In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “Emlets wanted to kill it. He drew his knife, danced up and down, and began to warble a death-challenge to the fox. I had no knife yet, but I capered up and down too, imitating Emlets as best I could. For a moment I wanted nothing more than to scramble and fight with the fox, to prove my valor against its claws and teeth—and then Father cuffed us, just hard enough to return us to our senses.

  “‘What do you want to do that for?’ he asked us. Emlets muttered something about being a brave warrior, but Father walloped his backside. ‘Measure your courage against a wolf or a bobcat,’ he said roughly. ‘A fox is no challenge to your strength.’

  “‘What do we do instead?’ Emlets asked.

  “Father shrugged. ‘We sit and wait,’ he said. ‘Our Lady will tell us what to do.’

  “So we sat and waited. The shadows lengthened and night descended and we fell asleep. It was a hot night and comfortable enough. The next morning—” Sorrel grinned mischievously at Clovermead. “I will tell you some other time what happened the next morning.”

  “You’re joking,” said Clovermead disbelievingly. Sorrel shook his head. “Is this something else they do in the Cyan Cross Horde? Stop telling stories halfway through?”

  “No, this delightful stratagem has just occurred to me. You will never dare dismiss me from the Yellowjackets while the end of the story is untold, and perhaps I can invite myself to meals with you, and eat well while you dance in tantalized agony from one foot to the other, hoping that this time at last you will hear the tale’s conclusion. Then, when I do at last finish this story, I will also begin a new one, and leave that one unfinished as well. I will continue the practice until I have reached a ripe old age.”

  Clovermead hit Sorrel on the arm, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt. Sergeant Algere snorted, and Fetterlock laughed. “The fellow is canny, Demoiselle,” said the giant Tansyard. “Hit him again! It is the only way to keep these clever boys in line.”

  “Do not hit me,” Sorrel protested. He rubbed his arm. “I am a delicate creature. He speaks from inveterate malice—White Star and Cyan Cross have always been rivals, so he seeks to have you drub my weak flesh. Do not let him put the cotton in your ears.”

  “Pull the wool over my eyes, you mean,” said Clovermead. “Don’t worry. I’ll only hit you when you need hitting.” Sorrel groaned, and Fetterlock chuckled again.

  “Don’t bruise my trooper too badly, Demoiselle,” said Algere. “I need young tongue-wagger to stay in fighting trim.” He brushed bread crumbs from his fingers and got to his feet. “Beg pardon, Demoiselle. I should go see which of our sentinels is napping. Sorrel, don’t stay up too late telling stories—you’ll be sentinel with Habick on the third shift.” Sorrel ducked his head obediently, the Sergeant saluted Clovermead, and he ambled off toward the slumping silhouette of a Yellowjacket.

  “I once had a baby fox for a pet,” Clovermead continued, when the Sergeant was out of sight. “Card Merrin killed its mother and he would have killed her, too, but I made him give her to me. I kept her in my room and fed her scraps from the table. I called her Satin, because that’s what she looked like in the evenings when she was licking her fur. I wanted to tame her, but I never could—she got to be friendly enough with me, but she never stopped being a wild fox. She stayed all winter, but in the spring I left the bedroom window open one day, and she jumped out and ran away. I saw her once or twice in the next few weeks, but then she disappeared. I hope she’s had a good life since.” She elbowed Sorrel in the ribs. “And that’s the end of the story. Unlike some Tansyards I could mention, I don’t leave people on tenterhooks.”

  “I am a wretch,” said Sorrel unabashedly, and he wandered off to make his bed.

  “I see you do not sit on your dignity, Demoiselle,” said Fetterlock. “You are friendly with your troopers.”

  “I try not to be stuck-up,” said Clovermead. “I don’t know how to be properly haughty anyway—when I stick my nose in the air, I can’t see anything, and I bump into people. I wasn’t brought up to be Demoiselle, you know, and mother says I’m hopelessly common. Anyway, how could I be snooty to Sergeant Algere? He’s three times my age, and besides, he was my drill instructor that awful day I managed to disarm myself and trip over my feet at the same time. I’d be too embarrassed if I tried to play the snob with him. And Sorrel’s my friend. That won’t change if he’s a trooper or a general.”

  Fetterlock raised an eyebrow. “A Tansyard general of Chandlefort! There is an idea! Do you think it likely he will rise so high?”

  Lady Cindertallow’s consort commands the Yellowjackets, thought Clovermead. She blushed in the darkness, and made herself speak in an even tone. “I guess there’s no telling. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “An undeniable truth,” said the Tansyard. Then he lapsed back into silence.

  The next day was damper, and gray cloudbanks filled the air. The band rode into the forest and soon they came to the Chandle Palisades, gray granite cliffs that stretched to the north and south horizons and plunged down four hundred feet from the forest to the Whetstone Valley. The road switchbacked steeply down the cliff-face, and they had to go slowly as they descended. Oaks and cedars rose high above them, and they lost sight of anything but the trees around them. The day grew warmer as they left the plateau of the Heath behind. Halfway down the slope Clovermead saw snowdrops beginning to bloom, and toward the bottom she saw crocuses. By the road a stream fat with spring rains surged exuberantly over rock overhangs to make small waterfalls. At the bottom of the cliff, the party stopped at a fort garrisoned by Yellowjackets that marked the boundary of Lady Cindertallow’s realm.

  Fetterlock looked at every corner of the fort as they ate their evening meal, so casually that only Clovermead noticed what he was doing. “Taking notes?” she whispered to him. “I’ll tell Mother to change the locks.”

  Fetterlock chuckled softly. “The Horde Chief’s wife wanted me to keep my eyes open, Demoiselle. She wants to know if Chandlefort is prepared to fight against Ursus.”

  “Quite well, thank you. I trust the gleam on the garrison’s pikes satisfies you?”

  “Eminently,” said Fetterlock. He bowed respectfully to Clovermead, then sauntered over to the barracks where he had bunked down for the night. His saunter took him close by the stables, and the Tansyard couldn’t suppress a gleam in his eye as he passed the soldiers’ steeds. The Hordes were notoriously addicted to purloining horses.

  “And we keep our horses well guarded, too,” said Clovermead softly to herself. “So don’t even think of trying to abscond with any of them, you horse thief!”

  The third day a steady drizzle poured down on the riders as they rode through the close-packed fields between the Palisades and the Whetstone. Soon they came to the small riverport town of Widder Brand, just opposite Low Branding. A troop of Low Branding soldiers waiting at the harbor brought up their spears as the Yellowjackets approached, but Clovermead had the letter from Lady Cindertallow in her pocket that she showed to the wizened patrician at the head of the soldiers. He squinted at it, gave it back to Clovermead, and then escorted the Yellowjackets to a large barge. “Take us to South Harbor,” he told three sailors in oilskin jackets. He got onto the barge with the travelers, and the sailors began to pole them across the river.

  The Whetstone was a quarter of a mile across here, broad and gentle. As they crossed the fog-shrouded river, Clovermead saw other boats poling through the water, and then the dim shine of a lighthouse lantern. Soon the lighthouse itself emerged from the mist, followed by the long stone breakwater that stretched from the lighthouse to the shore. Then they were among dozens of boats, ranging from small fishing boats to great traders a hundred feet long. Ahead were wooden piers, the great Customs House of Low Branding, and the low sprawl of warehouses and taverns that formed the shorefront of the city. The sailors steered them to the south end of the harbor, and then they had landed among a hubbub of longshoremen and merchants.

  “I’m going
to the Mayor, to let him know you’re passing through our lands,” said the patrician. “Take the road to the right—that will take you around the walls, so you don’t have to go into the city itself. The main road east to the Moors is easy to find. Don’t dawdle: We’ll all be happier the sooner you’re out of our territory.” He gave Clovermead a sketchy salute, then turned and strode into the town.

  “You’d think he could be nicer to his Mayor’s allies,” said Clovermead.

  “Allies are astonishingly ungrateful to one another,” said Fetterlock. “The need for the alliance galls.” He scowled. “Me, I do not like to ask Yellowjackets, farmer-folk, to help us defend our Steppes.”

  “You came to us,” said Clovermead.

  “The Horde Chief’s wife sent me,” said Fetterlock. “I did not want to go.” He scowled again, and kicked his horse so that it sprang ahead of the rest of them on the road.

  “I would not care what Low Brandingmen think of you,” said Sorrel. “They are a nation of murderers.” He spat at the ground. “I will never forgive them for their destruction of Cyan Cross Horde.”

  “They’re not all responsible,” said Clovermead. “It was the Mayor who ordered the Low Branding soldiers against your Horde. I’m not fond of him, either. He’s been a sight too fond of assassinating and kidnapping Cindertallows in his time, and I still remember how he locked me up in a cage. But the rest—”

  “They doff their hats to their butchering Mayor. They pay the salaries of their soldiers whose swords are stained with my nation’s blood. They are all murderers.” And he looked so angry that Clovermead didn’t dare to say another word to him.

  They rode around the southern walls of the city, and Clovermead could see great merchants’ halls rising to her left, their tops covered in mist. Soon the travelers came to the east road and began to ride away from Low Branding, leaving the river and the rain behind them. Here there were hundreds of small farms, each with a narrow strip of earth extending several hundred feet from the road. Occasionally the group passed a troop of soldiers marching across the countryside. The soldiers warily eyed the Yellowjackets and peered at Lady Cindertallow’s letter, but they were content to see the Yellowjackets ride away from Low Branding. But there were few soldiers: It was a peaceful realm. The farmers walked around without weapons.

  The travelers stopped for the night in a fallow field. Fetterlock had dinner with the Yellowjackets, while Clovermead and Sorrel ate together at their own campfire. Sorrel had scared up a chicken—Clovermead tried not to think too hard about where it had come from—and had spitted it over the fire. Clovermead gathered the firewood, and they sat companionably side by side as they waited for the chicken to roast. Every now and then Clovermead could hear Sergeant Algere quiz Fetterlock about the lay of the land ahead, as his words floated over from the Yellowjackets’ campfire. Most of the time Algere was drowned out by the bald corporal, Naquaire, who was singing the old ballad “Leathwake’s Ride,” and of how the healing draught came too late and Lady Vermeil died in Leathwake’s arms. Towheaded, burly Bergander accompanied Naquaire on the lute, his thick fingers strumming with astonishing delicacy. Young Habick listened to the song with wide eyes and an open mouth.

  “They make so much noise over there!” said Sorrel. “And they sing a song to make a man cry, though I am in no mood for tears. But we are alone at our campfire, so I will valiantly ignore our companions and pretend we are traveling alone through Linstock once more—you just an innkeeper’s daughter and I just a messenger boy for Milady. Do you remember how we cooked as we traveled through the snowstorms?”

  “I remember you were awfully afraid of me turning into a bear,” said Clovermead. She wiggled her hand at Sorrel, and let it turn furry. “You thought—”

  “I thought you would be possessed forever, which almost turned out to be the case, so do not recriminate at me,” said Sorrel. He batted Clovermead’s paw aside. “You are a much more pleasant bear now—roly-poly and ruggish. I did not expect I would ever be so complaisant to see a golden bear growling at me, but the world is full of surprises. And our tracking games have made me a better hunter than I ever expected to be. On the Steppes we had no intelligent bears to stalk, or to stalk us. I have learned tricks training with you that would surprise the Hordes.”

  “Like climbing trees,” said Clovermead. Her eyes danced. “Do you remember when I leaped out at you from the darkness, over by the hayfields? You went up twenty feet in about two seconds. I’d have caught you if I hadn’t been busy laughing.”

  “I told myself that I would look back on that moment and laugh,” said Sorrel. “Clearly, I do not need to bother, since you are laughing for me. But while we speak of fond memories, I am particularly proud of the bear-trap laden with honey that I set for you. It is not merely the look of surprise on your face as the net closed over you, or even the smear of honey on your mouth, but the poetry of the moment. A bear ought to be snared in a honey-trap. The traditional aspects of that incident delight me still.” He smiled. “And the fact that it was only a jar of your breakfast honey.”

  “You don’t know how wonderful it smelled,” said Clovermead. “Wait until you have a bear-nose—then you’ll understand.”

  “I trust I shall wait a long time,” said Sorrel. “I have grown used to you being a bear; still, I would rather not become one myself. It is an unreasonable prejudice, perhaps, but I prefer my skin and my shape.”

  “Will you tell me the rest of that story about the fox?” asked Clovermead. “I’ve been waiting very patiently, but I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Sorrel chuckled. “Patience will never be your strong suit, Clovermead. If I told you that you would have to wait a year, you would die of apoplexy.”

  “I certainly would,” said Clovermead. “So how does the story end? Did the red fox end up as the trimmings for your hat?”

  “No!” Sorrel touched his hat-brim self-consciously. Then he glanced at Clovermead with curious intensity, and fell silent for a moment. His eyes dropped. “I wish,” he began—and then he fell silent once more. He looked up at Clovermead again, and for a moment she thought she saw something stronger than friendship in his eyes. They were sitting alone in the dark, and Clovermead was suddenly aware just how near they were to each other, and how far away everyone else was. At the other campfire all the Yellowjackets were singing the chorus of “Leathwake’s Ride,” singing of how Leathwake fell in love with Lady Vermeil the moment he set eyes on her. Clovermead wanted to smile, she wanted to reach out and take Sorrel’s hand in hers, but she just sat still. She was blushing, but Sorrel couldn’t see that in the dark.

  Sorrel’s eyes dropped a second time, and now he was the same Sorrel as ever. “You will just have to wait a little longer,” he said in his familiar teasing tone. “You are not nearly frustrated enough yet. You will hear the entire tale one day, but for now you will just have to wait.”

  “After all this buildup, the story had better be worth it,” said Clovermead. Her heart was still beating double-time. Did I imagine that? she asked herself. Oh, Clovermead, you must have. He’d never look at me that way outside of dreams.

  “It is a wonderful story,” said Sorrel. He smiled at her, friendly and safe. “You have my word, Clovermead. You will be quite happy when you hear the end of it.”

  Chapter Four

  The Harrow Moors

  The next day gray clouds filled the sky. The wind had shifted and a biting breeze blew from the north. Through the chill they rode east on land that sloped gently upward. Here the farms were farther apart, and the farmers carried spears with them as they went to patrol large paddocks where sheep, cows, and horses nibbled at the new grass. It was largely horse country: Clovermead saw no end of them in the rolling greensward.

  A farmer bringing hay out to a dozen horses looked suspiciously at Sorrel and Fetterlock as the Yellowjackets passed by. Sorrel said quietly to Clovermead, “These are our raiding grounds. Whenever we Tansyards feel short of horses, we head through the
Harrow Moors to seize a horse or five from these farmer-folk. Then they come back through the Moors to reclaim their horses—and if they cannot find the proper thieves, they take them from whichever Horde they find.”

  “That hardly seems right,” said Clovermead. “That means they’re just stealing horses from somebody else, not taking back what really belongs to them.”

  Fetterlock laughed and said something to Sorrel in Tansyard. Sorrel laughed too, then switched to common tongue: “Fetterlock reminded me of the time that Curvet of the White Star Horde stole a mare from the Horde Chief of Cyan Cross, and left false evidence to convince him that the thief was actually a Red Bar warrior. Five warriors died in battle between Cyan Cross and Red Bar before the truth came out, and by then the White Star Horde was halfway across the Steppes. The Elders deposed the Horde Chief for folly, and since then White Star has had an excellent story to tell about Cyan Cross.”

  “And this is something to laugh about?” Clovermead rolled her eyes. “Never mind. It still doesn’t excuse the Low Brandingmen.”

  Sorrel shrugged. “You think horse-stealing is a crime; we regard it as a warrior’s virtue. We kill any Low Brandingmen we catch when they come for our horses, but we give them a proper burial. It is a jolly game, and we have killed a great number of each other over the years, like good neighbors. Ah, how little that farmer suspects that I have become an honest soldier of Chandlefort! And what a fine herd he has!” Sorrel tipped his hat to the glowering farmer, and rode on in a good humor.