by Steven Gould
Leland floated on his back, content with the world. Oh, the anger on Anthony’s face! He watched the lamplight reflect off the water and onto the ceiling above. This was the main pool of the men’s baths, cold and clear as the underground river that fed and drained it. It felt good after soaking in the fire-stoked hot water. He lifted his head and settled his feet to the bottom of the pool.
He listened for a moment, then lay back again, hearing only the flickering echoes of rushing water. The memory of Marilyn sitting on the windowsill of the library came back to him again, bright as the sunlight that had surrounded her. In the name of the Founders, she’s something. I wonder if I’ll see her again. He sighed and drifted, reliving the afternoon. He closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. Probably not. Dillan will tell Father and I’ll have more work and more beatings in the blink of an eye.
He opened his eyes and gasped. Dillan stood on the edge of the pool looking down at him. He was about to kick violently to the other side of the pool when he noticed that Dillan’s hands were empty. He stood and let the water drain out of his ears.
“Careless, Leland.”
Leland nodded gravely in agreement, furious with himself.
“After your bath, please go see Bartholomew—he has some instructions for you.”
Leland shrugged. “I knew it was too good to last. So what is it this time? Back to shoveling manure? Or more stump pulling? I knew that when you saw me in the library, word would get back to father.”
Dillan stared at Leland, the humor he held within not touching his face. “Oh, no, Leland. Not stump pulling, or wall building, or ice hauling,” he said. “It’s something far worse. Report to Bartholomew.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
Yes, word did get back to Father, Dillan thought as he wound his way up the stairs. But it wasn’t from me—not initially. He remembered his father’s consternation earlier in the day when he’d reined aside to speak to Dillan as Guide Marilyn and the Steward de Noram had ridden ahead to view the Needle.
“Have you or your brothers been talking about Leland?” he had asked.
“No, Father. He met her in the library this afternoon. They were talking when Guide de Jinith and I entered. I can’t say how long they were together, but it could have been as much as two hours.”
Guide Dulan had been silent then, his face impassive, staring unseeingly at the Needle. Then: “She seems to have been at least amused by him. How were his feelings toward her?”
“From what I could see, unusually warm.”
“Elaborate. “
Dillan had been flustered. “They were laughing together. Leland’s been like a rock, lately—cold, withdrawn. He’s shown very little feeling in the last several months.”
Guide Dulan had nodded. “Understandable, given the circumstances.” Then he gave Dillan instructions regarding the banquet.
Yes, thought Dillan. Our father shows even less than Leland. I wonder what’s happening.
Two servants passed Dillan on the stairway, their arms laden with towels for the baths. Dillan nodded as he passed.
Their voices echoed up the stair after he’d passed. “I wonder what he was grinning about.”
“Something they’re going to do to Leland, no doubt.”
Dillan laughed out loud. No doubt.
Bartholomew stood in the middle of the kitchen, a shouting rock in a sea of chaos. “Hurry with the salads, Sven, and if you drop one I’ll chop you up for sausage. Robert, ready the waiters to collect the soup, but not before Guide Dulan pushes his bowl aside. Allen, more wood for the fire. Irma, we’ll need to broach another cask of ale. Pay special attention to Dexter’s table, that mob is always thirsty. After the salad, don’t forget to take ale and small foods to the musicians. Also, leave them a pitcher of the chilled tea.”
Irma poked her finger into his substantial belly as she walked by with a cask over one shoulder. “Why don’t you go jump out a window? Everything’s arranged, everything’s being done. Margaret has the musicians’ refreshments stored in the cabinet by their alcove.”
Bartholomew pushed her hand away and roared with pretended rage. “Ha! Incompetents! Imbeciles! If I didn’t keep on top of you, nothing would get done!”
Sven tossed a damp towel across the kitchen. Bartholomew ducked, sidestepped, grabbed a tankard of ale off a passing tray, and left to see how things were going in the great hall.
The Founders deliver us from mistakes, he thought, largely content with his help and the way things were going. Earlier that afternoon things had not gone so well when Martin had come to him with the changes.
“Is Guide Dulan trying to drive me mad?” he’d shouted to Martin. “He set the table arrangements a week ago. What are we to do?”
Martin had laughed. “You improbable bag of wind! You know what to do and you’ll accomplish it in fifteen minutes—but only after an hour of complaint!” He handed Bartholomew a list. “Here, I’ve already rearranged the seating list so you have no real headache. Just adjust the waiters for the extra table and increase the service by one. Simple. The hardest thing you have to do is tell Leland that he’s attending.”
Leland had shown up just a half hour before the dinner, in the midst of banquet preparations. “Dillan says you have more work for me.”
“Oh, that I do, my boy. Why should you sit and read when we’re all working?”
Leland shrugged. “What do you need me to do?”
Bartholomew had wrinkled his nose in distaste. “It’s dirty work, a job I’d not have my lowest kitchener do.”
“Enough already! What is it?”
“Hold down a chair.”
“What?”
“There’s been a terrible rash of chairs flying off into space, so I need you to hold down a chair in the Great Hall. Tonight. Soon. So, by the Founders, go get dressed! The seamstress is waiting in your room to fit something on you!”
Leland had started to say something else, but Bartholomew had pointed at the door and roared, “Now!”
Leland had left quickly.
Bartholomew walked up the stairs and peeked in one of the balconies overlooking the hall. The reception line was barely half done, those who’d already extended their greetings milling about on the floor conversing or taking drinks and small foods from the circulating waiters. Bartholomew scanned the crowd for Leland but didn’t see him. The brothers, however, were in evidence, each the center of attention of a small group of friends and would-be friends of both sexes.
The Guide Marilyn stood between her father and Guide Dulan, greeting the guests with practiced charm. He saw her acknowledge a compliment from Captain Koss, now at the head of the line with his wife and daughter.
Martin came up behind Bartholomew. “Are things going well in the kitchen?”
“Eat feces and die slowly,” Bartholomew said mildly.
Martin laughed. “Ah, good. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong tonight, eh? Wouldn’t help things with the high steward.”
“No, may he trip down a stairwell. Where’s Leland?”
“The seamstress modified one of Dillan’s formal outfits to match the size of one of Leland’s old suits. Stupid. His shoulders must be eighty millimeters broader than they were last summer. We had to get another of Dillan’s outfits and shorten the length a touch. They were just finishing a few moments ago…ah, there he is now.”
Bartholomew looked and saw Leland step up to the end of the line. The person in front of Leland glanced back over his shoulder, saw who was standing there, and stepped aside and waved Leland forward with a small bow. Leland shook his head, but the man insisted. Leland smiled and said something, then stepped up in line. The process repeated until Leland stood at the head of the line, bowing deeply to his father, Steward de Noram, and the Guide Marilyn.
“Ah, but to overhear that conversation, eh, Martin?”
Martin nodded. “Your waiter Peter is near. You’ll tell me when you hear, won’t you?”
Bartholomew smiled. “Perhaps
, Martin. Perhaps.”
Marilyn de Noram smiled at the latest notable and curtsied in response to his bow. Where is Warden Leland? She put away that thought, anxious to counter her father’s barely civil hauteur. “Oh, what a stunning dress,” she said to the next in line, a matronly woman who ran Laal’s school system. “Was it made in Laal?”
“Yes, Gentle Guide. Rolf Toscin was the designer.”
Marilyn nodded. “Ah, yes.” She didn’t say anything else. Toscin moved to Laal from Noram City to avoid the taxes, and his exodus had been considered a great loss. She hoped her father hadn’t heard the name.
She turned to the next guest, but he stepped back, as had all the line before him, and Leland walked forward nodding his thanks for their courtesy. She took her father’s arm suddenly, no longer sure of herself.
Leland bowed deeply. He held the bow for a full second, then straightened. His brother’s modified clothes fit him surprisingly well. His shirt was black cotton with a stiff half collar accenting the almost whipcord muscles of his neck. Gray embroidery crossed the front in an asymmetrical pattern running from left to right. He wore a gray sash and black pants bloused into gray calf-high soft boots.
He looked first at his father, but Guide Dulan was already talking to the next guest.
“Father,” said Marilyn. “This is Leland, Warden of the Needle, Guide Dulan’s youngest son.”
Steward de Noram nodded and smiled briefly. “Ah. Yes, I last saw you when you were seven, at your mother’s funeral. Clearly, you’ve grown.”
“I would hope so, Father!” Marilyn said. “I’ll join you later, Leland, at our table.” Leland blinked. Our table? He nodded slowly. “Of course, Gentle Guide. At our table.” He bowed again and left.
“So that’s the young man who’s caught your fancy, eh, girl.” Steward Montrose watched Leland walking off. He especially noted the way nearly everyone in the room watched the young man circumspectly. He didn’t see Marilyn blush in response to his question.
“He’s a scholar, Father. He asks questions I didn’t know existed.”
“Oh, ho! You want to suck his mind out, eh? Like you do to those poor people at the university?”
Marilyn chuckled thinly. “Perhaps, Father. Perhaps.”
Anthony stopped in mid sentence to stare across the room, to where his younger brother stood by himself holding a glass awkwardly.
“You were saying, Guide Anthony?” asked Clarissa Koss, daughter of Captain Koss.
Anthony looked back with a start, a strange expression on his face. “Uh, I seem to have lost my train of thought.” He glanced back at Leland. “Well, never mind, it was probably boring anyway.”
Clarissa shook her head. “Nonsense. I’m sure I would have been fascinated. Try to remember.”
With an effort, Anthony remembered what he’d been talking about and finished, but his mind was still on Leland. What’s happening here? He didn’t understand this reversal in his father’s behavior. Of course, he hadn’t understood the last reversal either, but things had been consistent for months, so Anthony had accepted the conditions as normal. Is this a switch or a temporary halt?
He noticed the reception line had finally finished and watched Guide Dulan and Steward de Noram move to the main table on the dais. He saw the Guide Marilyn take Leland’s arm. Glancing back at Clarissa Koss, she saw her watching Leland and Marilyn, also. In fact, he noticed, nearly everyone in the hall is watching them! Small wonder—it’s the first time Leland’s appeared at a public event in six months. Everyone around here must know how we treat him.
Martin himself came out into the hall to lead Leland and Marilyn to their table. Ah, I wonder if Father ordered that? Oh, well, he can’t treat Leland too badly without insulting Guide Marilyn. Anthony turned back to Clarissa and offered her his arm. “Shall we, Clarissa?”
She smiled shyly and slipped her hand into place. For the first time that night, he really looked at her. Something stirred inside him. The hell with Leland! He’s dominated my thoughts enough!
“I’m glad you came, Clarissa. It’s been too long.”
Why is Martin honoring him? Guide Dulan watched Martin holding first Marilyn’s chair, then Leland’s. I didn’t order that. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or upset.
Bend her to your cause, boy. You’ll need help if things go as badly as they could.
Seated next to Guide Dulan, the Steward de Noram toyed with his mustache and smiled at his dinner partner, Carmen Cantle de Laal, Guide Dulan’s sister-in-law, the widow of his late brother and Ricard’s mother. She was an attractive woman, looking at least fifteen years younger than her forty-seven years. Arthur was toying with the idea of taking her into his bed tonight.
She in turn was considering letting him. “And when do you leave for Cotswold, Sire?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a tightly scheduled thing. I’ll see how things go here first. It’s my responsibility to personally inspect every aspect of my stewardship’s domains, eh?” He let his gaze drop to the low-cut neck of her gown for an instant. “Every aspect.”
She laughed. “Clearly, a man whose duty knows no bounds.”
He smiled, liking her earthy reaction. Others at this naive little court had blushed and fled at similar statements. “What else would you expect of the high steward?”
“Nothing else. Nothing less.”
Arthur looked over at his daughter, where she sat next to Leland at the head of one of the four floor tables. She was toying with her salad, not talking. Leland was also quiet, apparently listening to the conversation of others at their table. Arthur saw Marilyn glance at Leland for an instant, when Leland was nodding at something another had said. For a moment he saw something in her eyes that disturbed him a great deal.
She’s attracted to him. He mulled over the possibilities and ramifications of that fact. Not good, he decided. He continued to watch them as the dinner progressed.
At one point, Leland seemed to ask Marilyn something. She lifted her eyes from the table and answered him. Leland’s face drained of blood, and he stared suddenly up at the main table where his father was talking with the Guide de Jinith. Arthur glanced at Guide Dulan to see if he’d noticed but couldn’t tell. Leland stared back at his own table and flushed, then said something to Marilyn that caused her mouth to drop open and eyes to flash angrily.
Neither of them said another word to each other the rest of the dinner.
At the end of the banquet, Arthur said, “As usual, a wonderful host, Dulan. Still, I shan’t drain your resources with my party much longer. We leave tomorrow at noon.”
Guide Dulan lifted his eyes in surprise. “As you will, Steward. I’d hoped we’d have the pleasure of your company a little longer.”
“Of course I’d like to stay, but this Cotswold business should be concluded as quickly as possible.” Before your Leland finishes snaring my daughter. She’s obviously half snared already. Why else did she react so strongly?
“I’ll arrange an escort to the border,” said Guide Dulan.
With the high steward gone, Leland’s work and the random attacks began again.
Late spring was a bad time for Leland.
Since his brothers were having a hard time carrying out their assigned number of attacks, Guide Dulan detailed four of the Guard, Captain Koss’s Falcons, to help. They would lay traps with exquisite care, letting one of their number drive Leland to where the others were waiting. Then they would surround him and drive him to the ground, the air alive with the sound of singing bamboo.
Leland became more haggard—also thinner, causing Bartholomew alarm. The boy also became more wary, more alert, and, slowly, much tougher.
The Helm’s legacy was also troubling Leland that summer. Tantalizing bits of knowledge were slowly surfacing in his mind. Infuriatingly, the bits were not unlike the more esoteric books in the library. What in the hell were population density indices? What was antihydrogen? Without definitions, he was as confused as the time he tried to le
arn tensor calculus without a single introductory calculus book in the library.
Frustration piled on frustration, and he came closer and closer to running away from Laal, but always a voice seemed to tell him, Endure, wait. Why let them succeed?
He considered cutting a bamboo stick of his own and attacking in turn, but this seemed a failure of a different kind. By accident, one day, he discovered a way to fight back.
He was planting trees on the upper slopes—hauling compost to natural pockets in the stony ground, planting seedlings, and then building rock retaining walls to discourage erosion and trap water. The Falcons and Anthony fell on him as he was walking back through the trees below. Leland dropped his tools and tried to run, but they had moved into a rough circle around him. Desperately he feinted toward one side then dove between Anthony and one of the guards. Quick as a snake, the Falcon twisted his cane in mid strike and swung it toward Leland. Instead, the bamboo smacked solidly into the side of Anthony’s head.
In the resulting confusion, Leland ran deep into the wood and hid, but Anthony’s howl of pain rang cheerfully in his memory the rest of the day.
The next time the Falcons struck, Leland repeated his trick, getting one of the Falcons hit in the process. Again he was able to escape in the resulting turmoil. That evening, trying it again, he was beaten badly and crawled into bed that night with groans of pain.
But, as the days grew shorter, more and more he managed to turn his tormentors’ blows on one another. One day, in a bout that would stick in his memory forever, he hurtled himself between Dillan’s legs and heard two canes smash into his brother’s legs. He turned to see the Falcons coming after him. They looked mad.
He grinned at them and thought, Why not? He ran back at them yelling at the top of his lungs. The first Falcon looked startled, then swung his cane at Leland’s midsection. Leland dived forward, over the cane, and rolled under the next one. Then, for spite, he leapfrogged over Dillan, where his brother crouched holding his legs. With a whoop, he ran on.
