"Not yet, but—why don't you stick around for a fortnight or so?" she told them. "Maybe something will come up."
"I'd as soon sleep in one of your beds as the floor of an inn," Beaker replied with gratitude. "Thanks."
"No worries," Tarma told him, "You've stayed here often enough; put your mares up, get your gear and find a room, and I'll see you at dinner. Keth'll be glad to see you."
As the two Sunhawks (former Sunhawks, she reminded herself) disappeared through the stable door to get their gear, Tarma turned to leave through the outer door. "Coming, Furface?" she asked over her shoulder, as Warrl's great bulk uncoiled from behind the fence.
:I wouldn't miss this for the world,: Warrl replied smugly.
Tarma cast him a look of suspicion. Just what did he know about the visitor?
But the kyree wasn't talking, so the only way for her to find out what was going on was to get up to the manor.
She found Jadrek and Kethry in the solar, entertaining an ordinary-looking fellow with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed brown beard, and a charming, open face. But it was his clothing that immediately explained the reason for Warrl's amusement. He was dressed in scarlet from his collar to his boots, and there was only one thing that could mean.
Oh, gods, she groaned, as Warrl chuckled unmercifully in her head. Not another bard!
"Tarma! Just the person we needed!" Jadrek said genially, before Tarma could duck out of sight and hide. "Please join us!"
She sighed, and schooled her face to a pleasant—or at least neutral—expression as she entered the warm, firelit solar. "I really shouldn't," she began. "I've just been in the stables, I smell like horse—"
"But that's precisely why I'm here," the stranger exclaimed, turning toward her eagerly. "Horses! A very dear friend of mine and a very important noble of the Valdemar Court is suffering from a rather extreme set of problems with his horses—"
"And you came here?" Tarma allowed one eyebrow to rise quizzically as she chose a sturdy chair and flung herself into it. "Why on earth did a Bard of Valdemar come here for help with horses?"
"Because Roald sent him to Stefansen, and Stef sent him here, of course," Kethry replied, a twinkle in her green eyes. She twined a tendril of hair as golden as her daughter's around one finger in an absentminded gesture Tarma knew meant she was highly amused.
"Ah." Tarma let the eyebrow drop again. "Roald" was King Roald of Valdemar, who was Stefansen's friend and had been since the days when they were merely Prince Stefansen and Herald Roald. Jadrek had been Archivist to Stef's father, and he and Tarma and Keth had helped put Stef on the throne of Rethwellan after his brother usurped it, tried to murder him, and succeeded in murdering their sister. She in turn had been Captain Idra, leader of the Mercenary Guild Company Idra's Sunhawks—which had employed Tarma as Scoutleader and Kethry as Company Mage. It sometimes made Tarma's head spin, what with being a Shin'a'in Swordsworn and simple trainer of would-be warriors on one hand, and on a first-name basis with the Kings of two countries on the other.
"Well," she said, leaning over to help herself to food and drink with a long arm. "You're a bard, you ought to know how to tell a tale in a straightforward manner, so why don't you start from the beginning and explain the situation to this poor bewildered barbarian?"
Nothing loath, the young man launched into his story. Tarma had a difficult time keeping her face straight when he related the fable of the Gray Stud being a Shin'a'in warsteed. Nothing was more unlikely, and she said so.
"I can promise you that we haven't lost a stud off the Plains in our entire history," she told him. "And it's damned unlikely that your friend's ancestors even got an accidental halfbreed. Battlemares are perfectly capable of keeping an unwanted male at bay, and even if one had the poor taste to mate with something other than another warsteed, I can guarantee you she'd be back on the Plains as soon as her rider knew she was pregnant. We simply don't let the bloodline out of our hands."
Bard Lauren shrugged. "I'll admit that the story sounded odd to me," he admitted, "but it's one of those family legends that no one contradicts." His face fell a little. "I came here in hope that since the problem stems from that bloodline, you'd know how to deal with it," he concluded in resignation. "And since the bloodline isn't what I was told, I won't waste any more of your time—"
"Whoa up, there!" Tarma exclaimed. "I didn't say I couldn't help you. As a matter of fact, I'm fairly certain I can."
:Just what are you up to?: Warrl asked with alarm.
With no students to train, I was afraid I was going to be bored waiting for the summer trek, she thought gleefully. This will be a marvelous way to do a little traveling. I'll ask my Hawkbrother friend to magic us up to the north and back, and it won't take any time at all.
:You wouldn't!: Warrl said in horror. He hated the Gates, though he and Tarma had only needed to use them once before, when the Hawkbrother mage she and Kethry had rescued had asked for some assistance in tracking a weird Pelagir beast and bringing it to bay.
Tarma chuckled under her breath.
The Bard's face lit up as brightly as the sun at high summer. "You can?" he exclaimed.
A plan was rapidly forming in her mind, and she turned to Kethry. "You won't need me back here until the trek to the Plains for the summer, will you?" she asked.
Kethry shook her head. "Not that I can imagine—and until then, the rains should keep the childrens' mayhem to a minimum."
"Good! Try and keep them out of the village, will you? They'll probably all try and do something to match Jadrie's new horse if you don't. I've got a notion to see how our old friend Roald is doing, and a run will do Warrl a world of good." She smiled maliciously as Warrl made a sound of inarticulate protest. "I hope you haven't unpacked your things, Bard Lauren; we'll have to leave in the morning if we want to get to your Forst Reach by spring plowing."
The Bard placed one hand over his heart and bowed to her formally. "Swordlady, a Bard can always be on the road at a moment's notice—and if you can solve Lord Kemoc's problem, I will be eternally grateful and at your service for as long as you please."
She chuckled. "Save your gallantries, my friend, and prepare for a hard ride."
Tarma had to give the man credit; he endured the difficult journey without a single complaint. He weathered the passage of a Gate from one Hawkbrother Vale to another farther north, right on the Border of Valdemar, and he put up with the ride by horseback afterward, in spite of the fact that they rose in the dark and didn't look for beds until well after nightfall, or that the rain drenched them every single furlong of the trip eastward. "I've ridden with Heralds a few times," was all he said, and of the three of them, Tarma was the only one who had any vague idea of what that might mean. She knew what Companions were—and if they were capable of the sorts of endurance wonders she suspected they were, then the Bard was a tough trooper indeed.
As one of the few Shin'a'in to leave the Plains, Tarma had more contacts among the Hawkbrothers than most of her kin, and partnering with a sorceress had given her a certain stolidity about magic. Her two friends were used to war-magic, and although the Gate excited a little curiosity in them, they weren't terribly startled by it. It was the Bard Tarma expected trouble from—
But strangely enough, it was almost as if his mind went blank from the time they entered the Vale to when they crossed the Valdemar Border. He literally did not remember how they had gotten there. And if Tarma had been inclined to worry about such things, that memory lapse would have seriously bothered her—but knowing the Hawkbrothers as she did, she suspected they had diddled with the man's mind to make him forget them, and she had no particular objection to such meddling.
Beaker and Jodi were looking forward to this job at Forst Reach, and had immediately fallen into the old habit of looking to her as their commander. She had more experience than they did at handling entrenched behavior problems in horses, but she had every confidence, not only in them, but in their mounts. Graceless and Hopeless were as ugly
as their names implied, but they were almost as intelligent as a battlesteed, and had been trained for just this sort of situation. What Jodi and Beaker couldn't handle, their mares could.
And for the really difficult customers—which would probably be the stud stallions—Tarma had both Ironheart and Hellsbane. She rode the former, and the Bard and his meager pack and hers were gingerly perched atop the latter, though Tarma had to give Hellsbane special commands before the battlesteed would permit a stranger to ride. Warrl rode on his pillion pad behind Tarma.
This strange little cavalcade clattered up the lane to the Ashkevron Manor just as the wind, which had been blowing steadily out of the north, suddenly turned and came from the southwest.
They were met at the door of the Manor by the Lord himself, whose first words were for Lauren, although he couldn't quite keep his startled gaze off Tarma and her companions. "By the gods, Lauren, we missed you this winter, and your mysterious letter was no compensation! Where in all the hells were you?"
"Finding you that help for your spring plowing problem, old friend," Lauren said wearily, but with a wide smile at the shock and surprise on Lord Kemoc's craggy face. "May I present to you my friends the Swordlady Tarma shena Tale'sedrin of the Shin'a'in, and her two compatriots, Jodi n'Aiker and Beaker Bowman, of Rethwellan?"
"A Shin'a'in?" Lord Kemoc's eyes nearly bulged out of his face, but he recovered quickly. "You're right welcome to Forst Reach, Ladies, Gents—" He looked somewhat at a loss for something to say, but his lady-wife was under no such difficulty.
"Come in, you're soaked to the skin and no doubt tired to the bone," she said firmly. It was obvious that although she was at a loss as to what their rank and status might be, she was taking them at face value as Lauren's "friends" and ranking them as his equals at least. "You need dry clothing, a good meal, and a warm bed, and anything else can wait until morning," she concluded, with a warning glance at her spouse.
He, wise man, immediately gave way before her; Tarma was not going to argue either.
The lady herself showed them to three rooms, all in a row, with doors on a common corridor. Tarma was in the first, and cheerfully dropped her pack on a bench at the foot of the bed. Neither large nor small, neither luxurious nor sparse, her room had a comfortable-looking bed, a chair, and the bench, with a washstand and a mirror on one wall in the way of furnishings. A fire burned cheerfully in the small fireplace on one wall, and there was glass in the window that looked out over the lane they had just ridden up.
Warrl sighed, and curled up on the hearth rug. :I wonder how the lady plans to solve the riddle of where to seat us at dinner?:
"She won't be seating you anywhere, Furface," Tarma laughed, just as someone tapped on the door.
Like a miracle, there were two servants, one with covered dishes on a tray—which neatly solved the question of how the lady was going to puzzle out their ranks—and one with water and a bowl of meat trimmings for Warrl.
Tarma was inclined to be more amused than offended at their hostess's neat sidestepping of protocol. She got a dry tunic and breeches out of her pack and changed into them, draped her wet clothing on the mantle to dry, and left her boots off, wriggling her toes in the warm fur of the rug beside her bed as she sat down to demolish the dinner that Lady Ashkevron had supplied her.
"I hate to admit this, but I prefer this to facing two dozen strangers all staring and trying to pretend they aren't," she told Warrl, once a taste had assured her that the savory portion of meat pie would not have to be put to rewarm beside the fire.
:You'll get your staring eyes soon enough. Tonight the Bard will let the Lady know you're fit for the High Table, and everyone will be able to stare at you as much as they want,: Warrl said, a trifle maliciously. He still hadn't forgiven Tarma for the Gate.
Her high good humor was too strong to let a little jibe like that affect her.
She put her tray outside the door and trotted down the hall to check on Beaker and Jodi. As she had expected, Jodi had simply moved in with Beaker rather than trying to make herself understood, figuring that their hosts would get the correct idea when only one room was in use. Jodi was just finishing her own dinner; Beaker had inhaled his and was examining one of the half dozen books that graced a little desk in their room.
"Wish I could read this," he said wistfully, as he put it down and moved to join Tarma and his partner in the door of his room. "I can speak a bit of their lingo, but the writing's beyond me."
"You aren't going to have time to read," she told him. "At least not for the next couple weeks. Did you see the size of the stables as we rode in? Figure on the sheer number of problem children they've got!"
While Beaker sat down on the hearth rug beside Warrl, using him as a backrest, Jodi's eyes lit up. Jodi was never happier than when she was working.
"I speak the language pretty well, so just let me translate for now," Tarma went on, sitting tailor fashion on the bed so that Jodi could take the chair. "If we do well here—tell you what, this just might be the long-term position you were looking for. It's obvious they don't know a thing about horse-talking, or they wouldn't be having the difficulty that they are."
Jodi nodded, pursing her lips. "This is all speculation, of course, but I'll bet that though their foundation stud did have a miserable disposition, the only thing wrong with their current crop is that they're too intelligent. They know they can get away with misbehaving, so they do. These horses are spoiled, that's what's wrong with them."
Beaker snorted. "Hellfires, they're expected to misbehave! Expect anything out of a horse, and you'll probably get it!"
Tarma grinned, pleased with herself and them. "The big question is, how do you want to play this? Do we demystify our hosts, or do we play this up as some sort of singular mind-magic?"
Beaker chuckled, and ran his hand through his short crop of graying hair. "We don't demystify them unless we decide we don't want to stay here—and right now, I wouldn't mind settling here for the rest of my life!"
On that cheerful note, the three of them parted company, and Tarma stretched herself out beneath a thick woolen blanket with every feeling of contentment.
But the shrill trumpeting of a stallion woke her at dawn, and sent her tumbling out of that warm, comfortable bed with a great deal more eagerness and enthusiasm than she had expected. She followed her nose to the kitchen, where an intimidated servant gave her hot bread and milk, and then followed her ears to the stables, where a battle royal was in progress. And quick as she had been, Jodi and Beaker were there waiting for her.
So was Lord Kemoc, and she took charge of the situation immediately.
"Whoa-up!" she shouted at the two stablehands struggling to get the recalcitrant beast into harness. "Leave off!"
Startled, they obeyed; she marched up and seized the reins of the horse, a gelding, looking him over quickly to judge his age and guess at the amount of behavioral damage she was going to have to undo. "Stubborn, aren't you, my lad?" she murmured, seeing that he was no more than three with a touch of relief. "Well, I'm not surprised. But you aren't getting away with this nonsense anymore."
The horse looked at her and snorted, as if daring her to make him behave. She laughed, somewhat to the Valdemaran's surprise. "Lord Kemoc, are these horses ever in harness except at plowing time?"
"No—" came the answer.
She shrugged. "Well, then—what you've got is two problems. The first is that these fellows never get a chance to understand what their job's all about. You shove them into harness, then they get something chasing at their heels for a fortnight or so, then you turn them loose again. The other problem is that you need to speak their language."
Kemoc's mouth literally dropped open. "We—what?" he spluttered.
"You need to speak their language," she replied firmly. "You're trying to break them, when they're too spirited and too intelligent to be broken, then when they misbehave, you give up. You just need to talk to them, and make them understand that good things happ
en when they behave themselves. Beaker, show him how to handle a youngster like this one—I doubt he's got too much to unlearn."
Beaker took the halter of the gelding and led him into a small enclosed exercise yard. Over the course of the morning, he worked what to the Valdemaran probably seemed like a miracle. Using many of the same techniques that Jadrie had used in taming her new filly, he soon had the gelding standing placidly under his harness. But then, instead of hitching him immediately to a plow, Beaker walked behind him, guiding him with the reins as if he were plowing, but without the plow in place; he kept looking back at Beaker in puzzlement, but instead of punishing him for stopping, Beaker simply gave him encouragement. Once the gelding was used to taking his orders from behind, instead of being ridden, Beaker got him accustomed to pulling against a weight—himself, leaning against the harness. Only then did he attach a sack full of gravel to the harness and guide him around the yard until he was comfortable with the idea of pulling against something and have that "something" right at his heels. Every time the horse began to act up, Beaker went back to the beginning—showing the horse that his behavior was not proper to herd etiquette, rather than punishing him.
Tarma explained what he was doing each step of the way, stressing that it was as important to act on what the horse was trying to tell his handler as it was to get the horse to do what you wanted, but as she expected, the Valdemarans assumed that this was some sort of magic rather than simple common sense and observation. By the time they broke for a little lunch, Lord Kemoc and his stablehands were just about convinced that Beaker was using something akin to a Herald's Gifts. Tarma overheard them muttering about "mind-speech" and "animal mind-speech," and had to stifle her grin.
They took a short break for a little lunch—eaten, Tarma noted, in a common group that included Lord Kemoc. That boded well for Jodi and Beaker's future. Afterward, she instructed the stablehands to bring in fresh horses two at a time. One by one, Jodi and Beaker took the youngest of the geldings into the exercise yard and ran them through the training routine, only turning them over to the plowmen when they were sure that the horses understood what they were being asked to do. By then, Lauren was nearly beside himself with delight, and Lord Kemoc was eyeing the three outlanders as if he suspected them of far more power than they were demonstrating.
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