The ringing that accompanied phrenic elemental magic began resonating through the cities. The tones vibrated inside her skull and she squinted as the Phrenii became transparent and elemental, shining with a brilliance that forced her watering eyes closed. When she opened them, all that remained was a bridge crossing a swollen grey river. The Phrenii had shrunk to the size of deer.
This exhibition of power wasn’t common to the crowd that gathered on the Betarr Serasa side of the bridge. Carriages stopped, while both drivers and occupants stared at the spectacle. When the dikes disappeared, a murmur swelled from the crowd. Draius frowned when she heard the vulgar term “unicornis” muttered with foreign inflections; ten years ago there wouldn’t have been so many foreigners in the crowd.
After the Phrenii returned to their normal size, tradeschildren poured out from the crowd. They surrounded the creatures, stroking them, grabbing their manes, even tugging on their tails. Adults stood back as awe battled with other feelings on their faces: longing, shame, and regret. They’d probably forgotten the power of the Phrenii—it was too easy to focus on the discomfort they bring to adults.
Dahni was the phrenic element for water, and the aspect for healing. It stood on the near side of the river and now turned toward its audience. Immediately, adults at the front of the crowd shrank back, drivers started whipping their horses, and onlookers began dissolving away. Draius and other members of the patrol hunched, hoping to avoid drawing attention as faceted green eyes glanced over them. Dahni began to move south along Canal Street with an entourage of children, and they all breathed easier.
Bordas turned around as Draius pulled her horse aside. “Til next time, Serasa-Kolme Draius,” he said, formally dismissing her.
“Meran-Kolme Bordas.” She returned his salute and kept her tone neutral. She hoped it’d be more than three erins before she did another patrol. She swung her leg over Chisel’s hindquarters and slowly slid off the tall chestnut horse. She almost groaned when she hit the muddy ground, the thud of home going from her heels up to her teeth. Her leg muscles felt strange, like they were unfamiliar with walking or standing.
Pride, however, kept her posture stiff and tall until the patrol turned to go. No one else in the patrol bid goodbye to her, the only City Guard member. Instead, the six stained and grimy members of the King’s Guard clattered away over the Whitewater Bridge, climbing toward the high shining spires of Betarr Serin. After an entire patrol together, I’m still common watch to them. Even to Henri, who had to know by now that she’d seen through his jokes and schemes. Sadly, marriage had improved her sense for detecting deception.
She turned to the streets of Betarr Serasa, the lower city where commerce occurred. It was a mess. The results of the “worst false-spring storms ever recorded,” to quote the passing crier, were broken windows, the smell of mold, and mud puddles galore. Every now and then, she saw burned thatch where lightning had hit, and the fire had been suppressed.
The populace was recovering. Shops bustled with afternoon customers, while glaziers fit new glass into storefront windows. Carriages clambered in and out of potholes, widening them and spreading mud about the cobblestones.
She fastened her sword on her saddle, took off her garrison cap and neck guard, stuffed them in a saddlebag, and scratched her head and neck. She loosened the saddle cinch and her horse sighed.
“Come on, Chisel.” She jiggled the reins. Side by side, she and the horse trudged along the street, their heads down. Neither of them made an attempt to dodge splashes from the wheels of passing carriages.
The City Guard stables were only five blocks east of the Whitewater Bridge. The stable manager, Horsehead, stood waiting at the gates.
“I thought patrols only lasted an eight-day. You’re wearing at least an erin’s worth of mud.” Horsehead directed his assessment, as usual, toward the horse. “Who knew we’d get such storms in false-spring?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Have you seen Peri today?” Now that she was back, she ached to wrap her arms around her son.
“That rain was something, wasn’t it? The Phrenii have been mum about the cause, which has the streets rife with rumors about—” Horsehead cut his ramblings short as her eyes narrowed. “And—ah—Peri’s well. Safe and sound. He stopped by today before lessons with his cousins. He looks like he’s fitting in just fine. You shouldn’t worry about him.”
She nodded, catching his implication. Her son was adjusting to the sister cities, as opposed to her and Jan. Peri was experiencing a normal Fairday, sitting through the same old routine of afternoon lessons with his cousins, while his father, mother, and matriarch struggled to patch the growing cracks in a marriage contract. She tried not to think about Jan pleading his case with Lady Anja while she was gone on patrol.
Pressing her lips together, she took the tack, saddlebags, and weapons off Chisel and let two young stable hands take him toward the wash rack. Chisel, however, had other plans and dragged the children toward his stall and food. Horsehead motioned to an older apprentice to help with the large gelding.
“Now then, let’s have it,” she said.
Horsehead bent his head to scratch behind his ear, avoiding her gaze. “Have what?”
“Some news you’d rather not tell me?” She kept her attention on the task of brushing dried mud from her clothing. When he didn’t answer, she added, “Wouldn’t bad news be better coming from you, than from someone who’s less than a friend?”
“Don’t know about that.” He grunted, perhaps not willing to admit friendship after all those early years as her riding master. Then he dropped the words like an axe, quick and merciful. “Meran-Kolme Erik announced his choice for Deputy Officer of Investigation. It’s going to be Jan.”
Her hands stopped moving.
“Most of us know you’re the one with the right experience. But Erik opened up the appointment and you know how Jan is…”
Yes, she knew how ambitious, competitive, and ruthless Jan could be. “Did he say why he picked Jan?”
“He doesn’t have to justify himself to anyone but the captain.” Horsehead looked uneasy. “Even though you’re one of the best riders I’ve ever taught, man or woman, you know that Erik prefers to work with men.”
“Women number one in twelve within the City Guard.”
“But that’s not the ratio of officers.” He grinned. “That’s more like, um, ah—”
“One in thirty.” She felt deflated. She knew the numbers, as well the low odds of Erik promoting her. “But selecting Jan? That’s a slap in my face.”
“I told you to go into the King’s Guard when you could, didn’t I? I warned you about the politics in the City Guard. You weren’t wining and dining Erik, nor slapping him on the back and buying him drinks, were you?”
She reluctantly had to admit he was right and shook her head. Horsehead seemed relieved, no doubt figuring his unpleasant duty was finished. He leaned over the riding ring fence, ready to gossip. “Who went on this patrol rotation?”
“Bordas commanded, and I was the only City Guard. The others were King’s Guard entrants on their first patrol. Rather full of themselves, too.” Her voice took on a perfectly clipped upper-city intonation. “Oh, Father was so proud of my score—top ten percent—but my cousin didn’t make the cut and had to find a position in the City Guard.” Her nasal pronouncement made “City Guard” sound worse than street beggar.
He chuckled. “You didn’t tell them you had the chance to wear the green and silver.”
“They were young twits. All uncontracted males. They’ll learn respect soon enough.” Draius shrugged.
“They certainly will, once their matriarch starts checking their balls like a bull for stud.”
Horsehead’s irreverence made her laugh. She could picture every matriarch she’d ever met, even the young Lady Anja, holding a cattle prod. The image seemed so natural.
“By the Horn, they made me feel old,” she added.
“You’re not yet twenty-eight by my f
eeble reckoning. Wait ‘til you get to my age. You’ll be ancient in their eyes.”
“If my ancestral stars allow.” She could only hope to be as active at his age. Horsehead was hale enough to handle and ride horses, but rumors put him at more than a hundred and fifty years. Only matriarchal records could prove otherwise. He had run the City Guard stables and armory for as long as anyone could remember.
This reminded her that she had a powder weapon to return. The King’s Law forbade the carrying of powder weapons inside the sister cities, except by the watch. “Here’s the musket I was issued. Put it back into the armory, where it’ll be more useful.”
The long weapon rested against the fence and she handed it over. Its weight required her to use both arms.
He examined the weapon critically, moving the serpentine matchlock back and forth. “Oiled and clean. How many times was it fired?”
“Thirty times, total. I can hit a tree at twenty paces as long as I’m aiming at a forest. Just don’t specify a particular tree.”
“Next time you’ll get one of the new muskets. The smithies have a better boring process and slower burning wicks. Should help the aim but not the kick. They’ll still need to be braced.”
“Then they can’t be used on horseback. Just give me a saber and let me charge; I’ll cut down anyone shooting powder at me.”
“The sentiment of all cavalry. Glad to see I didn’t waste all that training.” He laughed and slapped her on the back, which was as sentimental as he got. “Now go. I’ll take care of the tack and weapon.”
She said goodbye, hefted her personal belongings over her shoulders, and walked toward home and the promise of a wash. Her scalp itched from her long silver hair being bound in braids and pressed down about her head from the garrison cap. The skin on her cheekbones and nose felt raw from wind and rain. The saddlebags weighed heavily on her left shoulder while her sword belt looped over the other. The sheathed sword hit her in the back of her right leg with every other step, no matter how she tried to control her lanky stride. She might have the coin for a carriage, but the thought of taking the bags off her shoulder and rummaging through them on the muddy street kept her slogging forward. She’d attained a numb equilibrium and didn’t want to stop.
Four blocks from the main square, she passed the Sea Serpent Pub. It was a respectable establishment catering to varied clientele: King’s Guard and council members mingled with City Guard, ship owners, and shopkeepers. It’d been in business for more than four hundred years.
Noise tumbled out of the tavern door. She paused and listened to the joyful racket of those who were looking forward to the end of the eight-day. The spring sunlight felt warm upon her back. She counted the chimes of the clock on Bridge Square and figured she could do with food and drink. Particularly drink, given Horsehead’s news that her vocation as a City Guard officer was foundering. Besides, Peri was still in lessons and she didn’t want to face the matriarch waiting for her at “home.” At least, not yet. She strode into the Sea Serpent.
Rays of sunlight burned through slatted windows, crossing the floorboards while the corners and upper gallery of the large room receded into comfortable gloom. A few lit pipes made enough haze for the sunlight to become solid in the air. The aroma of the pipe smoke harmonized with the smell of potato soup and the hops and malts used in Tyrran beers and ales. Her mouth watered.
“Draius, b’my ancestors, are you back already?” The familiar roar came from the foot of the stairs. A shape lunged up from a chair. Berin sported an untrimmed beard and short bushy hair, contrary to current Tyrran styles. Not that he’d ever followed fashions for as long as she’d known him.
“Greet’s, Draius.” He laid a beefy arm around her shoulders. Draius was tall, but she barely reached Berin’s chin. “Stinky, dirty, and ready for a beer? I’ll have to say that in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you looking worse.”
“Thank you. And greetings to you too, Berin.”
He laughed in his resonant bass and guided her to his table, helping her stow her items. Berin owned warehouses that sheltered goods sent in and out of the harbor and he frequented the Sea Serpent several times an eight-day. Draius sat down next to Berin’s assistant, Wendell, with her back against the gallery stairs.
Wendell greeted her and re-clasped his drink with hands spotted with ink from keeping tallies in the warehouses. As usual, the corner of his mouth was smudged where he held his pen while he worked. Beside Wendell sat a City Guard lieutenant Draius didn’t recognize.
“This is Lornis, he’s new Guard and I’m buying him a Fairday drink. Always like to be on good terms with the Guard.” Berin winked. Down here in Betarr Serasa, “Guard” meant City Guard, not King’s Guard.
“Greetings, Lornis.” The lieutenant appeared to be about her age. “You’re a little old to be entrant, aren’t you? Where’d you transfer from?” She wasn’t usually so blunt, but her social skills were rusty after an eight-day of rough living.
Lornis’s eyebrows rose, but his bright brown eyes held humor. Honest humor, because she saw crinkling at the corners, quickly deepening into lines. The edges around Jan’s eyes never crinkled, which had been the first hint to realizing all the expressions on his pliable face were carefully molded. In contrast, Lornis had a face of sincere angles and high cheekbones, narrowing to a chin that was almost, but not quite, sharp. He wore his light brown hair pulled back in a clasp, which caused it to fall in a shining cascade down his back to his waist—the classic style of the Tyrran plains tribes, who only braided their hair for battle.
Berin laughed and clapped Lornis on the back. “I told you. Drives straight to the hilt, doesn’t she?”
“I’m not a transfer. My grandmother finally admitted I was never meant to be a goldsmith, so she gave her approval to apply to the City Guard. They let me test through to lieutenant.” Lornis adjusted his sleeves so the green displayed just enough white through the slashes. His sleeves were new and his collar crackled with starch. His buff jerkin was new and unstained, making Lornis as bright as a new coin.
His attention to his uniform seemed a bit excessive, and what was this option to “test through” to lieutenant? She’d never heard of anyone avoiding erins of training to jump into the Guard officer corps.
“More beer!” Berin roared, startling her. The prospect of smooth, light Tyrran beer distracted her and her stomach started rumbling.
“I’d also like soup.” She looked longingly at the empty bowl in front of Lornis.
“And soup,” Berin called to the serving girl, his voice cutting through the noise in the common room.
She looked down at her field uniform, stained and bearing no rank, which was customary for patrols. Her uniform sleeves were woven and plain. She wore breeches, acceptable for working women, but they showed considerable wear. She didn’t look too bad for having lived in mud for an eight-day, but she felt awkward sitting near the new dandy lieutenant. She rested her hands in her lap, fingers curled to hide her ragged, broken nails. Unfortunately, her light pewter-colored skin, the result of diluted blood from silver-skinned ancestors, wasn’t dark enough to hide the dirt embedded into creases and small cuts.
“Was it raining on the eastern plains?” Lornis asked her.
“No.” Remembering the maelstrom she saw from her perch at the northern point of the Dibrean Valley, she asked, “Any word on what caused the storm?”
“Oh, everyone has an opinion,ranging from Nherissa rising after five hundred years to steal our blood, our souls, or maybe our silver, to our ancestors punishing us for slighting them.” Lornis grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Alms at the reliquaries are up and everyone’s singing at evening star-rise, it seems.”
She shivered. “What do the Phrenii say? Surely the King asked them?”
“They’ve kept mum, which doesn’t help us sleep better. Of course, we’d have more damage if the Phrenii hadn’t conjured up those clever things to keep the river tamed.”
“At least the
creatures are good for something,” Berin muttered. When they looked at him, he added, “They didn’t protect the warehouses from the rising canal waters. We constructed a shunt to divert the runoff and we saved our goods, not the Phrenii.”
Draius watched Berin grimace. When she moved back from Betarr Kain, she noticed her old friend had a darker, sharper edge to him. The Fevers had changed everyone, particularly Berin. Now he was prone to uncharacteristic moments of sullenness.
Lornis waved to a tall broad-shouldered Guard officer entering the common room. “Jan! Over here!”
The entering officer had an innocent and slightly rounded face, making him look younger than his real age. Falling over his shoulders in soft waves, his hair had glimmers of gold in the late afternoon light. Unlike Draius, Jan’s hair had never tended toward the silver of their Meran ancestors. His dark blue eyes searched the room, ignoring the female heads that turned in admiration.
Lornis saw the expressions of disapproval at the table and bewilderment lined his forehead. Jan approached their table.
“Greetings—Lornis, Wendell, Berin.” Jan clapped Wendell on the shoulder. Berin nodded, avoiding eye contact.
Jan turned to his wife last. “How was the patrol rotation?”
“Fine.” Conscious of her chapped face and dirty clothes, she took a sip of beer and tried to concentrate on the flavor. She clenched her other hand, still lying in her lap.
Jan’s angelic smile changed; he carefully balanced welcome with concern. “I’m glad you’re back. Peri’s been unhappy lately, having bad dreams.”
Her eyes narrowed. From someone else, those simple sentences could be taken at face value. Jan had managed to convey accusation, as if it could only be her fault. I’m too tired to play “impress the audience.” She still had a few unbroken fingernails, and she dug them into her palm. “Not now, Jan. We can talk later.”
A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1) Page 2