King's Shield (78 page)

Inda said, “So leading the charge shows the son up? I thought the son was dead!”

“Is.”

“So Buck nearly gets himself killed?” Inda threw his arms out wide, then resumed his fast walk. “Maybe that will make sense someday. Here.” They’d reached one of the cubbyholes that, from the looks of the contents, had been a wood repair station. A couple of sleeping mats lay on the floor, a reminder of how cramped space was. “Barend, I want you to go north with Ndand and the men, because I think I have a way to fill that treasury. Like, with treasure. Pirate treasure. What could be better?”

“
Pirate
treasure?” Barend’s eyes widened for a moment, reflecting the light of the candle Inda lit from the torch in the sconce outside. As Inda shoved the candle into a lamp hanging on a wall hook, Barend demanded, “Inda, what exactly happened at Ghost Island?”

“We found the treasure.” Inda spread his hands. “There really was one. More like fifty treasures. Well, not that I know how big a treasure is supposed to be. It lies in a cavern bigger than that feasting hall. Mounds as tall as a man, and that’s just the stuff above the waterline. I read the Brotherhood Book—it really was written in blood, and remind me to tell you what Ramis said about that—but it was
generations
of treasure.”

“Ramis,” Barend repeated. “The one who made the rift to Norsunder and shoved Marshig through?”

“Along with five other capital ships. Yes, that Ramis. And yes, I know what you’re going to say about believing, so belay it. I was there, the treasure is there.”

“Right.”

“So here’s what I want you to do. Go to Bren, talk to Fleet Master Chim. He can tell you who’s trustworthy. Take a fleet of ships. Bring the treasure to the north shore here, where we can rely on Cama to take charge and—what?” This last word Inda barked when he saw Barend’s expression of skepticism.

“Inda, do you have any idea what problems a bunch of jewels and so forth will cause?”

“It’s also Sartoran coinage, the big twelve-siders as well as six, all gold. But what problems? Evred says the treasury is empty. Won’t that fill it?”

Barend rubbed his nose. “Treasury isn’t treasure,” he said finally. “Oh, I thought it was. Evred did too when we were in the schoolroom, he told me. Said he used to slide his finger past all mentions of money in search of more battles, when he was reading. I don’t know how much of that is true and how much was him trying to keep me from feeling stupid. Because I know Uncle Tlennen was a master hand with the ins and outs of trade and so forth, and taught Sponge some.” Another vigorous rub.

Inda said, “Evred said we have no treasury. I want to bring that treasure in as a surprise for Sponge. That’s why this secrecy. I don’t want him worrying about that, too, d’you see it?”

Barend held out his hands. “No, no, I agree. You’re right. Less to worry him, the better. Things are bad enough. But . . . Inda, as for the rest . . . I don’t know where to start.”

Laughing voices neared.

“Start with what’s in the treasury, if it’s not treasure.” Inda kicked the door shut and crossed his arms.

 

 

 

The tingle in Evred’s muscles intensified to an itch. It was the strangest sensation—not exactly unpleasant, very faint but distinct. It bothered him enough to force him to stand, pull off his tunic, and set it neatly behind him over the back of the chair.

Tau said nothing. When Evred sat down again, he increased the pressure incrementally, following the contour of Evred’s muscles under the fine linen shirt.

Tau controlled the impulse to let his fingers drift over those contours, and shifted to using his knuckles for a slow increase in pressure at certain points, then releasing. Much less personal—less dangerous for a person so taut.

Evred was only aware that the itch was almost . . . not scratched, what would you call it? Pressed? He had no words, no one had ever done that to him before. He hadn’t wanted anyone to do that. But the opportunity to kill that persistent drum behind his eyes was so persuasive. The prospect of clear thought again . . . Except that his mind, gradually freed of pain, refused to ride to harness. Tomorrow’s tasks, the next day’s, next week’s, what he must accomplish before he faced the Jarls at Convocation, he could not focus on any of it. His mind stayed stubbornly on his limbs warming to that itch-that-was-not-an-itch, even though Tau’s hands had not strayed from his shoulders.

He cast down the golden wine cup onto one of the sleeping mats, grabbed up the bottle, and took a swig out of it. The wine chased away the tickle or tingle or whatever it was. That he did not want.

Tau’s hands had lifted when he moved, but when he stilled, the wine bottle gripped in his fingers, back they came. Knuckles again, pressing down into the ache. Evred shut his eyes, leaning into them so the pressure would increase. He wished those hands could press the rocks away, right down to his bones; Tau was using his full strength now, and had loosened the top layer, but felt stubborn muscle beneath.

After a time, Tau said, “That’s enough there. You don’t need bruises. Instead, I’ll shift to the sides. This is one of the places that kills Inda’s headaches the fastest.”

That was the first mention of the name between them. Evred had never wanted to talk about Inda with anyone, Tau least of all.

But now it seemed safe, for the matter was headaches. Nothing personal. Yet the questions in Evred’s mind were nothing but personal.

He took another swig, like many who lock themselves from communication, permitting the liquor to turn the key.

“I’m surprised,” he said, “that such methods work on Inda. I’d gathered he does not like to be touched.”

Inda?
What happened?
Tau thought.

Tau dug into the sides of Evred’s neck. The muscles were like knobs of bone. He said carefully, “Inda likes me to use my skills on that right shoulder of his. You know he’s taken damage there. I think that actually happened when he first took ship, or not long after.”

And Evred said, “Tell me.” He bowed his head, resting it against his thumbs, fingers laced loosely around the wine bottle.

Tau kept his voice light and detached as he related the story of Inda’s first days at sea, the fight with Norsh and its results. Events so very long ago, another lifetime entirely. Yet, judging from the subtle reactions Tau felt under his hands, still immediate for Evred.

He finished, “And we are fairly certain he was tortured while in Ymar. He never minded people’s proximity before then, but afterward, we all saw him recoil if he did not expect to be touched. Especially around his head. His hair was drying on a mild day last winter, and we were on deck eating and planning a raid. Against the Venn raider at Ghael, as it happens. The wind blew a lock of Inda’s hair into Dasta’s slurry. He lifted it out. Inda whipped around and for a heartbeat or two we thought he would deck Dasta.” Tau chuckled at the memory.

Evred had gone tense again at the word
tortured,
and did not relax during the quick shift to the funny story. Tau cursed himself for undoing all the good work he’d done, and added, “In any case, Inda never talks about it, so we know nothing of the details. But we never touch his head and keep our food out of reach of his hair.”

A pause, another drink of the wine, then Evred took him by surprise, holding the bottle up over his shoulder. He did so without speech, without looking at Tau, but the offer was clear.

Sharing wine. A human gesture—a
personal
gesture. After having traveled in Evred’s proximity for a season, Tau knew how very rare those were.

And though Tau never drank when he was working, he broke that rule now, and helped himself to a long, sweet pull. Fire burned along veins and nerves as he handed the bottle back, and Evred set it down. “I did not know,” Evred said finally.

“Like I mentioned, he doesn’t talk about it. He didn’t talk about any of you, either, for nine years.”

Tau shifted to thumbs, pressing outward in slow strokes, working up the side of Evred’s neck to the muscles at the base of his skull, then at last the sides of his jaw.

A sharp indrawn breath. “That hurts.”

“Let your mouth hang open. No one can see. It’s the way you’ll get rid of the headache. I press some of the knotwork out of the hinges of your jaw.”

A soft laugh, a slight tightening, then an act of will to relax again. “If we used torture, this would be a sure one.”

Tau said, “It works. But no one likes it.”

Evred contemplated a sharp retort, except he didn’t feel angry. The rushing in his ears was gone, leaving a pleasant lassitude. He said, “Do something that works but doesn’t feel like a hot knife through the skull.”

Tau hesitated, then shifted his grip, working the tightness out of the muscles below Evred’s collarbones, back over to the shoulder blades, and then front again, slow and easy.

Evred’s surface tension was nearly gone. Lingering in the deeper muscle layers was the iron-cable tension of years. Tau waited until Evred’s breathing had lost the last of the self-conscious control then said mildly, “This goes better if you are lying flat.”

The muscles under his hands jumped: back to surface tension, wariness, distrust.

But then Evred bent forward, almost pulling Tau off balance, grabbed up his wine. Passed it back, again without looking. And again Tau took a drink, a long one meant to mute his own responses.

Evred cast himself face down onto the nearest mat.

Tau set the bottle carefully under the chair, knelt down, and spread his fingers over Evred’s back, testing the stresses there, and the pulse under the muscles.

 

 

 

Someone banged on the door to the woodworking alcove. Inda and Barend ignored the noise.

“I’m trying to think of a short way to explain,” Barend said, after a scowling pause. “Heh. Remember when you paid off the Pims’ debt? The guild didn’t send money, did they?”

“No, they wrote up what they called a letter of credit. I signed it, and they put on a sved with magic.”

“Well, when the Pims got that letter, like as not they didn’t demand gold. Nobody in all Lindeth has that much gold anymore. So they used the letter in place of gold. She gives the letter to her own guild, and then writes letters of credit against that letter, until it’s all used up.”

“What’s to stop her from writing letters for twice the amount, if everyone is just sending letters around?”

“That’s what the sveds are for. Guild scribes are very specific. You’re used to the cheap sved new hands carry on board new hires. All that promises is that someone accepted as a witness spoke for you, said you are who you said you are. Scribes write what they hear. Money scribes write what they count. Their standing depends on never being so much as a copper-flim off. In some places, their lives depend on it.”

Inda remembered watching Kodl deal with dock officials—something he’d never had to do. “Letters of credit, right. I think I have it. So there’s money somewhere, then, right?”

“Right. That’s half of it. The other half is made up of time and the what they call ‘kind.’ Kind is trade of things for other things, and time is what the Jarls pay taxes in, along with kind: you owe the king a certain number of men per year. That means trained men with their horses and gear. In times of war, the king can ask for more, but there’s another kind of cost to that, and he has to pay most of it. And then there are things like deathgild if a man dies while under orders, costs of animals, costs for training, costs for patrols and defense and so forth. It’s mostly measured in time, and translated out into established charges for food and garrison and stable and who pays for boots and steel and the rest. The guilds all do that accounting.”

“Got it. So Evred’s used most of the crown’s share up?”

“It was already being used up before Hawkeye’s dad went after my uncle with a sword. If Yvana-Vayir had won, he would have discovered an empty treasury and no oath-sworn dues coming in, either. Not to
him.
Unless he had more allies than we knew.” Barend snorted. “Always possible.”

Inda waved a hand, as if waving away Barend’s words. “So tell me why jewels and gold are bad. I didn’t have any problems with them. Nor did any of the rest of us.”

Barend shook his head. “Have you seen any Stringers in this country?”

Inda was going to point out that he hadn’t been in it but a few months, and never in any harbor—then he realized what Barend meant. Even if he rode straight over to Lindeth, he was not likely to find any of the people in the brown clothes of their guild, silken counting strings at their belts. “No money changers because there’s no trade. Right.”

“People here deal with their guilds. There might be some willing to turn jewels into time or kind, but none of ’em could do a kingdom-sized job. So your jewels will just be a lot of bright stones. Good for plugging holes.”

Inda sagged against a rack of woodworking tools. “Damn.”

It was Barend’s turn to wave a hand. “I didn’t say it was impossible. Just that there needs to be a step between getting your treasure and turning it into anything Evred can use.”

Someone banged on the door again.

“Tell me how,” Inda said.

 

 

 

Tau kneaded his way down Evred’s spine, trying not to think too much about the strength he felt in those slowly uncoiling muscles, the clean, strong lines of his body. Most of all the amazingly . . . human aspect to Evred, lying there in a rumpled shirt and trousers, no weapons or banners or throngs of attentive Runners to assist him in keeping the world at a distance.

No man is made of stone.

One can try to be, but like any other effort to wrest change from one nature to another, there is a cost.

Evred drifted. He could attribute the euphoria to wine haze, but that just muted the intensity of desire and well-being mixed that resulted from the touch of those strong, knowing hands. How could one know just where to press, where to stroke so slowly with the thumb, how scratching lightly down the outsides of the arms left trails of invisible fire?