He waved at the servants standing near the doors at the back of the skorstala; they dragged the heavy doors open and brightly-dressed women poured into the room, cartwheeling and walking on their hands and tossing balls through the air at one another. Musicians set up in one corner and began playing a lively melody with a strong thrumming beat. Male servants wheeled in a procession of kegs in cradles and brought dripping mugs to the chiefs and their men. Imogen stared in wonder at the beautiful display until Hrovald jabbed her in the side and said, “Out. Take the girl with you.”
Imogen started to protest, then saw one of the officers pull a dancing girl into his lap and fondle her breasts as she kissed him. “Oh,” she said, and grabbed Elspeth’s hand and dragged her into the kitchens. That kind of entertainment. She’d heard Ruskalder celebrations could be wild, but she hadn’t imagined what kind of wild they might be.
“Did you see that?” Elspeth demanded. “How could they do that to those women?”
“I’m pretty sure the women like it,” Imogen said. They passed through halls thronged with servants into the kitchen, where they found the tiermatha lounging around eating from plates they held in their hands.
“Servants are having their meal too,” Kallum said. “Nowhere for us to sit. Guess that tells us how we rate.”
“Don’t you know? Decorations don’t eat,” Dorenna said sourly. “I can’t believe Hrovald thinks he can treat us like some kind of honor guard.”
“Wish we could participate in these competitions of theirs,” Kionnal groused. “I’d like to see his face when we trounced his best men.”
“Inger’s right. Nobody wants to be beaten by a foreigner. You want to ruin all the progress you’ve made toward being accepted?” Imogen stole an only slightly shriveled apple and bit into it. They all ate in silence for a while. Elspeth stood silent by the door, and Imogen considered her. Had Hrovald used her to send his chiefs a message? Imogen had been watching Ingivar when Hrovald announced Elspeth’s identity, and he’d looked furious for a moment before regaining control of himself. Whatever game Hrovald was playing, he’d drawn his chiefs in too, probably against their will. Imogen wondered how far Hrovald could push those men before they pushed back. They might, except for Ingivar, be lazy or stupid or afraid of Hrovald, but they commanded large parts of the Ruskalder army and were therefore a danger to Hrovald if he ever lost control. Not that he appeared to be in danger of that.
“You look farther away than usual,” Kallum said, startling her out of her reverie. “Did you go somewhere nice? Somewhere not here?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Imogen said. “I think I’m going to bed. I want to avoid having to fight off drunken Ruskalder, much as I would enjoy a good fight. Coming, Elspeth?”
They went the long way around, outside the King’s house and across the courtyard, shivering in their thin wool dresses. “We’re not in any danger, are we?” Elspeth said when they reached their wing and went upstairs. “You might be able to fight off a drunken Ruskalder, but I’m sure I can’t.”
“Hrovald’s protection extends to both of us. Anyone who attacks us would be severely punished.”
“That wouldn’t be much comfort, since we’d already have been attacked.”
“I was afraid you’d think of that.” Imogen stopped outside their doors and took a closer look at Elspeth, whose hands were wound tightly into her skirt, and felt bad about being so quick to dismiss the girl’s fears. Elspeth was right; she wouldn’t be able to defend herself if one of those men decided the dancing girls weren’t enough. “Look, why don’t you stay with me tonight? I’m pretty sure those men have plenty of willing female company and don’t need to go looking for the unwilling kind, but there’s no sense taking any chances.”
“I’m not a coward, Imogen.”
“It’s not cowardice to be sensible.”
She waited for Elspeth to get her nightgown, then turned the key to lock them both in her bedroom. She lay awake after Elspeth fell asleep, thinking of Hrovald, of the Samnal, of what would happen in the days to come. Anneke said things had been different under Dyrak. Imogen wished she’d been here then. Then she laughed at herself. She wished she didn’t have to be here at all.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Imogen was joined at the breakfast table by several visiting officers and a handful of chiefs. She made polite conversation and learned the warriors would spend the day sparring in preparation for the fights the following day, and the chiefs would sit down to discuss government and foreign policy. Imogen realized she was curious about those discussions. She’d never cared about government before, preferred to leave it to Caele and her mother, but that was before a government treaty stole her life. And she wanted to know what Hrovald’s plans for Elspeth were. If he started a war with Tremontane, the Kirkellan as his allies would be pulled into it, and Imogen was sure Mother didn’t want that.
She knew Hrovald wouldn’t let her sit in on their discussion, but it proved remarkably easy for her to get inside, thanks to Inger. “The chiefs will see it as a mark of respect for you to serve them with your own hands,” she said, “even if you are unskilled. If you flash some cleavage at them, they won’t care if you drop a tankard in their laps."
Imogen rolled her eyes, but changed into her tightest, lowest-cut dress and received a lightning-fast course in serving drinks. Then she gathered a double handful of wooden mugs, pushed the door to the skorstala open with her rear end, and backed quietly into the room.
“—not sure trade won’t suffer as a result, but it’s worth trying,” said one of the men whose name Imogen didn’t remember.
“It’s been working in Sjoven for the last year,” Olof said. “Keep an open mind.”
“Fair enough,” Hrovald said. “What’s next? What are you doing in here, wife?”
Imogen stayed calm in the face of his roar. “Is it too early for drink, then? I thought you wanted me to show respect for our guests.” She leaned over to set two mugs down and heard the chief to her left suck in a breath. Yes, I do have magnificent breasts, don’t I? Too bad for you this is all you’re ever going to see of them.
Hrovald studied her with narrowed eyes. “Don’t get in our way,” he said, then, to the chiefs, “We need to discuss taxes. I’m not seeing the kind of revenue stream I need to maintain the army. Why have collections dropped?”
“We’re recovering from five years of war,” Ingivar said. It was hard to read his expression behind all that hair, but he sounded neutral, as if his King hadn’t just implied his chiefs were holding back taxes. “The economy needs some time to regrow. If we didn’t maintain a standing army—”
“Let’s not go over that argument again,” Knoten said. “The King is conscious of security. We don’t want to leave ourselves open to invasion.”
“By who? The Kirkellan are our allies. Veribold isn’t interested in expanding its borders. Or do you know something about Tremontane we should be privy to?” Now Ingivar was becoming angry. “Something to do with that tiny blonde you exhibited at supper last night?”
“Yes, why is the Princess of Tremontane here?” Jannik said. “Jeffrey North won’t go to war over the Riverlands, but he might go to war over her. She’s a liability.”
“Hrovald knows what he’s doing,” Knoten said.
“My reasons are my own,” Hrovald said. “She’s our guest until the passes clear. That’s all.”
“Nothing to do with your vendetta, then? I find that hard to believe.” Ingivar made a gesture that silenced Knoten.
“You think I arranged to pull Elspeth North out of the snow? I’m not saying she doesn’t provide us with an attractive bargaining chip, but I intend to deal honestly with Jeffrey. As long as he gives me what I want.”
“Then it is about your vendetta.”
Hrovald slammed his tankard down on the table and shouted, “Do not question my motives or my authority! I will use the girl to get us concessions from Tremontane that will make it difficult for them to go
to war against us. If you think that’s not enough, then challenge me and see if you can do better.”
Ingivar stared back at Hrovald, expressionless in the face of the King’s wrath. “I don’t want to quarrel with my King,” he said. “You understand the situation better than I do.”
Hrovald glared at him, then sat down at the table. “I believe we were talking about taxes,” he said in a mild voice that had no trace of the anger he’d displayed so explosively seconds before. “The army must still eat. Any suggestions?”
Imogen stood, and served drinks, and collected empty mugs until her feet hurt. She learned a great deal about the trade goods Ruskald produced, and its relations with Veribold, and provisions for refurbishing a number of old churches. She listened to an argument about whether some of the troops should be mustered out, an argument that devolved into a shouting match between two of the chiefs, which Imogen the warrior found fascinating. The Kirkellan had no standing army, just warriors the matrian could call together in time of war. The idea of being told not to be a warrior anymore was strange. The chiefs said nothing about the Kirkellan and nothing more about Elspeth or Tremontane. By the time the meeting adjourned, Imogen only knew three things: the Tremontanan King and Hrovald had bad blood between them, her feet hurt, and she had inadvertently volunteered to serve drinks at every private meeting the chiefs had in the next four days.
She went back to her room, kicked off her shoes, and massaged her feet. I wonder what the odds are of getting someone to do this for me. Not good, probably. Someone knocked on her door, and Elspeth peered around it without waiting for an invitation. “Where did you go?” she asked peevishly.
“I was attending the Council meeting as a serving wench. Come all the way in and shut the door. You know I’m not here to entertain you. What have you been doing all morning?”
“Sitting around doing nothing. I was afraid to go anywhere without you.”
“You could have asked one of the tiermatha to babysit you.”
“I’m not a baby, Imogen.”
“Then stop acting like one.” Imogen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way. What I meant was, you’re a grown woman and you can take action for yourself. And if you stay in public places you can guarantee you’ll be safe from being attacked.”
Elspeth sat on the bed next to Imogen. “I’m sorry I’m not as brave as you.”
“You’re brave in different ways. You don’t let Hrovald cow you, which is more than some of his chiefs can say.”
“I guess that’s true.” Elspeth bit her lower lip and turned away. “What is it now?” Imogen said.
“Nothing. I just…wish I was home.”
“I wish we were certain Hrovald’s message reached your brother. It would be awful for him to go the whole winter believing you were lost, or dead.”
“Oh, Jeffrey knows where I am,” Elspeth said absently.
“What do you mean? Did Hrovald tell you the message went through?”
Elspeth’s face went paler than usual.“…Yes,” she said.
“You are a terrible liar. How does the King know where you are?”
Elspeth went to the door, looked both ways down the hall, then shut it and returned to stand in front of Imogen. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Not even the tiermatha. No one. Understand?”
“Not really, but I promise,” Imogen said. Her friend’s small face had never looked so serious.
“Do the Kirkellan have inherent magic?”
That was a direction Imogen hadn’t imagined this conversation taking. “You mean the cadhaen-rach? Of course. It’s not very common, though. I only know of three people in the kinship who have it.”
“But you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.”
“Why should I? It’s mostly harmless tricks, a few useful skills, but hardly wrong.”
“In Tremontane people are afraid of it. Hundreds of years ago the country was practically ruled by people called Ascendants who used source—you know, the magic that builds where lines of power cross? Anyway, they used source to dominate the kingdom, made people do what they wanted, until they were finally overthrown, but for a long time anyone who was even suspected of having inherent magic, even if they weren’t Ascendants, might be killed. Even now, if you have inherent magic people might try to drive you out of business, or shun you, or refuse to sell to you. It doesn’t matter what talent you have, unless it’s something obviously useful like healing.”
“And I take it you’re working up to telling me your brother has some kind of inherent magic.”
Elspeth nodded. “He always knows exactly where any member of his family is. So he knows I’m alive and he can work out I’m in Ranstjad. Simple, right? No threat to anyone. But the Ascendants were so closely tied to the Valants, the last royal family before the Norths, that part of what brought Willow North to power was the fact that she didn’t have inherent magic. If people in Tremontane knew their own King was…tainted, it could mean the end of his rule. So you absolutely cannot tell anyone, please?”
She looked so serious Imogen wanted to smile, but suppressed the urge, knowing Elspeth would be insulted and hurt that Imogen didn’t take her seriously. And if Tremontanans did have such a prejudice against the cadhaen-rach, her fears weren’t really anything to laugh at.
“I swear by watchful heaven I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “It must have driven him nearly mad, knowing you were safe those first few days and not being able to tell anyone.”
“I know,” Elspeth said. “That’s why I have to believe Hrovald’s messenger made it there safely. I don’t know if even Mother knows about his talent. I only know because I got impatient that he always won at hide-and-seek and I blackmailed him into telling me why.”
“You’re more ruthless than you look.”
“I know. It’s the only weapon I have. Can we go watch the contests? I heard today they work out who’s going to compete in the challenges tomorrow. It sounds more interesting than knitting, anyway.”
“All right. I just want to change my dress. Help me with the buttons.” Imogen peeled off the dress, made a face at it, then found something less form-fitting. “Elspeth,” she asked as the girl began buttoning the new gown, “why does Hrovald have a vendetta against your brother?”
The hands stilled against her back. “What vendetta?” Elspeth said, her voice shaky. She went back to fastening the buttons.
“I don’t know, but it was something Ingivar thought might influence Hrovald’s negotiations over…over you.”
Elspeth fastened the last button. “He doesn’t have a vendetta against my brother,” she said. Imogen turned around to face her. Elspeth’s face was red and she wouldn’t meet Imogen’s eyes. That was a strong reaction for a simple question. Imogen thought about pushing the issue, but decided against it. For now. Anything that affected Hrovald’s relationship with Tremontane was something Imogen, and by extension Mother, wanted to know.
They watched the matches from an elaborate spectator stand Hrovald’s men had erected the week before. It had a box near the top for Hrovald and his Queen with warming Devices embedded below the seats, so it was quite comfortable for Imogen and Elspeth. Too bad the matches were all boring. Knoten of Hvartfast had told her at breakfast the chiefs all brought their twenty best fighters, and they and Hrovald’s twenty best fought elimination rounds today, wrestling and sword fighting and pole-climbing. That way only the best of the best fought in front of the King and Queen, and, incidentally, kept the King and Queen from being bored out of their skulls. Elspeth thought it was exciting. Imogen had to restrain her from cheering on her favorites, reasoning their opponents might see her favor as an unfair advantage. The fighters certainly became more energetic in her presence. Imogen felt another pang of jealousy. No one had ever brightened up like that when she walked into a room. All right, it was true she didn’t actually want it to h
appen, but it would be nice if it happened once.
Imogen had to serve the chiefs again the next morning. Ingivar proposed a network of roads the other chiefs argued against. Imogen couldn’t see why, unless it was that the money for roads would have to come out of the cost to maintain the army. Not for the first time, she wondered why Hrovald insisted on keeping those warriors ready to attack when there wasn’t anyone for him to fight. Unless he really did want to invade Tremontane, but that would be stupid, particularly with the advantage Tremontane’s gun Devices gave them. Maybe Hrovald’s ego was invested in the army. That wasn’t unlikely, but would he really waste money supporting an army that didn’t have an enemy to fight?
That afternoon the tiermatha was once again pressed into service as an honor guard to—speaking of Hrovald’s ego—escort the King and Queen and Elspeth North to the box. They ranged themselves around it on the spectator stand as if they expected someone to attack Hrovald. Imogen thought some of his chiefs might have wanted to, and if Ingivar was going to do it, he likely wouldn’t care that the tiermatha was in his way, but the chiefs took their seats with barely a glance at Hrovald’s pet tiermatha. To Imogen’s right, Areli coughed and muffled it with her fist.
This day’s contests were a lot more exciting than the previous one. Karel swept the sword fighting challenges, and even though Imogen detested him, she had to admire his skill and grace. A skinny boy from Knoten’s troop won the pole-climbing contest, and she had to bite her knuckle to keep from laughing at how the mostly-naked men humped and heaved to get to the top. The wrestlers weren’t nearly as good as Revalan, and Imogen darted a glance at him to see what he thought of their amateurish efforts, but he remained impassive. Areli coughed twice more during the wrestling matches, and Imogen was afraid Hrovald might get angry at her disruptions, but he remained focused on the contests, shouting out encouragement to anyone who did well, regardless of whose warrior he was.
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