by Emerson, Ru
Part of her still wanted to kick his arrogant backside from here to Bezjeriad; she knew she wasn’t going to. Funny: I really meant what I said to Ryselle simply to silence her. But only a fool would hold an immature and cloistered boy responsible for what those in control taught him. Holmaddi men—and a mother who was too shortsighted to do other than parrot their words. Only someone as arrogant and one-sided as the boy could see why he’s the way he is and still give up on him, young and sequestered as he is. One final chance—all right, Lialla, you can give him that much.
Her foot scraped on the floor; he blinked rapidly, glanced at her sidelong and brought his string figure up, fingers once again busy at the complex seventh pattern. His shoulders were stiff once more, his whole posture unyielding, that lower lip beginning to edge out well past his teeth. “How many of those have you done, so far?” Lialla asked quietly. He eyed her sidelong, shook his head. “That’s it—part of one?”
“I was—I was thinking,” he mumbled.
“Were you? I am glad to hear it.” That earned her another quick look, but he wouldn’t properly meet her eyes and the fire seemed to have gone out of him for the moment. “Kepron, listen to me.” A long silence. He finally nodded once, sharply. “There isn’t a Wielder in all Rhadaz who’d blame me for dropping you as a novice and kicking you out of the compound for good—”
“Well? Why don’t you, then?” Still a mumble.
“Because I don’t want to. If I can help it.” She watched as he hooked a loop with his littlest fingers, slipped it over another loop, and pulled it through with his thumb. “I told you I was willing to help you, and I meant that. But you’ve got to help me. You aren’t a child any longer, you’re old enough to think for yourself—not just what you want, but what’s there, and why, and what that all means to you.”
“Huh.”
“You want Thread—you told me so. You openly wanted it back in that village, where it could have earned you a nasty beating, or a one-way trip out to sea in a large sack.”
Silence. He swallowed. “I didn’t really want Thread then; just—magic of some sort. Something that wasn’t the thing chosen for me, because I was the boy, the male. Something that could free me of Holmaddi, and my father’s company, and his path.” Another silence. Lialla waited. “Thread. I’ve—I still want it.”
“Good. I still want to teach you. And I will, if we can agree on a few things.”
Another sidelong look, this one notably wary. “What things?”
“You’re messing up: Loop under with the middle finger—no, not that way, under. Good. Keep the pattern going. You say you don’t want to become another hidebound Holmaddi male; what you’re doing right this moment with your hands shows me you meant it. But you sound exactly like one of those village men.” His lips twisted, his hands jerked, bringing a loop down, letting another slip from his index fingers, forming a completely new pattern. He glared at it and swore under his breath. “Relax; take a deep breath and start it again. Remind yourself—before you begin—that you are not your father, not Ryselle’s father, not the villager who will marry your mother; you are neither Vuhlem nor any of his captains.”
“I know that.”
“Of course. At least, your lips and your mind know it; your gut hasn’t caught up yet. You can’t be blamed for being born Holmaddi, or for growing up Holmaddi. But the rest is up to you; you can leave the Duchy, learn another way. You don’t like Holmaddi men? Be different.”
He laughed sourly. “You make it sound so simple.”
Lialla shook her head. “It’s not simple, I know better than you think. I was once as set in my own ways as you are in yours. I’m proof it isn’t impossible. It’s like Thread, like anything else. You have to want it badly enough.” Silence. Kepron gazed down at the wad of red string; what she could see of his face gave no clue to his thoughts.
Finally he turned and looked at her. “They say—everyone says it’s blood, breeding. Who you are. You’ve met my mother, and if you recall the village elder—”
“Ryselle’s father—”
“Then you know what my father was like, except he was also army. Two such as that, their blood—”
“That’s not true, Kepron. Oh, it may hold partly true, perhaps, but blood isn’t everything. If it were, then all men would be like the Holmaddi—like your father. They aren’t. You’ll see when you leave this Duchy and go south.”
“Oh?”
“If blood and breeding were everything, my uncle Jadek would have been a good man, like his brother—my father. He—he wasn’t; he chose another way. It’s what you want, your choice, not just what your blood brought you.” He’d gone back to his red string. “One thing I can tell you for certain: That temper will cost you dearly. You can’t afford to be eccentric, arrogant, and crotchety until you’re old, at least a Pale Yellow Sash, preferably wealthy, and well known for your skills. At that point your clients and your students will forgive you plenty, if you’re good enough. Though I still think it’s no decent way to be. I’ve dealt with too many aged, crotchety Wielders; they’re too hidebound to be good, and too overbearing to be proper instructors. But no one puts up with an arrogant and temperamental novice. Including me, before you ask. Because it bores me, and because I know, from my own experience, that you’ll never even attain a Dark Blue Sash unless you learn to control the anger or redirect it.” She shook her head, sighed faintly. “I can see it in your eyes, I make it sound so simple.” She consciously mimicked him; the least, embarrassed grin twisted his lips for one moment. “You can do that, learn that kind of control. I did—and, after all, I’m merely a female.”
He let the wad of string slip from hand to hand, finally began picking the snarls from the long loop. “You laugh at me.”
“No. If anything, I’d still like to strangle you for wasting all this time. You notice I’m controlling the urge, though.” That brought another of those brief, abashed grins. “I’m going back to make certain the soup is all right; you practice that, do one without pause, bring me the finished pattern—and I’ll show you how to braid a three-part Thread rope after we eat.”
The broth was bubbling, perhaps a little too thick; Lialla added a dipper of water, sat cross-legged on the hearth, and soaked up what heat she could. Fall in Holmaddan City—brrr. Vuhlem’s welcome to this. There might be snow in Zelharri already, in the higher passes; there might be fog and rain. It couldn’t possibly be this foggy, rainy, and cold all at once. “And if it isn’t foggy, rainy, and cold here, that’s only because it’s windy, rainy, and cold. Wretched northern coast.” Her hands and feet were a little warmer; now her back was chilled, despite the layers of wool. She sighed, shifted around, and warmed her back.
Kepron still stood close to the window, his back to her, but he was hard at work, building a complex cradle of red string and working it back out to a simple loop. She let her eyes move past him, glanced out the long window across the chamber from him. Gray sky, of course; she could just see the tops of two of the compound’s trees, red and yellow leaves swaying back and forth. A thin drift of fog partly obscured them for a moment, was gone. An even thinner line of washed blue sky and light; cloud muffled it at once, and the vast room seemed even darker than it had before.
She could hear noise out there, beyond the caravaners’ compound: men shouting, cheering, a few high women’s voices. Too distant to make out what was going on. She got to her feet; walked toward the nearest window, but the outer walls on the boulevard side of the compound were too high for her to make out anything other than the bright red and yellow awnings on the dyer’s across the way. She shrugged, wrapped her arms around herself, and went back to the fire.
The lower door slammed against the wall and back into its frame, resoundingly; footsteps clattered up the narrow stairs. Sil and Ryselle burst into the room moments later, both carrying several small bundles, both out of breath. Sil knelt to set her things by the fire; she set Ryselle’s bags down and rubbed her hands together briskly.
“Oh, it’s not at all nice out there just now, horribly chill, windy, and raining once again. But you’ll never think what we just saw!” She looked up; Lialla shook her head. “Vuhlem! The man himself, actually taking a ride along the main street with a dozen of his household men at his back. Waving at people and smiling—I think it was meant to be a smile,” she added doubtfully.
Ryselle crouched on the other side of the hearth and tested the broth. “It looked like no smile I ever saw, not even my father’s,” she put in. “This needs salt,” she added briefly.
“I added a little water, nothing else,” Lialla said. “Vuhlem? What was he doing out this far from his palace, and in such weather?”
“No idea,” Sil replied. “Unless—the rumor Green Arrow’s grandmother sent back via Silver Fishers?”
“That wasn’t wholly rumor, that was a message from Sikkre. Vuhlem’s said to be in Dro Pent, with an army, and in full control of the Duke’s palace and his lady. But the message was from the Thukara, and I know Jen, she’d never pass mere gossip on such an important matter.”
“It sounds like wildest rumor to me,” Sil said. “Except that it involves Vuhlem, who has too many soldiers, too much money, and access to the wrong kinds of friends.”
Lialla snorted. “Friends—you mean the Lasanachi. But why would he—wait. You think Vuhlem’s making certain he’s seen in Holmaddan City?”
“I don’t know why else he’d be out in the public streets; you aren’t familiar with the city the way I am, either of you, and I can tell you this is the first time I’ve ever seen the man about like this, or heard of him doing such a thing. It’s well known among the caravaners that he despises his commoners, and won’t mix with them at any price. But there’s rumor in the market because of all the problems down south on the Emperor’s birthday, and Shesseran’s expelling the foreigners’ ships. Not that it matters greatly to most of the local men that the borders and the harbors are blocked, of course; not here.” Sil’s brow wrinkled, and she was silent for some moments. “Mmmm. Confusing: I can’t think why Vuhlem would be out in the streets just to prove he’s in his own Duchy, either. There’s no local rumor about him being gone, and why would he care about Podhru gossip, so far north as he is?”
“There aren’t any Emperor’s men in the city at present?”
“Mmmm—well, you know, Lialla, that’s just possible; even though Shesseran has total faith in his boyhood friend. Better yet, even a man like the baker knows Shesseran’s Heir wouldn’t trust Vuhlem to empty his chamber pots. If I were Vuhlem, I’d assume Afronsan has men in the city, to pick up loose rumor and send it south.”
“I assumed that much,” Lialla said mildly. “With no telegraph in Holmaddi, and the messenger service strictly a Vuhlem to Shesseran link, which is highly prejudiced in Vuhlem’s favor—Of course, Afronsan can always get information from the caravans—”
“Well, yes,” Sil replied. “But no one’s said anything to me about gathering information for the Heir—or to you, since you’d tell me. And we’re the ones who’re here all the time; we’re the ones who’d be asked. No, I’d wager Afronsan has his own outside means of learning what passes throughout Rhadaz.” Sil grinned suddenly. “Tell you what, though: I would give my share of this soup and a year’s worth of silver to have seen the look on Vuhlem’s face when the Emperor ordered him to give the caravaners back this building and leave us alone.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Lialla said vigorously. She rummaged through Ryselle’s bags, pounced on the dark brown loaf, and tore an edge off it. “I’ve seen Vuhlem angry; it’s a daunting sight.” She set the loaf down, ripped the smaller piece into bites, and popped one in her mouth. “Mmm. That’s wonderful. How long until there’s soup to go with it?”
Ryselle laughed; Vuhlem and all, the outside trip had taken some of the tension from her. “Even you must know how long it takes to cook a carrot! Long enough for you to show me something new? Perhaps?”
“Well—all right.” Lialla glanced down the long room. Kepron sat with his back to the wall, eyes closed, fingers working the string—her eyebrows went up. Eighth pattern—is it really? She turned back to Ryselle, who was on her feet, brushing at her skirts, glanced down at Sil, who sat cross-legged among the bags, rapidly paring vegetables and tossing them into the pot whole. “Sil, if this won’t bother you, I’d as soon stay warm.”
“No bother,” the caravaner replied cheerfully. “Hold close to the fire, I don’t blame you at all. And, who knows, I might even learn something useful.”
“You,” Lialla informed her, mock severe, “couldn’t turn that stuff to stew, if you needed magic to do it.”
Sil sighed, very heavily. “Oh, well, but I can do that, no magic needed. Still, no talent whatever—but no time to dabble in it, alas.” She laughed. “You won’t bother me, do what you like so long as it doesn’t smother the fire.”
The sky cleared off at sunset, bringing a last gleam of light to the compound windows and a sash-rattling wind. “Of course,” Lialla said gloomily, as Ryselle passed bread, “the sky clears late, so it can get colder tonight.”
Sil swallowed a mouthful of soup and laughed. “We have the fire, you have your choice of the private rooms, and you don’t have any reason to go outside.”
“Outside.” Kepron sounded even gloomier than Lialla. He picked up his soup bowl and drank hot broth from the side before poking through the vegetables with his fingers. Not precisely manners that would pass in Duke’s Fort or the Thukar’s palace, Lialla thought judiciously. But at least he’s neat about it. She set that aside and drank some of her own soup. Eating manners were something he could learn elsewhere, not from her.
Ryselle tucked a bite of bread in her cheek and blew on her soup. “How odd; I just realized, Lialla. He can’t go outside, can he?” Kepron stirred and his eyes narrowed; Lialla hastily swallowed and prepared to separate them, but after a moment the boy glanced at her, at Ryselle, then shook his head and went back to his soup in silence. “I’d hate that myself,” Ryselle added mildly, and tore off more bread.
Not much of a truce—it would do as a start; Lialla cut a carrot with the side of her spoon and ate. A long, reasonably companionable silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional rattle of windows as wind struck them.
Kepron set his bowl aside, got to his feet, and stretched. Lialla looked up at him. “If you’d like something to do besides sit and use your fingers and your mind, I have a suggestion.” She indicated the six-foot ash staff resting against the wall, next to the fireplace; the wood was a pale yellow, a replacement for the staff she’d left perforce in Village North Bay when Vuhlem’s soldiers hauled her in. “You asked about my bo; interested in learning how to use it? Any of you?”
Kepron looked at her, at the staff. “It’s an outlander thing, isn’t it? But I thought the outlanders used those metal things—guns?”
“No, that’s the foreigners—the Mer Khani and others. I learned that”—she indicated the bo with her chin—“from a genuine outlander. I’m not so good with it, but it’s still decent protection when the magic won’t respond for some reason. That does happen, even to the best, so it can’t hurt to have backup. But it’s also a good way to get your blood moving.”
Ryselle cleared her throat tentatively. “Um—I could use that also.”
“The weapon or the work?” Sil demanded.
Ryselle shrugged. “Well—both. I’m used to hard work, and I fear I’ll grow soft here, without my goats and my chores. But—to learn some kind of weapon, to learn how to guard myself. Yes, I would like that.” She took the empty bowls from Sil and stacked them close to the fire, then tested the pot of water with one finger and eased bowls and spoons into it before resettling it in hot ashes.
Kepron picked up the staff, turned it over in his hands and eyed it doubtfully. “It’s simply—it’s only a stick!”
“Just so,” Lialla said. “It’s not a sword, but it can work against swords. I know; I’ve done
it myself.” The boy gave her an even more doubtful look, ran his hands over the staff, and set it against the wall again.
“Swords. My father knew nothing of them. Save when there was a ceremony, he wore one with his dress breeks. Dull blade, shining hilt, like all the other men in his class. My company—if I had stayed there, another year or so, they would have taught me pike maneuvers, perhaps given me a bow and arrows, and such a sword to wear in parades or ceremonies. Only certain men learn sword, and never young ones, or sons of common soldiers.”
“Duke’s sons don’t always learn, either,” Lialla said. “My brother may be Duke of Zelharri, but he still can’t do more with a sword than wear it with his dress breeks. And he prefers a dull blade; a sharp one might cut him at the wrong place and time. Still—he’s good with one of these. Good enough.”
Sil laughed and got to her feet. “This is less my kind of activity than your magic, sin-Duchess. I believe I’ll take a walk, maybe see if Emios will want any of the new shipment of flour when it comes.”
“What—another two days?” Lialla demanded.
“No, that’s the five-wagon Blue Quail company from Cornekka. They’ll be here long enough to reshoe horses and get fresh meal for themselves. Red Hawk comes up from Sikkre in four days, if I reckon properly, and they should have rice flour this time.”
“Four days—what’s the hurry?” Lialla stood and shook out her wide-legged britches. “Especially since you don’t know if they’ll even have the stuff? You can’t like walking around in the dark and in this sort of weather?”
“It doesn’t chill me the way it does you. And, besides, it can’t hurt to get the gossip about Vuhlem while it’s fresh.”
“Oh.” Lialla considered this. “Well—I. suppose it can’t. Be careful—” She shook her head, laughed. Sil was grinning widely. “Yes, well, of all the people I don’t have to tell that. All the same, don’t step on the wrong toes out there.”