The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  “Enter,” Thalen called.

  Wrillier the tavernkeep bent to avoid knocking his head on the low doorway. He held his cap in his hands.

  “Begging your pardon, Commander, but you know that Latham has no law these days, so we thought to come to you.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Well, there’s been a string of thefts, and we hoped the Raiders would look into it.”

  “Thefts? What’s gone missing?” Thalen lay down his quill.

  “A lot of things. Little things. A blanket on a line, a couple of chickens, and yesterday, a pie.”

  Thalen was not impressed by this inventory. “Oh, Wrillier, really? A pie? Probably kids took it. Or an animal.”

  “No, Commander. No village child would steal from Mam Setty; she lost her whole family in the Occupation. And an animal couldn’t unlock a chicken coop and would have no need for a blanket. We’re worried that there’s a squatter living hidden hereabouts; could be someone unmoored by too much loss or war.”

  Obviously, Wrillier had put thought into this list of scattered objects. Thalen couldn’t deny that a disturbed veteran might be a possibility; after all, Jothile had been unhinged by what he had undergone.

  “Just when students are coming back, and things is getting back to normal, folks don’t want to be anxious about some poor fool what’s lost his senses,” urged Wrillier.

  Thalen sighed. “All right. I’ll gather a couple of Raiders and look into the matter.”

  He found Kran stacking wood to dry for the winter and Wareth in the stable mending tack. Both were eager to leave these chores for a more interesting task.

  Although they could easily walk to the village, they decided to take horses in case they needed to track the thief any distance. Wareth and Kran brought their weapons; Thalen reluctantly strapped on his knife but purposely left his rapier behind.

  The first thing they noticed was that all three thefts had occurred at houses facing the woods on the western boundary of Latham. Wareth told Thalen and Kran to keep the horses and their own clumsy feet out of the way while he examined the moist weedy patch between the houses and the forest.

  Thalen held the horses while Kran cajoled the village children, who always gathered at the sight of the Raiders, into staying out of Wareth’s way.

  Mam Setty, a woman of about forty summers but aging rapidly, came out to chat with Thalen. One of her eyes was completely clouded with a cataract, the other on its way. She wanted him to know that it was a peach pie that was stolen.

  Thalen thought the filling of no consequence and listened with only half an ear to the woman’s nattering.

  “Aye, ’twas a peach pie. My baby’s favorite. Every summer I’d bake him a special peach pie, and he always said it tasted like sunshine. My older girl—oh, she was so pretty and bright as a button (she, the one the Oros carted away to Sutterdam)—now she loved blueberry. When she found them she would also bring me a handful of raspberries to mix in, and we’d laugh about how the pie made our lips purple. My husband, now, autumn squash was his favorite.

  “What kind of pie do you favor, Master Thalen?”

  “I always liked berry myself,” he answered, his mind on his own concerns, not really making an effort to be polite.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, but the berries are all gone now; those we didn’t gather got gobbled by the birds. Would another suit you?”

  “There’s no need for the bother. We’re fed enough at the Scoláiríum.”

  “’Tis no bother.” She held up her hands. “My hands are right skilled, you know; they can tell the flour and sugar by the weight and the texture.” She turned half away from him, talking to herself. “I don’t know why I baked the peach pie this year with no one here to eat it. Habit, I guess. Such a silly old fool am I.”

  Thalen realized that the pie had been her way of holding on to her son. He also realized that Wrillier was right: no local would steal from this heartsick widow.

  Wareth whistled from the edge of the forest.

  “We’ve got to be off now, mam,” said Thalen, and he doffed his hat at her.

  “You be right careful now, young master,” she called after him.

  Wareth had found footprints in the damp earth at the edge of the woodlands. He walked in front, watching the trail, Kran behind him, and Thalen came last, pulling the horses.

  After a short distance the signs Wareth followed merged with an animal track. The men mounted up with Wareth in the lead, leaning over to watch the earth as the track climbed rather steeply. Thalen, as was his wont, fell into a half muse on horseback, comparing everything about this current mount (unfavorably) to Dishwater.

  The path led them past the foot of a rock ridge that rose two paces over their heads. Thalen, though lost in his thoughts, still noticed Wareth suddenly shrink and duck. That warning was just enough for Thalen to tense his body, which served him well, because in the next half tick a man vaulted down from the boulder, knocking him off his mare.

  Awkwardly grappling with one another, Thalen and his attacker rolled a ways down a wooded slope, banging into and scraping against tree trunks. Thalen struck the back of his head on a rock and for a moment saw only blackness, but as they continued to grapple together, he found himself the stronger. He knocked a knife from his assailant’s hand. Then he perched himself astride the man’s back, positioned his own dagger at the man’s throat with one hand, and with the other grabbed a fistful of hair so he could crane the man’s neck backward. His foe went limp in surrender.

  The hair in Thalen’s hands was white.

  Breathing heavily, Thalen looked around. Because they had come to a stop below the slope, he couldn’t see anything but tree trunks, downed limbs, bare earth, and greenery.

  “Kran? Wareth?” he shouted.

  “Aye. Up here. You all right?” called Wareth.

  “I’ve got an Oro captive. Bring a rope, will you?”

  Wareth, looking unhurt, brought a rope. Thalen kept sitting on the Oro’s back while he bound the man’s hands, then he hoisted his attacker to his feet. The three of them climbed back up to the horses, slipping on steep, slick patches.

  Kran leaned against the rock face, bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his right shoulder. Thalen tore off his own shirt and used his knife to make a bandage, which he tied on tightly.

  “Put pressure on this with your other hand,” he told Kran.

  “When he jumped me I landed on a rock,” Kran said through gritted teeth. “My hip hurts more than the shoulder.”

  Thalen gently prodded the hip. “Can you stand?”

  “If I have to,” said Kran, putting a bit of weight on the leg. “I got the bastard back, though.”

  Thalen turned to examine the second Oro, who slumped in shock on the ground, a jagged bone poking out the skin of his forearm in a grisly fashion.

  “Wareth,” Thalen ordered, “find something we can use as a splint.”

  Using his sword to cut off small protrusions, Wareth shaped branches to serve. Then Thalen and he held the Oro captive’s arm tight, pulled the bone straight, and wrapped the bleeding forearm tightly with the captive’s own shirtsleeves. The young man sagged in his knees and broke out in a sweat but still said nothing. With a length of rope, they fabricated a crude sling.

  “Right,” said Thalen, standing up from a squat. “We’ve found our pie thieves. We need to know that these two are the only ones. Wareth, did you see them before they jumped us?”

  “I felt the change in the light as they stood up,” he said.

  “I’m glad at least one of us was awake. Can you scout ahead while Kran and I keep an eye on these two? Don’t be long, though.”

  “I’ll be quick,” Wareth said. Kran leaned his back against the rock to rest his leg. Thalen, knife in his hand, used the time to scrutinize the captives, noticing that their clothes had been worn to rags, and they were so thin their facial bones and ribs stuck out.

  “Deserters, I’ll wager. When the orders came
through to rendezvous in Jutterdam, these two took to the hills. Hey, did you chaps know that the Occupation ended with all the Oros leaving the Free States and sailing for home? The war is over, and you’ve been left behind here.”

  The Oros looked at each other.

  “What are your names?” Thalen asked.

  They maintained their stubborn silence.

  “What will happen to them?” asked Kran.

  “It depends what mischief they’ve been up to,” Thalen said. “The stealing counts for naught. But have they harmed folk?”

  “They just tried to kill us,” Kran pointed out. He spit the bloody dirt caught in his mouth to the side.

  Thalen got the water bag off his horse and offered it to Kran. Then he rinsed his own mouth, discovering it was full of tiny bits of leaf litter. He didn’t know whether the blood all over him came from the patients or from scrapes, so he rinsed off his forearms and hands. Then he offered the bag to the Oros. They refused.

  Just as Thalen was starting to worry about time and Kran’s blood loss, Wareth gave a whistle to indicate he was riding back.

  “Their cave is just around the hillside. A bunch of empty sacks and bones of small game. Broken spears and swords. I saw two beds of leaves and blankets. It’s just the two of them.”

  Thalen nodded and handed Wareth the water bag. Wareth took a long drink and tossed it back. Only a little remained, so Thalen poured the last liquid down the front of his face to rinse off the dirt and blood spatters.

  Wareth burst out laughing.

  “Something funny?” asked Thalen.

  “Oh, ’Mander. When Death comes for you, you’ll first stop to cool off that overheated brain of yours and then figure a way out of the jam.”

  Thalen managed a weak smile. “Okay, here’s the situation,” he said. “We need to get Kran and Broken Arm back to Cerf posthaste. Wareth, you’ll take my Oro on your horse, because you’re in the best shape. Broken Arm will ride with me; Kran in the middle.”

  “Commander, we could tie the Oros here and come back for them later—or never,” said Kran.

  “We could, but we’re not going to,” said Thalen, checking his mare’s cinch.

  Kran said, “We could drag them behind the horses—at least the one that’s hale.”

  Thalen just looked at him. Wareth imitated Thalen’s rebuke, “We could, but we’re not going to.”

  Kran gave Wareth a sour look.

  Trying to be gentle with their injured, they got everyone onto the horses. Thalen called to Wareth, “Can you head straight to the Scoláiríum and Cerf?”

  “Hey! Don’t insult my scouting. Just follow me.”

  Thalen’s head ached with every lurching stride that the mare took, but the ride proved to be short and the Oros made no escape attempts. Soon enough, they rode through the gate.

  Within moments Cerf had Kran on his table, first sewing up the knife wound and then putting his femur in a corset-type brace he laced up. “I’ll wager it’s just bruised, but it could swell up like a son of a bitch. I’m marking the laces; if it puffs so much we have to loosen them, I’ll use my new leeches to bring down the swelling.” Cerf sounded quite excited at a use for his equipment and ignored Kran’s grouchy expression.

  After he had done all he could for Kran, Cerf moved on to the Oro with the shattered arm. He stitched the wound up, splinted the bone more carefully, and gave the Oro milk of the poppy.

  “Your turn,” Cerf said to Thalen. “You’re such a mess, I can’t tell where you’re hurt. Strip.” Cerf examined him all over, forgoing stitches on the gashes under his knees but spending a long time on the longer one on the back of his scalp, washing the bits of debris out of his torn hands, and soothing his multiple scrapes and bruises with unguents.

  Rector Meakey wanted to talk to Thalen as soon as he was decently reclothed.

  “Commander! What are we to do with these captives? The Scoláiríum is not set up as a prison!”

  “Rector, the town asked me to find out who was behind these crimes. I’ve brought in the culprits. The injured one will stay in the infirmary, tied to a bedpost. The other one mostly needs food, a wash, and clothes. Tomorrow will be soon enough to question them.”

  “But where should I put him? Is he dangerous? Does he need to be guarded?”

  Thalen’s injuries ached quite a bit, and Meakey’s questions were too stupid for a smart woman. He gave the rector an exasperated look.

  “Never mind, never mind, I’m sure we’ll manage,” she said, beating a hasty exit.

  The day had already been so eventful; Thalen was surprised to discover it was only midafternoon. He asked Kambey to lock and guard the front gate, just in case angry townspeople showed up. Tristo had set up a leather sling chair in a sunny spot near the library; he appeared with tall flagons of mead and bread smeared with olive paste for Thalen and Wareth.

  Tutor Helina came bustling outside, carrying pillows of varied sizes. “Thalen, are you hurt?” she asked.

  Thalen was touched by the worried look on her face. “Not seriously; a little banged up and a headache. No need for concern.”

  She handed him pillows to soften the chair. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?”

  “No, I think I’ll just sit here and relax a bit.”

  Helina returned to her student; Thalen gingerly lowered himself down and drank down half the mead in long swallows. Tristo had brought his kitchen work—a big basket of peas to shell—outside. Thalen idly watched how deft the lad had become; he was able to split the peapods and drop the peas into a bowl one-handed.

  Thalen thought about how they could easily have been killed. Danger could lurk anywhere, even so close to home.

  The sun feels so warm. It’s good to be alive.

  Thalen dozed off in the chair, with his head and back cushioned by Helina’s pillows. When he woke, a little groggy and quite stiff, he saw that Tristo slept next to him, lying on his back with his one hand pillowing his head. Glancing around in a wide arc, Thalen realized that Wareth had brought the tack he needed to repair out into the better light in front of the stable. Fedak stood a distance behind Thalen, remeasuring the library windows that needed new glass, giving Jothile directions about holding the string for him.

  Thalen smiled at the sight of all these Raiders clustered around him. Thinking about the day’s events, he realized an opportunity had opened before him. In Oromondo he had never talked to any Oros. All he did was kill them.

  Thalen found moving painful, but he’d known much worse days.

  “Hey Raiders,” he called, gently nudging Tristo awake with his boot.

  Wareth, Kambey, Fedak, and Jothile gathered around his chair.

  Thalen opened his mouth, but Wareth forestalled him. “Wait a tick for Cerf—here he comes now.” Indeed, Cerf strode across the green toward them.

  “We was all watching to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep from your wee concussion. People do, you know,” Cerf explained.

  “So you’re still with us, Commander,” said Fedak. “What’s up?”

  Thalen said, “I was thinking: undoubtedly we will face pressure to hang our Oro captives. However, we are going to keep them alive and protect them against any danger.”

  “Whatever you say, Commander,” replied Kambey.

  “What’s on your mind?” asked Cerf, raising his eyebrows.

  “Answers,” said Thalen. “I read books all the time looking for answers. Now two people who possess essential knowledge have fallen right into my lap. This knowledge is valuable. We’ve killed enough Oros.”

  Thalen sent a message to Helina, asking her to fetch a book he’d once seen, Prisoners: Methods of Interrogation, from the library. He dispatched Wareth to find out where the rector had stashed the uninjured Oro (in a locked cellar, with Hyllidore pacing in front with a scythe).

  Thalen retired to his own quarters. Although he had assumed possession of Granilton’s office and books, he blanched at living in his former tut
or’s suite. Meakey had offered him a smaller set of rooms in the building set aside for male tutors. Thus far, Thalen had done nothing to make the place more comfortable or personal, other than hanging his mother’s flowered hat on the wall.

  By the time Tristo arrived with a light supper, Thalen had skimmed most of the library book.

  “Just the person I was thinking about. Tristo, Methods of Interrogation says that you can extract information with pain and threats, but it’s liable to be worthless. The better way is through building trust.

  “You know how to get around anyone. Tomorrow I need you to win their confidence and get them talking; get them to tell us their names, their homes, why they deserted, anything at all. Once you make them relax, I’ll be able to probe for more information about Oro ideology and cultural mores.”

  “I kin do that,” said Tristo. “But—”

  “But what?”

  “I’m trying to square things in my head. When we were over there, we killed them all. When we was in Jutterdam, you, sir, well, you went kinda rabid, wanting revenge for your friend. These two prisoners might have had a hand in killing people around hereabouts. And now, you want to keep them alive and make friends with them?”

  Thalen laid the book down and rubbed the bump on his head. “I know it sounds like a contradiction. Maybe it’s as simple as different situations call for different responses.”

  “What if they had killed you or Kran?” Tristo asked.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m just glad they didn’t.”

  * * *

  The next morning Tristo and Thalen visited the infirmary. Kran had been released back to his lodgings to recover in quiet. Broken Arm, however, had red-and-black streaks running down his brown arm to his hand and up toward his shoulder. Fever set his teeth to chattering.

  “He’s too weak to fight off miasmas,” Cerf commented. “We either take the arm, or he’ll die. Good chance he’ll die even if we do amputate the arm.”

  Tristo pulled up a chair to the Oro’s healthy side. “My name’s Tristo,” he said. “Look, see, I’ve lost an arm too. You get used to living with only one. Two is just extra.” He grinned at the Oro and got half a grin back.