Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  Noren returned no answer to that, except to sign, “There they go!”

  Everyone lining the walls sent up a cheer as the wing began to ride out.

  From the rear of the column, among people she knew and liked, Lineas was excited to be leaving the royal city. But not so excited she didn’t cast one glance back at the Evred ghost, luminous in the spring morning light, as if he generated his own light.

  And then the last of the column was out the gate and heading toward the city gates, the trumpeters pealing the heir’s fanfare.

  “Did I sound like a bonehead?” Arrow asked Danet as they crossed the empty courtyard, stable hands wanding up the horse droppings.

  Arrow and Danet walked toward the tower side by side, unaware of the ghost they walked through. He added, “You and I both know we’ve been inventing most of what we’ve done, despite all that jabber about tradition.”

  “You sounded fine,” Danet said, patting his arm. “And even if we had a hundred traditions to hand down, who’s to say the boys won’t throw them all out the window when we’re gone?”

  Arrow cracked a laugh, as she’d hoped he would, and left the subject. They parted at the top of the first landing, he to the state chambers, where several guild chiefs, a military aide, a runner sent by his brother, and two merchants from Lindeth eyed one another in simmering hostility, as yet another round of What Do We Do About The Nob awaited the king’s presence; Danet looked back, pleased to see Noren and Ranet right behind her. She signed that they should walk through the school to most effectively end the chatter and get the girls back on task.

  And so, let us follow the princes setting out toward their first command, Connar in soaring spirits, his head flung back, his coloring splendid as he smiled back at the long cavalcade. Everyone around him picked up his mood.

  At last, command! Shared command. But that was so much better than these last few years of feeing like an academy boy all over again, always under someone else’s orders, always scrutinized. They were all fond of Noddy the way they were fond of a good scout dog, or a dependable horse, but those who didn’t like or trust Connar watched him—the prince who’d cheated at the game.

  Through the past five years, many had told him privately his idea had been brilliant, his execution of it sloppy in missing that out-of-bounds scrub. Others had made their scorn for his ‘dishonor’ known. Like Cabbage Gannan. Connar relished the day he’d be able to get back at Gannan for the sneers he dealt out while they were both serving at the East garrison. As if he even knew what honor was....

  We can leave Connar to his brooding for now.

  While they’re riding toward the rain sweeping in wind-serried sheets across the river land north of the city, it’s time to take a brief look at Noddy, who is easy to overlook, as it’s easy to overlook a slow-moving, deep river. It might appear placid on the surface, as it offers no dashing rapids nor spectacular waterfalls, but it is pure, and clear, and steady.

  Noddy was not stupid, whatever others said about him. The river is a serviceable metaphor, except it doesn’t give any indication of his thought processes, which were mostly visual. He was happiest when he could see clearly what was right. Once he saw it, he was immovable, he just had trouble articulating it.

  That, Connar had learned when they were small boys. He couldn’t beat Noddy in a scrap, nor could he budge him from what he was convinced was right. So Connar learned to talk Noddy around, which honed his ability to be quick with words. First he’d make Noddy laugh. Laughter was one of his strongest tools; Noddy’s sense of humor was visual, and not cruel. If a boy took a spectacular purler, Noddy first looked at that boy’s face, whoever it was, and if he grinned, then Noddy grinned with him and joined the laughter. But if there were tears, he remained as silent as a rock.

  Noddy let Connar pick the route. Noddy hated maps. He’d always struggled with symbolic representations of things, but if he’d been riding a path once, he always remembered it. He had yet to visit the north; he’d divided his five years between East Garrison, Dorthad Valley, and right there in Choreid Dhelerei, where he could get to know the command structure and they could get to know him. Arrow had figured with his brother Jarend, and Jarend’s son Tanrid, regularly patrolling the north, he hadn’t needed to send Noddy there.

  So Connar chose their route, using the excuse of a day of downpour to deflect them off the north road onto the western fork. When they reached a familiar landmark and discovered that they were far to the west, the experienced riders sighed quietly at having to miss the comfortable beds, excellent ale, and gossip at Hesea Springs for camping outdoors, but nobody said anything. They all knew this was the princes’ first command.

  They cut north, then five days into their journey Connar opened the map, made a business of poring over it, then pointed as if making a discovery. “We’re nearing Gannan. Why don’t we ride there to dry out. How’s that?”

  Noddy opened his hand, pleased that Connar seemed to have gotten over that feud with Cabbage.

  Connar was pleased to see him pleased. He’d counted on the fact that Noddy didn’t considered how costly it would be to the Gannans to descend on them with a full wing honor guard plus support staff and animals.

  Lineas observed Connar’s good mood from afar. Quiet, easy-going Vanadei, Quill’s old roommate and now Noddy’s first runner, had told her that she wouldn’t be needed on the trail; the princes shared the command tent, and Vanadei and Fish were experienced in seeing to them on the road. She’d be most useful when they reached Larkadhe.

  “Enjoy the journey,” Vanadei said, then added softly in Old Sartoran, “and I know Quill’s writing to you. I only started on reading state papers last year, so if you want to talk over any of it, catch me between chores.”

  She thanked him, glad that she had not dared make any assumptions about her place among the other runners. Though it was five years later, she still suffered pangs of regret for how long it had taken to see how hurt her peers—people she’d grown up with!—had been after Connar suddenly chose Fish to be his first runner, without even interviewing anyone among the royal runners.

  She pitched her tent well away from the princes, and schooled herself not to let her eyes stray toward Connar’s striking form on the other side of camp when they did sword drill each evening. She had plenty of reading to occupy her.

  Her interest in the journey lessened each day as they crossed plains under cold storms, through scenery that altered very little. Each day was the same as the previous, plus or minus chilling spring storms: the runners would pack up in the morning, serve the warriors breakfast, after which they’d ride ahead with the princes. The supply carts with their drivers and servants followed more slowly.

  The princes would stop when the sun was a finger or two off the horizon and they saw a likely field, at which time the warriors would line up for drill as the stable hands saw to the animals.

  The carts did their best to catch up by sundown, and while half unpacked, the other half cooked a meal for the hungry warriors. Set up for morning, repeat, repeat, repeat.

  When word passed down the line that they expected to stop over at a jarl castle, everyone’s mood lightened at the prospect of one dry night without worrying about the winds yanking the tents up by the stakes and spinning them out toward the sea.

  Two days out from Gannan, they sent outriders with the heir’s banner to meet Gannan border patrol.

  When a runner from the border patrol reported to the Jarl of Gannan the news of the princes and their escort headed their way, the result was everything Connar could have wished: the jarl slammed about the castle damning every living thing in sight, interspersing his curses with invective against the king, the royal city, the princes, and then started all over again.

  His wife decided it was a good time to take the parsnip tops out to feed the cows, and his sons found work that had to be done at opposite ends of the castle, as the jarl at sixty-five still had a heavy fist.

  Eventually he calmed do
wn enough to demand when the midday meal would be served, and, finding it awaiting him, sat down to it. His family, long accustomed to his temper, remained silent until he’d eaten, and presently he heaved a sigh and leaned back on his mat, fists on his knees.

  “Well? We’ll have to be brisk if we don’t want to be shamed before the entire kingdom. You know how those Olavayir boys will blab all over if they see anything they don’t like.”

  Cabbage had been considering the news. He ought to have left for Lindeth two weeks before, but the entire north had lain under a last, nasty frost too dangerous for horses. Only that morning they had considered the ice melted enough for movement, and had been discussing whether the mud would be too deep and therefore just as dangerous, when the runner rode in with the bad news.

  Cabbage chose his moment, and when his father demanded they think of some entertainment that would not beggar him even worse than feeding those soul-sucking royal city guards, he said, “I know what will please Noddy. And if he’s pleased, the king will be.”

  “What’s that?” the jarl asked.

  “Lance exhibition, then a competition. With something fun as a prize. He’ll win, so we can choose something he’ll like. Something that won’t cost anything,” he added in haste.

  His brother, known as Blue, leaned over to smack the back of his head, but Cabbage—experienced as he was—saw his brother’s arm cocking back and shifted to evade.

  The jarl scowled at Blue. “It’s an excellent idea. Costs us nothing and buys us good will.”

  Cabbage was careful to keep his expression neutral, but inwardly he gloated: not only was his father pleased, and his brother thwarted, but Connar would loathe it because he wouldn’t win—not against Gannan’s heavies.

  A little later, Cabbage caught his da when they were alone, for he didn’t want Blue beating him for bragging. He said, “One thing for sure. After bunking with Noddy for all those years, I know him. I can find a time to suggest I ride north with them, since I have orders to report to Lindeth. If I tell Noddy I have to get there soon, he won’t want to stay camped here long. And you won’t have to spend anything to send me to Lindeth.”

  The jarl’s frown eased. “You do that, and I’ll give you enough to buy the horse you’ve been pestering me about.”

  ‘Pestering’ was asking once last year, and once after New Year’s, but Cabbage knew better than to respond with anything besides “Thanks, Da.”

  And so it was.

  Noddy was offered the best chamber in the castle, far from the mingy room his parents had stayed in with him as an infant a few months after he was born. He had a delightful time, competing in bruising lance rides with the jarl’s two big sons and his heavier Riders. The Gannans kept larger mounts than most, as the family tended to run large, and they had provided kings with heavy cavalry for several generations.

  Cabbage also convinced his father that hand to hand and sword practice would be too risky—the last thing they wanted was the king’s sons being hurt in their castle—so there was no opportunity for Connar to demonstrate what he was good at; Cabbage knew that Connar had become extremely adept with sword, especially on horseback.

  Noddy didn’t notice what was missing because he was having so much fun. The second night, he was awarded the prize for the competition, which was a choice between three young women popular with the younger members of the Gannan household. All three, who liked the big, genial prince despite the fact that he was no prize to look at, had not only volunteered with enthusiasm, but even offered to go with him as a group, which caused Noddy to blush crimson.

  Before he could go off to a night of fun, Cabbage caught him by the arm and said casually, “I’ll have to leave soon. You know I was assigned to Lindeth.”

  And Noddy, predictably, gazed with widened eyes and said, “Cabbage, why don’t you ride with us?”

  “But I’m already late for reporting in. It was that black frost.”

  “We should be going ourselves. Tell you what. I’ll give the orders to ride out tomorrow, and you come with us. How’s that?”

  Everyone was happy with this except for two people. Connar was furious, partly with Noddy but also with himself for not having foreseen that and committed Noddy to a long stay.

  The second angry person was Kendred, Cabbage’s runner, who had just—after weeks of flirting—found romance. He’d looked forward to a few more days of enjoying the fruits of his labor while the roads dried out, when the order came down: ride out at dawn.

  He stomped down to the stable at the single clang of the pre-dawn watch, loaded with gear. His rage was incandescent with ill-use after his flirt, the previous night made aware that he was about to ride off for the rest of the year, cut her losses and went off with someone else.

  Kendred flung the gear onto the ground outside the stalls and slammed his way in—almost bumping into a short figure in a coat, saddling a horse directly in front of the stall he had to get to. In the flickering orange torchlight he only saw an anonymous dark coat on what appeared to be a small boy. Then he saw the braids. A girl. That made him madder.

  He grabbed one of those frizzy red braids and yanked hard, smiling with grim satisfaction at the girl’s yelp of pain. He shifted his grip to fling her out of his way, but a heartbeat later he found himself sitting on the stable floor, his knee on fire with agony.

  Lineas stood over him eyes wide with fury.

  Before either Kendred or Lineas could speak or move, a voice roared in ill-humor from the stable door, “What’s going on here!”

  Lineas saw her assailant blanch with terror. Her neck throbbed—she knew the pulled muscles would torment her by noon—she was as angry at herself for being unobservant as she was at her assailant.

  But when his anger transformed in a heartbeat to terror, her emotions reeled. She remembered the Jarl of Gannan from Convocation, recognizing the tight mouth and narrowed eyes of an angry nature. Her mind flitted from her assailant’s wretched expression to the huge man entering with a threatening tromp, and Auntie Isa’s voice whispered in her mind, Anger is the easiest poison to spread.

  She forced herself to salute the jarl, and to say, “I was clumsy. It’s so dark—I ought to have lit another lamp.”

  The jarl’s expression was not made any more pleasant by being side-lit in torchlight, all the harsh grooves of habitual ill-temper carved the more deeply. But the anticipatory relish eased, and his fist unclosed. “Easily done, easily done, royal runner. Kendred! Get on your feet, and give the princes’ runner a hand.”

  Because of course he’d recognized her bright red hair from the previous evening as she served the princes along with the other royal runner. The honor of Gannan House must be preserved—and the princes ushered safely on their way.

  Kendred scrambled to his feet, hand to his chest, and put as much weight as he dared on the bad leg.

  The jarl whirled about and bawled out the name of one of his own runners as he demanded a progress report on the preparations, leaving Lineas and Kendred staring at each other.

  “If I’m not supposed to be here,” she said softly, “you might have spoken.”

  Kendred made a noise in his throat that could have meant anything. He was thoroughly in the wrong, and knew it. He also knew he’d unaccountably been saved from a bloody thrashing by the very same person who had just taken out his knee.

  Her gaze fell from his face to the way he stood, and she said, “I did hurt you. I’m sorry...Kendred? Let me give you a hand.”

  Later, crouched on her mat over her journal between two flickering lamps, as rain pattered on her tent roof, Lineas wrote:

  He said nothing, so just did it. We were finishing as the rush crowded in, which I’d hoped. After I got his saddle onto Cabbage’s mount, he still would not look at me. His ears sticking out at angles were bright red as he said, “If you’re going to hold it over me, take yourself off.”

  I said what would I get from such behavior and he said something under his breath about ratting
him out and I said I don’t rat people out.

  He still wouldn’t look at me, and refused to let me help him wrap up his knee, though I could see how swollen it was and felt very bad when I watched him trying to mount. I saw that he didn’t want to tell Cabbage Gannan, who I had that scuffle with on my first day. So far I’ve only seen him. He’s almost as large as N but much blonder.

  I still don’t understand why Kendred attacked me. What I did wrong. Is this another invisible rule that everyone but me knows? I thought I knew them all, but I always think that. Or maybe I did nothing, but was just in his way.

  I didn’t tell Q in my letter. I don’t even see C or N so there is no reason to tell them. It is my own problem to deal with, and so I help Kendred as much as I can, getting two of things early in the morning and leaving one of them outside his tent so he doesn’t have to see me, and hasn’t the double walk. Each day I see him walking with less of a limp I feel better. I don’t know if he notices that my neck is less stiff. Maybe he doesn’t care. I’m still annoyed with myself for being unaware, and consider it an excellent reminder, and I do my Fox drills in my tent every night, in the dark. Until now I never really thought about the origins, how you can do an entire drill in one confined place—which was a necessity in the confines of a ship, so very long ago.

  As to Q’s newest letter, it is about the justice system in Larkadhe, which is actually two justice systems, side by side, with a guild council at the top, parallel to the commander. Which claims authority over what affair is brought before them is complex, and I am surprised he knows all this, as all he told us about his travels there was listening to the windharps.

  I wish he had said more about his travels, but there must be a reason he did not. Or it might be that he shares more with other people, and somehow over the five years he was gone I lost his friendship, which I thought always to have, and now I’m merely a peer to be friend-LY to.

  That aside, he says it is important that between military and civilian chains of command there be communication, and Q thinks that this is why I was assigned to the princes, to take charge of this communication. So I had better memorize this list of individuals and their positions....