“Well!” Kordas said. “That’s sorted, then.”
“Provided nothing else happens between now and the Regatta,” Isla said with gritted teeth. “I don’t like this, Kordas, but you’ve made up your mind, so I shan’t bother giving you a piece of mine. So I’ll tell you how far we’ve gotten here. We got the Portal open. We can soon have the Foothold established. Ivar has crossed, and found a suitable place so quickly, that is so perfect, it seems the gods arranged it for us. There are ruins there, Ivar says—remains of a tower, and docks going into the water. He thinks it was at least a town, maybe bigger, once, but it’s all overgrown, now. The water isn’t salten, and it’s deep.” Even through the scrying, Kordas looked amazed. “Today we’ll send our mob of mages across to actually build the Gates, one for foot traffic and then one for boats. Then Jonaton will cross with Ivar, and that Healer-cousin of Endicrag’s and some support to attune them. Woodsmen crews will clear land and I think maybe some of those ruins could be reclaimed. Then we’ll start the Plan transfers proper.” She shook her head. “There’s a lot that can go wrong, Kordas. There is still a lot that can go wrong.”
“I know that,” he said steadily.
“We still don’t know why the Emperor wanted you at the Palace,” she reminded him.
“I know that too,” he said. “Which is why I am counting on you and Hakkon and the rest to see the Plan through if I can’t.”
Delia felt her stomach turn to water at that moment. It had never occurred to her that Kordas could fail.
It had never occurred to her that he might not come back.
“Between all of you, you know the Plan in its entirety. I made sure—just in case. Meanwhile, get the crews and essentials over soon. That’s enough for now,” Kordas said, with a wary look at the Doll, which nodded. “Three days from now. We shouldn’t do this too often, and we should do it at irregular intervals. Never make a pattern for someone to discover.”
“Gods be with you,” said Isla.
“And with you,” said her husband. And they both waved their hands across their mirrors at the same time, breaking the spells.
* * *
—
“That was exhausting,” said Kordas, drooping in his seat. “I don’t know why—scrying isn’t that hard at home.”
“Because the amount of clean magic energy available to you here is nil, my Lord,” whispered Star. “You powered every moment from within your own internal resources.”
“Well, that makes sense.” He made a face. “And it makes things damned inconvenient.”
“It is what it is,” Beltran said unexpectedly. “Is there any way you can use my help the next time?”
Kordas blinked, because that had not occurred to him. “I’ll investigate the possibility. We have three days, after all.” He turned to Star. “I’m going back to bed, but I think you should bring me breakfast as usual.”
“Best not to break the pattern,” Star agreed. “This one will ensure that measures are taken to keep the meal hot until you are ready to eat it.”
Kordas put the scrying mirror that Star had found for him under a seat cushion. Since his own personal Dolls did all the cleaning, he knew there would be no problem with that. Then with a weary wave to Beltran, he had Star help him out of coat, waistcoat, and boots and fell onto the bed in his breeches and a loose plain shirt. The breeches wouldn’t suffer for being napped in, and neither would the stockings, and Star could get him a new shirt when he woke up.
He woke about two hours later, coincidental with another rumbling earth-shake, of two sharp jolts and then longer shudders afterward. Kordas barely touched the chain, and Star appeared with the tray, and a satchel that appeared very much like a falconer’s bag. He’d feared that his breakfast would be kept warm by magic, which, all things considered, was . . . not something he wanted to consider the source of. But this was not the time or the place to quibble about such things. He didn’t detect any trace of magic on it, so that would have to do.
“How’d you keep this warm?” he asked Star. “And what’s that?”
Star explained, “Towel-wrapped and kept in a steam chamber. This is something we have made for you. Something for your notes, and perhaps souvenirs. This one assumed that you would enjoy collecting things for sentimental reasons.” The Doll opened up the bag and wordlessly showed Kordas the wrapped package inside it, and then the inobvious pockets in the strap and body of the bag, which Kordas understood to be places to slip talismans and other items. Before he could ask about the package, Star opened it up by unlacing a tether-and-button closure, and presented its contents.
It was a carefully folded stack of long-sleeved shirts, dyed in random stormclouds, with modern flat collars and silver stitching for the lightning.
Kordas picked one up and simply gazed at it wordlessly.
“We do not know details of why this design is important to you,” Star explained, “but it is enough for us to know that it is. We consider it to be your personal signature, as much as the crest you wear is the signature of your people, so respectful care was put into its fabrication.”
There was meaning in that, and it was not lost upon Kordas. The Dolls lived as slaves by being merely adequate, and they manifested their resentment of their enslavement by expending not a bit more effort than was required. If they had put extra effort into these shirts, it meant that they considered him to be worthy of it.
I didn’t expect vrondi to be so knowledgeable about humans and our emotions. But Star said that what one knows, they can all know. Maybe they have collectively gained an in-depth understanding of humans?
Star helped Kordas remove the loose shirt he’d slept in, and drew the new stormcloud shirt into place. Kordas ran his hands down its sleeves and sides. “It’s perfect,” he said softly. The cloth was as soft as his comfortably worn shirt had been, despite being new. There was barely a scent of dye, either.
He loaded up on breakfast before dressing in anything more, feeling strangely more “himself,” despite the fact that what the shirt symbolized in his past was not flattering in every way. If I am going to be Kordas, he thought, I should be all of Kordas, not just the pretty parts on the outside.
“Where am I allowed to go?” he asked Star when he had finished.
“You are expected to be at luncheon and the Court afterward,” Star temporized. “There is but a candlemark or two before that.”
“Can I visit my horses?” he asked.
Star quieted, which he knew now meant that the Doll was talking to other Dolls.
“The Chargers have already been sent to the War,” Star told him. “The Fleetfoots have been sent to the racing stables of Duke Holiger, an Imperial favorite. The Sweetfoots are replacing palfreys that have become too old, so you may visit them, and the Golds are in their own special quarters, which you may also visit.”
He really did not want to think about the palfreys that were being “replaced.” Back home, they’d be sent to gentle retirement around the Duchy, as children’s mounts. If Delia had not already had her pony, for instance, he’d probably have sent her a retired Sweetfoot.
Dog food, he concluded sadly. The Emperor had no place for anything that could no longer serve its purpose.
“Have I time for two changes of coat and waistcoat?” he asked.
“Yes, my Lord,” Star replied, and went to the wardrobe, bringing out two of his old garments from Valdemar, as if the Doll had read his mind.
He got the garments on without Star’s help, and entered the antechamber, approaching the Gate. “The stables,” he said, and stepped through.
He found himself in a courtyard in front of a huge complex of stables, paddocks, and exercise yards. There were many, many horses walking in circles in those yards, tethered to a contraption like an umbrella without a cover, each spoke with a lead-rein attached to the horse’s halter. It was fascinating, but it rev
olted him. It seemed hideously boring for the poor horses.
But he supposed it was better than no exercise at all. At least the sun was shining, what sun made its way through the skeins of smoke scudding across the sky. And at least they were with other horses in small herds, of sorts.
But his heart ached for his poor horses, used to green meadows and free gallops.
A Doll approached him—of course, because Star had surely told the Dolls what he wanted. “Would my Lord wish to see the Golds or the Sweetfoot palfreys first?” the Doll asked. “The palfreys are on the carousels for exercise at the moment.”
He decided that he did not want to see his Sweetfoots. Not like this. “The Golds,” he said, and the Doll turned and led the way into one of the stable buildings.
Though his heart was misgiving him, it seemed that whoever had set up these stables had at least done so with the maximum good care for the horses in mind. Rather than straw—which probably would have been a great pain to deal with here in the middle of the Capital, what with being bulky and hard to transport from the country—the stalls were deep sawdust over sandy dirt—good for drainage and easy to clean and rake level. The pathways between the stalls were stone slabs. Most of the horses were in loose-boxes—and he could see his two false Golds from where he stood.
They had been given simply enormous stalls, four times the size of the rest of the loose-boxes, and their posture told him almost everything he needed to know. They weren’t stressed, they weren’t annoyed by their neighbors, and they approved of their surroundings.
He strode toward them eagerly, the Doll with him trotting to keep up.
The breeze was in his favor, and they scented him before they saw him. Both their heads came up, and they whickered a greeting, alerting all the rest of the horses in the building, who lifted their heads and turned in his direction to see what the newcomers were excited about.
“Hello, my lads!” he said as they made their ponderous way toward the sides of the stalls on the pathway. One of them whickered again and the other snorted as he came to the corner where the two stalls met, and they put their heads over the wall to have their noses rubbed.
He checked them over as best he could without getting into the stalls with them—he didn’t see any way to unfasten the doors, and he didn’t want to disturb them any further. They seemed happy to see him, but the kind of happiness that suggested that they were happy to see someone familiar, not that there was anything wrong.
“What are you feeding them?” he asked the Doll.
The Doll recited exactly the diet they’d been getting at home—minus the grass, which was being substituted for with hay in the right amount.
“That’s all right, then. What does the Emperor plan to do with them?” he asked.
“Oh, the most high Emperor, Lord of us all, has great plans now that he has seen them,” the Doll said.
“He’s seen them in person?” Kordas was a bit surprised.
“He has. They were brought to him in his privy garden. He was most pleased.” The Doll’s tone suddenly changed, became deeper—and in fact, sounded like a human man speaking. “These are good,” came the voice, and it struck Kordas in that moment that the Doll must actually be somehow reproducing what the Emperor had said, down to imitating his voice. “Wonderful beasts, wonderful. Big! Bigger is better. Bigger is always better. And gold, like real gold. We thought it was all bragging, but no, they look like gold. They’re going to look great in a parade.”
“Did he say anything else?” Kordas asked.
“My Lord might not want to hear it,” the Doll said hesitantly.
Kordas snorted. “I have a thick skin.”
“That dumb farmer knows horses, all right,” came the Emperor’s voice. “Dumb as dirt, but knows horses. Thought it was all an accident, maybe lucky, but he brought Us exactly what We wanted, and that’s no accident. Valdemar Golds! Big, beautiful, bigger and more beautiful than any other horse anyone else has. Perfect for Us.”
Kordas just nodded, and rubbed the horse’s cheeks with each hand. “What does he plan to do with them?” he asked.
“He’s having a special gold chariot made, with a copy of the Conquest Throne on it,” said the Doll, which seemed relieved that he hadn’t taken offense. “They’ll pull it in a parade that takes him to the Regatta, then he’ll sit in it during the Regatta.”
Well, that wasn’t ideal, but the two stallions were used to being out in the sun all day. At least they weren’t grays, which were prone to sunburn.
“Make sure they have water available while they’re standing there,” he cautioned. “And food, from time to time. Make sure where they’re standing, the piss can run away from their feet. Make sure someone scoops up their shit and carries it away immediately, and don’t let anyone but a Doll give them anything to eat. Especially don’t let them get apples.” That would be a disaster. He rather doubted the Emperor wanted to be assailed by horse farts.
“Yes, my Lord,” the Doll said. “It will be done.”
He couldn’t tell from that response if they’d already been given orders along the same lines or not, but this way he was certain his boys would be treated properly—and wouldn’t do anything to annoy the Emperor.
“My Lord—” the Doll said then, hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“These horses are not inclined to . . . chew on . . . things. Like a Doll. Are they?” It paused. “Some horses here are.”
“No. I trained bad habits out of them,” he replied. And it was true. He hadn’t known about the Dolls, of course, but he’d trained them early not to mouth cloth or, worse, chew on it or play with it. Too many horses that got into bad habits like that ended up dead, with guts full of inedible things they could not get out of their stomachs.
“This is good to know,” the Doll said, then ventured closer to the stallions and put up a tentative hand to touch the cheek of the nearest. The horse snorted at the unfamiliar object, but when Kordas said, “Steady,” it relaxed and let the Doll touch it, then rub it, then leaned into the scratch.
“This one enjoys working with horses,” the Doll said. “They are kindly natured.”
“More kind than humans,” Kordas replied, and sighed. “And I would be happier if I could spend the rest of my visit here.” Reluctantly, he gave the huge necks a final pat, and straightened his shoulders. “But I can’t. So it’s back to my duty. And—I’m glad that you enjoy your time with the horses.”
“Good fortune, my Lord,” said the Doll as he walked away.
I’m going to need it, was his parting thought.
13
If there was one thing that Delia was certain of, it was that Isla was seriously angry with her husband for agreeing to try to save the hostages and the Dolls. Delia could understand her point. These were more complications in a plan that was already far too complicated and dangerous, and it was a complication that was guaranteed to make the Emperor furious with them. At one stroke he’d be deprived of all of his servants and his hostages, and Delia very much doubted that the “who” of the question would be a secret much past the moment when he discovered that Valdemar had been stripped of its most valuable resources and that its Duke and his family had vanished with those resources.
On the other hand . . . if she was in his place, she didn’t think she’d be able to resist trying to save them either.
Well, Isla is like Father was. She’ll be angry, and she’ll give him a very long piece of her mind when they are back together and safe, but for now, what’s done is done, and she’ll change the Plan to adapt to it.
Isla took several long and deep breaths to calm herself, closing her eyes tightly and clenching and unclenching her hands on the tabletop. “My husband,” she said, opening her eyes, “is an idiot. Gallant, chivalrous, and an idiot.” She put the scrying glass flat on the table and stood up. “I need to go tell my maid t
o take the day off, then we’ll make our way back here by way of the kitchen. The mages are probably gathering by now to go build those Gates.”
Delia just nodded. The one thing that she was certain of was that Kordas wouldn’t intentionally do anything that would put the rest of them in jeopardy. Himself, certainly, but not the rest of them. So no matter what he’d said, he wouldn’t actually do anything until he was sure they were safely out of harm’s way.
Right?
She hurried after Isla, who, mindful of the fact that someone might be watching at this moment, took an intricate route back to her own rooms to wake her maid, who was to all intents and purposes as identical to her mistress as any bundle of bedclothes would be.
“I feel ever so much better, milady—” the girl said, when Isla woke her.
“You might feel better now, but that’s no reason to take chances with your health,” Isla told her sternly—in a voice that made Delia think she really wanted to use some of that attitude on absent Kordas. “You go back down to your bed, and have another sleep. And if you find you are feeling up to it, try laundering some of my underthings and laying them in the sun to bleach, or do some mending. I’m sure I have something that needs mending. That’s work enough for now.”
The maid thanked her, but Isla was already out of the room and heading to the kitchens to talk to the cook and look through the stores.
When they had finished deciding what needed to be brought in from the manor farm to supply meals for the next day or two, Isla left her with a scrap of used parchment to make her list for the farm steward. “I’ll be down in the cellars, checking the beer,” she said aloud. “We’re likely low, and by this time most of it will be strong. It’s just about the time of year when we should start thinking about brewing again.”
That’s a nice touch. What noble in the Capital ever thinks about brewing his own beer?
Isla gestured to her, and they both made their way down into the kitchen cellars . . . and from there, down into the old manor cellars.
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