One day at a time!
He got up to get more to drink, and watched people’s hands. Two might have been using that hand language. Maybe only one, and the other was absently tapping his fingers on the table. Jilo was distracted by those hands. Very small for a man.
Jilo got his drink and sat down again. He looked at the various backs and bent heads, all shades of black, from blue-black hair to reddish, and from new, well-woven and dyed uniforms to the dirty gray of a shabby, much-scrubbed tunic years old. The room was silent except for the little noises of eating, utensils ticking unmusically on clay dishes, a snort over here, a cough over there. Cloth shifting. From outside the window, the steady wash of the river.
Everyone appeared to be as isolated as he was. So why was the hand-tapper impatient?
Jilo decided to watch the fellow.
When the two benches filled, Hand Tapper rose to make space. Jilo also rose, and followed Hand Tapper through the low door, down the narrow corridor, which smelled of baked cabbage, to the outer door that looked over the river dock. A thin, bitter rain had begun to fall from under lowering clouds.
Jilo debated retreating to the barracks, as the air flowing off the river was cold and damp, when a small boat tied up at the dock, and Hand Tapper straightened up. A gangling boy waved a courier bag at the sentries at the dock, was passed, and ran up the stairs.
Hand Tapper greeted him with, “What happened? I wanted to get on the road before noon.”
“Bridge is out again. We all had to take a watch binding the pontoon.”
“Here’s Narad.” Hand Tapper dropped a slim packet into the newcomer’s hand, and whirled around.
Jilo stepped aside, glanced up, and blinked. The fellow had female contours to his face, neck, and chin, though somewhat hidden by the graying hair, and blurred by the pouchy flesh on either side of his mouth.
The newcomer paused to shove the Narad communication into his bulging pouch, and Jilo wondered why Hand Tapper was handing it off one day’s journey from Narad. Didn’t these couriers cross the kingdom, collecting and dropping off communications?
He tried to formulate a question without actually asking, but before he could find words, the newcomer pushed past him and headed inside.
Jilo abandoned his questions. He had to be more observant, and patient.
* * *
—
By the time Jilo had crossed the country to Burda Garrison in the center of the kingdom, the impossible had altered to improbable, and from there to unlikely-but-possible.
He knew that some of what he heard was the result of his escape from the life-destroying magic in Narad. Everything was clearer, sharper, almost as dramatic a difference as when he first managed to dispel Wan-Edhe’s brain-fogging magic. Even with the centuries-old blight leaching life from sky and water and soil, the diffuse light carried subtle variations, the smells a complication of decay and growth, the wind whiffing of brine from the distant sea.
Then there were the sounds. At first he thought the sense of rhythm in the chopping of vegetables, the brush of a horse’s hide, the creak of wheels on a cart nothing more than his own burgeoning awareness of the world, but slowly came the conviction that the fact that he heard these things at all, especially in a kingdom where any form of music, song, poetry, or dance had been outlawed on pain of death, was significant.
Then there were the . . . warriors? What ought he to call them?
The law had been strict for generations: females were not permitted in the army.
But Jilo was seeing them.
Girls, women, their hair clipped like men, their uniforms mostly shapeless, though as the distance from Narad increased, the less some of the older ones hid the shapes beneath the clothing. They were referred to as ‘he’ and they answered to male names.
But they weren’t males, and he was fairly sure they weren’t what the Chwahir called soft-shells, the women who for whatever reason wished to be transformed into men, and strove to earn enough credit to obtain the complicated, some said painful magic to make themselves into them. (Hard-shells, men who wished to become women, were put to death under Wan-Edhe’s law.)
Soft-shells could never hold any position of command even after completion of the magic, they could only serve in menial tasks, but these women hadn’t gone through any magic transformation. They used male names, and everybody used male pronouns when talking about them. Some of them were patrol leaders—many were couriers—stable masters. They just didn’t go to Narad.
Wan-Edhe could not have known, or they’d all be dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Autumn, 4741 AF
Norsunder Base
WHEN Henerek found out that Kessler had been sifting through his carefully chosen and trained company there at Norsunder Base, recruiting his best for purposes of his own, he wasted little time in cursing. He put more time into trying to ambush Kessler, and a great deal of time concocting a parallel track to his plans.
Now everything was carefully prepared.
Unwitnessed meetings between Norsunder Base commanders were never easy to arrange. There must be a balance of power, or what appeared to be a balance of power, because few of these meetings ended up with agreement.
So first you have to catch the target’s interest.
Henerek did that by intercepting Kessler at the stable, at a well-known corner inconvenient for fighting. Kessler never let anyone get within arm’s reach, but all Henerek had to do was pass within sight, open his hand, and disclose a single twelve-sided onyx stone on his palm.
Kessler stilled.
Into the silence Henerek said, “Hill Five. Now.”
Hill Five did not have a Destination, a window, or any other distinguishing feature besides being raised enough for commanders to view the war game field from the other side.
It was one place Norsunder Base’s inhabitants could be reasonably assured of privacy. Henerek knew he had caught Kessler’s attention, but that didn’t mean Kessler would show up. Already there was a fifty-fifty chance he wouldn’t, as most commanders who met there for private talks insisted on riding across the field side by side, the better to watch one another for treachery. Nevertheless, Henerek went through the motions: he saddled a horse, told the stable within hearing of several of the internal informers known as rats that he was scouting the field for an exercise, and set out.
When he spotted a lone horseback rider approaching the jumble of rocky hills from an oblique angle, the thrill of the chase burned through his nerves. Henerek urged his horse faster, as if he were worried that Kessler would get there first and arrange some sort of ambush.
Heh. If he was uncooperative, Kessler was going to be the one getting a surprise.
They approached the hill from opposite sides. Henerek tied up his horse and vaulted quickly from rock to rock to reach the wind-flattened top, which afforded a fine view of the rocky plain below. As he expected, there was Kessler, approaching from the other side, hands empty at his sides. His sword, if he had one, left with the horse.
Oh, stupid move.
Henerek resisted the impulse to touch the blood-magic-enchanted blade he carried safely in a sheath. He knew it was there. It hadn’t gone anywhere. And best that Kessler thought it an ordinary blade of the sort he carried plenty of. Kessler himself was armed: steel-handled knife hilts winked in the gray light at both boot tops, at his belt, and there were probably more up his sleeves. A lot of good those would do him once the hidden attack team laid him out flat.
“The object-transport stone,” Kessler said, coming forward to meet Henerek in the middle of the hilltop. Unimpeded, the wind cut like a steel blade and winter was still a month off. “Where did you get that?”
“One? I have four,” Henerek said. He had no intention of revealing the whole of his plan, but he couldn’t resist this little flourish. “I’ve had Pengris searching for a ye
ar. Or he’s been gone a year. Who knows how long he spent ferreting in Norsunder-Beyond?”
Kessler was so surprised he actually looked surprised. Henerek took in a breath to suppress the laugh threatening to get past his ribs. Kessler said, “What did you promise to get a mage on your side?”
“Said I’d make him head mage when I take Everon.”
“Where did you stash the body?”
“Where Siamis will never find him,” Henerek retorted, gloating over the fact that Kessler would get the blame if he was found. Henerek didn’t like that Kessler had guessed so quickly about Pengris’s death. On the other hand, Kessler was fast with a knife. Maybe he expected that in everyone.
To get Kessler off the subject of the mage (and whatever the other mages were going to do if they found Pengris’s corpse), “This is what’s important. You’re aware that over the past year, Siamis has been showing up once every three or four months to look at us.”
“And he was here yesterday. Your point?”
“When he comes next, he’ll find his precious army dispersed over two continents.”
“What kind of transport will that stone bring out of the Beyond?”
“Ship. Four of ’em, actually. Four stones, four ships. Troop-transport ships are what I need to take my company to the east coast of Drael. When Siamis shows up next, I’ll be securing a base of operations in Everon. Siamis can sulk, but I’m sure Detlev’ll be pleased to see us get a jump on his plan.”
Kessler said, “You don’t know what his plan is. Nobody does.”
“How many variations are there on invasion?” Henerek shrugged, anticipation making him want to protract the moment. Enjoy it the longer. “Those ships might’ve been transformed into these stones a thousand years ago or more. Wonder what they’ll think, coming back into the world again.” He paused, but Kessler just stood there. To fill the silence, Henerek got back to the plan. “Bostian says that once I reach Everon, he’ll launch his campaign against Sartor. It’ll make the lighters panic like a hammer to an ant hill.”
“So I’m here because?”
“I want you with me.”
“Under your command.” It wasn’t a question.
Henerek shrugged again. “If you’d laid the plans, then I’d be under yours.” A heartbeat, three, four. The only sound, the wind moaning around the rocks. Henerek lifted his voice. “Siamis can sulk if we’ve shipwrecked his campaign.” Shipwreck was the attack phrase. “But he should have been here.”
Kessler shrugged. “Not interested in ‘should have.’” He made a half-turn, about to leave.
Henerek lifted his voice. “So you won’t shipwreck my campaign, even if you won’t join?”
Where was the ambush team? Henerek’s nerves chilled colder than the wind as the impossible became probable. Angry, he pulled the bespelled knife, and threw it. All he needed was the tiniest nick for the blood-spell to take hold.
Kessler had not completed his turn; he sidestepped, and the knife clattered against a rock. Two, three steps, and Kessler slipped behind an enormous boulder and vanished from sight.
Henerek had placed his men carefully. He ran to the slab behind which the team leader was supposed to be waiting, and stared down at the slumped figure, blood already congealed in a black pool between two cracked rocks. When had Kessler done that? More important, how had he known?
The sound of horse hooves beating a rapid retreat made Henerek recoil wildly, but all he saw was the back of a dark head in the swirling dust kicked up by the wind.
Shipwreck. His hand tightened on the magical artifacts as he faced the fact that his month of careful planning had just been shipwrecked. No, it hadn’t. He just had to act faster. The hunt was on!
He laughed, and rapidly assessed the shambles, deciding what to leave and what to keep. He wouldn’t be able to wait for the horses being brought in.
He had better get what supplies there were, and march out that night.
* * *
At the same time in Sartor, directly to the north
Atan had begun to dread Restday ever since the council, singly and collectively, had convinced her that she was wrong to let the morvende take Julian to Shendoral, where she was happiest—but she not only was not getting any education, she also wasn’t getting any older because of the way time worked there. The council had made it clear that Atan was the only person who could properly take little Julian in hand.
Atan had begun firmly but lovingly, as they suggested. Not every day, but once a week, that was her compromise.
She had chosen Restday, as it seemed to be Julian’s favorite day, the one that saw her around the palace most often. Rather than ruin Restday supper with its wine and bread, candles and songs, she forced herself to go to Julian’s room first thing in the morning.
She’d had the tailor make two outfits that would fit the child: a very plain tunic and riding trousers like any Sartoran child would wear, and the most beautiful dress Atan had ever seen. She would have loved it at Julian’s age, living as she did in the hermit’s cottage: it was a pale blue velvet, the color of the summer sky at dawn, embroidered with tiny birds and blossoms, with diamonds winking at each shoulder.
“Julian, will you choose one of these outfits today?”
“No.” Julian scrambled into her oversized robe and long scarf, which at least the servants had been able to put through the cleaning frame while the child was asleep.
“Julian. Will you permit the maid to brush your hair?”
“No.”
“How about if I brush it? I will be very gentle. You can stop me if anything hurts.”
“No.” Julian ran out the door.
That first time, Atan almost chased her, but stopped at the door. She could easily catch up. With all the walking about the palace that she did, and climbing of the dragon plateaus and other places she’d explored, she was strong, with plenty of stamina.
But when she caught up, what then? A screaming, kicking fight in the halls? At least she knew wherever Julian ran to when she disappeared like that, she always came back safe. People all over the city knew who she was, and shared food with her when she was hungry.
The next week, Atan nerved herself to the same conversation, to get the same result. At the end, she forced herself to say in her calmest, firmest, but most loving voice (knowing she was failing with every word, her throat was so tight with dread, and even anger), “Julian. I am going to ask you every week, until you decide it is time to be a person, and not a wild thing.”
“I hate you!” And the sound of rapidly vanishing feet.
Atan looked at the rejected clothes, controlling the urge to toss them out the window.
She’d failed again.
She walked down to the steward’s chambers, where she found tough old Gehlei, who had been in the queen’s private guard in the old days. Gehlei had saved Atan’s life, losing the use of one arm in the process.
Gehlei was now her steward. Gehlei had long wanted the position, but when young hadn’t had the connections. Busy as she was, she always made time for Atan, not because Atan was Queen Yustnesveas the Fifth, but because they were both as close to family as either had left.
Neither counted Julian as family, not without the mental effort required by duty.
“She was yelling I hate you,” Atan said.
No need to say whom she meant.
Gehlei shut the outer door. “She says that all the time,” she said gruffly. “To the kitchen staff when they don’t have her favorite orange-iced pastry at all hours. To the rest of us if we try to stop her. Nobody is going to touch her, and I think she knows that.”
“Gehlei, this is a terrible idea, but the council says only I have the authority to do anything about her. I know Hin or Sin will take her back to the forest hideout, but we can’t let her live in Shendoral all her life.”
Gehl
ei wrinkled her nose at the thought of the weird forest, where time seemed to stand still. Or even go backward. She tucked a strand of gray hair into her headdress, then said even more gruffly, “Send her to that baras.”
“I don’t like her.”
“I know.”
It felt so good to speak plainly, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. “I don’t trust her, either, even less than I trust Irza.” Irza and her sister, the highest ranking of the Rescuers, had taken care of Julian during the days they’d hidden in the forest of Shendoral before the century of sleep was lifted.
As the baras tended to remind Atan, usually after a sickly sweet, “How is dear little Julian? My daughters miss her so very much, and would love nothing better than to have her live with them again.” And she’d smile with her elder daughter’s smug smirk. “My daughters often tell me little stories about how good the dear princess was when they had her under their care,” she’d add, or something insinuating like it.
“Were the girls really good with Julian?” Gehlei asked, after scowling into the middle distance.
“As far as I could tell, but you know I joined the forest orphans so late.”
Gehlei’s mouth thinned. “Then let them have her.”
“The baras is going to use Julian for political purposes, just as she was the one leading the campaign to shut out the commoners among the Rescuers. I really hate that. She doesn’t care about Julian. How could she? She’d never even seen her until the enchantment broke, and has barely glimpsed her since.”
Gehlei lifted a shoulder, as in the distance a bell rang the quarter-hour. “You have an entire council to deal with that. Do you want Julian civilized?”
“Yes. All right,” Atan said, giving in. As she always did. “Next time the baras brings it up, I’ll tell her to go ahead.”
It happened a week later, after a temper tantrum down in the public areas, when one of the servants tried to get Julian to put on shoes before running into the rain. Atan thought later that this was a measure of how fast gossip traveled when the baras brought forth her invitation that very day.
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