by Alex Bledsoe
We’re traveling through and hoped we might join you in celebrating the spring.”
“All are welcome,” she said. “What was the commotion outside?”
“A boy was picking on a girl,” Liz said. “Someone made him apologize.”
“That was probably your brother,” one of the girls said to Ancillay.
“If it was, he’s had it coming for a long time,” Ancillay said, and reached into her basket. She produced two flowers on long stems, each with a ribbon tied around it near the blossom. “I present you with monea, miss, and bachelor buckles for you, sir. May they bring beauty and grace to you both.” Liz said, “I saw some flowers outside, growing in a bed by the wall. They were beautiful: red petals with blue streaks.
What are they?”
“Some say the most beautiful flowers of the season,” Ancillay said. “Striped vorrygills.”
“Told you,” I whispered, and got an elbow in the ribs for it.
“But we also call them spring’s bastards,” the girl added with distaste.
“Why?” Liz asked.
Ancillay’s face creased as she sought the right words. “Because they’re not real,” she said at last. “Someone combined two flowers to produce this one. It’s not natural.”
I thought about some of nature’s little jokes I’d encountered, like the Grand Bruan half sisters so identical that they switched places and no one, not even one’s husband, noticed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You can combine things all you want, but they won’t grow if nature doesn’t want them to.”
“I suppose,” Ancillay said. “But I still prefer things as they are, rather than what they’re changed into, no matter how they’re changed. Besides, it’s like putting on makeup.” She turned to Liz. “Would you like it if he—”
She nodded at me.
“—only wanted to be with you when you wore lipstick?”
Liz laughed. “If that was true, we’d never have gotten past, ‘hello.’ ”
Ancillay curtsied to us, and her ladies-in-waiting did likewise. Then, whispering and giggling, they retreated back to await the next arrival.
Liz looked at me with mock-narrowed eyes. “You have boots older than her, you know.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’re lucky I trust you, Mr. Sword Jockey.”
“I’m lucky for a lot of things,” I said, and kissed her. The girls, still watching, giggled some more.
The town smelled like flowers, which almost covered the ever-present odor of sheep. Thankfully the ground was dry and hard, except for a few small puddles where someone had either spilled something or relieved themselves. The shops were closed and the one tavern we passed was empty, just like the one I’d visited the last time I was here.
I opened the door, stuck in my head, and looked around the dim interior. It was called the Head Boar; had that been its name sixteen years ago? It looked, and smelled, like every other rural tavern. I just couldn’t tell if this was the same one, though; the details of that memory were lost.
When I closed the door and turned back to Liz, she lightly smacked me with her flower. “Stop thinking. It was a long time ago, you said so yourself.”
“I can’t help it. Do you think Ancillay was the girl?”
“You wish. Then you could seduce her with the old ‘I saved your life once’ ploy.”
“I only seduce you.”
“You don’t have to seduce me. That’s what makes us such a good couple.”
I flicked my own flower at her in response.
We reached the back of the crowd packed into the courtyard and began working our way through it. A group of men ran past us and almost knocked us down. They wore long, multicolored togas and screamed at the top of their lungs.
The ones at the front of the line tossed handfuls of colored powder, and those at the end splashed cupfuls of water from big buckets. This made the powder turn to ink and leave smears of bright color on all those they passed, none of whom seemed to mind.
They missed me, but got Liz. She wiped at the wet green stripe across her tunic, then laughed. Her hair fell over her face and she tucked it behind her ears.
“You’re staring at my hair again,” she said.
“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“It’s a pain. I’m cutting it as soon as we get back to Neceda.” A young man, no older than Ancillay, suddenly stopped in front of us. He was naked except for a loincloth, and there wasn’t much of that. His muscular torso gleamed with sweat and painted symbols, and he wore a pair of wooden ram’s-horns on his head. He knelt before Liz and offered her a pink cloth circle, like a bracelet. “Beautiful stranger,” he said, “I give you this as a symbol of my devotion.”
She took it with a big grin. “Thank you, young man. Very young man,” she added with a sly glance at me.”
He continued, “At this time of year, the fertility of men and women helps the land provide for us. What happens in Mummerset stays in Mummerset, so if you’d like . . .”
Liz laughed. “I might, at that. But I try to keep my word, and I’ve given it to this guy. So I’ll have to decline.”
He smiled. “If you change your mind, beautiful stranger, just put your serficon in your hair!” And then he was off into the crowd.
Liz looked at the cloth loop. “What does ‘serficon’ mean?”
“Foreskin,” I said. “That’s the symbolic tip of his manhood.”
She held it up. “Think it’s life size?”
“If it was, he’d need a bigger loincloth.”
She laughed. I could listen to her laugh all day. The wind blew her hair down into her face, and as she gathered it, she said, “If you want to buy me a romantic gift, you can get me a nice hair ribbon. I’m not using anyone’s foreskin, symbolic or not.”
We edged through the press of rural folk to an artisan’s cart, where a middle-aged woman sold bright ribbons. Many of the girls in the crowd had several tied in their hair, and when they spun during their dances they resembled unraveling Maypoles. Liz finally found a vivid blue one she liked, and turned so I could tie it for her.
I gathered her hair and kissed her on the neck. “What’s that mean?” she asked.
“It means ‘I love you,’ and a few more implied things that we need the cover of darkness to fully express.”
“No, goof, that.”
I followed her gaze. The livery barn had a banner stretched across it that read, babies here.
“It’s where they keep the babies so the moms can have some fun,” I said as I finished tying the ribbon.
“In a barn?”
“Seemed like a good place before.” I fought the urge to go into the barn and see if Angus was still there tending the infants. He’d be old enough to have his own now, of course. Nothing got past Liz. “We can go in, if you want. Say hi. Pretend we’re shopping.”
“No,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but I know that sword jockey brain of yours. If you don’t go in, you’ll brood about it for the next five years, wondering ‘what if.’ ”
I mock-glared at her. “Stop doing a better job of knowing me than I do.”
“I will, when you get better at it.”
We went to the barn door and I pushed it open. As before, it was dim inside and it took a moment for our eyes to adjust.
Light came through the slats in the wall, illuminating the rows of cradles in the stalls. The outside noise was muted once the door swung shut behind us, allowing us to hear the soft, chaotic chorus of contented infants.
A teenage girl sat in a rocker, feeding a milk-skin to a baby.
She looked at us with the universal annoyance of someone left out of the party. “Dropping off or picking up?”
“Neither,” Liz said. “Just browsing.”
“This is the nursery,” she said with a tired sigh. She pulled the milk-skin away and put the baby on her shoulder. She patted the tiny back until she was
rewarded with an adult-sized burp.
Could this be Isidore? Would I be disappointed if it were?
Could a baby who endured such a strange and wondrous survival have grown up to be a totally typical farm girl? She tenderly placed the baby in a cradle, making shushing noises as she did so.
It could be worse, I suppose. I extended my flower to her.
“Here. This is for you.”
She took it, then looked up at me with a mix of wonder and suspicion. “Why?”
“This is a thankless job. Someone should show you you’re appreciated for doing it.”
“I’m doing it because my dad caught me with Alonso last week,” she said. “He didn’t believe me when I said it wasn’t my idea.”
“The reason’s not important. You’ve got a job to do, and you’re doing it well. On behalf of everyone, I thank you.” She tucked the flower behind one ear and fought valiantly to hide her smile behind the blasé seen-it-all of a young woman.
“You’re welcome.”
Outside the barn, Liz kissed me. “Thank you. Just when I think I know you, you do something that surprises me.”
“Hey, I’m a ruthless killing machine, and all who hear my name piss themselves.”
“Uh-huh.” She kissed me again.
Arm in arm, we passed one of the other open gates out of the town. This was the one I’d gone out with Beatrice when we walked to her home. On the hill, a group of men prepared this year’s bonfire. Several flocks of sheep were being driven toward town, bells and barking dogs providing the accompaniment.
“Care to take a walk?” I asked.
“Where?”
“The family I left Isidore with lived out that way.” Liz squeezed my hand. “Probably faster if we ride.”
“Probably. You’re taking this all fairly well, considering.”
“Considering what? That my boyfriend is the kind of man who both saves innocent babies and then wants to check up on them when he’s back in the area? That’s all good stuff, you know. It’s a sign that you’re good in here.”
She lightly poked my chest, over my scar. I felt a tingle along the path that long-ago sword had taken through my body and out my back.
Chapter
NINE
The scenery was breathtaking. We lived in Neceda, a town on a muddy river, and so were used to things in shades of brown. Here it was all individual solid colors: blue sky, green grass, gray rocks, and white sheep. The bright red of a kerchief or tunic popped out as well. The air carried the sharp sounds of sheep bells and shepherd horns, punctuated by the barks of herding dogs. Behind us, the occasional cheer reminded us that we were missing the fun to indulge my personal (not even professional) curiosity.
Shortly we saw a small hovel set back off the road that matched the one in my vague memory. Certainly it was old enough, although the mud chinking between the stones was fresh and the roof had been regularly re-thatched. Smoke rose from the chimney, and a maned dog rushed up to bark at our horses, alerting anyone inside that they had company.
“Is this it?” Liz asked.
“I think so,” I said. I qualified it out of habit rather than uncertainty. There was the spot I’d stood with Glendower and given him Isidore’s gold before I slunk away into the night.
“What’s that smell?” Liz said, wrinkling her nose. “Manure.”
“Yeah, but where’s it coming from?”
“Sheep butts.”
She stuck out her tongue at me, then said, “Too bad your friends don’t live in that.” She pointed at the top of a large manor house just visible over the hills. Three chimneys rose from the gabled roof. It was all we could see from our position, but the mere fact that we could see it said a lot about its size. I hadn’t noticed it back in the day, but then again, it had been dark and I’d been preoccupied.
When I got down, the dog jumped up on me, wagging its bushy tail. The hut’s door opened and a gray-haired woman stepped out. “Greetings,” she said. “Looking for the festival?”
“Not exactly,” I said. I tried to imagine her as she’d have been back then, but she didn’t look like my memory of Bianca, Beatrice’s mother. “I came through this area about sixteen years ago and knew the people who lived here.”
“In this house?”
“Yes. There was a farmer—”
“That’d be Owen Glendower.”
“That’s him.”
“Well, they moved. This is the Gwingle farm now.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Up. And over.” She pointed at the chimney tops. “Glendower’s Aerie.”
My eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yep. He came into some money and moved the whole family up there, including his spinster daughter and granddaughter.”
“His granddaughter? What’s her name?”
“Isadora.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not coming along claiming to be her father, are you? We get men like that at festival time. It doesn’t end well for them.”
“And it won’t for him, if he tries that,” Liz said.
“I just wanted to visit the Glendowers and say hi,” I said.
“Well, there they be. Isadora’s standing for Eolomea at the festival this year, so she’ll be in a tizzy. The rest of them should be home, getting ready for their big party.”
I got back onto my horse, the dog still barking. The horse chuffed and stamped in response.
“Hotspur!” Mrs. Gwingle scolded. “If he chased sheep as much as he does horses, he’d actually be useful. Get back here and leave them alone!” The dog rushed back to the house and sat at her feet.
I waved to Mrs. Gwingle, and we headed over the hill toward the chimneys. “Looks like you get your wish,” I said to Liz. “We get to visit the mansion.”
“Think he used the girl’s gold to build that?” she asked.
“Don’t know.”
“A man who’s come so far in the world might do a lot of bad things to stay there.”
“We don’t have to go.”
She gave me that sideways grin that meant she knew better. “Yes, we do. Just remember that you don’t really have any say in what’s happened. You’re not the guardian, or the avenger.”
“I know that,” I said. But truthfully, I also knew it wouldn’t take much to make me step into either role.
“Or, she added slyly, “the proud papa. Right?”
“Right.”
The mansion stayed no more than a roof in the distance until at last we topped one particularly high, rolling hill and finally saw it in its full glory. It was definitely impressive, and just as definitely not the sort of thing you got from raising sheep, no matter how good you were at it.
“That’s a step up, all right,” Liz said. “Does it bother you?”
“I gave him the gold with no strings. I don’t really have a say-so.”
“But does it?”
“It might,” I allowed. I needed to know more before I could say for sure.
It was built of stone, like the smaller houses. Around here, it would pretty much have to be. It was two stories high in a landscape where most houses were often partially buried in a hillside. There was a big turnaround drive like the one at my family’s estate, and a garden walk that led from the drive to the front door. That you wouldn’t see in Arentia: gardens were for the back of the house. You invited people to see it, you didn’t put it out there where just anyone could walk through it. Of course, no one in Arentia would also have barns, corrals, and sheep pens this close to such a grand edifice.
“Good grief,” Liz said. “How much gold did you give him?”
“I didn’t count it,” I said.
We rode down the hill, turned onto the road, and followed it up the drive. No livery boys appeared to take our horses, just the same type of hitching post you’d find outside any home in the area. The garden was more elaborate than it looked from the hill, with neat benches and gravel paths among the blossoms. Statues peeked out from them, and one central godd
ess stood on a pedestal. We tied our horses to the post.
“I don’t know Alturan etiquette,” Liz said. “Are we being rude if we just go up and knock?”
Before I could answer, a young man appeared from the house. As he got closer, we heard him repeating, “Three pounds of sugar, five pounds of currants, saffron to color the pies—” He saw us and stopped. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I said. “I assume this is the Glendower residence?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Clancy Glendower.”
“Are you one of Owen’s sons?”
He grinned. “Yes, indeed. I—” He frowned. “Dammit!”
“What?”
“I forgot what I was supposed to get at the market!”
“Three pounds of sugar,” Liz said helpfully, “five pounds of currants, and saffron to color the pies.”
Clancy’s eyes opened wide. “How did you know?”
“Ah . . . I heard you talking to yourself when you came out.”
“But I was going over the list in my mind,” Clancy said, still astonished.
Liz smiled and laughed nervously. I said, “Is your father here?”
“Oh, yes, he’s helping get ready for the festival dinner tomorrow night. He always hosts the neighboring farmers. That’s why I have to go to the market.”
“Can we see him?”
“Of course! He’s not invisible or anything.”
I looked at Liz. Her cheeks trembled with the effort not to laugh.
“Is he in the house?” I asked slowly, keeping my own face straight with great difficulty.
“Yes. Oh! You meant ‘see’ like ‘visit.’ Yes, wait here and I’ll go find him. You are Mr.—?”
“LaCrosse. We met sixteen years ago.”
“We did? I would’ve only been about five. I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”
“Your father and I met.”
“Oh! Okay, just . . . wait here.” He scurried off back into the house.
“Living with him must be exhausting,” Liz said.
We milled about in the garden. The plethora of freshly cut stems and carefully shaped branches told me it had been recently spruced up, no doubt for the festival. Liz wandered about admiring the flowers, while I picked a bench in the shade of a small blossom-covered tree. I looked up at the windows, wondering if one of the rooms was Isidore’s, or rather Isadora’s. I also wondered about Beatrice. Did she still live here? It was possible; the place was big enough for multiple families, especially if they had ties to the business. Would she still be mad about the way I’d left without saying good-bye? Or had she come to understand it was the right decision?
