Lanrid didn’t like Wanreth for the very reason he paid him, because he was so willing to spy on anyone Lanrid asked, in hopes of becoming a Rider. As if Lanrid would ever trust a slimy worm like that!
But Wanreth was a useful slimy worm. “Wana?” Lanrid said, forcing a big grin, without any idea how false it looked.
Wanreth blinked blond eyelashes, glanced furtively at the stable door, then said, “The jarl is sending Arrow to the royal city.”
“He is? When?”
“Don’t know. Probably soon. But I saw the letter the runner brought, asking for them both.”
Lanrid brightened, asking quickly, “From my father?”
“No. From the regent.”
“Uncle Kendred,” Lanrid muttered, flicking his hand away in disgust. Then, “Good man. I’ll have a goldpiece for you come morning.”
Wanreth licked his chapped lips, fingered the white-blond queue that he didn’t dare wear in a horsetail except in his own room, and stepped nearer. “You said I could start riding with you.”
“So I did,” Lanrid said, thinking rapidly. If Arrow was going south...he’d better carry out his bride raid now, instead of next spring. He’d surprise everyone—his father, the jarl, Arrow—the kingdom! Especially that snively shit Evred, so-called crown prince.
Lanrid laughed again. Definitely time to act. If he waited, he might not get the time before his father summoned him. Drill, hard drill, until he saw Arrow’s back, and then ride for the north, and Hard Ride Arvandais, the wife every man in Marlovan Iasca wanted.
“We’ll talk about it...after Arrow leaves,” he said, knowing he’d have time to figure out some other way to put Wanreth off during the ride north and back. “Get back inside. Looks like rain’s lifting already. Don’t want us seen.”
Wanreth watched Lanrid stride off toward the command end of the Rider barracks, fury simmering inside him. He’d seen that quick, false grin, and heard the easy promise—the same promise he’d heard again and again.
Wanreth sloped off toward the gate, and to the hostelry where he ordered some newly-broached ale and waited for the brown-haired weaver who soon appeared. “Wanreth?” She sat down next to him. “You have news?”
Wanreth repeated what he’d learned about the jarl and his sons, then added, “That raid Lanrid keeps bragging about? I think he’s going to run it now, not next spring.”
Her light eyes narrowed. “Did he say so?”
“It was the way he lied to me, saying we’d talk after Arrow leaves. I think he’ll leave as soon as Arrow and Jarend do.”
She accepted that, brought out a pouch from inside her coat, and withdrew five six-sided Sartoran gold pieces, worth four and a half Marlovan golds in Lindeth Harbor. “You get the other half the day he rides north.”
Wanreth smiled as he departed, running his fingers over his coins. Now he didn’t care if Lanrid kept his promise or not. Wanreth would soon have enough to buy his own horse, and no more barrels for him!
While Wanreth was talking to the weaver, Lanrid was inside the castle guard command center, prompting the praise and compliments that were his due for winning the wargame. But there weren’t as many as he’d thought. Everyone seemed to be more interested in watching the storm move overhead, and jabbering about how hungry they were as they watched the servants dodging rain gutters as they carried out loaded and covered trays.
Everybody always thinks about himself, Lanrid thought irritably and started up toward his new chamber—the Rider Commander’s chambers. That never failed to cheer him, though Rider Commander was just a small step toward the true goal.
Lanrid stopped short before he reached the door when he saw the gorgeous figure waiting—Fini sa Vaka.
Before I relate this encounter, I need to disclose something that none of the Marlovans ever found out. Even Fi hadn’t known. Though her mother, Vaka sa Fini, was a hard-working, sober trader, Fi’s father had been nothing less than a pirate.
Lanrid stared in astonishment.
“Fi!” he exclaimed, forcing a smile. He’d been so busy drilling his lancers that he’d been avoiding her for weeks. “Who let you up here?”
She flung her hair back so that it rippled, her long-lashed blue eyes wide, dimpled arms crossed beneath her perfect breasts, which looked even fuller than usual, if that was possible. “I told your desk orderly I had personal information, and you and I could either talk in the middle of the court, or up here. He said I could wait here.”
Lanrid let out a gust of air, more disbelief than laugh. Even when she annoyed him, showing up like this, he couldn’t help the heat searing through him, especially with her silk plastered to her curves. And didn’t she know it!
“I’ve waited weeks to see you,” she said as she shifted a hip and lounged against the door, a slim hand up, two fingers folded down. “You said you had to get ready for that wargame. I understood,” she finessed, not wanting to admit that she had felt, and looked less than perfect.
But she was perfect now. “You won. It’s over. We have two things to celebrate.”
“I can give you until first night watch,” he said, mentally calculating. He had to be out beyond that hill by sunup, equipment ready...then he looked up. “Two things?”
Her soft lips curved up, smug, her deep dimples still entrancing. Perfect white teeth dug into her soft underlip, then she said, “Open the door.”
She was standing with her back to the latch—but he sighed and reached past her, familiar with her demand that others open doors for her. Apparently important people in Iasca didn’t open their own doors.
When they were shut inside, she put her hands on his shoulders and said, “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” he exclaimed, backing away as if to escape.
“Preg. Nant,” she enunciated, grabbing his hand and pulling it under her loose silks. Instead of the soft belly he knew so well, there was a distinct hard mound. “I came to discuss our marriage.”
Fury burned through him. “I never said I’d marry you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No I didn’t.”
“When you first slept with me,” she stated. “Before I left Arrow. You said he wasn’t free, but you were.”
“All I meant was, he was getting married, and I wasn’t.” He scowled at her. “How do I even know it’s mine? I’m not adopting any brat of Arrow’s,” he added in disgust. “Or some Iascan horse apple. Even worse.”
“It’s yours,” she said. “I haven’t been with Arrow since his stupid wedding, or anyone else while I drank gerda-steep. Which by the way is revolting. But I did it for you,” she lied, and thoroughly enjoyed the lying. Boys were so very stupid. Fun, but stupid. “You promised to marry me. You Olavayirs get your children right away, so I got a head start. For you.”
“You’re trying to trap me,” he said slowly, remembering when he’d caught an extra scent about her, but she was always changing her scents. One of those scents was probably the herb that they both should have discussed first. It was...it was...well, if it wasn’t a law, it should be. But it was certainly manners.
He glared at her, angry at having been duped. Marlovan women didn’t do that—they would scorn to.
She eyed him, seeing the rising temper in his tightened mouth and reddened cheeks. How dare he! She hissed in a furious breath. “I am an excellent match. My grandmother is one of the richest shipowners in Lindeth. I want to be Lady Olavayir.”
“There is no ‘Lady’ Olavayir,” he said, his tone corrosive as he repeated the Iascan title lady. “I’m not even officially randael—I just hold that position.” He laughed. “Though Arrow is now under my command, and doesn’t he hate it!”
“You are a lord in my language,” she retorted, voice rising to shrillness. “You command an army, you live in a castle, and you have a title. I deserve a title, and a castle, and I mean to have both. And my daughter will be the child of Lord and Lady Olavayir, and take over our ships.”
Lanrid remembered Arrow mutteri
ng something about how having Fi as a lover was like riding into a lightning storm. At the time, he’d thought Arrow was hinting at his great sexual prowess, like the bonehead he was, but now Lanrid was beginning to comprehend what Arrow really had meant.
Lanrid stared back at her, remembered his plans, and smiled. Once his bride raid was successful, the problem would be solved. As for the brat, if it was a boy, he could be a future Rider—a captain if he was good enough. She could raise a girl however she liked. But his future heir would be by Hard Ride Hadand, for surely between the two of them they’d raise a boy as great as Inda-Harskialdna.
Lord Olavayir. Ridiculous.
He was going to have a far better title than that.
Meanwhile, if he told her no, would she go slandering him all over, the way she had Arrow? He stepped close, tipped her face up, and gave her a bruising kiss that left her gasping, and him thoroughly roused. She attacked him right back, shoving him until his shoulders thumped the wall, and ripped his coat open so the shanks popped off.
Oh, yes, this was the way to celebrate his win. He’d give her until the night watch. And fend her off afterward until he departed north to fetch Hard Ride, his future queen.
TEN
The royal runner Camerend Montredavan-An sat in a small guest chamber on the servants’ side of the castle late at night. He wrote in coded Old Sartora to his mother, Shendan Montredavan-An, who had recently relinquished command of the royal runners to her son, so that she might remain in Darchelde to teach magic.
Her descendants have written enough about her eventful life. For my purpose here, here are the salient facts: the Olavayir king known to history as Bloody Tanrid had clashed with her, reducing the royal runners to household servants and banishing her to Darchelde, which was still under interdict from the days of the first Marlovan king. It suited Tanrid to permit Shendan to rule as jarlan—he did not want any of the jarls taking Darchelde and in effect becoming as powerful as he was.
She was brought back by his son on his accession, but when he was killed, the new king from the other Olavayir branch, banished her again, while keeping her son Camerend as a hostage because the royal runners were so useful—they were the only ones who knew how to replenish the spells for water purity and bridge supports and the like.
Unknown to the new king, Shendan, who couldn’t bear to sit home worrying about her boy, had gone out of the country in secret, learning as much magic as she could—including, for a short time, from the mage guild in Sartor, until she advanced fast enough for them to delve into her false background to discover she was one of those proscribed Marlovans. She was kicked out, but by then she had discovered other sources of magic learning. After Garid-Harvaldar’s assassination, she returned to teach chosen among the royal runners what she had learned, directing the royal runners from Darchelde.
Camerend wrote:
The evidence could not be clearer that the Jarl of Olavayir, and his sons, however used to garrison life they are, have seldom emulated our ancestors in tent living.
The conversation I am about to repeat I overheard while waiting for the Jarl of Olavayir to finish dealing with the last of a string of servants and runners, shortly after the younger son’s wife and her infant were carted back to the castle.
The Jarl arrived too late to see his newborn grandson, but he was clearly too intent on other matters. He told me to bide outside the grand pavilion that had been set up for his family from which to observe their Victory Day wargame. I was just as glad not to have to sit inside, as it was hot as an oven.
So I discovered that the jarl, like many who have never had to live in tents, assumes that what you cannot see cannot be heard.
I sat on an upturned bucket in what little shade there was and took the opportunity to repack my saddlebags.
The Jarl’s second son, Anred (“Arrow”), arrived at the gallop, dismounted at a run, and splashed into the pavilion. “Where is she?”
Jarl: “In the cart with the last of the food. You rode right past them.”
Anred: “I didn’t come from the castle. I was talking to some of the Faths about the game, and what they saw.”
Jarl: “You have a son.”
Anred: “Good.”
Jarl: “Better than good. We need boys. We can bring in girls to marry them. Far better than sending them out to other jarlates, taking our family secrets with them. You did well there.”
Anred: “Seems to me Danet did well. My part wasn’t exactly work.” His voice rose. “I won the game, didn’t I?” And when his father sighed, he added in a surly voice, “I would have, had my southern wing known the same signals as my lancers. And if those Senelaecs hadn’t gone off on their own.”
Jarl: “Arrow. It was the Senelaecs who apparently guessed Lanrid was going to try flanking you with those Marlovayirs while you were busy throwing everything you had at his damn charge.”
Anred: “Which he lost. He won’t admit it, but he lost.”
Jarl: “No one really wins or loses a charge in a wargame, Arrow! Tigging lances just isn’t the same as killing—all it does is train your arm to be able to tap your opponent’s, and give you something to score in competitions. But in his turn, Lanrid was a bonehead to expect them to wheel and charge back on a signal no one could see or hear. Even in battle, no record has ever mentioned a charge doing anything but running wild after it breaks the line. And he broke the line only because this was a game, in which nobody wanted himself hurt.”
Anred: “Then what’s the use if nobody can win?”
Jarl: “It’s experience—the sun, the noise, the confusion. The knowing that as soon as you contact the enemy, no matter how carefully you plan, things go wrong fast. You have to have a hundred possible plans ready, once you see the problem. If you see it. Command comes with experience for most of us. There’s a reason we all sing about Inda-Harskialdna leading a mutiny against pirates at sixteen—because none of us before, or after, could do it and win. And that went for the Montreivayirs, too. People complain about us Olavayirs, and want the Montreivayirs back, but what they truly want is the Evred who had Inda Algarvayir as Harskialdna. Why d’you think we no longer even use the title anymore?”
Anred: “I still think I won.”
Jarl: “Did you really send those Senelaecs to rout Lanrid’s flank attack?”
Anred: “Well, I would have! If I’d seen—”
Jarl: “But you didn’t see the flank attack, did you? I thought not. And did you even notice that the Idegans were gone?”
Anred: “Gone? Where?”
Jarl: “Someone said they were seen riding for the north at sunup.”
Anred: “I thought I had fewer than Lanrid! How was I supposed to—”
Jarl: “Arrow, my point here is you didn’t know your companies, any more than you knew where they were after you handed out your orders. You let Lanrid pick the best of them. And you didn’t have a communication system that everyone was used to. Lanrid had you thoroughly beat there.”
Anred: cursing.
The jarl cut through it loud enough that I saw some of the runners exchanging looks as they packed up the last wagon. “The boys Halivayir sent you scarcely knew one end of their swords from the other, which is entirely another matter. Even among those who sent good Riders instead of farmers or potters, surely you observed that training in one jarlate is not the same as that in their neighbors.”
Then his voice lowered. “We both know that Lanrid is an arrogant soul-sucker, but he’s doing what he’s supposed to do. And he’s where he is because Mathren has kept his end of the Alliance treaty.”
Anred: “Right, right.”
Jarl: “This is what’s important, that you learn to spot your own weaknesses. Those will never change if you always blame others. If you see a real problem, then fix the problem. That’s command for those of us not born geniuses. Whining about your enemy’s tricks is defeat talk.”
Anred: “I get it, I get it.”
Jarl: “Then forget the ga
me. It’s over. I sent for you because I got a runner this morning. Evred has been squabbling with Kendred, insisting that he be crowned king now, and he wants to marry that Arvandais girl and not the Senelaec one he’s been betrothed to all his life. Kendred wants Jarend there to steady him, but I suspect it’s to remind Evred that there is another heir—an eagle-clan heir—as agreed on by all the jarls, until Evred marries and has a son. I want you to go with your brother. Help Jarend steady Evred to the task, by all means, but there is no reason you cannot combine that with my original plan.”
Anred, in a flat recitation voice: “‘Discover the state of the Royal Riders, and why the northern garrisons have been cut off for three years running from their share of the royal treasury.’”
Jarl: “Yes. I want you on the road to the capital city by the end of the week.”
Anred: “Just the two of us?”
Jarl: “No. Take the women. Especially with my orders to you, it’s important to make it look like a family party, there for Evred’s Name Day over New Year’s Week.”
Anred: “Right, right.”
Jarl: “A last thing. Whatever happens, put Lanrid out of your mind. He’s Rider Commander. It’s done.”
Anred: “I said I would.”
Jarl: “You can return directly after New Year’s Week. If you discover something so important you think needs reporting sooner, then send one of the royal runners, and use our code words.”
Anred: “The royal runners can’t be trusted?”
Jarl: “Oh, you can trust them to get messages delivered. And the Montredavan-Ans among ‘em are forbidden by that ten-generations law to interfere in crown affairs, so there’s no reason for them to tamper with messages. It’s just that I don’t know them—they aren’t runners I trained up from boyhood myself. They have their own training, nobody else allowed. It wasn’t so long ago they trained them in Darchelde, which no one else can get into, until Bloody Tanrid, who ruled when I was your age, forced ‘em to move to the royal city to keep ‘em under his eye.”
Time of Daughters I Page 8
