Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

  “Good, then stop trying to argue me out of it,” she said, because he was right. What she proposed was dangerous, foolish, and could start a war.

  She also knew it was the right thing to do.

  “I swore my Warrior’s Oath to protect the weak,” she said. “And I didn’t swear that it stopped at the edge of our lands.”

  The beach was convenient. The docks proper had activity at all hours, but just a few dozen yards away, few people were about. Only small fishing vessels, or the shallow draft Kossaki trade and warships used the beach. Even when trading, the Kossaki ported like raiders, ready to dart away in moments.

  The two youths flitted through from shadow to shadow. Their boots were soft-soled leather. Their dull clothes disappeared into the night. Riga had no sword, but she did have her seachs knife.

  She planned to not need it. That would mean their mission had failed. It was the principle, though. Besides, if she did get caught, she wanted them to know she was a warrior.

  It also helped her cope with the knowledge that if discovered, she would at the least be publicly beaten with canes and heavily fined. Or rather, Father would be fined. At worst . . .

  In far less time than she remembered, they were at the outer wall of the amar’s residence. The building ran around three sides of a courtyard.

  “I know her room is on the left . . . ” Riga said.

  “Second window from the far end, down that alley.”

  She cocked an eyebrow.

  “How do you know?”

  Erki blushed even in the dark, stuttered, and then said, “She’s very pretty. I watched her go there.”

  She had to smile.

  “That’s fine. Good lad.” She left it at that. “Lead the way.”

  “Right there,” he pointed.

  She really hoped he was right. She also hoped that Jesrin was there. If the amar had her in his bed . . . or even if she was just doing scullery work . . . of course, either would let them return, knowing they’d tried.

  Or more likely, cause me to escalate until we do have a war, Riga thought. She had no illusions of her diplomacy or temper.

  The shutter opened to the fourth pea-sized pebble.

  Once Jesrin understood their gestures, her eyes grew a foot wide and she shook her head in horror. They gestured again, come down, come with us. Riga even held up the spare cloak for emphasis.

  It took long minutes, while occasional flickers of lamplight in other windows indicated early risers, up to bake breakfast or reach the tide, before the girl nodded assent.

  Erki tossed up a coil of thin, strong silk rope, and it took more minutes to explain she should loop it around the center post of the window and run it back down.

  Riga was worried if Jesrin was strong enough to slide down a rope rather than fall, but she managed well enough, though clearly stiff from some beating or other. She bumped the wall and scuffed loose some plaster, which made Riga cringe. Perhaps she was being too cautious. There was no indication anyone else had noticed. She was thankful they didn’t like dogs here. Dogs would have heard and smelled them long before.

  The seconds were hour-long, as Jesrin slipped down the slender rope. Her layered dress was not practical, and would be abraded to shreds before she reached the ground.

  Then she slipped and fell. Erki and Riga both rushed forward and caught her, and she convulsed in agony, with their hands on her beaten back. The fall had scraped her knuckles and forehead, and she leaned over in the dust and vomited, twitched, lay still for a moment, then twitched again as she woke up. Through it all, she barely uttered a sound.

  Erki snatched the rope down as Riga gingerly helped her to her feet. With the shutters ajar and the rope recovered, there was no obvious sign of departure. But it was early, and Father would awaken soon himself. They had to move.

  The girl meekly donned the offered hood and tied the cloak around her neck, wincing as even that weight touched her abused flesh. She’d pass as Kossaki from a distance, but her underdress was clearly servant class, and her poise was as submissive as Riga’s was challenging. Still, that shouldn’t matter.

  “This way,” Riga said, and led the way. A moment later, Erki grabbed her shoulder and stepped in front.

  Oh. Right. Male must lead. She flushed in anger, embarrassment and frustration. Still, that’s why she’d asked him along, and he was doing his part well, the stout boy.

  They were five streets away when a Watchman came around the corner, right into their faces.

  “Who are you?” he asked. Riga could puzzle out the words, but she couldn’t speak. Had Erki paid attention to their lessons?

  And then she knew why she loved her brother, annoying as he could be. He stepped forward, as he did for any problem, and showed no reluctance.

  “Harad of the Kossaki,” he lied, “and my sisters. I return to my uncle’s ship.”

  “It is very late.” The man spoke simply for them, but his tone made it clear he wanted an explanation.

  “My sister took sick and had to stay with friends. We are lucky your gods saw fit to make her healthy in time.”

  It was very rude to look at a woman’s face here, but this man was an official. He looked as if he was considering doing so, and stared at their feet.

  She’s wearing sandals, not boots, Riga realized. Explain them as locally supplied? But she couldn’t talk, and would Erki grasp it?

  Under her cloak, Riga gripped the hilt of her seachs. In about five heartbeats, he was going to find out why she was called “Sworddancer,” even if all she had was a knife.

  He looked at Erki again, said, “A blessing on you,” and turned away.

  Riga exhaled. Jesrin whimpered. Erki didn’t twitch at all, and led the way forward.

  It was definitely near dawn, and gray, as they reached the beach.

  Jesrin spoke at last. “We go on your ship?”

  “Yes, quickly,” Riga said, gripped her elbow carefully—it might be bruised—and hurried her along.

  Some crew were about, securing the ships for sea. The tents would be down soon, then hoisted back up as sails. Luckily, no one paid much attention to three youths.

  Erki bounded catlike over the gunwale, and pulled at Jesrin’s hands as Riga shoved at her hips. The girl winced. Beaten there, too. But it took practice or help to board the outward curve of a kanr.

  In the dim twilight, Father was visible at the stern, checking the steering oar and ballast. Before he turned, Riga shoved Jesrin down behind a pair of barrels.

  “Erki,” she said, and stood as he threw a heavy, smelly tarp atop the girl.

  He stood and whispered, “Don’t move at all until I say so.”

  Father came back, moving easily around netted crates and barrels. He didn’t look or act his age, and the ship was his domain.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded crossly.

  “I took a last look at the tiled market to the south,” she said. “It’s so pretty.” She tried hard to make that sound honest. It was something she might have done . . . four years before. Would Father catch that?

  “You’ll have cleaning duty until I say otherwise. Both of you,” he replied. He looked relieved and annoyed but not angry.

  “Sorry, Father,” she said.

  “Yes, Father,” Erki agreed.

  “Stow the ropes, help with the sail bindings, and get ready to depart. We have a good wind to speed us north by west.”

  “At once,” she agreed. Good. Shortly they’d be away from this beautiful hell.

  The incoming tide made the ship sway and bob, and the wind and the poles inched them down the sand. All at once they shifted, dragged, shifted again, and Sea Fox was back in her realm. The crew jumped to the oars and sculled for deeper water. They were free peasants, hired and paid, and Riga would bet them against any slave rowers. As free men they’d also fight for their master and their pay. Yet another reason the Kossaki traded unmolested.

  The ships were just forming up in line to head out to sea, when a br
ight yellow harbor boat headed for them, with a crewman tooting a brass horn. They all stopped their departure, keeping station in the lapping waves to avoid beaching again.

  The boat drew alongside, and some official or other in gleaming white silk accepted a hand aboard. Behind him was the Watchman from the night before, and Riga’s nerves rippled cold.

  “May I help you?” Father asked. “I believe our tariffs are in order.” He held out a leather book with a stamped sheet from the revenue agent. He’d paid the tariff Riga had calculated, and tossed in ten percent as “a gift for the temple,” which meant for the agent’s pocket. All should be in order. Though Riga knew that was not the issue in question.

  “My apologies for disturbing you,” the man said with mock politeness. “The amar sends his regards, and his sadness at losing a fine servant girl.”

  “We brought no servant girl,” Father said. “The only woman on my ships is my daughter. Grom has his wife and girl child aboard his ship. Ranuldr has his wife and two daughters.”

  Erki stood alongside Riga. They’d had the same lesson, that to stand firm was better than to cower. Here they were side by side, and would the guard know, or mention it if he did?

  Erki had changed clothes, so he would not be apparent at once. Would the man recognize Riga, though? But no local man should look at a woman. He’d seen her early, but had he “seen” her? She was also in shipboard trews and tunic now, leaning on a rigging hook as if it were a spear. She stared back at him, trying to look quizzical and faintly bored. He studied her, but it was all pretense. He really hadn’t noticed the women. There’d been no real reason to at the time, and he wouldn’t admit so now. Riga didn’t blame him, knowing how the Amar might respond.

  He looked hard at Erki, but without the cloak and in light, the boy looked more a man. He also didn’t show any expression at all, though she could sense the nervous shivers.

  “She was with a young boy last night. What about your boys?”

  “Only Erki here,” Father said. “He was on watch last night. I expect your own shore patrol will remember him. There are a number of other young men, though it depends on what you mean by ‘boy.’”

  Was Father lying as a matter of course, to get this over with? Or did he know and was covering for them? His words were unbothered.

  The Watchman looked Erki over, but didn’t finger him. Good so far.

  The official asked, “Which girl was sick and stayed in town?”

  “Not mine,” Father said. “I suppose it could have been Ranuldr’s eldest girl. She’s fifteen. All ours are accounted for, though, we’re not missing any.”

  Of course they weren’t missing any. Father was deliberately misunderstanding. My people are in order. Do you believe your own are not?

  “All your women are as they should be?” They looked uncomfortable. The Kossaki ships had canvas weather shields at the rear, and little privacy. It was understood that one didn’t stare or annoy a woman even bathing or changing, but that was certainly not understood here. The very subject made them nervous and shy away. Inside, Riga grinned. They were going to back off, right now.

  “There are few enough that I can count to six,” Father said with a grin. Riga twitched. Would he insist on seeing them all?

  “I will inspect your cargo and your manifest then, as a courtesy.”

  Riga grimaced as Father said, “If you wish.” Everyone knew something was up at this point. They were just all pretending it wasn’t.

  He started at the bow, peering through the nets and checking the crates for stamps and seals. All were as they should be, and of course he knew that. He moved slowly back to a pile of barrels staked down, containing figs, tea and spices. Past the mast there were bundles of sail lashed to the spar.

  Father said, “I don’t wish to rush you, but we have five ships, and tide to keep. We’ve always dealt in good faith.”

  “I’ll just work my way back and be done, then,” the official said, with a false frown.

  “Be quick about it. I feel sorry for the amar, but I have my own dramas, and I don’t share mine with the help.”

  Was Father trying to cause the man to search in detail? That comment flustered him, and he checked a barrel’s number very carefully.

  “You might want to check under that tarp. It’s a prime place to stash an escaped servant girl. I don’t find my own daughter enough trouble, so I try to pick one up in every port.”

  Clutching his tally board, the man strode forward again in a careful, dignified fashion, swung over into his boat, and indicated to the rowers to leave.

  He turned back, looked at Father and said, “Thank you for your help.”

  “You are most welcome. I hope the Amar finds this girl, and that she hasn’t fallen among those who would shame her or him. I cherish his hospitality and trades.”

  “I will tell him,” the official said, beckoning the guard to join him as he sat down on a thwart. “Good travels to you, and a blessing.”

  “A blessing on you, and the amar and your king,” Father said.

  As the inspector rowed away, Father turned and ordered, “Pick up the speed. We’re not earning money to row like a holiday ship.” He seemed quite relaxed and good natured.

  Riga wanted to run back and check under the tarp. She knew Jesrin was alive, though, and silence was a good thing. It might be night before she could come out. It might even be five days and port before she admitted the girl’s presence. She had silly notions of sneaking her ashore with a few coins somewhere she could find good work, though she knew the girl, like any injured creature, would need support for a bit.

  She stood her post, and helped tighten the sail as they gained room to maneuver, and the five ships spread into a longer line for travel.

  They cleared the headland and entered open ocean, the deeper swells swaying Sea Fox, twisting and torquing her. She was designed for that, though, and surged across the waves.

  Father came past, checking the rigging. “How’s the servant girl?” he asked quite casually.

  Riga knew better than to lie. “Alive and quiet,” she said at once.

  “This is the same servant girl we discussed, I assume.”

  “Yes, she is. Jesrin. Badly bruised in body and spirit.”

  Father sighed and tugged at a rope. “Damn it, Daughter, this is worse than an injured goose. You can’t save every helpless creature in the world! Especially at a risk of war.”

  “Of course not,” she said. She looked back as Erki peeled off the canvas, and helped Jesrin, blinking against the light, come forward. Father might punish them both, but it would not be for spilling tea. She reached out a hand and helped the girl keep her feet on the swaying ship.

  Then she smiled at Father, a challenging smile that would yield a flogging in Mirr, and perhaps start a duel in Kossaki lands. It was the smile of a merchant and warrior among her peers.

  “But I can save this one.”

  The Groom’s Price

  With Gail Sanders

  My wife has a very quirky sense of humor. She’s been my best friend almost as long as we’ve been together. I can’t be blackmailed because there’s nothing relevant about me she doesn’t know.

  She’s a big fan of the Valdemar universe, has multiple copies of all the books, and knows all the details necessary for a story in the main lands.

  She’s also a pretty decent writer. I did some of the plotting and pacing. We split the writing. The rest is actually hers, with my edits.

  He was miserable, absolutely miserable.

  :No, you’re not.:

  I am too—how could I be anything else with all of these Outclans strangers staring at me?

  :You only think that you should be miserable, you’re really having an adventure, and you feel guilty that you wanted an adventure when your Clan thought it was only your duty that made you go. Besides, if you hadn’t argued so persuasively, we’d still be on your plains.:

  Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin was quiet while he tho
ught this over. He found the gait of the companion to be smooth and enjoyable. So enjoyable that it distracted him from his train of thought for awhile.

  That’s Companion, not companion he thought, finally coming back to the topic. A Companion that was sneaky enough to blend into the herds being kept for youngsters to choose and train. A Companion that had disguised herself using the magic that had been forbidden to the Clans until the Mage Storms had swept through the plains. A Companion that was slowing her pace and moving up to a palisade partly hidden by trees. With a start, he realized that it was getting dark.

  :This is Bolthaven. Tell the gate guards that you’re here to see Master Quenten. If they ask you who you are, tell them. They still remember Kerowyn here.:

  From a platform, a sentry demanded, “Name yourself.”

  “Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin, for Master Quenten.”

  “Hold and wait.”

  He waited, nervously, but the gate was opened and another watchman gestured for him to follow. He found himself ushered and escorted through a town that seemed over-busy and over-populated. No one paid the least bit of attention to him, other than a look of admiration for his mount. He wasn’t sure if the presence of the guard was insulting, he was after all an adult by the Clan’s standards. Surely he could have found the school on his own.

  :The guard is both for your protection and for the protection of the town’s folk. Very few people this far out of Valdemar know just what Companions are. With the mage students here, loud noises are common; leading me along is to prevent me from running off if I get startled. I’d prefer it if very few people knew a Companion out of Valdemar was down in the Dhorisha Plains.:

  Quenten jerked from his book as his mage barriers flared a warning. After the last time a Guardian Spirit gave him the collywobbles he had decided to set up an alarm. While he had plenty of experience thinking on his feet after his time with the Skybolts, he had reached an age where he preferred at least a little notice. After carefully putting down his book, he moved over to the window that overlooked the main gate. Sure enough, there was one of those Guardian Spirits. Perched on the spirit’s back was something unexpected, a Shin’a’in youngster—the leathers were unmistakable.