A Stranger to Command

by Sherwood Smith

  Senelac jerked her chin up. She didn’t like being caught talking to the foreigner like this. Though there was nothing wrong: they were outside the academy, they both had before them slates full of the cryptic markings that anyone (such as Stad and Marec, for instance, who had stumbled on them while in search of pastry on their own free watch) would recognize were part of the command class problem, which was to figure out a way to attack the city, and then how to defend against their own attack. So if there was nothing wrong, she had to identify why she was so annoyed.

  Stad went on, “Only a half-dozen Lerorans were killed, in spite of the Regent’s orders, but anyone who has to obey shameful orders later feels shame when the necessity to obey is gone.”

  “There were plenty,” Marec said, unwontedly sober, “who supported the Regent. Though they hated him as much as anyone did. But their own actions might make them accountable if he were replaced.”

  The three Marlovens watched the foreigner for signs of reaction because they’d inherited a bit of their families’ shame for the regency years.

  Shevraeth did not evidence any contempt, or disgust, or even a sense of judgment, but he was sickened. His court mask thus protected them all; meanwhile, his foremost emotion was a kind of horror as he envisioned the disaster Senrid had faced once his uncle was gone.

  Temporarily gone. He’d been sent by Norsunder at the beginning of the Siamis year, that he knew from Forthan—though by then the Regent’s will had been suborned, and he was more or less a puppet. And that was another appalling thing to contemplate.

  Senelac said briskly, “Anyway, it fell out well enough, considering. For our king and the Leroran king are friends, so there won’t be any more of that.”

  Marec grinned. “Though how they can call so small a piece of land a kingdom is beyond me. It’s smaller than most jarlates.”

  Senelac returned his grin. “My brother said their royal castle is smaller than the academy stable—and about as comfortable.”

  “Speaking of defense.” Stad tapped their slates. “We were in search of pastry in order to fortify us against the sorry fact that we’re grassed at this particular problem.”

  Shevraeth usually did not take the initiative, but he knew that this problem was set to help him. He meant to use the opportunity.

  So he set aside the dirty dishes and pulled his slate forward. “We’ve been coming to a similar conclusion. You can hold a walled city against a siege if there isn’t a powerful Norsundrian mage along to breach the walls, but covert infiltration seems to be a bigger threat than an enormous army.”

  Senelac’s annoyance had vanished. Marec and Stad seemed to be utterly unaware of any reason for her to be sitting with Shevraeth beyond class preparation. Boys, she knew, were not subtle. If they thought there was any spark between Shevraeth and herself, they would have been smirking, nudging the foreigner, making what they fondly assumed were funny cracks. Nothing whatsoever. Phew.

  But she’d never return to this bakery with Shevraeth, that was for certain.

  Stad hunched forward, drawing the others unconsciously inward. The sounds of others chatting, the clink of spoons against ceramic dishes, the clunk of mugs on wooden tables, all faded into the background as four smart minds tried to find ways to defend a city against evil infiltrators.

  o0o

  . . . but I never expected it to be fun. I’m sure my father will agree that invasion defense games might become a necessity in Renselaeus if Galdran’s acquisitiveness worsens. You must be there—I think you’ll have as much fun as I did.

  No—I can hear you saying “But I haven’t your training.” Do you think that availed me anything my first, second, or third try? Yes, there have been several. That’s why I haven’t had the time to write. Despite the flat-out failure of my first attempt (we were caught almost before we got in the gates) Senrid wanted me to keep at it, after he’d redesigned the rules. So we tried with the city knowing—they sat on their rooftops watching us—then with the city not knowing. That time we made it much farther in. Both times we were all dressed in black, including masks, so I had us going in at night. But the city is lit by glow-torches and globes all over, so there really are few dark corners. One thing Senrid is testing is whether the lights favor the inhabitants or invaders. Already there are no street signs at all. The Wand Guild has been hired to direct lost traders. The judgment is still not in on the matter of lighting, though he seems to be favoring a lit city unless there is danger, and then dark all over, except where the danger is reported, which, you might imagine, calls for a complicated warning system...

  o0o

  The fourth attempt, Senrid did not want the city forewarned. This time he let the invaders, who now knew one another after having worked together over several weeks, dress civilian. The idea was that Norsunder’s mysterious leaders might try a covert snatch or assassination.

  Shevraeth had accustomed himself to his job as Evil Invader, and so his plan was a lot more bold than any of his previous attempts.

  He ordered most of his team to set fires at crucial junctures all over the city after the midnight bells, and while the city was busy dealing with the threat of fire (he could hear people impatiently shouting out numbers in cadence as they went through the motions of fire drill—wood fires 500 counts, small fires in stone places 200 counts—as he slipped along fences and rooftops) Shevraeth led his chosen pair of Norsundrian assassins toward the castle.

  And so while Senrid’s doubled castle guard watched the city, Shevraeth and his two assassins drifted in through the ancient archway—the old stone smelling of moss in the cold air—that connected the castle to the academy. They came out not far from the massive buildings that made up the throne room and the great hall, joined by an archway big enough to permit full ridings in days of yore.

  They avoided the throne room, choosing the hall—to find that the doors had been bolted. Shevraeth flicked up two fingers, barely visible in the ruddy flicker of mage-torches. The three were dressed in black, though if they got inside, their first job was to find servant clothing.

  Two fingers: Plan Two. Kitchens.

  None of them knew the exact layout of the castle. Surely Norsunder didn’t have a plan of the castle, either. So how would Norsundrians find the kitchens? Like anyone else, using a combination of sense and their noses. The kitchens had to be somewhere midway between the great hall, which was where the jarls were served meals each New Year’s Convocation, and the Residence.

  They encountered more small courtyards than they would have believed possible. The castle was much larger than it seemed even looming above the northeast end of the academy, but the nose part of their plan did not betray them. The toughest challenge was staying out of sight of the sentries. They had to slink along the walls from shadow to shadow, freezing in place as sentries patrolled the endless walks overhead. The sentries were alert, and regular, and so the invaders’ progress was a grindingly frustrating series of fits and starts.

  But make it they did. Somewhere someone was slow-cooking herb-braised chicken, and the savory scent drew them as unerringly as footsteps painted on the flagstones.

  They reached the bakehouse, and one of the doors was even unlocked. There was a torch high on an adjacent wall. No sentry in view. One by one they slipped in.

  Empty. The Fire Sticks had been diminished to mere licks of flame, the food to braise through the night and morning. Another look of triumph between Shevraeth and his assassins, who were young men having left the academy within the past five years. Despite the problems besetting the academy under the Regent, Senrid seemed to feel that these two had gained superlative skills. Shevraeth knew them only as Jarend and Keth.

  He made a gesture down his length, they signified assent with two fingers upraised, and on tiptoe they each picked one of the three doors and eased it open.

  One was to a pantry where, from the smell, herbs were stored; that door was shut. The second was to another storage area with sacks and bags and barrels of food
stuffs.

  The third was to a hallway, lit by a glowglobe—but Shevraeth, who had picked that door, heard the whisper of footsteps and eased it closed again. What now?

  Jarend raised a hand in question toward the second door. Yes, that one ought to lead to more doors, if it was filled with flour and rice and vegetables. The bake house and the bread room would both need access.

  Keth kept the bake house door open as Shevraeth ventured inside. Almost immediately he stepped out of the slant of light and knocked into something, but caught it: glass jar, filled with something that rattled. Set it gently onto the floor. Moving more slowly, his fingers extended, toes working along the cold, dry stone of the floor, he shuffled his way around the perimeter of the room, easing past the maze of narrow aisles made up of tall stacks of stored goods. What seemed an entire watch later his fingers bumped into a wall, and then he felt his way along until he reached a door frame, and at last, a latch.

  He motioned the others inside. The two joined Shevraeth, and they tried the next door. Just a finger’s breadth first, listening. Nothing.

  Wider. A kitchen—dark. Smelled like cinnamon. They slipped past pans of bread dough rising under cloths; Shevraeth checked one. Thin twists of dough. So no one was expected back for a while—these had probably recently been set out. Jarend and Keth looked around. No aprons or clothes.

  But there had to be a preparation room, Shevraeth thought, looking around. Here were tins and trays readied for the morning baking, with the first bread of the day rising. So... yes, that room over there should be the prep room, because it, too, had a door that would open into the other end of the storage room.

  He pointed, and Keth and Jarend moved to other doors to guard. Shevraeth eased into an enormous prep room. On either side of him, shelves of linens. Within ten heartbeats, the three had pulled off their black tunics and masks, and wore aprons hastily tied over their rumpled plain shirts, though neither of them (Jarend with a bony face, military-short curling black hair, and Keth blond and tough) looked anything like cooks.

  They dashed across the room, which was dimly lit by torchlight through high windows, to another door—a hall. Empty. They’d all slipped out when they heard footsteps. Back inside the bread room.

  On the next foray they made it to a stair before they heard footsteps—retreat—footsteps from below. Shevraeth pointed, one up, one down, orders he didn’t need to make as Jarend was already running soundlessly upstairs to pause against the hidden crook of the landing, and Keth vanished outside the door below.

  “Oh, burn and blast,” came a muffled voice from below.

  Above, Jarend whipped his wooden knife lightly across the neck of a hefty woman who backed up a step in surprise, nearly stumbled, and then glared at Jarend as she sat down on the step.

  The three ran up past her as she crossed her arms across an impressive bosom and sent an unequivocal look of disgust after them—she had to stay silent and dead, when it was clear she would have loved to have discovered them and made a blow for the Forces of Good.

  Down a narrow hallway, and they encountered two or three other tired servants on their way to retire for the night. They ‘killed’ them all—but the recumbent bodies were soon discovered, and the alarm went up as the ‘dead’ servants went gratefully on to bed.

  After that the search was on; they reached the stairway to the Residence before the Guard sandwiched them.

  Senrid was grimly pleased by how far they’d gotten, and promptly reorganized his entire castle’s patrol system.

  Shevraeth’s next invasion was short-lived. This time they attacked the far gate, but everyone was on the watch for a ruse, and the alarm bells rang as soon as they reached the very first castle courtyard, where they discovered new lights burning. Guards pounced as they vaulted down from the wall. Everyone was relieved. The weather was a thin, chilly sleet, which leached all possible fun from the exercise.

  The next attack was led by Forthan, who had returned from wherever he had been sent.

  With Forthan, the objective shifted. Now Norsunder was expected to know the city, and to have a leader well-versed in military actions both overt and covert. Shevraeth was no longer in charge, but he was tapped to serve on the attack squad.

  Shevraeth was relieved and a little disappointed.

  The disappointment vanished when, at their first meeting, Forthan said, “Unlike Norsundrians, let me make it clear. Any good ideas, you bark ’em out. We have to give the guard and the city a hard run, or we’re not doing our job. Now, what have you observed so far?”

  Shevraeth, Keth, Jarend, and some of the others all spoke in turn. Forthan listened solemnly, head bent, his strong, rough-palmed hands dangling loose between his knees. They were camped on the grounds outside the academy, where the little boys usually had their afternoon games. No one could see or hear them.

  By now the other seniors knew that Shevraeth had been made part of the attack team, which had surprised some, disgusted others, and gratified his friends. It also increased their expectancy—they all wanted to be called upon to attack their royal city. They considered it a great honor—and a fun prospect.

  “Here’s our plan,” Forthan said, when everyone had spoken. “We’re going to infiltrate before dawn. Come in with the market people. Then most will attack the castle in force. I want three of you to sweep behind and take the king from the other end, as covertly as you can. Shevraeth, Jarend, Keth, you three have been running together, so take this first one, will you? I’m going to command the diversion.” He grinned. “We’re gonna make this one hard, loud, and nasty. I want bodies piled—the way Norsunder will come against us.”

  The men smacked hands against chests, echoed a moment later by Shevraeth, who didn’t think, just acted.

  This time they made it all the way.

  Bells had been ringing, guards summoned to their stations. The bell-signal was the one for a major attack. Clearly the assumption was that the attackers were throwing everything behind their assault on the gates.

  So the king worked on in his office as the King’s Guard converged on the city gates, where a mass melee was taking place, the ‘dead’ having to pay for treats for the ‘defenders’ later on.

  The castle was quiet—until the three kicked Senrid’s door open and charged.

  Shevraeth hesitated a heartbeat, not knowing if he ought to tackle the king of the Marlovens—what the repercussions might be. But the other two had no such qualms. They were deadly serious as they spread to trap Senrid between them.

  Keth feinted. Senrid vaulted over his desk, sending his own papers up in snow flurries. Jarend launched over a chair and tackled him with a sickening thud. They hit the floor with twin “Woof!”s.

  Then Senrid turned into a squirming, kicking, punching bundle of fury that the larger Jarend struggled to contain. They were both crimson-faced with effort, and Jarend’s nose was bleeding by the time he got Senrid pinned down, his face mashed into his rug, as the last of the papers swayed gently down to rest on his recumbent form.

  “Okay,” he said into the carpet. “Uh, that means let me up.”

  Jarend let go at once and extended a hand, which Senrid took. Restored to his feet, he revealed that he, too, had a bloody nose.

  His door banged open, and Liere ran in. “Caught,” she exclaimed. “I told you, I told you!” She pointed a finger, her voice as shrill as any ten-year-old girl’s. “I told you!”

  Senrid responded with a breathtakingly vile curse, to which Liere paid no heed. “Told you, told you,” she said, over and over.

  “Good job, you three,” Senrid said in a muffled voice, hand to nose, then he followed Liere out, and the three Norsundrians listened to their two kid voices diminishing.

  Jarend said, “I hope that shows him.”

  Shevraeth switched his gaze to Keth, who flicked his hand open. Shevraeth was about to ask what he was missing, but the Marlovens’ expressions smoothed to identical blankness.

  “Let’s go report,” Jarend s
aid. “Before Forthan kills off half the city.”

  He and Keth righted a chair that had been knocked over, but they left the papers where they were. No one wanted to be nosing through kingly business.

  o0o

  “You did it,” Senelac said, the moment she saw him.

  It was two days later. They met under a tree across from a saddle-maker’s. Her suggested meeting places were increasingly harder to find, but he knew the city a great deal better, and he rather liked the challenge of finding his way to them.

  Not that that mattered. What did was how the chilly wind that smelled of oncoming rain brought out the glow in her face. The way the wind tousled her hair and pressed her tunic close, outlining her shape, made him go hot and cold inside.

  “Don’t talk yet.” She raised a hand. “Let’s get to the place.” She set out at her usual fast stride, without looking back.

  “There it is,” she said abruptly, and soon they were sitting in a tiny eatery with low ceilings and little alcoves. It looked very old, but it was warm, and the food, though plain, was plentiful.

  As soon as they were done eating she leaned forward and grinned at him. And said again, “You did it.”

  “You mean, captured the king? It was actually Forthan’s plan, and Jarend made the capture.”

  She waggled her hand then lifted it—a gesture he knew by now was dismissal of extraneous details. “You attackers did it. You proved to him he can be taken. Oh,” she said quickly, forestalling an imagined comment that he was not about to make, “he’ll keep testing. Trying. This winter, those who stay over will be running city attacks, you can wager anything. But like Liere said, he knows he can be taken.”

  He sat back. “Bringing me to my own questions.”