“Why not go for real? You’ve a craft that’ll serve you as well downriver as here.”
“Once I’m certified, aye, then I’ll have my craft.”
“But…? I hear a but.”
“This is home. An’ I’d hate ta find out my dreams was better. I got time yet, though. Maybe I’ll stay. Maybe I won’t.” Then, abruptly: “Y’know, Elora, my master, he owns books!”
“Oh.”
“Lots of books.”
“Ah.”
In her tower in Angwyn, there’d been a room of no mean size shelved floor to very high ceiling with books, the knowledge of the ages she was often told, donated for the education of the Sacred Princess. But while she’d been taught to read, the library was denied her. Like Elora herself, in the eyes of the Angwyn King, it was solely for show.
Which turned out to be a mistake, because she was stubborn as well as willful and she refused to be locked out of anywhere. The more she was forbidden something, the more she rose to the challenge of achieving it, especially when she had to outwit Vizards and servants galore in the process. It was an arduous task she set herself, and not always successful. More than once, she was ready to chuck the whole project, deciding the reward in no way compensated for the aggravation. What ultimately decided her was the anticipation of knowing things her minders did not, though she had no notion at that point of how she’d turn that learning to her advantage.
She’d barely scratched the surface of the library before she had to flee Angwyn. She hadn’t pushed herself before then, she thought she’d have a whole lifetime to explore.
Luc-Jon’s master was working in his scriptorium, at a partner’s desk he shared with his apprentice, so large that it nearly filled the entire room. The two sat facing each other across a tabletop angled to form a comfortable work surface. The entire ceiling was a skylight, as was the wall that faced the scribe’s garden, to take full advantage of the day. The walls behind each man were broken floor to ceiling into cubbyholes of various dimensions, some squares, others rectangles that were wider than they were high, filled with raw materials, tools of their craft, works in progress, pending commissions, and anything else that might prove useful. There was a hearth in a corner, tightly grated to prevent the escape of any sparks.
So as not to disturb him, Elora and Luc-Jon slipped barefoot past him into the library, a room of similar size and design set right next door. The shelves here were rough-hewn, in keeping with the basic nature of the fort itself, the collection eclectic, again what you’d expect from someone who made his acquisitions while traveling. There were parchment rolls tied into tubes, flat sheets of the same pressed between tablets, more modern bound books inscribed by hand, plus some of the latest titles to come upriver from Sandeni that had been printed by machine.
A glance over the study told Elora that the master’s focus was more on decorative illuminations. He left the actual calligraphy to Luc-Jon. None of the titles meant anything to her. They were in a half-dozen languages, some of which she could barely understand when spoken and had no hope of reading. Sadly, in that regard, Luc-Jon wasn’t much help, for many of these languages were a mystery to him, too. Some were so ancient, from lands so distant, he had no idea of the cultures they represented.
“This is Hansha,” she cried delightedly as she flipped open a volume that was almost as big as she was.
“Wha’chy’say?”
“The language. I know this! It’s a variant of the Chengwei main tongue, from the islands off their coast.”
“You can understand this?”
“I wish. I have a smattering of speech, and I can puzzle out some of the meanings of their written words, but no one’ll ever mistake me for a native.”
“So what’s this, then?”
“An abstract of some kind. Census, maybe, tallying populace, possessions, moneys earned, moneys spent.”
“Not very exciting.”
“Life rarely is, if you’re lucky.”
“I thought bards lived for adventure.”
She laughed outright. “It’s the lively bits get told around hearth fires, my sweetling. Nobody’s much interested in the days and days and days it takes the heroes to get wherever they’re going.”
Elora slipped her left hand along the edges of the shelves, occasionally touching the spine of a book, the bindings of a manuscript. One she looked at was emblazoned with the figure of a dragon, though it looked nothing like the one she’d actually seen, but the text was a mass of indecipherable glyphs.
“Would your master mind me looking at more of these?” she asked Luc-Jon.
“Can’t figure any reason he’d say no,” the lad told her, leaning knuckles on the arms of her chair so that he loomed over her. He was looking very intently into her eyes, with hardly anything remaining of his earlier shyness. Apparently, he’d passed that aspect of character right over to her, as Elora’s breaths turned quick and shallow and her lips went infernally dry.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought with a dispassion she in no way felt.
And then, he did. Very lightly, his lips hardly brushing hers, in a touch that was mostly tease and promise and left her suddenly hungry for more.
She was about to kiss him back when the wolfhound began to growl.
It was a fearsome sound, that instantly stiffened the hackles on her neck and set goose bumps racing across every square inch of Elora’s skin. Luc-Jon heard the challenge as well and, from the way his face changed, experienced much the same response.
Without another word, both youngsters fled the room. In the foyer, halfway down the short hallway from the house’s double doors, Luc-Jon grabbed a broadsword from the household weapons rack. Two-handed haft, the straight, double-edged blade almost as long as Elora was tall, it was intended for use by footmen against cavalry.
The wolfhound stood on guard, waiting for them on the porch, his own hackles stiff as rumbles continued to rise up from the bottom of his chest. He wasn’t alone. The rest of the stronghold’s resident pack were all in view, their eyes fixed on the main gate.
Beneath its arch, and under the watchful eyes of the sentries, rode a troop of horsemen, a light squad of seven warriors. One of the hounds started barking as soldiers of the garrison moved out along the parapet, splitting their attention between the riders inside the walls and the view beyond. Bows were already in hand, every one with an arrow nocked, ready to be drawn and fired.
“Not ours, I’m thinkin’,” Luc-Jon said in hardly more than a whisper. “None of our patrols’re due back an’ nothin’s scheduled from downriver neither.”
“No,” agreed Elora. “They’re Maizan.”
They sat astride their chargers with the easy arrogance of a race who believed they were destined to rule the world. Given recent history, fewer and fewer were inclined to argue the point. Big men on big horses, sable on ebony, made all the more imposing by dark armor and horned helms that intentionally hid their features.
There was a stiffness to the squad’s leader as he swung his lanky form to the ground that bespoke long, hard days in the saddle, if not weeks. For a race that was fond of boasting they were born on horseback and more at home there than in any hut or palace, it was nice to see their nomadic ways taking their toll.
Elora didn’t hear what was said as the Commandant met the squad leader on the porch of the stronghold’s central keep, but the stance of their bodies marked it as a formal exchange.
“What d’you think?” she wondered aloud.
“Mos’ likely, askin’ permission to kip here for the night,” Luc-Jon replied, a tad unsure now what to do with his bare blade. “ ‘Pears they’ve spent a fair piece on hard an’ open ground, prob’ly wouldn’t mind a change to soft bedding an’ decent grub.”
“They can sleep on rocks, for all I care. The more jagged, the better.”
“Don’t like ’em?”
“There isn’t much to like.”
“First Maizan I’ve ever seen.”
“The way they’re spreading across the continent, it’s doubtful they’ll be the last.”
“Hmmph.” He paused a little, then tried a joke. “I were expectin’ someone taller.”
It was an honest effort, so Elora had grace enough to reply in kind.
“That’s what they all say.”
“You laughed.”
“I have a kind and overly generous nature, inclined to take pity on those less fortunate.”
“You laughed,” he said again, with perfect deadpan.
“You’re impossible.” This time the laughter was in no way forced.
Across the compound, all the Maizan dismounted, two of their number leading the horses under escort toward the stable while the rest gathered their gear. The Provost Marshal, the garrison’s military lawman, and some of his proctors had materialized to gather their weapons. They’d be locked securely away in the armory until the visitors’ departure. To all outward show, there was nothing exceptional or untoward about the scene, merely the arrival of some new travelers to the fort.
Elora marked, though, how the wolfhound hadn’t relaxed his vigilance in the slightest, and how the rest of the pack took their cue from him. None of the hounds approached the Maizan, they maintained a respectful distance. However, so long as any one of those warriors was in the open, he had a hound for a shadow.
“Well”—Luc-Jon sighed—“that appears to be that, then, blessed be. No more need for this,” and he brandished his sword a last time. “I’ll just nip back inside and tuck it away. If you’ll wait, Elora, I’ll walk you home.”
“All right.” She was glad for the company.
* * *
—
By sunset, the entire community was abuzz with news of the Maizan’s arrival.
“Think it through, Elora,” Duguay cautioned as he sat on the long porch of the tavern, “what you intend.” His guitar rested on his belly and he lazily played with chords as he pushed his leg against one of the roof’s support pillars to tilt his chair backward.
“Pardon?”
“They’re on horseback, those Maizan. And from all accounts, very good at their craft, am I right? You start trouble, light out of here on foot, or even on a horse of your own, how far d’you think you’ll get with them in pursuit? And after, of course, everyone’ll know this disguise. One less weapon for your arsenal.”
“I’m not that dim, Duguay. I’ve no intention of raising a ruckus with them. It’s Ryn I’m worried about. Suppose he’s recognized? Suppose it’s him they’ve come for? What then?”
“I don’t know yet. And neither do you. Got to figure, though, doubtful it’s coincidence. For a Wyr, he’s far from home. See ’em maybe around Sandeni, working the river-boats or having a bit of fun running the cataracts, but the streams here’bouts, they’re too shallow. More for naiads than the likes of them.”
“So it’s like what you said about me traveling alone—simply seeing him is enough to raise a question.”
“An’ one question almost always leads to another, that’s the nature of things. And from there, just as certainly to trouble.”
She watched a pair of Maizan stride back from the stables. Everyone in eyeshot stopped to stare, they couldn’t seem to help themselves. As well, anyone in their way gave them the widest possible berth.
“They always walk in pairs,” she noted.
“Safety in numbers. Always guarantees someone to watch your back. And to talk to.” He punctuated the final comment with a decorative riff.
“Why do you think they’re here, Duguay?”
“You tell me, apprentice. Consider it today’s lesson.”
Luc-Jon was booked solid through most of the evening, as the Commandant drafted him to work with his own secretary on a new batch of communiqués to go downriver with the next dispatch rider. Couriers had been sent out within the hour of the Maizan’s arrival to alert those Sandeni patrols still in the field. The stronghold itself was advanced to a heightened state of readiness. The leader of the refugee wagon train wasted no time adding to the Commandant’s burdens by demanding an immediate escort to the lowlands. He was rejected out of hand. There was no state of war in Sandeni nor any imminent expectation of one, and the level of brigandage, even this far out along the frontier, in no way justified such a diversion of resources. Granting the level of protection they requested would subject the stronghold itself to an unacceptable level of risk. The wagon master asked permission to bring his train within the wall, and that, too, was denied. People and livestock, yes, but not their movables. There simply wasn’t room. Voices were quickly raised and words heatedly exchanged but the Commandant’s decision remained unchanged.
All this, Elora learned from Sandeni troopers gossiping at the horse trough, from customers in the sutler’s store, from strollers in the bazaar outside the gates, from menfolk bellying up to the bar at both the fort’s own tavern and a refreshment booth set up outside among the itinerant merchants. In addition to refining her face paint, Duguay had also expanded her wardrobe, providing a loose-fitting gown that brushed her toes when she walked and decorously covered her to the wrists and collarbone. It was slit to the waist along both side seams, exposing the full length of her legs, and was likewise slashed across her shoulders and down her arms as well, held in place solely by clasps at the wrist, elbow, and shoulder. She caught more than her share of scandalized stares as she made her rounds, until the onlookers saw that she wore her silk trousers beneath the gown and realized she’d merely tweaked the nose of propriety, not flouted it. Some appreciated the joke, some condemned her all the more.
As she roamed the grounds she had to concede Duguay’s point: she was drawing eyes every which way and hardly a one among them spared her a second glance except perhaps to reinforce what they already saw. She was still nowhere near as relaxed as the other girls she worked with in the dining hall but she’d come a fair piece from the ill-at-ease creature who’d followed Duguay inside that first night, expecting nothing but disaster.
So, when she saw the doors open to the barn where Ryn was imprisoned, it seemed only natural for her to saunter over to see what was up. As she joined the smallish gathering close by his cage, she decorously draped her gossamer shawl across her forehead and one of its long edges across the bridge of her nose to shroud her features.
A warder had come over from the guardhouse to sluice down both cell and prisoner, that was the occasion for the show. While an assistant enthusiastically applied himself to the levers of a pump, the warder directed a powerful stream of ice-cold river water from the hose in his hands onto the floor and then the prisoner. Ryn writhed in his bonds, making futile attempts to evade the tormenting spray. Unable to give voice to his misery because of the skullcage and its gag, he hammered the iron frame as best he could over and over again into the wall behind him.
Elora didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to scream, to horsewhip the onlookers back from the stall, to set her friend free. Yet his every response to this situation was a painful reminder that he wasn’t the friend she remembered.
Someone pitched a partially munched carrot through the bars, that bounced off Ryn’s skullcage. His aim was applauded but the crowd had clearly hoped for more of a reaction.
“Can’t’cha poke him wi’ your pike there, laddie?” came a call to one of the guards, who hastily demurred, protesting it was worth his stripes and maybe even his posting to manhandle a prisoner so. The rules evidently applied to beasts as much as men.
How civilized, Elora thought, and then, Bastards!
A sotto voce chorus of catcalls ensued, offering rude commentary on the guardsmen’s antecedents, gender preferences, sexual prowess (or rather, the total lack of same), and anything else duly insulting that came to mind. Elora’s time with the browni
es had spoiled her for such invective. This wasn’t even minor-league material, but it made their targets bristle.
“You mind’jer manners there, lout,” one guard told the crowd, brandishing his own pike for good measure, “else you’ll be the one gettin’ poked.”
“Sure you know which end’s the one to use!”
“Be off wi’ ya, the whole lot o’ yas!”
They couldn’t care less about the guard’s threat, but there appeared to be precious little fun to be had in this venue. The crowd began to drift on in search of some other amusement. As they cleared away, Elora stepped close.
“Oi, girl, what’cher?” called the guard who’d warned off the others, now intent on doing the same for her. “Leave the poor creature be now. He’s done ya no harm, how’s about offerin’ the same kindness in return?”
“Precious little kindness in evidence about here that I can see,” she flared before a thought could stay the words.
“You mind’jer mouth, missy. We’ll have no sass nor back talk on my watch!”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothin’ we wouldn’t do to any other placed in our custody. What’s it to you?”
“He looks like he’s in pain.”
“Well, I ain’t about to step in there to see if he’s hurtin’, an’ neither’s the sawbones. Be better for him to die anyway, if the claim o’ them Maizan holds true.”
“What claim?”
“Some paper or other marks that critter as their property.”
“The Commandant would honor a Maizan warrant?”
The soldier sighed in a big huff. “Not for me ta say, missy. Ain’t for me to make those decisions nor pass judgment on ’em, an’ blessings galore for that. Still, they’re guests an’ the rules o’ hospitality apply. Orders are to make nice. An’ where’s the harm? It’s only a beastie, is all, an’ we sure as hell ain’t doin’ wonders for his life.”
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