Halrid hissed a sigh through his teeth. “Hauth seems to think he’s the expert on these eagle-clan shits, but what progress has he made in putting the true king on the throne? None, that I can see. I told him it was past time to loose the Vaskad boy on the eagle clan, like he’s been promised all his life. Give him half an hour. Quarter of an hour, he’ll have them all dead before any one of these guards stirred a foot.”
“And Connar would never rest until he hunted you down,” Keth Jethren said grimly. “He’d cut you up himself, and he wouldn’t make it fast.”
Halrid’s gaze shifted. “You’d think he’d be grateful. We will make him king! I know, I know, he’s had his ears filled with poison from that shit Anred Olavayir. And for some reason he likes that bucktoothed rockbrain of an heir.” His gaze returned, fierce with conviction. “It’s your job to set him right. And help him to the throne he was meant to hold.”
“And I will. But when I move up the chain of command. Which I would have done long ago if I’d gone to the academy with him.”
Halrid’s gaze narrowed, his fist tightening, but Kethedrend’s tone was flat—observation. Halrid already suspected he might have made an error in refusing Jarend Olavayir’s offer to send Kethedrend along with the Ventdor boys to the academy. But he hadn’t wanted to risk his carefully raised boy being exposed to eagle clan poison.
He spoke forcefully, to convince his son—and himself—that he’d been right. “I told you then. Our training is better. Tougher. You’re a leader. If you’re good enough, he’ll see it.”
Kethedrend believed he was good enough. But he could be better than Inda-Harskialdna, and still not break that academy bond, which Connar wasn’t even aware of. Resentment burned, a ball of fire behind his ribs, as his father went on, “Get it done, before the Vaskad assassin does something that draws attention to us.”
“Moonbeam won’t do anything unless I tell him to.”
“For now,” Halrid warned. “Crazy as he is, one of these days he’s going to figure out that he’s not only faster and stronger than you, but he’s older, so why should he dog your shadow?”
Because I’m the only one who knows how to dose him out of seeing his ghosts, Keth Jethren thought, but out loud he said, “He understands chain of command.”
Halrid gave a snort of disbelief.
Tigger turned his head. “Voices.”
Halrid said, “We’re going back home until Ret cools down. I’ve got my ears here. I want to hear progress.”
He and his brother walked away, vanishing around the corner.
Jethren set out in the other direction, moving toward the garrison, gingerly working his jaw. But there was nothing he could do about the swelling; when he reached the garrison, and somebody said, “What happened to you?”
“Horse,” Jethren said shortly.
Jarid Noth overheard, looked at the rapidly bruising side of Jethren’s face, and said, “It happens. Especially at the end of a long ride, they’ll kick out all of a sudden. Go to the ice house. Put some in a sock. Hold it to your jaw to keep the swelling down.”
Jethren saluted, knowing the commander meant well. But nobody knew more about wounds and bruising than Nighthawk men.
FOURTEEN
The next day, Connar went over to the academy with Noddy for Firstday inspection.
At first it was fun to see the adulation in the boys’ eyes, but that wore off fairly quickly. By the end of that long day, he understood that though he was the prospective head of the academy in name, he wasn’t really in command. Andaun, the actual masters, even Noren, all made it clear that he needed to reread the Gand Handbook, and to listen to how things were done, lest this change or that lead straight to the days of Bloody Tanrid. By the night watch he was tired of hearing, “Oh they tried that in Year Whatever, and....” before moving on to a lecture illustrating the disastrous result.
Before the brothers parted for the night, Noddy brought the painstakingly written notes he’d promised, and held them out. Connar looked from the stack of closely written papers up to Noddy’s trusting face, understanding that Noddy really liked this duty, the same way he’d liked sitting with all those babblers up at Larkadhe. But here he was, ready to give it up at a word.
“Noddy, why don’t you take Andaun’s place? That is, I know Da wants me as chief, just because I’m commander. But why don’t we share it? Da won’t mind that, I’m certain. You be in charge of these things.” He indicated the papers. “I’ll back you up. And sit with you at Victory Day, and whenever else you think best, if I’m not in the field. Like now. I should get on the road to the Nob before the season gets much later.”
Noddy grinned happily. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”
That night, as rain roared overhead, Connar roamed the sentry walk under the canopies. He was alone for once.
Mindful of his father’s exhortations, Jethren had been watching Connar from afar, and chose his moment to ask the only question Connar always accepted—and which sometimes elicited actual answers besides the obvious: “New orders?” Which was as close as he dared come to What are you thinking?
Connar muttered, mostly to himself, “Frozen Falls was a rescue. Not a victory.”
Jethren said only, “Yes.”
Connar flicked a glance his way, aware of conditional approval as Jethren watched a pair of sentries moving along the opposite wall, their silhouettes through the curtain of rain making the torchlight wink out then back in. Connar recollected that Jethren hadn’t rushed off to the quartermaster’s the way Fish had—he’d gotten kicked in the head by a horse, but reported to the stable anyway, to get orders. He followed orders. He fought hard. Didn’t jabber.
Connar’s attention shifted back to that near-disaster down south. Jethren had taken out Artolei and Ryu without leaving evidence, and hadn’t said a word to anyone. To the end Noth had speculated about who might have killed them, from which side.
It was Hauth himself, long ago, who had said about Fish, Make him loyal to you. There might be something in that after all.
Connar said to Jethren, “Choose a reliable company to take on the inspection tour to the Nob. They don’t need to be fast so much as good with all weapons.”
Jethren looked as if he’d been given a year’s liberty. “I’ll have the list by morning,” he promised.
And he did.
Two days before they were to ride for the northwest, Ranet sent her runner to fetch Connar, reporting breathlessly, “She’s having birth pains.”
Connar bit back the words, “What am I supposed to do about it?” Clearly he was expected to interrupt his tight schedule to go sit and wait, though he’d done his part of that particular duty last autumn. It was now her turn to do hers.
But the runner gazed at him eagerly, so he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He thought he was reasonably fast, but it turned out Ranet’s baby was faster. Connar arrived at her suite to discover that she’d had another girl. Not the prince everyone was waiting for.
Connar stared down at the blotchy baby-face, aware that he was actually relieved it was a girl. Rat Noth was safely tied down at Parayid. So far, Noddy hadn’t gotten Noren pregnant. He felt a twinge of regret at that, solely on Noddy’s behalf. He knew Noddy wanted children as badly as Ma, but as far as Connar was concerned princes could wait ten, even twenty years to be born. He’d barely begun the duty he’d always wanted. There was already Andas running around somewhere up north. Connar saw no need for ambitious princes to be crowding his back until he was old.
He smiled at Ranet and returned the infant as Ma, Noren, and their runners kept flailing their fingers and cooing. What can you really say about a baby except that it’s there?
He made his escape for the garrison, oblivious to Ranet’s long, thoughtful gaze following him out the door.
Danet saw. “Some people just don’t know what to do with babies,” she said to her daughter-by-marriage. “I was that way until I had my own. I think my mother
was even more so. As I recollect, she had no interest in us until we were ready to learn how to do chores. I followed my older cousin around, and my sister followed me. Connar will take an interest when the girls start riding. You’ll see.”
Ranet buried her nose in the sweet curve between the baby’s jaw and little round shoulder, snuffing up the ineffable infant smell. Tears prickled her eyelids. Connar hadn’t been there when Iris was born, so she’d made excuses for him not knowing what to do with her when they finally met. But he’d shown an equal disinterest in Little Hliss’s birth, which he could have attended if he’d wanted.
She said nothing to Danet-Gunvaer. That would only hurt her. But after the gunvaer left, Ranet poured out her bitterness to Noren, safe in the knowledge that no one could overhear them.
She finished up, her fingers snapping with emotion, “When Lineas gave me advice, she was too kind to say that what I felt was a mere heat, but it’s the truth. How can you love someone you don’t know? I don’t know Connar. He doesn’t talk to me at all.”
She brushed her lips over Little Hliss’s feathery eyebrows and along the contours of her soft, fragile skull, remembering how, after Connar had departed following their marriage, she’d gone into his rooms when no one was around to see her. At first it gave her such intense pleasure to catch his scent, how heat pooled deep inside her. Even seeing his old shirts packed neatly in a trunk spiked heat. But gradually that scent had faded, or else the heat had, and after he left last winter she’d come to see that she was trying to learn someone by standing in an empty room. It was far too emblematic of what marriage with Connar was like.
“Find a favorite,” Noren responded when she looked up again. “Several favorites.”
Ranet knew that was the practical solution. If only it was so easy! Nobody got her as hot as Connar. Not even close.
She looked down at Little Hliss. There were two other couples who could give the gunvaer that longed-for prince. It didn’t have to be her. She had to be strong. Since she still found Connar attractive, if he came to her, she’d let him in. But she promised herself not to wait outside his door anymore. It only hurt her. At least until he demonstrated any interest in the two children they already had together.
Two days later, he was gone, and up on the third floor, Lineas and Quill were aware of a sense of release. Quill was already buried in tasks as head of the royal runners, thankfully handed off by Mnar Milnari.
Lineas had hoped to teach, and dreaded being sent off on another run, but it turned out she was to do neither. Arrow had handed off to Noddy certain state wing responsibilities he secretly found too onerous these days.
Noddy had plenty of helpers, but none of them quite fit the comfort of the routine he’d established with Lineas at Larkadhe. On her arrival back, he’d asked for her one day, then another, until it was understood through the castle that she was to be reassigned to Noddy in the state wing—where she, Noddy, and Vanadei settled back into their old routine.
Summer ripened to Lightning Season, then gradually waned.
The inspection at Larkadhe went well, as Connar expected. Same at Lindeth. At both places, Connar was warned about the Nob.
“Even if they know you’re bringing the treaty silver, they’ll still go for you,” Nermand warned. “Attacking us seems to be the favorite sport of Bar Regren.”
He’d replaced his father the previous year. Young Nermand was the same breezy person he’d been at the academy. Two or three years of enthusiastic sex play in the academy baths and at rec time lay between him and Connar, making it easier for Connar to talk to him than to most; Nermand’s eye, and smile, made it clear he was quite ready to take up where they’d left off.
But Connar had resolved to stay away from anyone in his direct chain of command. He’d heard too many stories about the expectations of favorites. Sex he could get anywhere. Good captains were rarer.
So he remained oblivious to the lazy heat in Nermand’s gaze and stayed with what mattered. “I expected them to attack an inspection company, but the Bar Regren will go for us even if we’re carrying their damned treaty coinage?”
“Of course.” Nermand flipped up the back of his hand toward the north. “They’ll mask like bandits, steal everything they can carry, then send a messenger to the king, squalling that we still haven’t done our duty. Learned that back in our great-grandfathers’ day.”
“We’ll be ready for ‘em,” Connar said, thinking Let them come.
The Marlovans rode armed, ready and alert. They passed Chalk Hills, a vivid memory. No sign of anything except rocks and trees, but Connar could feel inimical eyes watching.
Jethren’s scouts also rode armed, their numbers doubled. What they met was rockfalls at treacherous turns along the narrow mountain trail, and poison streams. The entire company had to halt to clear the rocks, and horses and animals had to line up to drink from the three ensorcelled buckets, which took an exasperatingly long time. Connar was certain he heard laughter drifting on the wind.
The ride up the peninsula, grueling even at the best of times, was torture during the heat of summer, slowed by these hostile actions to which the Marlovans could not respond.
They finally made it to the harbor called the Nob, dragging those the carts of coinage, which the Nob insisted on instead of other types of trade for their due. The harbormaster met Connar, and prolonged the tedium by speaking in some incomprehensible dialect before painstakingly spitting out one Marlovan word at a time.
Connar was soon wearied of the complicated economic life of the harbor town, whose supplies mostly came in by sea, paid for by Marlovan silver. In retaliation for the covert maltreatment, Connar insisted on the harbormaster’s stringers accounting for every tinklet they spent, and also demanded to see the tally books. He retained just enough of his mother’s lectures about such matters to know at least where to look on a page, but mostly he grimly kept them waiting before him, marinating in their own sweat as he stared down at those dull columns of numbers, every now and then pointing randomly to a line and asking for explanation, as he dreamed about setting fire to the entire town.
Jethren stood by, armed with at least six visible weapons, a smile as thin as a knife blade on his otherwise impassive face. Behind him lurked Moonbeam, lovingly whetting a knife. The sight of the three of them dampened some of the long-planned, exquisite insolence—but the locals got some of their own back again when the Marlovans departed, riding down the treacherous south coast to face more destroyed trails, rockfalls, and twice, fire. The locals knew their mountains to each rock and blade of tough grass, and managed to vanish entirely after every act.
When, at last, in the swelter of late summer, Connar reached Lindeth, as soon as he saw Nermand, he said, “Why are we doing this Nob run again?”
“Bad, was it?” Nermand asked, with the sympathy of one who’d been forced to do the duty off and on since leaving the academy. And, seeing that Connar wanted an answer, “It’s the treaty.”
Connar gazed out at the sunlight winking on the sea, and the ships bobbing gently on the water, bare poles inscribing slow circles. “Why did we make that treaty?”
Nermand opened his hands. “They talked about it enough when we had those history lectures our first year out of the scrubs.”
Connar eyed Nermand, who looked merely puzzled, no accusation. “I didn’t listen to anything about the sea,” he admitted. “My future was the army.”
Nermand accepted that with an indolent wave of his hand. “I probably would’ve done the same, if the king hadn’t made it clear from my first day at the academy that he expected me to replace my da here at Lindeth. The treaty put us there as lookouts, back in the day. Mostly for the Venn. But also for pirate fleets. Our ancestors always dreaded the Venn landing big armies at the Nob and marching ‘em down to take us here at Lindeth, then over at Larkadhe, and cut off the north from the south. Pirates burned the city at least twice.”
Connar would just as soon they burned it again. “But the Venn
are bottled up,” he said out loud. “And I haven’t heard of any big pirate empires except in old stories.”
“True.” Nermand flicked his fingers in agreement. “Also true that a fast tender is just as effective at keeping watch off the Nob, and is far faster than horseback in bringing bad news down the peninsula to us here. That’s what we’ve been doing the past generation or two. But we still have to hold the Nob,” he said reasonably—and unanswerably. “It’s the treaty.”
Three months later, “It’s the treaty,” Arrow said in exactly the same tone as Nermand had used.
Rain roared against the windows, which runners had pushed shut and locked until next spring. It was late autumn, and the entire castle was beginning the arduous task of preparation for Convocation at New Year’s Week.
Arrow had already put on his winter coat, his body skinny beneath it. Connar hated seeing the signs of his aging—the thinning white hair, his bloodshot eyes. But those eyes were still alert. “It’s what every king has said, and will say.” He flicked a glance at Noddy, who opened his hand in assent. “Our ancestors made that treaty.”
“To watch for the Venn. But the Venn aren’t coming. They can’t get past the Federation of Kingdoms blockage up north,” Connar said.
“No. But there’s also the Idegans,” Arrow retorted. “You’ve only seen the south side of those mountains. I was never there, but my da told us how nasty that ride was, frequently along narrow cliffs. Well, the entire north side of that peninsula is different. Nice towns, even farmland in those valleys. The Idegans are in constant trouble with the mountain Bar Regren, but to them it’s worth it to hold the north shore. They want the Nob so they can watch for trouble coming up from the sea on the south side. The truth is, we hang onto the Nob so they can’t have it. I owe that much to my cousins who rode up there to find a bride and ended up dead.” He looked away, not wanting to admit that while he thought Lanrid had been a horseapple, he still heard Sinna singing in his dreams.
Time of Daughters II Page 68
