Seasons, page 22
Hektor pointed to the large beer tent in the center of the grounds. “Publican Rell felt she would make more money bringin’ all her goods an’ staff here instead of splittin’ them over two sites, so she’s closed the Awl and Tongs up for the evenin’. With no tavern, there’s no need for Watchmen.”
“Always said you were the clever one,” Linton said grudgingly. “Good thing I laid a bet with Lee that you’d get ’em back. What?” He widened his eyes in mock surprise at Hektor’s expression. “You figured I didn’t believe a Watch House Sergeant could run circles around any Captain to get what he wanted? Afternoon, Captain Torrell.”
The others turned to see the Iron Street Captain and four other men coming toward them.
“Good afternoon, Fair Master Kray,” Captain Torrell said formally. “May I present Captains Rilade and Guthers of the Breakneedle and Water Street Watch Houses respectively, and my dear friend, Captain Elbert, late of Lower Devine. Gentlemen, this is my Sergeant and his family. We’ve just come from escorting Daedrus to the fair. I understand that he is to drop the flag at the tug-of-war.”
“He is that,” Linton agreed.
“We’re looking forward to watching the competition,” Captain Rilade added.
“Won’t save your lot from their comin’ mud bath,” Linton chuckled. “No disrespect to the Watch; a fine bunch of lads they are, but Tay an’ Ted are more than a match for Pat an’ Jamie, whatever their size, an’ Aiden couldn’t beat my boy, Jared, in a game of marbles.”
“Good thing we aren’t only relying on them then, isn’t it?” Hektor replied.
Linton followed his gaze to where Hamil and Prest were stripping down with the rest of the Watch House team.
“Who’re they?!” he demanded.
Aiden gave him a smile completely devoid of warmth. “Our cousins.”
“They ain’t Iron Street.”
“They are,” Daz replied, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Born an’ bred.”
“Well, they ain’t Iron Street Watch.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find that they are,” Captain Torrell said, his upper class Breakneedle Street accent even stronger than usual. “Attached to the Iron Street Watch House for the duration of the Rose Fair.”
“You wanna concede our win now, Fair Master?” Aiden asked, glancing past him to the sudden flurry of activity around the bookmaker’s stall.
Linton scowled. “Not by half. We’ll see you on the pitch in an hour. Bring yer towels.”
He stalked off, already shouting to his team, and the Captain smiled.
“I think it’s high time the Iron Street Watch gave the Iron Street smiths a nice mud bath, don’t you think?” he asked. “My friends and I have sponsored six roses apiece from Flower-Master Greenfields, and I expect them to grace the Duty Sergeant’s desk by tonight.”
Aiden showed his teeth. “They will,” he promised.
“Good man.” The Captain turned. “We’ll take our places now, I think, yes?”
With the others in agreement, he nodded to Preston and Elinor and took his leave.
* * *
• • •
“Jus’ remember you’re a Browne as well as a Dann,” Daz said to Aiden a few minutes later as the entire family made their way, en mass, toward the bleachers, “an’ we never quit until the job’s done.”
“Not likely something I’d ever forget,” Aiden answered. “Hey Daedrus! Thanks for coming,” he called as he took his place at the front of his team.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my boy,” the retired Artificer replied. “Honored to have been asked. Now where is that flag, Mern?” He turned to the boy at his side, who pointed silently at his pocket. “Oh, yes, of course. Are all of these people your family, Hektor?” he continued. “My, my, there are a lot of you. Now who is who?”
It took some time to make all the introductions, but eventually, Mern drew the older man toward the pitch and the rest took their places on the bleachers. The crowd hushed as sixteen men took hold of the long length of hemp stretched over the ditch. Daedrus fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then pulled out a brightly checkered dishcloth. One hand on Mern’s shoulder to steady himself, he lifted it into the air, paused a moment to enjoy the sight of every eye glued to his every move, then flung it to the ground. The crowd roared as Linton and Hydd began to scream orders at their respective teams.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, as Ismy tucked her arm in his, Hektor took a deep, contented breath. The evening sky was a deep, dark blue, the setting sun a streak of pink and orange against the clouds, the air redolent with the scents of flowers and the sound of music and laughter. It was as perfect a Midsummer’s Dusk as could be asked for . . . made that much more perfect by the earlier sight of seven smiths and one butcher going headfirst into the mud.
The Maralud Comes A-Knocking
Stephanie Shaver
“Who sends gifts on Sovvan?” Herald Wil asked.
“A madwoman, that’s who,” Herald Lyle said.
“Lyle.”
Lord Grier ignored their banter, studying the box instead. It had arrived at Baireschild Manor this morning. No one knew its origin, it had simply . . . shown up on a kitchen table next to a bowl of wyncrisp apples, accompanied by a foreboding note: Happy Sovvan, Lord Grier. Your beloved sister, Madra.
Grier prepared to open it, armored in a leather coat, gloves, and special spectacles. They gathered in his apothecary, the wisest place to examine any gift from his “beloved” sister, his audience watching from behind a shield of thick metal.
“I still don’t understand,” said Khaari, the Kal’enedral Scrollsworn. “What is Sovvan?”
“Sovvan is a holiday for ancestors,” Wil said from his chair. He’d not yet fully recovered from his last encounter with Madra. Worse, her poison had seemingly stripped him of his Gifts and ability to communicate with his Companion, Vehs. But he’d prevented a war in Valdemar, and thanks to Grier, he hadn’t died. It helped that before Grier had taken on the mantle of Lord Baireschild, he’d been a Master Healer of some renown.
“Sovvan is when we light candles for the dead,” Lyle said. “Midwinter’s when we get festive. Good food, lots of presents, dancing. . . .”
“. . . dressing up in a skull and cloak,” Grier said, “chasing children around until they give you treats. . . .”
“You what?” Lyle sputtered.
Grier chuckled grimly. “It’s a Baireschild Midwinter tradition. And there’s a reason I head for Haven and leave the country traditions back at the manor. Anyway, Khaari—Midwinter and Midsummer are the seasons for giving gifts. Sovvan is . . . more retrospective,” he said. “Madra’s up to something.” He picked up a long, slender knife. “Ready?”
Three voices murmured assent.
Grier pulled up the stiff collar of his coat. “Here we go.”
The plain, square box came tied with a piece of twisted green twine, but other than that it looked entirely unassuming. The card had clearly been written under less than favorable conditions—dirt smudged the paper, and the ink had run.
Grier cut the twine and used the knife-tip to flip open the lid.
No explosion. No cloud of smoke. Adders did not spill out.
A swath of black velvet trimmed in silver nestled inside, atop which rested a single white candle. A little card tied to the candle read Herald Wil.
His mouth went dry.
“Did she send us roses?” Lyle called.
“No,” Grier replied. “A threat.”
* * *
• • •
“I’m not going back to the quarry, right?” Lyle asked as they filed back into Wil’s room.
“You’re going back,” the older Herald said. “The armory needs to be destroyed.”
Grier started mixing Wil’s afternoon tonic.
“But what if she—”
“Listen to me, Lyle. Dismantling the armory is our priority, period. And yes—Khaari is still going with you. Someone needs to record this. If your report is accurate, then Madra’s weaponry had only one goal. She meant to kill Companions. That should terrify Selenay.”
“But, Wil—”
“‘But, Wil’ nothing. You’re both going.”
“There’s a lunatic with a giant flying construct out there threatening your life,” Lyle said. “One of us should stay.”
“No, Khaari should take Vehs,” Wil said, “finish her diagrams, and come back fast.”
“You want her to take your Companion?” Lyle said.
“Well, I don’t want her taking Aubryn. Someone’s got to stay and protect Ivy.” Wil smiled wryly. “I’m still convalescing.”
“Or you would be, if you’d take your tonics,” Grier said, looking pointedly at the cup in his hand.
Lyle just gaped.
Wil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Exactly what is Madra going to do, Lyle? Mount a full-scale attack on the manor? This is—a distraction.” He waved a hand at the air. “We’re leaving for Haven soon anyway. Isn’t that right, Grier?”
“My hope is someone in Haven can better help you than I.” He swirled the cup. “Are you going to take this or not?”
Wil took the tonic from him, but he did not drink.
“Well, that at least sounds like a step in the right direction,” Lyle said. “The cousins would love to be done.”
“I know I say it every time,” Wil said, “but truly, they saved the realm.”
“And they know it.” Lyle chuckled. “Think the Herald Captain could award them a mercenary’s commission for all they’ve done?”
“I can speak to the Greater Council about it,” Grier said. “But only if Wil drinks that gods-be-damned tonic.”
Wil downed it in one gulp. “Spicy.”
“I added beesbalm syrup after you complained last time,” he said.
Lyle raised his brows at him. “Look at you, swinging your lordly might.” He stood up with a groan, his knees creaking. “All right, back to the mines.”
“Dismantle everything, Lyle,” Wil said. “And don’t die doing it. Okay? Madra is tricky. I’m honestly more worried about you than a bloody candle with my name on it.”
“Yes, yes. Stay safe. I know. Bright Havens, it’s like we’re on Circuit together again.”
Wil sighed. “Except now I’m old.”
“Oh, come now,” Lyle said. “You were old then, too.”
“Get out.”
Lyle doffed an imaginary hat and danced out the door.
“He is Lelia’s twin, isn’t he?” Grier said.
“Seems more like it with every passing year,” Wil said.
“Has anyone seen Ivy?” Khaari asked.
“If she’s not in your tent, she’s either in the kitchen or with the Companions.”
“Ah.” Khaari nodded. “So good that she has a . . . stable place to be.”
Grier and Wil stared.
“Did you—” Grier said.
“Was that—” Wil said.
“Gentlemen,” Khaari said, “Kal’enedral never pun. Now excuse me, I must pack.” With a smirk, she stepped out.
Alone with Wil, Grier turned to him and said, “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” Wil held up a hand. “I don’t hold you accountable for your sister’s actions. Not when I owe you my life. Just do me a favor.” He lowered his voice. “Protect Ivy. She’s what matters.”
Grier nodded. “Like my own.”
“Good.” Wil pointed to the door. “Now get out.”
* * *
• • •
In her life, Ivy had known many beds. Boxbeds, stable stalls, sturdy Palace canopy beds, and one carved magnificently by her grandfather, but the beds at Baireschild Manor had a feature she’d come to love—she fit under them.
Best of all, Lady Drusillia tended toward the kinds of duvets that slopped over and dragged on the floor. Ivy didn’t know why—it got them all dusty—but it meant that looking under the bed required lifting the covers. Most people didn’t bother.
So when she wanted to be somewhere she shouldn’t be, she went under the bed.
“It’s safe, Ivy,” Wil said.
She rolled out from under her father’s bed, bouncing up to sit beside him.
He brushed dust out of her hair. “Won’t be awake for long. What shall we read?”
She had a book in hand—one of the many from Milord Healer’s library. Cuddled up beside her father, they recreated their old, familiar microcosm of warmth and security. As they read, he pointed to words and she sounded them out—mostly.
“Your reading’s getting better,” he said, closing the book.
“Thank you,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head. “Gonna sleep now. I love you,” he said. “Don’t forget to lock the door.”
“I won’t, Dada,” she said.
She opened the door carefully, peeking out to make sure no one was in the hallway. Then she opened it fully, and for just a moment she thought she heard—something. Like little nails clicking on the stones. But the darkness that aided her departure also prevented her from seeing whatever made the noise. She strained her ears, but she didn’t hear it again.
She focused on locking the door with her father’s key, and the odd noise soon slipped her concern. So long as it wasn’t a person, she didn’t care. A manor like this teemed with small living things. Pantry cats took care of many of them.
Besides, she’d overhead a great many things, and she needed to say goodbye to Khaari.
* * *
• • •
Most nights Ivy did not sleep in her assigned room. She picked other places, like the stables, or down in the wagons and tents.
Now those options seemed to be narrowing.
The cousins had taken the wagons to the quarry with Lyle, and Khaari would soon follow, though her tent remained: a squat structure of brown and dark blue out in a nearby field. What it lacked in color, it made up for in practicality and comfort. She had a little traveling desk for her writing and ample pillows and blankets.
A box and two cards currently occupied the desk. Khaari studied them intently, peering at them with a little piece of glass.
“Will you sleep here tonight, child?” she asked as she worked.
“Without you?”
“I’m leaving the tent, so you’re welcome to it. Just don’t—”
“Touch anything on your desk, I know.” Ivy shrugged. “Maybe. Or with Aubryn.” She scowled. “Wish I could sleep in Dada’s room.”
“Ah, Milord Healer is still keeping you away, eh?”
Ivy screwed up her face, affecting a haughty voice. “Little girl, you shouldn’t be here. The tonics I give him and you have a nice room and Drusillia picked all the curtains and blah blah blah.”
Khaari laughed. “You do a good impression of the long-haired lord, kechara.”
Ivy puffed a little. “Thank you.” Then she deflated. “My room gets so cold. And I miss him. But I should be grateful.” She smiled shyly. “Aubryn says so, at least.”
“Maybe Aubryn should stay there, then.” Khaari locked the box and cards into a drawer on her desk. “I should be going.”
“Will I see you again?”
Khaari paused in the way that meant an Adult Was Thinking Carefully About What To Say Next. “You know why I am here, yes?”
Ivy nodded. Madra. The Bad Lady her Dada had been chasing. And there had also been some . . . thing calling itself “Lord Dark.”
“That task is still mine. I had hoped your father would pursue what you call ‘Lord Dark’ with me . . .” She glanced away. “Perhaps I’ll join you going to Haven. Perhaps not. The prey may rest, it may dream. Best to catch it then.”
“But you don’t know where they went.”
“True.” Khaari brushed her braids back over her shoulder. “But—a thing as big as Lord Dark doesn’t have many hiding places, nor can it go unnoticed for long.”
“What is Lord Dark anyway?” Ivy asked.
“A construct. An abomination. I suspect your Madra woke it. I intend to return its bones to sleeping, once and for all.”
Ivy shivered. “What’s a con—”
“If I stay and answer your questions, I will never get to the quarry!” Khaari said, half-scolding, half-laughing. “Time for this when we make our slow way to Haven. So slowly, I might add, for I have seen how Drusillia packs.”
Ivy wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know much about Lady Baireschild, but of her children she knew plenty. They liked to throw forks at her head at dinnertime. Like a lot of noble families, children of a certain age dined separately from the adults, so no one stopped the teasing.
Still, it didn’t feel right, complaining. Lord Grier had done a great kindness, saving her father’s life. Better to avoid than complain.
Another night eating kitchen scraps. At least they were good scraps.
Khaari hugged her, and then Ivy once more found herself alone, wandering across the field back to the manor, where the windows glowed bright but cold.
* * *
• • •
Grier routinely rose before his wife on those rare occasions when they slept in the same room.
Like her children, Drusillia was a product of an arranged marriage and an arranged life. They hadn’t married for love, and they hadn’t grown into it. But they at least respected each other. And she respected that he had a seat on the Queen’s Greater Council to fill.
A seat I should be filling right about now, Grier thought. He opened his eyes to the weak morning light coming in through the diaphanous bed curtains. Usually, they’d be in Haven by Sovvan. Not this year. Not with a half-dead Herald in the house.
