Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  :And that women in trouble call it the way lures bring in hawks.:

  "Too true," Tarma sighed, thinking of all the times exactly that had happened. And all the trouble the sword had gotten them into as a consequence. Not to mention all the paying jobs it had cost them. "What did you do with the rest of the nags, anyway?"

  :Herded into a blind canyon. They won't be going anywhere. I assumed you'd want them.: Warrl sounded more than usually smug, and with good reason. By the time Tarma finished collecting everything salvageable, there was going to be enough here for at least three pack animals—and the horses themselves would be worth something, ill-used, scrubby beasts though they were. Most of the horses the bandits rode in on hadn't been stolen from the Keep.

  :They'll be worth more if Lordan offers them as bonuses to any merc who signs with him than if he sells them,: Warrl pointed out, following her train of thought with his customary ease. :It isn't often a common merc gets a chance at even a scrubby nag like one of this lot.:

  "Good point; I'll make sure he realizes that." She straightened, and surveyed the remains of the camp. "I think I've gotten everything worth getting. The vultures are welcome to what's left."

  :No self-respecting vulture would touch one of these fools.: Warrl sniffed disdainfully. :Stupidity might be catching.:

  Tarma snorted in agreement as she tied up a bundle of assorted silver plate. "They really weren't terribly bright, were they?"

  :Doesn't that strike you as odd?:

  Tarma paused with her hands on the last knot. "Now that you mention it," she said slowly, "it does. You might think these fools had never worked together before."

  :Hired separately?: Warrl licked his lips. :Then thrown together—that would account for some of the laxness, the lack of coordination. They did act as if each man was following his own set of orders, and to the nether hells with whatever anyone else was doing. And once back at camp, the only thing they did as a group was to set sentries.:

  "Exactly." Tarma sat back on her heels, and stared at the dying fire without really seeing it. "Now why would someone want to throw a group of scum together that they know is going to fall apart the moment the job is over?"

  Warrl began pacing back and forth, head swinging from side to side a little. :One would assume that whoever hired them—wanted them caught?:

  "Good notion. Let's think about this—if everything had gone wrong for these fools, what would have happened to them?" Tarma stood up, and joined Warrl in his pacing.

  :If they had not been able to take the girl, Rathgar would have been faulted for not protecting her. And I would guess that in any case the mage was ordered to dispose of Rathgar, no matter what the cost. They certainly had the men to assure that.: Warrl paused in his pacing, and looked up at her. :Which would leave the estate in the hands of the boy.:

  "Who could be gotten rid of as soon as the bride had produced an heir, or even before." Tarma scratched an old scar on the back of her hand. "All right—if it had gone half right, and they'd killed Rathgar, but left a force of able-bodied men behind to follow, it would have taken a while to get that force organized. And even if someone had come pounding after them, they'd have had time to get rid of the girl, which would give the family an excuse for blood-feud."

  :If you assume the girl is expendable—: Warrl sounded sour.

  Tarma felt just as sour; the Shin'a'in lived and died for their Clans, and the idea that a man could betray his own blood for the sake of gain curdled her stomach. Not that she hadn't encountered this before—but it curdled her stomach every time. "I think she is, given who's probably behind the attack in the first place. Keth already had this one figured. The uncle. Baron Reichert."

  :It fits his style.:

  "Aye, that. He'd put up his own daughter as an expendable, let alone a mere niece." She frowned. "Let's get the horses. I think that once we're in place, we'd better make the Keep a lot more secure than Rathgar had it, or the bride is likely to be a widow before the year's out. Assuming she lives that long."

  The sun was approaching zenith by the time Tarma coaxed the weary, footsore horses through the gates of walls about the Keep-lands—and by the tingle on her skin as she passed under the portcullis of the Keep itself, Kethry had already put a mage-barrier about the place.

  The Keep was more than a fortified manor; it was a small walled town, with a small pasture—or large paddock—within the walls for keeping horses. The quarried stone walls were "manned" by an odd assortment of women, old men, and boys, but Tarma nodded with approval as she gave them a surreptitious inspection while she dismounted and tended to the horse-herd. They were alert, they were armed with the kind of weapons they were most familiar with, and they looked determined. The boys had slings and bows; the old men, spears and crossbows; the women, knives, scythes, and threshing flails. By their weathered complexions and sturdy builds, those women and boys had been gleaned from the farms around the Keep, and Tarma knew her farmers. Every mercenary did. They could be frightened off, but if they decided to make a stand, they weren't worth moving against. Farmers like these had taken out plenty of men with those "peasant weapons."

  Evidently she was expected; the farmers around the Keep knew her, in any event, from the old days when the Keep had been a school that she'd shared with Keth. Those farmers had long memories, and several recognized her on sight. She even knew one or two, once she got within the walls and close enough to make out faces. One of those was a woman just above the gate, who waved, then turned her attention back to the road, shading her eyes with her hand while she fanned herself with her hat. Leaning on the wall beside her was a wicked, long-bladed scythe, newly-sharpened by the gleam of it, and having seen her at harvest time with that particular instrument, Tarma would not have wanted to rouse her ire.

  No one came down to help her, which spoke well for discipline, and that Keth had evidently impressed the seriousness of the situation on them.

  I might be old, Tarma thought with a certain dry amusement as she dismounted, but the day a Shin'a'in needs help with a herd of exhausted horses is the day they're putting her on her pyre.

  Her warmare followed her to the entrance, with the three pack horses trailing along behind. Warrl held the rest of the horses penned in the farthest corner of the court while she pulled packs and tack off her four. When packs and saddle were piled beside the door, she and Hellsbane drove the three tired nags before her, shuffling through the dust, to join the rest. Warrl kept them all in place simply with his presence, and Hellsbane kept them calm, while she opened both stable doors.

  She whistled, and through the open door watched Warrl climb lazily to his feet, then bark once, as Hellsbane played herd-mare. That was all the poor beasts needed; they shied away from him, and broke into a tired trot, shambling past her and out into the pasture. She slammed the stable door after them, and walked as wearily as they had back into the stone-paved, sunlit court.

  The kyree was waiting for her, looking as if he was feeling every year of his age. :Are we finished yet?: Warrl asked hopefully, his tongue lolling out.

  "You are," she replied, stretching, and feeling old injuries ache when she moved. "I'd better see what Keth's up to."

  :If you don't mind, I'll go get something to eat, and then become flat for a while.: Warrl headed off in the direction of the kitchen-garden. :I think that under-cook still remembers me.:

  "I wish I could do the same," she sighed to herself. "Oh, well. No rest for the wicked...."

  She caught up the pouches of jewelry and money on her way past the pile of packs. I don't think anyone out here is other than honest, but why take chances? The Keep door was halfway ajar; she pushed it open entirely, and walked in unannounced.

  The outer hall was cool, and very dark to her tired eyes after the brightness of the courtyard. That didn't matter; this place had been her home for years; she knew every stone in the walls and crack in the floors. As long as Rathgar didn't install any statues in the middle of the path, I ought to be able to f
ind my way to the Great Hall blindfolded, she thought, and I'll bet that's where Keth is.

  She was right.

  The Great Hall was nearly as bright as the courtyard outside; it was three stories tall, and the top story was one narrow window after another. Not such a security risk as it looked; it was rimmed with a walkway-balcony that could be used as an archers' gallery in times of siege—and the exterior walls were sheer stone. Kethry was in the middle of the Great Hall, supervising half a dozen helpers with her usual brisk efficiency, robes kilted up above her knees, hair tied back under a scarf. She'd set the entire Great Hall up as a kind of infirmary, and she had no lack of patients. Even Tarma was a bit taken aback by the sheer number of wounded; it looked suspiciously as if the raiders' specific orders had been to cause as much havoc and injury as possible in the shortest period of time.

  Which may be the case, she reflected soberly, as she threaded her way through the maze of pallets spread out on the stone floor. The more Rathgar's allies suffered, the better off Reichert would be. They'd be unable to support the boy, and very probably unwilling as well.

  Kethry was kneeling at the side of a man who was conscious and talking to her. She looked up from her current patient at just that moment, and her weary smile told Tarma all she needed to know about the mage's night. Long, exhausting, but with the only reward that counted—the casualties had been light at worst. Tarma nodded, and as Keth continued her current task of changing the dressing on a badly gashed leg, she slowed her steps to time her arrival with the completion of that task.

  "Looks like you've spent a night, she'enedra," the Shin'a'in said quietly, as Kethry stood up. "How's the boy?"

  "He'll live," she said, tucking a strand of hair under her scarf. "In fact, I think he'll be up and around before too long. I held him stable from a distance as soon as Kero told me what had happened, and I managed to get the one Healing spell What's-her-name taught me to work for a change."

  Tarma shook her head, and grimaced. "I never could understand it. Adept-class mage, and half the time you can't Heal a cut finger."

  "Power has nothing to do with it," Kethry retorted, "and it's damned frustrating."

  "Well, if you ask me, I think your success at Healing has as much to do with how desperate you are to make it work as anything," the fighter replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and flexing her aching arches. "Every time you've really needed it to work, it has. It's only failed you when you were trying it for something trivial."

  "Huh. That might just be—well, the boy is fine, and as grateful as anyone could want, bless his heart. The girl, on the other hand—" Kethry rolled her eyes expressively. "Dear gods and Powers—you've never heard such weeping and histrionics in your life. Kero came dragging them both in about dawn, and Her Highness was fine until one of her idiot cousins spotted her and set up a caterwauling. Then—you'd have thought that every wound in the place had been to her fair, white body."

  "About what I figured," the Shin'a'in said laconically. "Did you truss her up, or what?"

  "I sent her up to the bower with the rest of her hysterical relatives," Keth told her, the mage's mouth set in a thin line of distaste. "And I sent Kero to bed, once she'd looked in on her brother. She's made of good stuff, that girl."

  "She should be," Tarma replied, pleased that Kero hadn't fallen apart once she'd reached safety. "But it doesn't necessarily follow. Well, I'm for bed. And see that you fall into one sometime soon."

  "Soon, hell," the mage snorted. "I'm going now. There's nothing to be done at this point that can't be handled by someone else. There're half a dozen helpers, fresher and just as skilled."

  Tarma clutched the tunic above her heart. "Blessed Star-Eyed! You're delegating! I never thought I'd see the day!"

  Kethry mimed a blow at her, and the fighter ducked. "Watch yourself, or I'll turn you into a frog."

  "Oh, would you?" Tarma said hopefully. "Frogs don't get dragged out of their beds to go rescue stupid wenches in the middle of the night."

  Kethry just threw her hands up in disgust, and turned to find one of her "helpers."

  The tallow should be ready about now, Kero thought, setting her mortar and pestle aside long enough to check the little pot of fat heating over a water-bath. The still-room was dark, cool, and redolent with the odors of a hundred different herbs, and of all the "womanly" places in the Keep, it was by far Kerowyn's favorite. Dierna was still having vapors every time she set foot outside the bower—now converted from armory back to women's quarters by Dierna's agitated orders—so Grandmother Kethry had entrusted the making of medicines to Kero's hands.

  It keeps me busy, she thought, a little ruefully. And at least it's useful-busy. Not like Dierna's damned embroidery. Some of the recipes Kethry had dictated from memory, and they were things Kerowyn had never heard of; she was completely fascinated, and retreat to the still-room was not the boring task it usually was.

  Retreat to the stillroom was just that, too—retreat. Dierna's relatives, the female ones in particular, were treating her very strangely. Part of the time they acted as if she was some creature as alien and frightening as Tarma's giant wolf. The rest of the time they acted as if she was a source of prime amusement. They spoke to her as little as possible, but she was certain that they made up wild stories about her once they were on the other side of the bower doors.

  They certainly don't seem to spend any time doing anything else, she thought sourly, as she carefully removed the pot of melted fat from the heat, and sifted powdered herbs into it. They're amazingly good at finding other places to be whenever there's real work to be done.

  She beat the herbs into the fat with brisk strokes of the spatula, taking some of her anger at the women out on the pot of salve. She was very tired of the odd, sideways looks she was getting—tired enough that she had continued to wear Lordan's castoffs, rather than "proper, womanly" garb, out of sheer perversity.

  I'm cleaning, and lifting, and tending the wounded—when I'm not out drilling the boys in bow or in the still-room, she thought stubbornly. Breeches are a lot more practical than skirts. Why shouldn't I wear them? Grandmother and that Shin'a'in woman do—

  She had to smile at that. And they are one and all so frightened of Grandmother and her friend that if either one of them even looks cross, they practically faint.

  The salve smelled wonderful, and that alone was a far cry from the medicines she used to make here. She sighed, and stirred a little slower, feeling melancholy descend on her. Life, was not the same; it didn't look as if it would ever be the same again.

  It isn't just them, it's everything. It seems as if no one treats me the same anymore. Not the servants, not Wendor, not even Lordan. Why has everything changed? It doesn't make any sense. I haven't changed. Of course, Father—

  The thought of Rathgar made her feel guilty. She knew she should be mourning him—Dierna certainly was. The girl had ransacked Lenore's wardrobe for mourning clothes, and had them made over to fit herself and her women. She'd carried on at the funeral as through Rathgar had been her father instead of Kero's.

  She carried on enough for both me and Lordan, Kero recalled sardonically. Maybe it's just that I really never saw that much of him when Mother was alive, and when she was gone, he really never had much to say to me except to criticize. Really, I might just as well have been fostered out, for all that I saw of him. I knew Dent and Wendar better than I knew him! She sighed again. I must be a cold bitch if I can't even mourn my own father.

  She heard footsteps on the stone floor outside just then, and the door creaked open. "So here's where you've been hiding yourself," said a harsh voice behind her. "Warrior bless! It's like a cave in here! What are you doing, turning yourself into a bat?"

  "It has to be dark," Kero explained without turning, wondering what had brought the formidable old fighter here. "A lot of herbs lose potency in the light."

  "I'll take your word for it." The Shin'a'in edged carefully into the narrow confines of the stillr
oom, and positioned herself out of Kero's way. "My people don't store a great deal, and that little only for a season or two at most. Don't tell me you like it in here."

  "Sometimes," Kero told her. "It's better than—" she bit her tongue to keep from finishing that sentence.

  "It's better than out there, with the hens and chicks clucking disapproval at you," the Shin'a'in finished for her. "I know what you mean. The only reason they keep their tongues off me is because they're pretty sure I'll slice those wagging tongues in half if I find out about it." She chuckled, and Kero turned to look at the old woman in surprise. "We never have been properly introduced. I'm Tarma—Tarma shena Tale'sedrin, to be precise—Shin'a'in from the Hawk Clan. I've been your grandmother's partner for an age, and I'm half of the reason your father disapproved of her."

  "You are?" Kero said, fascinated by the hawk-faced woman's outspoken manner. "But—why?"

  "Because he was dead certain that she and I were shieldmates—that's lovers, dear. He was dead wrong, but you could never have convinced him of that." Tarma hardly moved, but there was suddenly a tiny, thin-bladed knife in one hand. She began cleaning her nails with it. "The other half of the reason he disapproved of her was because he was afraid of both of us. We didn't know our place, and we could do just about any damned thing a man could do. But that's a cold trail, and not worth following."

  "Are you the reason we could get Shin'a'in horses to breed?" Kero asked, suddenly putting several odd facts together."

  Tarma chuckled. "Damn, you're quick. Dead in the black, jel'enedra. Listen, I'm sorry I was so hard on you, back on the road the other night. I was testing you, sort of."

  "I'd—figured that out," Kero replied. The knife caught the light and flashed; it looked sharp enough to wound the wind.

  The Shin'a'in nodded, a satisfied little smile at the corners of her mouth. "Good. I was hoping you might. I want you to know I think you did pretty well out there. About the only time you started to dither was after everything was over and done with. You know, you're wasted on all this."