Helm

by Steven Gould

  “I’ll appoint a master halvidar for the unit. Someone the troop halvidars have confidence in.”

  Dulan considered. “No,” he said finally. “I might as well give that man command. Instead, give him a good halvidar for his headquarters unit—someone who’ll give good advice, when advice is asked for.”

  Captain Koss winced. “Yes, Guide.”

  Leland offered Charly quarters in the station but she said, “I’m staying with the Druza family in Brandon-on-the-Falls. It’s arranged.”

  “The Druzas? They have a bookbindery. Have you been here before?” Leland asked.

  “No. But their son is a student of mine in the city. His mother is the sensei at On-the-Falls Aikikai.”

  She hugged him when they parted. “Come practice before I leave.”

  He thought about going back to the Station—his father’s house—and hugged her back fiercely. Please come with me. “I will.”

  Leland’s first action on returning to Laal keep was to dismiss the bodyguard.

  This didn’t work.

  “I beg your pardon, Guide, but Captain Koss was quite insistent! He ordered us to stay on this duty until relieved by him or your father.”

  Leland considered this. “Well, dammit, man, I can’t have twelve men following me all around the Station. The hallways aren’t that big!”

  Coronet Gahnfeld nodded. “Of course, Guide. With your permission, I’ll relieve two squads for supper, post two men at your quarters, and the other two with your person. I also ask that you give me advance notice of your intentions, so we can check the way ahead of time.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  Gahnfeld looked surprised. “Oh, no, Warden! It would be worth my skin to disobey Captain Koss’s orders.”

  Leland winced at the use of his title. Fornication! He steamed quietly for a moment, taking quick, short steps across the stable yard. Finally he snapped out, “As you will, Gahnfeld. Right now I’m going to the library. Then I’m going to take a bath, and then I’m going to eat.” His voice, raised in annoyance, stopped suddenly, and he seemed to take hold of himself. When he spoke again, it was quietly and calmly. “Is there anything else I should brief you about?” he asked the soldier.

  The coronet took a step back and saluted. “No, Guide.”

  Dillan de Laal waited on the bank of the Black River, a solitary figure on a gray horse. Ten meters behind him was his standard-bearer, and fifty meters behind him the Third Mounted Pikes stood at attention beside their horses, a disciplined line of a thousand kept all the straighter by Ricard de Laal’s constantly moving eye.

  From politeness, Dillan had invited Ricard to wait with him at the front, but Captain de Laal had declined. “No, Cousin. This rabble of mine needs constant attention.”

  Dillan had been relieved. The two disliked each other, a mutual antagonism that had started in childhood but had resolved itself into a cold truce in adulthood.

  On the other side of the river a distant dust cloud marked the movements of the High Steward’s party across Cotswold’s Gray Plain. A small scouting party, well in advance of the main column, came galloping into view, paused at the top of the far bank, then came trotting down the cut to the ford.

  The Black was a deep river in most places, flowing south from the Hearth Mountains in the east and forming Greater Noramland’s eastern border with Nullarbor, then flowing west to mark Noramland’s southern border with Cotswold. Here, at Jaren’s Ford, the Black spread wide instead of deep, flowing over bedrock. In the spring it was too deep to cross, but for the rest of the year, it was usually passable.

  Now the main party came into view, five hundred mounted troops riding to the side of the carts, wagons, and mounts of the steward’s retainers. Near the front of the group, Dillan could make out the banner of High Steward de Noram and beside it, the clenched fist of Cotswold. Passenger coaches followed and the baggage carts brought up the rear. The mounted troops spurred ahead then and came down the cut and split, lining the far bank to each side of the ford.

  Dillan turned his horse and nodded at Ricard, then trotted down to the ford, his standard-bearer following. Behind him he heard Ricard shout, “Prepare to mount! Mount!” Dillan rode on into the shallow water and splashed his way across the half kilometer to the other side. Ricard’s Mounted Pikes stayed where they were.

  Once out of the water, he nodded to the captain of the Cotswold mounted troops and waited.

  The first four riders down the hill were High Steward Arthur de Noram, Guide Marilyn de Noram, and two others whom Dillan had not met but knew to be High Steward Siegfried Montrose and his son, Guide Sylvan Montrose. Immediately behind them came the two standard-bearers.

  Dillan dismounted and knelt in the road as Arthur rode up. “Greetings, Steward. I carry my father’s compliments and wishes for your well-being.” He stood then.

  Arthur waved his hand in half salute, arrogant, barely polite. “Greetings,” he said shortly. “Are we ready to proceed?”

  Dillan ignored the slight and continued politely. “Certainly, Steward. May I offer my father’s greetings to the Guide Marilyn and to the family Montrose?” He performed a half bow to Marilyn, Siegfried, and Sylvan.

  Marilyn, surprised at her father’s rudeness, said quickly, “Thank you, Guide Dillan. I trust your father and the rest of your family are well?”

  Arthur frowned at his daughter’s words but said nothing.

  “Yes, Guide. My father is quite well. I hope your road has been easy since we last saw you.”

  Marilyn smiled. “It has. May I present High Steward Siegfried Montrose and his son Guide Sylvan.”

  “Honored, Steward. Guide.”

  Siegfried smiled slightly, his eyes going from Arthur to Dillan. “A pleasure to meet the eldest son of Dulan de Laal.”

  Sylvan yawned and looked at the river.

  Dillan mounted then and said, “At your command, Steward.”

  Arthur turned in his saddle. “Are you ready, Siegfried?”

  Siegfried Montrose smiled. “A moment, if you please, Arthur, while I give my captains their orders.” He reined aside, accompanied by Sylvan, and conversed privately with his officers for a few moments.

  Dillan waited quietly, studying Siegfried Montrose.

  The High Steward of Cotswold was a tall, thin man, with craggy, bony features and thick, ragged eyebrows below a receding hairline. His hair was dark and shot with streaks of gray. His dark clothing, though simple of cut and ornamentation, was made of the best fabrics; his boots shone in the sun. His appearance suggested disciplined power.

  Arthur, with his brilliantly colored collars, lapels, and sleeves, looked foppish when contrasted with Siegfried.

  Sylvan was somewhere in between, both in dress and features. He had something of his father’s discipline but some of Arthur’s liking for fashionable clothing. As tall as his father but without the thinness, he had muscles that his clothing didn’t hide. He wore a curved sword in the Cotswold fashion, on the waist for a cross draw. A long dagger was in a sheath across the small of his back, and Dillan spotted another sticking out of the top of a boot.

  Arthur sat without speaking, a sour expression on his face. After a moment he turned to his standard-bearer and said, “Have wine brought. This dust will be my death.”

  Dillan thought, Would that you’d been more like William. There’d been no trouble with Cotswold when William de Noram had ruled. Nor had Nullarbor ever held the Plain of the Founders for even a season. Dillan shrugged. “And how did you find Montrouge, gentle Guide? I’ve heard it has many impressive buildings.”

  Marilyn nodded. “Indeed, but it’s hot and dry there, and the dust storms are terrible. I’ll be glad to get back to somewhere green!” She glanced at her father, who had ridden back up the road a bit to meet the servant with the wine. With a lowered voice she asked, “And how are your brothers?”

  Dillan kept a straight face as he toyed with her. “Dexter is fine. He’s drilling with Captain Kos
s’s Falcons and loves it. Anthony is working with the harvest masters. They have to build more granaries this year since the surplus from last year hasn’t been exhausted. The work seems to agree with both of the them.”

  Marilyn frowned. “And Leland? What of Leland?”

  Dillan raised his eyebrows. “Leland? Oh, yes, Leland.” He looked at the river for a moment. “I hope you’ll find him well.”

  “What’s he doing?” she asked quickly, since her father was riding back toward them.

  Dillan sighed. “His father’s will, Guide. His father’s will.”

  Anthony and Dexter reached the Great Hall together. Each had returned to the Station just before the banquet and had hurried through bathing and dressing.

  The High Steward de Noram’s party and escort had arrived shortly after midday. There’d been a brief greeting ceremony in the Great Hall, with refreshments all around, then they were escorted to the guest halls and given access to the baths.

  Bartholomew, stationed at the door, bowed formally as they hurried into the room. Dexter slowed so suddenly that Anthony bumped into him.

  “Easy, brother. With dignity now.”

  Anthony took a deep breath and glared halfheartedly at Dexter. Then he winked at Bartholomew and followed his brother into the room.

  Guide Dulan, the High Steward de Noram, and the High Steward Montrose sat on the dais that normally held only the high seat. Now de Noram sat in the high seat and de Laal and Montrose sat to each side of him. They appeared to be talking quietly and sampling small foods from passing trays.

  Dexter looked around the great floor. He saw Dillan waiting near his table talking to Guide Marilyn and a tall, dark man wearing green and black with a jeweled dagger prominently on his waist. Dexter paused and stared at him for a moment. Ah, that must be Sylvan Montrose. Big fellow, isn’t he?

  Anthony headed for his table and the group of guests waiting around it, so Dexter did likewise. “Evening, Leland,” Dexter said as he passed Leland’s table.

  Leland, whose eyes had been staring across the room, turned his head quickly at Dexter’s voice and smiled faintly. “Good evening.”

  Dexter walked on but couldn’t help wondering why Coronet Gahnfeld, the “bad boy” of the Falcons, was standing behind Leland looking uncomfortable in formal clothing. And why two more Falcons in dress clothes stood by the wall near Leland’s table fully armed.

  Captain Koss smiled as Dexter hurried up. “Ah, there you are. Did you give the second troop a good workout?”

  “Hah! They wore me to a pulp. Next time you send me on a forced march with that group, I’m taking a horse. Their legs are too long.”

  “Tsk, tsk. I’ve already received a report from Halvidar Morton. He’s of the opinion that ‘Guide Dexter should be given a pack full of stones.’ I think you gave as good as you got.” Captain Koss’s eyes wandered to Anthony’s table and his daughter, Clarissa.

  Dexter followed his gaze and saw her, head close to Anthony’s, deep in conversation. “Uh-oh. You really should talk to Clarissa about the quality of the company she keeps.”

  Captain Koss smiled halfheartedly. “She’s old enough to make her own mistakes—if mistakes they be. Be quiet, the high steward is about to speak.”

  Up on the dais Arthur de Noram stood and raised a hand. Conversation ceased and all assembled turned to face the high seat. “Greetings and good fortune to all present,” Arthur said in his reedy voice.

  The crowd responded with a murmured “And also to you.”

  The High Steward continued. “I am pleased to be able to make the following announcements.” He paused and motioned to Guide Dulan and High Steward Montrose to stand. “First of all, this afternoon, in closed council with me the Stewardship of Cotswold and the Guardianship of Laal signed articles of peace and cooperation. This leaves Greater Noramland free from hostile forces on its eastern border!”

  Martin, standing to the side of the dais against the wall, signaled the applause by starting it. He stopped ten seconds later.

  High Steward de Noram beamed. “Yes, yes. Thank you. As evidence of his good faith, the High Steward Montrose is sending his only son, Guide Sylvan Montrose, to reside in Noram City for the next two years, both to study at our justly famous University of Noramland”—the high steward paused here to point out into the audience at Guide Sylvan—”and to pursue his suit with his newly betrothed, my daughter, the gentle Guide Marilyn de Noram.”

  Dexter’s jaw dropped. While the stewardship wasn’t automatically hereditary and Marilyn’s older sister came first, the son of a high steward married to the daughter of the ruling steward would join the list of qualified heirs. A son of Cotswold on the throne of Noramland! Dexter barely had wits about him to join in the applause. No matter how he considered it, he couldn’t look at it as other than disastrous.

  When the applause died down servants rushed to supply everyone with a goblet of wine. Guide Dulan stepped forward with his goblet raised. “As host I offer this toast, the traditional blessing of the Laals.”

  Damn, thought Dexter. He might have warned us! He readied himself. Guide Dulan bowed toward Sylvan and Marilyn, then shouted, “Long life.”

  “Good health,” continued Dillan.

  “Good fortune,” shouted Dexter.

  “Many children,” added Anthony.

  “And great happiness!” finished Leland. “Great happiness!” echoed the entire hall.

  Dexter stood among the cheering crowd and thought dark, depressing thoughts.

  So much for Leland’s prospects, thought Anthony, eating more of the squash. He wasn’t displeased. Speculation about Leland’s interactions with Marilyn had run from the grandiose to the silly, but he’d been uneasy. He washed the squash down with a swallow of ice tea.

  At Anthony’s left, Clarissa picked at her food. Anthony looked at her and the problem of Leland faded, as usual, to the back of his mind. “Ah, Clarissa. What do you think of the news? Peace, a new name in the ranks of heirs, eh?”

  Clarissa frowned, then shook her head. “It’s not my place to comment, Guide.”

  Anthony blinked. Her use of his title was unusual. Was it a subtle hint that this was a formal, public occasion and that perhaps her opinions were not suited for public display? “Perhaps we’ll talk of it later,” he said.

  She nodded slowly. Anthony settled back.

  He watched his father talking with high stewards where they sat on the dais. He saw them smile and occasionally laugh at one of Arthur de Noram’s jokes, but there was something unnatural about the way the high steward sat. Dulan and Siegfried seemed perfectly at ease, but there was something uncomfortable in the way Arthur kept shifting back and forth in his seat. No matter how much he smiled and laughed, something seemed to be bothering the High Steward de Noram.

  “Hmmmphh.”

  “Pardon, Anthony?”

  “Nothing, Clarissa. At least I hope it’s nothing.” He twisted around in his chair and looked at Dillan’s table. “Guide Sylvan is eating well, I see.”

  Clarissa smiled. “I’d noticed. That’s his third helping of the mutton.”

  Anthony looked at Marilyn de Noram, where she sat on Dillan’s right. “Marilyn seems cheerful enough. I hope they have a happy marriage.”

  Clarissa raised her eyebrows. “We’ll see. She certainly has good self-control. I haven’t seen her eat a thing.”

  Anthony blinked. “Probably too happy.”

  “No doubt,” Clarissa said slowly. “No doubt.”

  Over at Leland’s table, Coronet Gahnfeld was passing Sylvan Montrose. He was working on his fourth helping of mutton, his third helping of wheat pilaf, and his sixth roll. Those also seated at Leland’s table stared at Gahnfeld in open-mouthed amazement. When he’d polished that off, he looked around for the attendants circulating with more food, but Bartholomew had told them to stop serving Leland’s table since the only one eating was Gahnfeld.

  Leland watched Gahnfeld bemusedly, grateful for the distraction. W
hen it became clear that no waiter was going to respond to the coronet’s gestures, Leland slid his own nearly untouched plate in front of Gahnfeld.

  “Why, thank you, Guide. That’s very kind of you.”

  Leland replied dryly, “I can’t have my bodyguard fainting from hunger, can I?” The two guards standing against the wall behind Leland had been replaced so they could eat in the kitchen. Leland looked across the hall to Dillan’s table and Marilyn. He felt a sharp pain at the sight of her laughing at something Sylvan Montrose had said. He looked away quickly.

  He glanced up at his father and found him looking back. For a moment their eyes met and held, then Dulan nodded slowly and turned to answer a question from Siegfried Montrose.

  Leland blinked and felt oddly comforted. He started paying more attention to those around him and, by the end of the banquet, had even managed some feeble flirtation with the daughter of a visiting guide.

  But, after the banquet, his bodyguards wondered why he climbed to the east wall and watched the Needle until the moon went down.

  Chapter 7

  KI MUSUBI: KNOTTING UP, CONNECTING, KI

  The morning after the banquet was clear and cool, with a pleasant breeze out of the east. On the west wall, High Steward Siegfried Montrose paced slowly back and forth while he waited for his son. Two of his guards stood at each end of the walkway and his body servant waited with tea on a brazier.

  He paused now and then to watch the activities beginning in the courtyards below and out in the town. Yawning groups of men and women headed for the fields to get the weeding done before the heat of the day. Children, laughing and playing, walked, skipped, and otherwise made their way to Morning School. Montrose frowned at this.

  He heard steps behind him and turned. Sylvan was walking slowly toward him, one hand to his head and the other shading his eyes. He was wincing.

  “Good morning, Sylvan,” Siegfried said loudly.

  Sylvan covered his ears. “Oh, malnutrition! Do you have to speak so loud?” Siegfried laughed. “You idiot. If you want to overeat and overdrink, you deserve the consequences.”