by Aldus Baker
After another day of rubbing the floor, Jalan, Master Enmar and Cress, one of the Carpenter Doon’s apprentices, finish. Masons are infilling the lower third of the exterior walls with stone and mortar. The upper sections of the walls that are not left open for windows and doors are filled with panels of woven sticks that are covered with a material made from all kinds of things. Jalan watches as men mix clay, limestone dust, dirt, sand, straw, flax fiber and even some horse dung together. They tell Jalan that this mixture will be spread over the lattice of woven sticks to finish each wall panel. It is hard to imagine the men’s churned up glop could ever be part of a wall, but as he sees the men fit the lattices and apply the daub, the real name for their glop, Jalan realizes that many of the buildings he sees everyday have walls made this way.
Jalan has to be satisfied with learning about these various building techniques bit by bit. He is back to a regular training routine now that his work on the floor of the Training Hall is done. Master Enmar adds a new exercise. It involves squatting down and then jumping up. It reminds Jalan of how a frog hops. The frog hops are difficult. It does not take long before his legs give out and he has to rest. Master Enmar assures him this is the secret to jumping high. It does not seem likely that Jalan will be touching the roof truss in the training hall any time soon. He will not even enter the training hall for some time yet. The walls need to be completed. And, after the walls, a legion of furniture finishers will apply wax and burnish the flooring until it shines. Or so says Master Enmar. All Jalan cares is that he will not be one of them. Finishing wood is a skill he does not have time to learn.
Tomac’s voice pulls Jalan from his thoughts of the new Training Hall. “What are you doing?” says Tomac.
“Training,” says Jalan.
“But you’re just standing there,” observes Tomac.
“How long have I been here?”
“About an hour.”
“Must be time to switch legs,” says Jalan.
“What? Are you going to just stand here on your other leg for another hour? I could do that!” says Tomac.
“Try it then. But, stand over there.” Jalan points to a patch of ground well away from him.
“Why over there? Why not right here?”
Jalan tries to think of a nice way to say Tomac will fall over and Jalan doesn’t want Tomac to bump into him. “We need room. If one of us starts to fall, we might bump into each other and then we’d both have to start over,” says Jalan.
“Oh. All right,” says Tomac and moves to the spot. “Which leg should I stand on?”
“You’re right handed. Start with your right leg.”
“What difference does being right handed make?”
“Maybe none. But, maybe, your right leg is stronger just like your right arm.”
Tomac frowns in concentration and raises his left foot off the ground. He attempts to emulate Jalan’s stance. Jalan is barefoot and has his right foot resting in the crook of his slightly bent left knee. After three tries, Tomac is able to rest his booted foot in the crook of his right leg.
“Why are we doing this?” asks Tomac.
“Endurance and balance,” says Jalan.
“This doesn’t seem like much exercise,” says Tomac.
“You’ve only just started. It gets harder.”
The two boys stand in silence for a short time while looking like poor imitations of resting cranes.
“Is your leg starting to burn?” says Tomac.
“No,” says Jalan.
A moment later Tomac asks, “Are you sure?”
“It’s just your leg getting tired. You can try to bend or straighten your knee a little so the muscles can move around.”
Jalan watches Tomac gently bob up and down in very small increments.
“That feels a little better,” says Tomac.
Jalan closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the workman performing their tasks at the Training Hall. He feels the light breeze across his exposed skin. He hears Tomac breathing hard and the rustling of cloth. He opens his eyes in time to see Tomac windmilling his arms for balance as his booted left foot touches the ground. Even with both feet back on the ground, Tomac stumbles sideways for a few steps. “You can switch legs if you want,” says Jalan.
“I think you’re cheating,” says Tomac.
“How?”
“Well, you don’t have boots on. That makes it easier.”
“Take your boots off then,” says Jalan.
Tomac sits on the ground and pulls off his boots. He gives Jalan a defiant look and stands. With only one attempt, Tomac mimics Jalan’s stance. Tomac is now standing on his left leg with his right foot tucked into his left knee.
Jalan closes his eyes again.
“Why do you close your eyes?” says Tomac.
“I’m relaxing.”
“Resting?” asks Tomac.
“In a way. I am relaxing all the muscles I don’t use for standing. You probably have your shoulders and neck tense, and your stomach is tight. All your muscles are working harder than they need to. It makes you tired faster.”
Tomac is silent. Perhaps he is thinking about what Jalan just told him.
“Whaw!” says Tomac.
Jalan hears him fall to the ground.
“I know. I know. Don’t relax so much.”
“That and your leg started to shake,” says Jalan.
“How do you know? Your eyes are closed!”
Jalan does his best to smile like Master Enmar. Is that how the master does it? He makes a good guess?
“Humph. Fine, don’t tell me.” Tomac sounds angry.
“If you’d like I will ask Master Enmar if you could train with me sometimes.”
Jalan only hears Tomac breathing for a moment and then Tomac says, “Well, um, that might be all right.”
Tomac does not sound enthusiastic, but at least he didn’t still sound angry. “I’ll ask him. I’ll see what he says.”
“He says keep your eyes open.”
Master Enmar’s voice is right next to Jalan’s left ear. At the same time he hears his master’s words he feels a push on his left shoulder that tips him off balance along with pressure against his right foot and the back of his left knee. His left knee bends forward. He cannot get his right foot to the ground and ends by landing hard in the grass on his right side.
“Or,” adds Master Enmar, “sharpen your hearing. I suggest you try both. Turning to Tomac he says, “That is your first lesson. Did you like it?”
“Very much, Master Enmar,” says Tomac with a huge grin on his face.
“If you are serious about training, you will have to get your mother’s permission. When you have it we will set up a training schedule.”
“Yes, sir,” says Tomac.
“Get up, Jalan. You already have your mother’s permission,” says Enmar. “Apparently, standing on one leg is not enough of a challenge for you. Let’s see how well this frog hops!”
Δ
Lord Merk Shrift turns away from the window and returns to his final reading of the marriage proposal that will be delivered to Lady Darla Yen. He tries to think of anything else that might strengthen his offer of marriage. The document spells out several advantages to a union, the increased holdings, the family contacts, the business relationships, the generations of fine men and women that have borne the Shrift name with distinction and the final temptation, Shrift armsmen ready to fight alongside House Yen in the escalating border conflict. Shrift has even written his own personal note to Lady Darla. It will be delivered separately and outlines his personnel intent to be an exemplary husband. He made certain to let the lady know that he is attracted to her because of her fine mind evidenced by the skill with which she has led House Yen after Lord Hallis Yen’s untimely death, his memory of her beauty accented by the emerald of her eyes enhanced by the lovely gown she wore the first time they met, and her charming tone of voice and turn of phrase.
Merk assumes that Lady Darla will realize on
her own that his holdings and the Yen holdings have become competitors. The merging of the two houses would make a strong financial union. She will see the sense of it, how the sum of the parts creates a greater whole. Rather than competing they would control the majority of grain and flax in western Ojmara. The financial advantages aside, his offer of military aid is not something House Yen can afford to ignore.
After setting the proposal on his desk, Lord Shrift rings a tiny high-pitched hand bell. Yartin, his personal secretary, enters the room almost immediately by way of the double doors that face Merk’s desk and the large window behind it.
“My lord?” inquires Yartin as he waits for instructions.
“This final draft is good. Please prepare the copies and send one to my cousin.”
“Yes, my lord. And, by some coincidence, a letter from Lord Juin has just arrived. Would you like me to bring the correspondence now or at the customary time?”
Merk considers a moment. With so much going on he prefers to keep to his daily schedule to manage it all. “Just the letter. I will take the remainder at its proper time.”
Yartin accepts the draft proposal from Lord Shrift and leaves only to return an instant later with a sealed envelope which he offers to the lord.
“Thank you, Yartin,” says Lord Shrift as he takes the envelope. “Has the special report arrived yet?”
“No, lord,” says Yartin with a hint of apology.
Merk sighs. “Things have gone well enough. I suppose no news is not bad news,” he says quietly. “See to those copies and bring me today’s reports. I’ll look them over after reading Lord Juin’s letter.
“My lord,” says the secretary before he makes a slight bow and leaves.
Lord Shrift examines the envelope he holds. Anticipation is often the best part of any experience, the moment before the first sip of wine, the pause just prior to the musicians beginning to play, or the instant before opening a letter. At these moments, Merk can still imagine that the best is yet to come. Before it begins an event is still a mystery that holds a great and terrible potential. It could be sublime or second-rate. He hopes for the sublime. But as a realist, he has learned to deal with the inferior.
Taking up a letter opener from his desk, Merk cuts open the envelope without disturbing the wax seal. He removes the letter and plunges into reading it. Passing quickly over the customary familial platitudes, he searches for the meat of the missive. “... anticipated arrival..., ... accompanied by...,” mutters Merk as he scans the letter.
The lord looks up from reading as Yartin enters with a loosely bundled sheath of papers. “Yartin, I have one more thing for you before the reports. Please, tell Cartlyle to prepare the guest suite for the arrival of my lord cousin and his wife. They anticipate their arrival in two days, but you know how my brother likes to surprise people and arrive early so let’s have everything, including those copies, ready by tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord,” says Yartin.
The secretary begins his slight bow when Merk thinks of one more detail. “Oh yes, please be sure that any of Kressel’s men are tucked away somewhere out of sight during my cousin’s visit.”
“Of course, lord.”
Lord Shrift stands and turns back toward the window. He hears Yartin close the door upon leaving the room. The lord finds the view of the out of doors soothing as he contemplates various issues. Kressel’s report should arrive any day. The mercenary had been reliable but he keeps his own schedule which vexes Shrift. He thinks of the large bold man like a blunt instrument, a club or large hammer. Kressel can smash things, but the time for more delicate work is coming. It seems to Merk that he may soon need to rein in his hired henchman.
Δ
Lancer Zahn watches the caravan move sedately toward him along River Road. Southway Outpost sits at the foot of a rise where River Road turns east to climb until it changes course southward and plunges into the Sand Hills. From his marginally higher vantage point, Lancer Zahn has counted two large wagons and four mounted riders. Each wagon is drawn by a team of four horses. The wagon beds are covered with canvas tarps. Zahn suspects the wagons contain cloth, seeds and perhaps lamp oil. Oil has some value. If the goods were rare or the merchant had made a nice profit in Nakra there would be more guards. Besides, they look like oil wagons to Lancer Zahn. He has an eye for that sort of thing.
Zahn turns toward the gatehouse. He figures he has just enough time to write down the description of the caravan before it finally arrives at his gate. It is not really a gate. There is a bar across the road. Once the tariff is paid he swings the bar aside and the travelers pass. First, he has to inspect the loads and tally the tariff. Most likely lamp oil.
A short distance up the road he sees another gatehouse where Lancer Mikel stands waiting for a second caravan that is slowly making its way down the hill toward him. The wagons are similar to those in Zahn’s caravan except there are three of them and more riders accompanying the wagons. Probably loaded with goods from Lavembra, or even the Turngow Islands. Mikel will be bragging later about all that exotic cargo. Zahn can already hear Mikel asking him what he saw today. Zahn will have to return the favor and ask Mikel what Mikel saw. Then Mikel will go on and on about spices, and artwork and such. Zahn turns his head and spits to clear the bitter taste of the imagined conversation from his mouth.
Something hits Lancer Zahn hard in the back and sends him stumbling forward. “What the...,” is all he can say before it happens again and he falls to his knees. It feels like something is on his back. He tries to reach around and touch whatever it is but his arm is not moving right. Pain begins to slice through his awareness. He tries to call out to Mikel, but he cannot make the words come out. He looks toward Mikel’s gatehouse. Things are darker than he remembers and people are running past him. He is trying to see. He is trying. Somehow he has fallen on the ground. He wonders how he got there.
Chapter XI
Captain Erida stands before Darla’s new desk in her private study. She rose early hoping to make up for lost time. Yesterday could not have been more chaotic. Two proposals in one day. The future of House Yen flapping like a flag in the changing winds of matrimony. Darla wants to talk with Lady Shara, but she barely settles into her chair when Captain Erida arrives looking uncharacteristically dour.
“My lady, I have news of great concern to House Yen. Our outposts have been attacked,” says Captain Erida. “We only have initial reports, but it appears the damage and loss of men may be extensive.”
“Attacked?” says Darla trying to make mental room for this new crisis. “By whom?”
“The survivors arrived early this morning. They report that the attackers did not wear uniforms or carry banners. They came disguised as merchant caravans and attacked each road gate. Although others have said that foreign lancers and archers entered the fight once the initial attacks began.”
“You said, 'Attacks’. How many outposts were attacked?”
“All three of them, my lady. That has added to the confusion of determining exactly what occurred. We believe it may have been a coordinated assault on Southway, Midland and Pass all at the same time. Southway may be the most severely damaged, but it is the attack we know the least about. Midland’s commander, Lieutenant Caser, reports that the fires set by the attackers have been put out. The only large structure not damaged is the mess hall. Most of their horses were driven off or killed, and 15 lancers died with another 10 wounded. He has secured what is left of the outpost. The report from Lieutenant Niksus at Pass Outpost is the most detailed. It is from his report that we have the best description of the supposed merchants. Pass is the least damaged. Something about the merchant trains made them suspicious and they immediately formed up their available lancers and met the attackers head on. They still took heavy casualties, but Pass Outpost appears to be the least damaged of the three.”
“How many men were stationed at each outpost?” Darla remembers something about this, but it was years ago when her father discussed
it with her.
Captain Erida’s frown appears to deepen as he says, “There are approximately 30 lancers at each outpost if you include farriers, smiths, supply personnel and the like. There would be about 15 civilians working at each post as well.
Darla is surprised that the number of civilians is so high. She tries to imagine what they would all be doing there. “Why so many civilians?” she asks.
“My lady, there is a cook and maid for each officer. A cook and his helpers to prepare food for the lancers. Laundresses. Stablemen. Assistants to any of the tradesmen as needed. It is no small task to keep an outpost running, even such as these.”
“Such as these?” Darla is puzzled as to what Captain Erida means by his comment.
“I only meant that even when undermanned it is still necessary for each outpost to have a sufficient number of support staff.”
“The outposts are undermanned?”
Captain Erida blinks several times before he answers. “Yes, my lady. The outposts were constructed for upwards of 300 lancers each. We barely had a tenth that number at each one.”
Now Darla feels even more confused, “In that case, why weren’t there more lancers at each outpost.”
Darla watches as Erida seems to be at a loss for words. He starts to speak but then says nothing. The Captain looks about as if he might find the words hanging in the air around him and at last settles on a response. “I had assumed you would know that answer, my lady. The cost of the lancers is paid by House Yen, and you, not meaning to be too direct, are House Yen.”
“Oh,” was all Darla could think to say. The outposts were paid for by the road tariffs. The amount collected was relatively steady over the years. Therefore, it maintains the same size force at each outpost year after year. Darla has not considered that the tariffs were perhaps only meant to supplement outpost expenditures and that she should be developing ways to pay for more lancers. Possibilities for funding begin to come to mind and Darla starts to mentally evaluate them before she realizes that Captain Erida is still standing there and they have not finished the briefing. No time like the present. “How long does it take to recruit and train new lancers?”