“Ah, but you’re not a woman. She seems happy enough to me.”
Tor took a deep breath and spoke before she could change her mind. “Kerris, I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“In strictest confidence. You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Anyone at all.”
“Tor, you’re worrying me now. What is it? You’ve gone and lost the dragon? You’re here spying for Skardroft? You are Skardroft lightly disguised by shaving off your beard?”
“None of those. Worse. I’m a woman.”
Kerris glanced at her dubiously for a moment to see if she was making a pointless joke, then stared at her harder. His eyes darted to the quilted gilet she always wore. She blushed. Astonishment flooded his face, as he realized she was telling the truth, and then he began to roar with laughter, so that people nearby glanced at them wondering what was so funny.
Tor smiled reluctantly. “It’s all very well for you to laugh, but would I have been taken on in the cavalry, or be Dragon Master if they knew I was a girl? No, I’d be in the kitchens helping Raziella. That’s why you mustn’t tell anyone. I only told you because I felt bad about not telling you.”
“Tor, your secret is safe with me, and not just because I dread to think what your cooking would be like. No, seriously, set your mind at rest, I won’t tell a soul.” He tried to appear solemn, but burst out laughing again. “So that’s why you wouldn’t come swimming that time. Now you’ve told me, I can’t think why I didn’t see it for myself. You don’t look anything like a bloke really. You know, you’re not bad looking, quite attractive in fact.”
“Oh thanks a lot Kerris, I’ll treasure that compliment.”
“Can you imagine what Drewitt’ll say when he finds out?”
“There’s no reason why he should find out,” Tor said. “I’m not going to tell him.”
CHAPTER 5
Socks and a revelation
“Hi Linet, am I early? Are Kerris and Barlanik here yet?”
“No, you’re the first.”
Linet was sitting at her desk quietly knitting, counting the stitches under her breath. When she had time between the many tasks Barlanik gave her, Linet occupied herself with making socks, which she gave to her friends among the soldiers. They were always a welcome gift. Tor thought this quite heroic. She’d hated knitting socks more than anything else in the time after Attalor died, when she’d lived briefly, and without enthusiasm, the life of a girl. Cooking, sewing, cleaning; Tor had not been able to believe that half of humanity accepted this was their lot in life. The kindly neighbour who took her in despaired of her. She had thought that with a little sympathetic guidance she could remedy Torbraya’s strange and unsuitable upbringing. It had not worked out that way.
“How long does it take you to finish a pair of socks?” Tor remembered her own efforts, never completed; unloved, far from foot-shaped, with holes, lumpy bits, and stray ends of wool here and there.
“It depends how busy I am. About a week, usually.”
Tor liked Linet, who unlike her brother was not at all intimidating, but never felt she knew her. Linet was quiet and discreet to a fault. It was difficult to guess what she thought about anything, or anyone. Usually she was working; she did not seem to do anything purely for her own amusement.
Kerris arrived and wandered over to her, sitting on the edge of the table, swinging his foot. He picked up a sock, still on its needles, and examined the elaborate pattern.
“Nice one, Linet. Even my untutored eye can see a lot of work’s gone into that sock. As socks go, it’s in a league of its own. A prince among socks. I’d guess it’s destined for someone you have a high regard for – would that be me?”
“You had the last pair,” Tor interrupted. “It’s Drewitt’s turn.”
“I’ll believe a lot of Linet’s kind heart, but not that she’s in love with Drewitt. If they were for him, they’d be plain grey, or possibly beige. Beige with a grey edging, maybe? She knows she can do better for herself than Drewitt, she’s far too pretty for him…”
Tor laughed and Linet blushed. Tor sometimes thought that Kerris spent an excessive amount of time trying to make Linet blush.
“Actually, they’re not for Drewitt, they’re for Tor,” she said.
Kerris shook his head solemnly. “You’re wasting your time with Tor, barking up entirely the wrong tree there. Tor’s not interested in women…” he said, looking sideways at Tor, who glared threateningly at him, “because he’s totally devoted to the arts of war, quite single minded about it. If you need to know anything about armed combat, he’s your man. Ask him how to train a dragon and two hours later you’ll probably wish you hadn’t. But it doesn’t leave him much time for gentler pursuits. No, Linet, you want to save your efforts for someone who can think about more than one thing at a time. Someone with subtlety and taste, who really appreciates a finely knitted sock. Someone like me.” He sat back and beamed at her, a picture of self-satisfaction.
Tor grabbed the sock and threw it at Kerris. He ducked and it missed him, and as he reached for it Tor kicked it away, swooped on it and began dancing round him, leaping in the air, hitting him over the head with the unravelling sock and waving it just out of his reach. Linet smiled at Tor and Kerris’s antics but did not join in, or even protest about her dropped stitches.
“Come on, you can’t want it very much, you’re not trying!” Tor said, while Kerris tried to snatch it from her, incapacitated because he was laughing so much.
She was attempting to put it down the back of his neck when the door opened and Barlanik walked in. He paused at the entrance. Silence fell. There was a moment when no one moved, then Tor handed the sock back to Linet with a muttered apology; Kerris picked up a stool they had knocked over. Barlanik raised an eyebrow, then continued walking through to his office.
They followed him in chastened mood, and sat around the table. This room was larger than his last one at the camp. Its high ceiling had carved wooden beams, and there was an elaborate stone fireplace; through the windows was a view of trees and the parade ground. It had the same slightly austere atmosphere of order and discipline that Tor associated with Barlanik.
They were there to discuss when and how an assault should be made on Tarragon.
“What are its weak points, Commander?” asked Tor.
Kerris laughed. Barlanik said, “It hasn’t got any. Skardroft’s spent thirty years raising taxes and strengthening the city walls. The walls are higher and thicker than in Urquin’s day, and there are eight more defensive towers.”
“So will we have to besiege them?”
“That could take half a year, while the common people in Tarragon starve. For us, there’d be the expense of paying and feeding the troops. I’d prefer an assault.”
“You never know,” said Kerris, “Skardroft might send his army out to meet us, hoping to finish us off. After all, he’s got a huge advantage in numbers.”
Barlanik answered Tor’s look of enquiry. “About twice as many as we have. He’s taken on two more mercenary squadrons since the war started, which doesn’t help. Our troops are better motivated, and he has virtually no popular support – we’re counting on the people rising up to support us, but they won’t do that until it’s clear we’re going to win. And his men shouldn’t be underestimated, they’re professional fighters. When Edric brings his army the numbers will look better.”
“Has he said yet when he’ll be coming?” Kerris asked.
“No.” Barlanik’s expression was bleak. “He still maintains the troops are not quite ready.”
“You know, you’re going to have to go over his head to Urquin in the end. Why not do it now?”
“I’d prefer not to if I can possibly avoid it. Urquin’s aged recently. The fight’s gone out of him. He’s put Edric in charge partly hoping it’ll be the making of him, but also because he just doesn’t want to know any more. I’d prefer not to put Edric’s back up, either. It would be better for all of us i
f I can persuade Edric to get his act together.”
“Leave it too long, Barlanik, and we’ll run out of time.”
“I take your point, but we don’t want to go in anyway until Xantilor is ready. How long do you reckon, Tor? How is he progressing?”
“He’s doing very well, Commander. Not sure how long it’ll take. This week, for the first time, he managed to produce a flame – just a small one, not enough to set fire to anything, but he’s made a big improvement over the last few days. He suddenly seems to have got the hang of it. He’s fitter, too, and he can fly for much longer before he gets out of breath. And he’s really keen.”
“I must come and have a look at him,” said Barlanik. “You can take him through his paces for me.”
The saddler, in spite of his initial reservations, had excelled himself. When the dragon saddle was finished, he made the delivery himself with quiet pride. Tor and Xantilor inspected it together. It was a thing of beauty, much better than Tor had imagined it would be. Made mainly out of dark brown leather, with a sheen like a new conker’s, it was trimmed in scarlet, and the metal fittings were of brass that gleamed in the sun like gold. Tried on, it fitted so well that Xantilor said he could hardly feel it, and when they went for a test flight, Tor felt both more comfortable and more secure.
“Turned out quite well in the finish,” the saddler remarked. “Anything else you want, you just pop in. You know where I am.”
It was one of those fragrant summer evenings that make you glad to be alive. The sky was a deep cloudless blue. Tor was lying back on the warm rough grass outside the Tower while Xantilor told her a very long story about elves. Tor privately thought elves a pain – so beautiful, ethereal, creative and with those darned pointy ears – but she was enjoying lazing there and letting it wash over her. Why did they never talk properly, she wondered.
“Then Celebriel of the shining hair, daughter of Eltrenethor, spoke, saying, ‘Your quest shall not be in vain. Long years have I awaited your coming: many bright dawns and deepest nights have passed since I dwelt in Elvorath Tenor, fearful that death would be my portion ere that which was foretold came to pass. Come, the All-slaying Arkengarth, Blade of Light is now within your grasp. Behold!’”
Xantilor paused, and Tor said sleepily, her eyes still closed, “No, don’t stop. I’m listening. Go on about Thingummy daughter of Whatshisname.”
“You look peaceful,” said Barlanik. Tor opened her eyes to see him standing over her. “It seems a pity to disturb you, but I thought you and Xantilor might show me how the training’s going.”
“Yes, of course, Commander.” Tor sprang up. “Stay here, you’ll have a good view. We’ll just go back to the Tower and get his tack.”
Barlanik removed his jerkin and lay on the grass where Tor had been.
While she saddled Xantilor, Tor said, “Let’s knock his socks off – really show him what a first rate dragon can do. You’re looking terrific; do you know, I think your scales are beginning to go a bit golden?”
“Then we are well matched,” said Xantilor standing tall and gazing proudly at Tor.
They accelerated out of the Tower, reaching top speed as they flew low over Barlanik, then shot into the distance, rising till they seemed no bigger than a bird. Swooping back, Xantilor executed some spectacular turns and rolls, then hovered on the spot before coming back to land with pinpoint accuracy a few feet from Barlanik.
Tor slid off down the scales (this wore out her trousers, but looked flashy) and set up one of her bundles of sticks, secretly crossing her fingers. The dragon had got to the stage where he could produce quite a respectable flame; his only problem was consistency. Tor hoped this was a good day. She need not have worried. Xantilor rose magnificently to the occasion, with a better blast of fire than he had ever managed before. The sticks exploded into flames, smoke rolling into the sky. Tor jumped in the air and whooped, elated. The fierce blaze died down quickly, its fuel consumed.
“We’re going to start fire-breathing on the wing next.” She stamped out the smouldering remains of the sticks.
“That is excellent. You and Xantilor are going to be a great asset to the army.” Barlanik was sparing with his praise, but what he said, he meant, and Tor flushed with pleasure. He went on, “I forgot to bring you an old account I found of a Dragon Battalion at work – do you want to come and have a look at it now?”
Tor unsaddled Xantilor, then she and Barlanik walked side by side to his office, Tor chatting to him about her methods and the dragon book, him listening intently but as sober and uncommunicative as usual. While he lit the lamp and poured her a cup of wine, Tor stroked a large cat curled on the desk who rewarded her with a grudging purr; he was a striped ginger tom with a disillusioned look in his eye and one ear in tatters.
“I haven’t seen him before,” she said.
“He turned up a few days ago. He’s taken to hanging round my office. I’m hoping he’ll be useful for catching mice.”
“Have you got mice?”
“So far, just the ones he brings in.”
“You’ve got a cat that brings in mice?”
“It’s kindly meant, and at least it proves he can catch them. He may wander off again.”
Tor doubted it; the cat looked like a fixture to her. Cats always knew which side their bread was buttered, and Barlanik must have been encouraging him. Tor was interested to see this gentler side to her Commander. They sat down and he unrolled a manuscript under the lamp so they could read it together. It was ancient and grimy, its yellowing vellum cracking round the edges. Black lettering ran along the top, the capitals ornamented in blue and gold.
“This Screede treateth of the Battle of Hawkes Hallow in the twelfth year of the Reign of King Vukasin I of blessed memory ~ being a True Account of the deeds of Men & Dragons, as may be Vouchsafed by divers fair Knights present that Day.”
The text gave detailed descriptions of the stages of a battle, showing all the different groups, including the Dragon Battalions. Barlanik pointed.
“You see, those little diagrams show the movements of the dragons, the forces they were attacking, and how. Each side had four of them. I think that’s the usual number that were kept.”
“Yes, Commander, the Dragon Keeper’s Guide says most dragon towers are built for four dragons like ours is. More, and the expense and space you need is too great, though the saddler said there’s one at Atherly Berrow for six.”
“This bit here shows they used them to drop commandos into the citadel to open it to the troops outside, six men on each dragon.”
“This is really interesting…” Barlanik watched his Dragon Master poring over the plans. Tor’s left hand lay relaxed on the parchment, holding it down. It was strong but fine-boned, with long slender fingers. A beautiful hand, he thought with surprise. His gaze travelled upwards. Tor was frowning slightly, eyebrows arched like a bird’s wings, long dark eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheek in the golden glow from the lamp. There were tendrils of fine gold hair on the curve of his neck.
“Look,” Tor said, smiling, “it says under this dragon in tiny letters, “AT THE REAR FLYETH PERIVEL SITH HE IS BUT HALF-GROWN AND LACKETH SOMETHING OF SPEED.”
Barlanik leaned in closer to see the little gilded picture of a dragon; their shoulders touched and Tor’s hair brushed his face. His reaction to this was alarming. He moved back quickly, averting his gaze. As he sat at a loss, an explanation occurred to him. Surely not, he thought, it’s not possible…then all at once he knew, unbelievable as it seemed, that he was right. Astonished, he could not take his eyes off her. Yes, her…not him.
Tor looked up to say something, and saw him staring. “What is it?”
Barlanik paused. “I was thinking it’s a pity there’s not more details of the troop numbers.”
“True…it’s still pretty useful, though. Can I take it away with me?”
“Certainly.”
He took the parchment from her and rolled it up, keeping his eyes on it and no
t the new, inexplicable Tor who had been revealed to him that evening.
CHAPTER 6
Rain
The Princess sat in front of her mirror, Muffin on her lap, while her maid uncoiled her long black hair ready to plait it for the night. Rain beat on the windows, its sound muffled by the heavy curtains. Gwenderith was thinking about Barlanik. He had been so sweet that evening; she had been making small talk, and had asked him something trivial about his travels. He did not reply immediately, and then he had glanced at her with a slight, shy smile, as though he didn’t know what to say. It was endearing; at once he had seemed human, when before she had always been a little in awe of him. And he had lovely dark eyes.
She had looked up to Barlanik since she was a child, and was aware her father hoped they would make a match, because he held him in high esteem. Now the prospect of marriage with Barlanik pleased her.
Urquin had reservations, she knew, about her younger brother Edric, and hoped that Barlanik in the family would be a good influence on him. Not that Edric felt the need of a good influence; though young, he was extremely self-assured and confident of his own excellent judgment.
The maid finished her hair. “I hope it’s not a liberty, ma’am, to say what a handsome couple you and Commander Barlanik made tonight.”
Gwenderith’s eyes shone. “Oh, do you think so? It’s a pity he has to work so hard, but he’s very conscientious. That’s the second time he’s had to leave straight after the meal.”
Tor usually enjoyed her night watches. Being alone in the quiet moonlight was peaceful and gave her time to think. This particular night, though, rain was dropping down as though the heavens had decided to dump a month’s worth of rainfall in one night and be done with it. Her station was on the battlements, where there was no shelter at all; her cloak was already soaked, and there was nearly an hour still to go. It was colder than she had bargained for. Another woollen garment would have been a good idea, but she could not leave her post to get it. She had the unpleasant sensation of water gradually making its way down her back like a chilly snake.
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 5