leader of the middle sisters. Halley had commanded Odelia, Trini. Lylia, and herself from the time they had left their cradles until the night Ren had become the Eldest.

Halley was younger by only six months. Six months that had never mattered before.

“We don’t air family problems in front of strangers,” Eldest Whistler stated as one who is never argued with. She finished the last bite of her eggs and pushed away the empty plate. “So, Your Highness, what brings you upriver to Heron Landing?”

Her eyes asked, “What troubles do you bring to my home?”

Ren glanced about the table, at the family trained by the best spies that Queensland had ever had. and decided that perhaps it would be best to take them into her confidence. “While we didn’t engage the Imomains in full war, it has been a costly effort to keep them off our shores. Our coffers are low, and we can ill afford the drain on tax revenue that smuggling represents. Worse, smuggling on the rivers has increased tenfold in the last decade. The Queens contracted with a family of gun-makers upriver at North Branch to produce guns to be the teeth in our efforts to bear down on the smugglers. Princess Odelia and I decided to do a surprise inspection.” Actually, Ren had dragged Odelia into duty, determined the younger princess would act her age and rank. “We had interrupted a raid on the armory. While we managed to prevent the theft of six naval guns, all the small arms and a series of cast-iron cannons were taken. The cannons are our main concern now.”

“Cast iron?” Corelle scoffed. “You can’t cast iron barrels uniformly. Under pressure they burst, killing everyone within dozens of feet. No one’s made cast-iron cannons since Deathstriker burst twenty years ago.”

Eldest frowned at her sister’s rudeness, but added, “Bronze is the best metal for cannons.”

Even after two generations of farming, they remained well schooled in the art of war. Until a few months ago, what they said had been true.

“Unless you want to rifle them.” Ren pointed out the true flaw of bronze. “Bronze is too soft of a metal.

The friction wears down the rifling in a short amount of time.”

Jerin had been listening with his amazingly blue eyes open wide. He leaned to his Eldest sister and whispered, “How do you make a cannon a rifle?”

Eldest answered, obviously aiming her answer more to the very youngest of her sisters than to Jerin.

“Rifling is cutting spiral grooves down the bore of the weapon, any weapon. It makes the shot fly straighter, so your aim is truer. Smooth bores, weapons without the grooves, you might as well point in the general direction, pull the trigger, and hope.”

Ren nodded at this patient explanation. “The Wainwrights at North Branch proved they could make a reliable, cast-iron, breech-loaded cannon.”

“Completely reliable?” Eldest asked.

Ren shrugged. “Extremely reliable-I would call nothing ‘completely.’ Apparently the novelty of their method isn’t in the reinforcement of the cast iron forward of the breech-others have tried that and failed-but in the method of attachment.” While his sisters listened passively, Jerin nodded slightly to indicate he followed the explanation. Ren controlled the urge to smile encouragement to him. “A wrought iron band is allowed to cool in place while the gun is rotated, which allows the reinforcement to clamp on uniformly around the circumference of the breech. We ordered eight ten-pounders. The Wainwrights called them the Prophets: Joan, Bonnye, Anna, Judith, Gregor, Larisa, Nane, and Ami.”

“At Greenhaven,” Eldest reported, “they were saying that the Wainwright place blew up, that their ammo went up and took out the shop and the house.”

Ren shook her head. “The thieves killed the family in their beds long before torching the place. They managed to carry out all the small arms, the pistols and rifles, and the Prophets before we arrived. They were trying to move the great naval guns when we rode up, and they set fire to the shop to cover their retreat.”

She and Raven had been to the Wainwrights’ home several times to see the new weapons tested and to order various guns. While not as prolific as the Whistlers, the Wainwrights had numbered around twenty women and girls with a handsome young husband that they proudly showed off. Not one survived the murderous attack.

Raven cleared her throat and covered Ren’s silence. “It was easy to track the cannons. Each of the Prophets weighs nearly nine hundred pounds and they are roughly six and a half feet long. Multiply that by eight, and it’s quite an operation to move them. The thieves used two coal wagons and made four trips from the gun shop down to a waiting coal barge. Half the town saw them, but thought it was the Wainwrights’ normal weekly delivery of coal for the forges.”

Ren took up the story again. “The coal barge with the Prophets and small arms left with its load. There were two more barges waiting for the naval guns. The thieves scuttled them to foul river traffic. It gave them several hours’ start on us. We might have caught up with them if they stayed on the river, but the barge and its tug ran aground, so they started overland.”

“They ran aground above Heron Landing?‘” Eldest Whistler guessed.

Ren nodded. “They made a makeshift raft and floated the cannons and other crates ashore one at a time.

We found a safe landing and unloaded our horses. Odelia”- Holy Mothers knew what Odelia had been doing- “became separated from the rest of us, and was attacked. We think it was more of a distraction than a planned assassination.”

“So these guns are still in the area?” Eldest Whistler asked.

“Is there a reward?” Corelle asked.

“Do you think the riders will come back?” Jerin asked.

“The riders were probably hired to delay pursuers.” Ren sought to reassure Jerin. “They have no reason to come back. As for the cannons and small arms, the Queens Justice has found no sign of them.”

Two of the younger sisters were rude enough to laugh.

Eldest Whistler stood up, motioning Ren and Raven to follow. “Lieutenant Bounder is a good soldier, but she and most of her command are new to the area. Nor does she have many good trackers under her.” Eldest led them to the small, well-appointed parlor. There she opened the doors on a cherry cabinet, revealing a set of shallow drawers. She pulled out the top drawer and took out a map. She laid the map on a small side table. “How far upriver from Heron Landing did they hit the sandbar?”

“About five miles.” Raven answered. “Bounder said it’s timberland belonging to the Fiddler family.”

Eldest Whistler grunted, tapping a section of the map. “I thought it might be there. Look, the river runs fairly straight north to south through all of Queensland, but here, it makes a twenty-mile U east to west, and back again. When you’re on the river, it’s not obvious. The lay of the land fools you; only this ridge lies between the northern and the southern point.” Her finger with a torn fingernail traced a short line over the said ridge. “It’s less than three miles, but unless you’ve walked this straight line, or seen the map, you would never guess you could skip so far downriver so quickly.”

Ren cursed softly and tapped the downriver part of the U. “I don’t suppose the river is shallow here?”

Eldest shook her head. “Fairly deep. If they brought the guns to here, it would be easy to load them onto another boat.”

“Why move them at all?” Corelle asked. “Seems like a lot of work for nothing, when they could hire a boat to go upriver and unload the barge.”

Eldest threw her a disgusted look. “It would have been stupid to leave them stranded with the princesses somewhere close behind them. Secondly, this confuses the trail. Think of the trail they would have left if they had hired a boat to go upriver to the stranded barge. Every ship captain they tried to hire, the crew of the ship they finally hired, any passengers already on the boat, any ship that passed while they were transferring the load, and Holy Mothers knows who else would have known what ship the guns are now on. The princesses could go downriver until they saw that ship and stop it. If the thieves had managed to already off-load the guns, there would be witnesses to where and when.

“By moving the guns, they’re no longer linked to the barge. Picking up cargo is so common it’s invisible in comparison to a salvage job. And, unless you’ve seen a map of the river, it seems unlikely that anyone could move a dozen heavy crates so far downriver in a span of a few hours.”

“We’ll never find them again,” Ren whispered.

“They’ve only had one day to secure a ship. The guns might still be here.” Eldest reached over to the gun rack and took down a rifle. “If they are, we can stop them.”

The other Whistlers took this as a signal and armed themselves, down to the little ones, excluding only the boys. For one panicked moment, Ren thought she might have the whole clan ride out with her. Eldest Whistler, however, motioned to the middle and youngest sets of Whistler sisters to put up their rifles, with a firm, “You stay here and guard the boys and Princess Odelia.”

“You don’t have to come.” The Queens Justice’s opinion aside, Ren wasn’t sure the farmers were up to riding with her guard.

“I’ve spent my whole life learning how to fight,” Eldest stated. “Once in my life, it would be good to actually ride out to battle. I don’t think the chance to ride in the Princesses’ Guard will come around twice.”

Certainly, it would help to have someone who knew the lay of the land to guide them.

“Glad to have you, then,” Ren said, and earned a wide grin from the woman.

They surged out of the house, carried along in a wave of excited, and thankfully now unarmed, children.

While saddling their horses, Ren caught sight of Jerin helping his older sisters saddle up. He moved with assurance among the horses, handling the bridles and saddles with ease. As she watched, he kneed a black mare in the middle to make her suck in her stomach. He clinched the saddle girth tight, tied it, and then looked up to meet Ren’s gaze.

He wanted her. She knew the look now, having seen the physical evidence of his desire paired before with his level blue gaze. Just knowing that he wanted her did magic to her body. She dropped her eyes before anyone noticed the exchange. The Whistlers would not be so happy to ride beside her if they knew what she had done with their little brother in the kitchen.

Suddenly the idea of them at her back with rifles did not seem so wise. She glanced at Eldest Whistler, wondering if this was an exercise in revenge.

You’re crazy, Ren told herself as she swung up into her saddle. Eldest just rode in. She wasn’t here to witness anything. You’ve heard everything that everyone had to say to her.

Then she remembered Corelle darting up to her oldest sister, earnestly pouring out some story. Eldest’s flash of anger could have been toward a lax sister making excuses-or at the news their brother had been compromised.

Ren scanned the milling women and children for Corelle. The middle sister stood by the padlock’s gate, holding it open as riders were already trotting through. As if sensing Ren’s gaze, Corelle turned toward her as she rode up to the gate. Cool, calculating resentment filled the girl’s face.

She knows.

Ren kept her face passive as she rode past, and tried to ignore the itch between her shoulder blades.

Had Corelle told Eldest? Was she riding into a trap?

If the Whistlers fought the way they rode, it was no wonder they won the war.

Showing little evidence that they had ridden all night, the Whistlers led cross-country, over fences and creeks, with seemingly reckless abandon. When one watched, though, not one horse so much as stumbled. Ren wondered if they were attempting an extremely subtle form of assassination: ride out with the princess and let her break her own neck trying to keep up.

The last mile they cut through rows of shoulder-high corn, the leaves cutting and grabbing at both sides, and came out onto a dirt path. Fresh wagon tracks crushed the grass growing on either side of the path.

The path ran along the cornfield and, a half mile farther down, dipped into woods. The river was near enough to smell over the bruised corn and the hot horses.

The Whistlers dismounted, tied off their horses, and went silent as wolves into the woods. Ren wanted to follow, but she knew her own value. Her life wasn’t worth the capture of the cannons. There too was the niggling thought that the small woodlot would be a perfect ambush site by the Whistlers. She signaled to her women to ready weapons, wishing she had told Raven of her indiscretion. Now, on the cusp of battle, would be a foolish time to make her women doubt their allies. On the other hand, letting the captain of her guard ride blindly into an ambush seemed particularly stupid.

She fought her conscience while silence came from the woods and one lone cicada droned loudly.

A Whistler came trotting out of the woods and tugged on her cap bill in salute. “There’s signs that a riverboat tied off and something heavy was loaded. No cannons, but there are a couple of fresh graves.”

“Show me.” Ren dismounted.

A screen of brush in the woods proved to be false, a deliberate attempt to hide the path down to the river. On the high bank some forty feet from the river’s edge, the thieves’ camp showed evidence of being used often. River stone shielded a fire pit from the river. Evergreens hid a corral of sapling stringers.

A well-beaten path led down to a spring-fed streamlet, a wooden bucket beside it waiting for the next visit. A secretive camp, but one long-standing, not erected overnight. The corral and fire pit both had seen winter. Thinking of the cornfield she left behind, Ren guessed at the origin of the camp.

Beyond the corral, five of the Whistler sisters worked at digging up the graves. Ren signaled to Raven and her women to help with the unearthing and continued on to where Eldest Whistler crouched beside the fire pit.

“Whiskey runners?” she asked Eldest, meaning the original creators of the campsite. Was it just irony that the thieves used a smuggling camp while stealing cannons meant to fight river smuggling, or had they known what the cannons were going to be used for, and stolen them as a preventive measure?

Eldest shrugged. “Anything taxed going up and down the river. From the number of horses, tents, and footprints, we figure there were about twenty women in all. There are six graves. Heria saw five riders, so that may be them plus one.” She touched the ground and lifted her fingers up to show that they were now tinged red. “This is the killing ground.”

Odelia could have been the plus one. Ren controlled a shiver.

“The killing started here at the fire.” Eldest wiped clean her fingers. “The worst of the blood has been scraped up, probably buried with the victim. There were guns fired.” She tapped a scar of white on a river stone that served as a fireside seat. She pointed out fresh gouges in trees at chest height. “The dead were dragged up there to be buried. Things were cleaned up. That was yesterday, or the night before that. The survivors loaded a riverboat this morning around dawn.” Eldest held her hand out over the white ash in the white pit. “The coals are still warm.”

Ren swore softly. “They had wagons. I can’t imagine them loading them-too noticeable. Can we track those?”

Eldest shook her head, and waved toward the shimmer of water through the trees. “Pushed them in the river and let the current take them.”

“All dead ends.” Ren stalked about the clearing, cursing. They had missed the thieves by a few hours. It was, perhaps, just as well. With her guard and the seven Whistlers they numbered only twenty-one.

True, they outnumbered the surviving thieves, but the campsite had hidden defenses. A jumble of boulders, a fallen tree, and another set of rocks came together to form a disguised wall to shield defenders. Three approaches were uphill with the river at the attackers’ backs.

Ren skirted the disguised wall to consider the only downhill attack. A blur of motion was her only warning-Eldest Whistler came over the low wall in a flying tackle. Eldest slammed into Ren’s waist, and they tumbled onto the ground, Ren on the bottom, a shoulder smashing into her gut.

Shit’t Ren rolled free, reaching for her pistol, thinking. Stupid! Stupid! Ruin their brother and then let them take you out in the middle of nowhere and separate you from your guard! Her pistol had been knocked free during the tumble, lost in the dead leaves. She jerked free her knife, and scrambled into a fighting crouch in the dead leaves.

Eldest crouched a dozen feet from her, unarmed. Eldest made a stiff motion with her hand, palm downward. “Stay still.” She flashed another hand signal, a quick stiff chop that flicked off to the right.

“Traps.”

Ren froze in place. Traps? She was an idiot! Outside the camp and beyond the defense wall, of course there were traps! She glanced back at where she had been walking. A pole tipped with a dozen sharpened stakes pinned her hat to a tree. Eldest hadn’t attacked her- she had saved Ren’s life.

Putting fingers to her mouth. Eldest gave two shrill whistles. ‘“Ware! Traps!” Hearing her warning echoed through the encampment, Eldest turned back to Ren. “Are you all right, Your Highness?”

Ren nodded, sheathing her knife, feeling stupid. “You startled me.”

Eldest grinned. “Did I, now?”

“Yes, but thank you.”

“Another one there, and behind you.” Eldest pointed out a trip wire to either side of her. “Best just hop the wall.”

Raven was coming down from the graves as they slid over the wall. “You might want to see this,” she said, but her face belied her words. Whatever they found was horrible to see.

“What is it?” Ren did not want to go unprepared to the grave site.

“They’ve killed a man.”

It was not enough warning. Ren gagged at what they showed her. Arms tied behind his back, his trousers down around his ankles to expose scrawny hairy legs, paunchy stomach-no dignity afforded him in death. Blood spotted his privates; his rapists had either been virgins or on their menses. Blood had clotted on his face and nose, had pooled in his eyes, and his ears. Drug vials littered the grave with him, paper labels proclaiming everlast. A crib drug, meant to keep the men passive, willing, and able.

Her women had uncovered the grave, and they stood silent, staring at the body. The younger Whistlers hung back, their fierceness stripped by their shock, unable to even look at the man. Her eyes furious, Eldest knelt beside the corpse and covered his nakedness with her coat.

Ren didn’t want to look at the body, even with it decently covered. She didn’t want to think of a rich Wainwright home now reduced to ash, of the intelligent women who were now burned shells, nor of the handsome husband showed off to visiting royalty. She turned instead to Raven. “It’s Wainwrights’ husband, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Raven said. “His name was Egan, if I remember right.”

“They overdosed him?” Ren guessed. It was a common problem in cribs, and even in a few families where the number of wives was high.

Raven looked bleak and confused. “They cut out his tongue, I suppose to ensure his silence, but botched it completely. Either he choked to death on his own blood, or he bled to death.”

“Holy Mothers!” Ren trembled. “What kind of animals could do this? Rape a man, then maim him so.

What if he got you with child? What do you tell your daughter? I tore your father’s tongue out after I raped him‘?’”

Raven shrugged. “When your family’s been bred out of the cribs, you don’t talk about how you got pregnant. You go into an unlit room, a man half incoherent with drugs ruts on top of you, breaks your hymen-hopefully plants a fertile seed-and you leave. What’s there to say except it was dark, painful, and bloody?”

Ren glanced at the gathered women. The women of her guard-all fathered from cribs-were passive in the face of this horror. The Whistlers, two generations removed from the cribs, looked panic-stricken.

Did you have to have a loving father to understand the horror?

“Your Highness.” Eldest struggled to keep fear from her face. “There’s nothing here for us. We need to go! We need to get back to our brothers!”

Jerin! Odelia! Ren nodded even as she glanced to Raven.

“The other five are river trash.” Raven indicated the other five shallow graves holding women in dirty ragged clothing. “The largest is wearing a bandage on her arm.”

“Odelia’s attackers.”

“They’ve been shot, searched, and buried. There’s nothing to identify them with.”

Ren looked out upon the river. The trail ended here, then, at least for her. Summer Court opened in less than a week, and she needed to return home to Mayfair to act as Elder Judge. “There’s nothing here for us. Let’s go.”

With no twenty sisters and one wounded princess to feed, Jerin did not hold dinner. He sent a tray of food up to Odelia with Summer, and the family ate a quiet dinner. He put the leftovers in the warming ovens for the others. Cleanup would have to wait until the others had eaten.

His announcement that it was bath night was greeted with much groaning and moaning. He supervised the water brigade to fill the tanks of the bathhouse boiler, and had the fire built up. As the water heated, he sent the little ones up to their rooms to strip down and to troop back for the cold-water scrub and hot-water communal soak.

He went up to his quarters, undressed, and realized there was a good chance Ren and her women would return before he finished bathing. He couldn’t go out in just a towel as usual. He opened his wedding chest and found his grandfather’s silk bathing gown. It slid on like a cool, soft hand. Just in case Ren saw him, he also put on his only piece of jewelry, a small golden deer encrusted with green stones strung on a gold chain.

Eldest had told Jerin once that most neighboring families found the Whistlers’ bathhouse a source of mystery. Apparently most families bathed less frequently, in laundry tubs set up in the kitchen. It seemed an uncomfortable way of bathing. Mother Elder often told them what her mothers went through trying to build the bathhouse. Grandfather had wanted one, so Grandfather got one, despite the fact his wives were clueless on how to build one. Apparently it was just one more of the many traditions Jerin’s grandmothers had bent themselves into pretzels over for his grandfather’s sake. Grandpa wanted all the menfolk to read and write? They were educated. Grandpa wanted the boys to play alongside their sisters, learning to run, climb, ride, shoot, and defend themselves? They were taught.

Jerin was going to miss the bathhouse. He was going to miss his freedom even more. He continued to soak even as his sisters turned to prunes, got out, and trooped back to the house. How had his grandfather convinced his grandmothers to build the bathhouse? He could not imagine his grandmothers giving in to childish displays of temper. Nor could he imagine his grandfather throwing a fit-he had been a quiet-spoken, dignified man.

Perhaps wives were like sisters. You chose your battles instead of engaging in every skirmish, negotiated terms whenever possible, and fought as cleanly as possible in hopes that the other person would react in kind. He would know soon, whatever the case. Within the next few months, his sisters would choose a betrothal offer that suited them, and he would marry on or shortly after his birthday.

He climbed out of the lukewarm water, finding comfort in being clean and warmed to the core. If nothing else, he would have to insist his wives build him a bathhouse.

It was full night when he stepped out of the bathhouse. Stars studded the sky and the crickets were in full voice.

“I’ve caught you again.” A woman’s voice made him start. Princess Rennsellaer came out of the night.

Jerin pulled the silk wrap tight about him. “How is it. Princess, you keep catching me with next to nothing on?”

“Luck, I guess.” Ren reached out to finger his wrap. “This is beautiful.”

“It was my grandfather’s.” Feeling naked, he stepped back into the shadows of the bathhouse door.

“The kidnapped one during the war?” Ren followed him into the shadows.

“Yes.” He blushed. “It was all he was wearing when my grandmother Tea snatched him.”

Ren laughed, running hands over the silk gown. “I suppose he wasn’t very happy.”

“No, he wasn’t. My grandmothers were common line soldiers, unspeakably low for a prince to marry.

After his entire family was put to death for Queen Bea’s murder, though, he became more philosophical about life.”

Ren took a sharp gasp inward. “What? Your grandfather was part of the False Eldest’s family?”

“Prince Alannon. General Wellsbury had slipped my grandmothers into Castle Tastledae to break the siege.

Grandmother Tea found Grandpa alone and unguarded, so of course she took him.“

“Of course,” Ren murmured, pulling him out of the shadows to eye the bathing gown closely. “This is the only thing he had?”

Jerin glanced nervously about for his sisters. They wouldn’t be happy about his talking to Ren with next to nothing on. “A necklace. And some hair combs.”

“Does your family still have them?”

Jerin fumbled the green deer out of his gown. “Grandpa gave the necklace to me before he died. Doric has the hair combs. Liam and Kai weren’t born yet. He said we should never forget our blood is royal.”

Ren looked aghast. “Commoners can’t marry royals.”

“My grandmothers didn’t marry him until they were knighted.”

Ren laughed, caught between amusement and shock. She cupped the deer in her hand and gazed at it.

“Do you know how long my family searched for Prince Alannon?”

“My grandmothers were quite anxious to keep him.”

Ren laughed, then fiddled on her fingers, counting generations. “We share great-great-grandmothers.”

She tapped on her index finger, then stepped down to her middle finger. “Your grandfather was cousin to my grandmothers.” She wiggled her ring finger. “Our mothers are first cousins once removed, or second cousins?”

“I’m not sure.” He leaned over to touch her pinkie. “This is us?”

“First cousins twice removed, or second cousins once removed, or third cousins.”

“Are there such things as third cousins?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted.

“Perhaps it’s a good thing we did nothing in my mothers’ kitchen.”

“Pshaw, sharing great-grandmothers means nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Jerin tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear. “There seems to be a great deal we’re not sure of.”

She pulled him to her, her hands slipping into his gown to stroke his damp bare skin, her mouth warm and sweet on his. Her kiss left him breathless, trembling, and wanting more but not daring to go on, because this time he would not be able to stop. She held him, nuzzling into his hair. “I am sure,” she whispered into his ear, her breath hot, “that you are a beautiful man, in a beautiful silk gown, and I want you.”

“I-I-” He wavered, then steeled himself to pull out of her arms. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t do it-I can’t betray my family. We’ve come so far from being thieves, but only because twenty of my grandmothers died in war, because Grandmother Tea lucked into finding Grandfather, because my mothers worked until they dropped to make this farm bountiful. I hate being the coin of their future, but-but-”

And he knew, suddenly, that any look, or word, or gesture from her, and his will would go. He fled her, fled his own desire.