Wildfire (17 page)

side of winter there were treasures to be found, seeds clinging to dried flowerheads of fennel, dill, and anise, and lousewort with a few seedcases that had failed to split open. I found green crowns of chicory and wintercress. I dug and divided pungent-smelling garlic, and pulled parsnips for my supper. The plants were gifts and their names came to me without fail. I recognized the signs inscribed by the gods in root, stalk, leaf, and flower. When I awoke I savored the names that lingered on my tongue.

 

  
Weariness was a burden that every day weighed more heavily on me, for every night was restless. But this morning I was as rested as if I’d slept the night through.

 

  
We had yet to encounter enemy warriors. It seemed the gravest danger a hotspur faced these days—and not a slight one, to be sure—was from one of his fellows in a mood to take offense. In the morning a cataphract from Ardor had the audacity to stare at Sire Galan as he marched along. Spiller told this to Rowney and me in the evening, by way of explaining how he—Spiller, that is—came by his broken nose.

 

  
He said Sire Galan had spoken up when this cataphract eyed him, saying he wondered why he gazed so discourteously. And this fellow, Sire Lapalissade, said he meant no discourtesy; he merely stared in wonderment to see a man of the Blood riding such a poor nag as Shank’s-Mare—meaning Galan on his own two feet. Then Sire Galan made remarks about the cataphract’s horse and his horse’s lineage. It looked to be a hot quarrel until Sire Guasca reminded Sire Galan of his oath not to feud with Ardor.

 

  
Sire Galan said he wasn’t feuding, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of sport, was there? They ought to have a cockfight.

 

  
Sire Lapalissade said, “With spurs?”

 

  
Sire Galan said no spurs, if they drew steel it would break the truce.

 

  
So Spiller, Sire Gausca’s jack Lich, and Sire Lebrel’s horsemaster Weed were put up against three jacks from Ardor, and the betting started.

 

  
Spiller said, “One of Ardor’s jacks crowed like a rooster and called us a flock of hens, and said he was the cock for us, and we might as well show our tail feathers and get it over with. And I said if I showed my backside it would be to blow him down with a fart, because he was such a light fellow a puff of wind would do for him.”

 

  
“I wish I’d been there,” Rowney said. “I’d rather fight than talk.”

 

  
“Oh, I fought. How do you think I got this?” Spiller pointed at his face. His nose and brow were red and swollen, and he was already turning purple around one eye. His jerkin was stained. “I think my nose got broken. You should have seen all the blood!”

 

  
“You were beaten. Doesn’t mean you fought,” Rowney said.

 

  
“You ask Sire Galan. Sire Meollo clapped me on the back afterward and
said I should be called Bloodspiller. So that’s my new name. A good one, don’t you think?”

 

  
“I’ll wager three copperheads the only blood you spilled was your own,” Rowney said.

 
  

 

  
Sire Galan had a new tent, and it was better than the old one, larger and more cleverly devised, and envied by fellow cataphracts who hadn’t had the luck to lose a pavilion in the Marchfield so they could buy another. Likewise his new folding bed was of fine workmanship from Lanx. It was wider than his old cot, and had four painted posts holding up a canopy and gauze curtains, so we two had a pavilion within the pavilion when we retired to bed. Three mules were required to carry the tent and its fittings, and one for the bed and bedclothes.

 

  
Galan was off somewhere with Sire Edecon, gambling. It was long since he’d wagered on a certain maidenhead, but he still courted Chance. He left Spiller and Rowney to guard his baggage and me, for there were thieves about who didn’t respect any man’s reputation. The jacks were wrapped up in their blankets, sleeping off a quantity of ale.

 

  
I sat sewing a second dress from the wool Galan had given me. It made me melancholy, thinking of how Penna had helped me with the one I was wearing. When my eyes began to burn, I shook out the feather quilts and spread them on the folding bed, and lay down and listened to rain on the tent.

 

  
A long time later Sire Galan came in alone, and said, “Are you sleeping?” I sat up and he poured coins from a sack onto the quilt: copperheads, silver, gold. I sorted and counted them. I could still count, even if I’d forgotten how to read.

 

  
“Did you get these many from the codfight?” I asked.

 

  
“Some. Some I won tonight.” Chance had been generous to him since he’d tattooed her name on his left palm. The more he offered at hazard, the more she returned, and in gratitude he gave her a tenth of his winnings. When he lost, when Chance blinked instead of winked, it was soon forgotten. Once a man was accounted lucky, it took more than an occasional loss to change his reputation.

 

  
I picked up a goldenhead and stared at it: a man in profile, with a humped nose and a beard. “Who’s this?” I showed Galan the face on the coin. I thought it might be the queenmother’s dead husband, but I couldn’t manage his name. “Is it King…Mortal…Vital, Vitler?”

 

  
“It’s the princeling, Corvus,” Galan said. He tossed me another coin. “This is his father, King Voltur. Take both if you like.” He stirred the coins and picked up a third blonde. “Take this too. You’re due a share of good luck.”

 

  
King Voltur’s goldenhead depicted him with a heavy brow and a square beard in ringlets. Queenmother Caelum’s face was on the third coin. She had reigned eight years as queen regent between her husband’s death and her son’s majority, so why shouldn’t she have her own coins? For a jest, I bit down on the blonde as if it might be gilded lead, but it was gold, solid and sour. I let it drop, and Galan sat down on the bed and kissed me. I was so overstrung that he merely had to touch me to cause a shiver. I was jealous of the sway Chance had over him.

 

  
Rowney woke up and tended to his master. He pulled off Sire Galan’s boots and folded his surcoat with the exaggerated care of a drunk. Galan had blisters upon blisters on his heels and toes and soles, and he wouldn’t be comfortable until they turned to calluses. I scraped off loose white skin with a knife, and put on a greasy salve Divine Xyster had made for him. I could care for small pains such as this; a woman mustn’t touch a man’s open sores or wounds lest her touch taint his blood, and harm rather than help him. His feet were icy.

 

  
I could tell he was cross about something. I didn’t think the blisters were enough to account for it; he’d suffered them for days without complaint. We got under the quilt and I pulled the coverlet over our heads. In the dark I could watch him but he couldn’t see me. There was a strong scent of sweet balm from the foot salve. I said, “I heard about Sire…Lackadaisy, or or Lapscallion—the cockapert who insulted you. Are you still hungry at him?”

 

  
He laughed. “Hungry? I could swallow him whole, and still be hungry. He’s not worth the trouble.”

 

  
“What then?” I said. “What is it?”

 

  
“I won from Pava tonight. He wagered more coin than he had, and offered me his lesser warhorse in pawn until he had the money. Is he a fool or did he mean to offend me, offering a horse? He doesn’t know how close I came…”

 

  
“He’s a nincumfoot, a foot nine times over,” I said. “He’s too much of a forward to insult you apurpose.”

 

  
“A forward?”

 

  
“No, I mean a a…cower, a coward.”

 

  
“I hate that Pava knows,” he said in a low voice. His hand wandered to my waist, and dawdled between my hips and ribs.

 

  
“Knows what?”

 

  
“Knows you.”

 

  
“It wasn’t the same.” I put my forehead against his chest, hiding my face from him even in the dark. “I’m dearth to him…dirt. He has forgotten it. It was all a long, a long ago.”

 

  
A year and a half ago, the Kingswood and Marchfield and Wildfire ago. If I told Galan the truth, that Sire Pava had forced me, would that ease his jealousy? I uncovered our heads and stared at the canopy over the bed. If I told him, it would make more trouble between them, and there was trouble enough already; and if I told him and he did nothing—why then, I’d be disappointed, wouldn’t I?

 

  
Galan leaned on his elbow and looked at me. “He owes me a cart full of money. Tell me what you want and I’ll delight in making him pay it.”

 

  
“Well?” he said, after a pause.

 

  
“I am thanking,” I said.

 

  
He gave a short, mirthless laugh.

 

  
I said, “It’s a good warhouse. His side, sire was my old Dame’s best stalwart…stallion.”

 

  
“Not the horse.”

 

  
I could think of nothing to take from Sire Pava that would cost him enough. But he did have something I wanted. I said to Galan, “What I ask, Sire Pawn doesn’t want. But I swear he will miss it when it’s gone. And it’s somewhat you need.”

 

  
“Is this a riddle?”

 

  
I spoke quickly and let the words tumble wherever they’d go. “I want you to take two of his boasts, his boys. Flit is my cousin, he’s the fastest rotter in camp, good for errors…errants and messages; he’ll make your swagboy. Ask for…Ef, for for Ev as a horseboy. He does all the work, because Sire Pava’s horsemonster is a nasty, lasty sot. Spitter and Tawny—Splitter I mean—your jakes are in need of help. There are too many horses and males to care for, and too much boggle.”

 

  
Fleetfoot wasn’t my cousin—I had no kin. But I’d promised his mother, Az, that I’d look after him, and now I thought to do him a good turn. In the riot after the mortal tourney, a swordsman had lopped off half of Fleetfoot’s left hand and part of two fingers from his right. Likely he’d make a poor bagboy.

 

  
But I was sure Ev would be a good horseboy. He’d worked in the Dame’s stable since he was small; he had the horsemaster’s gift, though Sire Pava had never noticed.

 

  
Galan said, “This is what you want? I’d rather take something of value, something Pava will miss—such as his gold chain with the emerald and pearl medallion. Wouldn’t he turn green to see it around your neck?” He ran his finger down between my breasts, where the pendant would rest if I wore it.

 

  
“Sweet,” I said. “But I couldn’t abide the touch of his cold.”

 
  

 

  
Galan lay sleeping with his arm over me; he had deserted me again. However long the night, it would pass quickly for him.

 

  
I thought of remembering and forgetting, how I could do neither one nor the other at will. I couldn’t remember ordinary things, such as the name of the hawthorn tree, or where I’d packed the jar with the rising dough for the waybread this morning.

 

  
And I couldn’t forget, couldn’t banish from my mind what Sire Pava said after he had chased me down by the river, or Fleetfoot’s wounded hands, or Penna with her neck outstretched. Or how the blood of drudges stained Sire Galan’s clothing after the hunt for servants of Torrent, and Spiller said it was a pity we’d lost the laundress, and Rowney laughed.

 

  
And Sire Rodela relished the memories, and took joy in denying me sleep. His mocking buzz burrowed into my left ear, and when I tried to dig him out I got an earache for my troubles. I wished to put an end to all vengeance between Sire Rodela and me. I felt his shade was encumbered by malice, a rusted carapace that weighed him down even as he thought himself armored in it. Free him and free myself.

 

  
To be tormented by a god—robbed of memory, speech, and strength—was an affliction about which I could do nothing but pray. To be tormented by the dead was another sort of trouble entirely. I would seek Mai’s counsel. She would know how to send away an obstinate shade, so that Rodela could no longer keep me from my ease.

 
  

 

  
Fleetfoot and Ev came to us the next morning, and Spiller right away began to call Fleetfoot Hamfist. It was apt enough, for where the boy’s left hand had been cleft through the palm it had healed pink as a ham and just as blunt. And he was clumsy, with only half a thumb on one hand and a thumb and two full fingers on the other. When Spiller found out I’d asked Galan to take Fleetfoot in pawn, he called me a crook-eyed meddling mule-headed old auntie. But truly I think he was glad to have someone new to complain about.

 

  
Even Spiller couldn’t complain of Ev. The horseboy acquainted himself with the horses and mules, murmuring to them, running his hands over them, learning their strengths and flaws. He had the knack of moving slowly and working quickly, and soon even the most foul-tempered mule nuzzled his head when he leaned down to rub liniment on her sores.

 

  
The boys had a war dog with them, a whelp that should have been culled, for she was as maimed as Fleetfoot. She carried her injured right hind leg tucked up under her belly, and went about doing the things pups do: cavorting, nipping, pissing on sacks, and chewing on saddles. She was dun in color, save for her black feet and muzzle, and she was fast for all that
she had but three good legs. Her disposition was such that it was impossible to stay vexed with her. Spiller called her Piddle, and the name stuck, though Hamfist didn’t.

 

  
I didn’t like to see Fleetfoot cringe when Spiller raised a hand against him, or the way he spit on the ground when Spiller looked away. Once he’d been a lively boy, quick to laugh, and the fastest boy in the village races, delighting in swiftness like a gazehound. Now he was a sullen foot dragger.

 

  
That night when Sire Galan came to bed, he fussed at me that I’d made him take a bagboy who couldn’t even tie a knot, but I saw he was only mock angry—just as he’d cursed, then laughed, when Piddle wriggled up to him beside the fire and gnawed on his baldric.

 

  
I said, “Flickfleet is fast. Put him against any lack in the army and he’ll beat them in a trace, a trice, a race. You’ll win twice his keep in waggers.”