We headed out to the living quarters, Carlos whistling softly now and again as he passed the massive carved furniture, the vivid and intricate tapestries, the porcelain vases that ranged from delicate to massive, all filled with the best from the Rata gardens.
“My place must have looked like a barn in comparison.”
Dalph laughed. “With all that endless hot water? I hope you don’t come to consider it a bad trade.”
Dal, apparently finished with his assigned duty of formally thanking his tutor for his services, met us in the hall.
“Kiera’s put Carlos next to me. Can I take him and show him?”
“Of course,” Dalph affirmed. “And then you leave him alone after you make sure he has everything he needs right now. Don’t make him regret Kiera’s choice of chamber or I’ll make you regret it! Clear?”
Dal assumed a wounded expression. “You could just tell me not to be a pain in the butt, you know!”
“Fine, don’t be a pain in the butt!” Dalph instructed.
Carlos laughed and addressed Dal. “Lead the way!”
Kiera appeared at our door at the about the same time we did, the bath entourage behind her. I knew the kitchens must be full of steam with all the hot water they were currently dispersing. When my tub was full of the wonderful steam and all the water-bearers had departed, Kiera turned to me, obviously intent on supervising, but Dalph pushed her gently and firmly toward the door.
“But–but–I must help the queen with her bath! She needs me!”
“Aunt, the queen does not need you right now. She needs her husband. Who desperately needs her. Out!” Obviously, the week plus in the Badass with another companion cramping the King’s style had taken its toll.
Kiera’s eyes widened and her mouth opened as Dalph eased her gently on out the door. I heard the shocked Truscan exclamation as the door finished closing.
“In the daytime?”
“I’m disappointed in Johnny. He should have changed her attitude about that a long time ago. And we have got to do something about the sex life of Truscan women!” I observed, dropping clothing like a tree dropping autumn leaves.
Dalph was dropping clothes just as quickly. “I intend to do something about the sex life of my Truscan woman right this minute,” he declared, and did.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
During the next few days, Warrior Fields shifted into overdrive. The sounds of clashing swords reverberated as all the Truscan troops, both seasoned and apprentices, sparred endlessly. The pull of bowstrings and the whoosh of singing arrows, coming from so many bows at the same time, were loud enough to provide a string section for the percussion of the clashing metal.
Dalph culled his best, his finest, his toughest, from the ranks of the already elite Tornans almost immediately upon our return, in preparation for the reconnoitering mission. He made the announcement of the participants, suitably enough, at the Truscan Round Table, and I was there because Dalph wanted me there. Since our return, I had been included in all planning sessions, all briefings, and all strategy conferences. My presence at these conferences made clear the tacit (and unheard of in Truscan history—even Madeline had not been thus empowered) royal decree that the queen was second-in-command. It made me feel rather like Katherine Brewster, Jon Conner’s unwilling bride of Terminator 3. Johnny, of course, was always present as the royal right hand, and Carlos was always present and recognized as the Warrior sent from Beyond the Door to battle the Prians with special skills and equipment never before known to Trusca. He wasn’t yet able to translate, but that time was coming with breakneck speed. I could see that bi-lingual brain absorbing Truscan like a sponge absorbs water.
The first order of business, however, was the strategy plan, and for that, Dalph turned to Johnny.
“Johnny, you’re the last living Truscan to see Prius. Tell the generals what you remember, please.”
“Praise the gods, the City’s not walled and gated. Or it wasn’t. Built tight, though. Little streets, like alleys. Ugly as the Prians. Definitely lots of stone, but not smooth stone like Trussa. Squat and bulky. Again, like the Prians.”
“Terrain?”
“Flat, windy, arid, ugly. No real trees, did have some scrub around on a few hillocks, but that’s about all the cover there is. Sandy soil, not much good for anything except for blowing dust. Not much color. I remember almost everything being gray. It’s not the desert exactly, but it’s not fertile country.”
Dalph smiled. “Then the Prians are extremely stupid not to have walled and gated the city. The height would give them visibility for miles.”
“They still have damn good visibility, if they just look,” Johnny observed.
“They will not see us. We are shadows of the moon.” The phrasing struck me and hit a pleasing note, almost poetic, as Dalph’s phrasing usually struck me when he became more formal.
“And now I ask the generals to note the names of the Tornans whom I require for this mission.” Dalph read off the names, and I looked at Carlos’ face. Certainly, his Truscan was already good enough to recognize that his name was not read off the list of Tornans going on the stealth mission. And I knew the exact moment when he realized that he wasn’t included in that elite troop. Dear God, he was about to argue—not with his friend Dalph, but with the King of Trusca, and such would not and could not be permitted. I tried to catch his attention, thinking that possibly my expression would prevent any protest, but once again, I underestimated Carlos Ramos.
His voice was low and respectful, his head slightly inclined just as the other generals inclined their heads when they spoke to the king. Neither Trusca nor Dalph required elaborate subservience, and here in Trusca, head and hand gestures generally took the place of the bows and obsequiousness of the medieval European courts. He spoke, necessarily, in English at this stage of his Truscan residency.
“My King, I ask that you consider that it would be of great benefit to me to see the layout of the city, the size of the buildings, the building material. And I also ask that you put me through the tests of Warrior Fields before you make a final decision about whether I would be a liability or an asset on this mission.” As had become the habit when my Truscan was not adequate for what I wanted to say, Johnny translated for him, copying the respectful tone perfectly. It would have been rude to hold private conversation in front of the generals.
I didn’t let out an audible sigh of relief, though I certainly wanted to. Perfectly done.
I looked at Dalph, and only someone who knew him as well as Johnny and I did would catch the faint smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. Dalph knew that Ramos International was virtually an empire in itself and he knew that Carlos was virtually its King, and as such, like Dalph himself, was not accustomed to asking permission for anything from anybody. And as well as I, he knew that the new American Knight had hit a masterful note in diplomacy.
Dalph inclined his head in response. “I’ll consider it.”
He moved on the details of the patrol, the timing, and the supplies. Finally, he dismissed his generals, and when they had cleared the room, he closed the door behind them and turned to his American Truscan contingents.
“Very well done, my friend! Did it hurt much?”
Carlos closed his eyes and exclaimed, “You have no idea!”
Dalph laughed. “I’m sorry the formality’s so necessary. You never made me feel an inconsequential outsider in your world and I certainly have no wish to make you feel so in mine. But here—”
“Here, you are in public the King of Trusca and even Tess, by some miracle of God, mostly manages to keep her mouth shut,” Carlos finished.
“Hey!” I interjected. “I never argued with you when you were being the Head of Ramos, either!”
“No, you just gave me hell when you got me alone.”
Dalph laughed again. “As she does me, I assure you. But the three of you are the only ones in whose company I can be just Dalph, and I don’t think you have any idea how good th
at feels or how much I treasure it. And so now, the king has departed the room. Talk to me, Carlos. I didn’t realize that you had even thought that you should go on this mission, you’ve only just arrived, and Warrior Fields is no joking matter. And until I saw your face, I didn’t realize how obviously important it is to you that you do.”
“I need to see the city, the building materials. From Johnny’s description, I’m not happy. It sounds like the comparable material on earth might be granite, and that’s the hardest building stone known to man, even harder than Truscan marble. See, I’ve been looking around, and I’m sure we can make gunpowder. And probably a few other things, too. This means I can make more explosives. Not as powerful, but still very effective in a running ground battle. And I can use it where I don’t need the real fire power. But I have only a limited supply of the plastique and I need to know how much of what I need and where I need it and that would be hard to do on secondhand information.”
Dalph frowned. “I understand what you’re saying, but there are two considerations. We’ve trained for battle since boyhood. And we’re going in as wolves. Nothing’s going to let you do that, and I don’t know how close we can get you. Nor do I have any guarantee that we won’t have to engage before we even get to that point; we could run into a patrol on the way in. If we do, we can’t leave any survivors and we can’t allow any Prian to escape. It will be a hard-fought hand-to-hand battle. And you will do me no good dead, friend.”
“Okay, I get all that. But even seeing the terrain will help, no matter how far back I have to stay. Maybe we’ll even pass some of the quarries they use. If we’re lucky. Just seeing the dirt and the rock formations—that’ll give me at least some idea of the strength of city.”
“How?” I asked.
“Certain rocks are formed from certain processes, seeing the types of sand, dirt, lava, general terrain—it’ll help.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Lord, Tess, any explosives expert has to know geology! Had to sneak it in as a double major with the damn business master I never wanted!”
Naturally. I should have known.
Dalph was still frowning. “But that’s of no use if we have to engage on the way in.”
“Well, for the first time in my life—I’m grateful to my grandfather for one thing. He always insisted that I learn what he called ‘the sports of kings and the pastimes of gentlemen.’ I wanted to play football, so he made me take fencing lessons. I wanted to play baseball and he made me take archery lessons. And I wanted to play basketball, so of course I had to learn martial arts. The only thing he ever let me do that I wanted to do without fighting about it was riding—you know I can ride. And I guess I ought to be grateful he didn’t make me take ballet!”
As Carlos talked, the light slowly dawned, and I recalled the trophies and ribbons so proudly displayed—not in his house, but in his grandfather’s. And when I’d asked about them, he’d never even told me they were his and in fact, had expended some amount of effort in keeping me away from them.
“But how good are you?” Dalph asked.
“He’s very good,” I answered.
“Excuse me?” asked Carlos, pretending to faint.
“He’s very good. His grandfather’s house is full of his trophies and ribbons, and I never even caught on. Mostly because he never let me get close enough to really look. In short, my King, Carlos was right and I was wrong.”
“Really, my Queen? How so? I don’t often hear either part of that admission from your lips.”
“The stones didn’t send us back for plastique. They sent us back for a demolition man. They sent us through for Carlos. They bring through whom they choose and whom they choose are meant to come. In this instance, trained for it. Since childhood. Just as you were.”
Dalph looked at Carlos thoughtfully.
“Tomorrow. No promises. But you will show me what you’ve got.”
The next day, Dalph put Carlos through the grinder, from which he emerged surprisingly unground, needing only to concentrate on the stamina necessary to wield the battle swords, much heavier than the lighter fencing swords to which he was accustomed. Within two weeks, he was indistinguishable from the other figures on Warrior Fields as to his movements with a sword. He was an excellent archer, and he adapted his martial arts training, incorporating moves from Truscan Cabrote and teaching the Truscans moves from his own training.
During those two weeks, I also heard for the first time the battle calls with which the Truscans communicated during military operations, which were highly effective and downright eerie. And, in fact, were I on the wrong side of an approaching Truscan army, I’d have been scared shitless. I’d never known there were so many variations of wolf howls, and though the Tornans definitely had a distinctive edge to their cries, even when they were in human form, all of the Truscans put forth some very impressive noises. In this regard, Dal once more became my tutor, and was quick to take Carlos under his wing as well, although I think Carlos enjoyed howling a lot more than I did. I guess it was a guy thing.
When the new falton that the Naranian Tornans were having no luck with arrived, he was indeed a beauty, almost Pegasus’ twin. His head tossed and his nostrils flared; obviously, he was displeased that he no longer ran free on the Truscan plains. The five of us, Dalph and Dal and I, Johnny and Carlos, stood by the stable corral watching him as he churned the dirt, restlessly moving between the rails, obviously irritated by the saddle and bridle, which so far, was the only concession to domestication that the Naranians had been able to obtain.
“Damn, son, you sure you want to try that?” asked Johnny.
“Oh, yes,” Carlos affirmed, watching the falton in fascination. “I really do!” He moved to the gate and raised the latch, slipping through.
“Boy’s got more balls than brains,” Johnny muttered. He said that a lot about Carlos but it was obvious he meant it as a compliment.
Carlos approached the new falton slowly, not from fear, I knew, which would have been disastrous, but from respect. The falton knew it, too, and stood still, head at attention, still snorting, and stamping his right hoof.
“Hola, mi amigo! Que tal?” Carlos spoke Spanish to the stallion, just as he’d first approached Andromeda. I didn’t think he even thought about it or realized it. Any potential rider must speak to a falton from the heart; I’d learned that if nothing else. He moved closer and reached up slowly, making sure that the falton knew what he was doing, touched his nose, and slowly started rubbing gently up and down between the stallion’s eyes, talking all the while. I was sure he was still using Spanish, but I couldn’t distinguish anything except the string of soothing sound.
“Well, would you look at that?” Johnny asked in wonder. “Boy’s a regular—there’s some phrase for it back on earth, Tess, what is it?”
“Horse-whisperer,” I supplied. “Yes, he is. Look!”
An understanding had been reached, a partnership formed, acceptance gained. Carlos moved to the falton’s side, and holding the reins loosely, placed his foot in the stirrup and smoothly swung himself over the mount’s back. He sat still for a moment, allowing the stallion his breathing room, and then lightly flicked the reins. The falton trotted obediently around the corral several times, and Carlos brought him to a stop in front of us.
Dal cheered, though I could see the envy in his eyes. I’d actually asked Dalph about the possibility of Dal having a falton early, but Dalph said that he was still too young; that faltons did not deign to be ridden by children, no matter how much older than his years that child might be.
“I will be damned!” Johnny exclaimed.
“So, my friend!” called Dalph. “A new alliance! What’s his name?” No one except his master, or, in Johnny’s expressive phraseology, his partner or however they viewed us, ever named a falton.
“Are you kidding?” Carlos asked. “He runs beside Pegasus and Andromeda, you know his name! He’s Perseus!”
Of course he was. Who els
e would he be?
Tornans and regular cavalry—it appeared that Trusca had never been much on infantry—poured into Trussa from all points. Krenor was the closest city, and actually, the only one that I’d really heard much about until that point, but warriors from all of Trusca’s strongholds—Miros, Canra, Naran, Murer, Lorias, Fakos, Strakan, Rokor, Gallia—streamed into Trussa. I grabbed a map from Dalph’s Round Table of paperwork and fixed it to the door of our bedchamber, marking each new city as its soldiers swelled the ranks on Warrior Fields.
The days passed too swiftly, the hours continuing to be measured by the clashing of metal and the whoosh of the flying arrows, and the grunts from the hand-to-hand practices that went on for hours. For the first few nights, Dal came back to the Rata completely exhausted, but after a few days of the increased physical activity, his body became adjusted to it. I’d cut his hair, not as short as Dalph’s and Carlos’ hair, as I wasn’t a professional and I didn’t want to butcher it, but short enough, and almost regretted it, as the cut made approaching maturity so much more obvious in his face. I noticed a new grace and a new control in his movements, though, and a growing confidence that I simultaneously enjoyed and mourned. Ten-year-olds were not intended to have that type of confidence. He would never again revert to the high-speed little whirlwind that raced up and down the Rata halls. Apparently, he expended all the speed he needed to expend on the training fields, and in the evenings, settled in on the couches in the den with the books I’d brought back from Beyond the Door.
The first ones devoured were the Arthurian legends, and that was certainly no surprise to me. His favorite version of the legend, though, did surprise me. He loved the tripping, flowing, poetry of Idylls of the King and in an astoundingly short time, became very adept at quoting verses from the work that were quite appropriate for the current situation he was commenting on. His grandmother’s grandson, for sure.
Miami Days and Truscan (K)nights Page 22