It howled. Archers ran in terror. The lines of the Bolgers broke, each running for himself, the fight forgotten. Narskap tried to lower his arm, but could not, and he put heel to his horse and headed downward, into the thick of the clans punching and kicking their way in retreat, and the sword went after them, like a whip eager for the lashing, and Bolgers fell, screaming.
Diort did not follow. He cuffed his war-trained mount to a halt, bile in his throat. War maneuvers were one thing. A slaughter was another. Yet he couldn’t deny to himself the impression of the sheer inability of a foe to stand before the blade. Not forgetting that Narskap rode and fought like a master, the sword itself had a mind and drive of its own. The Bolgers recognized it.
If this could be done by the Strangers, the God-speakers, then he had to give blessing none such had been loosed on them before. Did they know the difference between Gods and Demons on Kerith? He thought not. If a God rode that sword, it was a God of the greatest darkness, of the swallowing of souls. For this, if no other reason, he had to own the war hammer.
Quendius joined him after a few moments, directing his troops who outrode the fleeing Bolgers and were cutting off retreat.
“How much for the hammer?”
“The price I quoted you includes the hammer, along with the other armament.”
Abayan tore his attention away from the fray below. He had been prepared to pay all that he could raise, and he didn’t doubt that Quendius knew that. He considered the weaponmaker. Nothing between them would come freely, and both knew it.
Quendius remarked, “The additional price I ask is an intangible,” in answer to the unspoken.
“I have no firstborn.”
Quendius chuckled. “Alliance. I want alliance.”
“Against . . .”
“Whomever our enemies may be or become.”
“A broad term.”
“The world,” Quendius told him, “is broad.”
“I see.” He paused as Narskap finally, wearily, managed to sheathe the greatsword and rode up to the knoll top. Narskap said nothing. Blood splattered his trousers, his vest, his face, but not a drop stained his sword arm. Not a drop within reach of the blade had been passed by. It had drunk deeply of each and every offering.
“I would be a fool to turn you down,” Abayan Diort told Quendius.
“The Gods did not birth either of us to be fools,”
Quendius returned. He held out his arm, and the two gripped each other’s forearms strongly.
Narskap passed the war hammer over, and Abayan Diort took it. He could feel a deep vibration inside the wood, he could sense rather than hear its own voice, and he knew a greater fear than he had ever known in his life. He did not show it.
He would be a greater fool if he did.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
NUTMEG HIKED UP the hem of her skirt so she could run faster, skimming the edges of the crowd. “Hurry! I want to see them coming in the gates!”
A basket of flyers newly printed and hailing the opening of Tolby’s hard work thumped at her hip as Rivergrace did her best to keep up. A few of the crisp papers took flight on their own from the basket, to drift among the pushing crowd of people eager to see the entrance of the Warrior Queen and her entourage. Nutmeg found a place near the front, where even in her proud Dweller shortness, she could see, and Rivergrace stayed at her heels. Both of them handed out flyers as they’d promised, and then a commotion at the gates made everyone’s eyes turn, and a sigh of anticipation ran through the gathered crowd.
A horn sounded through the morning with a challenge and flourish. The entourage entered, not at a ceremonial walk, but a controlled gallop, a charge of arched necks, flying manes and tails, and hooves striking the hard-packed dirt road, as tashya horses in regalia, their riders splendid in dark, rich clothing, hooded vantanes on one wrist and white leather reins in the other hand, took the city. Behind them rode packmasters with braces of dogs, milling about with happy barks and brays, their brown and black and tan and chestnut coats shining with health and vigor. The hounds ignored the crowds, tongues lolling. Huntsmen rode after, resplendent in brocade and silk, eyes and hair flashing like jewels, Vaelinars with skins of cream and faint copper, a soft gray here and there, and sometimes a bronze given by birth and not sunning. Just as Rivergrace caught her breath, the honor guard trotted in, weapons sparkling in their sheaths like lightning called down from the skies, their horses snorting and sharp hooves striking small pebbles from the dirt. Behind them, at a more sedate place, rode Sevryn and a handful of others. Unlike the Vaelinars before, this handful observed the crowd, carefully, closely, gazes sweeping and then watching a personage or two with a penetrating stare before moving on. When his eyes found her, he reined his horse back a bit, pivoting it in a tight circle, so he might not ride past without acknowledging her. Aderro, he’d called her, Little One, a word she’d forgotten and not remembered till he had said it. Aderro.
He raised a soft-gloved hand in greeting.
A warmth rose in her cheeks, and she put a hand up to hide it. A flyer flew from her fingers of its own volition, straight at him, and he caught it, grinning, before wheeling his horse about and rejoining the honor guard. They swept past, as the queen and her brother came into view.
She wore cobalt blues, her gown accented with gilt ribbons brilliantly swirling about her, her hair held back from her brow by a simple diadem, her right hand upon a bannered lance carried in her stirrup. She looked incredibly young and enchanting, and Rivergrace felt a sting at the corner of her eye as she passed, a tear of awe. Her brother rode at her elbow, just a horse’s stride behind, in dark greens and chestnuts, his horse’s coat blazed in red gold, and he carried a great bow across his back, with sword in hand. Nutmeg made an inaudible sound of wonder. In a thunder of hooves, they galloped past, and Rivergrace managed to let her breath out.
Someone behind her grumbled, “Just what the city needs, more cursed elves.”
“At least they bring their coin purses with them.”
Nutmeg turned away before the last of the entourage on horseback and carriage came through, catching up flyers from the basket and thrusting them everywhere in the crowd, promising them fine summer wines and the greatest cider they had ever tasted. Rivergrace trailed after, people often refusing a paper, and one or two muttering, “Vaelinars street hawking? I doubt it.” A woman shoved past, hissing, “Hide those eyes!” Rivergrace spun about in momentary confusion as the crowd began to disperse.
She stumbled on the hem of her skirt and righted herself, only to see a man strut off, smirking, and realized she’d been tripped. She clutched the handle of the basket until the woven reed and stem bit into the palm of her hand. Nutmeg, far ahead of her, had seen and heard nothing or she would have pitched herself into the fray, her small but determined defender. Rivergrace smiled at that, and shrugged off the scorn, hurrying after her sister. Dust curled from the side lanes as the heat of the day and many feet shuffling through it carried it aloft like soft, brown smoke.
Tolby stood in rolled-up sleeves, immersed in work, when they returned and waved his hand. “Run along, go. Your ma is waiting for you.”
Excitedly, Nutmeg found a straw hat and tied the ribbon about her chin. “They were so handsome, all of them,” she chattered. “Not even at the Spring fairs have I seen anything like it! And the queen. Did you see how she rode? I bet she could use that lance, too.”
“Do you think they love her?”
“Of course they do!” Nutmeg fussed with her apron, and then twirled Grace about to tie hers. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“People grumble on the street.”
“Do they?” Nutmeg peered up at her from her elbow. “I never noticed.” She tugged the apron tighter and retied it. “I think you’re losing weight. Come on, we might have time to buy some sugared bread!”
Even long-legged Grace had small hope of staying even with Nutmeg when she was in pursuit of hot fried bread on a stick, dotted with crystallized sugar gems. Head above most of the crowds, she spotted Walther, messenger bag flopping about his baggy pants, with a piece of bread on a stick, melting away through the people. He saw her and gave a toothsome grin and wave.
Nutmeg offered her a sticky bit, which she nibbled at, but it did not strike her fancy as it did her sister’s. They finished it off just before reaching the shop. Nothing untoward happened in the long hot afternoon although Rivergrace, busy sewing in the far back where she would be undisturbed, thought she could hear people coming in and out, an unusual bustle of interest. She listened in case Sevryn Dardanon might make another appearance, but heard no voices she recognized, and finally bent her attention to her stitching—small, neat, and quick. Lily came back to check on her twice, expression bemused and mind preoccupied. Grace finished up and set the jacket aside, laying it out neatly as Lily came in a last time, saying, “You can go home, Grace, I’ve nothing left for you, but Nutmeg is still working.”
“That’s fine. Can I go do laundry?” Nutmeg thought of laundry as punishment, but she enjoyed it, cleansing away the toil and worry of yesterdays as she did it. The day had plenty of sun left for drying, and the clothes would snap in the wind and billow about, smelling of the flower tinctures she put in the rinse water.
Lily hugged her. “Would you mind trying this chemise? I’ve a new client trying to replace it, and I’m working on the order, but it seems to me this wine stain should come out. I can please her with both.”
She took it and nodded, running the fine garment through her hands. “I think I can get it clean.” After a moment, with a slight tinge of worry, she added, “Don’t let Nutmeg walk home alone late.”
“Oh, I won’t. She’s likely to black someone’s eye and have the Town Guard called on us if there’s any trouble.” They both laughed, and Lily added, “Send Keldan after the two of us, when the lamps are being lit.”
“I will!”
She was up to her elbows in water, cold and soaped lightly, for she disliked soiling the water more than she had to, when the shout of angry voices reached her, echoing through the yard, Tolby’s voice in a stern growl. She followed it to the storeroom.
“Mortgaged? Paperwork? Get out of here. I rebuilt every keg in here with my bare hands, me and my sons did.
Everything of any good had been stripped out of here, sold or stolen before then.”
“Nonetheless,” said the barrel-waisted Kernan standing opposite Tolby, his thumbs tucked in his vest pockets, “the manager mortgaged what little property remained in this establishment, and now the monies are due. The monies or the kegs and vats.”
Garner loomed at his father’s shoulder. “A lot of good kegs would do a moneylender. Unless you’ve a mind to try the business?”
“True, but resale would settle the debt. I know you’re trying to make a start here, Farbranch, but ’twill go badly with you if word gets around your credit is no good and you don’t stand by your paper.”
“It’s not our paper!” Keldan started to bounce beside his father and brother, and both caught him by the elbow. He shook his thickly curled head as they pushed him behind them.
Tolby rolled his shoulders and gazed up at the roof. His tone calmed. “And if I pay this . . . debt . . . what happens then? Another one of you shows up next week with a new bundle of papers?”
The Kernan cleared his throat. “You don’t know me, Master Tolby, but I’m not one for kicking a man when he’s down. This clears it all.”
“Your word on that?”
The Kernan nodded as he pulled his vest into place. “My word, sir, and if it’s as good as the word of a Farbranch, we should both be pleased. May this be the last of your good money after bad,” he said, offering his hand to Tolby. “The summer season is a thirsty one and you should begin to prosper.” He waited.
Tolby wiped his hands clean. “Let’s hope the summer stays hot and dry, and our customers thirsty.” But he did not shake the proffered hand. “I suggest, m’lord, that you get off my property before I set my sons on you.”
Purple veins blossomed in the other’s expression. “Master Tolby, surely you don’t deny the debt—”
“I do indeed. Come back when you’ve proper copies of these so-called papers or when you want a drink of good cider or never come back.” Tolby folded his arms over his chest, chin out, looking up at the Kernan’s face, but seeming to be a good deal taller.
The man turned abruptly with a blustery noise, and darted through the doorway.
“Wait’ll Mom hears.”
“She’ll not hear this from any of you.” Tolby swung about, his still angry eyes resting on all of them. “That understood?”
“Aye, Da, but what if you owe? This’ll drag down all we’ve done. We’ll have to quit.”
Tolby’s hand shot out, grabbing Keldan by the scruff of the neck. “I won’t be hearin’ words like that again from you, or any of my children. Understand?”
Keldan hung his head, nodding. Rivergrace retreated quickly back into the yard, the sun, and the need of clothes to be rinsed and hung out in the light and the air.
Unbidden, she thought of the tall man, the one who seemed to be of elven blood yet not, with still, gray eyes whose presence unsettled her even when he was no longer near. She threw herself into her chores, not wanting to think anymore.
Tolby came out to find her wet to the elbow once more, singing softly to herself as she worked. Stains and odors disappeared under the sure workings of her hands, water rinsing the garments until they seemed brand new. He sat down on a stump and tapped the bowl of his pipe. He didn’t speak to her till a cloud of smoke wreathed his head, the aroma smelling of cherrysweet and apple spice. He clamped the stem in his teeth as she snapped the chemise in the air and laid it over the line to dry. The stain had come out, as she’d thought it would.
He spied the buckets sitting by the old well. “Grace. What are those buckets doing there?”