Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  Quill looked at Lineas, then at the tent wall.

  “What?” Rat asked. “Something wrong with that?”

  Quill said after a lengthy pause, “Are these Connar-Laef’s orders?”

  Rat pursed his lips. No one spoke, and Lineas was aware of the easy murmur of chatter around the campfire some fifty paces off. The snort of a horse. The sough of wind in trees.

  Rat’s brow furrowed. He spoke slowly, “You’re saying without saying that Connar doesn’t like anyone acting without his orders. I know that. He was the same in the academy. I was going to tell him, of course, when we meet up at Old Faral. Thought I’d save him time. He’d be sending scouts, sure.”

  Quill sat back. If Rat put it just like that, everything should be fine.

  Rat saw the easing of his expression, and though he didn’t say anything, he was considering that the next morning, as the two departed.

  He said nothing outside of the flow of orders as the camp broke and they began riding. After a time, he waved the “ride east” command, and the column broke into twos and threes.

  He trusted all his company. They were people he’d chosen. But some subjects were by their nature a burden. Definitely anything to do with kings and upper command. When he was satisfied that everyone’s attention was on their pass-the-boring-ride chatter, he let his horse slow until he was riding next to Plum.

  A glance, and when Rat tightened his thighs to signal the animal to pick up the pace, Plum rode beside him.

  Rat had learned long ago how much space was needed to avoid being overheard.

  “Plum, here’s what happened in the tent last night.” He gave a fairly exact account, then said, “Quill traveled with Connar for two years. Those royal runners are more tight-lipped than anybody else. He was definitely warning me.”

  “About?” Plum widened his eyes. Long and lanky, with a strong jaw, Plum was a lot like Rat in temperament as well as outlook. “Seems to me, those orders are good. Anybody would give ‘em. You’ll report ‘em. Everything the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Right.” Rat idly ran his gloved thumb along the ridge of the horse’s neck. The mount’s head came up as Rat said, “Here’s the thing. I was thinking ahead, see. I know there’s going to be trouble. It’s a matter of when, and if Demeos and Ryu brought back some princess from Sartor, it can only mean they have, or are trying to get, backing from Sartor to run their rebellion.”

  Plum jerked a shoulder up. “Jarlan’s been on about that since we lost the north, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, no surprises there. So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s timing. I was thinking, if they do something soon, well, why not have the garrisons on alert and ready to ride. Maybe even on maneuvers close by, see, so if word comes, then it’s days and not weeks of hard riding, just to arrive maybe too late, like we did for the Senelaecs.”

  “Right.” Plum breathed the word.

  “The thing is, it takes time to for even the fastest runners. Then more time to assemble men and supplies. I learned that hard when coming to defend Ku Halir. So I was going to send someone to alert them to be ready. Maybe even be wargaming near enough where they can drop everything and come in hot, saddle to saddle, if needed. Now...it seems a bad idea.”

  Plum said doubtfully, “But that’s what Connar would order, right? He’s a good commander, everybody says so.”

  “That he is,” Rat agreed, stroking the horse’s neck as he worked his way through the thicket of doubt. Connar was an excellent commander and an excellent warrior. But even back in their academy days....

  He scowled at the snowy ground. “That year in the academy, before I became a senior....”

  “You mean when he cheated? You told me he wasn’t completely wrong.”

  “I still think so. Not completely. If I’d had any way to weasel information ahead of those damned Bar Regren coming down out of their damn mountains, Cub Senelaec would be at home drinking wine punch today. It was...it was...how he had to win—and how he didn’t talk to anyone. Not even Noddy.”

  “Well, the Sierlaef wasn’t any good at command. Everybody said so,” Plum interjected reasonably.

  “But Connar didn’t talk to Stick or Ghost either. And nobody ever said they weren’t good at command.”

  “No argument there,” Plum said, patiently waiting for Rat to work through things they both knew in order to get to what bothered him.

  Rat prowled through memory, and caught up with Connar’s sudden, scathing blue glare. “That’s it. He doesn’t talk it out with anyone. Well, he’s good enough that I guess he doesn’t need to, like the rest of us. But he also hates it when someone acts outside of orders. Really hates it.”

  “Maybe that’s the way you get, being born a prince.”

  Though Rat didn’t think that was quite it, he said, “Maybe. What I’m getting at is, even sending an alert on a grass run takes time.” Rat pounded his thigh with a fist as he tried to articulate what was mostly instinct.

  At least one thing was inescapable: maps and distances. “Waiting until we meet up at the old Faral castle. . . And remember he’s never been south, so it’s conceivable he could get slowed up coming through the woods. Then waiting for him to send that order to the garrisons...well, it might be too late. But I’ve got no orders to send a runner to order the garrisons to ready for a ride. That’s command privilege.”

  Plum squinted at the snow lying smoothly to his right, tiny tips of hardy grasses sticking up. “So it seems to me you might send the alert to us.”

  “Us?” Rat slewed in his saddle. “You mean, the Noths?”

  “Sure. Most of us are in the army, so they can be trusted to keep tight. But we’re also Riders for half the families up the coast, and inland besides. If the jarls don’t squawk, seems to me it would be easier to arrange border games for defense practice, and the like. And those of us in the army can be blabbing at mess, and the like, and if their captains overhear and think, well, we might just do some southern maneuvers, then nobody’s done anything outside of orders, right?”

  “That’s good,” Rat said cautiously.

  “If nothing happens, then everybody goes home again and toasts a fun game. If it does, well, they’re in reach.”

  “That’s it,” Rat said, relieved. He examined the idea from every angle. The sun had moved two fingers in the sky before he turned up his palm decisively. “Let’s do it. I’ll send Cousin Itch back to Hesea, then around Toraca, Algaravayir, and over to your Noths with the Cassads. He can be trusted to keep tight. Say the right things. And he’s fast.”

  Plum turned up his palm, the two slowed until the loose column rejoined them, and when they stopped to water the animals and eat the midday meal, Itch Noth was sent back up the trail; anyone who noticed him assumed he was riding a report back to one of the garrisons.

  That same midday, at East Garrison, Connar reveled in walking on inspection as commander in chief. Everything was perfect in the way that meant utmost respect—he’d experienced enough inspections from the other side to recognize the signs of unspoken doubt, indifference, even resentment.

  There was none of that, but the gratification was alloyed once it was over, and the signal blown for a watch of liberty, as customary after a successful inspection.

  At once captains surrounded him to ask questions. The first was about the West Outpost battle, but hard on that came a sea of questions about Ku Halir. Everyone seemed to assume that he’d not only foreseen that battle, but somehow predicted how it would go. While no one cared a whit about how Connar managed to cross mountains and close the pass before getting to West Outpost.

  He hid his reaction, of course, but instinctively shot a glance at Jethren, who kept his hand-picked riding of honor guards in strict formation at all times. Jethren’s tight lips and narrowed eyes reflected Connar’s feelings exactly.

  Connar said nothing. He still didn’t completely trust Jethren, though he used him. But that shared expression went
a ways toward reconciling Connar with Jethren—surprising the latter when he said in a far easier tone than ever before, “We’ll ride for Old Faral tomorrow.”

  Princess Seonrei turned her fan up in the gesture of Appeal to Enlightenment. “So tell me about the court rituals among the Marlovans.”

  Ryu uttered a crack of laughter. “Rituals?” He covered his lower face with his fan in the angle of amusement, his pale eyes peering over the gilt edge. “My barbarian so-called cousins don’t have rituals. They have duels, and even those....”

  “So what happens when you go north at New Year’s, then?”

  Demeos lifted a shoulder, his beautiful dark eyes languid. “I’ve never been. I prefer Sartor, to tell the truth. And civilization.”

  Ryu leaned over his brother’s shoulder. His long hair, dyed the pale blue of eggshells, matched his robe of peach silk over blue and cream, embroidered with cranes in flight amid kingsblossom. Loud hint, Seonrei thought. As if anyone didn’t know what the Colendi meant when they talked about “the crane dance.” And the kingsblossom was, at the least, in dubious taste.

  “Mother,” Ryu drawled. “Tell her.”

  Lavais’s drawl matched her son’s. “The Marlovans have no ritual that deserves the word. The throne does face southward, as is common enough in kingdoms outside of the quintessence of Sartor’s Star Chamber circular tree, but that is only because they took the royal city from the Iascans, who knew how to build a proper throne room. After their defeat the Iascans took away all the trappings when they abandoned their castles. The Marlovans were too ignorant to notice. Those have never been replaced. The throne room is all bare stone, save for war trophies and banners.”

  Ryu affected a shudder. “And you ask why we have not gone?”

  Seonrei wondered what the real reason was, but kept her attention on Lavais, who was very ready to disparage further. “There are no left and right orders of ranks. There is no proper hierarchy. There are benches facing the throne, on which the jarls sit with their captains, and their sons when old enough. Behind them sit the garrison commanders. And behind them, the guild chiefs. These last two are not permitted to speak. That is, unless there is time of war, then the garrison commanders may speak.”

  “No women?”

  “Only once. As it happens, in this reign. The first time in history.”

  “So the women are isolated, then?”

  “No, they write letters back and forth,” Lavais said. “And of course the current queen has been putting them into their army training. Most of them are already trained in barbarian ways. They ride the borders, shooting anyone who ventures over, I’m told.”

  Seonrei very much wanted to meet one of these women, but kept that to herself. By now she was fairly certain that if she were to ask Lavais to arrange a meeting, a suitably vulgar woman would be presented to her, coached in what to say.

  With that thought came the reflection that though Iaeth was investigating, Seonrei herself was sitting where Lavais wanted her, in a bejeweled prison, seeing only those Lavais wished her to see.

  That, at least, she could alter. “This land is quite beautiful even in winter,” she said. “I would very much like to see more. I’ll send my herald to trouble your steward about suitable conveyance.”

  “No trouble at all!” Lavais didn’t quite hide her surprise, but then she smiled, perceiving a way to turn the princess’s whim to advantage. “However, unnecessary. My sons would like nothing better than to show you their land.”

  It was a daring venture to use the words their land instead of the land—implying rule—but Seonrei made no demur, from which Lavais pleased herself to believe that the princess might look with favor on her taking back the kingdom that was rightly hers.

  Next step, to get that favor in material form.

  FIVE

  A hard frost set in over the south, days of intense blue sky overhead, brilliant as a polished bowl, the ground like iron. It was bitterly cold, but Lineas and Quill—traveling together for the first time in their lives—were transcendently happy.

  Being under orders from Rat Noth, they were given fresh mounts at every outpost, which sped them along. They worked on the southern dialect as they made a game of their grass run. Though they had the farthest to travel of either Rat Noth’s or Connar’s companies, they arrived in Parayid only two days after Rat (having been mired by three storms in a row) reached Old Faral, now the northern outpost for the Cassads of Telyer Hesea.

  Lineas was thrilled to see the famous harbor. She’d loved her single glimpse of Lindeth way up north. There, the sea in summer had been deep blue, but now it was steel gray, reflecting the low bands of clouds overhead.

  Cold, wet wind whipped straight off the sea. “Snow coming,” Quill commented as they rode down out of the gentle hills toward the city, which was dominated by the fortress on the palisades, fine homes to either side at a respectful distance, and all along the lower cliffs below.

  “How old is that castle?” Lineas asked.

  “A century,” Quill said. “The great Evred put it in. He wanted it raised on the heights, where pirates could see it from the horizon, and think twice about attacking. There were a lot of pirates raids in those days.”

  Lineas burrowed more deeply into her woolen scarf, remembering reading that the Venn had supported the pirates, an unimaginably wicked thing to do. She hated the parts of history that included such malice.

  Chilled, she burrowed more deeply into her scarf as they rode down the path.

  Ivandred Noth had standing orders about royal runners. He was to be alerted as soon as they rode through the gates. He was standing on the tower overlooking the harbor when his first runner reported their arrival, adding, “One of them is Camerend’s boy.”

  Ivandred Noth did not take his eye away from his spyglass, though he had two other lookouts also watching the harbor. “Send them up.”

  Lineas and Quill soon mounted the top steps of the tower. Snowflakes were already fluttering sideways on the rising wind as they spotted the tall, lean figure. Lineas reflected at least they hadn’t bothered beating the ice crust from the hems of their robes.

  “Senrid,” Commander Noth exclaimed when they joined him. “Orders from the king?”

  “No. Your son sent me,” Quill said, and proffered the note that Rat had given him.

  Noth smacked the spyglass to, and set it on the stone wall before him. He took the crumpled, damp paper as his gray brows met over his nose. “Where is he?”

  “I suspect he’s reached Old Faral by now, to be joined by Connar-Laef,” Quill said.

  Noth unrolled the paper, noting that his son had not sealed it. That meant Camerend’s son was in his confidence with respect to these orders. He slid the paper into his tunic, then snapped the spyglass open again.

  Lineas peered out at the gray sea. To her it seemed the clouds were so low she could reach up and touch them. A ship moved very slowly on the gray seas.

  Noth said, “What do either of you know about ships?”

  “Little,” Quill said. “I sailed once, when I returned home from Sartor.”

  “Less,” Lineas said softly.

  Noth grunted. “I’ve never been on one. But I can tell you a lot about them. That is, I might not know the terms used by sailors, but I’ve come to know a great deal about sails, rigging, and how sailors use wind and tide when maneuvering in the harbor. How they position themselves when masking an attack. The tricks of a pirate disguised as a merchant.”

  Quill and Lineas stared with interest at the ship rocking gently on the sea as it approached under what appeared to be half of a big sail and a small one on another mast.

  “That ship there might be any number of things. A sea-going yacht, built for speed, carrying passengers. A merchant with small but precious cargo. Or. . . a pirate who wishes us to think it might be those first two. Ah.” He turned his head. “Mareca! Signal to anchor in the harbor and prepare for inspection. They’ll dawdle and misread the signals, is my gues
s. Have the harbor watch go covert. Excellent practice.”

  He snapped the glass to, and said, “What orders did Connar-Laef ride under?”

  As they started down the tower steps, Quill said, “This is what Rat told me.” He repeated them, then added, “May I ask how you know this ship is a pirate in disguise? The coming snow blurred the ship a little, but I didn’t see much beyond fifteen or twenty sailors tending their sails.”

  “Ah, but how many are crouched belowdecks, weapons at hand? I don’t know either, and it’s entirely possible I’m wrong, and Jened down at the harbor will be running a drill instead of a defense. It was the appearance of four ships out at sea, similar rigging. They could be any number of innocent ships, but why would they sail in what we call a charge line, instead of in column, like traders? I think this one here is to keep us busy while these others slink up.”

  They turned down a corridor overlooking a courtyard from which shouts and clashes of steel echoed up the walls. Both Lineas and Quill recognized the sounds of sparring.

  Noth turned into a room, his gray horsetail swinging. “Shut the door. Take a seat.” He indicated a waiting bench, then sat behind a desk. To one side was a tall cupboard with stacks of paper neatly stored, and on the other wall, a map of Feravayir.

  Noth scowled down at his hands, fisted on his knees, causing Lineas to think of Rat. Finally he looked up. “First of all, you need to understand that one of the reasons I couldn’t find anything is that the people, in general, hate us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me. My men.”

  Quill glanced toward the wall, beyond which lay the sea. “For fighting pirates?”