The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) (12 page)

“Come on, come on.” Halice was calming our horses with soft words and dried apple while Livak was rummaging in the gig for something to clean her daggers with.

“You know, Ryshad, I’ve heard of Arimelin sending people off walking in their sleep but I didn’t know she could make them fight.” Her green eyes were wide in the firelight.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you know they were coming?” Halice looked over, now dealing efficiently with her own wound, her teeth holding one end of a bandage as she knotted it tight. She spat a fragment of lint from her mouth. “What were you saying when you woke me, my Formalin’s not that good in the middle of the night?”

I blinked but Shiv arrived at my shoulder and interrupted before I could ask what the two of them were going on about.

“That should save the Lords’ foresters a task.” He was looking extremely pleased with himself, brushing what looked like frost from his gloves though he had blood oozing from a long gash in his forearm.

Halice rolled back his sleeve and stripped the shirt from the wound with impersonal strokes of her belt knife. “This needs stitches,” she warned briskly and turned to the gig.

“Saedrin’s stones!”

I had my dagger out within half a breath as Halice started backward, but it was only Viltred, unwrapping himself from his enveloping cloak like a tiggy-hog unrolling its spines.

“Have you been there all the time?” I asked incredulously.

“I am no warrior,” he said with threadbare dignity. “I thought it best to stay out of the way so I made myself invisible.”

No one could find a reply to that, so I turned to Shiv as Halice held a curved needle in the flame of a brand from the fire.

“What did you do, exactly?”

“Most of them tried to leave along the stream bed, I’m not sure why. Anyway, I froze the water, which held them pretty much fast for Nyle and his men.”

Shiv’s laugh caught on a gasp of sudden pain and Livak passed him a flask.

“What’s that?” asked Halice.

“White brandy. I picked it up in the last camp, but we never got around to drinking it.” Livak looked under her lashes at me. “I got a set of the latest engravings about the Duke of Triolle’s love life, as well.”

Those promised to be ripely entertaining, if not downright obscene. I looked over toward the trees, the darkness hiding the carnage beneath them. I couldn’t decide if I liked the idea of trapping men like that, to be killed like snared vermin. I shook it off. Dead is dead and Shiv had probably saved a few of the guards from injury or worse.

“Do you know these stars?” I asked Livak. “What would you say the time is?”

She looked up. “Halcarion’s crown’s just beyond zenith so it won’t be long until dawn at this season.”

I wondered if Poldrion would charge the dead bandits more or less for their ferry fare on account of them striking on his side of midnight. Halice soon finished with Shiv’s arm and made a neat job of it.

“I’ve seen worse stitching by Messire’s surgeon,” I commented. “Not many soldiers learn that kind of skill.”

“I grew up five days’ walk from the arse end of nowhere,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “I learned to turn my hand to most things before my tenth year.”

The beasts were still refusing to settle with the reek of fresh death all around and everyone turned to trying to restore some sort of order. I opted for helping drag the nearest corpses outside the ring of wagons. It wasn’t a pleasant task, but a dead robber can’t do you harm whereas a nervous horse stamping on your foot can ruin a good few days, a lesson I learned good and early in Messire’s service.

I looked the bodies over, just in case any of them had the flaxen hair of the Elietimm, but I saw none. I didn’t bother looking any closer; these men had drawn their runes and would have to put up with the spread they threw the same as the rest of us. The only one to give me pause for thought was a scrawny boy I rolled over to get a better grip on his tattered jerkin. He had long lost half a hand and most of the meat of his arm, probably to a beast-trap, the sort farmers set along a wildwood margin for wolves and the like. If he’d had a livelihood, he would have lost it along with his fingers. Whatever his tale—thief or peasant, vicious or honest—someone’s sword had sung the last verse when it ripped into his ribs, chips of bone gleaming white among the ruin of his gaping chest as I dragged him over the blood-soaked ground. Stupid bastard.

I looked over toward Halice, who was kneeling awkwardly with her twisted leg. She would never sink so far as this lad, not with Livak and her other friends to keep her afloat, but the life she’d known and relished was over and I saw the realization plain in her face. In some ways she was as finished as the poor bastard with his guts trailing over the ground as I rolled him down a slope to lie in a tangle of dead limbs with the others. No wonder she was desperate enough to take up with a wizard’s quest.

“Let’s have some of that.” I came back to the fire and reached for the brandy. Taking a deep breath to get the smell of blood and voided bowels out of my nostrils, I coughed as the liquor caught at the back of my throat. We passed the flask around until barely a finger of spirit sloshed in the bottom.

“This wasn’t a way I’d choose to drink four Crowns’ worth of finest white brandy,” Livak observed as she took a swig.

“I’m glad you’ve got it.” Shiv was cradling his arm against his chest but the liquor seemed to be dulling the pain well enough.

“It’s not as if I’d paid for it, anyway,” Livak said generously.

“We don’t seem to be too popular,” Viltred remarked with some amusement, eyes bright in his lined face as he passed me the bottle.

I followed his gaze and saw the merchants who had been sleeping closest to us were now all on the far side of their fire, doing their best to edge a few arm spans further off still. Shiv in particular was receiving suspicious glances as the two burly men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and prepared to spend what was left of the night dozing on the seat of their cart.

I couldn’t blame them; seeing that real magic works to kill and to help others to kill is a real shock, there’s no denying it. We don’t have much time for mages in Formalin, but you’ll find philtre-merchants and palmists in any sizeable village, and a fair few are genuine. I could remember a girl in the next street who left our little dame-school to study with the mage in the larger half of the city, on the gulf side of the isthmus. Pretty well everyone knows someone who had a friend or relation whose fishing instincts or touch with a garden turned out to be mage-born. It’s just that you don’t imagine you’ll see them sending lightning shooting from their fingers to leave a bandit crisped like a baked fish. Still, that was Shiv’s problem, not mine, for the moment anyway. I yawned, wrapped myself in my cloak and settled down to get my share of what little sleep was still on offer.

A spacious Formalin steading,

set among gardens on a grassy hillside

Temar watched with gathering irritation as yet another drove of rack-ribbed cattle were herded, lowing and snorting, into the holding pens. Shouts came from a group of men hastily lashing hurdles together to make yet more enclosures as some of the beasts threatened to stray and wreck their day’s work.

“Where will I find Esquire Lachald?” a swarthy drover addressed Temar with scant courtesy.

“In the house,” Temar replied shortly. “No, wait, I’ll show you myself.”

It was time he had words with Lachald, he decided abruptly, time he made it quite clear what the Sieur had in mind when he wrote the instructions Temar had brought. He strode through the home gardens and shoved through the gate into the grassed courtyard, the shorter drover having to hurry to keep up with Temar’s long-legged strides. Giving vent to his irritation, Temar flung open one of the doors in the long, single-story building that enclosed the lawn on all sides.

“Can I help you?” Lachald looked up from his desk, all but hidden by parchments covered in figures, amendments, crossings-out and notes. His thick fingers were ink-stained and his sparse blond hair unkempt.

“Respects, your honor.” The drover gave Temar an uncertain glance but carried on. “We’ve brought in the herds from the western grass, so that should make the last of the cattle. The sheep weren’t far behind us; they should be here within the chime, two at most.”

“Thank you, Rhun.” Lachald dug among his parchments and forced a note into a cramped margin. “Go and get yourselves a meal. Oh, tell the steward to open a cask of wine for you all; there’s no point hauling it back to Formalin if we can drink it here, is there?”

“Obliged, your honor.” Rhun ducked his head and then hurried out, glad to escape Temar’s palpable irritation.

“Is this important, Esquire?” Lachald did not look up from mending the nib of his quill. “I am rather busy.”

“Why are we delaying while the herders bring in yet another bunch of scrawny cows and some mangy sheep?” Temar did not bother to temper his exasperation. “I told you that horses should be the priority; they’re far more valuable to the Sieur. We should have left days ago.”

“The Sieur has ordered me to withdraw his chattels and tenants from this reach of Dalasor in the best order I may.” Lachald rested his hand on a parchment that Temar could see bore his grandfather’s personal seal. “I am not about to sacrifice the futures of those families who have loyally worked this holding, some for generations, just to satisfy your desire for quick coin.”

“Coin is what the Sieur has need of,” Temar snapped angrily.

Lachald consulted the parchment before answering. “He has explained his wish to finance a part in a new colony venture and I have every confidence in his judgment. However, my task is to make sure everyone who leaves here does so with as much of their property as possible, and that every beast that can be found is taken.”

“What is the point of rounding up winter-starved cattle that will eat as tough as boot soles?”

“They can be fattened on the grazing around the Great West Road.” Lachald bent over his writing, as if the conversation were concluded.

“That means they won’t be selling until Aft-Summer.” Temar slammed his hands down on the table and leaned forward, eyes hard and ominous. He stared down at Lachald who remained impassive. “Den Fellaemion wants to sail no later than the turn of Aft-Spring and we’ll need the full season to make ready if we’re to join him.”

“Let Messire Den Fellaemion sail when he will.” The steel hidden in Lachald’s bulk rang in his voice. “The proceeds from the sale of those cattle will be used to help settle and support the tenants this side of the ocean. The Sieur’s concern that none be left destitute is quite clear.”

“They won’t be left destitute; they can come with me to the new colony! If we ever get a vessel bought and fitted, that is,” Temar said scornfully. “Which is why we need to concentrate on recovering only those things of value that can be turned rapidly into coin: stud animals, horses for the Cohorts, wine and spirits mature enough to sell. We need to move fast and we won’t be doing that if we’re stopped every half-league by a milch cow dropping a calf!”

“And what of those whom the Sieur is forcing to leave, who don’t wish to risk the open ocean in a quest for an untamed land, full of Talagrin only knows what dangers?” Lachald’s voice betrayed an edge of weary irritation now. “Are they to be discarded here along with the broken pots from the kitchens?”

“If they want to stay when every sensible House is drawing back from Dalasor, let them. There’ll be no Formalin presence this side of the Astmarsh within five years, anyway.”

“How is that relevant, exactly?”

Temar stared at Lachald for a long moment then turned on his heel, striding for the door.

“You know, Esquire D’Alsennin, if you are to make anything like a worthy Sieur of our House, you really are going to have to learn how to deal better with folk.” Lachald leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, a sardonic expression on his fat face.

Temar half turned, mouth open, surprise fleeting across his face a breath ahead of real wrath.

“I was sent here with a task to do and you are—” Temar was shouting now but Lachald remained unmoved, seated behind his desk.

“Oh, do shut up!” he countered with a full-throated bellow that easily drowned out Temar’s intemperate accusations.

The younger man fumed, unable to decide between further argument or the satisfaction of slamming the door behind him.

“Have a glass of wine and we can discuss our options like sensible men,” Lachald commanded acidly. He rose and turned to a shelf, extracting a flask of wine and two glasses from behind a set of ledgers.

“Rielle thinks I’m drinking too much during the day,” he explained as he offered Temar one of the crude greenish beakers. “She will insist on sending over small-beer when I ring for refreshment. Sit down, won’t you?”

Temar hesitated for a breath then took the wine and found a stool under a pile of ledgers.

“That’s better.” Lachald took a long drink and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing, smudges of tiredness gray beneath his lashes. “I know it’s the saddle horses, the bulls, the rams and so on that will make the Crowns to buy your ship and supply her. I wish you all the best and we’ll burn some incense to Dastennin when you sail.” He raised his drink to Temar in a toast and the youth took a reluctant sip from his still full glass.

“So why aren’t we—” Temar began, but Lachald spoke on over him, his tone commanding attention.

“In the meantime, I have to look at the whole game, see where all the runes are going to fall. I’m not expecting you to wait for the cattle droves and the ox-carts, not once we’re past the Astmarsh. You can cream off the best and welcome, once we’re under the protection of the cohorts again, but until then we’ll need to keep together or one attack from the plainsmen could cut us to pieces. I’ll also be cursed if I’m going to leave anything behind that those dog-lovers can use against any of the other settlements around here. If I didn’t think it would be bad for morale, I’d fire the buildings as we leave tomorrow!”