Dangerous Talents (31 page)

“
Lord
Fendrikanin?” Cele said around a mouthful of cheese.

Fender waved his hand dismissively. “A second son of a second son. Thora just drags it out when she wants to put me in my place.” Fender made an elaborate bow. “Good rest to you, Lady Celia,” he said, and swept out the door with a wink to Thora.

Fender was right; she started to crash as soon as the worst of her hunger was sated. She felt like she was sleepwalking as Thora prepared her for bed. Between the blessings of Father Wirmund and Fender’s good wishes, Cele slept through the night and awoke refreshed midway through the morning.

Cele ate a nearly normal amount at breakfast, still dressed in her nightgown. When she’d finished eating, Thora prepared to dress her.

Lord Neven’s gift of clothing included a pair of wide-legged pants in a soft flowing fabric. Cele chose to wear those along with the same tunic she’d worn the day before. It was blue and knee-length and fastened front to back only at the shoulders and waist with gold brooches.

She donned the white loose-sleeved blouse that Thora handed her. The delicate fabric was covered with white embroidery, and several narrow ribbons closed the throat.
Where do they find the time to decorate their clothes like this
? The generosity of Neven’s gift struck her again, even more forcefully now as she considered these “everyday clothes.”

Neven must have his reasons
. But they were unknowable, so she turned her thoughts elsewhere. “What’s on the agenda today, Thora?”

Thora turned a blank look at her. “Naught that I know of, my lady. What do you wish?”

That brought Cele up short. With nothing planned or scheduled for her, she was free to choose. Kaidlin had asked her to visit, or she could see Sevond again. And Solveig, the lady Jarl, had invited her to visit as well.

None of those options immediately appealed. She felt on display and under inspection with everyone except Sevond and Dahleven. What she really wanted was to get outside, away from the massive weight of the stone palace, somewhere where she didn’t have to mind her manners and worry about offending against customs she knew nothing about.

“Where’s my belt-pack, Thora?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than Cele knew where to Find it.

Her face must have betrayed her chagrin, because Thora gave her an amused look. “It takes time to get used to, my lady.”

As Cele retrieved her pack from the cabinet, Thora asked, “What are you planning?”

“I’m going for a walk. This is a lovely place, but I need to get outside for a while.” Cele peered at Thora. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

Hesitantly, Thora said, “No, but—”

Cele flashed on the attacks she’d survived. “The fields beyond the village look so peaceful.” She gestured to the window. “They’re safe, aren’t they?”

“Yes, of course! But you don’t know your way around, my lady. You should take an escort.”

Cele smiled. “I’m a Finder, remember? How can I get lost?”

Thora shrugged, defeated. “As you wish.”

“Great! Can you get me some nuts and dried fruit? And I’ll need to fill my water bottles.”

*

Dahleven sat on a long bench near the back of the great hall, trying to pay attention as yet another crofter discussed the need for increased pasturage.

No, that was the last man. This one wants to divert more water to his fields
.

How did his father manage to look interested through all of this? The other Jarls on the dais with him weren’t so successful in looking concerned. Solveig and Magnus were attending to the proceedings, but Yngvar was digging in his ear and inspecting the results. Ozur looked bored, and Hafdan and Ulf looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. He knew how they felt.

Another crofter jumped up to interrupt the first. “And in the dry years, what will become of my flocks and fields downstream? Will you enrich him only to beggar me?”

This is more interesting
.

Hafdan, in whose province the second man held land, answered. “Build the sluice high enough that it will divert water only when the stream is full. In dry years you’ll still have water.”

All the Jarls nodded or shrugged their agreement, but the crofter wasn’t satisfied. “But will he build it as you say? He would have built the sluice without discussion, but I discovered him.”

The first crofter’s land was in Neven’s province. “You will build it together,” Neven said. He looked at Hafdan for agreement as the crofter opened his mouth to protest. “So speak we all. The matter is settled.”

The crofters glared at each other and sat down. Another stood to bring forward his petition. Dahleven felt the room settle in for renewed tedium after the brief flare of excitement. Yesterday, the atmosphere had been more tense, as the Jarls had answered claims and complaints pertaining to losses from the raiding of the borders and caravans. The lords were responsible for paying
wereguild
to the relatives of men killed in their service. When a man was killed in a joint venture like a caravan, the matter could be muddy. Multiple lords and crofters had to sort out the responsibility.

Even the matter regarding Knut had been clouded. Knut’s brother Hegg hadn’t fought the Outcasting of his brother once Dahleven told the story, but he’d disputed the levying of Lindimer’s
wereguild
against him. Dahleven could hardly blame Hegg; the fine would be a terrible hardship for him. Hegg petitioned that Dahleven share the burden, because Knut had been under his command.

Hegg’s petition had been voted down. A man’s actions were his own burden or glory, and his family’s. But Dahleven couldn’t help feeling there was some truth in Knut’s brother’s words.

Dahleven hadn’t liked the disposition of another petition either.

A young woman, with babe in arms, had accused a lord in Ozur’s Jarldom of subverting the law to his own ends. “My Harald was an honest man,” she said. “He worked hard in our fields, that’s why they grew green and rich. But Braga said Harald used dark magic to steal the life from
his
fields to enrich our own. He lied! Braga is a lazy pig! That’s why his crops are spare and brown.”

“Why accuse Lord Vestar then, rather than Braga?” Magnus inquired.

“Because it was he who put Braga up to it.” The woman’s voice was shrill. “He wanted under my skirts, but I wanted Harald. Vestar banished Harald for a year. He asked no questions of our neighbors, nor anybody. They would have told him how hard Harald works, but he didn’t ask. And when Harald was gone, Lord Vestar gave Harald’s lands to Braga and took me into his great house and kept me there.”

“Why didn’t you turn to your family, or Harald’s?” Magnus asked.

“What chance did I have? He swept me up that very day. And what could Harald’s family do against a lord? Their son was branded a criminal, and worse.”

“And your family? What of them?”

“My father thought me foolish to refuse Lord Vestar from the first. I think Father hoped I would please him and bring some favor upon the family. He was no more made happy by Lord Vestar than I. Vestar no longer wanted me when his seed took root, and I grew large.” Her voice started to thicken with tears. “And Harald didn’t return at the end of his year.”

“Why are we listening to this here?” Ozur demanded. “This is clearly a matter that should have been brought to me. I am Jarl over Lord Vestar. This isn’t a matter for the Althing. There is no conflict here between Jarldoms.”

“Very true,” Magnus said and looked at Neven.

“Do all agree this matter is for Ozur?” Neven asked, looking at each Jarl in turn. All nodded. Lady Solveig most reluctantly.

Dahleven watched his father. Only someone who knew him well would notice the slight tightening of his jaw, a sign of Neven’s extreme reluctance to leave the matter to Ozur. Unfortunately, it was the law.

“Well then, since I have at last heard the case, I will give judgment,” Ozur pronounced.

“You haven’t heard from Lord Vestar or Braga or Harald’s neighbors,” Neven pointed out.

“It’s hardly necessary. She’s clearly a scorned woman, unhappy with the loss of her position as a lord’s bedmate. But I do agree Lord Vestar must take responsibility for his child.” Ozur’s voice took on the tone of official pronouncement. “The child will be given into the care of Lord Vestar, to be raised in his household. You woman, are hereby banished from Skipsheim for six months, for bringing false accusations against a lord.”

A ripple of unhappy murmuring had swept the room and Neven had to call for order as the babe was taken from the shrieking woman’s arms. Dahleven had left soon after she was led away. She wouldn’t starve, homeless and alone. He’d made arrangements for her to live and work the six months in Quartzholm, but the matter had left a sour griping in his belly.

The current session of the Althing addressed more common matters, and from the number present, the crofters and minor lords had had more trouble than usual settling their own disputes this year. Dahleven wasn’t required to be present, but it was wise for an heir to attend these sessions at least part of the time, to show respect for those he would one day govern and lead.

Dahleven was trying to follow the rambling of the current petitioner when a light touch on his shoulder drew his attention. Tholvien bent his tall, lean frame to crouch next to him, bringing his dark head near enough to whisper. “The lady intends to leave the castle, my lord. Do you want me to prevent her, or merely follow?”

Leaving
? Curiosity energized Dahleven’s muscles. “No. I’ll handle this.” He stood and walked out with Tholvien, relieved to have a good reason to quit the Althing. “How is she provisioned?”

*

The gates to the huge courtyard stood open, allowing the market to spill out into the village that nestled around the castle walls. Cele had no difficulty leaving, and no one but merchants hawking their wares accosted her. She’d wondered if anyone would follow her, but she saw no sign of it. The village spilled downslope from the stone ramparts surrounding the bailey. Many of the larger buildings were built of the same rose quartz and granite that formed the walls.

Cele turned left after leaving the gates and followed a wide street that wrapped around the base of the wall. Long ago, someone had cleared the nearby forest, leaving large meadows between the town and the forest. She didn’t have to use her new Talent to know that the fields were closest in that direction; she’d seen that from her window. The road narrowed as she got further away from the main thoroughfare, then stopped in a dead end next to a broad building with tables and benches out front. A few men sat drinking, hunched over their tankards.

Cele slowed and came to a halt. The only way out was the narrow path running along one side of the tavern. She hesitated, looking down the claustrophobic alley as far as she could. It curved to the right, behind the building. She thought about back-tracking to find another way out to the green fields she’d seen from her window, but she didn’t want to spend half the day looking for a way out of the village. She
knew
the open fields she wanted were close, she could feel them just beyond the tavern, but there was no guarantee the alley would get her there.
So much for never being lost again
. The idea of walking down the blind passage made her skin prickle, but the sun was at her back, brightly lighting the narrow space between the buildings and the broken crockery in it, making it less frightening than it would have been in shadow.

One of the early drinkers called to her while she was considering her options, rising on muscular legs to approach her. Cele turned nervously to face him.

The breeze carried the scent of beer to her as he lifted a huge tankard. “Care for a sip, girl?” Half his face was half shadowed by the morning light. What she could see, and smell, suggested he’d been drinking since the night before. He looked surprisingly steady on his feet despite that, and still quite capable of giving her a hard time.

“No, thanks.” She took a half step away, putting a little more distance between them. The first rule of self-defense: avoid trouble in the first place.

The man shrugged, not offended, then gestured to the alley with his tankard, slopping some of his ale to the cobblestones. “A tumble, then?” He stepped closer, leering eagerly.

Cele shook her head as her fear notched higher, and backed further away, up the street.

The light was full in the man’s face now, making him squint, but he still didn’t look angry. “What do you want here then? You lost? Looking for someone?”

“Not for you, Finlig!” The man’s companion called out.

Cele cringed inwardly, fearing the effect the razzing would have.
Why didn’t I ask for directions at the gate
?
I could have avoided this. So much for the first rule of self-defense
.

But the man waved aside the catcall like a troublesome fly.

Cele took a chance. “I’m looking for a way out, beyond the village, to the fields.”

The man turned, his movement somewhat slow. “That’ll get you out.” He pointed down the alley, more careful this time not to spill his drink. “Sure you don’t want company?”

“Not yours!” his companion said.

Cele managed a half-smile. “No, thanks.” Then she sprinted past the man and down the narrow path, staying to one side to avoid the dirty trickle that ran down the center.

*

Dahleven followed the perimeter of the village further upslope, wishing his Talent was Tracking or Finding. He could Pathfind his way anywhere, and find the fastest or easiest or safest route. But that wouldn’t help him follow a person or know where she was. For that, he had to rely on ordinary skill.

He left the village by the first street that led directly out to the open fields, but Cele was nowhere in sight. He should be able to see her, unless she’d left the city by the alleyways nearer the castle. Then she could already be on the upper slopes near the forest.

Dahleven increased his pace. He didn’t like the thought of Celia picking her way through the noisome alleys. Her clothing would proclaim her status, and that status might protect her from some of the less polite freemen and thralls—or it might attract their attention. He pressed on. If he didn’t find some sign of her exit from the town soon, he’d go back and recruit the aid of a Tracker.