by Robin Hardy
“Then we are looking for a body now,” Basil said quietly. “Continue your search, offering the same reward. Deirdre wishes to send off a funeral barge tonight, and I think it would comfort her to have found the body.”
“Yes, Counselor,” Kam acquiesced, inwardly cursing their failure.
From there, the Counselor sent a summons to the inn where the emissary from Calle Valley was staying, then went to the audience hall. But he found the emissary already there, waiting on the chance that he might be heard. The townspeople in the hall were still edgy, talking in muffled tones, but from what little Basil overheard, he gleaned that they had no doubts concerning the transfer of power to Deirdre. The emissary seemed nervous at having been thrust unknowingly into such a volatile situation, even though he hoped to profit from it. He was about to address a tentative question to the Counselor when Deirdre entered.
The spectators went to their knees as she passed by them and sat on the bronze throne that Karel, Galapos, and Roman had occupied before her. “I wish to announce first,” she began, “that a funeral barge for Surchatain Roman will be launched from Hycliff at sunset today. Those who wish may attend.”
This drew murmured approval from the crowd, for such spectacles were highly appreciated by the public. It would also appease the citizens who were disgruntled by the abrupt cancellation of the games upon Roman’s disappearance. The setting of a funeral barge was not only a good show, it included a free meal of cakes and ale.
“Before I leave for Hycliff this morning, I will hear from the emissary of Calle Valley,” Deirdre said.
The emissary was prepared to make the most of this opening. As he bowed deeply before her, he said, “Surchataine, I am Virl. I cannot express the grief I feel, and all Calle Valley will feel when they learn of the Surchatain’s untimely death. Please accept my sorrow as your own.” Deirdre merely eyed him skeptically.
Undaunted, he continued, “I have brought a small gift of wine from our valley—fifty casks—which I ask you to receive as a token of our good will.” Deirdre nodded slightly.
“Surchataine,” Virl went on, “my reason for coming was to invite your gracious participation in the first summer fair in Calle Valley. Our Surchatain has labored long to build up the fortunes of the area to provide the fair, and now that it will come to pass—”
“Who is the Surchatain of Calle Valley?” Deirdre asked suspiciously. The last Surchatain she knew of had been Merce, who had allied himself with Lystra’s enemies in an attempt to conquer her. Merce had been killed at the battle of Outpost One.
“Caspar is our ruler, and sends you his warmest greetings, Surchataine.”
Caspar . . . Deirdre’s eyes glazed over in concentration. Evidently he had not fought beside his father Merce, else he would have been killed also. Caspar had been one of her suitors before she had run away from Westford to marry Roman. Of all those she had rejected, Caspar had been the least offensive to her. . . .
The emissary was explaining, “The fair, which opens in Crescent Hollow three days from now, promises to be a great success, Surchataine. We have merchants en route from all parts of the Continent. And it will certainly benefit the autumn fair in Hycliff, as many merchants will remain in the South, selling and replenishing their wares, until time for the Hycliff fair.” Deirdre did not reply, but he saw interest creep into her face.
Encouraged, Virl came to the point: “However, our most pressing concern is the safety of the overland trade routes through Lystra. Most merchants coming from the East will of necessity travel through Lystra, as the mountains north of Crescent Hollow prevent a direct northern access. If we could prevail upon you to provide protection to the merchants traveling to the fair through Lystra, I am sure it would prove to be mutually beneficial.”
Deirdre studied him without answering. The emissary gauged her also, and the great risk of what he was about to say next. But, relying on his years of experience in reading capricious rulers, he chanced it: “If my lady deems our plan to be good, then Surchatain Caspar wishes to extend to her his personal invitation to be his guest at the fair.”
While Deirdre considered his requests, he waited, marveling a little at the hardness of such a young, comely face. Her blue eyes seemed to beckon, even when she was obviously considering unromantic matters. Recalling what he had heard of her marriage, Virl thought it miraculous that this guardian of hers had managed to evade a charge of indecency for some eight years.
He was ruefully reflecting that he himself was probably too old to be attractive to her when she answered, “I give permission for my soldiers to patrol trade routes to Calle Valley for your fair. You may meet with Basil and the Second Kam to work out the particulars. As for Caspar’s invitation . . . I will think about it. You are dismissed.”
Before leaving the hall she told a soldier, “When Sevter has assembled all he needs to take to Hycliff, saddle Lady Grey and summon me from my chambers.”
“Surchataine,” he bowed.
Then she forced herself up the stairs. She had been avoiding Ariel since the day before yesterday, when Roman had disappeared. Now, she must tell her son that his father would not be coming home again. The boy was not yet three, and she did not know if she could make him understand the meaning of death. But he needed some explanation for the fiery show he would see tonight.
Deirdre put her hand unwillingly on the latch of the nursery door to open it.
Effie roused sleepily that morning, a little later than usual. Yawning, she stoked the fire and threw a few more pieces of wood on it, then picked up the bucket to go draw water.
Outside, the morning sun had already topped the trees to send light splashing down in golden puddles around the hut. The air was heady with the scent of pine trees in summer. On her way to the well, Effie kicked through the fragrant thatch of pine needles on the forest floor. She dawdled outside a while, playing with the geese and enjoying the coolness of the morning before returning to the hut with her filled bucket.
She washed her face, then lazily spread jam on a thick slice of bread. Munching it, she stepped to the door of the other room to look in on her visitor.
At the door she gasped and dropped the bread splat on the floor, jam side down. The man was lying on his back, awake, watching her.
Her first impulse was to run. But he croaked, “I need water. Please.”
Somewhat calmed by his appeal, she backed out and cautiously brought in the bucket and ladle to him. He lifted up, wincing, to prop himself on his right elbow. But when he reached out with his left hand to take the ladle, a spasm of pain froze his fingers. He could not even extend the arm. Effie bypassed his clenched fingers and held the ladle up to his mouth.
Once his thirst was sated, he lay down again. She watched him as he gingerly worked his swollen shoulder around, trying to find a comfortable resting position. Then he looked up to meet her gaze. As they studied each other, a slight smile appeared on his face. Effie noted that his fever was down. He said, “I’m hungry, if you have any more bread you haven’t trampled.”
“Oh—?” She looked down at the bread and jam, which she had indeed stepped on while bringing his water. She laughed impulsively and he smiled at her. Not knowing what to make of his smile, she hastily retreated from his bedside.
In a few moments she came in again with cheese and bread on a wooden plate. She helped him sit up and shift to lean against the wall. Holding the plate in his lap, he ate with his right hand, resting the useless left one on the cot. He swallowed and said, “You are very kind—Effie, isn’t it?”
She startled. “How do you know my name?”
“I heard a woman say it, from the other room,” he said, leaning his head back against the wall. He appeared to be tiring from just this little effort.
“But you’ve been asleep all this while!”
“Mostly,” he said. “But at other times, I was aware of voices around me.”
She squirmed at what all he might have heard. Upon finishing the cheese and bread
, he sank weakly down to the bed again, and she adjusted the goose-down pillow under his head. “Tell me how I came to be here,” he whispered.
“I found you bleeding on the market road,” she replied. “I brought you here and bandaged you up.”
He closed his eyes, nodding. “I was ambushed. I remember the sound of the arrow.” He opened his eyes again. “Who knows that I am here?”
“No one besides me,” she assured him. “Soldiers came around offering a reward for you, but I told them nothing.”
The one eyebrow flattened. “Not for money? Why not?”
“Because I. . . .” She was unsure that she should tell him. “Because I know who you are.” He might as well know. He could not hurt her, weak as he was.
He frowned slightly. “Then why didn’t you give me over to the soldiers?”
Now she frowned. What did he want her to say? “Because after all the trouble I had saving you, I didn’t want to see you hanged!”
His languid smile in response irritated her. “Why would they hang me, Effie?”
She composed herself, thinking to see through his game. He wanted to see just how much she knew. So she told him, “Surchatain Roman is dead, and they haven’t found the murderer.”
He blinked at her. “I am Surchatain Roman.”
Her heart bounded up. The Surchatain! She had saved the Surchatain! But then came the snide thought, Gullible fool, that’s impossible. Can’t you see he’s lying?
She jumped to her feet, angry and hurt. “Liar! How big a fool do you take me for? I should have left you to die in the road!” She yanked the plate away and ran from the lean-to.
What a liar, she seethed, illogically taking up the hoe to jab at the garden rows. A man who lies like that might do anything. He’s dangerous. What am I to do with him now? Once he mends, he’s likely to turn and kill me for saving him! I can’t let him mend . . . I must undo what I have done. . . . Resting her weight on the hoe, she cried in frustration and despair. It was the pattern of her life to never do anything right.
Resolutely, she sniffled and straightened. Hoeing again, she pondered what to do. Her eye was drawn to a spot of orange a few feet from the edge of the garden, near the trees, and she cursed. Walking over to the spot, she lifted her hoe to destroy once again a tenacious patch of fly agaric. Effie knew these mushrooms were deadly poison, and would never eat them, but someone else who was hungry might not know. . . .
She paused, hoe upraised. Then she lowered it and chewed on a fingernail, thinking. In a moment she had decided. She dropped the hoe to quickly gather some ripe vegetables, which she took inside and cut up in the kettle, with some water and salt. She rekindled the fire from the embers and stood over the pot to watch the stew boil.
When it was almost done, Effie took a knife outside to the mushroom patch and carefully dug out the largest, orangest one. She cut it up in tiny pieces, all of which she scraped into a wooden soup bowl. This she filled with vegetable stew and took to Roman.
“I have made you some stew,” she said.
He opened his eyes and inhaled to gain strength. As he began struggling to sit up, she helped him lean against the wall and then handed him the bowl and spoon. “Thank you, Effie,” he said. She shrugged, looking away.
He blew on the stew, which steamed very hot in his hands. Gingerly he balanced it on his lap, waiting for it to cool. Resting his head back on the wall, he said, “I am Roman, Effie. What can I do to convince you?”
“Oh, I believe you,” she said lightly. Seeing that his face had only a few days’ growth of beard, she wondered vaguely why an outlaw would bother to shave.
“I think you do not, but you’re afraid of me. Ask me questions, and I’ll tell you things only the Surchatain would know.”
“I wouldn’t know what to ask, nor if what you told me was right,” she answered, even while noting his refined, gentle manner of speech.
He winced. “That’s true. What would convince you, then?”
She looked him in the eye, and he did not evade her stare. “I am convinced,” she said.
“You said they haven’t found the murderer,” he said suddenly. “I know who is responsible. The chief emissary from Qarqar hired someone locally to kill me. Of this I was warned, and I ignored it.”
“I believe your stew has cooled,” she said. He raised the spoon to his mouth and blew on it, but a tentative touch of his lips found it still too hot.
Lowering the bowl, he sighed, studying her, and she turned her face away. He began discoursing softly, more to himself than her: “I once was guardian of a girl much like you—smart, and stubborn, and unable to believe anything but the worst. I grew to love her, but for years she could not accept the love I showed to her as real because everyone else lied to her about everything. Then one day she believed me, and God gave her to me to be my wife—”
Effie stood, so abruptly snatching the bowl from him that some of the stew sloshed into his lap, sending him up with a gasp. “Your stew has gotten cold. I must get you another bowl,” she said. He stared at her in astonishment as she threw the stew onto the ground outside and broke the bowl.
She brought him another, but he had to wait for it to cool all over again. Once he had eaten, she brought him water for bathing. She helped him remove his boots before shyly retreating from the lean-to, and he did not ask for further help. She puttered outside, feeding the geese and collecting sticks for the fire until she felt it safe to go in again. When she finally put her head in the door of the lean-to, she saw him lying on his back with the blanket pulled up to his chest. His trousers were on the chair.
“Would you like me to wash those for you?” she asked timidly.
“Come sit first, a moment,” he said, brushing the trousers off the chair. “I want to know more about you.” She sat stiffly as if for an interrogation. “Who lives here with you, Effie?”
“My brother.” She could answer that one.
“Where is he?”
“He’s away for a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know,” she said straightforwardly.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” Her tone implied it was none of her business.
“Does he leave you alone like this often?”
“Sometimes. Whenever he comes into money,” she replied.
“How does he earn money?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated her litany.
By this time, Roman had dropped his head back into the pillow as if it hurt. “Effie, how does he provide for you?”
She had to think about this. “Sometimes he gives me money. And sometimes he brings foodstuff. But I have my garden and my geese when he doesn’t. And whenever Oweda and Mathias come by, they bring me things.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re a merchant couple I met in Westford a few years ago. They travel a lot, and can’t pass by here very often, but they try to, because they don’t have any children and they want me to be their child.”
“Do you want to be?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she said, lifting her face. “But I didn’t know they wanted me to come with them until Oweda told me yesterday. She was just here. It was her you heard. She asked me to come with her.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Because I had to stay here to take care of you!” she answered crossly, as if he should have known.
He looked at her with an expression of respect. “You’ll be rewarded for it, Effie. I promise you that.”
She shrugged and took his trousers out to wash.
That evening, a visitor in Hycliff would have been drawn to the ports by the crier’s call and the curious crowd. There, he would have been given sorghum cakes and ale as he listened to the lament of the trumpeters and the mourning of the weepers. Then he would have seen from a distance a golden-haired Surchataine and a very small child set torches to a barge loaded with kindling. And he would have watched with the crowd as the barge w
as launched to sea, further ignited by thrown torches and flaming arrows until it was a fireball in the midst of the dark waters.
Chapter 25
Shuffling, clunking noises awakened Effie in the morning. She blinked around bemusedly to see that Roman had retrieved his trousers from the hearth, dressed, and was now attempting to cross the room to the outside door.
“What are you doing?” She was irritated that he had gotten up without help.
“I need to get outside, little nurse,” he said with a wry smile.
She took his good right arm and unbolted the door. He gratefully breathed in the sweet morning air. “I had forgotten how good it is just to wake up,” he murmured. Never having experienced that particular feeling, Effie did not reply. Still smiling in that wry manner, he shuffled out through the curious geese.
When he came back in, he found her boiling goose eggs for breakfast. She pulled up the stool and let him lean on her to sit at the table. As she placed two eggs in a bowl before him, he said, “Thank you, Effie.”
She went to the hearth and stood over the kettle. The way he spoke to her was strange, for a man. Pax certainly never talked like that. Mathias was kind, but always a little distant and preoccupied. This man, however, talked to her as if she were a friend. Someone worth talking to.
She stood over the kettle so long that by the time she had turned back around, he was watching her. “Why are you crying?”
Shrugging, she mumbled, “I wish my brother treated me the way you do.”
“Does he hurt you?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “No.” But he kept watching her as she nonchalantly set her bowl of eggs on the table and brought the chair from the other room to sit with him.
“Besides, you needn’t worry about him,” she added. He cocked his head. “He had a lot of money with him when he left, so he won’t be back for a long time.”
“A lot? How much?” Roman asked, peeling an egg and taking a large bite.
“I don’t know. More than I’ve ever seen. He had it in one of those fancy leather purses that rich people carry.”