Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Oh?” Jeris replied, arching an eyebrow. “Please elaborate.”

  Several people threw out wildly different stories of the events. The voices overlapped, but Jeris got the gist. He raised his hands to quiet those nearest him down.

  “How many of you were in attendance last night?” Heads shook, and the quiet spread toward the inn. “Most of you weren’t, it seems. I was.” The crowd quieted further, drawing the attention of those nearest the troublemaker. “In fact, the . . . gentleman over there was near where the original altercation started.” People started edging out of the way between them.

  Once called out, the man seemed ready for a fight, along with a couple of his bullyboys.

  Jeris didn’t want to fight, not if it could be avoided. He just had to delay. Most of the crowd were spectators, easily stirred up and just as easily deterred. Many expressions showed second thoughts about a riot against the Queen’s representative. They might join in, though.

  The three had work knives on their belts, but they hadn’t drawn them yet. Jeris had not drawn his sword, either. They were gauging him, considering their chances, and in a moment they were going to charge. The lead man would be in front, of course, and the others would flank. Jeris prepared to move and draw against them.

  Down the street to his left came shouting and clatter, above the noise of the crowd.

  “Clear the street! Make way!” a voice shouted.

  The crowd parted again, now broken into three smaller groups, split by the approaching party.

  It was a dozen men of the City Guard in leather armor with halberds, clubs, and swords. Letia was behind but catching up fast, astride her Companion, with Ralin seated behind. With them were another dozen levied volunteers with staves and bars. They fell into a skirmish line across the street, behind Jeris.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Guard Captain demanded.

  “It appears,” Jeris replied, “we have a less than honest merchant who is irritated by his strong-arm tactics being thwarted in more than one town.”

  The Guard Captain gave the loudmouth a baleful glare. “We were looking for you, as a matter of fact, for the disturbances last night and previous complaints. It’ll be best for you to come with us quietly, instead of slipping off again.” The man looked to be weighing his options, still leaning toward a fight.

  “That girl is a witch!” one of the others said.

  “No, she’s a Herald’s daughter. My daughter,” Jeris said loudly.

  A ripple went through the crowd, and glares began to go in the tough’s direction. The changed mood appeared to be enough to convince him to take the easier option. His posture relaxed, and the other two stood down. The Guard collected them, and the crowd dispersed.

  “We came as fast as we could,” Letia apologized. “Thankfully, as everyone was already at the council over last night, it was faster than it might have been.”

  “You came in time,” Jeris shrugged. “Cara?”

  “Safe,” Ralin answered. “I’ll need to have a few more words with her. Some guidance, until you get her to the Collegium.”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  • • •

  “Remember, you’ve promised to sing for me when we’re in Haven,” Letia said, helping Cara onto her pony.

  Cara smiled, still shy about it. “Yes. But we’re going to father’s family first, right?”

  Jeris nodded, tying her pony’s lead to his saddle. “Yes, Haven after that.”

  “And I’ll be able to sing there?”

  “Any melody you wish.”

  A Tangle of Truths

  Angela Penrose

  The great hall of Lord Brandin’s keep was decked all in black and silver—black draperies with silver embroidery, black bunting with silver tassels, black table covers with silver chair cushions. It was the dreariest baby’s birthday party Herald Arvil had ever attended. At least the baby, little Lord Branwell, was too young to notice the funereal air, being only one year old that day.

  Lord Brandin’s long-awaited heir surviving to his first birthday had drawn guests from all over the kingdom, and even a few from outside it. Brandin, the man known rather wryly as the Lord of the Armor Hills, controlled the flow of iron out of the richest veins in those hills and employed some of the best smiths. The fine weapons and stout shields displayed on the walls, as well as the graceful curves of the wrought-iron chairs and the iron banding on the doors, drew many speculative eyes.

  Even Arvil had been lured over to examine a sword and dagger set over behind the table where the gifts for the baby lordling were stacked.

  “It’s gratifying to see that the Queen of Valdemar thinks so highly of her nobles that she sends a personal representative to an infant’s party,” said a voice just behind Arvil’s shoulder.

  He hadn’t heard anyone come up behind him, but he turned smoothly with a polite smile on his face. The man behind him had a Hardornen accent, and was dressed in simple but well-made trousers and shirt, with a tooled leather jerkin—fine enough not to insult the occasion, while austere enough not to insult the people of his own kingdom, who were still desperately poor.

  “Her Majesty is happy for Lord Brandin, of course. His son is a blessing, this late in his life.”

  “Of course,” echoed the Hardornen. “King Tremane appreciates the situation of a man like Lord Brandin.”

  Arvil wasn’t sure how Tremane, who must have more important things to hold his attention than a baby’s birthday party in a foreign kingdom, was even aware of the event. But Tremane was said to be a savvy ruler. Likely he was looking ahead to a time when he could import quality arms and armor for his soldiers.

  “I’m sure,” he said with a neutral smile, then he gave a shallow bow. “Herald Arvil.”

  The Hardornen bowed in return. “Paskal of Gramersy, lately of Hardorn.”

  Huh. The name made Arvil think Gramersy was an Imperial like King Tremane, rather than a native Hardornen. Arvil was no linguist, and Hardorn had several dialects; Arvil couldn’t swear he’d recognize an Imperial note in the man’s speech if there was one. But if Gramersy had come to Hardorn with Tremane, he was more likely a soldier than a courtier. Although under the circumstances, Tremane’s soldiers were learning to manage many tasks.

  “Good fortune to you and your people,” said Arvil. “And may you have a pleasant stay in Valdemar.”

  “My thanks,” said Gramersy. He bowed again and turned to wander off, heading toward a group of men clustered around their host.

  Arvil strolled off in the other direction, watching guests mingle and maneuver. He ignored those rude enough to stare at his limping gait, relic of a bad fall when he was a Trainee. Servants slipped around the perimeter of the room, fetching food and drink for those who didn’t want to be bothered with walking across the floor for themselves. Guards lurked in corners and niches, their black-and-silver surcoats helping them blend into the decor.

  Arvil spotted a group of men he vaguely knew, local lords and landowners, gathered around an ale barrel. He strolled over and exchanged greetings, then pulled a cup of ale and settled in. The men asked for news from Haven, and Arvil obliged them. General talk moved to local matters, mainly having to do with mining and metalwork and the trade that resulted from both.

  Finally, one of the men, a Lord Unter, gave an arch look to Lord Oakley standing across from him, and said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your daughter, to see whether the babes get along.”

  Lord Oakley raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Time enough for that when they’re old enough to be interested in more than a teat and a rattle.”

  “You’re that sure of yourself, then?” asked a third man, a Lord Stonefell. “If you’ve settled things with Brandin, why bother with a marriage?”

  “Everyone enjoys a wedding, what?” asked Lord Oakley with a smirk. He was a wiry man who wore his bu
rgundy silks as though they itched. Lines around his eyes and mouth, and gray in his hair, spoke of habitual worry, an uneasy life, despite his smirking.

  “You’d cut your own boy out, then?” asked Unter. “Throw it all in with Brandin?”

  “Who said anything of cutting my own lad out?” demanded Oakley. “I’ll dower the girl well enough—that’s fair, that’s custom. No more than that.”

  “Is there an announcement planned for later, then?” asked Arvil, trying to catch up on the undercurrents.

  “Not yet, not yet,” said Oakley, his voice too neutral to be unstudied. “Just talk. Brandin’s lad’s not even weaned yet, and my lass barely so. Plenty of time to make it official, at least a year or so.”

  “But you’ve an understanding?” Unter didn’t look happy with the notion. “You’ve been talking to Brandin behind our backs?”

  “Behind whose back?” demanded Oakley. “I’ve no obligation to announce my business to all the neighborhood, certainly not before it’s settled.”

  “Stabbing your neighbors in the back is best done in secret, true,” said Unter, looking as though he’d bitten into a rotten fish.

  “By the Crone, I’ve stabbed nobody!” snapped Oakley, scowling up at the taller Unter, one hand brushing his belt where he likely wore a blade whenever he wasn’t accepting hospitality from a fellow noble. “If you’ve accusations to be made, make ’em to my face!”

  Unter moved back without actually taking a step, shifting his weight to give him a tiny but important bit of space. “One hears things,” he muttered. He glanced around for support from his fellows, apparently found none, and turned his scowl down to the floor.

  “I’ll make whatever arrangements I please,” said Oakley, his voice still hard, although not quite so loud. “Just as you’ll look out for your own affairs, and every other man here will look after his. If I overstep, I’m sure our good Herald here will be most willing to jerk me back into line.”

  Arvil, startled at being dragged into a local argument, gave a graceful bow and said, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  Oakley glanced at him with a snort that would probably have been a laugh had the conversation not been so tense. “If you’ve a complaint, Unter, take it to a Herald. If not, keep your whining to yourself.” He nodded to Arvil, then to the others, then turned and stomped away.

  Unter glared after him, then drained his ale and walked off in the opposite direction, his stride stiff with swaddled anger.

  Lord Stonefell watched them both go, then shrugged and sipped his own ale. Neither he nor any of the other men left commented, so after a few moments of silent drinking, Arvil asked, “Did Lord Unter hope for a betrothal for his own daughter?”

  Stonefell huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Nah, that one’s youngest daughter is nearly twenty. Not that that’d stop some, but he and Brandin aren’t so friendly that Brandin would give his new little treasure to that sort of marriage, not without some urgent need. Unter’s got some gravel down his craw about Brandin pushing the Barrowlan shaft closer to Unter’s lands than he’s comfortable with. He’s been whining about it for the last year and more, and he’s afraid that if Brandin and Oakley make a firm match of it, he’ll lose any chance of winning his case.”

  “Is Brandin encroaching on Unter’s lands?” Arvil asked. “Or rather, under . . . ? I’d need to look up mining law, but—”

  “Nah, nah, it’s just whining. Mining law says you claim anything under land where you’ve driven a wooden stake with a hammer. Nobody can drive a stake into the crest of the Armors—it’s solid rock, aye? Without a stake, a seam belongs to whoever mines it first. Brandin’s following the Barrowlan seam from this side of the crest. He’s got the money to pay two shifts and the men to work ’em. Unter can’t match him, never had a hope of it.” Stonefell shrugged. “That’s mining. No sense complaining. That way leads to wine, leads to gout, leads to a miserable death, and for what?”

  The men laughed and clanked their ale cups together. Arvil clanked his cup too, but he turned to watch Lord Unter, who had indeed ended up with a glass of wine and looked to be draining it already.

  Talk among Stonefell and his cronies turned to a friendly argument over the best quenching bath for something-something-steel-something, so Arvil excused himself to refill his cup and then wander the room.

  If Stonefell and company primarily traded in finished goods rather than ore, that would explain why they had little sympathy for Lord Unter, who seemed dependent on mining. If he was afraid Lord Brandin was about to shut him out of a rich source of iron, that would certainly give him a reason for resentment, especially if his rival Oakley was about to make a deal and shut him out.

  Still, it sounded like nothing more than the usual ups and downs of business.

  Servants began setting up trestle tables in the middle of the hall, and the guests shifted nearer to the walls to give them room. Lady Udette, a sturdy young woman with broad hips and a pretty face—clearly the mistress of the place, in a gray silk dress trimmed in black braid—called everyone to supper soon after, and Arvil found himself seated to her right, in a place of respect to the Queen by proxy. On her left sat Lord Oakley, which seemed to confirm that Brandin and his lady wished to pay him particular courtesy. As a future in-law?

  Lord Unter sent Oakley a scowl or two from his place near the center of the table, but that wasn’t surprising.

  Still, Arvil felt that he was missing something. Had Stonefell and his cronies been a bit too casual? Was Unter too obvious? There was a feeling of tension throughout the gathering, as though something were about to happen, something less happy than a baby’s birthday, but Arvil couldn’t quite grasp what was bothering him.

  Maybe Oakley was plotting—once his daughter was betrothed to Brandin’s son, if Brandin died, he might think to move into the power vacuum on behalf of his future son-in-law. Lady Udette was very young, despite carrying herself well, with an air of confidence. She would be easy for a smooth, older man with local influence to sweep aside. Or marry himself, if it came to that.

  Too many possibilities, not enough information. Arvil picked at his food, his stomach twisting with tense imaginings. These are the times when I wish Companions were welcome to mingle indoors, he thought. Graya would be more than willing to tell me whether I’m imagining murderous enemies where there are only disgruntled rivals.

  Arvil had often wished the Lady had given him Mindspeech, but with Graya in the stable, he’d have had to narrate every word and action for her. Dividing his attention that way wouldn’t be worth the extra mind put to the problem.

  Lady Udette kept dinner conversation light, moving from local gossip to comments on the performance of a Bard who’d travelled through the area some weeks earlier. Oakley tried to steer the topic to children and weddings, but Lady Udette fended him off with the skill of a champion fencer. If Oakley had hoped to gain advantage through Lord Brandin’s wife, he ended the meal disappointed.

  After dinner, the servants served rounds of sugar-glazed gingerbread. While the guests enjoyed the sweet—dividing nearly in half between those who dove into the gooey mess with their hands and those who made an attempt at eating neatly with a knife—a matronly nanny entered the hall carrying a baby.

  The little boy was clearly Lord Branwell. The little mite had been scrubbed until he glowed and was wrapped in a long gown of ruffled gray with silver vines embroidered in swirling patterns.

  At least the infant wasn’t dressed all in black. As much as Lord Brandin seemed fond of his house colors, Arvil suspected Lady Udette had put her foot down.

  As the guests noticed the babe’s entrance, they began knocking on the table with their knuckles—a sensible alternative to clapping when one had one hand full of gingerbread.

  Lord Brandin climbed to his feet, his joints visibly paining him, and said in a voice that filled the room, “Friends and neig
hbors! I present to you my son and heir, Lord Branwell, who is one year old today.” He paused for more knocking, then went on, “I thank you for your presence at this joyous occasion and for the generous gifts you’ve offered.”

  He nodded to a servant, who, along with a second man, lifted the table covered with presents and moved it over next to Lady Udette.

  The nanny stepped closer and held Lord Branwell up so he could watch his mother unwrap gifts. Little Lord Branwell sucked on his fingers, his eyes half-closed, and completely ignored what was going on. Arvil guessed he’d been thoroughly fed just minutes before and might well fall asleep during “his” party.

  The gifts were contained in elaborately carved boxes, or wrapped in fine fabric. Lady Udette made a show of carefully opening each, exclaiming over each item and holding it up to show. More table knocking expressed approval for the growing collection of silver cups, silver rattles, intricately knit blankets, and elaborately sewn outfits the baby would surely outgrow in a matter of months, even if they were suitable for a babe crawling about and learning to walk and getting into everything, which they were not.

  Arvil supposed that, much like the party itself, the gifts had more significance to the adults present than to the birthday baby.

  Lady Udette undid a precisely tied bow holding a swath of silk around something the size of a large melon. The fabric fell away to finally reveal something a baby might actually want to play with. It was a cloth rabbit, with floppy ears and brightly embroidered flowers all over its body. Even Arvil, who had little expertise in such things, could tell that the sewing and embroidery were particularly fine. Lady Udette squeezed it and smiled; it was obviously stuffed with something soft.

  While the guests knocked approval, the lady held the colorful bunny up to her son, bouncing it up and down so the ears flopped to and fro. The baby opened his eyes, pulled his fingers out of his mouth and smiled wide, showing four tiny teeth. “Bah!” He waved his hands at the toy.

  A shock of dread hit Arvil like a bolt of lightning—Foresight! There was no image, there hardly ever was, just a knowing, and he lunged across the table, grabbing at Lady Udette’s upper arms, all he could reach in time.