"First seruilis?"
"In a group of seruilisi, the oldest or
best-skilled is usually first seruilis, unless another is promoted
over him. That, however, is an extreme punishment."
"Oh. Are you going on a recruiting
drive then? I don't think you'll fit many more seruilisi in
here."
"You'll do for now. I wouldn't want to
impress people too greatly with the number of my retainers."
Ash couldn't restrain an amused twitch
of her lips, but allowed the comment to pass. "You said my duties
here. What are my duties elsewhere? Do I get to look after that
horse?"
"Perhaps. If I judge you able and if he
accepts you. Arth is very particular in his choice of attendants."
His eyes, a dark brown-black, narrowed. "I trust you aren't quite
fool enough to try to ride him. You haven't the strength to control
him and I would take any damage to him out of your hide."
Ash, who had a great deal of confidence
in her ability to ride anything vaguely resembling a horse,
experienced an instant desire to prove him wrong, but she had to
admit that she had never attempted an animal as sheerly powerful as
Thornaster's black. Not that that was any reason not to try. She
would consider the question again if an opportunity presented
itself.
From Thornaster's expression, she'd
allowed the progress of her thoughts to show too clearly on her
face, but he refrained from comment. "I'll detail any other
specific duties at another time," he said. "You will attend the
Mern with your fellow seruilisi. As a rule, your afternoons will be
spent with them, though you will not join them at swordplay. I have
already given instructions on that point. Master Humboldt is
expecting you in the Mern in a ten-measure. He will outfit you in
my colours." He pulled a key from his pocket, and handed it to Ash.
"This is a spare. Don't lose it."
She glanced at it. "What are your
colours?"
"Pembury is dark grey and blue. When
you wear those colours you represent Pembury and you will do
nothing to bring shame upon it. Any transgressions of conduct you
make beyond this room will merit disciplinary action by the Master
of the Mern."
"And if I don't...polish your boots and
stuff like that here?"
"Then I will make you wish that you
had."
"I'll bet. Were you ever a
seruilis?"
"Yes."
"What was it like?"
He looked thoughtful, obviously
choosing how to answer.
"That bad?"
"Not really. I had a little trouble
with my fellows, who thought me overproud. I earned myself friends
and enemies in the usual fashion. It did not help that I was
insufferably sure that my way was correct."
Ash looked for exactly the right reply
to this, and decided he didn't need to be told how little he'd
changed. "Remind me never to become a seruilis for real," she said.
"Where's the Mern?"
"It's not far from the stables. Ask
your way." He let her head for the door. "And Ash?" She looked
back. "You are a seruilis for real. Don't mistake that."
He thought he was rescuing her. Giving
the orphaned boy she seemed to be the colours and the protection of
his House. A fatally flawed plan, if so.
"There are some," she said, trying to
catch the exact tone of his voice, light, with an undernote of
seriousness, "who might consider it an honour to serve you in that
capacity."
She bowed low, a courtesy suitable for
someone of far higher rank than a Visel. A bow to a Rhoi. Then,
seeing that open amusement was the only reaction, she shrugged, and
left.
Chapter Four
Ash lied habitually, but was not nearly
so blithe-tongued as she had been working to appear. Out of
Thornaster's sight she fought weary hurt. How had she managed to
play games with words on the day Genevieve had died? The same
morning? Was it a betrayal to be able to keep the anger and loss
inside?
She couldn't let that matter. There was
business to attend to before she could revisit grief, and she would
restrain her sorrow for the sake of stopping further deaths. And
the hunt would help her not think of the horror that would be
Genevieve's funeral.
Finding the stone halls and yards of
the Mern with time to spare, Ash considered her approach to her
fellow seruilisi. She needed to ensure they didn't interfere with
her investigations, but accepted her enough for palace gossip to
come her way.
It would not be the first time she had
inserted herself into a group. The most interesting people in
Genevieve's neighbourhood had been a year or two younger than Ash,
children of shop keeps and crafters. They had thought her a child
of nine and regarded her as too young for their games. Instead of
tagging along behind she'd led the way onto the roofs, her climbing
gaining her acceptance, until she'd become one of those who shaped
what was now The Huntsmen.
This new group of peers, drilling with
slim wooden swords in a sand-strewn, sun-baked practice yard, were
a more complicated proposition. The wider spread of ages created
some issues, but the vagaries of rank would be the major
difficulty. Theoretically she had nearly as much or little as this
mixed bunch of boys and near-adults, who lived in the uncertain
state of the children of Luinsel: only the first choice to stand
before Luin rather than guaranteed heir. Even the Rhoi's younger
brother and only near relative, the Veirhoi, could not become Rhoi
unless Luin accepted him.
But rejection was not common. The Mern
taught both matters of command, and of care for the land, ensuring
the Kinsel were well versed in proper stewardship before they
risked losing their land to Luin's judgment.
Ash crossed the sand toward a heavily
muscled man who stood in the shade of one of the pale grey walls.
Aware of many glances, she stopped a short distance from the man
who could only be the Master of the Mern, waited a moment, and then
began her new role as Thornaster's seruilis. Polite, she had
decided. Respectful and obliging. Not without resource, but clearly
marked by recent loss. They would not accept an impertinent
imp.
"Your pardon for any intrusion, Ser. My
name is Ash Lenthard. Visel Thornaster told me to report to
you."
The Master's head turned slowly, and
faded eyes studied Ash minutely, the man's face impassive beneath
thick grey brows. "So," he said, a short exhalation of air two
steps up from a grunt. Then he turned on his heel, walked away.
"Follow," drifted back to her.
Obediently Ash followed, leaving the
bright sun and clatter of wood on wood for a tangle of dim
corridors leading to a room where a creamy-skinned woman directed a
dozen underlings among bolts of every kind of cloth imaginable.
Clothing cut, assembled or repaired: all very neat and orderly and
efficient. Master Humboldt spoke to the woman in his brief,
ponderous way, and she looked Ash over. Almost immediately Ash was
provided with dark grey trousers and two shirts that, after a brief
retreat behind a curtain hanging across a corner, proved to fit
remarkably well. A search provided a second outfit of the same
shade, but of a sturdier fabric.
Then the woman gestured forward a
blonde-haired girl, who measured Ash across the shoulders and
around the chest. After the measurements were done, she cut
sections of heavy cloth, dark blue and grey, and pieced them
together around Ash, fastening the forming tabard with pins. This
was handed off to be sewn, while a second was cut.
Fascinated by the speed with which
everything was being accomplished, Ash watched until Master
Humboldt returned and began to circle her, studying the fit of her
clothing, nudging one scuffed boot with a tip of his own. He was a
man of considerable presence, breadth making up for a certain lack
of height.
"Polish up," he mused, presumably to
himself. "And another." Then he bent, fingered the side of her left
boot, where the soft leather crossed and was over-laced. "Knife
fighter?"
Ash was startled by his comprehension
of the distortion, a gaping caused over time by a currently absent
knife. "Yes, Ser," she said, a fraction late.
"Throwing or close quarters?"
"Throwing, Ser."
"You'll not carry them without
permission. Other weapons?"
"Very basic staff work, Ser."
"Hit me," he ordered, holding his arms
wide in invitation.
Ash blinked, then curled her hand into
a fist and put her shoulder into a blow to his stomach, her arm
jolting with the force of the impact. But the Master had set his
feet and did not even rock with the blow.
"Do you dance?" he asked, face still
wholly impassive.
Ash was beginning to find his measure
now. He was watching her carefully, taking stock of her character
through her reactions. She wondered how many new seruilisi he
brought here to test. Judging from the unperturbed interest of the
still-working seamstresses, more than one. "No, Ser," she replied,
still respectful, a little more cautious. A dangerous man, this
Master of the Mern. Between the Investigator, Thornaster and now
Master Humboldt, she had had her fill of over-perceptive people
that day. She did know many of the dance forms, but she had learned
them from the female point of view.
"Swim?"
"No, Ser."
"Ride?"
"Yes, Ser."
"Cook?"
"Yes, Ser."
"Are you diseased?"
She didn't quite manage to maintain her
rapid rate of reply, but the hesitation was only minor. "Not that I
know of, Ser." That was a question one would ask a soldier, not one
of the Mern, in training to lead. Is that what he considered her? A
foot soldier thrust among his betters?
"Can you count?"
"Yes, Ser."
"Read? Write?"
"Yes, Ser."
"In Khanteck and the Old Tongue
both?"
"Yes, Ser. Firuven, also, Ser, just a
little."
He grunted. "Wait for the tabard. Then
report to the first seruilis." He turned and walked out of the room
without another word. Ash watched him leave, thoughtful. Had she
passed, then?
The tabard was not a complex garment,
but it required a lot of hemming, and two girls worked on it
together while Ash watched their flying fingers. A few cautious
questions showed her they were well aware of her link to the
household of the latest murdered herbalist, and were inclined to
treat her with wary sympathy. They thought the murders meant
someone was going to poison the Rhoi.
Gossip. Ash had been sifting city
rumours for weeks. Time to see if the palace had anything new.
Chapter Five
Freshly turned out in Thornaster's
colours, Ash found the Mern's training ground deserted, but lucked
upon a boy leaving as she arrived. He wore a dark blue shirt and
black trousers, the uniform of Mern attendees who served no Luinsel
as seruilis. When asked where to find the first seruilis he looked
her over with considerable curiosity and behind his brief response
Ash caught the wistful regret of one who knew he was going to miss
out on a juicy scene. The new seruilis was obviously expected to be
the source of some entertainment.
The boy's directions led to a room of
raised voices. Ash paused out of sight of the open doorway and,
keeping an eye on the corridor, listened.
"...out and out insult. We can't
possibly allow a guttersnipe among us! Thornaster has run mad!" The
voice was forceful, self-assured and genuinely angry.
"And the Master as well, it seems,
since he has given his leave," pointed out another voice.
"Do you think he makes a deliberate
comment?" asked a third voice, soft and serious. "That those among
the Kinsel of Montmoth do not meet the Aremish standards of service
to Luin?"
First Voice snorted. "More likely he
chooses one who is unable to see how base-born the man is
himself."
Ash smiled faintly. The divide between
an ordinary person and a Landhold was simply ownership of land, but
the Luinsel, Landholders accepted by Luin as guardians, were able
to draw on Luin's strength in a limited fashion, to purify water or
encourage growth. While the laws of Luin were very clear – anyone
could be put forward to be judged worthy stewards of the land – it
was still common for Kinsel to consider themselves born of superior
stock, spiritually linked to Luin's self. Genevieve said – had said
– that Montmoth was particularly bad in this respect. Among other
things.
First Voice continued to hold forth:
"I, for one, will not stand for it. He cannot foist this creature
on us. Intentionally or not, it will be the worst parody
imaginable, a gape-toothed yokel aping his betters. He'll tarnish
us with his very presence."
A new voice broke in, laughing. "Can
you see him at table?" The voice dropped into an unlikely accent,
more South Valleys than city. "'Lumme! Nain't yer gointa eat t'rest
o' thet there 'am 'ock? Luin firgive ye f'r bein' sich a wastral!
'Ere, lit me finish it orf f'r ye.'"
Laughter, ranging from giggles to
deeper chuckles, gave Ash a chance to estimate the number of people
in the room: perhaps seven or eight. This was not all the seruilisi
then.
"Laugh as much as you want," First
Voice said. "Wait till the laughter's directed at you, when he
makes the entire Mern the butt of the city's jokes."
"Are you proposing a plan of action,
Marriston, or just blowing hot air?" Second Voice asked.
"Mind your tongue, Vendarri!" the one
called Marriston said, brusquely. "But yes, I am."
There was an expectant pause.
"It's quite simple, really," Marriston
said. "A campaign, if you will, designed to teach the little
ragamuffin how truly out of place he is. He won't last the
week."
"You'll do no harm to a fellow
seruilis, Marriston," said a new voice, its quiet authority making
clear who held rank of first seruilis. From the sudden hush the
words brought, the speaker must have entered the room through a
second door.