Alcalde Julian would fault him for thinking in platitudes again—for looking for signs. What he should be looking for were answers to his questions.
Did he have a right to draw a woman into this?
Just as important, did he have a right to keep her out?
“The Lord gave free will to all. If you come, stay far from her reach, my child. She kills as quickly as drawing breath. And have you skill with Acorraloar?”
“Acorraloar? The game? Strange that you would ask, but I was university champion once—that was most definitely fortune, as it never happened again.” She shrugged. “Let me tell my companions to go on without me. I promised Alvito to see them home, but he couldn’t know of this more crucial opportunity.” She walked off to join a gray-haired woman in a black silk shawl, waiting at the head of the group of fellow prisoners.
“Fortune or God’s will?” Telo asked. “You would call her a test,” he told Santabe, though speaking more to himself. He knew from the few conversations he’d had with her that Santabe believed this world nothing but a test of will and audacity. From what he’d seen of her and the Northerners, he’d learned that those who survived were the only ones worthy of their sun god, Dal. Or perhaps one didn’t need to survive in their culture, only show the most cruelty while they lived. Who knew whether they believed in an afterlife or what use Dal had for them there or here?
Santabe shifted in her chains, watching for any weakness on his part as she always did. What she didn’t understand was that weakness was not a flaw. Those who knew when to accept help were the strongest of all.
Julian hunched over the desk, putting down the last words and checking for errors. He picked up a piece of blotting paper and dabbed carefully. Ten other copies already crowded the desk as he set down the pen, satisfied.
Juan and Ramón had installed him in a luxurious suite and not a dungeon. They might have removed anything resembling a weapon, including his razor, and assigned guards outside his door to keep him inside, nor would they let anyone speak with him, but they feared to antagonize him too far. After all, they needed him to take down the army around Aveston and thin the Northerners for them.
That said, their “courtesy” only went so far—they had confiscated all the documents he had with him to peruse themselves. Included in that number was the copy of the Northerners’ terms of surrender. Luckily, he knew whole passages of it by heart and the rest well enough, and the desk contained plenty of writing supplies. He’d made fair enough replicas of the important points of the Northern terms.
Let the people of Crueses learn the Northerners demanded all weapons be confiscated, churches be closed, and the military disbanded in each conquered city, along with Northern soldiers to be billeted inside. Or that trade could be inspected at any time. When they found out the Northerners expected the blood of one in ten men and women, and one in thirty children, there would be riots. No, Juan and Ramón thought to leave those little nuggets out until the terms were accepted and the Northerners in the gates. There was no way for Julian to judge how far communication between Crueses and the Northerners had progressed, but he could take a hand in making sure the common people knew the facts.
Maybe Juan and Ramón were ignorant of parts of the terms. Well, his fellow alcaldes knew all the details now with the papers they’d taken from Julian. He pictured them shaking in their colorful tights and having to have their valets wipe their bottoms. Then he sighed and put aside such petty thoughts. He was not some youth to wallow in dreams of revenge. They got him nowhere. If he didn’t want to be named traitor, then he had a coup to arrange, and none of it would begin if he couldn’t ferret these papers out.
He blew on the ink of the last copy, touching it to make sure it didn’t smudge. “Arias.”
After Beatriz’s concern about Ramiro’s conflicted feelings but lack of information on his actual choice, it was no great surprise to find a soldier other than Ramiro here. In some ways, it was a relief. His son might be safer elsewhere. He teetered between worry that Ramiro was with Claire and the hope it was a good thing—if the witch would protect his last child. He put that aside as something he could do nothing about in his present situation. A man must know his own limitations.
Arias stepped up beside him. Julian had asked to have all his entourage with him; they’d allowed him one. The others still waited outside the palace. Julian hoped they housed the men well. It might be a long wait.
A plan of switching clothing with Arias and leaving the palace as a soldier had occurred to Julian—occurred and been discarded. Though he and Arias were of an age and size, both gray bearded, still their features looked nothing alike. And Julian was just too well known in this ciudad-estado. Besides the fact that leaving would accomplish nothing but saving his own skin. He would find another way.
Julian began folding the sheets up small. “Put these under your clothing and guard them well. Once outside, you are to take some to the largest squares and pin them up for the civilians. Take the rest to the popular taverns and make sure they are seen.” He quickly rattled off a few names from previous visits to Crueses. That should do well enough to start. “Do it quietly, you understand—don’t be flashy—and use the guise of procuring my supplies. You have coin for that?” In his few interactions with Arias, he judged the man had little imagination but plenty of capability for following through with orders—just what he needed.
“Hi-ya,” Arias said with a short bow, rattling his pocket. “I have coppers. I understand. But how—”
“Leave that to me.”
As Arias tucked the last broadsides from sight, Julian cleaned off the desk and moved the table with the Acorraloar board to the seating area. His left side still couldn’t pull as strongly, but a few days ago it wouldn’t have gripped at all.
He went to the door and found it unlocked. Three soldiers of Crueses in orange and white paid him full attention as he stepped into the hall. “Very sorry, Alcalde, you are not allowed exit from your rooms.”
Julian put on a smile. “So I understand. I don’t need exit, but I do need help. Acorraloar is much more interesting with three people and some betting. Any volunteers—if it wouldn’t be against your duty?” Their duty being to watch him, he supposed, it hardly mattered whether that be inside the room or outside. Throw in a chance of profit, and at least one would be tempted.
“I would be honored to join you, Alcalde.” The lieutenant bowed and followed him into the room. Julian didn’t miss the disappointment on the enlisted men’s faces. They were not paid as well as they would like obviously. Julian stored that fact.
Once inside, he gestured and said briskly, “In today’s climate, the professional soldiers should pick sides first. After you, gentlemen.” The lieutenant chose white and the opportunity to move first, while Arias took black. Julian settled happily behind brown, taking third.
He then did what he did best: put constituents at ease. As the moves began, he launched into small talk about the surprising lack of rain, the fish and light vegetable diet Beatriz had installed him on, demonstrating the lack of mobility of his hand, and anything that came into his head, using the soldier’s language he’d heard from his sons so often. Soon the lieutenant was laughing at his poor table fare, sympathizing with a henpecking wife, agreeing on the lack of rain and relating his memory of the drought ten years ago when the rains failed altogether. Julian was careful to keep his Acorraloar game masterful, but not domineering.
In just a few more moves, the first question came and Julian hid a smile of triumph behind a sad face. “Hi-ya, it’s true. Colina Hermosa did burn to the ground. But we routed them in return, though gravely outnumbered.”
To his approval, Arias chimed in with exact troop numbers and deployments for both sides, giving details, and ending with, “And the pelotónes escorted the civilians, leaving the nonmilitary men to fight. Men such as our Alcalde.”
The lieutenant leaned forward on his seat, hardly noticing as he placed his flat chip of white stone.
“And is it true you only survived because of the help of a witch?”
“Aye,” Julian said. “She saved us and our civilians. We’d have been massacred without her. She should be coming this way with my people.” True enough. Claire should be with his people . . . if the concejales hadn’t forced the issue and frightened her off.
“I wish I could have been there,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve had no fighting here.”
“We’ve had all too much. Our men have been well-tempered. And they might be tested again—the Northerners have completely regrouped and are strong again.
“Once the pelotónes arrive we leave the civilians here and go to fight with Aveston,” Julian continued. He didn’t miss the tightening of the lieutenant’s face. “We could use you there. But I dare say, you’re happier here in reserve, playing guard to civilians and old men. The menfolk of Colina Hermosa will manage—somehow.”
Julian couldn’t resist a last dig before changing the subject, keenly aware of the look of a young man anxious to prove himself. “I’m sure Alcalde Juan knows what’s best for his city and his soldiers. I am altogether too reckless, always bringing our troops to battle instead of thinking about their lives.”
The lieutenant sat back in his chair, suddenly quiet, and Julian began talking about a Zapata wine Beatriz forced him to drink nightly and the herbs she insisted were for his health, satisfied with the barbs he’d left. He might not be able to reach the garrison, but he could bring the garrison to him.
Julian waited until the lieutenant won more than he lost, and then ended the game, getting up stiffly from his chair. “It’s hard to admit when your wife is right, gentlemen. But Beatriz might be onto something with her Zapata wine and herbs. My joints are sorely aching. Alas—I didn’t think to bring any with me. Stubbornness, I suppose.” He assumed a forced smile. “We make do with what we have. It was a pleasure. Thank you for entertainment this noon.”
Arias muttered sympathetically.
The lieutenant paused by the door. “I don’t believe it would be against orders for your man to go out to market to buy what you need. We are to see to your every comfort, just not to let you out or allow you to converse with any others. We can search him well when he returns, if that suits you, sir.”
Julian beamed. “Very generous. My wife thanks you and my joints thank you.” He handed over a pouch of money and watched Arias amble out the door. He settled himself, feeling no guilt for the damage to Juan or Ramón’s reign. His inner landscape held firm. Undermining the rule of another’s ciudad-estado was never his preferred path. Saints forgive him, nothing was normal anymore. Paths had to change. He’d do what had to be done to win this war, and if that involved taking down collaborating alcaldes, then so be it.
If they side with the Northerners—if they would let harm come to the people of Colina Hermosa—than they are not my allies.
When Arias returned hours later with the hard-to-find vintage and packets of herbs, he gave not so much as a nod or a wag of his gray-tinged beard to indicate success, but Julian read it in his calm demeanor as he was searched. What was more exciting were the three lieutenants and a captain who stood in the corridor, all eager to hear details of the planned fight at Aveston. Soon his whispers would bring their highest ranks. The doubts about the leadership would grow among the military and the populace. Revolutions could start with a whisper and Julian had just uttered the first words. Alcaldes who crossed him could be double-crossed. For one thing was certain: He’d lure the men he needed for Aveston and the safety for his people, or die trying.
Chapter 21
“Who refuses to ride horses?” Ramiro asked. Sancha turned an ear his direction and the hop in the horse’s normally smooth gait grew more pronounced. “Of all the bloody commandeering, stubborn . . . goats.” Goat described the old woman very well. Ramiro saw now why a goat—and a horse—had been named for Jorga. He felt more sympathy for Claire’s mother than he ever had before. No wonder she turned out so badly, being raised by such a shrew.
Jorga demanded they leave immediately for her home without giving the slimmest of reasons. Then she refused to ride despite her all-fire hurry. Further, she refused to teach Claire anything if Ramiro remained in earshot. He’d tried following behind, but his irritation and Jorga’s constant watching—as if he were some dirty slug who’d crawled out of her cabbages—drove him to move ahead where he could be out of eye-line as well.
“Stubborn goat!” he repeated, not caring if she overheard, though logic said the women had fallen far behind and some of the thickest underbrush he’d yet encountered in the swamp surrounded him. Oaks and sycamores mixed with shorter bushes like raspberry and honeysuckle vine—vegetation so unknown to him that Claire had to teach him the names. No, they wouldn’t overhear. The women walked so slowly. No doubt done purposely by Jorga just to irritate him more. He knew his emotion to be petty—it felt like the time his brother and Alvito had gone to spy over the school wall into the girl’s section without inviting him—but he didn’t care.
“And Claire’s just as bad.” He knew that for a lie before the words left his mouth. She’d tried to speak to him alone, but every time, her grandmother popped up like an unwelcome louse. She’d only managed a hurried whisper that Jorga had agreed to teach her and she was working on getting the old woman’s support against the Northerners. “Good luck with that,” he said now.
Sancha gave a huff as if to agree with him, and he felt a little better.
“It’s not your fault,” he told the mare. The hop dropped out of her walk, and she picked her way down the narrow animal trail more smoothly. The only direction he had to go upon was Jorga’s vaguely pointed “that way.” Getting any speech from her was like carrying rocks uphill.
He pulled out a strip of dried mutton and took a snappish bite, chewing noisily because his mother wouldn’t like it, irked by the whole female race at the moment. He started to feel this trip was a gigantic waste of time.
“You’re getting another name,” Ramiro told Claire’s horse who followed on a lead. “We have enough Jorgas. How about Fronilde?” Now there was a woman who didn’t put herself forward. Salvador’s fiancée was all kindness and consideration—Sancha shot him a look—and to be truthful, dull and timid. He much preferred Claire and her spunk.
Salvador would council patience and he’d be right. Ramiro had no reason to feel . . . jealous.
By the saints. That’s what he felt. Jealous. Like a total dunce. Jealous because someone else had more of Claire’s time. Always before it was he with other obligations, and Claire waiting for his time—
“Hell and damnation!” In a fit of temper, he threw the leftover bit of jerky into the brush and scowled.
From out of nowhere, a shiver went up his spine and not for his thoughts. For a moment, his name hung on the nonexistent wind. Ramiro. A call in Claire’s voice, demanding his attention. There and gone in an instant, leaving him doubting his own ears, but full of urgency. A call. It felt like the Sight that ran in his family, but not—somehow different.
With a start, he realized he hadn’t heard it with his ears, but somehow in his heart. The Sight he felt over his whole body . . . or so it had always worked before.
He touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen, glancing around uneasily.
Sancha had stopped without a signal from him. She never did that. So much moisture gathered in the air today that it formed on the leaves, sliding down to drip on his head as they sat still.
“Blessed saints. Did you hear it, too?”
Sancha’s mane danced as she shook herself, sending water splashing up into his face. The cold drops awakened him.
Witchcraft.
Claire.
What if she were in danger? Hurt?
Sancha backed easily as he turned her on the narrow trail. It proved more difficult to turn Claire’s animal. The beast shied every time a branch touched its hide.
He didn’t dare put Sancha in a gallop in the confined space, but he urge
d her to a cantor. Five minutes down the trail, he spotted a broken branch dangling. Just beyond and north of the trail hung another. There was no other sign of a struggle. Nothing to indicate foul play—just two sets of feet going off-trail in the soft ground.
His scowl returned. There could be only one explanation: The women had tried to lose him. They’d purposely let him explore ahead and gone another direction.
Without an animal trail to follow, he had to dismount and lead the horses, pushing aside bushes and saplings to make room for them. His irritation rose with each difficult step, vines and brush grasping at him. Why? It made no sense. Surely, Claire wouldn’t change sides so quickly. They had to know they’d leave a trail behind. Doubt strangled his irritation, resulting in a vague hurt.
The wet ground showed their footsteps. The only sounds came from his efforts and the water dripping around him. He took his time, trying to come up with an explanation and finding none. Branches tried to scratch his face, rebuffed in other places by his body armor, sending water flying. Sancha stamped, letting him know she didn’t like this one bit. He couldn’t agree more.
The thick woods opened up into a small clearing full of dead leaves. A thick tree canopy above had kept it relatively dry. And there they sat on a downed tree. “See,” Jorga said. “Incentive makes it easier to work the magic.”
“What in the hell just happened?” Ramiro demanded. “Saints! Did you try to lose me?”
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