Lady Knight (6 page)

“Mithros save us, I’d forgotten the Brat,” Quinden muttered behind Kel.

Kel looked down an inch into a familiar round face and laughed. Owen of Jesslaw’s grey eyes blazed with delight; a grin revealed wide-spaced front teeth. His cap of brown curls tumbled over his forehead. As Wyldon’s squire, he wore his master’s badge and colours. “We knew you couldn’t hold the border alone, so we came to lend a hand,” she said as he released her. Owen’s wild courage was a byword among the pages and squires; he would throw himself into a fight even when he was outnumbered.

“Neal, you came!” Owen cried as he crouched to scratch the gleeful Jump’s lone ear. Sparrows swirled around his head as he did so, cheeping their own welcome. “Merric, Seaver, Esmond, you’re here!” He looked up, saw Duke Baird, and straightened abruptly. “My lord duke, welcome to Fort Giantkiller,” he said with a graceful bow. “Forgive my inattention. If I may take your mount, your grace?”

“Mithros save us, the Stump broke him to bridle,” Neal said, his voice dry as he dismounted. “I thought it was impossible.”

“Do not let me catch that nickname on your lips as long as you are under the man’s command,” Duke Baird told Neal sternly as he gave his reins to Owen. “You owe him the appearance of respect, not to mention proper obedience.”

Neal met his father’s gaze, scowled, then bowed silently. Owen whistled softly; Kel, too, was astounded. She had thought nothing could make Neal back down so quickly.

“‘Scuse me, lady.” Kel turned. There stood Tobe with Hoshi’s reins in one hand. “I’ll take ‘im now.”

Kel gave Peachblossom’s reins to Tobe. “Check his hooves, please?” she asked.

“Yes, lady,” the boy said. He headed towards the stables, gelding and mare in tow.

“Who was that?” The shocked whisper came from Owen. Kel glanced at him: her friend stared gape-jawed at Tobe. “Did you see that? He just - Peachblossom! He just took Peachblossom, and Peachblossom went!”

Kel smiled. “That’s Tobe,” she explained. “He is good with horses.”

Duke Baird cleared his throat. “Did my lord Wyldon say what was to be done with us?” he enquired tactfully. A proper squire would have bustled the duke away at the first opportunity. Kel was relieved that Lord Wyldon hadn’t changed Owen completely.

“Your grace, forgive me,” Owen said with a deep bow. “My lord is out riding patrol yet, but I am to show you where you will sleep, and ask if you will dine with him later. To the knights who accompany you -” he bowed to the group that stood behind the duke and Kel - “he sends greetings. Lukin will show you to your quarters -” he beckoned a soldier forward - “and lead you to supper when you choose. My lord asks you to remain in the officers’ mess hall after supper. He will send for you to talk of your assignments.”

Lukin bowed and beckoned; other soldiers swarmed forward to take charge of the newcomers. Kel, Jump and the sparrows followed them as Owen guided Duke Baird to headquarters.

Over supper with the officers in their mess hall, the knights got some idea of what they would face when the fighting began. So interesting was the talk that Kel didn’t realize immediately that Owen came from time to time to lead knights from the mess hall. When he gathered up three at once, she realized he was taking them to Wyldon for orders.

Kel watched as Owen led the knights away. The men’s backs were straight under their tunics, their air businesslike as they left. Were any afraid? she wondered. Did they have unsettled dreams of war, as she did? Were any hoping for a post in a fortified place with orders that kept them from battle? Some would get part of the district to guard, with squads of soldiers to command and a small fort to build. Others would go to Wyldon’s new fortress between Giantkiller and Steadfast, to the town of Riversedge or to the castles, to be placed under a senior commander. Some would remain here.

Owen came for Quinden, Seaver and Esmond, then for Neal and Merric. Suddenly Kel realized that she was the last newly-arrived knight to be called. A fist clenched in her belly. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.

Wyldon of Cavall had not wanted a girl page. He thought that females had no place in battle, Alanna the Lioness and lady knights of the past notwithstanding. He had wanted to send Kel home, then shocked everyone, including himself, when he’d allowed her to stay after a year’s probation. Once he’d decided she would remain, he’d taught her as thoroughly as he taught the boys. But he had also said, often, that girls didn’t belong in combat, even if they did have good combat skills. Doubt entered Kel’s heart. What if he planned to keep her safe with him?

She hadn’t become a knight to be safe.

Owen came for her at last. She followed him across the torchlit yard between mess hall and headquarters, her feet crunching the ice that rimmed the ruts in the ground. Surely if Wyldon planned to give Kel a safe assignment, Owen would know and warn her. Owen was a terrible liar, even when he lied by omission. Instead he bubbled over with plans. Before he entered Wyldon’s office and announced her, he’d predicted that they’d send the Scanrans back to their longhouses in a trice. Leaving her with his knight-master, he closed the door behind him.

Inside Wyldon’s office, Kel studied her old training master. The crows’ feet around Wyldon’s hard, dark eyes had deepened, as had the lines at the corners of his firm, well-carved mouth. The scar that ran from the corner of his right eye into his short cropped hair was puffy, which meant it probably ached in the night’s raw damp. If it hurt, then certainly the arm that had also been savaged by a killer winged horse called a hurrok would be in pain, too.

Silver gleamed in the hair at Wyldon’s temples. His bald pate shone in the light of a globe spelled by mages to cast steady light. Wyldon’s skin was chapped, like everyone else’s, by northern weather. His cream wool shirt was neat and plain, as was the brown quilted tunic he wore. Kel knew his breeches and boots would also be made for warmth and comfort, not elegance.

“Have a seat, lady knight,” he said. “Wine? Or apple juice?”

Kel sat in the chair before his desk. Despite her fear of what was coming, she was deeply pleased that this man she respected used her new title. “Apple juice, please, my lord.” Recently she had found that wine or liquor gave her ferocious, nauseous headaches. She was happy to give up spirits; she hadn’t liked the loose, careless feelings they gave her.

Wyldon poured cups for both of them, then raised his in a toast. “To your shield.”

Kel smiled. “To my fine instructors,” she replied. They both sipped. The juice, touched with spices, was very good.

Wyldon leaned back in his chair. “I won’t dance about,” he said. “I’m giving you the hardest assignment of any knight in this district. I think you will hate it, and perhaps me.”

Kel’s skin tingled. So the news was bad. She set her cup on his desk and straightened. “My lord?”

“General Vanget has asked me to build and staff a refugee camp in addition to the new fort. As soon as it’s ready, we’ll take about three hundred refugees, all ages, from Tirrsmont, Anak’s Eyrie, Riversedge, Goatstrack village and outlying districts. About two hundred more will arrive once fighting begins. Maybe seven hundred in all by summer’s end.” He reached for a map of the countryside before him and tapped it with a blunt forefinger. “The only ground I can get for it is an open piece of elk-dung valley between Fief Tirrsmont and Anak’s Eyrie, on the Greenwoods River. There’s the river for water, and flat ground for planting if no one expects to grow more than enough to survive. There’s fortified high ground now, and troops to defend it. My new fort, Mastiff, will be here, on the other side of these hills. We’ll patrol as much as we can, to keep Scanrans from getting very far, but there’s just too much empty ground and too much forest to plug all our gaps.”

Kel nodded. From her experience the year before, she knew how easy it was for the enemy to slip by Tortall’s defenders.

“I tried to get land farther south,” Wyldon continued. “The nobles there say they pity the refugees and send old clothes, tools, perhaps some grain, but they don’t want all those extra mouths on their lands, hunting their game.”

So her worst fears were true. He didn’t want her in combat. Instead she was relegated to the protection of refugees. It wasn’t right. She had more real fighting experience than any first-year knight, even Neal. If she had to wait to pursue the mysterious Blayce and his guard dog, Stenmun, she wanted to spend that time fighting.

She swallowed hard to fight off the urge to cry, then cleared her throat. A knight didn’t complain. A knight did her duty even when the duty was distasteful. Even when everyone would say Wyldon had so little confidence in her that he was tucking her away behind the front lines.

“Who’s to command this place, sir?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain even, her features smooth and calm.

Wyldon raised his brows. “You are.”

For a moment her ears felt very strange. That feeling promptly spread to the rest of her. “Forgive me, my lord, but - I could have sworn that you said I will be in command.”

“I did.” Wyldon’s eyes were direct. “It’s work, Mindelan. Half of the men I can spare to build and guard the camp are convicts. They agreed to fight if we took them from the quarries and mines. They must be watched and further trained. All have mage marks to expose them as convicts if they run, so you shouldn’t worry about desertions, unless they’re fool enough to go to Scanra. The other half of the men I could find ” - he shrugged - “I did my best.”

Kel looked at her hands as thoughts tumbled wildly in her head. She voiced the first thought that came to mind. “I expected to serve under an experienced warrior. In combat.”

“You are more useful with the refugees. You will have advisers. Duke Baird will reside with you temporarily, to help in matters both medical and social,” Wyldon said drily.

Panic rose in her chest. “Sir, I’m only eighteen; I don’t know anything about refugee camps! Everyone says it, first-year knights are so green, we’re better off ploughed and planted with something useful!”

“You are not a typical first-year,” Wyldon replied firmly. “The Knight Commander of the King’s Own trained you in matters like supply, the building and defence of a fort, and how to command. You helped him to recruit new personnel for the Own, and he says your work in supply and logistics is superior.”

The words fell out before Kel could stop them: “He also trained me for battle.” About to apologize, she closed her lips tightly. She had meant it.

Wyldon rubbed his bad arm, staring into the distance for a long moment before he said, “If this were last summer’s war, I wouldn’t expect much danger. Raids don’t get far without help. But this isn’t last summer’s war. The border will vanish. King Maggur wants to keep the ground he takes. There is no safe zone within a hundred miles of the border. You’ll see combat. I guarantee that.”

Kel met Wyldon’s eyes with hers. “Sir, you’ll have forts and patrols close to the Vassa - between me and the enemy. I still feel like you’re trying to keep me safe. That’s not why I became a knight.”

Wyldon sighed, levered himself out of his chair, and went to the door. “Come with me.”

Outside, Wyldon led the way to a large building near the rear wall. Its windows, covered with hides to keep out the weather, leaked bits of light. Wyldon found the door and entered, Kel on his heels.

The large building was filled with sound: conversation, babies’ and children’s crying, the clatter of wood. Rows of three-tiered bunk beds lined the walls. There were lofts overhead on either side, with railings to keep anyone from falling to the ground floor. Rope strung across the open space between them held drying laundry. Bags of winter fruits, garlic, bundles of dried herbs, and vegetables also hung from the rails. The air was filled with the scent of rarely washed human, burned food, cooking fat and animal urine. Cats and dogs hid in the shadows, lay on the beds, or played with anyone who would bother. At the far end of the barracks a giant hearth provided warmth and cooking fire.

Silence fell as the door closed behind Kel and Wyldon. Those people closest to them went quiet, staring at the district commander and his tall companion. Face after face turned, half hidden by shadow, fitfully lit by lamps or hearth fire. Children and adults appeared between gaps in the loft railings to see why the room below had gone still.

“If you’ve come to share supper, my lord, we’ve none to spare,” announced a woman by the fire. “We ate it all and could have eaten more.”

She walked forward. There had been more of her once, from the way her stained red wool dress hung on her stocky body. Her eyes were brown and heavy-lidded, the eyes of someone who had seen hard times. Age had scored deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her nose was broad and fleshy at the tip, her lower lip fuller than the upper, giving her a look of dissatisfaction. A kerchief of black wool kept reddish-brown hair from her face; a black wool shawl hung from her elbows.

She stopped before Wyldon and Kel. “Giving this pup a look at the unfortunate?” she asked, her husky voice scornful. “Something for the lad to write home about?”

It seemed the woman thought she was a boy. Kel looked down at her bosom. She wore a quilted tunic, which hid her small breasts, and it had been so long since a knight had worn the double ring on her badge that most wouldn’t know it signified a lady knight.

“Good evening, Mistress Fanche,” Wyldon said courteously. “This is one of the knights who has come to defend the border, Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. Lady Keladry, Fanche Weir.”

His voice was loud enough that everyone nearby heard. For a moment there was no sound. Then a whispered rattle of talk broke out, spreading to fill the room. Kel heard “lady knight” repeated over and over.

Kel bowed to Fanche, glancing at the woman’s left ring finger. Fanche wore a ring of black braid: she was a widow.

“Fanche’s husband Gothar was the miller of Goatstrack,” Wyldon explained.

“‘Was’ bakes no bread,” Fanche said. “I’m single enough now, and I’ve work to do.” She returned to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the biggest pot.