“Well, considering the number they’ve already gathered, plus servants, it isn’t surprising,” Seonrei said comfortably, sipping her chocolate, which was perfect: hot, spicy, creamy.
“Yet there are wagons every day. Further, it’s all men—husky men—tending them.”
“They probably hired men to dig out the wagon wheels as well as to carry barrels and baskets and trunks.”
“Except,” Iaeth said, “none of them are leaving.”
Seonrei shifted her gaze away from the wagon train, and back to the falls, the lights already fading blue and green. “Something is going on,” she said slowly. “Ryu is full of glee, like a child with a secret. And I notice that Lavais has ceased disparaging the Marlovans, and is full of anticipation for the delights they are going to show them. They might be putting together a theatrical in the old style.”
“Except who does that anymore? All the records make it clear that few in the court liked being forced to sit for two, even three days—sometimes all night—watching some prince or princess prance around while musicians played their fingers bloody, and teams of choristers praised them in fifty verses.”
Seonrei laughed, though it was her ancestors who had set that fashion. “At least Tivonais was reputed to be a very good dancer.”
“In and out of the bedroom,” Iaeth commented sourly. “It could very well be. And I have to admit, this frozen fall makes a dramatic background for a drama of any type.”
“Yes,” Seonrei said, working the little cup back and forth between her palms. “Yes.” She turned a sudden, serious gaze to Iaeth. “Perhaps these wagons require further investigation.”
Iaeth had already resolved to do exactly that.
At the same moment, a week away, Connar, Rat, and Jethren sat around a fire, contemplating the personal message they’d received from the Nyidri brothers the evening before.
We look forward to your arrival, and trust you will enjoy the entertainment we have planned for your benefit. But we also rely on your strength to protect the kingdom. As previous messages have indicated, we have had no success in eradicating the bandits called the Tax Gang. Just recently we have been made aware of rumors that they are going to attack River’s Point, the small town where two roads meet—enclosed is a map—where we are told there is a caravan of goods for the king’s tax stranded by the snow.
It is not completely out of your way. If you are able to rid the kingdom of these outlaws, there will be that much more to celebrate.
“I don’t like this,” Rat said.
Jethren said caustically, “Afraid we’re outnumbered?”
Rat sent a flat glance over his shoulder at him.
Jethren remembered Ku Halir, and flushed. “That was a joke,” he offered.
Rat tugged at one of his long-lobed ears, and sucked the inside of his cheek, the way he had when he and Connar were boys in the academy—usually right before he led the wedge that invariably smashed his opponents. Then he flicked a squinty glance at Connar. “I think it’s a ruse.”
“To trap the Tax Gang.”
“No. Us.” Rat’s big, scarred hand tapped his chest.
Connar’s brows lifted. “Us? How do you get that?”
“Because, if they have this neat trap all ready, then why don’t they spring it?”
“According to the message, that’s our job, as defenders of the kingdom. I have no argument with that.”
Rat tugged at the other ear, shuffled his feet, then said, “Maybe. Maybe. If it was anywhere but in Artolei.”
“What?” Connar said, and Jethren crossed his arms, but remained silent.
“Artolei is the holding we’ll reach in two days, maybe three. It’s divided by the border between the Jayad and Feravayir, though most of it lies this side of the border. Which is why they get away with running the holding the way they do. The Nyidris look the other way, so long as they get Artolei’s support. From the look of this map, this town the Tax Gang is going to raid is roughly midway between Artolei’s stronghold, and their winter palace at Frozen Falls.”
“So?”
“I guess you have to know about the Artoleis. The holder, Khael Artolei, is somewhere around our age. Though Artolei is a holding, it’s run like a duchas, especially since Khael Artolei’s grandfather’s time.”
“What is the difference between a duchas and a holding?”
“A duchas is like a jarl, put it that way,” Rat said. “The jarlan used to go on and on about how civilized Sartor’s chain of command is, because it’s all about birth and how well-bred you are, and nothing to do with defense. Anyway,” he said hastily seeing the impatience in Connar’s tight brow, “my point here is, he can rule however he wants to. Such as, all the servants in his castle are hostages, as well as his private army.”
“Hostages?” Connar repeated.
Rat flattened his hand, palm down. “They call it service. They keep careful records, and every guild chief and artisan and farmer above a certain level has to send a child to serve the family. And if Artolei doesn’t like what they do or say, those children suffer accidents. Nobody gives him trouble—ever. You didn’t know that, but the Tax Gang, who are supposed to have ears in every inn and barn for weeks’ ride, have to know it. No one would dare lift a hand to help them, so by rights this trap the Nyidris have set up has to be the easiest in history to spring. So why isn’t Artolei springing it with all his fine guards in livery?”
“They’re really civs,” Connar said. “We’ve got the training.”
“Not in Ryu’s eyes. Growing up, all I heard about is how he was tougher than me’n Mouse as well as more civilized.” Rat’s upper lip lifted briefly on that last word. “He and his followers dropped on me every chance they could get, until I finally got enough size on me to flatten him. Thinks himself a natural commander and a great warrior. By rights he should be crowing about taking this Tax Gang down, not setting it up for us.”
Connar’s mood shifted from indifference to a wary anticipation. “Ryu Nyidri is another Thias Elsarion, then?”
“Don’t know about that. Ryu likes bloodshed. He likes seeing other people in pain, is what I’m saying. Much more than Demeos, at least when we were small. Haven’t seen either of them for a few years.” Rat made a spitting motion to one side.
Connar said, “How about this. We’ll send a runner to reply to this message, promising our help, as that’s orders from the king.... No. Two runners, one running doggo.”
Rat accepted that with a flick of his fingers.
“Ideally we get reports from both runners when we catch up.” Connar slapped the backs of his fingers to the message. “We’ll ride hard, and fast. They might plot against us, but I doubt they can outride us.”
Rat said, “True.”
While the runners began riding, and the three captains discussed contingencies, their ostensible target sat with his captains in an attic room over a pottery. The ovens provided a welcome heat, which nobody noticed as they sat in silence, digesting the news their own scouts had just brought in.
“I say we kill that royal runner.”
Colt Cassad regarded the sixteen year old girl who had broken the silence, then sighed at that unthinking teenage bloody-mindedness. I was much the same at that age, he reminded himself. “But we don’t know that he’s part of this rather obvious trap.”
“Moving trunks of the king’s tax goods in the middle of winter?” the youngest burst out in a tone of insult. “Do they think we’re stupid?”
“Peace.” Cassad held up a palm. “My point is, live prisoners can be made dead if justice requires it. But if we’ve judged wrongly, dead prisoners cannot be brought to life again.”
A scowl was the only response, but Colt didn’t seem to expect anything more. He said, “There’s something else we might do.”
The others looked up expectantly at his sudden grin. “Let’s use this as an opportunity to rid ourselves of all our spies. The royal runner with them: we’ll send them into this trap, and of
fer them the chance to do what they like with the bait.”
“And us?”
Cassad sat back. “If it’s a trap then someone has to be springing it, right? Who wants to wager against me that Artolei is behind it?”
No one would take that bet. The proximity to Frozen Falls was too obvious.
Colt’s grin showed teeth. “And no one can be in two places at once....”
Quill, asleep in an adjacent room stuffed with seconds in pots and plates, woke up to the sound of muffled laughter.
As sometimes happens, Connar and his captains spent a lot longer discussing contingency plans, and practicing for them, than the actual situation required.
They rode through the quiet, snow-covered countryside, as Ryu’s guard and the huskiest of Ryu’s resistance army huddled in farmhouses and villages, eating the denizens’ winter staples as they waited for the signal to attack. The snow hid their traces, and any runners but those identified by Ryu had been summarily killed. The only person who saw them was Iaeth, whose skills in covert movement far outstripped those of the locals.
Iaeth duly reported this massing of a potential army to Seonrei, who said after careful thought, “We are not here to interfere with internal affairs.”
Iaeth accepted that, though they both knew Seonrei wanted very much to interfere—but for peaceful purposes.
So Iaeth watched from the treetops as Connar’s columns rode through the snow-blanketed land under a milk-colored sky. Armed for battle, they headed for the trade town at the crossroads that would lead to Frozen Falls to meet the Nyidris and the Sartoran princess.
Before they reached the town named so helpfully by Ryu’s note, Connar and Jethren formed up, ready to outflank the expected attack.
Rat and his company rode ahead as bait for the baiters. He found the small town shut up tight, scarcely a gleam of light escaping the shutters of the buildings, and not so much as a cat to be seen roaming. His company rode slowly, weapons out, bows strung. The only sound was their own horses’ muffled foot falls. Nothing, nothing, nothing...and there at the crossroads sat wagons mired in drifts of slow. A lone figure sat huddled on a wagon, awaiting them.
At the sound of their approach, the person’s face lifted, a pale blob in the moonlight.
Rat gestured for a lantern. Then, “Quill?”
“Ah, Rat,” Quill said genially, hopping off the wagon.
“Where are the rest of the ambush?”
“We were actually bait, I believe. Anyway, I decided to wait it out, unlike my former companions, who I expect were Nyidri spies.” He twiddled his fingers in the air like insects running off in two directions.
Rat gestured for his company to spread out to search, just to be thorough, but he didn’t expect to find anything, what with Quill sitting there.
Quill noted the hand signal, and the silent movement of the warriors, swords out, bows at shoulders, arrows in reach. “The rest of the bait is busy scattering across the countryside,” he reported. “As for the wagons, the trunks and boxes have a thin layer of silver at the top, with spoiled seed and suchlike beneath. I image the locals can use it for the soil, once we’ve cleared out.”
Rat grunted. “Who’d fall for such a stupid trap?”
Quill turned his palms up. “There’s something else going on, but what it is, I can’t tell you. Cassad’s gang nearly gutted me over it.”
Rat sighed. “Then let’s get out of here. Salt! Report to the Commander. We’ll rejoin soon as the search is done.”
Salt’s footsteps diminished in the slush.
Rat stepped up close to Quill. “This whole thing stinks.”
Quill said, “Where are you headed?”
“We’re supposed to meet up at Frozen Falls, Artolei’s winter palace. Meet some Sartoran princess. Where were you?”
Quill said, “Your father sent me to warn the Tax Gang of your coming. Which I did—and why I’m here. What’s the latest from Parayid?”
“Nothing,” Rat said. “Which also stinks. Last runner we got was weeks ago. Said they were in winter quarters. Looking forward to us reaching them by early spring, we’d have some war games. Look, Quill. Everybody in the south knows we’re riding on this tour of inspection, but we’ve had no runners since that one. We even got a runner from the Nyidris, sending us here.” He opened his hand toward the wagons. “I might be jumping at shadows, but I wouldn’t put it past Ryu at the least to put out orders to kill every runner going west, if he’s got some plot going.”
Quill’s expression tightened—of course he thought immediately of Lineas. But she’d know to go covert, which most garrison-trained runners might not necessarily think of, unless given orders. They were so used to crossing the kingdom back and forth. Though the only way to be sure would be to make the cross-country run to Parayid himself.
Rat was thinking along parallel lines. He looked up to find Quill silent. Listening. Then he caught on. Quill was waiting for orders.
Only that was Connar’s privilege.
Connar had accepted Rat’s sending the runners from Darchelde, and with the message to the Noths as potential reinforcement, but Rat was certain that a second trespass might not be accepted as readily.
He’d been gazing at the slush around his battered boot tops. He blinked, and found Quill still waiting. It would take no more than a day to reach the rest of the command, at which time Connar could send Quill to Parayid. Would a day’s wait make any difference?
Quill, watching closely, saw the uncertainty in Rat’s demeanor, and said, “I could make a grass run, if I had a horse to start out with.”
In other words, he was volunteering.
That changed everything, as far as Rat saw it. With a profound sense of relief, Rat summoned lanky, laconic Digger, his first runner. And before the search was finished, Quill had a fresh horse and a half-loaf of travel bread. He vanished up the road to the west, and Rat watched with satisfaction as he was swallowed in the night.
A short distance away, silence lay over the snow in all directions; Connar and Jethren led their companies in a line, horses walking, weapons ready, as they waited for the trap to close around Rat and his small company up ahead.
No one spoke until the sound of galloping hooves caused Connar to signal a halt.
The scout rode up to him. “Fresh tracks, looks like maybe a wing, two at most, and so many footprints mushed together we couldn’t count them. They headed off northeast, away from the crossroads village. From the way some of the horseapples were still steaming, a few hours ago.”
“Investigate. Don’t engage. Catch up with us,” Connar said, and the scout rode off in the dim light of a half-moon.
While the scout rode on their trail, Khael Artolei, Ryu Nyidri, and their two hundred strong, armed with Iascan steel, followed the terrified servant who had come to report an attack.
They galloped ahead of the foot army until they arrived at Artolei Castle to find every window glowing with light, and servants running to and fro putting out fires in the state rooms.
“No!” Artolei shrieked, and kicked his sweaty horse back into a gallop.
What had happened was clear: while he and Ryu were forming their trap for the Marlovans at the crossroads, the Tax Gang had arrived just after sunset.
Since Artolei had taken every able-bodied warrior with him, the outlaws had spent the night stripping the entire castle of every trace of silver and gold, every gem and jewel, leaving behind a bonfire of the Artoleis’ records in the center of the Hall of Justice.
EIGHT
Frozen Falls really was a frozen waterfall, the Marlovans discovered as they rode in column up the low hills toward the first palace many had ever seen. It was built of red stone, white marble, and the more familiar sandstone they were used to, topped by decorative spires with arched windows for viewing. The palace itself wasn’t defensible, but the massive walls curving around the jut of land the palace was built on, and the long drop below to the rushing river, were.
From the hi
lls, Connar’s company could see for a considerable distance, the snow undisturbed except for the muddy road between chest-high walls of snow to either side. Though there was no sign of anything amiss for days’ ride in any direction, they still rode weapons-ready, spearheads affixed on the poles carrying the banners.
Below the palace, people lined the road on either side to watch them approach.
Connar was thrown back to the ride down the eastern end of the pass, below the cliffs as hostile Adranis had stared and yakked incomprehensibly. But these Feravayir spectators lined the road in complete silence.
The Marlovans approached the massive gates, which had been thrown open, blue and gold banners alternating with the brown-and-white stag of Feravayir.
No sign, of course, of the three crowned stars of Perideth against a sky blue background.
At the gate Lavais Nyidri stood, her two sons at her right and Khael Artolei at her left—an arrangement she had made mostly so that her dear Ryu would not be overshadowed by the other two, so much handsomer. Who would have thought that pale rabbit of a grandmother would turn up in her son, hair the color of dirty water beneath the flattering magical color, too much nose and too little chin. But he made up for it in style, she thought fondly as the double-fanfare for a prince in riding echoed down the icy road.
She and Ryu bitterly resented that fanfare, she with the hatred of a life of disappointment. She had never dared claim her birthright while Mathren Olavayir was alive, and on his death, she had fully expected to seduce Ivandred Noth into riding against the Olavayirs. For twenty years she had tried.
Ryu’s hatred was jealousy, heated by anticipation; he knew the Marlovans had nothing to do with the Tax Gang stripping the Artolei ancestral stronghold, but that had been his plan. And the Marlovans were going to pay for its failure. He snorted out harsh breaths as those brassy notes reverberated on the icy air.
Demeos was indifferent to the fanfare. To him, horns tooting was merely evidence of a lack of civilization, so very different from the chimes and tuneful fluting of the Sartoran Progress, when nobles moved formally between palaces.
Time of Daughters II Page 59
