“You asked me whom I served,” said Robyn. “I will not betray you to the Imperator’s Scourge. But we are on Haukmere’s doorstep. There’s sixty miles of clear trails, at most, from Wescairn to wood’s edge. If your presence among us will draw Ashimar’s eye, that is something I need to know.”
“I hope to be gone by nightfall,” said Celithrand. “I had hoped to be gone already.”
“Can we be of help to you, my lord? The harvest was rich again. We can give you whatever food and supplies you can carry.”
Celithrand sighed and rubbed his face with bony hands. “I would make no such promise,” he said, “until you ask if I travel alone.” His look to Aewyn was so apologetic, and so sure, that there could be no mistaking his intent.
“You…have come for me,” said Aewyn. There was fear in her eyes, but not her voice.
“I had hoped not to,” said Celithrand. “But I cannot remain in Imperial lands. I must cross the Miumuranai, and sail to the lands of my ancestors, where even the Imperator’s hand cannot reach. And I cannot leave you behind when I do. The days of prophecy are come at last—or will, soon enough. You can remain no longer. You must be made ready.”
“It’s true, then,” said Robyn. “This business about her destiny.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Celithrand.
Poe snorted. “I don’t believe you,” he said, so forcefully that the others were lost for words.
“The prophecy—” Celithrand began.
“There is no word in my language for talking about…certain tomorrows,” Poe said. “No language trick for talking of days far away as if they had already come. We counted ourselves wise for it. It is the way of the Iun to hold false expectations. It is the way of the karach to see what comes, and adapt.”
“You have picked a strange friend,” said Celithrand, “for one who does not believe in destiny.”
“Why?” Poe asked, challenging him. “Why does it matter? The villagers pray to men who walk in the sky. Darmod Pick believes in children’s rhymes that make his garden grow and his purse swell at the seams. It makes no difference to me. Why should dess-tiny?” He would have said more, but his ears twitched uncomfortably as the sleepers on the green began to stir.
“We have talked too long, or too loudly,” said Celithrand. “We cannot stand here and debate. I must not be seen.”
Robyn stood tall and looked westward, toward the river. “We have a house,” she said. “You can trust the Havenari…for now.”
Celithrand nodded his assent, and Robyn led the way. For Aewyn, who had twice run the whole length of town only days before, the slow walk from the green up to Robyn’s long house near Miller’s Riffle was interminable. Celithrand moved on bones a thousand years old, with the patience of a man who had weathered every day of them. The days of prophecy, he had said—there was always a prophecy of one sort or another, she supposed. But prophecies and legends—and evils especially, save the petty grievances of men like Darmod Pick—had always been the stuff of faraway. Celithrand had raised her from a young age to believe in her own importance, and the legends and stories she had heard from Grim only cemented the notion. It was taken for granted that children of miraculous and mysterious birth—and here she was certainly unique—were always Chosen by the gods for some business greater than themselves. Now that it had come, she waited with some fear to learn what her place would be.
But her long indenture had put the soil of Widowvale under her fingernails. It had soaked her clothes with its spring rains, and burned her fair skin with the same sun that sang up the crops in the fall. Her time in the field had brought her both kinship and purpose—the two things that her years in the forest had denied her. The thought of leaving them now, of never returning to Grimstead, of letting Hettie Oltman’s winter rye go unsown, gnawed at her resolve in queer and unexpected ways. She had never worn his promises of a heroic destiny uneasily; but now they were real, like a debt called to account, and they knotted her stomach and dried her mouth with worry. The affairs of the gods, it seemed, did not suit her any more readily than a marriage to one of Oltman’s sons. If her future were of great importance, as he had long said, her simple life was about to change. And if it were somehow more complicated than all that—if there was more to destiny, as Robyn had warned, than merely doing what wise men expected of her—then it would surely become more complex yet.
In the midst of it all was her understanding that Celithrand was not the simple old man of her childhood anymore; she had heard, now, the songs of his deeds, and that renown seemed to make him both more and less than the ordinary man he was before—just as she, too, felt both more and less than her true self under the mantle of his words.
The days of prophecy are come at last. The words haunted her all the way to Miller’s Riffle.
Castor Stannon had a taste for art. He much preferred it to war, which largely disgusted him, and for which reason he had begged and beguiled a seat of power as far from the front as possible. Wescairn came by its name fairly; there was nothing at all west of Wescairn unless you ventured into the forest—an errand he took it upon himself to avoid whenever he could. The Kelmors had warlords enough, in draughty keeps and salt-blasted towers all along the Tunderstrand—severe and ugly places for severe and ugly men—and Ashimar was for all his eerie calm the most severe of them all. When the Imperial Scourge had left him, the Censor retreated to his counting-house and poured himself a tall goblet of Rahastan wine. The wine, like the room, was too warm to be comfortable to most men, but Castor Stannon was not like most men. Nor was he much like himself, he thought, as he set his goblet down with trembling hands. It would be a few more hours at least, and maybe a night of fitful sleep, before he had fully regained his customary calm. For now, wearing his calm as a mask would have to do.
Castor much preferred art to war, but here on the frontier, there was less time for one than the other. Only the smiths, whose secrets had come down to them from long generations of master armourers, had time enough for both. The marshy coastal lands of Haukmere were a place devoid of paintings, bereft of sculpture and higher craft, and only the armourers had preserved any semblance of creativity in their art. All four walls of the counting-house, then, were adorned with ferocious masks and war-helms shaped by Haukmere’s master armourers. The fearsome visages of wolves, bears, dragons, and three dozen more terrifying beasts stared lifelessly down at him as he sat in uneasy silence. Only the vasils themselves and the legionary generals—ten men under Thurmod, and eighteen under Harrod—were permitted to wear the war helms of Haukmere on active duty. But any man of wealth and taste could possess them, and to his knowledge, Castor held more of them than anyone. Their macabre beauty pleased and thrilled him, and when the outside world or the duties of office troubled him, he would retreat to his chamber and tend to the taxes, while the three dozen great-helms snarled down at him like trophies or severed heads. Sometimes he would turn them over with delicate hands and let the firelight play across their ferocious features, until they so terrified him that he had to look away in spite of himself.
Not one of the masks ever terrified him as much as Ashimar’s. The sight of it alone made him feel shaken and small. He loathed these sudden visits, and resented most of all that the war had come to his door. He threw back his goblet. The wine tasted sweet, he reminded himself. It was not sour. It was too expensive not to taste sweet.
The footsteps came just before the door creaked open. They were too light to be Ashimar’s. No one else’s armour was so well-made, but even so, an armoured and unarmoured man sounded utterly different in these halls. Castor knew well the echoes of his keep, and knew above all the sound of metal.
“Enter,” he said. He set his goblet down on the plush chequered counting-table. Sure enough, it was just one of the census-tellers, his arms heavy with stacked boxes of coins.
“Taxes, milord,” said the man. “The Protectorate of Haveïl, all accounted for.”
“Fine, fine,” said Castor. “Lay t
hem here.”
The teller lifted three heavy cases up and over the rim of the table. “Aslea here. Widowvale here. Seton here. And there… the outliers.”
“Thank you,” said Castor. The teller bowed obligingly, patted down the bags, smoothing them, and stood in silence.
“Thank you,” Castor tried again. “That will be all.”
The man nodded gravely. Castor frowned.
“You are dismissed,” he said.
“Begging your pardon, milord—”
“Derec, isn’t it?”
“Aye, milord,” said Derec.
“Spit it out, man.”
Derec’s face tightened as he buried his emotion. “He’s still here, milord.”
“Who?”
Derec cast his eyes up to the fearsome masks. Castor sighed and pushed back his chair. Moving to the side table, peering down the snout of a gilded lion mask, he reached into a cupboard for a second goblet.
“Sit,” he told the teller. Derec drew another high-backed chair to the counting-table, bowing his head sheepishly.
“It’s just… I’d rather not—”
“Do shut up,” Castor urged him, pouring him a half-goblet of wine. “I understand you perfectly.”
“I was setting out for the Tunderstrand tonight,” said Derec. “His horse shares a stable with mine.”
“Eleven wounds, man,” sneered Castor. “Leave off and drink that. Learn to say ‘yes’ to a kindness.”
Derec took the cup. “Thank you, milord.”
“Slowly, slowly. It’s not cheap. Not that pig swill you’re used to out here.” He rubbed his temples with delicate hands. “These are difficult times, and we all must do our duty. Be thankful for those who get their swords wet for us. It’s dirty business, ruling. Men like the Scourge are how men like you and me keep our hands clean.”
“Just the same,” said Derec, “I’ll rest easier when he’s back in Travalaith.”
Castor nodded and lowered his voice. “I too,” he said softly.
They drank together in silence, listening for the sound of hoofbeats as Ashimar’s company of bloodguards departed. But no sound came.
“Clear weather tonight,” Derec said at last. “I’ll make up the time on the road.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I’ll saddle up quick. I’ll be out as soon as that hateful man’s headed back from whence he came.”
“Whence,” Castor mouthed over the rim of his goblet.
“What?”
“Headed back whence he came,” said Castor. “Don’t say ‘from whence.’ It’s redundant.”
“Oh.”
When the tension was unbearable, Castor reached across the table and dragged the wide box of Aslea’s taxes to his end of the table. It scraped across the chequered cloth with a pleasing weight. When the thunderous hoofbeats of Ashimar’s departing retinue arose at last, Derec drained his goblet with relief.
“Damn,” he said. “Tastes better already.”
Castor let a thin smile escape the mask of his calm. “Off with you, then.”
“You can’t hang a man for asking,” said Derec, suddenly lighter of cheer. “One more for the road?”
Castor’s smile flinched, but did not fade. He looked to the side-table, then to the counting-table.
“If you can promise me I’ll be happy with the remittance, I’ll grant it.”
At that, Derec beamed widely. “It’s been a fine year.”
“We shall see,” said Castor, thumbing the hinge on the counting-case.
“Wait,” said Derec. “Leave Fat Aslea for dessert. Start small.”
Castor eyed him shrewdly, taking the measure of him, then shrugged and pushed back the first box obligingly. “Show me,” he said.
“Widowvale’s always smallest,” said Derec, laying a lighter box before the Censor with one hand. “More than usual, but still the smallest.”
“That is the nature of charity,” said Castor as he picked up Derec’s goblet. He felt safe, now, turning his back to the door, and did so without a care as he refilled the wine. His hands were steady, now, and did not flinch even when Derec dumped the coins onto his table with a sudden clatter.
“Now that,” he began, “is the sound of a bountiful—”
He stopped mid-sentence as he turned around. He handed Derec’s goblet back without looking up from the table.
“Wait, how much is here?”
Derec tried to remember. “Just seven or eight sovereigns,” he said. “Much of it’s in smallcoin.”
“Much of it isn’t,” said Castor. He fingered a handful of little gold coins, stamped all around the edge with shallow ridges so they couldn’t be filed down. The Imperator’s head adorned one side; on the reverse, an ungainly Haukmere seagull spread its wide wings, backed by the Kelmor crescent moon.
“The Kelmors stamp these in Haukmere proper,” he said. “They’d have to ride clean around us to get them. How much of this is gold? Nearly a quarter?”
“One part in five,” Derec corrected. “Not quite. Certainly made it nicer to carry.”
Castor reached out—not really sorting the coins, just dividing them.
“How many heads in Widowvale?”
“The scroll is sealed, milord.”
“It’s sealed for me. Open it.”
Derec did so and unrolled the census results.
“Sixty-one women—mostly widows, sadly, hence the name—and nine men of working age. Ten men, sorry. There’s a retired Havenar in town now. He’s exempt, like all Havenari, but he doesn’t ride out with them anymore. Paid his head tax, insisted on it.”
“And these, what are these?”
“Silver, milord.”
“I know what silver looks like, man! They’re unstamped.”
“Aye. But they check out, milord, at a rider a piece. Weighed them three times myself. They’re real. If anything—”
‘They’ve overpaid,” Castor agreed. “Not by much. Enough to please me. Ten men?”
“Aye.”
“Read me their occupations.”
“Aye, milord.” Derec spun the rollers in his hand and deftly read down the scroll:
Orin :: age unknown, late seventys :: animal husbandrye
Darmod :: age unknown, fivty-some :: sheepherd / farmer
Marin :: fourty-eight :: forrester / town reeve
Aeric :: fourty-five :: miller
Owen :: thritty-nine :: brenner / smith
Jerrold :: thritty-seven :: mercer
Bram :: age unknown, above thritty :: invalid
Alec :: thritty-one :: horse breeder / beekeep
Corran :: twenty-one :: farmer
Arran :: eight-teen :: vintner
“Interesting,” said Castor. “Tell me about Owen.”
“Thirty-nine, born in Carmac, skilled tradesman. Brenner and smith, it says here. They call him Owen the Tall—though he wasn’t, particularly. Tall, I mean. Lived on a barren hill south of town.”
“Kept a forge and furnace there, did he?”
“Aye.”
Castor quietly began sorting the coins back into the box.
“Large as the smelting furnace down below, at Steelgate?” he asked.
“I reckon so.”
“How many men did Ashimar leave us to secure the border?”
“A garrison of thirty, milord. More than enough to man the watchtowers and blockade the roads, if his fugitive makes it this far west.”
“Unlikely,” Castor said. “But we’re just as well not to waste them. Call muster in the square; get them ready to ride.”
“Something the matter, milord?”
Castor’s eyes glinted cold in the firelight as he set the heavy coin-boxes aside. “Tack your horse, and mine,” he ordered. “I’ll explain in the saddle.”
EIGHT
MOST OF THE HAVENARI, having drunk more than their captain, were only just rising from their bedrolls on the threshed floor as Robyn returned home. A few hastily rushed to cover the
ir nakedness as the visitors arrived. Some had slept in their breeches or even in their long, quilted gambesons, though their leather and mail and been laid aside.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Hendec, who was just now waking for the second time.
“It is,” she replied. “Hendec, I need you to call muster. Somewhere else.”
“You heard her!” he bellowed. Preparations began to hasten.
“I have an ill feeling about last night,” said Robyn. “Go lead the men up the escarpment, and sweep the patrol road. I have heard tell of a deserter’s shelter, but no deserter to go with it. If you find him, be sure he knows we need not answer to the Grand Army directly. The news he can tell us outweighs the price on his head, if there is one.”
“Shall I take them up by the Serpent Trail, then?” Hendec asked.
Robyn waved her hand dismissively. “Gods, no,” she said. “It winds on forever. You’d be gone all morning. Just dismount and go up through the broom. You know the way.”
As the Havenari made themselves ready, she went to Bram, who was slow to stir. She rested a hand on his shoulder. He was pale and cool to the touch.
“Hard night?” she asked.
“I went…to Grim’s house,” he groaned. “I drank too much, and tried to unburden myself of secrets.”
“So did we all,” she said. He began to register that the men were hastily arming around him.
“What’s happening?” he asked. His eyes darted to the front door as the Havenari poured out, then to the unattended back door. He shifted slightly under the blanket; Robyn could feel him lift up onto his toes and the fingertips of one trembling hand. His other hand was on the rusted hilt of his sword—he must have slept with it near him—but she brushed the matted hair from his face and hushed him.
The Season of the Plough Page 17
