Oathblood (29 page)

“And what do you two think?” she asked the other two spectators, who had remained respectfully silent until now.

Tiny, ice-blonde Jodi, formerly one of Tarma's scouts in the Sunhawks, clasped her hand to her forehead woefully. “Eh now, lady, ye'll be puttin' me an' Beaker out of business here if ye keep trainin' up more horsetalkers!” She imitated Kyra's back-county accent perfectly, Tarma noted with amusement.

Her business partner and mate Beaker, also a former Sunhawk, nodded glumly. He would have been utterly forgettable except for his impressive jut of a nose—and the fact that one of his special messenger-birds, a creature about the size of a crow, with a black body and green head, sat on his shoulder. Tarma laughed at both of their long faces. She'd taught both of them the Shin‘a'in ways with horses when they'd come to her asking if she needed instructors at her new school. She hadn‘t, not yet anyway, but she'd asked them if they had any interest in another trade.

“No fear of that,” Tarma replied. “That girl can't wait to get out on the Plains. If her mother would let her, she'd be fostered out at Liha‘irden this moment.” She was pleased, though, with the implied compliment. “What brings you two out here again, anyway
^?
”

“The usual,” Beaker told her laconically. “Still looking for someplace to settle down. Trouble is, nobody in this part of the world needs horsetalkers all year ‘round. We're getting a bit long in the tooth for the road life.” He looked at her hopefully. “Don't suppose you've heard of anything?”

“Not yet, but—why don't you stick around for a fortnight or so?” she told them. “Maybe something will come up.”

“I'd as soon sleep in one of your beds as the floor of an inn,” Beaker replied with gratitude. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Tarma told him, “You've stayed here often enough; put your mares up, get your gear and find a room, and I'll see you at dinner. Keth'll be glad to see you.”

As the two Sunhawks
(former
Sunhawks, she reminded herself) disappeared through the stable door to get their gear, Tarma turned to leave through the outer door. “Coming, Furface?” she asked over her shoulder, as Warrl's great bulk uncoiled from behind the fence.

:I wouldn't miss this for the world,:
Warrl replied smugly.

Tarma cast him a look of suspicion. Just what did he know about the visitor?

But the
kyree
wasn't talking, so the only way for her to find out what was going on was to get up to the manor.

She found Jadrek and Kethry in the solar, entertaining an ordinary-looking fellow with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed brown beard, and a charming, open face. But it was his clothing that immediately explained the reason for Warrl's amusement. He was dressed in scarlet from his collar to his boots, and there was only one thing
that
could mean.

Oh, gods,
she groaned, as Warrl chuckled unmercifully in her head.
Not another bard!

“Tarma! Just the person we needed!” Jadrek said genially, before Tarma could duck out of sight and hide. “Please join us!”

She sighed, and schooled her face to a pleasant—or at least neutral—expression as she entered the warm, firelit solar. “I really shouldn‘t,” she began. “I've just been in the stables, I smell like horse—”

“But that's precisely why I'm here,” the stranger exclaimed, turning toward her eagerly. “Horses! A very dear friend of mine and a
very
important noble of the Valdemar Court is suffering from a rather extreme set of problems with his horses—”

“And you came here?” Tarma allowed one eyebrow to rise quizzically as she chose a sturdy chair and flung herself into it. “Why on earth did a Bard of Valdemar come here for help with horses?”

“Because Roald sent him to Stefansen, and Stef sent him here, of course,” Kethry replied, a twinkle in her green eyes. She twined a tendril of hair as golden as her daughter's around one finger in an absentminded gesture Tarma knew meant she was highly amused.

“Ah.” Tarma let the eyebrow drop again. “Roald” was
King
Roald of Valdemar, who was Stefanson's friend and had been since the days when they were merely Prince Stefansen and Herald Roald. Jadrek had been Archivist to Stef's father, and he and Tarma and Keth had helped put Stef on the throne of Rethwellan after his brother usurped it, tried to murder him, and succeeded in murdering their sister. She in turn had been Captain Idra, leader of the Mercenary Guild Company Idra's Sunhawks—which had employed Tarma as Scoutleader and Kethry as Company Mage. It sometimes made Tarma's head spin, what with being a Shin‘a'in Swordsworn and simple trainer of would-be warriors on one hand, and on a first-name basis with the Kings of two countries on the other.

“Well,” she said, leaning over to help herself to food and drink with a long arm. “You're a bard, you ought to know how to tell a tale in a straightforward manner, so why don't you start from the beginning and explain the situation to this poor bewildered barbarian?”

Nothing loath, the young man launched into his story. Tarma had a difficult time keeping her face straight when he related the fable of the Gray Stud being a Shin‘a'in warsteed. Nothing was more unlikely, and she said so.

“I can promise you that we haven't lost a stud off the Plains in our entire history,” she told him. “And it's damned unlikely that your friend's ancestors even got an accidental halfbreed. Battlemares are perfectly capable of keeping an unwanted male at bay, and even if one had the poor taste to mate with something other than another warsteed, I can guarantee you she'd be back on the Plains as soon as her rider knew she was pregnant. We simply don't let the bloodline out of our hands.”

Bard Lauren shrugged. “I'll admit that the story sounded odd to me,” he admitted, “but it's one of those family legends that no one contradicts.” His face fell a little. “I came here in hope that since the problem stems from that bloodline, you'd know how to deal with it,” he concluded in resignation. “And since the bloodline isn't what I was told, I won't waste any more of your time—”

“Whoa up, there!” Tarma exclaimed. “I
didn't
say I couldn't help you. As a matter of fact, I'm fairly certain I can.”

:Just what are you up to?:
Warrl asked with alarm.

With no students to train, I was afraid I was going to be bored waiting for the summer trek,
she thought gleefully.
This will be a marvelous way to do a little traveling. I'll ask my Hawkbrother friend to magic us up to the north and back, and it won't take any time at all.

:You wouldn‘t!:
Warrl said in horror. He hated the Gates, though he and Tarma had only needed to use them once before, when the Hawkbrother mage she and Kethry had rescued had asked for some assistance in tracking a weird Pelagir beast and bringing it to bay.

Tarma chuckled under her breath.

The Bard's face lit up as brightly as the sun at high summer. “You can?” he exclaimed.

A plan was rapidly forming in her mind, and she turned to Kethry. “You won't need me back here until the trek to the Plains for the summer, will you?” she asked.

Kethry shook her head. “Not that I can imagine—and until then, the rains should keep the childrens' mayhem to a minimum.”

“Good! Try and keep them out of the village, will you? They'll probably all try and do something to match Jadrie's new horse if you don't. I've got a notion to see how our old friend Roald is doing, and a run will do Warrl a world of good.” She smiled maliciously as Warrl made a sound of inarticulate protest. “I hope you haven't unpacked your things, Bard Lauren; we'll have to leave in the morning if we want to get to your Forst Reach by spring plowing.”

The Bard placed one hand over his heart and bowed to her formally. “Swordlady, a Bard can always be on the road at a moment's notice—and if you can solve Lord Kemoc's problem, I will be eternally grateful and at your service for as long as you please.”

She chuckled. “Save your gallantries, my friend, and prepare for a hard ride.”

 

Tarma had to give the man credit; he endured the difficult journey without a single complaint. He weathered the passage of a Gate from one Hawkbrother Vale to another farther north, right on the Border of Valdemar, and he put up with the ride by horseback afterward, in spite of the fact that they rose in the dark and didn't look for beds until well after nightfall, or that the rain drenched them every single furlong of the trip eastward. “I've ridden with Heralds a few times,” was all he said, and of the three of them, Tarma was the only one who had any vague idea of what that might mean.
She
knew what Companions were—and if they were capable of the sorts of endurance wonders she suspected they were, then the Bard was a tough trooper indeed.

As one of the few Shin‘a'in to leave the Plains, Tarma had more contacts among the Hawkbrothers than most of her kin, and partnering with a sorceress had given her a certain stolidity about magic. Her two friends were used to war-magic, and although the Gate excited a little curiosity in them, they weren't terribly startled by it. It was the Bard Tarma expected trouble from—

But strangely enough, it was almost as if his mind went blank from the time they entered the Vale to when they crossed the Valdemar Border. He literally did not remember how they had gotten there. And if Tarma had been inclined to worry about such things, that memory lapse would have seriously bothered her—but knowing the Hawkbrothers as she did, she suspected they had diddled with the man's mind to make him forget them, and she had no particular objection to such meddling.

Beaker and Jodi were looking forward to this job at Forst Reach, and had immediately fallen into the old habit of looking to her as their commander. She had more experience than they did at handling entrenched behavior problems in horses, but she had every confidence, not only in them, but in their mounts. Graceless and Hopeless were as ugly as their names implied, but they were almost as intelligent as a battlesteed, and had been trained for just this sort of situation. What Jodi and Beaker couldn't handle, their mares could.

And for the
really
difficult customers—which would probably be the stud stallions—Tarma had both Ironheart and Hellsbane. She rode the former, and the Bard and his meager pack and hers were gingerly perched atop the latter, though Tarma had to give Hellsbane special commands before the battlesteed would permit a stranger to ride. Warrl rode on his pillion pad behind Tarma.

This strange little cavalcade clattered up the lane to the Ashkevron Manor just as the wind, which had been blowing steadily out of the north, suddenly turned and came from the southwest.

They were met at the door of the Manor by the Lord himself, whose first words were for Lauren, although he couldn't quite keep his startled gaze off Tarma and her companions. “By the gods, Lauren, we missed you this winter, and your mysterious letter was no compensation! Where in all the hells were you?”

“Finding you that help for your spring plowing problem, old friend,” Lauren said wearily, but with a wide smile at the shock and surprise on Lord Kemoc's craggy face. “May I present to you my friends the Swordlady Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin of the Shin 'a‘in, and her two compatriots, Jodi n'Aiker and Beaker Bowman, of Rethwellan?”

“A
Shin‘a'in?”
Lord Kemoc's eyes nearly bulged out of his face, but he recovered quickly. “You're right welcome to Forst Reach, Ladies, Gents—” He looked somewhat at a loss for something to say, but his lady-wife was under no such difficulty.

“Come in, you're soaked to the skin and no doubt tired to the bone,” she said firmly. It was obvious that although she was at a loss as to what their rank and status might be, she was taking them at face value as Lauren's “friends” and ranking them as his equals at least. “You need dry clothing, a good meal, and a warm bed, and anything else can wait until morning,” she concluded, with a warning glance at her spouse.

He, wise man, immediately gave way before her; Tarma was not going to argue either.

The lady herself showed them to three rooms, all in a row, with doors on a common corridor. Tarma was in the first, and cheerfully dropped her pack on a bench at the foot of the bed. Neither large nor small, neither luxurious nor sparse, her room had a comfortable-looking bed, a chair, and the bench, with a washstand and a mirror on one wall in the way of furnishings. A fire burned cheerfully in the small fireplace on one wall, and there was glass in the window that looked out over the lane they had just ridden up.

Warrl sighed, and curled up on the hearth rug.
:I wonder how the lady plans to solve the riddle of where to seat us at dinner?:

“She won't be seating you anywhere, Furface,” Tarma laughed, just as someone tapped on the door.

Like a miracle, there were two servants, one with covered dishes on a tray—which neatly solved the question of how the lady was going to puzzle out their ranks—and one with water and a bowl of meat trimmings for Warrl.

Tarma was inclined to be more amused than offended at their hostess's neat sidestepping of protocol. She got a dry tunic and breeches out of her pack and changed into them, draped her wet clothing on the mantle to dry, and left her boots off, wriggling her toes in the warm fur of the rug beside her bed as she sat down to demolish the dinner that Lady Ashkevron had supplied her.

“I hate to admit this, but I prefer this to facing two dozen strangers all staring and trying to pretend they aren‘t,” she told Warrl, once a taste had assured her that the savory portion of meat pie would not have to be put to rewarm beside the fire.