Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (18 page)

“Yes, Marshal-General. If the foundation is not sound, the building will not stand. The thief—the yeoman must fully understand the foundations of the Code, not merely recite them as any youngling can do.”

“Good, then,” she said. “I expect he will wish to continue the same schedule he had as a scribe, four glasses’ work in the morning and the afternoon to care for his son.”

Deinar nodded. “He seems to care for his son, Marshal-General, more than I expected.”

“It is a long story,” Arianya said. “And one I would rather tell another day, if you do not mind. It is my first full day of work after they took a kuaknomi blade from my bone.”

“Of course, Marshal-General.” For just a moment his expression softened. “We in the Judicariate are most pleased you have recovered.”

“Thank you,” she said, somewhat surprised. Given his views on magery, she would have expected him to wish her dead.

“I disagree with you about magery,” Deinar said. “And possibly about the conversion of a lifelong thief. But I respect you as Marshal-General.”

“Thank you,” she said again. He bowed and withdrew. Arianya leaned back in her chair and sighed. She felt bone-deep weariness and was just about to call for sib when Marshal Vesk came in with a tray heaped with dishes and mugs.

“You don’t need to be wasting your energy going down to the kitchen for supper, since you insisted on working today.”

Arianya opened her mouth to protest and found herself thanking him instead.

“By your leave, Marshal-General, I’ll eat with you. I’ve got the early shift on guard in the hall, and this saves me steps, too.”

“Suits me,” Arianya said, setting the papers aside. “Here—what are we having?”

“Beef-barley soup for you, which is what the cooks think you need, and sausage and beans for me, which they insisted was too spicy for someone just out of bed. I could be bribed to share. Your soup smells good.”

Arianya laughed. “They know I love that spiced sausage. Let’s both share—surely if most of what I eat is the soup, all will be well.” She picked up one of the small loaves on the tray, broke it, and he sprinkled salt on both halves.

Partway through the meal, Marshal Vesk said, “I wonder how long it will take Paksenarrion to find a Kuakgan.”

Arianya swallowed the bite of sausage—it was spicier than she remembered—and said, “I suppose it depends on how near one is to Fintha. Although some wander—she might meet a wandering Kuakgan.”

“We … worry a little.”

“As do I. A lot, in fact. Was my moment of temper this afternoon a sign of some evil influence or just the way I’ve been for years? Am I tired because of blood loss and spending too many days in bed, or … again … evil influence? If it is that, then I’m the last person to detect it.”

“You seem yourself to me, but everyone knows about Paksenarrion.”

“Yes. However, thanks to her, I will not have to endure what she did. I still think about that—”

“You know the Marshalate agreed with you. Well, except for those like Haran.”

“Yes, but the Marshalate was as ignorant as I was. And as for Haran, it’s her views we’re now faced with.” She sighed. “Though had I known all I needed to about Paksenarrion and had I found her a Kuakgan, Haran would still have felt aggrieved … Why was a Marshal-General consulting a Kuakgan? she would have asked. And those of her mind now would still oppose any acceptance of magery.” She looked at the rest of the sausage and decided to finish the beef-barley soup instead.

Several days later, Deinar’s report on Arvid’s progress was accompanied by a scowl that the report itself did nothing to explain. He had examined Arvid on the first section beyond the fingers and toes, something taught to yeoman-marshals. Arvid had mastered the material and was able to apply it to the standard situations yeoman-marshals were expected to face.

“I spoke to Marshal Cedlin,” he said, “and asked if he had thought of making Arvid a yeoman-marshal. He said he had not, but Arvid was outpacing the other yeomen, so he allowed him to read deeper into the Code.” Deinar looked hard at Arianya. “I would like to be able to say that this is unwise in all cases, but Arvid seems to have an unusual ability to absorb the meat of the matter. Although he often seems glib in his speech, there is nothing superficial about his understanding.”

“Have you an explanation for his progress?” Arianya asked.

“He is unusually intelligent, obviously. Quick to learn, Marshal Cedlin says, and says he was so informed by Arvid’s former Marshal in Aarenis.” Deinar tipped his head. “Have you considered, Marshal-General, that he was, before becoming a thief, a defrocked judicar, perhaps in Tsaia?”

“No,” she said. “That never occurred to me. It is my understanding he was born into a thief family and brought up as one.”

“I have not known many thieves—we do not have the Guild here, as you know, so our thieves are not so organized. But this man—truly,
Marshal-General, he is in some way not … not what I expected. I still do not understand his motives …”

“I’m sure you will,” Arianya said. “You are perceptive; I believe all judicars are.”

“Perhaps. We try to be. Mostly we try to be very precise and very clear.” A long pause as Deinar looked out the window. Finally he turned back to her and said, “I suppose there’s no possibility that he’s half-elven …”

“Arvid? Not so far as I know, and I myself have seen nothing elven about him.”

“It is his way of speaking, at times,” Deinar said. “Very … elaborate.”

“He is from Tsaia,” Arianya said. “And I know he spent much time in Vérella. So perhaps he picked up that way of speaking from the court.” She wondered why she had never thought about that before. Arvid had been a thief—why would he speak with such sophistication?

“Perhaps.” Deinar sighed. “But at any rate, Marshal-General, I must say … he is far more interesting a pupil than I expected, and so far I would judge that he will master the entire Code fairly quickly. What then? Surely you have plans for him.”

“Not precisely,” Arianya said, folding her hands. “I feel he has great potential, and I feel Gird’s own hand pushing me to see that he learns to use it. But as what exactly—that I do not know.”

“You are sure it’s Gird—” Deinar stopped and shook his head. “Of course you are. You would not say it if you weren’t.”

“Excuse me, Marshal-General, but there’s a man—”

Arianya and Deinar both turned. A young yeoman-marshal stood in the doorway, looking worried.

“A man,” Arianya said. “What kind of man?”

“A Girdish yeoman from someplace I never heard of. He wants to put a cow—I mean a … a sort of statue of a cow, though it isn’t really a statue, exactly, but the skin and the head and bones, and all that, over some kind of frame—”

“Come now, Yeoman-Marshal,” Deinar said as Arianya was trying to imagine a cowhide draped over sticks tied together to make a cow
shape. The head would surely stink. “Do you mean a cow statue or not?”

“It’s supposed to look like a cow, but it isn’t a cow, it’s got the hide and all, but it’s not alive and it’s not made of stone or wood,” the yeoman-marshal said in a rush, her ears bright red with embarrassment. “He wants to put it in the High Lord’s Hall.”

“He can’t—” began Deinar.

“Why does he want to?” asked Arianya, cutting across Deinar.

“He says it’s because Gird loved cows. And if there’s a cow to remind people, then they’ll think about Gird instead of magelords.”

Arianya looked at Deinar. He shrugged, eyebrows raised. “It has a certain logic,” he said. “The original Gird, his known fondness for cows … but I don’t think it would work.”

Rapid boot steps rang down the corridor, more than one pair, and loud voices with them.

“I don’t care—nobody is taking that stinking thing—”

“You can’t just—it’s up to the Marshal-General—”

“No, it’s not—it’s up to the Marshal-Judicar-General.”

Voices arrived at the door simultaneously—High Marshal Bradlin and High Marshal Celis, both ready to leap into argument. Arianya held up her hand.

“If it’s about the cow, I’m about to go see it.”

Arianya ignored the peculiar object on the wagon at first and concentrated on the people. Beside the wagon stood a short, stocky man with weathered skin and callused hands. He whipped off a shapeless hat, revealing a freckled bald pate, and his gap-toothed grin expressed both a sunny good nature and absolute confidence in his mission. Behind the wagon a small group of dusty, trail-worn travelers clumped together, looking wide-eyed at the High Lord’s Hall on one side and then the old palace on the other. All looked like country folk, all wore blue shirts, and all wore little wooden cow shapes dangling from strings around their necks.

She looked back at the first man. “I’m Marshal-General Arianya,” she said. “What’s this about?”

He bobbed his head, still grinning. “I’m Salis, Marshal-General, from Tillock-Uphill. And this is Gird’s Cow.”

“Go on,” Arianya said.

“It’s this, Marshal-General.” He took a long breath and started into what was clearly a memorized spiel. “Gird was a cowman. We know that; m’Marshal told us it says the same in the new things that’s been found. We call him Gird Strongarm, and I don’t doubt he was, but he was also a cowman, and it’s my thought that’s a better way to think of him. Now, a cowman cares for cows, be they spotted or solid, fawn or black, even if they got one crooked horn or wry tail or hoof-rot. Even if a cow has a two-headed calf, he don’t kill that calf for having two heads. And he don’t cut off one head.” He paused.

Arianya looked at the thing in the wagon. It was vaguely animal-shaped, four-legged at least, and the wrapping was clearly cowhide. The head had cow ears, and holes where the cow’s eyes had been, but below the recognizable part of a cow face was a bulbous lump, also covered with cowhide.

“I built it on a frame,” Salis explained. “It’s not that heavy, really—I stuffed it with straw to make it lighter and round—”

It
was
very round, like a giant pillow, and not at all cowlike except for the hide and the ridgepole that would have been a spine in a cow, but here was clearly—even through the hide—a not quite straight tree branch or possibly the trunk of a sapling with a couple of sticks—or maybe branches—poking out of the hide where a cow’s hip bones would be. Instead of hooves, the postlegs ended in wooden wheels. Each leg was lashed fore and aft and sideways to the cart.

Arianya knew she must not laugh. The man was completely serious, convinced in his own mind. Yet it was ridiculous. This—this
thing
—was not a cow, and though Gird had loved cows, she could not see any connection between Gird’s love of cows and Gird’s admonitions to his followers on the subject of magelords. And she had important problems to deal with—this was a distraction just when she didn’t need it.

“As Gird he loved his cows so much …” The little group began to sing in the wavering, nearly tuneless voices of those who aren’t sure what will happen.

“Hideous!” muttered High Marshal Bradlin.

As they sang, the tune they were trying for became clearer. “ ‘Run Fox Run,’ ” High Marshal Celis said. “The northern version. ‘As fox runs through the summer grass, the farmer’s home he will not pass …’ ”

“They’re singing it
wrong
.” High Marshal Bradlin sniffed as the yeomen continued with another verse. “And they all stink of cow.”

The group finished with enthusiasm and stood staring at the Marshals so much like cows over a fence that Arianya had to grin at them. Their leader grinned back, clearly pleased at what he saw as approval.

“So now,” he said, “we want to put Gird’s Cow in the High Lord’s Hall.”

“Why there?” Arianya asked.

“So everyone will see it,” he said, as if that were obvious. “People come here, don’t they? And they come see the High Lord’s Hall—”

“Have you ever seen it?” Arianya asked.

“No, not until now, but I heard of it. Our Marshal, that’s Marshal Tam, he told us about it. Bigger than three granges end to end, he said, and colored windows, and was there before Gird. I can see it’s big—” He glanced toward the Hall.

“You all come with me,” Arianya said. “You and your followers. Leave the … leave Gird’s Cow here; High Marshal Celis will take care
of it.” She gestured and noticed that the group did not move until Salis nodded and took a step. Devout followers already.

She led them into the High Lord’s Hall; they stopped, once inside, and gaped at the colored light, the height of the interior.

“It’s … really big,” Salis said. “And beautiful. And to think Gird was here. Himself.”

“Yes,” Arianya said. “Come see where he was buried.”

They stared at the stone she pointed out, the letters blurred with all the hands that had touched them. After a long silence, one of the women sighed.