Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  She thrilled to be so close to greatness, and longed to pull those books down. But no: first she must make certain that everything was in order in the contemporary tallies. Then she could read everything from the beginning.

  “How are you doing?” Arrow asked at the end of their second week, on coming in so late that dawn was mere hours off.

  Nobody could blame him, though the jarl and jarlan both had despised late habits, which to them were slovenly behavior. But Evred retired late and slept late, so Arrow and Jarend had to stay up late, then force themselves up at dawn. Jarend, as legal heir, was permitted to report to the Royal Rider courtyard for drill, while Arrow (denied access to the elite Royal Riders) had to hike clear to the opposite side of the castle complex to where their eagle-branch honor guard was housed, for their own morning drill.

  Arrow minded the late nights less than he might have, since Rabbit screamed himself to sleep almost every night and was fractious any day he couldn’t go outside and run himself tired. Rabbit hated this unfamiliar place, and hated unfamiliar people. He was much like his father that way, as Jarend had always hated any deviation from routine.

  There was nothing Arrow could do about either.

  Danet, in her turn, hated those late watches. She also hated hearing Rabbit’s disconsolate sobbing as much as his shrill, breathless shrieks. She tried to help, but Rabbit only wanted his Nunka, Nunka, and—denied the nursery minder still traveling with the carts—he would only permit his mother and her first runner near him. That left the two to cope, as Tdor’s second runner had departed with Tdor’s and Danet’s letters.

  As usual Arrow smelled of stale drink, but at least he wasn’t crapulous, as he’d been the mornings after the two nights he’d stayed away all night.

  So when he asked How are you doing, she answered, “Everything is habits.”

  “Habits?” He yawned hugely. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Even if they don’t make sense to someone else. When you’re new, you do what everyone else does, or you get them mad at you. I don’t have to figure out how the mess down there got to be habit, though I’d like to know. I just have to sort the results, the records.”

  “Mmm?” he muttered, not really listening, but the assurance in her voice was soothing.

  “What the royal family eats is a separate category from what the garrison eats, which is separate from the guilds who live in the castle, as opposed to the ones in the city. Each person has a line under their category. I’ve finished putting the last twenty years in order, and the way the royal family lines changed so abruptly...it does, when the person dies. But that’s not what I meant to say. There’s something odd, I think....” She glanced down, and saw his eyelids drifting shut.

  He blinked rapidly, his voice husky as he struggled against sleep. “Something odd how? Military? Relating to the garrisons?”

  “No. Maybe.” Doubt assailed her—she might be imagining what wasn’t there, just because she’d been successful in Nevree. “I need to start from the beginning, once I get the recent years in some kind of order. Then I need to compare supply lines with payment lines....”

  He was already bored. His mind was entirely taken up with how thoroughly his own efforts at following his father’s orders had been blocked. “At least you got something done.” He sighed impatiently.

  “Aren’t you spending time with Evred?”

  “Yes. Every day. For what that will get me.” He sighed again. “Every time I try to ask the garrison guard captains a single question—and I can’t get anywhere near Mathren’s captains even to ask—they send me to Mathren, who tells me I’m so much more valuable influencing Evred. Only there’s no influencing Evred,” he finished with loathing.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a walking horse turd.” Outrage burned through Arrow from the previous night, temporarily banishing exhaustion. He rose on an elbow. “He doesn’t just drink, he does it with intent.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Evred keeps pushing bristic and whisky on Jarend, while telling him how well he holds it. Twice Jarend drank until he fell over.”

  Danet waited, knowing better than to ask why they didn’t just quit. She sensed that same sort of male competition that had existed with Lanrid, which neither party seemed to be able to resist, no matter how much they disliked one another.

  “Last night Jarend was late. You know his headaches. Maybe one or two a year at home, but he’s having them a lot here. He was late, like I said, and Evred and I were alone, and he asks if I want to make a wager. I said what. He said, wager on how many drinks before Jarend topples. He thinks it’s funny. He thinks Jarend is stupid. He went on and on about how Jarend sits there like a rock, or a big tree, drinks and drinks, then suddenly falls sideways. I wanted to rip his throat out.”

  “Does Tdor Fath know what’s happening?”

  “No—I don’t know. What can she do?”

  “See to it that Jarend is only waited on by his first runner, who can put water, or listerblossom, in those cups.”

  “Good idea. I should have thought of that! Though she’s got her hands full with Rabbit.” Arrow yawned. “I wish Kendred would hurry up and get back. It can’t be as bad when he’s here.”

  “I wish our carts would get here. Maybe Rabbit will be better with his own toys, and the nursery child-minder and his staff.”

  “Old Nunka is better than magic. You know what?” Arrow’s voice drifted into a yawn, then he muttered, “Evred was rambling on about how the night before Kendred left, they had a big argument about his coronation. Worst one yet. Maybe Kendred is glad to just get away, and leave us stuck with Evred....” Two more yawns, as his voice softened in the huskiness of impending slumber. “I’d make Evred wait till he’s thirty to be crowned. He sounds like a scrub of twelve. Why didn’t they teach him anything...?”

  Danet waited for Arrow to say more, but he was done. A deep breath made that clear. So she punched the pillow, which contained real down instead of old armor stuffing, turned on her side, and closed her eyes. At least, she thought drowsily, Evred considered her too boring to require her to be part of his daily audience.

  The next morning, she pulled down the very first book of records in the kitchen cubby, which was thick with dust, only to discover that the earliest records were written in Iascan, which she couldn’t read. So she checked the books one by one until she reached the years of Tlennen Montreivayir, father of the famous Evred who’d had Inda Algaravayir as Harskialdna. The change to Marlovan happened abruptly when Tlennen-Sieraec, which was what kings not at war called themselves in those days, became Tlennen-Harvaldar after the Battle of Ghael Hills. His brother Anderle, the first Harskialdna, had overseen all tallies, and had apparently issued an order that all records were henceforth to be kept in Marlovan.

  No reason why, at least at this end of the castle. For that, of course, Danet would have to seek the royal archives. But she intended to breach that citadel armed with Tam’s recommendation once she finished her task.

  She smothered her curiosity and sat down to begin reading those first Marloven records, as rain beat intermittently against the windows over the following stretch of days.

  FIFTEEN

  The historical record, largely refashioned by non-Olavayir hands, has insisted that Indevan-Jarl Olavayir did too little too late, but the evidence is there, if one knows where to find it, that he spent his entire adult life tirelessly riding back and forth across the northern reaches of the kingdom below the mountains in a losing effort to maintain the three failing garrisons. Lindeth and Larkadhe, half a day’s journey from one another, were only mildly arduous to reach from Nevree, but the worst was The Nob. That was a rough journey, invariably facing at least one attack from the mountain people, and at the Nob end he had to face stolid resentment and a long list of complaints and demands that cost money. His family’s money, as somehow nothing from the royal city coffers ever made it that far.

  Once every fiv
e years he dutifully traveled up through the Pass to the northern shore to inspect the three garrisons along the coast, where he was surrounded by the Jarl of Arvandais’s honor guards, who accompanied him everywhere, providing every comfort he could possibly desire, feasted and flattered him at every resting place, and entertained him with exhibitions of trick riding and martial dances. His opinion was sought on everything from trade to tapestries, and everybody smiled until he was gone again.

  Each time, the Jarl of Olavayir labored back down the long Pass convinced of the north shore’s loyalty, and this recent visit was no different. Whatever problems they seemed to be having with the royal city were after all not his affair, as that arrogant turd Mathren was always the first to insinuate.

  As for the hot-blooded boys who all sought to marry with the Arvandais family through the legendary Hard Ride Hadand, the jarl believed that no harm could come of Lanrid’s hankering: Once the Arvandais clan chose someone (he believed that the jarl, if not the girl herself, had an eye on Evred and a crown), eventually Lanrid would grow out of his obsession.

  A few days into the twelfth month of 4059, he had reached Larkadhe after an exceptionally grueling journey down the long path from the Nob, following a frustratingly evasive confrontation with the harbormaster up there, a local. He’d had difficulty catching his breath all day, blaming a series of hard rains on the road; he also blamed the shortsighted fools there, who acted like petty kings, and treated the people guarding them as nuisances. Except when the occasional pirate turned up.

  In short, he thought as he wheezed his way into the courtyard, with a ball of ache deep in his chest that he assumed was a developing cold, everywhere he looked he found boneheads.

  The garrison commander’s head steward took one look at his face and had a runner take the jarl straight up to the best guest chamber, which had been readied as soon as his outriders reached Larkadhe’s distinctive castle with its single tall, white-stone tower.

  He wheezed his way up the stairs and sank gratefully onto his mat, then reached obediently for the small sheaf of dispatches waiting for him.

  He opened the first, and read that Lanrid Olavayir, in full company, had passed two weeks before, going up the Pass.

  The Jarl threw the scrap of paper down, cursing vehemently. He knew what was going on. Mathren’s numbskull son was skylarking northwards, typically thinking with his prick, in order to impress that Arvandais girl.

  In a fit of frustrated temper, he shoved the other dispatches onto the floor and reached for pen and paper. He’d send a blistering letter up the Pass after the young scoundrel, but as he reached, his left hand tingled, and sharp pain passed up his arm. As he looked for whatever had spiked the pain, his breath stuttered queerly before numbness folded him into its dark embrace.

  When his runner appeared with a tray of food and hot coffee, he found the jarl lying lifeless, and the tray crashed to the floor.

  Chief of the royal runners, Camerend Montredavan-An, wrote in coded Old Sartoran to his mother Shendan in Darchelde:

  Mnar and I have both returned from touring the mines, using the pretext of delivering messages. Because of the risk of our effects being searched we left our notecases with the other instructors, as usual. The short report is, Kendred Olavayir has not been seen for days. I’ve sent our best scouts to track his movements.

  But right now I believe we have another more pressing problem. On my return I retrieved my notecase from Fannor to find not only your letter, but also two from Vanda—arrived two days ago!

  There is no mending the two day delay. I will give you an hour to read them, while I attend to things here to cover my absence.

  He enclosed the following two letters from Vandareth Askan, boyhood friend and fellow royal runner, who had volunteered to serve the jarl family north of the Pass and to observe events there:

  Yes, Cama, your faithful Vanda is alive. Or should it be, too bad, your faithful Vanda is alive? I’ll leave you to decide.

  That, I fear, will be the extent of my attempt at humor. I apologize for the lack of communication since you were here in spring. Hal Arvandais and I ended up on shipboard for most of the intervening time, and I didn’t have this notecase on me, as part of our guise was being taken by privateers in order to investigate the harbors, and there is no privacy on shipboard—nowhere to hide it.

  That report will have to wait. We sailed into Andahi Harbor today to discover that Hastrid-Jarl Arvandais is dead, assassinated at Middle Harbor at the end of summer. Two captains died defending him, Barend Veth and Hastrid Farendavan. You might very well have received a runner with that news by now.

  Now to what you don’t know. That Starand-Jarlan of Arvandais is gone, and what disturbs Hal is that no one knows where, or even if she’s alive.

  What we do know is that “Hard Ride” Hadand is claiming the jarlate over Hal. As soon as the memorial for her father was over, she began pulling all the Riders together for some big wargame. Or maybe two wargames. No one knew for certain, and Cama, we came back to a lot of talk in corners and courts, breaking up quick. But three times I caught the word “independence.” And once a name, Lorgi Idego, Lorgi being, as I’m sure you’re aware, Idegan for “old.” You will see the irony here, as there is no resemblance anywhere here to old Idayago, except in the language, which is filled with Marlovan idiom.

  This is the serious part: right before the watch change, Ndiran Arvandais sought out Hal, distressed and angry. She confessed to Hal that she had been sent by the jarl to the Senelaecs for a purpose, exactly as you had surmised. That purpose—she thought—was to obtain an exact count of the Eastern Alliance’s horses, pending a demand for a number of same on behalf of Idego in return for taxes, but she’s afraid that Hadand and her father had some other goal in mind.

  “Hard Ride and her father were fighting all summer,” she told me. “I can’t say for sure what about, but now he’s dead, and she is more crazed than ever to act now, so that his plans don’t come to nothing. Hal, whatever she says, you’re the jarl now,” Ndiran declared, and insisted we accompany her to Hadand’s room, where we saw a big map of Halia, with Ndiran’s hand noting all the best horse studs, and their defenses. “If she really rides down the Pass to reclaim Cama One-Eye’s territory, as the jarl always intended, I’ll be blamed,” Ndiran declared, weeping.

  Camerend looked up, startled, then read the passage again. The Arvandais family had made no secret of their desire—the entire region’s desire—to separate from the south, but Camerend would stake his life on the fact that the jarlan, at least, had meant it to be accomplished over time, maybe even a couple of generations, beginning with her daughter marrying Evred, once he was crowned. After which Hard Ride Hadand could work on bringing northern concerns to the Convocation of Jarls, once that was reestablished.

  He pulled the letter up to read the little bit remaining:

  Hal asked me to discover if I can where this big wargame is that Hard Ride rode off to. Who she took and what type of strategy she wants to test should tell us a lot. I will leave as soon as I send this.

  Send this on to Shendan after you read it, will you? I don’t have time to write to her—Hal has been in here twice since I first put pen to paper.

  The second letter, scrawled on a torn bit of paper:

  Cama, Hadand Arvandais is on the march down the Pass not to a game, but to initiate her invasion of Olavayir by attacking one of the Olavayir boys, who is apparently coming up from the south side. Hal just came to me with a letter sent by runner from his sister. She claims that this is going to be the first strike for independence, and she says join her or exile. And she signed it Gunvaer-Hadand Arvandais of Lorgi Idego.

  We’re riding out to catch up as soon as I send this, Hal determined to talk her out of it, or die in the attempt.

  Vanda

  Camerend shut his eyes, trying to grasp how utterly they had failed to predict this, much less act to circumvent it. And he probably should have seen it. He remembered the first
time he met Hadand—it was his very first ride north as a royal runner.

  He’d arrived to witness her riding and shooting at targets, attaining shots that would have been respectable for an adult. Then she’d leaped off her horse and sparred with a gangling boy a hand taller than she—and put him down hard.

  He’d complimented her on her win when they were introduced in the mess hall, as the jarl looked benignly on. She’d said, “I’m going to be a fighting queen, like the Hadand I was named for.”

  He remembered saying, “She certainly defended the throne from the Traitor Yvanavayir, but she never led an army to war.”

  Hadand had curled her upper lip, clearly despising him as the pedant he realized now he’d sounded like, and that was the last conversation they’d ever had. Though he’d often seen her at a distance on subsequent rides, a comet leading a long trail of followers, whatever she did.

  He also remembered that Vanda had reported two or three years ago overhearing someone saying the Arvandaises were putting feelers out to one of the other dolphin-clan sons, but there had been no proof—and the rumor had died.

  As he laid the letter down, he wondered if that had been a clue that everyone had not seen for what it was; he’d assumed Hadand herself was behind the rumor, querying about pretty Lanrid Olavayir, as no one was ever going to call Evred pretty, or even pleasant-looking.

  Even with the aid of instant transfer of letters—and if they were desperate enough, magic transfer of themselves—there was no guarantee they could know everything going on across the kingdom. Vanda, sent to Arvandais to listen and to influence toward peace with his considerable wit and charm, had been completely blindsided as well.