Camerend went up to the old storage trunks, and brought out a black coat, tight to the waist to keep the warmth in, and long in the skirt, to below the boot tops. He held it out to Quill.
“It’s heavy!” Quill rubbed his fingers over the thick, soft weave. “Yeath! Black?”
“I don’t know if it’s dyed, or if the animals vary in fur colors in other lands. That coat is said to belong to our great-father Fox, left behind when he sailed for the last time. He bought it somewhere on his sea journeys, as I guess winter is fierce on board ships. You may as well use it.”
“Will it fit?”
“It doesn’t button—that would let cold air in the gaps. It folds right over left.” He indicated a sash to keep it close.
Quill slipped on the coat. The sleeves were quite long, down to his second knuckles, and the hem came down to his ankles. Either Great-father Fox had been a full hand taller than Quill, or he’d liked the extra length for warmth.
Quill took the coat, extra scarves, and more socks, which he picked over with the care of one who had endured blistered feet and still had to keep walking. While he slept in a comfortable bed for the first time in weeks, the kitchen prepared journey bread for him, thick with honey, nuts, currants, raisins. Quill had traveled with it before, and knew that a steady diet of the stuff (which lasted longer than any other food) got wearing—but this, too, would be evidence. He would note down exactly when it became difficult to choke it down.
The next morning, he transferred back to the cave now marginally less frigid from the steadily burning firesticks, and discovered a howling blizzard outside the grotto. He staggered against the wind to the opening to peer out. His lungs struggled for air. Simply breathing set his chest on fire unless he breathed slowly, through the thickness of three scarves. The cold was so deep it felt more like a slow, torturous burn straight to the bone.
He peered out, his head reverberating. Even the light was different, objects so sharply delineated that every shift of his eyes seemed to cut like glass shards. The starry sky, wheeling slowly overhead, had altered to bits of diamond, colder than ice, unlike the soft-edged stars seen through the warm, humid air of summer.
He stood there until his eyelashes rimed, and his toes and fingers began to numb, watching as tumbling clouds formed overhead, and a howling wind rose, even more impossibly frigid: nothing human could exist in that maelstrom.
So he retreated into the grotto, aware of anticipation—even enjoyment. He had time now to explore this ancient complex that had nothing to do with war or vengeance.
As days and weeks slipped by, he detailed each new wonder he discovered, sometimes sketching the salient features for Lineas.
He lingered longest over the ancient paintings on cavern walls. Some depicted stars in no recognizable pattern, a faded mural seemed to be flying people, who were rumored to still live on the higher mountains to the north. Intricate patterns marked one set of caves, where the echoes crisped the air, and he knew that morvende had once lived there, singing their echo music.
When he emerged at last, it was to find a white world. Below, it was the beginning of spring.
Time to get back to his orders.
He ate a chunk of travel bread, crouched down between his two fires, and wrote:
While there is no sign of spring here, the lack of storm clouds and wind is probably the equivalent. It might be a few days till I can write again.
He kissed and sent it, doused the fires, stowed the rapidly cooling sticks in his pack, and ventured out, his footsteps squeaking on the fresh snow.
In the royal city, the time was a little earlier in the morning; Lineas had just wakened, and was lying in bed enjoying the warmth, when her hand tucked under her pillow next to her notecase felt the magical alert of a letter.
She sat up to read it, then carefully folded it and tucked it into her little carved treasure box, hating that he was venturing out into danger again. At least, if she couldn’t share his danger by his side, she could from a distance.
That night she wrote:
I think of you still trudging through snow while here spring has definitely arrived. You asked me to tell you how the girls’ first day at the academy went.
The king and queen decided to restart the shearing tradition, which is why I was there. They felt that for this first time, especially with girls among the first year scrubs as they call them (our fuzz), it would be better for the queen’s training staff to oversee the shearing. As Ranet is still feeling queasy in the mornings, Noren asked me to choose some of the more responsible senior girls, and Bunny said it sounded like such fun she refused to be left out.
And it was fun! We made up two lines. The little boys and girls were blindfolded and sent running down the middle as we encouraged them along with pretended, outrageous threats, guiding them with little pushes and picking up the ones who fell.
Most of the children were laughing by the time they reached the end. A couple of enterprising ones charged like cavalry, one through the line in the wrong direction, and had to be towed back.
I was at the end, my job to remove hair clips and braid ties. Bunny and Noren took charge of the actual cutting, using their wrist knives to saw off braids and tails right behind the ears, which made the first-years all look alike, their faces so round with short hair framing them.
There had been more debate about whether or not the girls ought to go back to braids once their hair grew out, until the gunvaer thought to ask Henad Tlennen, who has been promoted to captain of her own company. Bunny told me Henad said that braids are awkward to stuff up under helms unless you start the braid at the top of the head, and that ended the debate. These girls will put their hair up in horsetails same as the boys when the time comes.
After the shearing was over, off they went to their first inspection, as we all returned to duty. I overheard a conversation among some of the staff who had turned up to watch.
Vnat from the kitchens asked, “What about bathing?” She sounded scandalized in that false, coy way she uses.
Sage, walking in front of me, said shortly, “They’ll bathe together, half an hour before the rest of the academy.”
Vnat looked mock horrified, but even she dares not argue with a queen’s personal runner, then Halrid from the masonry said, “Give them a week of staring and they won’t care anymore.”
“That’s what the queen thinks. She found records going back to the days of Inda-Harskialdna that say the same,” Sage put in, still in that squelching voice.
Liet from the buttery (as opposed to Liet-Runner) cut past Vnat to say, “If they start that way they’ll grow up to it.”
Vnat started flouncing. I suspect it was at Halrid, who wasn’t looking at her. She said, “If that were true, why haven’t we been bathing together all along?”
Then Old Chelis from the potters said, “My gran once told me that it was because women wanted a place of their own for a space. Everything else in our lives has men tramping through. But go ahead to the men’s side, Vnat, if you’ve a mind. There’d be a lot less foolishness of a morning on our side if you did.” And what a look she sent, every bit as fierce as the queen’s gaze.
Quill endured four months of tramping about Mt. Skytalon, mapping both animal and morvende trails in a world of white marked only by stone. He pushed northward, down the back side of the mountain, the terrain changing to lush woods; bits of green excited him, as a thousand streams trickled downward.
He took off the black coat and carried it folded over his gear bag. Going down was so much easier than climbing, now that his feet and legs had been conditioned to mountaineering. But he was aware that behind him he still had the second half of the pass to go, easily the most dangerous.
He stopped long enough to make himself a Destination beside a likely-looking stream, bound a transfer to it, then started the long trip back up the mountain.
At least it was summer—though the higher he reached, the cooler, then colder, the air. When he passed the tree
line again, and had to resume the deep, careful breathing he’d learned during the long winter atop Skytalon, snow still lay in shaded crevasses and folds. The landscape without snow seemed so very different, he had to stop and sketch landmarks.
At last he reached the top and looked down once more on the pass. By now, he hoped enough time had passed to diminish any interest in pursuit of the bovine scribe who had disappeared at the East Tower. His description might still be on the ‘lookout’ list, but the stream of faces coming down the southern pass since the snows melted surely had dulled the most fervent of scrutiny.
Even so, he’d better change his appearance.
Marlovan plains riders didn’t cut their hair because their ancestors hadn’t. That was about as far as a sense of fashion existed in Marlovan Iasca. The rest of the continent sported a variety of fashions in hair, from close-clipped to elaborate long-hair styles with color and decoration.
He worked his way over the mountaintop past West Tower, and then along narrow animal trails parallel to the pass; by now they were second nature.
At last he spotted the fortress called West Outpost lying at the extreme west end of the pass. West Outpost was as large as the fortress at the other end of the pass. He lay on the edge of a cliff, mapping the traps visible from above the massive new castle. Most of these traps he suspected were invisible from below. They were lethal, masses of rock held by iron-reinforced ramps that could be loosed by the cut of an axe on the ropes holding them.
Now all he had left was get inside to finish his survey. Just as well—the summer sun this low had dried up the smaller streams, and his two flasks had little more than a drop or two left in them.
As he contemplated the best way to get inside the castle, his gaze caught on a party of boisterous young lords wearing layers of robes over flowing pants divided for riding, their long hair braided elaborately with jewels, and jewels at their ears. Whatever their reason for coming down the pass, they would serve as camouflage. Worn open, Fox’s long black winter coat looked suitably dashing. Quill could cast an illusion over his grimy clothes, conveying the impression of layers of silk. He divided up his filthy hair into a multitude of braids and tied it back with a string given the illusion of a jeweled silk clip, then made his way down an animal trail, avoiding the traps he’d spotted above.
Casting an illusion about himself to drive the eye elsewhere, he moved from rock to rock down the difficult slope to the floor of the pass. There was nothing he could do about the stale smell of sweat in his clothes, but he counted on the lack of bathing facilities in the pass to render all the travelers much the same.
At the floor of the pass, he calculated his moment, dropped the stone illusion and slipped among the stream of summer traffic, then worked his way up the line until he was trailing the unheeding party of young lords. As they shuffled through the east gate, he assumed a vacuous expression as he made up a story about being a prospective horse-trader from Brenn on the Elgaer Strait.
His story was unneeded. Traffic coming down from the east got little more than the most cursory of glances. All the muscle was clearly gathered at the western gate, the castle walls, and the two towers overlooking the western plains that formed the eastern limit of Marlovan Iasca.
Quill followed the crowd into the east entrance courtyard, listening to the hubbub of voices as stewards bawled directions. The old inn was still operating, but it was clear that the Adranis had taken it over. As Quill moved quietly from one group to another, he surveyed his surroundings, mentally compiling a list of the overlapping defenses, all focused westward toward Marlovan Iasca.
Quill noted the general layout of the ground level, and headed for the nearest stairway, his plan to feign being lost. He’d bumble his way upward in order to count the sentries and estimate the number of defenders. Two posted guards at the foot of the stair waved off travelers heading that way. Quill hung back and waited, shifting behind this or that group until he saw a gangling teen wearing a close-fitting black jacket similar to the guards: a runner.
This young runner ducked between the travelers as he headed for the stair. Here he paused, holding out something on the palm of his hand. Both guards bent to examine it, then one of the guards even gave a cursory glance at the chalk tablet the runner carried in his other hand before letting him pass.
Very tight security.
Quill faded back, contemplating this challenge. Nearly ten months all told. He was very nearly done with everything the king had required of him—except the west end of this castle, facing the plains of Halia. He had to get up there, then out to survey the defense outside the gates, but he hadn’t seen what sort of badge or tally the runner had carried.
He considered an illusory copy of a guard, then just as quickly dismissed it. Illusion was so flimsy. A single searching look, a blink, and the magic vanished.
A bell clanged. Watch change. Shouts and a surge of motion as guards shouldered their way through the travelers. A couple of younger guards had clearly been detailed to keep the travelers moving toward the old inn. So far, Quill had managed to shift from one group of arrivals to another, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed him lurking about.
Then a pack of guards thundered down the stairway and streamed off to the right toward what had to be a mess hall, judging by the savory scents mixing with the general smells of horse, wool, and people. Another troop queued up, waiting to pass up the steps.
It was late in the afternoon, getting later. Shadows thickening in corners. Quill backed to the gloom under the stair, glanced out at the chattering guards gathering to go upstairs, and quickly drew illusory shadows around himself. Again, as long as no one peered at the shadowy blur, he should go unnoticed.
It was not a great solution, especially as he had to fight instinct and not gaze into anyone’s face. Sight and instinct are so fast. One can be subliminally aware of being watched, prompting a searching scan that would notice the blur of illusion. And break it.
Quill waited until the stream thinned, then the night watch waiting to go to duty began swarming upward. Now was the most dangerous part: Quill chose a gap between a pair talking about some wager and a threesome complaining about an expected rainstorm and, matching step, slid among them.
His heart hammered. The two at the bottom of the stair looked at the flashed badges of the first pair—and both pairs of eyes blinked past him to the three behind him. Quill suppressed a sigh of relief. He still had to get upstairs without anyone bumping into him.
Up and around...a landing. He slipped to the side as the rest passed upward. No one checking badges on this level—it was warriors only. Quill worked his way down the hall, checking doors: locked, locked, locked, open...empty, except for barrels and stacks, stashed around...a transfer Destination.
He stared at the tiled pattern on the floor, his heart beating hard. Every one of these towers had a Destination, presumably so that their commander could come and go by magic transfer.
Quill backed out and drifted down the hall until he reached the second landing. Here he paused in the shadow between the doorway and the curve of the stair reaching upward, when among the general noise of voices echoing down a familiar note reached him and he froze.
A laugh—familiar—
Another, deeper voice, “...and we’ve been careful never to call them prisoners, as you ordered, but they’re clamoring for justice all the same.”
“By all means!” Thias Elsarion. “Let us get them sorted and on their way.”
“Very well, my lord. We’ve been keeping them in the south tower, down the hall the other way....
Quill backed into the storage room with the transfer tiles, his fingers tightening on the transfer token he carried.
Footsteps approached—and passed on by, as Deep Voice embarked on what sounded like a list of the prisoners and their claimed identities. Quill slipped out and up the stairs, which gave onto a smaller landing with supplies loaded between the archways.
A pair of sen
tries approached, and Quill ducked behind a basket of lanterns, watching sideways as the sentries turned and started back.
Quill peered out after them, a splat of cold rain catching him in the face as he hastily estimated the number of sentries. He tried glancing below, but the rain and the sinking sun vanishing into clouds obscured the courtyard. If anyone looked his way they might see the rain blurring.
He wedged himself in between two stacks of baskets. Here, he fished out one flask, and emptied the last of the water into his mouth, less than a sip. All it did was fire his thirst the more.
He thrust the flask back inside his coat pocket, then, keeping his transfer token tightly gripped in his fingers, resigned himself to a long, thirsty wait until well into the late watch, when eyes were weariest.
Hours trickled slowly by, then the midnight watch clanged once, startling Quill out of an uncomfortable half-sleep; his neck shot pangs down his back as he forced himself upright. He stilled as the late watch marched out, replacing the tired, shuffling sentries. Now he had another wait to endure, until these fresh sentries began to tire.
Quill balanced on one foot then the other to fight against sleep, thirst, and waves of exhaustion. When he couldn’t trust himself any longer, he slid out, noting the position of the sliver of moon in a hazy sky. Good. Dawn was three hours off, the weariest part of night.
He renewed the illusion around himself and eased out from his cramped position, wincing at the pins and needles shooting up from his feet. He made his way along, counting stationary as well as moving sentries, then mentally multiplying by three, for three watches. Add staff...that was an army in itself.
He worked his way toward the western wall to figure out how to get down. A glance over the wall revealed a broad courtyard between the castle wall and the outer gate. Perfectly flat, but too uniform in color to be stone tiles.
Well, he had to get down there anyway, and get to the outer wall to complete his mission. Slowly, carefully, he made his way past sentries, ducking into shadows and forcing his attention away as they paced within arm’s reach.
Time of Daughters II Page 36