“Yes, sir.” Jerek studied his father’s face. Sometimes the man liked to be called “sir,” sometimes he liked to be called “father,” and there was no way to tell which one it was going to be. “I’ve just come from Nessa.”
“Did she ask you to speak to me?” Voice and face alike hardened and Jerek swallowed.
“No, Father. In fact, she asked me not to. I just thought—if there had been some kind of neglect, or some default, I could see having to replace her, but Nessa’s a great Factor. You’ve always said so yourself.”
Dern Firoxi’s eyes glinted, and Jerek steeled himself, forcing his shoulders not to rise. Finally, the older man relaxed, the stiffness of his mouth replaced with a more calculating look. Jerek breathed easier.
“A default, well, that’s what this is, in a manner of speaking. Nessa’s default, but not her fault.” His father smiled at what he evidently thought was a joke, and Jerek managed to return it. Dern Firoxi gestured at the stool near the bench he was sitting on, waiting until Jerek was seated before continuing. “You remember that visit we had? The military men and the Halian?” Jerek nodded, even though his father didn’t wait for a response. “I had quite a talk with them after you went to bed.” Here his father stopped, brows drawn down, as if he was considering what he should say. Jerek waited. He’d seen this look before, too. “I didn’t want to worry you, but they made it plain how things are, now that the Halians have come. It’s possible that everything we have could be taken from us—from you—if we’re not very careful indeed.”
“What? Why?” Shock gave Jerek courage to speak.
“Because your inheritance is through your mother. The Halians only recognize inheritance through the male line.” His father raised his hand. “I asked about it, believe me. It’s not as though the military officer didn’t have the same reaction as I did, when he first heard of it.” Dern frowned. “If you’ve been paying attention to your studies, you know that Farama has run into this kind of male-dominant social structure before—the Polnisitts for one—and we’ve managed, with patience and the Rule of Law, to bring them around to a different way of thinking.”
Jerek had been paying attention to his tutors, but he knew better than to provide answers his father clearly wanted to provide himself. And he definitely knew better than to correct the man. It hadn’t been only patience and the Law that had changed things for the Polnisitts. The Battle Wings had had a say in it as well. But his father was still talking.
“You might say the boot’s on the other foot this time. Now it’s our turn to adjust, and with patience, and the time they are giving us, we will. According to what the Halian Shekayrin said, no one currently inheriting from the female line will be disinherited, not even females. But for the next generation, it will have to change. So your daughter wouldn’t inherit—first-born or not—but your son will.”
Jerek nodded. That was all so far away—two years before he could even be betrothed, four years before he inherited and then—he shook the thought away. “So wouldn’t Nessa inherit the Factorship from her father, then?”
“Ah, that’s a little different.” His father handed him his empty chocolate cup and waited for Jerek to go to the sideboard, fill it from the small clay jug sitting warm over a short candle, and come back before he continued. “First, the Factor’s position is not an inheritance, it’s a job. And it’s a custom that we give family members first chance at it, not a law. Second, this isn’t about Nessa, but about you.”
“Me?”
“You. The Halian Shekayrin made it clear that they’d be watching people in your position, people who inherited from their mothers. You’ve got to be most careful, most scrupulous about the new rules. You can’t be seen to flaunt them, even in the smallest way.”
“But how . . .”
“No women in positions of authority, not even something like a Factorship. House Steward is apparently acceptable—just. But no position that would put a woman on a horse, or that would arm her.”
So all this was being done, Nessa sent away, for his sake? Jerek’s hands closed into fists. His father talked as though they were conquered. As though—
“But when the Battle Wings come—” The blow to the face came now, when he was no longer expecting it. The tears that popped into Jerek’s eyes were as much his disappointment with himself for relaxing his guard as they were for the pain. He clenched his teeth to stifle any sound he might have made. That would only make things worse. As if from a great distance he saw his father’s mug of chocolate on the floor, the dark liquid staining the muted browns and reds of the carpet.
“Can’t you for once just listen? I’m trying to save you, you stupid, selfish boy. I’m trying to save you.”
Jerek forced himself to look up, but not quite into his father’s eyes, in case that might be taken as defiance. He nodded. “Yes, sir. Yes, Father,” he whispered. A whisper didn’t give much away. Showing shock or fear would only make things worse. Jerek had to be careful not to suggest in any way that his father had done anything wrong. He tried to straighten himself in his chair, racking his brain to think of some reason for leaving that his father would find acceptable. So they could pretend this hadn’t happened. His father stared at him, the whites of his eyes showing all the way around, his nostrils flared. Jerek licked his lips.
Nessa was going. Antuni was going. Who would be next?
-
“Do you need to sit down, Cursar?”
The Faro’s voice was sharp as the snap of a crossbow, and Kerida could well understand why the Faro had asked. Tel had gone white as a full moon and had actually swayed a bit to one side before righting himself again. He shook his head, but said nothing.
“We saw no other Bears, Faro,” Ker put in when it was clear that Tel couldn’t speak. “But we left five Eagles on the main road, near Temlin Hall. And I can give you five other names for the dead.”
“Left them?”
“They’d been in enemy hands, Faro.” Ker stopped. Tel had made an aborted movement with his left hand, as if he wanted to signal to her, but had thought better of it. “They didn’t act normally at all, more like they’d been drugged somehow.”
The Faro’s eyes narrowed, pulling a scar near her left eyebrow into prominence. “You Flashed nothing more from them?”
Ker shrugged. “I’m still a Candidate, Faro. Right now I’m better with objects than people.”
“I see.”
“My Faro, if I may?” Tel cleared his throat. “Two of these Eagles escaped Farama the Capital with me, but you say no one else got here? Then these men must have been captured before they reached you.” Tel closed his eyes. “So there may be others.”
“There may.” The Faro’s tone could evaporate water. “What is your story, Candidate?”
Ker cleared her throat. Giving reports was common to soldiers and Talents alike. Her voice faltered when she began describing what she’d seen in the great room at Questin Hall, but before she could continue, the Faro had raised a finger.
“Wait. A man dressed in a blue tunic with a black cloak. Chain armor over his head? We have seen such a one in the distance, but only in the distance.”
The door opened, and a man stepped through, shutting it behind him. He barely glanced at them as he circled the room to stand at the Faro’s elbow, but Ker was sure he’d be able to pick either of them out of a crowd if he ever saw them again. “You sent for me, my Faro?”
“You can finish your report later, Candidate Nast. This is my second-in-command, the Laxtor Surm Barlot. Surm, these youngsters have been through the mines.”
Ker acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow of her head. Tel straightened and touched the muddied crest on his shoulder.
“Now that my Laxtor is here, tell us the details of your journey through the Serpents Teeth.”
Tel froze with his lips parted. He closed them, opened his mo
uth again, and frowned. Ker gave him a hard look.
“Talent?”
Ker glanced automatically at the Faro before lowering her gaze to the tabletop.
“You can’t tell me, can you? Either of you?”
Ker glanced up again. Surm Barlot the Laxtor was nodding at the Faro, who was neither surprised nor angry. “Sometimes,” the Laxtor said, “when a person has been asked not to speak of a thing, they find they can write of it.”
Faro Sweetwater smiled. “It would not surprise me. Tell me, Third Officer, can you write?”
“Yes, my Faro.”
“Good. Candidate Nast.” Ker braced herself. “Please take this opportunity to retire to the Talents’ rooms to rest and recover from your ordeal. Report any needs to the duty officer.”
Ker had known enough superiors of one kind or another to recognize orders when she heard them. “Certainly. Thank you,” she said, exactly as she’d been expected to.
“This way, if you would, Candidate Nast.” Surm Barlot opened the door as Ker approached it and signaled to a young officer waiting in the outer office. “Kalter, if you would escort Candidate Nast to the Talents’ quarters?”
Grinning, the younger man led Kerida outside and across the avenue, heading toward a building on the right, too plain to be guest quarters, but with more windows than the nearby barracks.
Tel had let her go without a glance—not that Ker had looked back herself. But as her escort paused at the blond-wood door of the third building, she began to wish she had. As furious as she was with him for so casually revealing her Talent, Ker hadn’t expected to feel so alone without him. She wondered whether Tel was feeling the same way.
Then she wondered what he was going to write, and her anger flared up again. She slowed, stopped. The Kalter turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.
Tel hadn’t said anything about the Feelers, but he’d clearly tried to. And the Faro apparently understood that he’d tried, but wasn’t able to. And she’d found a way around that, or so it seemed. Ker hadn’t said anything either, but then, she hadn’t tried to. They’d been asked not to tell. Could she, if she did want to? She glanced at the Kalter, then looked away. She wasn’t going to try telling him, not just to see if she could.
Ker’s skin prickled, and she felt cold. The Feelers had done this to them. To protect themselves, surely, but the idea that someone had tampered with her in this way . . . She rubbed the outside of her arms.
“Candidate? Is something wrong?”
Ker took in a deep breath. What could explain her behavior? “Is there news of the Panther Wing?” she said finally.
Her dark-haired escort smiled at her. “They’re at their post in Elvia, why?”
“My sister is Wing Faro, and I wondered—”
“Oh, you’re that Nast, of course.” His smile changed completely as he put out his hand for the military hand grip. “Jakmor Gulder, one of the Faro’s Kalters. From Farama, originally, though my family’s lands are in Andal Province.” His smile was friendly. Ker nodded as she held his wrist. Faro’s Kalters were usually appointed from old families—or rich ones—who wanted their sons to have some military experience before they took positions as Polity counselors, or advisers to the Luqs. “You don’t need to worry. From all we’ve heard, your sister is well. We haven’t heard from everyone, of course.” Now he gave her a more sympathetic look.
“I was wondering, all things considered, whether I might not be more use to the Faro as a soldier than a Talent. I’ve had military training,” she added, as Gulder tilted his head and raised an interrogatory eyebrow.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the issue.” Gulder turned back to the door and lifted the latch. He pushed the door open and stood to one side, letting her precede him into the tiny entry hall. There was no orderly sitting at the receiving table, and Gulder led her through to the inner door, which he opened without knocking. Across from the door of the small sitting room was a narrow window, shuttered against the cold, and another door leading to the inner courtyard. There was a brazier table near the right-hand wall, ready, but not lit. Four high-backed chairs were placed around it, each with its own rug neatly folded over the seat. A worktable with stools was set up nearer the window, the tabletop lightly clouded with dust. Here the wooden floors were covered with rugs. An arched doorway opened into a space from which two closed doors led into what Kerida assumed were the bedrooms.
Dust on the worktable. An unattended anteroom. Window shuttered in the middle of the morning. Lap rugs folded as if not in use. Ker’s mouth felt strangely dry. There would be no help for her here. She became aware that someone was speaking to her, that she was sitting on a hard chair with a straight back, and that the Kalter was putting a cup into her hand and closing her fingers around it.
“Candidate? Kerida? Try to drink.”
Ker’s hand closed, and she lifted the cup to her mouth. The smell of the contents didn’t register until she had taken a mouthful. Luckily, she didn’t gasp until after she’d swallowed. Some kind of brandy. She made a face, and the cup was taken from her hand.
“Better? That’s the second time you’ve almost fainted.”
The Kalter leaned over her, peering into her face with a look of concern. She’d thought him older, but now she saw that the spray of white in his hair was due to some past injury. His face was nearly unlined, and he couldn’t be much older than Tel Cursar. He’d opened the shutters, but if anything, more light only emphasized the neglect.
“The Talents were sent away,” she croaked. “Tel said so.”
Kalter Gulder drew up another chair and sat. Their knees were almost touching. “It’s a political thing, like recalling ambassadors, or threatening to.” He sounded almost apologetic. “It happens from time to time.” He shrugged. “Just the Wings’ way of making a point. Wasn’t meant to last long at all. In fact, couriers asking for their return were sent weeks ago. We thought the lack of response was just the Halls’ making a point of their own. Now we know better.”
Ker sat up straight, taking a deep breath. “So that means I’m the only Talent you have.” And Tel Cursar was right. She made a face.
“I’m afraid so.” The man’s eyebrows were lifted in the center. He had dark brown eyes. Big dark brown eyes.
“Kalter—”
“You’d better call me Jakmor, or Jak, if you like.” He smiled. “You’re from a military family, you know I’m not really in the chain of command, so we might as well be friends.”
Jakmor got to his feet and set the cup of brandy down on the tabletop next to Ker. “But here, you’ve had a shock. If you feel up to it, I’ll send over some food, and the cleaners.”
Real cooked food would be a treat, but the idea of people in here, crashing around and moving things when she needed to think . . . “Could I be alone? After the food, I mean,” she hastily corrected. “I’d just as soon clean the rooms myself. It’s a kind of meditation exercise,” she added when Jakmor looked skeptical.
“As you like.” He turned back from the door. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
Ker stood up, and nodded. She knew better than to try for a smile. “I’ll be fine.” Someday. Eventually. Probably.
“We can’t spare an orderly for your door, but there’s always someone in the watch room, if you need anything. I’ll see about that food.”
Ker waited until the door closed behind him before she sat back down, and lowered her face into her hands.
• • •
“Now, Third Officer, sit down here. Don’t pretty up the narrative, just write quickly.” Surm Barlot pulled out a chair at the end of the Faro’s worktable, clearing away a hand of solitary Seasons.
Tel sat, wiping his palms on his trousers. “What—where should I begin?”
“Start at the part you can’t say aloud.”
Tel nodded, licked his lips and picked u
p the quill. He dipped the pen into the ink and tapped it, letting out the breath he was holding. He touched the nib to the surface of the paper. There are Feelers in the Serpents Teeth, he scratched out. “It works,” he said, and his heart sank. Kerida would hate him even more now, but what could he do? This was his Faro. Besides, he told himself, it was obvious that he wasn’t telling Juria Sweetwater anything she didn’t already know.
He looked back at the paper. Really, once the main fact was shared, what more was there to say? He dashed out a few more lines, and handed the paper to his Faro.
“‘There are Feelers in the Serpents Teeth,’” the Faro read aloud. “‘They have a prophecy that makes them believe they should give Kerida Nast whatever help she wants.’” The Faro glanced at Surm Barlot. “‘There is also a young griffin who acts like she’s his mother.’ Well, it seems we’re lucky she decided to come to us, if there is all this help that comes with her.”
Tel couldn’t be sure whether his Faro was being sarcastic. “She came with me because she wanted to warn the Talents in Temlin Hall about the Halians. After what we found there, she stayed with me.” And this is what she gets for it. He shook himself. No point in thinking that way.
“Will she work with us?” It seemed to be Laxtor Barlot’s job to ask the difficult questions.
Would she? Kerida could have stayed with the Feelers—the griffin had certainly wanted her to. She could even have turned back, once they’d seen the remains of Temlin Hall. She’d come on with him, knowing they were coming here, to Oste. “I believe so,” he said. I hope so. If she didn’t hate him too much, she might stay.
“Good. Normally, I would be telling you not to discuss this with anyone, but we have already established that you cannot.” The Faro took the paper and tore it across twice before tossing the pieces into the brazier, which briefly blazed up.
“Yes, my Faro. But may I ask—”
“I will not tell you how it is I am not surprised, Third Officer. I’m afraid you must trust me.”
Halls of Law Page 20