Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  When he emerged into the rain-swept courtyard, his eye caught on an unexpected sight, Marlovans with drawn steel ringing a man leading a horse and cart, with a pair of sturdy children huddling fearfully close to him. All three had hair cropped behind their ears, making them look round-headed, their clothes short jackets, trousers, leggings, low shoes.

  Quill heard snatches of conversation, one of the Riders speaking in the overly loud voice that the monolingual often use to those who don’t speak their language, as if volume somehow replaced vocabulary. The carter responded in a very thick, nearly garbled Iascan accent.

  Quill turned away, sniffing for the location of the mess hall in hopes of what would obviously be a very late breakfast, when Stick Tyavayir called, “Royal runner!”

  Quill turned back, his stomach grumbling in protest. He actually had an appetite. He was definitely recovering. Suppressing a sigh, he joined the group.

  Stick, who was trying to remember Quill’s name, said, “This man speaks some sort of Iascan, I think. But it’s a kind I don’t understand. He was picked up as a spy. What’s he saying about where he comes from, and where he was going?”

  Spy? Quill glanced again at the two frightened children, the man’s arm curved protectively around them, and approached, breakfast forgotten for now.

  The ring of armed guards parted, and Quill stepped up to the cart. “Where are you from?” he asked in Iascan, doing his best to sound non-threatening.

  “I go to take cheeldress...prentess....” The accent really was garbled, in what seemed to veer between two dialects as the man described heading for the river to pick more leddas, which he pronounced leedah.

  “Leddas,” Quill exclaimed, and most of the ring of watchers inadvertently glanced down at their blackweave boots. “You were going to pick leddas at the river?”

  A violent bobbing of the head. “Besst leedah, besst leedah.” The man stabbed a finger into the air, then added more garble out of which Quill picked something about one of the children being apprenticed out.

  But the changing nature of the man’s accent bothered Quill. On impulse, he said in Bar Regren, “Which of the children?”

  The man’s eyes flickered, his jaw tightened, then his face blanked in assumed confusion.

  Quill turned to the nearest child, and said in Bar Regren, “Are you prentice?” He knew his accent was bad, his grammar probably wrong as he was drawing on Iascan for that. He’d only studied the language for a couple of months in order to help Lineas and had not used it since.

  But he could see terror in the little face before him. The child turned its head—with that short hair and the similar clothing, there was no telling if these were boys, girls, or one of each—and Quill opened his hand as he said to Stick, “He seems to be a shoemaker, heading to pick a fresh supply of leddas, but he took a side trip to apprentice out one of these children.”

  Stick said, mildly enough, “That might be why we found him heading south, toward us, and not north toward the river.”

  Quill remained silent. So far he hadn’t seen any sign that Connar or his captains welcomed unsought opinions. At an open-handed gesture from Stick, releasing him, he resumed his quest for a meal, to be stopped again as Connar stepped out of a doorway. “What was that you said at the end?” So he’d been listening from a distance.

  “I asked him a question in Bar Regren. The child, too.”

  “They didn’t answer.” Connar’s words were not quite a question, more observation.

  “No. But I think they understood me.” Quill heard his own voice, and wondered if saying that would cause a summary end to what might be innocent individuals. “They might be afraid to be understood for any number of reasons,” he added in haste.

  “I know that.” Connar flicked up a hand, amused. “Go get something to eat. You’re no use to anyone looking like a walking corpse.” He laughed and passed on by.

  Quill continued on inside, reflecting that at least he should be able to leave soon. Connar didn’t seem to need him anymore. With a hard ride he could get to the royal city in time to speak to the king, and for the king to send someone to Connar with new orders before winter set in.

  The mess hall was empty, as this was mid-watch, but the kitchen had a bowl of leftover biscuits, and plenty of cheese and greens. Quill stuffed bread with both, wolfed it down gratefully, and then washed that down with coffee from freshly crushed and scalded beans—a luxury he suspected followed Connar around, though it didn’t seem the prince allowed himself many others.

  On his way out to locate the bath, Quill encountered tall, pale-eyed Fish Pereth pushing a weapons rack. They’d had nothing to do with one another beyond the passing of orders back and forth since the days Fish was dismissed from royal runner training, but in recent years Fish’s antagonism seemed to have dissipated to indifference. Testing that, Quill asked, “What did they do with the carter and his children?”

  Fish paused, his expression difficult to read. “Let ‘em go.” After a slight hesitation, he added, “There was old leddas caught between the boards in the cart.” Then he leaned into the rack and trundled by.

  Quill sensed he was missing hidden meaning, then it struck him that the leddas in the cart boards might have bought the man his life.

  Quill exerted himself to avoid building assumptions on that guess, and continued on, locating the bath, as usual in a basement where someone had diverted an underground stream. He stripped out of his clothes, palming his golden notecase from next to his skin and wrapping it in his old shirt. After a fast bath, he dressed in the second set of royal runner clothes that Ventdor’s quartermaster had issued him, restashed the notecase inside his clean shirt, and dunked his clothes in the cleaning barrel, wrung them out, and hung them in the airing room to dry.

  Next, to find someplace out of the way in which to write to Lineas. But when he stepped outside the bath, there was Fish leaning against a horse post, where he could watch the entire court.

  “He’s waiting,” Fish said laconically, with a tip of his head toward the door on the other side of the court.

  Quill was waved past an army sentry and several waiting runners into a newly furbished room with little more than a desk covered with papers, and a few stools. In the middle of the desk lay the map he’d labored over so arduously—water-stained, blotched, wrinkled. The handwriting he’d had to thaw his fingers repeatedly to make as shaky as if he’d downed a jug of bristic before writing. Clearly Connar had not sent it on with his report, but maybe he’d had someone make a better copy to send to the king.

  Connar stood behind the table, the map before him. Flanking him to either side were Rooster Holdan, currently holding Tlen, Stick Tyavayir, Ghost Fath newly arrived, and a tall, husky pale-haired young man Quill didn’t recognize, who wore a single chevron on his sleeve. Not academy-trained, whoever he was.

  Connar looked up. “Quill. Talk to us about these traps.”

  “I told you everything I saw.”

  “You told us that there were traps cinched up by chains as well as ropes, with rocks piled on. I want to know more all the details you can remember. Including if you ever saw one tested.”

  “I didn’t, though I did see one being loaded.” Seeing their interest, Quill recollected lying on a boulder and peering down under a sky full of racing clouds as wind tore down the canyon below.

  The men had struggled with the rocks, as raptors wheeled above, watching. A strong buffet knocked someone into someone else, who dropped the boulder he’d toiled up the steep incline with. He danced out of the way before it could smash his feet, and everyone had stilled to watch the boulder bounce crazily down the hill, gathering smaller rocks in a general tumble until they crashed into a huge rock no one could have moved; it teetered, then fell, slamming into the hillside with a thump Quill felt under him, as the men shouted and whooped. Then someone cursed at them to get back to work before the coming storm.

  Connar and the others listened intently to this anecdote. Then Connar tu
rned to the big blond captain. “Jethren.”

  The man Quill didn’t recognize saluted and walked out without saying a word; a few heartbeats later his voice echoed off the stone walls, yelling orders.

  Connar asked a few more questions, until Quill began repeating himself. When he was done, he hesitated, aware of some current of tension he could sense but not define. Then he decided to speak—he certainly had the right. “I’d like to request leave.”

  Connar’s smile curled at the corners. “Do you need more R and R? We’ve tried not to load you with any duties.”

  Quill sensed he’d made a misstep. When in doubt, be plain. “Usually after grass runs we get a day or two of leave before new orders. My last day of liberty was over a year ago, and it was a single day after several months down south.” He heard himself shading from explaining to complaining, and shut up.

  Stick’s chin came down, and Ghost shifted his stance as he sent a questioning look at Connar. It was clear that they found his words reasonable.

  Connar, still smiling, said, “Take what you time need right here at Tlen. You’re excused from duty. You still look as if a good wind would blow you off your mount.”

  When the captains turned back to the map, Quill understood he’d been dismissed. But not released.

  He walked out, counting the days mentally since he’d first ridden into Connar’s camp. He moved unseeing as he calculated again. Even given his state, he was fairly certain of the number. Moreover, short of a blizzard, Connar’s runner ought to have reached the royal city within that number. Once the king sent new orders—surely he would—then Quill could ask again.

  He took the time to explore the castle complex. It was small, much of the wood so new it still smelled freshly sawed and oiled. Their company pretty much filled every space.

  Quill stationed himself in sight of both a door and a window in order to spot any comers, and wrote to Lineas, catching her up with a few words, then asking what she’d heard of the king’s reaction to his report.

  He sent it, forced himself through a Fox drill, then joined the others for the midday meal. No answer; by afternoon, still no answer. He tried to nap again, then rose and explored once more, using up time as the day wore on.

  South and west, in the royal city, Lineas had woken each day wondering if this one would bring Quill riding through the gates. Each night, her last thought was a hope for the morrow.

  At her release from duty that evening, she returned first thing to her room to check her notecase, and to her delight, found that Quill had written at last. Supper forgotten, she sat down at once to write back.

  A couple hours later, it was Quill’s turn for the leap of joy. He ran down to the airing room to fetch his clothing, knowing that no one would be there. The castle people usually retrieved freshly dried clothes on the way to the baths in the morning, then dunked the previous day’s and hung them up to be dry by the next morning.

  He shut the door and stood with his back against it, unfolded Lineas’s closely written note and held it directly under the lantern hanging on the hook.

  He tried to master everything at once, so strong was his yearning to know everything in her heart, to be there, to share his thoughts and hers. Words leaped out—king—baby Iris—jarls—queen.

  Forcing himself to slow down and read each word in the flickering light, he learned that Lineas no longer had instant access to the royal family. She mostly got her news from Vanadei, to whom she recommended he write for firsthand royal news. What she could report was that Connar’s runner had arrived sometime the week previous, and the news had made its way to the royal runners’ roost that Quill had indeed made it back, and had reported to Prince Connar. The king had been going around very pleased, having issued orders that any runners from Connar be passed to him instantly, no matter what he was doing, including the middle of the night.

  Quill looked up at the candle, stunned. Had he truly failed? Useless question. He’d write to Vanadei, who, as Noddy’s first runner, would surely have heard what the king said about his report, if Noddy didn’t share it directly.

  He read Lineas’s note through a third time, slowly, to take in the little things. She was well, the royal castle peaceful. Reluctantly Quill destroyed the note, dashed off a quick query to Vanadei, then a longer reply to Lineas.

  He was halfway through that when he received a short reply from Vanadei:

  This has to be brief. We’re on the road to East Garrison. There was no report written in your hand, only the one that Connar wrote out, detailing what you found in the pass, and promising a plan by the turn of the year.

  Quill leaned back against the door, sick with fury.

  Connar had not sent his carefully written report.

  Of course he hadn’t.

  Quill tried to breathe out the rage, recognizing it was all the stronger because he’d been thoroughly outmaneuvered. He’d been taught to take the long view, and here he’d thought he had. But he hadn’t, or rather he had, but Connar had taken a much wider view. As he looked back, he could see it so clearly, beginning with Connar’s We won’t disappoint them. His smile of anticipation.

  Maybe he believed that tearing up the pass and killing everyone in the way until he reached Elsarion had to be done before Elsarion chose the time as well as the terrain. And Quill was equally certain the jarls had made a lot of martial noise at Convocation. But surely Elsarion could be choked off at the western end of the pass more efficiently than forcing an army up the pass from this end?

  Whatever the motivation, Connar wanted this war. He’d been planning for it. Who’d know better how the king would waver, presented with those carefully noted details?

  So Connar had spread a net to bring Quill in, to make certain he heard the report first. He probably spent that night rewriting it, using only the parts that he felt would support his strategic thinking.

  Quill breathed out again, pinching his fingers between his brows. All right, he’d made a serious error. There might still be time to rectify it somehow. Meanwhile, though Connar was the representative of the king, he was still a single person. Stick Tyavayir, Ghost Fath, and the rest of them were united behind the idea of carrying war up the pass. Quill would find no help there. Maybe he could get Vanadei to share the report with Noddy, and convince him to take it to the king and queen. Only how to get it to them without revealing the magic notecases?

  He would put it to Camerend—and begin with sending him a copy, as near as he could reproduce it.

  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was something.

  As soon as Jethren and his three ridings, scouts, and runners were safely out of sight of the castle walls, Jethren called for a halt.

  “We’re being sent away again,” the youngest of the runner protested, his freckled face crimson with fury.

  Jethren silenced him with a look. “I told you we’d be tested. And we were. But we proved to Gannan and the First Lancers that our training, our real training, is as good as theirs. Better.”

  No one argued with that. They’d spent their lives since earliest boyhood enduring two kinds of training—that which everyone at Olavayir got, and then the much tougher secret training mandated by Mathren, the true king’s grandfather, who had been trained by the great Anderle Vaskad.

  “Now we’re going to prove it to the true king. Prove it by action, not by bragging. Here’s the orders. This is not being sent away, this is a task. When the true king first told me, I sent Sleip and Punch to scout. They found us a white-stone ruin three days’ ride south, in the higher hills west of Sindan-An. We’re going to work on the top of those hills until we learn how to bring down the side of a mountain. Smash that ruin out of existence, a big enough landslide to be seen from the next valley.”

  At that news, everyone except pale-haired Moonbeam, Jethren’s first runner, sent up a cheer. Moonbeam grinned, a toothy, savage rictus in his scarred face that caused several to look away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Quill only had the laza
retto to himself for one more night. The next day he was joined by a Rider with a spectacular cold, then by a runner who caught that cold, following which the irascible old medic—by far the oldest person in Tlen—forced everyone to drink a vile concoction whose main flavor was lemon peel. This included Connar.

  A week of that, and the colds vanished. Or if people hid their symptoms, at least there were no more rattling coughs.

  By the end of that week, Quill had been shifted over the stable with the other runners. He’d begun exercising with them, and when he could find a secluded space, doing his Fox drills. When he could find time and a sufficiently private place, Quill began sending Camerend as close a reproduction of his report as he could remember, bit by bit.

  He tried not to think, because his thoughts chased around in circles of frustration at his failures. So he worked as hard as he could, then harder, ostensibly to recover his strength. The real goal was to work so hard he fell into bed each night and slept until morning.

  Every other night he still lay awake, his mind wheeling round and round: what he’d done wrong, what he’d said wrong, how he should have expressed himself. How might he still change things.

  At the beginning of the next week, he wrote to Lineas:

  ...I’ve been thinking about command, specifically obedience to command, being an act of will on the part of those who choose to follow orders. My own actions force me to consider that I’m no different than anyone else.

  I told you I’ve been given regular runner tasks around the castle, which helps pass the days. But this morning when I saddled a horse to take a ride to clear my head, two of Connar’s runners turned up to ride with me. No explanation, no threats either.

  Perforce I welcomed them on the ride, thinking that at least I might learn something useful from them once we were well out of earshot of the castle population. But the frigid wind whistling in our ears, the threat of clouds over the mountains—for the wind has finally changed east—drove us back early. They might not have spoken to me anyway. Connar’s runners are singular for their silence. As for their commander, Connar has not spoken to me since asking about the traps in the pass.