by Ru Emerson
The straw bales had been dragged out of the barns and targets pinned to them for bowpractice. Levren was watching a number of regular armsmen and women; further down, in the smaller square, Golsat was teaching second-level bow to a mixed class. There were several young women in the group, plus a number of herder lads beginning their second season of formal training. The lads were no problem, but Golsat was kept busy with the girls; Ylia wondered how he could manage to ignore sidelong looks, dropped items, adroitly avoiding wide-eyed or fluttering, coy stares and casual hand contact. Somehow he kept his class going, somehow maintained discipline.
Some of these same girls had been actively pursuing Golsat since the first year in this valley. That year, a self-effacing half-Tehlatt common bowman suddenly had found himself one of the Queen's closest friends and advisors, the closest friend of both the Queen's Champion and of the man who became her husband. Even then, he'd gone unnoticed by the eligible maidens until Brelian's wedding, when he'd been hauled perforce from ordinary brown breeches and armsman's tunic and bundled into the new Narran fashion of short trunks and hose. Suddenly, he'd become not only important but attractive to boot.
But for all of the taciturn and diffident Golsat, the cream of Nedao's young women might not have existed. He found such frontal attacks easy to ignore, because—though he seldom admitted as much to himself—he had other hopes. More than two years since he had last seen the Lady Ysian, but he still heard from her and of her, now and again. It was enough.
“Golsat! Tr'Harsen brought a message up-stream for you!”
“Message?” Ylia fished out the thick packet and separated the single folded page in its blue waterproofing. Golsat unfolded it and read. A rare smile lit his dark face. “She's coming back.”
“I know. She's sent things, something for you besides this, I think. I got the letters but Tr'Harsen is still asleep and nothing else has been unloaded.” Golsat waved that aside; he had what he wanted in the first few words of his letter. My Ysian is coming back. And—she wrote to tell me. He was conscious of the gulf between the two of them: Himself a Nedaoan armsman, and yes, second in command for the King's Inner Guard, second to the Queen's Champion. Close friend of Nedao's young Queen. But when he thought of himself and then of Ysian, who was sister to Ylia's mother Scythia, ten years older than he, of the Ylsan Second House, noble ... Sorceress too, and a powerful one. She had been raised in genteel, gracious wealth. She was everything he was not, he had known that from the first moment he saw her. He had loved her from that moment.
And now, she was coming back to Nedao—coming home, she'd said—and she'd written to tell him so.
He realized Ylia was talking and he hadn't heard her. “It's still not safe here, and in a way, I wish she wouldn't come. But I'll be glad to see her.”
“So will I.” Golsat refolded the letter, tucked it into his belt pouch. “I hope she's better prepared this time. It sounds as though she might be.”
“She had her eyes opened, before. She knows what she's facing.” I hope she knows all of it. How Golsat feels. Be kind to him, Ysian. She turned as the Bowmaster came across to join them. “Lev, I saw your sons working under Erken just now.”
“He said he'd take them. Davvel's simply terrified of Marhan, and I can't talk him out of it.”
“He just doesn't want to go deaf from all that howling,” Ylia said, Golsat laughed. “Now, if only Lennet would—”
Levren groaned. "Don't remind me,” he implored. His beloved, indulged daughter had fought successfully with her mother to be allowed to learn sword and dagger, then to wear breeches. She had won honor and a place high in the Queen's Guard, she was undeniably skilled. But she still had no tact, still alienated people with her rudeness and still found herself in frequent trouble for interpreting orders to her own liking. Now she had determined she must have Marhan teach her, but he flatly refused. Ylia had stayed clear of the argument from the first, knowing Marhan would win it, but she imagined Levren's household was not the most pleasant of places just now.
“Galdan and Brelian both have offered to tutor her. I wish she'd leave the old man alone,” was all she said.
“Try and tell her that,” Golsat grumbled. He'd been one of Lennet's first instructors, and relations between them were still strained. “It's a good thing the girl looks so much like ye, Lev, no one would guess her for yours otherwise.” Levren laughed.
“I haven't looked at the invoices yet, but I believe Tr'Harsen brought more Osneran steel up-river, Lev.”
“Good. I'd like a pair of those rapiers, and Bos can't get the length and taper with lesser metal.” Levren looked across her shoulder; the color left his face alarmingly. Foreigners. She knew even without turning he'd just sighted unexpected Narrans.
Golsat stepped between the Bowmaster and his phobia. “They're mooning over there instead of working,” he said. Levren turned away and clapped his hands ringingly. Several of the girls jumped. “There isn't that much sun left! If you want to waste a perfectly good morning, you can do it elsewhere.”
Down at the far end of the barracks, a crowd was gathered; deep in its center, she could hear the light, springy clink of rapiers, though it was almost lost in a babble of laughter and loud jeering.
Brelian and Galdan, stripped down to breeches and sleeveless linen jerkins, were dueling with pairs of the new blades. The grips were elaborate, the blades long and slender, two-edged and sharp-tipped like traditional Nedaoan swords but less than half the weight. For most trained with Nedaoan weaponry, it was like starting all over again.
Ylia clapped a hand across her mouth but those around her were laughing loudly and shouting sarcastic remarks as they watched Nedao's finest swordsmen fumbling at each other like two of Marhan's greenest.
It was partly in the stance—though men who fought Nedaoan fashion with sword and dagger knew better how to fight from a forward stance than those who used a single sword and stood sideways. The weight or lack of it was very much a problem.
Brelian's left-hand sword hit the dirt and the two broke apart; both men were laughing so much they could hardly stand. Galdan sought her eyes—it was partly the Power, partly something else, but he was always aware of her presence. “Blast the woman, Brel, she's laughing at me! Think this is easy?”
“I haven't had any problems,” she retorted.
“Hah. One practice session with Marhan—who doesn't like them! Want a real challenge?”
“Not against you," she laughed. “I hate dueling with you tall men, it gives me neck strain. Brelian, d'you have any breath left?”
“I can try,” He retrieved his fallen blade. Galdan traded her his blades for her sword belt. She tested the balance, slid her hands into the sworled basket grips and winked. “Pay attention, husband, I'll show you how it's done.” Galdan hooted derisively as Brelian brought his blades up to ready.
It was awkward, even though the weight and balance were similar to her own sword, and her dagger was an unusually long one. Ordinarily, she would not have held out so long against Brelian, particularly so early in the year, but he was tired from fighting Galdan and the blades were giving him trouble. For one exhilarating moment, she gained an advantage and pressed him back into the crowd. But then Brelian dropped the left sword again. He let the other fall, tossed his hands up and laughed breathlessly.
Ylia mopped her forehead with a sleeve, slipped her hands free of the baskets and bundled the swords together. Galdan reached across her shoulder to take them, his face blandly expressionless. “Did you pay attention?” she asked.
“Hah. He was taking it easy on you.”
Ber'Sordes gave a dinner that night for her and Galdan, Tr'Harsen and his second, Lossana and Corlin. Tr'Harsen had become prosperous indeed through trading with Nedao: A deep blue stone the size of an egg depended from a silver chain around his throat and he'd recently accepted a place on the Lord Mayor's Council. He owed much of his present good fortune to his recognition of a good bargain from the first: Nedaoan wool cloth
was in demand in every port where he and his ocean-going ship Merman traded.
He had already visited the weaving barns during the afternoon, pronounced the yellow cloth to be all his Oversea clients desired and left Lossana a bale of silky, long-haired Osneran wool and a contract of formidable proportions.
Lossana had been instrumental in restoring the wealth of her house and of Nedao's herders and crafters. She still oversaw much of the work herself, as she had when Nedao still huddled in the Caves up-river, when looms had been rough-hewn wood strung with Narran wire, when dyes were whatever they could glean and wool everything from their own few shearings to gifts and lendings from Nar and Yls, even gleanings the wild long-haired goats left on thorn-brush high above Aresada. Lossana's slender hands rested on the base of her wine glass; her fingers were strong and deft, nearly as much at home on a sword hilts as on a spindle. They were soft and unlined, fine as a girl's from the hours she spent with them in heavily lanolined wool. This night they were a little yellow around the nails. At the throat of her blue gown was Tr'Harsen's gift: an Osneran brooch of silver, shaped like a sea-bird.
Tr'Harsen had gone through his holds to bring the large package Ysian had sent: On the table stood a chalcedonwood statue of an Yderra, tall as a man's arm. Its eyes were richly polished malachite stones, the great jewel on its brow a faceted emerald. Ylia's fingers strayed to it throughout the meal: The texture of the wood, the beauty of its carving—it begged to be touched, to be stroked. Ysian had tied a note to its leg: “The craftsman told me he's never made such a beauty, before or since, and he's been saving it for a special client. Clearly, this could belong to no one but you. The One willing, I shall see you before true summer.”
There had also been another small packet with yet another note. “Give this to Golsat for me, if you think he will take no offense.”
“At what?” Galdan wondered. “A gift from a woman? Golsat's not that sort. Particularly not where this woman is concerned.”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Difficult not to. What is it?” A piece of dark cloth unfolded from about an enameled box. Within the box was a brooch, a severely plain silver arrow the length of a man's finger. Galdan touched it. “He'll like that.”
“Ysian said in her letter she's taken his advice. She says she's stronger, it's given her confidence.”
“Good.” Galdan set the enameled box back in its soft packing, picked up the note that had accompanied the Yderra. “She'll need confidence, whether she comes here or stays in Yls.”
And so it began, at last; not the first step in the chain Vess thought would lead to his victory over the Nedao—and Ylia—but we later would look back and see them as the first steps in his great push toward that goal.
4
The weather had turned nasty, and a chill wind blew sleet against the high tinted glass windows of the Heirocrat's palace. It wailed down broad chimneys, sending flurries of ash across the smooth tiled hall. Tevvro shrugged himself deeper into the furlined cloak and hurried on his way, sparing no glance for the miserable huddle of supplicants around the braziers at the far end of the hall. Poor souls, they might be here a year and more, only to find their desires denied. Waste. Foolish waste. His wants had taken more than three years to bring to fruit: Without the inheritance his father's death had given him recently, he might still be pacing the outer halls with those fools, waiting for a response that never came.
Three years. And the Heirocrat was growing capricious. Old age; they said. But rumor said he was taking an herb in his wine, the use of which would ban a common Chosen for life. That would explain certain things Tevvro had heard recently. When I become—Tevvro dismissed that thought. He didn't dare think that many years ahead. For it would be years.
They actually thought he wanted to be Father of the Nedaoan Chosen, even those he considered allies! They were fools, who thought that. A man could die there, unnoted and scarcely mourned by the main house, as Grewl would be when he died. But for a man of ambition, a man with the backing he would have—the Nedao Chosen were a means to an end, nothing more. But it was as well if the fools thought they knew what he wanted, if they underestimated him in such a manner.
Tevvro tapped at the narrow door, slipped inside and doffed his cloak. The young Chosen who took it returned with wine and left him to enjoy it alone. Tevvro hitched his chair nearer the brazier, took a sip of the pale gold liquid: Ahhhh. None of the poorly aged stuff he'd once shared with the outer supplicants, the wine alone could be a good omen.
He needed good omens, there were enough disquieting ones, things not quite under his control. Such as Vess. Tevvro worried about Vess’ own ambitions, about Vess’ sudden departure from Osnera. Oh, the man had indeed needed his own armed. “My witch cousin will not readily give up what she has taken, you know that.” His words had been sensible, practical—and even so, there was something that worried Tevvro, though he still could not work it out. But Vess was back in the Peopled Lands—somewhere—raising his army.
Tevvro sat in the pleasant little room, sipped his wine and spared a brief, sympathetic thought for his fanatic friend Jers. He hadn't thought of Jers for some time, and wondered how he was faring with Vess. After all, he'd tutored Vess, and Vess needed a Chosen priest with him as much as Jers needed the responsibility, the steadying influence of armsmen to instruct.
Poor foolish, fanatic Jers. Tevvro doubted anything would steady him much. Jers would never learn from his mistakes; given another order from Osnera, he'd make the same frontal assault on the Nedaoan Chosen and their elected Father. Poor young fool.
Tevvro stretched his legs toward the warmth of the glowing brazier, sipped his wine. This day's meeting with the Heirocrat's personal secretaries should be among the last; before the month was out, he should be looking for a ship to take him back across the sea. Back into the eastern wilds. And then, after Nedao was secured under Vess and Osneran policy firmly instrumented, when the schism Grewl and the witch had created between them was healed—well. A step at a time. But he knew in detail how each of those steps looked. He was ready.
The red-scarved boy clattered down the last turn of stairs, almost slipping in his haste. Ten more steps and a man can breathe clean air again! He needed that, needed it desperately. Any time at all in the presence of Lyiadd and the concubine Marrita stopped the breath in his throat, twisted his stomach. Magic. How does Mal bear it, that they keep him so long at their councils? And as for the third of them! Jon Bri Madden knew his kind, they were common enough among junior crew: ambitious and completely lacking in scruple. Jon understood ambition, he was ambitious himself. The rest of it: a man had to have honor of some kind! Vess had none, so far as Jon could see—none of them did.
Magic. It washed through him like a combination of too much sweet wine and a bowl of Ragnolan steam, nearly made him ill where he stood, balanced half-way between one step and the next. He shook his head fiercely to clear it, leaped down the rest of the stairs by twos and into the real world.
It was unexpectedly warm and humid in a cloudy, windless way that felt like late summer. The smell of salt water and rotting weed was a weight against his nose and mouth.
All the same, it was better air than Mal breathed just now; Jon cast him a silent thanks. Mal was a harsh master, and Jon seldom looked to live to doff his red novice scarf, let alone to be rid of the second's blue and red one, and that as much from the course they were charted by the Three as by Mal's own personality—he'd made enemies over the years, Mal had, particularly when he challenged Nod Britt'harn so unexpectedly and snatched the ruling to himself. Mal didn't worry such things, or if he did, even Jon didn't know of it; there was no visible chink in his armor. Mal could be kind, though. When he chose. He knew what went on in his subordinates’ minds, and he knew how the Three affected Jon. And so, an errand for the once cabin boy, now junior-most mate and fledgling sword. An errand that, in truth, wasn't so urgent as all that, but at least carried conviction: Mal's compliments to the cre
w, preparations to begin four the Fury's departure from port on the early tide, two days hence.
And a carefully unspoken thought between them—less than a thought, for thoughts were as unsafe as words—in that brief shared look before Jon had left on his errand: At sea, a man can talk as he chooses and plan as he will.
Jon stopped short as a thin, whining voice reached him. He turned to gaze with sour impatience as a miserable creature in shabby grey detached itself from the shadow of the fallen tower and hurried toward him. Jers. Mad Chosen priest, Vess’ servant—or amusement, Jon thought contemptuosly, though given Vess’ appetite for women, that last seemed most unlikely.
“Young Lord!” Jers repeated as he drew near. His voice was high, shook slightly. He brought up a fawning smile; Jon scowled at him and he took one hasty step back. “I—I have a message for your captain, for Brit Arren.”
“So?” Jon folded his arms across his chest: This wreck of a human roused no pity in him, and certainly no fear. Only disgust—he was a nasty creature, whimpering, clinging to shadows. A man was better dead than brought to that! Jon thought. Jers glanced nervously down the dock, nervously up the side of the occupied Towel. “Well? What is it, priest?”
“I—not here, young sir, not herd. If I'm seen—” He dithered, caught up a length of the short over-robe and began twisting it.
In spite of himself, Jon felt a sudden curiosity; what was the man about? “If you mean to murder me,” he began sternly. Jers quailed under that black regard, shook his head frantically.
“Ah, no! Young Lord, how should I, do I carry weapons, steel such as your steel, and could I hope to use it against a man of your skills? But I would not, for does not the One teach us not to kill, even a disbeliever?” Jers was babbling; spittle frothed at the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, turned and fled back into the shadow of tumbled stones, rotten beams and broken glass. Jon glanced down the dock, back the way he'd come, as though Mal could know his dilemma and solve it for him. Then, with a contemptuous shrug, he stepped off the deep-worn path and followed.