“Damn.” Quill chucked the journal back to Ivandred and said, “I’m afraid we’ve identified our enemy army. Now we’d better find it.”
FIFTEEN
The first step was Ivandred having to unpick the binding on that meticulously kept journal so that the pages containing the previous month’s numbers could be burned. There were enough earlier records to prove his point, and as time was pressing, they had to cover the fact that he would be transferring by magic, which meant the date of the latest entries couldn’t be right before his arrival in Ku Halir after what was supposed to be weeks on the road. He stayed up all night restitching the journal.
Knowing that Ivandred would be arriving shortly, suitably covered in road dust as if he’d endured a weeks-long grass run, Quill endured the return transfer to his room in Ku Halir. He stood in the stuffy chamber as he fought down the ache and nausea of transfer reaction. It died too slowly, leaving him aware of his dirty, parched skin, and loose hairs sticking to his face. He clawed them back in tiny crackles of lightning and retreated to the baths, and while soaking his tired body, began to plan what to say in his report.
Lineas and Neit had traveled fast and hard, sleeping side by side under the stars on spongy turf as their animals—traded at every post—rested in their own way, either nibbling at the grasses or standing like silent sentinels as their minds drifted between dream and alertness.
Lineas enjoyed traveling with Neit, but regretted that she couldn’t use her golden notecase without being seen. She hadn’t heard from Quill since his brief note that he was on the trail of someone shadowing a large Marlovan party. But of course he could take care of himself.
As for Neit, she was well pleased with her companion. Though skinny, freckled Lineas was not much to look at, she was tougher than she seemed. Neit had liked Lineas from their first meeting, but had fallen into the habit of pitying her for the way she exerted herself to anticipate the oblivious Connar’s every wish and comfort. He was shaping up to be a terrific war leader, but in Neit’s opinion, a terrible match for someone like Lineas.
But no one was asking her opinion. No one ever thanked you for poking your nose into others’ messes for their own good.
And yet, and yet. There was that day when Quill and Lineas had been star gazing, the looks in both their faces on their return!
She and Lineas made very fast time. When they arrived at the crossroads where Lineas would turn eastward toward Ku Halir and Neit would continue south, they discussed it, then decided it would be worth the extra half-day for Neit to ride into Ku Halir with Lineas, in case there was further news to be carried to the king.
As Neit and Lineas neared Ku Halir, the hot, dry wind had begun fretting their horses and sending dust twists twirling across the road and over straw-dry grasses. It was a relief to ride at last into the stable yard, which they discovered was full of horses, their shadows stretching impossibly long in the slanting late afternoon light.
“Big company just arrived,” Neit said. “If it’s Connar, then runners are going to be coming and going. Here’s a hint for future travels: when the military turns up in big numbers, there’s seldom room for us. So we go to the scribe houses.”
“Oh! Yes, Fannor told us that once.” Lineas wiped her forearm across her sweaty face, and looked away; it was true that the royal runners and the scribes worked together, and sometimes shared accommodations, but Mnar Milnari had warned them that scribes by nature tended to be nosy, thinking that all news ought to be shared back and forth.
Neit wheeled her horse and led the way to the smaller stable used by support staff, including scribes.
Indeed, it was somewhat less crowded, though no less busy. The scribe house was, like many of the lakeside buildings, stone from ground to the first floor windows, and wood above, going up only two stories, with wide windows under the roof open at either end to the breeze coming off the lake, which made the rooms cool off a little faster than similar chambers in the stone garrison.
Neit strode in with her usual insouciant confidence, scattering a gaggle of scribe students clustered around the door, watching the arrivals at the garrison.
“Royal runner here,” Neit said, jerking her thumb at Lineas. “And me, running messages for the crown prince. Got beds?”
“Attic is the only free spot,” an older scribe-apprentice said. “Is that one of the princes, just arrived? Do you know what’s going on?”
“No idea! Attic it is,” Neit said cheerfully, slinging her gear over her shoulder. “Better than dirt, which is all the bed we’ve had this week.” She felt the eyes rolling behind her, and grinned.
Lineas cast the scribes a sympathetic glance and went after Neit. After the brilliant light of summer, she could barely see in the shadowy interior. She followed Neit’s broad back up the stairs to the second floor. The stair to the attic was a ladder at the end of the long line of flimsy little rooms, all with doors standing open to catch any movement of air, hot as it was.
“Hey, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Neit said to a tall, handsome boy with dark brown eyes and pale hair.
His smirk changed to uncertainty as he opened a hand. It seemed to Lineas he wanted to speak, but Neit strode right past, toward the ladder. In the last room, near the top of a second stairway, Lineas caught sight of a young woman her own age sitting cross-legged at a low table, candles burning at her right and left hands as she carefully copied something out.
Lineas admired the beautiful script as Neit paused in the door. “Two candles are a bad idea in this season.”
The scribe looked up, her mouth tight. “My script is perfect because there’s no shadow cast. And I’m faster than anyone,” she replied in a none-of-your-affair voice.
Lineas winced; though the scribe was rude, no one likes outsiders offering helpful comments unless asked. Of course she would be careful with her candles.
Neit shrugged and led the way upstairs, saying low-voiced, “I remembered Anderle, all right. Had a fun liberty with him, until he got bossy. Let him think I’ve forgotten. Be good for him.”
She chuckled, then whooshed out a deep breath as they entered a murderously hot space under the slant of the roof, with four narrow beds in it, unoccupied from the looks of the smooth sheets and the blanket folded neatly at the foot of each. She slung her gear onto the nearest. “No use in unpacking. Likely I’ll be riding out again, as soon as I can get anywhere near Ventdor. There’s sure to be news, with Connar just arrived.”
Lineas put her gear down, but from habit, slid her journal and notecase into her inner pocket, just in case there were curious roommates with sticky fingers. Everyone knew scribes were curious. She shook out her robe to obscure the pockets in folds before she followed Neit back down the ladder and out.
They headed toward the garrison to make their report. Lineas peered into the thickest group of gray-coated warriors for Connar’s blue-black horsetail swinging between his shoulders.
Neit touched her arm. “Stay,” she said, low-voiced. “I think I spotted royal runner blue going into the command wing. Let’s catch up with whoever it is before we report, shall we? I don’t know how it is, as you royal runners aren’t any faster than the best of us long runners, but you always seem to have the news before anyone else. May’s well know as much as we can in case the prince has questions,” she added.
Lineas’s heart rapped against her ribs at Neit’s cheerfully careless You always seem to have the news before anyone else. Words of denial flitted through her mind, but she wouldn’t lie. A quick glance at Neit relieved her. Neit wasn’t questioning how that could be, as she peered over the crowd passing in and out of the building adjacent to the stable as they turned that way.
On the other side of the busy parade ground, Connar—always aware of his periphery—caught sight of runner blue. It was Quill, who stopped short, with a sudden smile that Connar could see from all the way across the parade ground. It was so intimate a smile, so revealing that Connar instinctively turned to see who
among the mass of warriors could spark that kind of smile, and shock jolted him when he recognized Lineas’s bright red hair.
At the same moment Lineas saw Quill, and her entire countenance bloomed with joy.
The world reeled, and Connar sucked in a breath, fighting a hot cloud of fury.
“...Connar-Laef?” There was Manther Yvanavayir, looking hollow-eyed. Connar hadn’t seen Manther since he left the academy. He looked wretched. Old, even, though he only had two or three years on Connar.
“Royal runners,” Connar said, fighting that sense of being off-balance. “Three of them. There has to be news.” He started toward them, as the mass parted to let him through.
On the other side of broad stable yard, Quill got a grip on himself.
The four met, and Neit, taking them all in with a fast glance, spoke first. “Lineas and I made a grass run,” she said. “She has the report. I’m just staying long enough to see if anyone wants to add to what Nadran-Sierlaef is sending to the king, then I’m off to the royal city.”
“Let’s hear it,” Connar said to Lineas.
She regarded him through those wide eyes of hers, and silently held out a letter.
Connar took it, snapped it open, saw the word ‘army’ and ran his eyes down Noddy’s careful handwriting. Too late to be useful. Connar already knew Skunk had a force, but it was clear from the painstaking words that Noddy had no more idea where this army was than anyone else.
Instead, Connar held the letter before him as if reading it closely, but considered Quill from the side of his vision, then shifted from one foot to the other, consciously reminding himself that he and Lineas had made no promises to be exclusive. It’s just that he’d thought she was, for she was always there when he returned. For the first time, it hit him that she had a life when he wasn’t there. And what would be more predictable than that she’d pillow-jig with the other royal runners?
Connar side-eyed Quill, who stood by impassively; Quill had ridden hard to bring the golden arrow Connar wore on his right sleeve. Equally vivid, Quill’s leap, taking out two big brawlers in one smooth motion, fast as the blink of an eyelid.
Yes, he could see it himself. If you looked past the royal runner robe, Quill was tight. Good-looking, even. Certainly worth an idle mattress-dance. He shifted again, recollected himself, distracted right there in the parade ground with hundreds of eyes on him.
He crushed the letter in his hand and turned to Quill. “You don’t have anything new, right? I just saw you—”
“Grass!” the wall sentry bawled, and another tooted the horn to clear the gateway.
Another surge in the sea of gray, and Ivandred rode in, dust-covered to his thin gray frizz. He spotted Connar standing with Neit and the two royal runners, rode up and saluted. “The king posted me up north. I’ve found a pattern that I thought had better be reported.”
“Come into Ventdor’s office,” Connar said to them all.
They were so intent on hearing everyone’s report that they were scarcely aware of the stunning heat.
To Connar the various reports felt like pieces of one of those paper chase games he’d always hated, fitting together to make a map leading to a basket of apple-tarts or a barrel of cellar-cold fizz. But this was real. The assassin appeared to have told the truth. There seemed now to be two forces, Yenvir’s and Prettyboy’s. Prettyboy was more than likely this Elsarion princeling, or whatever they called their rankers.
But they still had no idea of their locations.
In the way of people who had already given their information, they were repeating themselves as everyone bleated and barked obvious questions no one could answer. Connar ignored them as he stared down at the sketches of Elsarion. Now Connar understood Manther’s haggard expression. It was guilt, shared family guilt on behalf of his blockhead of a sister—the same blockhead, he was fairly certain, who had run a snatch on Ghost Fath that damned summer, while he was lying on his stomach in the lazaretto.
He’d always liked Manther, who’d been a decent captain in academy games when he and Noddy were still in smocks. He tried to think of something to say, something a commander would say.
Then another runner stuck his head in the door to report that Rat Noth just riding in, horse steaming.
“Rat?” Commander Ventdor exclaimed. “He was chasing Yenvir!”
The captains squeezed up to make room for Rat Noth, who strode in, caked with dust to the eyebrows. Connar’s gaze flicked to the two silver chevrons on Rat’s right sleeve: one level away from a commander. The way everyone deferred made it clear how much they respected Rat, who had gained his promotions in the field. No family preference for him.
Rat saluted Connar before he saluted Ventdor. That sparked gratification. Though Ventdor held commander rank, Connar had been given orders by the king, and everyone seemed to know it. You were right about this much, Hauth, he thought. Rat never questions chain of command.
That inward reflection, brief as it was, caused him to miss the first few words of Rat’s report. But Rat had always talked slowly and painstakingly, if he spoke at all. “...our animals were spent. They had remounts somewhere, probably the ones they took from Tlen. We lost them when they took to a river.”
“Damn.” Ventdor slammed his hand on the desk. “But that was days ago. You’ve searched, right?”
“That’s why I’m back to report,” Rat said. “Braids Senelaec and his scouts found ‘em. Or found someone, even if it’s not the same ones. I thought we had to cross country to chase. The Sindan-An girls, knowing that countryside, said to follow the rivers. They were right.”
“Yenvir?” Ventdor asked.
“Don’t know. They didn’t get close enough to spot him.”
Ventdor looked at Connar, who looked back, mind swimming with questions. But which one to ask without looking stupid? Ventdor’s lips parted, and Connar opened his hand.
Ventdor said, “Was Braids Senelaec spotted?”
“No,” Rat stated. “Saw plenty of prints, all the green cropped down by a lot of horses. The scouts went doggo till night. Crept to the edge of their perimeter. Heard chatter in some language they don’t know. When I came up, saw for myself, no alarms raised, just a single perimeter line, with plenty of blind spots between the sentry posts. They think they’re invisible to us. Waiting.”
“For word,” Connar exclaimed. “If it’s Yenvir, from Elsarion. And the other way. We’ll attack them first. Wait. What’s the ground?”
He caught a slight uptick in Rat’s jaw—approval. Gratification flushed through Connar, to vanish just as quickly. He didn’t want Rat crowding his shoulder. Connar had to think first, think fast.
“They’ve got a perfect defensive spot,” Rat said. “If we go in numbers, even those sloppy sentries are bound to see something coming uphill. Attacking uphill is already against us.”
Nobody argued with that.
Rat went on, gazing at the map, “Approximately here.” His bow-callused finger drew a circle west of Yvanavayir. “Somewhere in those woody hills. None of us know that territory. But if they come riding downstream, toward the river here, see, that’s where we could come at ‘em hard. There’s a valley where I had my wing hiding out while I went to see what Braids’ scouts found. They reach that, we ride down the banks, both sides.” He clapped his hands.
It was a perfect plan—and just what Connar had feared would happen, offered before he could come up with it.
Since everyone was looking his way, he said, “While we’re waiting. Rat, I want you to ride to the royal city and report to the king personally. I’m still under his orders. Ghost has Halivayir secured. Tell him our plan is to ride on this army before they can ride on us.”
Connar watched narrowly, but Rat demonstrated no sign of resentment at being sent away as his fingers brushed his coat.
Connar forced a smile. “If you’re fast, you’ll be first in on one flank.”
“I’m off,” Rat said, and in a whirl of dusty coat skirts, he was.
Connar looked around. They were all waiting for him to speak. His headache had sharpened too much for clear thought. So he said, “Let’s hear ideas.”
“I’ve never been in actual battle,” Sneeze Ventdor admitted. “But I’ve been wargaming with the King’s Army ever since it was formed, and one thing I do know is logistics....”
He made sensible suggestions that Connar barely heard. Then others had to air their thoughts, round and round. They were beginning to repeat themselves for the second and third times when Ventdor reached for water, to find the jug empty. He blinked around the room, regarded the sweaty faces, and said, “I’m parched. Connar-Laef, my suggestion is to break for a meal.”
Connar suppressed a wince against his headache, having an idea that a commander ought not to show any more discomfort than anyone else. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before dawn. “Lead the way.”
Ventdor took him to the captains’ mess. After downing four cups of water, then wolfing down a plate of cabbage rolls, Connar felt immeasurably better, enough to think beyond the war meeting...and there was the image of Lineas again. That joyful smile—for someone else.
The men had already been released until further orders came. Connar therefore had nothing to do. He recollected the three royal runners and Neit standing against the back wall, all silent but listening. When Ventdor suggested the mess hall, Connar had been too preoccupied with thirst and that headache to pay attention, but peripherally had been aware of Neit saying, “I’m off to the royal city,” and Ivandred adding, “I’ll ride with you.”
That left Quill and Lineas.
Impulsively Connar set off to find Lineas, though he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He wanted to see her face, that welcoming smile for him, to reassure him that everything was the way it had been.
On his way out he spotted a young runner in training hefting a stack of baskets. “Where are royal runners assigned?”
Time of Daughters II Page 22