by Jenny McKane
“You want me to act as a southern Stromel, Commander?” Everard asked.
The commander sighed. “This mission is information gathering,” he said. “We need to find out where the rebels are located, and how they are working. If you both can gain the Stromel’s trust, then that makes our mission easier, obviously.”
He turned to Avalon, assessing her. “You are obviously high born,” he said. “As soon as you open your mouth, and they hear your Jarle accent, they will know that you aren’t one of them. You don’t look like one of them either.” He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.
“Sir, if I could be so bold as to suggest,” said Everard. “If Guardian Lund and I are working together to gather information, and we are undercover as Stromel, we could pretend that Guardian Lund is mute. That way, she wouldn’t have to talk at all when among them and have her accent give us away.”
The commander looked at him. “That is first rate, Varr,” he said. “That could definitely work.”
He turned to look at Avalon. “What do you say, Guardian Lund?” he asked. “Do you think that you would have the self-discipline to pull it off?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Avalon. “If you require me to be mute, then I can resist the urge to talk when amongst them.”
“You could claim that you are travelers from the south,” the commander continued. “A farmer and his sister, looking for relatives. We will supply you both with Stromel attire, of course. Varr does all the speaking.”
“I could also claim that she is not bright, as well as mute,” said Everard. “That way, they would be even less suspicious of her, and maybe talk freely in her presence – if she cannot understand and never name repeat what they have said.”
Avalon shot Everard a dirty look. He was enjoying this. To have her mute and not quite right in the head would be a dream come true for him. She gritted her teeth.
“Guardian Lund?” said the commander, turning to her. “Do you think that you could pull it off?”
Avalon forced a smile onto her face. “Of course, sir,” she replied. She looked at Everard. He was grinning at her, his dark eyes shining.
“Very well, then.” The commander looked down at his papers. “You are looking for information about where the rebels are hiding out, where they are based. And we want information about their leader. Amongst the Stromel, he is referred to as Gwalen.” He pursed his lips. “It means ‘mighty one’ in their dialect.”
“I have heard of him,” said Everard. “Even among the southern Stromel, he is whispered about. They say that he is like quicksilver and has resisted capture many times, outsmarting all.”
The commander’s mouth tightened. “The man is a thorn in my side,” he hissed. “We have almost had him a few times. The people protect him, even though there is a price on his head so high it would make them richer than they have ever dreamed possible.”
“What do we know of Gwalen?” asked Avalon.
“Not much,” said the commander. “He was born to a poor farming family here. He joined the rebels a few years ago and quickly rose to leader in their ranks, despite being young. Probably not much older than you two.” He paused.
“He is dangerous,” the commander continued softly. “It isn’t just that he actively rebels and sabotages our supplies. The people talk of him with awe. He tells them that they must rise up and overtake the Jarle entirely.”
“Most of the Stromel wouldn’t listen, though?” asked Avalon, frowning. “They like their life under the Jarle. The Grey Book tells us that. They accept that the Jarle are their leaders and allow them to live a proper and orderly life, wanting nothing.”
The commander raised his eyebrows. “The Stromel are not smart people, not like us,” he replied. “Despite what the Grey Book says, even though they want for nothing, they can be fickle in their loyalties. If someone is telling them something enough, they will start to listen. They don’t know what is best for them. That is why we have to stamp out any resistance to our rule swiftly.” He paused. “And without mercy.”
Avalon nodded. Of course, it was true. The Stromel were like children who could be led astray. Most knew the proper way of things, the way it had always been in Agnoria. That the Jarle were the natural rulers, and always had been, and always would be. But, there were bad apples in every batch. This Gwalen was obviously the rottenest in the Far North.
“Gwalen will be stopped, of course,” said the commander. “There have always been evil rebels to the just rule of the Jarle, but it is our job to hunt them out and stamp them out. For the good of everyone, the Stromel included.” He paused. “And that is where you two come in.”
“We will not let you down, Commander,” said Everard. “We will find out where this Gwalen is and kill him if possible.”
The commander stared at him. “Your mission is to gather information,” he said crisply. “If, in the event, you know where he is and can take him, do not kill him. He needs to be interrogated, and then a public execution must take place, as an example to all of what happens to these evil rebels.”
He looked from one to the other. “Are we clear on that? He is not to be killed.”
Avalon and Everard both nodded.
“You will set out at first light,” he said. “I want you to head for the small settlement of Blaimri, which is about one hundred miles away. Co-ordinates will be supplied. Once there, I want you to talk to the village mayor, whose name is Naved Escolen. We have reason to believe he is sympathetic to the rebel cause and may know where Gwalen is.”
“This Escolen is Jarle?” asked Everard, frowning.
“He is,” said the commander. “But sometimes in the Far North, they are corrupted. We will deal with Escolen later, if it is discovered he is active in the rebellion. The important thing is to figure out what he knows.” He paused. “Any questions?”
Everard and Avalon shook their heads.
“Good.” The commander stood up. “Then I suggest that you both retire. You will need your sleep. Oh, and Varr, if you could think on some southern Stromel names for you both. Clothes will be sent to your dormitories, and supplies handed out before you both leave.”
In her bunk bed that night, sleep had eluded Avalon. Thoughts kept scurrying through her brain. She hadn’t expected that she would be undercover as a mute. It meant that her life was in the hands of Everard, even more than usual. She had to trust that he would speak and act on her behalf; she couldn’t correct him or do anything to salvage a situation if things started to go wrong.
She smiled, suddenly. Commander Vasslo had wanted them to learn to work as a team. That wish was about to be granted, well and truly.
***
Avalon pulled at her dress. She wasn’t used to wearing such a thing. It was dark brown and rough against her skin. On her head, she wore a veil, which hid her dark hair completely.
“Do not take the veil off,” the commander had said, before they set out that morning. “They will know instantly that you are unaware of the custom. Even when you have the hood of your cloak over your head, the veil must be beneath it.”
They had been travelling on foot toward the settlement of Blaimri for over two hours, and her feet were starting to hurt. The shoes she was wearing were tight, and not good quality. How Stromel women wore them every day, attending to hard work, was beyond her.
She looked at Everard as they walked. He was wearing the garb of a typical Stromel farmer: brown hessian trousers, and a brown shirt and waistcoat. She kind of liked him in it. It made him appear less arrogant, somehow. On his head, he wore a kerchief, which denoted his lowly status.
“What is your name again?” he whispered to her, as they walked.
Avalon sighed. “My name is Iselin,” she whispered back. “You are my brother, Tord. We come from the settlement of Schusol, in the Lowlands.” She stared at him impatiently. “I don’t know why you keep insisting I repeat it. I can’t talk anyway.”
Everard stared back at her, hard. “You have to react t
o the name,” he hissed. “Like it is your own. They will know immediately if you don’t.”
Avalon nodded. “Of course,” she said. “You are overdoing it a little, Varr. No one is out here to see us speak.”
“The forest has eyes and ears,” he whispered slowly. “They might be watching; we never know.”
They walked for a while in silence. Snow was swirling around them; it was so cold, so Avalon wrapped her cloak tighter around her.
“How do you know Stromel dialect so well?” she whispered, her eyes narrowing.
Everard stared straight ahead. “You were raised in the city,” he whispered. “In the country, it is different. The Stromel are all around. You have to be able to communicate with them.”
Avalon thought of her old nursemaid, Asfrid. She had been Stromel, but she had never talked to her or her brother in her dialect. It was forbidden. Sometimes, Avalon would hear her singing softly to herself, using words Avalon didn’t understand, but as soon as Asfrid realized she was being observed, she would stop. She knew that it meant instant dismissal.
“You aren’t supposed to talk to them in their dialect,” Avalon said primly.
Everard scoffed. “You have lived a sheltered life,” he said. “It happens. People turn a blind eye to it. And they are just people, you know.”
Avalon raised her eyebrows. “I know that. But they aren’t…like us. The Grey Book is quite firm on that.”
Everard said nothing.
They stopped by a stream, eating their lunch of dry bread, pulling apart the loaf.
“It’s important that you don’t react when they talk about certain things,” said Everard, chewing on the rough bread. “They will be speaking freely around us, or so we hope. Not like they talk around the Jarle.”
“Like what?” asked Avalon. She cupped her hands and drank from the stream, trying to wash the taste of the bread out of her mouth. It was coarser than what she was used to.
“They might mention magic,” he whispered, glancing about him. “And strange creatures that run on the land or fly in the sky. You must not act surprised or disgusted.”
“Magic?” breathed Avalon. The very word was treason.
“Yes.” Everard nodded. “It is talked about among them, but they know not to mention it around us.”
Avalon shivered. She was remembering her dream, the one that she always had. The strange creature that flew in the sky, hovering over her. It had talked to her.
“Tell me about the creatures.” She stared at the stream, but all her eyes could see was the creature from her dream.
“I don’t know much,” he whispered. “I have overheard storytellers talking of them and how they once lived among us.”
“Like the horses?” Avalon said.
“Yes, but different. They are all different. They say…” he lowered his voice, further “…they say that the horses once spoke, but they have forgotten how to.”
Avalon’s eyes widened. The shivering was so strong now that she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Desperately, she tried to turn her mind from the image of the creature from her dream.
“How ridiculous,” she scoffed. “It proves how silly they are, and how necessary this job of ours is to fight rebellion. Imagine if they rose up? They wouldn’t know how to take care of themselves, babbling on about imagined creatures, and…magic.” Even saying the forbidden word felt wrong.
“They are as intelligent as you or me, Avalon,” said Everard, staring hard at her. “That talk about how they are like children…it is wrong. You had a nursemaid, didn’t you? I would bet that she was a Stromel.”
“Yes,” said Avalon, frowning. “But I don’t see your point.”
“Why would your parents have let her look after you, if they thought that she was too silly?”
Avalon bit her lip. Yes, that was true; she had never thought of it that way. This trip was opening her eyes to matters beyond what she had always assumed.
“Don’t underestimate them.” Everard stared at her.
“Good point,” she conceded. “But regardless of their intelligence or otherwise, they must be made to realize that the order must be kept. That rebellions like this are in no one’s interest, especially their own.”
“Of course,” replied Everard. “That goes without saying.”
They kept walking. When they reached the top of the pass, they gazed down. There was Blaimri, laid out before them. Avalon could see several roads of small wooden huts, around a central square, where a larger building stood. That must be the village control center. In front of it, she could see a statue of Agnor, his fist lifted in the eternal gesture.
They had arrived.
Everard turned to her. “We will walk into the center and ask for directions to the local inn,” he whispered. “We can have a meal and a drink, and then we can try to talk to the locals. Ask to see Escolen.” His eyes hardened. “Don’t blow it, Lund. Follow my lead.”
He started walking off, on a path leading down to the village. Gritting her teeth, Avalon had followed. It went against all her instincts to follow Everard Varr, but follow she must.
***
It had been hard, but she had done it.
Everard had asked a woman for directions to the inn. The woman had stared hard at them, but eventually told them. Avalon had stared vacantly around her, pretending that she wasn’t listening.
Everard opened the door to the inn, and they walked in. There weren’t many people inside, maybe around half a dozen, scattered at tables around. The innkeeper was behind the bar, polishing some glasses.
The whole room stopped talking, as they walked to the bar, sitting down on wooden stools.
“Greetings,” said Everard to the innkeeper. “Two ales, please.”
The innkeeper eyed them warily but poured their drinks. Froth spilled down the side of the mugs, as he plonked them down.
“Where are you from?” asked the innkeeper, still staring at them.
“South,” replied Everard. “The Lowlands. My sister and I are travelling, looking for my uncle. He left many years ago, and we heard that he came north.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Our mother has died, you see. We hope to find her brother and see if we can live here with him. There is nothing for us down there anymore.”
The innkeeper nodded. “What is his name?”
“Keld.” Everard smiled. “Vagn Keld.”
“Never heard of him.” The innkeeper kept polishing the glasses. “He lives in this district, you say?”
Everard shrugged. “We don’t know much,” he said. “Only that he came north. I have been asking at every village.” He paused. “Would we be able to speak with your mayor, perhaps? Where would we find him?”
“Escolen is away, attending to business in the district,” the innkeeper said. “But he should be back tomorrow.” He stared at Avalon, who was staring at the ceiling, pretending not to listen. “What’s wrong with her?”
Everard sighed. “My sister Iselin is mute,” he replied. “And, not quite right...” he tapped his head, meaningfully.
“Oh.” The innkeeper peered more intently at her. “I am sorry for your burden.”
Everard shrugged. “It is the way,” he said. “I must look after her.”
“Pretty thing, too,” the innkeeper said, openly staring at Avalon, his gaze sweeping over her. “Pity. She could have fetched a good bride price for you, if she was…right.”
Avalon resisted the urge to slug the innkeeper. Instead, she continued to look over his shoulder, as if she hadn’t heard.
“What’s your name?” the innkeeper turned to Everard.
“Tord Holst,” Everard said.
“Well, Tord Holst, I have rooms here for the night, if you wish to stay and talk to the mayor tomorrow. And we provide meals.”
“A blessing upon you,” said Everard. “We have travelled far and are weary.”
After a meal, Everard had attempted to engage the locals in conversation, but they had all been wary,
answering his questions with short responses. They seemed uncomfortable around Avalon, gazing at her in a hostile manner. Eventually, the two of them had retired to their rooms.
“Things will look up tomorrow, when we can talk to Escolen,” Everard whispered at the door to her room before he went to his own. “I have a feeling he will have some information we can use.” He paused. “You did very well, by the way. Not speaking suits you.” He grinned down at her.
“Don’t push it, Varr,” she whispered, turning the handle on her door. “Sweet dreams.”
***
And now, she was standing in the room she had slept in, a man pressing a sword to her neck.
How had they gotten in? She had secured her door. Suddenly, she saw the innkeeper hovering behind them in the doorway. Of course. He must have given them the key.
“Friend, we are who we say we are,” cried Everard. “Please, let my sister go. She is like a child and doesn’t understand what is happening.”
The bearded man turned to him. “Why do you want to speak to Escolen?”
“I need to find my uncle,” Everard said. “The mayor knows all who live in the district.”
The bearded man increased his pressure on the sword at Avalon’s neck, causing a small trickle of blood to run down.
“I should kill her,” he said, slowly. “I would be doing you a favor, stranger.”
“Put down the sword,” said a voice behind him.
A tall man walked into the room. He was richly attired in black brocade with an amulet of the Jarle hanging from his neck. He had long, flowing blonde hair, and a reddish, long beard. His black eyes sparkled as he strolled up to Avalon, staring intently at her. Then he turned to look at Everard.
“I am Naved Escolen,” he boomed. “I am the mayor of Blaimri. I apologize on behalf of these men. They have no manners!” He laughed. “Treating strangers in this way! For shame! They are travelers. We should be offering them hospitality, not pressing swords into their necks.” He glared at the men, who retreated, sheathing their swords.
“Now.” He smiled brilliantly at Everard. “Perhaps you and your sister would care to accompany me to my home? We can talk in private, and I can even offer you a hearty breakfast.”
