Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic
Page 15
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Down in the West Guardhouse at the end of her day, Olea had been unable to concentrate upon the week’s supply lists. As Fourth-Captain of the Realm, it was part of her job to review lists not just for the Guard, but also the Lintesh reports for the companies at the Valenghian border before they went to the Chancellate. The tedious list blurred before her as she thought about Aldris' disturbing report of the night the Kingsmen had disappeared. And of the man who’d saluted her at the fountain nearly a week ago, though she’d not seen him since.
At last, Olea gave up, signing the whole damn thing. The guardhouse had emptied after the change of watch, and she was alone with Corporal Jherrick den’Tharn, a young man who had proven himself whip-smart with just about everything. But just as Olea was about to dump all the week’s lists upon young Jherrick’s desk so he could do one last review before they went to Chancellor Rudaric den’Ghen, her attention suddenly alighted upon a curious discrepancy.
Olea hesitated at the edge of Jherrick’s desk, list still to hand.
“Something off, Captain?” Jherrick den’Tharn looked up with a frown, scrubbing a hand through his wheat-blonde hair. He blinked blonde-lashed grey eyes behind his spectacles, then took them off and cast them thoughtlessly to the desk. Jherrick, Olea had noticed, hated wearing his reading spectacles, and was forever fussing with them. Olea supposed it was considered weak for a Guardsman to need spectacles, and Jherrick didn’t wish to appear more physically inept than he already was.
Jherrick den’Tharn had only four years in the Guard. In the practice yards, he was atrocious, with balance so awful it was like both his legs had been put on backwards, his blade swings clumsy and wild. The palace serving-lad with no family had almost been cut from the recruits until Olea had found out he was learned with numbers and languages. She had needed someone with brains for the lists, and thankfully, Jherrick was exceptionally brainy. And so had secured his position at her side, day in and day out, other than his occasional duties in the Upper Cells.
“Jherrick…” Olea set the ledger down in front of him, her finger marking one spot. “Why is Lintesh sending two hundred barrels of dried plums to the Valenghian border every month when we’re only sending a hundred new recruits? The recruits only need a barrel apiece to keep their bowels regular when they get on front-rations.”
Jherrick blinked at the ledger, but did not put his spectacles back on. “Unusual constipation?”
Olea chuckled. “That would be some constipation, to need that many prunes.”
Jherrick sat back in his chair, put one boot up against the desk. Olea and Jherrick were casual in the Guardhouse when no one else was about. They often worked long hours pouring over lists, and in his last four years, Jherrick had proven himself of agile mind and wry humor.
“Maybe they’re feeding the new recruits too much wheat-mush when they get to the border. Stopping them up so they don’t shit themselves when they catch their first skirmish. Then they need more prunes to get everything out afterwards.” Jherrick was grinning like a younger version of Aldris, though something somber in his nature could never match Aldris’ levity.
Olea scuffed her boot on the floor, put her hands on her hips, chuckling. “Could be. But I doubt it. Check into it. It could be a calculation error, but that many prunes would imply that we’re sending far more recruits than we are. Unless there are magical troops appearing from nowhere to go fight for us at the border… then we’ve got some prune thievery going on.”
Jherrick chuckled, his eyes glinting with dark mischief. “The prune thief. Let’s see… whom do we know that is chronically constipated and would want to steal all the realm’s prunes?”
Olea made a face. “I know one person who could use some prunes. Lhaurent den’Karthus. Clean all his bullshit right out.”
Jherrick leaned his chair back on two legs, lacing his fingers behind his head, giving Olea a considering glance. “You really don’t like the Castellan, do you?”
Olea lifted an eyebrow. “Does it show that much?”
Jherrick chuckled. “As much as your Inkings do, Captain.”
Olea had to chuckle. Then she yawned. It was far too late.
“Tired, Captain?”
Olea nodded, with another yawn. “I didn’t get enough sleep. Double-check those numbers, make sure they are all correct before you run it up to Chancellor den’Ghen’s quarters.”
“Yes, Captain. And may I suggest? Chamomile, hops-bud, and fheldarin-seed. Works like a charm. Boil the seed and buds first, then add the flowers. The tea will take you right to sleep.”
Olea smiled, and it was natural. She was fond of the whip-smart young man, even though he was terrible with a sword. “Have a thing for herbs, Jherrick?”
He peered at her, thoughtful. “My mother was a master herbalist, Captain. I learned a thing or two. Before she died. That tea puts me to sleep every time.”
“Have trouble sleeping?”
Jherrick’s blonde brows knit in a frown. He sat back, evaluating his captain, arms crossed over his slender-muscled chest and his immaculate blue jerkin. Olea was reminded suddenly that Jherrick was not really young at all, but nearly twenty-four. Older than Olea had been when she first came to the palace.
“I mean no insult, Captain. But how I sleep is none of your concern.”
Olea nodded, mildly surprised at Jherrick’s frank rebuke. He was usually quite amiable. But looking closer tonight, she saw he had shadows around his eyes and tight lines at the corners, as if he hadn’t slept well, just like her. But as it was with Fenton, Jherrick was closemouthed about his life and his past, and Olea respected privacy.
Olea clapped him on the shoulder in conciliation. “I did not mean to pry. Have a good night, Jherrick. And I will try that tea.”
He nodded, breaking into an easy smile. “Goodnight, Captain. Rest up. More paperwork tomorrow.”
Olea tousled her curls. “Isn’t there always…”
Jherrick den’Tharn chuckled, then pulled the ledger in front of his nose and bent to, sans spectacles, as Olea strode out the guardhouse door and into the cool of the twilight. Traffic around the fountain had dwindled to the occasional tradesman out for the evening air, the markets packed up for the day, awnings of permanent shops around the plaza down, windows shuttered. Olea was about to turn left toward the palace gates, when suddenly a thrill passed through her.
There he was. The massive bear of a man with short black curls who had saluted her, leaning against the lip of the fountain, just as he had been a week ago. Olea saw him note her watching, a subtle change in the tilt of his head, though he did not look directly at her. With a grace uncommon for a man with such a blacksmith’s bulk, he rose from his place, striding off into the evening shadows.
He wanted her to follow.
Her heart thundering, breath in her throat, Olea slid through the shadows out-of-sight behind him. Not wanting to be associated with his passing, she used her hearing to pick his footsteps out across portals and down long byrunstone alleys. Keeping to the deepest darkness like he had been born to it, he strode a winding course through the city, down to the lower Tiers. At last, he turned right into a tight alley in the Tradesman Quarter. A lock and bolt snapped in Olea’s ears, the creak of a barn-door hauled open. She sidled around a shadowed corner, peering down the alley. The man had ducked through the double-door of a workshop with a silversmith's sigil upon the signboard, leaving the door cracked behind himself, spilling warm lantern light near the alley’s blind end.
Stepping behind a stack of crates, Olea blended into the evening’s deep shadows. Watching the doorway for a space of heartbeats, she scanned the hushed alley and the darkened rooftops with her hearing. Closing her eyes, she honed her hearing further, waiting for a surreptitious footstep of any who might have followed her. But every clink of cutlery and howl of hungry babes and strum of a lute was as to be expected in a poor quarter of a city at suppertime.
Her heart in her throat, Olea strode
forward with one hand upon her sword, heading toward the spill of light in the velveteen darkness.
CHAPTER 10 – GHRENNA