Banner of the Damned (61 page)

“At least the baths are civilized,” Pelis said, sighing as her long hair fanned out like fronds of walnut-shade in the water around her. “Dormitories!” She splashed her hands up in shadow-ward.

“We don’t have time,” I said. “There’s the banquet to get ready for.”

“Oh, we know.” Pelis sniffed the air and made a face. “While you were off wherever you were, we had Marnda scolding us like a pair of kitchen pages.”

Anhar ducked down, then came up, hair streaming over her round face. When she was wet, her wide eyes and round face pronounced her Chwahir heritage. “Here is my prediction,” she said. “After all the time and care in making that royal-blue gown, we will be throwing everything away. You’ll see. It’s going to be gray linsey-woolsey, perhaps with a single spangle where it can’t be seen, for variety. And she’ll wear it for a week at a go.”

I had been so busy resenting Marnda’s usurpation of my time, I hadn’t considered how the dressers would feel to be superseded in a land where everyone seemed to dress uniformly, and only once in the day.

The banquet hall was another vast chamber, mirror image to the great hall. The public chambers were plastered smooth and painted over with just the sort of enormous figures that Queen Hatahra had decreed should be torn down in Alsais’s old palace. Only these were not lifelike, but highly stylized—great raptor shapes, horses at the gallop, manes and tales flying, some with riders on their backs shooting arrows from those same oddly shaped bows. The raptors all soared, talons extended, beaks open in screams.

I looked away from the walls to the people I must live among. The tables were low, guests seated on cushions. The prince and his party sat on a daïs well forward of the enormous fireplace, which was partly screened, and in the manner of that particular type of castle, very well vented in that these central fireplaces provided heat for the rooms directly above.

The people looked alike at first glance: mostly blond heads, everyone with braids, and the clothing shades of gray, black, and undyed, with
contrasting edgings of yellow or dull gold; the only variations were fox faces or eagles embroidered in wool on the backs of many of the tunics.

Lasva still wore the blue gown—for she had no other formal robes. Her hair was bound up with a single strand of pearls, falling in ringlets down her back. In the time it took me to enter the room and walk along the wall toward the daïs, I observed how many of the Marlovens looked her way as they talked in low voices.

Lasva saw me, smiled, and lifted her hand. Marnda stood among the servants behind the main table, some holding pitchers, others ready to fetch and carry.

As I neared, Lasva and Ivandred finished a whispered conversation. He gripped her hand below the level of the table.

“This is my first runner, Emras,” Lasva said to the jarlan.

Marnda stepped forward. “I have already learned where the kitchen is and how things are done here. I would be honored to serve.” Her voice shook as she glared at me.

Lasva said, “Emras, I hoped you might consent to take charge of the wine.”

Marnda had to step aside, her hands trembling. I took my place beside her, stunned at her rudeness in
public
. It made no sense!

I forced my attention on the service of the meal. The Marloven plates were wide and shallow, the only utensils spoons and very sharp knives with which they speared bites of the roasted turkey or fish or potato. The spoons were for eating something that smelled peppery and seemed to be made of lentils and garlic. They broke apart hot biscuits to mop up juices or gravy.

The runners stood behind their master or mistress, pouring wine, or fetching food when it was either pointed at or tapped with a reaching knife.

Conversation was loud enough to mask the noise of eating. Lasva borrowed Ivandred’s knife to press her food into accommodating bites. Marnda hovered, anxiously watching that thin hand rise and fall.

The jarlan smiled my way when her runner handed me a pitcher of wine. Before she could speak, someone blew a trumpet in rising chords. The Marlovens stilled. The hubbub of voices flattened to whispers—
harvaldar
—then they, too, stilled.

Warriors entered with a quick clatter of iron-heeled footsteps, swords at the ready. Ivandred’s head moved minutely as he tracked this efficient spread through the room. Their gazes shifted everywhere, and I belatedly noticed that everyone above the age of ten or so had their hands in sight.

Then two strong young men entered, supporting a thin, elderly figure between them.

Everyone in the room stood.

The runners around me picked up Ivandred’s, the jarlan’s, and Lasva’s dishes. Others appeared, a little out of breath, holding fresh dishes at the ready.

This old man was Haldren-Harvaldar, the Marloven king—the man who at least half of the male lancers and jarls were named after. I will refer to him as
the king
.

His face was seamed with lines, his skin burned as brown as tree bark. Though he limped heavily, he shook off the young men impatiently as he neared the table. Ivandred led the salute: the stone walls threw back the sound of hundreds of fists thumping wool-covered chests, making me think of arrows striking into hearts.

The king touched his fingers to his chest and lifted his chin in question. Ivandred stepped aside, so that the king could choose his place.

He stepped between his son and Lasva, then motioned impatiently. Everyone sat down, including Ivandred and Lasva as the king eased himself, wincing and grunting, onto the pillow that Ivandred had vacated.

As the hovering servants moved forward to set fresh dishes and cups before the king, he turned Lasva’s way. His nose made Birdy’s hawk beak seem delicate. “Let me sit next to the princess who picked my son out of all those prancers and dancers of the east. Heh! How did you win her, Van? Have you a hidden talent at romping about to tootle-music? How did you look trussed up in ribbons?” His laugh sounded like a whinny. “Tell me how a Marloven courts a Colendi. Or did you steal her, Van?”

“Contrary.” Lasva tipped her head, hands at Oblique. “I stole him.” She smiled, the dimples flashing.

The king pounded the table with his fist, setting the dishes jumping. His whinny deepened to a guffaw before he began coughing. “Damn!” He coughed again, and gasped.

“He, in his turn, protected our kingdom,” Lasva said.

“Yes, Van will protect the kingdom. He’ll ride the border again, heh!” The king coughed more, waved off his hovering runners, then gasped, “Eat, eat. D’you like my sister’s food? Is it as good as what you eat there in Ribbon-Land?”

“It is very fine,” Lasva said, nibbling a fragment of rye bread.

The king speared bits of turkey, roast potato, and greens, watching Lasva the while.

She had grown up being the focus of a room full of people, and her manners were superlative because she never flaunted them. Neatly, deftly, gracefully, she used the knife and spoon in the Marloven manner, as if she had always done so.

The king seemed bemused by her calm. When he spoke again, his voice was less harsh. “Heh! I like that sister of yours.”

Lasva made The Peace. “She was well pleased with the alliance.”

“She can use us as a stick to shake at those Chwahir north of her.” The king whinnied a laugh that snarled into another coughing fit. “That’s what happens with us here, our allies use the threat of us coming over the border to control their neighbors. He laughed and coughed harder, spraying bits of bread over his plate and part of the table. “But who was to know those damned Olavairs would back down after they found out about Van and you? I thought you people didn’t have an army.”

“We do not have such a thing organized,” Lasva said. “But the nobles must serve if called upon.”

“Either they’re formidable from a distance, or it’s your treaty prowess they’re afraid of.” He creaked with laughter, gulping as he tried not to cough. “I had the heralds bring me some history—” His voice hoarsened. “—and it seems you never met anyone over a treaty without your going away the winner, eh?”

Lasva smiled, hands open in self-deprecation. “In truth, my ancestors have worked hard to avoid conflict.”

“And yet you haven’t been ground to dust. If we didn’t brandish swords left and right you can be sure our enemies would grind us to dust—eh, son?”

Ivandred struck his fist to his chest.

The king turned back to Lasva. “So, I hear someone down south gave you a little fun to break the journey.”

Lasva bowed, hands at Harmony, and smiled.

The king eyed her, grinned, and turned to Ivandred. “I want your report on what happened at the river.”

Ivandred’s concise words were shorn of emotion. He ended with the numbers of dead and wounded, and then the number of dead on the other side, which caused the old man to crack out another whinny as he dipped a broken rye biscuit in the turkey juice. All the fear, the effort, seemed as distant as those bland numbers.

The king grunted from time to time. At the end, he poked the knife point toward Ivandred. “Who were those in green? Jevair vows they weren’t his.”

“They weren’t. Too sloppy.”

“Totha?” the king asked, leaning toward him.

“Perhaps, though it was not Totha forest-green. Dyed to look Jevair.”

The king scowled. “Damned soul-rotted presumption!” He coughed and sat back. “I want you to go down there and crush Totha. It’s time to remind the jarls that we keep our promises.” He threw down the last bit of bread and opened his hand toward the room. “Here they are, the Western Ride under two flights of Fourth Lancers. They are not here just to eat up my sister’s food and make merry now that you are home.”

“The First Lancers?” Ivandred said.

The king’s jaw worked. “In the north. Where they belong, watching those treacherous Olavair snakes. If you are any kind of commander, you can use what I give you. Go on! I want you back by Convocation! Olavair needs to hear that, ribbons or not, you haven’t forgotten you are Marloven.”

Ivandred stilled.

“I’ll take your princess to the city, where she can use those Colendi treaty skills New Year’s Week.”

Ivandred rose and saluted. The old man saluted back then lifted his wine cup in both hands, slopping the red liquid as Ivandred gathered his commanders with a glance. The king slurped wine as Ivandred and all the warriors in the room except the king’s guard clattered out, leaving some two hundred half-eaten meals, Ivandred issuing orders as they went.

When the king had drained the cup, he set it down, wiped his face on his sleeve, and whispered to Lasva, “Come, Colendi princess! Send your woman for your gear. Andaun gave me transfer tokens.”

“Can you not let her rest, Brother?” Ingrid-Jarlan said.

“Heh! If I can stand it, she can.” The king wheezed a laugh.

“May I summon my staff?” Lasva said, rising.

“Staff! What more d’you need? You’re not commanding an army. I’ve got two women of yours already tearing up the old queen’s suite. I gave them a free hand. Yes, I promised your sister, and I keep my word, as she’ll discover. But you don’t need another pack of women.”

“If I may, I would like to explain to my people that I will send for them. May I take one, at least?” Lasva gestured my way. “My… my first runner?”

Marnda looked shocked, then her face mottled with anger.

The king waved a hand. “Yes, yes, first runner, of course! The rest can catch up by wagon. We’ll find a use for ’em later.”

The jarlan made a subtle signal with her forefinger, and her first runner handed her jug to me with a glance eloquent with apology, then touched her hand to her heart and beckoned with the other to Lasva. “I will show you the way.”

Marnda followed close on their heels with a fearful, almost furtive look back, but no one paid her the least heed. I hesitated, then stooped to set the jugs on the table, my heart pounding. The king also ignored me and began to talk to his sister. His hoarse voice faded behind me as I ran to catch up with the others.

This time I did not struggle to conquer my anger with Marnda, determined to take my place. Indignant questions piled against my tongue: how could I possibly obey Queen Hatahra’s orders if I was left behind? How would I catch up, if no one gave me a transfer token? How long would be this wagon ride, especially in winter?

When I reached the doorway to Lasva’s chamber, Marnda was already pulling things together. After weeks of living in tents, we were all very good at fast packing and unpacking. I could tell Marnda knew I was there, but she did not even look at me, as if she could erase my existence by ignoring me. Lasva sped across the stone floor, her tiny, gliding, court steps so odd in this huge chamber with its fresco of stylized dancing horses. “Emras,” she murmured, and in Old Sartoran, which Marnda did not know, “she fears that I am in danger, and she was my heart-mother all my life…”

What about the queen’s orders? I looked past Lasva to where Marnda worked, her movements quick and sharp. Marnda knew my orders. Yes, she
did
know my orders. In the time it would take for me to catch up with them by conventional means, surely she would be able to watch out for signs of Norsunder as well as I could. (I was still feeling uncertain about magic.) Marnda was the one I had to talk to, anyway, in order to write to the queen.

All that was reasonable, but there remained the duty imperative. And yet here was Lasva, waiting for me to decide, as Marnda worked on desperately, as if her hands packing things would make her wish into reality.

It was Lasva’s permitting me to decide that caused me to relent. This was a temporary separation, I reminded myself. And there was a good chance I could learn things from the king’s sister.

I bowed my acceptance.

Lasva touched my hand. “Thank you.”

Having established her place as Lasva’s guardian, Marnda said to me, “We will make things ready for your arrival.”

They left, going back to the hall, where a drum roll was in progress.

There was no purpose in my following. No one seemed to need me. So I stayed upstairs, where Anhar and Pelis met me. “What happened? Where are they going?” and finally, “Are we safe?” Anhar asked.