Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Over the next quarter hour, Talis learned a great deal about sheep and their care that she already knew, and little else. She did manage to glean the fact that the King’s garrison was now fully manned, thanks to a shipment of Pelanese soldiers that had come in only last month.

  “I swear, I never saw so much spit ’n polish in my life,”

  Levons said, waving the fresh tankard Talis had brought him so energetically that it slopped over. “They spend half the day polishing their gear, and the other half drilling.”

  “Drilling? Ooooh, how exciting,” Talis breathed. “What kind of drilling? Do they march, or do they ride around on fine horses?”

  “Oh, they’ve got at least two squads of cavalry, missy, but most of the soldiers are infantry,” Levons said. Raising his tankard, he gulped down the ale, his throat rippling.

  Talis giggled. “I just love a man in uniform.”

  Levons smiled widely, showing a broken tooth that was turning black. “Makes me wish I’d brought my militia uniform, sweetling,” he said. “I could stand some lovin’ from a pretty minx like you.”

  “Militia?” Talis said, refilling his cup, careful to keep her tone casual. Castio had told her to be on the watch for certain members of the militia. “Which militia are you with, Master Levons?”

  “Oh, from Casloria, m’dear. We march there twice a week. I’m a drill leader.” He grinned and gulped his ale.

  “M’wife says ’tis irreverent, disrespectful to the Crown, but I say we have to be ready. One day the Viceroy’s going to decide that he wants the broth off our hobs and the shirts from our backs, mark my—” A huge belch ended his statement.

  Talis gazed at the old farmer, her thoughts racing. Was he one of Castio’s couriers? He’d mentioned two key words, “militia” and “marching” in close succession, though he hadn’t voiced the actual code phrase. Of course, he’s pretty drunk, Talis thought. It could be coincidence. Maybe I should test him, see if he makes the proper response.

  Talis drew a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knew she must must do next. She slid into the seat beside Levons, pressing against him, nuzzling his cheek. “We need to talk,” she whispered into his whiskery ear, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Master Levons … do we march in unison?” It was the code recognition query Castio’s couriers learned.

  The old drunkard paid no attention to Talis’s words at all.

  Instead, he grunted lustfully as he grabbed her breast.

  Talis’s mouth dropped open in outrage, then she controlled her features. Her right hand, the hand that was concealed from any onlookers, immediately slid down to the old courier’s homespun crotch. She closed it around his left testicle with a grip that could not possibly be mistaken for anything but a threat. “Let go of my tit,” she murmured keeping her voice sweet. Their faces were only inches apart. “If you don’t, I’ll crush it.”

  Levons withdrew his hand from Talis’s bodice with such alacrity that he overturned his empty tankard.

  “That’s better,” Talis cooed, still not releasing his testicle.

  Levons, now considerably sobered, regarded her, sweating with sudden anxiety. “Did you say somethin’ missy?” he muttered, hoarsely. “I’m hard o’hearin’ in m’ right ear. Can you … can you repeat it? Please?”

  Talis’s eyes widened. He didn’t hear me? She nuzzled the left side of his neck. “I said, ‘do we march in unison?’ ”

  Levons nodded. “We march on the right side,” he whispered, giving the proper countersign. “Please, missy … don’t hurt me. I was drunk and not payin’ attention. I’m sorry.”

  Talis relaxed her grip. “Get this straight,” she murmured, licking his good ear. “Nuzzle my neck and touch my shoulder, but leave my double-damned tits alone, or I’ll show you real pain.”

  Shifting on his lap, she giggled wildly, shaking her forefinger in his whiskery face. “Naughty man!” she chided co-quettishly. “Now you must be punished! Tell me that I’m pretty! Tell me you’ve fallen in love with me! Tell me everything!”

  Levons obeyed. As they “fondled” and “snuggled,” the old courier gave Talis every detail of what he’d observed of the King’s garrison while selling his flock, as well as an update on the ammunition, strength, and training level of the Caslorian militia. She listened intently, as she’d been trained, so she would be able to repeat the information almost verbatim.

  Finally, when Levons whispered that he was finished with his report, she suddenly jerked back with a shrill squeal of indignation. “What makes you think you can touch me there?” she demanded, then let fly with a resounding slap across the old farmer’s pudgy features. She pulled the blow, but even so, a red mark blossomed. “Let me go!”

  Leaping to her feet, she tossed her head, picked up her tray, and flounced away from Levons, who sat nursing his red cheek. When she reached the bar, she busied herself tending to the glasses, and didn’t look up when Levons, accompanied by guffaws and ribald commentary, left the tavern.

  Talis scrubbed tables with more vigor than was strictly necessary, trying to shake off a sense of guilt at the way she’d treated the old man. So what if he’s one of us? she thought, wielding her scrub brush briskly. He’s still a man.

  Just an old drunkard, just like Uncle Jasti. Next time he starts to paw some young girl, maybe he’ll think twice and keep his hands to himself!

  The clock chimed the hour by the time she was finished with the washing up, and Talis looked up to see Rufen Castio peering at her from the crack in the back room door. Talis began counting, and when she reached five hundred, she nodded to the tavernkeep, who nodded back.

  Quickly, she picked up her shawl, pulled it on, and hurried outside. Afternoon was waning and the breeze had grown chill. The clouds overhead were thickening. Talis realized that if she were going to make it home by bedtime, she’d have to run or catch a ride on a wagon. For a moment she considered just starting for home and coming back tomorrow, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Castio needed her.

  She darted down the street, moving quickly, but not so fast that anyone would become suspicious. There was a countinghouse on the corner, and she turned right onto the northern road and, still moving fast, headed for a small clearing in the trees bordering it.

  Castio was waiting for her, clearly impatient, his tall, skinny form striding back and forth like a nervous horse. His mount, a sturdy chestnut mare, stood tethered to a tree. Talis hastened up to the revolutionary leader, feeling her heart leap, as always, when she saw him. Not with romantic love, no. Talis felt that way about no man.

  The love she felt for Castio was, in its way, more profound. He was her leader, the one who had shown her the vision of a free land. Rufen Castio was a great man.

  Now she hurried up to him, smiling. “You were wonderful today! You had them all in the palm of your hand. If you’d told them to set sail for Pela to bring back Prince Salesin’s head, they’d have launched their boats, Castio!”

  He nodded at her, as usual, all business. “I received a message that a courier was headed our way,” he said. “Did you get his report?”

  “Yes” she said, repressing another flicker of guilt.

  “What did you learn?”

  “ ’Tis a standard layout for a frontier fort,” Talis said.

  “Wooden stockade, twelve gun platforms, officers’ quarters, line troops barracks, armory, stables, commissary, store-house, magazine, and a kitchen and scullery building.”

  Squatting down in the dirt, she used a small twig to reproduce what Levons had described to her.

  “What’s their strength?”

  “Levons saw a little over three hundred men, but some were out on patrol, he said. Probably a complement of four hundred, give or take.”

  “Half a battalion,” Castio said. “No surprise there. Supplies?”

  “They appeared well-supplied, he said. Plenty of hams in the smokehouse, many sacks of flour, and the dinner he ate with them was edible. No weevils, fresh v
egetables. Good ale and cider.” She chuckled. “If you’d seen the girth on this fellow, you’d know why he was so interested in the food.”

  “Edible army food, that is worrisome,” Castio said dryly.

  “Did he get any glimpses into the magazine?”

  “One of his ewes got loose and just happened to wander in that direction,” Talis said. “He was able to catch up to her right outside the window of the magazine. He caught only a glance before the guard demanded that he take himself off, but he estimated at least twenty-five kegs of powder, and he said there were some boxes that may have contained car-tridges with the new style bullets.”

  “A well-equipped fort, indeed,” Castio said. “And just one of many that infest our land, may the Goddess help us.” He sighed, and Talis looked at him, distressed. Never before had she seen Rufen Castio look anything but determined.

  “The cannon,” she said, continuing with her report, not knowing what else to say, “at least twelve of them, and they fire three-or four-pound shot.”

  Castio glanced up at her and seemed to return to himself.

  “Excellent, Talis,” he said. “Good work.”

  Talis felt warm all over. Castio was not one to offer praise lightly. Quickly, she finished up her report, repeating everything Levons had told her. When she first met Castio and he’d considered her for this work, he taught her to use her eyes and her ears, and to remember in detail without the aid

  of written notes. Talis had been highly motivated, and was a quick and able student.

  When she was done, her mouth was dry from talking so much. Castio had a leathern flask fastened to his saddle, and she went over to it and unfastened it. “May I?”

  “And welcome to it,” Castio said. “ ’Tis the least we can do for you, after such an exacting report.”

  Talis drank, long and deep. The water tasted of leather and was tepid, but she was so thirsty she enjoyed it anyway.

  When she was finished, she wiped her mouth, then gathered up her skirts. “I must go,” she said. “As it is, I can’t make it home before dark. I’m supposed to be hunting up on Lone-some Ridge. I’ll have to make up some story about missing my way or tracking a wounded doe and then losing her.”

  Castio looked at her, concerned. “You’re nearly a league from Woodhaven,” he said. “How did you get here, and how will you get home?”

  “I ran,” Talis said. “I told them I was going hunting on the mountain, so I couldn’t bring a horse. I’ll likely run back to Woodhaven, unless I can catch a ride on a farm wagon.”

  “No, not likely. You’ve done the Cause a service today, and we’ll not repay you so shabbily. I’ll take you there.

  Rebel will carry double for that distance.”

  Soon enough Talis found herself perched pillion behind Castio on the rump of his chestnut, wishing she was wearing her trousers so she could ride astride. She was used to riding either astride or sidesaddle, but sitting sideways on a horse’s rump with no anchor save Castio’s back to hang on to felt strange and precarious.

  “You took quite a risk today, playing the tavern wench so close to home,” Castio said as they jogged back into town to retrieve Talis’s hunting clothes from the inn, where she’d left them. “Why didn’t you wear a disguise?”

  “I should have, I suppose,” she admitted. “But by the time I received that message telling me about that courier coming to town, I didn’t want to take the time. I figured it was worth a chance. Besides,” she added grimly, “men don’t look me in the face when I’m dressed like this, Master Castio.”

  Castio shifted slightly in his saddle to glance back at her.

  “Don’t take any more such chances, Talis. You are too valuable to the Cause. We can’t risk losing you.”

  Talis was speechless with joy, and seized by a sudden bout of shyness. She nodded silently, eyes downcast.

  They stopped briefly in North Amis for Talis to change in the back room of the tavern. She felt more comfortable in her buckskin trousers, homespun hunting shirt, buckskin jacket, and one of her father’s old broad-brimmed hats. She pulled it down low over her brow and stuffed her hair up under it so it was unlikely she’d be recognized. Talis’s father acknowledged that she was the surest shot in the family and that hunting required her to wear men’s clothing. But he’d have been shocked beyond words to see her dressed in hunting garb out in public.

  Then, pleased that she could now ride astride, Talis swung up behind Castio again and they set out for the Aloro farm at a slow but steady jog.

  Once outside of town, they met few passersby, and soon they were following a rutted track that led to some of the outlying farms. The afternoon sun cast greenish light through the massive trees that bordered the road. “It’s been months since I’ve seen you,” Castio commented, breaking a long silence.

  “How have you been? Keeping up with your arms practice?”

  “These days, we rarely waste powder and shot on practice,” Talis said. “With the King’s taxes so high, Father has to scrimp to make ends meet. But I do enough hunting to stay in practice.”

  “Good, excellent. Did you read that pamphlet I lent you?”

  “Yes, I did. It was hard going, at first. There were so many phrases I had to think about, and Master Sendith uses so many big words. ‘Guaranteed rights of the governed’ and such. But I stuck with it, and it got a bit easier.” She grinned.

  “I prefer your broadsides, Master Castio. They’re interesting to read, not hard.”

  “I’ve not authored a broadside in too long,” Castio said.

  “I’ve been spending my writing time making up tavern

  songs. Want to hear my latest one? The further it spreads, the better.”

  “Sing it to me!” Talis urged.

  Castio threw back his head, and, since they were totally alone on the back country road, sang out in his pleasant but untrained baritone.

  “Hey, nonny, nonny and a ho ho ho

  Everyone knows that the King must go!

  Agivir the feeble, and the fat and slow

  Hey nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho!

  If you pick a fight with Agivir he’ll offer you a treat

  It’s silver coin in pocket you’ll be stowin’

  He thinks he won’t be taken when he beats a fast retreat

  If he fattens up the purses of his foemen!

  Hey, nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho

  Everybody knows that the King must go

  Agivir the purser, with his head hung low

  Hey nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho!

  Agivir, he likes his food, it puts him in good cheer

  He likes it rich and spicy, bake or boil it

  The servants must be careful to keep burning candles clear

  The explosion could wipe out the royal toilet!

  Hey, nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho

  Everybody knows that the King must go

  Agivir the windy, with his farts aglow

  Hey, nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho!

  Agivir, he has three sons who might lord it over us

  Succession is secure, and that’s the bother

  Who’s to choose between the villain, the dimwit, or the puss?

  At least we can be sure of who’s the father!

  Hey, nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho

  Everybody knows that the King must go

  Agivir the daddy with his brats in tow

  Hey, nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho!

  Hey, nonny, nonny and a ho ho ho

  Everybody knows that the King must go

  Agivir the feeble, the fat and slow

  Hey nonny, nonny, and a ho ho ho!

  Talis listened wide-eyed, and when he was finished, she laughed uneasily. “Master Castio! I daren’t teach that song in the taverns, ’twould get me dragged off to gaol!”

  “I know,” Castio admitted. “It’s not time for that one quite yet. In six months, a year at the outside, you’ll hear scores of men bellowing it in every tavern, or my name’s no
t Rufen Castio.”

  “So, you’re saying it will come down to a … fight,” Talis said slowly, trying not to let her dismay show. “Revolution?

  Are you sure?”

  “Who can be sure of anything in this world?” he countered.

  Talis was not going to give up so easily. “Don’t you think we can … avoid it? Somehow?”

  “No, I don’t think we can,” he answered, all levity gone.

  “But that’s not what you tell the people.” Talis shifted uneasily on the mare’s rump. The horse was sweating now, and the smell of it was sharp in her nostrils. She could feel dampness seeping through the seat of her trousers.

  “The people must be led gently, like a flock with a good shepherd,” Castio said. “Push them too hard, rush them, terrify them, and they’ll turn tail and trample you. The key to revolution is to make them aware of all that plagues them, then let them know there are others who feel the same way.

  Play your cards right, and soon they’ll be talking each other—and you!—into marching off to the revolution.”

  Talis frowned. “When I talk to folks in the taverns, most of them think that if we can just get past Viceroy Salesin and gain the King’s ear, things here on Kata can still be sal-vaged.” She didn’t add that she wanted that to be the case.

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “No,” said Castio flatly. “Not possible.” He thought for a moment, then added, “If Agivir were to take control back again, I suppose there could still be a chance. But that’s not going to happen. Salesin will never give up the power he’s gained, and he’s constantly gaining more. He’s ruthless. I’d wager even Agivir fears him. There are rumors that the King may abdicate.”

  “Oh, no!” Talis was shocked. She’d always known that Salesin would be King one day, but that had been something for a distant, hazy future. Talis had been born on Katan soil, but Gerdal was Pelanese, and proud of it. Every Holy Day he hoisted a glass to “Good King Agivir, may the Goddess keep him.” And every visit to the temple had included a prayer for the King’s health, wisdom, and long reign.