Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "All what?" Kero asked, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.

  "All this—" The Shin'a'in waved her knife vaguely, taking in the four walls of the stillroom and beyond. Kero hid her confusion by turning her attention to the salve, watching her own hands intently. "This life," Tarma continued. "It's not enough of a challenge for you. You're capable of a lot more than you'll find here. My people say. 'You can put a hawk in a songbird's cage, but it's still a hawk.' Think about it. I have to go beat some of those hired guards into shape, but I'll be around if you need me."

  And with that, she backed out of Kero's sight, and vanished. One moment she was there, the next, gone; leaving only the door to the stillroom swinging to mark her passing.

  * * *

  "All right, you meatheads, let's see a little life in those blows!" Ten men and women—those currently off-duty—placed their blows on the ten sets of pells as if their lives depended on it.

  Of course, their lives do depend on it.

  Tarma roamed up and down the line of hired guards, scowling, but inwardly she was very pleased. These were all reliable, solid fighters, with good references, very much as she and Keth had been early in their careers.

  The only difference was that these fighters were well into their careers. Ordinarily they had nowhere to go now but down.

  Because she'd been able to offer a packhorse apiece with half pay in advance, she'd gotten the cream of the available mercenary crop. None of them were going to be the kind of fighter that legends were made of, but for Lordan's purposes they were far better. Most of them were in their middle years, looking for a post where they could settle down, perhaps even think about a spouse and children. That's why they weren't with a mercenary company—going out and fighting every year was a job for the young....

  And fools, she thought, which these gentlemen and ladies are not. "Put some back into it!" she shouted again, feeling a sense of deja vu. How many times had she shouted those same words, in this same courtyard?

  Only then, it was into young ears, not seasoned ones. These folks are well aware of the absolute necessity for practice, every day, rain, snow or scorching heat.

  Thirty seasoned fighters. That would be enough to give even Baron Reichert second thoughts. And one very special recruit....

  As middle-aged as the others, without a single thing to differentiate her from the rest. Even her color and stature—golden skin, and very tall for a woman—were not particularly outstanding among mercenaries. Hired swords came from every corner of the known world, and some places outside it; Beaker had been odder-looking than this woman. She acted no differently than any of the others, not looking for special status, nor making herself conspicuous. Tarma drilled this recruit as remorselessly as the rest, and paid her no more attention, and no less.

  Lyla Stormcloud was from the far south and west; past even the Dhorisha Plains. She was half Shin'a'in, with the gold complexion of her father and the black eyes and wandering foot of her mother, a Full Bard who had double the normal wanderlust of that roaming profession. Life with a nomadic Clan had suited her perfectly, and Tale'sedrin, made up as it was of orphans and adoptees, made her welcome there as she might not have been in a "pure" Clan. How they'd gloried in having a Full Bard with them.

  A Full Bard with another profession as well, the one she had trained in as a child—the skills and training of which she passed in turn to her daughter.

  Assassin.

  It's a good thing the Clans didn't know that until long after she'd been accepted on the basis of her Talent and current profession. And it's a damned good thing for her that she admitted it before someone ferreted the information out on his own. But I'm glad it happened, especially now. Try and get an assassin past another assassin. Tarma furrowed her brow in thought, watching Lyla at her sword-work. Blessings on the Warrior, for sending her mother to Tale'sedrin, and a double blessing that Lyla was willing to pack up and move on my say-so.

  Lordan was in danger as long as Baron Reichert thought him vulnerable. If Tarma and her partner could stay here—well, nothing and no one was going to get past them. Now that Keth was no longer bound by the promises she'd made Rathgar, she could put mage-protections up that would stop any magical attack on her grandson short of an Adept-spell. And if Tarma could possibly have moved in here permanently—

  But she couldn't, and knew it. There were other considerations, not the least of which was that she wasn't as young as she used to be. And guarding a target from assassins was a young person's job. That had been when she'd thought of Lyla. After that, it had been a matter of sending a mage-borne message via Keth to the shaman of Tale'sedrin—who just happened to be Kethry's son, Jadrek. And then, when Lyla had agreed to come, some mysterious transaction involving the Tale'edras of the Pelagiris Forest had been negotiated via Jadrek to get her here. I'm still not sure how she got here as fast as she did. Those Hawkbrothers—they've got to have secrets of magic even Kethry and the other Adepts don't know. Probably only the Clan shamans have any idea what they can do. And they aren't telling, either.

  Even Lyla didn't remember how she'd gotten here; she told Tarma that Jadrek had taken her to the forest edge—and the next thing she knew, she was walking through the open mouth of a cave near the Tower.

  Just as well; let them keep their secrets. I don't think I want to know them.

  Lordan was now as safe as Tarma knew how to make him. Certainly safer than money could buy....

  Lyla was a pleasure to watch; wasting no effort, and certainly almost as good as Tarma in her prime. Better than Tarma was now. Not through fault of training or will, just old bones and stiff, scarred muscles, slower reactions and senses that were no longer as keen—

  So the world belongs to the young. At least there're youngsters I'm glad to see have it. Like young Kero.

  She hoped she'd said the right things, neither too much, nor too little. Too much, and she might frighten the bird back to its nest. Too little, and she wouldn't realize there was a great big world out here, and a whole sky in which to use her wings.

  If I'm any judge, she's got the reactions and the instincts; all she needs is the skill and the strength, and she'll put Lyla in the shade. She has it in her. She has the brains and the guts, too, which means even more—she can be more than even an exceptional merc with those. But if I push, she'll rebel, or she'll be frightened off.

  "Good!" she said aloud, and the sweaty fighters lowered their weapons with varying expressions of gratitude. "All right, ladies and gentlemen—off to the baths. On the quickstep—march!"

  I never thought I'd find myself here, Kero thought for the hundredth time, watching the rest of the wedding guests over the rim of her goblet. She tried not to fidget; tried not to feel as if she was being smothered under all the layers of her holiday dress. I should be back in the kitchen.

  But she didn't need to be in the kitchen, not anymore. Grandmother Kethry had seen to that. There was a proper housekeeper now—which was just as well, since Dierna was not up to handling the kitchen staff and servers the way Kero had. She was good at knowing what orders to give the housekeeper; what servants were best where, which was something Kero had never been able to figure out. She was a marvel at loom and needle, and Lordan was shortly going to find himself in possession of a thriving woolen-cloth trade if Dierna had anything to say about it. She was fair useless in the stillroom, but—

  But the housekeeper can do that, too.

  This housekeeper was an impoverished gentlewoman, found by Kethry by means of one of her many (and mysterious) contacts. Kero had a vague idea that there was a relative involved in some way.

  An uncle? An aunt? Someone connected with some kind of mage school, I think.

  There was something about the way she'd been dispossessed, too. Something unjust, that Kethry wouldn't go into when Dierna was around. Could it possibly be something involving Dierna's uncle, the Baron? Well, no matter what the cause, here she was, and grateful for the post. Being neither noble nor servan
t, she was perfect for the position, which wasn't quite "family," and wasn't exactly "underling."

  Perfect, as Kero had not been; she knew that now. Too close to the servants for them to "respect" her properly; that was what Dierna's mother had said.

  She'd said a lot more, when she thought Kero couldn't hear. Kero glanced at the lady in question, sitting on the other side of the bride and groom, and lording it over her half of the table. I'm glad for Lordan's sake she won't be here much longer. I might murder her and disgrace him.

  Thank the gods for grandmother and Tarma, she thought, as Lordan and his bride shared a goblet of wine, and made big eyes at each other. They were like whirlwinds, magic whirlwinds. They blew in, they created order, and they're about to blow out again before anyone has a chance to resent them. Even Dierna.

  To her credit, through, the bride showed no signs of resenting Kethry's "interference," despite the plaints of her own mother. She'd had more than enough on her hands, even with the aid of the housekeeper. Dierna had taken over nursing Lordan as soon as Kethry had pronounced him fit for company, and he'd quite fallen in love with his intended.

  They're besotted, she thought resignedly. I suppose it's just as well.

  She looked down over the Great Hall, at all the other guests, like a bed of multicolored flowers in their finery, and many of them just about as immobile. Fully half of them couldn't stand, and all of them wore some token of mourning, but that didn't seem to be putting any kind of a pall on the celebrations. Wendar saw to it that the wine kept flowing, and the celebrants were chattering so loudly that it was impossible to hear the minstrels at the end of the hall. All enmities seemed to have been forgotten, at least for now.

  But she kept catching strange glances cast her way. It was beginning to make her want to squirm with discomfort, but she kept her seat and her dignity.

  I'm a heroine. And I'm an embarrassment.

  That just about summed it all up. She looked down into her wine, and felt the all-too-familiar melancholy settle over her.

  She didn't fit in. She didn't belong. Even her own brother looked at her as if she had suddenly become a stranger.

  I rescued Dierna. Which makes me a heroine. Just one little problem—I'm Lordan's sister.

  She'd already heard some of Lordan's peers teasing him about his "older brother Kero." It made him uncomfortable, for all that he was deeply, truly grateful, for all that he'd offered her anything she wanted, right down to half the lands. And it shamed him. He should have been the one to rescue his bride. Wasn't that the way it went in the tales? Not his sibling.

  Not his sister.

  She could talk until she was blue in the face about how it had been Kethry's sword that had done everything. None of that mattered—because she had gone out on The Ride in the first place, without the help of the sword. That's what they were calling it now, "The Ride." There were even rumors of a song.

  Dierna did not want her in the bower. Not that Kero wanted to be in the bower. She most assuredly did not fit in there.

  But she keeps looking at me as if she thinks I'm—what was it that Tarma said, the other day? She'chorne. Like I'm going to suddenly start courting her. Like I make her skin crawl.

  Kero gulped down half the wine in her goblet, and a page immediately reached over her shoulder and poured her more. The rich fruity scent rose to her nostrils, and tempted her not at all.

  I wish I dared get drunk.

  The hired guards didn't want her in the barracks. It was not that it was "unwomanly" for her to be there by their standards. They had enough women with them already. It was that she didn't fit there because of her status. She was noble, and she was family, and she didn't belong with the hirelings.

  And her old friends among the servants kept treating her like some kind of demi-deity.

  I don't fit here anymore, she thought, a notion that had begun to make its own little rut through her mind, she'd repeated it so often. I just don't fit here. If I stay here much longer, I think I may go mad. It feels like I'm being smothered. Tarma was right. You can put a hawk in a birdcage, like a songbird, but it's still a hawk.

  She caught a movement down at the second table, and saw her grandmother and her friend easing out of their seats. It didn't look like a trip to the necessary; it seemed more final. Somehow she knew where they were going. Back to the Tower. They weren't needed here anymore, either—so they were making a graceful, unobtrusive exit.

  I wish I could do the same—

  That was when it hit her.

  Why can't I do the same? Why can't I just go? She sat up straighter, feeling her cheeks warming with excitement. I have to return Grandmother's sword anyway—so why don't I follow after them? Maybe they'll be willing to teach me things. Didn't Tarma say they used to have a school?

  The more she thought about it, the better the idea sounded. And the more intolerable and confining the idea of remaining here became. Finally she excused herself from the table—her seatmate didn't even notice—and slipped out of the Great Hall and into the corridor beyond.

  Once there, she hiked her encumbering skirts above her knees, and ran for her room. There were no servants in the hall to see her, and although she split one sleeve of the gown, she no longer cared. Let Dierna give it to one of her maids.

  I certainly won't wear it again.

  She slipped out of it as soon as she reached her room, tossed it in a heap in the corner, and dragged her saddlebags out from under the bed. She rummaged through chests and wardrobe in a frenzy, discarding most of what she encountered without a second thought, casting what she'd decided to keep on the bed.

  It was amazing how little she owned that she wanted to keep. Her armor, Lordan's outgrown castoffs, a few personal treasures and the jewelry and books Lenore had left her... it all fit into two saddlebags with room to spare. She started to take a last look around her room—and realized that it held nothing of her or for her anymore.

  So she turned her back on it, and strode out, chain mail jingling with a cheer she began to feel herself.

  Out in the stable, even the grooms were absent, enjoying their own version of the wedding feast. All the better; that made it possible for her to saddle up Verenna and ride out without anyone noticing.

  The mare came to her whistle and stood quietly while she saddled and bridled her. She felt Verenna's tense eagerness as she mounted, as if the mare was as ready to be free of the place as Kero was. She touched her heel lightly to the mare's flank; Verenna leapt forward. They trotted across the courtyard, cantered to the gates. She was at a full gallop as they passed the gates in the outer wall. Kero laughed as they burst out into the sunshine, wind whipping her hair, Verenna striding effortlessly under her. Nothing was going to stand in her way now!

  But she pulled Verenna up abruptly at the sight of the two mounted figures waiting for her at the crossroads.

  Suddenly sick with dread, she approached them at a walk. What if they tell me to go back? What if they don't want me? What if—

  "What kept you?" asked Tarma.

  Six

  This was not precisely what Kerowyn had pictured when she'd asked for teaching.

  "Chopping wood I can understand," Kero said slowly, hefting the unfamiliar weight of the ax in her right hand. She eyed her appointed target, an odd setup of two logs braced against the tree, and shifted her hand a bit farther down on the haft. It wasn't a very big ax, and she had the sinking feeling that it was going to take a long time to chop her way through the pile of log sections stacked up at the edge of the clearing. She'd already put a dent in the pile over the past few days, using a larger ax in a conventional manner, but this tool baffled her. It wasn't much heavier than the hand axes some of Rathgar's men had fought with. "I've been cutting wood for you since I got here, and I can see that you still need firewood. But why brace the logs so that I'm cutting at that angle?"

  Warrl—Tarma's enormous wolf-creature—snorted, flopped himself down in a patch of sun, and laid his ears back in patent di
sgust. His kind were called kyree, so Tarma had told her—and she needed no testimony as to his intelligence; she'd seen that herself with her own eyes. She'd gotten used to his presence over the past weeks, and now she could read his expressions with more ease than she could read Tarma's. It would appear that she was being particularly dense, though for the life of her she couldn't figure out what she was missing.

  Tarma chuckled evilly, and leaned against the woodpile. If Kero had tried that, she'd probably have knocked half the logs down. The pile didn't shift a thumb's length. "But what if you've got it wrong?" the Shin'a'in asked conversationally. "What if we don't need you to chop firewood?"

  "What?" Kero replied cleverly. She blinked, and did a fast revision of her assumptions. "You mean you heat that great stone hulk with magic? But I thought you said—"

  "That it takes more effort to do something magically than it does to just do it, yes," Tarma replied, a maddening little smile on her face. "No, we don't heat it with magic, yes, we use wood, and we still don't need you to chop it. We hire it done. A couple of nice farmer lads with muscles like oxen. So why would I be having you chop wood, and why would I be giving you different sizes of axes to do it with? And now why would I start asking you to work at odd angles?"

  Kero blinked again, and the answer came to her in a burst of memory—recollections of Lordan working out against the pells. "Because you want me to strengthen my arms and shoulders," she said immediately. "All over, and not just a particular set of muscles."

  "And because while you're doing so, you might as well be useful. Besides, if I make you really chop up wood, you won't hold back. Against the pells you might. Against me, you already do." This time Tarma laughed outright, but Kero couldn't resent it; somehow Kero knew the Shin'a'in wasn't laughing at her expense. It was more as if Tarma was sharing a sardonic little joke. "Out on the plains we were set to working bellows at the forge, toting water for the entire camp, or any one of a hundred other things. Be grateful it's wood-chopping I've got you doing. Ax calluses you're getting now are going to be in about the same places that you'd want sword-calluses."