By the Sword (13 page)

I might be old,
Tarma thought with a certain dry amusement as she dismounted,
but the day a Shin‘a'in needs help with a herd of exhausted horses is the day they're putting her on her pyre.

Her warmare followed her to the entrance, with the three pack horses trailing along behind. Ward held the rest of the horses penned in the farthest corner of the court while she pulled packs and tack off her four. When packs and saddle were piled beside the door, she and Hellsbane drove the three tired nags before her, shuffling through the dust, to join the rest. Ward kept them all in place simply with his presence, and Hellsbane kept them calm, while she opened both stable doors.

She whistled, and through the open door watched Warrl climb lazily to his feet, then bark once, as Hellsbane played herd-mare. That was all the poor beasts needed; they shied away from him, and broke into a tired trot, shambling past her and out into the pasture. She slammed the stable door after them, and walked as wearily as they had back into the stone-paved, sunlit court.

The
kyree
was waiting for her, looking as if he was feeling every year of his age. :Are
we finished
yet?: Warrl asked hopefully, his tongue lolling out.

“You are,” she replied, stretching, and feeling old injuries ache when she moved. “I'd better see what Keth's up to.”

:If you don't mind, I'll go get something to eat, and then become flat for a while.:
Warrl headed off in the direction of the kitchen-garden.
:I think that under-cook still remembers me.:

“I wish I could do the same,” she sighed to herself. “Oh, well. No rest for the wicked....”

She caught up the pouches of jewelry and money on her way past the pile of packs.
I don't think anyone out here is other than honest, but why take chances?
The Keep door was halfway ajar; she pushed it open entirely, and walked in unannounced.

The outer hall was cool, and very dark to her tired eyes after the brightness of the courtyard. That didn't matter; this place had been her home for years; she knew every stone in the walls and crack in the floors.
As long as Rathgar didn't install any statues in the middle of the path, I ought to be able to find my way to the Great Hall blindfolded, she thought, and I'll bet that's where Keth is.

She was right.

The Great Hall was nearly as bright as the courtyard outside; it was three stories tall, and the top story was one narrow window after another. Not such a security risk as it looked; it was rimmed with a walkway-balcony that could be used as an archers' gallery in times of siege—and the exterior walls were sheer stone. Kethry was in the middle of the Great Hall, supervising half a dozen helpers with her usual brisk efficiency, robes kilted up above her knees, hair tied back under a scarf. She'd set the entire Great Hall up as a kind of infirmary, and she had no lack of patients. Even Tarma was a bit taken aback by the sheer number of wounded; it looked suspiciously as if the raiders' specific orders had been to cause as much havoc and injury as possible in the shortest period of time.

Which may be the case,
she reflected soberly, as she threaded her way through the maze of pallets spread out on the stone floor.
The more Rathgar's allies suffered, the better off Reichert would be. They'd be unable to support the boy, and very probably unwilling as well.

Kethry was kneeling at the side of a man who was conscious and talking to her. She looked up from her current patient at just that moment, and her weary smile told Tarma all she needed to know about the mage's night. Long, exhausting, but with the only reward that counted—the casualties had been light at worst. Tarma nodded, and as Keth continued her current task of changing the dressing on a badly gashed leg, she slowed her steps to time her arrival with the completion of that task.

“Looks like you've spent a night,
she‘enedra, ”
the Shin'a‘in said quietly, as Kethry stood up. “How's the boy?”

“He'll live,” she said, tucking a strand of hair under her scarf. “In fact, I think he'll be up and around before too long. I held him stable from a distance as soon as Kero told me what had happened, and I managed to get the one Healing spell What‘s-her-name taught me to
work
for a change.”

Tarma shook her head, and grimaced. “I never could understand it. Adept-class mage, and half the time you can't Heal a cut finger.”

“Power has nothing to do with it,” Kethry retorted, “and it's damned
frustrating.
”

“Well, if you ask me, I think your success at Healing has as much to do with how desperate you are to make it work as anything,” the fighter replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and flexing her aching arches. “Every time you've really
needed
it to work, it has. It's only failed you when you were trying it for something trivial.”

“Huh. That might just be—well, the boy is fine, and as grateful as anyone could want, bless his heart. The
girl,
on the other hand—” Kethry rolled her eyes expressively. “Dear gods and Powers—you've never heard such weeping and histrionics in your life. Kero came dragging them both in about dawn, and Her Highness was fine until one of her idiot cousins spotted her and set up a caterwauling. Then—you'd have thought that every wound in the place had been to
her
fair, white body.”

“About what I figured,” the Shin‘a'in said laconically. “Did you truss her up, or what?”

“I sent her up to the bower with the rest of her hysterical relatives,” Keth told her, the mage's mouth set in a thin line of distaste. “And I sent Kero to bed, once she'd looked in on her brother. She's made of good stuff, that girl.”

“She should be,” Tarma replied, pleased that Kero hadn't fallen apart once she'd reached safety. “But it doesn't necessarily follow. Well, I'm for bed. And see that you fall into one sometime soon.”

“Soon, hell,” the mage snorted. “I'm going now. There's nothing to be done at this point that can't be handled by someone else. There're half a dozen helpers, fresher and just as skilled.”

Tarma clutched the tunic above her heart. “Blessed Star-Eyed! You're delegating! I never thought I'd see the day!”

Kethry mimed a blow at her, and the fighter ducked. “Watch yourself, or I'll turn you into a frog.”

“Oh, would you?” Tarma said hopefully. “Frogs don't get dragged out of their beds to go rescue stupid wenches in the middle of the night.”

Kethry just threw her hands up in disgust, and turned to find one of her “helpers.”

 

The tallow should be ready about now,
Kero thought, setting her mortar and pestle aside long enough to check the little pot of fat heating over a water-bath. The stillroom was dark, cool, and redolent with the odors of a hundred different herbs, and of all the “womanly” places in the Keep, it was by far Kerowyn's favorite. Dierna was still having vapors every time she set foot outside the bower—now converted from armory back to women's quarters by Dierna's agitated orders—so Grandmother Kethry had entrusted the making of medicines to Kero's hands.

It keeps me busy,
she thought, a little ruefully.
And at least it's useful-busy. Not like Dierna's damned embroidery.
Some of the recipes Kethry had dictated from memory, and they were things Kerowyn had never heard of; she was completely fascinated, and retreat to the stillroom was not the boring task it usually was.

Retreat to the stillroom was just that, too—retreat. Dierna's relatives, the female ones in particular, were treating her very strangely. Part of the time they acted as if she was some creature as alien and frightening as Tarma's giant wolf. The rest of the time they acted as if she was a source of prime amusement. They spoke to her as little as possible, but she was certain that they made up wild stories about her once they were on the other side of the bower doors.

They certainly don't seem to spend any time doing anything else,
she thought sourly, as she carefully removed the pot of melted fat from the heat, and sifted powdered herbs into it.
They're amazingly good at finding other places to be whenever there's real work to be done.

She beat the herbs into the fat with brisk strokes of the spatula, taking some of her anger at the women out on the pot of salve. She was very tired of the odd, sideways looks she was getting—tired enough that she had continued to wear Lordan's castoffs, rather than “proper, womanly” garb, out of sheer perversity.

I'm cleaning, and lifting, and tending the wounded—when I'm not out drilling the boys in bow or in the stillroom,
she thought stubbornly.
Breeches are a lot more practical than skirts. Why shouldn't I wear them? Grandmother and that Shin‘a'in woman do—

She had to smile at that.
And they are one and all so frightened of Grandmother and her friend that if either one of them even looks cross, they practically faint.

The salve smelled wonderful, and that alone was a far cry from the medicines she used to make here. She sighed, and stirred a little slower, feeling melancholy descend on her. Life was not the same; it didn't look as if it would ever be the same again.

The thought of Rathgar made her feel guilty. She knew she should be mourning him—
Dierna
certainly was. The girl had ransacked Lenore's wardrobe for mourning clothes, and had them made over to fit herself and her women. She'd carried on at the funeral as through Rathgar had been
her
father instead of Kero's.

She carried on enough for both me
and
Lordan,
Kero recalled sardonically.
Maybe it's just that I really never saw that much of him when Mother was alive, and when she was gone, he really never had much to say to me except to criticize. Really, I might just as well have been fostered out, for all that I saw of him. I knew Dent and Wendar better than I knew him! She sighed again. I must be a cold bitch if I can't even mourn my own father.

She heard footsteps on the stone floor outside just then, and the door creaked open. “So here's where you've been hiding yourself,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Warrior bless! It's like a cave in here! What are you doing, turning yourself into a bat?”

“It has to be dark,” Kero explained without turning, wondering what had brought the formidable old fighter here. “A lot of herbs lose potency in the light.”

“I'll take your word for it.” The Shin‘a'in edged carefully into the narrow confines of the stillroom, and positioned herself out of Kero's way. “My people don't store a great deal, and that little only for a season or two at most. Don't tell me you like it in here.”

“Sometimes,” Kero told her. “It's better than—” she bit her tongue to keep from finishing that sentence.

“It's better than out there, with the hens and chicks clucking disapproval at you,” the Shin‘a'in finished for her. “I know what you mean. The only reason they keep their tongues off
me
is because they're pretty sure I'll slice those wagging tongues in half if I find out about it.” She chuckled, and Kero turned to look at the old woman in surprise. “We never have been properly introduced. I'm Tarma—Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin, to be precise—Shin' a'in from the Hawk Clan. I've been your grandmother's partner for an age, and I'm half of the reason your father disapproved of
her. ”

“You are?” Kero said, fascinated by the hawk-faced woman's outspoken manner. “But—why?”

“Because he was dead certain that she and I were shieldmates—that's lovers, dear. He was dead wrong, but you could never have convinced him of that.” Tarma hardly moved, but there was suddenly a tiny, thin-bladed knife in one hand. She began cleaning her nails with it. “The other half of the reason he disapproved of her was because he was afraid of both of us. We didn't know our place, and we could do just about any damned thing a man could do. But that's a cold trail, and not worth following. ”

“Are
you
the reason we could get Shin‘a'in horses to breed?” Kero asked, suddenly putting several odd facts together. “

Tarma chuckled. “Damn, you're quick. Dead in the black,
jel‘enedra.
Listen, I'm sorry I was so hard on you, back on the road the other night. I was testing you, sort of.”

“I‘d—figured that out,” Kero replied. The knife caught the light and flashed; it looked sharp enough to wound the wind.

The Shin‘a'in nodded, a satisfied little smile at the corners of her mouth. “Good. I was hoping you might. I want you to know I think you did pretty well out there. About the only time you started to dither was
after
everything was over and done with. You know, you're wasted on all this.”

“All what?” Kero asked, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.

“All this—” The Shin‘a'in waved her knife vaguely, taking in the four walls of the stillroom and beyond. Kero hid her confusion by turning her attention to the salve, watching her own hands intently. “This life,” Tarma continued. “It's not enough of a challenge for you. You're capable of a lot more than you'll find here. My people say. ‘You can put a hawk in a songbird's cage, but it's still a hawk.' Think about it. I have to go beat some of those hired guards into shape, but I'll be around if you need me.”

And with that, she backed out of Kero's sight, and vanished. One moment she was there, the next, gone; leaving only the door to the stillroom swinging to mark her passing.