by David Weber
This time, Kaeritha was far more than merely shocked.
"Mayor Yalith, are you suggesting —?"
"I'm not prepared to suggest that Trisu personally had anything to do with their disappearance," Yalith interrupted before Kaeritha could complete the question. "If I had any proof—or even strongly suggestive evidence—of that, I can assure you that I would already have charged him with it before Baron Tellian, as his liege, or demanded that the case be investigated by the Crown Prosecutor. But I do believe that whoever was responsible—who must have shared Trisu's attitude towards war maids generally to have done something so insane—probably took his cue from Trisu. And I'm not at all satisfied with Trisu's so-called 'investigation' of the incident. He claims he can find no evidence at all to suggest what happened to the Voice's handmaidens. Indeed, he's gone so far as to suggest that they never disappeared at all. That the entire story is a fabrication."
Kaeritha frowned. There'd been no mention of this incident in any of Trisu's correspondence with Tellian or his magistrates. In the wake of what Yalith had just told her, that omission took on ominous overtones.
"The Voice hasn't been able to determine what happened to her handmaidens?" she asked after a moment.
"Apparently not," Yalith said heavily. She sighed. "All the Voice can discover is that both of them are dead. How they died, and exactly where, she can't say."
A chill ran down Kaeritha's spine. The murder of the consecrated servants of any temple, and especially that of two acolytes sworn to the personal service of a Voice of Lillinara, was an incredibly serious matter. The fact that Trisu wasn't tearing Lorham apart stone-by-stone to find the guilty parties was frightening.
And perhaps it's also the reason Tomanâk needed one of His blades involved, she thought grimly.
"How long ago did this happen?" she asked crisply.
"Not very," Yalith replied. She glanced at the calendar on her desk. "A bit less than four weeks ago, actually."
Kaeritha's mood eased just a bit. If the murders had happened that recently, it was at least possible Trisu hadn't mentioned it to Tellian because he was still investigating it himself. After all, if it had happened in Lorham, it was Trisu's responsibility to solve the crime, not Tellian's. If he was unable to do so, he had the right—and, some would argue, the responsibility—to call upon his liege for assistance, but he might simply feel he hadn't yet exhausted all of his own resources.
Sure. He might feel that, she told herself.
And the fact that it had happened that recently undoubtably explained why nothing had been said to Tellian by Yalith or the Voice at Quaysar. Kalatha held a Crown charter. That meant that, unlike Trisu, Yalith was not one of Tellian's vassals, and as such, she had no responsibility to report anything to him. Nor, for that matter, was Tellian legally obligated to take any action on anything she did report to him, although he undoubtably would have acted in a matter this serious which involved or might involve one of his vassals. As for the Voice, Trisu was the appropriate person for her to turn to for an investigation and justice. If he failed to provide them, only then was she entitled to appeal to his liege.
"Perhaps now you can see why I was surprised to see a Champion of Tomanâk rather than one of the Mother's Arms," Yalith said quietly.
"To be honest, so am I, a little," Kaeritha admitted, although she privately thought the Arms of Lillinara were a little too intent on avenging victims rather than administering justice. All the same, she was surprised Lillinara hadn't dispatched one of them to deal with the situation. The Silver Lady was famed for the devastating retribution she was prepared to visit upon those who victimized her followers.
"Perhaps," she went on slowly, thinking aloud, "if Trisu is as hostile towards you as you're saying—hostile enough to extend his feelings towards the war maids into public disrespect for Lillinara—She and Tomanâk felt it might be better for Him to send one of His blades. The fact that I'm a woman may make me a bit more acceptable to you war maids and to the Voice, while the fact that I serve Tomanâk rather than Lillinara may make me acceptable to Trisu despite the fact that I'm a woman."
"I hope something does, Dame Kaeritha," Yalith said soberly. "Because if something doesn't bring about a marked improvement in what's happening here in Kalatha and Lorham sometime soon, it's going to spill over."
Kaeritha looked at her, and she grimaced.
"Kalatha's status as our oldest free-town means all war maids tend to keep up with events here, Milady, and I just explained why Quaysar is important to all of us. If Trisu and those who think like him are able to get away with running roughshod over us here, then they may be inspired to try the same thing anywhere else. That would be bad enough, but to be perfectly honest, I'm actually more concerned about how the war maids will react. Let's be honest. Most of us aren't all that fond of men in positions of authority, anyway. If Trisu proves our distrust is well founded, it's going to cause our own attitudes to harden. I can assure you that at least some of the war maids are just as bitter and just as prejudiced against the Trisus of the world as Trisu could ever be against us, and some of those women are likely to begin acting on their bitterness if they feel we've been denied justice in this case. And if that happens, then everything we've accomplished over the past two hundred and fifty years is in jeopardy."
Kaeritha nodded, blue eyes dark as she contemplated the spiraling cycle of distrust, hostility, and potential violence Yalith was describing.
"Well, in that case, Mayor," she said quietly, "we'll just have to see to it that that doesn't happen, won't we?"
Chapter Twenty-Three
Edinghas Bardiche knew his expression wasn't the most tactful one possible, but there wasn't a great deal he could do about that. He was too busy gazing in disbelief at his newly arrived . . . "guests."
He stood in the muddy paddock outside the main stable, acutely aware of the watching eyes of the Warm Springs armsmen currently on duty, still ringing the building protectively. Alfar Axeblade stood before him, holding the reins of a borrowed horse, and eight hradani stood behind Alfar—seven of them in the colors of the Order of Tomanâk. It was remotely possible, Edinghas thought, that there could have been a more unlikely sight somewhere in the Kingdom. He just couldn't imagine where it might have been. Or when.
Finally, after endless seconds of silent consternation, he succeeded in goading his tongue to life.
"I crave your pardon . . . Milord Champion," he managed. "I must confess that when I dispatched Alfar to the Baron, I didn't anticipate that he might return with a— That is, I didn't expect a champion of Tomanâk."
His attention was focused on the mountainous hradani looming before him, yet a corner of his eye caught the expression on Alfar's face. He couldn't begin to sort out all of the emotions wrapped up in that expression, but embarrassment and something almost like anger seemed to be a part of them. His retainer opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the hradani glanced at him with a tiny head shake, and Alfar's mouth closed with an almost audible click.
"What you're meaning, Milord Warden," the hradani replied in a deep, rumbling bass perfectly suited to his huge stature, "is that you were never expecting a hradani champion."
Edinghas felt his tired face heat, but the hradani sounded almost amused. It might be a dry, biting amusement, but it wasn't the anger the lord warden's self-correction might all too easily have provoked.
"Yes, I suppose that is what I meant," he admitted.
"Well," the hradani said, "I won't say as how that's after making me feel all warm and cuddly inside, Milord. On the other hand, I can't be saying as how it's after surprising me, either. Like enough, I'd feel the same, if the boot were on the other foot. Still and all, here I stand, and it's in my mind that what's happened here is after being the sort of thing as one of Himself's champions ought to be looking into."
"I certainly can't argue with that," Edinghas said. "But I hope I won't offend you by saying that my armsmen are likely to be even more .
. . surprised than me."
"Milord." Alfar's voice was polite but firm, and Edinghas looked at him, surprised by the interruption. "Milord," Alfar repeated when he was certain he had his liege's attention, "Sir Jahlahan, Baron Tellian's seneschal, personally vouches for Prince Bahzell in the Baron's name and explains how he came to be in Balthar when I arrived there." His wave indicated the still unopened message from Swordspinner in Edinghas' hand. "And for myself," he continued, even more firmly, "I can only say that, hradani or no, these men have not spared themselves for a moment in their determination to reach Warm Springs as quickly as possible. Milord, they ran all the way from Balthar."
Edinghas' eyebrows rose involuntarily. Sothōii retainers and freeholders, especially in a northern holding like Warm Springs, were a sturdy, independent lot. It had something to do with endless hours spent all alone on horseback in the grassy immensity of the Wind Plain—or in the howling chaos of a midwinter blizzard. Yet for all that, the note of near rebuke in Alfar's voice surprised him.
He shook himself, then looked back at the hradani. No, he told himself, at Prince Bahzell.
"I crave your pardon once again, Milord Champion," he said, and this time his voice sounded closer to normal in his own ears. "Alfar's right. I ought to at least read Lord Swordspinner's dispatch. And however surprised I may have been by your . . . unexpected arrival, that surprise doesn't excuse my rudeness."
"I'd not be calling it rude," Bahzell replied. He smiled slowly. "I'd not be calling it exactly the warmest welcome I've ever had, but it's not after being the coldest, either. Not by a long road, Milord."
"It's good of you to say so." Edinghas felt himself returning Bahzell's smile. Then he gave himself another little shake. "With your permission, Prince Bahzell, I'll ask Alfar to escort you to the manor house. He can get you and your men settled in there while I repair my error and read what Lord Swordspinner has to say. And," he met Bahzell's eyes levelly, "while I have a few words with my armsmen, as well."
"Aye, I'd not say that was so very bad an idea," the hradani agreed.
"Thank you." Genuine gratefulness for the other's attitude touched Edinghas' tone, and he returned his gaze to Alfar. "Please take Prince Bahzell and his men up to the house," he said. "Tell Lady Sofalla that they'll be our guests for at least the next few days."
Alfar nodded, but Edinghas' attention had already returned to Bahzell. The hradani gazed back at him for a moment, his face almost expressionless. But then he bowed, very slightly, and Edinghas saw the understanding in his eyes. The lord warden's decision against sending even a single armsman along with Alfar, even as only a courteous "escort," on the trip to his family's private home was the strongest possible way for him to express his trust.
"It's grateful we are," Bahzell rumbled, and turned to follow Alfar towards the fortified manor house that was the closest Warm Springs had to a proper keep.
* * *
Lady Sofalla Bardiche was a sturdy, attractively plain woman whose chestnut hair was well stranded with silver. Instead of the gown a more higher ranked Sothōii noblewoman might have worn, she wore serviceable (although subtly feminine) trousers under a long, brightly embroidered tunic. The embroidery was a bit finer and more fanciful than a prosperous farmer's wife might have boasted, but it certainly wasn't the silks and satins, pearls and semiprecious gems of a great noble house. She also had a brisk, no-nonsense manner that reminded Bahzell strongly of Tala, and she took the sudden arrival of her husband's henchman with eight hradani in tow far more calmly than might have been expected.
"Well," she said after Alfar had completed his hasty explanation, "I can't say I ever expected to be entertaining hradani, Prince Bahzell. Or not, at least, on this side of the manor wall!" She smiled as she said it, and he smiled back. "But if Lord Edinghas wants you put up in guest quarters, that's good enough for me. I'm afraid you'll find things a bit less fine here at Warm Springs than at Balthar, though!"
"Milady," Bahzell replied, "we're after being hradani. A roof as doesn't leak more than a few bucketfuls each night will be doing us well enough."
"Oh, I think we can manage a little better than that," she assured him, and turned to the small gaggle of housemaids huddled behind her and gazing apprehensively at the hradani whose stature dwarfed the manor house's entry hall.
"Stop gawking like ninnies!" Sofalla scolded. "Ratha," she continued, singling out one of the older, more levelheaded-looking maids, "go and tell Gohlan that we'll be putting Prince Bahzell and his people into the south wing."
* * *
Lord Edinghas' armsmen still looked less than delighted with the situation when Alfar escorted Bahzell back to the stable an hour and a half later, but at least the most overt hostility seemed to have eased. Bahzell didn't know exactly what Sir Jahlahan had included in his letter, or how Edinghas had explained the situation to his wary retainers, but it seemed to have taken. Bahzell wasn't surprised—not after watching Lady Sofalla deal with the household staff. If her husband possessed even half her strength of personality, it would take a braver man than Bahzell to argue with him!
The reflection made Bahzell chuckle as he and Alfar crossed to where Edinghas stood in one of the stable doors.
"Again, welcome, Milord Champion," the lord warden said, and this time extended his right hand. Bahzell clasped forearms with him, and Edinghas produced a much more natural smile.
"I won't apologize again for my first greeting," he said. "I've read Lord Swordspinner's letter, now, and he told me you'd probably understand if we seemed a bit . . . put off, just at first. Doesn't make it any better—I know that—but if you're willing to forgive me for it, I'll try to see it doesn't happen again."
"There's naught to forgive," Bahzell replied with a shrug. "That's not to be saying we'd not all have been happier to've been being greeted with open arms and glad hosannas, but I'm thinking as a man should be keeping his hopes to what's possible, when all's said."
He smiled, and Edinghas smiled back. Then the lord warden's expression sobered.
"Sir Jahlahan wrote that you'd see it that way, Milord. And I'm glad. But I'd also be happier if there'd never been need for a champion of Tomanâk to come to Warm Springs. And especially not for a reason like this."
"Aye, I'll not disagree with you there," Bahzell said somberly.
"Well, I suppose we should get to it, then," Edinghas sighed. "I warn you, Milord, I've no idea how they'll react when they meet you. We've still no idea what happened to them out there, but whatever it was, it's marked them more than just physically." His jaw tightened. "I've never seen coursers frightened, Milord. Not before this. But now—"
He sighed again and turned to lead the way into the stable.
* * *
Warm Springs' stables had been built to a much larger scale than those of most manors because of the holding's long association with the Warm Springs coursers. The main stable was a high, airy structure, with huge, open-fronted stalls that were well kept and spotlessly clean. And, in spite of everything, Bahzell was unprepared for what he found inside it.
He'd asked Brandark to remain outside, with the other members of the Order. The last thing they needed was to overwhelm the injured coursers with the presence of so many hradani. He knew that, but no amount of logic could keep him from feeling alone and isolated among so many humans, none of whom knew him, and all of whom were his people's hereditary enemies.
He faced that thought, and then put it firmly behind him. He couldn't afford it now, he told himself, and turned his attention to the coursers he'd come to see.
Despite his people's name and reputation, he'd had quite a bit of experience with horses. He'd actually ridden (if not particularly well, and only for fairly brief periods) on several occasions, and the Horse Stealers' traditional enmity with the Sothōii more or less required them to be familiar with cavalry and its capabilities. No Horse Stealer was ever going to be a cavalryman himself, given his people's sheer size, so most of his personal experience had been with dra
ft animals, but like any Horse Stealer, he had an expert eye when it came to evaluating quality horseflesh.
For all of that, he had never come within a mile of any courser until he encountered Baron Tellian and Dathgar and Hathan and Gayrhalan in the Gullet. To a large extent, that was because his father had outlawed raids on the Wind Plain less than five years after Bahzell had earned his warrior's braid. To an even larger extent, though, it had been because it was more than any hradani's life was worth to come within what any courser stallion might consider threatening range of his herd . . . which equated to coming within the stallion's line of sight. The reservations Gayrhalan continued to nourish where Bahzell was concerned even now only underscored the wisdom of remaining safely out of reach of any courser's battleaxe jaws and piledriver hoofs.
Dathgar had become rather more comfortable with Bahzell, but even Tellian's companion remained . . . uneasy in close proximity to him. Still, coursers were at least as intelligent as most of the Races of Man, and both Dathgar and Gayrhalan, like Sir Kelthys' Walasfro, had been wise enough to recognize that Bahzell was not the slavering hradani stereotype for which the coursers had cherished such hatred for so long.
Nonetheless, he recognized that it behooved him to approach these coursers cautiously. None of them had ever met him; Sir Kelthys had not yet arrived, so there was no wind rider and his companion to vouch for Bahzell; and these were the brutally traumatized survivors of a merciless massacre. They were unlikely, to say the least, to take the sudden appearance of eight hradani well.
But when he stepped into the stable and saw the condition of those survivors, it was hard—even harder than he had anticipated—to remember the need for caution and distance.
The seven adults were bad enough. Even now, they shivered uncontrollably, as if with an ague, rolling their eyes and flinching away from any unexpected sound or movement. Seeing horses in such a state of terror would have sufficed to break any heart. Seeing coursers reduced to such straits was the stuff of nightmare, and not just for Sothōii like Alfar or Edinghas.