Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  “The Jarl of Senelaec was not even there,” Noddy said. “He cannot ride a horse. Why would he invade Stalgoreth?”

  “Gannan’s saying it’s a conspiracy,” Arrow said. “And the invasion is supposed to be Marlovayir. Of course it’s all fart noise, but he’s got Zheirban, Eveneth, and Khanivayir backing him. We all know why, because it’s not their sons getting the promotions. Jarl families, rank and birth, that’s all those old shits bark about, every time I have to lay eyes on their damn faces at Convocation. I can’t even confirm the Fath boy at Halivayir because he’s not from a jarl family. Zheirban wants that worthless second son of his there so bad he can taste it. Him and his harem! Everyone knows he runs through money like water, over at the Sword. Those girls have him trained—and who can blame them, if an idiot is ready to throw down silver just to get his wick dipped ten times a night?”

  Noddy—predictably—rumbled, “He’s not that bad. It’s just, he falls in love a lot. He thinks.”

  Arrow snapped his fingers. “Never mind Zheirban. Gannan’s lies are the problem here.”

  Noddy said soberly, “Braids wouldn’t kill Cabbage.”

  “Of course not,” Arrow snapped, as Connar covertly watched Quill, wondering why he was there. “It’s all noise. But deliberate noise, is what I’m learning. Camerend, report.”

  Camerend? It took a heartbeat for everyone to realize the wrong name had come out. Arrow, seeing their confusion, reddened. “Camerend—Quill—you know who I mean.” He pinched fingers to the bridge of his nose.

  Quill remained standing against the wall. “You may be aware of rumors noised against the Senelaecs during winter. Whenever rumors last more than a few days, especially if there’s anything that touches on military matters, we report them to the king. He asked us to investigate.”

  Connar’s head came up. He’d grown up hearing reports of various rumors, but until now he’d assumed they floated around the royal castle, and the king’s runners brought them in. But he had never thought of deliberate investigation...by the royal runners?

  Yes.

  Quill went on, “We began to suspect that these rumors were generated inside the royal city here. Not at Senelaec, or even Marlovayir. We sent two runners to do nothing but listen at taverns in all three locations. Until the second thaw, when carters started moving out, carrying the usual load of gossip, there was no evidence of any such rumor in either Senelaec or Marlovayir. Therefore we assume that someone began them here in the city.”

  “The Jarl of Gannan, you think?” Noddy said unhappily. He did not like the jarl, but he could understand his anguish at losing his son. “But why? Didn’t the letter say that Kendred, that is, Cabbage’s first runner, is missing? They don’t think he did it? But no, then why would they accuse Braids or his da of, well, isn’t that treason?”

  “Yes. Note that Gannan didn’t quite say the word. But he dropped enough bricks around it so that even I could catch what he meant.” Arrow sighed sharply. “My guess? Because Braids is the new Eastern Alliance Chief—notice Gannan called him a ‘commander’ although he knows very well that the Alliance chooses a chief, who is completely outside our chain of command. But what galls Gannan is that Braids will also be a jarl one day. That’ll boost him in one jump from one of the smallest jarlates to the most powerful jarl of them all. Even though he’s the backbone of northern defense, those sour old shits will be up on their hind legs barking about him sitting on the first bench. Because that’s what matters to them.” His voice sharpened,

  Connar watched Noddy turn to Quill, who said quietly, “I can’t speculate. We only deal in evidence.”

  Connar’s heart thrummed sharply. The accusation against Braids was almost laughable. Almost, because clearly somebody somewhere had said something to raise suspicion. He didn’t remember any first runner in the hailstorm at that riverside. Cabbage had been alone, or Connar wouldn’t have acted—

  He shut down that thought. “How will you go about investigating?” he asked.

  Quill glanced his way. “We’ve been collecting eyewitness records written by observers who were with Alliance Chief Senelaec. We’ve got to find Gannan’s first runner Kendred. Find out where he was, and what he saw. So far, all we know is that he was among the wounded carried off the field. Broken leg—badly broken. But he managed to move some time after the various companies rode out of Stalgoreth. Or someone moved him.”

  Arrow said, “Quill, you go up to Stalgoreth yourself and ferret around until you find out. I think all Cabbage’s people are still there.” He cocked his head, as thumber rumbled in the distance. “Not tonight. Leave in the morning.”

  Quill saluted.

  Arrow rubbed the sides of his head. “I have some sympathy. Some. Old Gannan lost a son. But I still think the man has rocks for brains.” He waved an impatient hand. “Murder of a jarl’s son...we’ll have to grant his hearing, unless we can find proof that he’s wrong. Until we do, we’ll have to consider sending out notice to all the jarls.” His voice rasped. “Maybe as well set the hearing for Victory Day, when a lot of ‘em will be here to get their boys and girls.”

  The questions he could see in all the faces were just that, unanswerable all. He didn’t want to hear those useless questions. The entire subject made his stomach ache and his head feel like it was stuffed with hot stones. He waved them all out, longing to eat something, to settle his stomach. Lie down for a while. His limbs felt heavy, which annoyed him the more. He was not an old man!

  But he was a man with a headache, so he decided to let himself have a single cup of bristic early.

  His rooms emptied, and he retreated to the bedroom, which was somewhat cooler. Then he took out his jug and poured half a cup. He’d stop there.

  He sipped, and cursed. Even the bristic tasted bad, like iron. He was in the worst mood. What could Gannan be thinking? He still had a son, who would inherit Gannan! What use raising a fuss over Stalgoreth?

  He took another sip, then spat it out. “Get me another jug. This one went bad,” he said—and fresh irritation burned through him at the confusion in his chamber runner’s face. “Don’t you hear me?” He never bothered with Sign in his own rooms, but brought up his hands to reinforce the order, except the right had the shakes bad, and the left one felt odder by the moment, like a glove stuffed with sand.

  He worked his dry mouth. Now his tongue felt like another glove filled with sand.

  The runner moved abruptly away, and Arrow lay back, relieved not to be bothered with anyone. But then the runner returned with Danet, who dropped to her knees beside the bed. Twin anxious faces stared at him. He tried to demand what the trouble was, but that sock in his mouth muffled the words.

  “Arrow, don’t try to talk. Just...stay still.” To the runner, “Summon the healer. No one else.”

  Arrow tried to say, leave that old nag alone, he’s useless, but Danet laid a cool, dry hand across his brow, and said softly, “Just lie still. Don’t talk.”

  Arrow found it easier to obey. He stared up at the face he knew so well. So many lines. Hadn’t noticed before. His was probably far worse. But they were not quite sixty!

  Then the healer was there, and reaching for his hand to take his pulse—which he never let him do. He hated that kind of fuss.

  The healer’s white brows drew together, but all he said was, “Anred-Harvaldar, get some rest. I’ll send some medicine right away.” And to the runner, “See that he drinks it all.”

  Arrow wanted to roll his eyes, but it was easier to close them.

  Danet got up, her knees watery. As soon as they reached the outer room, she turned on the healer. “What is it? Apoplexy?”

  “Yes. But so far, not devastating, and chances are good it won’t be, if we can keep him quiet. I will prepare some willow steep with berry juice. That’s all he is to drink, along with as much water as he wants, for now. Listerblossom if he complains of headache. Don’t let anyone in who can fret him. He shouldn’t talk, but if he gets upset at that order, let hi
m talk himself out. He needs sleep most of all.”

  She found her mouth too dry for speaking, so she signed agreement, and the old man bustled away.

  Danet turned to the waiting runners. “You heard. No one in. No one. I’ll deal with the family. You keep everyone else out. Send them all to me.”

  She turned to the door, and then she was inside her suite, standing over her desk, feeling as if her head floated above her somewhere. But she had to think. So she sat down, and said to Sage, who was the duty runner at present, “Get Mnar Milnari—no, she’s not here.”

  Danet remembered that Mnar had gone to Darchelde to see her family, after her crotchety old mother had finally died at age ninety-eight. It was the first time Mnar had been away from the royal castle since her arrival as a twelve-year-old. She’d never had but a day or so of liberty now and then in all those years.

  Me either, Danet thought. But then, gunvaers don’t get liberty. And if you bring that up, everyone will just say it’s whining, who wouldn’t want to be gunvaer and have everything you want?

  What she wanted most of all was peace.

  “Quill,” she said to Sage. “Get Quill.”

  And when he was there, she explained what the healer had said, finishing, “I’m countermanding the king’s orders. Send someone else to Stalgoreth to talk to those people, if you like. I’m convinced it’s all a lot of noise, but Arrow will want to know something is being done. I need you to remain here....”

  She didn’t finish, but he struck hand to heart in understanding, privately resolving to brace himself for magic transfer as soon as he could be sure of a few hours.

  TWENTY

  Danet called Noddy and Connar in first. Mindful of Noddy’s easily bruised feelings when someone was in pain, she told them what had happened, stressing that the healer felt that their Da would recover if left in peace.

  “What do you want us to do?” Noddy asked soberly.

  “I asked Jarid Noth to send the Gannan party back to their jarl, promising that a royal communication would follow soon. I told him not to give them any travel food—they can buy their own,” she added acidly.

  Not even Noddy argued with that.

  Danet turned to him. “I think Arrow would want you to continue at the state wing. Set aside any affairs that absolutely must be decided by him, and take care of everything else. The more that gets done, the easier he will be. Anything you can’t decide, we can go over together before pressing it on Arrow, until we know he’s improving. Connar?”

  He had been staring at the wall, and started at the sound of his name. “Yes?”

  “I’ve told Quill what’s going on, as he’s the leader of the royal runners, and oversees runners going in and out. Since I believe that the Jarl of Gannan’s idiocy is exactly that—as if Senelaec could afford even a tiny army and me not know about it—I asked him to lay aside investigating on his own. I know he’s the best, which is why we need him here. He can send one of his eager young runner students up to Stalgoreth. We’ll have to have interview papers to counter Gannan’s lies. But that wasn’t what I meant to say.” She rubbed her eyes and dropped her hands, guilt oppressing her. She could not help but think that Arrow’s apoplexy was her fault for stalking out and telling Arrow that it was his mess to deal with.

  Well, now she had to take the consequences. Including never letting herself indulge in private spites again.

  “Connar...you’ll be making all military decisions, until your da recovers. I can’t help you there. But I do suggest you send someone you trust up to Senelaec, maybe even to Marlovayir, for a friendly visit and a tour around, which becomes an official search only in the extreme unlikelihood anything is amiss. I’d believe the moon is made of cream before I’d believe Wolf Senelaec intends to invade anything outside of his bed at the end of a long day.”

  “Sure,” both her sons said.

  Noddy walked out, determined to get right to work.

  Connar went straight to Jethren, who saw in a heartbeat that there was trouble.

  Connar gave a brief summation, then, “I never saw that first runner. He should have been there, though I didn’t think of it in that moment.”

  “Visibility was bad, that I do remember. I’ll send Sleip and Punch to find out. They’re my two best scouts.”

  Connar met his gaze straight on. “Do they know what to do if there’s any question about what this Kendred saw?”

  They are Nighthawk men, Jethren wanted so very badly to say. It was too soon—though the day was coming, he was sure of it now. With a ring of conviction in his usually flat voice, he said, “They’re trained to be quiet and effective.”

  Connar left to think through alternate plans.

  Jethren said to Moonbeam, “Summon the scouts. And we’d better pass the word to everyone else, heads down, be ready for anything.” Jethren eyed Moonbeam’s grin, and the tension in his hands as he played with a knife. “Are the ghosts bothering you?”

  Jethren had learned as they grew up that when Moonbeam began honing his knives obsessively, he would soon be using them to test whether his “ghosts” were real or not, and it would be inconvenient if he stabbed someone important mistake. It was time for a dose.

  Connar threw himself into overseeing the plans for Victory Week—a tradition he loathed—as well as the tedious task of sorting for assignment the seniors who had finished their last year of the academy, as days, then weeks slipped by.

  The news that the king had suffered an apoplexy leaked out slowly at first, as news does—but when it got to runners not enjoined to silence, it spread as fast as a horse could gallop. Danet was able to control it to the extent that the rumors were mitigated by assurance that the king was fine, recovering nicely.

  However, the truth was not as clear. Danet went to see Arrow every morning after she woke and each evening before she retired. His entire left side had paralyzed, slowly worsening. His speech was gone except for two words that seemed random, no and yes.

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “No, no, no, yes, no, yes, yes.”

  If she held a cup next to his right hand, he would paw vaguely at it, but they discovered they had to be very careful when letting him drink—his chamber runner said liquids, even water, choked him. They gave him liquids with a little spoon, and boiled his food into soup or pottage.

  A few weeks in, his oldest runner said apologetically, “We think we know what he’s trying to tell us when we bring in cups and mugs.”

  Danet sighed. “Drink, of course.”

  “The healer said on no account may he have any strong drink, including small beer. We’re supposed to get the willow infusion into him three times a day, but he, well, he....”

  “Show me.”

  Danet sat by, and watched Arrow frown then spit out the bitter medicine, as if he were a small child. Sick fear chilled her. She took his face into her hands, and gazed into his eyes. “Are you in there, Arrow? Tap my hand twice. Or kick me, if that’s easier.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, no, no, no.” He made vague motions with his right hand, fingers clumped together. Memory struck hard—the strength in those hands holding Noddy high above the river waters when they crossed Olavayir’s border thirty years before.

  She turned away, her throat aching. “I’ll be back after the night watch changes,” she said huskily, determined to speak to him like an adult. Maybe, maybe, he heard her. If he was asking for drink, surely that meant that Arrow was still inside that poor head.

  Noddy came in when he knew his father was sleeping, as he couldn’t bear to see him struggling one-sided, and babbling that incessant no/yes. He sat by Arrow, sometimes late into the night, holding his curled left hand and gently smoothing the fingers flat, then kneading the muscles with his thumbs as Arrow’s breathing deepened. When his own fingers tingled from the time spent gently working at those cruelly stiffened tendons, he slipped away silently again.

  Connar came by twice, but it disturbed him so deeply to see Arrow helpless,
uncommunicative, that he told Danet, “If he wakes up, or asks for me, I’ll come at once wherever I am, whatever I’m doing. But I can’t look at him like that.”

  Connar ordered his day by thinking Da would want this done before each task. His reward was Danet’s tired smile when he stopped by her rooms to report. But countering that was the pain in Noddy’s oft-expressed, “When do you think he’ll be better?”—as if Connar would know.

  When he was away from the second floor, that invisible knife prick goaded him with memories of Cabbage: in the kitchen garden, at the academy, at Tlennen Field.

  At Stalgoreth.

  Oppressing them all was the matter of Gannan’s demanded hearing. It was the king’s prerogative to call in the jarls, and none of them wanted to do it for him—undiscussed, but on all their minds, lay the question, what if the king got no better? Victory Day was not that far off. The most distant jarls would have to ride the very day they received the summons, if they were to reach the royal city in time.

  Danet, Noddy, and the family told each other they needed proof that the accusations were false, so the whole thing could be made to vanish.

  Connar remained silent.

  One hot summer morning a few days before Danet had mentally promised herself to resolve it one way or another, Connar was seeing off a company of academy seniors and first-year garrison warriors to run a ride-and-shoot out on the plains below the south river, the winners getting liberty to play in the water and the losers having to tend the horses and pick up the arrows. As they were mounting up, calling insults and challenges back and forth, from the city gates in the distance two trumpet blasts beat on the somnolent air—jarl reversed, which meant a jarlan was arriving.

  Connar mentally shrugged as he watched the columns form up then ride out. Jarlans were the women’s business.

  In rode a party that had drawn aside for ride-and-shoot company to pass through the castle gate. A Rider bore a single crimson and black pennon: Senelaec. The mass resolved into two women among a lot of senior-age boys, these boys wearing colorful clothes of rose and yellow and contrasting blues, greens, and silver, instead of Rider gray or brown.