Eavesdropping, spying weasel—
“So, that’s what?” Jeff asked. “Seventy-two ancestors you share with the king?”
I turned away from both Ryson and Jeff and began to shave. “Give it a rest. My parents laid that down before I was born. I can’t come dancing in and pick it up again.”
“Could’ve fooled me last night,” Jeff said.
I paused in midswipe of my razor, remembering my snit when the men froze me out of setting up the camp. Well, how observant of him—and how nice of him to throw it in my face in front of everyone. I finished shaving and rinsed the soap off. “Yeah, well, you were all being twits—” I broke off as I caught Groskin moving over towards us. Laurel and Suiden were ducking into the captain’s tent.
Ryson saw the same thing and blanched. He produced a tiny sliver of soap and began to strip. “Quick, Basel, hot water. Groskin said if I don’t clean up, he’s going to douse me in the stream back yonder.” We all cast a glance at the stream full of snowmelt running across the back of the lea, and a collective shudder went through us at the fear that Groskin might decide that we all needed a bath. Basel hurriedly poured water into another washpot while I emptied mine out. Jeff grabbed a stick and lifted Ryson’s uniform into my pot, and Basel poured hot water over that too.
I sized up Ryson’s fragment of soap and the size of his stink. “Here,” I said, thrusting my towel and soap at Ryson.
“He’ll need more,” Jeff said. “I’ll go get some.” He took off at a trot and, after a moment, I did too, thinking to go finish dressing in my tent and play least in sight for a while.
Suiden didn’t send for me until after breakfast. Until then, I joined the rest of the troop in doing small housekeeping chores, like mending my tack. It didn’t look like we were moving out soon. Ryson had to relaunder everything, and he walked around camp with a borrowed blanket wrapped around him. This time he hung his clothes and bedding around the cookfire to dry out. (Groskin threatened to make Ryson wear his wet uniform again, muttering about the indignity of Ryson’s bare arse and the camp looking like a wash yard, but Ryson’s tentmate was very impassioned about the smells of manure and mildew in small tents, and the lieutenant relented.) I was standing at the edge of the lea staring down at the city, wondering how it got misplaced during our last patrol, when I felt someone touch my arm.
“The captain wants you in his tent, Rabbit,” Jeff said.
I nodded and went to Suiden’s tent, entering at the captain’s command. The first thing I saw after my eyes had become accustomed to the interior gloom was the silver tea service. I blinked. My ma had one like that, one of the few things that she brought with her from her former life. I sat down on the rug between Laurel Faena and Groskin, and was handed tea in a delicate porcelain cup on an equally delicate matching saucer. Groskin offered me a bowl of lemon slices and then, after I took one, a sugar bowl and tongs. When I was finished, Groskin placed the bowls on the matching tea tray. As I selected a silver teaspoon and stirred my tea, I watched Groskin pour a cup for Laurel, struggling with the lieutenant being mother. Glancing down, I touched the rug—it looked like a Perdan. It was strewn with fat needlepoint pillows, and the walls of the tent were hung with tapestries. I grinned, thinking that our captain knew how to travel.
“Something amusing, Lieutenant?” the captain asked.
I stopped grinning. “No, sir. Just enjoying the tea, sir.” Captain Suiden lounged back against a pillow, looking very much at ease. “All right, Sro Faena, why are you here?”
Laurel took a dainty sip. “I am on my way to see the king.”
The captain, Lieutenant Groskin and I all stopped whatever stirring, drinking or fidgeting we were doing and stared at the Faena. He stared back, bland and benign, and took another sip of tea.
“The king,” Suiden repeated.
“Yes,” Laurel replied.
“Our king,” the captain said, looking for clarification.
“Yes.”
“Jusson IV, also called ‘Golden Eye,’ who, at this present time, resides in the Royal City of Iversly.” Captain Suiden wanted to be absolutely sure.
“Yes, that king.”
“I see. Any particular reason why?”
Laurel looked at me. “Do you remember, Lord Rabbit, the fur trappers in your Weald some years ago?”
“Yes,” I said. “Honor Ash Faena, uh, remedied that.”
“So she did. It was an isolated incident, no?” Laurel asked.
“Yes.” I stifled a shrug. “As far as I remember, it was the first time something like that happened. And the last.”
“It’s a true memory you have, Lord Rabbit,” Laurel said. “But you’ve been gone how long?”
“Five years, Laurel Faena.”
“Not a great amount of time, yet what would you say if I told you that since you left we’ve had not only trappers, but fellers, slavers, hunters, and other runners raiding throughout the Border?”
I blinked. “Uh—”
“One hunter even managed to reach Dragoness Moraina’s lair.” Laurel took another dainty sip. “We buried what we could find of him in one of Cobbler Rosemary’s shoe boxes.”
We all paused to consider the image that arose.
“What’s a feller?” Groskin asked, after a moment.
Laurel waved a paw at me.
“Fellers are tree runners,” I said. “Border hardwood is considered premium in southern markets.”
“Logging is illegal in the Border?” Groskin asked.
“Yes, sir. Cutting down a tree kills its sprite.”
Captain Suiden’s and Groskin’s eyes shifted around the tent, looking for things made of wood. They both settled on the tent poles.
“Don’t worry, you have no spritewood,” Laurel said. He touched his staff that lay behind him. “And this was given to me by an oak sprite whose tree is very much alive. Her sister, however, didn’t fair so well. Fellers got her.”
Captain Suiden set his empty cup down. “It seems that there’s a serious problem in the Border.”
Laurel nodded. “A very serious problem.” He looked at me. “You know the delicate balance there, Lord Rabbit?”
Delicate balance? It was a bull dancing on a thin rope strung between two high poles. With no net. “Yes,” I said.
“Everyone with their own idea of how the universe runs and how that should play out on their patch of earth, no?”
“Yes,” I said again.
“And how hard it is for anyone to agree on anything, let alone have a consensus?” I nodded. The memory of my da’s frustration with both the Area Weald and High Councils rose up again.
“The High Council did reach an accord, Lord Rabbit,” Laurel said. “Unanimous.”
My mouth fell open.
“We will declare war if these raids do not stop.”
My mouth closed with a snap.
“Honored Moraina was most eloquent about becoming part of some apothecary’s potion or lordling’s boots.” Laurel finished his tea and set his own cup down. “And the moon season will start soon.”
Suiden frowned. “Moon season?”
“It’s the time from the first full moon of spring to Midsummer’s Eve where the haunts of those betrayed and murdered appear, sir,” I said, politely ignoring Groskin’s start at the mention of ghosts.
“I would think that the dark of the year would be more the time for hauntings,” Suiden said.
“The four seasons align with the four aspects, honored captain,” Laurel said. “Fire and summer, air and fall, water and winter, and earth and spring. It is earth that governs the dead as it is the substance from which we are made and to which we return.” His ears went back against his head. “And each year there are more and more of the slaughtered—” He broke off and took a deep rumbling breath. “However, your father spoke prudence before the High Council, Lord Rabbit. Honored Two Trees was equally eloquent about the, hmm, bloodiness of war, so the High Council has decided to see if the problem could not be resolved by diplomatic means. By reminding Iversterre of its treaty with us. I was chosen.”