Furies of Calderon (48 page)

Both soldiers broke out in snickers.

“Yes, well,” the unshaven one said, “The Count is a busy man. He doesn’t have time for visiting with every scruffy clodhopper about every little problem that comes up.”

Bernard took a deep breath. “I understand that,” he said. “Nonetheless, I am well within my rights to request to see him immediately on a matter of urgency to his holdings.”

The unshaven guard shrugged. “You aren’t a Citizen, clodhopper. You don’t have any rights that I know of.”

Amara’s temper flashed, her patience evaporating. “We do not have time for this,” she snapped. She turned to the guard in the fine cloak and said, “Garrison could be in danger of attack. We need to warn Gram about it, and let him react as he thinks fit.”

The guards glanced at each other and then at Amara. “Look at that,” the unshaven one drawled. “A girl. And here I thought that was just a skinny boy.”

His partner leered. “I suppose we could always take off those breeches and find out.”

Bernard narrowed his eyes. The Stead-holder’s fist lashed out, and the young
legionare
in the fine cloak landed in a senseless sprawl on the snow.

His unshaven partner blinked down at the unconscious young man and then up at Bernard. He reached for his spear, but Bernard spoke sharply, and the weapon’s haft bowed, then straightened again, writhing out of the guard’s reach and bounding away. The guard let out a short shriek and reached for his dagger.

Bernard stepped close to the young man and clutched his wrist, holding his hand at his belt. “Son. Don’t be stupid. You’d best go get your superior officer.”

“You can’t do that,” the guard sputtered. “I’ll throw you in irons.”

“I just did it,” Bernard said. “And if you don’t want me to do it again, you’ll go get your centurion.” Then he gave the young man a stiff shove, sending him clattering backward and falling into the snow at the base of the wall.

The guard swallowed and then bolted, running inside.

Amara looked from the guard in the snow to Bernard and asked, “Polite and respectful, eh?”

Bernard’s face flushed. “They might be spoiled city boys, but they’re Legion, by the furies. They should treat women with more respect.” He rubbed at his hair. “And show more respect to a Stead-holder, I suppose.”

Amara smiled, but didn’t say anything. Bernard flushed even brighter and coughed, looking away.

The unshaven guard emerged from the guardhouse with a half-dressed centurion, a young man little older than him. The centurion blinked stupidly at Bernard for a minute, then gave the guard a terse order, before stumbling back into the guardhouse to march off a moment later, still only half-dressed.

Several
legionares
gathered around the gate, and to Bernard’s relief he recognized a few of the men from previous visits to Garrison. A few moments later, a grizzled old man dressed in a civilian tunic, but with the bearing and mien of a soldier, came walking briskly out of the gates, wisps of white hair drifting around his bald pate.

“Stead-holder Bernard,” he said, critically, eyeing the Stead-holder. “You don’t look so good.” He made no particular comment about the condition of the guard lying in the snow, leaning down to rest his fingertips lightly on the young man’s temples.

“Healer Harger,” Bernard responded. “Did I hit him too hard?”

“Can’t hit a head that thick too hard,” Harger muttered. Then cackled. “Oh, he’ll have a headache when he wakes up. I’ve been waiting for this to happen.”

“New recruits?”

Harger stood up and paid little further attention to the young guard in the snow. “The better part of two whole cohorts down from Riva herself. Citizens’ sons, almost all of them. Not enough sense to carry salt in a storm among the whole lot.”

Harger snorted. “Sick of rich boys who expect to be treated like invalids instead of
legionares
, maybe.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to his truth-finder, Bernard.”

“Olivia? Get her on down here.”

“No,” Harger said, and grimaced. “Livvie’s youngest came to term, and she went back to Riva to help with the birth. Now we’ve got—”

“Centurion,” bawled a high, nasal voice. “What’s going on down here? Who is in charge of this gate? What foolishness is this?”

Harger rolled his eyes. “We’ve got Pluvus Pentius instead. Good luck, Bernard.” Harger stooped down and scooped up the unconscious young
legionare
, tossing him over one shoulder with a grunt, and then headed back inside the fort.

Pluvus Pentius turned out to be a slight young man with watery blue eyes and a decided overbite. He wore the crimson and gold of a Rivan officer, though his uniform tended to sag around the shoulders and stretched a bit over the belly. The officer slouched toward them through the snow, squinting in disapproval.

“Now see here,” Pluvus said. “I don’t know who you people are, but assaulting a soldier on duty is a Realm offense.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his tunic and peered at them, flipping through several pages. Then he turned and looked around him. “Yes, here it is, a Realm offense. Centurion? Arrest both of them and see them to the holding cells—”

“Excuse me,” Bernard interrupted. “But there’s a more important matter at hand, sir. I am Stead-holder Bernard, and it is vital that I speak to Count Gram at once.”

Pluvus blinked up at them. “Excuse me?”

Bernard repeated himself.

Pluvus frowned. “Highly irregular.” He consulted his pages again. “No, I don’t think the Count is receiving petitions today. He holds a regular court every week, and all such matters are to be presented to him then, and in writing at least three days ahead of time.”

“There’s no time for that,” Bernard blurted. “It’s vital to the safety of this valley that we speak to him at once. You are his truth-finder, aren’t you? Surely you can tell that we’re being honest with you.”

Pluvus froze, peering up at Amara over the pages. He looked from her to Bernard and back. “Are you challenging my authority here, farmer? I assure you that I am fully qualified and can—”

Amara flashed Bernard a warning glance. “Sir, please. We just need to see Gram.”

Pluvus drew himself up stiffly, his lips pressed together. “Impossible,” he stated flatly. “Court is two days hence, but we have not received a written petition to be filed for that date. Therefore you will have to submit your petition to me in, let’s see, no more than six days’ time, in order to be received by the Count at next week’s court—and that is a matter entirely separate from an assault upon a
legionare
—and a Citizen, at that! Centurion! Take them into custody.”

An older soldier with several younger
legionares
behind him stepped forward toward Bernard. “Sir, under the authority vested in me by my rank and at the order of my commanding officer, I place you under arrest Please surrender your weapons and cease and desist any current fury-craftings and accompany me to the holding cells where you will be incarcerated and your case brought before the Count.”

Bernard growled and set his jaw. “Fine,” he said, and flexed his fists. “Have it your way. Maybe a few more broken heads will get me to see Gram that much faster.”

The
legionares
came toward Bernard, but the centurion hesitated, frowning. “Stead-holder,” he said, carefully. “This shouldn’t have to get ugly.”

Pluvus rolled his eyes. “Centurion,
arrest
this man and his companion You have no idea how much paperwork I have to do already. My time is precious.”

“Bernard,” Amara said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”

Bernard faced the oncoming soldiers, his brow darkening, and the ground let out a faint tremble. The soldiers stopped in their tracks, their expressions nervous. “Come on,” the big Stead-holder growled. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Get out of my way!” thundered a voice from within the gates Amara blinked, startled at the tone. A man in a rumpled and wine stained shirt thrust his way through the crowd watching the altercation. He wasn’t tall, but had a barrel for a chest and a jaw that looked heavy and hard enough to break stones upon, covered by a curling beard of fiery red. His hair, shorn short, was of a similar color, though patchy with batches of grey that made his scalp look like a battleground, with troops in scarlet struggling to hold terrain against a grey-clad foe. His eyes were deep under heavy brows, bloodshot, and angry. He walked barefoot in the snow, and steam curled up from his footprints

“What in the name of all the furies is going on here?” he demanded, voice booming. “Bernard? Flame and thunder, man, what the crows do you think you’re doing to my garrison?”

“Oh!” said Pluvus, his pages fluttering nervously. “Sir, I didn’t know you were out of bed yet. That is, sir, I didn’t know that you’d be up today I was just taking care of this for you.”

The man came to a swaying halt and planted his fists on his hips. He glared at Pluvus and then at Bernard. “Harger woke me out of a perfectly good stupor for this,” he snapped. “So it had better be good.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure, that is,” Pluvus waved a hand at the centurion. “Arrest them. Go on now. You heard the Count.”

“I didn’t say to arrest anyone,” growled Count Gram, testily. He squinted at Bernard and then at Amara, his gaze sharp, penetrating, for all his bawling and staggering. “Did you get yourself another woman, Bernard? Crows it’s about time. I’ve always said there’s nothing wrong with you that a good romp or two wouldn’t take care of.”

Amara felt her cheeks flush with warmth. “No, sir,” she said. “It’s not that. The Stead-holder helped to see me safely here so that I could warn you.”

“Highly irregular,” Pluvus stuttered to Gram, pages fluttering.

Gram irritably took the pages from Pluvus’s hand and said, “Quit waving these under my nose.” There was a bright flash of light and heat, and then fine, black ashes drifted away on the cool wind. Pluvus let out a little yelp of distress.

“Bah,” growled Gram. “Ninny. Bring the garrison to full alert, recall all soldiers on leave, and instruct every man to get into his armor and fighting gear, now.”

Gram rounded on Bernard. “Now then. I think you’d better explain what kind of idiot you are. Hitting one of
my
soldiers.”

A gliding caress of cold air slid over the back of Amara’s neck and made her shiver—a warning from Cirrus. She glanced behind her, out toward the blinding white of pale sunlight on snow and ice. She shaded her eyes, but saw nothing.

There, perhaps no more than ten feet away, was a disturbance in the air, several feet off the ground, a rippling dance of light, like waves rising from a sun-heated stone. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sent Cirrus out toward the disturbance with a whispered command. Her fury encountered a globe of dense air, changed to bend light, much as she herself used it to view things from afar in greater clarity.

Amara took a breath and then forced Cirrus against the globe, sudden and quick.

There was a whoosh of expanding air as she dispersed the globe, and abruptly three men in armor with drawn swords appeared, hovering in the air. Amara cried out, and the men, their expressions startled, hesitated for a faltering second before acting.

One flicked himself through the air toward her, sword gleaming. Amara threw herself to one side, sweeping her hands at the man to direct Cirrus. A roar of sudden wind washed up against her attacker’s flank, shoving him wide of her, guiding his course into one of Garrison’s stone walls. The man tried to slow his advance, but collided hard with the wall, and dropped the blade in the impact.

The second of the men, expression cool, calm, thrust his hands forward, and a gale rose up immediately before the gates of Garrison, whirling snow and chips of ice into the air in a stinging cloud, and hurling
legionares
from their feet, driving them behind the gates for shelter.