Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "Right." Kethry made the slashing motions again, and the magic parted from the door flaps. "Wait a hair—I don't want you two finding our answer and then catching your deaths."

  Another pass of hands and a muttered verse sent water steaming up out of coat and cloak—when Tarma pulled both off the centerpole they were dry to the touch.

  Tarma flashed her partner a grin. "Thanks, milady. If you get sleepy, leave the door open for me, hey?"

  Kethry gave a most unladylike snort. "As if I could sleep after this bit of news! I haven't been working with you for this long not to see what you saw—"

  "The end to the stalemate."

  "You've said it. I'll be awake for hours on this one." Kethry settled herself with her blankets around her, then dismissed the magic altogether. The tent went dark and cold again, and Kethry relit her brazier with another muttered word. "I'll put that jesto-vath back up when you get back—and make it fast! Or I may die of nerves instead of freezing to death!"

  Two

  Back out into the cold and wet and dark they went, Kyra trailing along behind Tarma. She stayed right at Tarma's elbow, more a presence felt than anything seen, as Warrl, in mindtouch with Tarma, led both of them around washouts and the worst of the mud. Tarma's goal was the Captain's tent.

  She knew full well it would be hours before Sewen and Idra saw their bedrolls; she'd given them the reports of her scouts just before rumbling her way to her own rest, and she knew they would still be trying to extract some bit of advantage out of the bleak word she'd left with them.

  So Warrl led them to Idra's quarters; even in the storm-black it was the only tent not hard to find. Idra had her connections for some out-of-the-ordinary items, and after twenty years of leading the Hawks, there was no argument but that she had more than earned her little luxuries. There was a bright yellow mage-light shining like a miniature moon atop each of the poles that held up a canvas flap that served as a kind of sheltered porch for the sentry guarding the tent. Unlike Keth's dim little witchlight, these were bright enough to be seen for several feet even through the rain. If it had been reasonable weather, and if there had been any likelihood that the camp would be attacked, or that the commanders of the army would be sought out as targets, Idra's quarters would be indistinguishable from the rest of the Hawks'. But in weather like this—Idra felt that being able to find her, quickly, took precedence over her own personal safety.

  Idra's tent was about the size of two of the bivouac tents. The door flap was fastened down, but Tarma could see the front half of the tent glowing from more mage-lights within, and the yellow light cast shadows of Idra and Sewen against the canvas as they bent over the map-table, just as she'd left them.

  Warrl was already moving into the wavering glow of the mage-lights. He was a good couple of horselengths in front of them, which was far enough that the sentry under that bit of sheltering canvas couldn't see Kyra and Tarma to challenge them—at least not yet. No matter—and no matter that Warrl's black fur couldn't be seen in the rain even with the glow of the mage-lights on him. Warrl barked three times out of the storm, paused, then barked twice more. That was his password. Every man, woman, and noncombatant in the Hawks knew Warrl and Warrl's signal—and knew that where Warrl was, Tarma was following after.

  So by the time Tarma and Kyra had slogged the last few feet to the tent, the sentry was standing at ease, the door flap was unlaced, and Sewen was ready to hold it open for them against the wind. His muddy gray eyes were worried as he watched the two of them ease by him. Tarma knew what he was thinking; at this hour, any caller probably meant more trouble.

  "I trust this isn't a social call," Idra said dryly, as they squeezed themselves inside and stood, dripping and blinking, in the glow of her mage-lights. The mage-lights only made her plain leather armor and breeches look the more worn and mundane. "And I hope it isn't a disciplinary problem—"

  Kyra's autumnal eyes were even rounder than before; Tarma suppressed a chuckle. Kyra hadn't seen the Captain except to sign with her, and was patently in awe of her. "Captain, this is my new scout, Kyra—"

  "Replaced Pawell, didn't she?"

  "Aye—to make it short, she thinks she knows a way to come in behind Kelcrag."

  "Great good gods!" Idra half rose off of her tall stool, then sank down again, with a look as though she'd been startled out of a doze.

  Well, that certainly got their attention, Tarma thought, watching both Idra and her Second go from weary and discouraged to alert in the time it took to say the words.

  "C'mere, kid," Sewen rumbled. He took Kyra's wool-clad elbow with a hard and callused hand that looked fit to crush the bones of her arm, and which Tarma knew from experience could safely keep a day-old chick sheltered across a furlong of rough ground. He pulled her over to the table in the center of the tent. "Y'read maps, no? Good. Here's us. Here's him. Report—"

  Kyra plainly forgot her awe and fear of magic, and the diffidence with which she had regarded her leaders, and became the professional scout beneath Sewen's prodding. The tall, bony Second was Idra's right hand and more—where her aristocratic bearing sometimes overawed her own people, particularly new recruits. Sewen was as plain as a clod of earth and awed no one. Not that anyone ever thought of insubordination around him; he was just as respected as Idra—it was just that he looked and sounded exactly like what he was; a common fighter who'd come up through the ranks on brains and ability. He still dressed, by preference, in the same boiled-leather armor and homespun he'd always worn, though he could more than afford the kind of expensive riveted brigandine and doeskin Idra and Tarma had chosen. He understood everything about the Hawks from the ground up—because he'd served the Hawks since Idra's fifth year of commanding them. Idra and Tarma just leaned over the map-table with him and let him handle the young scout.

  "So—on the face of it, it bears checking. That's a task for the scouts," Idra said at last, when Kyra had finished her report. She braced both hands on the table and turned to her Scoutmaster. "Tarma, what's your plan?"

  "That I take out Kyra and—hmm—Garth, Beaker and Jodi," Tarma replied after a moment of thought "We leave before dawn tomorrow and see what we can see. If this trail still exists, we'll follow it in and find out if the locals are right. I'll have Beaker bring a pair of his birds; one to let you know if we find the trail at all, and one to tell you yea or nay on whether it's usable. That way you'll have full information for Lord Leamount without waiting for us to get back."

  "Good." Idra nodded in satisfaction, as a bit of gray-brown hair escaped to get into her eyes. "Sewen?"

  "What I'd do," Sewen affirmed, pushing away from the table and sitting back onto his stool. "Them birds don't like water, but that's likely to make 'em want their coops more, maybe fly a bit faster, hey? Don' wanta send a mage-message, or Kelcrag's magickers might track it."

  "Uh-huh; that was my thought," Tarma agreed, nodding. "That, and the sad fact that other than Keth, our magickers might not be able to boost a mage-message that far."

  "I need Keth here," Idra stated, "and none of Leamount's mages are fit enough to travel over that kind of territory."

  Sewen emitted a bark of laughter, weathered face crinkling up for a moment. "Gah, that lot's as miserable as a buncha wet chickens in a leaky hennery right now. They don' know this weather, an' ev'ry time they gotta move from their tent, y'd think it was gonna be a trip t' th' end of th' earth!"

  Idra looked thoughtful for a moment, and rubbed the side of her nose with her finger. "This isn't wizard weather, is it, do you suppose?"

  Both Tarma and her scout shook their heads vigorously. "Na, Cap'n," Kyra said, cheerful light brightening her round face. "Na, is just a bit of a gentle fall storm. Y'should see a bad one, now—"

  Idra's eyebrows shot upward; she straightened and looked seriously alarmed until Sewen's guffaw told her she'd been played for an ignorant flatlander.

  "Seriously, no," Tarma seconded, "I asked Keth. She says the only sign of wizard weather would be if
this stopped—that it's got too much weight behind it, whatever that means."

  Sewen lifted his own eyebrow and supplied the answer. "She meant it's somethin' comin' in the proper season—got all the weight of time an' what should be behind it." He grinned at Tarma's loose jaw, showing teeth a horse could envy. "Useta study wizardry as a lad, hadn't 'nough Gift t' be more'n half a hedge-wizard, so gave't up."

  "Good, then, we're all agreed." Idra straightened her shoulders, gave her head an unconscious toss to get that bit of her hair out of her face. "Tarma, see to it. Who will you put in to replace you tomorrow?"

  "Tamar. Next to Garth and Jodi, he's my best. and he's come in from the skirmishers."

  "Good. And tell him to tell the rest of your scouts not to give the enemy any slack tomorrow, but not to get in as close as they did today. I don't want them thinking we've maybe found something else to concentrate on, but I don't want any more gutwounds, either."

  It was dawn, or nearly, and the rain had slackened some. There was still lightning and growling thunder, but at least you could see through the murk, and it was finally possible to keep the shielded torches at the entrance to the guarded camp alight.

  Tarma saw her scouts assembled beneath one of those torches as she rode up to the sentry. She felt like yawning, but wouldn't; she wouldn't be a bad example. Cold, ye gods, I'm half-frozen and we haven't even gotten out of the camp yet, she thought with resignation. I haven't been warm since summer.

  :And then you were complaining about heat,: Warrl replied sardonically.

  "I was not. That was Keth," she retorted. "I like the heat."

  Warrl did not deign to reply.

  Tarma was already feeling grateful for Kethry's parting gift, the water-repelling cape Keth had insisted on throwing over her coat. It's not magic, Keth had said, I don't want a mage smelling you out. Just tight-woven, oiled silk, and bloody damned expensive. I swapped a jesto-vath on his tent to Gerrold for it, for as long as the rains last. I hope you don't mind the fact that it's looted goods—

  Not likely, she'd replied.

  So today it was Keth looking out for and worrying about her. They seemed to take it turn and turn about these days, being mother-hen. Well, that was what being partners was all about.

  :Took you long enough to come to that conclusion,: Warrl laughed. :Now if you'd just start mother-henning me—:

  "You'd bite me, you fur-covered fiend."

  :Oh, probably.:

  "Ah—you're hopeless," Tarma chided him. smothering a grin. "Let's look serious here; this is business."

  :Yes, oh mistress.:

  Tarma bit back another retort. She never won in a contest of sharp tongues with the kyree. Instead of answering him, she pondered her choice of scouts again, and was satisfied, all things considered, that she'd picked the best ones for the job.

  First, Garth: a tiny man, and dark, he looked like a dwarfish shadow on his tall Shin'a'in gelding. He was one of Tarma's first choices for close-in night work, since his dusky skin made it unnecessary for him to smear ash on himself, but his most outstanding talents were that he could ride like a Shin'a'in and track like a hound. His one fault was that he couldn't hit a haystack with more than two arrows out of ten. He was walking his bay gelding back and forth between the two sentries at the sally-point, since his beast was the most nervous of the five that would be going out, and the thunder was making it lay its ears back and show the whites of its eyes.

  Beaker; average was the word for Beaker; size, coloring, habits—average in everything except his nose—that raptor's bill rivaled Tarma's. His chestnut mare was as placid of disposition as Garth's beast was nervous, and Beaker's temperament matched his mare's. As Tarma rode up, they both appeared to be dozing, despite the cold rain coming down on their heads. Fastened to the cantle of Beaker's saddle were two cages, each the size of two fists put together, each holding a black bird with a green head. Beaker was a good tracker, almost as good as Garth, but this was his specialty; the training and deployment of his messenger birds.

  Jodi: sleepy-eyed and deceptively quiet, this pale, ice-blonde child with evident aristocratic blood in her veins was their mapmaker. Besides that skill, she was a vicious knife fighter and as good with a bow as Garth was poor with one. She rode a gray mare with battlesteed blood in her; a beast impossible for anyone but her or Tarma to ride, who would only allow a select few to handle her. Jodi sat her as casually as some gentle palfrey—and with Jodi in her saddle, the mare acted like one. Her only fault was that she avoided situations where she would have to command the way she would have avoided fouled water.

  And Kyra: peasant blood and peasant stock, she'd trained herself in tracking, bow and knife, and hard riding, intending to be something other than some stodgy fanner's stolid wife. When the war came grinding over her parents' fields and her family had fled for their lives, she'd stayed. She'd coolly sized up both sides and chosen Sursha's—then sized up the mercenary Companies attached to Sursha's army and decided which ones she wanted to approach.

  She'd started first with the Hawks, though she hadn't really thought she'd get in—or so she had confessed to Tarma after being signed on. Little had she guessed that Scout Pawell had coughed out his life pinned to a tree three days earlier—and that the Hawks had been down by two scouts before that had happened. Tarma had interviewed her and sent her to Sewen, who'd sent her to Idra—who'd sent her back to Tarma with the curt order—"Try her. If she survives, hire her." Tarma had sent her on the same errand that had killed Pawell. Kyra had returned. Since Pawell had had no relatives, no leman and no shieldmate to claim his belongings, Tarma gave her Pawell's dun horse, Pawell's gear, and Pawell's tentmate. Kyra had quickly acquired something Pawell hadn't—tentmate had turned to shieldmate and lover.

  The Scouts altogether approved, as Pawell had been standoffish and his replacement was anything but. The romance had amused and touched them. Kyra had begun to bloom under the approval, to think for herself, to make judgment calls. The Kyra that had joined them would never have come to Tarma with an old tale and a rumor; Kyra of "now" had experience enough to know how important that rumor could be, and enough guts to present the information herself. She was Tarma's personal pick to become a subcommander herself in a few years.

  It was false dawn; one hour to real dawn, and there was a hint that the sky was getting lighter. No words were needed; they all knew what they had to do. When Tarma rode gray Ironheart into the waiting knot of Scouts and horses, those dismounted swung back up into their saddles. Tarma didn't even slacken her pace; all five of them left the camp in proper diamond formation, as if they'd rehearsed the whole maneuver. Tarma had point (since as commander she was the only one of the five with all the current passwords). Garth tail, Jodi right and Kyra left—Beaker and his precious birds rode protected in the middle.

  They rode along the back of the string of encampments; dark tents against slowly graying sky to their right, scrub forest and hills stark black against the sky to their left. The camps were totally dark, since just about everyone had encountered the same troubles as the Hawks had with lights and fires in the pouring rain.

  They were challenged almost as soon as they left their own camp; a foot-sentry, sodden, but alert. He belonged to Staferd's Cold-drakes; this was the edge of their camp. Tarma nodded to herself with satisfaction at his readiness, and gave him the countersign.

  Then came a heavy encampment of regular infantry, whose sentry hailed Warrl, who was trotting at Ironheart's flank, by name, and called out;

  "You're recognized, Sunhawks. Pass on." Tarma felt a little twitchy about that one, but couldn't fault him. You challenged those whom you didn't recognize; you could let known quantities by. And there were no kyree in Kelcrag's forces.

  At the next encampment—Duke Greyhame's levy—they were physically challenged; a fully-armed youth with an arrogant sneer on his lips, mounted on a heavy, wild-eyed warhorse. He blocked their path until Tarma gave an elaborate countersign. Even then, he wouldn't clear t
he path entirely. He left only enough room for them to ride past in single file, unless they wanted to desert the firm ground and ride on the mushy banks. And he backed off with some show of reluctance, and much induced rearing and prancing of his gelding.

  "Scoutmaster—"

  Garth eased his horse alongside Tarma's and whispered angrily to her:

  "I'd like to feed that little son of a bitch his own damned gauntlet!"

  "Peace," Tarma said, "Let me handle this. Give me rear for long enough to teach him a lesson."

  Garth passed the word; wry grins appeared and vanished in an instant, and the scout ranks opened and closed so that Beaker had point and Tarma had dropped back to tail. The scouts squeezed past the arrogant sentry, one by one, Tarma the last. She didn't move, only stared at him for a long moment, letting Ironheart feel her ground and set her feet.

  Then she dropped her hands, and signaled the battlemare with her knees.

  Black as a nightmare in the rain, the battlesteed reared up to her full height—and stayed there, as perfectly balanced as only a Shin'a'in trained warsteed could be. Another invisible command from Tarma, and she hopped forward on her hind hooves, forefeet lashing out at the stranger-gelding, who, not being the fool his rider was, cleared off the path and up onto the mucky shoulder. Then Ironheart settled to all four hooves again, but only for as long as it took to get past the arrogant sentry. As Tarma had figured he would, he spurred his beast down onto the path again as soon as they got by. Whatever he'd thought to do then didn't much matter. As soon as he was right behind them and just out of range of what was normally an attack move, Tarma gave her mare a final signal that sent her leaping into the air, lashing out with her rear hooves in a wicked kick as she reached the top of her arc. Had the boy been within range of those hooves, his face would have been smashed in. As it was (as Tarma had carefully calculated), the load of mud Ironheart had picked up flicked off her heels to splatter all over him, his fancy panoply, and his considerably cowed beast.