“Yes.”
“I think it’s time to see exactly what lies ahead. I want you to scout. You’re the only one who understands the language.”
“You mean, if I get captured.”
“Don’t get captured,” Connar said, amused.
Unsaid—but thought by both—was the equal chance Quill would be shot, which would be its own sort of information. Quill said nothing because there was nothing to say. He’d been given an order.
Connar rose and walked back to the center of camp, and sat down again with his captains. The runners returned to their fire and resettled around Quill like an ungainly flock of birds.
Ghost’s youngest runner said, “What was that?”
“I’m to scout ahead.”
“Shit!” the runner exclaimed—softly. “I wanted to scout. I offered.”
“I speak Adrani.” Quill was peripherally aware of Fish sitting impassively nearby with some mending. Quill had discovered during the journey up the pass that it wasn’t just him Fish avoided speaking to. He was silent with everyone, except for immediacies like “We’re camping now,” and “Where’s the flour bag?”
The others glanced his way, and the subject dropped—before Fish, anyway.
Quill rode out as soon as the light began to lift. He did not expect to be shot off his horse. If the Adranis picked him off, they gained absolutely nothing, whereas if they captured him, they had to have a book’s length of questions about what was coming, what Connar wanted. What the Marlovan king wanted.
What worried him was the possibility that Elsarion would be among whatever force waited at the other end, and that he would instantly recognize Quill.
Half a day ahead of the rest of the Winter Company, he stopped to water his horse at the stream running alongside the road. He perched on a rock and took out his notecase, pen, and ink. He caught up some water to add to the ink, which he knew would write a paler and paler gray.
He sent off one line to Lineas, waited, and...nothing.
He rode on, over the next two days evolving various plans contingent on seeing Elsarion, mages, whether the Adranis shot on sight, called threats, or even a truce.
It all went out of his head when he rounded the great headland that was the start of the pass from the east side, overlooking East Outpost, and behind it the plains of Elsarion.
His horse picked up his tension and turned in a circle, ears flicking and flattening. Though he knew himself out of range of arrows, he felt exposed. Of course there were countless field glasses trained on him from the uncounted sentries atop the towers and castle walls, helms gleaming in the sun.
If they wanted to be nasty, they could have put Destinations all about, to which they could transfer warriors with crossbows. Of course these warriors would have to recover from the transfer, during which he could vanish....
He shrugged off useless thoughts, scanned more slowly, then clucked to the horse and rode back as fast as he could.
The Winter Company and Ku Halir lancers were a day behind him. It was late afternoon when they met up.
Connar called a halt.
Quill rode to him and saluted.
“Your report?” Connar said.
“The castle has roughly twice what we saw at West Outpost. They line every surface—they wanted to be seen. Camped beyond it, covering the entire slope into the plain, is the royal Adrani army.”
Stick whistled; Jethren let out a guffaw. Ghost said nothing, just leaned his forearm on his knee as his horse nosed the ground for promising rootlets. Next to him, Manther Yvanavayir watched, pale eyes unblinking, and on his other side, Stick Tyavayir squinted skyward, watching a raptor riding an air current as sun struck ruddy highlights in his dark red tangle of hair.
“How many?” Connar said to Quill.
“I would estimate between five and seven thousand. At that distance, numbers are difficult to guess. Last, there was a white flag at the tallest tower.”
Connar raised his brows, turning to his captains. “Five thousand! Quite an honor, eh?”
The captains took this as permission to speak.
“We can take them,” Jethren stated. “Five hundred against five thousand? I like those odds.”
“I don’t,” Stick said flatly, not looking his way.
“More to the point. The king never ordered us to invade Enaeran Adrani.” Ghost spat road dust to the side. “Our orders, before Convocation, were to get justice from Elsarion.” He also didn’t glance Jethren’s way.
Connar’s lips parted. Quill’s gut churned at the avidness he saw in those blue eyes. But he regarded Stick with a meditative air, then said, mildly enough, “We may or may not be able to take them, but we couldn’t hold whatever we took. And as you say, Fath, we don’t have orders.” His smile widened and he addressed Quill. “Let’s see what this white flag is about. You lead. This time as interpreter. We’ll camp at Threefold Falls.” He tapped the waterfall on the much-folded, grimy map.
When they rode down to the headland the next morning, there was, if anything, twice again the number that Quill had reported, though most of the additions were spectators who had climbed the hills below the bluff, and perched—many with blankets and baskets of provisions—prudently out of arrowshot, but with a grand view of any prospective bloody spectacles.
The evening before, Quill had pulled his dark blue royal runner’s robe from the bottom of his gear bag, stale-smelling and wrinkled, letting it air all night. The Marlovans had polished helms and boots, brushed and dusted their coats, and rode in strict formation, Connar at the front with two great banners behind him, the long yellow swallow-tails hanging from the blue cloth fluttering in the breeze.
Adranis stood shoulder to shoulder along the walls and towers, each with bows, arrows aimed at them.
Connar lifted a hand, and Quill rode out from behind the banners, holding a white pennon that had been stitched from three linen shirts whose seams had been unpicked and then resewn together for the purpose.
Someone on the wall of the castle lifted a hand, and the archers lifted their arrows, keeping them notched.
Quill sighed inwardly as he began to walk his horse down the middle of the rutted road. He sighed again when he got close enough to be fairly certain that that slim, narrow-shouldered figure in black and gold at the center of the wall directly over the gate was the Duchas of Elsarion, Thias’s sister.
If he could see her features, she could see his, and he knew he resembled his father. But if she recognized him, she gave utterly no sign.
Behind Quill, Connar halted his army at the very edge of arrowshot—expertly calculated. A silent challenge.
Quill rode forward alone, carrying the limp, wrinkled white flag on one of Jethren’s spears. It smelled of stale sweat in the heavy summer air.
A herald with a booming voice called sonorously in Adrani, and then Sartoran, “Elsarion is currently held by Prince Valdon-Rassael Shagal, while the Elsarion family is under sanction. I am to convey the orders from the king that entry into Elsarion will be considered an act of war.” He paused. “Do you understand, or shall I find a translator who speaks one of your tongues?”
Ah, an insult. Quill answered in Court Sartoran, “The King of Marlovan Iasca demands justice. He sent us to bring Lord Mathias Alored Elsarion back to face trial for capital crimes against the kingdom. I can provide a list of said crimes as well as witness names.”
A whisper and rustle went through the nobles at the top of the wall over the gate, noticeable by the gilt on their armor and the plumes in their helms. The only one who remained still was the single figure in black and gold.
Then she spoke herself, her fluting voice carrying. “Your accusations come too late. The Wood Guild in four kingdoms led the names in a petition against my brother. Justice has already been carried out by our king’s will. Thias Alored Elsarion sits in the Garden of Time.”
Connar had given Quill answers to various demands or threats, but no one had foreseen this twist.
Quill turned his horse and trotted up the raked gravel path to where Connar sat in the middle of his captains, the banners flanking him.
Connar said, “What was that long speech?”
“The herald said it all in their language and in Sartoran. It comes down to their king having sent a prince to occupy the Elsarion territory. They say that the Wood Guild brought accusations against Thias Elsarion. The king passed sentence by placing him in a Garden of Time.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s also known as a Garden of Shame.” And when Connar made no reaction, Quill explained. “A Garden of Shame is for lesser criminals than nobles, usually located in the middle of cities as a reminder to obey the law. Sartoran mages put a stone spell on the judged person, which wears off after the stipulated time. People might get a couple years, five, ten. Nobles, especially those who run afoul of the monarch, are kept in the more secluded Gardens of Time. I’m told that a hundred years is usual when nobles have put together armies but aimed them elsewhere than at the home government, then got themselves into trouble. It’s a diplomatic move to halt a war. Nobles who run against the king are usually executed.”
“No doubt if Elsarion had won against us, this same king would have showered him with gold?”
“History is full of examples of kings turning a blind eye to their troublemakers taking their troubles elsewhere. Thias Elsarion is related to the Adrani king, and he kept his depredations against us, the handy barbarians, rather than riding against his own country, so the king clearly didn’t think it necessary to put him to death.”
Connar’s eyes narrowed. “Assuming it’s true. Can we demand they undo whatever it is they did?”
“It can’t be undone.”
Connar glanced to the side, as if thousands of eyes were not fixed on him, hands tight on weapons. “The Wood Guild here has that much power?” he commented.
“When it’s convenient, I expect. Kings find ways around them when it’s convenient—such as paying them off, whereupon the Wood Guild brings seedlings to replace whatever was cut down to make warships, or the like.”
Connar slewed around, shoulders tight, his expression one of superficial amusement. “How do you know all this? Ah. While we were running wargames in the field, you were reading books about the Wood Guild.”
“Yes,” Quill said.
Connar uttered a short laugh, then kneed his horse, and rode down toward the gate. Quill quickly followed.
It was a risky move, but not a mad one. They had to know who he was. But then, they would also know that the Marlovan king would certainly send the entire kingdom over the mountains if someone shot his son under a truce flag.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Connar shouted up to the Duchas, and Quill translated it into Sartoran.
The Duchas looked down expressionlessly. “I thought you might wish to corroborate the truth of the king’s justice.” She turned her head, beckoning to someone.
A woman in a white and silver robe stepped up, the military people backing to either side.
“Who’s that?” Connar muttered without turning his head.
“The white and silver usually means a high-ranking mage from Sartor,” Quill answered in an undervoice.
The woman’s lips moved, and she tossed something metallic down to the ground before their horses’ forehooves.
The animals’ ears flicked, but they were too well trained to do anything more than twitch.
The woman made a gesture, and an image appeared in the air.
“This is a captured image from the Garden of Time in Nente, our royal capital.”
Beautifully kept trees showed the green of full spring, bordered around by flowers. It was a secluded garden, in which what looked like stone statues could dimly be made out—except for one in the foreground.
It showed a tall, handsome young man with long hair flowing over a simple robe. His head was bent, his hands hanging at his sides, his expression turned inward. Everything in shades of gray.
“That looks like the drawing of Elsarion,” Connar observed. “Is that a carving?”
“No, it’s he. A stone spell is just that, it turns you into stone. Or nearly into stone. I’m told you’re still alive, taking a breath a year, or some such.” Quill suppressed a grimace.
Connar’s gaze went from that solitary image to the Duchas on the wall. “That’s not our justice.”
Quill translated.
“War,” she said, “is never justice. What my brother failed to learn is that every war sets back civilization.”
After Quill translated that, Connar turned his head and finally looked at him. “They think we’re stupid.”
Quill said softly, “No, they think we’re barbarians. There’s a difference,” and at the disbelief in Connar’s curled lip and raised brows, Quill said, “Five thousand differences. They’re not certain they can intimidate us militarily with ten times our number—and no doubt more crossing country as fast as they can—so they’re trying by other means. I’m very certain at least half those up there know some Marlovan, if not Iascan.”
“Then why didn’t that loudmouth up there use....” His mouth thinned. “Right.”
He stared back up at the Duchas, who seemed sufficiently moved to add, “Tell your king that Elsarion is required by royal command to pay penalties for a generation. We are also required to fund a guild-appointed council to restore the travelers’ rests on this side of the pass, before the guilds send representatives over to negotiate with the guilds in your kingdom, that we might reestablish disrupted trade.”
Her voice was ice-cold and controlled, but Quill could see what Thias’s exploits had cost her. That huge army out there, no doubt quartered at Elsarion’s expense—local businesses disrupted as people had probably fled in expectation of a barbarian incursion—the Elsarions would likely be beggared for the foreseeable.
Connar shifted slightly. About to give a command? No one person ought to be able to drive so many to death—and yet the argument ought to be with the followers who chose to obey that command. Impulse drove Quill to speak. “Elsarion played the game of kings and lost. This is their version of what happens to losers.”
Connar shot him a slack-lidded, speculative glance. Quill shut up.
As the mage’s illusion faded into nothing, Connar peered up under his hand toward the figures now silhouetted against the rising sun.
Quill held his breath, intensely aware of every sound—the shift and clop of his horse’s hoof, a snort from one of the banner carriers’ mounts—and a quiet conversation among the row of captains behind the banners, a row that included Manther, still wearing that invisible chevron.
“...feel like I can breathe,” Manther was saying. “That turd is as good as dead. Not running around free.”
“King will sing us,” Ghost Fath said.
King. Quill saw the word impact Connar in the tightening of his hand on the rein, and in the nervous shift of his mount.
Thank you, Fath, Quill thought.
Connar blinked. Turned his horse. Raised his hand and opened his palm toward the pass.
The banner bearers turned their horses. The captains as well. The column waited, and as the captains rode to either side of them, they fell in, right and left in perfect order. Quill fell in behind them.
As they passed under the bluff, the picnickers cheated of the horror of ghastly sights leaned out to wring the last entertainment by staring, many commenting loudly.
One in a cook’s apron relished each sign of barbarity, counting them like trophies to her friend. “They really do have hair on those helms! So disgusting!”
Her friend sent pebbles skittering down the slope as she peered out. “If I wore knives like that I’d cut up my ankles.”
“Those flags—”
“The metal links—d’ya think they wear ‘em next to the skin?”
“I hate to think of the chafing, which would be a crime with those pretty thighs. Mmm! Myself, I wouldn’
t toss that black-haired piece of work out of my hammock for eating with his fingers.”
“Nah, I’ll take the big blonde with the shoulders and the jaw. Might be as stupid as a rock but I bet he’d be fun in the hammock.” Her voice was amplified by the stone on the other side of the bluff.
Quill’s gaze shifted from Connar to Jethren, both unaware of their physical attributes being discussed loudly right overhead, and smothered the flutter of hilarity behind his ribs.
As the castle slid out of sight behind the bluff, and they started up the first dogleg of the pass, Ghost and Manther talked softly, using Hand intermittently. Stick, riding behind them, cracked jokes at Thias Elsarion’s expense. The two captains burst into laughter, and Manther briefly smiled at the image of him crowned by a hundred years of bird shit.
Connar listened without turning his head.
They, and their riding captains, as well as the lancers, clearly regarded the whole as a victory. There’s a difference. He gnawed inwardly at the inescapable fact that so much of what was termed truth was not. The victory Connar craved was Elsarion’s bleeding body at his feet, his blood dripping off Connar’s steel.
He didn’t care what Jethren thought; he was very likely Hauth’s mouthpiece as well as a bootlicker, though useful. Ghost and Stick didn’t give a spit for dolphin clan claims. They were loyal to the king, to the kingdom, to Connar. And no one could ever say that either of them was weak. If they called this travesty a victory, then others would say the same. Call it a victory, and it’s a victory.
There’s a difference. What did Quill Montredavan-An call it? Fury surged in Connar once more and he told himself savagely that it didn’t matter what Quill thought. His reason for existence was to carry out orders. Not to give them.
But he couldn’t stop brooding as they rode westward up the pass, until he reached a conclusion he didn’t like. It was that report Quill had written, carefully setting out the cost of a war against what might happen. He’d foreseen pretty much everything.
In fact, though those royal runners might call it something different, Quill Montredavan-An was no stranger to strategic thinking. That and his easy familiarity with the Sartoran language were all state matters.
Time of Daughters II Page 48