by Don McQuinn
The language was not to Jaleeta’s liking. She smiled noncommittally, waiting. Leclerc went on. “Leadership is intelligence. It’s guidance, and only a moral person can supply guidance. Without moral honesty, it’s not leadership. It’s driving, making your followers nothing but workers in your behalf. Or it’s deception, making followers believe in something that’s not true.”
“I’m confused. I was talking about Gan giving me…”
Leclerc interrupted, “Gan’s hurting more people than you alone. He’s betraying the trust we all had in him.”
Alarm raced through Jaleeta, a cold warning. Talk of betrayal could mean revolt or desertion. Either meant desertion to her plans. Leclerc must understand that his first task was the elimination of threat to the Three Territories. Everything must take place in order. “He’s Murdat, Louis. We all need him to defeat the Skan and Windband.”
“And we will. I promise.” Water bubbled out the spout of the kettle, sizzled on the stovetop. Leclerc went to prepare the tea. Jaleeta snuggled deeper in her chair. At last the conversation was moving in the right direction. She hugged herself. Someday the castle of Ola would be filled with soft leather chairs. Everywhere she went, they’d be waiting for her. And slaves. Good things to eat, and fine clothes.
The spring-meadow scent of chamomile blended with the tang of raspberry leaves and the perfume of roses. Steam wafting from the mug Leclerc handed her brought images of a child harvesting herbs with her mother. The child was happy. But ignorant. And stank of fish and hut smoke.
She leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Delicately, she parted her lips, darted a pink, glistening tongue across them. “You’re the only one here I can trust. The only one anywhere.” Abruptly, she got to her feet, strode to the stove, careful to stand so Leclerc could see her tremble. Spilled liquid splattered on the stove, fouled the room with the charred aroma.
Leclerc said, “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”
“It’s all this constant talk of war and power. It means people being hurt.” She faced him, eyes brimming. “You’ll beat them all. I know you will. You’ll be beside Gan, make the Three Territories strong for him. And I’ll belong to an old man who cares more for his horse than he could ever care for me.” The tears cascaded. Jaleeta kept her chin high. It was very uncomfortable, but the effect on Leclerc was marvelous.
He rushed to her. She raised a hand, stopped him. “No, don’t come close. You mustn’t be trapped in my problems. It’s not fair.”
“We have to do something.” Leclerc shifted from foot to foot. His hands twitched in abortive reaching motions.
Weighing the moment, Jaleeta decided to proceed. To control him, she had to strip away all other influence. Tears of Jade had made that clear. The old woman’s mistake was undervaluing Jaleeta. She blinked past tears. “You mustn’t. You can’t. You’ll make Gan think you’re disloyal.”
“We’ll work around him. We’ll find a way to discourage him, make him see what a mistake Emso is.”
“It’s not just Emso. Kate Bernhardt. One of your own people. I’ve seen how she looks at you. And you look at her the same way, even though you pretend not to. I’ve seen you. I can’t come between you.”
“Between…? There’s nothing…” Leclerc blustered. Erratic hand movements graduated to wide arm-swinging. His face reddened. His gaze broke under hers, slipped away, came back.
Jaleeta was startled. There was more there than she suspected. Probably more than Leclerc suspected, she told herself, and almost smiled at the perversity of it. Only when she confronted the fool with his true feelings was he able to acknowledge them. And then only to deny them. Men. If they weren’t so stupid, they’d be much more entertaining. She repressed a sigh. All the more difficult, too. Pleading, she asked, “You’re sure you don’t care for her? Is that the truth?”
He raised his hands, waiting. She took a full step forward, entered the enclosure defined by his arms. He gripped her shoulders, tentatively, then more firmly. She found his gaze comically intense, the pupils dilated to black pits of yearning. And deceit. Jaleeta wondered which lie caused that reaction.
It made no difference. Not now. Not anymore. When he pulled her to him, she met his urgency with pressures of her own. He was clumsy, as bad as Lorso, but far more gentle. Considerate. Nevertheless, there was passion.
Heat from the stove behind her rolled across her back as her blouse fell to the floor. A corner of her mind played with the difference between that warmth and the flames working within her, rising to consume all her thoughts, all her concerns.
Then he scooped her up, surprisingly strong, carrying her toward a door. She fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. Eyes closed, she thought of the moonlit figure of Lorso, gleaming with sweat, heavy muscles writhing, bunching silver in the darkness. The stableboy. That tree-trunk neck, the straining bridge of muscle from the elbow down the forearm as he pulled on the girth.
The bedroom was dark. She half opened her eyes, reveling in the insinuations of clouded vision, things seen dimly. Everything was suggestion, glossed with a delicious unreality. Closing her eyes once more abandoned her to other senses. The air was thick with man smell. There was a feeling of roughness and heavy motion, mixed sensations of warmth and strength and violence. Then she was on the bed and he was with her and she was alight with need, with delight, with taking.
Images continued to flare across her mind. Lorso. The stableboy. Leclerc.
Something else raged behind all that, a frightening thing. Then it was free. The image she dared not admit.
Later, beside the still, deep-breathing Leclerc, she rose on an elbow and stared down into the slack features. The sleeping face was infuriatingly unreadable. Had she called out? Had she spoken the name of that hard, disinterested face? Even now, sated, secure in conquest of this man, that other face fired her blood anew. Rolling the broad vowels, her tongue stroked the name into whispered, yearning sound. “Nalatan. Nalatan.”
Chapter 35
The wind poured up the Inland Sea, a thunder that piled up green-gray water into frenzied walls. Crisp with the tang of salt water and the threat of snow, the wind drove its waves at impossible pace. Unable to meet the demand for speed, the waters stumbled, fell, shattered in white, roiling anonymity.
On the surf-roaring shore, huge logs leaped and crashed like straws. Trees, some so old that people spoke of them in awe, called them First Church witnesses, bent and groaned submission.
From the roof of Ola’s castle, Gan and Sylah watched. The pulse of the storm transmitted itself to them through the vibrating rock of the massive walls. The castle murmured nervousness in its straining beams and timber-barred doors. Together, man and woman drew back from their shared crenel. They dabbed at rain-blasted eyes, loosened the drawstrings on dry jacket hoods. Gan shouted over the wind. “We may not have to worry about the Skan. Or Windband. This wind may blow us all inland to my own country.”
Sylah’s laughter was snatched away before it could be heard. She cupped a hand to Gan’s ear to shield words. “I want to see Clas na Bale’s face the day you tell him he has to live inside stone walls.”
She wished the words had been blown off. Scattered. Better yet, never spoken. To mention that name was to release the waiting flame in her heart. Worse, reminding Gan of Clas’ freedom only emphasized his own obligations.
Gan tried to hide his hurt, but the thoughtless thrust was too true, too deep. As he pretended unconcern, her mind raced with realization of exactly who this young man had become. A king, Murdat, and not much older than the Wolves he led in combat. A husband and father, denied all but the most fleeting of moments with wife and child. A religious protector, and a man of such quiet, unostentatious faith that one would never suspect its depth. A good man, faced with enemies without and within.
With the chill of autumn came the dead leaf rustle of fear among his followers. Whispers, like cold slime, oozed through the Three Territories. Strange men, not Peddlers or Messengers, not even recog
nized traders, appeared in villages to wonder aloud about the wisdom of dying to advance the ambitions of an upstart kinglet from the other side of the Enemy Mountains. Such men stayed nowhere long. There seemed to be an abundance of them; they were reported along every road and track. They spoke of accommodation. They suggested compromise. And peace.
It was the sort of attack Gan was least equipped to confront. The statecraft necessary to contend with rumormongers and manipulators clashed with his image of himself.
More than anyone else, except for Neela, Sylah understood how much Gan Moondark resented what he must be. His next words expressed her thoughts. “Clas na Bale. He’s free on the prairie. Yet I know he’d give anything to be here. I know how he misses you. We’re buying him the time, in a way. Windband can’t attack the Dogs and us at the same time. He’s safe, Sylah, yet I know how he’d like to be by my side when the war comes.”
“Maybe it won’t happen.”
“Don’t waste our time. Let’s get in the corner, more out of the wind. I need your advice. This is the one place where I can be sure no one will see or hear.”
It was the first time Sylah ever heard Gan allude to spies. The fact chilled her far more than the storm.
Once they were better positioned, he continued in the same vein. “I learned things while you were away on your quest for the Door. Being Murdat’s no different than being Nightwatch. Attention to everything around you; that’s the way. That’s what keeps Nightwatch alive and the tribe secure. So I send out people the way I used to send out my dogs. They discover things I can’t. The difference is, the dogs and I trust each other; we never lie. With men, it can be different.” His smile was crooked, knowing. “I’m told Moonpriest has moved to the coast, just south of where the Mother River empties. They say there’s a restricted area by the sea, guarded day and night. To enter that place is to die.”
“Can you learn what’s happening inside?”
“Moonpriest and his workers have to eat. Those who buy provisions talk, especially if there’s enough gold to loosen the tongue. They describe things like wheels with paddles that turn in the wind. They say Moonpriest has brought in shiploads of slaves to mine every known godkill for copper. They say Moonpriest has many of the new catapults and trained crews. He has a wallkiller, like the one you saw in Kos. It throws stones that blaze when they break, and the people who see it die, even if they’re untouched.”
“Burning stones? No one will believe it.”
“Not so. The man who came back with the information believed. He’s gone. North. As fast as a good horse could carry him. He stopped here barely long enough to collect his fee. I paid him extra to keep his mouth shut. The one thing I know about such tales is that the wilder the story, the more likely it is to be believed.”
“Can you trust him to be silent?”
Gan threw wide his hands in mock helplessness. “The nomad who spoke to him swore him to secrecy. How can I, who paid him to betray confidence, suspect him of disloyalty?”
There was loathing and self-loathing in the words. She led the conversation in a safer direction. “You said you were seeking advice. I know nothing of mysterious weapons, new tactics.”
“Who does? Except Moonpriest. And Leclerc, I think.”
“Have you talked to Leclerc about these things?”
“I’d like to.” In response to Sylah’s questioning look, Gan grew more confidential, as though the wind itself listened. “I’m concerned about him. He’s withdrawn from all of us. The three women who joined Church are his people. When’s the last time he spoke to them?”
“When he demonstrated his new pump. He talked to all of them.”
Gan shook his head. “Not once, Sylah. Except the Bernhardt one. She went to his home. She stayed only a while, and left in anger.” He gestured away her swift distaste. “I didn’t spy. It’s ordinary gossip. His servants talk to other servants, and they talk to Neela. She’s worried about Bernhardt.”
“I understand. I knew something was bothering Kate.”
“I’ve always considered Conway and Tate my eyes and ears where Leclerc is concerned. He’s not like them, he’s not like you or me. I like the man, but he’s different. Tate and Conway understand him. I don’t.”
Sylah sighed heavily. “Nor do I. But there’s no one else to turn to, if you hope to learn what’s in Moonpriest’s mind. We must go to him.”
The smile Gan turned on her melted her heart. It was the one she knew of old, the eager, hopeful expression of youth rising to challenge. He pulled his hands out of his sleeves, reached out for hers. His touch was firm, warm. “‘We must go to him.’ What a loyal friend you are, Sylah. You’ve been at my side at every step.”
“You help Church, just as I do. We help each other.”
“If you say so. But few in the Three Territories would be so quick to share responsibility. And fewer yet who wouldn’t demand some measure of authority, in exchange.”
A fierce gust, heavier than anything before, slammed against the castle wall. Tearing through the open crenels, it roared like a mountain stream. Gan and Sylah both ducked in instinctive reflex. When it was passed, they looked at each other, burst out laughing. Gan rose. “That’s our style, Sylah. Outside, where the storm rages. Afraid of the danger, afraid of missing the action. You’re a warrior.”
He was prepared for her pain. Calmly, he went on. “It was a deliberate statement, because you have to realize it’s true. I know how you agonize over the incident in the market. Taking a life is a terrible thing. Yes, even for one such as I, my friend. But you did what Church, the Teachers, and all your friends would demand you do. We will not have you taken from us.”
She got up to stand next to him, leaning into the wind. His speech touched her more than she dared admit. She tried to put a light face on the matter. “I only fight to make right the things great oafs like you break.”
He grinned relief. And mischief. “And that’s not as hard as war?”
“Don’t be clever with me. Do you want to know what I think must be done, or would you rather tease me?”
“The latter, actually, but I don’t have a choice. You have a suggestion?”
“Be direct with Leclerc. Tell him exactly what you’ve heard, ask him exactly what he thinks. Ask him how he can help defend against whatever Moonpriest may be up to. While you’re doing that, send another man to verify what the first one learned. Why are you looking so smug?”
“The second man left two days ago. He’s from one of the border tribes just south of Jalail. He owes me a favor.”
Sylah nodded approval. “Good. But what I have to say next may offend. I think you should watch Leclerc. I’m ashamed to say it, but I’ve seen too much, learned too much, Gan. As you say, Leclerc has always kept his distance from us. There may be a reason. We’re too vulnerable to exercise blind faith.”
The wind slowed noticeably. The roar was a sibilant ripping sound now; it made Sylah think of fine, wet cloth shredding to pieces on the wall’s rough stone.
Gan clamped a hand over his mouth. Head bowed, he pondered his problem. At last, hand at his side again, he said, “I can’t ask Emso to befriend him. Emso’s so loyal to me he fears Leclerc may do something magic and frighten the people into turning against me. And he despises change. He calls it all magic, and bad, and rejects it. What about Bernhardt?”
“If she’s attracted to the man, that asks too much of her.”
“You’re right, of course. It was a foolish idea. But if there’s the smallest grain of truth in anything I was told about Moonpriest’s new war making equipment, I have to know how to defeat those things. Leclerc’s the only man who can help. I wish I could be more certain of him.” He checked, struck by a thought, eyes suddenly wide. He laughed aloud, then, “I know. I know. Have you seen the way he stares at Jaleeta? His eyes bulge every time she gets near him.”
“That may be the worst idea you’ve ever had. Jaleeta’s far too ambitious, Gan. I promise you, anything she learns, sh
e’ll decide how much good the information is to her before she worries about helping anyone else.”
“I’m surprised at you. She’s a child. I was uncertain of her at first, but despite her courage, she has no vision. Her only ambition is a husband and children. She told me so. And Neela, too.”
The unexpected sharpness took Sylah aback. Her tongue stumbled. “She’s not interested in the common good.”
“You women really are different. You compete without even realizing it. Jaleeta’s no more ambitious than any of the rest of you. Her misfortune is to be beautiful. If she’s using her weapons carelessly, it’s because she’s young and inexperienced, not because she’s bad. I think she’s the perfect choice to help me know what Leclerc’s plans are. He’ll tell her things he’ll never tell the rest of us.”
For a long moment, Sylah continued to look out into the storm. Far down the sound, the rain was even heavier. It advanced northward in a vibrating mass. It was as if the sea rose to join with the falling sheets. She heard her own voice, far away, saying, “If you’re going to set Jaleeta to watch Leclerc, at least set someone to watch Jaleeta.”
Glowering, Gan looked away, then back. “Oh, all right. But who? You’re complicating things.”
“Nalatan. She rather likes him. And he’s too much in love with Tate to be influenced by a little flirt.”
“See? I told you. You really don’t like her.”
Coloring, Sylah stretched to her full height. “You were an arrogant, puffed-up boy when I first met you, Gan Moondark. It’s extremely disappointing, after all my hard work, to find all I’ve gotten out of it is an an arrogant, puffed-up man.”
It was Gan’s turn to look uncomfortable. He grumbled, “I was only saying I don’t think you’re being objective. Women aren’t always, you know.”
“Men are? You’re being funny again, aren’t you? You’re not? Well, I am amazed.”
“If you want the truth, I don’t like any of this. I hate it. Watching people, waiting to catch them saying or doing something wrong… Ugh! It makes my skin crawl. I don’t think Nalatan’ll go along with you.”