King's Shield (75 page)

“But there cannot be food for thousands of men.”

“No. That’s why I’m here. You better come fast, because everyone’s a hero right now. A whole lot are flat on their backs recovering from Venn sword and bow work. They went after arms and legs—”

“Did here, too,” Tuft put in.

“—but there’s going to be trouble if we don’t get ’em under orders. We ran out of barracks space, and we can’t billet ’em on civs when the ground floors of every house lack furniture. Not a lot of extra food, and though the fun houses have all thrown open their doors, they’ll run out of supplies about the time they run out of patience. Long before they run out of liberty men, is what Tdiran-Randviar said.”

“We’ll give them something to do.” Evred’s smile was rare, the tips of his teeth showing. It was a singularly unpleasant smile. “Packing to march. Because I promised there would be a triumph.”

Barend gasped, “Who’s paying for that?”

“Horsebutt,” Evred said, the nasty smile even wider.

Inda had completely forgotten that strange moment during the long ride north, but he remembered it now, and gasped as the implications hit him. “You mean, he has to entertain us all?”

“That’s what a triumph is. It’s also an honor,” Evred said. “It’s an honor kings rarely confer, and that’s only when they want to ruin someone without lifting a hand in anger. We have the moral force of our victory, and he the honor of being chosen as host.”

Inda laughed, then shook his head. “That’s . . . that’s piratical. Especially since we didn’t have a victory.”

“Yes, we did.”

Inda looked startled, and Barend lifted his brows. Evred had never flatly contradicted Inda before.

Inda rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Sponge, that wasn’t any victory, they just retreated. You heard Durasnir, and even if he lied about everything else—”

“Inda.” Evred looked into Inda’s startled face. A stream of insights flickered through his mind, most images, scraps of past conversations. Inda’s understanding of victory was purely military—you won when you either left your enemies in smoking ruin or ran them off the map. Inda was profoundly ignorant of the political side of war.

How to explain swiftly? Education could come later. It would, as Inda was now Harskialdna, and he would be the instrument of Evred’s will.
Be immediate.
“Would you deny these men their triumph? Deny Noddy’s family?”

Inda grimaced. “But—”

“Inda. The men saw you on the cliff, they shouted your name. That heartened them. You were unbeatable, and the Venn retreated. They are gone. You gave the men the victory. Do not take it away from them.”

Inda smacked his hands over his face. “It’s Boruin all over again,” he mumbled.

Evred pointed at Tuft, who was gingerly fingering the stitches on his blood-crusted ear. “Vedrid?” The Runner appeared from the other side of the makeshift tent, wet clothes over his arm. “Horses for us all. Tuft, you are in command. The wounded must go to Ala Larkadhe, but all the rest of these men will ride for Tya-Vayir. We’ll spend one night in Ala Larkadhe, then we will join you on the road.”

Chapter Twenty-six

NIGHTINGALE Toraca cautiously leaned against the window of the tiny stable hand’s room the Runners had taken as their watch station. The room smelled faintly of wet wood; through the open window came the heavy summer air, scented with the adjacent stables.

The Runners who had galloped ahead of the king all greeted Nightingale, scrupulously careful not to say anything, and went out about their duties. But the very care with which they greeted him—the lack of mention of Andahi Pass—prepared him for Evred-Harvaldar to come seeking him almost as soon as he rode through the gates.

Nightingale was shocked by the lines of tension and exhaustion in the king’s face. He saluted, though the movement hurt, and whispered, “You’re wounded?”

Nightingale was almost unrecognizable. His lips were bluish, and he had trouble breathing.

To few would Evred have answered that question, but Nightingale was already as far inside his personal boundaries as he let anyone, and now Evred felt he was owed more than evasion. “I never lifted a sword. No weapon was near me,” he said, and ill as he was, Nightingale could not comprehend Evred’s low, flat tone. Then Evred said in a very different voice, “Noddy and Hawkeye died defending the top of the pass. They held it in the teeth of half the entire Venn army.”

Nightingale had thought he was prepared, but the words made it real. At least the king had come right out with it, not shuffling about, or speechifying about honor and glory.

He wasn’t aware of reacting, but suddenly there was a chair underneath him, and Evred’s hand on his good shoulder, keeping him from falling.

Nightingale held his breath, glaring at the table with its neat papers, a hastily scrawled duty roster on top. The big slate with messages from one Runner to another. Pens. Chalk. Papers, a couple of extra weapons, a sewing kit. He concentrated fiercely on each thing. His chest hurt too much to breathe.

Evred’s voice went on, husky with grief: unexpectedly he sounded like Hawkeye. “Noddy died knowing we won. He asked Inda to promise him something. I could not hear what it was, but no doubt Inda will be speaking to you about it. Now. I have decided—and will tell your Cousin Nadran so—that you will choose whether you will take Noddy’s place as Randael to Khani-Vayir. Noddy’s son will inherit, all as before. But if you wish to become Randael, then you must marry. Unfortunately, there will be far too many unmarried women whose treaties cannot be kept, so you will probably be able to choose. Or you may stay my Second Runner, and name your preference in a Randael for your cousin, and then little Inda.”

Nightingale could not speak.

“Do not decide now. There is time. Nothing will happen before Convocation, and that is half a year away. Recover first. Think about it.”

The hand lifted, and Evred turned to leave.

Nightingale forced words out. “You’ll sing them?”

“Yes. There will be a triumph at Tya-Vayir.”

“Then. I’m going.”

“We will arrange it.”

“Here they are,” came Inda’s voice from the Runner barracks outside. And then, to Vedrid on duty outside the door to the Runner watch station, “Is he being private?”

Evred lifted his voice. “Enter, Inda.”

He was at first annoyed to see that Inda was not alone. He’d hoped the Venn mage would vanish altogether, though he knew it an unreasonable wish. She’d stayed with the wounded, transferring by magic back to rejoin them just before they reached Ala Larkadhe. He did not hate her—that had vanished long ago—but he hated the magical power and freedom she used so easily.

Inda said, “We went straight to the lazaretto, but Signi says it’s too late for Buck’s arm. There isn’t any magic for when it’s gotten that bad. His leg above the amputation will probably heal. They won’t have to cut all the way at the hip. And they sewed up his parts.” Inda grimaced, brushing his hand over his crotch. “They said Nightingale was up here.”

Signi’s gaze scarcely touched Evred, going straight to Nightingale. “Ah,” she exclaimed. “It
is
the lung. You are breathing blood. We must take him down to Hatha-Runner.”

Nightingale had his face turned away; he made a vague motion to leave him be, and Signi faltered, uncertain. Then Inda snapped his fingers. “Message, Sponge. Tdiran-Randviar stopped me on the way in. Said to tell you that no one died in the mystery flood, it was the battle before that gave us a stiff list, mostly of women and a handful of civs. Also, they got the horses out. And this fellow here reopened his wound doing it.” Inda pointed at Nightingale.

Evred had been watching the Venn dag, who, tired, stressed, was far less masked than he’d ever seen her: on the first mention of the flood her hands stiffened. And then, on Inda’s report
No one died,
her eyes closed in unmistakable relief.

“
You
did that,” Evred said, advancing on her. Not that he had far to go in the tiny room. “The flood. Not the Venn Erkric. You.”

“What?” Inda exclaimed.

Signi’s eyes fluttered open, wide and frightened, then she straightened, her face smoothing with that inward control. “Yes.”

“You did that against your countrymen? In aid of us? Why?”

“I did not mean for people to be killed, for then I would count myself among those who murdered others. Venn, Marlovan, Idayagan, Olaran—the inhabitants, they were all killing. Children, the old. Everyone. Not just your warriors, men and women. And so my people were going to burn the city.”

Nightingale had shoved aside papers and dropped his head onto his folded arms. He turned his head and croaked, “True. Had us ringed. No one could get out. We half choked on the smoke.”

“Do you not see,” Signi said, her gaze wide and intent. “How terrible it is, when all fight? War is terrible, it turns everyone into murderers.”

“But you yourself told us that your Dag Erkric was going to ensorcel us all, to take our minds and make us fight to his will.”

“Not everyone,” she said. “Even Norsunder has not such magic, or you can be sure it would have long been used. Just you, the king.”

“So you believe it is wrong for people to defend the king?” Evred’s voice flattened. “Would that include your king, your prince, who ordered you against us in the first place?”

“The people in the city would not have been put to death had your people surrendered. Life would have gone on much as it does under you. Perhaps with a greater wargild, I do not know and cannot answer. The warriors would then have gone up the pass, and yes, probably more men would have died there. I don’t have easy answers, I only ask a question that I believe must be asked. Asked again and again. Is it right for everyone to make war without rules? What happens when war is something everyone expects, from baby to grandmother?” She turned away, hands toward Nightingale. “I have been helping Hatha-Runner, I have been teaching him some healer magics, since the Magic Council will not let healers come here.”

Evred said, “I thought you could not do magic. They would find you.”

Signi’s smile was painful. “I have done magic all along. Restoring your lockets’ magic most recently, and longer ago your castle spells. I did the same at the Marlo-Vayir castle. But no, those are not the major magics that would have drawn Erkric’s eye. When I washed this city clean, I drew his eye. He now knows I am here, that I stand against him. This does not increase your danger from Erkric. Only mine.”

Nightingale had gotten to his feet. Signi helped him out.

Inda fell in step beside Evred. “Tdiran-Randviar’s putting on a dinner for all the captains and the city guild chiefs,” he said. “Here’s a surprise. The new guild master from Lindeth Harbor is coming, as well as the harbormaster. She says that’s something new.”

“It’s more likely something prudent,” Evred said, in the flat, soft voice he’d used ever since the battle. There had always been a small space of personal reserve between Sponge and the world, back when they were first year scrubs at the academy. Gradually—except for that one moment, just after Noddy died—that space had become a gulf.

“Prudent?” Inda asked, sliding his right arm out of his grimy sling and flexing his hand.

Evred gestured, palm up. “I’m certain the impulse is less a truce with us than making certain that they aren’t overlooked when it comes time to rebuild. And I’m morally certain we will be hearing, underneath stirring speeches about heroism, that that time should be as soon as possible.”

Inda grimaced. He’d thought the news of Lindeth’s harbormaster coming, a first, would be a good sign. “We can deal with that later. Thing is, Tdiran-Randviar says that hoarded stuff is coming out right and left, now that they’re beginning to believe they aren’t in for a summer’s siege. So we’ll have a hot meal, our first in what? I don’t remember, do you?” He didn’t pause for Evred to answer, but ran right on. “I set the loose Runners to work on putting together a report on what supplies we’ve got, what the city’s got. Told them to prepare for the ride.”

“I’d like to leave at dawn,” Evred said.

You’d do better with a night’s sleep,
Inda thought, but he didn’t say it. Evred had not asked for personal advice, and even when he was small he’d hated to get it. Inda sighed, wondering how to broach the subject without offense. He didn’t think Evred had slept more than half a night, if that, since the battle. Maybe work it in with the last bit of good news? One he’d been saving for the right moment.

Evred led the way along the back end of the castle, which was full of a jumble of furnishings rescued from below during the flood. Runners, women, servants dashed about, most distracted, some catching themselves short to let them pass, hands snapping to chests.

Evred, usually so observant, did not appear to see any of them; he walked with his head bent, hands clasped behind him. Inda recognized where they were heading, and grimaced again when they reached the white tower. So he filled the silence with a running list of the logistical chores he foresaw needing attention once they were on the road again, in hopes Evred would himself suggest a day’s wait. Better, a week. They could scrounge food from somewhere.

No response. They mounted the last round of stairs in silence. The reserve had become a gulf vast as a sea, isolating Evred on an island of his own making.

“. . . and Rat gave me permission to send the rest of those Cassad dragoons north over the pass for Cama to use, as soon as they’ve gotten a watch or two of rest. Cama had the training of ’em, and Rat admits they’re devoted to Cama. But I was thinking it would be right, wouldn’t it, to send the Khani-Vayir men home? Or do we take them along with Hawkeye’s people to the triumph, so they can hear their leaders sung?”

“We can give them the choice,” Evred said. “I’d like to keep a few of them as an honor guard for Nightingale. After the triumph they can take him back home.”