Fires of Aggar (22 page)

“Cramped as it is, I thought I might,” Gwyn drawled, sliding her sword back into its sheath. “If I’m not imposing too much?”

Brit snorted, dismissing the impish mischief of her shadowmate’s expression. She was obviously quite weary from the day and simply sat on the bed’s edge with a heavy creak.

“When did you get in?” Sparrow asked, abandoning pretenses and sitting up to massage Brit’s neck. “We’d been hoping to see you a few days ago. Did you have more trouble along the way?”

“No, none.” Gwyn spun a small keg clear of its niche and straddled it like a stool. “The sowie was rather craftier than I’d expected, that’s all. Took a while to corner it properly. Then I camped outside the brushberry fields last night and presented myself late this morning.”

“Did you get in to see the Dracoon?” Brit glanced up quickly, but she gave a nod of unsurprised resignation when Gwyn shook her head. “Been some odd things to notice ’round here, Gwyn’l.”

Gwyn leaned forward, elbows on knees, and waited a moment. But Brit wasn’t prepared to do much talking yet. Gwyn tugged the gloves from her hands and reviewed her own observations for them. Remembering only too well her welcome at the City Gates, she ended on a droll note, “This is not the most hospitable of places. And it’s also the largest city I’ve ever been in that hasn’t got an active Traders’ Guild Inn.”

Sparrow lifted a brow at that anomaly. She and Brit had merely assumed it was part of the Dracoon’s grounds, a rather typical arrangement in outlying cities.

“So I’m staying in the Palace proper, courtesy of some Steward’s orders. They put me back near the stables—” Gwyn lifted a brow tauntingly. “Lovely view of manure and stench.”

“Mae n’Pour! And they expect you to tolerate that insult?” Sparrow looked genuinely appalled.

“Oh, they were quite profuse in their apologies for the quarters. But it is Khirla’s Feasts, you know. There were no announcements anticipating my arrival. They are so sorry. Very, very sorry! But there are simply no other accommodations to be had.” Gwyn grinned outright then. “I rather like it, actually. Any further in, and I’d have the Fates’ Jesting with me every time I tried to sneak out on my own. As it is, they’ve given me a window. Oh — it’s a good handspan above most soldier’s jumping ability, but I manage to let myself in and out as I please.”

Brit snorted rudely. “Fine thing to give you, a back door they can see from a league off.”

“Why what other kind should I request, Soroe?”

“And your horses?” Sparrow broke in. “Are they getting any better treatment?”

“I lodged them myself with a handler outside the city walls. The Steward’s Swords didn’t seem to take any offense at the idea. In fact, they were rather pleased not to have me snooping around their precious tack and gear. Apparently, there’s some sort of armory in one of the barn halls.”

“Aye,” Brit nodded. She wasn’t really dozing at all beneath Sparrow’s gentle rubbing. “The regular guard has no access to the place. Certainly sounded peculiar to me.”

“Thought I’d take some time to scout around there come the single moon,” Sparrow added.

“Good.” Gwyn frowned. “What have you found out about this Steward of theirs? Short of declaring myself an emergency emissary from the Royal Court, I’m not going to be able to get in to see either the Steward or the Dracoon until after the festival’s over. And even then, it appears I’ll have to pass the Steward’s scrutiny before I rate the Dracoon’s Audience!”

“That woman has lots of power,” Sparrow muttered darkly.

“So it appears. Is it a woman?”

“Oh yes, most definitely.” Brit sighed and gathered herself together. Patting Sparrow’s hand in absent thanks, she finally addressed Gwyn with what she had. “She’s a most disturbing personage as far as the folks of this city are concerned. If the Dracoon is well-liked, it seems mostly due to the Steward’s unpopularity, and to the fact that the Dracoon is seldom seen by any within the city itself. Seems she spends most of her time with the patrols, trying to fend off the Clan’s raids. Her absence is supported by the local folk, but the Steward’s presence is — well, let’s say she’s tolerated because of a very personal fear.”

“That makes little sense, Brit. When has a mere steward ever earned the public’s animosity?”

“With enough time and effort, anyone can do it,” Sparrow interjected softly. The bitterness was quite clear in her voice.

“This one’s apparently not the usual sort of detail organizer in most dracoons’ employ.” Brit shook her head in a puzzled manner. “It’s not entirely explicable. But at some point this Steward was awarded ruling powers, probably because Llinolae was so young when she inherited the Dracoon’s position.”

“Well, the old Dracoon Mha’del died in a hunting accident when Llinolae was — what? Only five or six tenmoons? Appointing an adult to rule as regent while she matured, wouldn’t have been a bad idea.”

“But they’ve continued the arrangement beyond any age tradition or ritual could have demanded. Llinolae is as old as you are, Gwyn. She should have taken over the legislative duties seasons ago. Instead, she appears to endorse the Steward’s absolute authority in all administrative and judicial matters — she’s limited her own activities to Clan issues.”

“That’s somewhat like the Royal Family’s delegation of duties, isn’t it?” Gwyn shrugged hesitantly, failing to see why this was making her Sisters suspicious. “It works that our Crowned Rule oversees the courts and law-making, while the Prince coordinates the military efforts. Given the Clan’s been making life so miserable in these parts for so long, why shouldn’t the Dracoon’s priorities be focused on them?”

“Because this Steward’s priorities support excessive taxation and administration by tyranny!” Brit bit back her temper. “Gwyn, did you know that the merchant tolls for bringing goods into Khirla proper is nearly four times that of Churv’s own Traders’ Guild? And as you so rightly noticed yourself, Soroe, there’s not even a Guild’s Inn to support here!”

“Healers are taxed too,” Sparrow inserted quietly. “For their services and for a license to practice.”

Gwyn drew a tight breath at that one. By the People’s Book, neither tax nor tariff was ever to be levied against a practicing healer. Life was too precious to demand an exchange of material goods for healing services. Every healer in the realm accepted only what was offered by their patients — no one bartered for payment! And the Royal Family respected and supported this tradition by exempting the healers from taxation. How dare this Court openly demand what the Crowned and King themselves would not even suggest?”

“There’s a law book here that supposedly supplements the People’s Book,” Brit continued. “It’s endorsed by the Steward and seems to specifically revolve around her own edicts.”

“Her? The Steward — not the Dracoon?”

“Well…,” Brit considered that dutifully, then admitted, “the book is written by the Steward’s Scribe and enforced by the Steward’s Swords. Tax collection, arrests, and judicial appeals all fall under the jurisdiction of the Steward’s Hand. Hearsay is that the Dracoon doesn’t actually have time to scrutinize this Steward’s doings, and so the folk believe she doesn’t know how liberally the Steward has been abusing the authority. But the Dracoon is known to support the Steward as a general rule. I admit, it might not be so clear where one should be blamed versus the other. I suppose that it’s possible the Dracoon approves of the Steward’s measures. Perhaps their need for provisioning against the Clan is worse than we’ve imagined. Still…?”

Brit’s skepticism trailed off into ominous silence as Gwyn frowned. An entirely irrational, emotional bias leapt to life within her, and Gwyn found herself furious at the very suggestion that this Llinolae might be some sort of a tyrant. She calmed herself slightly with the more logical argument; it was simply implausible that Bryana wouldn’t have sensed something amiss. “Brit, M’Sormee found Llinolae to be of admirable character. That doesn’t fit with someone approving of the measures you’re describing in the Steward’s Book. I mean, this sort of law-making doesn’t sound indicative of anything admirable, does it?” Gwyn rubbed her hands together, the itchy suspicious feeling that had plagued the nape of her neck before the barn fire was now making her palms tingle uncomfortably. “So, I have a Dracoon I can’t see for another four-possibly five days, and I have a Steward of questionable ethics politely interfering in my attempts to push any meeting forward. I have Steward’s Swords trailing my whereabouts whenever possible, despite my covert exits through bedroom windows, and the evidence of my buntsow chase leads me to believe some of the Steward’s elite are actually Clan folk.”

“That would fit with what we’ve seen here,” Brit agreed, not in the least startled to hear the latter bit of information.

Sparrow was not so accepting, however. “What do you mean Clan folk within the Steward’s Swords?”

“Think about it.” Brit ticked off the points on her fingers. “First, we’ve got an elite militia all heavily armed with dual sabers. Metal is expensive, especially this far from the Maltar mines; the only other, readily available source of the stuff is from the Clan’s ancient machine wrecks And they don’t let anyone near those old stockpiles — not alive, at any rate. So who can get in and out with the metal from those stores? Clan folk.

“Second, the Swords are all men and thirdly, all bearded. What other organized militia do you know of — on this entire planet! — that separates the sexes? But the Clan folk would have to, if they were to infiltrate the Khirlan militia. Their women are generally too tall — unless they’re going to pose as Amazons.”

“Not a chance,” Sparrow muttered.

“Therefore, they have to use men, or the genetic differences will be too blatant to hide.”

“And the beards?” Sparrow pressed.

“To hide the sun browning!” Gwyn saw at once.

“Or the lack of emotional skin tones,” Brit amended. “You notice? The entire lot of them always wear gloves.”

“But what you’re saying…?” Gwyn felt a knot close in her throat. “Brit, are you suggesting the entire corp of the Steward’s Swords are Clan folk?!”

“No—” But the thought did stop the elder woman for a moment of serious reconsideration. “No, I wasn’t… perhaps I should be.”

“That’s not viable.” Sparrow rejected the idea as flatly preposterous. “I’ll grant that maybe some of them are. I agree, it would be the perfect place to hide a spy or two… or even a half dozen! But not all of them! Brit, someone would have noticed that many strangers! Khirla isn’t that big a district. I mean, three dozen or four? Just how many mysterious appearances of skilled sword fighters can there be, before things get suspicious? Especially considering how lousy they’ve all been against these Clan raiders! That in itself must be raising a nasty question here and there!”

“Aye,” Brit nodded. “But someone high enough up to discourage the recruitment of women sword carriers and to establish a ruffian dress code of bearded chins is probably someone high enough up to dismiss or misdirect most awkward questions.”

“Or to order the disappearance of the questioners,” Gwyn allowed grimly. “There’s another consideration too, Sparrow. The Changlings’ Wars up north have been training and discharging a lot of good sword carriers for over a generation now. It wouldn’t seem so unusual to anyone if a batch or two of those mustered out decided to come and join the Steward’s Swords. Few would think it suspicious for those veterans to have different customs and decent sword steel.”

“Which means there’s more of the Steward’s Swords you can’t trust, than you can,” Sparrow saw at last. She sighed shakily, stunned at the audacity of such an idea. If true, the odds against them just got despairingly bad.

“Now the City Guards…,” Brit smiled, a feral little glint glowing in her eyes. “There’s a crew that wears their loyalties plain to see. A fair half of them are women, less than half of the rest espouse to beards.”

“So whoever isn’t imitating the infamous Steward’s Swords may have dissenting opinions with them?” Sparrow nodded. “That sergeant we keep hearing about, the one I run into when I follow those Guards back to roost? He’d be suspicious of the Steward’s blue cloaks.”

“I’d wager, he would,” Brit grinned.

“His name isn’t Rutkins by any chance, is it?” Gwyn smiled at their startled looks. “I thought so. What do you know about him?”

“One of the old guard,” Brit sketched a line across her left cheek and eye. “Got a wicked scar here and carries a long sword instead of a saber. Seems the City Guards are all armed with single blades, but his had the look of a master crafter.”

“Saw him draw it only once,” Sparrow supplied. “But it’s got bright, clean edges with engravings along the length, just like the better crafters of the pre-war smithing.”

“He seems to have a good rein on a number of the youngsters in the Guard,” Brit went on. “Mostly among the young women — and that would fit. If the elite is becoming all male, there’s probably a growing prejudice against promoting the women. But Rutkins has also got a contingent of older swords. They’re made up of both men and women.”

“Perhaps those of older loyalties?” Gwyn’s brow lifted at that interesting prospect. “He said, he used to be old Mha’del’s Captain of Guard.”

“Very possible,” Brit mused. “In any event, his people have an uncanny knack of disappearing into crowds with those plain ruddy colors of theirs — as opposed to those velvety blue things of the Steward’s Swords. And he seems to use that talent of theirs pretty frequently.”

At Brit’s nod, Sparrow picked up the story. “Every time I’ve taken to trailing a pair of the Steward’s Swords, I’ve found them returning directly to the Palace — or I’ve found at least one of these Rutkins’ favored Guards following the Steward’s Swords as well. I don’t think they’ve spotted me yet.” Sparrow grinned somewhat proudly. “Without my troubadour colors, I don’t stand out much at all. Anyway, the Swords seem to bring trouble when there gets to be more than three or four of them in the same place — it’s about then that Rutkins’ people have a way of showing up. They rather auspiciously appear at just the right moment to prevent the local folk from getting hauled off or sliced up.”