“Get something to eat and rest while you can,” he told the rider. “My answer will be ready by dawn at the latest.”
The Kendar was startled. “What, all the way back south?”
“Yes. To Kothifir.”
XXI
Before the Storm
A ghostly gibbous moon had just risen above the eastern horizon, signaling midafternoon on the last day of winter. Most of the Southern Host was busy in the training fields south of the camp, as usual. Dust rose there, and steel glinted through it in mock battle.
So much practice, to what end? wondered Harn Grip-hard as he stood on his balcony, looking south over the inner ward and the red tiled roofs of the Host’s camp. The Kencyrath had many foes, but at that moment, the war he feared most brewed within it, between brother and sister.
Blackie’s latest message lay on his desk. It was written on a scrap of parchment with jerky, dark red letters that looked like dried blood. So, Harn expected, it was. The Ardeth cadet who had presented it to him three days ago with a bandaged hand had looked quite unwell.
“The Highlord asked Lady Kirien to send this to me to give to you, Ran,” he had said. “Torisen wasn’t previously aware that the Ardeth had a far-writer among the Southern Host.”
Harn hadn’t known that either. One tended to overlook the Shanir until they suddenly became indispensable. How much time might have been saved if he had known about this earlier—except it was a surprise that Blackie had stooped to using a Shanir at all. He must feel very strongly about this message.
Harn remembered when the first letter had arrived by the usual postrider fifteen days ago:
“Something is wrong with Brier Iron-thorn.”
He had summoned the Kendar, of course, and there she had stood before his desk, dark red hair aglow, green eyes cautious in an immobile, sun-darkened face. He had known her since she was a stocky, inscrutable child, and her mother before her.
“Well, Iron-thorn. You’ve done something to upset the Highlord. What?”
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it’s because the bond between us broke.”
Harn was shocked. “Why? What did he do?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She floundered for words. “He’s so gentle.”
Harn sat back, absorbing this. He knew how gingerly Torisen dealt with those bound to him, as if they were all at his mercy—which, of course, they were. Raised by Kendar, he had never really understood the Highborns’ sense of entitlement. Harn valued that freedom. Others, especially those like Brier raised under tight control, might mistake such care for weakness.
“Still,” he said, “that’s no reason to break from him.”
“It wouldn’t be, except . . .” She had paused, a frown gathering as she thought. “His sister . . . I don’t really understand it, especially in one who seems so fragile and, well, peculiar, but there’s an iron core to her. She can also be merciful. I was in great distress over the death of the seeker’s baby. Torisen wasn’t there. She was.”
“So she bound you.”
Brier raised somber eyes. “One might almost say that I bound her.”
Now, that had been a tricky message to convey. Torisen’s answer had come back virtually overnight. Harn wondered that the blood in which it was written didn’t smolder.
Below in the ward he saw eight figures emerge from the streets of the camp, some walking together like the Brendan and the Jaran, others aloof like the Randir. They crossed the grass. Soon they would be at his door. It was, of course, only a regular meeting with the barracks’ commanders.
“Huh,” he muttered, under his breath.
Some fifteen minutes later they were seated about the round table in Harn’s cramped conference room. Genjar had adopted the southern style of lounging on pillows. Harn and Torisen before him had preferred northern formality, although Harn frequently prowled around the room while the others sat, saying that it helped him to think.
“Where’s Coman?” he asked.
“He’s expecting a report from his outriders,” said the Edirr, with a grin.
The others smiled indulgently. The young Coman commander was responsible for gathering information on Kothifir’s external foes. Raids from Gemma aside, though, what enemies did the city possess? However, as one of the Kencyrath’s smallest houses, the Coman always made a fuss about whatever they did to inflate their own self-importance. The Coman commander had been hinting since late summer that Gemma was up to something.
“All right,” said Harn. “What news from the Overcliff?”
The Ardeth commander folded his thin, aristocratic hands, gathering his thoughts. “The Change hasn’t yet resolved itself,” he said. “Life goes on in the city, but in a bumpy fashion without the authority of king, guild lord, or grandmaster to steady it. More towers have fallen. Krothen remains in seclusion. Merchandy and Professionate are in hiding. Ruso, the former Lord Artifice, has taken up quarters with the former Master Iron Gauntlet, Gaudaric. Grandmasters like Needham are trying to gather followers . . . on what basis in his case I don’t know, given that the silk trade seems to have ended forever. Prince Ton and his mother Princess Amantine are also looking for supporters. Politics aside, I don’t know what natural laws are in operation here.”
“I’ve always said that we don’t adequately understand Rathillien religions,” said the Jaran commander, leaning forward.
The Caineron snorted. “You and your scholar’s obsession with native cultures. What is there to understand? We know the truth.”
“As we see it, yes. Our Three-Faced God is behind everything. Has it ever occurred to you, though, that his power is in short supply on this world?”
“Blasphemy,” growled the Caineron. “Our lords stand, do they not?”
“And our priests,” murmured the Randir, Frost.
“Oh, leave them out of this,” snapped the Danior. His home keep, after all, was across the river from the Priests’ College at Wilden, too close for comfort. “What good do they do any of us?”
“Here in Kothifir, they seem to benefit the natives more than us,” remarked the Jaran. “The current mess started when our temple disappeared. And if you can explain how that happened, you will have my full attention.”
Harn raised his big hands to stop the wrangle. Religion was the last thing on his mind at present.
“What about the treasure towers?” he asked.
“We share guard duty there,” said the Brandan. “Everyone knows that control of them equals control of the city. Needham and his followers are constantly threatening to storm them, while Prince Ton wants to distribute their wealth to buy himself support.”
“And the Rose Tower?”
“Krothen prefers native guards, or so we hear,” said the Brandan. “These days, nothing comes from him directly.”
The others stirred uneasily. Krothen was the Host’s paymaster, but he had paid no wages since the beginning of the Change. The Kencyr quartermaster had been reduced to buying rations on credit in the common market.
“I still say we should break into the towers and take what’s owed us,” grumbled the Caineron.
“If we do that,” said the Brandan, “how can we justify keeping others out? We are sworn to protect Kothifir, not to loot it. Anyway, it would start a riot.”
Harn waved away this troubling subject as he had that of Kothifiran religion. “What about the rumor of Karnids in the city?”
The Ardeth shrugged. “No question, they are there in the shadows, biding their time.”
“Until what?”
“We don’t know.”
“How many of them?”
“We don’t know that either.”
The Caineron snorted.
There were other, more mundane subjects to discuss: class schedules involving the training fields, a clash between cadets and regular troops, thieves sneaking into the camp. Harn started to relax as the usual wrangles played themselves out.