Fires of Aggar Read online

  “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, Sp
arrow 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.”

  “There seems to be a very interesting, but uneasy truce between the two factions,” Brit mused. “They draw tacit lines in fair tents or commons’ rooms. Sometimes the blue cloaks will get all surly and belligerent. Then the City Guards back down.”

  “But somehow…” Sparrow drawled with a hint of malicious delight, “the Guards seem to get the last word. They’re polite and duly subordinate to a fault, just not particularly believable.”

  “Leave agreeably, but make sure the bad taste lingers behind, ehh?” Gwyn couldn’t help smiling herself. That tactic certainly seemed to fit the style of the man she’d met so briefly today. Then abruptly, Gwyn found herself shifting thoughts, “There’s something else to remember.”

  Both Sparrow and Brit looked up expectantly.

  “This is Khirlan. The Steward’s Swords may purposely try to resemble the Clan members — it would make them more effective infiltrating the Clan’s Plateau, wouldn’t it? And yet by sheer looks, they wouldn’t be well-liked by many of the local folk at all.”

  Brit pursed her lips sullenly, but she had to admit the plausibility of that idea. “Recruit the best fighters with the most suspicious backgrounds — the mixed parental heritage of Clan and Ramains’ folk is usually hard to live with in these parts. Yet create a separate corp with an honor code of its own and you’d certainly have something to bind them together. You’re right too — it would keep them aloof from the City Guards. And children with at least one parent from the Clan might have access to knowledge — verbal descriptions or… or some information about the Clan’s Plateau. That could be an aid to the Dracoon.”

  “Their mixed blood might bind them not just to each other, but to the Dracoon as well,” Sparrow murmured, glancing at each woman in turn. “She has that same mixed heritage, remember. Might explain why they’d follow her — even against the fire weapons.”

  “It would make them vulnerable to Clan spies both inside the city and out.” Gwyn ground her teeth in muted frustration. The pieces were insistent. “But there’s got to be someone close to the Dracoon — or to the Steward — someone working against Khirlan in aiding the Clan. Everything suggests they’re part of the Steward’s own corp. I wonder — did you just say this Steward’s Book was written by the Steward’s Scribes?”

  Sparrow and Brit nodded.

  “Who wants to wager that at least one of those scribes also has access to what’s written and sealed into the Dracoon’s reports?”

  “No wagering about it,” Brit scoffed the nonsense aside. “It’d be more odd, if they didn’t.”

  “I see…,” Sparrow began slowly. “Hand-writing can be forged with enough practice. It’s tampering with the seals they’d have trouble disguising from Churv’s people. But these scribes would be the ones to dip the scrolls and date the shell varnish. They’d be able to alter the reports any way they’d like, before sealing them and sending them on to Churv.”

  “Obviously,” Brit shifted tiredly on the bed’s edge, “this Dracoon’s Court is sorely broken in loyalties. Where precisely the lines of deceit are drawn though? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Only the Dracoon knows that!” Gwyn grieved, in exasperation.

  “But if she knew, would we be here?” Sparrow asked pointedly.

  “I meant she can say which of her militia are slow in obeying orders or which survived a Clan’s ambush once too often and in suspiciously good health. At least,” Gwyn sighed, “I hope she can — or this will never begin to unravel without hurting the innocent!”

  “There’s one thing more you should know.” Brit met Gwyn’s gaze steadily. “Llinolae’s Palace was crafted not just from stone, but from bedrock.”

  “Mae n’Pour!”

  “Most of the city walls and central buildings are made from it too.”

  “Suddenly the lack of interest the Council has shown in Llinolae becomes very reasonable,” Gwyn saw. “Amarin barely stir through most rock and less still in stuff that’s never even been marred by fossils! I doubt the Council Seers can ever decipher anything closeted away like that.”

  “I know they can’t!” Brit spat.

  “It would also explain why she’s arranged the governing duties to frequently take her out of the city.”

  “Now that — I hadn’t thought of,” Brit granted, in grudging surprise. “Accepting you’re right, Gwyn, what else could it tell us about her?”

  “That she’s been trained by someone extraordinary!” Sparrow exclaimed promptly. “Not only is her Blue Sight powerful enough to reach across the stars to the home world, but she obviously has an extra trick or two for dealing with stone!”

  “I wonder…,” Brit mused, “how much exposure to others’ amarin is needed, before mere rock begins to—”

  “More likely,” Gwyn interrupted, suddenly realizing, “it wasn’t Llinolae’s mentor whose instructions were so extraordinary, but her own interpretation of those lessons because of the environment!”

  “And so the bedrock suddenly became a friend for her, instead of foe!” Brit gasped. Sparrow looked at them both in confusion, not following their logic at all this time. “Don’t you see? The rock would conceal her Gift from the courtiers — give her a safe place to experiment in. When she was her very youngest, it probably insulated others from the usual accidents and illusionary tricks that flag the Blue Sight’s presence. As she grew, it would have given her hiding places — practice spaces to try new skills, make mistakes without others discovering her abilities! And as for the Palace itself — well it is a palace! It’s been home for generations of dracoons and friends. It’s not like some claustrophobic tomb that could stifle her Sight and suffocate her breath! The accumulated amarin of all those ages, in the fixtures and furnitures — in the cloth and wood and the general clutter of sheer living! Those would always be present to reassure her through her Sight.”

  “Dear Mother!” Sparrow breathed in pure astonishment. “No Blue Sight has ever had freedom such as that. There’s no telling what she’s become capable of!”

  “Aye, but more,” Brit rejoined eagerly. “Those stone walls would still dampen the clamoring amarin of every one — of every living thing! The incessant distractions would be muted.”

  “Like the Seers’ Baths at the Council’s Keep?” Sparrow ventured. “A sort of retreat?”

  “Precisely,” Brit grinned.

  “It also might give her the time and ability to develop other skills,” Gwyn mused with a crooked grin. “Such as strategy and warfare, perhaps?”

  “Or diplomacy?” The old healer nodded in satisfaction. “The public persona she’s developed is amazing, Gwyn. She’s got the district’s people solidly behind her every effort. Despite the Steward’s liberties, despite the Clan’s terrorizing raids, despite their fire weapons — despite it all, the folk believe in her! In Llinolae, Heir of Mha’del and annointed Dracoon of Khirlan! They believe she will find their peace for them. Some how… some way, they believe she’ll do it.”

  “From sheer charisma?” Sparrow was awed, barely comprehending just how impressive a Blue Sight projecting such personal confidence might seem.

  “It may be more than that,” Gwyn amended. “We don’t know the extent of her powers or skills.”

  “Aye.” A tantalizing shiver ran down Brit’s spine. “Through their Seers, the Council has formed Firecaps, settled earthqua
kes, foreseen and forestalled disasters.”

  “She isn’t a Seer,” Sparrow murmured.

  “No,” Gwyn acknowledged. “But she has a strong Gift and an even stronger personal commitment to serve her people. We don’t know what her limitations are — or aren’t.”

  With a speculative squint, Brit added, “Might be that her enemies literally begin to quake at the mere sight of her.”

  “Or that they should?” Gwyn quipped. The glance she exchanged with Brit belied their humor, however. Gwyn sighed then, returning to priorities with a shake of her head. “I need to get in to see her. There has to be a way to weave through all the protocol and past that damned Steward to meet her! Too much can happen in four or five days. I’ve got to get to her sooner!”

  “So ride in the races, day after tomorrow.” Brit and Gwyn turned to Sparrow in puzzlement at her abrupt change of subject. “I’m serious. Take Cinder in and win the stupid race. The winner is awarded the City Crest for a tenmoon and the plaque is presented personally by — who? The Dracoon!”

  Gwyn looked suspicious. Brit began to smile and tried to rub the thing from her face, but it stubbornly came back as a chuckle. Sparrow shrugged matter-of-factly, directing Gwyn back to her shadowmate. And the Niachero found a grin of her own.

  “It couldn’t be that simple… could it?”

  Brit opened her palms with a hearty laugh.

  “Marshals!” Sparrow scoffed, folding her arms and shaking her head at them as if they were barely two seasons old. “The lot of you are impossible! Too much imagination and…”

  “Not enough common sense!” Brit finished, still laughing. “She has that right sometimes, you know?”

  “Aye!” Gwyn assented whole-heartedly. “She certainly does.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊