by Robin Hardy
“What are they doing?” gasped the Counselor. The Polonti were discarding their Lystran shortcoats as they collected at the front gates.
“Counselor, if you’ve ever taken charge, do it now!” Kam exclaimed.
Basil hesitated, staring, then ran into the midst of the mounted Polonti. He seized the reins of the leader’s horse, demanding, “What are you doing?”
“We will not serve under you any longer. The Surchatain is dead, and you have dismissed his Commander. We will not serve in an army of robbers,” the former captain answered impassively.
Basil gaped, speechless, but Kam interposed, “You know where these attacks are coming from, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said the Polonti captain.
“They’re not renegades, are they?” Kam pressed.
“They have never found it necessary to quit the army,” replied the Polonti.
Pale with anger, Basil flung his hands up. “Then I charge you to go stop them!” The captain cocked a brow at him. Basil added, “And if you find Commander Nihl, send him back to me. He is reinstated to his post.”
The captain half turned in his seat to the others behind him, and one nodded. “It will be done,” he said.
As the unit of Polonti rode out, Basil murmured to Kam, “The Surchataine is not in danger, is she?”
“Surely not,” said Kam.
“Then who is it Iven is pursuing into Calle Valley?”
The stubborn possibility resurrected itself again to Kam. Tentatively, he mentioned, “Commander Nihl was convinced the Surchatain is not dead . . . so if Deirdre is on her way to Calle Valley. . . .”
Like a man sinking in turbulent waters, Basil took Kam’s arm for support. “Have the Chatain and his nursemaid moved to my quarters. They will not leave my sight until . . . the Surchatain comes home.”
Chapter 31
The border guards stood at attention as the Surchataine’s party passed. The emissary told Deirdre, “You will find a highly satisfactory army in the Valley. Surchatain Caspar has exerted much effort and expense to train them properly.”
“That’s good,” Deirdre agreed, nodding benignly at a passing merchant who saluted. “A country is only as sturdy as its army.”
“My lady need have no fears on that matter. And in Calle Valley, the Surchataine has as much power as her husband—unlike in other provinces.”
“Oh, I had as much authority as Roman,” Deirdre answered briskly. “Except, of course, where our opinions differed. . . .” She trailed off, remembering in a surge of love and grief how often he had acquiesced even then.
“In which case his prevailed,” Virl observed. “It is not so in the Valley.”
“Then how are decisions made?” Deirdre asked.
“Either party may submit to the other’s wishes. Often the Surchatain may do so, to please his lady. It is very important to him to please her.”
Deirdre thought that was fine, although not really much different from Lystra. She would have to study the laws of the Valley to see how much power was actually accorded the Surchataine.
On this leg of their journey the mountains were clearly visible, rising up in mottled green along the horizon. The road dipped slightly as the landscape rolled around them, thick with vegetation. In the growing season, everything seemed bursting with fruitfulness, even in the wildlands. This was superior country to the land around Westford, she decided.
She was on to a question about Caspar when shouts behind them turned their heads. The border guards were vehemently denying entrance to a white-robed person on horseback. With swords drawn, they were ordering him to turn back. Curses were directed at him from others hastening by. Someone threw a rock, grazing his shoulder. All their hostility toward someone who had suffering aplenty kindled a burning anger in Deirdre. She suddenly commanded, “Let him pass!”
The white-hooded head looked up toward her and the guards froze in dismay. “My lady, that is a leper!” Virl cried.
Deirdre insisted, “I said to let him pass. In ruling Lystra, Roman always showed compassion to the unfortunate. Would Caspar do less?”
“Ah—of course not,” sputtered Virl.
“Then let him pass,” she challenged. Virl nodded, and the guards stood far apart as the white figure rode between them. The other travelers scurried aside. Noting how the guards would not act on her word, but waited for the emissary’s, Deirdre said in rising defiance, “Furthermore, he may travel with me.”
The soldiers escorting her almost broke formation. Virl panicked. “Surchataine, I must protest!”
“To whom?” Deirdre asked, amused. “Or were you lying about the lady having as much authority as the lord in Calle Valley?”
Virl was caught in a trap of his own words. “Surchataine, to allow a carrier of this dread disease close proximity—let us be reasonable,” he pleaded.
“I believe I am.” She nodded to the leper, who was now within six feet of her, and he bowed his head. Using him as a test of her authority in Calle Valley suited her, for she felt that she was not in danger of contracting his disease as long as she did not touch him. But when the party progressed again, disjointed and somewhat spread across the road, not even Deirdre had the courage to draw him nearer for conversation. So not much was said for the next several hours.
“So that is what happened with Pax, Oweda,” Effie said, closing her narrative. She talked quietly, so that Thane and Braxton had to ride close by the cart to hear. Roman rode farther apart, keeping a watch out for soldiers. Everyone else seemed to lose awareness of being pursued while Effie was telling her tale. Even Thane had been listening without his usual sarcastic asides.
Oweda asked Roman, “Is there more we can do to help you, Surchatain?”
“Nothing, lady,” Roman replied without seriously considering her offer. “I am quite on my own now.”
Mathias said, “We should reach Crescent Hollow by eventide. Can we pay for your lodging there?”
“Perhaps,” Roman mused. “Only when I reach Crescent Hollow, the first thing I must do is get into the palace. I may not have time to be lodged.”
“We’ll take the money, instead,” Thane offered, but Roman turned on him with such menace he backtracked: “Do you have anything to eat?” The merchants opened their packs to the renegades.
At this point the traffic, which had been steady throughout the journey, increased to the point of packing the road. “This is mad,” Thane muttered. “I’ve never seen crowds like this outside the cities.”
“This is the only route from the east to Crescent Hollow,” Roman told him. “The mountains north of here are virtually impassable, so anyone coming to the fair must come this way.”
“Is that so?” Thane scanned the green slopes. “They look tame to me.”
“Have you ever tried to cross them?” Roman asked. “The slopes are the least of the problem. It’s what’s on them—snakes and scorpions, and in the higher regions, bears. You can’t cross them running and you sure can’t stop and rest.”
“How do you know?” Thane asked.
“I had to skirt them every time I made a messenger run between outposts,” Roman replied, looking over the deceptively peaceful hills. “Once I thought to save an hour or two by cutting through them, and got caught in a bog instead—nearly drowned. Commander Galapos almost took my head off when he found out. Those ‘nice little hills’ are a deathtrap.”
Thane shrugged, but Oweda and Mathias were silently nodding. They knew the travelers’ name for these mountains: the Poison Greens.
As they descended farther into the valley, the air became sultry and still. The sun was not overbearing, but still uncomfortable. “Ugh, it’s getting hot,” muttered Braxton, wiping his face on his sleeve. Roman looked over at the hills, wishing for a breeze. “It doesn’t ever get this humid in Westford,” he remarked, as if that should make them feel better. Travelers around them shed cloaks and wiped away sweat from their eyes, but all were too intent on their destination to take note
of anyone else’s discomfort.
One of these travelers did notice Roman’s party, however. He was a scruffy, unkempt fellow whose age was disguised under dirt and wild hair. Riding along on a donkey beside Thane, he kept eyeing him and Braxton until Thane uttered an obscenity in his direction. Roman, riding abreast of Mathias’ cart in front of them, turned around.
But the wild man let out a rolling laugh and said, “You need what I got!”
“What are you talking about, fool?” growled Thane.
Roman muttered, “Best watch your tongue with strangers, or you’ll find yourself courting a knife in the belly.” Thane bit back his next remark and determined to ignore the fellow.
But he would not be ignored. He swerved his donkey up against Thane’s horse, insisting, “You need what I’m selling.”
“What are you selling?” Thane asked skeptically.
“You get bested in a fight. Or you get in a crowd that you don’t want to be in, see? I bet you get in scrapes sometimes.”
“So?” asked Thane.
“You need something when a knife won’t work. You see? You need one of these. Just drop it into a boot, or a sleeve, and it’ll do your work.” From his coat he took a little metal box punched with holes and opened it.
Curious, Thane leaned sideways to look. “What have you got—whoa!” He pulled back at the sight of several small, huddled scorpions. “You’re mad! Where’d you get those?”
“The Greens,” chuckled the wild one. “Only five pieces for the box, and they may do you a good turn.”
Thane studied the fellow. Roman cast a tense look back, but did not intervene. “Would you want a fight with a man who had these?” pressed the seller, winking.
“Curse you, you’re right!” said Thane, and he dug into his shoulder bag for the silver pieces. When the fellow had the money, he surrendered the box to Thane, saluting with two fingers. Then he dropped back on the road, and they did not see him again.
Thane gingerly tucked the box in his loose shirt, then changed his mind and put it in his saddlebag. Braxton swerved away from him. “Stay away from me.”
“They’re working already,” smiled Thane.
Roman shook his head as if disavowing responsibility for this young brigand, then glanced at Mathias’ cart. Effie, riding between her adoptive parents, could not seem to stop smiling. Whatever else happened, Roman was glad to have completed this errand. Idly, he glanced behind them to their wares. There was a variety of items—trinkets, pottery, soaps, and a locked cabinet. “What do you sell?” he asked Mathias.
“Whatever seems to be in demand,” the merchant answered. “We buy from sellers who can’t travel, then take their wares on the road. That way we can pick the best to sell, and don’t get stuck with any one commodity. Makes for a nice profit. It’s become easier too, with the fairs. We can sell our whole stock at one fair.”
“What is in the cabinet?” Roman nodded.
“Spices,” Mathias answered. “Too valuable to carry loose. Only thing of real value we sell.” He continued to outline their buying and selling strategy in detail. Roman nodded politely, listening with half an ear. When Mathias gleaned that his audience had become disinterested he stopped talking, and Roman failed to notice. The party lapsed into the routine of travel, speaking little as their horses plodded on.
It was about midday when the now-familiar sounds of running hoofbeats and shouts behind them snapped them out of their boredom. As the Lystran soldiers came closer, Roman whispered, “Hold your own—don’t run. We’re bodyguards. There’s a chance they won’t recognize us if we act as if we belong—” He hushed when two soldiers came abreast of him. Since they were scanning everyone on the road, the outlaws by no means escaped their attention. One soldier drew up beside the cart to begin rifling through it. Mathias glared at Roman as if expecting him to do something. Knowing he couldn’t intervene without endangering them, Roman averted his eyes. Inwardly, he invoked heavenly protection over the cart and its contents.
The other soldier demanded of Thane, “Who are you and what is your business?”
“I’m just an arm, hired by this merchant family to protect them,” Thane said respectfully. Then he cast a glance at his saddlebag.
The soldier noticed his glance. “What are you carrying?”
“Nothing! Nothing you would want!” Thane exclaimed nervously.
This denial strongly piqued the soldier’s interest. “Open your bag,” he ordered. The first soldier picked up a string of cheap glass beads from the cart, completely overlooking the locked cabinet, and fell back to watch. Oweda breathed out in gratitude.
With intense reluctance, Thane unstrapped the bag. The soldier reached in and pulled out the little tin with punched-hole designs. He grinned up at Thane, whose face conveyed crushed disappointment. The soldier began to unlatch it, but when they saw a third soldier riding in haste toward them, he stuffed it, insecurely closed, in his breeches.
Reaching them, the third soldier gasped, “One of you return with me and one of you ride ahead to alert the others—There’s been a revolt by the Polonti and we have to gather quickly to stop them.” At this point he stopped to eye Roman, whose distinctly Polonti features must have made him pause. “Do I know you?” he asked menacingly.
“No,” responded Roman. “I am not one of you.”
He narrowed his eyes but reined around. The three of them split up and rode off, one of them with an unlatched tin of scorpions in his breeches pocket. There was a quick burst of ironic laughter from the traveling party, and Braxton slapped Thane’s shoulder. Then Thane’s sly eyes settled on Roman and he asked, “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
“I did. I’m not one of them, and whatever they are, they’re not my soldiers. That will become apparent very soon,” Roman said.
“What are you going to do?” Thane asked eagerly.
“I’ll know that when the time comes to do it,” Roman said with the assurance of experience.
They slowed cautiously as another Lystran soldier approached from the west, galloping in and out around carts and horses. But he passed the party without a glance, returning in apparent response to the alarm. Roman murmured, “I wonder what the Polonti are doing. That doesn’t sound like Nihl, that they should revolt. He always controls his men better than that.”
“Then he’s probably not in control,” Thane remarked. It was a casual observation, but Roman’s hands became clammy.
“Now,” Roman muttered with finality. “Now that Effie is where she belongs, it’s time for me to straighten out my own tangled affairs.”
They arrived in Crescent Hollow at twilight in the midst of a jostling, jangling crowd. Signposts pointed the way to the fair and various lodging houses. Even from the main thoroughfare they could see a sampling of the merchants’ booths—tents crowding each other along the street, decorated with gaudy banners and signs. They heard criers hawking wares for the merchants who were too proud to shout, and minstrels singing loudly in competition for a few coins. Effie began to bounce in excitement.
Oweda put an arm around her. “Effie, we’re hiring lodgings on Short Street.” She glanced at the men. “You need to tell your friend goodbye.”
Roman dismounted, and without hesitation Effie embraced him. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I will never forget you, Effie,” he promised.
Oweda drew her gently away, so that the last words Effie told him were, “I hope you find her.” He saluted her with a special smile as they drove off.
“Well, Surchatain,” Thane said cheerily, “It’ll be hours before the lady’s party arrives. What say we find an inn with good ale and get comfortable?”
“Good thought!” Roman said, a shade too agreeably. “Only I need to do some scouting first, on foot. Take this horse with you, and when I’m done I’ll come find you.”
“Right,” Thane said, taking the reins. “Say, you don’t have a royal, do you?”
“My last one.” Roman dug in h
is pocket and tossed it to him. “Save some in the bottle for me.”
“Right,” Thane grinned, winking at Braxton. Roman saw them off with relief, then began striding down a narrow, dirty street with tall houses that almost touched high above his head. He did not wish to tell Thane he was going to do more than scout. He was going to finally meet the Surchatain of the Valley.
Traversing the city, Roman found the palace in the center of the banking district. It was not as large as the palace at Westford, but was protected by high, formidable walls—and a moat. He stopped at the water’s edge, seeing that the drawbridge was drawn up tight. He knew that Deirdre had not arrived yet. He also knew that Caspar was not expecting him. So if he walked up to the drawbridge and demanded entry as the Surchatain of Lystra, what would Caspar do? Throw him in the moat, probably. If he waited until Deirdre arrived and demanded entry as her husband, then what would Caspar do?
“Throw me in the moat,” Roman muttered. He sighed, glancing around—no guards had come into sight yet. He knelt by the moat and splashed lightly with his fingers. Answering ripples which progressed toward the splash confirmed that there were creatures of some sort in the water to discourage attempts to swim it.
Standing, he gauged the width of the moat to be merely twenty feet. To be thorough, he looked around for a possible medium of passage—a pole or a plank—but of course the ground was kept free of such litter. He studied the drawbridge for a way to cross unnoticed on it, perhaps underneath, when it was lowered. But he could see that the hinges were dead level with the water.
A guard appeared, making perfunctory rounds, and Roman ducked out of view. The guard carelessly passed within ten feet of him as Roman lay flat on the ground, hidden only by an irregularity in the mound around the moat.