Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (25 page)

“Hello yourself, Stiles.” Abbyegale looked up from her sewing machine to wink at Rankil. “I’m finishing the alterations on the last piece. The cobbler shop brought over four sizes of boots. You, as usual, didn’t bother to give any measurements.”

Stiles motioned Rankil to place her piece outside the door then pointed to the boots. “Close the door then find yourself something to replace those rags your feet currently reside in.” She dumped the clutter from a chair, placed the seat near Abbye, and poured herself a mug from the teapot simmering on the room’s radiant outlet.

“When you going to clean this place up, Abbye? You’ll give my recruit the wrong idea about cleanliness.”

“I’ll clean up when I catch up,” snipped Abbye, turning the fabric for another pass in the pedal-powered machine. “Your group keeps me overloaded with patches and replacements. I have little time for anything else.” She clipped a stray thread from the garment’s hemline and held it out. “Here, Rankil, try this on.”

“You two know each other?” Stiles blew on her tea.

“Yeah,” said Abbye, replacing the machine’s needle with a heavier, leather-capable version. “You must have been on duty last night. We met at Rankil’s Recognition. Didn’t we, Rankil?”

“Yes, Abbye.” Rankil overlooked Stiles’s mistaken grin to search the room for a place to change. “How’s your head?”

“Busting,” she replied. “Same as yours. What’re you looking for?”

“A place to change.”

“Lose the modesty, junior.” Stiles leaned back in her chair, raising the front legs as a sly smile formed on her face. “Abbye has obviously seen it, and I could personally care less.”

Rankil bunched the soft tops of the new boots in her hand. “Commander, I—”

“I said strip! That’s an order!”

“Yes, Commander.” Rankil swallowed hard and removed her top and undershirt. Abbye made herself busy cutting a patch while Stiles occupied herself by gathering scattered pins on one of the worktables, saving Rankil further discomfort. The black knit undertunic Abbye passed her slid on easily once Rankil figured out the collar hooks, and a rough hide jerkin with side laces over that. They were identical to Stiles’s except for the rank patch, and Rankil felt good in them, strong and somehow invincible. Such majestic clothing demanded respect.

“What you think, Abbye? Will they do?”

“Don’t matter what she thinks,” said Stiles before Abbye could respond. “I’ve final approval on what you do and don’t wear from this day forward.” She had Rankil turn then nodded her head. “A trifle large in the shoulder, but we’ll remedy that. Are the leggings laying about, seamstress woman, or does my newest trooper go bottomless in the cold?”

“They were on top of the pile you moved.” Abbye tossed Rankil the top pair and smiled at her, small-talking despite Stiles’s preference she not with new recruits. “How is that lady of yours?”

“Fine,” mumbled Stiles around her cup. “Just fine. Looking forward to spring as we all are.”

“I didn’t mean you.” Abbye resumed sewing, the machine clanking and popping in time with the movement of her feet on the pedals. “I saw Annyalae this morning. She stopped by to pick up your new shirt. I was referring to Rankil’s gentlewoman. Was she upset?”

“She made me fried bread and gravy before I left this morning.” Rankil’s stomach gurgled. Myrla had indeed roused her for an early breakfast, saying the meal was penance for drunkenness. But that wasn’t what concerned Rankil. In fact, it had been expected. Myrla had been clear about her beliefs on alcohol. They were the same as Jewel’s—the less the better. There was something more going on in the mind of that doe-eyed gentlewoman, something Rankil wasn’t quite able to comprehend. She’d woke Rankil with a hungry kiss to her mouth, wrapping and drawing her bare, agile legs up and down Rankil’s until Rankil fairly ached from the pleasure. Then Myrla had risen from the blankets to dress, pulling off her winter gown without turning away, revealing more than Rankil had envisioned seeing at this stage of their relationship. Familiarity sometimes bred casualness, but Rankil believed there was more than that. Maybe she should ask Abbye.

“Gravy on a sour stomach?” Abbye’s grimace shook Rankil from her thoughts. “Well, at least you know where she stands.” She watched Rankil struggle with the bottom lacings of her first pair of hide leggings. “How’s the baby?”

“Baby?” Stiles peered inquisitively at her recruit. “I was told you wouldn’t be assigned to the barracks after your training because you were committed but not that you had a family. How did you come to have a child at your age?”

“Right time, right place, Commander.” Rankil buckled the top of her boots, slid her knife into place and straightened. Time would condition the leather, but for now it was stiff, though warm, with each piece lined with light cloth to keep the hide from chafing.

“I understand you’ve a knack for that.” Stiles indicated Rankil should gather her new belongings and follow. “A family will not excuse you from basics isolation, night duty or from taking arms when the border is threatened.”

“Yes, Commander.” With quick assistance from Abbye, she bundled the uniforms, grabbed her piece and hastened to keep up with her superior. Midway across the main courtyard, she realized she had forgotten her cloak and begged for the chance to retrieve it. Stiles refused the request, stating, with a shake of the intimidating wrap on her shoulder, that the Powder Barrier wore a specific manner of cloak, one of which she would be provided as soon as she settled in the barracks. Her hopper cloak, Stiles added, could be picked up at a later time.

“I’ll allow you tonight to say farewell to your family. There’ll be no contact during the first cycle of training, so make it last.”

“Yes, Commander.” This time, they stopped outside the open walls of the Gretchencliff metal works, a freestanding stone structure whose interior heat was stifling even in winter. Twenty or more broadbacks, and to Rankil’s immense surprise, three sweat-streaked gentlewomen and an Aut woman worked within, some hammering, others on complicated presses, each forging the items needed to maintain the Tekkroon existence.

Stiles spoke with one of them then vanished into the forge area’s only fully enclosed room, returning with a sheathed rapier marked with the Powder Barrier’s skull emblem. “Here, junior.” She added the weapon to Rankil’s load, wedging it between her arm and body.

“Run that stuff home then join me at the west stables.” Stiles pointed the general direction the building lay. “We’ll get you mounted and equipped. Ever done much riding?”

“No, Commander Stiles.”

Stiles looked anything but pleased. “Tekks ride young, but you’ll learn, girl. You’ll learn quick. Now get home.”

Rankil shuffled off, shifting her load to avoid dropping something into the slush and slop of the pathways. She managed to maintain the precarious balance until she reached the door of her little home then stood on the threshold, wondering how she was going to enter without assistance. The answer came soon enough as Myrla opened from the inside.

“You, too?” She took some of the load then held the door wide. “They’ve loaded me up as well.”

“With what?” Rankil placed her piece against the wall, the rapier on their small eating table.

“Scrolls on teaching philosophy, slate boards to write assignments on—most everything.” Myrla stepped back to admire Rankil’s new attire. “You look incredible.” She fingered the edge of the jerkin. “Is this your new uniform?”

“Yeah.” Rankil smoothed the leather. “I love it.” Her attention now settled on Myrla who had removed her headscarf and braids and pulled her hair back in the loosely banded style common to Tekkroon gentlewomen. She wore leggings, unheard of in the Serpent clan, and her long, belted tunic, again a style of the Tekkroon, was cut to show her upper cleavage. Rankil’s gaze halted there, pondering the line. Serpent clan garments were never revealing, so she had never actually considered Myrla’s endowments to any lingering extent. They came hurtling toward her now, as did the memory of the morning’s bedroom disclosure, tensing muscles in new ways, teasing her nose with scent—Myrla’s inviting own.

“You look beautiful.” Rankil’s gaze drew upward into her eyes and stayed there. “After tonight I have to stay in the barracks. It’s only until I finish my initial training.”

“I know.” Myrla wrapped her arms about Rankil’s waist. “Dawn told me last night. She said I could stay with them if I wished, but I think Hestra and I will remain here. They’ve too many responsibilities as it is. It’s time I dealt with things myself.”

“Your choice.” Rankil gathered her tight, lifting her from the braided rug to deposit her on the table, the embrace continuing while Rankil slid into a chair and pulled Myrla into her lap. “I’ll miss you and Hestra while I’m gone. Will you miss me?”

“Don’t you know?” A kiss as sweet as the morning’s crossed Rankil’s lips. “You’ll be missed and longed for. I’ve become rather used to sharing a bed with you.”

“As have I,” quipped Rankil, pulling back so she could view Myrla’s face again. “There’s a community fire tonight. Want to go?”

“Not tonight. I’d rather spend it here, just us.”

“Let’s go anyway, just for a bit.” Rankil’s eyes danced a hot blue flame. Myrla was hers by heart, and the time had come for it to be so in the clan’s eyes as well. “The stories are always good, and we can slip away when Hestra becomes tired.”

“All right, but just for a while.” They clung together for a moment more, stroking one another’s faces, their love expressed in the quick pace of their hearts. Then Myrla, overwhelmed by her requirement to return to her training, whisked away from Rankil’s arms and pulled on her cloak.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve gotta go, too.” Rankil grabbed her weapons and bounded for the door. “Commander Stiles will rake me over if I’m not prompt.”

“I’ll collect Hestra from the crèche and have dinner waiting for you.” Myrla blew a kiss over her shoulder and descended the stone stairway leading to the lower pathway. “See you tonight.”

“The sooner the better,” called Rankil, taking the path leading the opposite direction. She hoped a raking wasn’t in order for either of them. Things were beginning to go as they should. The evening fire would only solidify it all.

“Good story!” Applause and laughter were amplified in the interior round. An evening snowfall had cancelled the bonfire and brought everyone indoors. They sat shoulder to shoulder, discussing the day’s events. Even with the heat turned off and the ventilation slats open, the room was sweltering, everyone shedding their cloaks to combat the stuffiness. Rankil placed her small family at one of the benches near the round’s center and bided her time. The overall mood was jovial, the stories humorous and tailored to the family air, a perfect evening to make it all permanent. When there was a lull in the conversation, she raised her arm for Medrabbi to recognize.

“And it’s young Rankil with the next tale, I believe.” Medrabbi waved her to the center of the room. “What yarn of wealth and glory do you offer us tonight? A harrowing one from your first day with the Barrier, perhaps?”

Rankil ignored the snickers of a group of broadbacks dressed similarly to herself, several of whom probably had stories of their own concerning her first day nassieback, complete with colorful descriptions of Rankil’s multiple falls and rodeo throws courtesy of her unruly mount. “No stories, Medrabbi. I have something important to say.” Rankil drew Myrla to her feet and gently pulled Hestra from her arms.

Elreese, who was sitting nearby, took the rosy-cheeked infant into her lap and held her upright so she could watch. “You may not remember this, young one,” she whispered into Hestra’s tiny ear. “But you can say you were here for it.”

Rankil squared her shoulders and began to speak. “Most of you remember me from last night.” Webbic, who was in yet another’s lap, giggled loudly.

“And you all remember Myrla. We have been together since before entering the Tekkroon lands, and now I wish to seal our relationship by your clan standards.” She glanced at Medrabbi in search of what to do next.

“A marking!” Medrabbi jumped to her feet. “What a perfect ending to the day.” She pulled her boot knife and held it over her head until the room grew quiet. “Rankil wishes to proclaim Myrla as hers, unavailable to the courtings of other broadbacks. Are there any objections to this union?”

Myrla stood erect, unsure of what was happening but positive it was something wonderful.

“Silence means acceptance,” said Medrabbi. “The union will be.” Medrabbi flicked the blade tip over her right index finger, drawing forth a tiny shimmer of blood. “Rankil, your right hand, please.” Medrabbi used her index finger to smear an X on Rankil’s palm.

“The stroke of my blade brings forth your soul, droplets of your inner being, your very life.” Medrabbi drew her knife across the red streaks, opening the top layer of Rankil’s flesh and, using the blade’s flat side to spread the blood, thinly coating every crease of Rankil’s hand. Then she drew behind Myrla and pulled her collar to one side, revealing Myrla’s right shoulder. “Do you wish this woman yours?” Medrabbi asked Rankil.

“In every way.”

“And does she desire you?” Medrabbi looked at Myrla.

“Yes,” assured a breathless Myrla. “More than anything.”

“Then it is done.” She pressed Rankil’s bloody palm onto Myrla’s shoulder then placed another X of her own blood on the back of Rankil’s hand. “Be it known only those who seal this relationship can unseal it.”