Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  Restday morning, a runner came up to the royal castle’s second floor. At first, the family let out cries of relief that the invasion had been thoroughly routed. But when the short list of dead was headed by new Jarl of Stalgoreth, Danet stamped across her chamber and back, dashed her wrist across her eyes, and because the interweaving of Marlovan order across generations was never far from her mind, she began fiercely, “If Maddar Sindan-An and that boy had done what I told them, and started a family, at least there’d be—”

  Then she remembered who was in the room with her, and whirled around. Noddy sat still on his cushion, head bowed, and Danet wished she had her knife at her wrist so she could cut out her tongue.

  She struck her hands together, hard, then said as she signed, “I’ve heard many good things about Lefty Poseid, young Gannan’s cousin. Everything will settle out.”

  It was a desperate attempt at a save, but Noddy just sat there, unable to eat. The sight of his pain hurt Noren, a pain she accepted as her burden. Whenever she began to waver for Noddy’s and Danet’s sake, she had only to think of her sister Hadand, who could not bear any deviation from the invisible chains of her rituals, to harden her resolve.

  Noddy had mourned after losing his Uncle Jarend, only met briefly once as an adult. Seeing his father’s devastation had overwhelmed him. His grief at losing Cabbage Gannan was worse. Not that Noddy railed or shouted or slammed about. His grief turned inward, his mouth downturned at the corners, calling his father’s “arrow” sharply to mind.

  He was so stricken he could not concentrate. Sad on his behalf, Lineas was deeply remorseful because her most vivid memories of Cabbage Gannan were her clashes with him when she was twelve, though in their brief meetings over the years since, his indifference toward her made it clear he’d forgotten. She threw herself into extra labors, meticulously writing up the guild and army supply reports as they flowed in, so that Noddy would find them easier to deal with when he was ready.

  Noddy’s work sat for a day, two, days. As the days slid into a week, Lineas and Vanadei decided to get through as much of the labor side as possible, until Noddy was ready again.

  They worked long into the nights writing out painstakingly what ordinarily they explained out loud. Lineas was vaguely aware of the rest of the world moving on as New Year’s Week came and went—just as well there was no Convocation, as no one had the heart for it—and winter settled in beneath an ice-blue sky, the ground iron hard.

  As the weeks dragged by, she was vaguely aware of mild bumps in the grind of routine: the gunvaer speaking irritably of “those idiot Senelaecs;” Quill at work even longer hours than hers.

  The snow came, days and days of it. Noddy returned to work at first just mornings, always apologetic, especially when asking for them to go over things with him repeatedly. The king joined them now and then, which Lineas found unnerving until she began to understand his exasperated orders for repetition: he was having trouble seeing what they wrote. (And he was having trouble retaining the lists of numbers, but he was not going to admit to that.)

  “I spoke to the healer,” the chamber runner said in a low voice after a very trying day. “We have rounds of glass made the way field glasses are made, that can help sharpen things close up, but the king insists he’ll look weak and stupid before the guild chiefs, and they’ll argue even more.”

  Noddy spoke up in his deep voice, “Those chiefs like details. He doesn’t. I’ll come every day now. I just wasn’t sleeping well.”

  He kept his word. The atrocious weather bought them time and slowly the piles of unfinished business began to diminish as the tray containing outgoing messages waiting for a decent thaw began to grow.

  That first thaw brought Neit striding in among the messengers who had been pinned down all along the roads. She was a welcome sight, coat skirts swinging slantwise in opposition to the roll of her hips, her deep chuckle heard along the hallways like the first breath of summer.

  “I did my stint at East Garrison,” she said to Lineas. “I’m back for reassignment.”

  Danet appointed her adjunct runner to the second floor, which made Neit happy. That brightened everyone’s mood.

  Not that the winter was easy. Toward the end of a cold, stormy month, Quill was missing when Lineas trudged up to the third floor after a long day of labor. She was too tired to ask what crisis, or even crises, he was dealing with. They preferred his room for winter, as hers let in icy drafts that beat the eastern walls. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the bed. That became a pattern—she fell asleep alone, and woke up with him beside her.

  One evening very late, as spring rains brought the smell of green through the windows for the first time in what always felt like years, Lineas trudged upstairs late once again, weary from an acrimonious brangle between a messenger from the Nob and stringer representatives of Lindeth and Parayid, to discover Neit and Quill deep in conversation. Quill was dressed in city clothes.

  She checked on the threshold of his room, wondering if she ought to have knocked, though they had dropped that habit long ago. Flashing through her mind were so many reasons why she would find these two handsome persons sitting there in apparent intimacy. But trust, she had come to realize, was not a one-time thing, though celebrations like ring vows before one’s loved ones and friend circles might make it seem that way. It was an everyday thing, decision by decision.

  Trust. Mistrust, distrust. Her inner eye gave her Connar, standing in the courtyard with drops of rain glistening in his black hair. She broke that image by walking in.

  The two looked up. Neit rose, saluted Lineas with finger to heart, then was out the door in three quick strides.

  Quill sat back, reading Lineas’s expression. “Ferret affairs,” he said. “I assumed you had enough to occupy your mind over in the state wing. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Is it something I would like?” She sank down tiredly onto the bed, hands clasped between her knees.

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you need me to listen?”

  “Maybe later. But I just finished bringing Neit up-to-date before sending her on a run, so I’d rather not go through it twice.”

  “Then I am going to soak my hands in hot water, and crawl into bed.” She sighed. “We’re nearly caught up—despite that snake from the Nob—and then Holly came in with a question about getting the bedding shifted out of storage to the academy. Already.”

  He paused, slanting a glance down at her. “Have you eaten?”

  “Oh. Forgot. That before the bath.”

  “Shall I bring you something?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

  She spread her hands. “No, no, if you have to go do ferreting in the city, I’ll be fine.”

  He came back in, folded her into his arms, and murmured into her hair, “I love you.”

  “And I you.”

  He went out, stopping to ask the night duty fledgling to bring Lineas a hot meal because he knew she would forget, and was gone.

  NINETEEN

  It seemed to Lineas that suddenly one day they woke up and the world was green. Spring flourished in dramatic suddenness, and the western windows of the royal castle, open to the air, brought in the high, shrill voices of ten-year-olds, counterpointing the adolescent honk of the bigger academy seniors.

  Among the new arrivals was Jarend Olavayir, Tanrid’s son—who refused on his tenth Name Day to respond to the name “Cricket.” He was already tall, though not nearly as huge as his father, uncle, and grandfather; the bucked teeth were less pronounced. He looked at the world through critical eyes, for he was orderly by nature.

  It was also clear that he was going to be a problem.

  The ten-year-olds had a housemaster for the first weeks, then a senior who slept in a tiny alcove off the dormitory with its two rows of beds. The housemaster named Faldred (Baldy to the youngsters) was a mild man who also instructed the academy in reading, writing, and mapping. A steady man, not given to wild punishments or coddling.

>   He was up talking to Danet, Noren, and finally Connar, every night of the week after the academy had its first inspection and began the routine that would carry them through to Victory Day.

  “The Olavayir boy has been carefully taught,” Baldy Faldred said. “Ahead of his group in reading and writing, very meticulous. Good skills on horseback, and knows how to shoot correctly. But he seems....” A hesitation, a shifted glance to the side, then, “I will say that the Mareca girl in particular teases way too much. So did her two brothers, coming through here. All three of them get the consequences. She’s up at the mess hall washing and stacking dishes now. The other girls are also quick. Well, all children are generally quick when it comes to chaffing one another, but these girls tend to run in packs. And young Olavayir has yet to make friends. It could be said that he was born without a vestige of a sense of humor. He’s constantly on the watch for the slightest deviation from the rules, and of course obeys them himself.”

  “He’s a prig,” Noren signed.

  “I didn’t want to say it, but yes.”

  Connar—nominally co-headmaster of the academy—sat back, arms crossed. Thinking that he had relinquished this duty to Noddy ages ago, he intended to keep silent.

  Noren said, “Can you pair him with another child, one from whom he might learn better how to get along?” That was what her mother had done for her sister Hadand, to ready her for their separation when Noren moved to the royal city.

  “I can try that, but then the others might squawk about special treatment.”

  “Then pair everybody up. Say it’s new,” Danet said. “Tell them the first lesson in command is to watch out for one another.”

  Faldred saluted. “I’ll try that,” he said, since obviously nothing better was being offered.

  Connar walked out, found Jethren waiting in the hall, and gave a terse summation.

  Jethren cracked a laugh. “If he were under me, I’d know how to discipline him.”

  Connar slanted a sardonic glance over his shoulder. “I’ll suggest you replace me in co-running the academy.” Let him get an earful of But we’ve always done it THIS way....

  Jethren, still heady with success, heard that as a promotion, and said, “I’d be honored.” He recollected how coddled Cricket Olavayir had been from infancy, and relished imagining him under Da’s hands. Just for a day.

  But then Connar changed the subject. “The armorer still waiting?”

  “Yes. He’s put together a new helmet. That is, it’s the same helmet, but it has a raised piece up here on the back, with this sliding ring that moves up to permit more hair to be added, then slides down over it to lock it in place. He wants to show you.”

  Connar was indifferent to the helms. He couldn’t stand wearing one, as it limited his vision, and made his head sweat unmercifully. But he knew that the sight of those scalp trophies was effective on enemies.

  Jethren began cautiously, “Were there any other orders we ought to know about?”

  Connar snapped his hand away as they started down the stairs two at a time, recollecting the conversation in the king’s chambers before he got yanked in to listen to academy problems. “What do you know about these rumors accusing the Senelaecs?”

  Every muscle in Jethren’s body clenched. “I hear...there’s talk in the taverns...something about Senelaec in effect running his own army.”

  Connar paused between steps, slewed around, and Jethren took the full impact of that angry blue gaze. “Who is stupid enough to say that?”

  Jethren restrained the impulse to back away, and gestured, hands out. “It’s gossip! People blab all the time! Their point being, the king,” (he swallowed, nearly choking on the word) “passed laws years ago against the jarls having private armies.”

  Connar began walking again. “That was the old days, coming off that shit Mathren and his private army.”

  Jethren bit back the exclamation But that was to put your father on the throne rightly his.

  Connar went on sardonically, “Not to mention the sort of private army Artolei and Ryu had last winter in Feravayir. The Eastern Alliance has trained together ever since my Da was a boy. And they don’t train captains, but Riders.” A fast look. “I didn’t know about this yapping. What I meant was, rumors they’re going to expand into Marlovayir, to make up for their shortfall in harvest. Even more stupid! Da sent a runner, suggesting that Marlovayir come over to Senelaec for their summer games. That should take care of that.”

  Jethren grimaced inwardly. His plan had failed—after he’d used up all his and his two captains’ pay in buying rounds of drinks for his volunteers to spread the rumors in every tavern in the city.

  He’d have to think of some other way to take Braids Senelaec out of the chain of command. Assassination was impractical. Even if he sent Moonbeam—who alone of all of them was likeliest to achieve it without being seen—Connar would order a ferocious investigation.

  Jethren was still sweating when they reached the armorer’s.

  The royal summons came suddenly, six weeks later, as summer’s first heatwave ripened berries and currants. Danet was in the last, most exasperating part of sorting out the monstrous mess of the Nyidri treasure, to be distributed through Feravayir in order of need. Her door opening and Sage saying, “The king sent for everyone,” made all the calculations she had been juggling splinter like dreams when one is suddenly woken.

  “Damn,” she snapped, startling Sage.

  Danet didn’t bother explaining. Numbers, to most people—even to certain of her otherwise superlative runners—were something that happened to someone else, preferably far, far away. People only wanted to see the result.

  “Tell him I’ll be right there,” she said, and bent over to jot quick notes as she tried to recapture the most important ones.

  Connar had just ridden in from lance practice. He threw the reins to a stable hand, leaped down, to find Vanadei standing in the courtyard. “I was sent to find you,” Vanadei said, fist to heart.

  “On my way,” Connar said, wondering what could be amiss that he hadn’t heard about. He glanced around the courtyard, his gaze snagging on the Gannan pennon hanging near the gate, and spotted a line of horses in the guest stalls. A runner accompanied by an entire riding. That was odd.

  Noddy and Lineas were already on their way from the state wing, Vanadei having been the first to be alerted by the king’s hall runner. “Wants you both. And quiet,” Vanadei had added before heading down to the stable to wait for Connar.

  Quiet indeed. Not even Noren and Ranet were summoned.

  Arrow sat in his interview chamber, exasperated. He’d given orders for Jarid Noth to take care of the Riders the Jarl of Gannan had sent, which was code for “Stash them somewhere and don’t take your eyes off them.”

  Gannan’s runner was just a runner. He would not have chosen to come on this expedition unless he was a madman. But Arrow still took fierce pleasure in totally ignoring the man left to stand inside the door. Arrow sat still, fists tight on knees as he watched the slight ticking in the shank buttons on his coat. He’d never noticed that before, the little bump, bump, bump of the shanks in time to the whoosh in his ears, and wondered if others ever observed that on themselves. Most were too busy. Heh.

  Then the door opened, and in they streamed—the last one Quill, who saluted, then retreated to the wall opposite Lineas and Vanadei, who stood behind Noddy. Connar watched with narrowed eyes, wondering why three royal runners were necessary.

  Arrow flashed a glance at Lineas. “Redhead! I keep forgetting your name. You take notes. I know you won’t blab, unlike that pack of scribes over there in the other wing. I don’t want any of this getting out.”

  Lineas dropped to her knees at the little side table where Arrow’s runner in charge of messages usually sat. His ink was fresh, the quill sharp, and plenty of paper of various sizes waited, all of it smelling press-fresh. The king as well as the scribes got the best batches as a matter of course.

  Lineas di
pped the quill and waited as the king snapped his fingers and waved at the Jarl of Gannan’s runner, without a glance in his direction. “Read it out for them.”

  The runner, his fingers shaking, picked up the paper the king had thrown down, and in a voice only slightly quavering, read out nothing short of an indictment, couched in the most pompous language imaginable, backtracking and restating rumors from more than one trusted source and my family has been known for its loyalty ever since the founding of the kingdom until it got to the point: “My son Senrid Gannan, Jarl of Stalgoreth, was not killed by the enemy but murdered.”

  Shock brought all the royal runners’ heads up.

  Connar stilled, arms tightening. Excuses and counter-accusations whirled through his mind as nausea churned in his gut. Of course Cabbage would poison him even from beyond death....

  “...by Ranet Senelaec, otherwise known as Braids, Commander of the Eastern Alliance. While his father, the Jarl of Senelaec, is raising a private army, forbidden under the present king the first year of his reign, in order to invade a neighboring jarlate.”

  “Braids?” Noddy said, looking around bewildered. “Did I hear that right?”

  Arrow thumbed his temples. “You did.”

  “...we, the undersigned, demand a hearing before the jarls.”

  And, clearing his voice a fourth time, the runner read out the names of four jarls and five captains of Riders.

  The first to respond to the stunned silence was Danet. She sighed sharply, and got up from the mat beside Arrow. “The Senelaecs again?” she said, quite unfairly—and she knew it was unfair, but she had been yanked away from important work just when it was most ticklish. “I do not have time for this idiocy. It’s yours to deal with,” she said to Arrow, and walked out, the door shutting behind her with a decisive thump.

  “You. Out,” Arrow said to the Gannan runner. “Tell Denard in the hall to show you to the rest of your party. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.”

  The door shut again, this time soundlessly.

  Arrow drew in a breath. Then another, hating how short they were. “I can understand how angry that old jarl is. A handful of deaths, his son one. But every one of those who died has parents. None of them are throwing around wild claims.”