Lhind the Spy

by Sherwood Smith

  Hlanan laughed, full of excitement now that he had a plan. “Let’s see what we can scare up before we go. Perhaps Nill will aid us.”

  “Are we taking Nill?”

  Hlanan shook his head. “Kuraf would be very angry if we took him into Thann. Also, he will have to take responsibility for Ilyan’s horses. They must get back to Imbradi. We’ll hire mounts. If Tir is still here we can rely on the aidlar to find us the swiftest way to Thann.”

  And so it went. Nill was sharply disappointed not to be going on what he thought would be a fun spy mission, but he took Hlanan’s refusal well, as he felt equally responsible for the horses.

  He dug in his pack and pulled out an old scarf, then he gave me his knit hat. He also gave me his extra tunic, trousers, and shoes, all so old and worn it was clear they had been handed down among several of his older relations. They were large on me, but that was a relief as it felt terrible to confine my tail again after a long stretch of freedom. Same with my hair.

  Hlanan shook his head when I offered to raid the stable to find some choice stenches to further disguise us. “We want to go unnoticed,” he said, laughing for the first time in far too long. “Not announce ourselves a day’s march downwind!”

  I didn’t argue. Strange, how fast you can get used to some things. Like being clean.

  Last, he divided the last of Geric’s purse between Nill and us, and we parted, Nill thrilled with the prospect of a solo mission.

  “Geric didn’t ask for his money back,” I said as we walked the hired horses down the flagged path to the frozen stream below the inn. “Wasn’t that all he had?”

  “Maybe he was too proud,” Hlanan said. “I admit I don’t understand a lot of his motivations.”

  I concentrated on walking in shoes again after having gone barefoot during our days of riding. The shoes were like boats on my feet, slipping in the slushy snow. “I don’t either. Here’s what I do know: I don’t trust him. So I’m glad we’re going in disguise.”

  “Where’s Tir?” Hlanan asked as we reached the road and mounted up.

  I searched the sky, fully expecting the familiar white dot to move against the clouds, but the aidlar was nowhere in sight.

  “Tir will no doubt catch up with us. As well I studied the innkeeper’s map,” Hlanan said, a worried furrow between his brows. “I think I know the landmarks to watch for. Let’s go!”

  o0o

  I’m not going to describe that ride. It was miserable. But we made it in three and a half days despite two snow storms, during which we traded off clearing the road by magic until we were both sodden with exhaustion.

  We changed horses a couple times, treating them better than we treated ourselves. I watched the sky, tempted strongly to reach mentally, but I never could bring myself to do it. Tir did not show up though we both searched the skies frequently, even when at last we reached the rocky hills of Thann.

  The independent dukes of Thann had constructed their principal city on the highest hill—called a mountain by the people there, though not nearly reaching the soaring heights of either of the continental ranges—with its impressive wall.

  We rode cautiously on drooping horses, but saw no signs of any army.

  “We’ll be ready for anything,” Hlanan said as we approached the open gates. “You are adept at escape.”

  I was about to remind him that we were far too low for me to transform to a bird, but then I understood his tone: he was trying to reassure himself. I didn’t want him thinking he had to send me away for my own good, and anyway, I thought to myself, I’d always been able to eel out of danger. If you’re a thief you have to be.

  Sure enough he went on in that low voice as if arguing inside his head, “And I can always transfer home in defeat.” His thumb rubbed the little ring winking on his finger.

  “What about Maita’s magic against your transfer?”

  “I felt that break about the time we reached the abandoned camp. My guess is, not long after she was arrested by the Mage Guild. I never told Geric, but he obviously must have felt it too; another thing I’ve never been able to discover is how much magic he’s been taught.”

  “All right,” I said, but underneath my drape, as we rode under the abandoned gate, my fingers dug into my bag of liref. The first sign that we had ridden into a rat’s nest of villains, they would receive a face full of sleep-weed.

  But no one stopped us. We found the stable by the smell and surprised a knot of stable hands, mostly young, playing a gambling game.

  “Who are you?” one said rudely.

  “I hope you’re the new cook,” another commented, and the first one changed expression from scowl to interest so fast I tried not to laugh.

  Who could resist a hint like that? Not I! “We are indeed,” I said, and Hlanan sighed.

  “We’ll take the beasts,” the second one offered, a big blond fellow who looked like he really enjoyed his meals. “Go right in. Everyone else is,” he added in a low voice.

  They glanced around furtively as if afraid of being overheard.

  The stable opened to a hallway. I began trying doors.

  Hlanan said, “Cooks? I was thinking we could be runners if we had to claim a post.”

  “But you were once a pastry apprentice. Don’t you remember making those delicious tartlets for the Gray Wolves before we pinched the blood magic book?”

  “That was pastry making. And tartlets are about all I know how to make, save for nut cakes.”

  “But it’s cooking. How hard can it be, cooking other foods? Especially if there’s someone around who actually knows what they are doing, so they can tell us what to chop and where to boil it?” As I spoke I finally found a door that opened, but it was no bigger than a closet. One side was even lined with old trunks. I sprang to open the first.

  “What are you doing?” Hlanan asked.

  “Seeing if there is anything, uh—” valuable. “Useful.”

  “Remember we have to carry anything we find. And explain it if the residents see us with it.”

  “This trunk’s full of old curtains. And that one’s tablecloths.” I let the trunk lids drop, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

  “How about doing some scouting?” Hlanan suggested.

  We moved cautiously into a hallway. My instinct was to hide because when I sneaked into a place it was to rob it. Hlanan’s intent was different. He paid no attention to tempting rooms, but walked on in search of. . . .

  “A servant,” he breathed as he spotted a thin man in livery dashing past us down a perpendicular hall. “He’ll know something.”

  When the fellow caught sight of us, his round face changed from distraught to relief. “Are you the new cook? Where have you been?”

  Hlanan and I looked at each other. His lips parted.

  I said, “Yes!” And when the fellow goggled at me, I added hastily, “Assistant cook, that’s me!” He clearly took me for an apprentice.

  Hlanan took a step, drawing attention his way. “Where are the kitchens?”

  “Down here.” The liveried man changed direction, his long legs striding so fast I had to run to keep up. “You know we’ve been effectively invaded. The duke promised he’d send for help and the first help we need, if we don’t get the Gray Wolves back to defend us, is a cook! These newcomers said if we give them no trouble they won’t trouble us. But what do they want? Nothing less than a banquet to greet the rest of the captains they said are coming in today.”

  “A banquet?” I said at the same moment Hlanan repeated, “The rest of the captains?”

  “Tonight!” He threw up his hands. “And half—more—of the household vanished. I can’t blame them, except the ones who took anything that wasn’t too heavy to carry.”

  “You are the steward?” Hlanan asked as we rattled down a flight of stairs.

  “I am now,” the fellow responded with a rueful smile. “Nevic declared he was retiring when the new duke turned up and told us the duchess was dead.” His tone didn’t indi
cate any grief. “I was Nevic-Steward’s assistant.”

  “Your name?” Hlanan asked.

  “Well, I think you might go right ahead and call me Nevic-Steward. Everything is bucket-bottom up! The name has gone with the post ever so long. So I’ll try it on, promoting myself, you might say, though there’s scarce any staff left to call me that. Here we are.”

  He conducted us into an enormous kitchen. I breathed deeply, as I always do on entering kitchens. It seemed strange to walk right into one. In my thieving past I’d always sneaked in, my gaze scanning for the quickest path between foods I could lift and a door or window. I didn’t know what to do with myself as the steward waved at a redheaded woman on the far side. “The cooks are here!”

  The woman clapped her hands. “Oh, finally! We might actually live until tomorrow.” She sounded more excited than scared.

  She whisked herself out of the kitchen by that opposite door, sending back enticing smells that hinted of cold rooms with spices and flour and good things to eat.

  My stomach rumbled. Hlanan and I had spent the last of Geric’s coins on the horses, skimping meals for ourselves. After all they have to do all the running, he’d said, and though I didn’t dare listen to animals’ thoughts, I had done so often enough in the past to agree with him, if with regret for my own yawning hunger. But hunger was my oldest companion, she and her sister fear.

  The redheaded woman stumped back in leading a string of red-haired children of various sizes. “I’m Faura. Rolard-Cook left us with a cold-room full of prepared dishes, but those are all gone now and here’s these invaders wanting a banquet tonight! I’ve called in my young’uns. Put them to work,” she said, indicating a lanky youth of about eighteen or so. “This here’s Fam.” She pointed at younger boy with darker hair and fewer freckles. “Frandi.” And last a short, sturdy girl with the brightest red hair of all. “This here’s Deni.”

  Hlanan greeted each, then said, “Where are the aprons?”

  Fam pointed out the servants’ linen closet, which was full of table cloths, drying and polishing towels, aprons, and on a separate shelf the somewhat worn red hats of pastry makers and the yellow of cooks. Rolard, whoever he was, had neglected to take the badge of his office.

  Maybe he was only hiding until the invaders left. Smart man, I thought as we helped ourselves to large aprons and yellow hats, me pulling mine over Nill’s knit cap. My head was boiling under all that, but I’d endured simmering summers in thicker disguises than two hats, I reminded myself. Discomfort? Flames of Rue! I’d let myself get spoiled with a couple months of palace life.

  “We’ll make a line,” Hlanan said to the redheads in an assured voice.

  In a short time he had us working in an orderly fashion around a long prep table, measuring, mixing, buttering pans, and using the magic sparker to ignite the Fire Sticks under the brick ovens. As soon as they were all busy he said to me in the language of Thesreve, “You remember how to lay out tarts?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “We’re out of time. I’m slipping out to see whose flags hang on the towers. If I know any of them that’s where I’ll start.”

  Before I could put tongue to the thousand questions that crowded my mind he was gone. I had about two heartbeats to think myself safe—laying tarts on trays, folding in the mixtures and sprinkling the topping was easy—when Faura approached with a heavy step and confronted me.

  Large and imposing, she frowned down at me as if she could reach in and pull kitchen wisdom out through my ears. “Where’s the cook?”

  “He’s—”

  “Inventory of course,” she answered herself, but then gave me a worried scowl as she wiped a damp strand of hair off her forehead. “We put the meats to the spit, for that’s simple enough, but what dishes are to go with them? Those foreign pigs have eaten up everything Rolard left prepared.”

  I hesitated, then thought, how hard could this be? We only needed to look busy until Hlanan did whatever it was he was going to do. “Rice, of course,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. We’d seen enough rice terraces alongside the river before the road climbed up into these hills—and I remembered stealing from the spicy rice dishes when I’d lived in the attic above the Keprima scribes.

  “Rice! Good. That ought to fill them up! The bags are through there,” she said and bustled away, bawling at the skinny blond boy at the spits to stop gawking at tend to his job.

  I headed for the dry goods chamber, which was cool, buzzing faintly with magic to ward dampness. Sacks full of rice sat right at hand. What now?

  I hunted up a bowl from the stacked dishes in the room across, then slipped back to dip the bowl into the rice, letting the cool grains run through my fingers.

  All right, let’s be practical, I decided as I filled the bowl. This much was about as much as I ate. Add a handful or two for a grown man and then figure one bowlful for each eater.

  I stuck my head into the main room and shouted at Faura, “How many of them are there?”

  “Six so far, and each has an equerry. They said to expect five more.”

  Twenty bowls of rice, with an extra or two. But how was I to get to wherever it was to be cooked, and what was it cooked in? I strutted back into the kitchen, trying with all my might to looked assured. I stopped stout little Deni of the bright hair. “Put twenty bowls of rice into a cook pot,” I said, handing her the bowl.

  She gave me a wide-eyed look, but scampered off.

  The trays of tarts had gone into the ovens, causing aromas to waft through the warm air. My stomach growled like ten mountain cats. I prowled the next room, which turned out to be stacked full of dishes, from fine porcelain to thick, unpainted clay.

  “Here we be,” Deni said breathlessly as she waved at a pot hanging from its iron arm perpendicular to a fire. The magic sparker hung on a hook. She took it down, bent to the stones beneath the pot, tapped the two sticks lying crosswise and flames shot up, the sparker glowing greenish blue. She hung it back up as the prickle of magic flashed over me like the touch of ant feet.

  I marched to the pot, rubbed my hands down my apron, and with Deni standing there watching as if I were about to cast an important spell I picked up the waiting wooden spoon and stirred the rice, then swung the pot over the fire.

  Deni was still watching.

  I did some more stirring, this way, then that way. What was she waiting for?

  What was I waiting for?

  “Spices,” I muttered to myself.

  “No liquid?” Deni asked.

  The rice was already beginning to smell singed.

  “Of course,” I said, striving to sound like I knew what I was doing. “Where I come from we warm the rice first.”

  “Oh! Shall I fetch water?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I swung the pot back out again and gave the rice a brisk stir. Not burned, though some of the grains at the bottom had begun to turn a gold color. Phew! Where was Hlanan?

  Deni returned lugging a bucket balanced against her thighs, her skinny shoulders tucked up under her ears. I took the bucket from her, hefted it with difficulty, and poured the water into the rice, jumped back from the steam, then poured in the rest. I wondered if that was enough—then her brother Frandi appeared carrying another bucket, so obviously they expected me to use that. I poured it in. And when Deni reappeared with a third bucket I put that in too.

  Now the cook pot was nearly brimming with water, a few rice grains floating around the top. Clearly no more water could fit in, so I said, trying to sound authoritative, “Good. That’ll do. Now for the spices.” And I marched away.

  Ceramic jars filled every shelf in the spice room. The heady smell nearly made me sneeze. I breathed in slowly as I walked along the walls. This set of shelves here had sweet-smelling spices. That one, savory ones. I took down jars and peered into them, sniffing to find the delectable golden color I remembered from that seasoned rice I’d loved.

  I found two golden spices, one more pungent than
the other. They both smelled very different from what I remembered, but maybe the smell changed after the rice cooked. A baked apple certainly smelled differently than one still hanging on the tree, I reasoned, and I tapped out generous portions of both into a bowl. Then I went around adding in anything that smelled good.

  When I was done, I carried the heaping bowl to my pot and threw in the spices. I was busy stirring them when Hlanan appeared, trailing a distinct scent of liquor.

  “There you are,” I exclaimed.

  “I was right,” he whispered. “They are nearly at one another’s throats! What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Rice.” I scooped some rice from the bottom and lifted the stirring spoon. It came up with clots of spice.

  “Oh, good thought,” Hlanan said, turning his eyes obediently toward it, but I could tell he wasn’t seeing the rice, the spoon, the pot, or even the fire. “Prince Banufel of Forfar is about to gallop off, find his followers, and decamp.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “By acting drunk.”

  “Acting?” I repeated, sniffing again. He reeked of whiskey.

  “On my way out I took a wrong turn and found myself in the cold room where they keep the ale, beer, and other wood-casked liquors. And there was the prince’s equerry, helping himself to what has to have been his third or fourth mug. He assumed I was someone else’s equerry and invited me to join him. There were wooden cups hanging on the wall for measure, so I took one and helped myself. As he drank he complained and rambled. Most of what I had in my cup went down my front.”

  “Did you learn any secrets?”

  “No, but I did learn that my guess was right. There’s growing trouble between the factions. One commander was killed, another nearly so in squabbles up in the Pass. And it’s worsened as they trudged cross country under mad orders. What mad orders?”

  He paused then shook his head. “I’ll have to find that out. I couldn’t be too inquisitive lest he get suspicious. He was already angry. So when he started repeating the prince’s put-upon whines about how everyone gets favored over the Farans, there is a conspiracy against them, and so on, all I did was nod my head.”