She loosed her hold as I let myself fall back into the chair. “None?”
“No. Not yet. They may.”
Not likely. But neither of us wanted to say it. A worry I’d pushed aside returned. If I discovered what Saradena wanted and we decided to comply, how would we tell them? “We have to inform my father,” I said. “Bruster must build a longboat capable of crossing the sea, one larger than has ever been made.”
She pursed her lips. “Perhaps. It’s a good thought. But none of the three threatened countries are yet willing to share news of their danger with those not facing it.” She held up a hand before I could speak again. “If you see him, tell him in confidence and ask for the boat. But there’s no point in approaching Logan, the Roth, or Philip about the matter. They won’t agree.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Not yet,” she agreed. She went to the hearth and returned with two bowls. She set one bowl before me, taking her own to the other side of the table.
I inhaled the scent of the stew. Beef, she’d said, and it was, but beef cooked with venison and bacon, along with carrots, peas, and small, round black beans I’d never seen before. Were they native to Ragonne, I wondered, or found throughout the former kingdoms of Valenna? They didn’t grow in Bruster or Elbany. In any case she had, indeed, outdone herself. I’d feasted at the king of Ferrant’s table and not smelled better. I sipped a spoonful, and could not keep back a low-voiced sigh.
“Good?” she asked, a trifle smugly.
“Oh, yes. As you already knew.”
“Good,” she repeated, now a statement. “So, tell me why you were reading that book.”
I blinked at her. “Did I not tell you about the song? The song Domon found?”
“Domon found something?” She dipped her spoon into her bowl. “About Saradena?”
“He didn’t realize it, but yes. That’s how I found Martin de Kolone’s connection with Saradena, and from there, his vita.”
“Which you can’t read,” she said. “Yet. This part I do know.”
“Domon found the song in a book of that sort.”
“Here. Among Philip’s books.” She set her spoon down. “Are there many such?”
“Yes.”
She picked it back up. “I see. You’re reading them, supposing that since Domon found a bit of information there might be more.”
“Just so.”
“What did the song say?”
I recited it for her, watching her face twist in wry amusement at the dreadfulness both of the verse and its content. “‘—But the eagle ladies let be, for all the ships in the sea, / Else her purse will take your stones in fee,’” I finished.
She laughed. “That seems clear enough.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” An answering chortle died in my throat. “No. Wait.”
She looked around, startled. “What?”
“Something Oliver said...” I swore in Brusterian, a particularly colorful oath about drowning one’s foe in a chamber pot. “I didn’t pay these lines much attention before. Their meaning seemed obvious...”
“Isn’t it?” She cupped her free hand meaningfully. “Don’t look too closely at a noble woman or she’ll lop off your hangers and keep them in her belt pouch?”
“That’s the gist.” I stared down at my hands, fitting pieces together in my mind. “But I think there’s more. Remember what Oliver said about his mother? ‘Her hair was down. I’d never seen her hair down. It is a mark of honor among the Egol that women wear their hair braided and coiled around their heads. I had certainly never seen her run. Our persh was with her.’”
She stared.
“Egol,” I said. “Don’t you hear it, in the song?”
“Egol,” she breathed a moment later. “Not eagle. A Saradenian word for high rank.”
“Yes, I think so. And not purse. Persh. Look at a noblewoman wrong, and her steward will do the chopping. As the song traveled, the Saradenian words, like the name of Saradena itself changed to sounds friendly to ears unfamiliar with their language.”
She leaned back in her chair, quiet for a time. “You can do that, and you want to plop yourself in a boat and head east?” Admiration and incredulity wrestled in her tone. “Anyone can go looking for Saradena, and die of thirst and sunbake, lost at sea.” Suddenly her face was a hand’s-breadth from mine. “Only you can do this. Read, search for shavings and parings about Saradena, and put them together.”
I made a doubtful noise.
“No,” she said. I could see her nostrils quaver in outblown breath. “You’re needed here, doing this. All of us must do what we can. This is what you can do.” She took up her spoon again. “I told you I didn’t believe there was anything here to find. I was wrong.”
“Precious little,” I grumbled.
“A start,” she said.
The stew was too good for me to remain irritable. I felt the knots loosen. “A start,” I agreed. “Together with what we learned from Oliver, a good start.” I sipped a savory spoonful. “I wish I could read Martin’s vita.”
She paused with her spoon lifted, inhaling the fragrance, letting the soup work its magic on its maker. “No warrior wins every battle.”
We finished eating in silence. I resisted the temptation to lick the bowl, but it was a hard fight. I settled for running my finger along the bottom, slicking up the last drops.
“How many more of those wretched books are left?” Mistress Baynor asked.
“Five.”
“How long will they take?”
I considered. “These are among the shortest, and they usually have significant numbers of drawings.”
“I saw.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
“An hour each, I think.”
She cleared the bowls away, returning with a bag. Knitting needles peeked from the top. “Let’s go.”
Her unblinking stare was irresistible. I stood. “Where are we going?”
She paused, her hand on the door handle. “The library. I’ll sit with you while you finish them.” She cut off my protests. “I know you could. But why should you? Not all burdens can be shared, but this one can. I’ll knit while you read, and the unpleasantness will be lessened.”
I looked at her. How did she find such a pool of kindness in herself, to be concerned enough on my behalf to put aside her own weariness and give up her few hours free of the kitchen? “Very well,” I said, agreeing only because the twin set of lines above the bridge of her nose told me she would accept no other response. “Tomorrow I go to Philip and make the arrangements to return to Elbany.”
I did not relish that meeting. Once Philip had tired of proving his mastery by forcing me to do Domon’s clerical work, he had left me alone, and I’d gratefully stayed out of his way. But before I could leave, I had to see him, report my findings, and formally request permission to go. We had agreed not to tell him what we’d learned from Oliver, but I had to report something. Scattered facts from the books seemed safe. He’d enjoy gloating over my failure to find anything substantial.
It would be another infuriating encounter that must not end in a skewered king.
I heard her sigh as we passed through the doorway. “Philip. Yes. That trouble will keep for tomorrow. We have enough for today already.” Her sigh redoubled. “At least Philip won’t be fondling a goat.”
Chapter XXVI
Kings do not, as a rule, spend their days waiting for clerks to request an audience. So it might have been true Philip had no time to see me that day. But if he had a free moment, he would not have granted it upon such short notice. Underlings must be reminded of their place. I was told to return the next day.
Despite expecting it, I took the snub in the manner it was intended. Fuming at the loss of a whole day, I was too angry to trust myself around anyone I liked. I avoided the kitchen. Nor did I dare go to the library. Not with free time in which to be tempted to try once more to decipher Old Valenian.
I went to my room and threw knives until I felt c
almer.
The improvement lasted until the moment I passed through Philip’s door the following morning.
***
The full-steeped satisfaction on Philip’s face instantly flamed my painstakingly quelled temper. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself. When I’d been there before, I’d been too flustered by his insults to notice much. Now I was grateful to turn my gaze anywhere but his smirk. I had to keep control. Whatever his provocations, I could not allow my anger to rage unchecked. Not here.
Tall windows faced the enclosed courtyard. When I’d arrived, the trees had been in blossom; now apples ripened on the branches. Two massive cupboards stood along the side walls, their doors carved with the raven device of Ragonne. A tapestry hung beside each, breathtakingly well done, which was unsurprising. Ragonne was as known for the quality of its weaving as Bruster was for the hone of our knives. The one to my left showed a king, crowned and seated; to the right, another king, sword in hand and surrounded by his warriors.
Inevitably, I had to look back at Philip. He was seated in a high-backed chair, as richly carved as the cupboards. A rug, the blue and black of Ragonne, was at his feet. It was well woven but not as fine as the tapestries. Two other chairs, not so high or decorated as the king’s, stood at either hand. He did not invite me to sit.
Why did that rankle? I had expected no different. I looked away, back at the tapestries.
He followed my gaze. “Superb, aren’t they? I expect you have not seen their like before.” He paused to let the strike hit.
I clenched both hands behind my back and kept silent.
“This,” his eyes flicked to the fighting king, “is my grandfather, King Lotris. He defended Ragonne fiercely at any need.”
Sometimes at no need, I had heard.
“The other is King Halden, first of my family’s royal line. Ragonne has flourished under our hands.” The arrogance in his voice was insufferable.
I could only hope my face did not convey my revulsion. Or at least not too much. Unable to both meet his gaze and hold my tongue, I risked offending him and glanced around the room again. I hadn’t seen so much glass since leaving Ferrant. The windows were larger than I’d remembered, rising behind Philip in three sets, each taller than a man. The shutters were open, ushering in a breeze cooler than Ragonne had felt for weeks.
The room would have made a wonderful library. I did not think, did not dare to think, of the room below to which he consigned his books.
A small cough behind me made me turn. I hadn’t heard the door open. A man stood there. I recognized him from the time I’d spent doing Domon’s clerk duties. Philip’s steward.
“Lord?” He stepped forward. “Pardon the interruption, but this really could not wait...”
Philip’s smile broadened as he motioned him forward.
I waited a full twenty minutes while the steward reported his assessment of the coming harvest and the state of their stores. How much was left from last year, how the crops were looking this year, what could be expected from the fish ponds and herds. Summoning every ounce of my ragged patience I stood quietly. This was somewhat less painful than it might have been. Knowing I was being goaded made it easier to keep my temper. The business could easily have waited until after my interview; the interruption was another of Philip’s attempts to put me in my place.
For the first several minutes, I ignored their murmurings, thinking of my library in Elbany. Would I have a day or two there before the Roth decided what to have me do next? How had my students done in my absence?
But a conversation in an otherwise silent room draws one’s attention despite one’s best efforts to ignore it. I began attending, and realized the discussion had moved beyond how well the king’s household would eat until harvest. Other stores were being discussed: foodstuffs that traveled well, armor and weapons, the number of fighting men each of Philip’s holdings could supply and still plant a crop in the spring.
Ah. So that was his aim. Philip wanted me to know he planned to sail east, whatever I’d found.
At last Philip steepled his fingers. “Very good. I want to hear from you again in a week’s time.”
The steward bowed. Philip watched me as he left, and did not speak until the door closed behind him.
“Doctora Bann.” The smugness in his voice and bearing were unmistakable. My jaws ached from being held clamped. At his gesture, equally infuriating in its pomposity, I crossed to stand before him.
“King Philip.” I bowed. Not as deeply as he would have liked but he would get nothing more.
He remained seated, unmoving and silent.
I recognized his stillness for what it was. A strategy to intimidate, as much as the luxurious surroundings and the wait had been. I waited, taking deep, regular breaths, and at last was able to meet his gaze.
It was he who looked away first, under the guise of shifting minutely in his chair. First hit to me.
Still he did not speak.
I realized with surprise his efforts were having the opposite effect from what he intended. Allowing me to stand silently, assessing him without distraction, was instructive. Philip was superficially similar to Francis, but a closer look revealed him to be less imposing. His black hair was beginning to shade to gray. His eyes were dark but without Francis’ or Orlo’s intensity of gaze. Standing, he seemed taller than he was. Sitting, he was diminished despite his high chair. Indeed, by the chair. An onlooker couldn’t help but notice how much grander it was than he, despite his velvet and fur. His chair, like his maps, was an inheritance. He was a scirgam. I did not know the Valenian word, if there was one, for a man whose trappings were braver than himself. Small wonder he feared Orlo.
“Why have you come?” he said slowly, as if aware the ploy had failed but unsure how.
“I have finished my work, lord. I thank you again for allowing me to examine your books.” I pointedly did not call his collection a ‘library’ but that swipe was for my sensibilities only; he would neither notice nor care. “I ask leave to return to Elbany.”
His smile returned. “Of course. I can provide you an escort back to Rothbury.” He reminded me of a cat feigning disinterest in a mouse’s movements, waiting for the right moment. “It is too late to leave today. Would tomorrow suit?”
“As the king wills.” I inclined my head.
“If I may ask,” he said, voice oilier than ever, and I knew the paw was coming, “what did you learn during your time here?”
I was glad he put his question in those words and not others, such as ‘what will you tell the Roth’? I could avoid outright lies. Direct falsehood, if discovered later, could cause trouble between Ragonne and Elbany. Concealment through omission, in the warped world of politics, would draw admiration. “Little,” I said, “and fragmentary.”
His eyes lit. “I knew you would find nothing.”
I blinked, not at his words but at the emphasis he’d placed upon ‘you’. Ah. His satisfaction was twofold. Nothing had been discovered to disrupt his intention to attack, and I had failed. Anger flared. I knew better. But trying to quell that surge was like trying to hold back the tide.
“There are other countries in the east besides Saradena,” I snapped. “Two at least. Carlomond, and Celedor. I found references to them.”
“So?” His hand turned in the air.
“But, lord,” I couldn’t stop myself, “now that we know this—know, not suspect—will you sail east?”
His lip curled. “Of course.”
I stared, ignoring the frantic objections of my judgment. “How will you know whom to attack?”
“Whomever we find.” He shrugged. “If it is not Saradena, word will reach them.” Wild fire brightened his eyes, and, oddly, a flicker of fear.
Then I understood. His own emptiness made him misapprehend his lords. They feared his recklessness. He saw their reluctance as disloyalty. I felt a flicker of unbidden pity. I knew what it was to feel scorned. “Your men are bold, true warriors. They wil
l follow their king wherever he leads.”
He laughed. “Kings direct battles. They do not fight them.”
My sympathy vanished. Not leading them himself? A Brusterian king who was not first in the battle line would be held a proven coward. Even in Valenna kings wore dinged armor and real weapons, and fought with their men. Francis had gone to battle three times in the years I was with him. I looked at Philip again. He was not even wearing a sword among his feast-day adornments.
***
I could not remember how I got out of the room. I hoped I’d begged Philip’s leave with enough politeness to avoid notice. Given the lack of warriors at my elbow I must have been successful.
I made it to my room before I exploded.
In one part of my mind I knew I must look crazed, stomping and swearing like a foul-mouthed child. Fool! Insufferable idiot! Eager for battle as a boy with his first sword. With an unknown enemy. Of unknown strength. With unknown reasons for their hostility. He was planning to attack them. Whose location was also unknown. To prove his valor to his lords. By sending them into battle. Stupid scirgam!
Kings needed better sense, or to listen to people who did.
I threw my knives at the door with more vigor than accuracy. They hit the door anyway because of years of training: at that moment, my arms remembered more about proper aim than I did. I threw and threw, letting the worst Brusterian I knew course through my head. I knew, even as I let the knives and curses fly, that it was overmuch. Philip was foolish, certainly, but I was overreacting. Knowing that did not, however, bring my galloping rage back to a walk.
After some time I quieted enough to pace the room. At length, I was able to pack the few belongings I’d brought with me and the even fewer items I’d acquired during my stay. In the evening I went to the kitchen, and lingered while the servants finished their chores. Boys scrubbed pots with sand. Two bigger boys swept ashes from the hearths. Women kneaded bread for the next day. Men restocked the woodpile. Mistress Baynor wanted to hear what I had to say as much as I wanted to tell it, but both of us had to wait upon tasks that Philip, in his forebears’ finery, scarcely thought of, but which his palais depended upon more than anything he did.
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 18